The Streets of San Francisco (1972)

          A solidly made cop show that ran for five seasons and is perhaps best remembered as the vehicle that delivered Michael Douglas to stardom, The Streets of San Francisco made the most of the locations referenced in its title. Rather than living entirely on backlots, familiar Los Angeles locations, and soundstages, as was true for many generic police programs of the ’70s, The Streets of San Francisco used the glorious views and loping hills of the Bay Area as supporting characters. Watching veteran Detective Lt. Mike Stone (Karl Malden) and passionate young Inspector Steve Keller (Michael Douglas) confront crises and probe mysteries every week, it was believable that San Francisco was the home to an endless array of interesting stories.

          That being said, the tale told in the pilot movie is weak. One problem, of course, is that the movie sprawls across an hour and 40 minutes, stretching the routine premise of the show well past the breaking point. Another problem is that producers put way too much focus on guest star Robert Wagner, who plays a lawyer with connections to a murdered woman. Whereas strong pilots situate viewers in the worlds of the leading characters who will drive the ensuing series, The Streets of San Francisco pilot shoves Stone and Keller to the background. (In subsequent episodes that boasted vivid central narratives, this trope worked more effectively than it does here.)

          The pilot begins with the death of a young woman named Holly Berry (Kim Darby). Stone and Keller find a peculiar clue on her body—a laminated business card bearing the name of lawyer David Farr (Wagner). The storyline then trudges along two parallel tracks. In present-day scenes, the cops try to piece together a picture of Holly’s life. In flashbacks, viewers learn about Holly’s affair with David, which is fraught with issues because she’s a hippie living on the fringe and he’s a member of high society with a reputation to protect. Based on a novel by Carolyn Weston, the pilot storyline is really more of a melodrama than a proper mystery. Uninspired work by the so-so supporting cast reflects the tepid nature of the material; beyond Darby and Wagner, the pilot features Tom Bosley, Mako, and John Rubenstein. Throwing the whole thing in a weird new direction is the climax, which switches the tone from police procedural to supernatural thriller.

          Happily, things got better on The Streets of San Francisco once it went to series. Motifs that seemed incidental in the pilot, like Malden’s way of imbuing his seen-it-all character with dogged optimism, grew as the series developed. Concurrently, Douglas found his footing by creating a persona befitting the spectacular head of hair that he sported throughout his run on the series; by the time Douglas left the show, just prior to its final year, he had become an Oscar-winning producer and he was well on his way to becoming a movie star. No surprise that his replacement, Richard Hatch, wasn’t able to keep the Streets of San Francisco going, though Hatch later found cult fame as the star of the original Battlestar Galactica series.

The Streets of San Francisco: FUNKY

Hart to Hart (1979)

          Frothy romantic intrigue somewhat the vein of the old Thin Man movies, Hart to Hart was the pilot movie for a series that ran from 1979 to 1984. (Eight reunion movies came afterward, airing from 1993 to 1996.) With former 1950s matinee idol Robert Wagner in the leading role, the Hart to Hart series never aimed for hipness or relevance, instead presenting the lighthearted adventures of jet-setting millionaire and his beautiful wife as they solve crimes for a hobby. Seen today, the pilot movie is creakier than ever, so it’s actually more interesting to note behind-the-scenes trivia than to explore the onscreen content. Two of Wagner’s famous paramours appear in the telefilm. His wife at the time of filming, Natalie Wood, makes a goofy cameo as an actress in a Southern-belle costume, and his future wife, Jill St. John, plays a supporting role. The series was created by novelist Sidney Sheldon, and the pilot was cowritten and directed by the prolific Tom Mankiewicz, who scribed many of James Bond’s ’70s outings and contributed to Superman (1978). Overseeing the whole project were producers Aaron Spelling and Leonard Goldberg, the titans of trash TV in the ’70s and ’80s.

          Anyway, after a friend dies under mysterious circumstances, dashing businessman Jonathan Hart (Wagner) promises the friend’s widow that he will investigate. Clues connect the dead man to a pricey health farm, so Jonathan hits the road in his jaunty sports car. Along the way, he gets into a playful road race with a beautiful redhead, who leaves him in the dust when he gets pulled over by a cop. Jonathan reaches the health farm and encounters the redhead again, so they spar verbally—and yet that night, she slips into his room and his bed. Because, to the surprise of absolutely no one, she’s actually his wife, Jennifer (Stefanie Powers), recently returned from a European trip. The Harts investigate the health farm together, discovering a conspiracy to brainwash rich guests in order to steal their money. Concurrently, Jonathan flirts with yet another beautiful redhead, Sylvia (St. John), ostensibly to find more clues.

