10/7/14 (Part Two): No Laughing Matter

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'70s films, 31 Days of Halloween, actor-director, Andrew Prine, based on a true story, Ben Johnson, Captain J.D. Morales, Charles B. Pierce, cinema, Dawn Wells, deadly trombones, Deputy Sheriff Norman Ramsey, film reviews, films, Friday the 13th Part 2, hooded killer, horror, horror films, influential films, isolated communities, Jim Citty, Jimmy Clem, Lovers' Lane, Movies, period-piece, Robert Aquino, serial killer, set in the 1940s, slasher films, small town life, Texarkana, Texas Ranger, the Phantom Killer, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Town That Dreaded Sundown, Town That Dreaded Sundown, true crime

Falling chronologically between The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) and Halloween (1978), Charles B. Pierce’s The Town That Dreaded Sundown (1976) is something of a proto-slasher: it uses many of the tropes of slasher films (masked maniac, creative kill scenes, stalking scenarios) but welds them to a more traditional true-crime format. The finished product ends up being a little like a pseudo-documentary, complete with voice-over narrator, but maintains enough horror film qualities to appeal to fans. By comparing the look of the Phantom Killer from The Town That Dreaded Sundown with Jason’s first appearance, Friday the 13th Part 2 (1981), it’s also plain to see how influential the film would be on the genre movies that would follow. Although Pierce’s film would, ultimately, be less influential than either of the landmarks that surrounded it, it’s still a fairly well-made, tense little picture that’s wholly deserving of a resurgence among modern audiences. With a new remake set to open next week, it appears that horror audiences may finally be ready to focus on Texarkana and its mysterious, hooded madman once again.

Based on a true story, The Town That Dreaded Sundown takes place over several months in 1946 and deals with the activities of a serial killer in Texarkana, Arkansas. Beginning with young couples on Lovers’ Lane, the hooded killer would graduate to attacking people in the safety of their own homes before seeming to vanish into thin air. As the attacks increase in sheer viciousness, the citizens of the 40K-strong town begin to hide in their homes, avoiding the nighttime hours like the plague. At first, Deputy Sheriff Norman Ramsey (Andrew Prine) does the best he can to catch the elusive maniac but he’s soon forced to hand the case over to a living legend: Captain J.D. Morales (Ben Johnson), widely renowned as the greatest Texas Ranger to walk the earth. Together, Ramsey and Morales try to run to ground a sinister, vicious killer who seems to appear out of nowhere and vanish just as quickly. As the body count rises, the town of Texarkana is left to wonder if they’ll ever know peace and safety again.

In many ways, The Town That Dreaded Sundown is a tale of two films (three, actually, but we’ll get to that shortly): a true-crime investigation and a serial killer/slasher film. While the true-crime stuff is interesting, if a little old-fashioned, the serial killer/slasher element is particularly well-done. From his very first attack, where the killer disables a couple’s car while they sit there in stunned fear, to the climatic scene where Ramsey and Morales chase him by the railroad tracks, the Phantom Killer (Bud Davis) is one helluva great bad guy. While his initial attacks involve firearms, the killer really gets creative when he ties a knife to the end of a trombone and proceeds to “play” the instrument, repeatedly jabbing the knife into his victim’s back: it’s a nasty, thoroughly gratuitous scene but it’s also pretty genius and well-staged, inexplicably reminding of the similar method of murder in Michael Powell’s legendary Peeping Tom (1960). Like the best horror/slasher villains, the Phantom Killer is a mute, absolutely menacing presence: it’s pretty easy to take one look at the character and see the direct line of inspiration to the appearance of Jason Voorhees in the second Friday the 13th film, although elements of the Phantom Killer’s appearance and behavior can be found in at least a bakers’ dozen other horror films.

On the “good guy” side, Andrew Prine does a great job as the hard-charging Deputy, although I must admit to being slightly underwhelmed by Johnson’s characteristically gruff performance: there isn’t much shade or nuance to Captain Morales, although not being familiar with the actual person probably makes the case a little moot…after all, it’s quite possible that Morales was exactly as Johnson portrayed him. Nonetheless, I found myself gravitating towards Prine much more than I did to Johnson’s throwback “old school lawman.” The rest of the cast is decent, if a bit anonymous, although many of the supporting roles have a decidedly amateurish tinge to them that pretty synonymous with low-budget films of that era.

