1980 Week: Honeysuckle Rose

          After displaying a naturalistic screen presence in his movie debut, Sydney Pollack’s romantic drama The Electric Horseman (1978), country singer Willie Nelson was given a custom-made leading role in another romantic drama, Honeysuckle Rose, which Pollack produced but did not direct. Once again, Nelson proved he was comfortable on camera, though the role of an easygoing, pot-smoking troubadour did not require him to stretch. The film surrounding Nelson is so frustrating that the best thing to come out of this project was a classic song. “On the Road Again” became a huge crossover hit, earning a Grammy award and an Oscar nomination. Some scenes in Honeysuckle Rose capture the joy of that tune, but those bits are almost always tangential to the main plot, which is trite and unseemly. The movie also suffers for the questionable casting of its two major female roles.

          Nelson plays Buck Bonham, a longhaired Texas singer-songwriter on the verge of achieving national stardom after years of being a regional favorite. (Sound familiar?) Buck is married to sexy blonde Viv (Dyan Cannon), a former singer who gave up life on the road to raise Jamie (Joey Floyd), her son with Buck. Now firmly entrenched in middle age, she’s lost her patience with Buck’s endless declarations that “one of these days” he’ll slow down his touring to spend more time on the Bonham’s sprawling Texas ranch. When Buck’s longtime guitarist, Garland Ramsey (Slim Pickens), announces his retirement, Buck scrambles for a replacement, and Viv unwisely suggests that Buck hire Garland’s seductive 22-year-old daughter, Lily (Amy Irving). To absolutely no one’s surprise, Buck and Lily become lovers on the road, causing friction in the Bonham marriage and damaging Buck’s friendship with Garland.

          There are maybe 80 minutes of real story in Honeysuckle Rose, but the movie drags on for a full two hours. The bloat stems partially from extended performance scenes, but also from such discursions as an endless family-reunion scene and snippets of life on a tour bus. Director Jerry Schtazberg shoots all this stuff beautifully, applying a photographer’s keen eye to scenes that feel casual and spontaneous, but he can’t muster similar creativity for romantic scenes. Nelson’s low-key vibe creates an inherent energy deficiency, and the fact that neither Cannon nor Irving seem remotely believable as Texans introduces falseness into a movie that otherwise boasts plentiful authenticity. Nonetheless, Honeysuckle Rose has its pleasures. Emmylou Harris shows up to sing a number with Nelson, and it’s a treat to see Pickens playing a straight dramatic character. The scenes in which he and Nelson simulate drunken revels are particularly enjoyable.

Honeysuckle Rose: FUNKY

Sweet Revenge (1976)

          Allegedly conceived and marketed as a comedy, Sweet Revenge is instead an über-’70s character study about a woman who supports herself by stealing cars, and who uses myriad fake identities to avoid being captured by authorities. It’s an odd little picture, neither funny enough to work as a comedy nor serious enough to cut very deeply as a drama, but it’s executed at a high level of skill behind and in front of the camera. So even though Sweet Revenge is sluggishly paced, tonally uneven, and generally lacking a clear sense of purpose, the film contains some mildly interesting stuff. That said, Sweet Revenge is only truly recommended for fans of one or more of the key participants, since casual viewers are likely to lose interest fairly quickly.

          Stockard Channing, in one of her few leading roles, plays Vurria Kowsky, an eccentric young woman who lives in a hovel and spends her time hotwiring cars so she can sell them for cash. Her big goal in life is gaining enough wealth to buy a Ferrari. Vurria, who often uses the name “Dandy,” has accumulated a few lowlife friends, especially fellow small-time crook Edmund (Franklyn Ajaye), who drives a pimped-out car that he calls “Sweet Revenge.” Eventually, Vurria gets caught during one of her robberies, so a public defender named Le Clerq (Sam Waterston) is assigned to her case. Much of the film depicts his attempts to help her, even as she pushes him away with pathological dishonesty stemming from her generalized distrust of authority. In a meandering and shapeless way, Sweet Revenge tells the story of an outsider learning how to rejoin society, but viewers are likely to feel the way Le Clerq does, which is moderately sympathetic until Vurria lies about having an abusive background. Put bluntly, she ain’t got no class.

