The Silent Partner (1978)

          An obscure but diverting thriller produced in Canada with American leading man Elliot Gould and Canadian-born Hollywood star Christopher Plummer, The Silent Partner was written for the screen by Curtis Hanson, who later demonstrated his acumen for the thriller genre by writing and/or directing critical faves including L.A. Confidential (1997). Complex and smart, Hanson’s script—which was based on a novel by Anders Bodelson—boasts not only a nifty set of plot twists but also wry wit and a surprising degree of savagery. In particular, the movie features one of the nastiest screen villains of the ’70s, and Plummer, who plays the baddie, clearly relished an opportunity to skewer the nice-guy image that had haunted him since his appearance in the squeaky-clean blockbuster The Sound of Music (1965).

          Gould, portraying one of his signature put-upon everyman characters, stars as Canadian bank teller Miles Cullen, whose branch gets robbed by a thief named Harry Reikle (Plummer). In a memorable flourish, Harry commits the crime while dressed as Santa Claus. Through circumstances that needn’t be explained here, Harry flees the bank without his stolen cash, which remains in Miles’ possession. However, because the bank believes the money is gone, Miles helps himself to the haul. Emboldened by his unexpected transition to criminality, Miles also becomes involved with a dark-haired femme fatale, played by the smoldering Canadian singer/starlet Céline Lomez. Unluckily for everyone involved, she’s also connected to Harry. Here’s the kicker: When Harry learns that he and Miles are both complicit in criminal activity, the crook manipulates his “silent partner” into participating in further larceny. It gets ugly.

          The plot requires a considerable suspension of disbelief, and some viewers may be turned off by the lack of a tangible moral center—even though Harry is a monster, Miles is at the very least a reckless weasel who endangers everyone around him for petty reasons. Yet the movie remains interesting because of its unexpected rhythms and vivid performances. Sure, Gould did similar work in many other films, but Plummer dives wholeheartedly into portraying a sociopath, and Lomez more than delivers the requisite measure of sexual heat. (Poor Susanna York, as was so often the case, wilts in a bland supporting role, though her elegant presence offers a small complement to the craven behavior surrounding her character.) Director Daryl Duke, whose career mostly comprises melodramatic TV projects including the ’80s miniseries The Thorn Birds, serves the edgy material well, guiding actors toward uninhibited work much as he did with the acidic music-industry drama Payday (1972). So, while The Silent Partner might not hold up to close scrutiny, it’s strikingly intense and mean-spirited.

The Silent Partner: GROOVY

The Shout (1978)

          Offering a psychological twist on the ’70s supernatural horror fad, this bizarre British movie introduces viewers to a mystery man who says he can kill by screaming. Exploring that strange ability might seem like enough work for one movie, but the team behind The Shout tackles quite a bit more in terms of character and narrative. However, the filmmakers largely eschew definitive explanations for the strange things that happen onscreen, so The Shout ends up being thoroughly ambiguous. Some viewers may take the picture literally, some might interpret the story on a metaphorical level, and some will simply find the whole thing to be metaphysical hogwash. Yet in a sense, all three reactions are correct, because The Shout is such an abstract piece of storytelling (even though the progression of onscreen events is fairly linear) that it seems evident the filmmakers wanted to leave viewers perplexed.

          The basic story is that Crossley (Alan Bates), a swaggering stranger exuding dark charisma, worms his way into the lives of English music composer Anthony Fielding (John Hurt) and Fielding’s wife, Rachel (Susannah York). The Fieldings live in a remote coastal town, so the high fields and windswept dunes surrounding their house give The Shouta creepy, Wuthering Heights-esque atmosphere. This vibe is accentuated by the movie’s otherworldly electronic score, which was created by Tony Banks and Mike Rutherford of the rock band Genesis.

          As the story progresses, Crossley captivates and frightens the Fieldings with stories of his training by an aboriginal mystic in the use of voice as a weapon, and eventually Crossley demonstrates his “gift” by screaming at a sheep until it dies. Furthermore, Crossley puts some sort of psychosexual spell on Rachel, thus emasculating Anthony and suggesting that Crossley wants to steal Anthony’s life (or his soul, or something). As directed by artsy Polish filmmaker Jerzy Skolimowski, The Shouthas some undeniably disturbing moments even though the sum effect is dulled by vagueness. Bates’ intensity makes up for a lot of shortcomings, and the image of him standing on a sandy hill beneath an overcast sky while he screams to the accompaniment of shrieking sound effects is weirdly haunting. The Shout is not for everyone, but it belongs somewhere on the pantheon of intellectualized horror that also includes The Wicker Man (1974).

