Black Sunday (1977) “What exactly is this Super Bowl?”

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By Scott Ross

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Robert Shaw, in contemplative mode as the Mossad agent David Kabakov. Note concentration camp tattoo, which thankfully goes unmentioned. It would be gilding the narrative lily to do so – and the image itself makes its own statement.

Black Sunday could probably not be made today—or at least, not the same way. Doubtless its depiction of utterly ruthless Arab and Palestinian terrorists would raise an outcry no Hollywood studio would be comfortable attracting to a big-budget thriller. Never mind that the Israeli agents portrayed in the picture are every bit as unsparing, or that the 1975 Thomas Harris novel on which it was based was written in the early–to-mid 1970s, long before the attacks of 9-11 financed if not indeed carried out by Our Friends, the Saudis but not long after the internationally televised atrocity at the Olympic Village in Munich. If I am skeptical of Movieland suits in this matter it is not that I wish to see Semitic peoples vilified. We’ve had quite enough of that, inside Hollywood and out. But Harris’ bestselling novel (his first, predating the Hannibal Lecter series by half a decade) was surely written in part as a response to Munich, and as a commentary on the viciousness, not of Palestinians or Arabs generally, but of the Black Sunday group itself. (Add that his protagonist, the Israeli David Kabakov, is, as he tells a confederate, beginning to question and thus no good to the Mossad, and you have an idea of Thomas’ ambivalent approach.) Rather I am pointing out that generating such a movie now would take more spinal and intestinal fortitude than can habitually be found among the studio brigade, terrified as they are of taking chances—something their 1970s counterparts were accustomed to on a routine basis.

Still: Imagine the reaction of Paramount executives to John Frankenheimer’s initial cut, which ended with the Goodyear blimp carrying a deadly cargo designed to kill 80,000 spectators at once crashing over the top tier of the Miami Orange Bowl as the screen goes to black. The End. Not on your nellie, mister! We paid top dollar for that goddamned book, and it’s not ending that way! Frankenheimer (who surely should have known he couldn’t get away with it) was forced to shoot additional sequences that conformed more closely to Harris’ book (although Kabakov does not go down with the ship—er, blimp—as he does in the novel) and it’s a good thing he was. Audiences who sat through a splendidly exciting two hour thriller to be greeted with that ending would have been ready to set a bomb off under the filmmakers themselves. The foregoing presumably accounts for Black Sunday’s unusually long running time (2 hours, 23 minutes) and the presence in its credits of three screenwriters (the estimable Ernest Lehman and Ivan Moffat as well as Kenneth Ross, the scenarist of the Day of the Jackal adaptation.) It may also explain some rather paltry blue-screen imagery in the movie’s final quarter hour, surely not the fault of John A. Alonzo, the movie’s accomplished director of photography. Not that any of it did Paramount much good: By the time the movie was in release, it had been beaten to the nation’s screens by a cheapjack Charlton Heston Super Bowl disaster picture called Two-Minute Warning, and, while it was the studio’s biggest grosser in 1977, it still didn’t do enough business to matter. No one’s pictures did that year, except a certain space-fantasy released by 20th Century-Fox.

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The aftermath of the bomb test: Bruce Dern extols the beauty of its symmetry to an unnerved Marthe Keller. One of John A. Alonzo’s most eloquent visual effects.

Cavils aside, Black Sunday was and remains a superb example of the thriller genre, at which Frankenheimer excelled. He was, of course, a brilliant director of drama as well—All Fall Down, Birdman of Alcatraz, The Fixer, The Gypsy Moths, The Iceman Cometh—but it is as an assured maker of action pictures that his larger reputation rests: Seven Days in May, The Train, Seconds, French Connection II, The Challenge, Ronin and, supremely, The Manchurian Candidate. The sheer logistics in his pictures took a steady head, and here Frankenheimer not only staged an exciting speed-boat chase and an agonizing, long, palm-dampening climax but had as well to accommodate thousands of sports fans at an Orange Bowl event. Not to mention the presumably nervous heads of the Goodyear Company. There is a single, continuous panning shot late in the movie which begins by following the car driven by Marthe Keller, floats up to the top tier of the Orange Bowl; and down again onto the field to pick up Robert Shaw’s eminently familiar face that is as breathtaking as it is un-ostentatious. It’s the kind of thing Spielberg became a master of, but very few picture makers other than perhaps David Lean could have carried off at that time with such seeming nonchalance.

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The producer, Robert Evans, with Frankenheimer on-set.

Keller herself is problematic, as she so often was, and the script fudges her character’s origins to oblige her Germanic roots, but the lethal Dahlia should ideally have been played by an Arabian actress. Then again, which one would have been an acceptable enough substitution to feature above the title? No such qualms concern Bruce Dern as the movie’s chief psychopath. It’s the sort of role that Dern must have resented at the time (they came to him so often) but he triumphs over the typecasting. That Michael Lander is a Vietnam vet could have been problematic. This was, after all, the era of the Nixonian lie which claimed without any evidence that such soldiers were spat on in airports, and in which so many convenient fictional villains were vets.

