Birth of a Notion

Shining On

2012-01-29T18:54:00.007-06:00

"We all shine on
Like the moon and the stars and the sun
Yeah, we all shine on
C'mon and on and on, on, on."

John Lennon

Stephen King has been one of my favorite writers since I was in my teens.

And I always thought his stories would make splendid movies.

But even when I was a teenager I knew that it was almost impossible — given the technology that existed at the time — to transfer his stories from the printed page to the big screen.

Nothing illustrated that better, I think, than the film version of "The Shining" that came out in 1980. It was a spine–tingling horror movie with a great cast (Jack Nicholson, Shelley Duvall, Scatman Crothers) and a great director (Stanley Kubrick) — and King was a fan of Kubrick's work — but ultimately King was disappointed in the results, as well he should have been.

I have often said that so much of what happens in a King novel seems to happen in the characters' minds. Sure, there are genuinely spooky things that happen in King's books. It's just hard for a filmmaker to re–create many of them, even with all the developments there have been since "The Shining" was published 35 years ago this month.

Twenty years after the book was published, a three–part TV miniseries was aired. King, whose dissatisfaction with Kubrick's version was behind the remake, was deeply involved in the teleplay.

It may well have been that King made such a personal investment in the project because he had gone to such great lengths to write the book in the first place. It was early in his writing career, and his first two books had been set in his native Maine. King apparently felt it was necessary to have a change of scenery.

He randomly chose Boulder, Colo., and relocated his family there. He was inspired to write "The Shining" during a family trip to a resort hotel in nearby Estes Park.

Later, King acknowledged that the story was, in part, a confession. The protagonist of the story, Jack Torrance, has seriously injured his young son in the past while under the influence of alcohol and desperately wants to make amends.

King, who struggled with his addictions to tobacco, alcohol and both prescription and street drugs until about 10 years after "The Shining" was published, admitted to "occasional feelings of real antagonism toward my children." I don't think King ever injured his own children; perhaps "The Shining" provided him with a creative outlet that helped him let off some steam before it became destructive.

But his ability to empathize with his characters, even the ones his readers find repugnant, is the trait that makes King's books so special.

And, while there was a lot more about "The Shining" that made it King's first hardback bestseller, that factor always stood out for me.

Several years later, I learned the inspiration for the title. It came from a line from John Lennon's "Instant Karma," which was one of my favorite songs before the book was published.

I didn't know, when the book was published 35 years ago this month, that it inspired the name. But the thought did cross my mind.

And now you know the rest of that story.

A Lost Opportunity

2012-01-29T04:16:00.004-06:00

"Virtually any unwanted contact between two people that directly or indirectly communicates a threat or places the victim in fear can be considered stalking."

National Center for Victims of Crime

Stalking wasn't a new phenomenon 30 years ago. It just wasn't recognized for what it truly is. Not yet.

I'm not an expert on the subject, but my best, most logical guess would be that it's been around as long as there have been jilted lovers — which means, I suppose, that it has been around since virtually the dawn of time.

(Of course, one need not have been jilted to stalk someone else. Jilted suggests that some kind of relationship existed at one time — and that is not always true.)

When I was growing up, stalking was almost exclusively used in descriptions of hunting trips. I've never been hunting, but it didn't require very vivid terms for me to imagine the mindset of a hunter stalking his prey, anticipating its moves and seeking to exploit its vulnerabilities.

It's one thing, though, to apply the term stalking to the pursuit of an animal. No matter what one's thoughts on guns and hunting may be, it's quite another issue when the term is applied to human relationships.

Combine the mentality of a stalker with the emotion swirling around a case of obsessive love, and you've got a volatile (and potentially deadly) situation on your hands.

In the 1990s, states started to take stalking seriously as a threat, mainly to women, and began writing laws making it a punishable offense. But, prior to that, most jurisdictions treated stalking as a nuisance, a hindrance to investigations into legitimate crimes, not as a probable prelude to an attack.

It was in such an environment that "The Seduction" was released on this day in 1982.

The movie starred Morgan Fairchild, a rising actress at the time, as a TV news reporter who attracted the obsessive attention of a photographer. It was a classic tale of stalking in which the stalker's attention evolved from an almost schoolboyish crush to something far more sinister.

The tag line for the movie made no bones about it, either: "Alone ... frightened ... trapped like an animal."

In 1982, Fairchild was regarded as one of the entertainment world's most beautiful women. Consequently, her casting in this role was something of a mixed blessing.

Her presence almost certainly helped the film with its box–office revenue, but it distracted attention from a legitimate issue and may well have delayed society's recognition of it.

If such a movie was made today, it would be promoted openly as a cautionary tale about stalking. The script might even be structured to provide helpful hints for dealing with such a situation.

But, in 1982, it was labeled an erotic thriller — and was widely panned by critics. It also received three Razzie nominations, two of which went to Fairchild.

I didn't feel that was fair. The word erotic was misapplied — I sincerely doubt that any 21st–century woman who has been the victim of stalking would describe the experience as erotic — but I felt the word thriller was a fair description. Certainly, there were times when I thought the movie had an Alfred Hitchcock or Brian De Palma aura, particularly when the stalker was hiding in Fairchild's closet watching her without her knowledge.

Perhaps those who nominated films and people for the then–new Razzies expected to see more skin than they did. Given Fairchild's status as something of a sex symbol, that may explain their negative reactions.

I won't pretend that the script couldn't have been better — much better, in fact. When one looks at the movie today, many of the lines sound like cliches and the acting often lacks believability. As the story progresses, one comes to the conclusion that the story has been promising something it can't or won't deliver.

Nevertheless, a great opportunity may have been lost. Several celebrities were the victims of stalkers in the 1980s, eventually prompting California to become the first state to pass anti–stalking laws in the early 1990s.

If stalking had been taken more seriously when "The Seduction" was made, actresses Dominique Dunne and Rebecca Schaeffer might not have been killed and Theresa Saldana might not have endured a near–fatal stabbing.

But the movie was panned, and it took nearly another decade before society recognized stalking as the crime it is.

Part of the problem may have been the title. "The Seduction" made the actions of Fairchild's stalker seem almost noble — the passionate, heroic and romantic (and, in that context, excusable) acts of a man deeply in love.

I have no doubt that many stalkers see themselves precisely that way. Many may be totally unaware of the negative impact their actions have on the lives of the women they pursue. They believe they are being persistent and that the object of their affections will come around.

If the title had sounded more ominous, reflecting the odious nature of stalking, viewers might have taken the subject matter more seriously, and the opportunity to make a statement might not have been lost.

At least one prominent person apparently did appreciate the effort that was made — Bette Davis, who reportedly saw the movie on cable and was inspired to write a letter to Fairchild telling her how much Davis admired her work.

Fairchild's performance really was groundbreaking in much the same way as Elizabeth Montgomery's performance in TV's "A Case of Rape," which brought attention to the shabby treatment of rape victims by the legal system a few years earlier.

"A Case of Rape," however, had a better script, and Montgomery's performance was stronger than Fairchild's.

Still, I give credit where credit is due. For all its flaws, Fairchild's performance did rise above the exploitative nature of the script.

And I'd like to think that its cautionary tale wasn't entirely lost for a decade, that there were lives that were saved and acts of savagery that were prevented before legislators in most places enacted laws designed to curb stalking.

But I doubt it.

The 'Roots' Phenomenon

2012-01-23T04:58:00.003-06:00

On this night in 1977, a television phenomenon, unlike any other in my lifetime, began.

I am referring to the TV miniseries that was based on the hugely successful novel "Roots" that dominated bestseller lists and water–fountain conversations the year before.

There had been other miniseries that were based on modestly successful books, but none had the kind of impact of Roots.

For eight nights, it was a national event.

Video recorders were still too expensive to be in most homes so it was not yet possible for most people to record programs and watch them later. You had to watch something when it was on, or you didn't see it at all.

And, since just about everyone was engrossed in the series, my memory is that regularly scheduled meetings of city councils, school boards, etc., were postponed or severely abbreviated so that people could see the latest installment.

There have been a few comparable attempts to galvanize the viewing public in the 35 years that have passed since Roots was first televised — and some have succeeded, at least to the extent it was still possible to do so.

But that is the real problem. In 1977, television viewing was confined to the three major networks (plus a public broadcasting station if your area had one at that time — and many did not).

The proliferation of cable and satellite service — not to mention the overall population growth — makes it virtually impossible for anything on television to receive the share of the viewership that Roots achieved with its somewhat captive audience. After the series gathered momentum from its early episodes, the later episodes set ratings records that still stand today.

America's population has grown considerably in 35 years so it is probably possible for something to attract as many viewers as Roots — if not more — but the ratings are something else.

Super Bowls have surpassed most Roots episodes in ratings almost routinely, and a couple of programs from the early '80s — the M*A*S*H finale and the "Who Shot J.R.?" episode of Dallas — exceeded Roots' eighth and final installment, which aired on Jan. 30, 1977.

But, otherwise, shared TV experiences just don't happen anymore. Great numbers of people may experience major news events together via television, but they don't watch the same network coverage — and, thus, do not share precisely the same experience.

On Sept. 11, 2001, for example, it is likely that the sum total of people watching TV coverage of the terrorist attacks matched or exceeded the number of people who ever witnessed the same thing at the same time — but some saw it on CNN, others saw it on Fox, still others saw it on extended broadcasts of network morning news shows.

In January 1977, it was as if all the conditions had merged to make Roots a huge success.

Roots had only a handful of competitors in 1977, and it had an all–star cast, with that cast constantly changing as the story went through the generations of Alex Haley's family.

It also dramatized an already compelling story that had been a runaway bestseller less than a year before.

Even without cable to lure away viewers, I think it would be very difficult to re–create the circumstances that made the Roots phenomenon possible.

Generation Flap

2012-01-22T07:26:00.007-06:00

It was often said, as I was growing up, that there was a gap between the generations.

It was most visible in the division over the Vietnam War, I guess. There were — as there always are — exceptions to the rule, but, generally speaking, younger people were opposed to the war and older people were supportive of it. In my experience, it was the mother of all wedge issues.

But that generational division could be seen in almost every other area of life as well — music, fashion, hair length — and I have learned, as I have traveled life's path, that the "generation gap" was not a phenomenon.

It is a constant of the human condition, this driving need for the young to express themselves and an equally strong negative reaction to such self–expression from their elders. I have seen it played out between my own generation and the generation that followed — and, in time, the generation that followed mine will experience the same thing with the next generation. And so it goes.

It is, in the words of a song that was popular when I was in my teens, the way of the world.

It's a topic that has been explored in many ways, and, 10 years ago tonight, the Frasier show memorably did so in its own, unique way in an episode titled "Juvenilia."

Frasier had been encouraged to be a guest on a youth–oriented program at the station in an attempt to attract more young listeners to his own show, which was said to appeal mostly to older men who kept the radio on for company. Frasier was reluctant, but, after speaking to one of the perky (and complimentary) hosts, he agreed to make an appearance.

Initially, things seemed to be going well ... until the hosts turned on Frasier, accusing him of "pass[ing] the buck" on "real problem[s]" with the callers to his show and bringing up embarrassing moments from his past, like the time when he nearly committed suicide during the breakdown of his marriage.

Meanwhile, two somewhat related subplots had been playing out.

Frasier's brother Niles was trying to find a special gift for Daphne and, after hearing a story from Roz's romantic past, decided to attempt to swipe a street sign for Daphne Lane and make it his love offering.

And their father Martin started to fret when a young co–worker didn't call after a flirtatious encounter at a company party.

Both subplots complemented the main theme well. I thought it was one of the best episodes of the series' ninth season.

Anyway, Frasier managed to turn the tables on his hosts quite nicely — with the help of Kirby, the young man he had tutored in exchange for an old high school classmate's assistance in encouraging a relationship with a comely acquaintance.

Kirby was one of my favorite temporary characters on Frasier. He was played by Brian Klugman, who was actually in his mid–20s when he played the recent high school graduate — and "Juvenilia" was his final appearance on the show.

In real life, Klugman is the nephew of one of my favorite TV actors from my childhood, Jack Klugman, "Oscar" from TV's The Odd Couple — but also a member of the cast of one of my favorite movies, "12 Angry Men," which will observe the 55th anniversary of its release later this year.

I don't know if the elder Klugman was responsible for the younger's career choice.

But it sure was nice to have a Klugman on my TV screen again.

It was almost like a blast from my past.

And She Was

2012-01-20T12:52:00.006-06:00

"The world was moving and she was right there with it
(And she was)
The world was moving she was floating above it
(And she was)
And she was."

Talking Heads

There was — and will forever be — only one Etta James.

James died earlier today at the age of 73, and, if anyone can be said to have experienced both the peaks and valleys of life, it would have to be Etta James.

Her health had been declining in recent years; it was already known that she was afflicted with dementia and kidney problems when it was revealed last month that she had chronic leukemia.

But she had other tribulations in her life. She struggled with her weight and painkillers and other drugs, spending some time in detox, and she had — shall we say? — issues with her mother, who was 14 when she was born. James never knew her father.

In between the hard times, though, there were moments of almost indescribable triumph.

Her signature song may well be "At Last," which was originally recorded by Glenn Miller, but James recorded a cover version nearly 20 years later — and, although others have recorded it since, it is James' version that was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame.

James herself can be found in both the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame and the Blues Hall of Fame. Rolling Stone rates her 22nd among the greatest singers of all time. It's a list of accomplishments that any performer would envy.

"Most of the songs I sing, they have that blue feeling to it," she told CNN a decade ago. "They have that sorry feeling. And I don't know what I'm sorry about. I don't!"

Although I know of the hard times she endured, it is hard to understand why she should feel blue. After all, she was the opening act for the Rolling Stones at one time. To someone from my generation, little could be better than that.

Her recording of "At Last" may not have been a Top 40 hit when it was first released, but it continues to be a standard at weddings — and likely will remain one.

In that way, I suppose, Etta James will live on indefinitely.

That's good. I find it hard to imagine a world without Etta James in it.

Betty White Turns 90

2012-01-17T04:15:00.006-06:00

Perhaps one of the most amazing phenomena of recent years has been the surge in popularity of actress Betty White, who is 90 years old today.

I would be tempted to compare her to Grandma Moses — except that she didn't begin this career in her golden years.

Most people probably know she's no newbie — but still, I think, a lot of people probably don't realize just how long she has been around. Her career spans seven decades. She started out singing on an experimental TV station in Los Angeles right out of high school, but her early career was spent mostly on radio.

By the early 1950s, she was on TV, by that time an established entertainment medium, and, by and large, that is where she has remained. And she made it her own in a career that has had its share of ups and down.

She really appeared to make the medium her own as Sue Ann Nivens, the Happy Homemaker, on the Mary Tyler Moore Show and the bubble–headed Rose Nylund on The Golden Girls, but she had some flops, too, like her short–lived sitcom, The Betty White Show, that followed the wrapup of the former and served as something of a bridge to the latter (although people often forget that she had recurring roles on The Love Boat and Mama's Family between the two).

She is still influencing entertainment as an immensely popular and award–nominated star of the hit cable sitcom Hot in Cleveland. Not bad for a gal who just hit 90, huh?

Frankly, I've never really been able to comprehend what it was that people liked about her. Even in the '70s, when she starred in her own series, I felt she was capitalizing on the success — and longing for — the Mary Tyler Moore Show and tried to ride piggyback on that series's success.

If that was her intention, it failed. I think the series was canceled after just a few months. And I remember hearing a lot of jokes from the late–night crowd of the day (mostly Johnny Carson) about it.

But, I suppose, neither White nor those affiliated with the show could be blamed for trying to strike while the iron was hot. After all, isn't that a guiding principal behind just about every endeavor?

Sometimes, such gambles pay off. Other times they don't.

I suppose enough have paid off for White over the years — or else we probably wouldn't be observing her 90th birthday today.

