Maurie (1973)

          Offering a faint echo of the moving telefilm Brian’s Song (1971), this formulaic but moderately effective picture is another male tearjerker based upon the tragic circumstances of a real-life professional athlete, with the bromance between two players front and center. In this case, the real-life figures depicted onscreen are Maurice Stokes and Jack Twyman, two NBA stars who played for the Royals during the period when the team switched its home base from Rochester to Cincinnati. Stokes, who was black, emerged as a top power forward during the 1955–1956 season (his professional debut), only to suffer a debilitating health crisis two years later. A blow to the head put Stokes in a coma, and when he emerged, he was completely paralyzed. Twyman, a white player who was merely a casual friend of Stokes’ until the accident, stepped up to oversee Stokes’ care and to raise money for Stokes’ astronomical medical bills, eventually becoming his former teammate’s legal guardian. Maurie tells the story of the bond these two men formed while Stokes battled his way back to limited mobility, although the movie ends before Stokes’ death at age 36.

          The best thing Maurie has going for it is Bernie Casey’s performance in the leading role. Not only is Casey uniquely suited for playing athletes, having been a wide receiver in the NFL for several years, but he’s also a sensitive player with good dramatic instincts and wry comic timing. He maximizes every opportunity for creating connections with the audience, even when his character is confined to a hospital bed. Playing Twyman, Bo Svenson does adequate work, though he never quite overcomes the inherent acting problem of playing a one-dimensional saint, even though, in Svenson’s defense, that’s as much a problem of storytelling as it is of performance. And storytelling, really, is where Maurie underwhelms. The film starts awkwardly, intercutting the evening when Stokes fell into his coma with episodes from his life beforehand. The implication that Stokes’ life flashed before his eyes—as if he knew what was about to happen—is questionable. Later, once the picture segues to a long series of hospital scenes, the filmmakers generate a bit more dramatic momentum, though they struggle to invest the storyline with conflict.

          The major source of friction is Stokes’ relationship with Dorothy (Janet MacLachlan), a woman he was courting before his medical troubles. He resists her support out of pride and shame, castigates her for pitying him, and then plays matchmaker between Dorothy and various teammates. As with the Twyman characterization, it’s the saint problem again. Other noticeable flaws include the film’s unimaginative visual style and its cloying undeerscore. (In the original release prints, Frank Sinatra sang the closing-credits theme song, “Winners,” though video versions feature a Sinatra soundalike.) Ultimately, however, the story of Stokes’ and Twyman’s friendship is so heartening and uplifting that it compensates for the film’s weaker elements, and Casey anchors the movie with his amiability, sincerity, and toughness.

Maurie: FUNKY

Brothers (1977)

          Edward Lewis, a prolific producer who worked alongside Kirk Douglas on films including Spartacus (1960), took an unlikely detour into screenwriting for this project, a fictionalized dramatization of the relationship between Black Power activist Angela Davis and a prison inmate whose extended incarceration had racial overtones. In the historical event, Davis was arrested but exonerated for helping the inmate secure firearms that were used in an escape attempt. In the script, which Lewis cowrote with his wife, Mildred (the duo also produced), the characters representing Davis and various convicts are portrayed as victims of an oppressive white culture, employing anarchy and violence as the only available means of self-preservation. The peculiar thing about Brothers, however, is that it lacks the incendiary quality of other films about the Black Power movement. The picture unfolds like a straightforward docudrama, and the tension between agitprop intentions and restrained execution leads to middling results.

          Charismatic as always, Bernie Casey stars as David Thomas, a young black man with the misfortune of occupying the passenger seat of a getaway car after his friend unexpectedly robs a gas station. Convicted as an accomplice, David is given a heavier jail term than expected. He becomes radicalized soon after his arrival in prison, because his cellmate, Walter (Ron O'Neal), preaches the Malcolm X gospel. This resonates with David, given his unfair treatment by the legal system. Later, when Walter receives horrible abuse from racist guards, David becomes an activist by printing an underground prison newsletter fomenting rebellion against white authority. David’s activities are brought to the attention of Paula Jones (Vonetta McGee), a college professor/activist who visits David in prison and eventually falls in love with him. The two perceive themselves as revolutionaries whose cause justifies any risk.

