Too busy writing to explore this stuff now, but: 

- The Seventies in America eds. Bailey and Farber contains a chapter entitled "Adults Only: The Construction of an Erotic City in New York in the 1970s" by Peter Braunstein. 

- Mineshaft Nights is a memoir by Leo Cardini of time spent in the NY s&M club that Cruising was filmed in. 

A few notes to put here just in case they get lost in the shuffle:

-While filming Klute, Pakula describes Fonda as being constantly on the phone, organizing her political activities and speaking engagements. She was also, at the time, under surviellance by the FBI. I'm unsure if she is aware of this fact at the time. (Jane Fonda's War: A Political Biography, p 22) - I think this information can orginally be found in The Films of Jane Fonda by George Haddad-Garcia. 

-Klute starts shooting in the spring of 1970. The scenes of Peter Cable in his high-rise boardroom feature cranes and a building that seem very likely to be one of the WTC towers! The cranes are in movement during the shot. 

Also, these two images. One of Nixon in 1972, the other, earlier, of Peter Cable in Klute. Did Gordon Willis come to DEFINE a particular mode of visual presentation, so much so as to be influential in how American presidents, however disgraced, could be shown that way? 

Edit: The picture of Nixon was taken by Ollie Atkins, presidential photographer, at Camp David right after the 1972 election, during which the events of Watergate were still unfolding. 

A trio of great articles, all coming out of McGill on crime, film, and city-space (they have, apparently, a crime and media working group). 

Ned Schantz writes "The Telephonic Film" (in Film Quarterly) arguing that it may be productive to see the uses and fantasies of the telephone in Classical Hollywood film as akin to the importance of the letter to the development of the novel. He concentrates on the presence but relative invisibility of the phone, glosses over some telephonic visual conventions, and does analyses of It's a Wonderful Life, The Big Sleep, Chinatown, and Sorry, Wrong Number. May be interesting to extend these ideas - or the concept of telephonic film into "Post-Classical Hollywood." 

Thomas Heise is interested in crime, urban geography, and literature (also film, I think) and has a few interesting essays out, one on Chester Himes' novel Blind Man With a Pistol, "Harlem is Burning: Urban Rioting and the 'Black Underclass' in Chester Himes' Black Man with a Pistol" (African American Review, 41 [3]). The intro sets up the problematic nature of the term "black underclass" and how it is introduced into sociological and public discourse in the 1960s,  looking at a few different studies during that time, not just the Moynihan report. He argues that "in circulating representations of black pathology and in furthering a misguided policy agenda that alienated poor, urban African Americans, this discourse constituted the new racial and class formation it claimed merely to discover and describe: a black underworld trapped below the lowest rung of the class ladder in a culture of poverty, disease drugs, violence, and vice." (488).

Finally, I have not really followed Will Straw too closely, except looking at a recent book called Cyanide and Sin. He actually has quite a few interesting essays on urban visual culture, particularly as it relates to crime fictions. Have not quite worked through everything yet, but there is an interesting symposium paper about film and city skylines at the logocities website (out of Concordia), as well as an essay called "Cities of Sin, Backroads of Crime" which I believe is about representations of urban spaces in print culture of the 1950s.  

_______

Also, in an effort to jump start my work on Pakula and Klute I have been reading through some of the criticism. It seems that Klute was at the center of a mild debate regarding the path of feminist criticism. Most famously, Christine Gledhill argued in a two-part essay in Women in 

Film Noir that Klute's adoption of noir conventions works to constitute a definitively anti-feminist message (this, against a review of the film by Diane Giddis which proclaims Bree Daniels a feminist hero). Rafaele Caputo later (in Continuum, 1992, 5 (2), criticizes--correctly, I think--Gledhill for her reductive construction of noir. This being said, Caputo offers only a few words on Klute itself. There are a few essays on Klute as well in an early issue (Fall 1972) of Velvet Light Trap, but again, they look to be (I have not read them yet) of the same character. 

How is this useful to me? Is there something in the power of Klute to attract debates that may provide a good launching off point? 

My rough idea so far is to argue that Klute, and the other three films in the paranoia trilogy, offer a mediation on figure and ground. For American cinema, it might be said, a crisis of figure and ground was initiated by the dissolution of the Classical Hollywood model -- a model which prescribed cinematic conditions for relations between people and space and therefore, for the legibility of mise-en-scene and movement within it. If this is all thrown into flux so is, for example, the image of the woman. No longer is there a definable and institutionalized visual system within which woman is constituted (say, following Mulvey) within a visual field. But the dissolution of Classical Hollywood visual conventions creates a vaccuum. How then is a narrative film constructed? How does narration take place? One could say, as Gledhill does, that Klute assimilates a "European" tradition. But, as Caputo basically asks, what does that even mean? I would argue that the film more likely partially adopts a documentary style, but that we should also ask what is it we are seeing? None of the critics I have read so far (on Klute, or anything else) have considered the problem of a  noir IN COLOR. Darkness is as much a part of Klute, but so is a rich color palette. Instead of the familiar alternation between light and dark creating (perhaps following Gunning on Naked city, He Walked by Night, and the city that never sleeps) is an alternation between figure and ground. Between what we distinguish as a scene and what we read as a figure moving through a scene (i.e. a figure against a background). 

