50 Years Ago: The Towering Inferno (1974)

On it's fiftieth birthday, The Towering Inferno (1974) remains the towering accomplishment of the 1970s cinema of disaster.  

This Irwin Allen film was directed by John Guillermin (King Kong [1976]), nominated for eight Academy Awards including Best Picture, and it took home awards for best cinematography, best editing, and even best song .  

As one might expect from a list of kudos like that, The Towering Inferno is dazzling in terms of visual presentation, and more than that, the film is highly suspenseful. Some scenes, especially those involving the fate of Robert Wagner’s character, are also harrowing, and quite frightening. The fire effects are, for the most part, legitimately terrifying too.  

Yet The Towering Inferno holds up best today due to its carefully constructed social commentary.                                           

I noted in my review of Irwin Allen’s The Poseidon Adventure (1972) how that disaster film transmitted a specific philosophy: a brand of muscular Christianity that states, essentially, God helps those who help themselves. Gene Hackman’s character, the reverend, was a spiritual leader, rallying the ship’s survivors to survive one crisis after the other.

The Towering Inferno doesn’t present a spiritual story-line to go with its chaotic tale of an out-of-control fire, but instead transmits a strong message about one very real pitfall of unfettered capitalism.  

Essentially, the film suggests that if the contest for a business is between turning a profit, or insuring the safety of its customers….the bottom line is going to win out, and people aren’t.

As we discover early in the film, shortcuts have been taken on the fiery building’s electrical wiring by a morally bankrupt subcontractor, Simmons (Richard Chamberlain). 

Simmons wasn’t exactly acting alone, either. Jim Duncan (William Holden), the head of the construction company, was going perilously over-budget on the project, and needed Simmons to save two-million dollars...somewhere.

Well, Simmons found the place where he could save that money. And in the end, though two million dollars were saved, at least before the disaster, roughly two-hundred people also lost their lives because of his actions.

This idea of a high-rise building being a dangerous fiasco or scam, essentially (especially considering the company’s abundantly ironic motto: “we build for life,”) is dynamically reflected in one of the film’s intimate subplots or "B" stories. 

A con-man named Claiborne (Best Supporting Actor nominee Fred Astaire), attempts to bilk a party-goer, doomed Lisolette (Jennifer Jones) out of her money. He too values money more than he does people.

Even the very structure underlining the film's character conflicts -- with corporate big-wigs like Duncan and Simmons on one side, and heroic, municipal firefighters like O'Halloran on the other -- adds to the leitmotif about the pitfalls of avarice and greed. A businessman is a person out to line his or her pockets. A municipal fire worker, by comparison, is someone who has dedicated his or her life to helping others.

There's clearly a conflict between those goals, and The Towering Inferno diagrams those conflicts beautifully.

Because it includes this social commentary about our society, The Towering Inferno isn’t mere escapism or disaster porn, as it has been accused of being by some critics.

Instead, this film from Irwin Allen proves a riveting and suspenseful experience that warns its audience that in their rush to make money, some people will cut corners…at the expense of the rest of us.

“We have an equipment problem.”

On the day of a gala party celebrating its opening, the architect behind the 138 story (and 135 floor…) Glass Tower, Doug Roberts flies into San Francisco by helicopter.  

He is greeted at the tower by his romantic partner, Susan Franklin (Faye Dunaway), who informs him that she wants to stay in the city and take an important new media job rather than leave the city with Doug.

Following this meeting, Doug is alarmed to  learn that safety-back-ups are not yet installed in the building, and there are indications of a fire somewhere in the skyscraper. He discovers that some wiring is too hot, and realizes that the electrical sub-contractor, Simmons (Chamberlain), did not follow specs. Instead, he used cheap wiring with no conduit covers.

Doug is worried the situation could escalate to a full-fledged disaster, but the construction company’s boss, Jim Duncan (William Holden) refuses to cancel the impending party, in part because a Senator (Robert Vaughn) and the Mayor are slated to attend.

Soon, a fuse box blows out on Floor 81, and starts a raging, ever-growing fire.  This conflagration begins to burn out of control, and Doug calls the S.F. Fire Department after a co-worker, Geddings (Norman Burton) dies from burns.  

Fireman Mike O’Halloran (Steve McQueen) arrives on the scene with a team of dedicated fire-men, but he informs Doug that if the fire is above the seventh floor, there is no good way for his men to combat it. 

The fire is on the 81st floor..and moving up.

This situation goes from bad to worse as the fire spreads, killing the passengers on an express elevator, and endangering all the party goers on the top floor, in the Promenade Room.

“I want both, and I can’t have both, can I?”

I noted above that The Towering Inferno -- based on the books The Tower and The Glass Inferno -- is actually a social critique of unregulated capitalism. 

A construction company in bed with political elites (the aforementioned senator and mayor) has cut corners to make its budget and get the construction permits that it needs. 

The budget is ultimately satisfied, but human decency is not.  

This leviathan of a skyscraper may be beautiful to look at, but is demonstrably unsafe. 

“Built for life,” in this case, means built for a day. The building does not survive its inaugural celebration.

