Dregs of the Netflix Queue, part IV

With the Olympics (yawn) wheezing along in their 5th day, I'm spending my days writing my dissertation, and nights filling in some gaps in my knowledge of early 70s cinema. That gritty era is correctly viewed as very experimental and influential (e.g., the Godfather, Taxi Driver, Mean Streets, etc.), but it also produced its share of dense, unfunny, indecipherable movies. Case in point: Little Murders.

This dark comedy does a good job of portraying 70s gloom, disenchantment with societal institutions, and a bleak, crime-riddled New York City. But the "comedic" elements don't hold up: the square dad who continually asks, "What's your pleasure?" The closeted gay son who laughs uncontrollably and looks as if he spends 18 hours a day locked in his room. Eliott Gould, covered in his dead wife's blood, riding the subway without eliciting a reaction from the other passengers. Maybe this was subversively funny at one time, but this kind of humor hasn't aged well.

However this scene, featuring Donald Sutherland, was a rare high point.