All things considered, the 11 (?!) original theatrical trailers included in the “Bonus” section on the Blu-ray in Kino Lorber’s two-disc (4K/Blu-ray) special edition, all starring Clint Eastwood, from A Fistful of Dollars (1964) through The Eiger Sanction (1975), make an excellent prelude to watching Escape From Alcatraz (1979), especially if it’s your first viewing.

The progression of trailers begins with a trailer that doesn’t even mention Clint Eastwood’s name to a stream of trailers that are built around his name and persona, which reminds me that I first became aware of Eastwood via The ABC Sunday Night Movie and its pan-and-scanned, edited for broadcast television, ad-supported presentations of Eastwood-starring films. After I graduated from high school and started seeing movies on my own, I remember being distinctly unimpressed with Every Which Way But Loose, though I loved seeing San Fernando Valley locations, where I lived at the time, on the big screen.

Released six months later, in June 1979, Escape From Alcatraz was a different story.

(For one thing, seeing Clint Eastwood’s naked backside shocked made me feel like an adult, no matter how brief the sighting. The movie was rated PG, which is a reminder that the PG rating was much looser in the 1970s than it is today.)

In May 2020, I revisited the film for the first time in years, during the early months of the global pandemic. Here’s what I wrote for Screen Anarchy:

Maybe it’s the pandemic, maybe it’s just me, but I empathized more than ever with a convicted criminal, locked up in an impregnable prison facility.

What timing! Recently, I revisited John Sturges’ The Great Escape, which pits good vs. evil in a grand, military adventure. Based on a true story, producer/director Sturges’ film follows heroic Allied soldiers as they strike back against evil Nazi forces.

For a change, please, consider producer/director Don Siegel’s muscular drama. Based on a true story, it follows convicted criminals as they endeavor to escape from the fabled Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary, located on an island a mile away from San Francisco, California.

Released in June 1979, the film featured the final teaming of Siegel with Clint Eastwood, a partnership that began in 1968’s Coogan’s Bluff, right after the actor scored worldwide box office hits, thanks to his partnership with filmmaker Sergio Leone. As I’ve written before, “Siegel’s riveting, mid-tempo style of action suited Eastwood well,” and they then made the off-beat, unpredictable Two Mules for Sister Sara (1970) and The Beguiled (1971), before capturing the cultural zeitgeist in Dirty Harry (1971).

Subscribe now

That same year, Eastwood directed his first film, Play Misty For Me, and became a bigger cinematic presence than ever before as an actor and director. Siegel, meanwhile, helmed the fabulous thieving adventure Charley Varrick (1973), starring Walter Matthau; the very enjoyable thriller The Black Windmill, starring Michael Caine; the forlorn Western The Shootist (1976), starring John Wayne; and the spy thriller Telefon (1977), starring Charles Bronson.

For Eastwood, Escape From Alcatraz was sandwiched by populist comedies Every Which Way But Loose (1978) and Bronco Billy (1980). As it happens, the former was the first Clint Eastwood film I’d seen in a theater, and so the prospect of seeing him in a drama was very appealing in the summer of 1979.

Revisiting Escape From Alcatraz, which recently became available on Amazon Prime Video, was a complete pleasure, though I’d forgotten how much of the film unfolds with very little action, per se.

The prison, operated from 1934 until 1963, was known as a maximum-security facility where troublemakers were held (shades of The Great Escape). Unlike John Sturges’ film, however, the protagonist here, Frank Morris (Eastwood), is no hero.

Instead, he’s a career criminal who has escaped from other prisons before, which is why he was transferred to Alcatraz. The steely-eyed, stiff-jawed warden (Patrick Magee, also in Siegel’s Telefon) lays down the law to Morris, who steals a fingernail-clipper right off the warden’s desk during their brief meeting.

Clearly, Morris has an instinctual desire to escape. The film supports that notion, showing guards who are not entirely monstrous and featuring fellow prisoners who are sympathetic and supportive. Naturally, the warden is evil -- Magee makes for a smug, villainous figure -- as well as some of the guards and a few fellow prisoners.

For the most part, though, it feels like the prison is pulling for Morris to defy all the odds and escape with his life. Those empathetic chords reach out and embrace the viewer; we know that Frank Morris is a criminal, but it’s Clint Eastwood, really, and we pulled for him in the 1970s.

Displaying his subtle, supreme mastery of the craft of filmmaking, director Don Siegel employs superb control of the frame, constantly inviting the viewer into the action, even when that action is expressed entirely on Eastwood’s face.

Kino Lorber’s 4K looks superb, especially in the many shadowy scenes that predominate the early scenes, as well as the escape sequence itself. According to the packaging: “The HDR/Dolby Vision Master was remastered by Paramount Pictures -- from a 4K scan of the original camera negative.”

The special features on Kino Lorber’s edition are composed of an excellent audio commentary by film historians Steve Mitchell and Nathaniel Thompson, the latter of whom owns the outstanding review site Mondo Digital. Two interviews, which were also included on the 2022 home video release, are included here as well.

Their content is complementary: the first with screenwriter Richard Tuggle, who talks about how he came across J. Campbell Bruce’s book, first published in 1962, prompting him to write his first screenplay. The second features actor Larry Hankin, who plays a character who was directly involved in the escape attempt, and is quite amusing as he talks about how he was cast and tells stories from the location shooting.

Share

After acting together in 1962's War Hunt -- a quite decent anti-war drama that touched on mental health issues during the Korean War -- Robert Redford and Sydney Pollack collaborated on This Property Is Condemned, an adaptation of a one-act stage play by Tennessee Williams that starred Natalie Wood. Playing her romantic interest, Redford was second-billed and acquitted himself satisfactorily, without rising above what became a so-so romantic melodrama. (Francis Ford Coppola, who made an unbilled appearance as a truck driver in War Hunt, is one of three credited screenwriters.)

Emerging actor Redford became a bonafide star in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969), and played a charming skier in Michael Ritchie's Downhill Racer (1969). He also appeared in Tell Them Willie Boy Is Here (1969) and Little Faus and Big Halsy (1970) before reuniting with Pollack in late 1970 to make a wilderness adventure, their second (of seven) film collaborations.

On the wonderful Warner Archive Blu-ray, which looks splendid, Sydney Pollack provides an informative audio commentary; Robert Redford provides comments on the opening and closing scenes, while writer John Milius occasion supplies occasional asides, not hesitating to point out the film's highlights and also question why some of his pages were either not filmed or didn't make the final cut (?!) The comments by Redford and Milius sound like they were recorded separately and then spliced into Pollack's commentary.

Right off the bat, I was surprised that the film begins with an orchestral overture, which I'd never seen or heard before. The film also includes an intermission at the 65-minute mark, as well as exit music. Pollack explains in the commentary that the overture, intermission, and exit music were added at the studio's request when it was decided to prepare one 70mm print, which only had an extremely limited release, perhaps at the time of the film's general release in December 1970.

Inspired by the true stories of mountain men, John Milius, then 25 or so, worked from his own extensive research to craft his screenplay, developing a style of dialogue that was not entirely authentic but sounded distinctively different. Sydney Pollack quite liked the flavor of the dialogue and Milius' writing; in the commentary, he notes that he was concerned about the dialogue and whether it could be dubbed or subtitled properly for foreign release, leading to a phone conversation with Stanley Kubrick (?!), and the beginning of a long friendship, during which they never met in person until filming Eyes Wide Shut (1999).

Robert Redford steps off a boat in the opening scene and begins his life as a mountain man, a refugee from the East who must learn how to survive in the rugged conditions of the Old West. Filming began in the winter at locations near where Redford would later buy a house and property, and near to where the Sundance Film Festival has been held for many years.

Watching the film in the wake of Robert Redford's death at the age of 89 reawakened memories of seeing him in a string of films from the late 60s through the early 80s, aka my first period of movie love. I didn't see Jeremiah Johnson until the 80s, I believe, probably on broadcast television, with advertising breaks, which undercut the rugged effectiveness of the film. My chief memory was seeing Redford trudging through the snow, and the appearance of Will Geer as a cheerful, older mountain man.

Thus, watching it on Blu-ray, it felt like a brand-new experience, which I won't spoil for anyone else by recapping the plot, which is available at a number of sites on the internet, if you're so inclined. What struck me was Redford's subtle grace in his performance, the way that he leans into the solitude that Jeremiah Johnson sought by retreating into the woods, and then how he adjusts to changing circumstances.

