As is now long-standing tradition, every summer Mid Century Cinema surfaces with a “Fifty Years Ago” Top 10 list. (As always, please refer to the Wally and Andre rules about the ridiculousness of such exercises.) This season brings us to 1971, an outstanding year for the movies and one of the high water marks of the New Hollywood. Indeed, it was such a strong year the films that would slot in from eleven to twenty would have made for a very strong top ten in its own right.
Consider some of those missing from this action: Jacques Rivette’s monumental Out 1; the much revered Two Lane Blacktop; A Clockwork Orange; and the best film George Lucas ever made, to name four. And we regret that Louis Malle’s Murmur of the Heart did not make the cut, an excellent and provocative film that could not be made today. This list of near-misses could easily be extended.
So yes, the “Top Ten” can be a cruel mistress. But what a year. In alphabetical order, the best of 1971:
Carnal Knowledge In a recent essay we argued that Mike Nichols’ best films were distinguished by “weeks of pre-production rehearsals and exercises with the cast (a rarity in Hollywood), close collaboration with gifted cinematographers, and edgy, envelope-pushing material focused on the relationships between women and men.” And Carnal Knowledge is an exemplar of that most welcome and distinct style. Written by Jules Feiffer and shot on locations by Giuseppe Rotunno (in particular in the splendid isolation of Vancouver, far from prying studio eyes), Nichols elicited outstanding performances from Jack Nicholson, Art Garfunkel, Candice Bergen and Ann Margaret, in a blistering interrogation of their characters.
The French Connection William Friedkin’s finest film is oft remembered for its legendary car chase—though we actually favor this slower-paced if still hot pursuit. In any event, The French Connection earns its stripes here for more enduring reasons. It showcases a career-making performance for the already established Gene Hackman (whose Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle, crucially, is not a nice guy—an important seventies film trademark), and arguably sets the template for the gritty New York City cop film. Much of that credit should fall to Director of Photography Owen Roizman, who would emerge as a go-to cinematographer for naturalistic shooting on the streets of the Big Apple in decay. The French Connection also has something to say about class (note the hot dog scene), and features strong supporting turns by Roy Scheider and the legendary Fernando Rey.
The Hired Hand Peter Fonda’s debut effort as a director is distinguished by its maturity and restraint. It is also, uncommonly for a western, heavily invested in its principal female character, played by Verna Bloom. It was this element of the script that first piqued Fonda’s interest in the project, a quality lauded by Molly Haskell, who praised the movie for its sophisticated treatment of gender roles, and the “open-eyed integrity” of the exchanges involving Bloom. (The actor also shares this priceless anecdote: when she asked warily about expectations regarding on-screen nudity, her director promptly replied, “The only one who gets naked in a Peter Fonda movie is Peter Fonda.”) Warren Oates, Fonda’s “first and only choice” for the role, rounded out a complex triangle of relationships. The Hired Hand was shot by Vilmos Zsigmond, written by Alan (Night Moves) Sharp, and featured music by Bruce Langhorne. Buried by reliably obtuse studio suits at the time of its release, its reputation has grown immensely over the years.
Just Before Nightfall Mid Century Cinema favorite Claude Chabrol had an astonishing run of twelve films from 1968 to 1975—and Just Before Nightfall is the best of them. It is also, perhaps, his most representative. Chabrol is often called the “French Hitchcock,” and although the affinities are obvious, the label an injustice to both auteurs. One key difference: the archetypal Hitchcock “double chase” adventure features an over-pursued man on the run, dodging both the cops and perpetrators of a crime for which he is unjustly wanted. For Chabrol, with Hitchcock (and Lang), guilt is indeed a central métier. But in Just Before Nightfall and elsewhere, the greatest burdens of guilt are self-imposed. Simply put, one of our all-time favorite films.
