You've Come a Long Way, Baby

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Director Jane Campion deserved recognition for 1993's "The Piano" — and she was nominated for an Oscar.

She wasn't the first woman to be nominated for best director (that distinction belonged to Lina Wertmüller some 17 years earlier), and she wasn't the first female director to win the Oscar (that was Kathryn Bigelow some 16 years later).

She did, however, win an Oscar for best original screenplay.

I'm inclined to think that no female director has ever taken on a project that was so risky as bringing "The Piano" to the screen.

It was risky for many reasons, largely because of its portrayal of a strong female with no voice (an intriguing element of a story set at a time when women who were not mute had no voice in anything) whose hand in marriage was promised by her father to a farmer from New Zealand (Sam Neill). With little more than her young daughter and her piano, Hunter's character embarked on the arduous journey from her native Scotland to New Zealand.

Hunter's and Neill's marriage was a loveless one, but Hunter's character found love outside her marriage with a neighbor (Harvey Keitel). Neill's discovery of his wife's infidelity prompted him to take the drastic step of hacking off one of her fingers with an axe, thus depriving her of the ability to play her piano (or so he thought).

For that matter, I'm also inclined to think that few actresses have faced a greater challenge than Holly Hunter faced in playing the mute Ada. I always thought it was a special kind of acting challenge, and the Academy rewarded it with the Oscar.

I can only presume that it must have been a considerable challenge for Hunter to say the things her character needed to say — but without articulating them. I'd been impressed with Hunter's talent before I saw "The Piano." I was filled with even more appreciation after I saw it.

Hunter's 11–year–old co–star, Anna Paquin, won the Oscar for best supporting actress. And her performance, as Hunter's spiteful daughter, certainly rang true.

Paquin remains the second–youngest winner of Best Supporting Actress. Tatum O'Neal, who won the Oscar 20 years earlier for her performance in "Paper Moon," is still the youngest–ever recipient.

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It was a haunting story, particularly if one compared the setting of the late 20th century (when the film was made and released) to the setting of the story in the mid–19th century.

I didn't see it when it was in the theaters. Instead, I saw it at home on TV a couple of years after it was released. As a result, I have no firsthand knowledge of how women in movie audiences reacted when they first saw Hunter's Oscar–winning performance. If they held her 19th–century character to 20th–century standards, that wasn't fair.

But if Hunter's performance made them think about and appreciate the strides women had made in the intervening century and a half, that would be more than fair.

A Fairly Ordinary Act of Fatherhood

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"The president temporarily handing over power to his political enemy? I think it's a fairly stunning act of patriotism ... and a fairly ordinary act of fatherhood."

Will Bailey (Joshua Malina)

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One of the things that I really liked about The West Wing when it was on the air was the way the writers managed to work little history and/or civics lessons into the plots.

I never felt that it was just a TV show or just a drama. There often was, to use a word the real president likes, a teachable moment. (And Lord knows the American public can use a few history lessons.)

It was the best kind of teachable moment, really. It wasn't preachy or condescending. It was entertaining and educational at the same time.

Mind you, the series didn't always do that sort of thing, but it did it often enough, and one of the very best examples of the technique was the episode that aired 10 years ago tonight.

"Twenty Five" was the season–ending episode of the series' fourth season. A week earlier, first daughter Zooey Bartlet (Elisabeth Moss) was kidnapped while celebrating her college graduation. The president (Martin Sheen) and the first lady (Stockard Channing) were told what had happened at the beginning of the episode that aired 10 years ago tonight.

They proceeded to make the kind of mistakes that might be expected from worried parents who happen to be in the public eye 24/7. The first lady, for example, decided, after several hours, to make an appeal to the kidnappers for the release of her daughter. She was dissuaded from doing so when it was pointed out to her that it would send the message to the kidnappers that they had succeeded in creating chaos in the White House.

The president, recognizing that a distraught father is in no shape to manage the affairs of state, decided to temporarily step aside. Such a circumstance has never happened in American history, but the Constitution, with the help and clarification of the 25th Amendment, spells out the line of succession that is to be followed.