Simmons is the obvious bad guy here. He installs wiring without conduit covers, and as a result, the wires get too hot. They overheat. They start a fire.

It’s easy to blame Simmons for the entire crisis since he was the hands-on fellow who changed Doug’s specs. 

But there is plenty of responsibility to go around, as Simmons points out. Duncan, of course, wanted to save money, and that became his most urgent concern.  Even if he didn’t specifically tell Simmons to authorize faulty wiring, he created the environment wherein Simmons felt it was permissible to do so. 

 In The Towering Inferno’s climax, Duncan is contrite because he knows fully the role he played in the deaths of 200 people. “All I can do now is pray to God I can stop this from happening again,” he notes.

For some, that may be too little too late.

Similarly, Doug bears some responsibility too. True, he absolutely designed a building he believed would be safe. But Doug never ran his ideas past by an expert who might know something about skyscrapers, fires, and safety issues; a man like O’Halloran. 

O’Halloran calls him out in the film over this particular oversight, noting that Doug is fully aware that buildings as tall as the Glass Tower can’t be protected from fire, and yet Doug keeps designing such buildings.  

At movie’s end, Doug sees the error of his ways, and says that the ruined building ought to be left standing as a “shrine to all the bullshit in the world.” 

This was, actually, a building erected on the shaky foundations of bullshit. It had better marketing --- built for life? -- than it did actual safety precautions. It is a reminder of what happens when greed is made more important than human lives.

Poor old Mr. Claiborne is not a bad person, but he too lives by scamming money from people. He pretends to be rich, but can’t even afford taxi fare, as we see in the film’s first act.  He place a greater value on money than on people, and when he loses poor Lisolette, he sees the error of his ways.  He has lost a person he loves, and nothing can make that loss better for him. It was a person, not a “mark” in a con game that ultimately matters most to him. Claiborne's punishment is that he shall be left alone -- with only Lisolette's cat, Elke -- when he could have had the companionship and love of a dear woman.

The film's leitmotif about runaway capitalism and avarice is even mirrored, to some degree, in Susan’s story.  She’s been waiting for five years to get a promotion to story editor at her job, and now the opportunity lands in her lap. She expresses her desire, openly, to have it all, both her job and the man she loves. “I want both, and I can’t have both,” she complains. We can see here the seeds of conspicuous consumption, and the idea that we can have everything we want, when we want it, all the time.

The party-goers in the Promenade are not exactly sterling characters, either, for the most part. 

They panic, they push, and they sow disorder through their ill-considered actions. We want them to survive, but cannot escape the notion, either, that they are in danger in the first place because of their wealth (their money, again), and their power.  

Again, and again, these rich people put themselves first. Two women run onto the roof, for instance, for a rescue helicopter, even though Doug warns them not to go. These women interfere, and the copter crashes and burns. People die because they didn't obey the rules.  Just as Duncan and Simmons didn't obey the rules.

At another point, the party-goers flood the express elevator, even though they have been told not to do so; that the express elevator is dangerous.  They are killed.

The message here seems to be that these people want everything, right now, and nothing -- not even safety concerns -- is going to stop them from getting what they want.

But just try negotiating with a fire...

And of course, attempting to restore order in this chaotic situation we find heroic O’Halloran. He is not a fire-fighter for the money, the power, or the prestige. He is a municipal worker: a civic worker reporting to a public hierarchy.  

And even though the powerful don’t listen to him, O'Halloran rushes in to rescue them when they are endangered. They could not care less about his life, but he puts his neck on the line again and again for the civilians at risk.  

At the end of the movie, O'Halloran has been through the wringer, and yet one feels he would do it again in a heart-beat.  In one great shot, O'Halloran takes in the scene on the ground floor.  He scans the wreckage. His men are in body bags. Their equipment is strewn across the floor.  

This is the cost of staying on a budget; of making a profit  At least for O'Halloran.

O'Halloran serves as the living, breathing mirror of those he saves. He’s not interested in money or power. He’s interested in putting safety, not profit, first.  

By contrast, Doug is the character in the film who starts on one side (that of the corporate interests), and changes allegiances as the truth about the building is revealed.  In the end, he is left humbled by this experience, and will not make the same mistake again.  The film’s closing lines involve his desire to seek out O’Halloran the next time that he designs a building. 

He knows where to find him. That's where he's been all along.

The Towering Inferno's tragedy of greed is played out against an amazing and spectacular cinematic background.  

One scene that remains awesome and terrifying involves Robert Wagner’s character, Don Bigelow.  He dons a wet towel, and runs out into a room on fire, convinced he can safely reach an exit.  

He is consumed in fire in seconds. It devours him.

It goes without saying that this horrifying moment is not faked with digital special effects. A stunt man accomplished this run, and it was edited for maximum impact in slow-motion photography so the terror is extended. The moment is stunning and horrifying, and impossible to look away from. It captures the beauty and destructive power of fire in visceral terms.

Other scenes will cause your belly to drop, or flop. 

Late in the film, one nail-biting rescue attempt involves sending a lone person in a chair across a dangling line connecting two buildings  Although some of the process work has aged a bit -- the rear projection, specifically -- this moment still looks great in high-definition. A poor soul sits in that chair (belted in), and is moves slowly in mid-air between burning building and distant sanctuary.