Simon's Solo Debut Turns 40

2012-01-14T00:24:00.001-06:00

There will always be a soft spot in my heart for the solo album that was released by Paul Simon on this day 40 years ago.

I never actually had a copy of the eponymously titled "Paul Simon," but I was familiar with the hits that came from it — songs like "Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard" and "Mother and Child Reunion."

You must understand. I was a young boy, and all of my exposure to Paul Simon at that time had come via the albums he recorded with Art Garfunkel. I guess that was how most people knew of Paul Simon, and that wasn't really surprising. The album that was released four decades ago today was the first that Simon released as a solo artist in the United States, even though he and Garfunkel had split up nearly two years earlier.

I wasn't accustomed to hearing Simon perform alone, and I guess I just assumed that any recording that featured him must include Garfunkel as well. Maybe a lot of people made that assumption — even though they knew the two had gone their separate ways.

Consequently, for many years, I mentally lumped songs like "Mother and Child" and "Me and Julio" with all the songs that Simon and Garfunkel recorded in the 1960s. My confusion wasn't helped when, in their reunion concert in New York's Central Park in 1981, the duo sang songs they had recorded as solo artists as well as the songs they had recorded together.

Deep down, I suppose I always knew that "Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard" and "Mother and Child Reunion" were Paul Simon songs, not Simon and Garfunkel songs.

Anyway, the latter title was an inspiration for both the angle of a story that I found myself writing for a newspaper shortly after I graduated from college and its headline.

The story was about the hospital in the town where I was working. The staff had recently implemented a program that would permit women and their newborn babies to be together sooner after childbirth than had been routine in the past.

I recall that the hospital's staffers were enthusiastic about the program, and the story reflected that. I don't remember all the details now — it's been a long time since I wrote that story — but I remember that the headline (a joint effort by myself and my managing editor) mentioned "mother and child reunions."

It was such a natural for the story.

Because of the positive public response to their reunion concert in Central Park, Simon and Garfunkel embarked on a reunion tour around that time that did not prove to be precursor to a long–term reunion.

I attended one of their concerts on that tour, along with my parents and my brother, and I don't remember now whether they played "Mother and Child Reunion" on that occasion.

No matter. It served as a memorable inspiration for me.

On Such a Timeless Flight

2012-01-01T10:21:00.009-06:00

"I'm not the man they think I am at home.
Oh, no, no, no
I'm a rocket man.
Rocket man
Burning out his fuse up here alone."

Forty years ago this month, Elton John recorded "Rocket Man."

A few months later, it was released as a single — and it has gone on to be possibly John's most recognizable recording. Oh, sure, you could mention others. "Honky Chateau," the album on which "Rocket Man" appeared, was his first album to reach #1 in America — but it was his fifth studio album.

And, within a few years of recording "Rocket Man," Sir Elton had released many others that people may be more inclined to recognize — although there is no doubt that lots of people recognize "Rocket Man."

They just don't always know the words.

That isn't an uncommon thing with popular songs, as Volkswagen cleverly demonstrated with its recent commercial featuring "Rocket Man."

The point of the commercial, of course, was to show how clear the Passat's sound system is — and it did so by showing just how many different ways a single line from a popular song can be misinterpreted.

That's really nothing new. Seems like people have been misquoting songs all my life. Doesn't really matter, I guess. Maybe that is what is magical about popular music, kind of like those write–your–own–caption contests where the cartoon is already drawn and all you have to do is supply the punch line.

In that regard, I've heard people attach such mondegreens to tunes, filing in things that were relevant to their experiences — kind of like the waitress who sings about "burnin' up the room with cheap cologne."

I certainly get the feeling, from that very brief moment in that commercial, that the waitress sings from personal experience on that one, even if it isn't the line that was originally written and recorded. The music provides the framework. The personal line gives it powerful meaning.

I knew a girl in college who equated "Rocket Man" to her own life. I don't think she misquoted the lines when she sang the song, but the song nevertheless had a personal meaning for her.

Her father drove one of those big rigs you see on the highway, hauling freight from one place to the next, and he would be away from home for long periods, trying to support a family he seldom saw and probably didn't really know.

My friend thought of her father as a rocket man.

I don't know what he hauled, and that isn't relevant, anyway. My understanding is that most truckers are contractors. They transport cargo. Doesn't matter what the cargo is. It could be food or clothing or cars — or perhaps even a hazardous cargo.

The nature of the cargo might require special handling procedures, but the objective is always the same. The cargo has to be transported from Point A to Point B. As long as the grocery store has the cookies you like to eat while you watch TV or the clothing store has the jeans you like to wear (and in your size, too), most consumers give little thought to the logistics involved.

My friend's father was one of the faceless people in America, I suppose — the ones who only get our attention when something goes wrong.

And that was the point of "Rocket Man," that a job that could be fraught with risks could be regarded by so many as routine. These days, driving a big rig may not seem terribly risky to most people — unless they watch Ice Road Truckers — and 40 years ago, many people had come to think of space travel as routine — even though they had witnessed a deadly fire during a pre–launch test five years earlier and the aborted moon mission of Apollo 13 less than two years before.

Now, of course, the space shuttle, which didn't even exist when John recorded "Rocket Man," has been retired. In spite of two disasters with space shuttle missions, it was seen as ordinary, predictable, routine.

There's nothing routine about space travel. For that matter, there's nothing predictable about life. It's different for everyone.

Kind of like interpretations of song lyrics.

Love Is All Around ...

2011-12-29T16:21:00.009-06:00

They just don't make 'em like Mary Tyler Moore anymore.

And, yes, I actually do mean that in two ways.

In no particular order:

They certainly don't make sitcoms like the ones that featured Mary Tyler Moore in the 1960s and 1970s.

She first came to people's attention as Laura Petrie, the wife of Dick Van Dyke in the show that bore his name. Only 23 when she was cast in the role, she won two Emmys for her work and confided that she was convinced "this will never happen again."
But it did — three more times as the star of her own series, the iconic Mary Tyler Moore Show in which she played a single career girl, the associate producer of a Minneapolis TV station's evening news.

And they don't make people like Mary Tyler Moore anymore. Anyone who remembers watching her in the 1970s will tell you that.

The Mary Tyler Moore Show was really an ensemble production with some truly talented people in the original cast — Ed Asner, Valerie Harper, Cloris Leachman, Gavin MacLeod, Ted Knight. Others were added to it later on — Betty White and Georgia Engel.

But it seemed to reflect Moore's personality. She never produced a local news show, but the series really seemed to be her story. Some series are like that. The actor or actress is so perfect for the role that the audience can't tell where reality and fantasy part ways.

Maybe it was different for people who were old enough to remember when Laura Petrie was on primetime, but I never felt that her story was Moore's. I had no trouble at all with Mary Richards, though.

Moore, who celebrated her 75th birthday today, was nominated for an Academy Award after she and the cast of her TV series voluntarily ended it while it was still riding high in the ratings in 1977. She has appeared in numerous movies since the show went off the air, and she has even made some appearances on TV.

But nothing she has done since — and nothing she is likely to do in the future — really compares to her work on the Mary Tyler Moore Show. She really made it seem effortless, as if the series really did tell her story. As if Mary Richards' strengths and weaknesses were Moore's as well.

The audience was never certain if that was true, but there was one thing that was undeniable. Mary Richards had spunk.

And television in the 1970s was better because of it.

Trading Places

2011-12-28T09:23:00.002-06:00

"Dying is easy. Comedy is hard."

Edmund Gwenn

Most TV series don't last for a decade, and the few that do usually start to run out of gas long before their 10th seasons.

M*A*S*H was always the exception to the rule.

In its 1981–82 season, the series' 10th, it did have its share of weak episodes, but it also enjoyed some high moments. M*A*S*H probably didn't air any episodes that season that are remembered as being among the series' Top 10, but that would have been hard to do. More than 200 episodes had already been aired — including many that are regarded as classics today.

Nevertheless, M*A*S*H reached its usual level of impeccable quality on this night 30 years ago, and it did so in what may be the most challenging of circumstances for a TV series — a holiday season episode.

The inspiration for the episode came from the traditional practice, in most European countries, of observing Boxing Day on the day after Christmas.

Boxing Day is sort of a second Christmas holiday. There is no consensus on the origin of the name — except that everyone agrees it has nothing to do with the sport of boxing. Based on my understanding of it, Boxing Day was intended to be a legal holiday for workers and to encourage charitable activity.

In the M*A*S*H story, it was explained that the tradition on Boxing Day is for the employer to trade places with the employee for a day — kind of an intriguing twist to ponder in an age rife with allegations of class warfare — and it was decided that medical unit would have its own Boxing Day.

The officers would trade places with the enlisted men — which made for some interesting role reversals:

Klinger traded places with his boss, Col. Potter. For one day, Klinger — who earned his reputation in the series for constantly trying to get out of the Army — was one of the brass.

As one of his first executive decisions, Klinger decided that allowing Hawkeye and B.J. to be together was just begging for trouble so he decided to split them up.

Hawkeye was assigned to be an orderly with Father Mulcahy. B.J. was put to work on KP duty with Hot Lips — who protested that she "didn't go into a kitchen when I was married!"

The actual cooking would be done by the aristocratic Charles, who opposed the Boxing Day idea from the start. Nevertheless, Charles welcomed the opportunity to cook for Sgt. Pernelli (Val Bisoglio) "if only to teach you that soup is not a solid object."

Well, the underlings were enjoying their 24–hour promotions, getting lots of chuckles at the expense of the temporarily deposed officers, when things turned serious.

A patient had to be evacuated, but a blizzard was interfering with everything, including a shipment of much–needed fuel. A temporary reversal of the role reversal was necessary.

The episode wrapped up nicely — with everyone, the enlisted as well as the officers, coming away with a new appreciation for what their colleagues did every day to keep the unit functioning.

Not a bad Christmas lesson.

Staying Out of the Draft

2011-12-25T07:29:00.002-06:00

When I was growing up, there was probably no other issue that drove as many wedges between friends and relatives as the war in Vietnam.

It was the time of the infamous "generation gap," and you can trust me when I tell you that was no exaggeration. There really was a gap between the generations in those days. Most people above a certain age bought the whole "domino theory" argument and believed containing communism in southeast Asia was critical to our survival, and most people below a certain age thought it was rubbish and that they were being sent to die for nothing.

There were exceptions to both rules, of course. It was hardly unanimous. There were older people who opposed the war, and there were younger people who supported it.

And there were other issues that ripped people apart, of course — race, sex, religion.

But that's business as usual, isn't it? Humans have been dealing with those issues since time began. The real dividing line in America in those days was the war. It was bigger than anything else, and it played a prominent role in every aspect of American life, even its entertainment.

During the war — and for years after U.S. involvement ended — Vietnam was like this open, bleeding wound in American life that no one would even mention, much less treat. It never really surprised me that the Vietnam vets suffered as much as they did after they returned. They were treated as pariahs, blamed for a long and painful war for which they were not responsible.

It must have been especially shocking for any vets who fantasized about being greeted the way their fathers and uncles were welcomed home after World War II.

Those who avoided military service by going to Canada were treated no better. They may have been motivated by principle, but they were treated as cowards. That was some choice. If you went to Vietnam, you were spat upon when you came home. And if you avoided going to Vietnam, ostensibly because you felt the same way about the war as those who spat on the vets, you were spat upon when you came home — if you did.

Coming home, even briefly, from Canada when you were a fugitive from justice meant exposing yourself to the possibility of arrest, trial and conviction.

American television rarely dealt as directly and honestly with the war and the devastating effect it had on people as it did 35 years ago tonight in a holiday episode of All in the Family.

All in the Family didn't always have a holiday–oriented episode, but it was a groundbreaking series from the beginning so, when it did have a holiday episode, it was typically thought provoking.

It was Christmas Day in the Bunker home, and two special guests were there to share Christmas dinner — Pinky (Eugene Roche), Archie's friend who lost his son in Vietnam, and David (Renny Temple), Mike's friend who dodged the draft and was living in Canada.

Archie (Carroll O'Connor) wasn't supposed to know that David was a draft dodger, and the rest of the family did a pretty good job of concealing it from him — but David himself finally spilled the beans.

Archie: What the hell ya got in Canada that you ain't got here? ... Huh? What's the answer?

David: Freedom.

Archie: Did you say 'freedom?' "

David: Yes, sir. Freedom.

Archie: Come on, will ya? You got more freedom in the U.S. of A. than you got any place else in the world. This here is the land of the free. Didn't you never hear of that?

David: Mr. Bunker, for some of us, America is not free.

This exchange bewildered Archie, as I am sure it bewildered countless Archie types all across the country in those days.

It angered him, too — and I'm equally sure that it angered the Archies in America.

Their belief system could be summed up in a bumper sticker — "America: Love it or leave it."

That belief system was being challenged. And Archie was in full defense mode.

But, in a finish that neatly emphasized the spirit of Christmas, Pinky, the Gold Star father, accepted David the draft dodger.

"I understand how you feel, Arch," Pinky said. "My kid hated the war, too, but he did what he thought he had to do, and David here did what he thought he had to do. But David's alive to share Christmas dinner with us. And if Steve were here, he'd want to sit down with him, and that's what I want to do."

Such an act of generosity surely was in the best tradition of O. Henry.

The Morning After the Night Before

2011-12-25T04:29:00.001-06:00

Jane Fonda has always been something of an enigma for me.

For example, she has been an often passionate advocate and defender of women yet she has not hesitated to lend her name (if not more) to projects like "Barbarella" that brazenly exploited women — when she wasn't exploiting, for personal profit, the desire that most of them have to be young and beautiful even after they have ceased to be either.

Most of the time, I guess, I just never thought she was terribly original — unlike her father. Even when she made what were said to be groundbreaking films, I always seemed to have the sensation that I had seen it done before — and better — by someone else.

When I first saw "The Morning After" — which premiered 25 years ago today — my first thought was that I must have walked into the wrong viewing room, that I was seeing some sort of parody of "The Godfather."

Do you remember the scene in "The Godfather" in which the movie director woke up in bed with the head of his beloved horse — and in a pool of the animal's blood? That's how "The Morning After" began — with Fonda (playing an alcoholic actress) waking up in bed with a man — and no memory of how she got there or what had happened when she did.

Then, when she withdrew one of her hands from beneath the sheets, she found it was covered in blood. She then discovered that her bedmate was dead with a knife sticking in his back.

She couldn't be sure whether she was responsible for the death or not, but she set about to thoroughly clean the apartment and rid it of any trace that she had been there — quite a task considering that she could not remember what she may have touched the night before.

(It occurred to me many years later that the story would require a drastic rewriting after the development of DNA evidence gathering and analysis. It was a nascent technology in the mid–1980s, but its forensic application changed things.)

In spite of her best (and rather frenzied) efforts, the evidence incriminating her began to pile up. But she was determined to prove that she was not guilty, and she enlisted the help of Jeff Bridges (a bigoted ex–cop).

As I observed when Lumet died earlier this year, he wasn't given to relying on splashy special effects — and "The Morning After" was a good example. His style was more psychological than that — reminiscent of Hitchcock in the way that the camera sort of nonchalantly nudged the viewer's attention in the direction of things that the characters in the film didn't see.

But eventually everything — like the pieces in a jigsaw puzzle — came together for all to see, even the characters in the movie.

It was clear that the characters of both Fonda and Bridges were deeply flawed. At times, Fonda reminded me of Ingrid Bergman in "Gaslight," uncertain of what was true and what was fantasy, not sure if she could trust her own memories and observations.

Bridges' character was harder for me to pin down. In spite of his bigotry, he had a clear sense of right and wrong — and he would stand on the side he had concluded was right, even if that meant standing alone.

He wasn't so different from other characters I had admired in Lumet's movies — Henry Fonda in "12 Angry Men," Dan O'Herlihy in "Fail–Safe," Bill Holden in "Network." All were flawed in their own ways.

