In 1972, movie icon Burt Reynolds became one of the few male celebrities to pose nude when the above photo was published as a centerfold by Cosmopolitan magazine. The shot was a sensation, the back-then equivalent of a viral internet phenomenon. Everyone wanted to see it, and people who’d never seen it had an opinion about it. We gather that Reynolds eventually became embarrassed by the image, not because of how he looked—because he looks good, if ursine—but because of what he thought it indicated about his ego. The photo has never been forgotten, as evidenced by our cursory image search revealing its presence on at least 1,500 web pages. It appeared during the height of the women’s liberation movement in the U.S., and Cosmo was a leading feminist magazine, so when editors splashed a smiling Burt across its centerspread, they did so with subversive intent. It’s funny how Reynolds always talked about the centerfold like it was a one-off. We guess he forgot all about his 1972 fan letter paperback, below. Maybe he was narcissistic, maybe not, but—along with guys like Fred Williamson and Helmut Berger—he was certainly ahead of his time.
Two craggy middle-aged guys that go great together.
There are movies, and there are beloved movies. We first saw the Clint Eastwood/Burt Reynolds vehicle City Heat a long time ago, and it’s been a go-to evening for us since, something we screen every several years. While a comedy, it’s also a period piece set during the Great Depression, thus it falls comfortably within the pulp era and is, doubly, an action flick with plenty of fights, gunfire, and general mayhem. In a similar way as Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, it tries to push hard-boiled detective tropes to absurd extremes, while wearing a pervasive love for those ideas on its sleeve.
Reynolds plays a low-rent private dick named Mike Murphy who tries to solve a murder, but gets caught between organized crime, the police, and his personal obligations. As we said a while back, anything with Reynolds is worth watching, and this features him at his smart-mouthed best. Eastwood, as Reynolds’ police lieutenant frenemy Speer, mostly channels a 1935 version of Magnum Force, portraying with grim-countenanced perfection the one man in the department with whom nobody in their right mind wants to tangle.
For fans of vintage crime fiction or film noir, City Heat is a must. The slapstick-adjacent fistfights alone—of which there are many—are reason enough to queue it up. With Reynolds carrying the bulk of the film using his incandescent charm, and with contributions from an iconic movie dick in the form of Shaft star Richard Roundtree, plus comic relief from Madeline Kahn, all your bases are covered here. If you know what’s good for you you’ll watch it. It premiered in the U.S. today in 1984.
Burt Reynolds' iconic character loses his bite in sequel to gritty 1973 debut.
We talked about Burt Reynolds’ 1973 actioner White Lightning a few weeks ago, and though we mentioned that the sequel Gator isn’t nearly as good, what it did have was promo art painted by Robert McGinnis. That’s Lauren Hutton wrapped around Burt. She was transitioning from top tier modeling to acting and ended up in some good flicks, including American Gigolo, Welcome to L.A., The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith, and The Gambler. She deserved better than Gator. As for Burt, he once said he was as good in roles like these as any actor could have been. He literally said Robert De Niro couldn’t have played the part of Gator McCluskey. And as great as DeNiro has been, Burt had a point. You gotta love the guy.
Chaos comes shirtless, hairy, and hella dangerous in White Lightning.
Burt Reynolds occupied a unique place in the pantheon of Hollywood stars, playing numerous smarmy good ole boys on the wrong side of the law. He had touched upon such roles earlier than in White Lightning, but this film, which premiered today in 1973, was the beginning of him basically cornering that market. It was the debut of his iconic character Gator McCluskey, hell hot driver and moonshiner nonpareil, who finagles a release from prison to help the FBI take down the crooked sherrif of Bogan County, Arkansas. The sherrif, played by Ned Beatty, has killed Gator’s younger brother for no other reason than that he was an anti-war protestor, prompting Gator to deal himself to the Feds to get revenge.
White Lightning has the same gritty feel you find in so many ’70s dramas, with its low saturation film stock and grainy look. Narratively it’s gritty too, with numerous portryals considered polarizing today. It presents Arkansans largely as clueless hicks, with opportunistic scofflaws mixed in. It’s anti-government and anti-diversity. Jennifer Billingsly is a two-timing nympho who waxes nostalgic about deflowering a nine year-old boy. And Beatty is a real beaut, railing against school integration, the NAACP, the ACLU, hippies, and the right of blacks to vote. He’s dumb as hell, but animal-clever.
Burt struts his way along the path to bloody vengeance and shows why he became such a huge star. His portrayal of McCluskey mixes swagger with an elemental kindness, a steely resolve with a core of easy humor. It isn’t all in the script. He was simply a natural. Today White Lightning would upset certain rural viewers, most progressive viewers, viewers of numerous ethnicities, and women, yet as an artifact of its era it’s hard to beat. It’s also unique in Reynolds’ ouevre. The 1976 sequel Gator, as well as later rum-running adventure flicks like Smokey and the Bandit, would lean heavily into comedy, to their detriment. Of the grouping, only White Lightning can be considered legitmately good. But anything with Reynolds—and we mean anything—is worth watching.
