Today I returned from my Sunday chores to learn that Peter O'Toole had died. Taken aback, I demurred on an instant reaction, unsure how to address his passing. By the time I put some thoughts together, I learned two others had joined him: Joan Fontaine and Tom Laughlin.
I'll put my usual blogging on hold to profile these recently passed stars. They deserve more than cursory notice, for all made a considerable cultural impact. Even if, in the case of our first subject, a somewhat absurd one.
A Minneapolis, Minnesota native, Laughlin played football at Wisconsin and Marquette before drifting into acting. After some stage work, he won bit parts in Tea and Sympathy, South Pacific and Gidget. Laughlin scored a starring role in The Delinquents (1957), notable as Robert Altman's directorial debut. But his Method acting style infuriated Altman, who dubbed Laughlin a "pain in the ass." Laughlin directed a few minor films around this time, but his career failed to catch on.
Frustrated by his cinematic failure, Laughlin set up a Montessori school in Santa Monica, California with his wife Dolores Taylor. Their school took in disadvantaged children, orphans and runaways, providing only general guidance while allowing the children to learn at their own pace. Laughlin and Taylor's experiences in this field informed Billy Jack's Freedom School, a pseudo-hippie commune where Taylor's Jean encourages children to explore their creativity.
Laughlin conceived Billy Jack as far back as 1954. His lifelong passion for Indian rights informed the script which he tried and failed to sell to several studios. The character, re-envisioned as an ex-Green Beret hapkido expert, first surfaced in Born Losers (1967). There's little to recommend this show, a chintzy biker film co-starring Jane Russell and Jeremy Slade. But its success enabled Laughlin to make Billy Jack (1971), and the rest was history.
Initially Warner Brothers fumbled the release, editing out controversial content and dumping it on the grindhouse circuit. Laughlin sued the studio before finding a more creative approach. He bought back copies of the film, angling to re-release it himself, and painstakingly negotiated with theaters for screenings. He spent $300,000 on a TV ad campaign, cutting TV spots and buying airtime on networks across the nation. Laughlin's efforts paid off handsomely: Billy Jack went from B-movie flop to massive hit.
Billy Jack played perfectly to the era's burgeoning counterculture. Its most obnoxious features - endless musical numbers at the Freedom School, lengthy guerrilla theater segments - mark it as an artifact of its time, as does the New Age obsession with Indian rituals. But Billy himself remains its most enduring legacy. A prototype for Chuck Norris, Steven Seagal and other action stars, he spouts semi-profound koans while righteously kicking redneck ass. Billy Jack's most famous scene carefully treads the line between ludicrous and awesome:
One respects Laughlin's tenacity, business savvy and defense of principle. His personality, less so. Laughlin boasted that "The youth of this country have only two heroes: Ralph Nader and Billy Jack." He soon claimed that the CIA was working to suppress his films. Hyper-sensitive to criticism, he sponsored an essay contest to rebut critics of The Trial of Billy Jack. "The student should be free to enjoy the inner experience... without the imposition of someone else's opinion," he commented.
Laughlin's thin skin extended to his professional relationships. A Time profile ascribed to Laughlin "a temper... as infamous as Mussolini's." Billy Jack actor David Roya describes Laughlin forcing him to perform dangerous stunts, bilking him out of pay and an acrimonious lawsuit over billing. He frittered his newfound clout by loudly inveighing against Hollywood's studio system. He demanded complete control over his next feature, pushing for a nationwide release rather than a gradual roll out.
The Trial of Billy Jack (1974) ably documents Laughlin's descent into megalomania. It retains the original's enthusiasm for Indian rights, martial arts, spiritualism and unconventional education. But Laughlin insists on dragging in "big issues" like Vietnam and Watergate, putting the System on trial alongside Billy Jack. Laughlin posits himself a debating partner of the establishment: the FBI monitors the Freedom School's "scorching exposes" on local business leaders, before dispatching the National Guard to massacre everyone.
Laughlin's 15 minutes of fame soon ebbed. Trial proved another hit, but garnered toxic critical reviews. Even fans avoided his next film, The Master Gunfighter (1975). The final nail was Billy Jack Goes to Washington (1977), so bad it never saw release. Predictably, Laughlin ascribed its failure to a government conspiracy; it's more likely his exorbitant ego caught up with him. After bit parts in The Big Sleep (1978) and The Legend of the Lone Ranger (1981), Laughlin's movie career died.
Banished from Hollywood, Laughlin nonetheless retained delusions of grandeur. He regularly ran for President, using his website to promote a bizarre political-psychological-spiritual philosophy. Laughlin constantly promised a fifth Billy Jack movie that never materialized: he shot only a few scenes of The Return of Billy Jack in the '80s, while another film where he "debated" George W. Bush never got past the idea stage. Laughlin's later activities were curtailed by ill health, suffering several strokes in 2007.
The Billy Jack movies retain a fervent cult following. And to Laughlin's credit, his innovative promotional antics made a genuine impact on the industry. For Groggy's money however, The Trial of Billy Jack is the worst movie ever made. For that achievement, if nothing else, Laughlin earns our recognition.
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