It's quite an arc, as they say -- including Sydney Pollack on the audio commentary -- and felt like a fitting tribute to an actor, activist, director, producer and family man who made a remarkably number of good or, at minimum, entertaining movies over his long career.

The film received a GP rating -- the successor to the M rating introduced in 1968, and one that only lasted from 1970 to 1972, before being adjusted to the much more familiar PG rating -- and makes good viewing for older children, teenagers, and adults.

The film was released in December 1972, nearly two years after production began. In the interim, Redford saw the theatrical release of crime caper The Hot Rock and the candid political drama The Candidate. Redford and Pollack next worked together on the romantic period drama The Way We Were, opposite Barbra Streisand, followed by a reunion with Paul Newman and director George Roy Hill on The Sting.

Fleeting personal encounter: The only time I saw Robert Redford in person was in the hallway of the Arclight Theaters in Hollywood after his son James Redford's directorial debut, Spin, screened at AFI Fest in November 2003. I was a seasonal worker at the fest that year; he was gathered, quietly, with his family.

We made eye contact for one or two seconds. It was electrifying (for me).

Now Streaming: First published in 1972, Mary Rodgers' novel Freaky Friday pioneered the 'body swap' comedy, following a 13-year-old girl and her mother, who swapped bodies and came to a greater understanding of each other's lives. 

Intended for younger audiences, the book taught lessons about empathy that made it an ideal choice for a live-action film adaption by Disney. Rodgers adapted her own book for the screen; Gary Nelson, an experienced director of episodic series and television movies, was chosen to direct. 

Young Jodie Foster, a Disney veteran who'd made a tart contribution in Martin Scorsese's Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore and then opened eyes wide in a very adult role as a prostitute in the director's Taxi Driver, was at a head-spinning point in her career. Around this same time, she was also The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane, and also starred in Alan Parker's musical Bugsy Malone. 

Subscribe now

In many ways, Jodie Foster appeared to be an adult in a young girl's body; it was easy to think of her as 'old beyond her years,' which made her the perfect choice to play a 13-year-old girl who swaps bodies with her mother when they both happen to express the identical wish at the same moment. No other reason or explanation is given, and, really, any reason or explanation would get in the way of the story. 

Much of the film's 98-minute running time is spent, very pleasantly, in the company of Foster enacting her mother inhabiting her early teen body, trying to imitate her manner of speaking and acting and reacting. She is, very literally, 'old for her years,' and she's entirely empathetic as she develops empathy for all the things that a housewife was still expected to do, even if much of her behavior is tied to what might be expected in the 1950s. (Which, after all, still points to how far the general culture needed to progress in the 1970s. Or, at least at Disney, which never ever led the culture. Instead, it has always seemed to lag about 20 years behind.) 

Share

Even though this was my first time watching the movie, I fully expected Jodie Foster to be as good as she is, simply because I've seen so many other films she made in the 1970s. What surprised me more was the fine comic performance by Barbara Harris, a graceful and elegant actress who pretends to be ungainly and awkward, without overdoing it.

It's a briskly-paced movie that is filled with moments that made me giggle and laugh. When certain 70s-specific moments arrived, nothing struck me as overtly offensive or insensitive, other than the eye-opening depictions of a housewife who has hired contractors to do every manner of housework. Otherwise, this is a bright and silly movie that remains highly enjoyable. [Disney Plus]

"Splendid, splendid, splendid." I kept repeating that word to myself as I watched Richard Lester's highly-spirited adventure, which felt like it was made to me when I first saw the two films during their original U.S. theatrical release in March 1974 and February 1975, respectively. 

In between the theatrical releases, I bought a paperback edition of Alexandre Dumas' first novel, published first in 1844, and advertised on the front cover with the words: “See the Major Motion Picture!” Perhaps I was eager to know how the story ended on page 608 (?!).

Full confession: I have never read the book, and now find that the type is quite tiny for my dimming vision. Nonetheless, I know that it's a beloved historical romance. 

After the theatrical releases, I saw the films again multiple times, and even bought a previous edition on DVD, which I watched two or three times. Revisiting the films again in a new 4K edition from The Criterion Collection, I was once again delighted with the general thrust of the story, the enduring characters, and the swashbuckling action. 

The 4K edition is not transformative, which is par for the course as far as films from the 1970s are concerned. What is comforting is to see a 35mm film restored to its initial theatrical release glory, without a speck of dirt, and with sound that is enveloping. 

Watching the 4K editions made me feel like I was back in the nostalgic Los Angeles of my youth, where I saw some great films in less-than-optimal conditions. Indeed, I would not be eager to return to the box theaters,with aging seats and threadbare carpet, which were common in the San Fernando Valley, where I lived. If I could, I was always much happier to venture into Hollywood or Westwood and their bigger, better-maintained theaters. 

Michael York makes for a suitably dashing D'Artagnan, though I forgot how much he cats around on his supposed beloved, ready and eager to hop into bed with any willing maiden. It's all played for laughs, which fit the relaxed mores of the early 1970s, but watching it now, it surprised me with his randiness. 

Oliver Reed stands out among the three musketeers as Athos, who has a tragic backstory of sorts that only gets more fully developed in The Four Musketeers. Frank Finlay is lovely as Porthos, as much as anything because of the actor's debonair delivery of his dialogue. Richard Chamberlain doesn't have as much to do as Aramis, which also surprised, because I remembered his role as more than a supporting character. 

Speaking of supporting characters, I found Charlton Heston to be quite effective as Cardinal Richelieu, who is a commanding Evil Incarnate. Likewise, Christopher Lee is amazingly good as Rochefort, who must submit himself to the Cardinal -- another aspect I'd forgotten -- which might help explain why he's so quick to violence in order to express his inner anguish (that's entirely my own personal reading on what I suppose to be his inner anguish.) 

I wish Raquel Welch had not been the object of so much bosom humor, but she rose above the material and supplied very decent comic relief as the female counterpart to Michael York. Faye Dunaway was on such an incredible run of performances that she just relaxes into her Milady character and is easily, charmingly evil. 

Watching the two films, I fell back into pleasant memories of watching them over the years.I also enjoyed watching the entire collection of special features, some from past editions, which take their time in explaining how the films came together, were split apart, and then put back together. This package is highly recommended. [The Criterion Collection]

Here's a breakdown of what's where. 

• The Three  Musketeers 

  • 23:03 - d. David Gregory; The Saga of the Musketeers, Part One (2002, Blue Underground)

  • 29:54 - Two for One: Part One - p, David Cairns - preproduction 

  • 43:03 - Two for One: Part Two - physical production, part one

  • 6:50 - The Making of ‘The Three Musketeers’ - BTS

  • 3:01 - Trailer

• The Four Musketeers 

  • 24:53 - d. David Gregory; The Saga of the Musketeers, Part Two

  • 42:07 - Two for One: Part Three - p, David Cairns - physical production, part two

  • 26:06 -  Two for One: Part Four - post production (2025)

  • 2:51 - Trailer

"You'll believe a man can fly." 

Belief was a big deal for movies and me in late 1977. Sure, Star Wars rebooted space opera, but that was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Close Encounters of the Third Kind was set in the present day and made alien contact look cool, but if you know how that movie ends, you know it was shrouded in secrecy. 

Somewhere around that time, I saw the teaser for Superman, and was not convinced it was for me. I read comic books as a kid; Spider-Man was my favorite, both for his jokes and for his alter-ego sharing a first name with me. Superman, though, and his many spin-offs -- Supergirl, Superboy, Superdog (?!) -- always seemed too straight and stiff for me, and re-runs of the 1950s TV show Adventures of Superman (with George Reeves) that I'd seen never caught my interest. I'd watched Lee Majors in The Six Million Dollar Man and Lindsay Wanger as The Bionic Woman on TV from time to time, and Superman struck me as being more of the same: silly, not believable, not relevant.

So when Superman was released on December 15, 1978, I didn't rush out to see it. By that point, I was paying more attention to current events. The previous month, news broke that Jim Jones and his cult had committed mass suicide in Guyana, leaving more than 900 dead. Barely a week later, San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and City Supervisor Harvey Milk were killed in cold blood by former Supervisor Dan White. In a world of such tragedies, what relevance could a man of steel, born from the pages of a comic book, possibly have?

The idea to make a movie out of Superman is credited to Ilya Salkind, who secured the film rights from DC Comics in 1974 and produced the film along with his father Alexander Salkind and Pierre Spengler. Making a deal with Warner Bros. for distribution, the Salkinds and Spengler set to work to raise financing by recruiting big-name stars and a known commodity as screenwriter.