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Dern’s Michael Lander in full-on madman mode. Keller’s Dahlia knows him too well to register surprise.

Michael’s experiences as a prisoner of war reduced to a coerced statement of Quisling complicity by his captors during the war, and subjected to unconscionably cavalier bureaucratic treatment by the brass after, counteract that conventional narrative ploy, making him emotionally unpredictable in a way the audience can easily comprehend… although it must be said that the Michael of the movie is nowhere near as frightening a figure as he is in Harris’ book; there’s a moment in the latter where, to make a point, he pushes a kitten down a kitchen sink garbage-disposal that shocked me when I read it AT 15, and has remained vivid in my consciousness ever after. Really, I’d prefer to see that nowhere aside from the cinema of my mind.

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Detente: Shaw with the marvelous Walter Gottel.

Shaw must have relished both his paycheck, his top billing, and the opportunity to play a quietly heroic (if perhaps necessarily pitiless) hero after so many years of villainy: As that cold sociopath “Red” Grant in From Russia with Love (1963), a scarily mercurial Henry VIII in A Man for All Seasons, the equally dangerous Doyle Lonnegan in The Sting, the chilling Mr. Blue in The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, the Ahab-like Quint of Jaws, and even the Sheriff of Nottingham, in Robin and Marian. Kabakov is as dangerous as any of these, but more messily human. It is, after all, his unwillingness to gun down the vulnerable Dahlia at the beginning of the picture that makes the entire Black Sunday operation in Miami possible.

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Fritz Weaver with Shaw in the extended, nerve-wracking climax.

The great Fritz Weaver does his usual impeccable work as Kabakov’s FBI coeval; Michael V. Gazzo turns up as a sleazy go-between subjected to a typically brutal bit of questioning by the Israeli (whose ironic nickname in the Mossad is “The Final Solution”); William Daniels provides a nice turn as a sympathetic V.A. psychologist; and Walter Gotell, the splendidly multifarious General Gogol of the Roger Moore Bonds, shows up as a finely-judged Arabian ambassador. Frankenheimer himself can be glimpsed, briefly, in what those who worked with would recognize as his occasionally manic directorial mode as a CBS television director. In this splendid ensemble only the rather blank-faced Keller fails to land. The character of Dahlia was altered here from Palestinian in the Harris novel to German to accommodate her obvious Swiss origins, but her presence among so fine a cast is a puzzler. Then again, the entirety of her 1970s stardom itself never made a great deal of sense to me. She isn’t terrible, but she’s barely adequate, and, in this company, that’s nearly as bad.

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Shaw’s brutal interrogation of Michael V. Gazzo

Mention should be made here of Tom Rolph’s kinetic editing, and of Alonzo’s use of the hand-held camera, becoming rarer in those early days of the Steadicam and used here for its deliberate effect of documentary immediacy. John Williams was, at the time, not yet a household name even after composing the then-ubiquitous Jaws theme. (In a couple of months, everyone would know his name.) This may account for Paramount’s deigning to release a soundtrack album, which seems to me to have been a major miscalculation, as Williams’ score is absolutely integral to the success of the picture. (It was, thankfully, released in full thirty-three years later by Film Score Monthly.) Its main theme is an ominous twelve-note phrase (three clusters of four notes each, with a single variation in the second phrase) that, repeated, becomes a melodic accompaniment to Frankenheimer’s visuals, sowing the seeds of dread early on (although not, interestingly, during the picture’s opening credits, which are played out sans music) and carrying through to the end titles, during which a nervously triumphant fanfare takes over, one that anticipates similar thematic phrases in Williams’ later scores for Dracula and The Fury (both 1978) and that hints at an uneasy truce. This isn’t The End, that composition seems to suggest, merely a temporary lull—a sentiment his compatriot Spielberg would one day echo at the end of his own depiction of terrorism and its bloody aftermath. That we end with a nod to Munich seems appropriate to the inspiration for Black Sunday itself. Such calculated ideological violence is itself a circle, a deafening parabola from whose deathish, ironic reverberations we never seem to learn.

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Text copyright 2017 by Scott Ross

Not With My Wife, You Don’t! (1966)

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By Scott Ross

Relatively intelligent marital farce bearing evidence of too many cooks (three screenwriters—never a good sign—among them Larry Gelbart and Peter Barnes, who later wrote The Ruling Class… what the hell was he doing here?), a couple of overextended sequences that added nothing but time to the material, and a few genuine belly-laughs, most of them having to do with an overheated Italian movie spoof; George C. Scott was never funnier than when he was overdoing it, and he overdid it blissfully there. A perky ’60s score by “Johnny” Williams, a nice Johnny Mercer lyric to go with the main titles, good color photography (by Charles Lang), and Virna Lisi, next to whom almost anyone other than Sophia Loren seemed wan and undernourished. One of those Norman Panama productions that reminds you why no one ever talks about Norman Panama today. If they ever did.

