Peter Bogdanovich's THE LAST PICTURE SHOW (1972)

Before those Friday Nights got any Lights, 

Ere ever Dazéd teens were too Confused, 

Jeff Bridges left poor Cybill hangin'. Nights

In black and white stretched long with naught to do

But get in sexy trouble, it would seem. 

It's hard to say which story breaks the heart

The most -- the ones depicted on the screen?

Or what occurred behind the cameras. Part

Of each perhaps. Meanwhile, each dewy face, 

And each hard-bitten, steals the viewer's breath.

There's something timeless, too, about that place, 

North Texas in the 50s, near its death,

And full of gossip, jealousy and pain

That feels just like my own town on the plain.

Lindsay Anderson's O LUCKY MAN! (1973)

 I'm now become an Alan Price fan girl,
Graham Crowden steals his brief scenes yet again
As our Mick Travers blunders through a world
Still made for white boys. We last saw him when
He made a right mess of his schoolboy days
But seems to not have suffered consequence.
He sees some this time 'round, but somehow stays
A poster boy for priv'lege. Some expense
Was spared in casting, though it's all top notch --
They all get many roles, which adds a bit
To surreality, and does a lot
To make this funnier. The perfect fit,
Though is how Price's band serves in the tale,
And how the ending dance party just wails!

L.Q. Jones' A BOY AND HIS DOG (1975)

Four years from now, if COVID ain't the thing
(Oh, sorry, Blood, I know that's not a word)
The bombs might get us. What would take the sting
From such a fate would be, I might have heard,
A cyber-telepathic cranky hound
To find me partners, call for popcorn, sense
What I cannot, while making not a sound
That any else can hear. 'Twould be intense.
The mutt might well have Unca Harlan's voice!
Don Johnson isn't bad, for once. No one
At twenty-something always sucks. Rejoice!
On balance, 'tis a silly romp, and fun
Across the 'pockyclypse. I'd take a K.I.T.T.
In canine form along for sure! No spit!

Sidney Poitier's BUCK AND THE PREACHER (1972)

Now, westerns haven't ever been my thing, 

But bareass Belafonte caught my eye

(I'm only human) and to watch him sling

A shooter or a bible... And just why

Did I not know this film had e'en been made?

Best late than never yes, but Sidney's first

Directing job, I should have known. And wait, 

Who's snoggin' him but Ruby Dee! And hers

Is one demanding role. Each perfect scene, 

Of action, tenderness, or funny stuff

Is clear and gorgeous, woke AF and keen

To tell a story nowhere near enough

Gets shared, of black life in the great Old West.

Of westerns I have seen, I like this best!

Elaine May's MIKEY AND NICKY (1976)

The squalor and the glamor of the day
In Philly of the '70s, behind
These faces! Watch as two such old friends play
Each other. Falk and Cassavetes wind
The viewer in their story, scene by scene
(And not one wasted, nor is one detail!)
Is captivating. Both are at their keen
And subtle best, as they chat, laugh and flail
In bitter combat. But it's Carol Grace,
A side piece, treated badly, whom I'll keep
In memory the most, I think. Her space
And how she's treated -- no, I will not weep
But cheer. Elaine May grab me any night
And show me what she likes. I'll never fight.

Sidney Lumet's DOG DAY AFTERNOON (1975)

Prince Humperdinck near steals the whole freak show,
A feat, that, for the ages, next to Al
Pacino and his sweat-hair and, you know,
The hostage thing. And then let's talk of Sal,
Few words but each one counts. Amazingly,
This film feels timeless, from its true crime plot,
To how its crowd scenes scarce contain the glee
The extras felt, to how the cops get hot.
A cell phone wouldn't change much, the conceit
That one could turn to crime to bring about
The changes one most needs... Today would greet
This tale with bullets sooner, though. The shout
For Sonny still feels timely, anyway.
But Hollywood, please don't remake this Day.

Victor Erice's THE SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE (Spain, 1973)

This could become a fav'rite. No effects
Or special sets were needed, just a child
Immersed in her imaginary texts,
In Frankenstein, in spirit stories, wild
Yet simple. Warm and golden Spanish light
And perfect little actors, and, yes, bees
And mushrooms, it's from these things in the night
As spun out by her sister, Ana sees
Her own world's monsters, in the only sense
That she can make of them. Her world is small
And something new has entered it, intense
And scary? Maybe. But you must recall
The little girl with daisies made a friend
In that film. All is balanced in the end.