42 / CHRONICLESnSCREENnStar Drecknby Sam KainicknCobra; directed by George P. Cosmatos;nscreenplay by SylvesternStallone; Warner Bros.nSweet Liberty, written and directednby Alan Alda.nHow did America’s movies ever get sonbad?nThat seems to be the $99,000 questionnfor American film critics lately,nfrom Siskel and Ebert to AmericannFilm to New York Times critic VincentnCanby, right on down to your localnsmall-town newspaper. What’s wrongnwith Hollywood today, and how cannwe — the Concerned Critics ofnAmerica—put it right?nSummer is a bad time of year fornmost film critics. The movies are actuallynno worse than they are during thenrest of the year, but they’re bad in waysnthe critics don’t like. Many of thenreleases are frankly juvenile, as is truenthroughout the rest of the year, but thenones released in the summer, whennthe kids are out of school, often makentremendous amounts of money. Thisnsorely offends most critics, who envisionnan America composed of devoteesnof Shoah, Ginger and Fred, and thenworks of Ranier Werner Fassbinder.nTo be sure, some of these critics arenbeing disingenuous, because what reallynbothers them is the politics of thenfilms; the fact that audiences are flockingnto see Roc^y IV, White Nights, TopnGun, and the like, while avoidingncritical favorites such as Stranger ThannParadise, Hannah and Her Sisters, andnDesert Hearts. But that doesn’t bothernme.nThe real problem with Hollywoodnlies elsewhere, and it won’t be solvedneasily. The problems have to do withnthe economic structure of the Hollywoodnstudios, and, as might be expected,nWashington has had a lot to donVITAL SIGNSnwith bringing them on. Since the laten> 1940’s, when all of Hollywood’s majornstudios signed a consent decree withnthe Justice Department—under threatnof antitrust prosecution—the Hollywoodnstudios have been forbidden tonown theaters in which to show theirnproduct. What this accomplished, innconjunction with other factors such asnthe coming of television and changesnin the tax code, was the utter destructionnof the old Hollywood studio systemnwhich had resulted in the almostuniversallynacknowledged “GoldennAge” of Hollywood cinema, the 1930’snand 40’s.nWithout a guaranteed outlet forntheir products, the studios have sincenthen been forced to woo theater owners,nespecially the all-important foreignnmarkets, with splashy concepts,nsuperstar actors, remakes, sequels, nudity,nviolence, and whiz-bang specialneffects. Anything, that is, besides goodnstories, innovation, and serious ideas.nIt’s easy to chart the progression fromnthe 1950’s, when there was still anvestige of narrative sense in the averagenHollywood film—leftover in the worknof filmmakers trained during Hollywood’snheyday—through the disorganizednslop of the 1960’s and the selfindulgentn”artistry” and exploitation ofnthe 70’s, to the extremism and aimlessnessnof contemporary films.nBut it would be foolish to blame thendistributors, exhibitors, producers, ornfilmmakers for this situation. They arensimply reacting rationally to a seriouslyndistorted market. Producers can’t getntheir films made if they can’t get anstudio to distribute them; distributorsncan’t make money oif their films ifnthey can’t get theater owners to rentnthem; and theater owners can onlynrent films which they feel stand a goodnchance of making money—i.e., filmsnwith elements with a good track recordn—stars, effects, etc.nIf their behavior results in bad films,nthey can hardly be blamed for trying tonmake the best of a bad situation. Annnlook at a couple of recent major releasesnprovides a good illustration of hownHollywood’s warped economic structurenworks to create bad films.nOn the surface. Sweet Liberty andnCobra couldn’t be more different. Norncould their stars, Alan Alda and SylvesternStallone. What is hidden byntheir differences in style and temperament,nhowever, is their one allimportantnsimilarity: They are bothnbankable actors.n”Bankable,” in Hollywood parlance,nrefers to a performer or propertyn—such as a best-selling novel—a producerncan take to investors and benassured of getting the money to gonahead with the project. Properties becomenbankable, of course, by makingnmoney. Both Stallone and Alda havenmade money for previous investorsn— Stallone much more than Alda, ofncourse—and so both are bankable.nNow, if a producer has a bankablennovel and raises money on that basis,nhe’s in a very good position —n”swimming in gravy,” in Hollywoodnparlance—because a book never losesnits temper and walks off the set; neverncalls in sick until it gets its way; neverninsists on approval of directors, writers,nand co-stars; never needs a sumptuouslynappointed trailer in which to getndressed; never insists the payroll benpacked with its relatives, etc., etc., etc.nAnd, most important of all, a booknnever, ever insists on tampering withnthe finished screenplay.nBut stars do. And they get their way.nBecause once a film goes into production,nwork is on a very tight schedulenwhich can cost upwards of $100,000 anday. And if the star walks off the set,nthe crew can’t shoot. So the producersngive him — or sometimes her—hisnway.nAnd end up with a film like Cobra.nThere is hardly a moment in Cobra innwhich Sylvester Stallone is not onscreen,ngnawing on a matchstick andnmumbling words of wisdom. Furthermore,nnone of the other characters aren