I would not want to take that ride.

Before the film is done, we also see water tanks explode and flood the fire -- buffeting the survivors in the Promenade Room -- and a scenic elevator come off its track and dangle dangerously 110 floors from terra firma. 

These moments are executed with an eye towards maximum suspense and realism.

What surprised me, watching the film today, is that every minute seems genuinely suspenseful, rather than histrionic, and I actually cared about what happens to the characters, especially those played by Newman, McQueen, Dunaway, Astaire, and Jones.  

They don’t all make it out alive.

I felt very enthusiastic on my re-watch of The Poseidon Adventure last week, and assumed that The Towering Inferno might not compare favorably. The Poseidon Adventure was short, to the point, and right on target with its commentary about mankind making his own way in the world.

On the contrary, however, The Towering Inferno may just be the zenith of the seventies disaster format.  

The actors are not just good, but fully engaged, the danger is palpable, the threat is not merely pervasive, but in a way, beautiful, and there’s an undercurrent of social critique underlining all the action. The story means something, in the final analysis.

And that’s how you made blockbusters fifty years ago.

50 Years Ago: Planet Earth (1974)

Planet Earth (1974) aired fifty years ago today, represents creator Gene Roddenberry's second effort to get his Genesis II (1973) series premise aired on American network television. 

As you may or may not remember, Genesis II concerned a 20th century scientist, Dylan Hunt (Alex Cord) awaking in 2133 AD and helping the pacifist organization called PAX (Latin for peace) restore the "best of the past" while ignoring "the worst."

Because of his 20th century knowledge and know-how (and because of a system of sub-shuttles "honeycombing" the post-apocalyptic world...), Dylan proved a perfect "agent" of PAX to accomplish this critical mission of planetary reconstruction (think Irish monks in the Dark Ages...). Still, Dylan Hunt had to overcome his own twentieth century addiction to violence and killing.

Star Trek fans will also recall that Gene Roddenberry created two pilots for that classic NBC series, before the series was finally picked up for network television. Specifically, Star Trek underwent a dramatic change in leading man (from Jeffrey Hunt to William Shatner), and shifted radically in tone from the first pilot ("The Cage") to the second one ("Where No Man Has Gone Before.") In particular, the "cerebral," introspective nature of "The Cage" was replaced by a more action-packed, upbeat tone for Shatner's first episode, "Where No Man..."

One can detect a nearly identical shift at work from Genesis II to Planet Earth. In Genesis II, the brave men and women of PAX lived underground, in dark, depressing and dimly lit caverns. In Planet Earth, PAX folk live above ground, in a shiny, technological metropolis replete with flower gardens and elaborate skyscrapers. Even Dylan Hunt's first voice-over is more upbeat and bright in language, explaining to the audience that in 2133 AD the land is "renewed," and the "air and water are pure again."

In Genesis II, the people of PAX wore simple garments and looked like Roman slaves. In Planet Earth, the people of PAX wear form-fitting and futuristic uniforms that are brightly reminiscent of Star Trek.

In Genesis II, PAX had no advanced technology or advanced medicine. By contrast, Planet Earth reveals a PAX replete with handheld computers, view-screens and large computer banks. The people of PAX are also more knowledgeable here, and there are doctors available who can perform advanced "bioplastic" heart surgery. These changes reveal a completely made-over PAX, one which (like the United Federation of Planets) represents a virtual utopia.

Other changes have been made as well. 

A "recurring" enemy in the form of the barbaric mutants called "The Kreeg" has been added to the mix. These dangerous mutants, like the Klingons of modern day Trek incarnations, boast ridged (or bumpy) foreheads and a style of life geared heavily towards the militaristic. The Kreeg drive around the post-apocalyptic landscape in ancient, souped-up automobiles, and carry twentieth century fire-arms. Basically, It's like Mad Max with Klingons.

Some character relationships have also been tarted up to be as colorful and dynamic as the new environs. The flirtatious relationship between Dylan Hunt (here played by John Saxon) and sexy Harper-Smythe (Janet Margolin) is more pronounced. The other members of Hunt's "Team 21" include the hulking Isiah (Ted Cassidy) and a physician named Baylock (Christopher Cary) who is an "Esper" capable of healing wounds with his mind. Baylock and Isiah share a friendly rivalry that is reminiscent of the Spock/Bones relationship on Star Trek, with Baylock dismissively referring to Isiah as a "savage" when Cassidy's character kneels down in prayer at one point.

Perhaps most significant is the change in Dylan Hunt himself. Saxon's version of the character is a man of action (like James T. Kirk); one who is firmly in command this time around. He barks orders, plots strategy and is a firm, decisive leader, with precious little of the introspection or moodiness of Cord's incarnation. Honestly, John Saxon is a much better lead in this particular role, and his central performance holds Planet Earth together pretty damn well. Like Shatner's Kirk, he is a combination of physical agility/beauty and charming arrogance/swagger.

Another Star Trekkian touch: Dylan Hunt chronicles his adventures on a handheld device.  It's not the captain's log, but damn close.  Instead, he calls it "a log report to the PAX council."

