Abar, the First Black Superman (1977)

          There’s a fascinating allegorical story about modern race relations buried somewhere inside the misguided blaxploitation/sci-fi adventure Abar, the First Black Superman, but sifting the good elements from the terrible ones requires considerable effort. While writer-producer James Smalley came up with a few provocative ideas, and generally displays a sound approach to characterization, his dialogue is clunky and he loses narrative focus at regular intervals. Smalley also picked the wrong creative partner in director Frank Packard; the incompetence with which Packard handles actors is dwarfed only by the incompetence with which he handles camerawork. Abar is shot in such a lifeless style, and edited so awkwardly, that it’s the definition of amateurish. And the acting? Except for leading man Tobar Mayo, who puts across an interesting combination of charisma, intensity, looseness, and swagger, the players in Abar deliver almost unremittingly ghastly work. Making matters worse, the movie was clearly shot on such a tight budget that extra takes were considered a luxury, so some scenes contain distracting flubs and pauses. All of which is a long way of saying that expectations for Abar should be adjusted accordingly.

          The story revolves around black scientist Dr. Kincade (J. Walter Smith), who moves into a white neighborhood in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Met with vicious racism, which manifests as protests and violence, Dr. Kincade insists on staying put so he can make a point about the resilience of African-Americans. Abar (Mayo), a bald activist associated with a group called the Black Front of Unity, shows up one day to help dispel protestors in front of Dr. Kincade’s house. Dr. Kincade subsequently hires Abar as a bodyguard, despite their philosophical differences. Abar’s all about bringing black intellectuals back to the ghetto, while Dr. Kincade prioritizes assimilation. This stuff hums along fairly well, excepting a silly dream/flashback/whatever to the Wild West era, until about 30 minutes before the movie is over, at which point Dr. Kincade gives Abar a serum that activates Abar’s latent psychic powers. Abar uses his new abilities to right wrongs, earning a reputation as a public menace in the process. This stretch is confusing and odd. Nonetheless, the scrappy appeal of Abar, The First Black Superman is captured by the moment when Abar introduces himself to Dr. Kincade: “How do you do? John Abar, crusader.” In scene after scene, Abar lets you know where it’s at, man.

Abar, the First Black Superman: FUNKY

1980 Week: Flash Gordon

          For many geeks of a certain age, Flash Gordon conjures warm memories of seeing the film in theaters, listening endlessly to the soundtrack LP featuring original songs by Queen, and revisiting the picture during its regular airings on cable. Over the years, the movie has generated not only a large cult following but also plentiful ancillary material—action figures, DVD reissues, a loving tribute nestled inside the comedy blockbuster Ted (2012), directed by Flash Gordon superfan Seth McFarlane. That’s quite an afterlife for a flick that producer Dino Di Laurentiis extrapolated from on old Saturday-matinee serial in order to capitalize on the success of Star Wars (1977). Even though Di Laurentiis spent lavishly on costumes, sets, and special effects, Flash Gordon originally seemed destined for oblivion after its lukewarm box-office reception. Many critics and fans embraced the picture as a kitschy delight, but others merely rolled their eyes at the silliness of the enterprise.

          After all, it’s hard to take a movie seriously when it includes corny dialogue, one-dimensional characterizations, and a terrible leading performance by former Playgirl model Sam J. Jones. But then again, that’s the weird fun of Flash Gordon—the movie embraces its own goofiness, in essence presenting an outer-space adventure while simultaneously satirizing outer-space adventures.

          Flash Gordon’s plot recycles narrative elements from the original serials, so the story begins when outer-space tyrant Ming the Merciless (Max Von Sydow) rains catastrophic ruin onto Earth for sport. Through convoluted circumstances, eccentric scientist Hans Zarkov (Topol) kidnaps New York Jets quarterback Flash Gordon (Jones) and stewardess Dale Arden (Melody Anderson) for a trip to space, because Hans plans to confront Earth’s tormentor. Upon reaching the planet Mongo, which comprises several distinct realms (each with its own climate), Flash pisses off Ming but wins the favor of Ming’s slutty daughter, Princess Aura (Ornella Muti). She frees Flash from Ming’s prison even as Ming prepares to marry Dale, with whom he’s become smitten. After several death-defying adventures, Flash rallies several “princes of Mongo,” including the Robin Hood-like Barin (Timothy Dalton), for a revolution against Ming’s oppressive rule.

          The filmmakers’ tongue-in-cheek approach doesn’t always work, but Flash Gordon has a vibe uniquely its own. The juxtaposition of ’30s-style production design with ’70s-style arena rock is bizarre, the clash between bombastic supporting performance by classical actors and inept work by Anderson and Jones is jarring, and the presence of the great Von Sydow lends something like credibility to certain scenes. Plus, to give credit where it’s due, some of the movie’s ridiculous action scenes are genuinely exciting, such as a mano-a-mano duel that takes place on a giant revolving disk filled with spikes and an epic air battle involving flying “bird men,” souped-up “rocket cycles,” and phallic-looking spaceships. Best of all, perhaps, is the movie’s opulent color scheme, since Di Laurentiis went to the same pop-art well from which he drew the look of Barbarella (1968).

          Ace screenwriter Lorenzo Semple Jr., who earned nerd-culture immortality by writing the pilot for the 1966 Batman TV series and thus creating she show’s campy style, brings a playful sensibility to his script for Flash Gordon. The plotting is deliberately adolescent, with heavy play given to the boy-friendly themes of heroism and lust. Semple also jams the script full of jokes, some cringe-worthy and some sly. Meanwhile, director Mike Hodges—a hell of a long way from the gritty noir of Get Carter (1971)—mostly tries to mimic the way George Lucas mimicked serials while shooting Star Wars.