Marlon Brando was hired at the then-exorbitant fee of $3.7 million for two weeks of work. Gene Hackman came aboard shortly thereafter. With Mario Puzo (The Godfather) also enlisted to write a screenplay, the project was able to move forward. The Salkinds, who'd recently split The Three Musketeers into two movies to good financial success, decided to make two Superman movies at the same time. 

Robert Benton and David Newman (Bonnie and Clyde) and later Leslie Newman rewrote Puzo's massive, 500-page script for both movies into something described as more campy, a parody. Guy Hamilton (three recent James Bond pictures) had been hired to direct, but when production moved from Italy to England in order to save money, he dropped out and Richard Donner (The Omen) happily accepted $1 million to direct both movies (his asking price at the time was $100,000), with Nick Nolte penciled in to play Superman. Donner didn't like the tone of the script, so he promptly brought Tom Mankiewicz on to rewrite it. (Mankiewicz had worked on the same James Bond pictures as Hamilton.)

Mankiewicz conceived of a story and style of dialogue that would change tone markedly, beginning with a Biblical approach on Krypton, then a bucolic Andrew Wyeth approach in Smallville, then a comic book approach in Metropolis. Meanwhile, Donner pushed for an unknown to star; he felt that seeing an A-lister "flying" would distract from the story. 

My impressions of the film back in 1978 were favorable, though not ecstatic. It felt slow and stiff and proper, with a sunny optimism that felt a bit alien to my more pessimistic, rebellious attitude of the time. On the other hand, that sunny optimism of the film feels absolutely sincere, and John Williams' theme music, especially, sounded pretty darn triumphant and infectious. 

What really stood out to me were those flying scenes -- not the ones where Superman is flying against rear-projected images, or the "romantic" extended sequence where the caped hero flies with Lois Lane -- but the ones in which he takes off and lands. How did they do that? It looked magical to me, and made me, an increasingly cynical youth, believe in the magic of the movies all over again.

Watching the movie again in 2013, specifically, the 2001 restored version supervised by Donner that's available on Blu-ray, did not make me fall in love again -- Superman II is still the better film in my eyes, especially Donner's cut -- but I did appreciate the film's virtues anew. The opening 25-minute section on Krypton still feels painfully slow, yet the Smallville scenes, filmed in Alberta, Canada, are spellbinding in their beauty, as photographed by the great Geoffrey Unsworth, and make the Krypton scenes feel especially superfluous. 

The shift in tone once "Clark Kent" moves to Metropolis is still jarring, and all the wit in the world doesn't keep the film from spinning into a very silly realm of comedy. As good as Christopher Reeve is as Superman, he's equally ineffective as Clark Kent, and that goes for Gene Hackman as Lex Luthor and Ned Beatty as Otis, too. Their scenes may provoke laughter, and probably secured the film's huge box office success, but they wink at the audience too broadly, as if to say, 'The first hour of the movie, where we took the story and ourselves seriously? Yeah, forget that. We just want you to like us.'

For the era in which the film was released, however, Superman played just right for audiences. It paved the way for other superhero movies to come, eventually. And it made me believe, even if just for a little while, that a man could fly.

Originally published by Screen Anarchy in June 2013. Reprinted with permission. The film is now streaming on HBO Max. 

Now Streaming: Harrison Ford began flight training in the 1960s when he was living in Wisconsin, where he attended college, but he couldn't afford to continue the lessons. After he moved to California, began his acting career, and eventually made a mark as smuggler and starship pilot Han Solo in Star Wars (1977), Ford played non-starship pilots in two succeeding films, Force 10 From Navarone (1978) and Hanover Street (1979). 

Both films are set during World War II. Inspired by Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny and its lengthy opening sequence, set in World War II -- specifically, in 1944, a few years after the events in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989) -- and seeing that both are available to streaming on Prime Video, I settled in to watch what Harrison Ford was doing when I wasn't paying attention. 

First published in 1968, Alistair MacLean's novel Force 10 From Navarone, was a sequel to MacLean's novel The Guns of Navarone, first published in 1957 and adapted into a film released in 1961. MacLean wrote lean, popular novels that were enjoyable to read; he was Scottish and pragmatic, it appears, since his sequel novel followed the events and characters in the film, not necessarily his original novel. 

Directed by Guy Hamilton, Force 10 From Navarone begins with footage from The Guns of Navarone, with Robert Shaw and Edward Fox pictured at the end as British commandos Major Mallory and Sergeant Miller, roles originally played by Gregory Peck and David Niven. The two are assigned a mission to find and kill Nicolai, a German spy who has infiltrated the Yugoslavian partisans. To get there, they must hitch a ride with U.S. Army Ranger Lt. Colonel Barnsby (Harrison Ford) and his men, who have their own secret mission in Yugoslavia. 

Things do not go as planned; the plane that Barnsby is piloting is shot down, and he ends up teaming with Mallory for much of the remaining action, as do the other crash survivors, including Carl Weathers, for some reason. Barbara Bach, who was coming off her splendid performance in the James Bond adventure The Spy Who Loved Me (1977), plays a supporting role as a Yugloslavian resistance fighter who may be collaborating with the Nazis. 

Guy Hamilton, who directed Sean Connery as James Bond in Goldfinger (1964) and  Diamonds Are Forever (1971), as well as Roger Moore as James Bond in Live and Let Die (1973) and The Man with the Golden Gun (1974), helmed the picture with his usual, efficiently busy action eye. He's a good fit for the material, which keeps popping up with new scenarios every few minutes. 

The screenplay is credited to veteran TV writer Robin Chapman from a story by producer Carl Foreman, and loosely based on the novel by Alistair MacLean. It seems that none of the actors was terribly happy with the script, which is fairly bare-bones, tying action scenes together with barely a nudge and a wink. 

Robert Shaw is the lead, and plays especially well with Edward Fox, but Harrison Ford displays good command as a military leader. Shaw and Ford have good chemistry after they go on the run together.  It's a good picture that is filled with a number of explosive action set-pieces, includes a tense scene on a train, and builds toward the need to destroy a bridge. As it happens, the latter two plot points also play into the opening sequence in Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny. 

Shaw, who memorably played a blonde Russian villain opposing Sean Connery as James Bond in From Russia With Love (1963), is admittedly a bit old to be running around as he does here, yet he is entirely convincing as the clever commando. Sadly, he only made one more film (Avalanche Express, 1979) before he suffered a heart attack and died in August 1978. This film was released shortly thereafter, in December 1978. 

To complete the James Bond connections: Richard Kiel, like Barbara Bach, had just come off The Spy Who Loved Me and would go on to do Moonraker (1979); Edward Fox appeared as gadget-man 'M' opposite Sean Connery as an older, balder 007 in Never Say Never Again (1983). [Prime Video]

https://www.youtube.com/embed/69v1tcsG6nc

In its opening titles, Hanover Street declares itself to be a love story, and the first portion of the film lives up to its ambition, as U.S. Army Air Force pilot Lt. David Halloran (Harrison Ford) is smitten with a British woman he meets on the streets of London, even after her glove slips off, revealing a wedding ring. 

Nonetheless, David pursues the woman (Lesley-Anne Down) and they end up in bed together, for reasons that the woman, who initially refuses to divulge her name, cannot properly identify. She says that something is lacking in her marriage, which might ring true, were it not that her husband is British intelligence officer Paul Sellinger (Christopher Plummer), who treats her in a kind and loving manner, and is a good, doting father to their young daughter Sarah (Patsy Kensit, who grew up to become a star in Lethal Weapon 2, opposite Mel Gibson, and many more beyond that).

As their affair continues, and David learns that her name is Margaret, he begins to act differently as a pilot, to the extent that his fellow crew members begin to notice and wonder what's happening to the devil-may-care pilot they once knew. In time, David and Paul's paths converge, and soon they are fighting Nazis together after the plane that David is piloting gets shot down.

(Yes, if you're counting, that's two movies in which Harrison Ford pilots a plane during World War II that crashes, kills other people aboard, and yet he survives. It's a wonder that anyone let him fly a plane again!)

 The first half of the picture, devoted as it is to an adulterous love affair, complete with a lush, swelling musical score by the reliable John Barry, feels quite icky to me, especially since Margaret's husband is a very decent fellow, and they have a child! Eew! 

