Archive for Charley Varrick

Movie of the Week

Posted in FILM, Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 8, 2015 by dcairns


My friend and collaborator Niall Greig Fulton — Edinburgh Film Festival Programmer and actor — has put together an enticing season of American TV movies for this year’s fest, including such classics as Salem’s Lot, Duel, The Jericho Mile and the rarely-seen Noon Wine. It’s all about finding the cinematic in the televisual, and with an array of directors like Hooper, Spielberg, Mann and Peckinpah, the exercise is clearly going to be worthwhile.

I’ve seen a few interesting pieces from this era of US TV — A Cold Night’s Death is about killer psychic chimps at the North Pole, which is pretty non-generic. You can watch that one here. I wrote about Gene Roddenberry’s bizarre Spectre here, a show which introduced me to the thrills of Robert Culp. Rod Serling’s The Man looked at the travails of America’s first black presodent. But I wanted to dig a little deeper to see what else I could find, because really, I remember American TV of the seventies as a HORRIBLE WASTELAND. Growing up in the UK we saw a lot of it, you see, and the good bits were very much overshadowed by the transcontinental miasma of blandness. It was apparent that things like The Rockford Files were a cut above. But on the whole, everything looked the same, was shot the same, used the same locations, the actors all seemed to look the same and dress the same and talk at the same speed, the credits were all in yellow blocky letters, and it kept fading to black in the middle of scenes, where the BBC had removed the ad breaks. I think you could make a pretty good case that any show that fades to black in the middle of a scene and then fades up again with everybody still standing in the same position (with meaningless musical sting as we fade out and in) just shouldn’t have been on the BBC at all.


The first thing I looked at was Stranger on the Run, an early (1967) TV Movie of the Week, given the class treatment — it reunites star Henry Fonda with his 12 ANGRY MEN writer Reginald Rose, though Rose’s story has been fleshed out by screenwriter Dean Riesner (coincidentally the son of Chuck Riesner). The director is Don Siegel, and how these talents fit together within the context of a TV movie is sort of interesting.

The story transposes to the west and then inverts the premise of 12 ANGRY MEN (itself a TV play before the more famous movie) — Fonda is now the suspect, an alcoholic drifter hunted by a surly posse of railway company thugs for murdering a woman. The debate about his possible innocence (of course we know he’s innocent) occurs among the posse as they track him, which in theory should make it more exciting and filmic. In fact, Riesner’s dramatic values — he was a writer for Siegel, on COOGAN’S BLUFF, DIRTY HARRY and CHARLEY VARRICK, which I would characterise as a desire to play out a story’s themes in the form of action, without philosophising about it — rather clash with Rose’s, since he sets things up deliberately to provoke debates about personal and social values. In 12 ANGRY MEN these are filtered through some strong, sweaty characters, so it’s still solid drama. Here, the genre action doesn’t seem to reinforce the deeper themes, though there’s some good talk in there. When Fonda mourns that the day of testing whether he’s a man has passed, and he failed the challenge, Bernie Hamilton cheers him with a hearty “That just means you’re lucky — you’re going to get another chance!” An upbeat way of viewing the present situation, which is that a gang on armed men are coming to kill him.


The movie is crammed with interesting actors — Anne Baxter is top-billed after Fonda. They’re good together, and he’s particularly effective as a broken-down hobo, not trying to make the character more initially appealing than he should be. Michael Parks, Dan Duryea, Sal Mineo, Tom Reese and Zalman King (!) make a characterful posse. Plus Lloyd Bochner and the reliably strange-looking Walter Burke.

