A Fiery Window into the Soul of a Nation

Paper by Hannah Gary. Viewed on DVD.

‘A frivolous piece of entertainment,’ ‘the ignominy of the film industry,’ ‘a superficial romp devoid of meaning,’ are all classifications commonly given to lighthearted films. Despite this criticism, films that fall into this category may have significance beyond their flimsy storylines or stereotypical characters. Posing as an allegory for real-life struggles and governmental deception, disaster films of the 1970s are not literal retellings of the nation’s catastrophic events, much to the chagrin of critics, but, through abstract reference, they allow the audience to see their experiences reflected onscreen, prompting them to reevaluate their reaction to real-life dilemmas. From a historical perspective, these films, particularly The Towering Inferno (Guillermin 1974), work to illuminate the complexities of American consciousness in the 1970s, bringing light to the societal crises. Although disaster films are often discarded by critics for their lack of depth, the reemergence of the subgenre in the 1970s, particularly with John Guillermin’s The Towering Inferno, powerfully reflected the political, social, and ideological issues of the times. This film, however, is not only valuable for its allegorical display of these issues, but also for its subtle presentation of solutions to the societal turmoil of the era. Though Hollywood is known for its close attention to current events, the very nature of The Towering Inferno’s problem-solving approach indicates the cinema’s incredible ability to both fulfill the audiences’ needs with uplifting entertainment while, at the same time, offer answers to their more perplexing troubles.

In order to fully comprehend the disaster films of the 1970s, it is first necessary to discuss the societal issues of the times. It was an era of intense governmental scrutiny, social upheaval, and national frustration within the United States. Movements and events that occurred during the 1960s, like the conflict in Vietnam and the civil rights movement, carried over into public thought in the early part of the 1970s. The second half of the 1960s saw the rise of organizations like the Black Panthers, which practiced more militant actions in an effort to bring about racial equality. Members moved beyond the earlier civil rights techniques structured by Martin Luther King Jr. and had a “propensity for confrontation,” ultimately causing “many whites [to link] urban unrest to the civil rights movement’s growing radicalism and militancy” (Mooney 164-165). Though the civil rights movement began with peaceful protests, it transitioned into something much more dangerous. Many white Americans became increasingly skeptical of the efforts made to enact legislation favorable to African Americans’ rights. Social frustration, however, was not the only conflict Americans faced as they also were bombarded with the knowledge of governmental secrecy, instigating feelings of intense distrust and anger towards the established authority figures. The Vietnam War inflicted devastating casualties and was brutally “brought home” to American civilians’ television screens. The conflict appeared to be unending, and though initially supported by a majority of Americans, they soon “grew tired of the mounting casualties, the growing costs, and the inability of the American military to decisively defeat the Viet Cong” (Mooney 174). One prominent general assured Americans that the war was at its conclusion, but the Tet Offensive proved otherwise. Citizens, after such deceptive guarantees from their government, had “a palpable sense…that their government has not been honest with them;” it established a dramatic “‘credibility gap’” between “what the government said and what the public was willing to believe, deepen[ing] after Tet” (Mooney 176). Along with this, Americans were faced with several fatal protests at home after the Cambodian Incursion, and the infamous Pentagon Papers, which outlined more destructive secrets about the government’s actions in Vietnam. In response to this, President Nixon’s “Special Investigative Unit,” or “Plumbers,” was formed, which later planted the listening devices at the Watergate Hotel in 1972, for which Nixon disavowed responsibility. The truth, however, was soon revealed about his involvement. This concealment, dishonesty, and betrayal by the American government was viciously brought to the forefront of American thought in the 1960s and 1970s, creating a sense of unease, anger, and disillusionment.