Flash Gordon: FUNKY

1980 Week: Hero at Large

          An innocent fable very much in the Frank Capra mode, Hero at Large tells the story of a normal New Yorker who adopts the guise of a superhero simply because helping other people makes him feel good. Seeing as how his innocent motivations become complicated by money and romance, the goal of the story is asking whether a genuinely decent human being can find a place in the cynical modern world. Timing-wise, it didn’t hurt that Hero at Large was released two years after the blockbuster success of Superman (1978), starring Christopher Reeve, which demonstrated the public’s appetite for old-fashioned heroism. Given this context, there’s every reason to believe Hero at Large could have become a sleeper hit had it delivered on its own promise. Unfortunately, neither director Martin Davidson nor screenwriter Stephen J. Friedman delivered exemplary work. Hero at Large is earnest and periodically charming, but it’s also contrived, shallow, and trite. There’s a reason why the filmmakers couldn’t attract A-list acting talent, even though leading man John Ritter—attempting to translate his Three’s Company TV fame into movie stardom—gives a likeable performance.

          Set in New York, the story focuses on Steve Nichols (Ritter), an actor who can’t catch a break in his career. To pay the bills, he takes a gig dressing as Captain Avenger, the comic-book character whose exploits have been adapted into a new movie. The idea of using actors to portray Captain Avenger at theaters showing the film was hatched by PR man Walter Reeves (Bert Convy), whose company also handles publicity for the re-election campaign of the city’s mayor. One evening, while still dressed as Captain Avenger, Steve foils a burglary at a convenience store. His bravery makes headlines, so Walter hatches a scheme—find out which actor did the good deed, put the man on the payroll, and use the resulting publicity to enrich the mayor’s image. Two birds with one stone.

          As should be apparent, the plot is rather laborious, and a good portion of the film is wasted on dry scenes explaining the logic of circumstances and situations. This talky approach drains most of the fun out of the enterprise. Similarly, Steve’s repartee-filled romance with his next-door neighbor, Jolene Walsh (Anne Archer), strives for the effortless wit of classic screwball comedy but doesn’t come close. (Fun fact: Archer was one of the actresses who auditioned for the part of Lois Lane in Superman, eventually losing the role to Margot Kidder, so Hero at Large represents superhero-cinema sloppy seconds.) While the fundamental shortcoming of Hero at Large is the weak script, Davidson could have helped matters considerably by adopting a breakneck pace. Instead, the movie sprawls across 98 minutes that feel much longer. So, while it’s hard to dislike a movie that tries this hard to engender goodwill, it’s equally difficult to generate enthusiasm for something that’s mired in well-meaning mediocrity.

Hero at Large: FUNKY

Infra-Man (1975)

          Something of a Saturday-matinee fever dream, this strange superhero saga was made by the prolific Hong Kong company Shaw Brothers, which found most of its success making martial-arts flicks. And, indeed, kung fu fights find their way into Infra-Man, even though the plot is about a cyborg battling demons and monsters sent by a mystical princess who emerges from her underground lair to conquer the surface world. Within the first five minutes of the movie proper (following the credits), a giant dragon falls from the sky onto a highway, blocking the path of a school bus, and then the dragon disappears, somehow causing a giant sinkhole that consumes the bus and sparks a fiery maelstrom that destroys a nearby city. The pace doesn’t stay quite that frenetic throughout Infra-Man, but the level of lunacy does.

          The first major human character introduced in the story is Professor De (Wang Hsieh), who runs a massive government science lab. As a means of telling the audience that the lab is futuristic, the professor arrives at work wearing street clothes and then changes into a sliver-lame lab coat festooned with military epaulets. Soon the humans discover that the culprit behind a series of monster attacks is Princess Dragon Mom (Terry Liu), who wears some sort of dominatrix outfit and a headdress designed to look like a dragon skull. From her subterranean HQ, where the attendants include lackeys garbed in skeleton costumes and assorted indeterminate critters who seem like they wandered over from a Sid & Marty Kroft soundstage, Princess Dragon Mom announces her intention to conquer Earth and/or destroy everyone using her monsters.

          To fight back, the professor enlists one of his subordinates, Lei Ma (Danny Lee), to undergo a high-tech transformation and become the cybernetic superhero Infra-Man. Lei can transform into Infra-Man at will, so whenever danger arises, he instantaneously summons a bright red costume with a bug-like helmet, thereby incarnating a drag-queen’s vision of a Power Ranger. (Accentuating the presumably unintended gay-chic nature of the character, one of Infra-Man’s superpowers involves “thunderball fists.”) Endless scenes of Infra-Man tussling with monsters ensue, and the filmmakers employ zero logic with regard to what levels of power and/or vulnerability each character possesses. Sometimes, Infra-Man simply engages in kung fu combat with human-sized monsters, and sometimes, both Infra-Man and his opponents magically expand to gigantic proportions.

