My Old Man’s Place (1971)

          Possibly the first American theatrical feature to explore the impact of PTSD on vets returning from Vietnam, problematic drama/thriller My Old Man’s Place has a plot similar to that of The Visitors, a vastly superior picture released the following year. Both films dramatize the issue of soldiers bringing the war home with them by depicting close-quarters tension in remote areas. Yet while the Eliza Kazan-directed The Visitors has meticulous character work and a propulsive storyline, My Old Man’s Place is dubious and episodic. The personalities in this movie range from nonsensical to shallow to trite, and the narrative proceeds haphazardly—one gets the impression of filmmakers perpetually reaching for but not quite grasping heavy symbolism. Nonetheless, My Old Man’s Place is watchable thanks to its attempt at cultural relevance, and thanks to a couple of fine performances.

          At the beginning of the picture, three soldiers return to California from Southeast Asia. Trubee (Michael Moriarty, in his film debut) and Jimmy (William Devane) are combat buddies glad to be done with their military service, but Sgt. Martin Flood (Mitchell Ryan) thinks he might sign up for another tour of duty after a 30-day leave. Thoughtful Trubee and animalistic Jimmy spend time in San Francisco chasing women, then encounter Martin beating up a cross-dressing hustler. Presumably out of respect for a fellow veteran, Trubee and Jimmy offer Martin refuge on a farm owned by Trubee’s father, WWII vet Walter (Arthur Kennedy). The minute the group arrives at Walter’s farm, things turn sour. Walter has no use for Jimmy, a vulgar idiot, and doesn’t immediately notice that Martin is a tightly wound sadist. The situation worsens once Jimmy brings college student Helen (Topo Swope) to the farm. It’s giving nothing away to say the whole situation moves inexorably toward tragedy.

          Beyond the basic premise of war having different effects on different men, not much in My Old Man’s Place makes sense. It’s hard to imagine Trubee and Jimmy becoming friends, the idea they would glom onto the frightening Martin is bizarre, and Helen makes spectacularly stupid decisions. Thus it’s pointless trying to watch My Old Man’s Place as a proper story. Better to absorb the picture as a clumsy effort to engage with something provocative. To that end, Moriarty’s casting is just right, since he effectively captures anguish. Casting Kennedy, a star from a simpler time in movies, works just as well, because his presence illustrates the generation gap. Ryan is good, too, infusing his restrained characterization with unnerving madness. The performer who misses the mark most widely is the usually reliable Devane, because he’s distractingly cartoonish playing a crass simpleton.

My Old Man’s Place: FUNKY

Fear on Trial (1975)

          Whereas the following year’s theatrical feature The Front (1976) memorably explores the tragic impact of the Hollywood blacklist on avowed leftists, the excellent 1975 telefilm Fear on Trial dramatizes the parallel horror of people whose lives were damaged by groundless accusations. Specifically, the movie adapts a memoir by John Henry Faulk, a broadcaster accused of being a communist in 1957. Despite the absence of evidence against Faulk, he was fired by CBS and became a pariah in the broadcasting industry, so he spent several years mired in litigation against Vincent Hartnett, the self-appointed public watchdog who “named” Faulk. With the counsel of elite attorney Louis Nizer, Faulk won a huge libel judgment against Hartnett, though Faulk was never able to reclaim his previous stature in his chosen field. According to Faulk’s book, he was targeted because of his involvement with AFTRA, a broadcasters’ union, reaffirming that busting trade guilds was a principal motivation of showbiz companies who hid behind the socially acceptable façade of an ant-communist crusade.

          Driven by David W. Rintels’ Emmy-winning script, which luxuriates in beautifully crafted dialogue, Fear on Trial benefits from excellent work on both sides of the camera. The skillful Lamont Johnson directs a sterling cast, led by William Deavne as Faulk. George C. Scott infuses the role of attorney Nizer with indignant fire, and some of the standout supporting players are Judd Hirsch, John Houseman, John McMartin, Lois Nettleton, Ben Piazza, and Dorothy Tristan. Production values are impeccable, re-creating 1950s New York in meticulous detail, and Bill Butler’s stately photography creates just the right somber mood. (Also notable is the absence of a musical score, because in this project, the words—some inspiring, some venomous—provide the melody.)