Peter Hyams wrote and directed. He's a very talented director with a good sense of popcorn entertainment, including a number of action films that have held up over the years, including Busting, 1974 and Capricorn One, 1977. I prefer the second part of the film, when Ford and Plummer end up on a mission together through war-torn territory, and Ford's character gradually realizes that he's been sleeping with the wife of Plummer's character, who has been oblivious to that possibility. 

Ford and Plummer have good chemistry together, and the action is nearly continuous. The narrative momentum picks up as the film progresses, which is nearly always a good thing, and Peter Hyams has always been highly talented at telling a story through the visual medium.  

Hanover Street is resolved with a grand, melodramatic flourish. For a movie that revolves around an adulterous affair, it still leaves a sour taste in my mouth, but if you can put that aside, there is much to enjoy about Harrison Ford's performance as a heel who eventually does the right thing. [Prime Video]

https://www.youtube.com/embed/YigOeYvBhtg

Alan Arkin recently passed away at the age of 89, after a remarkable career that began in the late 1950s. I first saw him in Norman Jewison's The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming (1966). As I wrote about his performance in Rafferty and the Gold Dust Twins (1975):

"Appearing opposite strong actors, Arkin always appears to mesh well. He manifests his characters quietly; they are always convincing and come across as quite authentic." 

Previous to that film, Arkin made the wonderfully rambunctious Freebie and the Bean (1974) opposite James Caan, which comes up in the audio commentary that is included in the Criterion Collection edition of The In-Laws (1979), released last year on Blu-ray. The audio commentary is a fabulous conversation between Alan Arkin, Peter Falk, director Arthur Hiller and writer Andrew Bergman. 

Subscribe now

In a separate interview, also included on the disc, Arkin says that he read Bergman's original script for Blazing Saddles (1973), which he thought was better than the film, and kept him in mind for future projects. Arkin is the one who talked to Peter Falk about possibly working together -- Falk says that Arkin suggested it as a sequel to Freebie and the Bean, which Arkin doesn't remember -- pitched an Arkin/Falk movie to John Calley, Warner Bros. studio executive, recruited director Arthur Hiller, and then asked Bergman to write a comedy in which Falk would be tormenting Arkin. 

Bergman struggled, and then hit upon the idea that they could be in-laws. Three months later, the 145-page script (?!) was done, Arkin loved it, Falk agreed to do it, Hiller loved it, and they were off to make a comedy that, the four agreed, was entirely enjoyable to make and produce. 

By June 1979, I was a movie fan, but not yet very adventurous. Earlier in the year, I'd seen Milos Forman's Hair, James Bridges' The China Syndrome, Jonathan Kaplan's Over the Edge, but that was it, as I recall. (Later, I'd catch up with many more from the first six months, in repertory screenings and on home video when that became a thing.) I wasn't even aware of The In-Laws, in particular, but a group of friends was heading to see it in Westwood, so I jumped in the van too. 

With no expectations at all, and with no idea what I was about to see, except that it starred Alan Arkin and Peter Falk, I didn't expect much, which was a great set-up to be bowled over by one of the funniest movies I'd ever seen. Years later, I went to see the remake with Michael Douglas and Albert Brooks, which was the exact opposite; it felt like strained torture, which I allowed to color my memory of the original. 

Browsing The Criterion Channel the other night for something to stream, Alan Arkin in Conversation caught my eye. It's a lovely conversation between Alan Arkin and his son, actor/filmmaker Adam Arkin, in which father tells son about the first movie he watched with his father, son tells father about the first movie he watched with his father. It's a fabulous interview, made poignant by the elder Arkin's recent passing, and reminded me, of course, of my own father, and watching movies with him. 

It also reminded me that I bought The In-Laws on Criterion Blu-ray during a flash sale last year, and prompted me to pop it open and pop it into my 4K player, which nicely upscaled the image to my 4K television, and soon I was in 4K heaven. 

The film has the look of warm, subdued color that I associate with celluloid and the 1970s, and so that was pleasant. (The disc features a new 2K restoration, with uncompressed monaural soundtrack.) Even better, the film is better than I remembered, and all the jokes are still funny. Andrew Bergman is a great writer. Alan Arkin and Peter Falk are superb actors. Arthur Hiller is a better director than I realized. 

Listening to the audio commentary, recorded in 2003, was like sitting at a table with them as they relaxed and watched the movie with you, recalling all the good times, as well as the occasional doubts or challenges. Criterion's edition also includes a newly-recorded, 18-minute conversation with Alan Arkin, and In Support of The In-Laws, a newly-recorded 24-minute segment, featuring supporting actors Ed Beglay Jr, Nancy Dussault, James Hong, and David Paymer. Both are excellent features that are full of insights and nuggets of valuable information. 

A printed booklet (not a fold-out) is also included, featuring an essay by Stephen Winer, a comedy writer, who superbly dissects the how and why the film is a great comedy. The booklet also features director Arthur Hiller's recollections on the movie, from his unpublished 2011 memoir. 

"Serpentine! Serpentine!" [Now available on Blu-ray and DVD from The Criterion Collection.]

Now on Blu-ray: Having newly acquired a 4K television earlier this year to go along with my 4K disc player last year, I'm watching as much 4K content as I can afford, which ain't much, which means I am learning that Blu-rays that are upscaled to play on my lovely television can still look absolutely amazing, at least to my uneducated eyes. 

Subscribe now

Case in point: Buck and the Preacher. Released in movie theaters in 1972 (West Germany and the UK in March, with the U.S. following in late March/early April, followed by other territories in Europe, Asia and Latin America), the Western did not generate great box office receipts at the time, but was recognized later for its accomplishments, as I covered in my Screen Anarchy review last August, when the Criterion Collection released a new Blu-ray edition. 

As it happens, that physical disc was the one that "broke" my old Blu-ray player, which gave me a good reason to upgrade to a 4K player, and, has now equipped me to enjoy the four (4) 4K discs in my possession, of which three (3) are review copies kindly supplied by Criterion, and one (1) is The Beastmaster, which I myself purchased when I had a sudden surplus of cash. (Which was quickly flushed away by impulse purchases like that. *sigh*)

I am not a tech person by any means, and so I was bemoaning my "poverty" status as a critical viewer of movies when I realized two things: (1) my newest TV, at 50 inches, is much much bigger than my old 32-inch television, which was only 720p; (2) the disc player, and also the new television, can upscale content from 1080p. 

The difference, even to my old, enfeebled eyes, brings the "wow" factor back to my viewing experience when watching films that I've seen before. Frankly, I have neglected my physical media library, but on a bigger screen and in 4K, the upgrade is astonishing. 

Watching Buck and the Preacher, for example, is not something I would have done, especially since I just saw it a few months ago. But with my new set-up, I played it again to see if I could discern any differences, thanks for the equipment, and lo and behold, it looks gorgeous: the actors, the landscapes and the costuming all look gorgeous, and the audio sounds much better, the latter courtesy of a newly-acquired Roku speaker to go with the Roku TCL television. 

And, as long as I can afford the various fees of various streaming services, I'll by giving priority to family films (and TV shows) that are available in 4K, in addition to whatever I can see on the big screen that fits my format here, primarily entertainment that is targeted toward younger audiences, but which older viewers can enjoy. 

Now, Buck and the Preacher may not appear to be "family fare," and was definitely not marketed as a family film. Yet it sets a great example of what Black filmmakers could produce, even within the Hollywood studio system in the early 1970s, stating "'I'm Black and I'm proud' in its own ways," as pinpointed by critic Aisha Harris in her essay, "Unsettled Land," included with the Blu-ray. 

The leading characters are motivated by their desire to help a caravan of people who are working to establish themselves within a domineering White society. "Buck is firmly embedded here in the Black community around him," Harris writes. "His altruism serves those people and them alone." See the movie, and then talk about it with your family. [Criterion Collection]

Now Streaming: Left for dead in the middle of nowhere. Could you survive? 

Richard Harris stars as Zachary Bass, aka the titular character. The original screenplay by longtime Hollywood scribe Jack DeWitt, whose career dated back to 1941 but whose most pertinent credit before this was A Man Called Horse (1970), also starring Richard Harris, reflects the writer adapting to the times, drawing upon his long experience in crafting scripts for genre films, especially Westerns. 

Supposedly based on a true story that also inspired The Revenant (2015), we first meet Zachary Bass in 1820 as a member of a trapping party, led by Captain Henry (John Huston), that was hurrying home from the Northwest Territories after a two-year expedition, hoping to beat the onset of winter. A man of few words, Bass is hunting with a younger man who blunders, leaving Bass alone for a few minutes, whereupon he is attacked by a bear and suffers what appear to be mortal wounds. 