As is the tradition when a president dies in office, the immediate successor would be the vice president. But, in the West Wing universe, the vice president had resigned a few episodes earlier, and the office was vacant.

According to the Constitution, if there is no vice president, the next person in line is the speaker of the House. Just one problem there, though. In the universe of the West Wing, the president was a Democrat, and the speaker of the House (John Goodman) was a Republican.

That may have been hard for some people to imagine at the time, given the fact that, in reality, the president and both chambers of Congress were in Republican hands. If such a scenario had occurred a decade ago in the real world, it wouldn't have been a political concern for the president to temporarily hand over power to the House speaker — other than that technicality that prohibits someone from simultaneously holding positions in two branches of government.

But it was a more wrenching decision for the president and his staff in the West Wing.

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It made for undeniably dramatic television. And it set up one of the most understated lines in TV series history when Goodman said to the president's staff, "Relax, everybody. Breathe regular."

That line was delivered after it was clear that the West Wing staff had been experiencing considerable angst over the invocation of the 25th Amendment. Most of them probably hadn't been breathing regular — least of all Toby (Richard Schiff), who had just become a father in a neat, if a bit transparent, secondary story line.

If anyone could understand the president's conflict, it was Toby, and he seemed to alternate between the fiercely defensive father he had just become and the dedicated public servant he was.

"There's no one in this room," he whispered to the president moments before the House speaker took the presidential oath of office, "who wouldn't rather die than let you down."

It was quite a cliffhanger — from a series that re–defined the word.

And it was a well–written story about a scenario we can all hope no president will ever face.

Hitchcock's Most Personal Work

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It's my understanding that Alfred Hitchcock's "Vertigo" was mostly dismissed by critics when it premiered 55 years ago today.

But over the years, it has evolved and been elevated in the eyes of those critics and their successors — to the point that it is often mentioned as at least one of Hitchcock's best, if not his absolute best.

I'm not sure I would go to that extreme. There are two or three of Hitchcock's movies that I would pick over that one — but I certainly would concede that it is perhaps Hitchcock's most complex movie. It is certainly one of his most psychological movies — and that's saying something when you consider Hitch's body of work.

And it is "Vertigo," more than almost any other Hitchcock movie, that is cited as an influence for Hitch's directorial descendants in the genre.

As I say, it must rank as Hitchcock's most complex movie. It's got to be one of his most experimental.

Other movies were at least as psychologically complex as "Vertigo," but it was visually complex, too. It was the first noteworthy use of the dolly zoom technique that created the sensation of the condition that gave the film its name.

Stewart was the main attraction for moviegoers in 1958. He'd been a familiar star for more than 20 years, almost as long as his co–star, Kim Novak, had been alive. Moviegoers knew what they were getting when Stewart was in a movie, much as they knew what they were getting when the star was Humphrey Bogart or Spencer Tracy or Henry Fonda.

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But Novak, who was 25 the day "Vertigo" premiered, was no newcomer. She had already been in 10 movies, including parts in "Picnic" and "The Man With the Golden Arm."

I get the feeling from having seen many of the movies Novak made before "Vertigo" that, rather than viewing her beauty as a blessing, she regarded it as a burden. That probably came in handy when she took on her role in "Vertigo." I've always felt that character was a bit shy, a little hesitant and, in some unexpected ways, vulnerable — and, yet, she was dangerous.

Novak was already conditioned to play a role that way. (Her simmering passion and cool intellectual quality served her well in "Bell, Book and Candle.")

Maybe Hitchcock knew that.

Funny thing, though. Novak wasn't Hitch's first choice; Vera Miles was. But a series of twists of fate allowed the role to practically fall into Novak's lap. First, Hitchcock had gall bladder problems, then Miles became pregnant. Hitchcock was not willing to postpone filming any further so he gave the role to Novak.

In hindsight, it's hard for me to imagine Miles in the role. Novak always seems ideal for it. Perhaps it is because I am conditioned to think of her as Judy — and my mind associates Miles with the roles she played in two other Hitchcock films, "The Wrong Man" and "Psycho."