Bridges' tenacity contributed to a somewhat surprising conclusion — and less surprising (as far as I was concerned) complications with Fonda's character. And, to be fair, the movie did generate more suspense than I expected.

In the realm of her suspense thriller flicks, I prefer Fonda's Oscar–winning turn in "Klute" — but "The Morning After" came close to matching that. Fonda was nominated for an Oscar, but she lost to Marlee Matlin.

The Search for the Truth

2011-12-20T06:31:00.012-06:00

X (Donald Sutherland): Fundamentally, people are suckers for the truth. And the truth is on your side, Bubba.

I had a lot of things on my mind in December 1991.

I was about to receive my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas.

That alone would have been enough to warrant most of my attention, but, earlier in the year, I learned that an old friend of mine in Arkansas had been diagnosed with a particularly aggressive variant of cancer, and I put my academic plans on hold while he waged a losing battle with that disease.

Mercifully for him, I guess, that battle was over rather quickly. I drove back to Arkansas to be a pallbearer at his funeral that August, and I resumed work on my master's a few weeks later. I took the final class for which I needed credit, and I took the comprehensive exam, clearing all the remaining hurdles before receiving my degree on December 14.

That night, I attended a post–graduation party that was given by some younger people who had received their B.A.s that day — and who had been my students when I worked as a teaching assistant.

At the party, I remember discussing with several people the approaching premiere of Oliver Stone's newest film, "JFK."

I cannot remember a time in my life when I was ever too preoccupied to talk about the Kennedy assassination.

Like many people, I have long been fascinated by the Kennedy assassination — especially, I suppose, because it happened in Dallas, where my parents grew up, where my grandparents lived most of their lives and where I have observed many of the milestones in my life.

That's part of what I have tried for many years to reconcile — the fact that a city that holds so many valued memories for me could have been the scene of one of the greatest tragedies in American history. I guess it makes the Kennedy assassination that much more personal for me.

And, like most Americans, I want to know the truth. I don't believe I have been told the truth, and I would like to know what the truth is before I die.

Perhaps L. Fletcher Prouty, the former Air Force colonel who served the Joint Chiefs of Staff under President Kennedy, could have told us the truth. He was the inspiration for the character of X, the informant who met with Kevin Costner in "JFK."

X seemed to know more than he was telling — even though he told Costner quite a bit. And, in his life, there were certainly times when Prouty seemed to know more than he was saying.

My impression of Prouty, who has been deceased for 10½ years, is that he believed (whether he had evidence to support it or not) that participation in the Kennedy assassination and/or its coverup was consistent with a pattern of behavior that he witnessed within the intelligence community.

The existence of the "Secret Team," as he called it in one of his books, combined with his stated belief that the Kennedy assassination was a coup d'etat, may well have made it possible for other secret groups (i.e., Nixon's "Plumbers" in the 1970s and Oliver North's covert sale of weapons to Iran and diversion of the profits to Nicaraguan Contras in the 1980s) to do things in the future that Congress had not authorized them to do — things that, frequently, were not only outside congressional oversight but outside the law as well.

I fear I am nearing my limit of major mystery resolutions, though. I was a teenager during the Watergate era, and I always wanted to know the actual identity of Deep Throat. The truth about that became known several years ago.

There are other mysteries that I would like to see resolved before I die, and the Kennedy assassination is one of them, perhaps the most prominent one. But I am increasingly skeptical that it will ever be satisfactorily resolved.

Like the fates of D.B. Cooper and Jimmy Hoffa, it is tumbling into the dustbin of history.

What I really liked about "JFK" was that Stone tried to put all the questions that had been raised over the years — in articles, books, documentaries — into a single coherent package. And, to be fair, a few have been answered.

But many, many more have been raised.

"What is past is prologue" appeared on the screen at the end of the film.

That is a line from Shakespeare's "The Tempest," which was written about 400 years ago. It is engraved on the National Archives Building and, in the modern interpretation, it means that history influences the present.

But in Shakespeare's day, it had a somewhat different meaning — the past had led the characters to the verge of a murder. It suggests that those who commit heinous acts are fulfilling destinies over which they are powerless.

I have never believed that we were powerless to learn the truth about what happened here nearly 50 years ago.

But, as the search for truth has gone on these last 20 years, I have wondered if that truth will ever be fully revealed.

Bringing Middle Earth to the Big Screen

2011-12-19T20:44:00.002-06:00

Aragorn: Gentlemen, we do not stop 'til nightfall.

Pippin: What about breakfast?

Aragorn: You've already had it.

Pippin: We've had one, yes. What about second breakfast?

Merry: I don't think he knows about second breakfast, Pip.

Pippin: What about elevenses? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper? He knows about them, doesn't he?

Merry: I wouldn't count on it.

Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (2001)

"The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring" made me wish that my mother had lived to see J.R.R. Tolkien's trilogy brought to the silver screen.

Actually, I felt that way about all three of Peter Jackson's Middle Earth movies. It was a thought that kept weaving its way through my brain as I watched them in the theaters. It's a thought that still goes through my mind when I watch them on DVD.

Mom woulda loved this.

Mom was a reader. She liked all kinds of books, really, but she particularly liked fantasy stories.

I remember, for example, one summer when my brother and I were little, and our family went on a car trip somewhere. To keep us entertained, my mother read to us from the first book in the Narnia series, and she kept reading those books to us after we got back from our trip — until we had finished every book in that series.

Mom didn't read the Tolkien books to us. We read them on our own. Or, at least, I did — and I assume my brother did, too.

Mom must have read them, too, because I remember when an animated version of the "Lord of the Rings" prequel, "The Hobbit," was made, and she was as excited about it as anyone.

For a long time, the conventional wisdom was that animation was the only way Tolkien's books could be brought to the screen — and that seems to have repulsed some of the more prominent directors. When United Artists acquired the film rights to the books, Stanley Kubrick, who never did much (if anything) in animation (and whose "A Clockwork Orange," ironically, debuted on this date in 1971), was approached about directing the Beatles in a film based on them.

But Kubrick rejected the offer. The story could not be filmed, he reportedly told John Lennon.

Things changed in the next 30 years, though. Advances in filmmaking that were unimagined in 1970 enabled Peter Jackson to make his remarkable "Lord of the Rings," the first installment of which made its debut 10 years ago today.

When that occurred, I thought a lot about Mom. She had been gone for several years by that time so it was only natural, I suppose, for me to see it with my brother. We heard about long lines and decided to wait a few weeks to avoid the crowd — and then, for one reason and another, we wound up being delayed even more by some unforeseen circumstances.

By the time we saw it, it was near the end of its theatrical run — and the "crowd" we had wanted to avoid turned out to be nonexistent. I'm sure the theater was packed at the start of the movie's run, just like any other theater in the country, but the place was practically empty when we went to see it.

That was just fine, though, because it was like having a private screening room. We could speak to each other in a nearly normal tone of voice and not have to worry about disturbing anyone. My memory is that there was only one other person in the theater, and he was sitting a fair distance from us.

Whenever amazing things happened on the screen — and, in the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, amazing things were always happening — we could chat about them above a whisper.

I guess it never occurred to me when I was reading the trilogy how difficult it would be to turn it into a movie — but, even with the advances in filmmaking techniques and some prudent whittling of the story, it took about nine hours of screen time spread out over three movies in three years to accomplish.

The movie that premiered 10 years ago today set the stage for what was to come — as did the book that inspired it. It introduced the audience to all the characters of Middle Earth, a not–inconsequential task but a necessary one, given the story that still had to be told.

A Clockwork Orange

2011-12-19T08:22:00.002-06:00

Alex (Malcolm McDowell): It's funny how the colors of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen.

Here's a little–known fact about "A Clockwork Orange."

Malcolm McDowell was 27 when he made that movie, but his character was 15.

I knew he was older than the character he played — but I never realized he was nearly twice as old — until recently.

Well, anyway ...

Director Stanley Kubrick said "A Clockwork Orange," which premiered 40 years ago today, was a "social satire," and I suppose that is true. By definition, I guess, a satire is something that is obviously exaggerated, and "A Clockwork Orange" was grossly exaggerated in parts.

But it was also a very disturbing movie — disturbing precisely because there was just enough truth in it to make it plausible — in addition to the fact that it featured a lot of violence, including a rape, whether they were plausibly presented or not.

I guess it was no surprise it got mixed reviews. As much as modern folks are inclined to complain about violence in movies and on TV, I'm sure it would get negative reviews if it was released today.

And that is kind of ironic, considering that many of the people in today's audiences were brought up on films like "Natural Born Killers," "Pulp Fiction" and "Kill Bill: Vols. 1 and 2."

"A Clockwork Orange" still inspires strong feelings from viewers, even after four decades. Earlier this month, NPR published a list of cult classics and asked its audience to "weigh in on what was there and what was missing."

It should have come as no real surprise that several readers pointed out that "A Clockwork Orange" was missing. In the words of one reader, "Without that, the list is illegitimate."

No doubt, many people — including myself — would agree.

I guess a lot of that has to do with the utterly repugnant nature of the depravity depicted in the movie — the rape scenes, the savage beatings, the generally brutish activity of Alex (McDowell) and his Droogs. It simply wasn't acceptable, no matter how one might try to excuse it.

You could try to rationalize the violence — as some people did — by saying it was the inevitable result of life in a socialist state, one that was clearly modeled after the Soviet Union or perhaps one of its satellites.

Or you could rationalize it in several other ways.

But, eventually, you had to come back to the realization that Alex and his Droogs deliberately inflicted pain and suffering on those who were weak and vulnerable.

And that is clearly contrary to (at the very least) the implied guidelines of a civilized society — which must have come as something of a shock to audiences of that day. Their most recent exposure to Kubrick had been a few years earlier, in "2001: A Space Odyssey," which had some violence but, in general, offered an uplifting vision of the future with its fantastic glimpses of technological advances and human nature.

Alex's incarceration — and the experimental effort at behavior modification — went awry almost from the start. In an effort to make violence and forced sex unpleasant, the doctors who sought to rehabilitate Alex inadvertently conditioned him to have the same response upon hearing the music of his beloved Ludwig van Beethoven.

Alex: No. No! NO! Stop it! Stop it, please! I beg you! This is sin! This is sin! This is sin! It's a sin, it's a sin, it's a sin!

Dr. Brodsky: Sin? What's all this about sin?

Alex: That! Using Ludwig van like that! He did no harm to anyone. Beethoven just wrote music!

Dr. Branom: Are you referring to the background score?

Alex: Yes.

Dr. Branom: You've heard Beethoven before?

Alex: Yes!

Dr. Brodsky: So, you're keen on music?

Alex: YES!

Dr. Brodsky: Can't be helped. Here's the punishment element perhaps.

Then, in what was a delicious twist of fate, the rehabilitated Alex, whose physical well being depended upon maintaining harmonious relationships with those around him, was released to the not–so–tender mercies of the outside world.

"A Clockwork Orange" was controversial at the time, and Kubrick voluntarily withdrew it from British theaters after learning that it was being blamed for copycat crimes.

Kubrick is often mentioned as a primary influence on film directors even though he only directed about a dozen films in his lifetime, and each was quite different from the rest, but there are some generalizations that can be made about his directorial career, the most significant of which (I believe) is this:

Before "A Clockwork Orange," it could fairly be said that most of his movies offered a more upbeat presentation of humanity; the general mood of his films (if not the themes themselves) grew much darker after "A Clockwork Orange."

But if one must find similarities between a film and its director's other works, then I would have to say this about "A Clockwork Orange." Of all the films Kubrick made, it probably had the most in common with "Dr. Strangelove," which was made nearly a decade earlier.

It's hard to pick a favorite from Kubrick's films. His body of work was diverse and included the first attempt to bring "Lolita" to the screen, "Dr. Strangelove," "2001," "The Shining," and "Full Metal Jacket."

Being asked to choose a favorite Kubrick film — as far as I am concerned — isn't even like being asked to pick between peaches and apples. It's more like being asked to pick between But I think I would choose "Dr. Strangelove" as my favorite, and "Clockwork." much like "Strangelove," was a fascinating tap dance between really terrifying violence and ethical ambiguity.

In fact, if he had been considerably younger when "Clockwork" was made, I could see Peter Sellers (a star of both "Strangelove" and "Lolita") in McDowell's role. But, by 1971, he was too old (45) to plausibly play a teenager.

One could argue, I guess, that "Clockwork" was the logical next step in Kubrick's departure from comedy. But I don't think he ever left comedy. His comedy just took on a darker edge that could be seen in his later films.

I guess there were times when you really had to look for it, but it was always there.

Neighborly Gestures

2011-12-18T14:27:00.004-06:00

Vic (Dan Aykroyd): We might have had a wonderful relationship. But then, as Arthur Bremer once said, 'How many things go right in this crazy world?'

We've all had them, I guess — neighbors who thoughtlessly impose themselves on us, interrupting us at the most inopportune times with a lot of noise or, worse yet, burdening us with their actual physical presence and the up–close–and–personal of their lives.

And all around us, it may seem, there is an ongoing conspiracy. It may be an accidental conspiracy, and we may be the only ones aware of its existence — but that doesn't mean it isn't legitimate.

That was Earl's dilemma, I suppose. At first, Earl (John Belushi) appeared to be a mild—mannered middle–class type, leading a fairly quiet middle–class life until Vic (Dan Aykroyd) and Ramona (Cathy Moriarty) moved in next door.

Then, suddenly, everything in Earl's comfortable, predictable life went haywire — but no one, other than Earl, seemed to realize it.

In "Neighbors," Belushi was certainly cast against type — or, at least, against image. In his Saturday Night Live days — and when he was making "National Lampoon's Animal House" — he had a reputation for being something of a party animal — while, if anything, Aykroyd was perceived as being more strait laced, more reserved.

In "Neighbors," the two really reversed roles. Based on existing public expectations, Belushi should have played the role of Vic and Aykroyd should have played the role of Earl.

But I always thought it was funnier the way it was done. Viewed from the perspective of 30 years later, when memories of Belushi are rather faded for most who are old enough to remember him, "Neighbors" is striking evidence of Belushi's diverse talent.

All one needs to do is watch "Animal House" or the original "Blues Brothers" — and then watch "Neighbors" — to see that Belushi was equally adept at playing both extremes.

It is often said of great actors that they lose themselves in a role, that they become the part they are playing. I don't know if Belushi was a great actor — a great talent, definitely — but that always seemed to be the case with Belushi's Earl. Sometime when I was watching "Neighbors" for the first time, I forgot that I was watching Belushi.

He was Earl.

His partnership with Aykroyd, on both the small and large screens, may have been the best since Martin and Lewis or the early days of Matthau and Lemmon. It was tragic that it was as brief as it was. Belushi died only a few months after "Neighbors" was released.

It was the last movie they made together.

Most people probably think only of "The Blues Brothers" when they think of the Belushi–Aykroyd film partnership — and that is a good one, to be sure. But there were two others — "Neighbors" and "1941," which, in hindsight, really should have done better than it did (but that is another story).

But it is "Neighbors" that I think of most when I think of Aykroyd and Belushi — unless I think of their work on Saturday Night Live.

And it was precisely because they veered so dramatically from type in "Neighbors" that it is the one that springs to my mind.

Makes me regret there wasn't more.

Rebels With a Cause

2011-12-18T06:02:00.002-06:00

Chicago Sun–Times film critic Roger Ebert compared "Taps" to "Lord of the Flies," and I always felt that was a pretty good comparison.

William Golding's book about a group of boys trying — and failing — to govern themselves on a deserted island also was the story of "Taps," in which a group of boys from a military school — metaphorically stranded in the deserted island of the extensively walled campus — tried to function while under siege from outside influences.

