When I was a kid, Michael Sarrazin was A-list. He worked a lot, and I sought him out. There was something about his persona that made him appealing to a child in ways that, say, James Coburn would never be. It wasn't just that his particular brand of handsome was so easily accessible (taller than average, with enormous, unflinching blue eyes and thick black hair, a manly cleft in his chin and the most sensuous mouth you'll ever see on a human of any gender), but also that he had a certain open, thoughtful way of listening which leant him an unthreatening and unpretentious, even a kindly air.
The only work of his which is still on the modern filmgoer's radar is They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, the kind of fin-de-'60s gritty, unrelenting, sometimes cruel downer which, for all its quality (it was directed by Sydney Pollack with a great cast. Gig Young won an Oscar for what he was best at: playing his own unique brand of truly chilling slimeball), is a tough one to endure unless you're feeling particularly psychically robust.
But whatever happened to Sometimes a Great Notion? This was considered an important movie in its day, -- it IS an important movie,-- but it's never been issued on DVD. *SOME SPOILERS AHEAD* Based on Ken Kesey's best book, directed by and starring Paul Newman (as well as Sarrazin, Henry Fonda, Lee Remick, Richard Jaeckel and a fantastic secondary cast), it jumps into the middle of a loggers' strike in Oregon and a cantankerous, rogue family of scabs led with roaring, dry-witted zeal by Fonda as the family patriarch. Aside from showcasing the best work I've ever seen from Remick (in the scene during which she almost reluctantly tells her story to Sarrazin, the returned prodigal brother, her choices are downright sublime), it provides Richard Jaeckel (3:10 to Yuma, Ulzana's Raid, the Dirty Dozen) with an intensely unique death-scene. Simultaneously witty and poignant, it is somehow --or, rather, therefore,-- one of the most powerfully enduring demises I've seen captured on film. I first watched this movie at the drive-in with my family (this was in 1971; I was seven), then again once on television with my father some time during the following decade. Still, after all this time, two moments from the film were burned into my mind as if I'd seen it night before last: Jaeckel's death and that final, wonderful, iconic image before the rolling of the credits. (I'm not going to give it away; you have to watch it for yourself.)
Revisiting it now (you can watch it on instant play at Netflix), I'm struck by how very capably Newman directs not just the film in its entirety but himself in it, a tough task; he's surrounded himself with the best actors and has the humility to bow to the ensemble. The only flaw I find is his tendency to use dissolves between scenes. It's jarring, probably because my subconscious associates that particular cinematic tactic with the summoning of nostalgia or sentiment, and one of the great strengths of Notion is that it is so unsentimentally a product of its time, with its low-key celebration of irony and subtle humor, its quiet revelry in anti-social behavior.
Sarrazin himself is weak in an early scene in which he drunkenly half-confronts his long-estranged older brother (Newman) through the mitigating presence of the brother's wife (Remick). He is at his best when he's listening, a thing which this actor does as well as any other ever has; his presence is strong and so he never feels passive. He also has a talent for underplaying which works well here: the first time the family takes him up to the worksite, they travel through an ugly, massive clear-cut and Sarrazin says with the perfect note of droll simplicity, "Neat work you guys do up here." This is a forgotten classic that needs to be revived.
There are others of his that I remember very well but to which I have no access: In Search of Gregory and the Reincarnation of Peter Proud are two that spring to mind. The first was a cryptic, existential Julie Christie movie that probably didn't age well beyond its time, but I'd appreciate the chance to see that for myself. The second was an early New Age thriller (what happens when the reincarnation of a murder victim begins exploring his past life?) that I thought was AMAZING when I was a kid, and, again, no doubt doesn't live up to my thrill of prepubescent enthusiasm, but how will I ever know?
Of note also is Journey to Shiloh, a really dreadful Civil War TV-movie about a band of Johnny Rebs heading off to join up and win the war. It's notable for two reasons: you see the issues from the Confederate point of view ("That buck slave is worth a thousand dollars. You think we're going to kill him?") and because the band of brothers consists of the young James Caan, Harrison Ford, Sarrazin, Jan-Michael Vincent, Don Stroud and Paul Petersen (remember the Donna Reed Show? No, me neither. Tough start, being a child actor, particularly from a hit show that's fallen so far afoul of the current zeitgeist that it is known only as a joke. To his credit, he's still working). Poor Jan-Michael Vincent, who looks about fifteen, bears up bravely under possibly the worst-written death-scene ever ("Are you still there? The candle went out!"). Ford gets to lurk in the background without an opportunity to embarrass himself, and Caan is so miscast and badly-coiffed as to invoke more sympathy than derision. Sarrazin comes off best as Caan's stalwart sidekick, somehow finding corners of silk purse in this particular sow's ear, particularly in his own, more dignified final moments.
Then there is the mendaciously named Frankenstein: the True Story, a "major television event" from my childhood. A big fan of all things Gothic, I was rapt in front of the set for every minute of it, and bemused to find that it had as little to do with the original book as the early Karloff films did. It did, however, veer off in interesting directions, and it was true in portraying the monster as an intelligent, romantic, and tragic figure. This was Sarrazin, whose beautiful visage decays throughout the film (at the hands of Hammer makeup artisan Roy Ashton) until he is monstrous to behold. He's acting with James Mason, David McCallum, the young and lovely Jane Seymour, and, interestingly, Leonard Whiting as the good doctor, in one of his rare filmed roles following his unforgettable Romeo in the Zefferelli Romeo and Juliet. Although arguably too long-winded and melodramatic, this Frankenstein has genuine twists and chills (the removal of the black ribbon!) and Sarrazin brings to it the soulful poetry of his presence.
Those words, "soulful" and "poetic", turn up in many of his obituaries, used by those trying to describe the unusual nature of his charisma. It wasn't just star power, but a certain quiet centeredness that he projected, a tone which served him well during the hippie times during which he came into the height of his career. Personally, I'm surprised at the melancholy his death has inspired in me. Certain actors, when treasured in one's youth, lend their own images and qualities toward the building of one's internal psychic structure. That is, their images become symbols upon which one's psyche can draw to express internal truths in dreams and visions and musings. Sarrazin was one such for me, and, as this particular melancholy is not an unpleasant sensation, I mean to sustain it by revisiting as many of his films as I can find.
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