“That’s my pot dealer!” exclaimed Michelle Phillips in a crowded movie theater in 1977. Months earlier, the Mamas & the Papas singer had only known Harrison Ford as a stoner-carpenter with a few bit parts to his credit. Now he was Han Solo in “Star Wars,” directed by a young upstart, George Lucas. Clearly the world was changing.
How much, though? Conventional wisdom about the Hollywood renaissance of the ‘60s and ‘70s suggests that starting with “Bonnie and Clyde” and “Easy Rider,” a batch of emerging auteurs shook the studios out of a rut and transformed American film. There’s plenty of truth to that: Francis Ford Coppola’s shift in 10 years from a director-for-hire on an old-hat musical, “Finian’s Rainbow,” to the auteur behind “Apocalypse Now” is just one of the era’s most remarkable achievements.
A pair of new books, though, suggest that the overall shift was only so modest, ultimately shoring up not just the old-school studio system but the social norms the interlopers were supposed to be upending.
Paul Fischer’s lively history of the new wave of California directors, “The Last Kings of Hollywood,” concentrates on Lucas, Coppola and Steven Spielberg. (New York contemporaries like Martin Scorsese and Brian De Palma are present but relatively off-screen.) Fischer has a gift for highlighting the ways that moments that we now accept as inevitable were often the product of dumb luck, pyrrhic victories and tough decisions. Coppola made “The Godfather” out of financial desperation, averse to adapting a mob novel; Spielberg’s “Jaws” was beset with mishaps, from a foolhardy attempt to train a real shark to its malfunctioning mechanical one; only when Lucas learned that the rights to Flash Gordon were unavailable did he pursue a space-opera concept all his own.
Their brashness and can-do spirit were worth cheering for: As the trio delivered films that broke box office records — ”The Godfather,” “American Graffiti,” “Jaws” and more — there were reasons to believe that big-budget films could operate outside the studio system. Lucas in particular was driven as much by resentment of the old as passion for the new. He never forgot how Warner Bros. manhandled his debut feature, “THX 1138” and was driven to muscle “Graffiti” into existence to spite the suits who said he couldn’t. In 1969, Coppola and Lucas launched their own studio, American Zoetrope, in San Francisco, with a passel of scripts in progress (including “Apocalypse Now” and “The Conversation”) and a $300,000 investment from Warner Bros. But Coppola wasn’t much of a businessman, and he had an easier time putting the office’s fancy espresso machine to work than the suite of state-of-the-art editing bays: “He ran his business like he ran a film set — on vibes,” Fischer writes.
A decade later, both Coppola and Zoetrope would declare bankruptcy, and he would split with Lucas, who’d used the success of “Star Wars” to cut his own path as a Hollywood kingmaker via his own production company, Lucasfilm. It allowed him to indulge his love of classic cliffhanger serials, and he tapped Spielberg to direct “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” But Fischer frames Lucas’ career arc as a disappointment, despite all those dollar figures — Lucas wanted to return to artsier “THX”-style fare, but needed cash flow. “If George was ever going to be independent from Hollywood, he thought he wouldn’t get there by making abstract mood poems,” Fischer writes. By the ‘80s, with two “Star Wars” sequels done, Lucas was out of the mood-poem business entirely.
While “Last Kings” focuses exclusively on directors’ relationship to movie economics, Kirk Ellis’ “They Kill People” considers “Bonnie and Clyde” and the New Hollywood from a variety of angles — filmmaking, the social turmoil of the ‘60s, America’s complex relationship with outlaws in general and guns in particular. It’s a meaty yet accessible book that captures the lightning-in-a-bottle nature of the generation’s ur-text, capturing the unlikely nature of its creation and the somewhat dodgy nature of its legacy.
“Bonnie” was such a provocation — nakedly, almost giddily violent — that its studio, Warner Bros, all but willed it not to exist. It was given a shoestring budget, was mocked by studio chief Jack Warner (who sarcastically referred to director Arthur Penn and producer-star Warren Beatty as “the geniuses”), and initially released largely in Southern drive-ins. “They figured the redneck kids would like the guns,” Penn said.
Everybody liked the guns. A few scolding critics lamented the film’s violence, especially its then-shocking bloody finale, but Beatty and co-star Faye Dunaway were deeply seductive onscreen. (Ellis notes that the two are always the best-dressed characters in the film.) And its outlaw sensibility resonated with young audiences in the late‘60s. Moreover, writes Ellis (a historical-drama screenwriter best known for “John Adams”), it represented the culmination of decades of American culture that equated American gun culture with freedom — a notion that would’ve baffled the founding fathers, who dwelled little on gun-rights matters in the Federalist Papers and other constitutional drafting documents, but gained traction thanks to gun manufacturers. “In the printed legend of American history, guns and freedom have become synonymous,” Ellis writes, but it was a new legend — stoked in part by “Bonnie and Clyde” — not America’s origin story.
It’d be a mistake to reduce the New Hollywood to the filmmakers highlighted by these two books — though, focused as they are on white men, they echo the way women and people of color were largely shut out of the system, or relegated to more marginal blaxploitation work. Artists looking to operate outside the system have plenty of inspiration to draw from in the ‘70s. Yet the books also expose how commerce does what it always does — take provocations and sand the edges off of them, then look for ways to make them profitable. In the early ‘80s, a decade after Coppola and company stormed the barricades, Paramount chief Michael Eisner shared a fresh and contradictory vision, such as it was: “We have no obligation to make history. We have no obligation to make art. We have no obligation to make a statement. To make money is our only objective.”
It would take another decade — and auteurs on the East Coast — to launch another attack on that sensibility, via films like “Do the Right Thing” and “sex, lies, and videotape.” They would help usher in the Miramax era — but that’s another story, with its own problematic twists.
Athitakis is a writer in Phoenix and author of “The New Midwest.”
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