White Line Fever (1975)

          Drive-in pulp with a smidgen of substance, this one combines all sorts of lurid elements—blue-collar rebellion, high-octane chase scenes, deadly revenge, rednecks, shootouts, smuggling, truckers, a Vietnam veteran, and, just to put the cherry atop the whole tasty treat, a colorful cast including R.G. Armstrong, Kay Lenz, Slim Pickens, Don Porter, and Jan-Michael Vincent. In other words, if White Line Fever doesn’t get your blood pumping, then the repertoire at the grindhouse of your dreams is far different than the one at mine. White Line Feverhas so many cool attributes that whether the movie’s actually “good” is quasi-irrelevant—therefore, the fact that the picture is somewhat respectable as a piece of low-rent drama becomes a bonus.

          Vincent stars as Carrol Jo Hummer (seriously, that’s the character’s name), a good ol’ boy who returns from Vietnam intent on driving an independent big rig and living happily with his sexy young wife, Jerri (Lenz). In order to get the cash to buy his truck, Carrol Jo borrows money from disreputable types who expect Carrol Jo to pay off his debt by smuggling illegal goods. Once Carrol Jo realizes what he’s gotten into, he uses the court system, threats, and finally violence to declare his independence. That leads to beatings, hassles, intimidation, and, eventually, deadly results for those around Carrol Jo. The movie climaxes with Carrol Jo striking a highly symbolic blow against his enemies, because Our Hero uses his souped-up truck, which bears the name “Blue Mule,” as an instrument of working-man’s justice.

         Co-writer/director Jonathan Kaplan, who spent the ’70s making well-crafted exploitation films before venturing into topical studio pictures (notably 1989’s The Accused) and then a long career in television that continues to this day, displays his signature touch for stirring up juicy narrative conflict. Predictably, however, logic takes a backseat to slam-bang spectacle. Like Kaplan’s enjoyable blaxploitation pictures The Slams (1973) and Truck Turner (1974), White Line Fever feels like a hard-edged comic book—when Vincent struts out of his hovel with a shotgun in his hand, then hops into the cab of “Blue Mule” hell-bent for vengeance while pounding music blasts on the soundtrack, the movie rises to a plane of intoxicating macho silliness.

          I freely admit to having an inexplicable affinity for Vincent’s lackadaisical screen persona, so chances are I watch this particular B-movie through forgiving eyes. I’m also sweet on Lenz, and I can watch Armstrong and Pickens in nearly anything. So take this praise for White Line Fever with the appropriate caveat: If you don’t groove to the idea of Jan-Michael Vincent playing an avenging trucker, then there’s probably only so much White Line Fever is going to do for you. But if you’re intrigued, strap in for a trashy good time.

White Line Fever: GROOVY

Buster and Billie (1974)

          For most of its running time, the 1940s-set Buster and Billie feels like a melodramatic teen romance in which a popular high-school boy learns to see beneath the surface of the school slut, forming an unlikely bond that helps both characters mature. But then the picture turns tragic—as in out-of-nowhere, way-over-the-top tragic—and Buster and Billie becomes a weird sort of Southern Gothic horror show. The movie is a bumpy ride in the extreme, though not without its virtues. When the picture begins, Buster (Vincent) is the school smart-ass in a small Texas town circa the mid-’40s, pulling pranks like driving his truck in front of the schoolbus and blinding the driver in a cloud of dust. Cocky and handsome, Buster is the ringleader for a gaggle of cool kids and misfits that includes an albino (played by Robert Englund!) who dyes his hair black. Although Buster dates a pretty classmate (Pamela Sue Martin) and laments that she won’t put out, his buddies satiate their sexual cravings by traveling to the boonies for gang-bangs with Billie (Goodfellow), the self-loathing daughter of poor rednecks. Eventually, Buster decides to see what the fuss concerning Billie is all about. His curiosity leads to courtship.