The Klute DVD has a great contemporaneous behind-the-scenes documentary included in the special features entitled "Klute: A Background for Suspense" with great quotes from Pakula and Willis (also Sutherland and Fonda).

Parts of Klute were also filmed at Filmways Studios in Harlem (possibly 245 E 127 St) where the Godfather was also filmed. It would be interesting to find out what else from my list was shot here, as I'm sure imdb info on this is incomplete.

Also found an article from New York Magazine, March 16, 1992 (pp42-?) that has some things about Sonny Grosso's film and television work.

The anthology Mob Culture: The Hidden Histories of American Gangster Film contains two (so far that I have read) great articles that I will need to refer to. 

Grievson

Lee Grievson's "Gangsters and Governance in the Silent Era" reassesses the emergence of the gangster genre in terms of its representation of urban criminality as an aspect of modern experience. His approach is stated thusly: "I am particularly interested in situating the representational strategies an cultural work of these films in relation to other public discourses on crime and the city examining the points of intersection within a body of knowledge and power and the pervasive culture of social discipline in early twentieth-century America... Overall, the essay seeks to reconsider and recast the history of the gangster film beyond the restrictive context of Prohibition and the early 1930s economic depression, tracing out the beginnings of anxieties about criminal ganges in the turn of the century period and the cultural refraction of that anxiety as episodes in the imagination of the governance of tha mass public that predates--and indeed prepares the ground for--Prohibition and other practices of discipline and social control."

Stanfield

The other very important article is by Peter Stanfield about blaxploitation cinema, "Walking the Streets: Black Gangster and the 'Abandoned City' in the 1970s Blaxpoitation Cycle." Stanfield notes that many blaxploitation films employ scenes of protagonists walking and negotiating the streets. Narratively this often functions to establish their urban knowledge, but visually these scenes transmit a sense of realism. Noting the standard criticism of blaxploitation--the idea that the films failed to produce or promote a progressive vision or agenda for the black population and that--Stanfield argues instead that black social can be glimpsed "obliquely" in these films, in their "particular representation of street life" (287). The intriguing element of Stanfield's argument--and something that I think I have been trying to get at all along--is captured when he writes: "The [blaxploitation] films work to construct a specific city experience, one that is grounded in the PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY OF URBAN CENTERS yet also transformed by the NARRATIVES INSPIRED BY FORMULAIC URBAN CRIME FICTIONS. Blaxploitation film of the 1970s narrates stories in which the representation of street life simultaneously invokes and dramatizes the experience of everyday life." His assertion about MELODRAMA + THE EVERYDAY is drawn from the work of cultural historian Michael Denning's book Mechanic Accents: Dime Novels and Working-Class Culture in America (London: Verso, 1997 - around p. 200) who writes "a story to be a story had to be set in a contemporary time and knowable landscape, but its plot had to be out of the ordinary; 'everyday happenings' according to this... aesthetic, did not make a story. The story was an interruption in the present, a magical fairy tale transformation of familiar landscapes and characters, a death and rebirth that turned the world upside down." So, though blaxploitation films, as Stanfield notes, presented caricatured versions of urban revolutionaries, they were "linked to the quotidian realities of their contemporary audiences." 

Stanfield also makes a point about urban migration patterns (with statistics to back himself up) that despite the fact that "white flight" was taking place, ever increasing numbers of blacks and puerto ricans were moving to urban centers throughout the 1960s and 70s. This is the reason why the term "inner city" and its concomitant connotations were invented, and why "the city" came to be equated with blackness, specifically black poverty (he also notes that middle-class and professional blacks exited the city with the whites). 

There are a few problems (opportunities, for me) with Stanfield though. To make a--very interesting--point inner cities becoming the new West he reproduces Paul Virilio's quotation of the mayor of Philadelphia following race riots in the early 1960s: "from here on in, the frontiers of the State pass to the interior of the cities." To me this quote is not so straightforward though. What exactly does the mayor mean here? Stanfield, and I think Virilio too, take this to mean that the mayor is saying that American cities now take on, in American imagination and reality, the wildness of the Wild West. But could not the mayor be making a more pragmatic statement regarding the (fiscal and governmental) responsibility of the State to the city? After all, the frontier of the state of Pennsylvania is what, Ohio? Not exactly the Wild West really. Again, the wording is very confusing to me and I could be wrong, but I also don't necessarily trust the judgments of a British scholar and an italian archictect/"cultural theorist" (and Virilio can be a real crackpot). Also, earlier Stanfield writes in reference to the opening sequence of Shaft, which mostly I believe take place in the Times Square area, that "The streets of Harlem belong to John Shaft." 