          The first half of the picture illustrates the insidious means by which an accusation could upend an individual’s life during the blacklist era. One day, Texas native Faulk is popular with coworkers and fans for his amiable personality and folksy storytelling, and the next, it’s as if he’s caught some terrible disease. The moment his name escapes Hartnett’s lips, Faulk encounters iciness from his employers, hostility from his wife, and warnings from friends who’ve already been blacklisted. Even issuing a humiliating declaration of innocence does nothing to impede Faulk’s downfall, because in the fraught Cold War climate, a Red whisper carries more weight than the truth. Faulk’s marriage breaks under the pressure of the situation, and the embattled broadcaster must accept handouts from friends to pay for legal fees and living expenses.

          The second half of the picture depicts the trial during which Nizer exposes Hartnett’s craven enterprise of selling names for profit, despite not having legitimate research with which to support his accusations. In one scene, a TV executive reveals he was told not to hire an eight-year-old child actor simply because Hartnett had smeared the child’s father.

          Fear on Trial starts out as a full-blooded drama before shifting into polemic mode during the trial scenes, so the talking-head stuff is less cinematically interesting. What keeps Fear on Trial vital from start to finish is the crispness of the writing and the impassioned nature of the acting. Devane is fantastic, charting a man’s evolution from a cheerful populist to a hardened veteran of the culture wars. Scott steals every scene he’s in thanks to his masterful way with complex dialogue, and every single player—no matter how small the role—rises to the level of the superlative material.

Fear on Trial: RIGHT ON

The Missiles of October (1974)

          The Cuban Missile Crisis has been dissected and explored to a level of granular detail by dramatists and historians and politicians ever since those harrowing events of October 1962 concluded, since it’s very likely that was the closest the world has ever come to thermonuclear war. Yet as this excellent made-for-TV drama underscores, the lasting lesson is not just how easily men of hostile intent nearly drove two nations into globally destructive conflict, but how skillfully men of conscience defused the situation. Historically, much of the credit for ending the crisis rightfully goes to then-Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy for a crucial strategy suggestion he made late in the game, but The Missiles of October conveys that the world was saved by the collective efforts of RFK, President John F. Kennedy, and Soviet Premier Nikita Krushchev, among many others. In today’s post-9/11 era of brinksmanship and escalation, the lessons in The Missiles of October are perhaps more important than ever.

          From an aesthetic perspective, The Missiles of October is highly unusual. Shot on videotape, it’s essentially a recording of a play, even though many cinematic flourishes are employed. (For instance, each act opens with a shot of a giant board bearing the show’s title and flags, with the camera zooming into the flag of the nation where the act’s first scene takes place.) Moreover, The Missiles of October is quite long, running two and a half hours even without commercials, so the storytelling is gradual, methodical, and specific. Viewers are taken all the way from the U.S. government’s first discovery that Russian missile bases are being assembled on the island nation of Cuba to the final resolution between the U.S., thrown into a defensive posture by the presence of missiles 90 miles off the coast of Florida, and the U.S.S.R., desperate to save face even though surrender is the only sane option. A fantastic cast tells the story, with William Devane’s alternately contemplative and intense portrayal of JFK dominating. He’s matched almost perfectly with Martin Sheen, who plays RFK. Together, they sketch a believable family bond while also expressing the horrible stakes of the crisis in their pained faces.

          Whereas Devane and Sheen mimic the Kennedy brothers’ famous Boston accents, Howard Da Silva uses an unadorned American vocal style while playing Krushchev. In context, this choice works, because viewers aren’t distracted by dialect or subtitles while parsing the subtle moves that Krushchev made while maneuvering around Kremlin hawks to avoid disaster. Others familiar players in the cast are Ralph Bellamy, Dana Elcar, Michael Lerner, and Nehemiah Persoff, and character actor Thayer David provides occasional narration. Seen today, The Missiles of October might strike some viewers as aesthetically deficient, what with the grainy newsreel clips to illustrate military action and the use of minimalistic sets. Nonetheless, this film articulates the broad strokes of a key event in world history, as well as many of the most important nuances, with grace and power, eventually morphing from a docudrama to a taut thriller. The time one invests to watch The Missiles of October is rewarded handsomely.

