For some reason I’ve decided to re-watch Daniel Petrie and Ron Koslow‘s Lifeguard, which I haven’t seen since the Gerald Ford-Jimmy Carter era.
I love character-driven ’70s films, but this one doesn’t quite get there. It’s fairly compelling or at least interesting in terms of general character tension and low-key social realism, but it leaves you hanging at the end with the slender, dark-haired, good looking protagonist (played by 31 year-old Sam Elliott, who now sounds like a droopy Deputy Dawg) at some kind of flaky, head-scratching, nowhere-man crossroads.
Good character-driven movies have to end with a sense of justice or finality or symmetrical balance…the main characters have to face reality and deal with their decisions in some kind of “okay, you called the shots and now you’re stuck with this” way.
South Bay lifeguard Rick Carlson (Elliott) loves his satisfying beach job but is bothered by family-and-friendo judgments that he should be manning up professionally and basically making more money and driving a snazzier car. He’d kinda like to get married to ex-girlfriend Anne Archer (28 during filming) and vice versa, but she wants him to make more dough and that’s not who he is or where he’s coming from. He tries selling Porsches but he hates the routine and quits. He’s reluctant to have sex with the teenaged Kathleen Quinlan (actually 21 during filming) because she’s too young, but he does her anyway. Once, I mean.
So what’s Rick going to do to resolve his situation? Answer: Not much or nothing very different. He’s basically just heading back to the beach. Which leaves you with a feeling of “ahhhh, fuck me.”