In the early scenes, Siegel seems to have a lot of trouble covering scenes with all these mugs, no doubt due to the tight schedule. He does fine in the exteriors, but most interior scenes get treated with one wide shot that’s too wide for comfort — it serves to establish where everyone is, but then you can’t look at it any longer because everyone’s miles away — then he’ll cut to individual closeups that are too tight — we lose all context and quickly get a little disoriented. In general, critics don’t talk about the problems of shooting large groups, but it’s an absolute nightmare. You never have time to shoot a single on everyone, and if you do, it confuses the audience. I had some fun with the worst ever example of this, here. A far better approach is to make each shot work as hard as possible, tying in one character to another to keep the audience cognisant of who is where in relation to whom. A truly amazing example, from Otto Preminger, is discussed here. Siegel’s best strategy might have been to spend all his time picking a great master shot and then hold it, as he would on CHARLEY VARRICK, for instance, but TV, with its low-res image and demand for close-ups, wouldn’t have allowed that.

Ultimately, Stranger on the Run feels like a B-movie with ideas above its station, ideas which overstuff it and overbalance it, and the plethora of characters (who never quite develop into a caseload of suspects for us to wonder about, as they would in a well-plotted mystery) spread the drama too thin. The production values are OK — the desert cycloramas are a lot more convincing than in Siegel’s more celebrated THE KILLERS (originally made for TV but fobbed off on the big screen after concerns about the violence). But it isn’t clean and simple like, say, THE LINE-UP, and the look has a generic quality, that made-for-TV feel, which dulls down the possibilities of the form.


Chris Schneider recommended The Outsider, a 1967 PI story directed by Michael Ritchie and crammed with aging Hollywood greats — the presence of Ann Sothern, Edmund O’Brien and Audrey Totter could almost put this in the league of something like THE OUTFIT. Then there’s Shirley Knight, Ossie Davis and Joseph Wiseman. In the lead, Darren McGavin is surly and deadpan and very, very enjoyable, with Roy Huggins’ script providing plenty of zingers (it’s no surprise to learn Huggins created Jim Rockford and thereby trained up David Chase).

Best of all, it’s directed by Michael Ritchie, just about to break into features on the big screen and eager to show what he can do, even on the kind of schedule where the grips start disassembling the tripod before you’ve said “Cut!”

McGavin’s down-at-heel gumshoe is, per genre requirements, perpetually sleep-deprived and roughed up, though the scenario comes up with novel ways of mistreating him — a near-garrotting and a drugging with chloral hydrate that leads to the stomach-pump. Even Jim Rockford didn’t have it this tough.


My favourite bit started off looking like it would be an embarrassment. Having tracked his would-be strangler to a beach-side shack, McGavin finds the suspect’s mother, Ann Sothern, who tells him that the guy is inside, tripping with a friend and won’t be coherent for interrogation for several hours. They go in, and there’s sitar music playing and hysterical laughter from the next room, which is kind of ridiculous. And here’s Joseph Wiseman — Dr. No himself, as the acid guru, who starts lecturing McGavin about the joys of turning on and experiencing the cosmic laughter. And all this while, Sothern is plugged into headphones and smiling at a TV game show where various sub-lebrities are trying to guess the phrase “Little Lord Fauntleroy.” Big closeups and surprise angle changes start to suggest all this is getting to McGavin. The world has slipped out of joint. In other words, while the young hood is having a TV movie acid trip next door, with laughing and freak-outs and sitar music and a fisheye lens on a handheld camera — McGavin is having a REAL acid trip in the front room — an experience in which reality comes to seem unreal.


That sensation is one which the TV movie genre could profitably have pursued more doggedly — it is well within the constraints of time and budget, it can work within all kinds of genres, and it is familiar enough to anybody paying attention to the real world that it ought to be highly commercial, a staple of entertainment like romance or tension.

“We didn’t need dialogue. We had faces!”

Posted in FILM, literature, Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 4, 2008 by dcairns


It doesn’t really look like there’s a head growing up out of his neck, more like there’s a scrotum hanging out of his hat. Adorable.

For all his famous work with Walter Matthau (pictured), director Billy Wilder, who can be credited with first pairing Matthau with Jack Lemmon, never seemed to grasp the fundamental truth: we love Walter Matthau. Wilder kept casting W.M. as lowlifes, scumbags and grifters (from a crook in THE FORTUNE COOKIE to a hitman in the appalling BUDDY, BUDDY): hate-figures for Lemmon to act nervous and vulnerable next to, when in fact the entire point of this unique and wonderful actor is his transformation of boredom into an attractive quality, his hangdog avuncular grouchiness, and his long-suffering Oliver Hardy-type appeal to our sympathies.