          Even with supercharged subject matter, Brothers fails to generate much heat. Casey is excellent, subtly conveying righteous anger, and McGee’s combination of beauty and intensity makes her performance highly watchable. Yet director Arthur Barron’s pacing is sluggish, and the soundtrack comprises lots of drab jazz noodling, exacerbating the picture’s overall sleepiness. By the time the movie resolves into a melodramatic finale, it has lost energy instead of gaining it, so the final scenes lack the emotional punch they should have. Nonetheless, Brothers represents a sincere attempt at exploring radical politics from a compassionate and thoughtful perspective. Moreover, Angela Davis’ life experience is so endlessly fascinating that even a clumsy rendering of her exploits has inherent interest.

Brothers: FUNKY

Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde (1976)

          While it’s far from the worst blaxploitation horror flick—compared to Blackenstein (1973), anything is a masterpiece—this Afrocentric riff on Robert Louis Stevenson’s immortal novella The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is not good. Lots of interesting ideas bubble under the surface, notably the concept of a serum altering a man’s race, but Lawrence Woolner’s atrocious script bungles everything from character motivations to simple continuity. Even the basic premise of the picture, the specific nature of how a man transforms into a monster, is fuzzy. The first time the main character injects himself with the serum that releases his inner beast, he becomes an animalistic killer who can barely utter monosyllables. Later, however, he retains his hyper-educated speech patterns after transforming. Furthermore, in his first outing as a monster, the main character flinches from a small knife wound, but later he shrugs off bullets.

          Alas, the inability to properly track sci-fi “rules” is ultimately the least of the picture’s problems. Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde is the sort of discombobulated mess in which characters come and go based on what’s convenient for any given scene, so, for instance, the main character never seems to share the same space with his coworker/girlfriend outside of the lab they share. Huh? Bernie Casey stars as Dr. Henry Pryde, a scientist developing a means of regenerating liver tissue because his mother died of liver disease. He works alongside Dr. Billie Worth (Rosalind Cash), and he volunteers at a free clinic where one of his patients is a prostitute named Linda (Marie O’Henry). Eager to test his theories, Henry injects himself and becomes a quasi-albino killer who gets mistaken for a white man while he rampages through Watts, accruing a body count of street people. Cops investigate the murders, but Linda, the booker, figures out the culprit’s identity first and confronts Henry. A lengthy chase featuring a King Kong-style climb of the Watts Towers concludes the film.

          Director William Crain, who previously helmed the enjoyable Blacula (1972), suffers badly for association with inferior material. He stages a few decent action beats, and the intimate scenes between Casey and Cash—as well as those between Casey and O’Henry—have real warmth. Crain also coaxes humor from the banter between black cop Jackson (Ji-Tu Cumbuka) and white cop O’Connor (Milt Kogan); Jackson delivers the amusing line, “Brother man, this situation is rapidly becoming insalubrious—meanin’ we about to stomp a mud hole in yo’ ass.” In other words, this unholy mess of a picture isn’t without its enjoyable moments, but the crappy storytelling and deadly pacing are as murderous to enjoyment as the half-assed monster makeup created by FX icon Stan Winston.

Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde: LAME

Cornbread, Earl and Me (1975)

          Tackling the hot-button issue of racial profiling by police officers, and also dramatizing the social ill of cops closing ranks at the expense of morality, Cornbread, Earl and Me adds an interesting panel to the quilt of ’70s African-American cinema. Dramatic, heartfelt, and impassioned, the movie aspires to be deeply moving, but the filmmakers’ shortcomings limit the heights to which the film ascends. Ultimately, Cornbread, Earl and Me is more respectable than wonderful. Nonetheless, seeing as how it was made at a time when most Hollywood films about the black experience were presented through the demeaning stereotypes of blaxploitation, Cornbread, Earl and Me deserves credit for approaching its subject matter with compassion and respect.

          The title refers to three friends living in the inner city. Nathaniel “Cornbread” Hamilton (Jamaal Wilkes) is an award-winning high-school basketball player who’s about to leave for college and, presumably, a glorious career in the NBA. Two of Cornbread’s biggest fans are neighborhood youths Earl Carter (Tierre Turner) and Wilford Robinson (Larry Fishburne). One tragic day, Cornbread inadvertently runs into the path of two policemen, Atkins (Bernie Casey) and Golich (Vince Martorano), who are pursuing a black suspect. Mistaking Cornbread for the suspect, the cops shoot the basketball player to death. In the aftermath, Cornbread’s hardworking parents, Sam (Stack Pierce) and Leona (Madge Sinclair), hire attorney Benjamin Blackwell (Moses Gunn) to sue the city for wrongful death. The police department responds with intimidation and threats. At one point, thuggish Sgt. Danaher (Stefan Gierasch) actually hits young Wilford, who saw the event happen, and warns Wilford’s mom, Sarah (Rosalind Cash), that her welfare checks will be suspended if Wilford testifies against the police. Caught in the middle of the crisis is Atkins, a black cop who grew up in the same neighborhood where Cornbread was killed.

