When there are only two reasons to watch a movie, one of them better be the brutal murder of Mickey Rooney. The Domino Principle obliges. Not once, but twice, as if the cinema gods knew that in order to survive 100 of the most inexplicable minutes ever committed to celluloid, they’d have to show that midget motherfucker getting shot in the face, then double back and end the film with another, similar killing. Same character, mind you, but don’t bother asking how. Or why. A hundred viewings could never get to the bottom of things, but it’s enough to say that the world is being controlled by evil forces that believe the poolside assassination of some rich guy is enough to set off, you guessed it, a tumbling of dominoes. Never mind we never learn who these people are, or why this particular plutocrat needs to die, or what in the hell Stanley Kramer was doing within 10,000 miles of this disaster, but here we are. And yes, it’s about Gene.
I promised a second reason to watch the movie. Naturally, it involves Gene being naked. So, at least we have five minutes to turn down the lights, put on an Al Green record, and settle in for the one sequence that doesn’t ask us to question the sanity of the screenwriter. Gene hits the sheets with Candice Bergen who, while still quite the looker in 1977, plays the part as if her IQ stopped rising after birth. This is the woman Gene pined for while serving 15-to-life for murder? Apparently, and she’s so damn important to Gene that he risks taking down the whole plot just to have her live another day. Only she doesn’t. Sure, she flies and drives around with Gene for a time, celebrates a second honeymoon, and talks as if channeling Mongo’s less intelligent cousin, but she’s destined to die. Hit by a truck while wandering some lonely mountain road in Costa Rica. That’s just the way it has to be.
Okay, so how do we get to Costa Rica? It’s not at all important, but if it’s a timeline you crave, here’s the gist. First, Gene is sprung from prison and delivered to San Francisco in a bread truck. Next, he flies to the aforementioned Costa Rica for a reunion with his beloved. Next, a flight to Los Angeles. Then back to Costa Rica. It’s vital to note that in none of these locales does he do much of anything. Okay, so he tucks in his shirt while in Los Angeles. The characters explain very little, the plot is not advanced, and the most exciting development involves Gene chasing Candice along the surf and giggling amongst the waves. Oh sure, the shadowy agents stop by from time to time to remind Gene about his job, but not once do we learn about the intended target. Or what it’s supposed to accomplish. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a lobotomy. There was more dramatically at stake in My Dinner With Andre.
You’d think in a movie with a whole hell of a lot of jet-setting, you’d get a little intrigue for your trouble. A strange man in dark glasses, perhaps, or a mysterious waiter who very well might be in the CIA. Maybe a bikini-clad female or two to look in Gene’s general direction. Nada. Just some ciphers walking, looking askance, and making vague threats. And when we finally get to the assassination (again, the dead man could be the estate’s gardener for all we know), it asks us to believe that someone so goddamn important he’d be public enemy number one for a global cabal would think nothing of a helicopter flying over his home for a good fifteen minutes. Oh, and never mind there’s a guy hanging out the door with a machine gun. Typical day in La-La Land, I suppose. Serves the fucker right for getting blasted as he walks to the pool clad only in a robe.
As I embarked on this quest to review the entirety of Hackman’s lesser-known works, never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d see anything worse than Loose Cannons. But now that I’ve closed the book on chapter two, I can say with absolute certainty there will be nothing this bad. Not even close. Welcome to Mooseport is King Lear by comparison, and I say that not having yet seen it. But I’ll take that gamble. Bad cinema I can stand, but I draw the line at empty. Had Gene simply propped up a pillow and watched television for two hours, I feel he’d at least have gotten closer to the idea of entertainment.
Sure, the 1970’s were full of conspiracy-minded filmmakers, and yes, paranoia was king. Exploiting that lack of trust all but defined the era. But you’re still obligated to give us something to hang our hat on. You can be convoluted, twisted, and unorthodox, and sure, you can tell linear storytelling to go to hell. I support all of it. And more. But you can’t waste people’s time. Things have to connect. It’s not enough to leave a theater begging for a cyanide capsule. When you’re telling us it’s all hopeless and rotten, I don’t necessarily need a lecture. I’ll take it on faith. But I do need a few words. A little something to keep us on edge. A reminder of the big picture. In a thriller, we need a target for our despair. It’s not enough simply to kill Mickey Rooney. Okay, almost enough.
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