By James David Patrick
Though I only spent a fraction of my life in the 1970s (the foggy synapse-charting time, of course), I feel a deep connection to the Disco Era, if not exactly the disco. Even that’s hard to explain. I can’t pull off a leisure suit and I tend to prefer the music bookending the decade on either side.
It’s more cine-spiritual than that.
Consider the biggest star of the decade: Burt Reynolds. Just hearing his name conjures images of the man-bear lying naked on the bear-bear rug. Arguably the decade’s most famous pin-up wasn’t a Playboy bunny – it was Burt, an actor that had some serious, career-defining roles in movies like Deliverance and The Longest Yard, but also forged an alternate path making self-aware comedy and action/stunt movies with his buddies. Yes, he took acting seriously, but he also recognized when to take a piss on the whole industry of moviemaking, this business of playacting for grownups. I once took a similar approach to running for elementary school class president because I looked around and wondered how we could be 12 years old and taking this stuff so seriously? (You’ll be shocked to learn that I lost on the platform of “Of course I can’t do anything for you! I’m 12!)
Indulge me one further drop down this psychedelic rabbit hole of a blog post.
During its first two seasons, Community became one of my all-time sitcoms. After the birth of my second child, my TV viewership fell off the table. It was also right about this time that Dan Harmon left the show and Community’s quality also fell off the table. I never finished watching those last three seasons. Recently that very same second daughter (now 10 – yikes) and I started watching through the show with fresh eyes. We just finished the Season 5 episode “Basic Sandwich,” in which the crew tries to save Greendale by locating a long lost Computer Science wing (and its campus-saving golden computers) that was sealed off in 1976 by a manic computer genius (Chris Elliott) and preserved in time, sort of like Pompeii. There’s a quick gag in which they find a Debate Club poster for “Who’s Hotter? Elliott Gould or Donald Sutherland.” The Community characters jumped to Donald Sutherland while I vocally lobbied for Elliott Gould. My daughter raised an eyebrow.
“Ross and Monica’s dad on Friends,” I said. She knew Elliott Gould immediately, but the eyebrow didn’t exactly lower. (His best episode, by the way, is Season 6, Episode 9 – “The One Where Ross Got High.”) It should also be noted that she likely has no idea who Donald Sutherland is.
The set up to this Community joke is of course the fact that we look back on Elliott Gould and Donald Sutherland compared to milquetoast contemporary beefcakes like Ryans Reynolds and Gosling, for example, and it’s like they’re an entirely alien species of beefcake. Hairy, gangly, glib, droll, oozing ennui, the smartest guys in the room – but the zeitgeist found itself in the midst of a post-Vietnam counterculture revolution defined by disillusionment. If not exactly a pin up, Elliott Gould represented the masculine intellectual everyman. Quick with a punchline, strapping (enough), and probably a pacifist.
As I’ve dug deeper into the Elliott Gould filmography, I, too, felt a kinship with the wisecracking manic depressive that defines many of his best roles. Even though Gould managed to carve out a natural niche in his early filmography, he resisted explicit type-casting because his (slightly smarter than the) everyman could be transplanted into any genre. As the 1970s wore on and radicalism fell out of favor during the Nixon years, his star-wattage declined and he branched out into various supporting roles for both film and TV.
Elliott Gould in The Muppets Take Manhattan (1984).
Fun Elliott Gould Fact: He’s the only actor to have cameos in two of the original three Muppet movies – The Muppet Movie (1979) and The Muppets Take Manhattan (1984).
Elliott Gould made an appearance at the 2016 Turner Classic Movie Film Festival, which I had the pleasure of attending. From the minute TCM announced Gould’s planned attendance, I declared 2016 to be “The Year I Stalked Elliott Gould.” And my post-festival recap supports this. My takeaway after listening to Gould’s interview with Alec Baldwin and his pre-movie introduction of Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye? Gould’s conception of acting and talking about acting is like playing an improvisational jazz solo. He’s tapping into something deeply internal, instinctual – the same primordial instincts that make us who we are moment to moment – that drives each creative choice he makes as an actor. He never spoke one sentence that didn’t disprove my previously held assumption that he would be the smartest human in the room.
Gould began his career on stage in the late 1950s. He got his first starring role in the Broadway production of I Can Get It For You Wholesale, where he met future wife Barbara Streisand. He’s first screen credited as “Jester” in Once Upon a Mattress, the 1964 TV adaptation of the 1959 Broadway musical, and William Dieterle’s comedy Quick, Let’s Get Married, an attempt to resurrect the career of Ginger Rogers. Though filmed in 1964, the movie didn’t see a full release until 1971 – after his breakthrough, Oscar-nominated performance in Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice (1969).