          All of this plays out in tedious fashion. The elaborate introduction to Jennifer’s character feels like a cheap attempt at a Hitchcockian flourish, and Mankiewicz’ would-be pithy dialogue is like champagne that’s lost its fizz. As for the leads, they’re both so vacuous that they seem more like gregarious party hosts than actual performers. Meanwhile, supporting players including James Noble, Michael Lerner, Roddy McDowall, Stella Stevens, and Mankiewicz favorite Clifton James play forgettable roles with bloodless professionalism, and future series regular Lionel Stander, who portrays Jonathan’s gravel-voiced butler, Max, is underused. Judging from the longevity of the franchise, the folks behind Hart to Hart obviously did something right, but it’s hard to determine what that is by watching this thoroughly enervated pilot.

Hart to Hart: FUNKY

City Beneath the Sea (1971)

          Two aspects of producer Irwin Allen’s cinematic identity converged in this campy sci-fi movie, which was made for television as the pilot for a series that never materialized. The project echoes Allen’s past, because Allen produced the 1964-1968 adventure series Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, as well as the 1961 theatrical feature from which that series was adapted. Yet City Beneath the Sea also hints at Allen’s future, because the picture is a disaster saga, and Allen’s name became synonymous with the disaster genre once he unleashed The Poseidon Adventure (1972). City Beneath the Sea scores as high on the Cheese-O-Meter as anything Allen ever made. The narrative is silly, the performances are robotic, and the storytelling is primarily designed to showcase elaborate costumes, sets, and special effects. That said, City Beneath the Sea is brainless fun, with laughably one-dimensional characters struggling to survive a series of absurd crises. Every scene bursts with exposition, because screenwriter John Meredyth Lucas struggles to include all of the pulpy plot elements provided by Allen, who is credited with writing the story. Seen today, City Beneath the Sea feels like a relic from a distant time, because the pristine design style represents a mid-century-modern vision of the future. “Sleek” is the watchword, and nobody on this production was afraid of using bright colors.

          Set in 2053, the movie begins with the U.S. President (Richard Basehart) demanding that former Navy Admiral Michael Matthews (Stuart Whitman) return to duty as commander of Pacifica, a huge underwater research installation. Here’s the laugh-out-loud premise: The U.S. has been transferring its cache of gold from Fort Knox to Pacifica because of seismic activity near Fort Knox, and now the U.S. has learned that it must also transfer a huge store of fissile radioactive material to Pacifica for safekeeping, because only proximity to gold keeps the material from exploding. Oh, and a giant meteor is about to crash into the Earth, with Pacifica the likely ground zero, so the dozens of people living underwater must abandon the station as soon as the gold and radioactive material are secured in a meteor-proof vault. As if that’s not goofy enough, City Beneath the Sea features an “aquanoid,” a mutant who can breathe either air or water. Woven into all of this hogwash are the various cardboard characters one always finds in Allen’s pictures: The stalwart hero blamed for an accident he didn’t actually cause, the bereaved widow whose recriminations crush the stalwart hero beneath a mountain of guilt, the duplicitous lieutenant planning an evil scheme, and so on. (As for that evil scheme, it’s a brazen gold heist, since City Beyond the Sea clearly needed even more plot material.) In addition to Basehart and Whitman, actors providing the film’s wooden performances include Joseph Cotten (who appears in just one short scene), Rosemary Forsyth, Robert Colbert, and Robert Wagner.

City Beneath the Sea: FUNKY

Death at Love House (1976)