          And then tragedy arrives, without much logical justification or narrative foreshadowing, throwing the story wildly off-course—the finale has power, but it feels like something from a different movie. Amid the strange plot twists and unexpected darkness, there are moments of insight and sensitivity, though both lead performances teeter on the fine line between gentle understatement and utter lifelessness. Star Jan-Michael Vincent and leading lady Joan Goodfellow offer tremendous physical commitment to their roles, with Vincent playing a full-frontal scene and Goodfellow enduring humiliating vignettes in which her character is sexually abused. Their emotional commitment is a bit more difficult to appraise. Part of the blame must surely fall on journeyman director Daniel Petrie, who can’t sustain a consistent tone in this movie; it’s therefore unsurprising neither Goodfellow nor Vincent can form coherent characterizations. Still, for all its flaws, Buster and Billie is strangely watchable, the tension between its unfulfilled promise and its weird narrative zigzagging creating a queasy sort of cinematic vitality.

Buster and Billie: FUNKY

The Mechanic (1972)

          Taken solely for its surface pleasures, The Mechanic is a handsomely made thriller with an unusual amount of detail given to the preparations hitmen take before doing bad things—at certain points, it almost seems like a documentary. Combined with enigmatically tight-lipped performances by star Charles Bronson and supporting player Jan-Michael Vincent, director Michael Winner’s clinical approach makes for a unique (and uniquely nihilistic) viewing experience. Yet learning about the film’s origins adds interesting dimensions. Writer Lewis John Carlino, who based the script on his own unfinished novel, apparently envisioned the story with a gay angle, exploring the dynamic between an avaricious apprentice and a world-weary mentor. Alas, overt references to this approach were excised, and in fact the apprentice and mentor characters are portrayed as being aggressively heterosexual. Given these behind-the-scenes negotiations about thematic content, however, it’s possible to watch The Mechanic simply as a he-man story—or to look deeper for something kinky beneath the surface.

          In any event, Bronson stars as Arthur Bishop, a methodical killer who makes his murders-for-hire look like accidents. Around the time he accepts an important contract from a group of organized criminals, Bishop inherits an unlikely trainee, Steve McKenna (Vincent). Among the most interesting elements of the film is a pair of mirrored scenes featuring these men with the women in their lives; Bishop’s girl is a prostitute (Jill Ireland) whom he pays to simulate a personal bond, and McKenna’s is a troubled hippie (Linda Ridgeway), with whom McKenna plays insidious mind games during the movie’s darkest scene. (Revealing exactly how Bishop and McKenna become allies would require giving away too much of the plot.) About half the picture takes place in Europe, where Bishop and McKenna fulfill a challenging contract, only to realize they’ve been set up for a double-cross. The betrayals pile up until an unusually hard-hitting ending.

          Winner, a frequent Bronson collaborator, shoots the film with precision, accentuating physical environments that convey more about characters than the characters themselves are willing to say; he also stages action expertly, creating tension against a grim backdrop of pervasive hopelessness. His careful treatment of brutal material gives The Mechanic a strange kind of macho integrity—and because Bronson and Vincent give such contained performances, it’s possible to project interesting psychological implications onto their blank faces. So while The Mechanic isn’t high art by any measure, it’s not a mindless thrill ride, either.

The Mechanic: GROOVY

Baby Blue Marine (1976)

          Even though Baby Blue Marine tries to accomplish too much, resulting in narrative muddiness, every quality to which the movie aspires is commendable. Set during World War II, the picture follows the exploits of Marion (Jan-Michael Vincent), a gung-ho youth who gets kicked out of the Marines during basic training for failing to meet basic proficiency requirements. (Never mind that Vincent is in extraordinary shape, or that his character is shown to possess bravery, intelligence, and leadership—not exactly the traits of a likely washout.) Making his way home from boot camp to St. Louis, while wearing the demeaning “baby blue” uniform of a reject, Marion gets assaulted by a combat veteran (Richard Gere) who steals Marion’s clothing as a ruse for escaping the military. (Again, never mind that Gere’s character could simply have bought street clothes.) Now dressed as a decorated soldier, Marion hitchhikes toward a small town in the Northwest, where he’s taken in by sweet-natured teen waitress Rose (Glynnis O’Connor) and her family. Eventually, Marion gets called into action when three young Japanese-Americans escape from an internment camp, so Marion—oh, the irony!—becomes the voice of pacifism when hotheads seek to hunt down the escapees.

