This courtroom procedural has a few things on its plate that speak to its time. On the surface it's about the place of putting literature on trial like the titles it namechecks like Lady Chatterly's Lover or Tropic of Cancer. Just under that, though, is the suggestion that political pursuits can veil themselves in morality and, given enough clout, can steer a show trial like a speedboat. And through all of this is the intriguing pursuit of the author of the novel (which shares its title with the film) who committed suicide thirty years before.
All of that and it still manages to look and feel like a colour ad from a contemporary magazine, a kind of post-Manson Rennaisance man who dressed well and smoked the best and earned the love of the babe on his arm while leaning on the bonnet of the sleekest car available. Wayne Maunder as lawyer Mike Barrett makes that figure talk and move and care. It might sound sarcastic written out but there is a real gravity to his quest to prevent the damage of the sinister conservatives. While the steamy sexuality of his relationship with his fiance (seen while he is taking the call about the case in the beginning) has the sense of a living men's magazine, his later courtship of Maggie Russell feels accidental and so more genuine. You don't just want his case to be won you want him to win ... at all of life.
This is a Russ Meyer film which might have you imagining a clipshow of buxom nudity and exploitation but you might find yourself pleasantly surprised (or crestfallen) at seeing the film, after that phone call/sex scene, suddenly sober up and get to work. The rape and goading Wolfman Jack montage soon after begins salacious but quickly turns intentionally sickening, outrunning any preconceptions we might have about Russ's old tricks. If there is a fault here it is that the earnestness of the good or the naturally moral is played a little too dryly, as though the early sauciness needed an equal and opposite balance. It can get like the letters page of an old issue of Playboy that might run a goofy one about drugs next to a stark one about Vietnam. The courtroom tactic Barrett tries of extracting the word "fucking" from the coyness of a witness has the feel of the elder lords of liberalism scoring a touchdown.
I was hanging out to do this one for this series as it has a personal appeal for me. When I was a kid and joined the family in trips to the drive-in I saw the trailer for this movie. It mostly consisted of characters speaking the title in a snarl, including a clip from a quite poignant scene of one man assaulting Barrett for defending the book. I was completely intrigued. The title (which is explained in the end credits) posed a real mystery. A short space of time was revving people up so much they came to blows? What could the Seven Minutes be about? It bugged me but the movie was way out of the range of the kid that I was (though I think I would have enjoyed the trial) and I had no way of finding out what it was about. Later, as a media student with more resources at my disposal, I saw the Rus Meyer by line and left it where it was. It was only in the past few months, compiling a list of films released in 1971 that I saw it and said out loud: Bingo!
So, I was ready for trash and happy to sit through it if only for the pleasure of writing something snide and self-delighting. I did not expect the seriousness that I found nor the colour-blind casting nor the complexity of the women's roles. Even the lightly archaic solemnity of the cause was acceptable. And why not? This piece about bad politics and genuine decency, played with such appealing verve, gave me the kind of slap in the face I might have expected from being a touch too cheeky at a university party, a gentle affectionate pat that yet says: watch it.
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