The release dates of Sydney Pollack‘s Three Days of the Condor and Bobby Deerfield were exactly two years apart — 9.25.75 and 9.29.77, respectively. But oh, what a difference.
Condor is a fully satisfying paranoid classic that I’ve seen at least ten or twelve times over the years, plus it made impressive dough upon initial release ($7.8 million to produce, earned $41.5 million).
Deerfield wasn’t just a modest financial failure — it was deeply loathed by those who saw it on opening weekend (I caught it in Westport, once) and avoided like the plague by almost everyone else.
One reason: An emotionally gutted or neutured race car driver (Al Pacino) is gradually restored to spiritual health by a pretty woman dying of cancer (Marthe Keller). Potential viewers immediately smelled the cloying calculation and howled “no fucking way!” And despite being filmed in France and Italy by the respected Henri Decae, it somehow didn’t “feel” European, and thus felt curiously artificial on top of the cancer contrivance.
I will never, ever sit through Bobby Deerfield again.