Text copyright 2017 by Scott Ross

Living for Himself: “The Detective” (1968)

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By Scott Ross

Roderick Thorpe’s thick 1966 bestseller—strangely compelling through 500 pages in which no real action of the type beloved by moviemakers occurs—centers on an insurance investigator, and while the makers of the 1968 screen adaptation obviously felt that Joe Leland had to be made an actual cop, they remained remarkably faithful to the substance of Thorpe’s narrative: Two seemingly unrelated cases, spread over time, come crashing together in the direst of fashions as Leland’s marriage falls to pieces. Most remarkably for the period, the picture’s screenwriter, the redoubtable Abby Mann, retains Thorpe’s laissez-faire attitude toward homosexual men in those dark, pre-Stonewall days of furtive existence. Thorpe is less sympathetic, perhaps, than simply non-judgmental, but even that is saying something for the era in which he was writing. And if this all seems a bit tame by 21st century standards,  it’s notable that Leland’s live-and-let-live attitudes are embodied by no less a figure of normative, if exaggerated, heterosexuality than Frank Sinatra.

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More socially liberal than his famous, mercurial, switch of political parties would indicate—wholly typically, he turned his back on a lifelong affiliation with the Democrats after a silly tiff with Bobby Kennedy—Sinatra is in fact the ideal spokesman for the forward thinking the makers of The Detective attempted to espouse. His Leland is highly ethical, repulsed by the games of ass-kissing departmental politesse require, disgusted by his city’s duplicitous attitudes toward the racially despised and economically dispossessed, and deeply disturbed by the floating morality of the people he is expected to represent. Sinatra, a far subtler actor than his “ring-a-ding-ding” Rat Pack persona might suggest, is never more effective than when he conveys, without words, a characteristically eloquent sense of ethical nausea.

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Sinatra’s Joe Leland, assisted by Al Freeman, Jr., examines a mutilated corpse. Screen-capture via BluRay.com

Movies are, of course, always of their time, and The Detective is very much of its own. It’s a rather astonishing picture to have been released before the establishment of the MPAA ratings, in both content and language. (I’m not certain, but this may have been the first time the dread word “penis” was uttered in an American movie.) But the most telling point here is that the occasional (and, one presumes, somewhat shocking in 1968) use of ugly epithets like “fag” come from the mouths of creeps rather than—as would become, in the sickeningly routine fashion of future American movies—the hero. Leland is never glib, or stereotypically homophobic. Indeed, in his grilling of his prime suspect, the gym-rat Felix Tesla, played with intense psychosis by Tony Musante, Leland trembles on the verge of homoeroticism, placing his hand on Musante’s wrist and leaning in as he questions him. It’s very close to a seduction, although the crazed Tesla is too wrapped up in his own demonic energies to notice.

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Leland questions Felix Tesla (Tony Musante) in a fashion that is almost a seduction.

The Detective is peopled by an exceptionally strong supporting cast that includes the cool yet vulnerable Lee Remick as Leland’s estranged wife Karen; Jack Klugman, very fine as one of Joe’s more trusted compatriots; Ralph Meeker, insufferably smarmy as a cop on the take; Horace McMahon, projecting a surface benevolence that barely covers his smug complaisance; Robert Duvall as a queer-baiting colleague to whom Leland metes out a little street justice; the splendid Al Freeman, Jr. as a rookie detective with his eye as much on the main chance as any of his white coevals; Renée Taylor as Klugman’s ess, ess, mein kind Jewish wife, forever offering bagels and lox; and William Windom as the murderer, whose self-loathing rivals and indeed parallels (if for vastly different reasons) that of Leland himself.

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James Inman as a bitchy queen about to be dispatched by a self-hating William Windom. Although he reads Windom’s sexual beads, he has no clue with whom he is dealing.

The recent BluRay transfer from Twilight Time, a company that emphasizes its releases’ musical soundtracks, is superb, beautifully capturing the cinematographer Joseph Biroc’s sumptuous lighting and crisp, expansive Panavision framing. (And which include a few instances of Panavision lens flare , which I’ve been a sucker for since seeing Kelly’s Heroes on television when I was about 12.) There’s not much the manufacturers can do about the terrible rear-screen projection in the sequences of Sinatra’s nocturnal driving, in which no attempt was made to replicate the play of light and shadow of a man in a moving vehicle, but those things too are emblematic of their time. About Gordon Douglas’ direction, the best thing that can be said is that he at least doesn’t get in the way of things too much… although he is over-fond of the zoom lens. And while Jerry Goldsmith’s score is brief, it’s sharp and effective, with lonely horns blowing the bluesy theme and one especially vivid action cue that takes in what sounds like a sitar.

