End-of-Summer Sale

They range, in quality, from Nashville (reviewed here August 15) to Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold’, or, in mortal risk, from Jaws through Roller- ball to French Connection 1I; or, in sheer splash, from the bombastic excitement of Tommy all the way down, wif ole Massa an’ de uppity slaves, to that sadistic bit of “historical” claptrap, Mandingo. It is the end-of-summer sale at the movies. While New York and L.A. move on now to the latest Czech import and the domestic products of what promises to be an autumn of drear, the hinterland has available to it a varied and in many instances a superlative collection of films left over from the last few months. In many years past, the dog days have offered up little but cinema dogs; this year, for whatever reason, some of 1975’s most impressive films premiered in June and July and have stayed on into September.

Not only Nashville but others, especially Jaws, which, with delicious opportunism, was held up for release until June, the better to scare the bejesus out of beach-going tourists. It worked beautifully, and in many coastal towns, as on Cape Cod where I summer, shark sightings have supplanted UFO visitations as the second most favored vicarious thrill, with perhaps the same degree of reliability or lack thereof. Sure, it’s a plastic shark, but like things that go bump in the night (and unlike devil-possessed youngsters rescuable only by mystic exorcists), man-eating sharks are real, and the terror they inspire in this straightforward adventure-cum-horror flick is genuine.

DB

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David Brudnoy

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They range, in quality, from Nashville (reviewed here August 15) to Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold’, or, in mortal risk, from Jaws through Roller- ball to French Connection 1I; or, in sheer splash, from the bombastic excitement of Tommy all the way down, wif ole Massa an’ de uppity slaves, to that sadistic bit of “historical” claptrap, Mandingo. It is the end-of-summer sale at the movies. While New York and L.A. move on now to the latest Czech import and the domestic products of what promises to be an autumn of drear, the hinterland has available to it a varied and in many instances a superlative collection of films left over from the last few months. In many years past, the dog days have offered up little but cinema dogs; this year, for whatever reason, some of 1975’s most impressive films premiered in June and July and have stayed on into September.

Not only Nashville but others, especially Jaws, which, with delicious opportunism, was held up for release until June, the better to scare the bejesus out of beach-going tourists. It worked beautifully, and in many coastal towns, as on Cape Cod where I summer, shark sightings have supplanted UFO visitations as the second most favored vicarious thrill, with perhaps the same degree of reliability or lack thereof. Sure, it’s a plastic shark, but like things that go bump in the night (and unlike devil-possessed youngsters rescuable only by mystic exorcists), man-eating sharks are real, and the terror they inspire in this straightforward adventure-cum-horror flick is genuine.