Given the changes to a punchier, more upbeat tone, philosophy is also played down in Planet Earth. Genesis II ended with the high-minded pacifists of PAX lecturing to Dylan Hunt (who had just saved them all from nuclear annihilation...) about the evils of violence and murder. In Planet Earth, the PAX folk are still peaceful in nature (they continue to use sedative darts as their primary weapons, called PAXer darts, for instance), but they never stop the action to wax philosophic or lecture about pacifism. And judging by the fight sequences here, the people of PAX have also learned the fine art of self-defense.

Directed by the late, great Marc Daniels (who helmed many episodes of Star Trek), Planet Earth (co-written by Juanita Bartlett and Roddenberry and produced by Robert Justman) also features a plot that is easier, in some sense, to identify with. In the opening minutes of the episode, gentle Pater Kimbridge, a leader of PAX, is wounded during a kerfuffle with the Kreeg. Dylan and Team 21 get Kimbridge back to Pax, but they require the skills of a surgeon named John Connor to save the old man's life. Unfortunately, Connor disappeared a year earlier in an "unexplored region" ruled by a matriarchy called "The Confederacy."

There in the confederacy, "males are bought and sold like caged animals." Hunt wonders aloud if is this "women's lib...or women's lib gone mad?" Anyway, he resolves to infiltrate the Confederacy as a slave "owned" (as property) by Harper-Smythe, to locate John Connor and rescue his dying friend. He has just sixty hours to accomplish this task. What Planet Earth establishes with Dylan's mission is the bond of friendship between Kimbridge and Hunt. Hunt states that Kimbridge "is" PAX; both "grace" and "warmth." So underlining the action and weird central scenario in this pilot is a narrative that could have come from Star Trek; about the lengths friends will go to for friends.

Once inside the Confederacy of Ruth, Hunt becomes the property of a dominatrix named Marg (Diana Muldaur), who wins ownership of him in combat with Harper-Smythe. Marg decides she wants him to be a "breeder" (yes!), and Dylan soon learns that all the males here -- called "Dinks" -- are rendered docile by a drug extract in their gruelish food that controls the human "fear/fascination" response. Unfortunately, a side-effect of this drug is sterility. Fewer and fewer children are being born in the Confederacy. The mission is now two-fold for Dylan: set right this topsy-turvy culture (men's lib!) and find the missing Dr. John Connor.

Unfortunately, that's easier said than done. Hunt soon rebels against his new training, and Marg notes that "the human male is an unstable creature." She trains him herself (yippee!), forcing a tied-up Hunt to ingest a full vial of the dangerous extract, rendering him docile. But, in the best teeth-grinding, jaw-clenching tradition of Captain Kirk, Hunt fights the effects of the drug.

Once again, here's a Gene Roddenberry story with a decidedly kinky bent. Dylan Hunt is soon remanded to Marg's home as a "breeder" and once there he promises her that he's, uh...well...good in bed. He claims he has fourteen wives and that his body is attuned to "different practices" than The Mistress might be familiar with. Marg and Hunt share a scene that includes bottles of wine, a bullwhip (whoo-hoo!), and ultimately...a bed. In the sack, Marg and Dylan proceed to discuss the failure of both 20th century men's lib and post-apocalyptic women's lib as governing philosophies, and settle on "people's lib."

Yep, in the words of Dylan Hunt, it's all just a "little non-verbal mutual respect."

Before long, the Kreeg attack the Confederacy, but Dylan has executed a plan to free the Dinks from their drug-induced docility and stand-up and fight. In the end, PAX outsiders, Dinks and Mistresses fight back the violent Kreegs (led by John Quade) and Dylan and Harper-Smythe get Connor back to PAX to save Kimbridge's life.

I hadn't seen Planet Earth in probably fifteen years, and my memory has always been that it wasn't as good; wasn't as "pure" perhaps, as the original, Genesis II. However, on a fresh viewing, I must admit, I actually prefer Planet Earth. John Saxon seems very comfortable and appealing as a leader of men (and women), and he's adept with the romantic and action bits. He's also highly charismatic and appears to be enjoying himself.

And that "light" Star Trek sense of esprit-de-corps and joie-de-vivre is definitely present too, so Saxon understands the style.True, there's less philosophical grandstanding, but the lighter touch is fun and entertaining, and it easily (and humorously) makes points about the timeless "battle of the sexes." Parts of the episode play well as satire; and in toto, Planet Earth is a lot less heavy-handed and grave than Genesis II. This is a planet you wouldn't mind visiting every week.

By making PAX more advanced in Planet Earth, Roddenberry is also better able to compare and contrast various cultures and societies. It's very difficult to be a committed pacifist when you live in desperation (underground in caves; wearing rags); a little easier to do so when some of the basic necessities of life -- like sunlight -- are met. The unisex uniforms also forge a sharp visual distinction between PAX and the other cultures. The character dynamics here also seem more promising, or at least more colorful.

Alas, Planet Earth didn't make the grade either, and never went to series. A third attempt with this formula, also starring John Saxon (this time as Captain Anthony Vico) -- entitled Strange New World (1975) -- was next. Roddenberry had reduced involvement in that pilot, and it too failed to become a series. 