Perhaps, with all of these events unfolding, it is no surprise that a genre founded on “disaster” came to prominence in the early 1970s. As Louis Giannetti and Scott Eyman note, the films reflected this “pessimistic period;” they were “steeped in cynicism and paranoia. For the first time in American film history, movies with downbeat themes became the rule rather than the exception” (274). The disaster films certainly fit into this “downbeat” category as they usually revolved around a major “disaster” and moment of crisis, like the flip of a cruise ship in The Poseidon Adventure (Neame 1972) or the burning of a massive skyscraper in The Towering Inferno. This disaster “cycle” came to the forefront of movie-going during the 1970s, starting with Airport (Seaton 1970) and followed by very popular films like The Poseidon Adventure in 1972, Earthquake (Robson 1974) and The Towering Inferno in 1974. Irwin Allen became a notable contributor to this group of films, producing The Poseidon Adventure and The Towering Inferno, both of which were chart toppers for rentals in their years, though “The Towering Inferno came second only to Jaws” (Hanson 128). Despite their popularity, the cycle was, as Jon Lewis notes, “over in five years” (285). This may, in fact, indicate the timeliness of these films and their dependence on the hopeless attitude of their audience as they were successfully released and well-received by an audience traumatized by the events of the late 1960s and early 1970s.
It is important to note that these films, though spectacular and innovative, were not trailblazing a completely new genre, but were actually reinventing a type of story told by films earlier in the 20th Century. Perhaps the fact that the previous disaster films were created in the 1930s, in the wake of the Great Depression, a time similar in the pessimism that pervaded American thought, indicates the genre’s powerful ability to reflect the sensibilities of an era. As David Cook ascertains, the reason “why the genre traces its origins to the depths of the Depression” is because it was “‘a time when leadership at every level of society [was] believed to be wanting, disaster caused or aggravated by the errors of those in charge [made] sense to the audience’” (252). It is important, then, that the disaster films in the 1970s were accompanied by a general reemergence and reevaluation of other genres in the early 1970s, like horror and science fiction. Although many of the aspects of the disaster films remained the same, the correlation between the disillusioned times and the cinematic reinvention of past genres created a situation ripe for these movies’ subsequent rise to prominence. In addition to this, technological developments allowed the effects of the disaster films more believable and more spectacular. David Cook aptly asserts that “as with science fiction, the burden of proof in the disaster film fell upon special effects” (253). Disaster films of the 1970s reflected this sensibility as they innovatively used new techniques, like Sensurround, to increase the spectacle and feelings of catastrophe to the audiences. This equipment became popularized by the 1974 film Earthquake which used this system to help the audience “feel” the effects of the earthquake in their theater seats. Thus, cinema was not only ready by the 1970s to vent frustration at the established authority figures who had upset a sense of societal complacency, but was also in the process of redefining genres and creating new special effects, demonstrating the potential for the disaster genre to become popular.

A disaster film has some essential qualities that, ultimately, provide the means by which it is able to attentively and provocatively reference real-life societal disasters. Though these films center on a major catastrophe, they tend to focus on the effects of the disaster on a group of people who, despite not knowing one another, are forced to work together to solve the problems incurred. The use of major stars to create this group, a sort of “Grand Hotel” formula, was one of the new developments in the 1970s disaster film. This creates a sense of cooperation, of partnership, that seemingly reaffirms the value of a collaborative nation. This is why, despite the disaster films’ “overt fatalism,” they “were fundamentally reassuring,” while “previously atomized individuals formed a community, class distinctions disappeared. Marriages were reinforced. Middle class virtue prevailed” (Hoberman 198). In addition to this, the characters that act with malicious intent, or somehow instigate the crisis (often because of their hubris and greed), are often killed or destroyed, while the heroes who rally the group together and demonstrate intelligence, humility, and inventiveness survive. In addition, “some disaster movies offered a populist critique by blaming the catastrophe on rapacious corporations and, in most cases, the disaster was worsened by mendacious…inadequate leaders,” ultimately questioning “the competence of America’s managerial elite” (Hoberman 197). One could easily see how this relates back to Americans’ frustration with their own “managerial elite” in the form of the government and the consistent deception and secrecy displayed by their leaders.