Klute One of the landmark achievements of the New Hollywood, Klute has it all—starting with Jane Fonda’s greatest performance. Like many prodigious films, it pretends to be a thriller when it is actually something quite different—Klute is an intense character study of uncommon depth. Another seventies film shot on the mean streets of New York City, it was also the first entry in the “paranoid trilogy” from director Alan J. Pakula and virtuoso cinematographer Gordon Willis. Klute also covers a good bit of ground; note the prescient emphasis on surveillance, and that key line, “goddamn hypocrite squares,” speaks volumes. But it is ultimately concerned with the personal, and questions of autonomy and intimacy. Donald Sutherland’s understated performance provides the backdrop that anchors the action.
The Last Picture Show Yet another essential film. Shot in glorious black and white (at the urging of Orson Welles) a choice that most studios would have likely forbidden. But Picture Show was a BBS production, and they let their artists do what they might, even relative neophyte Peter Bogdanovich. We talk about this one in “BBS and the New Hollywood Dream,” and note two curiosities: it is an adaptation of a celebrated novel (by Larry McMurtry), yet the screenplay is vastly superior in key moments; for a movie nominally focused on the friendship between two young men, the movie is carried by the indelible performances of its female players (Eileen Brennan, Ellen Burstyn, Cloris Leachman, and Cybill Shepherd).
Max and the Junkmen Claude Sautet is the least well known of the directors on this list, possibly because, with one or two exceptions, his restrained, observational style does not lead to films that grab the viewer and announce their greatness. Nevertheless, as many as half of his seventeen features are candidates for annual Top Ten lists—including four from the 1970s. And Bertrand Tavernier dedicated My Journey through French Cinema to Sautet, which ought to get your attention. Sautet’s seventies films often featured Romy Schneider and Michel Piccoli, both of whom grace Max and the Junkmen, which is a special film, and among our favorites.
McCabe & Mrs. Miller Robert Altman’s anti-western revisits – and shatters – every myth about the genre with the fury of Orson Welles trashing Susan’s room at the end of Citizen Kane. The heroic man of the west is plainly out of his depth, the distinction between capitalism and organized crime is hard to see, gunslingers follow no noble code, the American dream is empty rhetoric, and good guys have no chance. (That sentence sounds less subtle than it plays.) Note also the central role of “Mrs. Miller”—the novel was simply McCabe. And Altman’s revisionism was of both style and substance; the movie features (often impossibly) muddy sound, and an innovative, pitch-perfect, washed out visual style courtesy of cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond. Warren Beatty and Julie Christie, both excellent, headline a cast that features a party of Altman favorites; the mournful songs of Leonard Cohen fit seamlessly. All in all, in the words of Pauline Kael, “McCabe & Mrs. Miller is a beautiful pipe dream of a movie—a fleeting, almost diaphanous vision of what frontier life might have been.”
Sunday Bloody Sunday Some critics of John Schlesinger’s envelope-pushing masterpiece Midnight Cowboy castigated it for lacking the courage of its convictions. They suggested, a la Dr. Evil, that Cowboy was the Diet Coke of gay: Not. Gay. Enough. We disagree, and see that brilliant effort as a film about loneliness and friendship. In any event, Schlesinger followed Cowboy with Sunday Bloody Sunday – written by the critic Penelope Gilliatt and starring Peter Finch, Glenda Jackson, and Murray Head – a film of such plain frankness that some on the crew at times felt the need to shield their delicate eyes from the unfolding action. But Sunday is not a film about a gay protagonist (Finch, standing in for Schlesinger in what was his most personal film)—it’s a great movie with a central character who happens to be gay.
The Touch Seventies icon Elliot Gould had a reputation for being “difficult”—which is Hollywoodese for someone who doesn’t play their game, and is interested in ambitious efforts not necessarily designed to squeeze out every possible box office dollar. (And, ok, maybe he was, at times, uh, difficult.) It’s also the sort of attitude that lands a scruffy American in an Ingmar Bergman film. The Touch, in English and featuring a scruffy American, was not well received upon release. But with the passage of time it is increasingly appreciated, on the strength of its performances (Max von Sydow and Bibi Andersson play key roles) and an especially impressive second half. All told, The Touch is above-average Bergman—which is to say, brilliant and outstanding. Or as Gould put it, “the film is a fucking masterpiece, and it’s like the song goes: You can’t take that away from me.”