Reluctantly, Captain Henry concludes that Bass will die soon, but has built up sufficient trust and devotion to him that he orders two of his men to remain behind and serve as guards, waiting for him to die so they can give him a proper burial. Meanwhile, Captain Henry must continue his hurried passage through dangerous territory where the native peoples are not too friendly to passing, hostile strangers. And winter is coming. 

Subscribe now

Zachary Bass, however, has an indomitable will to live, and he survives the night. Ordered to put him out of his misery if he survived the night, so that they can rejoin the main expedition, the guards are instead cowed by silent, though threatening, native peoples and flee, abandoning Bass to the elements, thinking he will die soon anyway. 

The film then alternates between Captain Henry's expedition, where the forlorn leader is beset by regrets about leaving Bass behind, and Bass' survival trek, on which he is truly a lone man in the wilderness.

Richard C. Sarafian directed; Sarafian began as a reporter, before meeting Robert Altman and getting hired as his assistant. He then gained considerable experience helming television shows in the early 60s, everything from Maverick to The Twilight Zone to Batman, as well as four feature films as the decade progressed. His future cult hit, Vanishing Point (1971), was released just a few months earlier. 

As it happens, Altman directed McCabe & Mr. Miller in 1971, but Man in the Wilderness is certainly not anything like that distinctive Western. Instead, it bears a greater resemblance to A Man Called Horse, in which a single white man becomes absorbed by native peoples and begins following their traditions. 

Rather than people, Man in the Wilderness focuses on how an individual with great respect for the Great Outdoors can survive and thrive.  The narrative track that follows Zachary Bass in the present (1820) also dodges back to the character's younger years, showing how his rough upbringing led him to a great love, which then leads to the motivation for his burning desire to get home. 

Despite great personal problems, Richard Harris often gave incandescent performances. He could certainly deliver eloquent speeches and make them his own, but his presence was enough to overcome scripts that didn't deliver much. His character here has few lines of dialogue, which makes sense, since he is the only human in sight for most of his scenes. His presence alone, though, remains compelling, and his fire powers the entire film. 

Reportedly, John Huston, who was directing, and star George C. Scott clashed during production on The Last Run (1971), and Huston quit. A few days later, Huston came on board Man in the Wilderness. Huston brings a poignant side to his character, which adds to his relentless drive to see his men home safely and for the expedition to reap the rewards of the long journey. It also makes for a tense final scene. 

The film was released on November 24, 1971. [Available on digital and disc. Visit Warner Bros. official site for more information.] 

"I'm Buck." [blam, blam, blam, blam, blam, blam]

Sidney Poitier's directorial debut, sporting a new 4K digital restoration on Blu-ray from The Criterion Collection, reasserts its place as a foundational work in American cinema of the 1970s. 

Just a couple years before, distinguished photo-journalist Gordon Parks began his screen career by adapting his own novel, The Learning Tree (1969), into an acclaimed directorial debut, becoming the first Black filmmaker to write, produce, and direct for a major Hollywood studio. Parks' sophomore effort, Shaft (1971), became a smash hit at the box office, helping to define popular culture during that era and far beyond.

Into that environment, Harry Belafonte was approached by fledgling screenwriter Drake Walker, who had written a script inspired by real-life events in the Old (U.S.) West. Belafonte was excited about the story and approached Sidney Poitier, with whom he'd had a falling out a couple years before. Poitier quickly warmed to the subject as well. They put aside their differences and teamed up to make the film through their production companies; Poitier had a four-picture deal with Columbia Pictures at the time, and Columbia agreed to finance to the tune of two million dollars. 

The above information is courtesy of two great and informative new extras on Criterion's package. First, "Expanding the Western" showcases author Mia Mask talking  about the movie for 25 minutes, providing helpful background on both actors and their careers up to that point, placing the film into historical and cinematic context as well. She explains how Poitier became the director after things did not work out with their  original choice, TV veteran Joseph Sargent. (Sargent went on to direct The Taking of Pelham One Two Three). 

Subscribe now

Then, a 14-minute interview with Gina Belafonte, who talks about how her father got his start in the entertainment business, became involved to a major extent with the civil rights movement in the 1960s, and how the relationship between her father and Poitier developed over the years. She also bears personal witness to the shooting of the film on location in Durango, Mexico.

Those new extras are buttressed with three archival television appearances by Poitier and Belafonte, in which they talk at length about their reasons for making the movie. The first (13 minutes) was shot on location in Durango, the second is a 28-minute segment of Soul!, shot in front of a live studio audience, and the third is an episode of The Dick Cavett Show (64 minutes). All are good reminders that talk shows and the like were much more in-depth than the sound bites that pass for most interviews today. 

A wonderful printed essay by critic Aisha Harris is included with the Blu-ray. She writes at length about the film and how it fits into film history and the careers of both its lead actors.

Criterion has put together a great package for a film that didn't do that well at the box office, and not too well with mainstream critics, either. Watching it for the first time recently, I quickly got caught up in the more entertaining aspects of the film. I'm sure it helps that I love Westerns and I also have a soft-spot for 70s movies. 

Share Everything But Horror

Buck and the Preacher is more than a "Black power Western" in that it's impossible to separate the message from the movie, yet the message is so much fun to watch and the performances are so enjoyable that it's easy to become absorbed in watching it. Poitier and Belafonte's combustible chemistry is palpable, and when Ruby Dee returns from the edges of the story to stand dramatically alongside them -- she plays the wife of Poitier's character --  the film elevates to a higher level. 

As a bonus for fans of Cameron Mitchell, he's here as a particularly loathsome villain. James McEachin (before his starring role in the great TV series <b>Tenafly</b>) gives a noteworthy performance as the spirited leader of a caravan of freed slaves heading to freedom Out West. Veteran scribe Ernest Kinoy wrote the screenplay; the great Benny Carter composed the original musical score, one of the few he wrote for the screen.

All this to say: I loved the film much more than I thought I would. Check it out.  [The Criterion Collection]

Originally published by Screen Anarchy. Republished with permission.

https://www.youtube.com/embed/r-24cY5PjSI

Now Streaming: In the wake of the unexpected success of George Lucas' Star Wars (1977), followed by Steve Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1978), everyone in Hollywood and beyond wanted to go to space, or at least emulate their successes by making their own version of what they did. 

Into that superheated dawn of the Geek Age, Robert Wise's stately Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979) failed to capture even an iota of its own inspiration, a canceled television show that spawned a raft of rabid followers. (I detailed my own crushing disappointment in an article I wrote for Screen Anarchy some years ago. I stand by everything I wrote then.) 

Still, I was young. Since I had absolutely no expectations for another science-fiction picture releasing later that memorable month of December 1979, surely The Black Hole couldn't be any worse? Alas, I thought it was even worse, a pallid attempt by Disney to cash in on a trend that they didn't understand and had no hope of ever comprehending. The presence of Robert Forster, who I'd enjoyed watching as the star of the 1930s private eye TV show Banyon earlier in the 1970s, did little to mollify my overall disappointment.

But I remain a foolish optimist. Thus, when news broke earlier this week that the first image of a black hole at the center of the Milky Way Galaxy had been captured, my thoughts turned, of course, to a movie.  And what movie could be more appropriate than a crushing disappointment? 

The film begins on a grand note with a two-minute musical overture composed by John Barry against a totally black screen, which I didn't recall at all from my single viewing during its initial theatrical release. Voices are then heard as the opening credits roll and a fixed image of a star screen comes into view, which is a pleasantly different way to begin a science-fiction picture and sets the tone for the drama to follow. 

Initially conceived as a "space-themed disaster film" by writers Bob Barbash and Richard Landau, inspired by The Poseidon Adventure (1972) and The Towering Inferno (1974), the script was developed, reworked, and rewritten. After John Hough (Escape to Witch Mountain, 1975) declined an offer to direct, Freaky Friday helmer Gary Nelson came on board after seeing 'miniatures and matte paintings' by the great Peter Ellenshaw. 

The spaceship's crew is assembled from younger stars (Robert Forster, Joseph Bottoms, Yvette Mimeaux), supported by old-time veterans (Ernest Borgnine, Anthony Perkins) and a cute robot with big eyes (voiced by an uncredited Roddy McDowall). Their mission is to find undiscovered life, and they detect something worth examining in the vicinity of the first black hole any of them has ever seen. 