I have nothing to say

These winning qualities all emanate from from a preposterous physical substance (avoid any film which reveals Matthau in a bath-towel), hunchbacked, pot-bellied, sunken-chested, bow-legged, flat-footed, with long bony hands flapping limply like the wing-tips of a disappointed eagle, and fronted by a rumpled and pouchy kisser that looks like it’s sculpted from all the wrinkly bits snipped off of fifty years of Hollywood royalty at the plastic surgeon’s.

Though celebrated for his comedies, Matthau’s best roles are in thrillers — CHARLEY VARRICK, THE TAKING OF PELHAM 123 and THE LAUGHING POLICEMAN, where his hard-assed side can find fuller expression without turning him into a heavy. Because we want a full demonstration of Matthau’s worst traits, and we want to love him the while.

THE LAUGHING POLICEMAN is one of the best films directed by Stuart Rosenberg, who died last March. Rosenberg also helmed COOL HAND LUKE which, in the sunny days of my childhood, seemed to be on T.V. every week. His Matthau film is a funny and smart and very veryseventies cop thriller, based on a Swedish novel but set in San Francisco. It walks a fine, meandering line between liberal tolerance and outright homophobia in its politics, and allows Matthau to grumble, of a high-powered lawyer: ‘Probably got enough juice to get a sodomy beef reduced to “following too close”,’ which is a great line even if it does commit the cardinal sin of using the words “sodomy” “beef” and “juice” in the same sentence. Anyhow, the whole thing fizzles out in an overlong bus chase, but we can forgive that for the beauteous fluorescent striplighting photography, the suave support of Bruce Dern and Louis Gossett Jnr, and Anthony Zerbe, who can do no wrong, and the fact that Joanna Cassidy’s beauty takes the breath away.


CHARLEY VARRICK is an authentically tough movie from the revered Don Siegel, and it’s maybe the guy’s best thriller. Walt is Charley, an independent heist artist who has trouble from corrupt authorities and a double-crossing young punk sidekick (the majestic Andy Robertson, best known as Scorpio the Zodiac Killer substitute in Siegel’s DIRTY HARRY).


THE TAKING OF PELHAM 123 can loosely be typed as a group-jeopardy movie, which is to say we can’t quite label it as a disaster movie (although Matthau did contribute a mysterious one-shot cameo to EARTHQUAKE, using the pseudonym Walter Matuschanskayasky. Very weird film, that, being one of the very few contemporary dramas where nearly all the cast were wigs). Joseph Sargent, who’s had an amazingly long career, directs this one, and seems at times to be channelling Fritz Lang, as he cross-cuts narrative strands to make definite statements: a line about the value of a human lifeis followed by a pointed cut to wads of ransom money being counted. Matthau is an island of bored humanity in a dyspeptic sea of surly New Yorkers, in a city on the verge of breaking down utterly because those who, like Matthau, care enough to do a decent job are in a distinct minority (and the film proceeds to thin their ranks even more).


There’s a story I love from the making of BUDDY BUDDY, the only funny thing associated with that movie (which is to Wilder, Lemmon and Matthau as ATOLL K is to Laurel & Hardy — a painful object to be SHUNNED. For once the invective unleashed by Klaus Kinski in his hysterical autobiography is justified when he describes that film) —

Sliding down a laundry shoot, Matthau missed the crash mat and injured his back (stick with me, it gets funnier).

An ambulance is called and Jack Lemmon, an emotional man, kneels by his friend, in tears. “Can I get you anything?” he pleads, and, “Are you comfortable?”

Matthau looks up at him with his Droopy visage and replies, “I make a reasonable living.”

three comrades

(Oh, and I’m working my way through Donald Westlake’s excellent Dortmunder books, and Matthau is my Blue Sky Casting choice for Dortmunder, hands down. Thriller fans, check them out!)