          Although the plot, which was extrapolated from a novel by Ronald Fair, is quite schematic, Cornbread, Earl and Me works fairly well as a narrative. Atkins and Cornbread represent different pathways for escaping poverty, so the various compromises associated with racial assimilation are addressed. Similarly, Wilford’s family represents the pressures felt by those who need government support to survive, yet must occasionally bite the hand that feeds. Overall, the film effectively illustrates the mixture of deprivation, fear, hope, and sacrifice that permeates the existence of inner-city residents who try to live honorably in a world filled with dishonorable people. And if the ending is a bit tidy, offering something closer to wish-fulfillment than to reality, then it’s possible to look at Cornbread, Earl and Me as a hopeful urban fable. The picture also benefits from strong work by such veterans as Cash, Gunn, and Sinclair—as well as an endearing performance by relative newcomer Fishburne, who was in his early teens when he shot the picture.

Cornbread, Earl and Me: GROOVY

Ants (1977)

Delivering exactly what the title promises, the made-for-TV thriller Ants is basically acceptable given the expectations one might reasonably have for such a project. Yes, the special effects are minimal and the storyline is pedestrian, but Ants features decent production values, a cast comprising several familiar faces, and plenty of scenes in which people are killed by insects with poisonous bites. In fact, had the producers seen fit to boost the gore and nudity quotients (which is to say, had either of those things been included at all), Ants probably could have earned as a theatrical release. The movie is dim-witted, like most creature features, but it’s not much worse than many similar films made in the same era with bigger budgets. The story is shaped roughly like that of a disaster movie. The lives of several underdeveloped characters converge at a lakeside resort, and construction around the resort upsets a colony of mutant ants bearing poisonous venom. Then, after the customary first 40 minutes in which Our Hero tries to persuade people that ants are the culprits behind several nasty incidents, a number of characters get trapped in a hotel with marauding insects while emergency personnel try to rescue them. Nothing original or surprising slips into Ants, except perhaps for the silly climax during which (spoiler alert!) Our Hero coaches fellow survivors to meditate and breathe through tubes while killer ants crawl on their skin. The mind reels. Although stolid he-man Robert Foxworth and perky blonde Lynda Day George are the film’s real stars, the most noteworthy cast member is Suzanne Somers, appearing at the height of her Three’s Company-era pulchritude and wearing skimpy outfits during most of her scenes. Chaste as they are, the various shots of Somers being mauled by ants while dressed in nothing but a bed sheet have a certain naughty appeal. It’s also interesting (and/or depressing) to see such virile players as Bernie Casey, Brian Dennehy, and Hollywood legend Myrna Loy trying to class up their scenes. Like the movie’s titular creatures, the pleasures that Ants offers to viewers are so small they nearly escape notice. Nonetheless, there’s goofy fun to be had here.

Ants: FUNKY

Gargoyles (1972)

          Made-for-TV horror movies got awfully strange in the early ’70s, sometimes diving deeper down the supernatural-cinema rabbit hole than their big-screen counterparts. Gargoyles is a prime example. Depicting exactly what its title suggests, the picture features an anthropologist running afoul of a tribe of real-life gargoyles, flying human/lizard hybrids who look as if they just emerged from the stonework of old buildings. Yet while the concept promises scares and spectacle, the makers of Gargoyles employ a moronic storyline that not only gets mired in trite monster-movie gimmicks but also contradicts itself. For most of the picture, it seems the gargoyles are misunderstood monsters trying to steer clear of human interference, but then the lead critter (Bernie Casey) announces a master plan to hatch thousands of baby monsters and take over the world. This indecision about how to present the titular creatures is unfortunately but one of Gargoyles’ problems.

          Things get off to a bland start when macho scientist/author Dr. Mercer Boley (Cornel Wilde) recruits his grown daughter, Diana (Jennifer Salt), for an expedition through the American southwest. They travel to a novelty shop whose proprietor claims to have a gargoyle skeleton, and then the novelty shop is violently attacked by unseen creatures. After the requisite scenes of our heroes reporting the incident to disbelieving authorities, who blame the attack on a trio of dirt bikers led by James (Scott Glenn), Mercer and Diana get assaulted once more. This time, however, they see their assailants—who are played by stunt men running around in head-to-toe lizard suits complete with horns, devilish faces, and giant wings. And so it goes from there. As the first onscreen monsters created by legendary special-effects guy Stan Winston, the gargoyles have some geek-cinema historical importance, but they’re also thoroughly ridiculous, especially when Casey starts delivering dialogue from behind his goofy monster mask. It must have been trippy to stumble across this thing in 1972, but time has diminished whatever charm Gargoyles might once have possessed.

