Night Moves

Here's a great example of 1970s cinema, a scuzzy existential noir that takes you back to the days of mood rings and pet rocks. Almost everything about it, from Gene Hackman's porn-stache to the casual nudity to the existential ending, a boat endlessly circling in the water, suggests the heady times of the Ford administration.

Released in 1975, but shot two years earlier, Night Moves was directed by Arthur Penn from a script by Alan Sharp. While watching I was sure it was adapted from some pulp novel, but no, it's an original. It concerns Hackman as Harry Moseby, an ex-pro football player (this immediately dates the film--no one as small as Hackman could ever pass as a football player today) turned small-time private investigator. He's hired to find the wayward teenage daughter of a washed-up movie actress, and this leads him to the Florida keys. Meanwhile his marriage comes under strain when he catches his wife cheating.

The first two-thirds of the film meander amiably along, as Hackman follows leads but doesn't come into much trouble. He has an encounter with a sleazy mechanic (a young James Woods), and while in the Keys falls into a fling with Jennifer Warren. He finds the girl (a very young Melanie Griffith) and sends her back to her mother, and I was wondering what was going to happen for the film's last half-hour. It's only then that the bodies start piling up, and we get an ending involving a sea-plane that is an homage to North by Northwest.

It's fine for what it is, but Night Moves is nothing special. Penn directs with style, though the cinematography suggests a Quinn Martin TV show. The editing by Dede Allen is innovative. There are not jump cuts, per se, but we do get abrupt transitions from scene to scene, without the usual set-up. If I had seen this on the late show I would have thought it was trimmed for time.

The biggest problem with the film is the script. As I said, the action is back-loaded, and Sharp seems to have overdosed on Chandler, Hammett or Cain while writing it. The characters don't talk like people, they sound like pulp fiction archetypes. As Sam Spade said, "the cheaper the hood, the gaudier the patter."