Play It Again, Sam (1972)

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All we ever do is go to the movies. Movie critic Allan Felix (Woody Allen) is freshly divorced from dreamgirl waitress Nancy (Susan Anspach) who mocked his sexual inadequacy and is inconsolable, feeling that he’ll just never measure up to Rick Blaine in Casablanca, played by his movie hero Humphrey Bogart. His friends businessman Dick (Tony Roberts) and his neurotic model wife Linda (Diane Keaton) try to introduce him to dates with disastrous results.  The ghost of Bogart (Jerry Lacy) advises him on the sidelines but after a dreadful night out with Sharon (Jennifer Salt) from Dick’s office culminates in a fight with bikers even his ex-wife shows up to have a word and shoots Bogart. Meanwhile, Allan becomes convinced that he has so much in common with fellow neurotic Linda and she has feelings for him, they spend the night together … My sex life has turned into The Petrified Forest. Allen’s 1969 stage play was adapted by him for the screen but directed by Herbert Ross and it’s a smoothly funny combination of parody and pastiche that Hollywood had been making since Hellzapoppin’ years before anyone dreamed up the term postmodern. Perfectly integrating the themes and action of Casablanca which kicks off the story as Alan watches sadly at the cinema, this is totally of its time, rape jokes ‘n’ all (but to be fair Allen’s script acknowledges it’s not an ideal situation for women). Keaton is a delight in their first film together, a work that cunningly exploits the gap between movies and real life and if it’s rather more coherent at that point than the edgy films Allen had already directed it’s still very funny. There are some awesome lines and the yawning chasm between Bogart’s cool and Allan’s chaos is brilliantly devised with the ending from Casablanca inventively reworked to satisfying effect. The San Francisco and Sausalito locations look great courtesy of the marvellous work of Owen Roizman. It’s the first Allen film I ever saw and it introduced me to the music of Oscar Peterson who was also on TV a lot in those days and I like it as much now as I did when I was 9 years old and that’s saying something. You felt like being a woman and I felt like being a man and that’s what those kinds of people do

The French Connection (1971)

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You still picking your feet in Poughkeepsie? When wealthy Marseilles heroin smuggler Alain Charnier (Fernando Rey) has an undercover cop murdered by hitman Pierre Nicoli (Marcel Bozzuffi) he reveals his plans to smuggle $32 million worth of pure heroin into the United States by hiding it in the car of his friend, French TV personality Henri Devereaux, who is traveling to New York by ship. In NYC narcotics detectives Jimmy ‘Popeye’ Doyle (Gene Hackman) and Buddy ‘Cloudy’ Russo (Roy Scheider) are on undercover stakeout in Brooklyn. After seeing a drug transaction take place in a bar, Cloudy goes in to make an arrest. After a short pursuit, the detectives interrogate the man, who reveals his drug connection and the biggest drug bust in American history looms … All right, Popeye’s here! Get your hands on your heads, get off the bar, and get on the wall!  What an extraordinary film this is:  a display of a singular, muscular, arresting, narrative vision with masterful control and seemingly effortless storytelling. It’s a version of a true early 1960s crime but bears none of the burdens of historicism. The shifting camerawork, changing locales, tone-perfect performances and the obsessive pursuit of an imperturbable French crime kingpin chime perfectly with director William Friedkin’s realistic style. The chase involving the 1971 Pontiac Le Mans and the elevated train is one of the most famous action scenes in film history, masterfully undercranked by the ingenious cinematographer Owen Roizman to make everything look faster. Apparently, Friedkin was goaded into doing it by Howard Hawks, who said, Make a good chase. Make one better than anyone’s done.  Hackman is peerless as the alcoholic bigot with a bee in his bonnet but Rey and Scheider are fantastic too and Tony Lo Bianco as Sal, the NYC connection, gets a great, physical showcase. The jagged jazz score by the preternaturally gifted Don Ellis is one of the great film soundtracks and Jimmy Webb wrote an original song performed by The Three Degrees at the Copacabana. A breathtaking film, complex, violent and well-managed, a specific articulation of the urban landscape told in an economical 99 minutes, it won a slew of Oscars – for editor Gerald B. Greenberg, Hackman’s performance, Best Film, Best Director and writer Ernest Tidyman who adapted the book by Robin Moore. Stunning. That son of a bitch is here. I saw him. I’m gonna get him

 

The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (1974)

