Straight Time (1978, Ulu Grosbard) (Patreon)

63/100

Boasts quite a perverse structure, which I admire even as I don't think that it functions particularly well. The logical, "sensible" trajectory for this story would be the other way around: first half devoted to Max's life of crime, second half depicting his gradual disillusionment as good-faith efforts to become a productive, law-abiding citizen get squashed by ex-con stigma. Conventional, to be sure, but probably satisfying. Leading instead with failed rehabilitation is a much bolder choice that, sadly, leaves the movie with virtually nowhere to go once Max (at least somewhat understandably) says "Fuck it" and reverts to what he knows. Those initial 45 minutes—up to the point at which he assaults his parole officer—delve remarkably deep into the mundane pitfalls of re-adjusting to life on the outside and navigating a world that's not remotely ready to let bygones be bygones (though admittedly a parolee by definition hasn't yet fully paid his societal debt); apart from the condensed and very sentimental "Brooks, freed at last" sequence of Shawshank, I can't think offhand of another film that examines the subject with such focus and empathy. So I was disappointed when Straight Time abruptly metamorphosed into a familiar portrait of a largely irredeemable two-bit thief, despite enjoying the expertly staged robbery sequences. (Love Max calmly donning goggles and work gloves in the jewelry store, pulling out a sledgehammer, politely telling the clerk "Step back, please," and then just methodically smashing every display case.) Final scene's unexpected moment of self-awareness/compassion ends things on a strong note, but I'd long since become emotionally detached by that point. All of the man's inner conflict had been resolved. What we have here is a two-hour film with a one-hour character arc.

Don't know a whole lot about Grosbard—I'd only previously seen Georgia, 25 years ago; my contemporaneous review complained that it "lurches uncertainly from scene to scene"—and the fact that he was hired at the last minute, after Hoffman suddenly decided against directing it himself, conveniently allows me to substitute an "acteurist" lens. Not having read Edward Bunker's novel (weird to think that Hoffman's more or less playing the real Mr. Blue), I can't say for sure, but it feels to me as if the film turns into a crime drama primarily because Hoffman could only stomach being ineffectual onscreen for so long. Possibly that opinion is influenced by William Goldman's memories of Hoffman's behavior on the set of Marathon Man, which may or may not be accurate (but almost certainly are, I'd guess). In any case, he, like the film as a whole, is much more compelling early on, when Max is still struggling to do the right thing and his recalcitrant nature keeps shoving its way through the flimsy barrier he's erected to contain it. The overt badass stuff later on isn't nearly as convincing, and even Hoffman can't really sell Max's ostensible willingness to linger at crime scenes way too long out of a greedy desire to grab just one more wad of cash, or to locate a specific piece of jewelry that his girlfriend liked. (Theresa Russell's role is badly underwritten, but she mostly makes up for it with sheer wary presence.) What connects both halves of the film is a clear-eyed acknowledgement that Max continually makes poor decisions, even if some of them are motivated by legitimate grievances against an intolerant system. M. Emmet Walsh, as Max's parole officer, walks an impressively fine line between bureaucratic indifference and outright sadism; again, once his authority has been conclusively rejected, the film's essentially over, with still a little over an hour left to go. Standard descent thereafter.