The Best Movies Of The Seventies

Release Date: 25 January 1970

Director: Robert Altman

Nobody, but nobody, used the zoom quite like the great Altman.

Never just swooshing showily in and out using a basic camera technique, Altman masterfully elevated the simplest of wide-tele procedures to an art form. His camera goes in with a purpose, either intimate, to capture offhand gesture or throwaway expression, or incisive, unflinchingly diving into the unpleasant or repugnant.

And the zoom lets off as magnificently, opening up -- almost always to an unexpected degree, Altman revealing far more than we expect -- to surprise us with the subject's visual context. Incredible stuff.

Of course, that's not the first thing you notice about his hilarious M*A*S*H, stuffed to the gills with military mayhem, illegally acquired martinis and a stellar ensemble cast -- Donald Sutherland, Robert Duvall, Elliot Gould -- that made a legend out of Richard Hooker's relatively ordinary novel, a book Altman personally loathed.

Long before the smash hit television show, Altman created the ultimate anti-war statement with this film, a film so clearly opposed to war that, while set in the Korean War, he removed all such references from the script so that audiences would confuse it for the Vietnam War. M*A*S*H is a celebration of irreverence, seeped in male camaraderie and tentpole tomfoolery.

The key ingredient, of course, is satire, satire so bitter it seems almost nihilistic. Thank God the funnies are as incredible as they are.

Here, then, is one of the film's finest scenes, well-illustrating the script's constant dichotomy. The unit's dentist Waldowski, convinced of latent homosexual tendencies, wants to commit suicide. Hawkeye and his gang of never-serious martini-drinkers -- the film's irresistible anti-heroes -- hand him a 'a black capsule' and a ludicrously Last Supper themed send-off.

Known as the Painless Pole, the dentist lies solemnly into a coffin, never knowing how effectively the boys will 'cure' him. Don't miss -- alongside one of the finest songs originally composed for a film -- Sutherland's Hawkeye casually breaking bread, the dentist's expressions, the occasional breaking-into smirks, and the final present given to the 'dying man.'

Release Date: 7 October 1971

Director: William Friedkin

Gotta give credit to Santana, man.

Friedkin -- also behind the iconic Exorcist -- didn't use a single note of music for the French Connection chase sequence, undisputably the single finest chase ever.

Yet, during its immensely critical editing, he cut the shots to the sound of Carlos Santana's Black Magic Woman. The chase itself is spellbinding, as Popeye Doyle's Pontiac LeMans guns down an eventually driverless train, a lot of the shooting done guerilla-style, minus permission.

The scene aside, the rest of the film is just as captivating. The fact-based story of a couple of New York cops trying to capture a heroin shipment from France, French Connection took the American crime film to new levels of character-detailing and plot progression.

And Gene Hackman carried off a pork-pie hat, heavy punchlines, and a perpetually racist, almost mad anger, with such awesome force.

The characters are extraordinarily well-etched, especially for the genre, and the pacing is, quite simply, perfect.

As for video, I just have to leave you with that mammoth chase sequence.

Release Date: 19 December 1971

Director: Stanley Kubrick

Already revelling in the reputation of successfully and distinctively adapting books considered clearly 'unfilmable,' Kubrick hit stylistic and artistic peak with this film, one of the most shocking productions of all time.

And like the Anthony Burgess novel, the film sticks to the new teen slang-uage of Nadsat, an initially bewildering but eventually intoxicating blend of Slavic, Cockney and English -- with perhaps a hint of baby talk.

Malcolm McDowell splendidly plays the demented Alex, ever-eager to lead his peers ('droogs') into a spot of the old ultra-violence. Like its protagonist, the film defied all boundaries in its constant, electrifying urge to reach an incendiary, Beethoven-inspired climax.

Along with Kubrick's twisted yet meticulous art-direction, the effect is overwhelming. Alex, the alarmingly charismatic protagonist wears cufflinks patterned with bloody eyeballs, ravages young girls to the accompaniment of his 'old friend' Ludvig Van, and brutally redefines Singing In The Rain.

And yet, in the end, we side with him as youngster, as misled baddie, as a victim of the system. And we ache not for him because he is beaten and tortured, but because they snatch away his favourite music. Incredible.

In this wonderfully choreographed scene -- set to Rossinni's The Thieving Magpie -- Alex turns to his white-clad cohorts and reestablishes his authority.

Release Date: 15 March 1972

Director: Francis Ford Coppola

Instead of discussing the single most obvious cinematic choice itself, let us talk instead about the process. About how the director created a 'book' to shoot from instead of a traditional script, so as to constantly be loyal to the atmosphere of Mario Puzo's epochal novel (Watch that on the first video, it's a masterclass).

About how Coppola threatened to quit if relative unknown Al Pacino wasn't cast. About how Nino Rota's famous Love Theme was wonderfully recycled from an old Italian comedy. And about how the horse's head was real.

Everything about the film is now classic. From the absolutely perfect cast to the use of music, from the dialogues to the myths behind the characters, from the thunderbolt to the baptism to the closing door. From the flavour to the finish, The Godfather captures the imagination and remains as timeless today as it was 36 years ago.

It's best to let the film speak for itself. In this scene, James Caan's furious Sonny Corleone bashes up his brother-in-law Carlo Rizzi, played by Gianni Russo.

