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 Andersonville Trial (1970)

          Calling this made-for-TV production of Saul Levitt’s Broadway play a movie is a bit of a stretch, seeing as how it’s essentially a videotaped recording of a live performance on a soundstage, but the cast is so colorful and the story is so arresting that The Andersonville Trial demands attention. Set four months after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, Levitt’s play dramatizes the real-life case of Captain Henry Wirz, the Confederate officer who oversaw a massive POW camp in Andersonville, Georgia, where 14,000 inmates died from abuse, deprivation, and exposure. In Levitt’s humanistic telling, Wirz was complicit in the deaths, but he also unfairly received the brunt of the North’s anger against the South following the Civil War, since he was the first Confederate officer tried for war crimes. Staging The Andersonville Trial for television soon after the My Lai massacre was undoubtedly a conscious choice on the part of the producers, because Levitt’s play explores the thorny issue of how conscientious soldiers struggle to reconcile military and moral obligations, a relevant consideration during the Vietnam era.

          George C. Scott, who played the leading role on Broadway, slipped into the director’s chair for this production, and William Shatner somewhat improbably inherited the part. Save for their flamboyance, it’s hard to imagine two actors who are more different. That said, Shatner attacks the part of prosecuting JAG Lt. Col. Norton P. Chipman with ferocity and passion. In fact, The Andersonville Trial may well contain the best visual record of Shatner’s capacity as an actor. Many of Shatner’s excesses are present here, but so, too, are his sometimes underrated gifts—he orates well, mostly eschewing his famous dramatic pauses, and he shifts nimbly from anger to anguish. If not a remarkable performance, it’s certainly a robust one.

          As the title suggests, Levitt’s play tracks several episodes during a long trial, with each act comprising an extended real-time vignette. The defendant, Wirz (Richard Basehart), is an oddity, a physically impaired European immigrant so proud of his blind service to Confederate orders that he finds the whole trial offensive and ridiculous. He represents the familiar notion that following orders absolves a soldier of personal responsibility for atrocities. Conversely, Shipman represents a higher form of justice, since his prosecution asks whether Wirz should have defied orders in the name of mercy.

          Levitt’s exploration of these complicated issues within the framework of an exciting courtroom duel makes for compelling viewing even though The Andersonville Trial runs two and a half hours. It is also to Levitt’s and Scott’s credit that so many mid-level actors deliver excellent work here. Jack Cassidy is smooth as Wirz’s exasperated defense attorney, Cameron Mitchell conveys an interesting mixture of condescension and dignity as the head of the military tribunal, and folks shining in smaller roles include Michael Burns, Buddy Epsen, and Albert Salmi. Attentive viewers will even spot a young Martin Sheen in a glorified walk-on role toward the beginning of the piece.

The Andersonville Trial: GROOVY

The Last Run (1971)

          The intrigue that unfolded behind the scenes of this turgid thriller is more interesting than anything that actually happens onscreen. Not only was an iconic director replaced with a filmmaker of considerably less distinction, but the leading man left his wife for another woman—and both ladies are featured in the cast. Had any of this tension seeped into the movie’s scenes, The Last Run could have been edgy and exciting. Instead, it’s a slow movie about a man who spends his life driving fast. Make what you will of the irony. In any event, George C. Scott plays Harry Garmes, an American wheelman who spent most of his career driving cars for mobsters in Chicago. Because of some unnamed existential crisis, which was exacerbated by the death of his young son the infidelity of his now ex-wife, Harry lives in Portugal, drinking and smoking his way through days full of nothing. When he gets hired to drive an escaped convict and the convict’s girlfriend across Europe, Harry embraces the opportunity to see if he still has what it takes. Predictably, this simple scenario gets complicated, thanks to double-crosses, secret agendas, and Harry’s burgeoning romantic interest in the convict’s girlfriend.

          There’s a certain poetry to some of the dialogue in Alan Sharp’s script, and it’s fun to imagine what The Last Run might might have become if John Huston, the project’s original director, had remained involved. Alas, he bailed partway through production, apparently because of friction with the notoriously difficult Scott, and his successor was Richard Fleischer, whose filmmographry includes several enjoyable films but also a number of genuine embarrassments. The Last Run falls somewhere between those extremes; while it’s a disappointment that often gets stuck in the mud of pointless and/or repetitious scenes, it’s never overtly bad. Rather, it’s drab and lifeless and uninspired. Although Huston was at a weird stage in his career, he was an old pro at telling stories about self-destructive men, so it’s tempting to believe he would have elevated the material more than Fleischer did. After all, the story is a quintessential ’70s downer, and Huston rebounded from a creative slump with the grim Fat City a year later.

