The 1970s dawned as a stark counterpoint to the optimism of the preceding decade, with rising geopolitical tensions, economic stagflation, and a pervasive sense of societal disillusionment. Against this backdrop, the disaster film genre emerged as an unlikely cinematic comfort food, allowing audiences to confront apocalyptic scenarios from the safety of theatre seats. While earlier decades produced isolated disaster narratives, George Seaton’s Airport (1970) codified the template for 1970s catastrophe spectacles—a genre that thrived by reflecting contemporary anxieties through improbably star-studded peril.
Adapted from Arthur Hailey’s 1968 novel, Airport continued the author’s tradition of institutional exposés disguised as pulp fiction. Hailey’s pedigree included Flight Into Danger (1957), a Canadian teleplay later adapted into Zero Hour! (1957)—the very film parodied mercilessly in Airplane! (1980). His novel drew partial inspiration from Continental Flight 11’s 1962 bombing over Missouri, though with crucial narrative alterations. Where the real-life tragedy saw suicidal bomber Thomas Doty murder 45 people to secure insurance payouts for his family, Hailey reimagined the scenario as a contained drama where authorities could potentially avert disaster—a narrative choice reflecting Hollywood’s preference for cathartic resolutions over historical fidelity.
Set during a blizzard at Chicago’s fictional Lincoln International Airport, the film interweaves meteorological and marital crises. Burt Lancaster’s Mel Bakersfeld, the workaholic airport manager, juggles runway closures caused by a snowbound Boeing 707 with the collapse of his marriage to socialite Cindy (Dana Wynter). Meanwhile, his brother-in-law, pilot Vernon Demerest (Dean Martin), prepares for a Rome-bound flight while navigating an affair with stewardess Gwen Meighen (Jacqueline Bisset), who reveals her pregnancy mid-crisis. These soap-opera subplots collide with the central threat: Van Heflin’s D.O. Guerrero, a mentally unstable demolitions expert who boards Demerest’s flight with a bomb concealed in his briefcase, intending to secure a life insurance windfall for his wife Inez (Maureen Stapleton).
Despite producer Ross Hunter’s*pedigree with glossy melodramas, Airport faced scepticism from Universal Studios chief Lew Wasserman, who nearly shelved the project over its $10 million budget—exorbitant for 1970. Upon release, the studio employed saturation booking to mitigate critical backlash, a prescient strategy given reviewers’ scorn. Vincent Canby of The New York Times dismissed it as “a stupefyingly silly motion picture,” while Pauline Kael mocked its “disaster of a script”. Even Lancaster, who earned $1 million for his role—then a career high—later derided the film as “the biggest piece of junk ever made”.
Modern reappraisals often highlight Airport’s tonal schizophrenia. George Seaton, an Old Hollywood veteran (Miracle on 34th Street), directs with workmanlike efficiency but little flair for suspense, allowing the bloated 137-minute runtime to sag under marital quarrels and bureaucratic minutiae. The film’s sole concession to New Hollywood aesthetics—a split-screen finale showing simultaneous cockpit and control tower crises—feels grafted onto an otherwise staid production.
Yet the ensemble’s commitment elevates the material. Heflin, in his final role, imbues Guerrero with tragic pathos, his twitchy desperation contrasting with Helen Hayes’ scene-stealing turn as Ada Quonsett, a geriatric stowaway whose whimsy provides much-needed levity. Hayes’ Oscar-winning performance—the film’s sole Academy Award—epitomises Airport’s paradoxical appeal: a high-gloss B-film masquerading as prestige drama.
Defying critical pans, Airport grossed $128 million globally, becoming Universal’s highest-earning film until Jaws (1975). Its success spawned three sequels—Airport 1975, Airport ’77, and The Concorde… Airport ’79—each increasingly ludicrous yet commercially viable. George Kennedy’s Joe Patroni, the cigar-chomping mechanic from the original, became the franchise’s connective tissue, evolving from supporting player to improbable action hero across installments.
More significantly, Airport established the disaster genre’s commercial formula: interlocking personal dramas, A-list casts slumming for paychecks, and spectacle-driven set pieces. Its DNA permeates everything from The Towering Inferno (1974) to Roland Emmerich’s millennial blockbusters—testament to Seaton’s inadvertent blueprint for cinematic catastrophe. Viewed today, Airport straddles camp and earnestness, its flaws as revealing as its triumphs in mapping 1970s escapism’s turbulent ascent.
RATING: 6/10 (++)
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