Film

Set in a pregentrified Park Slope, Hal Ashby’s provocative Me Decade dramedy isn’t as clueless as its protagonist is about cultural clashes. It may, however, be just as conflicted about color and class. Audiences are immediately invited to ridicule Elgar Enders (a baby-faced Bridges), who purchases a tenement in Brooklyn on a lark—especially once the Caucasian casually announces that the current African-American occupants must vacate.

Before we can properly affix our sneers of superiority, however, we meet Elgar’s superficial family (the scene becomes even more squirm-inducing when Bridges decries their racism…by dumping soup on a black manservant) and watch the community we’re supposed to sympathize with demonstrate a painfully righteous hostility. His relationship with a woman (Bey) of mixed race, laced with genuine tenderness, and another sexual liaison that echoes earlier “plantation owner” accusations only muddy the waters further. Then Lee Grant and Pearl Bailey bond over ham hocks and hooch. Don’t get me started on Robert Klein with burnt cork smeared all over his mug.

An elder spokesman of New Hollywood’s vanguard, former editor Hal Ashby’s debut film keeps veering away from expectations and easy answers: Sharp satire might suddenly segue into Norman Lear sitcom territory, while social problems remain unsolved when the credits roll. The movie’s too flawed to be a true neglected masterpiece or a satisfying time capsule for a ’hood whose boutiques-and-brownstones makeover speaks volumes. Yet The Landlord’s view on the racial divide remains anything but black and white, and its knotty, nuanced take on where the twain can’t meet deserves a reassessment.