Hearts and Minds (1974)

          Years before Michael Moore started using the documentary form to launch broadside attacks against the political right wing, lefty producer Bert Schneider backed the creation of Hearts and Minds, director Peter Davis’ scalding examination of the Vietnam War from a multiplicity of perspectives. The Academy Award-winning doc is unapologetically polemical, because even though supporters of America’s involvement in Vietnam are given room to speak in the movie, they damn themselves with the ignorance of their statements. For instance, the jaw-dropping climax of the picture features General William Westmoreland, supreme commander of U.S. forces in Vietnam, claiming that “life is cheap” to Asians—even as Davis cuts to heartbreaking footage of the funeral for a South Vietnamese soldier. In unforgettable images, the soldier’s young son wails in agony while the soldier’s wife tries to climb into her husband’s grave.

          Obviously, Davis moves far beyond journalism with these types of rhetorical choices, so it’s best to approach Hearts and Minds not as an objective overview of the war but rather as an essential record of why so many people were against the war. Davis makes his points by presenting several distinctive individuals and then juxtaposing their perspectives. The first major player is Lt. George Coker, a clean-cut Jersey boy shown receiving a hero’s welcome after his release from a long internment as a P.O.W. During this opening scene (and elsewhere throughout the movie), Coker echoes Westmoreland’s dehumanizing attitude, referring to enemy combatants as “gooks.” Meanwhile, ex-pilot Capt. Randy Floyd, a wheelchair-bound longhair, openly weeps when trying to imagine how Vietnamese parents must have felt when the napalm bombs he dropped from his plane killed their children.

          Employing montage with great dexterity, Davis forms a collage of archival footage and new material, essentially distilling the debate about the war into an intense 112-minute discourse. On one extreme are former government officials and soldiers who rehash the old “domino theory” justifications; on the other extreme are anguished vets trying to grasp the severity of their deeds and their injuries. In between these extremes are key figures such as Daniel Ellsberg. The famed whistleblower whose illegal release of “The Pentagon Papers” radically changed the American public’s attitude toward the war, Ellsberg methodically explains how his discoveries changed hisattitudes. Like many others in the picture, he describes a gradual radicalization informed by mounting evidence that the war was not only unwinnable but fundamentally wrong—a political maneuver rather than a humanitarian intervention.
          One could argue that Davis overreaches during scenes in which he tries to identify the essential characteristics of the American soul that generate warmongering aggression; the merging of a rough high-school football game with a Lyndon Johnson speech about how Americans refuse to lose crosses the line into editorializing. But when Davis’ technique is true—which is the case throughout most of Hearts and Minds—he hits targets with incredible impact. The parade of interviews with physically and psychologically damaged veterans underscores how many young American lives were needlessly ruined by the war, and Davis’ footage of ordinary Vietnamese citizens describing how they ravaged by the war is enough to make any supporter of the conflict feel shameful. It’s probably impossible for contemporary viewers to imagine how powerful this material must have been during its original release, when all of these divisive issues were at the forefront of the national conversation, but Hearts and Minds has lost none of its ability to indict, inform, and infuriate.

Hearts and Minds: RIGHT ON

The Visitors (1972)

          Lots of ink has been spilled analyzing the latter-day career of director Eliza Kazan, a onetime champion of the left-wing theatrical community and a key figure in the process of introducing Method acting to America. Around the same time he made cinematic masterpieces with Marlon Brando (A Streetcar Named Desire), James Dean (East of Eden), and Andy Griffith (A Face in the Crowd), Kazan turned on old friends by “naming names” before the U.S. government’s anti-communist witch hunters. Partially owing to the complex political dynamics of his career, Kazan was effectively finished as a director of major studio films just a few years later, circa the early ’60s. Nonetheless, he still had some creative gas left in the tank, as evidenced by the offbeat low-budget project The Visitors, Kazan’s penultimate feature.

          Stamped with his signatures of emotional intensity and truthful acting, the picture feels hipper and rougher and more contemporary than anything one might reasonably expect from a 63-year-old (Kazan’s age at the time of the movie’s release). A small, character-driven drama/thriller written by one of Kazan’s sons, Chris Kazan, The Visitors is a nihilistic story about psychologically scarred Vietnam veterans, and the whole film is set on a remote farm in the Northeast during wintertime.