Maybe Novak played the role so well I can't imagine anyone else playing it.

I know there was a great chemistry between Stewart and Novak, as there usually was between the male and female leads in a Hitchcock movie. Such chemistry was especially important in "Vertigo," which had a complex plot — even for a Hitchcock movie.

I guess the chemistry didn't help much when it was first released. I've been told "Vertigo" wasn't too successful at the box office.

But, as I say, in the years that have passed, "Vertigo" has come to be recognized as one of Hitchcock's best film achievements.

Hitchcock himself said it was his most personal film. I'm not sure what his reasoning was, but there is no questioning the quality of the movie.

The American Film Institute ranked it in the Top 10 of all time.

It's Only a Paper Moon

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Moses Pray (Ryan O'Neal): I got scruples, too, you know. You know what that is? Scruples?

Addie Loggins (Tatum O'Neal): No, I don't know what it is, but if you got 'em, it's a sure bet they belong to somebody else!

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Many great comedies were made in the 1970s.

I know there were some I missed, but I often feel as if I saw them all — Mel Brooks, Monty Python, Peter Sellers, Gene Wilder, John Belushi, the list goes on and on.

Ryan O'Neal even made a few noteworthy comedies in the '70s. Originally noticed for his work in dramas (especially "Love Story"), he gravitated toward comedy with "What' Up, Doc?" and "Paper Moon," which premiered 40 years ago today.

O'Neal's peak as an actor probably came in the mid–1970s. There were occasional exceptions, but mostly his film roles have been mediocre at best.

"Paper Moon," though, was and remains a delight — largely because of O'Neal's daughter, Tatum, who stole the show (and the Best Supporting Actress Oscar). Like her father, Tatum has been in few truly strong movies since "Paper Moon," which suggests that the problem for father and daughter may be that they haven't been given great material.

That definitely wasn't a problem with "Paper Moon." Like so many of the comedies of the 1970s, the dialogue crackled then, and it crackles now.

How could it not?

Set in the Depression, a Bible–peddling con man named Moses Pray (Ryan O'Neal) stops to pay his last respects to a prostitute with whome he had been, er, friendly. Among the small group of mourners is the woman's child, Addie Loggins (Tatum O'Neal), whose future has been rendered uncertain by her mother's passing. It is decided that Moses (who, some of the ladies in town have concluded, resembles Addie and might be related to her) should take Addie to her aunt in St. Joseph, Mo., since he will be going that way, anyway.

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It didn't take long for Moses and Addie to learn unpleasant things about each other.

Moses learned that Addie, although only 9, was already a seasoned smoker. She didn't know the president's correct name — she kept calling him Frank D. Roosevelt (as in "Frank D. Roosevelt says we're all feeling a lot better").

And Addie learned that Moses made his living by scamming unsuspecting, grieving widows — and there was a matter of $200 that Moses owed Addie.

Addie didn't get along too well with Moses' lady friends, especially Trixie (played delightfully by Madeline Kahn). Trixie, it is safe to say, was a bit self–absorbed.

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Trixie (to Addie): You already got bone structure. When I was your age I didn't have no bone structure. Took me years to get bone structure. And don't think bone structure's not important. People didn't decide to call me Mademoiselle until I was 17 and getting a little bone structure

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Not all movies hold up as well after 40 years as "Paper Moon."

Playing WarGames

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"WarGames" had a lot more impact when it was released 30 years ago today than it has now.

After all, the Cold War mentality was still strong in 1983. The Soviet Union hadn't collapsed, and the Reagan administration had made winning the Cold War its top foreign policy priority.

Thus, in the late spring and early summer of 1983, movie audiences were understandably unnerved by the story "WarGames" had to tell.

Even though the Cold War ended within 10 years, "WarGames" offered a glimpse into a future that, in hindsight and for several reasons, may be even more troubling. Matthew Broderick, the lead character, had an obsession with computers and video games that was rare in the early 1980s but might be regarded as mainstream today.

