THE CONVERSATION 1974

Spoiler Alert. Many crucial plot points are revealed and referenced for the purpose of analysis. If you've never 

seen The Conversation, don't spoil your fun. The mystery is too good. Watch the movie and then come back. I'll still be here.

Although Francis Ford Coppola began writing his script for The Conversation sometime in the late 1960s, and the film went into production well before all the details of the Watergate scandal became known to the public (it was released a mere months before then-President Nixon’s resignation in August of 1974); few ‘70s films capture the wary pessimism of post-Watergate America quite like The Conversation. A small-budget, studio-interference-free, auteur project Paramount granted Coppola in a bid to secure his services for The Godfather Part II, a film he wasn’t interested in making. The Conversation is a detective movie crossed with a character study, reimagined as the quintessential 1970s paranoid thriller.

Gene Hackman as Harry Caul

John Cazale as Stan

Harrison Ford as Martin Stett

Teri Garr as Amy Fredericks

Cindy Williams as Ann

Frederic Forrest as Mark 

Robert Duvall as The Director/Mr. C./Charles

Harry Caul (Hackman) is a career wiretapper. A skilled audio surveillance man who’s (ironically) very well-known in the spy-for-hire field of surreptitious information-gathering. A loner and an outsider, Harry is ideally suited to his craft not only because he’s a man of such unprepossessing countenance that he doesn’t even seem to occupy the space he’s inhabiting, but because he lives his life by the credo - "Don’t get involved." Amongst the many complex electronic gadgets and devices in his professional arsenal, Harry’s own emotional detachment and studied lack of curiosity are his most valued. Indeed, “Nothing personal” could be the byline on his business cards. (That is, were Harry the type to use business cards. For a guy like him, they divulge entirely too much personal information.

Like defense lawyers who revel in the thrust-&-parry byplay of courtroom skirmishes, triumphant in their victories, yet heedless of the harm they do when their academic legal machinations result in the release of drunk drivers and hardened criminals back onto the streets; when it comes to the gathering private information, Harry sees himself simply as a techie problem-solver. He enjoys solving the strategic and electronic puzzles posed by his job, but he never gives a thought as to why his clients want his services, how they intend to use the sensitive material he provides, or whether or not he is in any way culpable for any misfortune that might befall others as a result of his actions. 

"I am in no way responsible" and "It has nothing to do with me" are his professional mantras.

But unless one is a sociopath, indifference to human suffering always comes at a price. And for Harry (a man haunted by the memory of the part his work played in bringing about the brutal torture deaths of an entire family) the price is that he has become a man who strives not to be seen or known by others. Chiefly because he wishes he didn’t have to see or know anything about himself. 

Nowhere Man

Harry’s trademark professional detachment is put to the test when a logistically complex, otherwise routine surveillance job (involving the recording of a conversation between a man and a woman in San Francisco’s crowded Union Square) unearths a probable murder plot. In listening and re-listening to his recording of what on the surface sounds like a wholly innocuous conversation between two clandestine young lovers (Cindy Williams and Frederic Forrest), Harry comes to believe, with mounting certainty, that he is once again in a situation where the plying of his trade will bring about the deaths of innocent people—in this instance, a young couple who both speak as though they live in dire fear of a mysterious individual.

Compelled by equal parts empathy (the woman reminds him of Amy, his neglected girlfriend), the dread of history repeating itself, and the chance for (self)absolution; Harry breaks his cardinal rule of not allowing himself to feel anything about the subjects of his surveillance work. Devoid of any clear plan of action, he resolves to do what he can to prevent the occurrence of what he suspects and deeply dreads. 

As Harry Caul delves deeper into an investigation of the mystery, The Conversation chillingly reveals that there’s more to matters of comprehension, interpretation, and perception than meets the ear.

"He'd kill us if he had the chance."
The virtuoso opening sequence was shot by cinematographer Haskell Wexler (although Bill Butler shot the rest of the film). The contributions of film editor Richard Chew and the brilliant Oscar-nominated sound work of Walter Murch & Art Rochester can't be overstated.

