USA, PG, 134 m, 1976
Directed by John Guillermin. Stars Jeff Bridges, Jessica Lange, Charles Grodin, et al.

When it was released in 1976, King Kong, Dino De Laurentiis’ breezy and occasionally touching remake of Merian C. Cooper’s 1933 classic, was largely dismissed as a vulgar waste of resources, though it did manage to put enough bums on seats to more than double its original investment. Almost thirty years have passed since Kong ceased his mighty roar, but all that time still hasn’t earned the film a reassessment from its stick-in-the-mud detractors. Nope, the ’76 King Kong remains as misunderstood as its titular misfit hero; audiences still don’t know what to make out of director John Guillermin’s blend of epic adventure with self-referential humor or Jessica Lange’s offbeat performance as the big ape’s object of affection. I loved the film when I was a kid, and I guess I still do; only now my damned learned eyes can make out all the seams. And I must say that Kong played much better on the big screen; subsequent TV and video versions has lessened its impact by rudely lopping off a good half of cinematographer Richard H. Kline’s lush panoramic images. The small screen can’t contain this Kong.

Paramount’s King Kong doesn’t fawningly trail after RKO’s crown jewel: Lorenzo Semple’s witty screenplay places Cooper and Edgar Wallace’s story in the present day, dispenses with its endless string of giant monster smackdowns, and even adds an environmental message. In the 1933 version, moviemaker Carl Denham set sail for the mysterious Skull Island to shoot a nature documentary; in this update, an oil company, Petrox, is planning to loot the island of its alleged wealth of black gold. Petrox’s favorite lackey, Fred Wilson (Charles Grodin), an avaricious, mustache-twirling rogue who makes J.R. Ewing look like Bobby Ewing, heads the mission, which was thought to have been top-secret until a scruffy stowaway, Jack Prescott (Jeff Bridges), disrupts a below-deck strategy meeting between Fred and his yes-man geologists. Jack, a Princeton paleontologist, dismisses Petrox’s assertion that the “white veil” surrounding Skull Island is smoke produced by boiling lakes of oil; he believes the strange fog is the by-product of animal methane—big monkey farts. Fred isn’t buying it; he writes Jack off (now, now) as a spy for a rival oil company, but instead of throwing him overboard, he makes use of his skills as a photographer to chronicle the expedition. (When Fred is photographed stepping onto the island for the first time, he strikes a heroic posture as if he was Napoleon staking claim to new territory.) The voyage takes another unexpected turn when Jack spots something adrift in the ocean.

It’s every horny sailor’s fantasy: an inflatable raft appears carrying a curvy, scantily clad blonde. Her name is Dwan (Jessica Lange in her screen debut), an aspiring actress who barely escaped the sinking of some Hollywood big shot’s party boat. Dwan becomes the Petrox Explorer’s sex-kitten mascot, and soon she’s sweet-talking Fred into letting her join the exploration. Once on the island, they discover an enormous wall, which Fred believes to be an old, abandoned ruin until he hears drums beating on the other side. (Jack’s best line: “There’s an uninhabited German beer hall in there with a mechanical band.”) The island’s resident savages are in the middle of a raucous run-through for what looks like a voodoo marriage rite, but their lewd dancing comes to an abrupt halt when they realize that some white folks are spying on them. The mysterious groom’s pelvis-thrusting, monkey-masked stand-in takes a quick liking to Dwan, and he tries to buy her by offering Wilson’s merry band six dark-skinned beauties in trade. The proposal is rejected, of course, so the tribe has a few of its grass-skirted goons follow Dwan back to the boat and kidnap her. That night, the island’s prenuptial festivities hit a fever pitch when Dwan is presented as the new bride-to-be. The attendants gyrate wildly, waving torches and chanting, “Kong! Kong! Kong!” After slipping some sort of intoxicant into Dwan’s beverage, the savages dress her up in a sexy jungle girl ensemble, and then strap her to an altar just outside of the great wall. Horns the size of elephant tusks are blown, cueing the groom. The ground trembles and the treetops shake as a colossal figure barrels its way through the forest ahead. We assume the monster’s POV as it sniffs its way to a moonlit clearing and then pads inquisitively up to the awaiting altar. Silence. Dwan woozily raises her head, and then screams. The forty-foot-tall gorilla counters with a deafening roar as he pounds his chest. His name is Kong. King Kong. And there’s a glint of naughtiness in his eyes as he scoops up his new plaything and heads for the hills. The islanders rejoice; their god is satisfied. (It’s apparent that the island has surrendered many of its own women to Kong before; I can’t help but wonder what became of them. And does all the energy put into lassoing a white chick for Kong mean that he’s grown tired of brown sugar?) When Jack and company finally show up to the wedding, they’re too late to even throw rice. They shoo the islanders away with flares and gunshots, unbolt the wall’s gate, and frantically begin their search for Dwan. But they soon realize it’s not going to be an easy road to hoe: the huge crater that Fred has just stumbled into turns out to be a footprint left by Dwan’s hairy captor. (Jack’s second-best line: “There is a girl out there who might be running for her life from some gigantic turned-on ape.”) Meanwhile, Kong is having an even harder go at wearing down Dwan’s defenses. (She thumps on his nose and calls him a “chauvinist pig ape.”) But, in time, a weird and wonderful bond develops between the two, which means the picture’s second act must forgo high adventure for some embarrassingly gooey scenes straight out of Love Story. (Mind, Ryan O’Neal and Ali MacGraw didn’t share one-tenth of Kong and Dwan’s chemistry.)