The Missiles of October: GROOVY

Red Alert (1977)

          Two years before the big-budget theatrical feature The China Syndrome dramatized the dangers of nuclear power plants, the excellent made-for-TV thriller Red Alert offered an even more sensationalized take on the subject. Based on a novel by Harold King and written for the screen by Sandor Stern, the picture takes place at a facility in Minnesota. An unexplained leak in the reactor’s coolant tank triggers alerts at “Proteus Central” in Colorado, the command center where bigwig Henry Stone (Ralph Waite) uses a massive computer system to monitor the nation’s nuclear plants. Distrusting reports from his subordinates at the Minnesota facility, Stone sends two security officers, Frank Brolen (William Devane) and Carl Wyche (Michael Brandon), to investigate. They learn that a crazed employee has placed small explosives throughout the Minnesota facility with the goal of triggering a fatal chain reaction. The suspense of the picture stems from efforts to locate and defuse all of the bombs, and also to identify the saboteur’s motive in case he’s part of a larger conspiracy. Complicating matters are the effects of the first explosion at the facility: The saboteur is among 14 workers trapped, and presumed dead, inside the plant’s highly contaminated containment facility, so he’s unavailable for interrogation. Adding another layer to the storyline is Carl’s concern for his wife (Adrienne Barbeau) and their children, who live near the facility that’s on the verge of a catastrophic meltdown.

          Although the plotting of Red Alert is a bit contrived, relying on the sort of mad-bomber device one normally expects to encounter in an Airport movie, the dramatic and technical execution of the piece is terrific. Not only did the producers obtain impressive locations and utilize a sufficient degree of technical jargon to make the piece seem credible, but director William Hale’s imaginative camerawork accentuates claustrophobia and juices tension. He’s forever using objects in the foreground to frame faces, underscoring how the film’s characters are caught in a horrible situation. Hale also shoots action well, his camera movements designed with mathematical precision. One can feel the influence of Sidney Lumet, since the storytelling in Red Alert recalls the way Lumet put his not-entirely-dissimilar Fail-Safe (1964) across. The acting is fairly strong, too. Devane is equal parts macho and world-weary as a man tainted by tragedy, Brandon counters him with earnest sensitivity, and Waite plays heavily against type, suppressing his Waltons warmth to incarnate a dangerously cold-blooded autocrat. So even though Red Alert is mostly a well-made potboiler, the actors and filmmakers conjure enough believability to give the piece some teeth as a cautionary tale.

Red Alert: GROOVY

Lady Liberty (1971)

A comedy that’s almost completely bereft of laughs, Lady Liberty stars the venerable Sophia Loren as an Italian factory worker who travels to New York for a reunion with her fiancé, a fellow Italian who moved to America after stirring up trouble with political activism in Europe. Sophia’s character brings along a large sausage as a gift, but when U.S. Customs officials say she’s not allowed to bring the packaged meat into the country, she takes a principled stand. Then, when her fiancé proves to be a coward and a heel by bowing to American law without a fight and by telling Sophia’s character what to do, Our Heroine finds herself adrift—and at the mercy of various predatory men. Suffice to say the sausage benefits from more character development than any of the people in the movie. Lady Liberty is filled with annoying stereotypes, from the leading character (a hot-blooded signora who seems incapable of rationality) to the supporting characters (a conniving journalist, a mama’s-boy policeman, an opportunistic politician, etc.). Much of the film’s comedy comprises scenes of Loren yelling at people or throwing food at them, and the film’s would-be romantic lead, William Devane, plays such a creep that watching him talk Loren into bed is enough to make the skin crawl. Worse, Lady Liberty is so dissonant that there’s even a joke about the Devane character’s kids holding razors to their wrists and threatening to commit suicide. From start to finish, director Mario Monicelli and his collaborators seem unsure about what sort of film they’re trying to make. At various times, Lady Liberty traffics in feminist propaganda, political satire, romantic musicality, and slapstick. Yet not one of these elements is executed well. Further, the movie needlessly portrays early-’70s New York as being populated solely by narcissistic scumbags. Even the character whom a young Susan Sarandon portrays in one scene is nasty and shrill. Had Loren managed to rise above the fray with effortless charm, Lady Liberty would have been moderately watchable. Alas, that’s not the case—she makes her character seem so impulsive, judgmental, and unhinged that one strains to imagine how any of this looked good on paper.

Lady Liberty: LAME

Report to the Commissioner (1975)

          Back in my college days, when I lived in Manhattan, I was friendly with an NYPD homicide detective who was also a movie buff, and he hipped me to this little-seen drama, praising it as one of the most accurate depictions he’d ever seen about how ugly the gamesmanship within a police force can get. And, indeed, even though Report to the Commissioner is fictional—it’s based on a novel by James Mills—the picture radiates authenticity. Extensive location photography captures the dirty heat of summertime New York City; intense performances burst with streetwise attitude; and the vicious storyline is driven by cynicism, duplicity, and politics. Told in flashback following some sort of terrible clusterfuck of a shootout at Saks Fifth Avenue, the picture reveals how an ambitious undercover detective and a rookie investigator cross paths, with tragic results.