If post-Depression-era films are typified by their reinforcement of the principle that the individual and common man can still wield power and influence over systemic corruption (Mr. Smith Goes To Washington, Meet John Doe); then post-Watergate cinema hammered home the impotence of the average man in the face of widespread moral decay and venality. The Vietnam War and Watergate forced America to lose its illusions about itself. Thus, '60s films like They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, then later, the ‘70s films The Parallax View and Chinatown (both released the same year as The Conversation) all supported the notion that no matter what one does, the decks are stacked, the die is cast, and individual intervention is futile in the face of evil's ascendancy.

In sharing themes having to do with the unreliability of what is superficially seen and heard, Roman Polanski’s Chinatown has a lot in common with The Conversation. Both lead characters (Jack Nicholson’s private eye/Gene Hackman’s wiretap expert) are introduced as individuals inflicted with a kind of moral cynicism born of past events wherein their actions inadvertently brought about the deaths of others. They are also characters whose fortunes only take a turn for the worse after they've abandoned their cynicism, developed a conscience, and seek redemption through the current correction of past errors. 

Allen Garfield as William P. "Call me Bernie" Moran

The Conversation’s Harry Caul is the living embodiment of Vietnam America: a willing, guilt-ridden participant in morally dubious activity who rationalizes the sometimes deadly ramifications of his actions by deluding himself that they have nothing whatsoever to do with him. This spiritual deal-with-the-devil clearly plagues the devoutly religious Harry in his day-to-day life, resulting in his living a paranoid, loner’s existence of arms-distance friendships, inarticulate romances, and a near-constant suspicion of the motives of others.

Elizabeth MacRae as Meredith
(Best known to folks of my generation as Lou-Ann Poovie,
Jim Nabors' southern-fried girlfriend on Gomer Pyle: USMC)

But Harry’s Achilles heel and tragic flaw—despite his best efforts—is that he really hasn't become as callous and indifferent to the world as he'd like to be. He's a man who struggles with his humanity (he regularly goes to confession) in a world that continually reconfirms that feelings...all feelings...are a liability and source of pain. Yet something within him still fights against complete callousness. Thus making Harry's uncharacteristic decision to involve himself in the saving of the lives of the two lovers a simultaneous, last-gasp attempt to save his own life as well. 

What plagues Harry most about this otherwise humane decision to act...what stands as both the source and substance of his dread...is the fear that, should this assignment turn out like the other, with innocent lives lost, the result could lead to the irretrievable loss of what's left of his soul. 

"This is no ordinary conversation. It makes me feel...something...."

A prevailing characteristic of the '70s paranoid thriller is how they provide no reassurance that conspiracies aren’t real. Nor do they contradict the notion of paranoia as a rational, reasonable response to a reality of diminished privacy and corrupt authority figures.
Conceivably, as a means of conveying to the viewer that Harry Caul is a better man than his choice of profession would belie (he's more a gadget-geek than a spy), The Conversation establishes from the get-go that Harry is singularly ineffectual when it comes to keeping his life private. He's not nearly the opaque, stealthy, character he imagines himself to be. In fact, it seems as though the conclusion of the film suggests that Harry has not been paranoid ENOUGH.

For example: In spite of multiple locks on his door, an alarm system, and a refusal to divulge personal information to anyone, Harry's landlady not only finds out about his birthday and his age, but manages to leave a gift for him inside his apartment when he is away. This scene, coming as it does after the opening sequence which details how anyone can be observed anywhere, is notable for the open blinds in Harry's apartment, revealing a moving construction crane ostensibly working outside of his window (an element made more obvious in the original script). A point that later plays into answering a third act disclosure revealing how Harry’s mysterious employer has always maintained an awareness of Harry's comings and goings.

Harry grows uneasy when his girlfriend Amy lets on that she knows
 he spies on her and listens to her phone calls

A recurring motif contributing to the bleakness of The Conversation's worldview is that Harry, for all the effort expended in insulating himself, is really the most exposed and vulnerable person in the film. Unable to connect with anyone (not even the couple he's trying to save), he is easily followed, bugged, tricked, spied upon; and, in those moments when he does try to open up, too easily betrayed. In the end, it's clear Harry is both a victim and an (unwitting?) victimizer at constant risk of dying by the very sword he lives by.

