"They don't make 'em like they used to," the pundits grumble, but in case of The Towering Inferno, Hollywood would probably breathe a sigh of relief. In a completely obtuse feat of life-imitates-art, everything about the picture, like its titular tower, insisted on such grandiose proportions it threatened collapse. Too big for one studio to produce (for a sense of how unprecedented the Fox/WB co-production and merger of disaster yarns was, think how jaw-dropping the recent Sony/Marvel Studios sharing of Spider-Man was), the twin financiers pitted their smorgasbord of feuding stars against a bevy of life-threatening practical disaster effects throughout a running time so voluminous it's closer to Lawrence of Arabia than The Poseidon Adventure. And the ensuing picture? Well, it's hardly a neorealist account of architectural instability, but it's also impressively grounded in its fun for a film renowned for sounding so silly, and holds up as a film beneath its infamy.
If ever there was a poignant reminder of the profound differences between contemporary blockbusters and those of the 1970s, The Towering Inferno is it. First, and inescapably, the film is looooooong, with a running time and pace sure to boggle contemporary attention spans. Still, while the film's running time may be bloated, the proceedings are anything but flabby, with each scene employed towards meticulous character and tension building, with ominous side comments regarding shirked safety standards stacking up until the inevitable blaze. And while the film's editing may not hammer home urgency to the extent we'd now expect, its careful cross-cutting does keep impressive track of the film's laundry list of subplots, with romances, trysts, and feuds brewing amidst the colourful cast desperately stewing inside their colossal firetrap. Could we had easily snipped out one to three of these vignettes, giving bladders worldwide a reprieve, and without anyone the wiser or even missing them? Sure, but part of the film's charm is the tender fastidiousness it lends each of its subjects, from guilt execs to flustered debutantes, to grim firefighters at work (and after the conditions they're subjected to here, the film's lavish dedication to working firefighters rings very true). Even a side character's cat, glimpsed in one scene, is given its due screen time, courtesy of O.J. Simpson's uber-professional head of security. We may only have limited time with each of our cast of characters, but the film's investment in their hopes and dreams does land us unexpectedly invested in their wellbeing, superficially or not.
But how could the film's initial selling point as an effects extravaganza possibly hold up? Well, fairly well, actually. The set design is spectacular, concocting a gleaming behemoth of a building that feels simultaneously dauntingly vast and claustrophobic (you can imagine Die Hard's designers furiously scribbling notes throughout) - and doubly so when set on fire. It's here that the film's insistence on practical fire effects pays off - as the actors sweat and singe, we can practically feel the scorching heat radiating from the screen, as the catastrophic blaze is hugely convincing through being controlled, but hardly staged. And, granted, the film's stunts may pale in comparison to contemporary decades of ante-upping, but their smallness, combined with Irwin Allen's airtight direction, lends an air of verisimilitude. Instead of spectacle- for-spectacle's sake, our central set-pieces involve the minutiae of evacuation procedures and fire safety checklists to an almost procedural profiling extent, which is not only impressively engrossing (yes, really), but all the more liable to get viewers hooked by less audacious acrobatics. If anything, the inauspiciousness of the stunts makes them feel all the more uncomfortably believable - you would get stuck suspending yourself from a hanging pipe, hesitating before a five foot drop for fifteen minutes - which helps keep things sizzling with tension. Sure, a lot of the dialogue lays critical exposition on a bit thick ("We were supposed to have fire drills! But we never did!!"), and the rampant 1970s suspicion and scorn towards high-rises is simultaneously amusing and sobering, but the ineffable John Williams' sparkly score keeps things as a brisk and breezy adventure caper throughout, even as the stakes raise, and lives are lost(!) throughout.
Fox and WB were wise to invest in their cabal of stars, as the almost incomparable cast employ their star personas towards instant characterization and audience investment, working wonders with skeletal build up. Paul Newman and Steve McQueen's respective craggy charisma work wonders in complimenting one another as guilt-ridden architect and cool, unflappable fire chief, and both work wonders in keeping a level-headed emotional centre amidst the flurry of characters and flames. William Holden's loquacious wit provides a welcomely sympathetic twist on the 'Mayor from Jaws/John Hammond from Jurassic Park' archetype, and while Faye Dunaway may be fairly underused as an anxious bystander for the most part, she sizzles in her few key scenes, particularly when exchanging adorably flirty banter with Newman. Richard Chamberlain is delightfully seedy as the resentful son-in-law contractor whose cut corners let to the fire, and Chamberlain carefully allows his character's pettiness to simmer without descending into moustache-twirling. Finally, Fred Astaire and Jennifer Jones' bashful courting may occupy one of the film's more extraneous asides, but they're so effervescently lovable they're easily worth the extra sitting.