Although it suffers from the rudimentary execution that doomed most ’70s TV movies to oblivion after their initial broadcasts, Death at Love House has such a kicky story that some enterprising soul could probably put together a worthwhile remake. Plus, the movie stars a pair of comfortingly familiar actors. Kate Jackson and Robert Wagner, respectively of Charlie’s Angels and Hart to Hart fame, play authors who take up occupancy in a gloomy Hollywood mansion while researching a book about long-dead ’30s actress Lorna Love, the mansion’s onetime owner. Joel (Wagner) is the son of Lorna’s lover, so when paranormal events suggest that Lorna’s spirit is roaming the grounds of the mansion, Joel begins to wonder if he’s being courted by a ghost. As happens in this sort of story, Joel starts to reciprocate the attraction by becoming obsessed with a giant portrait of Lorna. He also fantasizes about her in dream sequences featuring beautiful ’60s/’70s starlet Marianna Hill as the glamorous Lorna. This is all enjoyably undemanding stuff, right down to the obligatory subplot involving a creepy old caretaker (Sylvia Sidney) who serves the otherworldly whims of her dearly departed mistress. The idea of blending old-Hollywood glamour with the ’70s supernatural fad was novel, whether the credit goes to writer James Barnett or producer Hal Sitowitz, but a limp screenplay and perfunctory acting prevent the piece from realizing its potential. So, even though Jackson summons a smidgen more gravitas than the ever-wooden Wagner (and even though Hill is so sexy it’s easy to believe she can beguile from beyond the grave), it’s only a matter of time before Death at Love House tumbles into bad-movie chaos during the conclusion. Still, there are worse ways to spend 74 minutes (though not many) and the basic concept is memorable.

Death at Love House: FUNKY

The Towering Inferno (1974)

          The biggest box-office success of 1974 and in many ways the climax of the ’70s disaster-movie genre, The Towering Inferno is terrible from an artistic perspective, featuring clichéd characters and ridiculous situations spread across a bloated 165-minute running time. Still, it’s fascinating as a case study of how Hollywood operates. First and most obviously, the movie represents producer Irwin Allen’s most successful attempt to mimic the success of his underwater thriller The Poseidon Adventure (1972), because Allen outdoes the previous film with bigger spectacle, bigger stars, and bigger stunts.

          The movie also reflects movie-star gamesmanship. Steve McQueen and Paul Newman agreed to costar, then fought for primacy within the story, each demanding exactly the same number of lines in the script. Even sillier, their agents arranged for the actors’ names to appear in the credits in the same size type but at different heights, so each would have “top” billing even when their names were side-by-side. Furthermore, the movie demonstrates the ease with which greed trumps pride in Hollywood. A pair of books with useful narrative elements involving burning buildings were owned by different studios, so Allen persuaded Twentieth Century-Fox and Warner Bros. to co-produce the movie, an industry first; each studio sacrificed the integrity of its respective brand for half of a sure thing.

          Somewhere amid the power plays, an actual movie got made, and The Towering Inferno is the epitome of what later became known as “high-concept” cinema. It’s about a big building on fire, and that’s the whole story. Sure, there are mini-melodramas, like the romantic tribulations of the folks trapped inside the building and the macho heroics of an architect (Newman) and a fireman (McQueen), but the thing is really about the excitement of seeing which characters will get burned to death, which will fall from terrible heights, and which will survive.

          The plot begins when an engineer cuts corners in order to rush the opening of the Glass Tower, a skyscraper in San Francisco. Once the inevitable blaze erupts, further shortcomings in the building process complicate efforts to rescue trapped occupants. (Elevators, helicopters, rope bridges, and other contrivances are utilized.) As per the Allen playbook, an all-star cast trudges through the carnage, trying to instill cardboard characterizations with life. Richard Chamberlain plays the short-sighted engineer, Faye Dunaway plays Newman’s love interest, William Holden plays the oblivious builder, and Robert Wagner plays a smooth-talking PR man. Others along for the ride include Fred Astaire, Susan Blakely, Dabney Coleman, Jennifer Jones, O.J. Simpson, and Robert Vaughn.

          The Towering Inferno is a handsome production, with director John Guillermin and cinematographer Fred J. Koenekamp using their widescreen frames to give everything a sense of opulence and scale. Additionally, Allen (who directed the action scenes) knew how to drop debris onto stuntmen. Nonetheless, The Towering Inferno is humorless, long-winded, and repetitive. Amazingly, the movie received a number of Oscar nominations (including one for Best Picture), and won three of its categories: cinematography, editing, and original song. In Hollywood, nothing earns praise as quickly as financial success.

The Towering Inferno: FUNKY

Airport (1970) & Airport 1975 (1974) & Airport ’77 (1977) & The Concorde: Airport ’79 (1979)

          It’s appropriate that the last movie bearing the Airport brand name begins with a balloon getting inflated, because this series is filled with nothing so much as hot air. Melodramatic, overlong, and trite, each of the four Airport flicks is a midair soap opera, with characterization and dialogue that would barely pass muster in the worst episodic television. If not for the innate allure of disaster stories and the presence of motley casts comprising former A-listers and permanent C-listers, these pictures would have vanished into obscurity immediately after they were made. However, one should never underestimate the public’s appetite for vapid escapism: The first picture was the biggest moneymaker of 1970 (out-earning M*A*S*H and Patton), and it somehow snared 10 Oscar nominations, including one for Best Picture. As the people filling that balloon at the beginning of The Concorde: Airport ’79 know, hot air always rises.