          The creatures in the movie are as silly as the main character, including some sort of octopus monster, various robotic henchmen, and myriad mutants portrayed by actors wearing bargain-basement rubber suits. Further, Princess Dragon Mom seems more like a sexually frustrated S&M enthusiast than a super-villain, because she spends most of her time cracking whips and torturing people. Infra-Man borrows the worst possible tropes from Toho Studios’ Godzilla movies, so the professor delivers such insipid lines as, “Lieutenant, I’m going to need printouts on these monsters!” (Because, of course, detailed files are available on monsters previously unseen by man.) And yet the professor’s line can’t compare to some of Princess Dragon Mom’s dialogue (e.g., “She-Demon, I wish to speak to the mutants at once!”).

          All of this is made so much weirder, of course, by the horrible soundtrack of the movie’s English-language version, which features, in addition to the predictable out-of-sync dubbing, a motif of a monster laughing and scheming in a gravely voice reminiscent of Depression-era American gangster movies.

Infra-Man: FREAKY

Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster (1971) & Godzilla vs. Gigan (1972) & Godzilla vs. Megalon (1973) & Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla (1974) & Terror of Mechagodzilla (1975)

          At the risk of antagonizing countless fans of a certain beloved behemoth, I believe the only artistically credible Godzilla movie is the Japanese-language original, Gojira (1954), a horrific atomic-age parable about a prehistoric monster drawn from the ocean’s depths by the use of nuclear weapons. Although exemplary in its original form, the picture was sloppily recut for American audiences, with new scenes featuring U.S. actor Raymond Burr inserted, and given the new title Godzilla, King of the Monsters! (1956). Thus began the diminishing of the Big G, whom most viewers of a certain age remember primarily as a stunt player in a silly-looking monster suit, stomping his way through scale-model sets in a seemingly endless series of goofy children’s movies. I confess that I dearly loved these movies until I was about 10 years old, and it is with no small measure of regret that I note how utterly these pictures have lost their ability to delight me.

          The sequel cycle started with Godzilla Raids Again (1955), and then continued through the ’60s with such self-explanatory flicks as King Kong vs. Godzilla (1962) and Godzilla vs. Mothra (1964). Cheaply made and juvenile, these pictures were distinguished by campy special effects, comic-book-style fighting scenes, wild soundtracks, and, for American viewers, badly dubbed English-language dialogue played over scenes of Japanese actors mouthing words in their native tongue. By the mid-’60s, Godzilla had transformed from rampaging beast to crusading hero, an all-purpose savior summoned whenever an even worse radioactive critter threatened Japan.

          The Big G entered the ’70s with Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster, which is compelling simply because it’s top-to-bottom insane. Riding the then-current trend of eco-themed cautionary tales, this one pits the Big G against a giant pile of sludge that represents man’s abuse of the environment. Describing the story is pointless, but the memorable bits include a sequence in which both Godzilla and Hedorah (aka the Smog Monster) learn to fly so they can fight in mid-air. Because, hey, why stop at fire-breathing dinosaurs and anthropomorphized detritus? Especially in its original Japanese version, Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster is incredibly weird, featuring random bits ranging from musical numbers (I’m still humming the melody of “Save the Earth” decades later) to psychedelic sequences—and did I mention that Godzilla flies? Of all the Big G’s ’70s adventures, this is the by far the most mind-meltingly odd.

          Next up is Godzilla vs. Gigan. In this one, the Big G battles a favorite foe from his ’60s romps, the three-headed flying dragon creature King Ghidorah, who is sent by aliens to conquer Earth. Aiding Godzilla is Anguirus, some kind of giant thorny dinosaur/lizard/turtle thing that appears periodically in the series, and the “Gigan” of the title is King Ghidorah’s ally, a Godzilla-like upright lizard monster with a bird-like beak and giant tusks for hands. You get the idea—Godzilla vs. Gigan is basically an episode of WWE Monday Night Raw with giant creatures instead of human wrestlers, a lot of noisy fighting and property destruction without much of a recognizable plot. And, yeah, this is the movie in which Godzilla speaks. The mind reels.

          Godzilla vs. Megalon was the follow-up, and this one has many fans among former ’70s kids because Godzilla’s sidekick is a giant superhero robot called Jet Jaguar (more on him in a minute). The main villain, Megalon, is another monster sent to conquer Earth, and he’s a lumbering Godzilla-like creature with an insect head and pointy drill-things for hands. Gigan returns, but this one’s all about Jet Jaguar—or, as his name is pronounced repeatedly, “Jet Jag-yoo-ar!” A silver-bodied robot with a pointed helmet and a splashy primary-colors costume, Jet Jaguar even has a theme song (which, appropriately enough for a Godzilla movie, is sung in a lounge-lizard style). The robot’s powers range from flying to magically transforming from human size to gigantic proportions. What’s not to like? Oh, and one more note about Godzilla vs. Megalon: Even though the story takes place entirely in Japan, the film’s super-duper-awesome American poster features the titular monsters standing atop the twin towers of New York City’s World Trade Center while they trade blows. Not for nothing did this memorably ridiculous image end up as the centerfold pin-up in the 1979 debut issue of Fangoria.

          The end of Godzilla’s original run manifested, appropriately enough, as a pair of films in which the Big G battles a mechanical version of himself—a sure sign the franchise’s creators had run out of ideas. Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla is yet another monster mash, with a combination of new characters and old ones—the fresh creatures include Mechagodzilla, who looks like Godzilla wearing silver battle armor, and the weird King Caesar, a dog/lion/reptile/whatever. The narrative of Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla is enervated even by the low standards of the series, and the trite doppelgänger device loses its novelty quickly. That said, the production values of the Godzilla movies kicked up a notch once Mechagodzilla hit the scene, so the final ’70s entries have an appealing level of sci-fi spit and polish even if the onscreen mayhem is sillier than ever. By this point, it seems the Big G had become a form of cinematic comfort food, so the folks at Toho (the production company behind the whole series) mostly concentrated on delivering such familiar flavors as Godzilla’s ominous theme music and the Big G’s inimitable roar with the most flamboyant packaging possible.