Differences between the 1970’s disaster films and those created in the 1930s also point to the varying historical events that occurred, further demonstrating the genre’s ability to reflect the times. Disaster films of the 1930s often utilized a natural phenomenon to create their crisis, like a fire in In Old Chicago (King 1937), a flood in The Rains Came (Brown 1939), or, as the name implies, a hurricane in The Hurricane (Ford 1937). These events were, significantly, not the result of human pride or greediness, but outside of man’s control. These people were victims, not perpetrators, of the disaster; they merely attempted to outlast the vicious natural onslaught. By contrast, many films of the 1970s include a disaster related to human causes, like The Towering Inferno, and even those that do not, like The Poseidon Adventure, include people that make the situation worse (like the money-hungry organization prompting the captain to abandon his opinion about the storm). This change seems to reflect the changing ideals of American society. The degree of deception within the United States government in the 1970s, in the opinion of the nation, astounded and shocked the country into skepticism and anger. They saw the cause of their misfortunes as resulting from these fraudulent authority figures, an explicitly human source. Another difference in the older films is the development of relationships between the main characters before the disaster, whereas 1970’s films focus on the convergent, yet, initially unknown, storylines of many different people. Disasters in the 1930s test these relationships: the love story between the protagonists in The Hurricane, the marriage dilemma in The Rains Came, and the division between brothers in In Old Chicago. The 1970’s disaster movies analyze the effects of unfamiliar people working together to solve a crisis. This seems to point to the change in society. People found the threat of governmental and societal turmoil so catastrophic that they faced dilemmas beyond the scope of relational difficulties. It demonstrates also, perhaps, the value these films saw in cooperation, particularly in a society taut with social tensions between genders and races. In this sense, the different perspective of the 1970s films emphasizes that relying on current relationships is not enough to outlast the storm; a person must work with others, no matter how unfamiliar, no matter their ethnicity or background, if they wish to survive.

As much as the differences between earlier disaster films and their later, 1970s counterparts illuminate the changing national perspective, the intensity of the allegorical reference is also important when evaluating the effectiveness of a disaster film’s reflection of American society. There are, of course, significant differences between disaster films which Despina Kakoudaki points out in her intellectual article, “Spectacles of History: Race Relations, Melodrama, and the Science Fiction/Disaster Film.” She categorizes disaster films according to the root of the catastrophe, describing the “natural disaster” films in which the crisis is not because of a responsible human party, the disaster films that do, at least “at some point,” point to human causes, those that find the predicament incurred by nonhuman “agents,” and those that pose the disaster as a “clear allegorical reading” to the historical world (122-123). The 1970’s disaster films conform to, for the most part, the first two categories, the “natural disasters,” like The Poseidon Adventure, and films which propose human ego as responsible for the resulting calamity, like The Towering Inferno. Interestingly, however, she has noted that the films that are most similar to historical situations, or represent actual, real-life conflicts onscreen are often doomed to fail at the box office; she explains that “it turns out that when [the audience’s ethics] as viewers are directly involved and questioned, or when the films stage references to actual events of racial misunderstandings, the critique seems too insistent or inappropriate” (Kakoudaki 124). Perhaps the success, then, of the 1970s disaster films was due to their indirect reference to American society in the 1970s, something that is often criticized by those who sought to see a more profound or in-depth reflection of societal perplexities.

Though this may describe the components and effects of disaster films, how the film actually functions in relation to viewers’ attitude or perspective is another topic worthy of discussion. Allegorical films often work as a supplement or as a cathartic representation for an audience already suffering the trauma of their real-world society. A “hallmark of trauma is a repetition compulsion,” which disaster films present fictitiously by “offering a fantasy of forward-moving progress and striving to ‘resonate closure’” (King 431). These disaster films provide an outlet or release for audiences who are undergoing the effects of governmental and societal turmoil. Perhaps more importantly, disaster films are, in a sense “rhetorical efforts to rescript the past, if not to change its outcomes, then to change its meanings – offering, for instance, tales of sacrifice and heroism that make sense of and lend meaning to terror and loss” (King 431). Significantly, this would allow audiences to not only move beyond and alleviate the effects of societal upheaval, but also allow them to develop a healthier, more hopeful perspective, recognizing the potential for solutions. These films may open wounds, through allegory, which might, in fact, provide the necessary step to promote collective American healing. Although one might think that an exact or more nonfictional rendering of political and societal dysfunction might be a better way to eliminate the staggering effects of trauma, it could be, in fact, safer to do so through a fictitious narrative. In addition to Kakoudaki’s argument, Clair King contends in her article on Poseidon, that “by focusing on traumatic experience that is constructed as remote and anomalous,” the disaster film “paradoxically, offers a safer lens for viewing trauma” (434). It not only presents an audience with a similar situation to their own, but does so in a way that is not so similar that it causes too much pain.