Without giving away too much of the story, the school's commander (authoritatively played by George C. Scott) announced during an end–of–year parade/review that the school would be closed at the end of the next academic year. A real estate company had other plans for the property.

For awhile, hope that the school could be saved prevailed, but conflict soon reared its ugly head.

During a post–commencement dance at the school, a fight broke out between the cadets and some local boys. Scott's character tried to break up the fight, and his handgun was grabbed by one of the locals. It discharged, killing another local boy, and Scott's character was taken into custody under suspicion of manslaughter.

It was announced that the school would be shut down immediately, and the cadets closed ranks.

Conditions weren't quite as primitive for the cadets as they were for Golding's boys — at least, not at first. But, as the siege wore on, things got worse. The cadets ran short of food, then the water and the electricity were shut off.

The resourceful cadets, under the leadership of Timothy Hutton, attempted to restore electricity with an old generator, but the gas they were using ignited and one of the cadets was seriously injured. That led to a temporary truce so the cadet could be taken to the local hospital.

Hutton's character offered to end the standoff if asked to do so by Scott's character, but then he learned that Scott, who had suffered a heart attack after being arrested, had died.

The death of Scott's character seemed to break the resolve of many of the cadets; several had already chosen to leave when given the opportunity, and most of the ones who remained seemed to be too young to be dealing with combat–related issues.

Eventually, Hutton decided to end the occupation, but some diehards remained — including Tom Cruise (appearing in only his second movie), who opened fire on the National Guardsmen assembled outside the gate. Hutton and Sean Penn tried to stop him, but Hutton (along with Cruise) died when the Guardsmen returned the fire.

The movie came to an end with a flashback, but, as I recall, there was a clear sense that the surviving cadets would surrender, and the conflict would come to a peaceful conclusion.

To be honest, I was never really sure what the lesson of the story was. I gathered that it was some kind of cautionary or morality tale, but, whereas "Lord of the Flies" had some valuable things to say about topics like human nature, "Taps" never really seemed to make any statements or useful observations.

It seemed more inclined to criticize the military culture than praise it, which wasn't unusual at that time. The Vietnam experience was still fresh in the public's mind, and returning soldiers were greeted with derision and ridicule — a far cry from today.

The fact that the soldiers' reception after returning home has changed for the better is certainly a good thing, but it is important to remember that it had not changed that much when "Taps" was made. Ronald Reagan, after all, had just been elected president in a campaign in which his assertion that the mission in Vietnam had been a "noble cause" came under heavy fire.

In the late '70s and early '80s, the military was viewed with considerable suspicion by many — even though the draft no longer existed (registration did, however), and the nation was being defended by an all–volunteer Army.

If "Taps" was being remade today, three decades later, I believe the story would have to be drastically rewritten. I'm not entirely sure that would be possible, either.

"Taps" may only have been possible at the time it was made.

And that makes it a unique story.

James Cagney, Cold Warrior

2011-12-15T03:39:00.003-06:00

"On Sunday, August 13th, 1961, the eyes of America were on the nation's capital, where Roger Maris was hitting home runs #44 and 45 against the Senators. On that same day, without any warning, the East German Communists sealed off the border between East and West Berlin. I only mention this to show the kind of people we're dealing with — REAL SHIFTY."

James Cagney
One Two Three (1961)

I suppose New York Times film critic Bosley Crowther was right.

Crowther — who did have something of a reputation for writing mean reviews at times — wrote that James Cagney was "a good 50 percent" of the movie "One Two Three," which premiered 50 years ago today.

"With all due respect for all the others, all of whom are very good," Crowther wrote, "the burden is carried by Mr. Cagney ... Mr. Cagney makes you mistrust him — but he sure makes you laugh with him. And that's about the nature of the picture. It is one with which you can laugh — with its own impudence toward foreign crises — while laughing at its rowdy spinning jokes."

Other critics of the time used words like "fast–paced" and "frenetic" to describe a film that, more than anything else that was being made in those years, exemplified the best of the old screwball comedies of the 1930s — with a generous helping of international political intrigue.

In fact, writer/director Billy Wilder even acknowledged that he lifted portions of the plot from the classic 1939 screwball comedy "Ninotchka," which clearly had a political subtext. (Wilder had been its co–writer.)

But "One Two Three" was no rehashed remake. It was very much a film of its time, set in Berlin during the Cold War. Wilder and his cast and crew were in Berlin filming the movie when construction began on the Berlin Wall in August 1961, forcing them to relocate to Munich — and inspiring Wilder to write a brand–new introduction, which was narrated by Cagney.

In that monologue, Cagney decried the Communists as "real shifty."

That seemed an apt description, coming from Cagney's character, a Coca–Cola executive in postwar Berlin, where he had been assigned after an unfortunate episode in the Middle East. Viewers learned about that only through dialogue, but Cagney's character clearly carried some baggage on it.

Nevertheless, he seemed to be adjusting. While finagling to be assigned to London, he was busily learning German from his secretary/mistress (Liselotte Pulver), and he worked out a lucrative deal for Coke with the Soviet Union — then he got a call from his boss back in Atlanta.

The boss' daughter (Pamela Tiffin) was coming to Berlin, and Cagney's boss wanted her to stay with him. Cagney agreed — only to discover that Miss Scarlett Hazeltine was no Georgia peach — more like a Southern firecracker.

She was a hot–blooded teenager who wound up marrying an East German communist (Horst Buchholz). That was enough of a headache for Cagney — but then the heiress and her spouse decided they were going to move to Moscow at precisely the time when her parents were coming to Berlin to retrieve her.

Fearing a repeat of the Middle East experience, Cagney arranged to frame Buchholz as a closet capitalist, leading to his expulsion from East Germany. After that, he could clean the young man up and make him presentable for his in–laws.

But Cagney's character learned that, while you may take the young man from the communist state, you can't as easily take the communist state from the young man — so he engaged in some brainwashing of his own, dressing Buccholz like an affluent capitalist and giving him a crash course in the ways of the breed.

Like Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle in "Pygmalion," Cagney succeeded in transforming his Cockney flower girl into a lady.

And, in the end, it appeared that Cagney's character had earned his promotion from Berlin.

In Billy Wilder's hands, it was an uproarious story.

And James Cagney was the perfect choice to pitch it.

The Funniest Pink Panther Movie of Them All

2011-12-15T03:16:00.001-06:00

When I was growing up, my family did a lot of things together.

But no experience compared to that of seeing a funny movie with my parents.

Sometimes we would watch funny movies on TV because they had been out of the theaters for years, and TV was the only place you could see them. Most of the time, my parents had seen those movies before, and they knew when their favorites moments were coming up.

But sometimes we caught the movies at the theaters. They were new to my parents on those occasions, and Mom and Dad had no idea when the funniest moments would occur.

Whether we were watching the TV in our living room or the big screen at a theater, I always knew when my father thought something was genuinely funny. He had a laugh that seemed to roll its way up his windpipe, gathering momentum as it did, and then exploded from his mouth — as if there was simply no way he could contain it.

I tended to judge a supposedly funny movie by how many laughs like that it could coax from him.

On many occasions, a movie might get one such laugh from him. The rest of the time, he might give a polite laugh or two when something was supposed to be humorous, but, for the most part, those movies were not genuinely funny.

The more belly laughs a movie could prod from him, the funnier it was.

"The Pink Panther Strikes Again" — which made its debut on this day in 1976 — had him laughing from start to finish.

It was genuinely funny.

Actually, all of the "Pink Panther" movies were family favorites. My mother, as I have said before, was a huge Peter Sellers fan, and both of my parents were devotees of detective fiction.

That made the "Pink Panther" movies naturals — and, for my money, the one that premiered on this day 35 years ago was the funniest of them all.

It was a spoof of everything — from the running gags in the previous "Pink Panther" flicks (we all got a kick out of Clouseau's man servant, Cato, ambushing his employer in his cavernous apartment to keep him on his toes) to the jokes that abounded at the time about then–President Ford's legendary pratfalls and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger's thick German accent.

Most of the humor in the movie derived from the former chief inspector (Herbert Lom) who had escaped from the asylum to which he was sent after Clouseau's idiocy drove him over the edge.

After his escape, the former chief inspector assembled a gang of the world's greatest criminals whose sole objective would be to kill Clouseau — and it became Clouseau's objective to stop him.

Thus, the wheels were set in motion for what may have been the most wildly improbable detective story ever. Even now, I am hesitant to reveal any more of the details — because if you haven't seen it, you should.

Of course, I wouldn't recommend seeing it without seeing the others first. It simply won't be as funny otherwise.

So go ahead and do that.

We'll resume the discussion when the case is solv–ed.

Young at Art

2011-12-13T07:12:00.008-06:00

"Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children."

George Bernard Shaw

There probably isn't much of a reason for modern people to think about — or even remember at all — Anna Mary Robertson Moses.

For that matter, there wasn't much of a reason for her contemporaries to think about her through most of her life.

She was born a couple of months before Abraham Lincoln was elected president, and she died 50 years ago today, less than a year after John F. Kennedy became president. For most of her adult life, she was an ordinary wife and mother; she gave birth to 10 children in the late 19th century and early 20th century, half of whom did not live past infancy.

As she was raising her children, Anna Moses often showed signs of the creativity that would blossom in her later years, but that creativity usually was expressed through embroidery. As she got older, arthritis made that too arduous for her, and her sister suggested painting.

"It was this pivotal suggestion," says the Orlando (Fla.) Museum of Art's website, "that spurred Grandma Moses' painting career in her late 70s."

Well, that was what her sister said.

Grandma Moses said she took up painting because she wanted to give the postman a Christmas gift, and she concluded that painting was easier for her than baking.

Whichever version was correct — and, for all I know, there may have been elements of truth in both — it was truly fortunate that Grandma Moses made the decision she did.

Her style was primitive. That was the art community's word for it, depicting rural scenes and giving the appearance of having been painted by someone much younger.

That was really the essence of Grandma Moses' art and life. If her work suggested a young and innocent artist, it was because her mind really was young and innocent even if it occupied an elderly body.

And she became something of a poster child for those who were young at heart.

When I was growing up, I often heard someone referred to as a "real Grandma Moses" because he or she had embarked on something new at an advanced age. Rarely, if ever, was it something as consequential as taking on the challenge of an entirely new career — but I don't really think Grandma Moses intended her painting to be a career move.

At least, not right away.

Eventually, I am told, Grandma Moses produced more than 3,500 pieces of art. They fill museum galleries across the nation.

But, originally, she made paintings to give as gifts — not only to the postman but also to friends and relatives with whom she had stayed on her travels. She charged a few dollars for others — paltry sums by modern standards but not insignificant for that time.

The price for one of her paintings went up considerably after the rest of the world discovered her in the late 1930s, and she became an inspiration — almost a patron saint — for those who embark on a new career late in life.

She was inspirational in other ways, too. Fans of the Beverly Hillbillies TV series may recall that the seldom–used name for the character of Granny was Daisy Moses — an homage to the real Grandma Moses, who died shortly before the series went on the air.

But it was more than an homage. The Granny character dabbled in several things — medicine, music and art — in that series, taking on the stereotype of an elderly, mentally and physically disengaged person.

Granny continued to make soap for her family, as she had probably done for decades. She did all the cooking and cleaning — and she still found time to do some recreational painting, utilizing barn paint.

That was a particularly nice touch because Grandma Moses was known for taking seemingly useless items and creating something useful from them. She made quilts from scraps of cloth, and I've heard that she even used leftover barn paint in some of her earliest works.

The artistic applications of such apparently useless items became known as "hobby art" nearly two decades after Grandma Moses died.

For a "primitive" artist, she was truly ahead of her time.

Hooked

2011-12-11T09:43:00.002-06:00

Every person is, of course, an individual, with unique personal experiences.

But some experiences, especially the ones from childhood, are universal. We all have them — eating ice cream cones on hot summer days, watching fireworks on the Fourth of July, going to school with the other children our age, learning to read and write and add and subtract — and looking forward to being allowed to go outside for recess on a sunny spring day.

And most parents read stories to their children. You know the stuff I'm talking about — "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz," anything by Dr. Suess.

J.M Barrie's story about Peter Pan and the Lost Boys of Neverland certainly belongs on that list.

There is, of course, the traditional story that Barrie wrote — nearly everyone must have heard that one — but that story has been re–told in many ways over the years, perhaps none quite as cleverly as the film version that premiered on this day in 1991.

In director Steven Spielberg's hands, the story was given a new twist.

At least, I thought so.

The movie focused not so much on the children but on their father (Robin Williams), who, it turns out, was once Peter Pan but was adopted and raised by an American couple — and forgot all about Neverland.

He was forced to confront his past when his old nemesis, Captain Hook (Dustin Hoffman), kidnapped his two children and took them to Neverland. With the help of Tinker Bell (Julia Roberts), Peter returned to Neverland to save them.

Like just about everything else Spielberg has done, "Hook" was enormously successful at the box office, but many critics complained that the movie failed "to find something new, fresh or urgent to do with the Peter Pan myth."

I disagreed.

It might have come as a surprise to the critics of 20 years ago, but Barrie apparently did conceive of something similar. In 2003, Andrew Birkin wrote that Barrie wrote some notes on the idea of a story in which Peter Pan grew up — but the idea never got past the note stage.

Spielberg apparently knew nothing of that when he made "Hook." His idea had its roots, he said, in his childhood when his mother read the original story to him. At the age of 11, he directed a school production of the story. You might say it's part of his DNA.

"I have always felt like Peter Pan," he once said. "I still feel like Peter Pan. It has been very hard for me to grow up."

Considering all the wonderful cinematic rides on which he has taken his audiences over the years, that's a good thing for the rest of us.

Rest in Peace, Colonel Potter

2011-12-07T15:42:00.014-06:00

It was with great sadness that I learned today of the death of actor Harry Morgan.

It really wasn't a surprise that he passed away. He was 96 years old, after all.

But it was another of those reminders that time is marching on.

Morgan had a long and mostly successful career that went back to the 1930s and included dozens of roles on the stage and the silver screen, but he is mostly remembered for his television work. He appeared in 11 different series and was a regular on several of them.

My family had only had a TV set for about a year when Morgan appeared on TV's Dragnet in one of the first TV roles with which he will always be linked, that of Officer Bill Gannon, Joe Friday's sidekick.

I didn't watch that show too much, but my father did, and I can't think of it without thinking of him. In my mind's eye, I can see my father sitting in the family living room, smoking his pipe and watching Dragnet. For me, it is as American an image as any from a Norman Rockwell painting.

A few years later, Morgan took on the role for which he will be remembered the most, I suppose — Col. Potter on M*A*S*H.

I have many great memories of watching M*A*S*H — including the evening in 1983 when M*A*S*H concluded its 11–year run with a 2½–hour episode that still ranks as the most–watched TV episode in history.

There will never be another M*A*S*H, he said at the time. And he was right.

But I also remember the movies I saw in which he appeared — "Inherit the Wind," "High Noon," "The Ox–Bow Incident" and so many others.

I don't remember how old I was when I saw each for the first time. The only thing I am sure of is that I saw them all on TV. Somehow, that is where Harry Morgan seemed to be most at home, not in the vast space of the silver screen but in the comfortable confines of the TV screen.

He inspired me in all of his movie roles, even when his character was a little on the quiet side. Take his role in ""The Ox–Bow Incident." Henry Fonda had the dramatic lines, but Morgan added a silent eloquence that, in my opinion, made that movie even more powerful.

Morgan was in his late 20s when he made "The Ox–Bow Incident." Neither he nor his audiences could have realized the influence he would have on American movies and television in the next half century.

He almost didn't go into acting at all. Originally, he planned to study law. But he sort of stumbled into acting, found success in it and became a lifer.

How fortunate for the rest of us.

The Toys of Caliban

2011-12-04T08:38:00.002-06:00

When I was off at college, my mother and younger brother developed a shared appreciation for Richard Mulligan as Bert Campbell in TV's Soap.