          Underscoring the notion of creative fatigue, the fake Godzilla returned in Terror of Mechagodzilla, which picks up where the previous film left off—not that continuity matters much in this series. Stomping through miniature cities along with the dual Godzillas is Titanosaurus, a giant red-and-blue dinosaur/fish/lizard beastie, who is—of course!—controlled by the same aliens who tried to conquer Earth in several previous movies. Can you say “running on fumes”? That answer to that question is naturally “yes,” but appraising the relative quality of Godzilla’s ’70s adventures is somewhat beside the point. Unlike, say, the James Bond series, in which producers try with each new film to outdo the predecessor in terms of scale and spectacle, the Godzilla movies are like episodes of a TV show. Some installments have cooler monsters, some installments have more impressive fight scens, and some installments drift way too far into campiness. Yet each delivers the goods, inasmuch as Godzilla shows up, tussles, and leaves. Viewed that way, each of the ’70s Godzilla movies is equally good or equally poor, depending on your affinity for the character—although I stand behind singling out Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster as a demented high point.

          The Big G took a much-needed rest after the Mechagodzilla movies, reappearing a decade later in The Return of Godzilla (1984). Since the mid-’80s, the rompin’-stompin’ fire-breather has resurfaced many times, in cartoons, comic books, myriad Japanese films, and even a big-budget Hollywood release, the 1998 underperformer Godzilla, with Matthew Broderick. Although a Matrix­-flavored 2004 Japanese release—the 28th in the series!—was optimistically titled Godzilla: Final Wars, the Big G resurfaced once more with a megabudget American reboot, Godzilla (2014), featuring Bryan Cranston, and a sequel to that picture has already been announced.

Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster: FREAKY

Godzilla vs. Gigan: FUNKY

Godzilla vs. Megalon: FUNKY

Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla: FUNKY

Terror of Mechagodzilla: FUNKY

Off-Topic: Retro TV Action-Adventure-Thon

          And now a brief message from the larger world of ’70s nostalgia—last weekend (Sept. 21–22), the fine folks at Warner Archive Collection, the DVD-on-demand imprint that’s made hundreds of obscure movies and TV shows available in recent years, held a fun event at the Paley Center for Media in Beverly Hills. The Retro TV Action-Adventure-Thon featured screenings of rare TV episodes, plus appearances by actors from cult-fave shows. Of special note for readers of this space were sessions with Patrick Duffy and Belinda J. Montgomery (pictured above in a photo by yours truly), who chatted about their short-lived series Man from Atlantis (1977–1978), and Michael Gray, who played Captain Marvel’s youthful alter ego in the Saturday-morning superhero show Shazam! (1974–1977). Others on hand were Ron Ely, of the 1966–1968 series Tarzan, and Clint Walker, of the 1955–1963 Western Cheyenne.

          Man from Atlantis kicked off the weekend. Duffy and Montgomery, both caustically funny, explained they were disappointed by the evolution of the franchise into a campy superhero show once it became a weekly series. (As noted here, the original pilot film is fairly serious in tone, with a plaintive quality absent from the weekly episodes.) While an episode titled “Melt Down” was screening, Duffy and Montgomery laughed broadly and even heckled the screen. After the episode finished, Duffy got onto his hands and knees and made for the door, as if he wanted to crawl away in embarrassment.

          Happily, he stuck and around and chatted with Montgomery and moderator William Keck for about 45 minutes, sharing droll stories about cheap producers, reckless safety risks, and the drudgery of filming a series that seemed fated for cancellation from its first weekly installment. (Only 13 episodes of Man from Atlantis were made.) It was fun to watch Duffy and Montgomery remind each other of colorful memories, since they hadn’t seen each other in 34 years; for instance, Duffy recalled that he often looked to Montgomery for approval after takes because she had years of experience when they made Man from Atlantis, whereas he was a newbie. Plus, what ’70s kid weaned on action shows could resist hearing Duffy discuss the beloved Man from Atlantis swimming style? “It was the most miserable way to swim you could possibly imagine,” Duffy said, adding that because of the contacts he wore to simulate his water-breathing character’s otherworldliness, he couldn’t see anything while performing underwater.

          The following evening, after Ely, Gray, and Walker made their appearances, the Retro TV Action-Adventure-Thon concluded with a screening of the notorious 1979 TV special Legends of the Super Heroes: The Challenge. One of two live-action programs Hanna-Barbera produced featuring DC Comics characters, The Challenge is epic in its awfulness. Adam West and Burt Ward reprise their ’60s Batman and Robin roles while delivering terrible one-liners in a cheap-looking one-hour program (shot on video) that’s half superhero adventure and half sitcom. (The Caped Crusader and the Boy Wonder are joined by the Flash, Green Lantern, and others while battling baddies including the Riddler, played, once again, by Batman fave Frank Gorshin.) Watching The Challenge is a challenge, but the thing is an amazing time capsule from a moment when the variety format ruled the airwaves. For brave souls, Warner Archive has released Legends of the Super Heroes on DVD, pairing The Challenge with The Roast, a spectacularly unfunny costumed-adventurer insult-fest. Ed McMahan hosts, believe it or not.