Despite their potential healing value, disaster films of the 1970s are criticized by those who think that the genre did not do enough, or provide as much of a reflective rendering of the 1970s culture to accurately diagnose and solve societal problems. Peter Lev claims that, “‘overall, the disaster movie of the early 1970s is a way to displace contemporary problems into simple, physical confrontations,” displaying a “conservative response which ‘solves’ the 1970s malaise by drastically simplifying and reframing it” (qtd. in Hanson 130). Though his argument is founded on what he understands to be the disaster genre’s “simplistic” or unhelpfully “conservative” suggestions for audiences to move past their trauma, it may, in fact, be this more superficial rendering that ultimately allows the viewer to heal. It not only “frames” the disaster as solvable, potentially providing audiences with hope, but it also does so in a way that, though discounting the complexities of the societal conflicts, might actually function more effectively. These films could invoke “a comforting fiction of therapeutic closure without the painful reflexivity and inspection central to both bearing witness and recovery” (King 448). The “closure,” in this sense, might not explicitly cause them to relate the minute details of a disaster film to real societal situations, but it does allow them to move past their pain by providing them with an ending, something unknown and unpredictable in real-life.

Perhaps the best film to analyze for allegorical relevance is The Towering Inferno, a spectacular, effects-laden, entertaining film. Even if it does provide an explosive demonstration of societal ailments, it also moves beyond this simple reflection and subtly alludes to potential remedies for the audience’s real-life problems. The film was popular and successful, ultimately winning three Oscars and garnering $116,000,000 in the United States (“The Towering Inferno”). The film itself consisted of a melding of two novels, The Glass Inferno, by Tom Sortia and Frank Robinson, and The Tower, by Richard Martin Stem, and was the “first-ever collaboration by major studios” (Cook 35). The film centers on the triumphant creation of a glass tower which, due to corporate greediness and the use of cheaper construction techniques, ignites in a fiery blaze that forces various people to work together to solve the crisis. It was not without its critics, however, who likened the diegetic catastrophe within the film to the movie’s real-life relation to the film industry, claiming “the Apocalypse is at hand” in Time (“A Preview of Coming Afflictions). Within the film, Doug Roberts (Paul Newman) claims that the tower should stand “as a ‘monument to all the bullshit’ of our age,” a phrase taken up by critics arguing that that “The Towering Inferno should be placed on a permanent exhibition at the Smithsonian for the same reason” (Schickel). These reviewers may have been too quick to denounce the film as a frivolous, shallow flick, failing to see the broader implications of its characters and its suggestions for societal remedy.
In terms of emotional ramifications, this film not only allegorically references Americans’ relation to real-life disasters like Watergate and Vietnam, but also allows the audience to find hope, an essential element in the healing process. The disaster in the film, the fiery tower which sends many to their deaths by its very immediate and broad destruction, reminds the audience that their situation is not nearly as physically horrific or brutal. This could even be understood to be “part of the pleasure of the spectacle of disaster,” as it derives “from the perceived safety and comfort of the world” (Kakoudaki 111). However, it not only works to bring about “pleasure,” but also a sense of appreciation for the audience’s own security and safety in the comfort of their home lives. Furthermore, within the film, the cooperation between the heroic firefighter, Chief Mike O’Hallorhan (Steve McQueen), and the architect, Doug Roberts, as well as between the people trapped within the tower, points to the innate bond between humanity. Rather than isolating themselves in times of conflict, they band together to successfully eliminate the fire. Those that do not, in fact, are punished for their purposeful separation. Simmons (Richard Chamberlain), for instance, attempts to take over a rescue chair device, alienating his fellow combatants. It is almost as if the movie, in retribution for this sinful behavior, determines that he falls to his death. This “integrated survivor group is a marker of a very specific national story that the films offer, that of a new community forged by extreme circumstances” (Kakoudaki 121). This community, the film seems to attest, is not only “integrated,” but composed of people worth saving, the survivors and the fighters, ultimately cleansing the situation of the evil. This, importantly, implies that American society, through the trials it faced in the tumultuous 1960s and 1970s could emerge whole and, perhaps, stronger than they were before. It points to a positive conclusion for those in America, a successful elimination of miscreants within the governance of society.

