Cops and Robbers (Aram Avakian, 1973). This jagged comedy of resignation hails from the era of U.S. cinema when depictions of New York City were so gritty that it seemed as if wringing the celluloid like a towel would cause gray sweat to pulse out of it. Written by novelist Donald E. Westlake (who, in an uncommon reversal, later turned the screenplay into a book), the film follows a pair of metropolitan police officers (Cliff Gorman and Joseph Bologna) who decided to use their knowledge of the crime-fighting biz — and the blue uniforms that afford them ready access to just about anywhere — to pull of their own heist, escapes to more hospitable climes dancing in their heads. The deep-dive into frustrated, combative characters is consistently engaging and the plot they hatch is clever with being so overly elaborate that it starts to strain credibility. John P. Ryan gives a nice supporting performance of genial menace as the local crime figure the uncertain officers go to with their plan. Director Aram Avakian gives the production a perfectly tempered seediness and shows an especially keen eye for detail. When the two protagonists float and plot in their above-ground pool, a lone swim flipper, discarded and forgotten, sits forlornly at the bottom of the watery depths. It’s a simple addition to the scene that conveys so much about the raggedy suburban lives they’re living.
Murder, He Says (George Marshall, 1945). A pollster (Fred MacMurray) heads into the rural wilds in search of a colleague who’d recently gone missing while out there on assignment. He runs afoul of a feisty clan intent on maintaining their privacy, in large part because one of their kinfolk is in jail for bank robbery, but the tens of thousands of dollars in loot was never recovered. Sure that a payday is coming their way, the last person they want on premises is a snoop asking a lot of questions. Though an original work for the screen (the story is by Jack Moffitt, and Lou Breslow is credited with the script), it plays like a cracking stage farce brought expertly into the more permanent medium. MacMurray is characteristically good as the befuddled gent stammering his way to safety among hair-trigger adversaries, and there’s surprisingly strong camera trickery — for the era — allowing Peter Whitney to play brutish twin brothers. The film is hardly profound, but it’s consistently fun.
Tower (Keith Maitland, 2016). This documentary from director Keith Maitland has layers of ingenuity. It reconstructs the events of August 1, 1966, when a distraught and mentally disturbed Marine veteran climber to the top of the tower building at the heart of the University of Texas at Austin campus and started firing his rifle at the crowd below. Although he also employs archival news footage of the terrible event, Maitland largely depicts the deadly assault on unsuspecting citizens using rotoscopic animation. The simplicity makes the agony more profound, especially as Maitland uses that testimony of those who were there to come close to a real-time staging that gives a sense of how awful it must have been for the people on the ground, whether hiding fearfully as shots ring out or lying on the hot pavement, wounded and unable to get themselves to safety. The empathy present in the filmmaking makes the film nearly unbearable at times, which in turn makes it vital.