Film Review: A Star Is Born (1976)

Among the many cinematic triumphs that have failed to withstand the test of time, the 1976 iteration of A Star Is Born stands as one of the more conspicuous casualties of shifting cultural tides. This second remake of William A. Wellman’s 1937 Hollywood melodrama was, by any commercial metric, a phenomenon: the year’s second highest-grossing film, a Golden Globe juggernaut, and the vehicle that secured Barbra Streisand two Grammy Awards, with its signature ballad Evergreen dominating charts worldwide. Yet today, it languishes in relative obscurity, rarely invoked as a touchstone of 1970s cinema, seldom referenced in contemporary pop culture discourse. Much of its diminished stature can be attributed to the inevitable, unforgiving comparisons with its predecessor and subsequent remakes – the Judy Garland-James Mason vehicle of 1954 and the Bradley Cooper-Lady Gaga reinterpretation of 2018 – which collectively cast the 1976 version in an unflattering light. However, the film’s shortcomings extend beyond comparative disadvantage; fundamental flaws in conception, execution, and chemistry render it a profoundly disappointing experience, particularly for viewers anticipating greatness from its formidable talents.

The narrative unfolds with John Norman Howard (Kris Kristofferson), a rock demigod whose fame grants him licence to behave with reckless abandon, epitomised when he drunkenly forces thousands of devoted fans to endure a five-hour delay before a perfunctory concert appearance. Post-performance, he stumbles into a bar where his boorish conduct disrupts the set of Esther Hoffman (Streisand), an aspiring lounge singer. Their paths collide more dramatically when John brawls with an intrusive fan (an uncredited Robert Englund), necessitating Esther’s intervention to spirit him away through a rear exit. The following day, John arrives at Esther’s modest apartment to offer an apology, initiating a series of increasingly intimate encounters that culminate in their coupling at his opulent mansion. It is here that John, hearing Esther’s raw musical talent at the piano, recognises her potential and resolves to shepherd her career. His patronage propels her to stardom, and they marry, but their union is soon poisoned by diverging trajectories: Esther’s ascent coincides with John’s precipitous decline, accelerated by substance abuse and professional obsolescence. His self-destructive spiral reaches its nadir when he drunkenly crashes Esther’s triumphant Grammy acceptance, humiliating her on national television. Though Esther forgives his transgressions – even after discovering him in flagrante with a groupie-like journalist (Marta Heflin) – their attempt at reconciliation on a remote ranch ends abruptly in an alcohol-fuelled tragedy that claims John’s life.

Superficially, this iteration honours Wellman’s foundational premise: a Cinderella narrative wherein a woman’s professional ascendancy inversely mirrors her lover-mentor’s ruinous descent. Yet the 1976 version sought distinction by transplanting the action from Hollywood soundstages to the arena rock circuit, replacing the washed-up actor archetype with a dissolute rock star. This shift was ostensibly strategic – capitalising on rock music’s cultural dominance in the mid-1970s while exploiting the dissolution of the Hays Code to inject gritty authenticity with liberal doses of profanity, narcotics, and fleeting nudity. Conceptually, it promised a New Hollywood sensibility applied to a Classic Hollywood framework. Alas, this ambition was fatally compromised from inception when Streisand, already a colossus in music and film, transformed the project into a self-aggrandising showcase. Her artistic identity, rooted in Broadway theatricality and traditional pop sophistication, proved fundamentally incompatible with the raw, rebellious ethos of rock music. Kristofferson, though a country artist by origin, embodied the rock star persona with convincing authenticity, his lived-in ruggedness and gravelly vocal delivery lending credence to John’s self-destruction. Streisand, by contrast, exudes an unshakeable aura of calculated diva-dom; her meticulously crafted vocals, however technically impeccable, jar discordantly against Kristofferson’s earthy performances, never quite convincing as the product of a gritty bar-band upbringing.

Compounding this tonal dissonance is the utter absence of palpable chemistry between the leads. Their romance unfolds with mechanical predictability rather than organic passion, a failure exacerbated by a script – co-written by Frank Pierson, John Gregory Dunne, and Joan Didion – that neglects to cultivate believable emotional intimacy. Scenes intended to convey profound connection instead feel like perfunctory plot obligations, devoid of the messy, lived-in quality essential to selling such an operatic tragedy. One senses not two souls intertwined by fate and artistry, but two performers occupying parallel universes, their interactions stiffened by mutual artistic incompatibility and behind-the-scenes friction.

Further undermining the film’s emotional impact is its notoriously anti-climactic denouement. John’s demise, ambiguously framed as a drunk-driving accident rather than the explicit suicide mandated by the original script, robs the tragedy of its necessary catharsis. This narrative cowardice stemmed directly from producer Jon Peters’ interference, leveraging his position as Streisand’s romantic partner to override creative integrity during test screenings. Peters’ meddling extended far beyond the ending; his relentless micromanagement of every aspect – from musical selections to character motivations – transformed the production into a toxic battleground. Director Frank Pierson, an Oscar-winning screenwriter fresh from Dog Day Afternoon, found himself so emasculated by the triumvirate of Streisand, Peters, and a disengaged Kristofferson that he later chronicled the experience in a scathing magazine exposé. Though this account did little to dent the film’s immediate commercial success or Streisand’s standing, it cemented the 1976 A Star Is Born’s reputation as a vanity project – another example of ego triumphing over artistry.

In retrospect, the film’s failure to endure feels inevitable. Where the 1937 original captured Depression-era Hollywood with unflinching realism, and the 2018 remake dissected modern celebrity culture with surgical precision, the 1976 version exists in an uncomfortable limbo – too slick for gritty authenticity, too self-serious for camp appeal. Its musical numbers, once chart-topping phenomena, now sound dated and overproduced; its attempts at gritty realism feel contrived, its emotional beats unearned. Streisand’s undeniable vocal prowess cannot compensate for her fundamental miscasting, while Kristofferson’s authentic rock-star weariness is squandered on a script that denies him meaningful depth. The toxic production dynamics bled onto the screen, leaving behind a film that, despite its initial accolades, ultimately embodies the very themes it sought to explore: the corrosive nature of fame, the perils of artistic compromise, and the tragic spectacle of immense potential squandered.

RATING: 3/10 (+)

Blog in Croatian https://draxblog.com
Blog in English https://draxreview.wordpress.com/
InLeo blog https://inleo.io/@drax.leo

InLeo: https://inleo.io/signup?referral=drax.leo
Leodex: https://leodex.io/?ref=drax
Hiveonboard: https://hiveonboard.com?ref=drax
Rising Star game: https://www.risingstargame.com?referrer=drax
1Inch: https://1inch.exchange/#/r/0x83823d8CCB74F828148258BB4457642124b1328e

BTC donations: 1EWxiMiP6iiG9rger3NuUSd6HByaxQWafG
ETH donations: 0xB305F144323b99e6f8b1d66f5D7DE78B498C32A7
BCH donations: qpvxw0jax79lhmvlgcldkzpqanf03r9cjv8y6gtmk9