          Unassuming vet Bill Schmidt (James Woods) lives with his girlfriend, Martha (Patricia Joyce), on a farmed owned by her father, Harry Wayne (Patrick McVey). Harry, who resides in a guesthouse adjoining the farm’s main residence, is an alcoholic he-man novelist, so underlying tension stems from his disapproval of Bill’s pacifistic timidity.  One day, two of Bill’s Army comrades show up unexpectedly. Mike Nickerson (Steve Railsback) feigns courtesy but obviously hides tremendous rage, while Tony Rodrigues (Chico Martinez) tags along and follows Mike’s orders without question. As the day-long visit progresses, the vets bond with Harry—who respects their blood lust and racist attitudes—while Bill prepares for inevitable violence. It turns out that during the war, Mike and Tony committed atrocities, and Bill was the soldier who testified against them. (Make what you will about the parallels between this backstory and Kazan’s personal history.)

          Shot in grainy 16-millimeter, The Visitors has the feel of a scrappy independent film even though Kazan’s handling of pacing and tone is masterful. The picture has the slow-burn structure of a horror film, and it’s stomach-churning to watch a metaphorical cloud of darkness form over the tiny farm. Moreover, the screenplay illuminates the line dividing the “sanctioned” violence germane to American life (the brutal football game several characters watch, Harry’s tales of killing enemies in World War II, etc.) from the “unsanctioned” violence of actual criminals. Does one beget the other?

          The Visitors has flaws, of course, notably a nasty sort of sexual politics. Further, the film is unremittingly grim, which will make it a tough experience for many viewers. But especially thanks to incendiary performances by Railsback (one of the screen’s great portrayers of psychosis), Woods (a live wire even in a restrained role such as this one), and McVey (who channels Sterling Hayden with a vengeance), The Visitors is gripping from start to finish.

The Visitors: GROOVY

Youngblood (1978)

          It’s hard to figure what the makers of Youngblood were after, because while the picture strives to portray a group of young African-Americans as fully realized individuals, the movie also traffics in stereotypes. After all, the overarching narrative involves an impressionable Los Angeles teenager who gets drawn into street violence, and the most dynamic scene in the film features a chaotic street fight between rival gangs. So is Youngblood a serious-minded melodrama designed to spotlight social ills, or is it merely a gussied-up riff on blaxploitation? Chances are the picture represents a well-meaning attempt at merging both things. However, parsing such nuances might not be worth the trouble, because even though Youngblood eventually arrives at a mildly exciting climax, the first hour of the movie is numbingly dull. The story’s protagonist is Michael (Bryan O’Dell), a latchkey teen who’s acting out at school and getting into trouble while roaming the crime- and drug-infested streets of his neighborhood at night. Michael joins a gang called the Kingsmen after proving his bravery during a fight, and the gang’s top guy, Rommel (Lawrence Hilton-Jacobs), accepts Michael as a protégé. Meanwhile, Michael’s older brother, Reggie (David Pendleton), seems to have escaped the ghetto for life as a businessman—but in actuality, Reggie’s a middleman for a drug cartel.

          You can pretty much guess where it goes from here. Michael gets pulled deeper and deeper into gang violence, his brother tries to keep him out of trouble (while also concealing his illegal activities), and Rommel turns out to be a terrible role model. No surprise, things end badly. Despite the trite storyline, there’s some decent stuff in Youngblood, a lot of it related to Hilton-Jacobs’ character. (The actor was riding high on TV’s Welcome Back, Kotter at the time, and was therefore the biggest name in the cast.) His character, Rommel, is portrayed as a conflicted Vietnam vet who’s slowly realizing he’s outgrown gang life, so the pertinent dramatic question is how much hardship he will cause for the people who emulate him until he learns the error of his ways. Ultimately, though, the drab elements of Youngblood drown out the meritorious ones. Just to name two examples, the star-crossed-lovers subplot about Michael’s love for a girl whose brother belongs to a rival gang is hopelessly contrived, and the song-driven soundtrack by R&B group War gets old fast—how many aimlessly funky jams can one movie handle?

Youngblood: FUNKY

Who’ll Stop the Rain (1978)

          Provocative themes related to counterculture idealism, illegal drugs, police corruption, and the Vietnam War intersect in Who’ll Stop the Rain, an exceptionally well-made drama/thriller that, somehow, never quite gels. The film is praiseworthy in many important ways, boasting evocative production values, sensitive performances, and suspenseful situations, so the picture’s shortcomings are outweighed by its plentiful virtues. Nonetheless, Who’ll Stop the Rain is frustrating, because judicious editing—or, better still, bolder reimagining during the process of translating the source material into a film script—could have accentuated the most important elements while also providing greater clarity and simplicity. Some background: Robert Stone, the author of the underlying novel and also the co-writer the script, ran with a cool crowd in the ’60s and ’70s, gaining insight into hipster icons ranging from Neil Cassady to Ken Kesey. Stone also amalgamated data about the role dope played in the lives of U.S. soldiers serving in Vietnam. The writer blended these ideas, plus notions from his fertile imagination, into the novel Dog Soldiers, which won the National Book Award in 1975. Alas, Stone’s story got muddy on the way to the screen.