About six months ago, when the shootings in the Connecticut elementary school occurred, there was general angst about the fact that the shooter had devoted much of his spare time to violent video games, a trait that is not uncommon with many young men of his age group.

In "WarGames," Broderick played a similar young man, but the havoc he wreaked in the fictional story went far beyond a single classroom or school. He had a home computer at a time when that was still a rarity in most homes, and he used it to tap into his school's computer to do things like alter academic records for himself and his love interest (played by Ally Sheedy).

He also used his computer to play the most challenging video games of that time. In pursuit of that form of pleasure, he unknowingly hacked into the Pentagon's computer system and activated a nuclear war simulation, thinking that it was merely a very realistic computer game.

Which it was — so realistic that the computer didn't know it wasn't real.

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In hindsight, I suppose, "WarGames" was a bit of a gamble as far as the cast was concerned. Broderick has been in some successful films in his career, but "WarGames" was the very beginning of that career.

Sheedy, it often seems, grew up in front of the movie camera. And, in fact, she did. She has been involved in acting, in one form or another, since she was a teenager.

But "WarGames" was practically her first big–screen movie. Practically. It almost certainly was her most extensive role to date. More extensive screen time came with later films, like "The Breakfast Club" and "St. Elmo's Fire," but, for many moviegoers, this was their first real look at the young actress.

And there was a lot to like. Admittedly pleasing to the eye with her chestnut hair and athletic build, Sheedy, it turned out, was a pretty good actress, too — and that certainly contributed to the quality of the story.

But the real attraction to "WarGames" was the public's uneasiness with computers. Audiences in 1983 weren't as sophisticated as they are in 2013. The public's mindset probably was unchanged since the 1950s — when people heard the word computer in 1983, they still thought of some massive mechanical monstrosity (presumably like the one that virtually filled a room in 1957's "Desk Set") that was beyond their comprehension.

The public's general ignorance about computers made the story of an accidental nuclear war more plausible than anything that had been made in 20 years. In many ways, it was a more innocent time, a time when cable TV was still in its infancy and the commercial internet was still in the future.

Because of the amazing advances we have witnessed in the last 30 years, I doubt that the story in "WarGames" would be taken seriously today. A whole generation of Americans has grown up playing computer games and using tech–savvy lingo, and most of those folks would probably be unimpressed by a computer that took so long to learn the simple lesson of Tic–Tac–Toe.

But there is little doubt that it was highly effective in 1983.

Roz and the Schnozzola

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Kevin Kilner and Jordan Baker, married in real life,
played Steve and Paula Garrett in this episode.

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Roz (Peri Gilpin): Now I'm supposed to put up with in–laws, and I don't even have a husband? That's like posing nude for your art teacher and still flunking the course.

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Readers of this blog know I am a diehard Frasier fan.

I like all the episodes — some better than others, of course — but the one that aired 15 years ago tonight is one of my particular favorites.

At this point in the Frasier storyline, Roz was pregnant and had decided not to marry the father, who was quite a bit younger. (After Roz turned down his proposal in an earlier episode, the young man left Seattle to study in France.)

Her apartment was being painted, and Roz arranged to stay with Frasier while that was going on. Consequently, she had her calls forwarded to his phone, and one of her messages was from Paula Garrett, the mother of her lover who wanted to meet Roz before Paula and her husband departed for Paris, where they would visit their son.

Roz wasn't enthusiastic about the idea, but Frasier talked her into meeting with the Garretts briefly. It was an opportunity, he told her, to see the kinds of family traits that her child would be inheriting.

A side plot involved a misunderstanding between Frasier and Daphne over a gift Frasier gave her. It was a pair of earrings that looked like they had sapphires — but, in fact, they were colored glass. Frasier saw them and thought they looked pretty so he bought them for Daphne (Jane Leeves), not remembering that it was the fifth anniversary of Daphne coming to work in the Crane household.

When Daphne appeared to believe they were genuine, Frasier didn't have the heart to set her straight.

It turned out the Garretts had huge noses. They also had some endearing qualities, but Roz couldn't get over the fact that their noses were so large.