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Thorpe resurrected Joe Leland in the much shorter but no less effective Nothing Lasts Forever, which later became the basis of another successful picture, the 1988 smash Die Hard. 20th Century Fox was contractually obligated to offer the then 70-year-old Sinatra the leading role, and was no doubt relieved when he passed. Thorpe is responsible for the bare-feet-cut-on-glass plot wrinkle, although his story emphasizes its protagonist’s age, of which Leland is all too aware, and its author’s climax is too deeply sad for a Hollywood epic of late ’80s vintage to encompass. Still, Fox may have been uneasy about there even being a novel out there which predated its Bruce Willis blockbuster, as there was no paperback tie-in reissue of Thorpe’s novel in this country. If you want a contemporaneous edition, you’ll have to hunt down the British Penguin movie edition. Good luck with that.

In a twist that is less ironic than a commentary on the cultural mores of its time, the voice-over narration for The Detective‘s original trailer solemnly declares its setting is “a city sick with violence – full of junkies, prostitutes” (here the editor cuts to a police bust of gay cruisers on the Battery) “and perverts.

It’s as if the people who put together the preview never even saw the movie.

Text copyright 2016 by Scott Ross

Verboten! (1959)

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By Scott Ross

Verboten!

A minor effort from a major filmmaker is still an event.

While it was the first of Samuel Fuller’s pictures as a writer-director to draw from his own war-time experience in a context specific to World War II — and despite its striking opening sequence of isolated American GIs and SS snipers battling it out in a small German town during the waning moments of the the Second World War — Verboten! limns combat of a very different sort from the type on which Fuller would later concentrate his creative attention. Where Merrill’s Marauders and, most notably, The Big Red One, are concerned primarily on warfare (as are Fuller’s earlier The Steel Helmet and Fixed Bayonets!, both centered in Korea as opposed to the 1940s ground war in Europe) Fuller’s focus in Verboten! is the aftermath of war: specifically, the American occupying government’s efforts at de-Nazification of the populace and the equally fervent activities of a small underground band of former SS determined upon a rebirth of the Hitler creed. Within this context, Fuller also anatomizes fraternization between American soldiers and German citizens, focusing his narrative on the question of whether a marriage between two such people is one of, on the German side, convenience merely.

Helga (Susan Cumming) and Bruno (Tom Pittman), amused by how easy it is to fool their well-meaning American conquerors.

Helga (Susan Cumming) and Bruno (Tom Pittman), amused by how easy it is to fool their well-meaning American conquerors.

That’s a lot to cram into 93 minutes, but as is so often the case with Fuller, Verboten! somehow manages not to stint on any of its narrative particulars. Just as we think we have the measure of Helga Schiller (the refreshingly de-glamorized Susan Cummings) the filmmaker reveals that, while she is no Nazi, she is a staggeringly casual opportunist, her cool persona wholly at odds with the warmth she projects for the benefit of Sergeant David Brent (James Best). The revelation (to us, the audience, not to Brent) is almost shocking in its nonchalance, as Helga goes from bidding Brent a passionate farewell to, moments later, greeting an old friend, the nonchalant monster Bruno Eckhart (Tom Pittman) and casually informing him (and the viewer) of her duplicity. It’s a moment perhaps only Sam Fuller could, or would, present: Un-pointed, with no histrionic embellishment whatsoever. In such ways is human cruelty carried out — over chocolate bars and without melodrama. (I wish I could say as much for the picture’s truly obnoxious Harry Sukman score, replete with godawful Paul Anka “theme song.”)

Brent (James Best) confronts a crowd of angry Germans.

Brent (James Best) confronts a crowd of angry Germans.

The introduction of Brent into the story is notable too, not for what it leaves out but for what it shows; had movie audiences of that time ever seen an American soldier shot in the ass? It’s a moment typical of Fuller’s lack of reverence for the supposed nobility of soldiering, about which he harbored no illusions. Typical as well is the superb make-up job on Best after he’s been attacked and beaten by the locals: the swollen lump under his jaw and the way that injury affects his speech. Best is a good match for this character — a little cynical, a little earnest, wholly believable, (Fuller aficionados will remember the North Carolina-born actor as the mad Southern sharecropper in Shock Corridor convinced he is J.E.B. Stuart.)

What trips Fuller up, understandably, is the wrenching difference between the documentary footage he occasionally inserts into the picture and the loose but still more formal cinematography by the reliable Joseph Biroc. It isn’t simply that the clash of styles and film stock are jarring, but that a single moment, of an emaciated Jewish victim’s body being dumped into a mass grave, is, in its very brevity, more powerful and gut-churning than anything else in the picture. That it also represents a turning point in the attitudes of Helga’s angry young brother Franz (Harold Daye) feels rushed, and unconvincing. Can a single session watching the Nuremberg trials turn the mind of an embittered youth (one, moreover, who owes the loss of an arm to an American bomb), so quickly? Particularly one whose own sister is introduced in the movie denouncing Hitler and who, therefore, has heard the truth from very close up? It’s not an impossibility, but in context, feels improbable.