Looking closer, they escape the pull of the black hole by the skin of their teeth and attach themselves to a ship that was reported lost in space many years before. Once they board, they find Dr. Reinhardt (Maximilian Schell), a bushy-bearded, mad-scientist type, living with a bunch of robots, some more deadly than others.  As the crew works to get their ship repaired so they can return to Earth, Dr. Reinhardt informs them of his plan to use the black hole as a slingshot so he can go where no man has gone before. 

Forster and Bottoms display a bit of wit in their interactions, but just a bit. Mostly, it's Borgnine complaining, Perkins gazing about at the wonders that Dr. Reinhardt has created, Mimeaux using her E.S.P. to communicate with their robot V.I.N.C.E.N.T., who makes a new robot friend in the drawling, same-model B.O.B. (an uncredited Slim Pickens). 

Oddly paced, like many films from that era, The Black Hole keeps its plot simple and its objectives clear. In less than 100 minutes, it tells its story well, and the effects are perfectly fine for what it needs to accomplish. It's interesting to note that this film ended up as the first Disney production to receive a PG rating, for what I'd call a moderate use of curse words and one violent (implied, not explicit) death scene.  

Comparisons to 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1954) are apt, since Dr. Reinhardt clearly takes a few cues from Captain Nemo, as well as Forbidden Planet (1956), for which Disney did the effects. 

In David Weiner's wonderfully informative article published in The Hollywood Reporter, he notes: 

“It was my idea to remove the Disney logo for the picture and use Buena Vista Productions,” [director Gary] Nelson said. “Up to that point, all Disney films were sort of directed for a younger audience, and I didn’t want older people — anybody over 18 — to stay away from the theater if they thought it was just a typical Disney film.”

That was Ron Miller’s sentiment and directive. The producer of the film and president of the studio (who also happened to be the son-in-law of Walt Disney) was angling to broaden the appeal of Disney movies, make them less predictable and usher the studio into a new direction that would include more innovative filmmaking (such as the computer graphics-driven TRON in ’82), the creation of The Disney Channel and the establishment of more mature fare under its Touchstone Pictures banner, starting with Ron Howard’s Splash in 1984.”

Of the ending, which I won't describe here, director Nelson admitted: 

“We never had an ending for it. I didn’t like the ending. Nobody liked the ending.”

What concludes the film is strange and weird. Let's just call it metaphysical and leave it to your imagination. As Gary Nelson stated: 

“A lot of time and lot of effort to make a pretty good movie. Not a great movie. Not some outstanding movie. But a pretty good movie that will, no matter what, probably stick around for a long time.”

Released amidst a flock of films around Christmastime, The Black Hole did alright at the box office, reportedly making some $35 million, which is not blockbuster money, but not bad against its $20 million budget. It received Academy Award nominations for its cinematography by Frank Phillips, one of his last credits after spending much of the 70s shooting for Disney, and for its visual effects, credited to five talented artists. [Disney+]

Now Streaming: In the fall of 1969, Roger Corman began production on a film that he hoped would be "an apocalyptic , Strangelovian political satire," as he wrote in his excellent autobiography, How I Made a Hundred Movies in Hollywood and Never Lost a Dime (first published in 1990). 

The film, Gas-s-s-s! … or It May Become Necessary to Destroy the World in Order to Save It, may not reach the creative heights that Corman envisioned, yet it's a perfectly fine hippie road-trip movie that engenders more than a few chuckles and smiles for modern viewers, as well as several scenes that are bound to elicit groans of disbelief, especially the moments that make light of rape. 

Of course, the film makes light of everything that could possibly be taken seriously and is overflowing with contempt for societal norms and ridicule for outdated cultural concepts concerned women, men, politicians, and football, the latter an especially outlandish target in the State of Texas, where football is practically a religion in certain areas. 

Oh, did I forget to mention that filming began on location in Dallas, Texas, just a few miles from where I am typing these words today? 

Subscribe now

Corman writes, "the idea came mostly from Jim Nicholson," an executive at American Independent Pictures (AIP), the distributor, and was inspired by the popular slogan 'Never Trust Anyone Over 30.' The premise is that everyone over 25 has been wiped out; what will the younger generation actually do then? 

Wanting to make a dark comedy based on that idea, Corman, then 42, worked with George Amitage, who was 27 or so, on the script, but Corman was under a time crunch: he was already committed to direct a studio picture in Ireland in the spring and summer of 1970, and so he needed to start his next film now, "without a finished script," which proved to be a mistake. 

As he writes: "The big lesson learned was never shoot a script with just a first draft." Corman brought Armitage along to rewrite as the production moved from Dallas, where they shot on the SMU campus and the not-quite-open I-635 expressway, through West Texas, and on into New Mexico, but the ideas never quite gelled into what could have been a much more successful dark comedy. 

The film is not without its merits. Corman's camera movements are always graceful and sensible, and help to make all of his work dynamically entertaining. Nearly always, he frames his shots very well and always makes it easy to follow what's happening. Road-movie tropes were already well established, yet Corman defies these in a confident manner that nonetheless never draws attention to itself. 

Bob Corff, who later became a noted acting coach, and Elaine Giftos, who later became a familiar presence on a number of TV shows and movies, portray two people who become a couple and lead a small group of fellow young survivors in search of a peaceful commune in New Mexico. Their group includes Ben Vereen, Cindy Williams (before American Graffiti) and Tally Coppola, aka Talia Shire (before The Godfather). Bud Cort (pre-Harold and Maude) also shows up. 

It's a ramshackle trip that doesn't quite hold together; it's more like a series of improvised episodes. According to Corman, it was a production that was challenged by terribly cold and icy weather issues, especially as filming moved through November and into December, time constraints, and no weekends off, as they were filled up by script work. And all that constant traveling took a toll as well. 

Production manager Paul Rapp recounts in the book that it was "the toughest shoot I ever saw Roger go through. … He seemed very down, snarling and weary." 

Corman mentions: "We ended up with some pretty wild and surreal images," culminating in the film's elaborate final shot, with 300 people on top of a mesa: "It was one of the greatest shots I ever achieved in my life. And AIP cut out the entire shot." 

Released in the U.S. in November 1970, the film abruptly stops, rather than concludes, and runs just 77 minutes. I’d love to see that final shot.

Naturally, Corman was galled at the executives, who "didn't like what God was saying," a reference to the irreverent voice of "God" that's heard throughout the picture. Referring to AIP president James Nicholson, Corman says: "Jim had done this on four films in a row. Gas-s-s-s! was the worst case, the one that really did it for me." 

Not yet 44, Corman decided enough was enough. After directing 33 feature films for AIP, and 48th feature films overall in just 15 years, he was done making pictures for AIP. He directed one more studio picture. A little later, he founded New World Pictures and began the next phase of his filmmaking career. 

(Note: As you can see in the poster accompanying this article, the film was originally rated GP -- "all ages admitted, parental guidance suggested," a rating used from 1970 to 1972, replaced by PG; in 2003, the film was re-rated R, though I'm not sure why. I only heard two 'f-words.') [Paramount Plus] 

Now on Blu-ray: When were beauty pageants a thing? 

Contests to judge people based on their physical appearance can be traced back to ancient Greece, according to one source, while in the U.S., many of us who are older will think first of the Miss America pageant, which was first televised nationally in 1954. 

By the 1970s, beauty pageants had lost their luster, even as they spread out to all corners of the world. Reportedly, film director Michael Ritchie served as a judge at a local beauty pageant in California and shared his stories with television writer Jerry Belson, who then fashioned them into his original screenplay. 

The possible origin story of Smile is mentioned by film curator Jim Healy as part of the audio commentary he recorded with actor/filmmaker Pat Healy, included as part of a Blu-ray released by Fun City Editions last year. Whatever the origins of the film, what stands tall on screen is a marvelously funny film that has stood the test of time. 

Bruce Dern, who I mentioned recently as passing through the cinematic despair of The Great Gatsby, stars as Big Bob, a used-car salesman in Santa Rosa, California, who serves as a judge for the statewide Young American Miss beauty pageant, which is run by former winner Brenda (Barbara Feldon). The winner qualifies for the national pageant, held in Louisiana. 

This pageant feels very much like a small-town event that gets all the locals excited and energized, save for Big Bob's best friend, and Brenda's husband, Andy (Nicholas Pryor). The owner of the only trophy shop in town, he has become disinterested in life and is sloping into depression, in part because Brenda ignores him, focusing her attention on her responsibilities as pageant director. 