Promotional card for Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice (1969), Elliott Gould’s breakout performance.
About Gould, Roger Ebert wrote in his review for the Chicago Sun-Times, “Gould emerges, not so much a star, but a ‘personality,’ like Severn Darden or Estelle Parsons.” I’d wager that I could ask 100 people on the street about Severn Darden and not one would know his name. Elliott Gould, however? We’ll just say that that number would certainly eclipse zero. And while I don’t disagree with Ebert’s assessment of Gould’s personality, I would suggest that Gould owes his lasting screen presence precisely to that personality that turned him into a star, if only a household name during the fabulously cynical and intellectually radical 1970s that embraced sexy in “the smartest guy in the room.”
He’s undeniably humble about his stardom and appreciative of the opportunities he’s been given. In a wonderful interview with Film Talk from March 24, 2021, Gould said:
“Everybody is a star. I am gratified, grateful and appreciative to have been able to continue to work through all of this in relation to my purpose, in relation to what I would hope would be the purpose of all of us. What does it feel like to be alive? What does it feel like to function and have a purpose? What does it feel like to participate and to contribute? It’s a privilege, it’s very humbling, and I believe in true humility—by which I mean, ‘No one of us can be any more than the least of us.”
This is not an anomaly, by the way, this is how he talks, how he looks at the world. Both of his conversations at TCMFF 2016 held me enraptured, hanging on every word. Personal philosophies have been based on less than Elliott Gould quotations. We would all be happier, healthier humans if we ingested more Elliott Gould – the everyman who stumbled into being an A-list star before slipping into supporting omnipresence in TV and film. Therefore, I present the following six recommendations as a direct pathway towards Gould-inspired self-improvement.
The Long Goodbye (Robert Altman, 1974)
The ways in which Gould’s Philip Marlowe both embody Raymond Chandler’s classic detective and update his disillusionment for a more modern, emptier, and more nihilistic era fuel this neo-noir’s forward narrative momentum. Old-fashioned notions of chivalry and loyalty catalyze Marlowe’s catharsis and lead him down a path of personal darkness for truth and cat food.
If you’re one of those moviewatchers who doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Robert Altman, give this one a shot. Robert Altman working in a traditional genre might provide unexpected cinematic pleasures.
Ocean’s Eleven (Steven Soderbergh, 2001)
Gould slips into a supporting role as the revenge-fueled financial backer Reuben Tishkoff for Danny Ocean’s (George Clooney) three-casino heist.
Despite the star-laden cast and Soderbergh’s slick and twisty presentation, Gould’s businessmensch steals each scene in which he appears. He’s presented to the audience as an aloof and dim millionaire, but first impressions can be deceiving. He’s got his own motives and this velvet-robed money man has teeth and holds a grudge. (He also reprises his role in the two sequels, so just make it a triple feature.)
M*A*S*H (Robert Altman, 1970)
Quentin Tarantino argues that Gould’s role in Getting Straight (1970) represents his most iconic role – and that might be true, but I’d wager that Gould’s Trapper John most broadly inserted the actor into the public consciousness. Plus, how great would it be to program an Altman/Gould Double Feature with The Long Goodbye and M*A*S*H?
M*A*S*H the film receded into the background after the success of the TV show, but it’s important not to conflate the two properties. Altman put his stamp all over the movie, using overlapping dialogue, disjointed narrative flow, and character-based eccentricities to recreate madness on the fringes of war.
Contemporary audiences might more easily appreciate the grounded TV dramedy (that trades lightly in some of Altman’s trademarks), but the movie provides the kind of perceived aimlessness and philandering poignancy that defined some of the decade’s greatest films.
The Silent Partner (Daryl Duke, 1978)
Wackadoodle Christopher Plummer takes on Schleppy Elliott Gould in a cinematic experience that could only happen in the ‘70s. This gritty Canadian tax shelter production (written by the great Curtis Hanson) serves up a twisty and brutal yarn with a killer payoff. There’s even a shocking burst of gore and a slice of nudity that pushes this into exploitation territory – albeit an expertly conceived and executed exploitation experience.