          Had the filmmakers treated this material dramatically, Sweet Revenge could have evolved into a tough little piece about a driven individual creating a private world outside of society’s restrictions, but because the approach is quasi-lighthearted, everything feels  pointless and superficial. After all, a comedy without laughs isn’t really much of anything. Perhaps the strangest aspect of Sweet Revenge is the participation of director Jerry Schatzberg, whose previous films—including The Panic in Needle Park (1971) and Scarecrow (1973)—were gritty dramas. Schatzberg’s collaborator on Scarecrow, masterful cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond, shot Sweet Revenge with his signature blend of elegance and moodiness, though his shadowy frames don’t quite suit the flavor of the material.

Sweet Revenge: FUNKY

Puzzle of a Downfall Child (1970)

          Based on its pedigree alone, the obscure drama Puzzle of a Downfall Child merits investigation by any fan of serious-minded ’70s cinema. The picture stars Faye Dunaway, it was directed by photographer-turned-filmmaker Jerry Schatzberg (whose other films include 1971’s The Panic in Needle Park and 1973’s Scarecrow), and Schatzberg co-wrote the script with Carole Eastman, whose other release in 1970 was the iconic Jack Nicholson drama Five Easy Pieces. (Eastman wrote Puzzle under the pseudonym “Adrien Joyce.”) Beyond the big names involved in the project, Puzzle of a Downfall Child is noteworthy because of its heavy themes—abusive relationships, fame, drug addiction, mental illness. For those who like their ’70s movies anguished and artistic, this is quintessential stuff on many levels.

          Unfortunately, the storytelling of Puzzle of a Downfall Child is pretentious and vague. The narrative is presented in dreamlike fragments, often with psychobabble voiceover played over dissociated imagery, and the heart of the picture—as the overly precious title suggests—is a slow revelation of one disturbed woman’s psyche. Only the most masterful actors and filmmakers can make this sort of thing work, and neither Dunaway nor Schatzberg demonstrates that level of supreme artistic control. So, while Puzzle of a Downfall Child is a noble effort, it fails to generate much in the way of real emotion. Plus, quite frankly, at times it barely sustains interest.

          The film begins at an isolated beach house, where Lou (Dunaway) is sequestered while recovering from some mysterious personal crisis. Her only companion is a longtime friend, fashion photographer Aaron (Barry Primus), who interviews her because he’s planning to make a movie about Lou’s life. In flashbacks, we see Lou’s ascendance from the lowest ranks of modeling to the upper echelon; along the way, she gets involved with a series of inappropriate men, including the abusive Mark (Roy Scheider). Dunaway is in nearly every frame of this film, so there was an opportunity for her to give a tour-de-force performance. Alas, she plays the exterior of her role well, but that’s about it. In her defense, she’s burdened with an insufferably narcissistic characterization—Lou is one of those navel-gazing ’70s-cinema egotists whose every utterance explains why she’s dissatisfied with this or unhappy about that. Yet it’s clear why many people suffer her whining, because she’s an exquisite beauty who photographs extraordinarily well.

          In fact, one can’t help but get the impression Schatzberg fell under Dunaway’s spell the same way the film’s characters are bewitched by Lou. Schatzberg photographs Dunaway with delicate artistry, which hurts her performance by making the actress seem like she’s preening even when she’s supposed to be unglamorous. (Dunaway and Schatzberg were engaged around the time they made this picture, though they never married.)

          Puzzle of a Downfall Child also suffers for a lack of closure, since the “puzzle” of the title is never solved in a satisfactory way—viewers eventually learn that Lou fell into narcotics and suffered a nervous breakdown, but even after listening to the character prattle on about herself for 105 minutes, she remains an enigma. Nonetheless, Schatzberg’s pictorial style is elegant, and supporting actors lend varied colors. Viveca Lindfords flounces through the film as a grandiose photographer, while Primus channels the anguish of unrequited love and Scheider provides the movie’s irredeemable-asshole quotient.

Puzzle of a Downfall Child: FUNKY

Scarecrow (1973)

          Given its casting, pedigree, and subject matter, Scarecrow sounds like an automatic addition to the Mount Olympus of ’70s cinema. It’s a downbeat road movie about two vagabonds ineptly pursuing small dreams, the vagabonds are played by Gene Hackman and Al Pacino, the film was directed by adventurous humanist Jerry Schatzberg, and the cinematography is by the extraordinary Vilmos Zsigmond. Yet while the movie has a lovely intimacy, it doesn’t linger in the memory anywhere near as much as it should. That said, Scarecrow is near-essential viewing for fans of this period in American cinema simply because it exudes integrity and contains strong but obscure performances by two of the best actors America has ever produced. Although Hackman and Pacino each did better work in other films (because other films gave them better raw material from which to craft performances), it’s still a tremendous pleasure to watch these remarkable men amplify and complement each other’s talents.

          Hackman plays Max, a volatile ex-con traveling like a hobo from California to Pennsylvania, where he plans to open a car wash. (Whether Max actually has the financial or managerial wherewithal to realize his dream is one of the film’s many richly ambiguous elements.) Max becomes traveling companions with Lionel Delbuchi (Pacino), a former sailor who approaches life with boyish exuberance; barely more than a simpleton, Lionel believes there’s almost no problem a good joke can’t solve. One of the inherent shortcomings of George Michael White’s script is that the Max/Lionel friendship always feels a bit contrived; their bond is more narratively convenient than purely organic. Nonetheless, Hackman and Pacino lend as much credibility to the relationship as possible, even when the characters behave in predictable ways—Lionel rarely steps outside his man-child persona, and Max keeps getting into stupid brawls even though he seems, in other respects, like a mature human being with real self-awareness. The film also suffers from the inherently episodic nature of most road movies.

          Therefore, it’s almost all about the acting. Hackman is explosive and haunted and tender all at once, demonstrating his unique gift for incarnating emotionally conflicted men, and Pacino—though a bit over the top, thanks to a set of indulgent physical tics—creates many resonant moments. Supporting players Eileen Brennan, Richard Lynch, and Ann Wedgeworth lend strong atmosphere as well, though their characters border on being clichéd movie-hick grotesques. Former photographer Schatzberg and master cinematographer Zsigmond capture all of these lively performances in artful frames that showcase grungy locations and meticulous production design, so the physicality of the movie feels real even when the dramaturgy slips into artificiality.

Scarecrow: GROOVY

The Seduction of Joe Tynan (1979)

          Only a curmudgeon could truly dislike Alan Alda’s work. A smooth actor equally adept at comedy and drama, a deft writer with compassionate narrative impulses, and a sensitive observer of the human condition, he easily qualifies for national-treasure status. That said, it’s easy to find fault with Alda’s handful of original screenplays, the first of which was this intelligent but timid political drama. Whereas Alda found a perfect vessel for his literary gifts when penning episodes of M*A*S*H, following the genius framework set by series developer Larry Gelbart, Alda’s big-screen stories succumb to excessive tendencies: He undercuts serious tales by going for jokes at the wrong times, and he diminishes credibility by making every character likeable. Peculiar as it may sound, Alda’s desire to please his audience is his biggest impediment as a movie storyteller.