It always seemed to me that they were discovering Mulligan as if Soap was the first professional acting he had ever done — even though he had been around for a long time.

I had been familiar with Mulligan's work on the big screen for quite awhile at that time. For instance, I enjoyed his performance as George Armstrong Custer in "Little Big Man."

And I enjoyed the work he did in later years — his role as a mental patient posing as a substitute teacher in "Teachers" stands out in my memory.

But Mulligan probably is mostly remembered for the work he did on the small screen — and his finest may have been the work he did on the reincarnation of The Twilight Zone in the mid–1980s.

In the first season of the series, he provided a fresh spin on a part that became iconic in the hands of Art Carney a quarter of a century earlier. He starred as an alcoholic department store Santa Claus whose bag of toys began dispensing everyone's heart's desire.

And in the second season — in an episode that was shown for the first time 25 years ago tonight — Mulligan played more of a supporting role — as the father of an unusual little boy named Toby.

Well, Toby wasn't so little. He was played by David Greenlee, who was in his mid–20s, but mentally he gave every appearance of being severely impaired (the first time I saw the episode, I thought he might have Down syndrome).

And Toby had a special talent that wasn't so little, either.

He could summon things he saw in pictures by saying the word "Bring!" For example, he had a childlike fondness for doughnuts, and, early in the episode, he became sick from eating too many doughnuts that he had summoned.

That was the event that alerted people outside Toby's intimate family circle that he was not like other children. He wasn't like other retarded children, either. But all the outsiders knew was that he was different — and that he was treated differently by his parents.

What the outsiders didn't realize — couldn't have known — was that Toby's parents were motivated by a desire to protect both Toby and the other children from Toby himself.

Toby's talent had its drawbacks, the kind of drawbacks a retarded person could not fully comprehend. Once, when he was looking at a picture of a human heart, he accidentally caused the death of his mother (Anne Haney), attracting renewed scrutiny from child protective services.

Toby's father was determined to continue raising his son as he and his wife had done before, but he was forced to reveal the family secret to a nosy social worker who threatened to remove Toby from the home.

The social worker was finally persuaded to leave but insisted she would back.

Meanwhile, Toby, distraught by the confrontation between his father and the social worker, desired the reassuring presence of his mother and used a picture to bring her corpse back from the grave. It appeared in a chair — but as a decomposing corpse, not a living person.

Mulligan shielded his son from the horrifying vision, insisting that the corpse wasn't Toby's mother. He then went about burying the body in the backyard, after which he stood next to the grave and spoke to his wife's spirit, telling her that it was "time."

He then sat down with his son and showed him a picture of a blazing fire. "Bring!" he instructed Toby, and Toby brought the inferno to the house.

In the final scene, the social worker arrived at the house with police officers. No words were spoken; perhaps she hoped to save Toby, but the house was engulfed in flames.

Unlike most Twilight Zone episodes — either the ones from the 1960s or the ones from the 1980s — "The Toys of Caliban" had none of the series' trademark opening and closing narration.

I suppose, when the final scene is of the burning ruins of a rather modest home, there really isn't anything to say.

Golden Performances

2011-12-04T07:59:00.006-06:00

"Sometimes you have to look hard at a person and remember he's doing the best he can. He's just trying to find his way, just like you."

Ethel Thayer (Katharine Hepburn)

I always admired Henry Fonda and Katharine Hepburn.

And it was a treat to see the two of them together, finally.

You know, when you consider their lengthy Hollywood careers and their many mutual acquaintances, it really is astonishing that they had never made a film together until "On Golden Pond."

When they did, though, they made movie magic.

I thought of this recently when I was watching "On Golden Pond" for what may be the 10th time in the last 30 years. I saw it when it was at the theaters, and I have seen it several times on TV. And I realized, as I watched it, that it is the kind of film that still speaks to people in all phases of life — even 30 years after it was released.

It even mirrored the relationship between Fonda and his own children.

I guess I was a little older than the actor who played Billy, the young boy whose character was left with Hepburn and Fonda for the summer while Fonda's real–life daughter Jane and her boyfriend in the movie (played by Dabney Coleman) went to Europe together. Consequently, I guess, I related more to his responses to things.

But, during more recent viewings, I have related more to Jane Fonda, who was probably in her 40s at the time, and her relationship with her father. And, I presume, if I live long enough, there will come a time when I will watch it and relate more to Henry Fonda and Katharine Hepburn than to the others.

I don't know if "On Golden Pond" was the best film either Hepburn or the elder Fonda ever made. They both won Oscars for it. That was not a new experience for Hepburn. She had been nominated 11 times before, and she had gone home with the statuette on three of those occasions. But it was the only time Fonda won, even though he had been nominated once before.

Really, Fonda should have been nominated more often. I don't think anyone could look at the body of his work and not conclude that he got short–changed by the Academy on several occasions.

That other nomination was in recognition of his work in "The Grapes of Wrath," which was a great movie, but what about "12 Angry Men?" Or "The Lady Eve?" Or "The Ox–Bow Incident?" Or "Mister Roberts?" Or "Fail–Safe?"

Or any of more than 100 brilliant performances over the years?

Perhaps the folks who voted for the Oscars in the early 1980s realized that Fonda had been overlooked, taken for granted. He had been a steady, reliable actor for decades — and he was dying. His health had been failing, and "On Golden Pond" seemed likely to be his final film — which it was.

Consequently, when he received the Oscar for his performance in the spring of 1982, it was seen by many as the Academy's way of rewarding him for a lifetime of brilliant performances — although some saw it as recognition for a singularly great performance.

Either way, it was well deserved. Unfortunately, Fonda was too ill to attend the ceremony, but Jane accepted his award for him — and later acknowledged that "it came just in the nick [of time]." Her father died a few months later.

But on that spring evening in 1982, I remember watching her accept that award and feeling deeply moved in a way that I have seldom felt.

Clearly astonished, Jane Fonda made her way to the stage, where Sissy Spacek gave her the statuette for her father, and Fonda looked directly into the camera and said, "Oh, Dad, I'm so happy and proud for you."

Fonda went on to say that she was sure her father's first reaction, upon hearing the news, had been " 'Ain't I lucky?' As if luck had anything to do with it. ... He has tremendous respect for the other actors who were nominated and has always felt a little strange about these things, these competitions, because it's like comparing apples and oranges. He feels very proud to have been among such a wonderful group."

As anyone who ever saw even one of his performances knows, Fonda was pretty special himself.

Roger Ebert said the experience of watching "On Golden Pond" was "something rare and valuable," and he attributed much of that to the acting. I can't argue with that.

What made the acting as great as it was? Its realistic portrayal of the stages of life.

Hepburn, of course, was her great self. Her character was the glue that held her family together, and that was something to which just about everyone could relate — because there is one of those in darn near every family.

Likewise, Henry Fonda's character tended to be a bit distant, a bit standoffish, perhaps a little rough, but you always suspected it was more a defense mechanism, intended to keep others from discovering the truth — which, in Fonda's case, was the realization that he was gradually losing his grip on his mental and physical health. Many families have at least one of those, too.

Jane Fonda played their adult daughter who had to confront issues that went back to her childhood. Those issues were complicated by the fact that Billy, in the space of a month, had forged the kind of relationship with her father that had eluded her for decades.

"Don't you think everyone looks back on their childhood with a certain amount of bitterness and regret about something?" Hepburn asked her at one point. "It doesn't have to ruin your life."

That's good, honest writing — but it takes good, honest acting to bring it to life and make it meaningful for the audience.

"On Golden Pond" had an abundance of talented actors, right down to young Doug McKeon, whose character felt abandoned by his father when he was left in the care of Hepburn and the elder Fonda and frequently spoke of "bullshit" — perhaps for the shock value, perhaps because it really expressed what he felt. I never felt the audience could be sure, and I wasn't really sure it mattered.

But I enjoyed an exchange he had with Henry Fonda after saying that fishing was "bullshit."

"You like that word, don't you?" Fonda asked. "Bullshit."

"Yeah," McKeon replied, almost defiantly.

Fonda nodded. "It's a good word."

Henry Fonda and McKeon bonded on the screen and may have had the best dialogue exchanges.

When they first met, McKeon observed that Fonda's character was marking his 80th birthday. "Man, that's really old," the teenager said.

"You should meet my father," Fonda said.

"Your father is still alive?" McKeon asked incredulously.

"No," Fonda said, "but you should meet him."

Ironically, Fonda didn't live to see his 80th birthday, but just about everyone who saw him in "On Golden Pond" must have felt that they knew him.

Ten Years Without George Harrison

2011-11-29T05:07:00.005-06:00

Nearly a year ago, a friend of mine asked me to write something about George Harrison.

I knew we were coming up on the 10th anniversary of Harrison's death so I promised her that I would. And this is the fulfillment of that promise.

But I've really been fulfilling the promise incrementally over the year.

Since she made that request, I have written other pieces that mentioned Harrison — specifically, in connection with "Taxman" and when I wrote about his musical tribute to former Beatles bandmate John Lennon and when I wrote of the anniversaries of the benefit concerts for Bangladesh and the release of the Beatles album "Revolver."

All of that has reminded me how much modern music owes the "quiet Beatle." I haven't seen Martin Scorsese's HBO documentary about Harrison, but I have heard that it is an important step in giving him the recognition he never really seemed to get during his life.

If that is so, then I applaud it.

Because I have learned things about Harrison as I have worked on this article since making my promise — perhaps I re–learned some of them.

There were lots of things about Harrison that I already knew or thought I knew.

I knew Harrison was a seeker. He was easily the most spiritual of the four Beatles. And that has its place, I suppose. It may be the single quality that people mention most about Harrison.

There are worse ways to be remembered.

But I always felt there was more to him than that. Harrison possessed a sensitivity that Lennon, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr did not — at least not to the extent that Harrison did.

That sensitivity could be seen in the passion he had for humanitarian causes. That wasn't something he did because it was fashionable. He was involved in humanitarian issues all along, but he was more visible after the Beatles split up.

His role with the Beatles was always limited. He always existed in the overwhelming shadow of the Lennon–McCartney partnership, but that role, thankfully, expanded in the later years, and the world was allowed to see more of his talent in songs like "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," "Here Comes the Sun," "Something" and "Within You Without You."

Harrison's most significant contributions were musical, but that doesn't mean his musical talent and his spirituality were kept separate from each other; far from it. The two often converged — as when Harrison's acceptance of Indian Hinduism led to the introduction of sitar music to Western listeners.

"In his most obvious contribution to music as lead guitarist for the Beatles, George Harrison provided the band with a lyrical style of playing in which every note mattered," wrote Bruce Eder for AllMusic.com.

"Later on, as a songwriter with the Beatles and subsequently as a solo artist, Harrison used his celebrity and his musical sensibilities to try and raise the awareness of millions of listeners about issues much bigger than music."

That's probably what sticks out in my memory of George Harrison. His music always had an other–worldly aura to it. Sometimes it was subtle, other times it wasn't so subtle. But it was always about things that were bigger than the music alone.

Music was where Harrison found his sense of purpose. He perceived, as many do, that his true mission in life was to seek a higher power, and I feel that, ultimately, he believed he had reached it through his music.

But there was, as I say, the humanitarian side of Harrison that really got its chance to blossom when the Beatles broke up.

Do spirituality and sensitivity exist as separate entities? That is a different argument — and one in which I prefer not to engage on this occasion.

But I will say this: As much as I admired Lennon and as much respect as I have for what McCartney has done musically, Harrison truly distinguished himself post–Beatlemania — apart from writing and recording popular songs and beyond anything the other three did.

Harrison was, as John Donne wrote centuries ago, "involved in mankind."

He was really the first to organize a benefit concert featuring several big–name performers, a pioneer whose experiences still serve as useful guides for what to do and what not to do. His concerts for Bangladesh truly blazed a trail for others to follow.

I sensed a certain amount of peace in the last years of his life — peace that may have been missing when he was young and his pursuit of the spiritual world often seemed to be at odds with the people and things that surrounded him.

That pursuit didn't get any easier as he got older. In 1999, he was stabbed by an intruder in his home, an ironic turn of events, considering that, in the 19 years since Lennon's murder, Harrison may have been the most reclusive of the surviving Beatles, avoiding most public appearances and probably taking more security precautions than McCartney or Starr.

He had been diagnosed with throat cancer a couple of years earlier, but it seemed to have been successfully treated and nothing more was heard about that until 2001, when it was revealed, in successive months, that he had been treated for lung cancer and a brain tumor.

The final months of his life were hardly peaceful. There were reports that his death was near, even when it turned out not to be true.

And then there was the report that was true. In mid– to late November, it was reported that George Harrison was expected to die within days.

And so he did.

Maybe age — as it has long been rumored to do — brought him peace and wisdom even though he was only 58 when he died.

Both were well earned.

Mass(achusetts) Hysteria

2011-11-27T19:59:00.009-06:00

On this day in 1996, Arthur Miller's play "The Crucible" made its second big–screen appearance since it premiered on the stage in 1953.

"The Crucible" was inspired by — but not necessarily a literal history of — the infamous Salem witch trials of the late 17th century.

I'm not a full–fledged historian — really more of an amateur one who minored in history in college and has always had an interest in the subject — but I think that is an important distinction to make.

Miller wrote it as an allegory of McCarthyism. If one recognizes that fact, it is easier to understand what is said and done in the play.

And, while those events do have something of a basis in fact, it is not, as I said before, a literal history. It is a dramatization.

Miller, who had already won a Pulitzer Prize for "Death of a Salesman," was fascinated by the witch trials and did extensive research in Salem, Mass. As nearly as I can tell, many of the characters in the play (and movie) were real — and I know there were witch trials in Salem in 1692, resulting in 29 convictions, 19 hangings, one case of a man being crushed under heavy stones when authorities tried to coerce him into entering a plea and at least five other deaths of people while they were in prison.

It's just that some of the details were inaccurate.

That is understandable, though, considering that few of the written records that have survived from the time offer much in the way of clues about the personalities of the people who were involved.

But that wouldn't have meant much to Miller, anyway. His play used the witch trials to inspire, not inform. He made no pretense that he was being historically accurate in his portrayals.

Characteristics of several real people were merged into one — a judge, a witness, a defendant — to be representative of the people and the attitudes of late 17th century America.

Even if the people were real, facts were altered to fit the needs of the story. The antagonist of the story, Abigail Williams (played by Winona Ryder in the movie), was a real person, one of the accusers — but in reality she was 11 years old. Miller made her 17 in the play so she could be the lover of the story's portagonist, a real farmer named John Proctor (played by Miller's son–in–law, Daniel Day–Lewis) — thus providing her with the motivation to accuse Proctor's wife (played by Joan Allen) of witchery, a crime that was punishable by execution.

There is no reason to believe that such a clandestine relationship ever existed. It was created to fit Miller's needs, and that made it necessary to play around with the characters' ages.

Williams, as I said, was 11 years old at the time, but her age was elevated to 17 to make the relationship seem more plausible, and Proctor was 60, but his character in the play and movie was about half that — again, to make the affair more palatable for mainstream audiences.

Other changes were modest, even understandable. In reality, the number of girls involved was far greater than it was in the play, but Miller wisely cut many of those minor characters. I suppose, if one wanted to pick nits, one could quibble over the exclusion of some and/or the inclusion of others.

In fairness to Miller, though, I must say that many of the other characters and circumstances appear to be legitimately represented. The dialogue is what one would expect from people of that time — i.e., the use of Goody as an abbreviated form of Goodwife, the customary colloquialism for a female spouse.

Miller wrote the adapted screenplay for the 1996 movie and was rewarded with an Academy Award nomination, the only one he ever received.

I could not help wondering, as I watched the 1996 version again recently, if Miller (who died in 2005) might have seen "The Crucible" as an allegory for the War on Terrorism and the use of waterboarding to coerce information from witnesses — and if he might have made adjustments to the story to make it appropriate for 21st century audiences.

