5 Hit '70s Movies That No One Remembers Today

Okay, sure, I'm definitely being hyperbolic when I say "no one" remembers these movies, because that's a literal impossibility to prove correct, and I do not doubt a hardcore fan is going to stumble on this list and curse my name for citing a title that's in their Letterboxd top four. But the 1970s mark one of the best decades in the history of cinema, where even titles in the lower half of the top 50 grossing films of the decade include "Annie Hall," "A Star is Born," "King Kong," and "Young Frankenstein," all movies that are beloved and hailed today.

But there are still some films that came out on top at the box office or were showered with the highest honors during awards season that have fallen out of relevance with mainstream pop culture and the newer generations of audiences, only kept alive by the most dedicated movie lovers who crave cinematic nourishment beyond the same 100 titles repeated ad nauseum. So, with these caveats in mind (seriously, don't @ me), here are five hit movies from the 1970s that seldom get discussed today and are at risk of being forgotten for good unless we start introducing them to fresh eyes.

(This should also go without saying, but considering the films are all around 50 years old, they sometimes feature scenes, characterizations, or language that haven't stood the test of time.)

It may not feature anything as memorable as Audrey Hepburn's black Givenchy dress in "Breakfast at Tiffany's," but Blake Edwards' 1979 film "10" proves he still had the touch for crafting iconic cinema moments late in his career. The sight of Bo Derek in a flesh-toned bathing suit and (questionable) cornrow braids with beads is one of the most recognizable images of the 1970s. Still, shockingly few people born after 1985 can place where the image originated.

The film stars Dudley Moore as a composer spiraling into a midlife crisis, with Julie Andrews — Edwards' real-life wife — playing his grounded partner, who refuses to indulge his self-inflicted torment. A lost breed of movie, "10" is resolutely a film for adults about adult problems; a painfully accurate portrait of men unraveling in middle age. Edwards' witty script, paired with Henry Mancini's pitch-perfect score, turns "10" into a bittersweet reflection on aging, desire, and disillusionment. It was one of the first cinematic endeavors to reckon with the free love generation of the 1960s, now forced to admit that the party was over and that they were firmly in adulthood. But rather than playing out like an after-school special, much of "10" unfolds like a claustrophobic, middle-aged echo of Edwards' earlier slapstick comedies. Moore stumbles through a series of humiliations — without comedy screen partner Peter Sellers' absurdist grace to save him like usual — caught within the clutches of the farce that is existence.

Messy, funny, and self-aware, "10" stands as a late-career triumph for Edwards: a final juggling act from one of Hollywood's most exuberant entertainers and one hell of an introduction for Bo Derek. A shame that it's been mostly ignored by the generations that came after it.

John Huston's "Fat City" is a commiserative tribute to the down and out, adapted by Leonard Gardner from his own 1969 novel of the same name. Filmed amid the shabby backstreets of Stockton, California, it follows Billy Tully (Stacy Keach), a has-been boxer and part-time drunk who mentors a naïve up-and-comer, Ernie Munger (Jeff Bridges). Their stories loop through defeat and self-deception, with flickers of hope that pop up just long enough to sting. While this is undoubtedly a story about masculinity, it's the wild brilliance of Susan Tyrrell as combative barfly Oma Lee Greer that gives "Fat City" its highest credibility. She was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress, a deserved honor for a truly incomparable performance.

"Fat City" isn't an underdog boxing story like all of the greats in the genre tend to be. Rather, it's a film that revels in perpetual failure and why losers keep fighting even when all they do is lose, as well as how disappointment and futility can become such familiar bedfellows that any feeling outside of them becomes uncomfortable enough to be downright alien. Every character is boxed in; their unreachable dreams operate as both a driving force and a trap of inevitability. It's a supposed sports film that refuses to fixate on what could be inspirational, instead investigating how pain and persistence intertwine until you can't tell the difference. Every frame feels lived-in, with every punch thrown from a place of recognition. In Huston's world, even when you win, you lose.