          Michael Moriarty, appearing near the beginning of his long career, stars as hapless Detective Bo Lockley, a newcomer to the NYPD investigative squad who gets paired with a seen-it-all partner, African-American Richard “Crunch” Blackstone (Yaphet Kott0). In a telling early sequence, Lockley watches Blackstone lean on black suspects, even going so far as to spew racial epithets, which clues Lockley into the level of moral compromise required of NYPD lifers. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Lockley, undercover narcotics cop Patty Butler (Susan Blakley), a pretty blonde WASP who uses her looks to undercut suspicions that she’s a police officer, gets a lead on a well-connected dealer named Thomas “Stick” Henderson (Tony King). Smelling an opportunity for a high-profile bust that will help his career, Butler’s commanding officer, Captain D’Angelo (Hector Elizondo), approves a dangerous plan for spying on Stick. Soon afterward, Lockley gets pulled into the situation—without being given crucial information—and things go to hell. The movie climaxes with a tense hostage situation inside Saks, during which high-ranking cops put more energy into covering their asses than saving innocent victims.

          This is dark stuff, making Report to the Commissioner a fine companion piece to Sidney Lumet’s various ’70s pictures about cops and criminals in New York City. And while Report to the Commissioner is far from perfect—the script meanders into subplots and some of the characters could have been consolidated for the purpose of clarity—the movie has myriad virtues. The atmosphere sizzles, with cinematographer Mario Tosi using haze filters and wide lenses to depict grungy exteriors and sweaty interiors. Director Milton Katselas, best known as an acting teacher, demonstrates a real gift for integrating actors into spaces and thereby creating verisimilitude. Best of all, though, are the film’s potent performances. Blakely’s sharp in a smallish role, King is physically and verbally impressive, and Moriarty’s weirdly twitchy energy is compelling. Furthermore, it’s hard to beat the roster of eclectic supporting players—beyond Elizondo and Kotto, the picture features Bob Balaban, William Devane, Dana Elcar, Richard Gere (in his first film role), and Vic Tayback. (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)

Report to the Commissioner: RIGHT ON

The Dark (1979)

A dreadful mishmash of horror and science fiction, The Dark manages to make the quest to capture an extraterrestrial serial killer uninteresting. When the movie begins, a mysterious figure murders several people, including the daughter of author/ex-con Roy Warner (William Devane). Preoccupied with grief—but not so preoccupied that he doesn’t make time to flirt with TV reporter Zoe Owens (Cathy Lee Crosby), who is in turn tries to exploit Roy for a hot story—Roy dogs grumpy police detective Dave Mooney (Richard Jaeckel), the cop assigned to find the killer. Eventually, the various characters gravitate toward a blowsy psychic named De Renzy (Jacqueline Hyde), who has somehow intuited that the killer is an alien, and that the alien is inexplicably tethered to an out-of-work actor and . . . Oh, who cares? The Dark is one of those incompetent movies that can’t figure out how to deliver plot elements effectively, so it compensates by stacking characters and twists atop each other, as if the volume of concepts will compensate for the fact that none of the concepts is interesting. Worse, the story structure of boring filler scenes punctuated by a trite murder sequence every 10 minutes or so is beyond perfunctory. About the only time the movie gets vibrant is during the gonzo climax, when a 10-foot-tall, shambling man-monster squares off with an army of cops, frying the policemen with laser beams shot from the monster’s eyes. However, since the movie’s special effects are mediocre—and since the acting is so lifeless it feels like the performers were handed their lines just before they walked on camera—the film’s only redeeming value is atmospheric widescreen cinematography that lives up to the title. Using a mixture of deep shadows and epic lens flares straight out of the John Carpenter playbook, John Arthur Morrill’s tasty images almost make The Dark worth watching. Almost.

The Dark: LAME

Rolling Thunder (1977)

          Based one of the many violent scripts Paul Schrader penned during his breakthrough period (Heywood Gould rewrote the screenplay), Rolling Thunder concerns Air Force Major Charles Rane (William Devane), a Vietnam vet who returns home to Texas after years in P.O.W. captivity. Numbed by torture, Rane has difficulty reintegrating into normal life, a problem exacerbated by the fact that his son doesn’t remember him and by the fact that his wife, who thought Rane was dead, is now engaged to another man. Thus, when thugs murder Rane’s family and mutilate him, Rane focuses his anger into a bloody revenge mission. Considering that Rane also has a hook for a hand throughout most of the movie, this is awfully pulpy stuff. Had Rolling Thunder been produced by, say, Roger Corman instead of Lawrence Gordon—who was just beginning a long career making smart, big-budget action flicks—the film could have become gruesome and sleazy.

          Instead, Gordon recruited sophisticated collaborators including director John Flynn, cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth, and composer Barry DeVorzon, and the team created a thriller of unusual restraint. Rolling Thunder is a character-driven slow burn, because the film spends as much time depicting the hero’s devastated mental state as it does showcasing his lethal force. So, while generating tension is always the priority—witness several bloody brawls, as well as the unforgettable scene in which bad guys jam Rane’s hand into a kitchen-sink garbage disposal—Gordon’s team also makes room for nuance.

          For instance, the visual style that Cronenweth employs, which anticipates the tasty mixture of deep shadows and piercing beams of light that he later brought to Blade Runner (1982), is a strong presence—it’s as if the movie’s characters swim through an ocean of danger and menace. Furthermore, the Gould/Schrader script features terse dialogue exchanges that reflect Rane’s anguished mindset.

          Playing one of his few leading roles in a big theatrical feature, Devane is perfect casting. With his downturned mouth and heavy brow, he looks bitter even when he’s smiling, so once his eyes are hidden behind the aviator glasses he wears in many scenes, he seems believably dangerous; the sight of him in full bloodthirsty flight, a sawed-off shotgun in one hand and a hook in place of the other, is hard to shake.

          Flynn surrounds Devane with equally well-chosen supporting players. Linda Haynes is naturalistic and tough as a waitress who becomes Rane’s travelling companion; reliable figures including Luke Askew, James Best, and Dabney Coleman infuse small roles with texture; and Tommy Lee Jones nearly steals the movie with his icy performance as Rane’s trigger-happy sidekick. In fact, Jones’ chilling delivery of the line “I’m going to kill a bunch of people” epitomizes the film’s clinical aesthetic, just like the priceless scene of Jones enduring inane family-room chatter crystallizes why some vets find it impossible to adjust once they’re “back in the world.” (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)

Rolling Thunder: GROOVY

The Bad News Bears (1976) & The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training (1977) & The Bad News Bears Go to Japan (1978)

          Foul-mouthed and politically incorrect, The Bad News Bears presents a startlingly funny vision of childhood. In fact, it would be nearly impossible to include some of the movie’s edgier jokes in a contemporary film, and that’s a shame—screenwriter Bill Lancaster and director Michael Ritchie lend believable spark to their story by showing characters trading cruel epithets about disability and race. This warts-and-all approach elevates The Bad News Bears from being just another underdog tale in the classic sports-movie tradition; the movie is also a wicked look at growing up the hard way.

          The main adult character is Morris Buttermaker (Walter Matthau), a former minor-league player now gone to seed—he’s a rumpled drunk who works as a pool cleaner in Southern California. Buttermaker gets recruited to coach a newly formed Little League team, the Bears, which comprises rejects from other squads: bad seeds, minorities, nerds, runts, slobs. A paragon of insensitivity, Buttermaker is the worst possible person to corral this gang, since he’s as appalled by these losers as everyone else. To give the team a remote chance of success, Buttermaker enlists a pair of ringers.

          First up is 12-year-old pitcher Amanda Whurlizer (Tatum O’Neal), whose mother used to date Buttermaker. She’s a wise-beyond-her-years handful, demanding endless financial perks in exchange for participating. Next, Buttermaker woos Kelly Leak (Jackie Earle Haley), a local dropout who zooms around town on a Harley and makes a sketchy living with small-time scams. Watching the younger kids get schooled by the self-serving Amanda and Kelly is hilarious, especially since Buttermaker observes the whole pathetic spectacle with a mix of cynical detachment and whatever-works ruthlessness.

          The contrivance, of course, is that Buttermaker falls in love with the team because of how hard the kids try to please him, but Matthau’s unsentimental performance sells the illusion nicely. Better still, Ritchie does an amazing job with the ballpark scenes, using the strains of Bizet’s “Carmen” as a leitmotif for the Bears’ outfield ineptitude; these scenes are sly ballets of expertly staged physical comedy. Ritchie also pays careful attention to vignettes taking place off the field, ensuring that even minor characters are sketched beautifully.

          It helps a great deal that O’Neal was in the midst of her hot streak of precocious performances, and that Haley, in his breakout role, presented a memorable mixture of bravado and insecurity. Even the movie’s main villain, the super-competitive coach (Vic Morrow) of an opposing team, comes across as a fully realized individual, since the dynamic he shares with his long-suffering son speaks to the movie’s theme of what happens when winning eclipses other priorities.

          Predictably, the departure of key players behind and in front of the camera led to diminishing returns for the movie’s first sequel, The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training. Written by Paul Brickman (who later wrote and directed Risky Business), Breaking Training is enervated and overly sweet but basically palatable. The story focuses on Kelly (still played by Haley) and his estranged dad, Mike (William Devane), who takes over as the Bears’ coach. Mike tries to rally the team for a big exhibition game at the Houston Astrodome, and a combination of formulaic plot elements and unwelcome sentimentality makes Breaking Training feel second-rate. Wasn’t eschewing the cheap emotionalism of traditional sports movies the point of the original film? Still, the interplay between the misfit kids, most of whom are played by the same actors, remains enjoyable, so group scenes are fun to watch.

          In fact, Breaking Training is a near-masterpiece compared to the final theatrical film of the original series, The Bad News Bears Go to Japan. Although original screenwriter Bill Lancaster returned for this entry, the gimmick of the Bears getting exploited by a slick promoter (Tony Curtis) feels forced, as does the uninteresting romantic subplot involving Kelly (once more played by Haley) and a pretty Japanese teenager. Even the game-time jokes start to feel tired by this point, so Japan is to be avoided by those who wish to leave their memories of the first picture untouched. The franchise soldiered on when CBS broadcast one season of a Bad News Bears TV series in 1979–1980, with Jack Warden playing Matthau’s old role of Morris Buttermaker. Then, in 2005, the Bears returned for director Richard Linklater’s pointless remake of the original film, with Billy Bob Thornton becoming the third actor to play Buttermaker.

The Bad News Bears: RIGHT ON

The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training: FUNKY

The Bad News Bears Go to Japan: LAME

Family Plot (1976)

          Impeded by a muddy narrative that lacks a clearly defined main character, the Alfred Hitchcock comedy-thriller Family Plot has earned a dubious reputation over the years. In fact, it’s generally accepted that the picture represented a steep decline in Hitchcock’s artistry, which is unfortunate because it ended up being his final feature. Working once again with his North by Northwest screenwriter Ernest Lehman, Hitchcock obviously saw the potential for an entertaining mix of fright and fun in the Victor Canning novel from which Family Plot was adapted. The title stems from a comparatively minor story point, in which a principal character discovers that a grave is empty, meaning the person supposedly buried there must still be alive. That kind of morbid detail infused many a Hitchcock plot, and, indeed, some elements of Family Plot suit the Master of Suspense’s signature style. However, the movie never comes together in a satisfying way.

          The main threads of the story involve a con-artist couple and a kidnapping couple. The con artists are fake psychic Blanche (Barbara Harris) and her private-investigator boyfriend, George (Bruce Dern). They’ve stumbled onto a chance for an easy paycheck, provided they can find the long-lost nephew of a rich, elderly woman. As for the kidnappers, they are Fran (Karen Black) and Arthur (William Devane). These two are in the midst of committing a string of abductions, collecting gigantic diamonds as ransom payments. (Arthur runs a jewelry store, so he knows how to fence the rocks.) Although the manner in which these narratives intertwine is pure Hitchcock orchestration, the mechanics of the story are murky and unbelievable.

           Far too many scenes rely upon coincidences, last-minute rescues, and stupidity on the part of the characters. Moreover, the first hour of the movie drags because it takes Hitchcock an eternity to reveal where the story is headed. That’s not to say the film completely lacks charm. Although Black and Devane do rather ordinary work, Dern’s disquieting intensity complements Harris’ campy performance as a “seer” who speaks in tongues for dramatic effect. Had their strange characters occupied the center of the movie, Family Plot might have coalesced into a quirky black comedy. Alas, Hitchcock spends nearly as much time detailing the kidnappers’ elaborate methodology, suggesting the director couldn’t decide whether to concentrate on jokes or jolts.