          The first flick, simply titled Airport and adapted from Arthur Hailey’s bestselling novel of the same name, is lumbering and dull. An airport manager (Burt Lancaster) and a pilot (Dean Martin) face a crisis when a disturbed passenger (Van Heflin) sneaks a bomb onto a passenger jet. Contrived romantic subplots abound, as do goofy elements like a storyline about an elderly woman (Helen Hayes) who keeps sneaking onto flights as a stowaway. Shot in a flat, ugly style that reveals every location as part of a garishly lit soundstage, the talky movie grinds through so much nonsense that Martin’s plane doesn’t even take off until after the one-hour mark.

          Only about 30 minutes of the movie contain actual disaster-oriented action, so it’s notable that even though Airport was the first hit for the genre, the familiar victim-every-10-minutes formula wasn’t perfected until producer Irwin Allen (who had nothing to do with the Airport movies) made The Poseidon Adventure in 1972. About the only lively element of Airport is George Kennedy’s lusty supporting performance as airport engineer Joe Patroni, who spouts macho lines like, “I’ll have this mother outta here by midnight!” There’s also some mild interest in spotting moments that were later spoofed in Airplane! (1980), like the vignette of a stewardess slapping a hysterical passenger.

          For the imaginatively titled sequel Airport 1975, producer Jenning Lang took the franchise reins and shamelessly copied Irwin Allen’s style; Lang also hired square-jawed leading man Charlton Heston, who previously led the cast of Lang’s Allen-esque disaster flick Earthquake (1974). Although it’s just as insipid as the original film, Airport 1975 is more enjoyable, simply because it doesn’t take itself seriously; the movie is all about cheap thrills and over-the-top storytelling. In this one, a 747 is struck in mid-air by a tiny private plane, blowing out the cockpit and killing the flight crew. After the accident, a stewardess (Karen Black) has to keep the plane steady until her boyfriend (Heston) can reach the plane via helicopter, climb into the cockpit by rope ladder, and steer the jet to a safe landing. About the only thing more absurd than the plot is the cast, which also includes Linda Blair, Sid Caesar, Erik Estrada, Helen Reddy, and Gloria Swanson (as herself!). Kennedy reprises his Patroni role to mostly inconsequential effect.

          After this crescendo of craptastic cinema, the series fell to earth with Airport ’77, a boring thriller about a plane that gets hijacked over the Bermuda Triangle, and then plummets into the ocean. Instead of mid-air suspense, most of the picture delivers dull tight-quarters bickering set in the underwater jet, and everyone in the mixed-bag cast looks bored: Joseph Cotten, Lee Grant, Christopher Lee, Jack Lemmon, James Stewart, and so on. (Kennedy’s back as Patroni, not that it makes much difference.) Airport ’77 is the nadir of a series whose quality level was never high.

          The final entry in the franchise is arguably the most enjoyable, at least from a bad-cinema perspective, because The Concorde: Airport ’79 is preposterous right from the first frames. Cinematic cheese is spread evenly across a ludicrous story, cringe-inducing dialogue, and a parade of laughable performances. In other words, Airport ’79 marks the moment the franchise officially became The Love Boat with explosions. Kennedy finally gets promoted to a leading role, co-piloting the famously sleek French jet of the title with a smooth Gallic flyer (Alain Delon). Meanwhile, an evil industrialist (Robert Wagner) wants to blow up the plane because one of the passengers is carrying evidence that incriminates him for dastardly deeds. Wagner tries to take out the Concorde with a robot drone, a manned fighter jet, and, finally, a bomb smuggled on board when the Concorde conveniently hits the tarmac long enough for sabotage. Several actors who should have known better got roped into acting in this drivel (Eddie Albert, Cicely Tyson, David Warner), but most of the screen time goes to ’70s also-rans like John Davidson, Andrea Marcovicci, and Jimmie J.J. Walker. Cementing the Love Boat parallel, Charo even shows up for a cameo.

Airport: LAME

Airport 1975: FUNKY

Airport ’77: SQUARE

The Concorde: Airport ’79: FUNKY