The Sugarland Express (1974)

          An early Steven Spielberg feature that doesn’t get discussed as much as his breakthrough TV movie, Duel (1971), or his effects-driven blockbusters Jaws (1975) and Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), this dark adventure arguably represents an instance of Spielberg tackling mature subject matter before he was ready to do so. Even though the film is highly watchable (and intermittently exciting), it’s easy to see how a director with a deeper worldview—and a different cast, for that matter—could have given the story even greater impact. The movie also has tonal problems, since it wobbles between lighthearted escapism and symbolism-drenched tragedy. Therefore, it’s a testament to Spielberg’s innate talent that the movie mostly overcomes its flaws. Especially during the finale, when Spielberg demonstrates his gifts for imaginative camerawork and meticulous pacing, The Sugarland Express packs a punch.

          Based on a real story about a Texas housewife who busted her husband out of jail and then led police on an epic chase in a reckless attempt to reclaim custody of her infant child, who was in foster care, the movie is a forerunner to Thelma & Louise (1991), the polarizing Oscar winner about two women on the run. Like Thelma & Louise, this movie asks questions about what rights women have in a male-dominated society while delivering an exciting yarn about a likeable antihero fleeing an army of cops. Goldie Hawn, taking a huge leap from the sexy-hippie roles that had dominated her career prior to The Sugarland Express, stars as Lou Jean Poplin, a poorly educated Texan married to a likeable petty criminal, Clovis Michael Poplin (William Atherton). Hawn was obviously eager to demonstrate dramatic range, and she’s fairly persuasive when called upon to embody Lou Jean’s turbulent emotions. Nonetheless, a more experienced actress—Ellen Burstyn, for instance—could have rendered a characterization with more dimension.

          Hawn’s costar, Atherton, is similarly underwhelming. Although a fine character actor with a particular affinity for playing uptight assholes—witness his great work a decade later in Ghostbusters (1984) and Die Hard (1988)—he’s neither a natural leading man nor the right choice for portraying a Southern outlaw. And as for poor Michael Sacks, who plays the highway patrolman whom the Poplins capture for a hostage during their long trek across enemy territory, he barely registers, though much of the fault lies with an underwritten role. Rounding out the principal cast is Ben Johnson, who lends gravitas as the conscientious top cop trying to end the chase without bloodshed—a precursor to the role Harvey Keitel played in Thelma & Louise.

          Working from a superficial but well-crafted script by Hal Barwood and Matthew Robbins, Spielberg plays to his strengths, as when he illustrates the reactions of normal people who elevate the Poplins to folk-hero status. It’s also worth nothing that the technical execution of the film is beyond reproach. Master cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond uses the hot Texas sun to sculpt images from long shadows, resulting in one beautiful panorama after another, and The Sugarland Expresswas the project with which Spielberg and genius composer John Williams began their legendary collaboration.

The Sugarland Express: GROOVY

$ a/k/a Dollars (1971)

Obnoxiously titled with a typographical symbol instead of proper language, writer-director Richard Brooks’ $ is among the least memorable heist movies ever made, despite the presence of two highly charismatic stars, Warren Beatty and Goldie Hawn. Brooks’ story is a paper-thin lark about a security expert who uses his inside knowledge to steal money that criminals have deposited in a German bank—ostensibly the “perfect crime” because the victims cannot seek redress through proper authorities. Hawn figures into the storyline as a prostitute who employs her wiles to pump criminals for information, and of course the stars’ characters are in love. In theory, this should be a formula for frothy fun, but two major factors put a damper on the proceedings. First and most damagingly, Brooks lacks the lightness of touch that someone like, say, Blake Edwards brings to the heist genre; Brooks gets so preoccupied with the machinations of plot that watching $ is a bit like doing tedious math homework. Second, Beatty gives an indifferent performance, presumably because he was at a strange juncture in his career. After piddling away the early ’60s in a string of overwrought melodramas, he reinvented himself not only as an actor of substance but also as a formidable producer with Bonnie and Clyde (1967). Then he disappeared from the screen for three years, resurfaced in yet another overwrought melodrama (1970’s The Only Game in Town), and subsequently issued mixed messages: The same year Beatty starred in $, the epitome of vapid nonsense, he starred in Robert Altman’s McCabe & Mrs. Miller, the epitome of challenging New Hollywood cinema. Therefore, $ raised a troubling question: Will the real Warren Beatty please stand up? Anyway, Hawn, as always, does her best to enliven the proceedings with her comeliness and ebullience, but $ fits with the paradigm of other early Hawn films—she’s simultaneously offered to the audience as a childlike free spirit and an object of sexual desire. Creepy. Nonetheless, it’s impossible to call $ a complete wash, because the film’s production values are top-notch, and one presumes that dedicated fans of the stars will find much to enjoy. For those who crave more than eye candy, alas, $ is far from compelling.

$a/k/a Dollars: FUNKY

Butterflies Are Free (1972)

          Well regarded for its sympathetic portrayal of a young blind man whose travails echo those of all persons living with disabilities, Butterflies Are Free has some fine ideas and sentiments, but it’s also long-winded, stilted, and trite. Adapted by Leonard Gershe from his successful play of the same name, the picture explores challenges faced by Don Baker (Edward Albert), a college-aged suburban youth trying to live on his own for the first time. For the first half of the story, he’s excited by the affections of a sexy neighbor, cheerfully irresponsible hippie Jill Tanner (Goldie Hawn), and for the second half the story, Don is tormented by the smothering attentions of his overprotective mother, referred to only as Mrs. Baker (Eileen Heckart).