Even though it didn't quite hit the target 100 Rifles gave moviegoers its best shot
The western adventure 100 Rifles, which premiered in the U.S. today in 1969 and starred Burt Reynolds, Jim Brown, and Raquel Welch, is a shot that went wide of the mark. But even if it could have been better, it has very nice promo art. Above you see the U.S. poster and a few production images to go along with the ones we shared before. See those and read a bit about the film here.
Above is something a little different for you, a ticket made for the Japanese premiere of the 1981 neo-noir thriller Sharky’s Machine, which starred Burt Reynolds, Rachel Ward, and uber-cool Bernie Casey. It’s a special advance ticket that cost ¥1,500 on the day of the premiere—which was today in 1982, several months after its December U.S. premiere—but ¥1,200 if bought in advance. Those were pretty high prices—about $11.00 and $9.00, if our handy historical yen converter is correct. The movie played as half of an unlikely double bill with the Dudley Moore comedy Arthur. Interestingly, most sources say Sharky’s Machine premiered in Japan on April 17, but at this cinema, at least, it showed up a week later. It’s a pretty cool little memento.
He's a two-fisted loner who sometimes has to work outside the law. But he still could use a good script.
Burt Reynolds: unacknowledged acting genius? Absolutely—and we’ll fight anyone who says differently. He debuted in television in 1958, but wasn’t a movie star until a decade later. He was brilliant in serious roles such as Deliverance and The Longest Yard, but also had an easy flair for comedy. Shamus, which premiered today in 1973 and for which you see a U.S. three-sheet above, is a typical Reynolds effort, an action-drama with humor sprinkled throughout. In terms of sheer performing, this is a lay-up for him. He handles the drama with no problem and charms his way through the upbeat sections with the help of equally affable foil Dyan Cannon. As a bonus, he also performs several impressive stunts we can’t imagine a modern actor attempting.
Reynolds’ detective character Shamus McCoy is a tribute to Humphrey Bogart’s Philip Marlowe in 1946’s The Big Sleep, with two scenes lifted almost wholesale from that film—one in which he seduces a buxom bookstore clerk, and one in which he meets his client in a refrigerated office (instead of a hothouse). He’s hired to solve a murder/jewel heist that turns out to be connected to arms dealing, but the caper is flat from beginning to end, failing to build much interest or momentum. Reynolds, who made several smarmy action-comedies like Smokey and the Bandit and Hooper, was not shy when assessing his own abilities. He said he was as good in those lightweight films as it was possible for an actor to be. We agree, but even Burt can’t make Shamus good.
Sharky's Machine hums along nicely, but only up to a point.
This poster was painted by the Thai illustrator Kwow for the 1981 thriller Sharky’s Machine. Every blue moon or so Hollywood decides to update a ’40s film noir. Sometimes these are excellent movies—Body Heat as a rework of Double Indemnity comes to mind. Sharky’s Machine is based on William Diehl’s novel of the same name, which is a restyling of 1944’s Laura. If you haven’t seen Laura, a detective falls in love with a murdered woman, focusing these feelings upon her portrait, which is hanging over the mantle in her apartment. In Sharky’s Machine the hero, Atlanta vice detective Burt Reynolds, falls in love with Rachel Ward via his surveillance of her during a prostitution investigation, and is left to deal with his lingering feelings when she’s killed.
Ward observed years back that she had been too prudish in how she approached her roles, and we imagine this was one movie she had in mind. We agree with her. Reynolds’ 24/7 surveillance of a high-priced hooker is not near frank enough. This is where vice, voyeurism, and sleaze as subtext should have come together overtly, as it does in Diehl’s unflinchingly detailed novel, rather than as stylized montages, which is what Reynolds opts for.
Sex and nudity aren’t always gratuitous. The plot driver in old film noirs is often sex, but it couldn’t be shown. Remaking a noir affords the opportunity to explore the sexual aspect further, as in Body Heat, where it’s literally the lure of sex with no boundaries—exemplified by that famous (but implied) anal scene—that snares the hero in an insane murder plot. In Sharky’s Machine it’s sexual objectification that is the initial driver. Reynolds loves Ward’s body first and her personality later, but the surveillance that is the key to this is barely explored.
It’s a missed opportunity to not only make a better thriller, but to examine this lust-to-love transition as an aspect of all romantic relationships. Reynolds doubled as both star and director of the film, and while his relative newbie status in the latter realm may be a reason he didn’t push the envelope, he still manages in his third outing helming a motion picture to put together a final product that is stylish, dark, and neon-streaked—everything a neo-noir should be. Upon release many critics had problems with tone—violence and humor seemed to clash. Reynolds’ was a semi-comedic cinematic figure and his previous two directorial efforts had been comedies, which may have led to jokes leaking into unusual moments of the film. But these days the mix of violence and comedy is common, so we doubt you’ll be terribly annoyed by these few incongruities.