For example, early in the 1996 movie, several girls — including Aibgail — gathered in the woods at night to perform a ritual with a slave named Tituba. The ritual involved a dead chicken, the drinking of its blood and dancing around a fire — and it was witnessed from a distance by the town's Puritan minister, Samuel Parris (played by Bruce Davison).

That event was only mentioned in conversations in the original play. Moviegoers in 1996 saw it acted out.

The minister was alarmed when two of the girls who participated in the ritual fell into unconsciousness and would not awaken. and he sought to find a cause. Fearful of being punished, Abigail pointed the finger at the slave, claiming that she had been working with the devil. Tituba denied the charge but eventually confessed to being a witch after a savage beating.

And that was the catalyst for everything else.

A slave woman named Tituba did live in Salem in those days, She was one of the first to be accused of practicing witchcraft in Salem and denied it initially — but she was coerced into confessing that she had had conversations with the devil.

In 17th–century Salem, that was like throwing a lit match on gasoline.

The extensive waterboarding by CIA operatives of Al–Qaeda suspects occurred in 2002 and 2003, which was before Miller's death, but it wasn't publicly revealed until after his death at the age of 89.

He was probably too old to have written an adaptation by then, anyway. But he might have collaborated with someone.

Who knows what that might have yielded?

Looking Into the Future

2011-11-27T06:54:00.002-06:00

"I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!"

Howard Beale (Peter Finch)
Network (1976)

I guess everyone knows that speech — if folks don't know it by heart, at least they know the catch phrase — "I'm as made as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore."

That speech by actor Peter Finch in the 1976 movie "Network" has achieved an iconic status in the annals of memorable movie lines — alongside Rhett Butler's "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn!" and Vito Corleone's "offer you can't refuse" and all the others that have become virtual cliches.

It isn't necessary to be old enough to remember when the movie was showing at the theaters for someone to be familiar with the line and the context in which it was said.

When Woody Allen quoted (or misquoted, actually) Humphrey Bogart in the title of a movie ("Play It Again, Sam"), it wasn't necessary to tell people that the line came from a movie that was made three decades earlier. Everyone already knew.

But there was really so much more to "Network" than Finch's rage — and some of it has taken years to emerge. Maybe you do need to be old enough to remember the movie to appreciate how much has changed.

When "Network" made its debut 35 years ago today, cable and internet may have existed, but they were technological toddlers. They are much larger, much more mature today, and those who have known no other probably cannot appreciate how prescient Paddy Chayefsky's story really was.

When I watch it today — and I have probably watched it a dozen times or more since I first saw it on the big screen — I marvel at all the things he anticipated. Maybe you need to be able to remember a world that had no cell phones or personal computers/laptops — no instant information or communication — to comprehend just how on target Chayefsky was.

His story anticipated things like reality TV — albeit in a much more extreme form than anything we have seen in real life — and "news" anchors whose personalities are more important than the news.

His script warned us just how shallow our role models would be in the years to come, how many would resort to exploitation to raise their ratings, how they would be driven by little more than those ratings (which are designed to measure the quantity of the audience and not the quality of the programming).

It was all tongue in cheek, I'm sure. Chayefsky wrote his story to entertain. I don't think for a second that he believed he was being prophetic.

It just turned out that — in many unexpected ways — he was.

Some Folks Call It a Sling Blade

2011-11-27T05:40:00.006-06:00

"Some folks call it a sling blade. I call it a Kaiser blade."

Karl
Sling Blade (1996)

There's a very understated — but, at the same time, very telling — moment during the 1996 movie "Sling Blade."

Well, actually, there are several such moments in that movie, which premiered 15 years ago today. But, first, let's briefly recap the plot.

When the story begins, Karl, a mildly retarded man played by Billy Bob Thornton (who also wrote the story), has been released from the mental hospital where he has been held since he killed his mother and her lover when he was 12 years old. The powers that be have determined that he is no longer a threat to himself or anyone else.

He returns to his childhood home, where he gets a job fixing small machinery, and he befriends a boy and his widowed mother.

The boy's mother has a boyfriend who generally abuses everyone but seems to have particular malevolence in store for those closest to him. One gets the impression that he has — shall we say? — intimacy issues. This leads to some ugly — and revealing — moments for all concerned.

Anyway ...

Following one especially brutal interlude, Karl, in his simple, almost Forrest Gump–like way, tried to ease the tension by telling her a joke he heard from the guys at the fix–it shop.

It was a simple joke, really, a joke that I laughed at in grade school, which meant it was just about on Karl's mental level, but he still didn't get it right when he tried to tell it.

Here's the way Karl heard it the first time, when his employer told it:

"There were these two ol' boys, and they hung their peckers off a bridge to piss. One ol' boy from California, the other from Arkansas. The ol' boy from California says, 'Boy, this water's cold,' and the ol' boy from Arkansas says, 'Yeah, and it's deep, too.' Get it? "

But Karl told it this way:

"There were these two fellers standin' on a bridge, a–goin' to the bathroom. One feller said, 'The water's cold,' and the other feller said, 'The water's deep.' I believe one feller come from Arkansas. Get it?"

Karl had a very endearing way of rationalizing things so they made sense to him. In that regard, he kind of reminded me of the Beverly Hillbillies. In the context of their experiences, anything that seemed foreign eventually made sense. (That's how a swimming pool became a "cement pond" and a billiard room became a "fancy eatin' room.")

If Karl's internal compass wasn't always in sync with others', there was no problem with his sense of right and wrong. He might not be able to verbalize it too well, but it's kind of like the famous judicial ruling regarding pornography.

He knew right (and wrong) when he saw it. And he acted accordingly. (Not always legally. But accordingly.)

In the film's closing minutes, Karl had conversations with the boy's mother, the boy and the mother's gay friend (played by John Ritter), then had a climactic conversation with the mother's abusive boyfriend.

Even in his limited mental capacity, only Karl knew the significance of the conversations — although all the people with whom he spoke seemed to get an inkling, at least, at the very last minute, of what might be about to happen.

And that made "Sling Blade" the only film I can recall in which the last word said by all the main characters (except Thornton's) was the same: "Karl?" It wasn't spoken in unison but in four separate scenes and in four separate contexts.

In hindsight, all four had relevance to each other although Karl may have been the only one to perceive that — perhaps because Karl was the only one who could really bring peace to that troubled house.

So he did — the only way he knew how.

A Lilith Thanksgiving

2011-11-26T16:09:00.002-06:00

I always enjoyed the Thanksgiving episode of the Frasier series that aired 15 years ago tonight.

I don't always enjoy holiday episodes, but I liked the ones on Frasier. They were always entertaining and creative, not sappy and sentimental like so many other holidays episodes I have seen over the years.

Anyway, on this day, the Cranes were planning a family Thanksgiving in Seattle. Lilith and her son, Frederick, were coming to town. But, at the last minute, the plans changed. On Thanksgiving morning, Lilith and Frasier had to meet with the headmaster of a prestigious school where they had submitted their son's application — so Frasier, Niles and Martin had to fly to Boston.

The first meeting with the headmaster went poorly, and Lilith and Frasier went back on the pretense of looking for an earring that Lilith would claim she had lost. Once they were inside the headmaster's house again, they would renew and intensify their pitch on behalf of their son.

"I wouldn't even think of asking [to come in to look]," Lilith told the headmaster, "but it was a treasured gift from ... Golda Meir."

When the headmaster left the room, Frasier protested that Golda Meir was not one of the details upon which they had agreed. "It got us in," Lilith replied.

But, when he returned to the room, the headmaster had a curveball of his own. "I've always been a great admirer of Mrs. Meir," he said. "How did you meet?"

So Lilith had to ad lib some more, but she just couldn't — so she passed the baton to a somewhat startled Frasier. "It was back in college days," Frasier said. "Lilith spent a summer at a kibbutz and was dating her grandson, Oscar."

The headmaster wasn't finished. "That would be Oscar Meir?"

"Just imagine the ribbing he took!" Frasier replied with a little artful ad libbing of his own.

I always thought that was an especially funny piece of comedic dialogue — in an episode that seemed to be full of them.

Most such snappy exchanges occurred when Frasier (Kelsey Grammer) and Lilith (Bebe Neuwirth) were talking with the headmaster (Paxton Whitehead), but there were others.

For example ...

When the Cranes had to change their holiday plans so Frasier could be in Boston to join Lilith for the meeting with the headmaster, Frasier talked Roz (Peri Gilpin) into looking after his apartment while he was gone. But he had a few ground rules.

Frasier: By the way, I frown on overnight guests.

Roz: Then you're not doing it right.

Getting out of Seattle for the holiday probably wasn't a bad idea, at least in Niles' case. He was going through his first Thanksgiving since his separation from his wife, and a change of scenery probably did him some good, even though it was a last–minute decision to shift everything to Boston.

Yep, it was completely understandable that Niles was having a rough time.

After all, it isn't uncommon, around Thanksgiving and Christmas, for people to be at least a bit despondent over separation, either temporary or permanent, from loved ones, but Niles may have been a little too nostalgic.

Martin: What's wrong?

Niles: Oh, just a little depressed. It's my first Thanksgiving without Maris.

Martin: Oh, yeah, I know, son. It's hard.

Niles: Do you remember the year I plopped that big wedge of pumpkin pie in front of her, and we all laughed? Then I put a big scoop of whipped cream on top of it and we laughed some more! Then her eyes welled up with tears and we all knew it was time to stop.

That one might qualify to be one of Jack Handey's "Deep Thoughts."

Once the Cranes were in Boston, though, Niles — who, as previous and subsequent episodes indicated, was a pretty good cook — took it upon himself to finish preparing the family's Thanksgiving dinner so Frasier and Lilith could make their appeal to the headmaster.

He still managed to work in some zingers at Lilith's expense, though — and found that Lilith could give as good as she got.

Lilith: I'm nearly done defrosting.

Niles: And the turkey?

Lilith: Might I suggest you stuff it?

I especially liked the frustrated headmaster's speech at the end of the episode.

"I will die a happy man if I never set eyes on either of you again. Unfortunately, there is only way I know of to ensure that. Your son Frederick is hereby admitted to the Marbury School. However, he will be immediately expelled if either of you violates any of the following conditions:
"You will not bring him to school.

"You will not collect him.

"You will not attend any recitals, plays, sporting events or school functions — up to and including Frederick Crane Day, should we ever have one.

"And when graduation comes, you will dispatch an appropriate envoy with a video camera.
"And now it is with great pleasure that I bid you goodbye forever."

Instead of being insulted after being hustled out the door, Lilith and Frasier only smiled at each other with satisfaction and said in unison, "We're in."

I guess what makes Thanksgiving happy depends on one's priorities and desires — whether one wants a certain kind of stuffing or a certain kind of pie for dessert — or to be sure one's child is enrolled in the most elite school around.

David Frye's Birthday

2011-11-21T06:27:00.002-06:00

I try, I really do try to keep up. But sometimes things just slip through the cracks. You know?

Last January, I was starting my second semester as an adjunct journalism professor in the local community college. I was busy, but I didn't realize I was that busy — anyway, somehow it completely slipped past me that one of my favorite impressionists died.

It slipped by me so completely that it was only recently that I learned he was dead, nearly 10 months after the fact.

He wasn't exactly young — nor even middle–aged, for that matter — so I guess his death wasn't much of a shock. I don't know if he had been sick or if he had enjoyed generally good health.

No, I'm not speaking of Rich Little — although I did have the opportunity to see Rich Little perform here in Dallas about nine years ago. Little, by the way, is still living.

I'm speaking of David Frye, who was rather popular during the Nixon presidency — although he probably wasn't too popular with Nixon himself. The Nixon years were Frye's best, but it was kind of a meteoric thing. His popularity really took off when Nixon was elected president in 1968, seemed to reach its peak during the Watergate scandal, then began to decline dramatically after Nixon resigned.

Frye continued to do impressions of the major political figures of his time — often as well as or better than Little, at least in my opinion — and, like Little, he did impressions of other celebrities, too — movie stars (like George C. Scott and Henry Fonda), athletes (like Muhammad Ali and O.J. Simpson), etc. — but it was his impression of Nixon that people seemed to remember, even when he died.

I, for one, loved listening to Frye's records when I was a boy. His impression of Nixon was so good Nixon's own mother probably couldn't have told the difference. But, as I say, there was so much more to his comedy.

In one of my favorite Frye albums — "Richard Nixon: A Fantasy" — Nixon was dreaming about the Watergate break–in and the investigation.

One segment had his vice president, Spiro Agnew (who was particularly smarmy, even in comparison to some of the people who have been vice president since his day), being interviewed by Bill Buckley, who asked him if he had prepared himself for the possibility of becoming president. (Frye provided both voices — as well as nearly all the other voices on the album — and was spot on, as always.)

Agnew replied that he believed Nixon was innocent and he believed the rest of the country did, too. Then Frye provided the voice of Agnew thinking something entirely different — "Oh, boy! President Agnew! President Agnew! That'll show all those guys back in high school who used to tease me with 'Spiro, Spiro is a zero, With a name like that he must be a queer–o!' "

His humor went far beyond an uncanny ability to sound like so many people — and an occasional tendency to offend. He often could summarize entire personalities in one or two well–crafted lines.

Anyway, today would have been his 78th birthday. It's the first birthday he's missed.

And, while I wish I could have said this to him while he was living, better late than never, I guess.

Happy birthday.

When Fact and Fiction Merge ...

2011-11-20T00:01:00.001-06:00

Based on E.L. Doctorow's book by the same name, "Ragtime," which was released 30 years ago today, was an entertaining — if, at times, flawed — look at people (some real, some fictional) caught in the turbulence of turn–of–the–century America — New York, in particular.

It was directed by Milos Forman, the director of one of my favorite movies, "Amadeus," a few years later — as well as "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" a few years earlier. "Ragtime" wasn't his best effort, but it was, as I say, entertaining.

It was also, to an extent, educational, introducing the moviegoing public to some real (and, ultimately, fascinating) historical characters most had probably never heard of before.

Among them were characters like showgirl Evelyn Nesbit (Elizabeth McGovern), who found herself at the apex of a lover's triangle in which her husband, coal/railroad heir Harry K. Thaw, killed one of Nesbit's lovers, architect Stanford White, at Madison Square Garden, leading to one of the 20th century's first trials of the century.

Nesbit didn't testify at Thaw's first trial, which ended in a deadlock. She was persuaded to testify at the second trial by Thaw's mother, who promised her $1 million and a divorce if she would testify that White abused her and Thaw tried to protect her — which Nesbit did — but her mother–in–law only made good on the promise of a divorce.

In the movie, Nesbit was given $25,000. I don't know if her mother–in–law was that generous in real life.

That testimony was a real bargain, though, even if Mother Thaw felt obliged, however minimally, to part with some cash in exchange for it.

The historical record suggests that it saved her son. Thaw was found not guilty by reason of insanity and spent some time in a hospital for the criminally insane. Eventually, he was judged to be sane and was released.

McGovern's performance earned her an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress. The movie received seven other Oscar nominations, but it did not win any of them.

In the movie, as in Doctorow's novel, Nesbit was kind of the common link between the real–life characters and the fictional ones. After her husband was charged with murder, she met a fictional young man who was living with his sister and her family.

The young man was smitten with her and, after a somewhat awkward first meeting, became virtually inseparable from her.

Quite a few historical characters appeared in the novel, and some found their way onto the big screen — although none quite so prominently as Nesbit.

I don't know if McGovern's portrayal of Nesbit was accurate, but I liked her kind of scatter–brained character, and I found McGovern to be unexpectedly charming.

Perhaps the only actress who might have been better was Goldie Hawn — who made a career of being ditzy in 1970s and 1980s movies — after being the very definition of ditzy on Laugh–In in the late 1960s.