In short (unlike anything else in the picture), The Towering Inferno's archaic indulgences may not live up to the self-important epics of old it styles itself after, particularly in never quite pushing the envelope cinematically enough for its looming disaster to instil more than cursory breathlessness. And yet, the charm holds. Tautly directed, superbly cast, and with indisputably quality set and effects, it's more adventure jaunt than disaster crisis, but worth it as such. This fire burns out quickly, but is sure to leave embers of affection glowing softly for years to come.
-7/10
If ever there was a poignant reminder of the profound differences between contemporary blockbusters and those of the 1970s, The Towering Inferno is it. First, and inescapably, the film is looooooong, with a running time and pace sure to boggle contemporary attention spans. Still, while the film's running time may be bloated, the proceedings are anything but flabby, with each scene employed towards meticulous character and tension building, with ominous side comments regarding shirked safety standards stacking up until the inevitable blaze. And while the film's editing may not hammer home urgency to the extent we'd now expect, its careful cross-cutting does keep impressive track of the film's laundry list of subplots, with romances, trysts, and feuds brewing amidst the colourful cast desperately stewing inside their colossal firetrap. Could we had easily snipped out one to three of these vignettes, giving bladders worldwide a reprieve, and without anyone the wiser or even missing them? Sure, but part of the film's charm is the tender fastidiousness it lends each of its subjects, from guilt execs to flustered debutantes, to grim firefighters at work (and after the conditions they're subjected to here, the film's lavish dedication to working firefighters rings very true). Even a side character's cat, glimpsed in one scene, is given its due screen time, courtesy of O.J. Simpson's uber-professional head of security. We may only have limited time with each of our cast of characters, but the film's investment in their hopes and dreams does land us unexpectedly invested in their wellbeing, superficially or not.
But how could the film's initial selling point as an effects extravaganza possibly hold up? Well, fairly well, actually. The set design is spectacular, concocting a gleaming behemoth of a building that feels simultaneously dauntingly vast and claustrophobic (you can imagine Die Hard's designers furiously scribbling notes throughout) - and doubly so when set on fire. It's here that the film's insistence on practical fire effects pays off - as the actors sweat and singe, we can practically feel the scorching heat radiating from the screen, as the catastrophic blaze is hugely convincing through being controlled, but hardly staged. And, granted, the film's stunts may pale in comparison to contemporary decades of ante-upping, but their smallness, combined with Irwin Allen's airtight direction, lends an air of verisimilitude. Instead of spectacle- for-spectacle's sake, our central set-pieces involve the minutiae of evacuation procedures and fire safety checklists to an almost procedural profiling extent, which is not only impressively engrossing (yes, really), but all the more liable to get viewers hooked by less audacious acrobatics. If anything, the inauspiciousness of the stunts makes them feel all the more uncomfortably believable - you would get stuck suspending yourself from a hanging pipe, hesitating before a five foot drop for fifteen minutes - which helps keep things sizzling with tension. Sure, a lot of the dialogue lays critical exposition on a bit thick ("We were supposed to have fire drills! But we never did!!"), and the rampant 1970s suspicion and scorn towards high-rises is simultaneously amusing and sobering, but the ineffable John Williams' sparkly score keeps things as a brisk and breezy adventure caper throughout, even as the stakes raise, and lives are lost(!) throughout.
Fox and WB were wise to invest in their cabal of stars, as the almost incomparable cast employ their star personas towards instant characterization and audience investment, working wonders with skeletal build up. Paul Newman and Steve McQueen's respective craggy charisma work wonders in complimenting one another as guilt-ridden architect and cool, unflappable fire chief, and both work wonders in keeping a level-headed emotional centre amidst the flurry of characters and flames. William Holden's loquacious wit provides a welcomely sympathetic twist on the 'Mayor from Jaws/John Hammond from Jurassic Park' archetype, and while Faye Dunaway may be fairly underused as an anxious bystander for the most part, she sizzles in her few key scenes, particularly when exchanging adorably flirty banter with Newman. Richard Chamberlain is delightfully seedy as the resentful son-in-law contractor whose cut corners let to the fire, and Chamberlain carefully allows his character's pettiness to simmer without descending into moustache-twirling. Finally, Fred Astaire and Jennifer Jones' bashful courting may occupy one of the film's more extraneous asides, but they're so effervescently lovable they're easily worth the extra sitting.
In short (unlike anything else in the picture), The Towering Inferno's archaic indulgences may not live up to the self-important epics of old it styles itself after, particularly in never quite pushing the envelope cinematically enough for its looming disaster to instil more than cursory breathlessness. And yet, the charm holds. Tautly directed, superbly cast, and with indisputably quality set and effects, it's more adventure jaunt than disaster crisis, but worth it as such. This fire burns out quickly, but is sure to leave embers of affection glowing softly for years to come.
-7/10