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Oh, come on. If I’ve got to watch my language just because they let a few broads in, I’m going to quit. How the hell can you run a goddamn railroad without swearing?  In New York City, a criminal gang disguised as Groucho Marx and led by the ruthless Mr. Blue (Robert Shaw), all boarding the NYC subway at different stations, hijacks a subway car and threatens to start shooting one passenger per minute unless they receive a million dollars in cash from the city within an hour.  They separate the front car from the remainder of the train. On the other end of the line, crusty veteran transit policeman Zachary Garber (Walter Matthau) has his hands full dealing with the mayor’s office and his hotheaded fellow cops, while also trying to deliver the ransom before the deadline expires and they start killing the 18 hostages … Look, I got my rights! This is my home! I just want a little peace and quiet. Now, just do me a favor, willya? Get the hell out of here!  Adapted by Peter Stone from the novel by John Godey (aka Morton Freedgood), this is one of the most sensational thrillers from the Seventies. Stone fillets and fries the story so that we have the bare bones, a race against time, two blistering characters in the shape of Mr Blue and Zachary, plus a cross-section of that fabled city’s great and good heightening the drama. With Martin Balsam as Green, Hector Elizondo as Grey and Earl Hindman as Brown, the fast-moving stage is set for internecine trouble. James Broderick as the conductor lends his customary gravitas while under pressure. Brilliantly written by Stone who was in his element here in the realm of identity, an ongoing theme throughout his oeuvre (he liked a pseudonym or three himself.) The action is perfectly paced and this literally doesn’t let up until the chaotic crew runs out of track. Screw the goddamn bastards. What do they expect for their thirty-five cents, to live forever? Made entirely without the assistance of the NYC Transit Authority and directed by Joseph Sargent with superlative photography by the great Owen Roizman and a stonking score by David Shire. Matthau is fantastic and his hangdog look was never so adeptly deployed. Shaw is equally good as the villain du jour.  Ladies and gentlemen, it might interest you to know that the City of New York has agreed to pay for your release

The Stepford Wives (1975)

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This starts smartly, although you don’t realise it until the film is over. Hip photographer Joanna (Katharine Ross) is leaving her NYC apartment because her hubby Peter Masterson insists Connecticut is a better place to raise their family. She looks across the street from the station wagon and spots a guy lugging a mannequin over a zebra crossing. She takes a snap. Talk about semaphore!  She is befriended by cooler-than-thou neighbour the fabulous Bobbie (Paula Prentiss) and then starts figuring out that all the other passive women who enjoy screaming orgasms with their unprepossessing husbands are like clones of each other and there’s something sinister going on at the Men’s Club, which her husband has eagerly joined. Then Bobbie changes. Completely … Ira Levin’s stunning satire of modern marriage was inspired by his divorce, his resultant anger at the women’s movement and a visit to Disney’s Hall of Presidents, a model for fembots everywhere. William Goldman did the screenplay but wouldn’t do another draft for director Bryan Forbes, who had employed his own wife, the lovely Nanette Newman, in a supporting role. Supposedly this had caused a costuming change across the female ensemble. So writer/director/novelist/actor Forbes took a pass himself and this movie simply improves upon each viewing. Look at the clever cinematography:  when that family car enters Stepford we view it from – a graveyard! Brilliantly photographed by Owen Roizman, this is the look of US burbs forever. Great, scary fun and the women are fantastic! And they’re everywhere!

Three Days of the Condor (1975)

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What a fascinating star Robert Redford has been – enigmatic, beautiful, perfect, leaving us to wonder if there is any there there? This paranoid thriller adapted from the James Grady novel is one of a series of rewarding films he made with regular collaborator actor/director Sydney Pollack. It asks the question, Is there a CIA within the CIA? Redford reads books for the American Literary Historical Society, an agency outlet and when he returns from lunch one day he finds all his colleagues have been shot. One is on life support – eventually stopped, by someone’s hands. Condor takes shelter with photographer Faye Dunaway as he tries to find out why he’s now a target and has to keep his wits about him to stay alive in an elaborate cat and mouse chase that includes Max Von Sydow as a double-edged hitman. Has it got something to do with an obscure thriller translated into an improbable array of languages? It’s wonderfully shot by Owen Roizman and full of telling detail in a screenplay by Lorenzo Semple Jr and David Rayfiel, who regularly worked with Pollack. A scene with a mailman is right out of Hitchcock. This came out mid-Watergate revelations, an episode in American history which Redford would immortalise in All the President’s Men – and we have a preview of coming attractions in the last scene here.  Through it all is this mystery man with the tousled blond flicky hair, blue chambray shirt, denim jeans and donkey jacket, keeping it real. Peak Redford.

Straight Time (1978)

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This had a convoluted birth. The novel on which it was based was written by Edward Bunker, a career criminal who wrote it in prison on a typewriter provided by producer Hal B. Wallis’ wife, a woman he’d befriended on the outside. Mrs Wallis died in 1962, Wallis didn’t like her old friends, and Bunker wasn’t finally released until 1975 when he began writing in earnest and No Beast So Fierce finally got published two years before he got out. Dustin Hoffman picked it up and intended that it be his directing debut – which it was, for a few weeks, until it all got a bit much and Ulu Grosbard was brought on board. The screenplay was credited to Bunker, Alvin Sargent and Jeffrey Boam but Nancy Dowd and Michael Mann (the same) were also involved in rewrites. Hoffman plays Max, the ex-con who gets major grief from his parole officer but secures  a job courtesy of a sympathetic recruiter (Theresa Russell). However his attempts to go straight start to go awry when he hooks up with old friend Willy (Gary Busey), a junkie … This is a fine 70s movie, with some of the nihilism and the unclear ending you might expect from films of the era. Hoffman makes the most of his role and with Harry Dean Stanton as support this is pretty fantastic from the point of view of performance. It was the incredible Russell’s sophomore movie, after The Last Tycoon. The following year she would be in the classic TV mini-series Blind Ambition;  the year after, the modern masterpiece, Bad Timing. All by the age of 23. Bunker wrote more novels and screenplays and acted a little – for Tarantino. Who else? (He was Mister Blue.)