In a world before "Sex and the City" revolutionized what society viewed as "acceptable" for female friendships, there was always pressure for women in their 20s to dedicate the decade to finding a partner, settling down, and relegating their lives to that of domestic bliss. No relationship could be more important than those of marriage or motherhood, and deeply rooted friendships with other women were meant to be secondary. In reality? Gal-pal breakups are often more heartbreaking than any romance.

Directed by Claudia Weill and funded by the National Endowment for the Arts and New York State Council on the Arts, "Girlfriends" was the first American independent film to be funded with grants, although private investors helped with finishing funds. Future director Melanie Mayron plays Susan Weinblatt, an aspiring photographer stuck shooting weddings and bar mitzvahs to make ends meet, who shares an apartment with her best friend, Anne Munroe (Anita Skinner), an aspiring writer.

So much of this story is about how we are incapable of seeing ourselves the way we see our best friends, and that there is an extreme loneliness that comes when friendships are forced to take a back seat in favor of figuring out who we are, what we want to do with our creative passions, and whether or not we elect to pursue romance. While "Girlfriends" has seldom been recognized for its influential place in the canon of New Hollywood, the film joined the Criterion Collection in 2020, allowing cinephiles to finally experience one of the best and most underseen movies of the decade.

If you ask someone to name a delightful rom-com about a man falling in love with a sex worker, the overwhelming majority would respond with "Pretty Woman." But if you're someone with taste and a penchant for the underseen works of Barbra Streisand, you might cite "The Owl and the Pussycat." The film channels the usual themes of the time period — exploring the sexual revolution through the juxtaposition of an unrestrained woman and an uptight, prudish man. But rather than settle into the typical trappings of an opposites attract story, each character is given the space to recognize that they are living lives they're not satisfied with and can perhaps find a different route than what they had initially imagined by leaning on one another.

Streisand's Doris is a motormouthed, liberated woman who moves in with the meek book clerk and aspiring novelist Felix (George Segal) after he unintentionally gets her evicted by ratting her out to the landlord as a woman of the night. Despite their differences, the pair develops an unexpected romance that is as adorable as it is infuriating. For instance, Doris follows Felix around with a dictionary so she can look up the words he says that she doesn't understand, and Felix willingly dons a skeleton costume to "scare" Doris when she has an overwhelming case of the hiccups. In one of the film's best scenes, they get high as hell in a bathtub together. It's the kind of cuteness reserved for studio indie films and Sundance darlings, so much so that we almost forget what insufferable nuisances the pair are. They absolutely deserve each other, and as sex comedies go, this is certainly one of the most interesting to revisit.

A Los Angeles hangout movie moonlighting as neo-noir Blaxploitation, the incomparable Isaac Hayes busts onto the scene with his leading breakout performance as the titular Mack "Truck" Turner, a former professional football player who now works as a bounty hunter with his pal Jerry (Alan Weeks). The two are tasked with hunting down a pimp named Gator (Paul Harris) who skipped bail, and their quest to find him sends them on a dangerous journey through L.A.'s underbelly.

Originally written by "The Man From U.N.C.L.E." star Leigh Chapman (under the pseudonym Jerry Wilkes) for a white lead, the casting of Hayes completely changed the messaging of the film and helped make it one of the all-time great works of Blaxploitation cinema. It also boasts a wild turn from groundbreaking "Star Trek" veteran Nichelle Nichols as Dorinda, a madame who delivers lines so salacious that our content moderator would go into overdrive if I dared repeat them here.

"Truck Turner" is a pivotal work in the Blaxploitation genre, but it's underseen when compared to the works of contemporaries like Rudy Ray Moore and Melvin Van Peebles. However, the influence remains regardless of whether or not people are still seeking it out. Quentin Tarantino reused some of Hayes' work on the soundtrack for "Kill Bill," and in the early aughts, Queen Latifah's production company, Flavor Unit Entertainment, was interested in remaking it. Do your civic duty by watching it today, and spread the gospel of "Truck Turner."