          The picture follows three interconnected characters. During a prologue set in Vietnam, burned-out journalist John Converse (Michael Moriarty) hatches a get-rich scheme: He buys a stash of heroin, and then recruits his friend, soldier Ray Hicks (Nick Nolte), to smuggle the smack inside a military transport when Hicks returns to America. Right away, this set-up illuminates the textured character dynamics at work in Who’ll Stop the Rain; there’s a great moment when Hicks expresses surprise Converse is willing to use him so brazenly, thus revealing how deeply Converse’s idealism has been eroded by the ugliness of war. Hicks mules the package successfully, but unloading the drugs stateside proves troublesome. Converse’s wife, Marge (Tuesday Weld), has become a prescription-drug addict and therefore can’t arrange Hicks’ payoff as instructed. Worse, a corrupt DEA agent (Anthony Zerbe) pounces on the Converse home—while Hicks is there with the drugs—in order to steal the narcotics and wipe out anyone who gets in his way. Hicks escapes with Marge, but this sets in motion a long chase leading from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Meanwhile, Converse returns to the U.S. and gets captured by the DEA agent, who tortures the would-be drug mogul and uses him for bait to lure Hicks (and Marge) from hiding. All of this culminates with a wild shootout at Hicks’ hippie hideaway in the Southern California desert.

          Listing all the ways this story doesn’t work cinematically would take a while—for instance, Converse departs the narrative for long stretches, and the quasi-romance between Hicks and Marge feels both contrived and needlessly downbeat. But none of these problems diminish the texture of Who’ll Stop the Rain. The movie’s acting is amazing, with Nolte at his animalistic best, Weld capturing a queasy sort of bewilderment, and Moriarty sweating his way through a vivid turn as a pathetic striver. Zerbe is memorably insidious, while the actors playing his low-rent henchmen—Richard Masur and Ray Sharkey—add surprising elements of humor and terror. Director Karel Reisz, always stronger with atmosphere and character than with story, generates tremendous realism even in the most outrageous scenes (e.g., the final shootout), and his filmmaking soars at periodic intervals. Ultimately, the power of Who’ll Stop the Rain stems from the cumulative mood of despair that the filmmakers generate—if nothing else, Who’ll Stop the Raincaptures something profound about how it felt to sort through the mess of Vietnam while history was still unfolding.

Who’ll Stop the Rain: GROOVY

Up in Smoke (1978)

          Since blazing doobies has never been one of my pastimes, it’s no surprise that most of the jokes in Cheech and Chong’s first movie, Up in Smoke, leave me cold—there’s a fine line between buzzed silliness and infantile stupidity, and I’m not hip enough to live on the plugged-in side of that line. So when I say that Up in Smoke is a brisk but forgettable compendium of lame gags, I acknowledge that the movie’s probably a different experience when consumed by folks who groove on the ganja. For instance, I’m sure some people find the movie’s ridiculous climax to be high-larious (emphasis on the high), because Cheech Marin dresses in a tutu and shreds an acid-rock guitar solo in front of a nightclub audience that’s wasted on pot fumes while, outside the club, narcs dressed as Hari Krishnas wrestle with epic munchies because they’re inhaling the same wafts of wacky tobacky. To each their own, man.

          Extrapolated from Cheech and Chong’s popular stand-up act about two laid-back stoners who get hassled by The Man, the movie’s plot has a certain amiable rebelliousness. Marin plays Pedro De Pacas, a wisecracking horndog who’s always looking for a good time. Tommy Chong plays Anthony “Man” Stoner, a rich kid-turned-wastoid who occasionally works as a rock drummer. The characters meet on a highway one afternoon, then get wasted and embark on a quest to score fresh weed. A mix-up gets the duo deported to Tijuana, where they find work driving a car back to the U.S. Unbeknownst to them, however, the car is built entirely of pot, so they’re muling for dealers. This puts our heroes in the crosshairs of Sgt. Stedenko (Stacy Keach), an absurdly uptight L.A. cop who’s jonesing to make a big drug bust. The main joke of the movie is that Pedro and Man are so loaded they never realize they’re in danger, and the whole goofy storyline climaxes with a battle of the bands at the Roxy on the Sunset Strip. Producer-director Lou Adler, Cheech and Chong’s longtime manager, owns the Roxy, and his music-biz background lends enjoyable authenticity to the picture’s concert scenes.