This film does not only help the audience to develop a more positive outlook, it actually, allegorically, presents the possibility for future success. One crucial element within the film is the cohesion between the characters onscreen as they work together; social differences, even race, are overcome in the face of the disaster. Jernigan (O.J. Simpson) is an African American security agent who contributes to the efforts of the rescuers as they attempt to save as many people as possible. One critic is quick to diminish the importance of his character, claiming that “his greatest heroic act is to rescue a cat from a burning bedroom before disappearing from the movie altogether after his 15 minutes of flame” (Rabinowitz). It is true that Jernigan does not have as large a role in the movie as the heroic firefighter, Chief O’Hallorhan, but he still constitutes a vital character within the film. He is one of the first men to figure out that there is a fire (while the white men and women live in blissful ignorance), works as an equal member of the rescue team, and plays a major part in bringing resolution to an unsatisfying storyline. This story involves Lisolette (Jennifer Jones), a kindhearted and altruistic character, who resumes a loving relationship with a past flame, Harlee Claiborne (Fred Astaire), but ultimately falls to her death. She leaves behind her cat, sitting complacently within her engulfed bedroom. Jernigan does save the cat, something this reviewer seems to discount, but also, symbolically, saves part of Lisolette. This cat is one of her most devout and loving companions, as displayed by early scenes in the film, but after her death, this animal is the only remnant of Lisolette’s character. When Jernigan returns this cat to Harlee at the end of the film, he not only satisfies a man who desperately calls for the woman he loves amidst the confusion of the disaster, but the audience as well. This cat works to quench Harlee’s desperate pleas, just as it provides some redemptive value to Lisolette’s fateful fall. In this sense, the film’s portrayal of an African American, as a redeemer of hope and comfort, an effective and cooperative hero in the catastrophe, seems to point to the positive result of social cooperation. It implies that society will not only be better off when men work together, despite their race, but that this relationship could bring about hope during the chaos of governmental disarray.

This film also functions as a political allegory, emphasizes the value in learning from past mistakes and the renewal that accompanies a willingness to change. While Jim Duncan (William Holden) is largely at fault for the creation of the Tower, and contributed to its fateful destruction by hiring his son-in-law, Simmons, to conduct the construction choices, he is not killed. This could be, significantly, because he vows to change his past reckless ways, stating that “all [he] can do now is pray to God that [he] can stop this from ever happening again.” The final shot of his character, taken from a high angle, looks down on Duncan, as if God or, perhaps, the audience is judging him and his display of humility. In proposing this, the film emphasizes the importance of confession and offers a pleasing replacement for the American audience. Outside of the film, they, also, seek an admission of guilt from the deceptive authority figures that broke their trust when they consistently lied about Vietnam or covered up the debacle at the Watergate Hotel. Within the film, the audience is given the chance to look down upon these greedy figures, albeit vicariously, and decide their fate. Duncan agrees to work to prevent future catastrophes and change his ways, and he is allowed to live. In doing so, the film not only allows the audience to use him as a substitution for their real-life troubles, but also, in a sense, works as a testament to the American audience’s own compassion. Though Duncan looks at the audience from below, facing their wrath, he is allowed to live. This moment, perhaps, attempts to remind audience members that seeking justice is important, but draconian, overly-harsh retribution is dangerous and should also be tempered with kindness and mercy.

The Towering Inferno also utilizes destruction to present the potential for society to be redeemed. Destruction, for cinematic purposes, “means liberation” because “destruction allows a new beginning, especially where the weight of the past and past political mistakes seem to have eliminated the possibility for change” (Kakoudaki 113). In this sense, the calamity could bring hope for renewal, as it allows corruption to be cleansed from society. This is exactly what occurs when Doug Roberts, a contributor to the tower’s unfortunate demise, claims that he will change his behavior in a final scene between him and the firefighter, O’Halloran. These two men worked together in the rescue effort, despite their initial animosity towards one another, but the disaster (and O’Halloran) succeeds in teaching Doug Roberts the importance of working with safety officials in order to, in the future, build a structure capable of withstanding similar accidents. O’Halloran emotionally proclaims that he will “keep eating smoke and bringing out bodies until somebody asks [the firemen] how to build [the towers].” In this sequence of shots between Doug’s pained expressions and O’Halloran’s world-weary proclamations, the angle of the shots is, again, significant. O’Halloran views Doug from above (the Chief is shot from a low angle), while Doug is looked down upon from a high angle. This not only places O’Halloran in an authority position, but also lowers Doug to a position of subservience. It is as if the disaster has literally removed him from his position of prideful ignorance and presumption.