A few days before Christmas, a bank teller (Gould) learns that the bank is about to be robbed and stashes some of the cash away for himself. The sociopath (a fiendish Plummer) learns that the teller held back some of the money and comes for his pound of flesh – without a conscience or remorse. It turns into a cat-and-mouse head game that you’re sure our bank teller can’t possibly win.
Plus, John Candy makes an appearance, and who doesn’t love a little free Candy?
Humor Me (Sam Hoffman, 2017)
A blocked writer (Jemaine Clement) with a personal crisis moves into his father’s retirement community and rediscovers the value of family while putting on an old biddie-fueled production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado. Gould, of course, plays the borscht-joke-telling father.
While the narrative veers into predictable waters, the final act provides a measure of redemption. This isn’t a great movie, but I loved watching these two men on screen together. Their talents might be underserved by the screenplay, but they make the most of what they’re given. When the always wonderful Annie Potts and Bebe Neuwirth turn up in small roles, I couldn’t help but give this movie at least a small endorsement. We don’t always have to reach for the gold standards; sometimes we just need a pleasant diversion for an hour or two.
Shelley Duvall’s Tall Tales & Legends: Casey at the Bat / Shelley Duvall’s Faerie Tale Theatre: Jack and the Beanstalk
If you’ve read any of my recent blog posts, you’ll know that I’m all about the deep cuts found in the dusty corners of the DVD Netflix warehouse. Throughout the 1980s, Shelley Duvall produced live action mini-movies for Showtime based on classic fairy tales (Shelley Duvall’s Faerie Tale Theatre) and American folklore (Tall Tales & Legends).
The star power of the actors that lined up to appear in these episodes still boggles the mind. For example, she convinced her Popeye (1980) co-star Robin Williams to appear in the pilot episode (directed by Monty Python’s Eric Idle) of Faerie Tale Theatre alongside Teri Garr. If you scroll through the list of talent attached to this episodic premium-cable series, you might just be flabbergasted – that’s right -- I said flabbergasted, astonished, dumbfounded even. Jeff Bridges, Christopher Reeve, John Lithgow, Carrie Fisher, Vincent Price, Susan Sarandon, Klaus Kinski (to enhance the kindertrauma, I can only assume), Billy Crystal, Jeff Goldblum, Matthew Broderick, Alan Arkin, Leonard Nimoy, Talia Shire… with episodes directed by Tim Burton, Francis Ford Coppola, Nicholas Meyer.
And – that’s right – our main man Elliott Gould appeared in both series as mighty Casey from Mudville and as the Giant in Jack and the Beanstalk.
My personal history with Shelley Duvall’s Faerie Tale Theatre goes all the way back to the 1980s and holds a special place in my childhood. My parents bowled every Sunday night and every Sunday night they’d drop me off at my grandmother’s house. She owned an RDA Videodisc player and several Faerie Tale Theatre episodes on CED (Capacitance Electronic Disc). When we’d exhausted those titles, we journeyed off to the video rental store in my diddly little southwestern Michigan town, population 2,000, to rent new Faerie Tale Theatre episodes on CED. (Now that’s a sentence that no more than a handful of humans can make.) Every Sunday we’d watch Faerie Tale Theatre together… and then Married… with Children when it aired on Fox that night.
I’m tearing up just thinking about those long-ago nights with my grandmother. Those shared and specific memories attach to our DNA; they become part of us and inform how we digest media, how we share the things we love with our kids and family. These aren’t just flickering images. I couldn’t have been more than five years old, but I vividly remember Elliott Gould’s Giant in Jack and the Beanstalk, more clearly than I remember movies I watched last year. I’ll dedicate this recommendation to my grandmother June, who loved movies, sarcasm, Roger Williams, and novelty Christmas records.
I watched a few of these Faerie Tale Theatre episodes recently out of idle curiosity, wondering how they felt to me now. Nostalgia kicked in, of course, but they’re also just warm, easy television. I’m not sure if kids today would have the patience or care about the amazing array of talent on screen, but if you want something that’ll take you back to a specific time and place, whether you watched them in the ‘80s or not – give them a try. You might just be surprised how they make you feel.
James David Patrick is a Pittsburgh-based writer with a movie-watching problem. He has a degree in Film Studies from Emory University that, much to everyone’s dismay, gives him license to discuss Russian Shakespeare adaptations at cocktail parties. He hosts the Cinema Shame and #Bond_age_Pod podcasts. You’ll find him crate diving at local record shops. James blogs about movies, music and ‘80s nostalgia at www.thirtyhertzrumble.com. Follow him on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook.