THE LOVE MACHINE 1971

"The Waiting Is Over...The Love Machine is on the Screen!"

So declared the graphically austere poster ads (a gold ankh against a simple black background) heralding the arrival of The Love Machine —sorry, Jacqueline Susann's The Love Machine— to movie theaters in 1971. Hard to believe when looking at the film now, but there was a degree of anticipation attending the release of The Love Machine, the big screen adaptation of Susann's 1969 best-selling follow-up novel to the phenomenally successful, Valley of the Dolls.  

A great deal of the anticipation was due to so much having transpired in the four years since 20th Century-Fox first released Valley of the Dolls to big boxoffice and a flurry of lousy reviews in 1967. First and significantly, Jacqueline Susann had proven herself a viable boxoffice name in her own right, capable of selling tickets regardless of the critical reception to a project. Secondly, movies themselves had grown increasingly permissive of nudity and language since 1967 (Fox's own Myra Breckinridge had seen to that), thus there existed, at least among Jacqueline Susann's broad fan base, the hope that the film of The Love Machine would have license to be every bit as tawdry and smutty as the novel.

Naughty, Naughty
In the 70s, gay characters in movies were shorthand for decadence and "with it" sexuality.
Here we have David Hemmings (r.) in full flame as fashion photographer Jerry Nelson, with his blow-dried inamorato, Alfie Knight (Clinton Greyn). 

Also at the time there existed among many, the misguided confidence that The Love Machine was going to be a better film than Valley of the Dolls. Why? Well, putting aside for a moment the obvious fact that it would be near impossible to make a film that could be worse, let's focus on Jacqueline Susann (who had never made a secret her dislike for the movie version of Valley of the Dolls ) and her assurances to fans that both she and her husband, Irving Mansfield, were going to take steps to guarantee that they both would have more creative input in the making of The Love Machine. 

Thanks to a lawsuit filed by Susann against 20th Century-Fox pertaining to Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (1970): that unofficial, unauthorized, non-sequel - Susann and Mansfield were able to take The Love Machine to the greener pastures of Columbia Pictures. There, Susann acquired a possessive author's credit, and Mansfield, the title of executive producer (apt enough, given that he was a TV producer by profession and The Love Machine was all about the television industry). 

The Hitchcock of Coarseness
Jacqueline Susann makes another cameo appearance in one of her films.
(That's L.A. newsman Jerry Dunphy on the left)

An author's possessive film credit of the kind exemplified by the clumsy title, Jacqueline Susann's The Love Machine, is most certainly rooted in vanity, but it also carries with it the implication the that the film is a true representation of the author's intent and vision. Well, as anyone will attest who's seen Stephen King's abominable self-penned 1997 TV-movie adaptation of his novel, The Shining (he disliked the many alterations and omissions in Stanley Kubrick's 1980 film); an author's participation in the adaptation of their work is in no way a reliable gauge of anything resembling quality.

John Phillip Law as Robin Stone

Dyan Cannon as Judith Austin

David Hemmings as Jerry Nelson

Jodi Wexler as Amanda

Maureen Arthur as Ethel Evans

The Love Machine tells the story of the swift rise and fall of Robin Stone, an ambitious local news anchor who ruthlessly muscles his way into the job of network television president. Despite looking thin, wan, and desperately in need of a blood transfusion, Robin is an irresistible ladykiller who leaves a trail of broken-hearted lasses in blue bathrobes in his wake. With Nielsen ratings and audience-share figures where his heart should be, Robin Stone is like a male Faye Dunaway in Network (1976); crossed with Valley of the Dolls' Helen Lawson; mixed with a little of Stephen Boyd's Frankie Fane from The Oscar (1966).

As with most of Jacqueline Susann's characters, Robin Stone is allegedly based on a real-life individual. In this case, the late CBS TV executive, James Aubrey - the man responsible for The Beverly Hillbillies and a host of other lowbrow moneymakers. Like his movie counterpart, Aubrey is said to have been a calculatingly shrewd cookie who held the TV viewing audience in contempt and made a fortune banking on the public's insatiable appetite for mediocrity. Judging by the popularity of today's Jersey Shore/Kardashians train wrecks, you can't say the guy wasn't something of a visionary.

The Love Machine
In all but the most archly ironic circumstances, Jackie Susann was unsuccessful in getting anyone to use the the word "dolls" for barbiturates. She didn't fare much better in persuading the American public to adopt "The Love Machine" as slang for TV sets (because it "sells love, creates desire"...you see).