          That said, the characterizations in The Last Run are so thin, and the narrative events so trite, that perhaps the picture was destined for mediocrity. Scott strikes a spark every so often with his signature blend of anger and ennui, but costars Tony Musante and Trish Van Devere barely register while playing pure clichés—the hotheaded crook and the opportunistic moll. Behind-the-scenes talents do what they can, with composer Jerry Goldsmith’s jaunty score complementing cinematographer Sven Nykvist’s moody imagery. As for that other aspect of behind-the-scenes drama, Scott began production married to actress Colleen Dewhurst, who appears in one scene as a prostitute, and by the end of production, Scott was with Van Devere, whom he subsequently married.

The Last Run: FUNKY

The Hospital (1971)

          Speaking as a cineaste, a devotee of ’70s film, and a screenwriter, I’m about to commit an act of heresy by admitting that I don’t dig The Hospital, which netted Paddy Chayefsky one of his three writing Oscars. While I understand the use of dark satire to skewer the foibles of the medical industry—and, on a larger scale, the foibles of bureaucracy and capitalism run amok—I’ve watched The Hospital twice at very different times in my life, and on both occasions I’ve found the movie to be cold, pretentious, and tiresome. Seeing as how Chayefsky’s writing was singled out for praise, it’s possible my reaction stems from a problem of execution. Arthur Hiller’s sloppy camerawork and undisciplined dramaturgy prevents a clear point of view from coalescing, so he seems lost as the story zooms back and forth between tonalities.

          Proving that giving an ambitious Chayevsky script a pleasing shape wasn’t impossible, Sidney Lumet made a masterpiece from Chayefsky’s next opus, Network (1976). Many of the outrageous narrative maneuvers that make Network so wonderful are present in The Hospital, but they don’t work nearly as well. The omniscient narration, the religious allegory, the spectacular monologues—whereas these elements feel germane to the coherent lunacy of Network, they contribute to making The Hospital feel scattershot. The Hospital is not without its virtues, of course, because George C. Scott’s leading performance is impassioned, and the movie’s dialogue vibrates with Chayefsky’s unique blend of indignation and intellectualism (even though all of the characters sound identical). Furthermore, the best jabs at the medical industry land with tremendous impact. Taken as a whole, however, The Hospital is contrived, episodic, long-winded, and underwhelming.

          The picture is set at a fictional Manhattan hospital, which is perpetually surrounded by protestors, some of whom also work at the facility. Chief of Medicine Dr. Herbert Bock (Scott) is a suicidal drunk reeling from a divorce, and therefore emotionally unprepared for a series of crises. One by one, doctors and nurses start dying as a result of absurd mix-ups—injections given to the wrong patients, sick people pushed aside and “forgotten to death,” and so on. Herbert’s life takes a turn when he meets Barbara Drummond (Diana Rigg), the daughter of an eccentric patient. A hippie involved with Native American mysticism, she tries to remove her father from the hospital, sparking many debates about the efficacy of Herbert’s management. Other subplots include the travails of one Dr. Welbeck (Richard Dysart), a snobbish surgeon who has incorporated himself in order to prioritize money over medicine. All of these things come together in wild ways. A serial killer stalks the hospital’s halls. Herbert confesses self-destructive thoughts to a shrink, nearly injects himself with lethal chemicals, and overcomes impotence by raping Barbara.
          In one of the film’s least pleasing developments, Barbara interprets Herbert’s sexual assault as an act of love. Suffice to say the film is not as sharp on women’s issues as it is on economics and medical ethics.

          While The Hospital is all over the place in terms of mood and themes, Scott is incredible, even if the script requires him to exclaim “Oh, my God!” a few too many times, and the supporting cast is filled with lively players. Beyond Dysart and Rigg, The Hospital features Roberts Blossom, Stockard Channing, Stephen Elliot, Katherine Hellmond, Barnard Hughes, Nancy Marchand, Frances Sternhagen, and Robert Walden. Moreover, the movie has unquestionable literary quality, and it’s a meticulously researched examination of a worthy topic. Yet it’s also bewildering and strident and ugly. Still, what else could be expected from a self-proclaimed examination of “the whole wounded madness of our times”? Happily, Chayefsky found a perfect vessel for his op-ed rage in his next project.

The Hospital: FUNKY

The Savage Is Loose (1974)

          Depicting the travails of three (fictional) people marooned on a tropical island during the early years of the 20th century, this strange melodrama combines the basic DNA of the Adam and Eve story with Oedipal angst. Even though it’s made with restraint, the film follows its psychosexual premise all the way to the logical conclusion, so the vibe is deeply creepy. Therefore, it’s fascinating to ponder what might have attracted George C. Scott to such outré material. After all, this is unmistakably Scott’s film from top to bottom: Although he did not write the script, Scott produced, directed, played the leading role, cast his real-life wife as his costar, and released the film through his own company. Alas, The Savage Is Loose coincided with, and presumably contributed to, the decline of Scott’s star power. It was also the last of the two theatrical films he directed.