          As actors, neither Chong nor Marin is remarkable, though Marin has a likeable vibe and terrific timing, and the duo’s dynamic was quite smooth by the time they made Up in Smoke. Keach kicks the film up a notch by channeling his signature intensity into a cartoonish role, so it’s fun to see him playing juvenile scenes like reacting to someone pissing on his leg in a men’s room. (This actually happens twice, which gives a sense of how tired the jokes get.) Tom Skerritt plays a loopy cameo as a whacked-out Vietnam vet, and the film’s various supporting players lend exuberance if not necessarily great skill. The script, predictably, is an episodic collage of comedy bits, and Adler’s direction is competent, with blandly shot scenes juiced by a bouncy score built around the classic War jam “Low Rider.”

Up in Smoke: FUNKY

Vanishing Point (1971)

          Although I’ve never really grooved to this particular counterculture artifact, as many friends who dig the same cinematic era have, all it takes to explain the appeal of Vanishing Point is to describe the close parallel between the film’s minimalistic storyline and prevailing early-’70s social concerns. Barry Newman stars as Kowalski, a drifter who makes his living delivering cars across long distances. After accepting a job to ferry a hot rod from Denver to San Francisco, Kowalski jacks himself up on speed and blasts down open highways with legions of cops in pursuit. Meanwhile, an enigmatic, blind radio DJ going by the handle “Super Soul” (Cleavon Little) narrates Kowalski’s journey for his listeners, framing the driver’s ride as a principled fight against the Establishment. The sympathetic reading of this material, of course, is that Kowalski just wants to be free, man, so when society tries to trap him with laws and rules and speed limits, he strikes a rebellious blow on behalf of rugged independence. And if you can’t anticipate how a story comprising these elements will end, then you haven’t seen too many counterculture flicks—as the song goes, freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.

          Viewed as historically relevant symbolism, Vanishing Point is interesting, because it presents a lone-wolf protagonist whose existence comprises nothing but early-’70s signifiers: He’s an alienated Vietnam vet, he self-medicates with illegal drugs, and he’s determined to force a confrontation with what he perceives to be the oppressive forces of law and order. Heavy shit, no question. It seems safe to say that writers Guillermo Cain, Barry Hall, and Malcolm Hart—as well as director Richard C. Sarafian—deliberately infused their story with of-the-moment dimensions.

          But very much like another existentialist road movie of the same vintage, Two-Lane Blacktop (1971), Vanishing Point plays an iffy game by using ciphers instead of fully realized characters. For instance, certain conventional narrative elements, such as backstory and well-articulated motivation, are largely absent from Vanishing Point. So, even though Vanishing Point provides ample fodder for post-movie interpretation games, the actual onscreen events are repetitive and superficial. It doesn’t help that Newman, who enjoyed a very brief run as a leading man in movies and television, is a bland persona. (Conversely, Little exudes casual-cool charisma and delivers his on-air monologues with smooth style.) It also says a lot that many Vanishing Point fans dig the movie because they’re entranced by the Dodge Challenger muscle car that Newman drives in the movie. After all, the Challenger has the film’s most fully rendered characterization—especially compared to the cringe-worthy portrayals of two gay hitchhikers whom the hero encounters.

Vanishing Point: FUNKY

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

Gordon’s War (1973)

          Some blaxploitation movies surmount their limitations through inspired storytelling; others achieve infamy with their grimy excess. And then there are movies like Gordon’s War, which delivers a passable narrative with so-so style—the movie’s not awful, particularly for viewers who are fond of leading actor Paul Winfield, but it’s so generic that, but for the level of cursing and violence, it might as well be an episode of s ’70s action-adventure TV show. The plot is cobbled together from highly familiar elements. Gordon Hudson (Winfield) is a decorated Green Beret who returns from Vietnam to find his Harlem neighborhood overrun with drug dealers, pimps, and other underworld types. When Gordon suffers personal tragedies at the hands of criminals, he recruits several Army buddies to form a vigilante militia and kick hoodlum ass. As directed by the sensitive humanist Ossie Davis, Gordon’s War isn’t quite as tacky as the premise might suggest—Davis tries to imbue scenes with relatable feelings whenever possible, and the characters behave logically. Further, Winfield is such a potent actor that even when he’s speaking trite dialogue, genuine anger seethes beneath his skin.

          But, ultimately, Gordon’s War has a job to do: The movie’s purpose is to stimulate viewers with high-octane inner-city action, meaning lots of bloodshed and chase scenes and gunfire and mayhem. As a result, higher narrative aspirations get short shrift, which has the effect of rendering Gordon’s War quite flat. The picture is neither an all-out actioner nor a legitimate drama. After all, how many “real” movies feature motorcycles crashing through store windows or hoodlums getting burned alive with the ignited discharge from aerosol cans? And in case you’re wondering, Gordon’s War doesn’t add much to the incendiary subgenre of movies about vets-turned-vigilantes, because the title character’s military background is mostly used to explain where he got his experience with guerilla warfare techniques. One wishes Davis and Winfield had been given a chance to dramatize the scars of war, but, clearly, the producers were more interested in explosions, funky soundtrack music, and outrageous pimp outfits.