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM:

My fondness for a certain brand of bad film is as difficult to explain as it is to defend. It's not like I just get off on making fun of them. On the contrary, most of these films are very professional, well-made films in every department. What I think I respond to is that scary zone in the creative arts where the attempt fails to match the execution. Where all the talent, creativity, and hard work on one end just somehow ends up being 100% opposite of what anyone intended. It fascinates me because I believe it can occur at any moment, no matter how heavily the deck is stacked for success. For example: take the idea of Marlon Brando putting cotton in his cheeks in The Godfather. That's something that could have turned out disastrous but instead became iconic. Or what about Al Pacino's Cuban accent in Scarface. Wasn't that a huge risk? It could have derailed the entire picture!  

No, Robin Stone doesn't pay a visit to Pee Wee's Playhouse. This is just a horrific example of 70s chic decor

The point I'm making is that the collaborative art of film is like a dance on a wire; fiasco or triumph is sometimes based on some intangible miscalculation or moment of overconfidence...something unknown and unseen until after the film is in the can. Hindsight makes it all seem like it could have been avoided, but that's just not the case. That phenomenon fascinates me. You look at a film that cost millions, involved hundreds of decisions, hours of hard work...and the result is sometimes deplorable. If you're lucky, you can catch brief glimpses of things that work, but mostly you sit amazed (and amused) at just how elusive excellence can be. The Love Machine tries to be a hard-hitting, cynical, claw-his-way-to-the-top drama along the lines of The Sweet Smell of Success and The Young Philadelphians, but for all its faddish clothes, bare bosoms, and cuss words, it's fundamentally a creaky Fannie Hurst melodrama. The Love Machine's utter cluelessness about how old-world it actually is makes for addictive viewing.

The real star of The Love Machine is Robin's collection of blue bathrobes.
It got so that I started to miss them if they failed to show up in a scene.

 

PERFORMANCES:

Robin Stone is portrayed with remarkable ineffectualness by the late actor John Phillip Law, last seen sporting angel's wings and a feather diaper in Barbarella. By all accounts a terribly nice guy in real life, Law latches onto Robin Stone's closed-off, inexpressive side and gives a performance too stiff even for a character referred to as a machine.

John Phillip Law's lifeless performance is perhaps in part due to his stepping in at the last moment for originally-cast actor Brian Kelly (star of TV's Flipper) who was injured in a motorcycle accident.

Dyan Cannon has always been a favorite of mine, but her performance here (no great shakes, but heads above the rest of the cast) is consistently undermined by the jaw-dropping get ups she's called upon to wear. Given that's she's not really provided a believable character to play, her bizarre fashion sense always takes center stage.

Dyan Cannon, playing the wife of a television executive, decides to wear a test pattern

THE STUFF OF FANTASY:

For anyone finding the film hard going (it's rather slow by today's standards) I beg you to stick around for the climactic "Hollywood party fight scene." Here Ms. Cannon (balancing 23 pounds of teased hair) finally abandons her heretofore starchy acting style and lets loose with that infectiously raucous laugh of hers, setting in motion a truly memorable free-for-all that should have become a YouTube camp highlight by now. In trying to top Valley of the Dolls' infamous wig-down-the-toilet scene, The Love Machine finally does something right.

THE STUFF OF DREAMS:

When The Love Machine was first released to theaters, I was a mere 13 years old; too young to see the much-ballyhooed motion picture, but not too old to take my mom's paperback novel to school and pore over the "dirty parts" with my schoolmates. I'm not sure what my problem was at such an early age, but I was very much into the book and went out and bought an "ankh" ring just like on the paperback cover (in my defense, I grew up in San Francisco during the hippie era, and ankhs were kind of everywhere), and unsuccessfully tried to persuade my sister to buy that Faberge "Xanadu" perfume that was cross-promoted in the film (ads recommended you mark "his" favorite spot with an "x").

Xanadu by Faberge
Samples were given away at many theaters showing The Love Machine

In spite of my unseemly youthful preoccupation, I didn't actually see The Love Machine until I was well into adulthood. I'm happy to say that I wasn't disappointed. While not nearly as much fun as Valley of the Dolls, The Love Machine has more than enough in the way of over-the-top fashions, poky dialog, and questionable performances to rank high among my favorite guilty pleasures.

"...and when you put it on, you'll live forever. And love me forever."

Copyright © Ken Anderson