Neither could the members of the Crane family, who could hardly contain their mirth at the double entendres in their conversations.

For example, when Niles told the Garretts of his and Frasier's intention to attend the annual dog show, Paula said, "We love dogs. We have two Giant Schnauzers," and it was all the Cranes could do to maintain a semblance of self–control.

And, when Paula bent over to smell the fresh–baked quiche and asked if the crust was homemade or from the store, Steve said, "You'll have to forgive my wife. Sometimes she's a little nosy."

That was the point where Frasier, who had resisted any urges to laugh, lost it.

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Roz: Now I know all the wonderful qualities my baby will have. A sunny disposition, a great sense of humor ... a nose like an ANTEATER!

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Roz took some comfort in the knowledge that the father of her child had a normal nose — even if his parents' noses were large. But that went out the window when she was given pictures of her baby's father when he was a boy. He had had a hockey accident, and nose surgery had been necessary.

Apparently, genetics had not taken a holiday, as Roz had so desperately hoped.

Roz didn't want to show the Cranes the pictures. "I'll never hear the end of it!" she protested. Ultimately, though, she relented.

"Where is the end of it?" Niles asked.

Frasier always had a nice way of ending such a story on an upbeat note.

In this episode, Daphne came into the dining room later that night to find Roz sitting at the table staring at some pictures — these of herself when she was a child. She recited her childhood maladies for Daphne, then said, "I'm just sitting here thinking, what if my kid gets Rick's nose and my ears and eyes? Throw in my grandfather's third nipple, I might as well pitch a tent and charge admission."

Roz said she couldn't stand the thought of her child being teased, but Daphne pointed out that being teased is a part of being a kid and Roz's child would be fortunate to have a mother who understood what it was like.

I thought it was a well–written lesson in human — especially parent–child — relationships.

I've heard some people say that they didn't like this episode because the reactions of the Cranes (with the exception of patriarch Martin) were out of character for them, that they ordinarily exhibited more restraint.

But even the most restrained people can blow their cool under the right conditions, and I thought Frasier was particularly effective in showing that 15 years ago tonight.

The Big-Screen Debut of The Odd Couple

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Oscar Madison (Walter Matthau): Who wants food?

Murray (Herb Edelman): What do you got?

Oscar: I got, uh, brown sandwiches and, uh, green sandwiches. Which one do you want?

Murray: What's the green?

Oscar: It's either very new cheese or very old meat.

Murray: I'll take the brown.

Roy (David Sheiner): Are you crazy? You're not going to eat that, are you?

Murray: I'm hungry!

Roy: His refrigerator has been out of order for two weeks now. I saw milk standing in there that wasn't even in the bottle!

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The Walter Matthau–Jack Lemmon movie "The Odd Couple" made its debut 45 years ago today, a couple of years after the Neil Simon–authored play was a splash on Broadway.

It is one of my favorite comedies, and I have written about it before — when it was about to be shown on TV. I'm not sure there is much I can add to that.

Except to say that I have seen it many times in my life, and I still think it is funny every time I see it. I know what's coming. I know all the best lines by heart.

But I still laugh, especially at scenes that I have been laughing at for years. Not even scenes really. I always laugh at Jack Lemmon's portrayal of the fastidious Felix, and I always laugh at Walter Matthau's portrayal of the sloppy Oscar.

They truly were an odd couple. That's what made them funny — but, frankly, Lemmon and Matthau were already funny. When they were paired up, they were even funnier.

And "The Odd Couple" wasn't even their first pairing. That was a couple of years earlier in "The Fortune Cookie," for which Matthau won an Oscar.

Matthau played a lawyer in that movie; he played a sports writer in "The Odd Couple." No matter which movie he was in or which role he played, though, he always looked like he had been sleeping in his clothes.

He didn't have much of a wardrobe in "The Odd Couple" — mostly T–shirts and ball caps — but he didn't really need much.

It was a big part of his charm, I guess.

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Oscar Madison: Look at this. You're the only man in the world with clenched hair.

