Little Murders (Alan Arkin, 1971). The first of three features directed by Alan Arkin, Little Murders aligns with the terse, darkly comic film persona of some of his best screen work as an actor. Jules Feiffer adapted his own stage play to the screen (Arkin also directed the hit 1969 off-broadway production) maintaining a sensibility that is bleak and scathing. Elliott Gould plays Alfred Chamberlain, a taciturn New Yorker who roves the streets taking photos of feces. He is drawn into a romantic relationship with Patsy (Marcia Rodd), who is sure she can rouse levels of feeling in him with a little time and effort. The film satirizes a rough and ragged era of American life, especially in crime-ridden New York City, and is peppered with scenes of riveting weirdness. Among them is a cameo by the director as a police lieutenant contorted into spasmodic fits by the pressure of encountering rampant homicides in the city. The real highlight is extended sequence with Donald Sutherland playing a reverend who presides over a wedding with a homily of trippy philosophizing. All of this builds to an ending that is dark as asphalt, especially seen through a modern lens.

Shockproof (Douglas Sirk, 1949). This Douglas Sirk–directed film noir is infused with the melodrama that would soon be his specialty. The script, co-credited to Helen Deutsch and Samuel Fuller, follows a paroled woman (Patricia Knight) who is determined to ignore institutional expectations of rehabilitation. She remains devoted to the amoral slug (John Baragrey) responsible for her time in the hoosegow, despite the entreaties of her smitten parole officer (Cornel Wilde). From that set-up, the plot twists like a corkscrew. Shockproof starts a little slow and finishes with an abrupt, implausibly upbeat ending. In between, there are a lot of strong bits, especially when the two leads try to sidestep danger only to stumble into squalid, highly fraught situations. Unsurprisingly, Sirk is best whenever the film demands particular attentive work in setting the mood and finessing a strange, tricky tone in such a way that actual emotion comes through.

Born to Win (Ivan Passer, 1971). J (George Segal) is a junkie and occasional drug dealer who has a life so rough that he aspires to hardscrabble. He engages is whatever quick, easy crime is right at his disposal, such as a car robbery where he winds up meeting the vehicle’s owner (Karen Black) and giving her a ride home. Naturally, the two fall into a messy relationship together, too. Spectacularly seedy, Born to Win features some striking, inventive choices by director Ivan Passer, a veteran of the Czechoslovak New Wave with his American feature debut. Passer doesn’t soften the story’s grimmest elements, but he does swirl them together with absurdist comedy and moments of raucous slapstick. The actor most clearly on the director’s warping wavelength is Black. She gives chaos-agent line readings throughout. The film is messy and yet often riveting in its spite for convention and corresponding gleeful freedom. Even this kind of bold, proud mania requires a cohesive vision to fully work. Unfortunately, the narrative frays badly in the third act, slightly undermining the delirious highs that came before it. The film is also notable as home to an early performance by Robert De Niro, obviously restless in the thankless role of a cop harassing J.