          The Savage Is Loose starts on a false note, because Scott depicts the shipwreck that triggers the story by showing close-ups of a painting of a shipwreck. Weak. Then, during the first live-action scene, several minutes of interaction suggest that John (Scott) is alone on an island with his preteen son David (played as a boy by Lee Montgomery). Thus, it’s jarring when John’s sexy wife, Maida (Trish Van Devere), arrives on the scene. Eventually, however, The Savage Is Loose locks into a Robinson Crusoe­­-type groove by portraying people from civilized society learning to survive in nature.

          The best part of the film is roughly the second quarter of the running time, during which John and Maida clash about priorities while raising David. John trains David to be a hunter so the boy will be able to fend for himself after John and Maida die, but Maida schools John in the ways of the outside world, hoping against hope for rescue. About halfway through the movie, things get kinky when David sees his parents having sex and asks Maida whether she and David will marry once he reaches adulthood. Then the movie cuts to David as a strapping young man (played by John David Carson). Grown-up David quickly becomes estranged from his parents, because David’s youthful affection for Mom was just a precursor. Now ruled by hormones, he’s blinded with lust whenever he’s around her. Conflict over which man gets to be with Maida ensues.

          Among other colossal problems, Scott’s direction becomes amateurish whenever he tries to film sexualized scenes. One bit featuring furtive glances around a dinner table includes more extreme close-ups of eyes than a Sergio Leone movie. A vignette of Maida humping John includes Van Devere grinding and growling with the ferocity of a porn star. And the “shocking” revelation of David’s sex cave—where he’s built an anatomically correct effigy of his mother out of animal parts—is borderline comical. Screenwriters Frank De Felitta and Max Ehrlich (who previously collaborated on 1972’s Z.P.G.) try to play the outrageous story straight, even integrating text from the Bible, but it would have required a far more delicate touch than Scott or the screenwriters could muster to steer The Savage Is Loose clear of camp. Further, Scott’s leaden pacing kills any chance of viewers simply going along for the transgressive ride. In sum, whatever intellectual or social significance Scott perceived in this unpleasant fable is not visible onscreen.

The Savage Is Loose: FREAKY

Rage (1972)

          Inspired by a real-life incident during which the U.S. military accidentally released nerve gas onto a civilian sheep ranch, Rage offers an unusual spin on the ’70s vigilante picture. Instead of seeking revenge against criminals, the film’s lead character attacks anyone and everyone associated with an accident that claimed the life of his young son.

           George C. Scott, who also marked his feature directorial debut with this picture (having previously helmed the 1970 television play The Andersonville Trial), stars as Dan Logan, a Wyoming sheep rancher and widower. One evening, Dan camps on his ranch with his preteen son, Chris (Nicolas Beauvy); Chris sleeps outside while Dan slumbers in a tent. When Dan wakes the next morning, Chris is bleeding from the nostrils, convulsing, and unconscious. Meanwhile, many of Dan’s sheep are dead or dying. Dan rushes Chris to a nearby hospital and summons his family physician, Dr. Caldwell (Richard Basehart). Before Caldwell arrives, two other medical professionals—Dr. Holliford (Martin Sheen) and Dr. Spencer (Barnard Hughes)—assume control over the Logans, separating father and son while examining Dan for symptoms. Turns out the Logans were exposed to an experimental nerve agent, and Holliford and Spencer are government operatives tasked with keeping the incident quiet. When Chris dies, Holliford and Spencer persuade Caldwell to hide the truth from Dan until an “appropriate” time. Sensing that he’s being manipulated, Dan escapes from his hospital room, slips into the morgue, and discovers Chris’ body. Then he snaps, unleashing death and destruction on his enemies.

          Although Scott’s direction is far from perfect, given the presence of bizarre slo-mo flourishes and a distasteful focus on cruelty to animals, the basic story is powerfully simple. Not only is the nerve-gas incident frightening, the ensuing government crackdown is wholly believable. And if Dan’s skill at gathering resources while evading capture sometimes seems a bit far-fetched, it’s useful to remember that a fugitive could hide from public view with greater ease in the days before cellphones and the Internet.

          Rage has its share of unintentionally funny moments, a hazard common to movies that try to sustain an unrelentingly grim tone, but Scott is 100 percent the right guy for the job, at least in front of the camera. Playing an unsophisticated everyman who needs medical jargon translated into plain English, Scott credibly personifies the murderous anger that would fill any parent’s heart under the circumstances. Similarly, Hughes and Sheen (who later played father and son in the 1988 drama Da) capture the chilly efficiency of men who place the needs of the state over the rights of individuals. Holding this taut little picture together is a fantastic score by Lalo Schifrin, who keeps the tension flowing from the deceptively peaceful opening scenes to the bitterly tragic finale.