          All of which is context for The Seduction of Joe Tynan, an admirable but frustrating movie. Alda stars as Tynan, a U.S. senator from New York seemingly on a path to the White House. Over the course of the movie, Tynan grows estranged from his wife, emotionally troubled Ellie (Barbara Harris); pursues a reckless affair with Southern political operative Karen (Meryl Streep); and tackles a headline-generating cause that alienates him from an aging mentor, Sen. Birney (Melvyn Douglas). The gist, obviously, is that one can’t make ethical compromises without becoming compromised on other levels, and that balancing personal responsibility with political ambition is a risky endeavor. In fact, the whole movie is as bluntly literal as the title. Consider this speech by one of Joe’s fellow senators, Edward Anderson (Maurice Copeland): “After a while, you start to forget what you’re here for. And then getting clout and keeping it is all there is. You start lying to your constituents, your colleagues, to everybody. And you forget what you thought you cared most about in life.” (Cut to a meaningful shot of Tynan looking out a window, because he’s, y’know, thinkin’ about stuff.) Given such clunky moralizing, The Seduction of Joe Tynan fails as a political story even though it’s pretty good as a character piece.

          Director Jerry Schatzberg—the former photographer whose ’70s output includes sensitive art pieces like 1973’s Scarecrow—contributes proficient but impersonal work, delivering Alda’s vision to the screen without the counterpoint of an additional artistic perspective. In the lead role, Alda wisely plays against his decent-guy persona by engaging in questionable behavior, while Streep imbues her underwritten part with engaging intelligence and luminous sexuality. Yet it’s the second-string supporting actors—Douglas, Harris, and Rip Torn—who get the most interesting scenes. Douglas essays his character’s slide into senility with grace and pathos, Harris poignantly captures a political wife’s ambivalence, and Torn energizes the movie with his character’s boisterous vulgarity. Thanks to qualities like these strong performances, The Seduction of Joe Tynan is worthwhile even though it never rises above mediocrity. (Available as part of the Universal Vault Series on Amazon.com)

The Seduction of Joe Tynan: FUNKY

The Panic in Needle Park (1971)

          If you’re a fan of ’70s cinema, you owe The Panic in Needle Park a major debt of gratitude—Al Pacino’s performance in this movie convinced director Francis Ford Coppola that Pacino could handle the leading role in The Godfather. So, without this gloomy study of heroin addicts living on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, we would never have seen Pacino’s sublime work as Michael Corleone. Yet Needle Park is a worthwhile film beyond its cinema-history significance. Written by the posh literary couple Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne (from a novel by James Mills), and directed in a gritty verité style by photographer-turned-filmmaker Jerry Schatzberg, Needle Park is painful and sad, a sonnet to wandering souls who search for themselves in the oblivion of hard drugs. Presented without music and unfolding over a leisurely 110-minute running time, the movie is unrelentingly ugly—characters abuse each other and themselves; injections are shown in excruciating close-ups; and so on. Even by the anything-goes standards of ’70s cinema, this is a brutal depiction of misery without promise of salvation.
          Pacino stars as Bobby, a fast-talking hustler who gets by on dealing, handouts, and petty crime while nursing a heavy habit. One afternoon, he meets a pretty young woman named Helen (Kitty Winn), whom he draws into his orbit with compliments and jokes and kindness. Other characters populating Bobby’s dangerous world include his older brother, Hank (Richard Bright), a professional thief who uses heroin periodically, and a narc named Hotch (Alan Vint), who sees Bobby as a tool for catching major suppliers. Once Helen takes the inevitable step of shooting up for the first time, she starts a spiral down into prostitution. Meanwhile, she and Bobby are so detached from reality they can’t see they’re killing each other—Bobby becomes a full-time dealer in order to keep them both stoned, and Helen sacrifices her dignity by returning to Bobby again and again, despite several near-death experiences.

          Pacino’s performance is alternately explosive and poignant, his streetwise swagger clashing with his tiny physical stature, and he’s persuasive whether he’s sharing tenderness with Winn or simulating drugged states. Winn, a naturalistic, theater-trained actress whose limited filmography also includes a supporting role in The Exorcist (1973), delicately moves between being our window into this depressing world and incarnating the tragic emotions of those who love unwisely. To a certain degree, however, the film’s dirty locations are the main attraction—viewed through Schatzberg’s long lenses during exterior sequences and observed more closely during interior scenes, the sordid textures of low-rent Manhattan speak volumes about the fragile lives of addicts.

The Panic in Needle Park: GROOVY