Debout les minettes!

Screenwriter Bernard Slade, a comedy veteran known for mostly upbeat material, takes on Women's Liberation circa 1972--pig-headed men versus women who want to be taken seriously--but, amazingly, can't shake the overwhelming hopelessness out of the equation. The oppressed women who populate the film are seen fighting for feminist issues with conviction, though without many triumphs to show for their dedication. Jacqueline Bisset plays a fashion writer who gets an assignment to cover the Women's Lib movement in Denver; coincidentally, that's also where her widowed mother and enlightened sister live, and where a handsome airline pilot resides when he's not chasing a schedule. Bisset becomes intrigued by what she's seeing and hearing, but when she moves in with her pilot, she turns into a walking copy of Ladies Home Journal (he's supposed to do his share of the housework, but hires a maid instead). Slade really seems to believe in the speeches, and tries not to make the women sound platitudinous, yet some of his dialogue lands with a clatter (noticing a nun in full-dress at a feminism rally, Bisset tells her she didn't know that nuns were into the cause--the nun replies, "Have you ever heard of an altar girl?"). Presented in a cozily middle-class format (with a tone that could be labeled 'lightly dramatic'), the film is TV-styled in scope and filled with familiar faces from the tube. However, it touches on something provocative in the marriage between advertising man Steve Lawrence and housewife Loretta Swit; he's been let go and needs fast employment, she's been offered a job at a lucrative magazine. To the husband, the wife's surprising success isn't at all substantial, and not even worth considering. It's a joke to him that she become the breadwinner. Although dated, this portion of the movie manages to get at an interesting man-woman/husband-wife dynamic, and it isn't topped off with an easy solution. The rest of the picture, unfortunately, settles into a sitcom groove, with protest marches and a bra-burning. It may have reached a broader audience if only Slade had liberated himself from the topical clichés. **1/2 from ****

A great cast with Stella Stevens, Loretta Swit and Jacqueline Bisset.

The film is a hilarious farce but it still makes a few good biting points. Yes, things WERE that different in 1972.

There is one and only one lasting contribution to the arts made by Stand Up and Be Counted. It debuted Helen Reddy's inspirational song, "I Am Woman", ostensibly the theme of this movie. But, is it meant seriously or as a farce. I've seen this mess twice and still can't tell.

This was comedic-actor Jackie Cooper's only feature film as a director -- and it's easy to see why. There are a few well-executed turns delivered by a few lights that somehow manage to shine brightly among a deep and talented supporting cast, including Stella Stevens, young Loretta Swit, Gary Lockwood, young Hector Elizondo, and a very wry Michael Ansara. Unfortunately, they are trying to support Jacqueline Bisset who seems to think she's been cast in the Barbara Parkins role in Valley Of The Dolls -- melodramatic to the hilt. When we're not with the oh-so-earnest Bisset, we're with her mother (Lee Purcell) and sister (Anne Francine) trying to stand up to MCP Steve Lawrence who frustrates them for most of the film. If it sounds like it could work, perhaps it could have worked, but trust me it truly doesn't. And, playing like a skein of bad blackout sketches rejected from Love American Style, each scene is more ridiculous than the one before it. Jackie Cooper spent a lot of time learning how to tickle funny bones from George Burns. In other contexts this might work, but farce treating women's liberation as the ridiculous fodder for slapstick comedy should have been manifestly out of place given the presence of Bisset, Reddy's song, and Bernard Slade's original script. Instead, Director Cooper chose to bastardize the script, trivialize its subjects, and to treat the issue of adult women demanding to be taking seriously as inherently absurd and the fodder for raucous (or is that nauseous) comedy. It's a real pity. Greg Mullavey and Meredith Baxter have a nice moment in one of the vignettes. And stalwart vets Nancy Walker, Kathleen Freeman, and Shelley Morrison contribute what they can -- given Cooper's choice to treat it as absurd -- to the grand comic finale with the fed-up ladies burning their bloomers. Then we cut back to the reflective Bisset questioning whether the struggle is worth it, then resolving that it is. Fine, but nothing we just were assaulted with seems to back that up.

This is useful as a time capsule, to listen to the debut of "I Am Woman" and also to get an early look at some very talented performers. Beyond that, this is feeble, insulting, with Bisset, Purcell, and Francine all very difficult to watch in their own ways (except to be exploited for their looks as sex objects). Ironically, Cooper's listing on this site lists him as "sometimes listed as Allen Smithee", yet he used his real name on the director credits for this turkey. If he doesn't use it here, what would it take for him to use it.

Oh well, it's a shame. I rate Stand Up and Be Counted as a 3 out of 10.