50 Years Ago: Day of the Dolphin

Now 50 years old, The Day of the Dolphin (1973) is a thoughtful and highly-emotional science fiction movie that explores the connection between man and dolphin, and wears its heart on its sleeve. 

And for this crime, the movie has long-been ridiculed.  

Critic Pauline Kael called The Day of the Dolphin “the most expensive Rin Tin Tin movie ever made, with a gimmick the Rin Tin Tin pictures never stooped to: the dolphins here are dubbed with plaintive, childish voices and speak in English.” (5001 Nights at the Movies, Holt Paperbacks, 1982, page 175.)

The Village Voice’s Michael Atkinson, meanwhile dubbed The Day of the Dolphin “absurdly earnest.”

He may be right. The Day of the Dolphin is absurdly earnest to its core…but I’ll take that quality over ones like “crassly cynical,” or “blatant cash grab” any day of the week.  

The fact of the matter is that this 1973 film -- much like its dolphin co-stars -- today seems absolutely without guile.  

And that quality makes for powerful contrast with the film’s human villains, and also with the species called “movie reviewers” too.

At a secret, privately-run research facility by the sea, a team of scientists led by Dr. Jacob Terrell (George C. Scott) attempt to teach the first dolphin born into captivity, Alpha, to speak.  

When Alpha grows uncooperative and bored with his learning, a female dolphin, Beta, becomes his companion.  As Dr. Terrell grows closer to announcing his breakthrough in human/dolphin communication to the world, however, a dark conspiracy is hatched in secret.  

The dolphins are captured and taken away from the facility.  On the sea, they are trained to plant mines on boats…a task that will be used in an assassination attempt targeting the President of the United States.

Now Terrell must rescue the dolphins, stop their mission, and teach his wards that not all human beings can be trusted…

Many science fiction films of the 1970s deal with mankind’s always-changing relationship with animals, those fellow creatures he shares the Earth with.  

I wrote that the relationship is “ever changing,” and that process of change involves the boundaries of man’s science and knowledge.  As he better understands himself and the world, mankind’s understanding of animals -- and responsibility for them -- also changes.  

The Planet of the Apes sequels of the early 1970s directly involve mankind’s uneasy relationship with a close mammal cousin, and the fight for dominion. Mike Nichol’s The Day of the Dolphin concerns another highly intelligent inhabitant of the Earth -- the dolphin -- and asks the question: is dolphin-kind better off learning from us at our current stage of development, or should it remain far, far away from 20^th century human beings all together?

The Day of the Dolphin centers on a character played by George C. Scott named Dr. Jake Terrell.  As the film opens, we see him lecturing about dolphin intelligence and communication to a rapt audience, and later, we seem him playing God, of a sort, at his marine research institute.  

There, he is the father figure for Alpha, the first dolphin raised in captivity.  He makes the decisions for Alpha, teaching him linguistics and semantics, and demanding obedience.  

When Alpha won’t obey, Terrell separates him from his mate/companion, the dolphin Beta, and the film depicts a heart-breaking scene of Alpha banging at a door plate, attempting to reach her.  He doesn’t understand being punished.

Finally, realizing that humans hold all the cards, Alpha obeys Terrell’s edicts. He submits. While hoping to teach the animals important human qualities, Terrell seems to lack one himself: compassion.  All he has taught Alpha is that man is “the boss.”

As the film continues, however, the audience detects a change in Terrell.  When he encounters those who would more cruelly exploit Alpha and Beta -- for purposes of political assassination, no less -- he sees the error of his ways.  

“We should become like them…instinct and energy,” Terrell muses at one point.  He wonders explicitly why he has sought to re-cast the dolphins in terms of human standards and learning.  Furthermore, he realizes what a disservice he has done them.  

“They trust us more than their own instincts,” he realizes.  “They’ve never been lied to…”

The Day of the Dolphin ends with Terrell making the ultimate parental sacrifice for his wards, to whom he has done wrong.

He is cruel, on purpose, to the dolphins, and thus knowingly drives them away….never to see them again.  

He knows they will be used badly by mankind again, and can’t let it happen. But they do not understand why he rejects them now.  They have no basis for understanding, and are without guile. 

The last several minutes of the film will make audiences weep as the dolphins call after Jake in despair, and it takes every ounce of courage and resolve for him to reject and ignore their entreaties.  In this case, as Jake realizes, the dolphins are better off without human interference, better off hating humans, even. 

Even outside the commentary on humans and how they treat animals, the film works as a metaphor for parenting, for children and adults.  At some point, the children must walk (or swim) alone, and indulgence or assistance will do no further good.  

Some children won’t learn that lesson from gentleness and softness. Sometimes the lesson has to be hard, and that is a heartbreaking thing for everyone involved.

The Day of the Dolphin dramatizes its emotional tale with a minimum of obvious fakery, and the scenes of affection between Scott and the dolphins feel incredibly real, and therefore touching.  The scenes of Terrell and Alpha together, learning from one another, showing each other affection, represent the best angels of human nature: mankind’s capacity to reach out to other beings in peace and love.  