The last problem I have with Stanfield is that he draws too sharp a distinction between the blaxploitation cycle and films of the "Hollywood Renaissance" by people like Friedkin, which played only to white fear about the city (likely in suburban cinemas). This is a provocative idea -- is it possible to split the urban crime films of the 1970s into those that played to white fear and those that address, as blaxploitation arguably does, the urban social experience (one of escape + confinement according to Stanfield)? On the white hand, 1970s urbanity figures along the lines of Travis Bickle's vision of a "dantesque inferno," on the black hand side the city represents containment with limited promise of escape. Stanfield though doesn't go further in his analysis (for whatever reason). I wonder if this is a useful hermeneutic to look at - or how my own project would fit in. Certainly,  I think that the city was presented as hell, but not to everyone. Maybe it's that the promise of the 1970s is also oblique? Is there not a promise offered, whatever its violent resolutions, in the identity-dissolution series: Deathwish, Deathwish II, Cruising, Hardcore, Looking For Mr. Goodbar? Also, is there not a glimpse of a cosmopolitan lifestyle (not yet gentrified, commodified) in films like Serpico and others that is important? 

Michael Winner, interviewed in Millimeter, Feb. 1975, discusses the speed and efficiency of his shooting schedule:

"Another factor in the speed of production is my shooting exclusively on location. I always do, never in a studio. Life is lived in real places, and I shoot in real places." (From Voices of Film Experience, Leyda ed., 510)

Is it true that location can lend speed to production? Roizman disagrees in his interview in Masters of Light and in the very same volume of this magazine! 

"Most people today think you can save a lot of time and money shooting on actual locations... it's become a vogue to get that 'real look,' but there are times when a studio-built set can save you. You can work faster and over many more set-ups per day." 

Earlier in the Winner interview, he claims the ability too shoot more setups per day than most directors. 

Must track down this issue. 

From Roger Greenspun's December 23, 1971 review of Dirty Harry:


Dirty Harry fails in simple credibility so often and on so many levels that it cannot even succeed (as I think it wants to succeed) as a study in perversely complimentary psychoses.
What does succeed, and what makes Dirty Harry worth watching no matter how dumb the story, is Siegel's superb sense of the city, not as a place of moods but as a theater for action. There is a certain difficult integrity to his San Francisco, which is not so beautiful to look at, but is fantastically intricate and intriguing—a challenging menace of towers and battlements and improbable walls.

It is from the properties of such a theater that Dirty Harry creates its own feelings and makes its only real meaning, and occasionally even generates a curious misty atmosphere that owes nothing to vague imaginings and everything to a desperate awareness that for this world the only end of movement is in pain.

Some quotes from Roger Greenspun's Oct 8, 1971 review of French Connection:

"I don't mean that they are not exciting. The French Connection is a film of almost incredible suspense, and it includes, among a great many chilling delights, the most brilliantly executed chase sequence I have ever seen. But the conditions for the suspense (indeed, the conditions of the chase—to intercept a hijacked elevated train) carry with them the potential for failure not of this particular action, but of all action in the great doomed city that is the film's real subject. From the moment, very early on, when Hackman first pistol-whips a black pusher, you know that the world is cursed and that everybody playing out his allotted role is cursed along with it.
In a more pretentious and less perceptive film, destinies might have turned tragic. In The French Connection they become all but invisible. The whole movie has slightly the look of being background material, or maybe excellent pre-credit material, for another movie. It moves at magnificent speed, and exhausts itself in movement. The central characters repeatedly appear as if out of the city's mass and then disappear into it again—a superb conception for an action of difficult pursuit, but one that never allows the luxury of personal identification.

That is why only Gene Hackman surfaces as a character, although there are the fragments of many good performances—seen as if across the street, outside the window, or at the other end of the subway platform. There are also faults: a murder too many, some shaky motivation among the bad guys, a degree of coldness that perhaps even exceeds the requirements of the cold intelligence that controls the film.

But The French Connection is mostly a credit to everyone who helped shape it. This would include Ernest Tidyman, who wrote the screenplay and who also wrote Shaft; Owen Roizman, the cinematographer; and William Friedkin, a director whose previous work (The Birthday Party, The Night They Raided Minsky's...etc.) may not have prepared anyone for the excellence of this."