It is also not a coincidence that this conversation occurs between the architect and the firefighter, the creator of this hubristic tower and its savior. This is important because the builder, the innovator, is an easy allegorical reference to the government of the United States and those that assisted in its creation. Symbolically, the people of the country are embodied by O’Halloran who not only has to deal with the aftereffects of the disaster, as Americans did after Nixon’s scandal and the tiring fight in Vietnam, but could, potentially, be forced to relive the experience if nothing were to change within the governmental structure. Perhaps one of the most vital results of this terrifying tragedy, then, is Doug’s response, his humility and sense of his own ignorance. He replies to O’Halloran with an “okay, I’m asking,” importantly reaching out to a man more knowledgeable and more truthful for help in his future decisions and plans. This, undoubtedly, was a profound encouragement to the people of the United States. The film seems to not only say that Americans have the ability to change their own future and that of their country, moving it away from continuing on a path towards repetitive destruction, but that through this, they will find their own resolution. The democratic spirit within the country, this film proposes, like the courageous firefighter, is capable of relieving and transforming American society from one of mistakes and human pretention to one that is safe for future generations.

In addition to this, the film seems to advise audience members to take solace in what remains. This is, in fact, another difference between earlier disaster films where the main characters, the majority of the time, survived the crisis and were destined to live together, reinvigorated and changed from the disaster. Even in films like The Rains Came, which included the death of a major character, it was not the disaster itself that caused this turn of events, but the result of the character’s new perspective and sense of compassion. In contrast to this, one of the main heroines in The Towering Inferno, Lisolette, is killed within the film. Though blameless and angelic, she falls to her death from the Tower. In this sense, the film seems to recognize that Americans’ resolution to their governmental and societal troubles will not come without a cost. It warns that those who were helpful or pure may die as a result of the disaster, like those in Vietnam or the civil rights activists, but that their stories will not be forgotten. Like the cat that Harlee is given at the end of the film to carry on Lisolette’s memory, the film proposes that people’s innovative ideas will carry on within society. In this sense, the film advises the audience to remake society and remain hopeful for its restoration, but to be prepared and find acceptance in the potential loss and consequences incurred.

Perhaps, however, the most powerful indication of The Towering Inferno’s reflection of 1970s society is its demonstration of the effects of secrecy and, by extension, the value of transparency. Two of the characters within the film work within the Tower, Bigelow (Robert Wagner), one of the executives, and his secretary, Lorrie (Susan Flannery). Unbeknownst to the rest of the office, they have been having an affair, culminating in their absence on the night of the gala when fire erupts. As they have sex, the fire grows, ultimately surrounding them before they realize the peril of their situation. Lorrie asks if Bigelow smells a “cigarette burning,” to which Bigelow responds by opening one of the doors to the office and seeing the flames growing behind the glass doors. As the flames climb, their efforts are futile, despite Bigelow’s assurances. Lorrie even mentions, hopefully, that “at least they’ll never find out about us, will they?” Ironically, even though the others within the tower never will, the audience surely will witness the result of their relationship. In a last desperate attempt, Bigelow decides to try to leave the flames behind by running to get help, claiming that he “used to run 100 in 10 flat.” In slow motion, Bigelow runs through the flames from a long shot, bumping into blazing furniture and hopelessly attempting to move against the orangey and blackened inferno. Behind the framed glass wall, as if the camera is purposefully distancing the audience from the destruction, he fails to reach his destination. Soon Lorrie joins him as she, sandwiched by flames, throws a chair out of a window and dives out of it, falling to her death. Importantly, however, it is not the intimacy between the characters that decides their fate, as other members, like Doug and his love, Susan (Faye Dunaway), remain intact by the end of the film. Bigelow and Lorrie die, importantly, because they have kept their affair secret. No one knows where they are as Bigelow has avoided the party to spend time with Lorrie, and they do not go to the gala together and then celebrate later. Crucially, they are killed because they have decided to keep their relationship hidden from others.