In keeping with the Watergate context of the era, however, the film also offers a yang to that yin.  The movie very deliberately charts a conspiracy, and notes that it is no longer possible to “trust the good old establishment.”  

On the contrary, the establishment here resorts to bugging the marine research center and stonewalling the public about real intentions. The final end game for this group of conspirators is the murder of the President of the United States.  The dolphins are but mere pawns in such a plot.

At its most basic level, The Day of the Dolphin emotionally explores the simple interrogative that Terrell asks of Alpha.  

“Why is man good?”  

One possible answer is that man, as in the case of Jake, has the ability to step back from his self-centered, petty concerns, learn from his mistakes, and make good decisions…decisions that benefit others.

 But oppositely, The Day of the Dolphin also suggests that the “good old establishment” is always going to exploit new science and new technology for anti-social reasons, and that those caught in the middle are, often, complete innocents, like Alpha and Beta.

As my introduction suggests, The Day of the Dolphin didn’t win many great reviews on its release in theaters in 1973, but it nonetheless impresses on an emotional level.  

Not only as a time-capsule of the Watergate Era, and the dawn of conspiracies in the science fiction cinema, but as a film that intelligently ponders human nature and behavior.  

When we are going to become “good” parents not just to our own biological children, but to the beings we share this world with?

50 Years Ago: Battle for the Planet of the Apes

"In the beginning God created beast and man so that both might live in friendship and share dominion over a world of peace. But in the fullness of time evil men betrayed God's trust and in disobedience to His holy word waged bloody wars, not only against their own kind, but against the apes, whom they reduced to slavery. Then God in his wrath sent the world a saviour, miraculously born of two apes who descended on Earth from Earth's own future and man was afraid, for both parent apes possessed the power of speech."

- The Lawgiver in Battle for the Planet of the Apes

The fifth and final film in the Planet of the Apes saga, Battle for the Planet of the Apes, premiered 50 years ago today, and has long been saddled with the title as "worst" entry of the series. Unfortunately, there are several solid reasons for this assessment. 

First and foremost among such reasons is the fact that Battle was made by 20th Century Fox for a pittance. It's a very low budget effort, and one that resolutely lacks the sense of scope and epic background that made the 1968 original such a landmark genre film. This is not a spectacular film in any sense of that word, and so disappointment is undeniably fostered. The Apes saga deserved, certainly, an ending befitting its imaginative, brilliantly-stylized beginning.

Also, Battle features a controversial shift in creative authorship, from Paul Dehn to Joyce and John William Corrington, and apparently even its casting decisions bespeak of  "the diminishing stature and budget of the series."

Beyond these concerns, Battle for the Planet of the Apes is frequently edited in exceedingly sloppy fashion, particularly in the underwhelming climactic battle (in a tall tree, of all places...) between Caesar (Roddy McDowall) and his own simian Brutus, General Aldo (Claude Akins).  There are several instances during this fight when a viewer can actually see that close-ups of both Aldo and Caesar from an earlier scene (a stand-off at the corral...) have been inserted.  Without any difficulty, you can actually make-out the gorillas and other apes standing behind them, which doesn't make any sense in the context of the tree fight, high above the ground.

But all the news is not bad. While it's undeniably true that Battle for the Planet of the Apes is not great film making  by any standard, the sequel is nonetheless an eminently watchable and entertaining film, which is something that can't be said, for instance, of the 2001 Tim Burton re-imagination.

And what Battle for the Planet of the Apes clearly lacks in budget, scope and editing, it largely makes up for in terms of intimacy, characterization, and even rhetorical flourish. This last quality is clearly the most significant.  Battle for the Planet of the Apes has enough on its troubled mind for a full three entries in a science fiction franchise, and explores ably the idea of the ape culture's "fall from grace," as well as the possibility that one (dark...) future need not be written in stone. 

Also, the J. Lee Thompson film nicely squares the circle in terms of series continuity, bringing the final film right up to the beginning of the first film. Battle opens in 2670 AD. That's roughly the same time that Colonel Taylor (Charlton Heston) makes his recording from outer space in Planet of the Apes regarding the denizens of Earth.  In that log entry, he wonders if he is speaking to a "new breed."  With this film, we have our answer.  The five-strong saga becomes, essentially, a loop or circle.

Every Caesar must have his Brutus...

Some years after the ape rebellion and  a global nuclear war, the King of Ape City, Caesar (Roddy McDowall) struggles with civil rights in his metropolis. The humans there are second-class citizens, but some apes, including the treacherous General Aldo (Akins) would prefer to see them dead.

When Caesar's human aide, MacDonald (Austin Stoker) informs the ape leader that the world is headed for disaster if the breach between humans and apes isn't repaired, Caesar asks for evidence of this assertion.  MacDonald suggests that Caesar watch visual tapes of his own father, Cornelius, stored in the archives of the old city, which confirm his tale of Earth's destruction in 3955.

With his scientific counsel, Virgil (Paul Williams) and MacDonald in tow, Caesar visit the old city, now flattened by a catastrophic nuclear exchange.  Inside the radioactive city, the new governor, a "malformed" Kolp (Severn Darden) spies the interlopers, and attempts to capture them.  