          TV-trained writer Stanford Whitmore’s script is contrived but offbeat, while director John Hancock’s storytelling is blunt and mechanical, but Baby Blue Marine means well. Themes of courage, decency, and humanism are always welcome, and everyone learns a tidy little lesson at the end of the picture, Afterschool Special-style. Plus, the movie looks much better than it should, because the great cinematographer László Kovács fills Hancock’s bland frames with nuanced lighting. The acting is generally underwhelming, with Vincent going for a babe-in-the-woods dreaminess that makes him seem detached during many scenes; meanwhile, supporting players including Dana Elcar, Katherine Helmond, and Burt Remsen are hamstrung by trite dialogue. (O’Connor comes across as sweet and warm, but her work is not especially memorable.) However, Bruno Kirby makes a strong impression in the opening scenes as one of Marion’s fellow ne’er-do-well recruits, and Art Lund provides gravitas as a small-town dad mourning the battlefield death of his son.

Baby Blue Marine: FUNKY

Hooper (1978)

          While this may not sound like the most enthusiastic praise, Hooperis better than most of Burt Reynolds’ myriad car-chase comedies of the ’70s and ’80s. However, because Reynolds’ good-ol’-boy charm was among the most appealing textures in mainstream ’70s cinema, noting that he was at the height of his powers when he made Hooperunderscores why the movie works: Despite a story so thin it sometimes threatens to evaporate, Hooper offers 99 minutes of comic escapism driven by the macho charisma of its mustachioed leading man.

          One of several late-’70s/early-’80s film and TV projects celebrating the work of Hollywood stuntmen, Hooperstars Reynolds as Sonny Hooper, an aging daredevil who realizes a career change is imminent because his body can’t take much more abuse. When we meet him, Sonny is employed as the stunt double for Adam West (who plays himself) on the 007-style action picture The Spy Who Laughed at Danger. Despite being a pro who regularly delivers spectacular “gags,” Sonny clashes with the movie’s asshole director, Roger Deal (Robert Klein), since Deal demands impossible results on budget and on schedule, then takes credit for the footage Sonny and his team make possible.

          Sonny is involved with Gwen (Sally Field), the daughter of a retired stuntman (Brian Keith). Because Gwen has seen firsthand what stunt work does to the human body, she’s adamant that Sonny quit, but Deal’s pressure and Sonny’s own vanity become obstacles. Then a hot new stuntman, Delmore “Ski” Shidski (Jan-Michael Vincent), arrives on the scene. Although Sonny recognizes that he’s being replaced with a younger model, he insists on going out with a final super-stunt. The gentle drama of the picture, which obviously takes a backseat to action scenes and jokey interplay, stems from the question of whether Sonny will push his luck too far or succeed in providing Deal with the gag to end all gags.

          Hooper was a bit of a family affair for Reynolds, and the pleasure he presumably derived from making the picture is visible onscreen. The movie reunited Reynolds with his longtime buddy, stuntman-turned-director Hal Needham, following their success with Smokey and the Bandit (1977), and Field was Reynolds’ offscreen paramour in addition to being his frequent costar.

          Needham’s intimate familiarity with the stunt world benefits the movie greatly, because many details—from the preparations of car engines for jumps to the application of Ben-Gay on aching knees—feel effortlessly authentic. And while the character work and dialogue are as simplistic as one might expect from this sort of picture, the key actors are so watchable that we want Deal to get his comeuppance, we want Sonny to succeed, and so on. Plus, of course, the stunt sequences are fantastic, like the elaborate bit during which Sonny and Ski drive a sportscar through an entire town as it’s being demolished.

Hooper: GROOVY