Klute (1971), directed by Alan J. Pakula. Trylon Cinema’s 16mm paranoia show on Wednesday, December 28.

Klute fits firmly into the category of movies that people I respect love and I absolutely can’t stand. In fact, I remain stunned that they can’t see its myriad flaws. Its plot is utterly ridiculous: an upstanding man from a small Pennsylvania town is missing in New York City. The police come to his house and show his wife filthy typed letters he supposedly wrote to a prostitute named Bree (Jane Fonda). The family hires the man’s best friend and local cop Klute (Donald Sutherland) to investigate. Klute is paid to do this by the vanished man’s partner, Peter (Charles Cioffi). This Peter, from minute one, is the only one who could possibly be responsible for the disappeared man’s death, and we know he’s the culprit because this threadbare plot can’t conjure up enough complications to make us think otherwise.

Klute is famously gritty but its grittiness is barely a few years ahead of TV shows like Kojak. That is to say, it’s mainstream Hollywood’s idea of gritty. It pales against both Midnight Cowboy, from a few years earlier, and the same year’s Panic in Needle Park (written by Joan Didion, among others). Jane Fonda won an Oscar for her portrayal of Bree, but it’s such Oscar bait it’s almost nauseating. There’s barely an hour’s TV show worth of plot, but there’s long monologues with Bree ruminating on love or sex or prostitution, her voice coming from a magnetic tape, or long scenes of her confessions to her therapist, and this is meant to be character building and an opportunity to show off her acting chops. Bree is also a struggling actress and that means we get to see Fonda, as Bree, auditioning, well, again just to show more acting chops.

Ultimately, what is most insulting is how this film is so freaking conservative–though she wouldn’t bear this awful nickname for another year, you could summarize Klute as “Small town cop redeems Hanoi Jane.” Seriously, this movie grinds to a halt numerous times to listen to Bree agonize over loving Klute, who could be the most dull character ever to give his name to the title of an acclaimed film. Bree smokes pot and has a disheveled apartment and then, as Klute begins to assert his calming and staid influence, her place is cleaned up, her outfits are less provocative and she’s done toking at night by candlelight (and sadly, those moments look pretty awesome, like she has a pretty cool life, actually). Furthermore, Bree is perhaps the most fortunate prostitute there is, as her johns are all handsome men, or an old, old man who never touches her. Her pimp is Roy Scheider, looking like he should be disco dancing. So gritty!

Finally, there’s an utterly predictable climax in a factory, where the bad guy has to confess to everything, Klute arrives at the last minute, the bad guy defenestrates himself, and everyone’s happy.

Or are they? The film ends with Bree leaving with Klute, presumably to his banal little town in Pennsylvania. I mean, does anyone really think this is a happy ending for Jane Fonda’s Bree? I’d seen this movie years and years ago, forgot most of it, and was horrified by this turn of events. Fonda’s Bree is going to endure a worse hell in this most Stepford Wives setting. Out of the fying pan and into the fire, though it’s obvious the filmmakers don’t agree with my assessment.

The Trylon screened this on 16mm and that was cool.