Harold Daye as Franz.

Harold Daye as Franz.

All the more so because it is the scales falling from Franz’s eyes that lead to his betrayal of the Werewolf gang and the fiery conclusion of the picture. And here we must confront the weird incompleteness with which Fuller ends his story. The last moments are not so much ambiguous as utterly uncertain. Has Franz survived the flames? Do Brent’s ministrations save him? They seem to, but the action is cramped, and maddeningly inconclusive. It’s all too rushed, and attenuated; the scene — and the movie — cut off abruptly, as if Fuller had simply run out of film, leaving the viewer not troubled but bewildered. We don’t necessarily expect Sam Fuller to wrap all our troubles up in dreams for a sunny finale. In fact, that’s one of his strengths as a filmmaker. But we are accustomed to knowing where we stand.

Text copyright 2015 by Scott Ross

Roxie Hart (1942)

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By Scott Ross

A highly stylized adaptation by Nunnally Johnson of the Maureen Watkins play Chicago, which Bob Fosse and Fred Ebb later transmigrated into their musical with John Kander – and which that venerated hack Rob Marshall betrayed with his inexplicably popular movie. (Which violated the very spirit of musicals by its idiotically literal insistence that the numbers be justified. Why do a musical, then?)

Directed with a rather surprisingly arch eye by William Wellman, it is, like the Fosse musical, a full-out attack on celebrity-worship, the law, the press, accepted pieties and the audience itself, which somehow got by the Breen Office censors – presumably because of the softened ending, which one can see coming fairly early on and which is, although “ironic,” a bit of a let-down, especially since the movie itself is so magnificently, sometimes wildly, funny. Ginger Rogers, fresh off her Oscar win (and just prior to her pluperfect three-point turn in Billy Wilder’s The Major and the Minor) looks spectacular, fully embraces Roxy’s cheapness and vulgarity , and has a great impromptu tap-dance on the jail-house stairs. (Although you can’t quite believe it; if Roxy is that good, why couldn’t she make it in show-biz?)

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Alfred Newman’s score incorporates, very wittily, some choice 1920s musical hits, and the great supporting cast includes Adolphe Menjou (as Billy Flynn), Lynne Overman as the chief louse among the reporters, Nigel Bruce, Phil Silvers as an peerlessly annoying press photographer, Sara Allgood (as “Matron” Morton), William Frawley, Spring Byington (as Mary Sunshine), George Chandler (as a rather rat-like Amos), George Lessey (as the Judge, who manages to get his face into every courtroom photo) and Iris Adrian (as “Two-Gun” Gertie.)

Roxie’s father, informed by telephone that his daughter has been arrested on a charge of murder, to his wife: They’re going to hang Roxie.

Roxie’s mother: What did I tell you?

Text copyright 2015 by Scott Ross

Running in place: The Liberation of L.B. Jones (1970)

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By Scott Ross

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Until quite recently, what I knew of The Liberation of L.B. Jones was limited to a few basic facts: Of its being William Wyler’s final movie as a director; of its starring one of my favorite actors, the late Roscoe Lee Browne; of its financial failure; and of its dealing, in some way, with what is prettily called “race relations” in the South of the late ‘60s. Thanks to a kind friend, I have finally seen the picture, and it left me deeply depressed.

No, scratch that: Depressed, and angry. This is due, not to any particular failings on Wyler’s part, or those of his screenwriters, Stirling Silliphant and Jesse Hill Ford, on the latter of whose novel The Liberation of Lord Byron Jones—a better title—the movie was based. I was instead disheartened by the action. Not because I found it unrealistic or clichéd but because I found it all too real. I am angry in part because I had been led, by capsule reviews, to think the picture was well-meaning but inert, and infuriated as well (if only in retrospect) by the movie’s negligible box office at the time of its release. But mostly, I am both angry and depressed because what this movie, now 45 years old, depicts is not simply, or merely, America Then. Remove the period clothing and music, and the casual use, in public as well as private, of the word “nigger,” and what The Liberation of L.B. Jones depicts is America Now.

America Then, in this story, is the South, and the country generally, in which a distinguished black man, a pillar, as they used to say, of his community (or, more to the point of this story, a “credit to his race”) can be cold-bloodedly murdered in the dark of night and his body mutilated, the crime covered up and the assassin, a white police officer, not only free but never charged or in any way acknowledged. America Now is the nation in which a black man or woman of any sort and condition can be gunned down by a cop or a private citizen, even in front of witnesses, be posthumously smeared by the press and blamed for his or her own murder, the crime “investigated,” and the killer never charged.

Do you begin to understand the reasons for my rage?

America Now is America Then, Redux. And with a vengeance.