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Of Lemmon, I guess it can best be said that he proved his talent for comedic roles in "Mister Roberts," "Some Like It Hot" and "The Apartment," but it was a different kind of role in "The Odd Couple."

Lemmon got his share of laughs in "The Odd Couple," to be sure, but most of the time, I guess, he was Matthau's straight man, feeding him setup lines.

Like when he and Oscar were talking about the fairer sex in a bowling alley, and Felix remarked, "Funny, I haven't thought of women in weeks."

"I fail to see the humor," Oscar replied, gazing longingly at a group of excited young women jumping up and down after one of them bowled a strike.

My favorite exchange may have been when Felix said, "I think I'm crazy."

"If it makes you feel any better," Oscar said, "I think so, too."

It was one of the great film partnerships of all time.

'The Possum' Passes Away

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If we all could sound like we wanted to, we'd all sound like George Jones.

Waylon Jennings

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I'm not the country music fan that some of my friends are.

Sure, there are some country performers that I like to listen to — if I'm in the right mood. None of the modern stuff, though. I prefer country singers like Merle Haggard or Waylon Jennings or Hank Williams Sr.

George Jones, who died in Nashville today at the age of 81, was in that category, too, but he was never my favorite, and I rarely listened to him.

That may seem contradictory. I grew up in the South, and country music was always playing on the radios in the barber shops, gas stations and hardware stores where I went with my father as a child.

And one of my earliest memories is of hearing the rockabilly song, "Root Beer," being played on one of those radios in one of those businesses. I guess I ought to remember more, but I don't. Fact was, in my then–small hometown, the only real difference between those businesses was the products they sold or services they provided.

Otherwise, they were pretty much the same. And so were most of the country songs I heard — or at least they seemed that way to me.

(Which reminds me ... I worked with a guy once who had been employed as a cameraman for a company that taped weddings and receptions. He once told me that he taped a Latino wedding that lasted for four hours, and a Tejano band provided the music.

("They played for four hours," he told me, "and it was the same song the whole time!")

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Anyway, I guess that was the kind of music for which Jones was known initially, but he evolved into a balladeer, and that is how I knew him as I got older. In those days, I guess I would have thought of his first #1 hit, "She Thinks I Still Care," whenever his name was mentioned.

But I was more interested in Southern rock — Lynyrd Skynyrd or ZZ Top. George Jones and his ilk seemed more suited for people of my parents' generation. At that time in my life, rock music seemed to be about the joy of living whereas country music was about sadness and death.

In addition to his drinking — which was legendary — Jones was also known for his duets with his one–time wife, Tammy Wynette, who died 15 years ago this month. They had a tumultuous marriage but a popular recording partnership, and I guess that was one of the things that attracted people to him. It never really appealed to me, though. Maybe I missed out on something.

I didn't miss out on what turned out to be his iconic hit, 1980's "He Stopped Loving Her Today," although I guess I sort of did at first.

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I was in college when the song was released, and I really didn't pay much attention at the time, but I did later, and I had to agree with the conclusions of several surveys — it may well be the greatest country song of all time. It's hard to say that, I suppose, when there are so many worthy nominees, but it's hard not to say it after you've heard the melancholy tale of a man who loved a woman all his life, who never gave up on the hope, however slim it may have been, that they would eventually be together — until he died.

And Jones had the perfect voice for it. He thought the song was too morbid to be successful, but he was wrong.

For a long time, I've heard Jones called "The Possum," but I never knew why until after he died. It's because his nose and general facial features resembled the creature.

Personally, I never saw it. And I don't think that is a bad thing, either. Of course, I'm seeing a lot of things about Jones after his death that I never gave much thought when he was alive.

I doubt that I will ever see him as a possum.

But it is tempting to equate "He Stopped Loving Her Today" with a line from "The Natural," which was in theaters nearly 30 years ago.

In that movie, Robert Redford's character observed, "Some mistakes we never stop paying for."

Jones made his share of mistakes in his life — just like the rest of us. But even though he had his reservations about recording "He Stopped Loving Her Today," time has proven that it wasn't a mistake for him to record it.