Though there is no romantic attraction between them, Big Bob and Brenda display a similar, optimistic outlook on things, and are somewhat oblivious about the true emotions of important people in their lives: Brenda doesn't realize that Andy has become seriously depressed, and Big Bob accepts the cheerfully deceptive face that his son Little Bob (Eric Shea) wears, the better to mask his devious plan to snap Polaroid pictures of beauty contestants in various stages of undress and then sell them.   

The teenage contestants themselves are a mixed lot, such as the naive Robin (Joan Prather), who comes of age during the few days portrayed, and her more experienced and sage roommate Doria (Annette O'Toole), who can't help but 'play the game,' even as she succumbs to emotional trials.  

Famed choreographer Michael Kidd, who choreographed the great Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and many Broadway musicals, plays the cynical Tommy, who does his best to train the girls a couple dance numbers under the pressure of their mediocrity; he can't but help succumb to his empathetic heart, either, especially in contrast with the businessman Wilson (the great Geoffrey Kidd), whose eyes are always on the bottom line. 

What unites all the wonderful, disparate cast of characters, including a young Melanie Griffith, Dennis Dugan, and a number of first-time players, is that the film treats them with respect and dignity, even as it casts a sideways eye at their actions. What they do is not always appropriate, or proper, or kind, much less loving, yet screenwriter Belson and director Ritchie never mock them in mean nor nasty fashion. 

Smile captures a lovely combination of naturalistic grace and foolish clumsiness, all presented sincerely and authentically. I first saw the film during its initial year of release; if I remember correctly, it was on a double-bill with The Sunshine Boys and the movie theater in the San Fernando Valley was packed with rollocking audience members of all ages. I attended with my older brother and another friend, as I recall, and it's a fond memory.

Subsequent viewings have not dulled the film's impact. Watching it a couple times over the past few months on Blu-ray, I've come to appreciate the fine photography by expert cinematographer Conrad Hall (In Cold Blood) and to savor the interplay between experienced performers and first-timers. 

The splendid Blu-ray features a new 2K restoration from its 35mm interpositive, the aforementioned, insightful and enlightening audio commentary, the theatrical trailer, an image gallery, a printed booklet with a new essay by film historian Mike McPadden, and a newly-filmed interview with Bruce Dern, in which the actor tells a number of good stories about the film and the people who made it, notably d/p Conrad Hall and director Michael Ritchie. [Fun City Editions]

Now Streaming: What were they thinking? 

"My wedding gift to her was Daisy Buchanan," writes Robert Evans in The Kid Stays in the Picture, his uber-gossipy autobiographical memoir, first published in 1974. He is referring to Ali MacGraw, his then-new wife, who he claims was dying to play Daisy Buchanan in a new film version of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. Knowing this, the actor turned production chief of Paramount Pictures obtained the rights to the famed novel, which had twice before (in 1926 and 1949) been made into a motion picture, and hired Truman Capote to write the screenplay. 

Evans says that Robert Redford was among those in Hollywood at the time who wanted to make a new version. But it was Evans who obtained the rights, hired Capote, who then turned in a script that Evans called "a miscarriage." Anticipating the delays to come, Evans strongly encouraged MacGraw to go make The Getaway with Steve McQueen on location; McQueen and MacGraw fell in love, which ended Evans' marriage and, needless to say, any prospect that Ali MacGraw might portray Daisy Buchanan. 

Robert Towne declined an opportunity to write the screenplay, instead writing his own original script, Chinatown. Francis Ford Coppola, coming off his Academy Award for The Godfather, agreed to the job and "delivered a screenplay that really worked," according to Evans.  British director Jack Clayton was engaged to helm the picture and Mia Farrow was selected to play Daisy Buchanan. 

Robert Redford stars as the cool, aloof, and mysterious Jay Gatsby, first seen by Nick Carraway (Sam Waterston) in silent repose as the sun sets. Young Nick, hailing from a very modest background, is spending the summer in a small cottage that is next door to Gatsby's elegantly-appointed and absolutely massive mansion on Long Island during the early 1920s. Nick's distant cousin Daisy is newly-married to Tom Buchanan (Bruce Dern), who is carrying on an affair with Myrtle Wilson (Karen Black), whose husband (Scott Wilson) runs the local gas station. Nick is paired with Daisy's best friend, Jordan Baker (Lois Chiles), but the two never hit it off romantically. 

Unrequited love swarms around each of the characters as they bump and collide and crash and burn among the sumptuous surroundings, which are rendered in a glossy manner, like vaseline has smeared every camera lens, by director of photography Douglas Slocombe, an Academy Award nominee the previous year for Travels With My Aunt. Director Jack Clayton, who helmed Room at the Top and The Innocents years before, made his only film in the 1970s with The Great Gatsby, which looks like a motion picture, but plays like required reading, a stuffy book to check off on a list of the '50 Best Novels.

Fitzgerald was capable of writing elegantly and hauntingly; as critic John Simon noted about the novel in his review, originally published in July 1974: "It is a work of art because of its style, and there is no way in which a written style can be turned into a cinematic one. … To a short, sleek novel like Gatsby … nothing could be more destructive than slow pace, top-heavy lavishness, and over explicitness. Under these impositions, the film version sinks to the bottom." (Review collected in Simon's book Reverse Angle: A Decade of American Films.)  

Though I've seen the film before, I watched it again to see if my distant memories remain accurate. Initially I was distracted by the film's visual beauty, as I was watching it in HD for the first time, but those distractions soon melted away as the film lumbered along through its designated narrative stops.

Share Everything But Horror

Today, the casting decisions seem all wrong; Redford (coming off The Way We Were and The Sting) and Farrow (coming off a string of forgettable films) cannot muster up any sparks between them, which dooms the romantic angle. Bruce Dern and Karen Black appear to have stopped by on their way to better pictures: Dern would next make the great Smile, while Black overcame two more missteps before scoring with Day of the Locust and Nashville. 

Looking back, it's difficult to see the appeal of the film as anything other than an attempt to trade on the nostalgia boom of that period of the 1970s. As I recall, in those years, the past held great appeal for younger people -- like me -- and adults who liked to remember gentler times. The majority of the filmgoing audience, though, even then in their late teens and early-to-mid twenties, was more interested in films that showed them something they hadn't seen before; they weren't ready to luxuriate in memories from distant days before they were born. 

Period movies that displayed a modern sensibility and a rebellious and/or independent streak were much more in tune, as I recall. That left The Great Gatsby stranded on its own long island of cinematic despair. 

Since a certain annual event will get underway this week, I wonder: was Robert Redford inspired by his experience on this picture to get involved with the U.S. Film and Video Festival some ten years later? The event was later renamed the Sundance Film Festival.  

As a final aside, it's notable that Patsy Kensit appears as the daughter of Tom and Daisy Buchanan; she would later star opposite Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon 2 and fashion quite a respectable career. [HBO Max]

70s Rewind: On Monday, April 10, 1972, I sat raptly in front of my family's 13-inch black-and-white television to watch the Academy Awards, at which the black-and-white The Last Picture Show won two Oscars -- one each for Ben Johnson and Cloris Leachman --- and left me insanely curious, especially due to the very positive comments about the film's black-and-white photography, which looked quite ordinary to me, since we only had a black-and-television. 

On Monday, April 2, 1974, I sat raptly in front of my family's 13-inch black-and-white television to watch the Academy Award, at which the black-and-white Paper Moon won an Oscar -- for Tatum O'Neal, who, at 10 years of age, was even younger than me!  -- and left me insanely curious. I bought the paperback version of its source material, a novel by Joe David Brown, and found it filled with salty language, prosaic descriptions, and tiny print. 

Over the years, I've caught up with most of the feature films directed by Peter Bogdanovich, so I believe I've seen Paper Moon two or three times in the past. His recent death, however, prompted me to seek out something from his period of greatest strength, of which Paper Moon is the only title available to stream. 

Unlike my most recent viewing of No Way Out, the shadow of death looms only lightly in the background. Making his feature directorial debut with the lightly-seen and sadly prescient Targets in 1968,  Bogdanovich made a huge splash with The Last Picture Show, followed by What's Up Doc? (1972), which paid homage to classic screwball comedies. 