I guess it was expected of her. It wasn't expected of McGovern, whose brief movie career had included the role of Timothy Hutton's girlfriend in the Oscar–winning drama, "Ordinary People." That transition from type was decidedly unexpected — and, as a result, quite effective.

It was fitting, I suppose, that such a turn–of–the–century story was a transitional movie for several stars.

"Ragtime" was the last big–screen appearance for James Cagney and Pat O'Brien, who made nine movies together.

While it marked the end for those two actors, "Ragtime" was the beginning for Jeff Daniels, who made his debut.

Other members of the cast were Mary Steenburgen, Samuel L. Jackson, Howard Rollins, Fran Drescher and Norman Mailer.

Mixed Doubles

2011-11-19T05:20:00.003-06:00

I have written before of the Frasier series' keen observations on all aspects of the human condition.

The episode that aired 15 years ago tonight, "Mixed Doubles," is one of the best examples — in an understated kind of way.

It was a week before my birthday — a time that has tended to make me more reflective with each passing year — and perhaps my perception was affected by that. But I felt that each character revealed his/her true colors, his/her real motivations, in that episode.

The story began with Daphne (Jane Leeves) returning to the Crane home after a date with her boyfriend, but she brought bad news. Her boyfriend had broken up with her, and the mere mention of the disastrous dinner she had just lived through was enough to cause her to burst into uncontrolled tears.

(By this point in the series, I felt it was clear that Daphne loved her work, but she desperately wanted to be a wife and mother. Niles, as the audience knew only too well, desperately wanted Daphne.)

The Crane men sought to comfort her but were undone by their own weaknesses — the fussy Frasier (Kelsey Grammer) by his obsession with appearances and Martin (John Mahoney) by his clumsiness. Niles (David Hyde Pierce), of course, was motivated purely by his desire for Daphne. Only Roz (Peri Gilpin), who was greeted at the door by a sobbing Daphne, instinctively understood what had happened and took Daphne to her bedroom where the two could speak privately.

Niles decided that he was finally going to tell Daphne how he felt about her. This was the series' fourth season, and regular viewers had known all along that he was hot for her — but, despite the fact that she claimed to be psychic, Daphne never seemed to realize it until a few years later.

It was an ongoing source of humor, kind of an inside joke, but if Niles, who was separated from his wife, was going to confess his feelings to Daphne, it would mark a major turning point in the story line. The nature of their relationship was sure to change.

In November 1996, she seemed completely oblivious to his feelings for her as she tap danced from one relationship to another.

Whether that was a factor in his decision, Frasier counseled Niles to sleep on it, to "give it a day" of reflection, and Niles reluctantly agreed.

Unfortunately for Niles, Roz sought to cheer up Daphne by taking her out for drinks — and the emotionally vulnerable Daphne met a young man and hit it off.

Even more unfortunate for Niles was the fact that the young man, Rodney, was exactly like him. He had the same build, the same mannerisms, even the same preferences — including, as it turned out, an apparent preference for Adelle, a woman Niles started seeing after Daphne began her rebound relationship with Rodney.

Niles discovered that Rodney and Adelle had a thing for each other quite by accident. He was having coffee with Frasier, who had just persuaded him that, although Daphne was in a new relationship, so was Niles — and with someone who made him happy.

At that point, Rodney and Adelle walked in and sat down at a table out of Niles' view.

He turned and looked in their direction — and realized what was happening. His response was one of indignation, all right — at Rodney for his betrayal of Daphne, not at Adelle for her betrayal of him — and he stormed from the cafe after confronting them.

In the final scene, Niles met Daphne at the bar where they had first met Adelle and Rodney. Niles was going to tell Daphne that Adelle and Rodney were a couple, but she had already heard, and the two of them began commiserating in a conversation that certainly must have been one of the best examples of foreshadowing in TV history.

Daphne: If it had been a different time in both our lives, we might actually have met. How do you suppose that would have gone?

Niles: What? Our conversation?

Daphne: Yes! Just for fun. We could both use a smile.

Niles: Well, I would have said, 'Is this seat taken?' And you would have said, 'No.' You would have said, 'My name is Daphne,' and I would have said, 'My name is Niles.' And then I would have said, 'What are you doing for the rest of your life?'

Daphne: You always know just the right thing to say! I love you, Dr. Crane.

Niles: I love you, too, Daphne.

And it helped preserve the original nature of the Niles–Daphne relationship for a few more seasons.

Truth and Accuracy

2011-11-18T06:15:00.014-06:00

"Don't expect the truth unless you're willing to tell it."

Sally Field
Absence of Malice (1981)

I was a journalism student in college when "Absence of Malice," starring Paul Newman and Sally Field, premiered 30 years ago today.

And I felt, when I saw it, that it had some lessons for me that would be useful when I graduated and found myself working in the field.

The problem was that I found the reality was different from the Hollywood story. That should come as no surprise to anyone.

Oh, sure, there are overzealous, overeager reporters like Sally Field's character who will report gossip and hearsay, even when innocent people are likely to be hurt. In an era of instant news and intense pressure to be first with a story, whether it is true or not, there seems to be more of them than ever.

There are unethical prosecutors, like the one who leaked the contents of a file to a reporter, hoping to put pressure on a suspect with no regard for the consequences. I don't think there has ever been a shortage of them, regardless of the era.

And there are people like Newman's character, who was the focus of the prosecutor's investigation and Field's newspaper article.

The case looked good. The story seemed solid. The motivations were, for the most part, noble. The only problem was, he was the wrong guy.

In my experience, that's like the fabled perfect storm. All the elements are not in place at once in every situation. Most prosecutors are ethical, and so are most journalists. Never mind the public images of lawyers and reporters. They're mostly — but not entirely — the products of Hollywood's fantasy world.

But the truth wouldn't make much of a movie so the writers of the story (which included a former newspaper editor) told a tale that, in the words of Field's character, was not true but it was accurate.

If they thought they could get away with it, I'm sure there are some prosecutors who would be tempted (perhaps more than that) to leave files from investigations on their desks where a reporter was sure to find it.

And I'm sure there are reporters who would be tempted (again, perhaps more than that) to look in those files and spill their contents into the next day's papers without regard to whether any of it was true or was affirmed by more than one person.

I don't know what they were teaching students about ethics in law school in those days, nor do I know what was being taught in every journalism class across the country, but I can testify that my journalism classes emphasized double– and triple–checking facts.

One source's word for it simply was not good enough.

We were not so far removed from Watergate in those days, and my professors sang the praises of Woodward and Bernstein, repeatedly urging us to follow their lead (so to speak) and have at least two sources for anything.

And we were encouraged to remember — always — the human side of any story. Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable was an article (again, so to speak) of faith. Human beings were not collateral damage.

They still aren't, no matter what you may have heard or thought.

In a way, I suppose, that was the lesson Newman's character tried to teach the rest of them in the second half of the movie.

In the article that revealed that Newman was innocent because he had been in another state at the time of the alleged murder, it was also revealed that his alibi and lifelong friend (Melinda Dillon) had been having an abortion. He had been with her, giving her the support she needed, but her character was Catholic, employed by a Catholic school.

Field's character's lack of sensitivity to that fact had tragic consequences. When Field's character identified Dillon's character by name in print, the public exposure was too shameful for her. She killed herself.

Field's character clearly had no malicious intent. She was merely doing her job, but that did not change the reality.

To get even with those he felt were responsible for his friend's suicide, Newman's character hatched a plan to ensnare the newspaper reporter (part of which included a false social relationship with her) and the prosecutor.

When everyone had been exposed, Field's paper began working on its coverage of the story. Another reporter was assigned to write about Field and her relationship with Newman. Field was told that she would be quoted directly and to describe the relationship in any way that she wished.

"Just say we were involved," Field said haltingly.

"That's true, isn't it?" her colleague asked.

"No," Field replied, "but it's accurate."

That, as I say, is how I feel — at least, in hindsight — about "Absence of Malice." The story wasn't true. It wasn't even, as far as I know, a fictionalized account of an actual event.

But it was accurate, and it provided — as it still does — a valuable lesson in ethics — for journalists and everyone else.

'Bobby' Tried to Do Too Much

2011-11-17T04:59:00.003-06:00

I've known for a long time that Martin Sheen is a talented guy.

And he has fathered a bunch of talented children.

So it really is unfortunate that perhaps the least talented of the group, his son Charlie, has been the one who has been getting most of the attention lately.

It wasn't that way five years ago.

On this day in 2006, Charlie's older brother, Emilio Estevez, was the center of attention. He had written and directed a movie about the day that Robert Kennedy was assassinated called "Bobby." You can believe me when I say it was an ambitious undertaking.

Even though it was about a real event, it was a fictional story with an ensemble cast — not unlike the style one often sees in the works of Robert Altman, although Altman doesn't typically use actual events as the backdrops for his movies — and there were times, frankly, when I felt the story was a bit bogged down by all the characters and subplots that viewers had to follow.

Perhaps it should have been more like "Shampoo," a successful movie from the mid–1970s that used the contentious 1968 presidential election as its backdrop — fewer characters with, consequently, fewer plot lines.

It also reminded me, in some ways, of Oliver Stone's "JFK," which made its debut 15 years earlier. I had that sensation early in the movie.

If you've seen "JFK," you know that it opens with period film footage of President Kennedy while President Eisenhower's famous warning about the "military–industrial complex" was played in the background. In "Bobby," archival footage was seen while recordings of Robert Kennedy giving speeches — his announcement of his candidacy for president, his speech the night Martin Luther King was assassinated — played in the background, and I couldn't help wondering if Stone's film had inspired "Bobby," to any extent.

Perhaps Estevez was inspired by both Stone and Altman.

And maybe the Altman approach was necessary, given the many conflicts in American society at that time. But I felt that "Bobby" became top–heavy with all the individual story lines — not, it can be plausibly argued, unlike life.

On the morning of September 11, for example, everyone was busy with his or her own life — until airplanes were hijacked and crashed into buildings. Then people stopped what they were doing, and everyone's attention was riveted to the same thing.

It is the same with any other big event in modern times. The technological advances of the 20th century have that power over us — to force us to re–focus on a dime. The things we were doing or that demanded our immediate attention didn't go away. They just got put on the shelf.

It was an admirable effort, though, and it was one in which Estevez was able to enlist the assistance of his distinguished father (who played a campaign donor married to Helen Hunt). The cast also included Anthony Hopkins, Laurence Fishburne, Harry Belafonte, Christian Slater, Sharon Stone, Demi Moore and others.

My advice would have been to pare it down a little. One or two of the subplots could have been discarded, allowing the film to focus more on the unifying event. Besides, the film already had plenty of star power.

Father and son share a high regard for Robert F. Kennedy — even though Estevez, like me, was only a child when Kennedy was killed. He may have relied, to an extent, on his memories of that time, but he was barely 6 when Kennedy was assassinated so his memories can't be that great. My guess is that most of what he knows of that time is actually what he has been told by others.

But be that as it may ...

In spite of its drawbacks, "Bobby" told a tale of a time that young Americans have never known and many older Americans seem to have forgotten. And perhaps, as I say, so many characters were needed to provide a vivid portrait of that time in American history.

It effectively re–created a period when events seemed to be spiraling out of control. With an increasingly unpopular war dominating the headlines and a new generation of leaders being gunned down on what appeared to be a regular basis, there was an unmistakable sense that no one was in charge.

(The closest example I can think of in modern times was the waning months of the George W. Bush administration.)

"Bobby" did tend, as I say, to get bogged down by the many subplots — which I concluded, even before I had completed my first viewing of the movie, were designed to illustrate the many levels on which the great divide existed.

There was a racial divide, as illustrated by the apparently racist attitude of the kitchen manager (Christian Slater) who wouldn't permit his minority employees to take time off to vote.

There was a gender divide. Sometimes it was shown in heroic and self–sacrificing stories, such as the one in which a young girl (Lindsay Lohan) was marrying a friend (Elijah Wood) to keep him from going to Vietnam. Reportedly, that was based on a true story — Estevez said a woman told him, while he was writing the movie, that she actually married two friends for that purpose.

Other times, it was much more self–serving, even surprisingly so. At points, it gave the appearance of a soap opera.

The hotel manager (William H. Macy) was cheating on his aging but still attractive wife (Sharon Stone) with a young hotel switchboard operator (Heather Graham). Sheen's middle–aged campaign donor and his much younger wife struggled to overcome the issues in their marriage. Estevez himself played the part of the husband/manager of a boozy lounge singer (Demi Moore) intent on launching a comeback of sorts in Las Vegas.

There was the alienation of the young — the "never trust anyone over 30" crowd — who sought answers to problems from their contemporaries rather than older authority figures. In the 1960s, such answers were often said to be found through drug use, and two campaign workers (Brian Geraghty and Shia LaBeouf) were seen experimenting with acid with the help of a drug dealer (Ashton Kutcher).

They were all going about their lives — until the climactic moment when Kennedy was shot — and the audience could see all the characters gathered in one place, some of whom were injured, others were tending to their wounds, overcoming their differences — not unlike the many stories that were told of the heroic deeds that took place in the Twin Towers or the Pentagon or aboard Flight 93.

Above it all could be heard the inspirational words spoken by Bobby Kennedy after Martin Luther King's murder — made all the more poignant by the realization that Kennedy himself would die a violent death only two months later.

It was clear that Estevez had a passion for his subject. Perhaps he learned from "Bobby" that it's true what they say.

Less is more.

Defining a Lose-Lose Situation

2011-11-11T06:36:00.003-06:00

"There was only one catch and that was Catch–22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he were sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to."

Joseph Heller
"Catch–22"

I have several favorite authors.

I don't like to categorize — or qualify — them by era or gender or nationality or genre or anything else. I've always been a writer. A well–written story is a well–written story, as far as I am concerned.

Oh, sure, I have my preferences. I like just about anything Mark Twain ever wrote. Ditto the works of Charles Dickens. While I didn't always agree with his politics, I admire the political novels of Allen Drury, and I love the rich detail of the books by James Michener.

I have loved the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien since I was in high school. And I have devoured most of Stephen King's novels.

But almost no one whose works I have enjoyed has seen the title of one of his books become accepted slang for a specific condition.

"Catch–22," though, has achieved precisely that. When someone says that something is a "catch–22," it is immediately understood that it is a lose–lose situation from which one cannot escape.

I suppose the modern equivalent — at least in the film world — would be "Groundhog Day."

And a movie that was based on "Catch–22" was made in 1970. It was good. It had some talented people in it. It was faithful to Heller's original work. But no movie could do complete justice to it.

In the literary world, "Catch–22" made its debut half a century ago today, and it received its share of praise. The Chicago Sun–Times said it was "the best American novel in years."

Others weren't quite as generous, and hardback sales were sluggish in the United States. But sales were more robust in Great Britain, and the paperback enjoyed enormous commercial popularity here, selling millions of copies during the Vietnam years.

It really is no wonder to me that it was so popular during the Vietnam eraIts influence continues to be felt.

That is because the concepts that were expressed in "Catch–22" are vividly seen in the world of 2011.

Just recently, in fact, the local Occupy Dallas protesters agreed to relocate to City Hall Park. Their permit to camp in Pioneer Plaza was revoked because organizers of the protest did not purchase a $1 million insurance policy — which no insurer will sell under such circumstances, anyway.

For Betty Grable's legs, yes. For a protest, no.

The protesters can camp in City Hall Park for up to 60 days and have continued protesting in Pioneer Plaza during the day.

Joseph Heller would be proud.

The Eye of the Beholder

2011-11-09T07:54:00.002-06:00

Hal: Does she take the cake or what?

Mauricio: She takes the whole bakery, Hal.

Shallow Hal (2001)

One of the truly rewarding experiences that comes from being more than merely a casual movie watcher is the sensation of seeing a story that has something genuine to say — and doesn't have to hit its audience over the head to say it.

