That '70s Drift

 

SAVE THE TIGER (1973) (B+) - There are few actors who could do the things that Jack Lemmon did. He was a leading man with the heart of a character actor. Here he is Harry Stoner, a harried co-owner of an L.A. fashion house where he and his partner have been cooking the books to survive and now are considering arson as a solution.

Harry is obsessed with the past, in this case (it being the ugly early '70s) the 1939 Brooklyn Dodgers, World War II (he's a vet) and big-band music (he once was a drummer). When Harry wakes up in the opening scene, hung over from a party the night before, he looks ten times worse than the lush he played in "Days of Wine and Roses." But he cleans up well (a running gag throughout the film finds multiple acquaintances complimenting on his Italian silk suit) and heads to the office on the day of a big fashion show for buyers. On the drive in (in his Chevrolet Aircraft Carrier) he picks up a hitchhiker, Myra, a hippie chick who aimlessly car-surfs the Strip and propositions Harry, who politely declines. (An example of snappy dialogue from Steve Shagan, adapting his own novel: when Myra claims to be 20, Harry replies, "No one is 20!" He then lies and says he's 33.)

You just know Myra (newcomer Laurie Heineman) will show up again in the final reel, but before then, we need to explore the depths of Harry's desperation and degradation. Harry, hectored by his wife to see a psychologist, is sullen, but his unhappiness sometimes has a point -- he laments that Capri went from a battle site in Italy to a fashion forum, with no one appreciating the sacrifice. Meantime, doctoring the financials has led Harry and his partner, Phil (an perfect Jack Gilford), into a dance dodging mob shylocks (a nice turn by Ned Glass) and placating greedy buyers, one of whom demands a repeat visit with a prostitute from Harry's little black book. The arsonist, played by an oily Thayer David (the fight promoter in "Rocky"), holds his meetings in a dirty-movie theater. Every step of the way, Harry looks to shield Phil from Harry's deviant intentions.

After Harry has a meltdown in front of the buyers -- imagining maimed fellow soldiers in the ballroom crowd -- he has his reckoning with the arsonist and then a come-to-Jesus moment with his manic pixie dreamgirl. It's clear that Harry is not just cloyingly nostalgic, but he also has a profound need to feel alive again, even if it means just tossing the ball around and reliving the joy he found in that boy's game. This is a fine character study -- brought to you by Lemmon, the master -- even if it overdoes the schmaltz on occasion.

HEARTWORN HIGHWAYS (1981) (B) - Not so much a full-length film but rather a disconnected series of vignettes, this documentary chronicles some of the forerunners of the outlaw country scenes in Austin and Nashville in 1975 and '76. Townes van Zandt, seen here lubricated as he gives a tour of his farm, and Guy Clark are the big hitters here. David Allan Coe wallows in his prison-porn shtick, and we get glimpses of young up-and-comers Rodney Crowell and Steve Earle (barely 20 at the time).

It's fascinating to watch a guy named Larry Jon Wilson record a song in the studio, including overdubs. Coe drives his own tour bus into the grounds of the Tennessee State Prison. We get rambling standup from Gamble Rogers and fiery fiddle playing from Charlie Daniels. In a home jam session, van Zandt brings tears to the eyes of 80-year-old Seymour Washington with a rendition of "Waitin' Around to die." Beforehand, Washington dispenses advice on living well.

Director James Szalapski does nothing to knit these stories and performances together, but he has a decent eye for period detail, and he gets his fingernails dirty capturing these men living the outlaw-country life in the shadow of Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings, who could at least claim commercial success during this period.

BONUS TRACKS

The opening theme from "Heartworn Highways," Guy Clark's "L.A. Freeway":

 

Here's a good taste of "Heartworn," a studio session with Larry Jon Wilson recording "Ohoopee River Bottomland":

Then there's Townes van Zandt with the first song he ever wrote, "Waitin' Around to Die":

And from the closing credits of "Save the Tiger," one of Harry's blissed-out reveries, "I Can't Get Started," by Bunny Berigan: