Skip to main content

Okay, I’ll be as normal as hell.

Love Story
(1970)

(SPOILERS) There are some movies you studiously avoid but sense that, in the fulness of time, you owe it to yourself to see, just to confirm the uninformed opinion you already have on them. Mamma Mia’s one, and someday, perhaps when the world has awoken anew as a transhumanist paradise, I expect I shall brave those infernal waters. Love Story’s another, a movie that has become the very cliché of the woefully clichéd chick flick. It’s everything I expected and less, but it has the undeniable redeeming quality of being mercifully short.

That may be because there’s miniscule plot to speak off. Unfortunately then, while Love Story isn’t a long movie – it’s suggested that its brevity boosted its success, since cinemas could get in more screenings per day – it does rather go on and on by dint of not having a lot going on. That, and a severe shortfall in charisma on the side of its stars. The movie’s tear-sodden success surfed the perfect package of insipid drippiness, a simple but earworming tune (and title) and a couple of young pretty people. Pretty vacant ones. Oh, and tragedy. As Pauline Kael put, it a “‘contemporary’ R. & J. story”. Only, without any other discernible characters, Ryan’s dad aside, and thus suffocatingly insular.

I struggle to find positives. I’d note, for all its idiot sheen, director Arthur Hiller (never an auteur, as See No Evil, Hear No Evil readily attests) lends the material a naturalistic milieu, with real locations – including elite haven Harvard – and handheld camera. That doubtless upped the relatable ante – the Harvard part aside – for many of its swooning, inconsolable audiences. It needs the verisimilitude, as neither Ryan O’Neal nor Ali McGraw bring it.

Kael demolished the picture in expert fashion, observing “Those who are susceptible to this sort of movie may not even notice that Ali McGraw is horribly smug and smirky, though if you share my impulses, whenever she gets facetious you’ll probably want to wham her one”. And it’s true. I couldn’t for the life of me figure why – Bob Evans’ infatuation and the success of Goodbye, Columbus aside – Jenny was supposed to be appealing, with her insistently diminishing “What do you think, preppy?” snoots at rich jock Oliver (O’Neal). I was put in mind slightly of another Ally, Sheedy, in The Breakfast Club. Except that Sheedy’s a really good actress, not the sort whose “attempts at classy repartee are destroyed by nose-flaring, lip-curling amateurishness”.

On the other hand, Kael was generous to the studiously indifferent O’Neal, who “knows how to be emotional without being a slob”. Evans, self-aggrandising even when he was announcing himself as self-deprecating, was the major motive force behind the movie (his biography reads like Bogart if Bogart were a drama queen). He recounts how eight actors turned the picture down: “Conversely, any one of the brilliant eight would have become ‘fuck you’ rich making this ‘piece of shit’. Oh, and by the way, it was nominated for seven Academy Awards, including best actor and best actress”. Yes Bob, but how much did it do for either’s career? I mean, obviously, McGraw got McQueen and jettisoned Evans, while Ryan got Kubrick. But the latter only because bean counters mistakenly assessed him as someone audiences wanted to see (Love Story, Paper Moon, What’s Up, Doc? are about the extent of it. You know, Paper Moon – the one that should have been called Ryan's Daughter).

Hiller didn’t want O’Neal (understandably): “Let’s use Christopher Walken. He’s a legitimate actor”. That would have been commendably bizarre, but I doubt it would have saved the picture. Curiously, Evans recognised the Love Story was wafer thin, aghast at the first cut: “Just two pretty faces, Ali. No plot, holes as big as the Boulder Dam”. His solution was silence (“bike rides, car rides, running through the park together”). Montages, in other words. That’s quite shrewd, in fairness. But it doesn’t make Love Story a good movie, just a saleable one. One opening on Christmas Day. Well, it has a lot of snow.

Along these lines, I searched vainly for dramatic nourishment. You have to buy into these obnoxious kids’ – well thirty-year-olds playing a half decade or so younger – doomed romance. Without that, there’s nothing. Ray Milland is great, even in the cornball part of the manipulative, class-ridden father. I was curious to learn the novel ends with Oliver’s reconciliation with dad; it’s a shame this was lost, as that’s the his is the sole potentially engaging role.

There’s also a very young Tommy Lee Jones in one scene. Very young meaning he only looks about forty, rather than 24 that he was at the time. I was going to make a joke that Love Story might have been more interesting had Oliver, in common with many Ivy League schools, joined a secret society, but it seems Segal based Oliver both on Harvard graduate Jones and his roommate Al Gore

The picture, in its own low-calorie way, is trying to be zeitgeist-y, with its rejection of religion and the older generation’s rules (be they marriage or money). Kael dressed this up with “It deals in private passions at a time when we are exhausted from public defeats, and it deals with the mutual sacrifice of a hard-working, clean-cut pair of lovers, and with love beyond death”. Which sounds sociologically astute, but the success is really an example of not knowing there’s a gap in the market until you happen upon it (the largely female audience would return again and again). It wasn’t one that could be repeated, because whatever perverse alchemy Love Story wielded was based neither on stars nor script, but rather the idea of what the package represented at that moment.