After seeing the tapes of his own father, Caesar escapes with his friends from the City, but the damage is done.  Kolp plans to launch an all-out war against Ape City.

Upon his return home, Caesar makes preparations for war with the mutants, even as his beloved son, Cornelius (Bobby Porter) die following a fall from a high tree branch. Virgil and MacDonald suspect the death was no accident: that Aldo himself killed the boy.

The mutants under Kolp's command lay siege to Ape City even as Caesar mourns the loss of his only son.  Meanwhile, General Aldo plans for future in which he is the king, and all the humans are dead...

"Do what you will" is the Devil's Law...

As writer Joyce Corrington has aptly described it, Battle for the Planet of the Apes is a story about the apes' expulsion from Paradise.  

Here, Ape City is a kind of agrarian Garden of Eden, and the apes, though intelligent, are also clearly innocent. The Serpent (in the deadly form of the firearm) is locked away and protected by Caesar's "conscience," an orangutan named Mandemus (real life pacifist Lew Ayres), and all the apes live by a sacred edict: Ape shall never kill ape.

When Aldo violates that law, however the apes sacrifice their innocence. It's not merely the story of Cain and Abel revisited, it's that, as MacDonald states, the apes have finally "joined the human race."  Notably, the treacherous Aldo's demise involves his fall from a great height, and therefore recalls, at least subtly, Lucifer's fall into the pit, even as it also directly references the death of young Cornelius.  At one point, Caesar even tells Aldo that he is headed for a great fall, though the warning is ignored.   Again, and again, Battle for the Planet of the Apes seems to grasp for connections to Biblical stories, and it's an interesting leitmotif, at least.

After killing Aldo, Caesar asks Virgil if it is right that one murder should be avenged by another, getting at the fact that both man and ape are, at their core, violent creatures. This is another thematic through-line in the film, well expressed. The mutant Mendez, similarly, confronts Kolp over his war preparations and notes that "this bloody chain reaction has to stop."  Kolp does not heed his advice.  In fact, he's willing to destroy the world for his cause.

In yet another instance, the film cuts to young Cornelius and a blond-haired human boy playing at "war" using sticks as makeshift guns. The game is innocent and harmless, and yet it begs the question: is there just something about the mammalian brain that is drawn to death and destruction?  

Why are even the best of us wired to play at these violent battles for supremacy?  Is that the fatal flaw in man and ape? Years later, in Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991), Cameron would stage a similar scene, using children playing at "war" to make the point.

When Battle for the Planet of the Apes meditates on such interesting questions about human nature, the film works rather nicely, if modestly, as a morality play or parable. And I really admired the distinction the film draws between the apes and the humans in the destroyed city. Virgil explicitly notes that human "leaders" had the capability in their hands to destroy cities and whole populations, but that no one was there to mind their "conscience."  

Caesar, at least, has Mandemus to prevent him from acting impulsively, or in the role of a madman.  This seems an entirely wise and prudent restriction on absolute power.  The flattened city is a potent reminder of what happens when a leader does not consider those he leads, or the future of the planet.

Battle for the Planet of the Apes gazes at these issues of innocence and self-destruction through the rubric of the "future." Specifically, can we make the future anything we wish? Virgil suggests that it is possible, and certainly, the last scene in the film, set in 2670 and a classroom for human and ape children, suggests as much.  

Importantly, the Lawgiver (John Huston) here is not the fire-and-brimstone, rabidly anti-human preacher of hatred that Ape Doctrine (the Sacred Scrolls) makes him out to be in Planet of the Apes.  Rather, he seems to very actively preach peace between the species. He does so primarily, it seems, based on Caesar's modeling of that principle by releasing all the humans from the corral and inviting them to live in peace in Ape City as equals.  

For the first time in a Planet of the Apes film then, the audiences sees a statue of an ape that is not the Lawgiver.  It is a statue of Caesar himself, indicating, perhaps, that the "peaceful" wise chimpanzee has usurped the role of the draconian Lawgiver in this timeline.  

We can extropolate then that it will be the teachings of peace and equality that march forward into the future of 3955, not the teachings of hatred and bigotry.  Thus, when Taylor arrives to judge the world he finds in this timeline, he will find -- we hope -- two species living together in peace.  If that's the case, he won't need to destroy the world with the Alpha-Omega Bomb.  That's the hope that we leave the Planet of the Apes film series with.    

This time, it can be different.

The valedictory visual of Battle for the Planet of the Apes series involves a close-up of the Caesar statue as it sheds a single tear. Perhaps Caesar cries because his dream of peace has finally been realized.  His example has paved the way for the planet's eternal survival.

Contrarily, Caesar's single tear may be interpreted to suggest that the future is ever unwritten; that war is still easier than peace; that hate is still easier to come by than love.  It is, after all, a long way to 3955.  Caesar weeps, perhaps, because human and ape natures remains unchanging, even if a temporary detente is forged. This reading of the film is supported by the imagery of an ape and human child teasing one another.

Although some might consider this final visual of the series -- a crying statue -- a bit hokey, I admire it very much. I appreciate the fact that it is ambiguous enough to provoke debate and alternate readings.  And also,  the imagery provides a strong contrast to the Lawgiver statue we saw in Beneath crying blood.   

