1980 Week: The First Deadly Sin

          A grim policier noteworthy for containing Frank Sinatra’s final leading role—he relegated his acting appearances to cameos and guest roles for the remainder of his life—The First Deadly Sin is a peculiar piece of work, because even though the technical execution is first-rate, the story is hopelessly enervated. What’s more, Sinatra’s manner of depicting his character’s world-weariness comes across as disinterested acting, a problem exacerbated by his character’s murky motivations. The movie also suffers an imbalance because leading lady Faye Dunaway’s scenes are needlessly attenuated, given the underwritten nature of her role, and because most of the central investigation comprises a quest to identify a murder weapon, rather than a murderer. As such, the protagonist lacks emotion, the key secondary character lacks substance, and the main narrative thrust lacks a human element. It says much for the skills of everyone involved that The First Deadly Sin is relatively watchable despite all of these shortcomings.

          Sinatra plays Edward Delaney, an NYPD detective on the cusp of retirement. At the very moment a challenging murder case lands on his desk, Edward’s wife, Barbara (Dunaway), suffers a seizure while hospitalized and undergoes emergency surgery. Furthermore, Edward’s combative new supervisor, Captain Broughton (Anthony Zerbe), orders him not to investigate crimes with connections to other precincts. This set of circumstances creates an existential quandary for the diligent detective—even as his wife’s health becomes more and more precarious, he must defy his supervisor’s orders if he wishes to bring an elusive killer to justice. Eventually, this situation resolves into a scenario of Edward seeking to impose morality onto a capricious universe before impending tragedy strips life of its meaning.

          Director Brian G. Hutton’s pacing is very slow, resulting in myriad shots of Sinatra loitering onscreen with various gloomy facial expressions. The love story between the Delaneys never clicks, partially because the 26-year age gap between Dunaway and Sinatra is so glaring. Furthermore, the hero enlists nonprofessional helpers to aid his investigation, and these folks never face danger; come to think of it, we never really fear for Delaney’s welfare, either. So as a thriller, The First Deadly Sin fizzles. Every so often, however, the movie sparks thanks to a zesty addition from a character actor. George Coe is suitably loathsome as a doctor who lacks empathy, David Dukes contributes twitchy work as a deranged killer, James Whitmore lends amiability and crustiness to his role as a coroner, and Joe Spinell is wonderfully crass playing a doorman who can be bought cheaply.

The First Deadly Sin: FUNKY

Give ’em Hell, Harry! (1975)

          One of the earliest theatrical features to be shot on videotape, Give ’em Hell, Harry! is a live recording of a one-man stage show, complete with audience reactions, and the subject is the eventful presidency of Harry Truman, America’s commander-in-chief from 1945 to 1953. The versatile James Whitmore stars, and his ability to command attention for nearly two hours is impressive. Replicating Truman’s brash Midwestern persona—an amiable tangle of combativeness, humor, and straight-shootin’ aphorisms—Whitmore attacks the role, and yet his desire to entertain never seems desperate. Rather, he comes across like an actor who respects that the audience’s time is valuable, and that theatergoers deserve to see and hear something interesting during every minute they spend looking at the stage. Whitmore earned Golden Globe and Oscar nominations for the picture, and he won a Grammy for an LP recording of the stage show’s audio. Written by Samuel Gallu and codirected by Peter H. Hunt (who mounted the stage show) and Steve Binder (who orchestrated the film version), the play covers Truman’s entire presidency—the partial term he inherited when FDR died, and the full term to which he was elected—while also providing snippets of his earlier life.