The single biggest problem with the film, minor quibbles aside, comes from any of the scenes involving director Charles B. Pierce, who plays police office A.C. Benson. While it’s always a bit problematic having the director pop up in his own film (actors directing themselves, ala Eastwood, Gibson or the like, are entirely different scenarios), it’s made even worse when the character is obnoxious and unnecessary. In a nutshell, the character of Benson exists solely to provide the comic relief that the film so desperately does not need: any scene featuring Pierce is pitched at absolutely screwball levels and sits at odds with anything else in the movie. Without the Benson/Pierce scenes, The Town That Dreaded Sundown plays as an effective, straight-faced thriller. With the scenes, however, the film often takes on the quality of a farce, which has the unintended effect of making the rest of the material seem slight and silly. In a way, it’s similar to the big complaint I have from the original version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956): the cheesy wraparound storyline, added later, severely dilutes the impact of the rest of the film. Similarly, the goofy comedy scenes not only don’t add anything to the film, they actually take away much of the film’s sustained mood and impact, at the very least scuttling any of the serious scenes that directly lead-in to or follow the Benson scenes. In the case of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, at least we can blame the studio for unnecessarily interfering: the tampering in Pierce’s film appears to be solely his fault. Regardless of the ultimate reason behind it, Pierce’s performance as Benson ends up being the film’s biggest problem and serves as a pretty substantial black eye.

It’s a shame, too, because the film that surrounds the absurd comic scenes is actually quite good, if somewhat less than relevatory. The setting and mood are strong, for the most part, the action is tense, the killer is frightening and the setpieces are well-staged. While I’m not normally a fan of remakes, finding them to be largely unnecessary, I can’t help but feel that the upcoming remake of Pierce’s film might not be such a bad idea. There’s a really intriguing, frightening idea to be found here: a film that focuses solely on the darker aspects and jettisons the buffoonish comic relief certainly stands a chance of being successful…tonal consistency would, at the very least, be a significant improvement over the original. If you can look past the film’s poorly executed attempts at levity, however, much of it possesses a raw, feral power that should certainly appeal to fans of “classic” slasher” films, as well as true-crime buffs. If only Pierce could have stayed behind the camera, this might have ended up as an unmitigated classic instead of a near miss: nonetheless, this is one film that you definitely shouldn’t dread.

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10/1/14 (Part Two): The Buzz is Back

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1980s films, 31 Days of Halloween, abandoned amusement park, auteur theory, Bill Johnson, Bill Moseley, black comedies, cannibals, Caroline Williams, Chop-Top, cinema, Dennis Hopper, Drayton Sawyer, dysfunctional family, favorite films, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, horror, horror franchises, horror movies, horror-comedies, Jim Siedow, Ken Evert, Leatherface, Lou Perryman, Movies, radio DJs, roadside chili, sequels, Texas, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Texas Ranger, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, Tobe Hooper

As a general rule, there are two ways to approach sequels: filmmakers can take the “more of what they liked” approach and…well…give their audiences more of what they liked the first time. On the other hand, sequels can be conceived as continuing segments of an interconnected story (ala Jackson Lord of the Rings trilogy). The problem with the first method is pretty obvious: the more photocopying you do, the worse the reproductions become. If “Film X” was good, more of the same (Film X #2) should (theoretically) be just as good: if Film X #36 is just the same as the previous 35 editions, however, what’s the point? Despite how much you much may have enjoyed a particular film, would you really want to see the same basic movie all over again with minor tweaks? This, of course, becomes a bit of a moot point for anyone who grew up on ’80s slasher films: despite the fact that very few of these films were directly related, almost all of them managed to seem like generic sequels/copies of the others…call it guilt by association.

The flip side to that argument, however, is what I like to call the “Peter Jackson argument”: does every film need to be split into three equal parts? Trilogies have a long history within the film world but how many legitimate sequels are really necessary? Even something like the Hatchet series, which manages to keep a central narrative thread running through all three (at this point) entries begs the ever-important question: how much do we really need to know about a maniacal killer? There’s a tendency to want to do lots of “world building” in modern films, expanding simple ideas into full-blown mythos that rival the likes of anything Lovecraft or King could imagine: the idea behind this seems to be that “one and done” films miss a ton of marketing/box office potential…what good producer wants to be responsible for passing up all those easy ducats?