Family Plot: FUNKY

Marathon Man (1976)

          A year after Jaws gave a generation of moviegoers nightmares about great white sharks, the brilliant thriller Marathon Man made dentistry seem like the most terrifying thing in the world. Playing a Nazi war criminal obsessed with finding a cache of stolen diamonds, the venerable Sir Laurence Olivier scared the crap out of audiences by performing oral surgery without anesthetic on the movie’s hero (Dustin Hoffman), all the while muttering the unanswerable lunatic query, “Is it safe?”
          Hoffman plays Babe, a New York City graduate student and marathon runner unwittingly drawn into a race between the Nazi and U.S. government agents. In a deft touch, the movie’s narrative is intentionally convoluted—although screenwriter William Goldman, who adapted the story from his own novel, makes the basics of the story clear enough for viewers to follow along, he ensures that moviegoers as perplexed as Babe, which adds to the tension of watching the film. By showing people getting killed left and right, and by demonstrating that everyone in the movie is chasing everyone else, Goldman creates a dizzying vibe in which it’s impossible to tell who can be trusted. Yet Goldman also keeps viewers squarely in Babe’s camp, since he’s the one true innocent in the story.

          Director John Schlesinger, whose previous collaboration with Hoffman was the Oscar-winning Midnight Cowboy (1969), gracefully balances pulpy material with sophisticated execution, so even though Marathon Man is primarily a very effective thrill machine, it’s also a credible dramatic film with subtle textures like the layered relationship between Babe and his secret-agent older brother, Doc (Roy Scheider). There’s even an edgy love story between Babe and Elsa (Marthe Keller), plus a complex dynamic between Babe and Doc’s fellow spy, Janeway (William Devane). However, what makes the biggest impact is Szell (Olivier), the unhinged German with a nasty habit of jabbing drills and needles into healthy teeth, causing victims unbearable pain. Olivier’s performance, which earned an Oscar nomination, sits on the border between genius and camp, but his choices were validated by how deeply he unsettled audiences; Szell is inarguably one of the creepiest screen villains of the ’70s.

          Hoffman’s great acting in the picture is sometimes overshadowed by Olivier’s star turn and also by oft-repeated lore about Hoffman’s overzealous work ethic. In the most notorious incident, Hoffman stayed up all night as preparation for a scene in which his character is exhausted, only to have Olivier ask, “Why don’t you just try acting, dear boy?” Yet while the thespians used different methods, both delivered peerless results that, when combined with Goldman’s rip-roaring narrative and Schlesinger’s masterful direction, created 129 minutes of vivid escapist entertainment.

Marathon Man: RIGHT ON

Yanks (1979)

Although it boasts crisp performances, interesting subject matter, lavish production values, and sensitive direction by John Schlesinger, the World War II ensemble romance Yanks is a chore to watch, because the characterizations and storyline aren’t compelling enough to sustain the movie’s bloated running time—two hours and 18 minutes is a bit windy for a piffle, no matter how handsomely made. Exploring relationships between American soldiers and the residents of the ravaged England the GIs occupied during the early 1940s, the picture focuses on Matt (Richard Gere), an enlisted man who falls in love with a British store clerk (Lisa Eichhorn), and John (William Devane), an officer who carries on an extramarital affair with an aristocratic volunteer nurse (Vanessa Redgrave). If you think that sounds like the set-up for a maudlin soap opera, then you’ve lit upon the problem: With its anguished goodbye scenes, tender romantic encounters, and violin-drenched soundtrack, Yanks is an intelligent but syrupy melodrama. There’s not a whit of battlefield action in the movie, so it’s all about the unexpected unions lovers form during wartime. And while there’s nothing inherently wrong with a WWII chick flick, shouldn’t this sort of thing evoke some sort of emotional reaction, instead of just unspooling in glossy monotony? Everything in the movie looks great, from the meticulous period details to the shining faces of young beauties (male and female alike), but it’s all so trite. As for the actors, Devane and Redgrave perform with chilly professionalism, while Gere and Eichhorn generate a bit more heat. Gere tries too hard, however, forcing intensity when it doesn’t come naturally, so he’s somewhat awkward, and although Eichhorn is at the height of her youthful beauty, she simply doesn’t have the magnetism required for a movie of this scale. Yanks means well enough, and it’s quite watchable on a scene-by-scene basis, but the gulf between its slight narrative and its epic production values results in a lot of fuss over nothing.

Yanks: FUNKY