          Gallu’s text employs a number of awkward gimmicks. Whitmore reads letters aloud as he writes them. He engages in conversations with people who are neither heard nor seen, meaning that Whitmore says his lines, pauses, and then paraphrases what the other person said. Whitmore also periodically slips into costumes, such as a doughboy uniform, when the text refers to earlier periods. Given the affability and vigor of Whitmore’s performance, the in-your-face artificiality works fairly well, especially because Gallu presents the show as a greatest-hits recitation of colorful moments. And if a bit too much emphasis is placed upon Truman’s salty humor, suggesting that he had a Will Rogers-style quip ready for every occasion, one can’t fault the team behind Give ’em Hell, Harry! for wanting to ensure continuous audience engagement.

          Beyond the laugh lines, the most resonant portions of Give ’em Hell, Harry! involve Truman espousing high principles. In one scene, Truman describes hatemongering Sen. Joseph McCarthy as “that most lamentable mistake of the Almighty’s,” and in another scene, Truman laments that “financial control is in the hands of two few.” (Sadly, that line rings as true now as it ever did.) Arguably the high point is Truman’s verbal confrontation with an angry mob of KKK members after the Klan issues death threats against Truman. Whitmore infuses this scene with moralistic passion, righteous indignation, and understandable fear. Yes, this movie’s vision of Truman is idealized. However, seeing as how Truman changed history as the first world leader to employ a nuclear weapon in combat—surely one of the weightiest decisions a human being has ever made—there’s no question that his presidency merits examination, as well as a degree of reverence.

Give ’em Hell, Harry!: GROOVY

The Harrad Experiment (1973)

          Adapted from a best-selling novel by Robert Rimmer, a lifelong skeptic of monogamy, The Harrad Experiment strikes an odd balance between tackiness and thoughtfulness. Set at a fictional college where two professors use students as a control group while testing their theories about free love, the movie has a salacious premise—students are asked to ditch their hang-ups and have sex with strangers—yet the onscreen content is gentle to a fault, because the worst repercussion of the experiment is hurt feelings. Nonetheless, The Harrad Experiment gained forbidden-fruit allure during its original release; after all, there’s a kinky thrill to be had imagining a college where sex ed is taken so literally. Also contributing to The Harrad Experiment’s minor cult-fave status is the presence of leading man Don Johnson, later to achieve fame in the ’80s TV series Miami Vice. Make what you will of the fact that he shares a quasi-erotic scene with screen veteran Tippi Hedren, who in real life is the mother of actress Melanie Griffith, Johnson’s on-again/off-again paramour for many years.

          Much of The Harrad Experiment comprises rap sessions between the students and their teachers, married couple Philip Tenhausen (James Whitmore) and Margaret Tenhausen (Hedren). The Tenhausens organize their students into couples and then encourage the kids to get it on, so a lot is made of the insecurity and shyness of Sheila (Laurie Walters), the meek coed paired with sexually confident Stanley (Johnson). Similarly, mousy Harry (Bruno Kirby) gets matched with gorgeous Beth (Victoria Thompson), so trouble arises when Beth dallies with Stanley.
          It’s all very unintentionally amusing, simply because the performers play everything so straight—even when delivering now-dated platitudes about human connection that are really just veiled pick-up lines. (One memorable bit of hippy-dippy interaction involves the students’ yoga instructor teaching them to do “zooms”—as the kids sit in a circle and say the word “zoom” one after another, literally creating a mellow buzz among the group.) The irony of The Harrad Experiment, of course, is that the movie is as conventional in its execution (and its morality) as the uptight society that Rimmer’s novel was presumably designed to challenge. As such, it’s a spicy message picture without the spice or the message. A quasi-sequel, originally titled Harrad Summer and later rechristened Love All Summer, followed in 1974. More on that one at a later date.

The Harrad Experiment: FUNKY

Where the Red Fern Grows (1974)

          While I freely admit a weakness for sentimental dog stories, Where the Red Fern Grows held my attention much more than I anticipated, which I interpret as a testament to the way the substance of the piece compensates for the Christian-themed sermonizing that permeates the narrative. After all, Where the Red Fern Grows seems highly unlikely to engage cynical viewers (myself included), because it’s a guileless yarn about pure-hearted country folk enduring the Depression, and the movie is scored with tunes penned by the Osmonds and warbled by Andy Williams. American cinema doesn’t get more whitebread. Furthermore, Where the Red Fern Grows has a sketchy budget—a problem the filmmakers easily conceal since every character in the movie is dirt-poor—and the dialogue is spoon-fed because the intended audience includes young children.