By taking one look at the above poster-art for Tobe Hooper’s direct sequel, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (1986), it should be pretty easy to see that neither direction really appealed to the horror auteur. While the original 1974 film was a lean, mean, claustrophobic and ultra-low budget chiller about a group of friends being summarily ground up by a rampaging family of Texas cannibals, the poster for the late-’80s sequel directly references the previous years The Breakfast Club (1985) (Leatherface as Judd Nelson? Talk about inspired casting!). What gives?  A majority of film-goers and horror fans seemed to cry foul at the film, citing its tongue-in-cheek vibe, heavy-duty ’80sisms and dearth of legitimately sweaty scares as reasons to confine the film to the dustbins of history. Is TCM 2 really that bad? Was it the beginning of the end for the fledgling TCM franchise in the same way that the horrendously lame Hellraiser 3 (1992) should have killed off that series? Absolutely not. In fact, at least as far as my humble little opinion goes, I daresay that not only is Hooper’s sequel a fantastic film, in its own right, it’s a more than worthy followup to its iconic forefather. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, naysayers!

My main problem with sequels is the inherent wheelspinning involved: not only do sequels inevitably rehash some of the same setpieces/beats from previous entries but they often, by necessity, need to rehash the same plot points (as audience refreshers, if nothing else). In a way, it’s like a champion mountain climber continuously conquering the same craggy peak: the first time you do it, there’s a genuine sense of accomplishment and wonder. The tenth time you do it, however, it probably feels an awful lot like clocking in for a day at the office. Since the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) was already one of the most notorious, intense and unrelenting films around, how could the filmmakers possibly top it without resorting to completely over-the-top overkill? There is, literally, no way to strip the narrative down any further than the original: the film is already primal enough as it is. Faced with the prospect of making a pale imitation of an accepted classic, however, Hooper took the unexpected turn of making the exact opposite kind of film: rather than stripped-down, drab and serious, Hooper made the follow-up loud, brash, rude, colorful and kind of goofy. More of the same? Not on your life, buddy!

A similar text-crawl to the first film reminds us of the situation behind the original and informs us that the current narrative takes place 12 years later…bringing us, of course, square into the magical ’80s. The action kicks off when a couple of shitty high school guys dick around with the wrong sinister black truck and end up pissing off the Sawyers. As Leatherface (Bill Johnson) is standing atop a moving vehicle, chainsawing one asshat’s head in half, diagonally, the other one is on the phone to a call-in radio show. The soon-to-be ex-douchebags happen to be on the air with DJ Stretch (Caroline Williams) at the time and the intrepid DJ ends up recording the incident. Enter former Texas Ranger Lefty Enright (Dennis Hopper, chewing up scenery and spitting out hot rivets like a Warner Bros. cartoon), who just so happens to be Sally and Franklin Hardesty’s uncle. Sally, we’ll remember, was the original film’s Final Girl and sole survivor, while poor Franklin was the mopey, wheelchair-bound guy who got gutted by a rampaging chainsaw. Seems that Lefty has spent the past 12 years tracking down their killers and, after examining the “accident scene,” has determined that the chainsaw-wielding cannibals are up to their old tricks again. We know that Lefty is right, of course, since we’ve previously gotten a look at a familiar face: Drayton Sawyer (Jim Siedow), the insane cook from the original film, is back as a highly respected member of the local business community and frequent winner of the chili cookoff: “The secret’s in the meat,” he smirks, and we know he ain’t lyin’.

Lefty convinces Stretch to play the tape on the air, despite the protests of her second-in-command/not-in-this-lifetime-suitor L.G. (Lou Perry): Lefty’s plan to draw out the Sawyers is successful, since Stretch ends up with a couple of late-night visitors at the radio station: Leatherface and Chop Top (Bill Moseley). When Lefty is late to protect her, Stretch ends up having to fend off the killers on her own. During their interaction, however, it appears that Leatherface has taken a shine to her…at least, if his grunting, pelvic-thrusting and phallic chainsaw movements are anything to go by. When L.G. returns from a coffee run, he gets unceremoniously pummeled by insane Vietnam vet Chop Top (“Incoming mail!,” he shrieks, splatting L.G.’s noggin into paste in the process) and dragged off to the Sawyer’s secret underground lair (handily located beneath an abandoned amusement park, natch). Like any faithful friend would do, Stretch follows after him, rescue on her mind. For his part, Lefty heads to the amusement park, as well, albeit for a slightly different reason: he’s packing multiple chainsaws and fully intends to smite the heathen Sawyers with a combination of God’s wrath and a little good, old-fashioned extreme bloodshed. As Lefty runs around, sawing support beams in half and attempting to, literally, bring down the house, Stretch must sneak into the proverbial lion’s den and save her friend…or whatever’s left of him. In the process, Stretch will need to become what she struggles against: Hell, truly, hath no fury like a DJ scorned. In the unforgettable words of the original: who will survive…and what will be left of them?