          In any event, the Retro TV Action-Adventure-Thon was a hoot, and it’s totally groovy that Warner Archive has preserved such esoteric programming for the curious and the nostalgic. DVDs available at WarnerArchive.com include two Man from Atlantis sets (one with TV movies and the other with weekly episodes); a complete-series set of Shazam!; the Legends of the Super Heroes twofer; and sets of other shows featured at the event, from Cheyenne and Tarzan to The Herculoids and Superboy. Keep on keepin’ on, Warner Archive!

The Magician (1973)

          In between his longer-running series The Courtship of Eddie’s Father and The Incredible Hulk, beloved TV star Bill Bixby spent one season playing an illusionist who dabbles as a philanthropic detective, using his unique skills to help innocent people out of tricky situations. Although the series didn’t last very long, it engendered a loyal fan base because of its comic-book style, and, indeed, the series’ feature-length pilot plays out like a superhero story. While performing his magic show one night in a big-city hotel ballroom, Anthony Dorian (Bixby) notices a distraught woman in the audience. Then, when a mystery man staggers to her table and dies, Tony offers assistance. It turns out the woman, Nora Cougan (Kim Hunter), is upset because she can’t confirm whether her daughter died in a recent plane accident. Jazzed by the chance to solve a mystery, Tony stashes Nora at the home of his super-rich friend Max Pomeroy (Keene Curtis), and then embarks on a search for clues. Although penned by no less a figure than Joseph Stefano, the screenwriter of Psycho (1960), the pilot’s narrative gets murky pretty quickly, so after a while it’s hard to remember exactly what Tony’s looking for and/or why violent people seem so determined to stand in his way. (There’s a bomb, a conspiracy, a kidnapped girl, and so forth.)
          This being a TV pilot, the storyline is less important than establishing a vibe. Bixby portrays the lead character as a suave type who’s always ready with a slick magic trick or a smooth line, so his performance is appealing; furthermore, Bixby mimics sleight of hand with polished flair since he was a lifelong amateur illusionist. However, even though the movie’s requisite gimmicks are fun (Tony lives aboard a customized jet and drives a bitchin’ white Porsche), the supporting characters are woefully underdeveloped. Still, director Marvin Chomsky, who helmed numerous episodes of the comic-book-styled ’60s adventure show The Wild Wild West, keeps things brisk, and the cast features reliable players including Elizabeth Ashley and Barry Sullivan. Completing the package, the pilot movie introduces the series’ jazzy credits sequence, which blends animated transitions with live-action clips. This is slight stuff, but it’s easy to see why NBC thought fans would tune in for more week after week. (FYI, the lead character’s surname was changed from “Dorian” to “Blake” once the series got going.)

The Magician: FUNKY

The Six Million Dollar Man (1973)

          Surprisingly, the first onscreen appearance of beloved ’70s superhero Steve Austin has more than a hint of darkness. Adapted from Martin Caidin’s novel Cyborg, this TV movie begins with former astronaut Austin (Lee Majors) working as a test pilot. After the experimental plane he’s flying crashes, government operative Oliver Spencer (Darren McGavin) approves the $6 million procedure of replacing Austin’s damaged body parts with lifelike, super-powered bionics. The procedure is executed by Dr. Rudy Wells (Martin Balsam), the bleeding-heart yin to Spencer’s coldly calculating yang. When Austin wakes from surgery and discovers what transpired, he’s enraged at being turned into a freak. Nonetheless, Austin agrees to conduct a covert mission in the Middle East, the purported goal of which is rescuing an American hostage—but in fact, Spencer engineered the mission as a test. He allows Austin to get captured, then waits to see if the “Six Million Dollar Man” can escape without assistance. Suffice to say he does, but that success merely triggers an oh-so-’70s bummer ending: Spencer orders Austin into an artificially induced coma, keeping him on ice until some future mission.

          The Six Million Dollar Man is highly watchable but quite gloomy, and thus a world away from the escapist vibe of the resulting series. After the first Steve Austin movie scored in the ratings on March 7, 1973, a pair of follow-up telefilms were broadcast in the fall of the same year, taking the character in a totally different direction: Wine, Women, and War and The Solid Gold Kidnapping awkwardly shove Austin into James Bond-style adventures. Featuring comic-book plots and a goofy theme song performed by Dusty Springfield, both movies are enjoyable but far too derivative. Once the weekly Six Million Dollar Man series launched in January 1974, Majors’ aw-shucks stoicism and the spectacle of bionic-assisted heroism took center stage, with Austin reworked as a devoted government servant thankful for a second chance at life. Although the first episode introduced the series’ iconic opening sequence (“We can rebuild him,” and so on), the show didn’t reach cruising altitude until later seasons, thanks to recurring tropes like Austin’s mechanized love interest, the Bionic Woman, and a robotic version of Bigfoot (first played by wrestler Andre the Giant). In the context of what followed, the original 1973 pilot movie offers not just the foundation for a fun franchise, but also a window into a more serious version of The Six Million Dollar Man that might have been.

