The Towering Inferno
a film by John Guillerman released through Twentieth Century-Fox and Warner Brothers Pictures in 1974
Most movies are lost
to the ravages of time. When people
complain that pictures today are much worse than ones from sixty or seventy
years ago, they often forget that the dreck of disappointing cinema has been
screened by the collective opinion of successive generations. Most films are bad, and wither on the
vine.
Film
historians and preservationists decry the number of films already lost and
those on the verge of disintegration.
Often, films are saved with little thought of the public—a couple hundred
grand can be invested to restore a silent film, it receives a glittering
unveiling before an audience of critics and professors, and is forgotten
again. In most cases, if a film was
worth saving, it was. With a few
cautionary caveats—Jack Warner's dismemberment of Cukor's A Star Is Born (1954) and RKO's contempt for Orson Welles's
near-miss The Magnificent Ambersons
(1942), we really can rest easy; money talks.
It's
not for the sake of posterity, but profit that fuels most restoration. Ever since studios realized they could still
make money on their old films through television, they've been inclined to turn
on the air conditioning. Now, with the
video revolution, where any trifle can find an audience somewhere, nothing will
be intentionally lost again.
With
so many films, few people can ever hope to see a reasonable sampling of the
cinematic past. A lifetime's worth of
viewing entices and frustrates. But for
practically everybody, five years max is all the viewing one person can
invest. Some movies are lost to memory,
movies which were once well known. The Towering Inferno is one. This is a big movie in every way—budget,
stars, melodrama—all off the charts.
Maybe it's not taken seriously enough and so it's gradually faded from
the consciousness of cineastes. Of
course, high brow cine-fanatics didn't take kindly to this film in '74, and
usually cineastes are the only ones to cultivate a knowledge of old
movies. These aren't our stars, the
styles are outlandish, and it lacks the self-consciously cynical edge typical
of more recent spectacles. Even now the
effects are good, but the impact of such a story filmed today could have a
pulverizing effect on audiences.
It's
party time half a mile up; the dedication for the world's tallest skyscraper,
San Francisco's Glass Tower, has galvanized the illustriously well-connected of
California. But chief architect Paul
Newman slowly realizes that this monument to avarice was not built to his
exacting specifications, and serious misfortune could result that evening,
during the gala celebration. He clashes
with builder William Holden and wastrel Richard Chamberlain, who sacrificed the
building's wiring to kickbacks. A huge
blaze erupts, and fire chief Steve McQueen steps in to save as many people as
he can. So the stage is set for some
earnest romance, some buddy-up adventure, a stunning rescue here, and a blazing
demise there. It's a very good film,
only lacking for some judicious cutting.
The
movie is designed to delight and awe, a quality of passing favor in
Hollywood. Either producer Irwin Allen
felt ashamed of his product or felt extremely proud of it—the dedication is a
risk:
To those who
give their lives
so that
others might live—
To the fire
fighters of the world—
This
pictures is gratefully dedicated.
This
notice appears at the tail end of the opening credits, accompanied by a solemn
horn arrangement.
A
picture this big, geared to mass audiences, can hardly be seen as a call to
elevate the status of firemen. Again,
the dedication is not inappropriate, but its prominent positioning is a recipe
for criticism, mostly from the know-it-all critics Allen would be right to
ignore anyway.
Allen,
and not director John Guillerman, is the man to attract attention. It's Allen's film. He had produced The Poseidon Adventure two years previous. It was a big hit and made this film possible,
which tops the previous endeavor with a more compelling, more identifiable story,
and a stronger script.
The Towering Inferno is redolent of the
Titanic catastrophe. Characters talk
about the building like it's indestructible, like anything going awry is simply
unthinkable. But its demise is cleverly
foreshadowed, with no slight-of-hand. We
see that corners have been cut. Not only
was the wiring scaled back to save money, but the safety systems aren't on line
yet. A flare up in the utility room
serves as a precursor, to show us what might happen. Characters reference the sensations of heat
and burning in an off-hand manner, totally unaware of their comments' dark
irony. And the slogan of Duncan
Enterprises, which built the Tower, is "We Build for Life." And so the fire on 81 starts. It spreads via elevator to other floors. Gas lines explode all over, and wiring
continues to overheat, starting new fires.
Soon the whole Tower is engulfed, and the glittering elite are faced
with some hard truths.
Paul
Newman works feverishly to save anyone he can, using his all-encompassing
knowledge of the building to exorcise some guilt. Steve McQueen is steely and irritated. He knows this was preventable, and he wants
to make sure that as he fights the fire he fights the arrogance that caused it.
The
stakes are gradually ratcheted up through the whole movie. The Promenade Room celebrants first have
their revels broken by the announcement that they have to move downstairs. It's a small fire, far away. Then they see a man burn to death. The stairway can't be used, only a little
elevator. Soon it's out of use, so they
turn to helicopter. By now they've got a
lottery going, women first. At this
point they all realize their odds are slim, but the people can't keep it
together, freaking out and losing the helicopter escape route. Next they have a breeches buoy. That, too, is lost to selfish fear. All that is left is to wait and die, either
by water or by fire, an elemental end.
The
most difficult thing to watch is the death of Dan Bigelow and his
secretary-paramour. Now that we've seen
the primal horror of death by flame, our dread of what could lay ahead infuses
the narrative with more impact. In
anticipating the worst, our imagination surpasses what we see on screen—but not
by much. The picture is a marvel,
sporting a succession of compelling set-pieces.
But
maybe the best thing in the movie is just the simple scene of dialogue between
Paul Newman and William Holden, the one we've been waiting for all along. Newman's character, Doug Roberts, starts by
breaking the news to builder Jim Duncan that Will Giddings, their mutual good
friend, and the first man hurt by the fire, just died. Doug then asks Jim why he made the choices to
skimp on safety features. Jim argues
that what he did was his prerogative and entirely legal. But Doug has taken a circuitous tour of the
building to arrive at the Promenade Room; he's seen that even the barest
standards of safety were not met, and the electrical system is only good for
starting fires. He then admits that he
is just as much to blame. "What do
they call it when you kill people?"
Entertainment.
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