There are a few very important things to keep in mind while watching TCM 2. First of all, the film is just about as different from the first film as possible, despite the fact that both were directed and conceived by Hooper. As mentioned above, the original TCM is almost like a photo-negative of the ultra-colorful sequel. Secondly, the film does function as a direct sequel, even if some of the specifics and timeline events get a little screwy. Drayton, for the most part, is a direct continuation from the first, as is Leatherface (albeit in much more of a “horny teenager” mode here) and Grandpa (Ken Evert). Chop Top, however, is a new construct, although he serves a similar function to Edwin Neal’s hitchhiker in the original. Since Chop Top was never mentioned in the original film, whereas the hitchhiker is never mentioned in the sequel, it’s not much of a stretch to imagine that it’s supposed to be the same fellow (how he survived the Black Maria running over his skull at the climax to the original is a good question, although his metal head plate actually seems to answer this pretty tidily, numerous references to Vietnam notwithstanding). This is all just a long-winded way of saying that TCM 1 and 2 actually fit together pretty well, drastic difference in tone aside. It’s not a perfect fit, mind you, but there’s more of a sense of continuity between these two film than in many more “legitimate” sequel situations.

The third and most important thing to know about TCM 2 is that the film is an absolute blast, almost the complete antithesis to the original’s unrelenting tension. In certain ways, the sequel serves as a sly commentary on the original film: people thought they saw more blood in the original than they did, so Hopper drowned the sequel in outrageously gory setpieces. The original film had a modest, claustrophobic feel, so the sequel feels expansive and expensive. The original was so serious that any attempt at humor felt less like gallow’s humor and more like the rope: the sequel has one goofy setpiece after another (my absolute favorite being the one where Leatherface accidentally chainsaw’s Chop Top’s head, destroying his favorite hairpiece in the process: “You ruined my Sonny Bono wig, you bitch hog!”

Indeed, TCM 2 ends up being a perfect combination of Hooper’s harrowing aesthetic from the first film and the over-the-top atmosphere of most ’80s horror films: everything is blown up to ludicrous proportions here. One of the best examples of this notion in practice is the difference between the Sawyers’ lairs: the farmhouse from the first film will forever stand as a feverish nightmare, while the abandoned amusement park set from the sequel is an eye-popping, Christmas-light-bedecked marvel. For Pete’s sake: TCM 2’s lair features a skeleton riding a bomb, ala Slim Pickens from Dr. Strangelove (1964): it really doesn’t get cooler than that, folks.

Whereas the first film made subtle references to the tide of modernization being responsible for the Sawyers’ situation, the sequel is much more explicit about this. In a film filled with plenty of delicious irony, one of the neatest tidbits is the notion that one of the cities biggest pillars of industry, Drayton Sawyer, is actually the insane head of a secret cannibal family: those damned capitalists! There’s also plenty of rich material evident in things like Chop Top’s plans for his own amusement park (“I’ll call it…NamLand!”) and scenes like the one where Lefty tries to use a disembodied skeleton arm to lift Stretch from a trapdoor, only to have the arm break off at the wrist and send her tumbling down. For all of its sustained carnage, TCM 2 is actually a very funny film.

Which is not, course, to say that it isn’t also 100% a horror film. The opening setpiece, featuring Leatherface riding a moving truck while “wearing” a corpse like a costume, as Oingo Boingo’s “No One Lives Forever,” plays on the soundtrack is a real showstopper, as is the bit where he comes rampaging out of a pitch black room. There’s one scene involving skinning a body that’s more extreme than anything hinted at in the first and Chop Top’s pursuit of Stretch through the compound and up to a hidden aerie is alternately thrilling and nail-biting.

While the film is much more over-the-top than the first, no of the acting manages to seem out-of-place. In particular, Moseley does a career-defining turn as the crazed war vet: the scene where he uses a hanger to scratch the flaking skin on his head, before eating it, is by turns repulsive and awe-inspiring. There’s never a point where Moseley appears to be acting: rather, it seems like they recruited the role from a local loony bin, which is the highest compliment I can pay something attempting to portray “pathologically crazy.”

