Between the Lines (1977, Joan Micklin Silver) (Patreon)

68/100

Not what I expected, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. I've always seen Between the Lines cited as a disturbingly accurate, increasingly prescient portrait of the media maw, and some early scenes—Michael begging his editor to spring for Cannes coverage; Max desperately selling review copies ("I can't smoke records, I can't eat records")—inspired real sympathy pains, as I've been there and done that in both cases. (Never did persuade Time Out New York to pay for Cannes, though they let me attend on my own dime. TIFF—much cheaper—was all-expenses every year.) The film's depiction of corporate bullshit rings true, especially as seen through the eyes of someone currently watching hedge-fund assholes plunder his longtime freelance home. Just didn't expect that stuff to remain mostly below the fold, secondary to various romantic entanglements and personality quirks. This is an ensemble dramedy at heart, closer in spirit to something like The Big Chill (Goldblum's presence strengthens that connection, obviously) than to any movie about journalism specifically or office politics in general. Rumors about the Mainline potentially being sold function here as structural ballast, similar to the anti-drug pledge Pink avoids signing throughout Dazed and Confused; emphasis stays firmly on characters and anecdotes, with only Bruno Kirby's hapless David defined primarily by his profession. Perhaps not coincidentally, David's efforts to land a big story are the film's weakest element—tied, maybe, with the question of whether Laura will leave town with Michael after he lands a book deal.

Every scene featuring John Heard and Lindsay Crouse, on the other hand, is pure gold. Truthfully, I spent much of Between the Lines gobsmacked by how richly, playfully, delightfully human Crouse is as Abbie, and kept struggling to wrap my head around the notion of that actor as a movie's warmly beating heart. House of Games was foundational for me—came out when I was 19, during my first blush of cinephilia—and I've spent more than three decades wishing that someone else had played its lead role. Someone less mannered, less robotic, less...bad. Now I can clearly see that Crouse gave Mamet (her husband at the time) exactly the performance he wanted, that Dr. Ford's nearly-crippling flatness is entirely his fault. (And then that seemed to establish her persona in casting directors' eyes, so that she got offered e.g. the cold, evil psych professor and secret military leader on Buffy.) Directed by a woman who's unmistakably fascinated by people and behavior, she demonstrates expert comic timing (I actually failed to recognize her at first in the opening scene, wondered who that was stealing focus from Gwen Welles via metronomic interjections and deadpan sarcasm), achieves the ideal blend of strength and vulnerability, effortlessly spars with Heard at his most rakishly charismatic. Don't know that I expect to see anything more affecting this year than Abbie's avid expression—equal parts curious, amused and apprehensive—as she watches Harry watch Danielle perform her striptease. Had the Skandies been around in 1977, Crouse, Heard and Goldblum would likely have vacuumed up a hefty percentage of my acting points (and of course I'd be raving about Goldblum with equal fervor were I discovering him here—something I can say with confidence, since I became obsessed with his offbeat rhythm just a few years later on a short-lived, long-forgotten detective show, Tenspeed and Brown Shoe). Not quite a favorite film overall, as it's pretty hit and miss, but the ball sails out of the park when the bat connects. "Fun" fact: the $75 per week Max earns as a rock critic, adjusted for inflation, amounts to roughly $17K a year. Not easy to live on that; please, if you value my dignity, don't ask me how I know.