Evans might have been right to a degree, then, in his vainglorious assessment that “Men and women equally hungry for an all but lost emotion – romance – kept returning to Love Story. More than a film, it was an aphrodisiac, a phenomenon”. That’s blarney and blather, of course, and I doubt the male contingent was going willingly, but Love Story exerted a draw in a similar way to Titanic quarter of a century later. I suspect the sequel – Oliver’s Story – flopped partly because no one who saw the original wished to be reminded of the malaise that washed over them eight years earlier. And because O’Neal was never a star.

Time Out’s Geoff Andrew dismissed Love Story as “Dated before it was made” and “The bland mating of love and leukaemia”. The novel was written after the script but became a bestseller prior to the movie’s release; Kael noted the publishing phenomenon (“One can be sure that movie companies will now take a new interest in the script-into-novel market”). This would be the decade of The Exorcist, The Godfather and Jaws, all publishing phenomena (if not script to text, they’re near enough in terms of sudden combined might).

Anthony Holden has it, in The Secret History of the Hollywood Academy Awards, that Love Story was nominated “by virtue of its huge commercial success” (see also the later Titanic). He doesn’t stop there, though, suggesting it was also down to “the fact that its female lead, Ali McGraw, was married to the head of Paramount, Robert Evans”. Why, the temerity of the accusation! And Robert, such good pals with spotless rap-sheet elite-stooge luminary Henry Kissinger and all! This kind of thing isn’t/wasn’t uncommon, of course. But even if one is inclined to give Love Story a free pass based on populism (it shared Best Picture nominee space with Airport that year), there’s considerably less leeway in deducing how it was that either McGraw or O’Neal managed Best Actress and Best Actor nods for their torpid turns. “Evans’s clout around town was in itself enough to win McGraw a Leading Role nomination” attested Holden.

“Love Story didn’t open, it exploded” boasted Evans. The only hint of that pull to a cold, unwaveringly dry eye fifty years on is the insistent Francis Lai theme, the leading blub of the opening line (“What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?”) and the ridiculous – but ridiculously memorable – poster line “Love means never having to say you’re sorry”. Writer Erich Segal went on to unparalleled lack of success in his various adaptations. Among them was A Change of Seasons, in which Anthony Hopkins romps in a hot tub with Bo Derek. Surely, it’s time for the multiple Oscar-winning jab dodger’s lost classic to be rediscovered? What do you say about a fifty-year-old movie that made you want to run and hide? Love Story’s very dull, and absent of drama or charm, but it isn’t actually awful for the most part. Like its leads, it’s devotedly indifferent.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Maybe he had one too many peanut butter and fried banana sandwiches.

3000 Miles to Graceland (2001) (SPOILERS) The kind of movie that makes your average Tarantino knockoff look classy, 3000 Miles to Graceland is both aggressively unpleasant and acutely absent any virtues, either as a script or a stylistic exercise. The most baffling thing about it is how it attracted Kevin Costner and Kurt Russell, particularly since both ought to have been extra choosy at this point, having toplined expensive bombs in the previous half decade that made them significantly less bankable names. And if you’re wondering how this managed to cost the $62m reported on Wiki, it didn’t; Franchise Pictures, one of the backers, was in the business of fraudulently inflating budgets .

We’re looking into a possible pattern of nationwide anti-Catholic hate crimes.

Vampires aka John Carpenter’s Vampires (1998) (SPOILERS) John Carpenter limps less-than-boldly onward, his desiccated cadaver no longer attentive to the filmic basics of quality, taste, discernment, rhyme or reason. Apparently, he made his pre-penultimate picture to see if his enthusiasm for the process truly had drained away, and he only went and discovered he really enjoyed himself. It doesn’t show. Vampires is as flat, lifeless, shoddily shot, framed and edited as the majority of his ’90s output, only with a repellent veneer of macho bombast spread on top to boot.

I dreamed about a guy in a dirty red and green sweater.

A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) (SPOILERS) I first saw A Nightmare on Elm Street a little under a decade after its release, and I was distinctly underwhelmed five or so sequels and all the hype. Not that it didn’t have its moments, but there was an “It’ll do” quality that reflects most of the Wes Craven movies I’ve seen. Aside from the postmodern tease of A New Nightmare – like Last Action Hero , unfairly maligned – I’d never bothered with the rest of the series, in part because I’m just not that big a horror buff, but also because the rule that the first is usually the best in any series, irrespective of genre, tends to hold out more often than not. So now I’m finally getting round to them, and it seemed only fair to start by giving Freddy’s first another shot. My initial reaction holds true.

I must remind you that the scanning experience is usually a painful one.