Truth be told, I unabashedly love The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2. It may not have the same sweaty relevance as the original film but it’s exceptionally well-made, features tons of great practical effects, some stellar villains and amazing set-pieces galore. If there are some elements that fall completely flat (Leatherface newfound sexual interest in Stretch is awkward and never explored to any reasonable measure, although it does although Moseley to prance around shouting, “Bubba’s got a girlfriend…Bubba’s got a girlfriend!” at one point), there are countless other elements that hit the bullseye. I can only assume that folks don’t like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 because it’s so tonally different from the first one. In my mind, however, that’s one of the film’s biggest charms: Hooper could have gone “cookie-cutter” but he went outside the mold and I think we’re all the richer for it.

Even though the Texas Chainsaw Massacre franchise would sputter to a finish with a couple lame sequels and a 2000-era reboot, nothing could ever tarnish the undiluted majesty of the first two films. The original film is and always will be one of my favorite movies: depending on my mood, the second one is, too. If you consider yourself a fan of the first film but have avoided the second like the plague, do yourself a favor: hold your nose, if you have to, but dive right in. I’m more than willing to wager that you’ll come to love it, too, as long as you keep an open mind. Proving that there’s always an exception to the rule, Hooper’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 is almost as strong, although in completely different ways, from the first film. Besides, how could you possibly pass up a chance to watch Dennis Hopper have a chainsaw duel with Leatherface? The answer, obviously, is that you can’t.

 

6/12/14 (Part One): Chuck Norris Can Divide By Zero

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'70s action films, Aaron Norris, action films, action star, Andy Sidaris, Anne Archer, Anthony Mannino, auteur theory, bad films, bad movies, Black Tigers, Bruce Cohn, C.I.A., Chuck Norris, cinema, commandos, covert military action, Dana Andrews, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Good Guys Wear Black, hand-to-hand combat, James Franciscus, Jim Backus, John T. Booker, Lawrence P. Casey, Lloyd Haynes, Mark Medoff, martial arts, Movies, P.O.W.s, prisoners of war, Soon-Tek Oh, Ted Post, Texas Ranger, The Black Tigers, The Delta Force, Viet Cong, Vietnam vet, Vietnam War, Walker

At what point, exactly, did Chuck Norris go from just another ’80s tough guy to an honest-to-god cultural phenomenon? Was it around the time of Lone Wolf McQuade (1983) or did it happen closer to The Delta Force (1986)? Was Chuck just another karate-kickin’ action star when Missing in Action (1984) was released or had we already decided he was a force of nature by that time? Maybe Chuck’s ascension to the pantheon of cinematic tough guys didn’t come until he’d infiltrated the small screen as the goody-two-shoes/ass-kicking Walker, Texas Ranger (1993-2001). Whenever the time and for whatever reason, however, Chuck Norris seems to exist more as an Internet meme these days than an actual person. After all, before he made his big “return” to the silver screen with The Expendables 2 (2012), it had been seven years since Norris appeared in anything: that’s virtually an eternity in the life-span of an action star.

For whatever reason, we need Chuck Norris…or, at least, we need someone like him: an incorruptible force for good that protects the innocents, whups righteously on the wicked and maintains a stoic sense of zen through it all. Norris has always come across as the most laid back ’80s action star: Willis was more sarcastic, Ahnald was thuggier, Sly was harder to understand, Gibson was nuttier, Seagal was greasier but Chuck? He was kinda the Big Lebowski of karate: he just was, man…he just was. As my personal movie marathon continues, I chose to focus on a couple of Norris’ lesser known films (at least as far as I’m concerned): Good Guys Wear Black (1978) and The Octagon (1980). While I recall seeing the poster/video-box art for Good Guys Wear Black, I couldn’t remember anything about The Octagon at all. Would the roots of Chuck Norris’ invincibility lie here? Journey with me back through the layers of time and let’s find out.