Gordon’s War: FUNKY

Coming Home (1978)

          Inarguably the best movie made during the ’70s about the unique difficulties facing American veterans returning from Vietman, Coming Homeis at once moving, political, provocative, and tender—and it’s also the apex of actress Jane Fonda’s anti-Vietnam War activism, even though it was released three years after the fall of Saigon. While “Hanoi Jane” alienated as many people as she inspired while the war was raging, she used Coming Home—which she developed—to focus her rage at needless conflict through the prism of war’s impact on individuals. Rather than being polemic, even though some detractors saw the film that way, Coming Home is poetic.

          When the movie opens in early 1968, Sally Hyde (Fonda) is happily married to a Marine officer named Bob Hyde (Bruce Dern), and both unquestionably accept the rightness of U.S. involvement in Indochina. Once Bob leaves for his tour of duty, Sally begins to hear different opinions about the war, notably from her feminist friend Vi (Penelope Milford); Sally also begins to question the subservient role she plays in her marriage. Eventually, Sally volunteers at a VA hospital, where she meets returning soldiers including embittered but passionate Luke Martin (Jon Voight), who is paralyzed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair. As part of her larger spiritual awakening, Sally recognizes Luke’s humanity, and they become lovers in a crucial scene that director Hal Ashby executes with a memorable combination of eroticism and poignancy. The fragile world that Luke and Sally build together is upset, however, when Bob returns from Vietnam, having been changed in disturbing ways that echo the film’s theme of how war affects different people differently.

          Placing Sally’s character at the center of the story was a genius move on many levels. First and most obviously, the role gives Fonda a way to express her deep feelings about the war; she dramatizes the ravages of conflict by meticulously charting Sally’s shifting attitudes. Second, making the central character a witness to the horrors of Vietnam—rather than an active participant—allows the audience to see soldiers as real-world people instead of battleground heroes. What does it mean when a draftee is rewarded for his service by wounds that will last the rest of his life? What does it mean when a career soldier encounters horrors during combat for which he wasn’t prepared? How can those left behind in the homeland ever hope to understand the experiences of soldiers?

          Coming Home is a deeply compassionate film, with Ashby and cinematographer Haskell Wexler capturing a spectrum of complex emotions in soft, painterly images; the movie is a tapestry of souls making connections and, alternately, slamming against insurmountable barriers. Coming Home is also a showcase for spectacular acting. Fonda and Voight both won Oscars, Fonda for her precise demarcations of stages in one woman’s life and Voight for his deeply touching openness. (His show-stopping speech to a group of young people near the end of the picture, while a bit of a narrative digression given its length, is among the finest moments Voight’s ever had onscreen.) Dern, unluckily overshadowed by his costars because he’s playing yet another in his long line of screen psychos, gives a performance every bit as powerful as Fonda’s and Voight’s—portraying a man who’s betrayed by the ideals to which he’s dedicated his life, Dern is frightening and yet also completely sympathetic.

Coming Home: RIGHT ON

The Crazy World of Julius Vrooder (1974)

 

Vietnam-vet movies came in all shapes and sizes during the ’70s, but it’s nonetheless startling to realize that someone thought PTSD was a suitable subject for light comedy in 1974, when the war was still raging. The Crazy World of Julius Vrooder takes place primarily at a VA hospital in Los Angeles, where mischievously charming ex-soldier Julius Vrooder (Timothy Bottoms) lives in a mental ward with several other vets suffering from shellshock. Able-bodied but emotionally fragile, Julius spends his days cavorting around the hospital campus, pulling childish pranks on his doctors and flirting with sensitive nurse Zanni (Barbara Hershey). Accentuating just how disconnected Julius is from reality, he even has a secret underground lair that he’s created across the street from the campus, complete with electricity that he’s illegally siphoning from the city’s power grid. (Never mind the logical questions of how Julius got the equipment and free time needed to build his fortress.) As the story progresses, Julius tries to woo Zanni away from her other suitor—Julius’ uptight shrink, of course—and he tries to evade municipal authorities who want to find out who’s stealing their electricity. And that’s basically the whole movie, excepting a few inconsequential subplots. Among the film’s many problems is the fact that we’re supposed to sympathize with Julius’ unique plight even though he doesn’t seem especially unwell—he treats his hospital stay like a vacation from responsibility, faking seizures or sharing sad war stories whenever he wants sympathy. Were it not for Bottoms’ inherent likeability, Julius would be insufferable; as is, the character is merely uninteresting. Similarly, the fact that the shrink isn’t a formidable romantic rival precludes any tension in the love story—Zanni seems to worship Julius unconditionally, so the resolution of the triangle is a foregone conclusion. As directed by the efficient Arthur Hiller, The Crazy World of Julius Vrooder is too innocuous to dislike, but it’s also far too vapid to make a significant impression.