When its discovered that the oil on Skull Island won’t be ready for automobile consumption for another several hundred years, Fred figures can he make good on his promise to “bring home the big one” by abducting Kong and turning him into a sideshow attraction. The capture of Kong is pretty hair-raising stuff: Dwan (who was taken from Kong while he was, er, tied up fighting for her honor) is placed on the safe side of the wall, inciting Kong to beat on its gate until he breaks through and falls into an awaiting pit of chloroform. (Tell me: why would the people of Skull Island build a wall big enough to keep Kong out and then fit it with a gate big enough for him to walk through?)

As the Petrox Explorer transports its new cargo back to the Big Apple, Fred offers Dwan a chance to realize her dreams of stardom by joining Kong’s coast-to-coast tour. She’s delighted, but Jack can’t keep from pissing on her parade. “(Kong) was the terror, the mystery in their (the islanders) lives—and the magic,” he pontificates. “A year from now, that’ll be an island full of burned-out drunks. When we took Kong, we kidnapped their god.” Later, a breeze takes the scarf from Dwan’s neck and delivers it to Kong, who sits dejected in an oil tank below deck. He sniffs the garment and sighs, his eyes moist with longing. Utterly corny, yes, but it’s also one of the most heartrending moments in the history of film. King Kong is Beauty and the Beast to the umpteenth power.

Far too much has been made out of how De Laurentiis “duped” the public by promoting his new Kong as a forty-foot-high robot, when in reality it turned up in only a few fleeting shots during the creature’s rampage in New York City. The myriad technical problems that beset the animatronic ape (which was built by Carlo Rambaldi) proved a blessing in disguise: the role was taken over by make-up artist Rick Baker (who also designed the excellent costume), permitting Kong a much-needed human dimension. After all, Kong is the most relevant corner of this story’s wacky love triangle, and I don’t think we would’ve felt as much sympathy for him if he had been made up of so many nuts and bolts. Still, there was a great deal of controversy when King Kong snagged the 1977 Oscar for Best Special Effects. “An actor in a monkey suit is not a special effect,” the critics jeered. True, but it was the picture’s imaginative use of miniatures that qualified it for the award. Some of the effects, like Kong smashing an elevated train or a surprise visit from a giant snake, look a bit hokey. But the ones that matter, i.e. Kong’s ascent along the World Trade Center, truly pay off. (The climax has taken on an eerie resonance since 9-11. You might feel a pang when Kong sends a military chopper crashing into one of the towers.) The full-scale mechanical paw that grips Miss Lange through much of the film is surprisingly articulate, and it matches up seamlessly with Baker’s gorilla get-up. Kong’s mug is also very expressive—perhaps too expressive. When he fingers Dwan’s breasts, his eyebrows move up and down Groucho-style, making him appear downright lecherous. (I’ve always hated this scene. It not only debases the relationship between Kong and Dwan, but Kong’s randy overtures don’t make any sense—there’s no way the big lug can consummate his “marriage” to Dwan.) There’s a great deal of humor in Baker’s performance: when Kong dips a muddied Dwan under a waterfall and then blows her dry, his cheeks puff out in a manner that might remind you of Satchmo.

Of course, as good as Baker is here, it all would’ve been for nothing had the wrong actress been cast as Dwan. (Heaven help us—Babs fucking Streisand?) I, for one, find Miss Lange’s performance to be very good. She floods her role with an almost lyrical naturalism that you wouldn’t expect to find in this sort of popcorn flick. (She pulls off an actor’s greatest challenge: you don’t see her acting.) Dwan’s not your everyday damsel in distress; she’s a hot-blooded femme fatale. And Lange looks stunning; she’s a throwback to the movie goddesses of yesteryear. It’s easy to see why both a hippie scientist and an overgrown anthropoid would go bananas for her.

In 1980, ABC televised a 45-minute longer version of King Kong. Though panned and scanned, it took on an epic scope that was probably more in line with director Guillermin’s original vision. The extended cut (which was originally aired in two parts) featured some great comic touches: Jack throwing a deck hand into the ocean after he catches him spying on Dwan in the shower; Kong stomping on Fred and then lifting his foot to reveal that everything but the little prick’s hat has been nailed into the earth; a NYC politico considering which method of stopping Kong will most positively impact his bid for reelection. To this day, ABC’s version remains unavailable in any home video format, though a letterboxed treatment of the theatrical edit has found its way onto DVD. As nice as the transfer is, it’s not going to win over Kong’s detractors. “A well-polished turd is still just a turd,” cracked one of my movie buff acquaintances.

Well, only a hopeless fuddy-duddy could reject something as sweet and magical as King Kong. There are a lot of wonderful things in it, particularly John Barry’s lush musical score, which is one of his greatest next to The Black Hole. And how could one not get misty eyed over Kong’s heroic death scene? (De Laurentiis wasn’t full of his usual hot air when he boasted, “When the monkey die, the people gonna cry.”) It’s not a flawless picture, but those flaws are part of its charm. I wish George Lucas had realized that we felt the same way about Star Wars before he got the bright idea to go back and smooth out its rough edges. May the fleas of a thousand giant apes infest his armpits for a month of Sundays!

April 13, 2005

© Copyright 2007 by Edward Larsen Terkelsen. All rights reserved.