Scanners (1981) (SPOILERS) David Cronenberg has made a career – albeit, he may have “matured” a little over the past few decades, so it is now somewhat less foregrounded – from sticking up for the less edifying notions of evolution and modern scientific thought. The idea that regress is, in fact, a form of progress, and unpropitious developments are less dead ends than a means to a state or states as yet unappreciated. He began this path with some squeam-worthy body horrors, before genre hopping to more explicit science fiction with Scanners , and with it, greater critical acclaim and a wider audience. And it remains a good movie, even as it suffers from an unprepossessing lead and rather fumbles the last furlong, cutting to the chase when a more measured, considered approach would have paid dividends.

You seem particularly triggered right now. Can you tell me what happened?

Trailers The Matrix Resurrections   The Matrix A woke n ? If nothing else, the arrival of The Matrix Resurrections trailer has yielded much retrospective back and forth on the extent to which the original trilogy shat the bed. That probably isn’t its most significant legacy, of course, in terms of a series that has informed, subconsciously or otherwise, intentionally or otherwise, much of the way in which twenty-first century conspiracy theory has been framed and discussed. It is however, uncontested that a first movie that was officially the “best thing ever”, that aesthetically and stylistically reinvigorated mainstream blockbuster cinema in a manner unseen again until Fury Road , squandered all that good will with astonishing speed by the time 2003 was over.

We got two honkies out there dressed like Hassidic diamond merchants.

The Blues Brothers (1980) (SPOILERS) I had limited awareness of John Belushi’s immense mythos before  The Blues Brothers arrived on retail video in the UK (so 1991?) My familiarity with SNL performers really began with Ghostbusters ’ release, which meant picking up the trail of Jake and Elwood was very much a retrospective deal. I knew Animal House , knew Belushi’s impact there, knew 1941 (the Jaws parody was the best bit), knew Wired was a biopic better avoided. But the minor renaissance he, and they, underwent in the UK in the early ’90s seemed to have been initiated by Jive Bunny and the Mastermixers, of all things; Everybody Needs Somebody was part of their That Sounds Good to Me medley, the first of their hits not to make No.1, and Everybody ’s subsequent single release then just missed the Top Ten. Perhaps it was this that hastened CIC/Universal to putting the comedy out on video. Had the movie done the rounds on UK TV in the 80s? If so, it managed to pass me by. Even bef

Remember. Decision. Consequence.

Day Break (2006) (SPOILERS) Day Break is the rare series that was lucky to get cancelled. And not in a mercy-killing way. It got to tell its story. Sure, apparently there were other stories. Other days to break. But would it have justified going there? Or would it have proved tantalising/reticent about the elusive reason its protagonist has to keep stirring and repeating? You bet it would. Offering occasional crumbs, and then, when it finally comes time to wrap things up, giving an explanation that satisfies no one/is a cop out/offers a hint at some nebulous existential mission better left to the viewer to conjure up on their own. Best that it didn’t even try to go there.

Maybe I’m a heel who hates guys who hate heels.

Crimewave (1985) (SPOILERS) A movie’s makers’ disowning it doesn’t necessarily mean there’s nothing of worth therein, just that they don’t find anything of worth in it. Or the whole process of making it too painful to contemplate. Sam Raimi’s had a few of those, experiencing traumas with Darkman a few years after Crimewave . But I, blissfully unaware of such issues, was bowled over by it when I caught it a few years after its release (I’d hazard it was BBC2’s American Wave 2 season in 1988). This was my first Sam Raimi movie, and I was instantly a fan of whoever it was managed to translate the energy and visual acumen of a cartoon to the realm of live action. The picture is not without its problems – and at least some of them directly correspond to why it’s so rueful for Raimi – but that initial flair I recognised still lifts it.

I admit it. I live in a highly excited state of overstimulation.

Videodrome (1983) (SPOILERS) I’m one of those who thinks Cronenberg’s version of Total Recall would have been much more satisfying than the one we got (which is pretty good, but flawed; I’m referring to the Arnie movie, of course, not the Farrell). The counter is that Videodrome makes a Cronenberg Philip K Dick adaptation largely redundant. It makes his later Existenz largely redundant too. Videodrome remains a strikingly potent achievement, taking the directors thematic obsessions to the next level, one as fixated on warping the mind as the body. Like many Cronenbergs, it isn’t quite there, but it exerts a hold on the viewer not dissimilar to the one slowly entwining its protagonist Max Renn (James Woods).

White nights getting to you?

Insomnia (2002) (SPOILERS) I’ve never been mad keen on Insomnia . It’s well made, well-acted, the screenplay is solid and it fits in neatly with Christopher Nolan’s abiding thematic interests, but it’s… There’s something entirely adequateabout it. It isn’t pushing any kind of envelope. It’s happy to be the genre-bound crime study it is and nothing more, something emphasised by Pacino’s umpteenth turn as an under-pressure cop.