The Crazy World of Julius Vrooder: FUNKY

Deathdream (1974)

          Offering a supernatural spin on the Vietnam-vet genre, Deathdream—sometimes known by its original title, Dead of Night—is one of three grungy ’70s horror flicks directed by Bob Clark, who, improbably, is best known for the sweet family film A Christmas Story (1983). Disturbing, focused, and grim, the movie begins with soldier Andy Brooks (Richard Backus) dying on the battlefield. The movie then shifts to the American heartland, where Andy’s parents, Charles (John Marley) and Christine (Lynn Carlin) reel upon hearing about their boy’s demise. Just hours after receiving the bad news, however, Charles and Christine get an even bigger shock when Andy shows up their door, seemingly very much alive. Yet it soon becomes clear that the young man who’s come home from Vietnam isn’t the same sweet kid the Brooks family remembered—Andy is stoic and withdrawn, his erratic behavior hinting at the potential for violence.

          Meanwhile, a trail of bodies leads police to the Brooks home. It turns out that Andy has become some sort of vampire/zombie, subsisting on the blood of his victims in order to continue his bizarre half-life. And while much of Deathdream comprises standard horror-flick rhythms—a killing every 10 minutes or so, interspersed with scenes of characters slowly realizing who’s responsible—what makes the picture interesting is a thread of sad domestic drama. Andy’s parents squabble over their son’s inexplicable behavior, with Charles demanding that Andy stop moping and Christine making excuses. Later on, when it becomes inescapable that Andy is responsible for monstrous deeds, Charles succumbs to grief and Christine goes mad.

          Adding another wrinkle is the implication that Andy doesn’t really want to be “alive,” and that he’s trying to escape the curse with which he’s been burdened. The idea that he merely wants his existence to end, and yet can’t stop himself from feeding on the living, gives Deathdream an unusual vibe blending the plaintive with the surreal. Thus, at the risk of giving the picture too much credit, since it’s merely a solid shocker, Deathdream ends up providing a potent metaphor for the experience of the returning soldier—Andy thought he’d been released from his troubles by death, but instead he brings war-zone traumas back to his hometown. Thanks to such nuances, Deathdream offers a surprising emotional punch in addition to its various grisly murders and unnerving suspense scenes.

Deathdream: GROOVY

Rolling Thunder (1977)

          Based one of the many violent scripts Paul Schrader penned during his breakthrough period (Heywood Gould rewrote the screenplay), Rolling Thunder concerns Air Force Major Charles Rane (William Devane), a Vietnam vet who returns home to Texas after years in P.O.W. captivity. Numbed by torture, Rane has difficulty reintegrating into normal life, a problem exacerbated by the fact that his son doesn’t remember him and by the fact that his wife, who thought Rane was dead, is now engaged to another man. Thus, when thugs murder Rane’s family and mutilate him, Rane focuses his anger into a bloody revenge mission. Considering that Rane also has a hook for a hand throughout most of the movie, this is awfully pulpy stuff. Had Rolling Thunder been produced by, say, Roger Corman instead of Lawrence Gordon—who was just beginning a long career making smart, big-budget action flicks—the film could have become gruesome and sleazy.

          Instead, Gordon recruited sophisticated collaborators including director John Flynn, cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth, and composer Barry DeVorzon, and the team created a thriller of unusual restraint. Rolling Thunder is a character-driven slow burn, because the film spends as much time depicting the hero’s devastated mental state as it does showcasing his lethal force. So, while generating tension is always the priority—witness several bloody brawls, as well as the unforgettable scene in which bad guys jam Rane’s hand into a kitchen-sink garbage disposal—Gordon’s team also makes room for nuance.

          For instance, the visual style that Cronenweth employs, which anticipates the tasty mixture of deep shadows and piercing beams of light that he later brought to Blade Runner (1982), is a strong presence—it’s as if the movie’s characters swim through an ocean of danger and menace. Furthermore, the Gould/Schrader script features terse dialogue exchanges that reflect Rane’s anguished mindset.

          Playing one of his few leading roles in a big theatrical feature, Devane is perfect casting. With his downturned mouth and heavy brow, he looks bitter even when he’s smiling, so once his eyes are hidden behind the aviator glasses he wears in many scenes, he seems believably dangerous; the sight of him in full bloodthirsty flight, a sawed-off shotgun in one hand and a hook in place of the other, is hard to shake.