This is a profound correlation to the secrecy, the deceptive concealment of information by the United States government in relation to the war in Vietnam and culminating in the Watergate scandal. The film punishes these characters for their behavior, not because it is unethical or untraditional, but because it has been kept secret. This, perhaps, represents Americans’ response to the Watergate scandal, particularly because Nixon’s behavior was, arguably, not as hurtful as was his failure to admit to wrongdoing. His lies and concealment of the truth, rather, is what impacted American consciousness, instigating distrust and disillusionment towards governmental authority. As Matthew Mooney notes, “it is likely true that Nixon had not ordered or even been aware of the Watergate break-in when it occurred but it is clear he attempted to cover-up the connections between the burglars and his administration” (181). This, in turn, contributed to his ultimate resignation from office, demonstrating the powerful effect of secrecy, not only on his ability to maintain his presidency, but also its powerful effect on societal consciousness. This may also explain why both characters perished as a result of the disaster, rather than just one. In many disaster films, the reason that only one person (within a couple) is killed is to heighten the feelings of loss in the remaining member, demonstrating the brutal effects of the disaster and increasing audience empathy. But in this film, both Lorrie and Bigelow are destroyed, increasing the correlation between this scene and reality. The American audience is not supposed to feel the same connection to these characters’ pain as, say, Harlee when he loses Lisolette. Instead, this scene replaces the feelings of sadness and loss with brutality, viciousness, and fate. This difference replicates the distance Americans felt towards their government and the secrets it withheld; their lack of connection to these characters emulates the apathy towards Nixon’s resignation. Allegorically, this scene seems to dramatically display the effects of secrecy, and cathartically provides punishment to the perpetrators onscreen. Though this appears to be wholly negative, this scene also alludes to the value of transparency as the truth about these characters’ relationship would have proved instrumental in saving their lives.

This dramatic correlation between The Towering Inferno and the events in American society during the 1970s has broader importance beyond the film’s reception or its box office success. The film serves as an allegorical depiction of American thought and ideology during the time it was created, pointing to its importance as a historical document. It not only cathartically retold the American disaster of the late 1960s and early 1970s, but did so in an entertaining manner while providing details about how America could recover in the wake of such despair. In this sense, the film worked to help America heal, perhaps providing necessary aid to a traumatized audience. Beyond this, however, the very fact that this film could serve such historical importance while receiving abominable ratings by critics points to a more unexpected revelation about Hollywood. It demonstrates that even the most superficial or shallow films may hold depth, perhaps not in terms of story, but in their relation to history. This film certainly does not have wonderfully layered characters, full of hidden insecurities and strange motivations, nor does it have a particularly innovative or new plot (as noted, disaster films were not a “new” genre in the 1970s). Rather, the film holds value in the context of the times, illuminating the ideology and perspective of the American people during a very specific and deeply unstable period. Perhaps this, more than anything, alludes to the importance of contemplation over scrutiny, thoughtfulness over skepticism and appreciation over animosity when appraising films. They should not be judged solely within the context of the medium, the innovativeness of the storyline, or the complexity of the characters, but also for their profound relation to history and the societal ideals of the past. Even the most frivolous moments in the cinematic past might serve as relics of history, and, as such, should be treated with respect.

Disaster films are capable of serving a potent need by a society ravaged by the effects of governmental disarray and social upheaval, not only by working to alleviate the trauma associated with real-life catastrophes, but also by utilizing a more harmless lens to analyze the crises: an allegory. Films of this genre in the 1970s accomplished this, to a great extent, despite their harshly critical reception by haughty and disdainful reviewers. The Towering Inferno, a blazing example, not only illuminating the political, social, and ideological perspectives of Americans, but often provided subtle remedies to society’s despair and disillusionment. This not only points to the historical value of these films, but also alludes to the nature of the cinematic medium. Its effectiveness should not be evaluated or determined simply by its likeness to reality, its unceasingly astute dramatization of real-life situations, but the stories, attitudes, ideals, and resolutions it brings. Though The Towering Inferno was not an exact copy of social turmoil or governmental disorganization, it was successfully able to provide a release from societal despair through its gaudy and mythic display. These fantastic and allegorical ideas might, in the end, be more appealing to viewers than their obstinately realistic counterparts, potentially increasing their effectiveness, significance, and meaning for troubled audiences.

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