Lynching, in case you hadn’t noticed, is back. And expressing the unthinkable, the racially insupportable, has re-emerged as a game any number can, and does, play, often in screeching decibels, every day since January of 2008. Barack Obama is hated, not merely for the unforgivable sin of being a Democrat and winning the White House, twice—standard practice on the Right since at least the advent of Bill Clinton—in itself appalling to people who believe they have the right to perpetuate, by whatever means, a Permanent Republican Majority. No, this man has the temerity to not merely be the leader of the other party: He also has the unmitigated gall to be a Negro! (That he is also half white is largely ignored, although one can imagine the mere contemplation of that hideous act of miscegenation committed by his parents also informs the mouth-foaming rage of the GOP, dominated as it is now by the bigots and ignoramuses of the so-called “Tea Party,” an electorate that did not, significantly, exist prior to Obama’s inauguration.) Even those of us who despair of Obama’s corporatist leanings, his war-mongering and his serial lack of spine feel compelled to defend him, more often than not, and despite our discontent, if only because the voices on the other side are so often and so stridently, hideously, bare-facedly those of unregenerate racists, freed now (at last! at last!) from the need to be polite, or covert, in their prejudices. One can be forgiven, in 2015, from wondering whether the 1960s and ‘70s ever even happened. I’ve begun to wonder if we dreamed the entire era.

While racism is never entirely dead, certainly I never thought I’d see a return to such overt ugliness on a day-to-day basis, in my lifetime. The Presidency of Barack Obama has in some weird way allowed what had to be kept either silent, or behind firmly closed doors, to re-emerge into the sunlight. One has the feeling that all too many white, Christian, Americans have been silently steaming for years and years, forced by law and politesse to swallow their fury at being unable to voice their xenophobia, and that all it took to overcome their reticence at expressing their contempt for everyone else—all that “political correctness” that frowned on their being able to call a spade a nigger—was the election to the Presidency by a man of color.

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Willie Joe Worth (Anthony Zerbe) confronts L.B. (Rocoe Lee Browne) in the latter’s kitchen.

The dilemma that faces L.B. Jones, in the unassailable person of the great Roscoe Lee Browne, is whether a man may stand up and be a man without being lynched. In a key moment, he recalls seeing a black picketer threatened by a white mob and running, to the jeering accompaniment of “Run, nigger, run!” Surely someone, someday, must refuse to run, and not be lynched. At the emotional climax of the movie, L.B. makes the conscious decision, remembering that taunt, to stop running… and discovers the fatal truth that reason does not prevail. His crime—his willingness, in divorcing his unfaithful wife (an act his racist white lawyer refers to as his “liberation”) to publicly air her prolonged affair with a white policeman—simply cannot be countenanced. What is done to L.B. is so revolting even the white cop (Anthony Zerbe) is sickened, and resolves to turn himself in. He is saved from this foolishness by L.B.’s own attorney (Lee J. Cobb), a prominent man haunted by his youthful affair with a young black woman. He is haunted, not by the affair itself, which he freely admits to, but by the, for him, unconscionable fact that he had begun to see her as a person.

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L.B with his retainer, the loyal Benny (Fayard Nicholas) and the vengeance-driven Sonny Boy Mosby (Yaphet Kotto).

That there is some retribution, directed at Zerbe’s partner (Arch Johnson) via the intervention of Yaphet Kotto’s Sonny Boy, and that it, like L.B.’s murder, goes unpunished, provides, if not comfort, at least a modicum of dramatic satisfaction. But it cannot mitigate the horror, particularly in the ironic light of Sonny Boy’s own, earlier, decision to bury the past. The  present, however, is not so forgiving. That the movie begins and ends with Kotto’s unreadable face, is telling.

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William Wyler on the set. Center: Roscoe Lee Browne; right, Lee J. Cobb.

Wyler’s direction of The Liberation of L.B. Jones was, at the time, considered half-hearted, even cold. The failure to appreciate the craft, honed over 45 years, with which he approached this incendiary material, is also telling. In a cruel sort of irony, Silliphant, the co-scenarist of this picture, was also the screenwriter of the much more popular, lauded, and awarded, In the Heat of the Night (1967).It takes nothing away from that robust time-capsule entertainment to note that The Liberation of L.B. Jones does not end with the racist toting LB’s suitcase like an unconscious Redcap, the crime neatly tied up and the rifts, if not mended, at least sufficiently patched. In this picture of America Then, there is no comfort. And in that way, too, the movie all too clearly reflects America Now.

liberation_of_lb_jones_poster_02Text copyright 2015 by Scott Ross

The picture’s ended (but the imagery lingers on)

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By Scott Ross

When I first saw Alien in 1979, knowing almost nothing about it, and John Hurt gave birth to the chest-burster, I had my first attack of hyperventilation and nearly had to be taken out of the theatre. Seeing it again last night, promoted me think of other movies whose introduction into my life were experiences so intense that their initial impact has never wholly faded. The reasons vary, but what unites these disparate threads is the simple power of images—the thing that has enthralled 100 years of movie-going audiences. And even if, as I sadly believe, the movies’ best days are behind them, the images remain, behind the third eye as it were, always available for re-screening at the hint of mental recall. Here, the first titles that occur to me, and that had the greatest, and most lasting, impact.