In his book Easy Riders, Raging Bulls (1998), Peter Biskind recounts that studio exec Peter Bart suggested that Bogdanovich direct a project he had developed that was then titled Addie Pray but Bogdanovich resisted, not wanting to repeat himself with another period piece. His estranged wife, Polly Platt, read the script, reminded her estranged husband that they had two daughters, and suggested young Tatum O'Neal for the role of a young girl who suspects that a small-time con man may be her father. 

The project was made under the aegis of the ill-fated Directors Company, which teamed Bogdanovich, Francis Ford Coppola, and William Friedkin. Paper Moon was released in May 1973 and became a hit -- and also the last big success that Bogdanovich enjoyed for more than a decade, until Mask in 1985. (The Directors Company released just two other movies through Paramount Pictures: Coppola's The Conversation and Bogdanovich's Daisy Miller.) 

Watching it again recently, I enjoyed its light-hearted nature, accented by Laszlo Kovacs' cinematography, which is far too good for the slight nature of the narrative. Film critic John Simon noted in his contemporaneous review (collected in his book Reverse Angle) that 9-year-old Addie is far too clever for someone of her age, and I agree, which may be why I found so much television in the 80s and 90s so unwatchable, because all the children were portrayed as being smarter than the adults. 

Ryan O'Neal plays a con man who is not half as clever as he thinks he is, and the film is far too much in love with its conceit that his character consistently denies that he is Addie's father. Even so, I found pleasure in watching the small-time cons -- they are clever and still make me smile -- though the film's view is that everyone living in 1930s Kansas was dumber than a rock, save for 9-year-old Addie. And I found the long takes, without modern cross-cutting, to be refreshing on the eyes. 

Beyond the cons and the long takes, I enjoyed revisiting Tatum O'Neal's debut performance; when the scowling little girl first smiles, her entire face breaks out in sheer delight. The trailer includes funny behind-the-scenes footage, which you don't see nowadays. 

Streaming: The 70s were a turning point in my personal film history, a period in which I realized I enjoyed getting out of the house and watching movies, even more than I liked staying home and watching television.

Maybe it was because we only had B&W television sets at home, or because my siblings and I took turns in changing the channel by using a pair of pliers, due to a busted control know on the 13-inch tv in the room that my older brother and I shared. My favorite home-viewing memory is probably watching Steven Spielberg’s Duel on a weekend evening by myself in my parents’ room on their huge 19-inch B&W tv while everyone else was visiting with out-of-town guests in the living room. The movie kept me riveted throughout, and made me a lifelong Spielberg fan.

My parents looked out for us children and set viewing rules for us. When I started venturing out to theaters, first on public transportation, then on my bicycle, later in my used car(s), they cautioned me about seeking out any R-rated movie, which I followed faithfully. And so that meant that I didn’t see many movies that I desperately wanted to see — really, too many to list here — including movies that today might be rated PG-13 or even PG. In those days, however, a fair number of movies received an R-rating due to ‘adult content,’ such as certain profanities.

Different from today, in the 70s, movies did not specify exactly why they had received an R-rating, so I was left to wonder why, for example, Logan’s Run received a PG rating, even though it included several brief glimpses of attractive naked people, while something like Rafferty and the Gold Dust Twins evidently did not feature any nudity or violence. What drew me to Rafferty and the Gold Dust Twins in 1975 was one person in particular: Mackenzie Phillips.

By 1975, I had not seen her yet in George Lucas’ American Graffiti (1973), a film for which she received good notices as a beguiling teenager who grabs a ride with Paul Le Mat. She is very good in that film: confident and spirited. But in 1975, One Day at a Time drew me to both Mackenzie Phillips and Valerie Bertinelli. Watching the sitcom every week inspired similar-aged me to develop deep crushes on both of them.

Before she landed that sitcom role, however, Mackenzie Phillips had appeared in Rafferty and the Gold Dust Twins. According to IMDb, that film debuted in February 1975, but Mackenzie Phillips stood out to me even without seeing American Graffiti or the sitcom. Was it because of her slender build, or because she was about my age? I don’t remember, and crushes don’t make sense, anyway, but I am someone who can easily develop a crush, even without trying to do so.

TCM lists the movie as TV-MA, which prompted me to watch it when it showed up on their streaming component WatchTCM. Per the helpful notes written by the superb writer Nathaniel Thompson (known for his long-standing, long-helpful Mondo-Digital review site), the film went into production in late 1973. That means Phillips was only 14, which makes her performance at the more remarkable in my adult eyes.

Alan Arkin stars as the titular Rafferty, a role originally eyed by Jack Nicholson before scheduling issues caused him to drop out. He is singled out in a large crowd of many happy people, but he falls over out of his chair, apparently drunk. The next morning he wakes up and, like many 70s leading men, is disheveled and living in less than desirable circumstances, driving a beat-up that looks like it’s ready to fall apart.

He goes to work and, of course, he’s a driving inspector for the DMV! To put it succinctly: his life is terrible.

Born in March 1934, Arkin made his first memorable screen appearance in Norman Jewison’s The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming (1966). He starred in the likes of Mike Nichols’ Catch-22 (1970), Little Murders (1971), which he also directed, and Deadhead Miles, written by Terence Malick (1972). Per the notes by Nathaniel Thompson, Arkin had recently completed production on Richard Rush’s Freebie and the Bean (1974), opposite James Caan.

Appearing opposite strong actors, Arkin always appears to mesh well. He manifests his characters quietly; they are always convincing and come across as quite authentic. Here he plays a middle-aged loser. Soon, we will learn about his past and how that has brought him to a point in his life that might be called a middle-aged crisis. In any event, he’s ready for a change in his life, which comes after an informal encounter during his lunch hour.

Mac (Sally Kellerman) and Frisbee (Mackenzie Phillips) could be mother and daughter, so after a little light flirting, Rafferty is happy to give them a ride into Hollywood. On the way, Frisbee pulls a gun, and the friendly encounter turns potentially perilous for him. Soon enough, the armed interplay turns into something much different, as Rafferty realizes that he’s ready for something different in his life.

Moving from supporting roles in Robert Altman’s MASH (1970) and Brewster McCloud (1970) had a leading role opposite Arkin in Gene Saks’ Last of the Red Hot Lovers (1972), which I haven’t seen, but perhaps their comfortable chemistry in this film. She also had recently co-starred opposite James Cann in Howard Zieff’s Slither (1973), so perhaps that was another bond they have in common.

Rafferty and Mac are the ostensible parental figures, while Frisbee is their wild child. This holds true through the major portion of the movie, which writer Nathaniel Thompson places among the many ‘buddy road movies’ of the period that followed in the wake of Easy Rider (1969). As a youngster in the 1960s and early 70s, I can attest to the fascination and attraction of the road for many families. Gas was relatively cheap and shortages had not yet become a problem in 1975. Our family could not afford to fly; it was much cheaper to hit the road when we wanted to travel.

Of necessity, then, Rafferty and the Gold Dust Twins is episodic, even if the Los Angeles to New Orleans — just like Easy Rider! — trip is confined to California and Arizona, plus a side trip to Las Vegas. Still, Southern California and Arizona offer many open roads and a pleasing variety of landscapes and settings, so the movie is always hopping with invention. The multiple settings also allow young Frisbee to manifest her criminal tendencies as a grifter at heart, even though she has described herself as a writer to Mac.

The episodic nature allows Alex Rocco to spice up a few scenes, and, later in the movie, Charles Martin Smith as a soldier on leave, reuniting him with Phillips (though I can’t remember if they shared more then brief appearances together in American Graffiti), and Harry Dean Stanton as a crusty, foul-mouthed former flame of Mac. (His dialogue is filled with f-words, which was probably responsible for the film’s R-rating.)

I loved Arkin’s performance, which mixes notes of defiance, determination, and resignation, especially in contrast with Kellerman’s upbeat, realistic portray of a woman who has not yet reached her peak, and Phillips’ harder-edged turn as a teenager who is rebelling against a system that tries to hold her back from deciding for herself what she wants to do with her life.

Dick Richards directed from an original screenplay by John Kaye. Richards was known as a director of notable commercials in the 1960s; he made his directorial debut in 1972 with The Culpepper Cattle Co., which featured Charles Martin Smith in a supporting role. Richards would go on to direct Robert Mitchum in Farewell, My Lovely (also 1975) and Gene Hackman in March or Die (1977), as well as a few other pictures, including Death Valley (1982).

Reportedly, the picture enjoyed “a very modest critical and commercial success,” again per Mr. Nathaniel Thompson. It’s a gentle and very modest film that is easy to watch and enjoy. [Currently available in standard definition on Watch TCM through June 16.]