Ralph Nelson degenerated from a competent genre filmmaker to Stanley Kramer for the exploitation set. As derivative as it is poorly titled, ...tick...tick...tick... (1970) is a crude racial drama that mostly reminds viewers of other, better movies.Sheriff John Little (George Kennedy) surrenders his badge to Jimmy Price (Jim Brown), who's just beaten him in an election. Price faces the scorn of racist white townsfolk and the disapproval of fellow blacks. Things reach a boiling point when John Braddock (Bob Random), son of a local muckity-muck (Karl Swenson) kills a girl in an accident and Price arrests him. Price enlists Little's help to defuse tension and keep Braddock locked up.
Borrowing liberally from In the Heat of the Night and High Noon, Nelson and writer James Lee Barrett make ...tick...tick...tick... painfully forced. Little is the quintessential backlash American, a white Southerner losing his job, and manhood, to a Negro. Characters complain interminably about Northern officials allowing the blacks to vote and somehow rigging Price's election. A black man interviews with Price, eager to become a deputy and bust some white heads. Price and Little put aside their differences and unite the town, a microcosm for racial harmony.
...tick never gets more complex, with characters either debating their motivations or resisting racism. Little endures taunts from school children and barflies alike, berated by his wife (Lynn Carlin) for added humiliation. Price proves his fair-mindedness by jailing a black rapist and confronts the town rednecks amidst a thunderstorm. No Stokely Carmichael, he unites with Little to advocate "law and order" over racism. His Rodney King conciliatoriness and Gary Cooper braggadocio impresses even the local Klan leader (Clifton James), who enlists the good ol' boys to confront Braddock's interlopers.
Nelson's hokey direction does the story no favors. He indulges in the most artless flourishes imaginable: the Mayor (Frederic March) complains about Federal intervention next to a Confederate flag while his valet (Homer Anderson) shoots metaphorical squirrels. Price ponders the "racial wall" during a slow dissolve from him to Little. Far, far worse is Jerry Styner's incongruous score, mellow hippie ballads playing against violent scenes for the world's cheapest irony.
Jim Brown and George Kennedy coast through the film unscathed. Brown is Poitier square, a likeable and inoffensive, with a toughness that allows him to run Braddock down on foot. Kennedy mostly sweats and swaggers, though he never strikes the right chemistry with Brown. Bob Random leers and chews scenery like Warren Oates' younger brother. Frederic March adds a crumudgeonly touch in his penultimate role. Clifton James, Don Stroud and Dub Taylor play assorted rednecks, lending credibility if not depth to the story.
...tick...tick...tick... isn't as tasteless as Nelson's Soldier Blue, but it's just as stupid. Ineffective as a thriller or a message picture, it's a leaden, sweaty lump of posturing.