Rage: GROOVY

1980 Week: The Formula

          While it would be exaggerating to describe this conspiracy thriller as a massive waste of talent, it’s fair to say that the luminaries involved in the project should have been able to generate something more exciting. After all, stars Marlon Brando and George C. Scott both had Oscars to their names by the time they costarred in The Formula, and director John G. Avildsen had recently scored a major hit with Rocky (1976). Even the movie’s deep bench of supporting actors is impressive: John Gielgud, Marthe Keller, Richard Lynch, G.D. Spradlin, Beatrice Straight. Yet The Formula is talky instead of thrilling, and the mano-a-mano faceoff between the top-billed actors that’s promised by the film’s poster never really materializes. On the bright side, The Formula is a handsome-looking movie that benefits from intricate plotting and (no surprise) skillful acting.

          Written and produced by Steve Shagan, the picture begins with a prologue set in Germany during the final days of World War II’s European action. A Nazi general is entrusted with a shipment of valuable papers that Third Reich officials hope to trade for protection after Germany falls, but U.S. soldiers seize the shipment before the Nazi general can escort the papers to a safe place. Next, the movie cuts to the present, where LAPD Detective Barney Caine (Scott) begins investigating the murder of a former LAPD chief. Caine uncovers connections between the dead man and oil magnate Adam Steiffel (Brando), and he also links the dead man to various mysterious people in Europe. Despite skepticism from his superiors, Caine treks to Germany and discovers that the dead man was part of a conspiracy involving a World War II-era formula to convert coal into oil. The ramifications are huge, since replacing petroleum as the world’s primary source of fuel would change the global economic map. Intrigue follows as Caine chases leads with the help of Lisa Spangler (Keller), a German model whose uncle has a tragic connection with the conspiracy.

          The premise of The Formula is interesting and workable, so the problem with the picture is one of execution. Nearly all of Caine’s investigative work takes the form of personal interviews, and there’s a numbing repetitiveness to the way people get shot and killed by unseen assassins immediately after giving Caine vital information. Worse, since the hit men never seem to aim at Caine himself, there’s not much real tension. By the time the movie climaxes in a lengthy (and surprisingly casual) chat between Caine and Steiffel—one of only two scenes shared by Brando and Scott—a general sense of lethargy has taken hold. Still, nearly everyone contributing to The Formula does solid work, from the way Brando hides his character’s evil behind an avuncular façade to the way composer Bill Conti accentuates scenes with robust flourishes. However, because the story never reaches a boiling point, The Formula ends up feeling like an episode from a well-made TV detective show, albeit with fancier actors and more elaborate location photography.

The Formula: FUNKY

Oklahoma Crude (1973)

          John Huston and Elia Kazan, among many others, have been credited with the quote that “90% of directing is casting.” To understand what this remark means, check out Oklahoma Crude, a handsomely produced but frustrating period drama about a belligerent woman operating a wildcat oil well in the early 20th century. The picture has four main characters, but only one is cast perfectly. The protagonist, Lena Doyle, is a tough-as-nails loner who works with her hands and dislikes people so much that she expresses a wish to be a third gender, complete with a matched set of sex organs, so she can tend to her own carnal needs. Improbably, she’s played by Faye Dunaway, a cosmopolitan beauty who seems more suited to a Paris fashion runway than a rugged work site. Further, because Lena rarely speaks during the first half of the picture, the role requires a performer with expressive physicality. Dunaway’s greatest gifts are her face and voice, so she’s wrong for the part on every level, even though it’s easy to understand why she relished a chance to try something different.

          The next important character is Noble Mason, a scrappy rogue whom Lena reluctantly hires as a laborer/mercenary once representatives from an oil company try to seize her well by force. Since the Lena/Noble relationship has a Taming of the Shrew quality, the obvious casting would be a handsome rascal along the lines of Steve McQueen or Paul Newman. Instead, Noble is played by George C. Scott, unquestionably one of the finest actors in screen history but not, by any stretch, a romantic lead. Rounding out the troika of casting errors is the presence of dainty English actor John Mills as Cleon Doyle, Lena’s estranged father. Seeing as how he plays the role with an American accent, why didn’t producer-director Stanley Kramer simply cast an American? Well, at least Kramer got the villain right, because Jack Palance is terrific as Hellman, the sadistic enforcer whom the oil company sends to menace Lena.

          The intriguing plot of Marc Norman’s script revolves around Lena’s ownership of a nascent well, which gains Lena unwanted attention once clues indicate the well might produce oil. Hellman makes a cash offer that Lena refuses, so Hellman simply steals the well, in the process ordering his people to beat Lena and her employees nearly to death. Then, with the assistance of ex-soldier Noble, Lena reclaims the well, sparking a lengthy standoff that culminates in a bittersweet combination of tragedy and victory.

          Oklahoma Crude gets off to a rocky start, because the first 20 minutes—in which the Lena/Noble relationship is established—simply don’t work, largely because of the aforementioned miscasting. Things pick up once Palance arrives, and the last hour of the picture is fairly exciting. Legendary cinematographer Robert Surtees contributes his usual vigorous work, and composer Henry Mancini’s music keeps things bouncy. (Occasionally too much so.) As with most of Kramer’s pictures, the tone rings false at regular intervals, since the filmmaker can’t decide whether he’s making a dramedy or a serious picture. The novelty of the story and the strength of the primal good-vs.-evil conflict ultimately sustain interest, but it’s a bumpy ride—especially when the syrupy, Anne Murray-performed theme song, “Send a Little Love My Way,” gets played on the soundtrack for the zillionth time.