Nor was it a mistake for him to record the other songs in his library, from "Root Beer" to "He Stopped Loving Her Today" and everything in between.

He stopped living today, but he still lives through the miracle of recordings. No mistake there.

Pull Down Your Pants and Slide on the Ice

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Hawkeye (Alan Alda): Sydney, what's the psychiatric basis for gambling?

Dr. Freedman (Allan Arbus): Sex.

Hawkeye: Why?

Dr. Freedman: I don't know. They told me to say it. Sex is why we gamble, sex is why we drink, sex is why we give birth.

Hawkeye: Thank you, doctor.

Dr. Freedman: I'm taking a $5 chip. That was a house call.

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It is hardly a revelation to say that M*A*S*H was an iconic television series with an ensemble cast that ran circles around any other ensemble cast on any other TV show before or since.

The ensemble changed over the years. It was quite different at the end than it was at the beginning, but that was not a bad thing. McLean Stevenson, Larry Linville, Wayne Rogers and Gary Burghoff were missed but not terminally. The special genius of the writers was to create characters that were different and yet similar to the ones they replaced.

That might not have worked so well for other shows. But M*A*S*H was special. Anyone who ever watched it knows how special it was.

But it is far more rare to hear praise for the recurring characters who truly helped make it what it was. Without them — characters like the unit's early benefator, Gen. Clayton; the paranoid intelligence officer, Col. Flagg, and the affable psychiatrist, Dr. Sydney Freedman — I seriously doubt that M*A*S*H would have lasted 11 years.

With the noteworthy exception of a sluggish first season, though, the show was in the Top 10 for nearly its entire run.

It has been 30 years since M*A*S*H's still record–holding final episode. Many stories were told that night — and there were times when it was a tearjerker, especially in the last half hour — but the most moving may have been the one in which Sydney treated Hawkeye, who was in a psychiatric hospital following the death of a Korean child for which Hawkeye blamed himself.

Allan Arbus played Sydney with just the right mix of wisdom, compassion and humor in a dozen episodes, including the last one. He appeared in other things during his life — which ended last Friday but was confirmed publicly today — but, if fans linked him to any of the roles he played during his life, it was his role as Sydney Freedman. Hands down.

I doubt that anyone else could have played that role as well as he did. It was as if the role had been written with a picture of Arbus hanging on the wall for inspiration. He really looked the part.

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But he also acted the part.

Arbus was 95 at the time of his death, but he will always be the middle–aged psychiatrist in khaki for the millions who watched him at the time — and the millions of fans M*A*S*H has gained in the last three decades — due, in no small part, I am sure, to Arbus' contribution.

The last time we saw him as Dr. Freedman, he was giving the folks in the O.R. the same advice he had given them in an earlier episode:

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"Ladies and gentlemen, take my advice. Pull down your pants and slide on the ice!"

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That's still pretty good advice.

Theodoric of York's Debut

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On this date in 1978, Steve Martin was hosting Saturday Night Live.

That wasn't a big deal, really. SNL was not quite three years old at that time, but Martin had already been the show's host on four different occasions.

On this night in 1978, however, he made his first appearance as Theodoric of York, a Medieval "barber" (read: doctor) whose preferred prescription for any ailment was a bleeding.

(Well, I think it was Theodoric's first appearance. I haven't seen any mention of that character in Martin's previous stints as host.)

Steve Martin was hysterically funny as Theodoric. In fact, I actually preferred his lampooning of the Middle Ages to his jabs at Eastern European people, as in his recurring Festrunk brothers skits with Dan Aykroyd.

The Czechoslovakian brothers may have been more popular (they were the "wild and crazy guys"), but Theodoric had a "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" feel to it that I really liked. Theodoric's logic always reminded me of the witch scene in "Holy Grail."

And, like the "Holy Grail," this is something I can watch endlessly and always be amused.

How could anyone not be entertained by Steve Martin and the original Not–Ready–for–Prime–Time–Players ensemble?