Barriers

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM 

The Conversation is an intriguing thriller that builds its suspense honestly and ingeniously. A thriller made all the more compelling by the way it combines the familiar tropes of the suspense thriller with the intimate intensity of the character-study film. And while (unlike many suspense thrillers) the humans take precedence over plot in The Conversation, what a doozy of a plot it is! (In 1975, Gene Hackman would play another self-confronting private investigator in Arthur Penn's Night Moves, a nihilist '70s spin on the 1940s film noir.)
The Conversation is at its most successful when drawing the viewer into questioning the significance of superficially banal dialogue and mundane-appearing activities. The Conversation mines the suspense in its ordinary characters and the gritty squalor of their lives in a way reminiscent of what Alan J. Pakula achieved in Klute (1971). And for evoking paranoia and isolation, the purposeful use of San Francisco locations in The Conversation recalls Philip Kaufman’s brilliant 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

There's a big retro kick to be had in the proliferation of pay phones and primitive sound equipment on display. 

PERFORMANCES

The Conversation was not a success when released in April of 1974, and with that year's December release of Coppola’s The Godfather, Part II, it was all but forgotten by audiences and critics alike. It did garner three Academy Award nominations (Best Picture, Original Screenplay, & Sound), but in a tough acting year crowded by the likes of Jack Nicholson (Chinatown), Dustin Hoffman (Lenny), Al Pacino (The Godfather, Part II), and Albert Finney (Murder on the Orient Express), Gene Hackman's commanding and sensitive performance was crowded out. (I love Art Carney, but his Harry & Tonto nomination and win to me is positively baffling considering the heavyweight competition).

All the supporting performances in The Conversation are outstanding, but
Elizabeth MacRae as the sad-eyed trade-show model is surprisingly good and deeply affecting

In Harry Caul, Gene Hackman (2nd choice after Marlon Brando turned down the role) gives what I consider to be the best performance of his varied and very impressive career. Portraying a closed-off character is always a challenge; playing one who must convey to the audience the gradual reawakening of conscience is something else again. The entirety of whatever dramatic effectiveness or potential for audience involvement The Conversation has rested on the credibility of Hackman’s transformation. (And, tellingly, the film doesn’t require that you actually like Harry). On that score, Hackman—with the inestimable contribution of the film's uniformly exceptional cast—is nothing short of extraordinary.

The likely apocryphal story goes that Hackman gained weight and partially
 shaved his head for the role. The latter proving so problematic in growing back that it contributed to his refusal to shave his head for the role of Lex Luthor in Superman: The Movie (1978)

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

If you’re familiar with The Conversation at all, you’ve likely read or heard about the perhaps equally apocryphal story about a fortuitous transcription error that resulted in the original last name of Gene Hackman’s character being changed from Call (perhaps a little too on-the-nose for a serious film about a wiretapper) to the homophonous and oh-so evocative Caul. Caul is the name for the transparent protective membrane surrounding a fetus. Not one to spit in the eye of serendipity, Coppola builds upon this happy spelling error and uses it as both an allusive reference to Harry’s overly self-protective personality, and a springboard for a series of recurring visual motifs dramatizing the human instinct to emotionally insulate. 

Rain or shine,  the emotionally embryonic Harry is rarely seen without 
his "protective" transparent plastic raincoat

The motif of protective yet transparent membranes simultaneously protecting and isolating individuals is further conveyed in The Conversation's use of obfuscating veils of semi-transparent surfaces. The whole blurred vision effect is suggestive of Harry not really having a clear perspective of what he's getting himself involved in. 

Not Getting a Clear Picture of Things

Hackman is filmed through a plastic sheet in this scene depicting Harry having a cagey conversation with an untrustworthy colleague (Garfield).

The crucial details of a harrowing event are obscured behind a gauze curtain

A glass partition  prevents intervention while revealing only enough to horrify

A figure lies shrouded in a membrane of clear plastic

Coppola and cinematographer Bill Butler (Demon Seed) frequently rely on wide-angle shots to cut the frame into sections, dramatically emphasizing The Conversation's themes of isolation, loneliness, and the inability to communicate or emotionally connect.