Gargoyles: LAME

Hit Man (1972)

          At first glance, the idea of a blaxploitation remake of Get Carter (1971) sounds great, since the grim Michael Caine picture has all sorts of elements that could transfer easily from working-class England to the American inner city: gangsters, pornographers, violence, and a badass antihero out for revenge. As written and directed by George Armitage, however, Hit Man lacks the single-minded malevolence of Get Carter. (Both pictures were adapted from Ted Lewis’ novel Jack’s Return Home.) Hit Man is a fun movie in sporadic bursts, mostly due to Armitage’s odd little character touches, and it’s watchable overall because of leading man Bernie Casey’s charisma, but the flick is not the slam-bang winner the combination of genre and story should have produced.

          The movie begins when Tyrone Tackett (Casey) arrives in LA for his brother’s funeral and starts asking questions about who whacked his sibling. During the meandering first hour of the movie, Tyrone spends about half his time digging for clues and the other half hanging out with his late brother’s pals and assorted women; it’s like the movie periodically forgets to have a plot as Armitage gets lost in rich blaxploitation textures. This aimless stretch has its distractions, though: Tyrone visits a nature preserve, makes time with groovy ladies, and tussles with bad dudes. All of this is punctuated with choice blaxploitation dialogue, like this heavy line: “Look, man, I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’, and that’s the righteous truth.” There’s also some weirdly amusing stuff involving Tyrone and his late brother’s business partner, likeable used-car salesman Sherwood (Sam Laws). The two share a bizarre drunk scene, with Casey raising his voice like he’s going through puberty; later, Sherwood blows a take of a TV commercial by innocently proclaiming, “And for you prestige motherfuckers, we got . . .”

          The movie gets more mojo in the second half, when vivacious costar Pam Grier becomes prominent and when the revenge story kicks into gear. The dialogue gets juicier, too: “They shot her in the fuckin’ head, but chicks like your bullshit bourgeois daughter can do anything they wanna do, ’cause you got the bread to make it cool, ain’t that right?” That’s the stuff! Casey’s performance is erratic, suggesting he and Armitage couldn’t decide whether to make Tyrone a wronged everyman or a killer waiting for an excuse to open fire, but Casey’s laid-back vibe offers a good counterpoint to the flamboyant narrative. Most of the supporting cast is forgettable, though Grier is as outrageously sexy as usual, Laws is a hoot, and future Magnum P.I. costar Roger E. Mosley is amusing as a hired gun. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Hit Man: FUNKY

Boxcar Bertha (1972)

          An exploitation flick whose importance to film history far outweighs its cinematic values, Boxcar Bertha is famous because it’s the movie that turned Martin Scorsese into a professional director. Prior to shooting this low-budget Bonnie and Clyde rip-off for producer Roger Corman, Scorsese’s film experience included studying and teaching at NYU as well as making a grimy black-and-white indie feature. Watching Boxcar Bertha, it’s easy to see the growing pains that Scorsese experienced once he was let loose with experienced actors and a proper camera crew. The story isn’t of particular interest, especially because the screenplay is so thematically formless and sloppily paced, but the gist is that after Depression-era drifter Bertha Thompson (Barbara Hershey) falls in love with outlaw union organizer Bill Shelly (David Carradine), they form a band of robbers with several other misfits. This sets the stage for assorted repetitive run-ins with the agents of a corrupt railroad magnate, H. Buckram Sartoris (John Carradine). There’s plenty of nudity and violence (to say nothing of cloying old-timey music), but there isn’t much coherence or fun—it’s all way too episodic and nasty.
          Former NFL player Bernie Casey stands out among the cast, because he makes credible leaps from amiability to intensity as the lone African-American in Bertha’s motley crew. And while David Carradine and Hershey are both earnest and somewhat invested, they’re held back by the script’s inconsistent characterizations; their characters are alternately crusaders and victims. The real interest for movie fans, of course, is in parsing the movie for glimmers of Scorsese’s filmmaking style. Aside from the director’s onscreen cameo (he’s one of Bertha’s whorehouse clients), his signature is most clearly evident during the ultraviolent finale, when Scorsese goes way overboard with religious imagery and experiments with inventive ways to photograph people getting killed. It’s also interesting to note the various scenes punctuated by seemingly random cutaways of static objects, since those shots reflect early attempts at a device for building physical environments that Scorsese perfected by the time he made Taxi Driver a few years later. Ultimately, however, Boxcar Bertha is a bit of a jumble, because its artiness undercuts its value as drive-in trash, and it trashiness undercuts its value as art.