The Shout: FUNKY

Sky Riders (1976)

          While it’s not much of a movie, Sky Riders is novel in two regards—it’s built around the sport of hang-gliding, and it contains one of the longest action scenes you’ll ever encounter. In fact, the first half-hour is merely preamble for a rescue mission that unfolds more or less in real time throughout the remainder of the picture. So, if you can trudge through 30 minutes of small talk and do without nuances like clearly defined characters and memorable dialogue, you’ll be rewarded with a solid hour of fighting and flying. Set in Greece, the movie begins at the estate of American industrialist Jonas Bracken (Robert Culp). While Jonas is away on business one morning, a group of terrorists breaks into his compound and kidnaps Jonas’ wife, Ellen (Susannah York), and the Brackens’ two children. Once Jonas is informed of the crime, he’s forced to work with a rigid cop named Inspector Nikolidis (Charles Aznavour), who seems more concerned with capturing the perpetrators than rescuing hostages. The X-factor in the story is Jim McCabe (James Coburn), Ellen’s ex-husband and the biological father of the Brackens’ oldest child. Vaguely introduced as some sort of international criminal/smuggler/spy, Jim decides the police aren’t moving fast enough, so he uses underworld contacts to mount a speedy investigation.

          Jim soon discovers the Brackens are being held in a remote, abandoned monastery that’s perched atop a mountain and accessible by only one road—in essence, a fortress with perfect natural defense. Eyeballing the location in person, Jim gets an idea when he sees birds flying around—so he tracks down a group of American hang-glider pilots, who perform a traveling-circus act featuring aerial stunts, and offers them a pile of cash to serve as his personal airborne commando unit. Obviously, the people behind Sky Riders had to twist their story in knots to justify the hang-gliding gimmick, but once the movie gets cooking, it’s all good—with composer Lalo Schifrin’s exciting music leading the way, vivid images of hang-glider pilots zooming toward the fortress, and then trying to escape amid a barrage of gunfire, create genuine excitement. (Coburn gets extra credit for performing a few jaw-dropping stunts, like hanging off the skids of a flying helicopter.) So, while Sky Riders offers virtually nothing of substance—although York conveys intensity during brief scenes depicting her captivity—the action is consistently colorful and dynamic.

Sky Riders: FUNKY

X, Y & Zee (1972)

          Yet another shrill melodrama from the bleakest period of Elizabeth Taylor’s screen career—the wasteland between her triumphant performance in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966) and her ascension to grande dame status in the ’80s—X, Y & Zee features Taylor and Michael Caine as hateful spouses battling over issues including the husband’s myriad dalliances. In other words, it’s nearly 110 minutes of Taylor screaming, threatening, and whining. Set in London, the movie tracks the relationship between unfaithful architect Robert Blakely (Caine) and his disturbed wife, Zee (Taylor). They fight virtually from sun-up to sundown, with Zee constantly promising to kill herself and/or Robert; meanwhile, Robert alternates between joining the sparring matches and numbing himself with booze. At a lavish party one night, Robert meets Stella (Susannah York), an elegant and seemingly untroubled young woman, with whom he begins an affair. However, as Robert’s feelings for Stella blossom into love, a threatened Zee lashes out by stalking the lovers, tossing Robert’s possessions into the street, and, finally, attempting suicide.

          Then, while recovering in the hospital, Zee requests that Stella visit her, and Stella, quite stupidly, accepts the offer. Zee starts playing mind games with her husband’s mistress, who inexplicably reveals to Zee her deepest personal secret. And so it goes—to quote a line Stella delivers to Robert at one point, “It’s all very brittle and boring and trite.” She’s talking about Zee’s behavior, but she could just as easily be talking about X, Y & Zee itself. Caine is fine here, since he does icy nastiness better than just about anyone, though York is merely decorative, while Taylor is an outright embarrassment. She overacts ridiculously; she’s slathered with whorish eye makeup; she wears flamboyant costumes like muumuus and ponchos, presumably to mask her expanding waistline; and she sports silly fashion accoutrements like, at one point, a gold headband that looks like a leftover from her days playing Cleopatra. (Available through Columbia Screen Classics via WarnerArchive.com)

X, Y & Zee: LAME