Oklahoma Crude: FUNKY

The New Centurions (1972)

          This erratic but nervy film was released at a time when popular portrayals of policemen were mostly limited to extremes—the sanitized, such as the 1968-1975 TV series Adam-12, and the scandalous, such as the 1971 feature Dirty Harry. Based on the first novel by real-life former LAPD cop Joseph Wambaugh, The New Centurions occupies an unsettling place between these approaches. Characterizing policemen as victims of physical and psychological violence who are lucky to reach retirement alive—and sane—the movie is melodramatic and occasionally overwrought. Yet, when viewed as either an intense character drama or as a historical corrective to one-sided narratives about law enforcement, The New Centurions gains a certain degree of validity. It’s also quite well made, with excellent long-lens photography by Ralph Woolsey capturing the soulless textures of Los Angeles in a way that accentuates the desensitizing grind of police patrols.

          Furthermore, the movie contains a handful of vivid performances, from the showy leading turns by Stacy Keach and George C. Scott to colorful bit parts played by an eclectic roster of actors including William Atherton, Erik Estrada, Clifton James, Ed Lauter, Roger E. Mosley, Pepe Serna, James B. Sikking, and Dolph Sweet. And then there are the actors whose significant supporting turns complement the rhythms of Keach’s and Scott’s work—Jane Alexander, Rosalind Cash, and Scott Wilson, all three of whom deliver performances filled with palpable emotion. So even if screenwriter Stirling Silliphant and director Richard Fleischer let the story run amok at times, The New Centurions contains dozens of moments that connect.

          Although it’s essentially an ensemble piece, the movie focuses on Roy Fehler (Keach), a rookie cop who hits the streets right after the opening credits and is partnered with veteran Sergeant Kilvinski (Scott). At first, Fehler is a soft-spoken married man working his way through law school. As the movie progresses, he becomes a cynical adrenaline junkie who tanks his marriage with a combination of alcoholism and recklessness. Meanwhile, Kilvinski ages out of the force and confronts the depressing truth that he’s lost without a badge. This psychoanalytic approach to police drama is commonplace today, but it was innovative in 1972, which is why it’s easy forgive the filmmakers—and Wambaugh—for the excesses of the story, all of which serve useful metaphorical purposes. Every death in The New Centurions adds to the overall theme of the price that brave, crazy, and/or naïve men pay for doing a dangerous job.

          After all, who could be expected to keep their wits when faced with an endless cycle of new crooks and recidivists? “There’s always another asshole on the street,” Kilvinski says at one point. “You can’t stop ’em all.” And, as Fehler remarks in another scene, it’s not as if the public’s support for cops is overwhelming, because the film is set in a time when street justice was complicated by the rise of the suspect-rights movement: “Last year, everybody was screaming about the lack of freedom—this year, everybody’s screaming about the lack of control.” In other words, damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

The New Centurions: GROOVY

Hardcore (1979)

          There are some deeply flawed movies whose intentions I admire so much that I view the pictures more favorably than I probably should. Paul Schrader’s sophomore directorial effort, Hardcore, is one such film. A tough exploration of horrific subject matter that Schrader approaches with intellectual rigor and moral complexity, Hardcore is frequently sublime. However, Schrader writes himself into several corners, and the second half of the picture meanders on the way toward an unsatisfying final scene. Yet even in its murkiest stretches, the film has instants of tremendous power—so, for instance, the finale is disturbing and exciting until the movie falls apart its final frames. Plus, the overall story is enough to turn even the strongest stomach. After his teenaged daughter disappears from a church trip to California, a Midwestern father hires a private detective, who discovers the young woman has become an actress in grimy underground porno films; once the detective’s efforts flounder, the father goes undercover in the porno world, posing as a producer, in order to find someone who knows his daughter’s whereabouts.

          Schrader pulled many elements of the story from his own life, making the picture feel deeply personal. Like Schrader, the family at the center of the movie is from the Calvinist community in Grand Rapids, Michigan, a milieu defined by hard work, stringent religious practice, and the repression of primal urges. Schrader’s protagonist, Jake VanDorn (George C. Scott), runs a successful manufacturing business, so he has the resources to mount an intensive search. Jake is presented as a walking embodiment of rectitude, his properness manifesting in everything from crisp diction to natty clothing. The contrast between Jake and scumbag PI Andy Mast (Peter Boyle) is bracing, but that’s only the start of Jake’s trip down the rabbit hole. Eventually, this devout man finds himself wearing gold chains, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and a wig while “auditioning” male porn actors who insist on showing him their equipment.

