Trilogy of Terror (1975)

          In honor of the recent passing of ’70s stalwart Karen Black . . . Fondly remembered by many fans as the TV movie in which Karen Black plays a woman who is menaced in her apartment by a tiny doll that attacks her with a miniature spear, Trilogy of Terror is a fairly pedestrian anthology of stories that sprang from the pen of prolific fantasist Richard Matheson. The author of countless memorable stories—from I Am Legend(originally published as a novel in 1953) to “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet,” the 1963 Twilight Zone episode in which William Shatner plays an airplane passenger who sees a gremlin on the plane’s wing—Matheson was a master at contriving frightening situations. And while none of the stories in Trilogy of Terrorrepresent the author’s best work, since all three are predicated on hokey contrivances, each component of Trilogy of Terror is somewhat droll. The problem, however, is that producer/director Dan Curtis (of Dark Shadows fame) shoots each story in such a stripped-down fashion that there’s not much in the way of atmosphere. The camerawork is bland, the lighting is flat, and the sets are sparse, so the only time Trilogy of Terror kicks into gear is at the end, when that nasty little doll goes on his rampage.

          Another dubious aspect of Trilogy of Terror is that it’s presented as a tour de force vehicle for leading lady Black, who stars in all three mini-movies. A unique screen personality with an eccentric brand of sex appeal, Black was usually best in small doses, and this project pushes her talent way past its limits. Still, she’s committed and energetic from start to finish. (Supporting actors include Robert Burton, George Gaynes, and Kathryn Reynolds, although this project’s all about Black’s multiple performances.)

          The first story, “Julie,” stars Black as a mousy college professor who is drugged and violated by one of her male students; her attacker, however, soon realizes he messed with the wrong woman. The second story, “Millicent and Therese,” is a clunker about two dueling sisters whose battle hides a not-very-surprising secret. The last story, “Amelia,” is the one about the doll. Black plays a woman who buys an African ritual doll that is rumored to contain the soul of a savage warrior. When she accidentally “activates” the doll, it chases her around the apartment, biting and stabbing her as she tries to fight back with closet doors, suitcases, and an oven. The last 15 minutes of Trilogy of Terror are so enjoyable that they (more or less) justify watching the entire brief movie, although none could be blamed for fast-forwarding straight to “Amelia.” The doll sequence has lost some of its ability to shock because the special effects are so primitive, but “Amelia” is still a nasty piece of business, and the final shot is truly haunting.

Trilogy of Terror: FUNKY

Duel (1971)

          A key moment in the ascent of Steven Spielberg from promising young Hollywood talent to genuine cinematic wunderkind, this arresting TV movie demonstrated Spielberg’s gift for using nimble camerawork and sure-handed pacing to create powerful onscreen excitement. Particularly since Spielberg made something from virtually nothing—the story is thin to the extreme of barely existing—it’s no surprise that historians often cite Duel as the project that gave Universal Studios the confidence to entrust Spielberg with Jaws (1975) just a short while later. (If you take the menacing big-rig truck in Duel and replace it with the shark in Jaws, the thinking goes, you’re dealing with similar storytelling problems.) Duel was written by acclaimed fantasist Richard Matheson, and the narrative couldn’t be simpler—when an everyman, who’s literally named David Mann (Dennis Weaver), gets into a lane-change hassle with the unseen driver of an 18-wheeler on a desert highway, the driver seeks revenge by spending the rest of the movie running Mann off the road, slamming into the back of Mann’s car, and taunting Mann into the last-man-standing battle suggested by the movie’s title.

          Yes, it’s 90 minutes, excepting a few bits when Mann stops for meals or phone calls, of a dude driving a car while a truck pursues him. The fact that Spielberg makes this relentlessly interesting is testament not only to his inherent gifts as a filmmaker but also to the soul-deep ambition that fueled the early days of his career. Undoubtedly stretching meager resources way past their limits, Spielberg shoots scenes elaborately, collecting every imaginable angle to create options in the editing room, and yet his camera’s nearly always in the right place—whether Spielberg’s shooting from a camera mounted by the rear wheels of the truck or from a camera positioned by the gas pedal of Mann’s car, looking up at the driver, Spielberg finds myriad ways to accentuate the physical details comprising a harrowing experience. We’re right there with Mann in a phone booth when the truck emerges from the rear of the frame, barreling toward the phone booth like a tidal wave; similarly, we’re right there with Mann in the driver’s seat when, at a crucial moment, his car succumbs to mechanical problems, creating a suffocating degree of instant panic.

          So, while it’s easy to list all the important things Duellacks—a deeply developed leading character, an explanation for the truck driver’s psychotic behavior, a spectrum of integrated supporting characters—it’s more relevant to note how well Spielberg minimizes these shortcomings. Simply put, Duel was just the right project at just the right time for the young director. Rather than smothering a nuanced script with cinematic pyrotechnics—as he did with his first theatrical feature, The Sugarland Express (1973)—Spielberg exploited a one-note script for visual opportunities that might never have occurred to anyone else.