After an incredibly odd opening credits sequence that features awful, glitchy computer graphics (possibly from a cutting-edge Atari) and one of the worst slow-jazz tunes in recent memory, we get tossed head-first into the Vietnam peace talks in Paris, circa 1973. Sleazy Undersecretary of State Conrad Morgan (James Franciscus) is negotiating a cease-fire with Major Minh Van Thieu (Soon-Tek Oh) and hanging in the balance are the lives of several American P.O.W.s, including several CIA operatives. Morgan has arranged it so that the U.S. can send in a special ops unit, called the Black Tigers, in order to rescue the CIA operatives. Coordinating with head CIA-man Murray Saunders (Lloyd Haynes), the Black Tigers hit the jungle for a nice, quiet rescue mission. Led by John T. Booker (Chuck Norris), the Black Tigers encounter no resistance until everything goes ass over tea-kettle: in short order, Booker and his men are surrounded by Viet Cong and engage in the kind of dubious fire-fight that Andy Sidaris made famous in Hard Ticket to Hawaii (1987), minus the gratuitous T & A, of course.  Despite the terrible odds, Booker and a small handful of his men are able to make it out alive. As Booker notes: “It takes careful planning for things to be this screwed up…we’ve been set-up!” Indeed!

Flash-forward five years and Booker is now a race car driver who also happens to be a grad student pursuing his PhD in Political Science: in other words, he’s your basic, well-rounded type of guy. When a comely reporter named Margaret (Anne Archer) approaches him about doing a story on the Black Tigers’ failed mission from five years earlier, Booker gives her the brush-off: he’s already gotten over the “betrayal” and moved on. Way to be the bigger man, John! The situation changes, however, when Booker’s old friend Murray Saunders gives him a call and let’s him know that someone has put a hit out on Booker “in the system.” As the surviving Black Tigers get picked off one-by-one, Booker must figure out who would want them all dead and why. The answers, of course, go all the way back to that failed mission and involve a government cover-up, a vengeful Viet Cong officer and lots of feet to the face. The odds may be stacked against him but no one puts Booker into a corner…after all, this is Chuck Norris we’re talking about here.

Good Guys Wear Black is many, many things but a quality film is not, unfortunately, one of those things. While the film’s rampant stupidity can be forgiven (the world is full of vapid, action-packed films that are tons of fun despite being virtually brain-dead), it’s exceptionally shoddy action sequences can not. The opening gunfight between the Black Tigers and the Viet Cong has no sense of drama whatsoever, resembling nothing so much as a backyard war epic helmed by pre-teens: it couldn’t have been less realistic if the actors had run around pointing their fingers at each other and yelling “Bang!” Truth be told, none of the action sequences and fights are really worth a hill of beans, more often than not amounting to Chuck Norris kicking someone repeatedly until they fall down: it’s kind of like that old button-masher Karateka in that regard.

So…the film is completely inane and features lame action sequences: what else is there? Unfortunately, not a whole lot: as expected in films like this, the acting is pretty over-the-top and silly, although Norris nicely underplays his role (does he have any other acting style?). The problem with Norris is that his only reaction to things, whether it be his girlfriend getting blown up in an airplane or his best friends getting shot, is to kind of shrug his shoulders and go about his business. At no point in time does Booker ever seem overly worried about anything, which meant I spent a good portion of the film likewise disengaged. Look, it’s as simple as this: if the main characters can’t be bothered to care about this mess, why should I?

And what a mess it is, too. The screenplay, by Mark Medoff and Bruce Cohn, is both stupid and overly complex, which is a most lethal combination. Medoff would actually go on to write the screenplay for Children of a Lesser God (1986), so perhaps we can chalk this up to growing pains. Cohn, on the other hand, would go on to write one other screenplay, for a ’90s-era TV movie: this pretty much speaks for itself. There are so many double-crosses and switch-arounds that I completely lost track of who was doing what by the midpoint: good thing, then, that I was already pretty checked out, by that point. Director Ted Post is actually responsible for some of my favorite films of all time, including Hang ‘Em High (1968), The Baby (1973) and Magnum Force (1973): I’m not sure what happened here but I’m willing to cut Ted a little slack, based on his impressive resume. The screenwriters, on the other, definitely don’t have those laurels to rest on.

In the end, Good Guys Wear Black ends up being a thoroughly average (although tilting towards the terrible), if completely non-nonsensical film. Chuck Norris is consistently amiable but the film, itself, is alternately goofy, corny, stupid and boring. While Chuck Norris’ might reign as some sort of action demi-god nowadays, the proof definitely wasn’t in the pudding back in ’78. As far as our current experiment goes, the search for the genesis of Chuck Norris’ badassitude continues. Next stop: The Octagon.