          Still, the bittersweet nature of the story, the sincerity of the acting, and the vivaciousness of the locations grant the movie an appealingly nostalgic glow. Thus, even though the actual filmmaking is crudely mechanical, many scenes capture the simple joy of a young boy romping through the woods with four-legged friends, and the overall narrative tells a redeeming story about the protagonist discovering mortality. The picture is so edifying that it borders on being educational, but at the same time, it steers clear of the goopy emotional excess one might expect from, say, a Walt Disney Company treatment of similar material.

          Based on a 1961 novel by Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows is about Billy (Stewart Peterson), an adolescent living in the Ozark Mountains with his impoverished family. All Billy dreams about is having coonhounds so he can hunt in the woods, but buying such animals is beyond his family’s means. Working odd jobs in between his chores at home, Billy saves enough to buy two pups, whom he names Ann and Dan, and then he trains them to be champion trackers. Adventures including a dangerous storm, a hunting contest, and a nasty encounter with a mountain lion ensue. Through it all, Billy earns the respect of his parents (played by Beverly Garland and Jack Ging) and he learns life lessons from his grandfather (played by James Whitmore). Billy also endures a few run-ins with rotten redneck youths, and he encounters death on several sobering occasions.

          Director Norman Tokar, a veteran of many family pictures featuring animals, tells the story in an unvarnished style, bridging sequences with lyrical soundtrack passages integrating music and narration (which is spoken by Rawls, the author of the novel). Whitmore, unsurprisingly, does most of the heavy lifting in terms of acting, although Peterson makes up for in earnestness what he lacks in skill. While Where the Red Fern Grows isn’t a children’s film for the ages by any measure, it’s a solid entry into a beloved genre. (Those who share my affinity for canines will, of course, get more out of the experience than other viewers.) A belated sequel, Where the Red Fern Grows: Part Two—with Doug McKeon taking over the Billy role—was released straight to video in 1992.

Where the Red Fern Grows: GROOVY

Tora! Tora! Tora! (1970)

          Representing a great opportunity for historical spectacle that was sacrificed on the altar of its own leviathan scope, Tora! Tora! Tora! was conceived by Twentieth Century-Fox chief Daryl F. Zanuck as a companion piece to his epic war movie The Longest Day (1962). Whereas the earlier film was a star-studded reenactment of the D-Day invasion, focusing primarily on the heroism of a successful Allied assault, Tora! Tora! Tora! paints across a bigger canvas. The picture follows both American and Japanese forces before, during, and after the Pearl Harbor attack on December 7, 1941. Zanuck’s intentions were basically honorable, since he put together a coproduction with a Japanese team that was responsible for portraying their country’s soldiers in a humane light; Zanuck even hired the great Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa to develop and direct the Japanese half of the picture, although Kurosawa was replaced once production got underway. Journeyman Richard Fleischer, an efficient traffic cop not known for his artistry, handled the English-language scenes.

          Yet Zanuck’s overreaching vision of an opulent super-production almost inevitably generated a bloated movie in which hardware overwhelms humanity. The leaden screenplay, credited to Larry Forrester and Kurosawa allies Ryuzo Kikushima and Hideo Oguni—and based on two different books—is a dull recitation of names and dates without any memorable characterizations. In the American scenes alone, venerable actors including Martin Balsam, Joseph Cotten, E.G. Marshall, Jason Robards, and James Whitmore get lost amid the generic hordes of men in military uniforms wandering through command centers and battleship bridges. In the admirable effort to explain how and why the Japanese military caught American forces unaware, the movie provides dry description when it should provide intense drama—paradoxically, trying to do too much led the filmmakers to do too little.

          Nonetheless, the movie gets exciting whenever it departs from its inept attempts at personal interplay and focuses on battlefield spectacle. Employing a huge assortment of boats and planes (plus a whole lot of pyro, of course), Fleischer stages lavish scenes of wartime destruction, all of which are jacked up by composer Jerry Goldsmith’s invigorating music. Thus, it’s no surprise that the lasting legacy of Tora! Tora! Tora! is as a stockpile of endlessly reused footage—according to Wikipedia, clips and outtakes from this film appear in Midway (1976), The Final Countdown (1980), several TV episodes and miniseries, and even Pearl Harbor (2001). So, if you’re a military-history buff, you’ll probably find a lot to enjoy in Tora! Tora! Tora!–otherwise, you might have a hard time trudging through the movie’s 144 impressive but inert minutes.

Tora! Tora! Tora!: FUNKY

I Will Fight No More Forever (1975)

          Although it’s so heavily skewed toward providing educational content that it plays more like a dry documentary than a lively feature, the TV movie I Will Fight No More Forever illuminates such an important chapter of American history that it’s possible to overlook the textbook presentation and enjoy the underlying narrative. The title emanates from a quote by Chief Joseph, who in 1877 helped guide his Nez Perce tribe from Oregon to Montana in a quest to escape the clutches of the U.S. government by slipping into Canada. While Joseph was neither the only leader of the Nez Perce nor the only Native American who engendered sympathy among whites, his determination and eloquence were unique—during his flight from Oregon, Joseph evaded the U.S. Cavalry for nearly 2,000 miles with minimal loss of life, and when he finally surrendered, he did so with such poetry that he shamed his pursuers.

          I Will Fight No More Forever tells the story of the Nez Perce exodus simply, and with a commendable degree of balance—some Nez Perce braves are shown as reckless, providing a counterpoint to Joseph’s rationality, just as Joseph’s main pursuer, Gen. Oliver Howard, is shown to sympathize with Joseph’s goals rather than hating the man. The story begins with a white civilian murdering a Nez Perce brave based on a false accusation of theft. As his people call for war, Joseph (Ned Romero) counsels patience and brings the matter to the attention of his friend, Howard (James Whitmore). Howard pledges to bring the killer to justice, but then he drops a bombshell by saying the U.S. government wants the Nez Perce moved onto a reservation. Appalled that a treaty designed to prevent exactly that outcome has been broken, Joseph walks away from his meeting with Howard and confers with his tribe. Reasoning that flight is wiser than open war, Joseph begins the journey to the Canadian border, with Howard’s troops in pursuit. As the chase spreads from days to weeks to months, Howard gains respect for his opponent’s strategic genius.

          Romero, a journeyman actor of partial Native American descent, makes up in presence what he lacks in skill, because he looks perfect in flowing hair and feathers, his face seemingly carved from granite and his voice a resonant instrument. Whitmore and costar Sam Elliot, who plays Howard’s aide (and sparring partner during moral debates), invest their scenes with feeling, often surmounting the limitations of stilted dialogue. The physicality of the movie is okay, with wide-open locations compensating for iffy makeup and too-tidy costuming, though a Native-themed music score lends texture. I Will Fight No More Forever is not the best tribute one might imagine for Chief Joseph, but it’s an honorable attempt.

I Will Fight No More Forever: GROOVY

The Challenge (1970)

          Essentially a sci-fi spin on the ’60s war flick Hell in the Pacific, this offbeat TV movie proceeds from the outlandish premise that the U.S. and a small Asian nation would agree to settle their differences by sending one soldier from each country to fight on a remote island, with the survivor claiming victory. The plot begins when an experimental U.S. satellite, capable of launching nuclear-missile strikes from space, crashes into the international waters of the Pacific. A battleship from the unnamed Asian nation recovers the satellite, but then U.S. forces establish a blockade preventing the battleship from leaving with its prize. To resolve the conflict, the countries send two heavily armed “surrogates” into battle.