There, the draconian edicts of the Lawgiver created an environment of acrimony and hate and war, and the bleeding eyes suggested this very ably  In Battle, the tears of Caesar are much more "human" somehow, a reflection of the fact that peace is a fragile and ephemeral thing. 

In the restored Blu-Ray cut of the film, Battle for the Planet of the Apes also reveals how the mutant survivors in the destroyed city ultimately select life over death.  Though Kolp has ordered the launch of the Alpha Omega Bomb upon his defeat, Mendez (Paul Stevens) and Alma (Frances Nuyen) make a better choice.  At Mendez's urging, the duo decides to "respect" and even "venerate" the bomb because one of its ancestors made them what they are.  If the bomb were activated, Mendez argues, they would simply become "nothing."  So this Adam and Eve choose life, after a fashion, and also begin to establish the mutant culture we see thriving in NYC in Beneath the Planet of the Apes (1970).  

Frankly, I love this bit of continuity with the earlier film, and it's a nice tying together of thematic, historical threads, though I always (perhaps erroneously) assumed Conquest took place in California, not New York.  I'm glad this important scene was restored to the film.

Another aspect of Battle for the Planet of the Apes that I enjoy involves the writing and presentation of the character, Kolp.  He's not your average villain, and comes off as strangely quirky. Take his line, "we're irradiated, but we're still active," which should be the slogan, I submit, for all big screen mutants.

Kolp actually seems to launch the war against Ape City more because of his own personal boredom rather than because of any strong ideological bent.  It's almost like he's offended that Caesar didn't drop by to chat with him. Again, if the movie as a whole concerns the idea of advisers keeping their leader's conscience in times of conflict, Kolp is the perfect example of what happens when that safeguard doesn't occur (or when it is ignored).  He is willing to destroy the world just because, it seems, he has nothing better to do.

The mutant vs. ape battle featured in the film is pitifully small scale, but in some ways, the meager forces involved in the conflict also play directly to the movie's thematic point.  

There's hardly anybody left alive on the planet, and now it's come to this: about a dozen mutants carrying rifles, following a school bus, a station wagon and a jeep through an irradiated desert.  Kind of a sad commentary on humanity. Even with his world almost entirely destroyed, all man can think about is wreaking more destruction and death.

In one great shot during this mutant march, the audience can actually see one of the mutant soldiers collapse and fall to the ground. These guys are sick...and they're all that's left.  I enjoy that desperate aesthetic, and some of the picturesque shots of the small-time, automobile caravan moving across the desert definitely appear to forecast the direction of post-apocalyptic cinema in the 1980s.

Battle for the Planet of the Apes also works for me, I suppose, because I genuinely like the well-delineated characters featured in the film. Caesar, of course, is a great hero, and he loses a beloved child in a scene that plays as genuinely sad. He's a wise ape, but not an infallible one.  He's constantly questioning and groping for the right solution to problems.  He's a strong leader.  

MacDonald, Virgil, Mandemus, Abe, and Lisa also come across as more than cookie-cutter characters.  In short, they seem like real people/apes, and are interesting enough to follow, even if the film doesn't provide them an epic tapestry upon which to act.

Even Aldo -- who, like Kolp could be a very two-dimensional monster -- seems to boast deeper layers thatn you might expect.  When he is branded for breaking ape law, and cowers in the tree, for instance, you can see that he is weeping. Aldo cries for all that he has brought upon himself; for all that he has lost, and will lose next.  

Again, a more conventional and less interesting approach would have seen him continuing to be a "strong" bad guy and posing a more potent physical challenge to Caesar.  I hate to keep bludgeoning the 2001 re-imagination, but none of the characters there boast anything other than stereotypical movie "motivations."    For all of Battle's flaws, that's not true here. The characters ring true.

Many viewers may count it as a drawback, but the fact of the matter is that there are no "strong" bad guys in Battle for the Planet of the Apes, and I submit that's sort of the film's point. You end up feeling a little sorry for both Kolp and Aldo by film's end. Through their quirks and humanity (or ape-manity) we can actually see that they are people too.  If Battle for the Planet of the Apes is about ending conflict, hatred and blood-shed, then it makes sense that both these characters resonate in terms of their individuality.  It allows us to understand these "villains" rather than simply demonize them.

I suppose Battle for the Planet of the Apes is nobody's favorite "ape" movie, and I understand the reasons why all too plainly. It seems sloppy and like small potatoes compared to Planet, or Conquest.  It lacks the pointed social commentary and sharp humor of Escape and the balls-to-the-wall, go-for-broke, searing surprises of Beneath.  Yet on its own small, almost TV-sized scale, Battle for the Planet of the Apes is an enjoyable and worthwhile effort. I think it is probably a lot better than the film's reputation indicates.

As Virgil might remind us, Battle for the Planet of the Apes -- even with its lack of significant production value -- "reverts to type," and offers the thinking viewer much to ponder. It asks us, specifically, if our desire for peace can ever overcome our penchant for self-destruction.   

For an answer to that question, take a look at Caesar's statue and arrive at your own conclusion.