          Flynn surrounds Devane with equally well-chosen supporting players. Linda Haynes is naturalistic and tough as a waitress who becomes Rane’s travelling companion; reliable figures including Luke Askew, James Best, and Dabney Coleman infuse small roles with texture; and Tommy Lee Jones nearly steals the movie with his icy performance as Rane’s trigger-happy sidekick. In fact, Jones’ chilling delivery of the line “I’m going to kill a bunch of people” epitomizes the film’s clinical aesthetic, just like the priceless scene of Jones enduring inane family-room chatter crystallizes why some vets find it impossible to adjust once they’re “back in the world.” (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)

Rolling Thunder: GROOVY

Chrome and Hot Leather (1971)

The premise of this drive-in flick sounds like the kind of hypothetical inquiry jacked-up dudes might debate in a bar: “Who’d win in a fight, bikers or Green Berets?” Dramatizing a battle between these unlikely adversaries ensures that Chrome and Hot Leather has plenty of hand-to-hand combat, macho swaggering, and vehicular mayhem. It’s all a bit outlandish and silly, to be sure, and the plot is simultaneously lame-brained and overwrought, but there are enough biceps, chains, guns, machines, and weapons in this movie to keep any fan of tough-guy cinema happy. What’s more, the picture is decorated with a coterie of attractive ’70s starlets and a steady onslaught of hard rock. Things get started when wholesome teenagers Helen (Ann Marie) and Kathy (a young Cheryl Ladd, billed as “Cheryl Moor”), unluckily end up on a country highway at the same time as a motorcycle gang called the Devils. One of the bikers whacks the girls’ car with a chain, spooking the girls and causing them to fatally drive off a cliff. Afterward, Kathy’s fiancé, Vietnam vet Mitch (Tony Young), finds out what happened and determines to track down the gang. To aid his quest, Mitch recruits his Army buddies (one of whom is played, without much flair, by R&B legend Marvin Gaye), and the soldiers go undercover as a biker gang. Eventually, Mitch targets the Devils’ muscle-bound leader, T.J. (William Smith), gaining information about him by seducing T.J.’s main squeeze, the nubile Susan (Kathy Baumann). And so it goes—Chrome and Hot Leather never escapes the familiar routine of bar brawls, meaningless sex, and open-road riding, but the picture is so jam-packed with lurid sensations that it moves along nicely. Smith, as always, cuts a formidable figure, so he blows nearly everyone else off the screen—not the biggest accomplishment—although Baumann’s considerable physical charms make an impression. This is awfully low-rent stuff, but since that’s the point, Chrome and Hot Leather must be considered a grimy sort of success.

Chrome and Hot Leather: FUNKY

Billy Jack (1971) & The Trial of Billy Jack (1974) & Billy Jack Goes to Washington (1977)

          Actor-turned-auteur Tom Laughlin first portrayed Billy Jack, a karate-chopping recluse who fights for righteous causes, in the 1967 biker movie The Born Losers. Laughlin occupied several behind-the-scenes roles on the picture but used pseudonyms for directing, producing, and writing—one gets the impression he wanted to downplay the idea of his movie as an ego trip. Furthermore, The Born Losers hinted at Laughlin’s agenda of creating a platform for sharing progressive political ideas. Combined with the inherently weird nature of the Billy Jack character, a spiritually enlightened pacifist who solves problems by killing people, The Born Losers revealed that Laughlin was one complicated cat. However, The Born Losers was just the overture.

          After other, non-Billy Jack projects fell through, Laughlin returned to his signature role for the 1971 release Billy Jack. In the series’ defining installment, Billy Jack is the guardian of a hippy-dippy school in rural California, so when local thugs prey upon the school—going so far as to and murder a Native American student and rape saintly teacher Jean (played by Delores Taylor, the real-life Mrs. Laughlin and his constant cinematic collaborator)—Billy Jack springs into action. He carves his way through a goon squad of redneck locals determined to undermine Jean’s flower-power educational aspirations, using the martial art hapkido and the lethal skills he learned while serving as a Green Beret in Vietnam.

          Laughlin stacks the narrative deck, presenting the bad guys as one-note ogres and the good guys as paragons of virtue, with Billy Jack occupying a weird middle ground between the opposite poles. The movie is a disaster politically, arguing that violence is the path to peace, and it’s strange from a storytelling perspective, with meandering sequences that depict touchy-feely rap sessions and other with-it school practices. Yet the cumulative effect of the movie is quite something, one man’s plea for greater compassion in modern society.

          Laughlin also cuts an impressive figure, dressed in head-to-toe denim and sporting one of the coolest hats in ’70s cinema, a flat-brimmed black cowboy job with a multicolored band. Billy Jack became one of the most successful independent movies of the era—although originally delivered to theaters by Warner Bros., the movie was re-released by Laughlin once he regained distribution rights, and the second time around, Billy Jack did bang-up business. Further sequels therefore became inevitable, though Laughlin quickly lost sight of what made Billy Jack popular.

