THE CONVERSATION (1974) (B) - Having finally gotten around to this touchstone of '70s realism, prompted by the death of Gene Hackman, I was surprised how sloppy this post-"Godfather" feature from Francis Ford Coppola is. Hackman plays Harry Caul, an audio-surveillance specialist who is overwhelmed by guilt over his role in what he suspects is a plan to kill a young couple.
Caul is cautious to the point of paranoia in guarding his own personal life and protecting his personal safety from the shady characters who pay him handsomely for his services. He becomes obsessed with his latest recording, of that couple (Cindy Marshall and Frederic Forrest) having a random conversation in San Francisco's Union Square. That conversation will recur in various loops throughout the movie, just like it might run through a person's mind, over and over again.
Caul's own life will become jeopardized as he seeks to withhold the finished enhanced tapes, which then get stolen. Hackman will take his character through a spiral into mental instability, as he discovers the true motives of the couple and the mysterious man (the Director) who hired him -- as his own fears of being targeted become more justified.
Hackman is surrounded by a fine cast -- in particular John Cazale as Caul's tech partner. Harrison Ford is the assistant to the Director. Teri Garr and Elizabeth MacRae are delightful as prostitutes whom Caul takes up with. A climactic scene between Caul and MacRae's Meredith is scored to a finished recording of the conversation, and it's a feverish scene that stands out in an otherwise frustrating visual palette. There is too much repetition of snippets of the conversation, and too much of the verite dialogue is muffled -- it's not clear whether that is intentional or ironic. Hackman saves this in the end, but it too often seems like a missed opportunity at key moments.
BEING THERE (1979) (A-minus) - Peter Sellers is mesmerizing as an improbably exalted simpleton, in the capstone to director Hal Ashby's perfect decade-long run, a parable about politics and media from Polish novelist Jerzy Kosinski.
Sellers is Chance the gardener, who for the first time ever leaves the cloistered estate he has served his whole life after the wealthy old man dies and the man's lawyers dismiss the staff. Having only the knowledge of the world he has learned from his television set, Chance wanders the gritty streets of D.C. before falling in with another rich old man, Ben Rand (Melvyn Douglas), and his soon-to-be-widow, the much younger Eve (Shirley MacLaine). Ben, Eve, and others would never assume Chance -- now misnamed Chauncey Gardiner -- is an illiterate man-child, and so every interaction with him is misinterpreted as Chauncey dispensing mystical wisdom steeped in bland gardening metaphors. Background checks prove fruitless, as Chauncey is untraceable.
Ben is connected to the president (Jack Warden), and before long Chauncey -- these days we would call him mentally challenged -- is hailed as a straight-talking political pundit, a breath of fresh air in the cynical beltway. Ashby juggles the concepts of suspended-disbelief and magical realism throughout, maintaining a momentum that must never pause the conceit even for a second, lest the narrative completely fall apart. The dialogue is off just enough to be amusing but not too far off to be ridiculous.
It's an incredible feat pulled off by Kosinski and screenwriter Robert C. Jones (Ashby's regular editor who penned "Coming Home" the year before). But none of it works without Sellers, who developed a flat vocal affect, blank visage and halting gait for the lead role. His demeanor as the calm in the middle of the storm is a master class in restraint and character creation. MacLaine is delicious as the deathbed spouse who falls for Chauncey's raw appeal. In her early 40s at the time, she is at the top of her game. When Chauncey, who shows little interest in or knowledge of sex, tells her he "likes to watch" -- he merely is talking about television -- she is aroused to the point of self-gratification, writhing on a bearskin rug next to Chauncey's bed.
Ashby turns this into a sharp critique of elite society and a bold political statement. (He also takes an early swipe at the idea of white privilege.) He is blessed with the other-worldly talent of Sellers, who would die months after the movie's release.
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