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Mary Poppins: Very possibly the first movie I “saw,” at a drive-in with my parents, in 1964 or ’65. Being used to early bedtimes I fell asleep fairly quickly, but woke up to see the Banks children being approached by the old crone and menaced by the dog in the alley. When I saw it again, in the early 1970s during a reissue, that scene was still vivid in my mind. (As I also remember the “Step in Time” number, I think I stayed awake, as the Sherman Brothers’ song impelled, after that.)

irmaladouceIrma La Douce: This was the second movie I remember “seeing,” again at a drive-in. Must have been in 1965, when it ran in a double-feature with Tom Jones. Again, I was asleep for most of it, but remember waking up and seeing a woman with dark hair in a sleeping-mask. Fast-forward to 1972 or so, and watching it with the family on television. When Shirley MacLaine put on the sleeping mask, I had an instant flashback to that night at the drive-in. Imagine; one of my earliest movie memories is of a racy comedy about a Parisian prostitute and her mec!

WizardWest2The Wizard of Oz: On my first viewing, around age 5, I was so terrified of Margaret Hamilton’s witch I hid behind the sofa whenever she was on-screen. I did the same thing, 3 years or so later, when Darby O’Gill and the Little People was reissued, crouching down on the theatre floor at the first sight of the wailing banshee, and begging my sister to tell me when it was gone.

Lampwick2Pinocchio: One of the first movies I saw in North Carolina after the family moved there from Ohio in 1971. The transformation of Lampwick into a donkey stayed with me for decades. A nightmare sequence, terrible in its delineation of panic, terror and hopelessness. Only later, as an adult, did I come to appreciate the totality of this exceptional achievement, its beauty and its astonishing pictorial texture.

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1776: Say what you will about this one, to have come at me at the age of 11, when I was just beginning to become immersed in theatre, musicals and American history, the movie was an instant touchstone.

Cabaret7Cabaret: I saw this on a reissue, the night after having seen the original musical play in a surprisingly fine a dinner-theatre production, a present for my 12th birthday. At first I was disappointed; the movie was so different. I had been an avid listener of the 1967 cast album, borrowed repeatedly from a local library, and I missed those songs. (I was not yet the Isherwood maven I would become.) But it grew on me, steadily. I was absolutely dazed by Bob Fosse’s staging, editing and choreography, unaccountably both titillated and disappointed by the ménage that never happens, and highly amused when Michael York exploded, “Oh, screw Maximilian!”, Liza Minnelli responded coolly, “I do,” and York, after an initial shock, smiled and riposted, “So do I.” That exchange also tickled by best friend, with whom I saw the movie, and for personal reasons it would take me some time to understand… as it would to comprehend my own, nascent and very buried, sexuality.

gone-with-the-wind-gone-with-the-wind-4376036-1024-768Gone with the Wind: Love it, loathe it, dismiss it or embrace it, to see this movie on a big screen, at 13, with my mother and sister, was one of the most intensely memorable experiences of my early adolescence. The dolly-in on Clark Gable’s face (“Wow!” I whispered to my mother); Hattie McDaniel’s big, broad face; the removal of the Confederate soldier’s leg; the massive crane shot of Scarlett at the depot; the burning of Atlanta; the collapse of her horse as she sights Tara; the shooting of the renegade Union soldier; Scarlett’s “morning after” smile; her fall down the stairs; the deaths of O’Hara, Bonnie Blue and Melanie. When one is older, one can roll one’s eyes at the appalling “happy darkies workin’ for Massa,” but also more fully appreciate the rich humor of the thing, and the sheer prowess David O. Selznick showed in putting it together.

jaws-30th-anniversary-edition-20050617034815619Jaws: Seen in 1975, when it opened. Sure, I remembered poor Ben Gardner’s head scaring the bejeezus out of Richard Dreyfuss, and Robert Shaw being eaten whole. But the images that haunted me were: The shots of Roy Scheider trying to see past the beach-goers wandering past his field of vision; the simultaneous push-forward/pull back dolly shot of Scheider’s face as little Alex Kintner is attacked; and the scene of Scheider racing to the estuary. I think Spielberg’s direction really introduced me that day to the power of moving-picture images on a technical as well as emotional level.

Marathon Man - is it safeMarathon Man: The first “R”-rated movie I saw, in 1976. The sense of unnerving terror that permeates the narrative, exploding here and there as it unfurls, driving toward a violent, ironic climax. Although I had read William Goldman’s popular novel before seeing his re-imagining of it and knew what to expect of plot and character, nothing prepared me for the creeping dread, the elegantly shot and edited set-pieces with their seemingly incongruous blood and violence and horror, that John Schlesinger brought to it. Pauline Kael complained that director and film were a mis-match; that his direction was too stylish and accomplished—too serious—for what she regarded as pulp material, but I demur. It is precisely the luminous, autumnal glow and gleaming elegance of surface that make the ensuing action of the movie so disturbing and disorienting.

closeencountersdoorClose Encounters of the Third Kind: Deliberately knowing as little as I could about it, I saw this on its second weekend. (Although my loose-lipped high school newspaper advisor, who’d seen it the opening week, spoiled the Devil’s Tower mystery for our entire class.) When you aren’t aware, in advance, of whether the visitors are malign or not—and, really, even if you are—the sequence in which little Barry is abducted is absolutely terrifying. When the screws on the floor heating vent unscrewed by themselves, sending poor Gillian into a justifiable panic, we were right there with her. Yet this is the most benign of all UFO movies, and, at 16, the most completely entrancing movie I had ever seen.

1978-AN-UNMARRIED-WOMAN-006An Unmarried Woman: I saw this one solo, as was often the case at that time. I was working at a local movie theatre, had a pass, and went to damn near everything. While by no means a humorless feminist screed, Paul Mazursky’s magnificently textured exploration of what happens to one, rather typical New Yorker, when her husband of many years dumps her for a younger woman was revelatory. It seemed impossible for a man—a modern writer, anyway—to have conceived it, let alone written and directed such a complete portrait. I went back to it over and over, always bringing a woman with me (my sister, once, close friends at other times.) It feels now as though the movie came from another time, or a distant planet, where it was not only possible to make such things, but to get large numbers of people, of both genders, to see them.

Alien H3kO0Alien: I know I run the risk of admission to fogiedom when I say this, but for anyone who wasn’t there in 1979, it’s almost impossible to describe the impact Alien had on we who saw it when it was new. The working-class grunginess, the slowly building terror, the genuine shocks, the unsettlingly sensual biomechanical Giger designs, the sheer, unholy scale of the thing, were unlike anything we’d ever seen before. It was the anti-“Star Wars,” the acid-bath flip-side of Close Encounters. Movies were tough then, but seldom quite this tough—or this unrelentingly dark and claustrophobic. Few movies I’ve seen before or since have had that kind of impact. And they did it all by hand.

AllThatJazzScheider_zps9e1f9e94All That Jazz: My Star Wars—the movie I saw repeatedly over the first year or two of its release, and never tied of. For a budding playwright, besotted with theatre and longing to secure my own place in it, this mad, flamboyant epic, with its incendiary editing, hallucinatory structure, and obsession with death, became for me a kind of rite of passage.

Richard Pryor in Concert 364455-1Richard Pryor in Concert. Pryor’s first solo effort was, and remains, the single funniest movie I’ve ever seen. We were, quite literally, falling, if not out of our chairs, at least so far forward we risked serious injury, and our faces ached from laughing for some time afterward. Genius, unfettered and unrestrained, given full play, as it never was in any of his more traditional narrative movies, which somehow could not meet, match or contain the troubled meteor at its center.

goodfellas_bar_sceneGoodFellas: Arguably the most exhilarating tour de force movie of its decade. No one limns the easy allure of crime, or the shocking availability and prevalence of sudden violence quite like Scorsese.

lawrence-of-arabia-2Lawrence of Arabia: I’d seen it once, on a very small, black-and-white television. I was given the widescreen cassettes of David Lean’s restoration as a present, and to call that an improvement on my initial exposure would be comparable to noting that a sachertorte beats a Moon Pie. But finally getting to see the “Director’s Cut” on a big screen, in a theatre, knocks every previous viewing from the memory, replacing it with splendor few movies ever provide. Not merely the stunning desert vistas or the big set-pieces, but the enigma at its center, exemplified, if never fully explained, by Peter O’Toole’s magnificent performance.

the-wild-bunch-the-walkThe Wild Bunch: Another “Director’s Cut” experience, and one that left me literally, not figuratively, dazed for about a week afterward. No other movie I know, even Scorsese’s, is more concerned with violence—its effect as well as its execution. From the opening massacre, and the dreadful sight of the scorpions beset by an army of ants that forms perhaps too easy a metaphor but remains indelible, to the horses falling to the water, to the final walk of the Bunch and their terrible end, Sam Peckinpaw had me by the throat, and kept on choking.

Tired of being disappointed over and over again, I go to few new movies now. Two, I think, in the past six or seven years. But in a sense, I really don’t need to. I’m not an adolescent or a thrill-junkie, and anyway, the imagery that remains embedded in my memory from forty and more years ago and remains so vivid still does not require jostling, and certainly not replacing. I’m still discovering older movies, on disc, that, whatever their age, are new to me and that more than fulfill my requirements, so it isn’t that I’m not open to new images. But with such a rich store, I just don’t need them.

Text copyright 2015 by Scott Ross