          According to the introduction accompanying a recent broadcast of Butterflies Are Free on Turner Classic Movies, the significance of the picture is that it captured the tone of the early-’70s “independent living” movement, during which persons with disabilities attempted to break from the traditional cycle of home care and institutionalization. And, indeed, Gershe’s narrative crisply depicts myriad hardships people like Don must have faced on a daily basis in less-informed times, from condescending attitudes to the genuine fear of overwhelming situations. Alas, Gershe’s weapon of choice is overly literate dialogue, so the characters in the story feel more like polemic representations than actual people: Mrs. Baker represents oppression, Jill represents freedom, and Don wants to exist somewhere between those extremes.

          If the filmmaking had more vitality and the acting was transcendent, the mannered nuances of Gershe’s writing would be more tolerable. Unfortunately, director Milton Katselas does little more than film a theatrical production; Butterflies Are Free is so flat one can almost feel the curtain descending whenever the story lurches from one act to the next. Yet leading man Albert is the movie’s biggest weakness. Bland and unmemorable, he delivers a performance more suited to an afterschool special than a theatrical feature. Hawn fares better, simply because of her beauty and charm; if nothing else, the fact that she spends a third of the movie in her underwear commands a certain kind of attention. Heckart, who won a Supporting Actress Oscar for the movie, benefits from Gershe’s best-written role. Anguished and sarcastic, Heckhart’s character charts a believable arc from assumption to understanding. Heckart’s isn’t a performance for the ages, per se, but her solid work elevates an otherwise mediocre endeavor.

Butterflies Are Free: FUNKY

There’s a Girl in My Soup (1970)

          Adapted from a hit play about a middle-aged lothario in swinging London who exploits the Sexual Revolution by sleeping with every young woman who falls for his pickup lines, There’s a Girl in My Soup is a mildly entertaining and mildly insightful sex farce that benefits from exceedingly nimble leading actors. In fact, the movie’s appeal stems almost entirely from the presence of British comedy icon Peter Sellers, who plays the lothario, and American funny girl Goldie Hawn, who plays, well, the girl in his soup—because the underlying material isn’t funny or purposeful enough to impress on its own merits. When the story begins, TV personality Robert Danvers (Sellers) is enjoying his fame immensely, seducing nearly every attractive woman he encounters. One evening, however, he meets an ebullient American named Marion (Hawn), who agrees to go home with Robert because she’s trying to get away from her two-timing musician boyfriend, Jimmy (Nicky Henson). Robert thinks he’s got it made, since Marion is a sexy little blonde, but it turns out she’s got attitude to burn. She derisively laughs at his pickup lines, mocks his age, and shames him into feeling guilty about wanting to use her.

          Relenting from his seduction, Robert is forced to engage with Marion as a person, and he soon falls under her offbeat spell. Meantime, she sees glimmers of decency behind his sex-crazed façade. Yet just when it seems like the story is about to head down the interesting path of a soul mate shaking Robert free of his pretensions, the characters become lovers and Robert begins entertaining notions of marriage. Compounded by the presence of a disappointingly flat ending, this left turn into domestic melodrama makes There’s a Girl in My Soup feel quite ordinary. Worse, the jokes aren’t particularly memorable. Sellers’ send-up of smoothies is amusing—his catchphrase, “My God, but you’re lovely,” is cringe-worthy—and Hawn’s eroticized dizziness has its charms. Somehow, though, their scenes never catch fire. There’s a Girl in My Soup gets points for presenting Marion as a fully formed person instead of a brainless sex object, but beyond that, the film’s virtues are few and modest.

There’s a Girl in My Soup: FUNKY

The Duchess and the Dirtwater Fox (1976)

          A spectacularly unfunny comedy made by a group of people who should have known better, The Duchess and the Dirtwater Foxfeatures the promising onscreen combination of Goldie Hawn and George Segal. Despite working so hard to elicit laughter that they sometimes seem close to collapsing from exhaustion, the stars cannot compensate for an uninspired storyline and a litany of wheezy jokes.

          Hawn plays Amanda Quaid, a prostitute/showgirl eking out an unsatisfactory living in Old West-era San Francisco. Segal plays Charlie Malloy, an arrogant gambler who recently absconded with $40,000 from a group of gun-toting robbers. When their paths cross, Amanda seduces Charlie and steals the valise in which he’s hidden his cash, so an adventure ensues with various interested parties chasing after Amanda, Charlie, and the stolen loot. The tiresome plot also involves Amanda’s attempts to masquerade as an English duchess so she can secure the job of caretaker to a wealthy Mormon’s numerous children.

          Among the film’s myriad problems is the fact that neither protagonist is remotely likeable. Amanda is foul-tempered and Charlie is smug, so the idea that we’re supposed to care about these characters falling in love is dubious. Furthermore, neither character is sufficiently clever to make his or her misdeeds interesting. In a typically witless scene, Amanda and Charlie speak in pidgin code mixing French, Italian, and Yiddish so they can avoid the prying ears of the nearby Mormon whom they refer to as “El Schmucko.” Oy!

          The scenes in which Amanda performs barroom tunes are especially grating, since Hawn sings in a crass Cockney accent, and the various chases and shootouts are painfully dull. About the only watchable bit is the long passage during which Amanda and Charlie get stranded in the wilderness, because that sequence relies entirely on the stars’ considerable charm. To its meager credit, the movie looks great, with handsome photography by Owen Roizman, and the costuming and production design are lush. But director/producer/co-writer Melvin Frank, who began his film career writing gags for Bob Hope in the ’40s, was clearly out of ideas, so The Duchess & the Dirtwater Fox is a vacuous wasteland.

The Duchess and the Dirtwater Fox: LAME