Note the attention to detail, the innocuous lead-in shot of kids frolicking in water, and the unflinching framing that focusses on the fight as well as the onlookers.

Check the second video (Sonny Vs Carlo), and note also the brutality with which Caan launches into Russo, breaking two of his ribs and chipping his elbow during filming.

Not for authenticity, but because he really didn't like the guy. Isn't that just how Don Vito's eldest son should roll?

Release Date: 20 June 1974

Director: Roman Polanski

Robert Towne's script for Chinatown is, to this date, considered the gold standard in terms of screenwriting, and generations of modern day writers look to it as their Holy Grail -- the perfect script.

Speaking about the famous dialogue above, Towne said it -- and the film's name -- came from a Hungarian cop who worked in Los Angeles' Chinatown area, who told him that because the plethora of dialects and gang-slang was so diverse, the cops never knew which side they were on -- so they usually stayed out of trouble by not doing much.

Polanski and Jack Nicholson, on the other hand, did quite a bit to justify working on Towne's script, which pays homage to Dashiell Hamett and Raymond Chandler's classic film noirs while still remaining a modern thriller based loosely on a true LA scandal.

Playing hardboiled and significantly seamy private eye Jake Gittes, Jack wrote most of his own dialogue and performed with unerring precision. Polanski, doubling up as a hoodlum who slits the hero's nose, fought tooth and nail with Towne to retain a sad ending -- something Towne later admitted greatly helped the script.

Here's the crackling scene just before that finale -- one where Jack is so powerful he even makes the lovely, ever-fatal Faye Dunaway stutter, whimper and sob. Wow.

Release Date: 8 February 1976

Director: Martin Scorsese

Sometimes, a performance can redefine a film. A single acting job taking a well-written character and infusing it with life, emotion, passion. The dialogue -- taken from a script, or words made up up offhandedly -- soars well above the filmmaker's ambition as the actor breathes energy, dynamism and raw reality into the words. The actor, in short, becomes far more than a sum of his parts.

Picture, for example, Paul Schrader's screenwriting instruction: 'Travis looks in the mirror.' Then, as director Martin Scorsese eggs on his Mean Streets actor to lace up the scene with total improvisation, feast on what the actor does when pushed entirely into his element.

Check the video of the fantastic, totally ad-libbed scene. Nero at his finest.

Robert De Niro made Travis Bickle real -- and frighteningly so. The film follows the enigmatic cabbie through an alarming slice of his life, one where he feels more inadequate, helpless, lonely and disillusioned than ever before, and picks up a gun to kill a politician, a pimp and 'rescue' a pre-teen prostitute. Yeah, that's what can happen when a date goes bad.

De Niro spent a month driving cabs for the part, working full 12-hour shifts. His Bickle doesn't offer us any answers -- we don't even know if he is a Vietnam vet, as he claims to be -- but raises a flurry of furious questions, even as all of us, despite ourselves, submit to his nearly-visible charisma, his aura of irresistibility.

Scorsese harnesses this energy fantastically, giving us character exposition through silence as much as through wonderfully realistic diner-dialogue.

Taxi Driver's camera expresses it best, pulling away from Travis' face to spare us seeing his heartbreak -- while pushing gleefully towards the film's eventual carnage.

Release Date: 17 December 1979

Director: Robert Benton

French toast is much harder than it looks.

That was but one of the lessons about fatherhood from Robert Benton's spectacularly down-the-line look at a breaking marriage, and while the home truth behind the bread isn't the most groundbreaking of tutorials, the scene itself is magnificent.

Dustin Hoffman, playing ad-man Ted Kramer, is trying to drum up breakfast for -- and enthusiasm in -- his little boy, Billy (Justin Henry). The scene drips with Ted's desperation to win the boy's approval, making up bits about folded bread in restaurants to cover up just how utterly clueless he is in the kitchen.

All the while, Billy visibly knows something's wrong, a fact that is getting to Ted even as he's trying to hide it and his anger.

It's a disarmingly natural scene that immediately drives home both the urgency of the situation and the change in the father-son dynamic.

The most impressive thing about Kramer Vs Kramer, a strikingly powerful look at a breaking marriage and its impact on a single parent, is how evenhanded a view it managed to present.

The film is a masterclass in performances, Henry making an adorable foil for the adult actors. Jane Alexander delivers very evocatively in a strong supporting role as the Kramers' neighbout Margaret, but this is a film that belongs to the warring titular pair. Streep is astonishing as Joanna, her role lacking in screentime but positively loaded with depth and despair, and she carries it through with aplomb.

Hoffman, on the other hand, half-improvises his performance as he sets out to make us relate to the flawed, earnest and increasingly desperate Ted. Having just been through divorce himself, the actor contributed hugely to the film with personal inputs, and turned down an offer of a shared-screenplay credit from the director.

In one dramatic scene featuring the Kramers in a restaurant, Hoffman violently hurls a wine glass against the wall. He devised the shot himself, warning just the cameraman, wanting to capture Streep's startled reaction. She reacted, and stayed in character till the shot ended -- after which she screamed at Hoffman for frightening her so awfully.

Furthermore, when filming the very last lines of the last scene, a sobbing Streep asked Hoffman whether her eye makeup was ruined by crying. Benton gleefully kept the line in the movie.