          The most impressive aspect of Hardcore is Schrader’s depiction of Jake’s skin-trade education; in the course of learning what he needs to pursue his investigation, Jake encounters every ugly thing about humanity from which his religion previously shielded him. Thanks to Scott’s precisely modulated performance, it’s sickening to watch this virtuous man slip into a quagmire of exploitation. Considerably less effective is the relationship Schrader creates between Jake and Niki (Season Hubley), a prostitute who serves as his guide through the porn world. The pointed exchanges these characters have about relative morality slow the movie down—even though, on a thematic level, these scenes represent the core of Schrader’s narrative. Working with cinematographer Michael Chapman, a master at creating eerily atmospheric lighting, and composer Jack Nitzsche, whose powerful score features everything from the ethereal sound of the saw to the thumping grooves of seedy funk, Schrader creates vivid worlds with every frame of Hardcore. Even at this early stage of his directorial career, one could see the tendency of the director to reach beyond his grasp, but it’s hard to criticize an artist for aspiring to greatness.

Hardcore: GROOVY

They Might Be Giants (1971)

The whimsical romantic adventure movie They Might Be Giants, adapted by James Goldman from his play of the same name and directed by Anthony Harvey, has more heart and novelty than it has credibility and resolution. Nonetheless, the piece communicates such a lovely theme that it’s possible to overlook many shortcomings. Similar in many ways to a more satisfying movie that came along 20 years later—The Fisher King (1991), with Jeff Bridges and Robin Williams—They Might Be Giants asks whether society can tolerate harmless kooks, particularly if they envision themselves as heroes striving for the common good. However, Goldman doesn’t come close to answering the biggest questions his story raises, instead employing cutesy literary sidesteps to avoid thorny issues. Still, the journey of the movie is unique, and the picture is energized by lively performances. Furthermore, while Goldman and Harvey never approach the heights of their previous screen collaboration—the acclaimed historical drama The Lion in Winter (1968)—their approach is consistently literate and sophisticated. Set in contemporary New York, the picture revolves around Justin Playfair (George C. Scott), a wealthy retired judge who slipped into fantasy after the death of his wife. Imagining himself to be Sherlock Holmes and even going to the extreme of strutting around in 19th-century dress, Justin is admitted to a mental hospital by scheming relatives and placed under the care of psychiatrist Dr. Mildred Watson (Joanne Woodward). And, yes, the gimmick of this movie’s “Holmes” finding his own personal Dr. Watson is just as extravagant a narrative indulgence as it sounds. Against a backdrop of Justin’s relatives angling to get him permanently committed so they can seize control of his money, Justin escapes the hospital and embarks on a quest to find the nefarious Dr. Moriarity—who, in the world of this story, doesn’t exist. Justin’s grand quest inspires acquaintances including Wilbur Peabody (Jack Gilford), a milquetoast senior who harbors heroic fantasies of his own, and Justin’s offbeat brilliance eventually sparks romance with Mildred. The movie vamps on its premise quite a bit, since the story can’t really go anywhere, but Scott is so commanding and Woodward is so stalwart that it’s a pleasure to watch them share the screen as their respective characters. After all, what’s not to like about the spectacle of two insightful people pooling their resources to right the wrongs of the world? (Gilford lends tenderness to the mix with his unassuming likeability.) One wishes there was as much substance in They Might Be Giants as there is style, since the specifics of the story disappear from memory rather quickly after watching the movie. But for viewers seeking a flamboyant lark, They Might Be Giants fits the bill.

They Might Be Giants: FUNKY

Islands in the Stream (1977)

          Actor George C. Scott and director Franklin J. Schaffner collaborated so effectively on Patton (1970) that it’s surprising they only worked together once more. And while their second picture is a much smaller endeavor than the duo’s celebrated military epic, Islands in the Stream is memorable in different ways. Adapted from Ernest Hemingway’s book of the same name, the picture takes place during World War II and details the exploits of Tom Hudson (Scott), an American sculptor living in the Caribbean. Separated from his old life—he left behind a bride and three children when relocating to the tropics—Tom is the quintessential Hemingway man’s man, an iconoclast driven by a code of honor few people can truly understand. Yet while some of Papa’s heroes express their individualism with battlefield courage and other such violent displays, Tom follows a more cerebral path. He’s all about beauty and truth, even if that means unmooring himself from society’s traditional expectations.

          Schaffner and screenwriter Dennie Bart Peticlerc transpose literary devices from the source material, including chapter breaks and voiceover, so Islands of the Stream is a bit self-consciously arty. Furthermore, because the voiceover features Scott sensitively reading Hemingway’s staccato prose, the movie alternates between visceral scenes between characters and internalized moments during which the juxtaposition of images and Scott’s monologues advances understanding, if not necessarily the storyline. In other words, Islands in the Stream is an offbeat hybrid of full-blooded drama and novelistic rumination. Both elements work, to different degrees.

          The best of the fully dramatized material involves Tom’s fraught relationships with his estranged wife, Audrey (Claire Bloom), and his sons, particularly young adult Tom Jr. (Hart Bochner), in whom the hero finds a kindred spirit. (A poignant sequence revolves around Tom meeting his children for the first time and taking them on a grueling fishing trip.) The best of the purely literary material arrives at the very end of the picture, when Schaffner finds just the right images to accentuate the segment of Scott’s voiceover that contains his character’s closing thoughts after experiencing loneliness, loss, and a kind of redemption.

          The movie has significant flaws, not least of which is an episodic structure that impedes the building of proper dramatic momentum, but the elegance of Schaffner’s execution covers a multitude of sins. More importantly, Scott is at his very best—which is to say that his work is very near the pinnacle of American screen acting. Suppressing his natural tendency toward bluster in order to channel a character who keeps most of his feelings hidden, Scott conveys pain and regret while still illustrating the subtle idea that Tom Hudson considers each man’s life a work of art. So even if the movie’s penultimate passage, a long discursion into high-seas wartime adventure, stretches credibility and dilutes the impact of the film’s touching family-ties material, that’s a minor complaint. After all, it wouldn’t really be Hemingway without at least some hairy-chested excess.

Islands in the Stream: GROOVY

Bank Shot (1974)

          To get a sense of the endearingly fluffy humor that pervades this caper flick, consider a moment when bumbling FBI agent Streiger (Clifton James) shows his team surveillance footage of master criminal Walter Upjohn Ballantine (George C. Scott). First, the surveillance camera is angled away from Ballantine because the cameraman is ogling a pretty girl’s figure, and second, Ballantine reveals he’s aware of the surveillance camera by dabbing the lens with the tip of an ice cream cone. Gritty realism this is not. Yet while some other adaptations of lighthearted crime books by author Donald E. Westlake spiral into stupidity, the Westlake adaptation Bank Shot comes awfully close to cooking that most delicate soufflé of pure farce, especially during sequences of epic-proportioned slapstick. It helps, of course, to have a leading actor of consummate skill, since Scott plays every single scene perfectly straight, no matter how absurd the circumstances. Together with an adept supporting cast and the confident direction of Gower Champion (a former dancer and choreographer), Scott’s performance makes Bank Shot highly entertaining.

          The plot is a standard Westlake lark. Career thief Ballantine, whom Scott portrays with comically bushy eyebrows and a pronounced lisp, is stuck in a prison work farm until his excitable accomplice, A. G. Karp (Sorrell Booke), visits with news that a bank has been identified as vulnerable for robbery. Ballantine stages a ridiculous escape by hijacking an earthmover and bulldozing his way through prison walls. Then he meets the unimpressive crew Karp has gathered. These offbeat theives include a nebbish ex-FBI agent (Bob Balaban), a jittery goodfella (Don Calfa), and a sexy society dame (Joanna Cassidy) who’s moonlighting as a crook for thrills. Karp’s undercooked plan involves robbing a bank that’s temporarily housed in a mobile home, so Ballantine arrives at an audacious method—hook the mobile home to a truck, cart it away to a safe location, and crack the bank’s vault later.

          Even though the movie is very brief (83 minutes), Bank Shot includes a string of goofy running gangs, like the trope of Ballantine dosing himself with saltpeter in order to resist the advances of Cassidy’s character, lest he get distracted from his task. (Cassidy, playing one of her earliest major film roles, enlivens the picture with her carefree spirit and throaty laugh.) The picture is handsomely shot and quickly paced, though it slows down, appropriately, during moments displaying the thieves’ careful technique; watch for the bit when an explosives man gets more and more frustrated each time a charge proves insufficient for blowing a safe open. Bank Shot gets very cartoonish toward the end, with Streiger and his men chasing after a runaway mobile home—c’mon, you knew that was going to happen—but the charm of the main performances and the cheerful unpretentiousness of the whole enterprise compensate for a lot of rough edges.

Bank Shot: GROOVY

The Day of the Dolphin (1973)

          It’s easy to pick apart The Day of the Dolphin, not just because it’s an awkward hybrid of loopy ideas and straight drama, but also because it was such a bizarre career choice for screenwriter Buck Henry and director Mike Nichols, who previously collaborated on the social satire The Graduate (1967) and the surrealistic war movie Catch-22 (1970). Yet even though The Day of the Dolphin doesn’t bear obvious fingerprints from either Henry or Nichols, it subtly reflects both artists’ focus on meticulous character development and thought-provoking concepts. As to the larger question of whether the movie actually works, that’s entirely a matter of taste. Undoubtedly, many viewers will find the central premise too incredible (or even silly). As for me, I find the picture consistently interesting even when believability wavers.