Duel: GROOVY

Dying Room Only (1973)

After the success of Duel (1971), it was inevitable that prolific fantasy/sci-fi writer Richard Matheson would pen more TV movies in the same mode, although none of these subsequent projects had Duel’s strengths of an inspired concept and a superstar-in-the-making director. Still, second-rate Matheson telefilms including Dying Room Only are highly enjoyable, simply because the man knew how to twist the screws of a suspense story. In this seedy melodrama, stressed-out spouses Bob Mitchell (Dabney Coleman) and Jean Mitchell (Cloris Leachman) pull into a roadside motel while traveling through the Southwest. The Mitchells are suitably disturbed by the locals occupying the diner adjacent to the motel, including corpulent customer Tom King (Ned Beatty) and snarling short-order cook Jim Cutler (Ross Martin), so they decide not to stay. Yet while Jean uses the restroom, Bob disappears, and the locals try to persuade her that Bob bolted. Thus begins a slow-burn nightmare in which Jean must convince a small-town sheriff (Dana Elcar) that a conspiracy is afoot. Although the storyline of Dying Room Only is predicated on the usual contrivance of ostensibly intelligent people making stupid choices (when you walk into a redneck diner and everyone glares, leaving is probably your best option), Matheson brews a tangy combination of claustrophobia and paranoia. Leachman freaks out effectively, accentuating the primal emotions inherent to Matheson’s narrative; furthermore, reliable character players Beatty, Coleman, and Elcar nail their supporting roles, while Martin is surprisingly sinister as the main villain. Familiar to TV audiences for his long run as a wisecracking sidekick on The Wild, Wild West (1965-1969), veteran actor Martin digs into darkness with gusto. Like so many TV movies of the era, Dying Room Only ends abruptly since the brief running time precludes full exploration of the story, but it’s a fun ride while it lasts. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Dying Room Only: FUNKY

The Omega Man (1971)

          Apocalyptic storyline? Check. Macho hero with a big gun and an impregnable lair? Check. Pasty-faced undead cultists on a lethal rampage? Check and double-check. Yes, The Omega Man features an abundance of fantastical elements, so when these components are matched with a campy leading performance and a cheesy visual style that screams early 1970s, a good time is guaranteed for all.

          The Omega Man was adapted from Richard Matheson’s enduring 1954 novel I Am Legend, which depicts the travails of a survivor who believes he’s the last man on earth following a plague that turned everyone else into supernatural creatures. In Matheson’s ingenious story, Colonel Robert Neville builds a fortress around the lab in which he searches for a way to cure the worldwide affliction. Since the vampire-like monsters don’t come out until nighttime, Neville has the world to himself during daylight hours, and he uses these windows to gather supplies, survey enemy encampments, and troll for signs of normal life.

          Updating Matheson’s narrative for the ’70s, screenwriters John W. Corrington and Joyce H. Corrington, together with director Boris Sagal, crafted a pulpy thriller suited to star Charlton Heston’s oversized persona. Heston plays Neville as a bruised idealist appalled at what mankind has done to itself—the filmmakers deviated from Matheson’s novel by making biological warfare the culprit for humanity’s descent into barbarism—so watching The Omega Man is like watching Heston pick up where his tantrum during the finale of 1968’s Planet of the Apes ended.

          In Heston’s gritted-teeth portrayal, Neville isn’t just the Last Man on Earth, he’s the Last Man With Any Damned Sense In His Head. Strutting around with an air of messianic purpose suits Heston’s florid style, so when he’s blasting away at the hordes of monsters that attack his headquarters every night, it’s as if each bullet is a blow for God, America, and apple pie.

          Yet the whole business of Neville defending himself is only one thread of the movie, which also introduces a trés-’70s cult called “The Family,” comprising murderous albino mutants. Led by crazed Jonathan Matthias (Anthony Zerbe), the Family is devoted to killing Neville, even though they succumb to the usual B-movie folly of planning an elaborate death that leaves room for escape instead of simply whacking Neville when they have the opportunity.

          As the story progresses, Neville avoids the Family’s wrath with the aid of Lisa (Rosalind Cash) and Dutch (Paul Koslo), two unexpected fellow survivors. The attractive Lisa becomes Neville’s love interest, of course, which means it’s just a matter of time before the Family tries to nab her. This being ’70s sci-fi, you can see the bummer road this is heading down, and The Omega Man doesn’t disappoint in terms of third-act plot twists. Rest assured, however, that it takes more than a gang of albino mutants to stop Chuck Heston from getting what he wants.

The Omega Man: GROOVY