Boxcar Bertha: FUNKY

Cleopatra Jones (1973) & Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold (1975)

          One of those bad movies that sounds fabulous in the abstract but disintegrates upon close inspection, Cleopatra Jones stars statuesque ex-model Tamara Dobson as an ass-kicking secret agent, sort of a soul-sister James Bond, but the cult-fave blaxploitation flick can’t surmount the fact that Dobson’s one of the worst actors ever to step in front of a camera. Her line readings are excruciating, and she’s so robotic that she drains the life out of every scene in which she appears—which is a problem, since she’s in nearly every scene. Dobson cuts an impressive figure, of course, with her attractive look and towering stature, so it’s easy to see the sort of comic-book entertainment the filmmakers were trying to create: an escapist fantasy about a glamorous urban superhero taking a break from her jet-set lifestyle to help out her hometown peeps. Had the title role been cast more effectively, Cleopatra Jones could have lived up to its memorable title. Still, the always-entertaining Bernie Casey makes the picture somewhat watchable thanks to his charismatic performance as Cleo’s community-activist boyfriend; this is one of those with-it ’70s pictures in which the aloof protagonist is constantly criticized for not supporting street-level social change, so we’re supposed to be thrilled when Cleo’s consciousness expands. The plot about foreign smack infesting the ghetto moves along quickly enough, and there’s lots of violence, but the shortcomings of the woman playing Cleopatra Jones are pretty fatal for a movie called Cleopatra Jones. So while the standard-issue blaxploitation flava is present and accounted for (ginormous Afros, pimptastic clothes, wakka-wakka tunes) the only really memorable element of the picture is a demented performance by villainess Shelley Winters, working a weird psycho-lesbian groove as Cleo’s smack-dealing nemesis, “Mommy.”
          The original movie did well enough to spawn a sequel, the even more fabulously titled Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold, with Stella Stevens taking over the villainess role as someone called Bianca Javin, a.k.a. the Dragon Lady. While still quite awful, the sequel is a slight improvement over its predecessor, because Dobson is both less central to the plot and a bit more comfortable onscreen; the addition of goofy elements like extended kung-fu fights and a campy supporting turn by future Three’s Company guy Normal Fell increase watchability as well. Neither of these movies is essential, so unless you’re a Dobson fan or a blaxploitation completist, viewing the second movie is probably the best way to satiate whatever Cleopatra Jones curiosity you might have. (Casino of Gold: Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Cleopatra Jones: LAME

Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold: FUNKY

. . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . (1970)

Gotta love a Southern racial-tension flick that begins on a day hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement—as shown by an egg actually frying on the pavement. That opening scene perfectly captures the pulpy entertainment value of this drama starring Jim Brown, George Kennedy, and Fredric March. Brown plays Jimmy Price, the first black man elected sheriff of a small Deep South community, and Kennedy plays John Little, the white predecessor who angrily surrenders his badge. Camping it up with amusing details like taped-together cigars and a Colonel Sanders string tie, Hollywood veteran March is along for the ride as the mayor who tries to keep his town from exploding after Price’s polarizing election. The plotting is arch (Price alienates half the town by arresting a white man, and the other half by arresting a black man), but the pacing is swift and the performances seethe with sweaty intensity. Brown’s low-key persona and Kennedy’s combustive style make for a fun combination, and they’re surrounded by vibrant personalities: Clifton James plays a strutting redneck who grows a conscience, Bernie Casey plays a hot-headed townie resentful of Price, and veteran varmints Anthony James and Dub Taylor lurk around the periphery of scenes, adding Southern-fried flavor. The movie’s wildly inappropriate music adds to the overripe appeal, like the random use of “Gentle on My Mind” during a scene of Price chasing down a drunk who killed a six-year-old girl in a traffic accident. Oddly pitched ’70s cinema doesn’t get much better than that, except perhaps when Brown forces a straight face for lines like, “I’m the sheriff. Not the white sheriff, not the black sheriff, not the soul sheriff, but the sheriff.” (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

. . . tick . . . tick  . . . tick . . . : FUNKY