          The plot revolves around Dr. Jake Terrell (George C. Scott), who operates a privately funded marine laboratory where he studies the communication behaviors of dolphins. Or at least that’s what he tells the public. In secret (known only to his staff), Terrell has trained two dolphins, Alpha and Beta, to speak and understand a handful of English words. Predictably, problems arise when Terrell shares this information with his chief benefactor, Harold DeMilo (Fritz Weaver). Shadowy forces learn about the dolphins and kidnap the animals for an evil purpose—the bad guys want to train the dolphins to assassinate the U.S. president by delivering underwater bombs to his yacht while the president is on vacation. (As noted earlier, the premise borders on silliness.)

          What makes The Day of the Dolphin watchable is how straight the material is played. During the movie’s most evocative scenes, Terrell bonds with Alpha and Beta through underwater play that’s scored to elegant music by composer Georges Delerue; for viewers willing to take the movie’s ride, it’s easy to develop a real emotional bond with the animals, and to sympathize with Terrell’s desire to protect them. In that context, the assassination conspiracy isn’t the driving force of the story so much as a complication that tests an unusual relationship.

          Obviously, having an actor of Scott’s power in the leading role makes all the difference. His gruff quality steers the animal scenes clear of Disney-esque sweetness, so when the movie finally goes for viewers’ heartstrings, the bittersweet crescendos of the story feel as earned as they possibly could. There’s not a lot of room for other characters to emerge as individuals, but Nichols stocks the movie with skilled actors who lend nuance where they can. Edward Herrmann and Paul Sorvino stand out as, respectively, one of Terrell’s aides and a mystery man who infiltrates Terrell’s laboratory. A key behind-the-scenes player worth mentioning is cinematographer William A. Fraker, who captures the beating sun and lapping waves of the film’s oceanside locations with crisp realism while also creating a magical world underwater.

The Day of the Dolphin: GROOVY

Patton (1970)

          Despite being bold, provocative, and smart, Patton should not have curried favor during its original release, since the movie arrived at the height of America’s misguided war in Vietnam. Surely, there couldn’t have been a worse time to release a feature-length tribute to one of World War II’s most famous American generals. Yet Patton is much more complicated than any hagiography, and the movie’s greatest strengths are undeniable. The script is insightful and witty, the direction and production values are impressive, and leading man George C. Scott’s performance ranks among the highest achievements in screen acting. The movie is imperfect, of course, suffering such flaws as an excessively long running time, but the audacity with which the filmmakers engage themes of hubris, militarism, and patriotism are still startling 40 years after the movie was made.

          Notwithstanding a riveting prologue (more on that in a minute), the movie begins in North Africa, when General George S. Patton Jr. (Scott) is first recruited to battle Germany’s “Desert Fox,” tank-division commander Erwin Rommel (Karl Michael Volger). As the movie progresses, Patton is moved from Africa to the European theater, his battlefield victories overshadowed by his outrageous behavior. Gaudy and vainglorious, Patton openly cites his belief in reincarnation, describing himself as the latest form of a soldier who has existed during the great wars of previous centuries; although Patton bolsters his claims with brilliant strategizing, his otherworldly pomposity spooks subordinates and unsettles superiors.

          Worse, Patton behaves abominably when confronted with GIs he regards as cowards or shirkers. In one of the picture’s unforgettable moments, Patton loses his cool upon meeting an enlisted man hospitalized for shell-shock, a condition whose existence Patton denies—Patton violently slaps the GI and seems ready to shoot the young man until Patton is subdued by aides. Thanks to such transgressions, Patton never consistently occupies the forefront of the Allied command, so the movie tracks his humiliating slide from active duty to elder-statesmen status.

          Although Patton has a large cast of characters and a sprawling number of locations, it’s not precisely a war epic—rather, it’s an intimate character study that plays across a massive stage during wartime. So, while costar Karl Malden is a steady presence as Patton’s staunchest Army ally, General Omar Bradley, other actors in the movie serve as mirrors reflecting facets of Scott’s performance. Scott justifies this approach with a thunderous star turn. His Patton is funny, inspiring, intimidating, maddening, pathetic, strange, and a dozen other things, whether he’s melodically quoting ancient poetry or impotently shooting a pistol at a fighter plane during a strafing run.

          Director Franklin J. Schaffner does a remarkable job of keeping the story forceful and clear, often through the use of elegantly gliding camerawork; screenwriters Francis Ford Coppola and Edmund H. North provide brilliant dialogue and evocative vignettes; and composer Jerry Goldsmith’s clever score uses echoed horn figures to accentuate the idea of Patton as a figure from myth let loose on the modern world.

          Yet the film’s most indelible moment is also its simplest, the mesmerizing two-minute monologue that starts the movie with shocking directness. Stepping in front of a gigantic American flag, an ornately uniformed Patton barks out a hard-driving, vulgar speech about American can-do spirit, featuring a line that epitomizes the character’s philosophy: “No bastard every won a war by dying for his country—he won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.” FYI, Scott returned to his Oscar-winning role years later for an underwhelming TV miniseries, The Last Days of Patton (1986), though few consider that project a true sequel to the 1970 movie.

Patton: RIGHT ON