The wide-angle perspective and strong vertical lines created by the support beams in Harry's vast warehouse workspace create a sense of  emotional desolation while simultaneously conveying a feeling of being hemmed in 

In this office set, vertical lines once again create isolated frames distancing the characters from one another. Meanwhile, the membrane motif is recalled by the clear plastic window shades, the central image dominated by an instrument of privacy invaded (the telescope)

Separate, Yet Connected
In one of my favorite images from the film, Harry stands on the balcony of the Jack Tar Hotel
in San Francisco, its design and layout create a wall of isolated, sealed-off cubicles

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

Beyond its obvious Watergate-era appeal and glimpse into a cultural zeitgeist I still remember vividly, I have to say that what most makes The Conversation a film I can rewatch endlessly (per my tendency to gravitate to films from which I can glean insights into the human condition) is that it is a powerful and persuasive allegory about the risks of allowing oneself to be vulnerable.

Watched

Characters in The Conversation are fond of repeating phrases like “You’re not supposed to feel anything” and “Nothing personal”; but as (I hope) we all know, life is very personal, and any attempt to connect authentically with another human being is fraught with risk. It hurts; it’s messy; it invades your space and disrupts order; it leaves you exposed to betrayal, misunderstanding, and rejection. And worst of all, it comes with no guarantees. On the contrary, it comes with the unequivocal assurance that the closer you get to someone…the better they know you…the more open and exposed you allow yourself to be...the greater the potential for them to do you harm.

Watching

But what of the alternative? Is it possible to exist among others with life’s only objective being the hope that your path never intersects with another? That “nothing personal” transpires to invade your heart and cause you pain? As Harry Caul learns, not only does one embark on a course of self-isolation at the risk of losing one's soul and humanity, but the biggest irony of all is how life has a way of happening to you no matter how diligently you try to keep it at bay. As the saying goes, no one here gets out alive.

Watcher

The Conversation is a peerless ‘70s paranoia thriller, one certainly not lacking in present-day parallels. But the film's paranoia/conspiracy theme is but one of the many layers making up this intelligent, superbly-crafted film. Like the audio tapes that plague Harry throughout the movie, The Conversation imparts more information and more insights the more you watch it.

BONUS MATERIAL

The stationery letterhead for Coppola's American Zoetrope San Francisco offices when they were housed in the Columbus Tower on Kearny Street. Someone familiar with Coppola's history can confirm, but I remember reading somewhere that the raised, circular letterhead graphic (depicting a dog with a camera in the center of a plate) is from a child's dish set from Coppola's youth or that of his father.

Elizabeth MacRae in a 1967 episode from the 3rd season of the TV series
 Gomer Pyle: USMC highlighting the character of aspiring vocalist Lou-Ann Poovie

Professional mime Robert Shields,  a real-life annoyance, er...I mean, entertainer in San Francisco's Union Square when I was a kid, appears as himself in the film's opening sequence. Unusual for a mime, Shields went on to considerable show business success in later years, appearing on TV variety shows and, in 1977 teaming with wife and fellow mime Lorene Yarnell in their own 60-minute weekly variety series "Shields & Yarnell" on CBS. 

The Conversation on DVD & Blu-Ray

I haven't heard the commentary Francis Ford Coppola supplies for the most recent DVD release of The Conversation, but from what I've read, it offers a wealth of info about the making of the film (e.g., Harrison Ford got a bead on his character when Coppola informed him that Martin Stett was gay). Of particular interest for me are the things that were cut from the final film: 1) Harry is revealed to be the secret owner of the apartment building he occupies, 2) He is plagued by overly-friendly neighbors, 3) There was a subplot involving a niece [Mackenzie Phillips], and 4) The betrayal Harry suffers at the hands of a character turns out to not be as conspiratorially sinister as it appears to be in the finished film.

Copyright © Ken Anderson  2009 - 2017

THE COOL ONES 1967

My fondness for…no, make that absolute love for this Swinging Sixties pop musical is as close to boundless as it is baseless. Baseless, not in that I love it without reason (on the contrary, the list of things I love about The Cool Ones would fill up this entire post). But baseless in that my affection for this unfailingly gladdening go-go groove-a-rama has absolutely nothing to do with good filmmaking and 100% to do with the emotional, visceral, wholly subjective delight I derive from its cheery evocation of a particularly happy time in my youth.

Debbie Watson as Hallie Rogers

Gil Peterson as Cliff Donner

Roddy McDowall as Tony Krum

Phil Harris as McElwaine

Nita Talbot as Dee Dee Howitzer

George Furth as Howie

Mrs. Miller as Mrs. Miller

In the mid-Sixties, I was just a kid (ten years old in '67), but I had a teenage sister who subsisted on a steady diet of the latest 45s (7-inch, 45rpm records) and every dance T.V. show she could cram in between doing her homework and making sure one of us younger siblings hadn't set fire to the house or each other. After school, she would rush home to watch Where The Action Is, Shindig, Hullabaloo, Hollywood a Go Go, or The Lloyd Thaxton Show, teaching me all the latest dance steps (which often consisted of little more than planting your feet in one spot and shaking like you're trying to dislodge a spider that's landed on your clothes) and the words to the Top 40 record hits of the day via the Hit Parader magazine she religiously purchased every month. My sister's need for a practice dance partner (I was the only boy among four girls) granted me premature entrance into the world of teenagers, and I don't think I ever got over it. 

May- 1967
Hit Parader was a teen fan music publication that featured the lyrics to all the latest songs

The colorful mod clothes; the crazy, code-like slang; the infectiously happy-sounding music; the dances so formless and silly that you had no choice but to lose yourself in abandon...all pretty heady stuff for a bookworm little kid like me. I was much too shy (then) to ever express myself so freely in the outside world, but in our living room, with the furniture pushed to the sides to create a dance floor, I felt like I was a part of the very "happening" world of the '60s. For some reason, The Cool Ones brings back those days to me better than any of the similar films of the era. Thus, when watching it, I find it a physical impossibility not to break into a smile and surrender myself to the nostalgia of it all.

The Whizbam Dancers
Teri Garr (left) was a staple dancer in a great many of these '60s teenage musicals

The Cool Ones is a breezy, above-average Beach Party movie cloaked in a somewhat toothless satire of show business — specifically the teen-centric West Coast music scene circa 1966. Hallie Rogers (Watson), a professional wiggler on Whizbam (a fictional teen rock & roll T.V. show patterned after its real-life counterparts, Shindig and Hullabaloo), harbors a burning desire to hang up her go-go boots and pursue a career as a pop singer. But, alas, at every turn, she finds her ambitions thwarted. Condescended to by well-meaning friends ("This is a boy's world. Isn't it enough to be with them all the time…and get paid for it?") and rudely dismissed by Whizbam producer Mr. MacElwaine (Harris), frustrated Hallie throws an on-the-air fit that inadvertently sparks a new dance sensation: The Tantrum.

Psycho-Chick: Hallie makes a bold play for stardom

That's a young Glen Campbell back there being upstaged by desperate-for-fame go-go girl Debbie Watson. Campbell, cast as the lead singer of the fictional pop group Patrick and the East Enders, would release his two signature hits the year this film came out: Gentle on My Mind and By the Time I Get to Phoenix. 

Of course, she's immediately sacked: "How dare you flip your wig on our time!" scolds McElwaine flunky George Furth. But lucky for Hallie, her musical nervous breakdown has caught the attention of washed-up-at-24 former teen idol Cliff Donner (Peterson). With Cliff's help, plus the assistance of eccentric pop music impresario Tony Krum (McDowall) — "Tony Krum? Like, he's zero cool! Everything he touches gets well!" — Hallie finally lands the opportunity to realize her dream of pop-singing stardom. But will true love, ethics, and a modicum of singing talent derail Hallie's teen dreams before they even start? Well, you'll have to tune in, turn on, and stay cool to find out.

"She's young, ambitious, and therefore dangerous. It takes a few
years on a girl to know how to mix a cocktail of ambition and desire."

As movies satirizing teen culture and the music business date as far back as Frank Tashlin's The Girl Can't Help It (1956), there's really not much that's particularly surprising or fresh in what The Cool Ones has to say about the mercurial nature of show biz, fickle teenage fans, the randomness of fame, or the absurdity of pop trends. In fact, fans of The Flintstones are apt to note similarities between the plot of The Cool Ones two episodes of the animated series: 1961 - Fred becomes an overnight teen singing sensation named Hi-Fye. 1965 - Fred stubs his toe and inadvertently creates a national dance craze called "The Frantic." But what The Cool Ones benefits from is a light touch and a wry self-awareness.  

Have a Tantrum

No question about it. The grooviest song in the entire score and my absolute favorite is the infectiously percussive "The Tantrum." Why this song wasn't released as a single is beyond me. Although The Cool Ones failed to produce a soundtrack album, some songs were covered as singles released by other artists. Frank Sinatra recorded "This Town" for his 1967 album The World We Knew, and Nancy Sinatra sang it on her 1967 T.V. special Movin' With Nancy. Petula Clark's rendition of "High" (the ski-lift number) appeared on the B side of her single "This Is My Song." 

Olivia Newton-John resurrects Debbie Watson's 

black T-shirt and tiger-print mini for 1980s Xanadu.

The Cool Ones doesn't take itself too seriously, and things move along at a brisk pace thanks to the crisp direction of Gene Nelson. A former dancer, singer, and actor (Oklahoma!, Tea for Two) who won a Tony Award nomination for his role in the original Broadway production of Follies, Nelson directed two Elvis Presley movies and worked extensively in T.V., directing episodes of Star Trek, Gilligan's Island, and Debbie Watson's 1965 T.V. show Tammy. The producer of The Cool Ones is actor Willliam Conrad, to whom I owe an invaluable cultural debt for producing film vehicles for Connie Stevens (Two on a Guillotine - 1965) AND Joey Heatherton (My Blood Runs Cold -1965). 

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM

Well, I'd say it's a neck and neck tie between the music and the dancing. Each of these is capable, at various points in the film, of being both marvelous and ludicrous…frequently simultaneously.

With a soundtrack of some 20-odd songs (accent on the odd), The Cool Ones is virtually wall-to-wall music, with practically every cast member granted the opportunity to burst into tuneless song at one point or another. The songs are a delightfully mixed bag of groove-a-riffic pop ditties, duets, ballads, and plot-propelling book-type numbers of the kind found in traditional movie musicals. 

Warner Bros produced The Cool Ones and therefore saved a fortune in royalty fees by peppering the film's soundtrack with old songs from their vast music library. There's a great deal of amusement to be had in hearing go-go arrangements to such conservative standards as Secret Love, It's Magic, and Birth of the Blues

The Cool Ones is rumored to have initially been conceived as a project for Nancy Sinatra and her longtime songwriting partner Lee Hazlewood. (Debbie Watson does all of her own singing, but sharp ears might recognize Sinatra's trademark deadpan vocals on The Tantrum.) If that's true, it goes a long way toward explaining the relative ambitiousness of the film's soundtrack of original songs. The late-great Lee Hazlewood (These Boots Are Made for Walkin', Sugar Town) contributes many fine and very danceable tunes to the film's score, along with composer Billy Strange and several others. Even at its weakest (Gil Peterson is seriously rhythm-challenged), the music in The Cool Ones is never less than enjoyably cheesy and fun.

Roddy McDowall acquits himself very nicely singing a number whose title might well have
 echoed the actor's own thoughts about his career at this stage: "Where Did I Go Wrong?"

The Cool Ones features guest appearances by several pop groups from the '60s whom you've likely never heard of. Top to bottom: The Bantams, The Leaves, and my personal favorite, T.J. and the Fourmations, materializing in full performance out of an elevator.

PERFORMANCES

Acting of any kind usually gets in the way in movies like The Cool Ones, which run on charm, energy, and personality. Watson and Peterson make for a photogenic, likable couple totally devoid of any real chemistry, but they have real screen charisma and are certainly easy on the eyes.

That actually goes double for the molded-in-plastic good looks of Gil Peterson, the world's worst lip-syncher but the best wearer of tight pants I've ever seen. With his chiseled profile, Young Republican haircut, and stiff countenance, Peterson is more convincing as a Thunderbirds marionette than as a late-'60s pop star. But thanks to his one-size-too-small wardrobe, he makes for terrific male eye candy in a genre noted for its propensity for zeroing in on the shimmying backsides of female dancers in bikinis. 

Dee Dee Goes for the Gusto
Nita Talbot's butt-grab greeting assures us were not in Frankie & Annette territory anymore

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

If the music in The Cool Ones sends me over the top (to use the vernacular, it's wiggy!), then the dancing is just out of this world. It's fun, energetic, and just a blast to watch...I get all charged up seeing it. The unbilled choreographer is Toni Basil (of '80s "Mickey" fame), a Shindig! alumnus and student of David Winters (West Side Story), the great-granddad of go-go choreography. It's his distinctive style that's most apparent in the film's ensemble dance numbers. And while Winters never went on to have a career comparable to that of Hullabaloo dancer Michael Bennett (A Chorus Line, Dreamgirls), he choreographed several films (Billie and Viva Las Vegas), many popular T.V. specials (Movin' With Nancy) and went on to direct and produce films. 

Dancers in The Cool Ones are recognizable from any number of '60s teen musicals.

The Whizbam dancer in the top screencap with the incredible bare midriff is Anita Mann, pictured here with Davy Jones dancing in THIS VIDEO. A terrific dancer, Mann went on to choreograph Solid Gold (and even took a couple of dance classes from me back in the 80s!)

THE STUFF OF DREAMS
I adore the mad, mod fashions. The so-bad-it's-good dialogue (it surprises me how often I find it to be genuinely funny. The scenic, time-capsule locations in Palm Springs and Los Angeles (much of it taking place just a block away from my old apartment on La Cienega near the Sunset Strip). That odd running gag about a mystery man coveting Cliff's vintage automobile. There's even the film debut /swansong of atonal '60s novelty act, Mrs. Miller (not to be confused with Merv Griffin's professional audience member, Miss. Miller). It's a silly movie, and it never apologizes for it. Maybe that's my favorite thing of all. 

Roddy McDowall pretty much coasts on the same performance he gave the previous year in Lord Love a Duck  (a superior satire, but not nearly as much fun), while effortless scene-stealer Nita Talbot and veteran actor Robert Coote provide stronger support than the film sometimes deserves.

The Cool Ones was a bomb when it came out, but I have a hunch that had The Cool Ones been made just a few years earlier, it might likely have been a hit. The world was changing fast, and pop culture trends even faster. The Cool Ones -- which feels like a movie from 1965--came on the scene at a very pivotal time. It was released just months before the hippy-dippy Summer of Love ushered in the psychedelic rock era. A time so drastically different in look and sound that The Cool Ones, with its clean-cut teens and well-scrubbed leads, looked as dated as a hula hoop.

Now, so many years later, The Cool Ones feels like right-on-on-time. Lumped together in a movie vision of the '60s fueled by Bye Bye Birdie, Elvis musicals, and Beach Party movies, The Cool Ones fits right in. It may not be a classic on any score, but truly fun and entertaining are incredibly hard to come by, and on that score, The Cool Ones rates top on my list. Although its many pleasures harken back to my distant youth, the enjoyment it gives me as an adult brands it a timeless favorite.

And then, of course, there are still some things that just never go out of style.

BONUS MATERIAL

In 1962 Gil Peterson released an album of easy listening standards. Songs like "I'll Be Seeing You" and "In the Wee Small hours of the Morning." I've no idea how the L.P. did, but I can't believe sales were helped any by that weird, Kean-esque artwork on the cover. 

The lead singer of T.J. and the Fourmations (the band that stalks Tony Crumb at the hotel) is Chris Gilmore. She was billed as Annette Ferra when she appeared opposite James Coco & Raquel Welch in the 1975 Merchant-Ivory musical drama The Wild Party. 

In Stephen Rebello's 2020 book Dolls! Dolls! Dolls! chronicling the making of the film Valley of the Dolls, it's revealed Gil Peterson appeared opposite Patty Duke in a deleted scene that had him playing Neely O'Hara's co-star in the movie "Love and Let Love."

Copyright © Ken Anderson  2009 - 2012