          Improbably, the U.S. recruits an unpredictable maverick, court-martialed Vietnam veteran-turned-mercenary Jacob Gallery (Darren McGavin), instead of the logical candidate, patriotic commando Bryant (Sam Elliott). This decision, authorized by top-level government operative Overman (James Whitmore), understandably grates hard-nosed General Meyers (Broderick Crawford). Nonetheless, Bryant and Meyers sit on the sidelines while Gallery treks to the island for a series of machine-gun shoot-outs with his opposite number, Yuro (played by durable character actor Mako).

          The Challenge, originally broadcast at 74 minutes and later expanded to 90 minutes for cable exhibition, features several exciting scenes of jungle combat, showcasing each combatant’s inventive guerilla techniques. (Gallery poisons the island’s fresh-water supplies and booby-traps the huts in an abandoned village, while Yuro employs similar tactics.) By the time the warriors reach their final confrontation a week after their fight started, they’re dehydrated, delusional, and wounded. Making matters worse, their respective governments covertly send backup soldiers onto the island.

          Despite its iffy concept and rudimentary execution, and notwithstanding the unnecessary flashbacks that dilute key moments, The Challenge is a fun ride from its disorienting opening to its bummer denouement. Accordingly, it’s odd that rank-and-file TV director George McGowan took his name off the picture and replaced it with the Directors Guild alias “Alan Smithee.” The Challenge isn’t great, but with McGavin’s enjoyably florid performance and an abundance of credible action, it’s respectable escapism.

The Challenge: FUNKY

Chato’s Land (1972)

          British filmmaker Michael Winner made a slew of gruesome movies in the ’70s and ’80s, often starring Charles Bronson as tight-lipped avengers who let their bloody actions speak for them. At their best, the duo created provocative work like Death Wish (1974). At their worst, they made ugly trash like Chato’s Land, which can best be described as a two-hour murder symphony. It’s hard to tell which element of the picture is most confusing and distasteful: The casting of Lithuanian-descended Bronson as a half-breed Apache, or the weird plot that presents Bronson’s character, Chato, as a vigilante seeking revenge even though he’s the perpetrator of a crime instead of the victim.

          At the beginning of the story, Chato struts into a white town, lets a racist marshal talk him into an argument, and kills the lawman instead of walking away. After Chato heads for the Indian country outside town, he’s pursued by ex-Confederate solider Capt. Whitmore (Jack Palance) and a posse of bloodthirsty townies. Once the pursuers slip into “Chato’s land,” the half-breed uses clever guerilla tactics to demoralize the posse. Then, when the pursuers rape and murder Chato’s relatives, he declares war. The problem is one of motivation: The attack that justifies Chato’s vigilantism doesn’t happen until after he’s already started picking off his enemies. Since Chato’s Land is merely a quick-and-dirty action picture, it’s unlikely the filmmakers were trying to make a nuanced statement about violence begetting violence—therefore, the storytelling just seems sloppy. It doesn’t help that most of the posse members are depicted as cartoonish rednecks, notably vile Elias (Ralph Waite) and his sex-crazed little brother, Earl (Richard Jordan). There’s some lip service given to the subject of morality, with characters including grizzled frontiersman Joshua (James Whitmore) questioning the virtue of violence, but the talk rings hollow as Winner stages one elaborate kill scene after another.

          Beyond its dubious content, Chato’s Land also suffers from erratic acting: Whereas Jordan, Waite, and Whitmore chew up the scenery, Palance wanders around in a daze, whispering elegiac monologues that don’t make much sense, and Bronson just glares a lot. Furthermore, since Bronson spends most of the movie flitting about in a loincloth, his taut musculature ends up giving a more expressive performance than his famously squinty face.

Chato’s Land: LAME