          For instance, the next installment, The Trial of Billy Jack, is a three-hour death march into the surreal wilderness of Laughlin’s imagination. Weakly framed around vignettes of a hospitalized Jean (Taylor) recovering from a mysterious incident at the school, the picture weaves together three primary storylines—Billy Jack’s legal struggles stemming from the events in the last movie; the ongoing culture clash between the locals and Jean’s school, which escalates to even greater levels of violence; and, finally, Billy Jack’s Native American-styled vision quest in the desert.

          Although the movie includes a few exciting fight scenes, Laughlin also makes room for embarrassingly sensitive musical numbers featuring students at Jean’s school, to say nothing of interminably earnest and repetitive speeches. The Trial of Billy Jack is Billy Jack on steroids, but not necessarily in a good way—it’s among the most excessive and indulgent movies of the ’70s, a period not known for cinematic restraint. By the time the threequel climaxes in a ridiculous bloodbath meant to evoke the historical atrocities of My Lai and Sand Creek, it’s clear The Trial of Billy Jack has left the normal realm of human consciousness. Depending on what you bring to the movie, you’ll either find this singular experience a heavy trip or a major bummer.

          Unfortunately, no such ambiguity is needed when appraising the final opus in the series, Billy Jack Goes to Washington, which is wretched. As the title implies, the movie is a direct remake of the Jimmy Stewart classic Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). And, yeah, that means we get to see Billy Jack in a suit, filibustering Congress, which is exactly as awkward and uninteresting as it sounds. Beyond being insipid, Billy Jack Goes to Washington is the only movie in the series badly marred by technical shortcomings—whereas the other pictures have a certain kind of swaggering style, Billy Jack Goes to Washington suffers from dodgy sound work, with many scenes featuring distractingly overdubbed dialogue. Unless you’re determined to see every frame of this series, the final film is to be avoided at all costs.

          Given the diminishing returns of the series, it’s unsurprising Laughlin never completed his proposed fifth entry, The Return of Billy Jack, production on which began and ended quickly in 1985. But, to his credit, he’s still regularly issuing messages on his website, circa 2012, claiming that a brand-new Billy Jack picture is in the works. You’ve been warned.

Billy Jack: GROOVY

The Trial of Billy Jack: FREAKY

Billy Jack Goes to Washington: SQUARE

Norwood (1970)

          After achieving success on the pop charts, velvet-voiced Arkansas native Glen Campbell displayed a comfortable onscreen presence in the John Wayne movie True Grit (1969), so it was inevitable that some enterprising producer would test Campbell’s viability as a leading man. (Hey, it worked for Elvis, so why not?) In Norwood, Campbell plays upbeat war veteran Norwood Pratt, a good ol’ boy from Texas who bums around the country with his acoustic guitar, crooning innocuous tunes and spewing redneck patois (“Think I’ll mosey on over to the roller rink, see if I can’t pick up a little heifer lookin’ for a ride home”).

          Upon returning from Vietnam to his tiny hometown of Ralph, Texas, Norwood works in a garage and endures sitcom-style quarrels with his sister (Leigh French) and her idiot husband (Dom DeLuise). Eager for escape, Norwood agrees to help a slick used-car salesman (Pat Hingle) transport cars to New York City. He also agrees to transport a sexy would-be performer (Carol Lynley), leading to arguments in which she calls him “peckerwood” and he calls her a “damn squirrel-headed dingbat.” Yeah, it’s like that.

          Eventually, Norwood discovers the cars he’s moving are stolen, so he dumps the vehicles and heads to New York anyway, where he gets laid with a spunky hippie (Tisha Sterling). Sated, he hops on a bus for the long trip back home. Along the way, he forms a bizarre surrogate family with Rita (Kim Darby), a redneck runaway bride; Edmund (Billy Curtis), a little person raised in the carny world; and a chicken. Yes, a chicken.

          To call Norwood inconsequential would be to overstate its value, but some scenes are so random they command attention, like the bit of costar Joe Namath tossing around a football with the dwarf in the backyard of a Southern estate. (Despite his prominence on the poster, former gridiron star Namath has a tiny role.) As for Campbell, he strikes a clean-cut figure with his helmet of shiny hair and his lantern-jawed good looks, but he’s more of a personality than an actor, so assessing his performance is pointless.

          Incredibly, this slight movie was adapted from a novel by True Grit author Charles Portis, though the vapid storyline of Norwood exists a universe apart from the unforgettable narrative of True Grit. Norwood is also notable, if that’s the right word, as one of the gentlest Vietnam-vet stories ever, since the easygoing Norwood seems as if he just came back from a country club instead of surviving a tour in Southeast Asia.

Norwood: FUNKY