The generation gap, the class gap, and the gap in cranky racist dumbbell Peter Boyle’s head where his brains ought to be are the subjects of this bleak social drama. Boyle’s a blue collar loudmouth, portrayed to the hateful hilt. He’s a live wire of disgust for hippies, blacks and homosexuals. Meanwhile, Dennis Patrick is a slick executive who beats his daughter’s sleazy drug dealer boyfriend to death in a fit of fatherly rage one night. In a state of shock, he confesses to the murder to a stranger, Boyle, who makes use of the information—but not for blackmail. No, Boyle sees the murder as a good thing and proceeds to buddy up to him. From there, the rich man’s world collides with the poor man’s world to awkward results. The two eventually find common ground, but this relationship is poisonous from the start.
This film’s intentions are somber, but it’s dated enough that parts of this will likely get laughs today. The scene in which Boyle and Patrick search New York City’s hippie hangouts for the missing daughter (Susan Sarandon in her first film) and, ironically, fall for the temptations of drugs and easy sex with free lovin’ girls is ripe for comedy… until things turn deadly serious. This ultimately survives the years as a document of its time, with a low-budget grit that makes it seem like director John G. Avildsen merely pointed his camera at the streets and let it run. It’s a piece with the period’s new wave of daring American films from young directors, writers and actors with bright futures. In Peter Boyle’s fierce portrayal of Joe, one sees traces of Archie Bunker and even Travis Bickle, but years earlier. John G. Avildsen would go on to direct a mile-long list of hits, including Rocky and The Karate Kid. Writer Norman Wexler would later strike commercial gold with Saturday Night Fever.