The main flaw with the movie, besides its chasteness, is not its tone, but that it feels compressed in the latter third, especially as relates to the love subplot. True, the film is already a shade over two hours long, but it’s time that flies by, populated as it is by so many interesting roles and great actors (Bernie Casey, Brian Keith, Vittorio Gassman, Charles Durning). Another seven minutes would not have hurt. Still, we recommend this one. It should have been as bold a noir rework as Body Heat, but there’s plenty to entertain in other areas, and Hollywood may make this film perfect yet—a new version of Sharky’s Machine is in development with Mark Wahlberg in the lead. Hah hah—who are we kidding? They’ll screw it up completely. You already know that.
Climb up just a bit higher. The part of you I’m planning to shoot isn’t out of the water yet.
Interesting Charles Copeland cover art for Victor Canning’s 1955 adventure thriller Twist of the Knife, published outside the U.S. as His Bones Are Coral. It’s the story of a drug smuggler flying contraband from Sudan to Egypt who crash lands near the town of Suabar, gets involved in a caper to raise gold from the waters of the Red Sea, and of course beds the only white girl within sight. This was actually made into a really bad Burt Reynolds movie called Shark! in 1970.
It should have been a classic but is really just a wasted opportunity.
Paramount execs probably wet themselves when they finally made a deal to get American star Burt Reynolds and French icon Catherine Deneuve together onscreen. The promo poster tells us they’re hot—true, and it especially applies to Deneuve, who probably can’t vent heat efficiently while shrouded beneath her enormous helmet of immobile, golden hair. You know those war flicks where a soldier in a ditch has a photo in his pocket of his beautiful girlfriend, and during lulls in combat he gazes at her and mutters about how he can’t wait to get back home to her? In Hustle Catherine Deneuve is a living version of that photo. Instead of being overseas she’s just across town, but she’s no less a signifier of impending doom than if she were a snapshot in someone’s pocket. We think writer Steve Shagan dropped the ball here, and not just by making her purpose in the film so obvious, but by making her role so thin. She has a key piece of evidence (she witnesses the villain making a phone call that leads to a murder) in a case that is never made, which we found bizarre. Hustle is mildly involving thanks to stylish direction and Reynolds’ innate watchability, but ultimately unsuccessful. It premiered in the U.S. yesterday in 1975.
American journalist, playwright, and author Richard Harding Davis dies of a heart attack at home in Philadelphia. Not widely known now, Davis was one of the most important and influential war correspondents ever, establishing his reputation by reporting on the Spanish-American War, the Second Boer War, and World War I, as well as his general travels to exotic lands.
1919—Zapata Is Killed
In Mexico, revolutionary leader Emiliano Zapata is shot dead by government forces in the state of Morelos, after a carefully planned ambush. Following the killing, Zapata’s revolutionary movement and his Liberation Army of the South slowly fall apart, but his political influence lasts in Mexico to the present day.
1925—Great Gatsby Is Published
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel The Great Gatsby is published in New York City by Charles Scribner’s Sons. Though Gatsby is Fitzgerald’s best known book today, it was not a success upon publication, and at the time of his death in 1940, Fitzgerald was mostly forgotten as a writer and considered himself to be a failure.
1968—Martin Luther King Buried
American clergyman and civil rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr., is buried five days after being shot dead on a Memphis, Tennessee motel balcony. April 7th had been declared a national day of mourning by President Lyndon B. Johnson, and King’s funeral on the 9th is attended by thousands of supporters, and Vice President Hubert Humphrey.
1953—Jomo Kenyatta Convicted
In Kenya, Jomo Kenyatta is sentenced to seven years in prison by the nation’s British rulers for being a member of the Mau Mau Society, an anti-colonial movement. Kenyatta would a decade later become independent Kenya’s first prime minister, and still later its first president.
1974—Hank Aaron Becomes Home Run King
Major League Baseball player Hank Aaron hits his 715th career home run, surpassing Babe Ruth’s 39-year-old record. The record-breaking homer is hit off Al Downing of the Los Angeles Dodgers, and with that swing Aaron puts an exclamation mark on a twenty-four year journey that had begun with the Indianapolis Clowns of the Negro League, and would end with his selection to Major League Baseball’s Hall of Fame.
Edições de Ouro and Editora Tecnoprint published U.S. crime novels for the Brazilian market, with excellent reworked cover art to appeal to local sensibilities. We have a small collection worth seeing.
There have been some serious injuries on pulp covers. This one is probably the most severe—at least in our imagination. It was painted for Stanley Morton's 1952 novel Yankee Trader.
Ward observed years back that she had been too prudish in how she approached her roles, and we imagine this was one movie she had in mind. We agree with her. Reynolds’ 24/7 surveillance of a high-priced hooker is not near frank enough. This is where vice, voyeurism, and sleaze as subtext should have come together overtly, as it does in Diehl’s unflinchingly detailed novel, rather than as stylized montages, which is what Reynolds opts for.