The Six Million Dollar Man: FUNKY

Wonder Woman (1974) & The New Original Wonder Woman (1975)

          Plans to put DC Comics’ iconic heroine onto the small screen began in the mid-’60s, when the campy Batman show was peaking in popularity. All that remains of the 1967 Wonder Woman is an excruciatingly awful five-minute presentation reel titled “Who’s Afraid of Diana Prince?” and featuring a mousy woman who imagines she’s a voluptuous goddess. (YouTube it if you’re feeling masochistic.) Seven years later, a full-length pilot movie took a deadly serious approach and delivered deadly dull results.
          Starring athlete-turned-actress Cathy Lee Crosby (above left), Wonder Woman is only interesting for how many things it gets wrong. Rather than presenting Wonder Woman as a superhero, the movie shows her as a secret agent in a star-spangled track suit, working at a leisurely pace to foil the plans of an international criminal (Ricardo Montalban) who is ransoming the identities of undercover operatives. Thanks to Crosby’s lifeless performance and sluggish action sequences, the 1974 Wonder Woman movie is drab in every respect. The highlight, such as it is, features Wonder Woman trapped in a tiny room as geysers of rainbow-colored sludge ooze from the walls, threatening to trap her until she improbably kicks open the room’s Plexiglas door. In the end, a defeated Montalban coos, “Wonder Woman, I love you”—but at least as far as this version of the character is concerned, he’s alone in that opinion.

          A year and a half after the Crosby misfire, ABC broadcast the awkwardly titled The New Original Wonder Woman, which introduced viewers to the impressive spectacle of Lynda Carter (above right) crammed into a skimpy costume—although the 1975 movie introduces many kitschy flourishes, including the series’ memorably disco-flavored theme song and a colorful World War II milieu taken straight from the first Wonder Woman comics of the 1940s, Carter’s sex appeal is the main attraction.

          Developed and written by Stanley Ralph Ross, a veteran of the ’60s Batman series, The New Original Wonder Woman tries to recapture the previous series’ tongue-in-cheek quality, but instead comes across as insipid because the script isn’t witty enough to trigger an ironic response. Even with comedy pros Henry Gibson, Cloris Leachman, and Kenneth Mars in the cast, The New Original Wonder Woman is tedious, with flaws like cheap-looking sets and schlocky special effects exacerbating the stiff lead performances by Carter and costar Lyle Waggoner. The only time the pilot reaches the desired level of camp is the finale, during which Carter has a catfight with guest star Stella Stevens.

          Nonetheless, Wonder Woman the series finally was off and running, though only one season was set in World War II. After the first run of episodes, the series migrated to CBS and became The New Adventures of Wonder Woman, with stories set in the present day; that version ran for two seasons. In the years since, Wonder Woman has thrived in animation, various attempts at a feature film have stalled, and super-producer David E. Kelley’s 2011 pilot for a new Wonder Woman series didn’t even get on the air. So, for the time being, in addition to being remembered as one of the sexiest pinup queens of the ’70s, Carter remains the world’s live-action Wonder Woman of choice.

Wonder Woman: LAME

The New Original Wonder Woman: FUNKY

Man from Atlantis (1977)

          The first of four telefilms that introduced the lead character of a subsequent (and short-lived) series bearing the same name, Man from Atlantis is a no-nonsense fantasy that neither oversells its ludicrous premise by trying for heavy drama nor undercuts the premise by opting for camp. Patrick Duffy, later of Dallas fame, plays Mark Harris, a mystery man who washes ashore and seems close to death until marine researcher Dr. Elizabeth Merrill (Belinda Montgomery) dunks him in the ocean, where the water revives him. Turns out Mark is an unprecedented man/fish hybrid with incredible underwater powers—he ended up on the beach after a knock on the noggin rendered him unconscious—so the stalwart Navy admiral (Art Lund) who oversees Elizabeth’s funding quickly recruits Mark for a mission. It seems a number of international submersibles have disappeared into a deep oceanic trench, so Mark agrees to investigate on behalf of his air-breathing benefactress.

          He dives into the trench and discovers that a brilliant madman, Mr. Schubert (Victor Buono), has captured the missing vessels, pillaged them for parts, and brainwashed the crew members, all in pursuit of a loopy master plan. In other words, the plot is standard comic-book fare, and as such it’s best not to investigate the particulars too closely. That said, Man from Atlantis has drive and focus, moving at an assured but unhurried pace and featuring such soft-spoken characters that it’s a refreshing change from the usual histrionics of fantasy television. It helps, a lot, that Oscar-winning composer Fred Karlin contributes an atmospheric score and that much of the picture takes place underwater, lending a sense of grandeur.

          Sure, there’s a lot of silliness onscreen, like the bit in which Mark races a dolphin across a pool before leaping out of the pool and grabbing a fish from the dolphin’s human trainer, and the miniature FX for submarine scenes aren’t exactly top-shelf. But the main character is inherently interesting—the last of his kind, and all that—and the script, by Mayo Simon, presents outrageous concepts in such a matter-of-fact fashion that it’s easy to relax and enjoy the ride. None of the actors does much to get excited about, excepting the always-enjoyable Buono, who eschews his usual flamboyance for a quieter kind of menace; but then again, the wooden performances suit the piece’s unvarnished approach. FYI, an enjoyable Man from Atlantis cast reunion took place in 2012, and remarks about that event appear here. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Man from Atlantis: FUNKY

Doc Savage: The Man of Bronze (1975)

          Between the end of the campy TV series Batman in 1968 and the arrival of the reverent feature Superman in 1978, cinematic treatments of superheroes tended toward buffoonery. Doc Savage: The Man of Bronze is a prime example, because it’s a failed attempt to create an ironic live-action cartoon. Although an awful movie by any rational criteria, Doc Savage is so wall-to-wall kitschy—one doesn’t get the impression anyone involved with the project had illusions of creating art—that the picture offers a mix of intentional and unintentional amusement. The title character is an international adventurer who first appeared in pulp magazines in 1933, then expanded to comic books and radio (though his popularity waned in the late ’40s, he’s still kicking around thanks to sporadic revivals in various media). An unfailingly virtuous good guy who fights crime from his gadget-filled headquarters inside the Empire State Building, aided by a quintet of colorful sidekicks called the Fabulous Five, Doc is such a straight arrow he makes Superman seem edgy by comparison, and he’s not so much super-powered as super-realized: He’s a paragon of mental, moral, and physical perfection.

          In Doc Savage: The Man of Bronze, the character is presented with his original ’30s trappings intact while Doc and the Five trek to South America and investigate the murder of Doc’s father, a saintly missionary who uncovered a scheme to rob a Native tribe of its riches. The characterizations and plotting are painfully thin, the dialogue is cringe-worthy, and the production values seem intentionally artificial, as if brightly lit sets will sell the idea of a comic strip sprung to life. In the title role, Ron Ely is physically impressive—he played Tarzan in a ’60s TV series—though his performance style is closer to posing than acting. The rank-and-file character actors surrounding him are saddled with lame comic-relief bits that undercut any attempts to create credibility, and the film’s special effects are terrible, notably the animation for sequences of supernatural snakes floating through the air.

          What saves Doc Savage from being an unwatchable mess is an undercurrent of outright weirdness: One of the villains sleeps in an oversized crib and sucks his thumb; Doc’s slick logo is emblazoned on everything from his belt buckle to his private plane; and the film’s score comprises bombastic John Philips Sousa marches. Understandably, all of this Batman-style camp is a sore spot with hardcore Doc Savage fans—but even adherents must admit Doc Savage is such a silly property that the camp approach made sense. (After all, Doc’s verbose motto includes such easily parodied proclamations as, “Let me take what comes with a smile, without loss of courage.”) So whether this picture “honors” its source material or not, it has several audacious moments, like the ridiculous scene in which the various fighting styles used by Doc and an opponent are identified by onscreen text. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Doc Savage: The Man of Bronze: FUNKY

The Amazing Spider-Man (1977) & The Incredible Hulk (1977) & Dr. Strange (1978) & Captain America (1979) & Captain America 2: Death Too Soon (1979)

          Years before Marvel Comics became a Hollywood powerhouse, the venerable publisher licensed its characters for a string of low-budget TV productions, beginning with hokey “limited animation” cartoons in the ’60s and continuing with several live-action TV movies in the ’70s. First came The Amazing Spider-Man, starring Nicholas Hammond (the oldest Von Trapp boy from the classic 1965 movie The Sound of Music) as Peter Parker, a graduate student with twin interests in photography and science. As in the comics, he gains arachnid abilities after getting bitten by a radioactive spider. Various pointless changes from the source material are less glaring than the excruciating background music and the bargain-basement FX that accompany numbingly dull “action” scenes. The main gimmick involves superimposing shots of Spidey crawling onto images of buildings, even though neither the lighting nor the movements match. Scenes of Hammond and/or his stuntman on real sets are no better, because the action choreography is lifeless and the bright colors of the costume look awful in realistic settings.
          In terms of acting, Hammond is so dorky and polite that he seems like a department-store clothing mannequin come to life. Character actors including Thayer David and David White give stock performances, while appealing leading lady Lisa Eilbacher barely gets any screen time. The actual story involves Spidey battling a criminal who uses mind-control on unsuspecting victims, so there's a faint whiff of satire related to ’70s cults, though the filmmakers lack the will or the wit to maximize that element. This tepid take on Spidey also has a certain camp factor, but unlike, say, the ’60s Batman series with Adam West, The Amazing Spider-Man contains only humor of the unintentional variety. A mercifully short-lived series followed the broadcast of this pilot movie, but it's hard to find anyone who feels genuine nostalgia for Hammond’s enervated wall-crawling.
          Far more impressive was The Incredible Hulk, for which writer-producer Kenneth Johnson turned the story of scientist Bruce Banner (renamed “David” Banner for the series) into the saga of a tormented fugitive. In the initial telefilm, Banner (Bill Bixby) obsessively researches why adrenaline gives some people extraordinary strength in times of crisis, because his wife died when he couldn’t extract her from a burning car after an accident. Lighting onto a possibility, Banner recklessly exposes himself to an overdose of gamma radiation, causing him to transform into a big green dude (bodybuilder Lou Ferrigno) whenever he gets stressed. Johnson plays the material straight, and Bixby’s sincerity grounds the goofy premise, so when the storyline turns tragic, it’s possible to buy into the melancholy emotions of the piece, especially with Joe Hammel’s plaintive piano theme “The Lonely Man” reverberating on the soundtrack. 
          Also elevating The Incredible Hulk is the work of costar Susan Sullivan, who plays Banner’s colleague and love interest; she and Bixby generate viable chemistry that suggests as much mutual respect as it does latent passion. Notwithstanding the kicky first transformation scene, which involves lightning and rain plus a great use of camera angles and sound effects to jack up the suspense, the classic moment in The Incredible Hulk involves Banner warning a relentless tabloid reporter (Jack Colvin) to keep his distance: “Don’t make me angry, Mr. McGee. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.” Five seasons of anguished hulking ensued, as did three reunion movies, so the Bixby/Ferrigno franchise reigned as the only truly successful live-action Marvel adaptation until the late ’90s.
          A year after Hulk and Spidey hit the airwaves, Marvel’s resident mystic appeared in Dr. Strange, a bizarre telefilm notable for eerie synthesizer scoring by Paul Chihara. The plot of Dr. Strange is so thin that the best sequences are the extended dialogue-free montages set to Chihara’s otherworldly grooves. (Some of the huge, fluid cues that Chihara provides anticipate the creepy “blaster beam” effect that Jerry Goldsmith used so powerfully in 1979’s Star Trek: The Motion Picture.) While no match for the mind-bending images that artists including Frank Brunner, Steve Ditko, and Gene Colan created for vintage Dr. Strange comics, at least the aimless montages in the Dr. Strange telefilm come across like trippy music videos. Far out, man!
          Forgettable leading man Peter Hooten plays Stephen Strange, a medical doctor recruited to participate in an interdimensional war against ancient sorceress Morgan le Fay (Jessica Walter, rocking spectacular cleavage). A murky storyline, choppy editing, and unfinished-looking FX give the movie a fever-dream vibe. That’s why Dr. Strange is recommended exclusively for those who savor cinematic weirdness. Not only does this failed pilot have the disjointed feel of a midnight movie, but it also features an unintentionally hilarious line. At one point, an aging mystic (John Mills) dispatches his manservant to collect the title character by issuing the command: “Find Stephen Strange!” In this context, you will find Stephen to be quite strange indeed.
          Marvel’s last (and least) attempt at launching a ’70s live-action series was Captain America, an excitement-free modernization of the World War II-era superhero. Musclebound actor Reb Brown blankly plays Steve Rogers, who through convoluted circumstances becomes a superman fighting crime while he cruises around in a tricked-out van that contains his equally tricked-out motorcycle. Toward the climax of the movie, Brown finally dons an awful-looking costume, his motorcycle helmet ridiculously adorned with painted-on facsimiles of the decorative wings from Cap’s comic-book cowl. (That atrocious ensemble gets replaced in the final scenes by a second version that’s closer in design to the comic-book original.) Rather than a series, Captain America was followed by one additional TV movie, Captain America II: Death Too Soon. Despite that title, death couldn’t come soon enough for this misbegotten take on the beloved character. Suffice to say that the highlights of Captain America II are Christopher Lee's florid bad-guy acting and the debut of Cap’s latest silly gadget, a hang-glider.

The Amazing Spider-Man: LAME

The Incredible Hulk: GROOVY

Dr. Strange: FREAKY

Captain America: SQUARE
Captain America II: Death Too Soon: SQUARE

Superman (1978)

          Hard as it may be to imagine, now that seemingly every Spandex-clad character who ever fought crime has been featured in movies, reboots, sequels, and spinoffs, there was a time when the idea of turning a comic-book hero into a movie character seemed preposterous. In the early 1970s, when Superman was conceived, audiences mostly knew caped crusaders from campy TV series like The Adventures of Superman (1952-1957) and Batman (1966-1968). As one colorful story from the development process goes, Warren Beatty was approached to play the Man of Steel, so he slipped on a Superman costume and walked around his backyard trying to decide if he could get over feeling ridiculous. He couldn’t, and neither could any of the other big names offered the role. And that was just one of myriad behind-the-scenes dramas.

          Original scripter Mario Puzo delivered an unwieldy draft running 500 pages. Millions were spent on test footage for flying effects. Christopher Reeve was so scrawny when he was cast that English bodybuilder David Prowse (Darth Vader in the original Star Wars flicks) was recruited to help the Son of Krypton add bulk. Marlon Brando, hired to play Superman’s dad, was an overpaid diva, trying to convince the producers he didn’t need to appear onscreen. A plan to shoot the film and its sequel back-to-back fell apart, with production on the sequel halted halfway through. But amazingly, offscreen mishegoss translated to onscreen magic.

          As helmed by director Richard Donner, Superman treats the superhero’s origin story like a great piece of cornpone Americana. The movie proper begins with a long prologue on Krypton, where trippy costumes and grandiose production design give the movie a snazzy sci-fi jolt. The next major passage is a lengthy tenure in Smallville, anchored by Glenn Ford’s touching appearance as Superman’s surrogate father. Finally the movie shifts to Metropolis, where Gene Hackman has a blast playing amiable psychotic Lex Luthor. The plot is wonderfully overstuffed, with long detours for things like Luthor’s elaborate theft of two nuclear missiles, and the narrative voluptuousness works in the movie’s favor: Everything is Super-sized. John Williams, on a major roll after Jaws (1975) and Star Wars (1977), contributes a perfect score loaded with orchestral grandeur, while cinematographer Geoffrey Unsworth gives the picture a dreamlike glow. (The Smallville sequence is especially beautiful, with luxurious tracking shots of wheat fields.) And though the effects have lost their ability to astonish, they’re still pictorially elegant.

          The heart of the movie, however, is the love story between sweet Clark/Superman and salty Lois Lane. That memorable romance is brought to life by Reeve, balancing sly humor with square-jawed earnestness, and Margot Kidder, simultaneously sexy and abrasive. Not everything in the movie works; the “Can You Read My Mind” scene was rightly cited in a recent book titled Creepiosity: A Hilarious Guide to the Unintentionally Creepy. But in terms of treating a comic-book story with just the right mix of irony and respect, nothing came remotely close to Superman until along came a Spider-Man more than two decades later.

Superman: RIGHT ON