I felt that was the case with "Shallow Hal," which premiered on this day 10 years ago — except that, initially at least, I may have been a bit shallow myself.

When I saw the trailers for the movie, I lumped it with a sub–genre of comedy that specializes in cheap jokes at the expense of certain segments of the population — in this case, obese people. And I decided that I would not contribute, in any way, to the exploitation of people who have probably struggled with weight issues all their lives.

I was wrong to prejudge it that way.

A few years later, I was talking to a co–worker who told me he had purchased the DVD of that movie. "What did you think of it?" he asked. I confessed that I had never seen it. He said he would bring it for me to borrow if I would promise to watch it. I promised — and darned if he didn't bring it to me the next day!

"It's better than you think it is," he told me.

So I watched it that night — and he was right. "Shallow Hal" was, in reviewer Roger Ebert's words, "surprisingly moving at times."

My friend was right. It was much better than I thought.

Now, I have always thought that Gwyneth Paltrow is an exceptionally attractive woman, and I figured that any movie that would require me to look at her for nearly two hours wasn't a complete waste of time.

I approached the assignment of watching the movie with a certain amount of resignation.

I had been true to my original position. I had not contributed to the exploitation of obese people. I didn't buy a ticket, and I didn't buy the DVD.

I figured that, if I had to watch the movie, I had avoided contributing to its financial success (and it has earned a handsome profit). I had lived up to my end of the bargain. And my reward was to watch Gwyneth Paltrow — who was quite a bankable star in those years right after she won the Oscar for "Shakespeare in Love."

As I say, I have always thought she was attractive. And I had been gaining respect for her acting ability with her other recent performances in movies like "Great Expectations" and "Sliding Doors."

But it took considerable talent for her to play both the svelte Rosemary that Jack Black (playing a womanizer who had been hypnotized and could see only a woman's internal beauty) saw and the massive Rosemary that everyone else saw — and she deserved to be commended for wearing a 25–pound "fatsuit" and facial makeup that not only gave her the appearance of an obese person but also the sensation of being an obese person.

That is an important distinction, I think.

As I understand it, there are really two different kinds of fatsuits.

One kind re–creates the appearance of additional weight but is, essentially, weightless. An actor who is wearing such a padded suit under his/her clothes will appear to be obese but will not experience what life is like when one must carry around additional pounds — how an obese person must ease into a chair or a booth or walk through narrow doorways at an angle.

The other kind of fatsuit is the kind that is weighted. It is designed to give the wearer the sensation of obesity, not merely the appearance. And that is the kind that Paltrow wore.

It was bound to influence the way she played the part.

I guess I was put off by the reputation of the Farrelly Brothers, the movie's writers/directors/producers. They were known for making movies that relied heavily on a lot of slapstick and off–color humor. I'm not necessarily opposed to that kind of humor except when it is used to poke fun at those who are weak and vulnerable.

It's like kicking a guy when he's down.

But when I saw "Shallow Hal," it was clear to me that the Farrellys had gone to unusual lengths to build audience empathy for obese people and send some serious messages about modern society and its treatment of those with severe weight issues.

I applaud Paltrow for wearing a weighted fatsuit, but if I was going to criticize that, I would say that the extra weight was not in proportion to the size of the character she played. An additional 25 pounds on someone of Paltrow's build would be noticeable but far from morbidly obese.

And it would take someone who was morbidly obese to buckle the steel legs of a chair merely by sitting in it.

Poor Rosemary, I thought when I watched "Shallow Hal" the first time. How difficult and painful her life must be.

But Rosemary was honest about herself and her emotions — and she had some lessons to teach people who judge others too harshly.

The judgmental ones were the ones to be pitied.

The Debut of Led Zeppelin IV

2011-11-08T03:04:00.001-06:00

I guess most people think of "Stairway to Heaven" when they think of Led Zeppelin's fourth studio album, which was released 40 years ago today.

I do, too, but I have other memories of that album as well.

The album became the third best–selling album in the United States. It was one of the first albums I ever owned, but I never owned it in vinyl. I had a cassette tape of it, and it was one of a handful of cassettes I took with me when my family moved to Nashville for my father's sabbatical.

It was a rare afternoon in those days when I came home from school and did not listen to that album from start to finish on my portable cassette player. I guess I looked upon it as my lifeline — long before the concept of lifelines became popular — even though I didn't have much variety in my "collection."

The music was really remarkable. To my knowledge, no one has ever described the album better than Stephen Thomas Erlewine of AllMusic.com: It was, he wrote, "a monolithic record, defining not only Led Zeppelin but the sound and style of '70s hard rock."

Erlewine described it as "majestic hard rock with a mystical, rural English folk that gives the record epic scope. Even at its most basic — the muscular, tradtionalist 'Rock and Roll' — the album has a grand sense of drama, which is deepened by Robert Plant's burgeoning obsession with mythology and mysticism."

Even today, if I listen to that album, I remember those days. Nashville was a rather lonely place for me, and I was glad my father's sabbatical lasted only four months. When it was over, we returned to my hometown where my friends were, and I continued to listen to that Led Zeppelin album.

Until I began adding to my collection.

Eventually, I owned several Led Zeppelin albums, as did most of my friends — "Houses of the Holy," "Physical Graffiti," etc.

I didn't get "Led Zeppelin IV" when it was first released. I got it a few years later. Maybe that means I was something of a late convert to Zeppelin's music.

Late or not, though, the music spoke to me at that time in my life.

It still speaks to me today.

Experiencing Something Wild

2011-11-07T05:13:00.002-06:00

When I was working for the Arkansas Gazette, there were part–timers who worked in the office, doing clerical things like sorting and filing and stuff like that.

For a time in 1986, there was a young fellow who worked part time for the Gazette and part time for a video rental outlet.

He had something of a knack for identifying the kinds of movies that everyone on the staff would like. Occasionally, he would bring in video tapes for us to take home and view — free of charge.

I must admit, I liked the arrangement.

Anyway, one day he came into the office and handed me a video tape. It was of "Something Wild." I had never heard of it, and I told him so.

"Just watch it," he told me. "I watched it last night. I think you'll like it."

So I took it home and watched it — in spite of the fact that I didn't recognize a name in it.

That certainly wouldn't be the case today.

The movie was directed by Jonathan Demme, who had received some attention up to that time but really came into prominence five years later when he won an Oscar for directing "The Silence of the Lambs."

Jeff Daniels had been in only a handful of movies by 1986, but he appeared to be an up–and–comer — as, indeed, he was. I always felt one of his best performances was in Woody Allen's "The Purple Rose of Cairo," which actually came out the year before "Something Wild," but I've been impressed with many thing he has done since.

He wasn't merely one of the stars of "Dumb and Dumber."

"Something Wild" was almost the debut of supporting actor Ray Liotta. He became much more familiar to audiences a few years later through his roles in "Field of Dreams" and "Goodfellas."

I guess Melanie Griffith, daughter of Tippi Hedren, was the most veteran member of the bunch. Not yet 30, she had been in films since she was 14 — and, based on the stories that have been told about her and the kinds of movies in which she appeared, I'd say that "Something Wild" could have been the title of the story of her life up to that point.

As far as I know, it was not, in any way, autobiographical.

Griffith played a — for lack of a better term — wild child who spotted Daniels having lunch in a cafe. When he left without paying, she confronted him — and, ultimately, shanghaied him, taking him on a bizarre road trip.

A somewhat prim and proper sort, Daniels' character was attracted to Griffith's free persona, and, for a time, the film was kind of a fantasy tale of an improbable coupling that took the two of them on an adventure. But the story quickly became more menacing as Griffith's abusive husband, played by Liotta, tracked her down at her high school reunion.

Throwing caution to the wind, Daniels came to Griffith's defense, and the unlikely love story was complete.

It was something different. Definitely something unusual.

It was something wild.

Andy Rooney: The Last Curmudgeon?

2011-11-05T06:40:00.014-05:00

curmudgeon — noun
a surly or miserly person
[of unknown origin]
cur'mudgeonly — adjective

Collins English Dictionary, 10th edition

Andy Rooney died yesterday.

And that is the sort of thing that I would usually discuss on my Freedom Writing blog. That is where I normally write about current events and journalists.

But this is the blog where I write on entertainment topics — and therein lies my dilemma.

Andy Rooney certainly was a journalist, but that is really too confining, given the pigeonholing to which most people seem to be inclined these days.

Rooney was a writer. That is what he called himself, and that is what he was. I've been writing most of my life, and it seems to me that one never really stops being a writer — at least, not until one is dead.

His writing was not limited to the printed page, though.

"After the war," he told his 60 Minutes viewers when he stepped down on October 2, "I went to work in radio and television because I didn't think anyone was paying enough attention to the written word."

But Rooney was a writer. He went on television as a writer, not as an entertainer. "I'm a writer who reads what he's written," he said.

There are all kinds of writing, and there are all kinds of journalists. Reporter is but a single type (pardon the pun) of journalist, and Rooney was a reporter in the early days of his career, writing for Stars and Stripes during World War II.

In his final broadcast on CBS last month, Rooney told viewers that a high school teacher had told him he had a flair for writing, and so he pursued it. He pursued it in many different directions, and reporting for Stars and Stripes was only one.

It affected his life and his writing in profound ways, but it wasn't the only direction he took in nearly a century of living. "I've done a lot of complaining here, but of all the things I've complained about, I can't complain about my life," he told the viewers who tuned in for his farewell.

He was a columnist, but he was also a humorist, and he shared many of his insights with his radio and TV audiences. His 60 Minutes audiences were treated to them for more than three decades.

"I’ve learned," Rooney told that audience near the end of his tenure, "that one should keep his words both soft and tender, because tomorrow he may have to eat them."

We knew we were going to miss Andy Rooney when he retired. We shall miss him all the more knowing he is gone for good.

Agatha Christie's Change of Pace

2011-11-04T05:18:00.004-05:00

"Question — What is your Christian name?
Answer — N. or M.
Question — When did you receive this name?
Answer — At my baptism when I was dedicated to God and received into the visible Church of Christ.

Catechism from Book of Common Prayer

As long as I can remember, my parents were fans of Agatha Christie.

Between them, I'm sure they must have read every one of the 80 detective novels she wrote in her lifetime. If they didn't read them all, it wasn't because they didn't try. When I was a child, I thought nothing of finding an Agatha Christie paperback just about anywhere in the house.

To an extent, I think I inherited their fondness for the genre. I have dozens of copies of her books that I inherited from my parents — my father gave them to me after my mother died. He said he had already read them and probably wouldn't read them again. I must confess that I haven't read all of them, but I have read most of them.

I am a writer myself, and I am intrigued by the many sources from which Christie drew her inspiration. Seventy years ago this month, for example, the Book of Common Prayer was the inspiration for what many critics of the time called her best work to date.

That was saying something, given the fact that Christie had already published at least 30 books by that time.

Most of her previous books dealt with one of two main characters — Miss Marple, an elderly spinster and amateur sleuth, and Hercule Poirot, a professional (and semi–retired) detective from Belgium. And, if you ask someone today to name one of Agatha Christie's detectives, those are the names you are most likely to hear — especially Poirot's.

As I understand it, Poirot was featured in nearly half of Christie's books, and he was the central character in all the movie adaptations of Christie's books that I have ever seen. Many well–known actors — including Albert Finney, Peter Ustinov and Tony Randall — have portrayed him on the silver screen.

But not all of Christie's books focused on Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot, and N or M? was one of those exceptions.

The story was centered around an English couple, Tommy and Tuppence, who first appeared in a Christie novel nearly 20 years earlier and a collection of short stories that was published a few years after that. They showed up again in a couple of novels near the end of Christie's life, but, in 1941, they must have been all but forgotten.

If they were mostly forgotten by 1941, they couldn't have been too recognizable to Christie's readers — and not only because of their rare appearances in her books. Most of Christie's characters — like many recurring characters in other writers' books — never really seemed to age. You could read a book featuring Hercule Poirot that was written in the 1930s and then read one that was written 30 years later and there would be virtually no difference between the characters, but Tommy and Tuppence clearly went through life phases.

When they first appeared in the early 1920s, they were seen as "bright young things," former intelligence workers living by their wits in post–World War I England. By 1941, they were in middle age, not quite as impulsive, more deliberate and dealing with the realities of World War II England.

(It should be noted at this point that a story with a specific wartime setting was unusual for Christie.)

They were feeling left out of things when Tommy was approached about doing some undercover work, and Tuppence decided to join him. She didn't wait for him to invite her.

And so they embarked on a mission to find a German agent who may have been male or female.

N or M? got its name from a 16th–century catechism that asks for one's Christian (given) name. The response that is requested is "N or M," with N being a male and M being a female.

To understand the title, it helps if you know that fact. It also helps if you read the book — and it's a pretty quick read. My old paperback copy is less than 200 pages, and much of the story was told via dialogue, as so many of Christie's books were.

One of the things I liked about the book was the way it referred to events from World War I that may have been widely known in their day but seem to be largely forgotten today — at least in this country.

I've always been something of a history buff.

For example, N or M? mentioned the case of British nurse Edith Cavell, who came to the aid of anyone who needed her help during the hostilities.

She was a pioneer of modern nursing techniques in Belgium before the war. After Belgium came under German occupation, she helped hundreds escape.

The Germans arrested her in 1915, tried her, convicted her of treason and executed her. Cavell's death became an effective propaganda tool for the Allies. Stories portrayed her as a heroic and patriotic individual who said, "I can’t stop while there are lives to be saved."

If N or M? was an accurate depiction of the times, people were still discussing Cavell's role in the conflict a quarter of a century after her execution.

Mrs. Sprot had just said in her thin fluting voice:

"Where I do think the Germans made such a mistake in the last war was to shoot Nurse Cavell. It turned everybody against them."

It was then that Sheila, flinging back her head, demanded in her fierce young voice: "Why shouldn't they shoot her? She was a spy, wasn't she?"

"Oh, no, not a spy."

"She helped English people to escape — in an enemy country. That's the same thing. Why shouldn't she be shot?"

"Oh, but shooting a woman — and a nurse."

Sheila got up.

"I think the Germans were quite right," she said.

Agatha Christie
"N or M?" (1941)

In fact, nearly a century after Cavell's execution, the evidence that supported/refuted the claim that she was a spy remains ambiguous.

But that is really another story. N or M? wasn't about Cavell and World War I. It was about uncovering German agents in the early days of World War II.

I gather that the essentially spy story was somewhat welcome escapism for Britons who had already been through the Battle of Britain.

And, while the references to people like Nurse Cavell may be obscure to modern readers, they were no doubt familiar — and relevant — to readers in 1941.

Fresh death was all around them then. It may well have been refreshing to read about a death that was practically ancient history by that time.

And it may have been a refreshing change of pace for my parents, who were born long after Nurse Cavell was executed.

The Story of an Awkward Teenager

2011-11-03T05:55:00.003-05:00

Thirty–five years ago today, the screen adaptation of Stephen King's "Carrie" made its debut.

Almost immediately, the final scene, in which a hand reaches up from the rubble and grabs Amy Irving by the wrist, became iconic. Virtually everyone, it seems, even those who have never seen the movie, is familiar with it.

I, however, had not heard of that scene when I saw the movie a few weeks after its premiere — and I jumped in my seat when I first saw it — just as I did a few years later when I saw "Alien" on the big screen or when I saw the climactic scene of "Silence of the Lambs" more than a decade later.

If only one could enact an enforceable law that would prevent people from revealing the ending of a movie like "Carrie" to someone who hasn't seen it. It's like blowing the punch line of a joke ...

It was a story to which anyone who ever felt awkward as a teenager could relate.

Carrie (played by Sissy Spacek, who was mostly unknown at the time, at least in comparison to her status after the movie made the theatrical rounds) was an outcast in her high school, taunted and abused by her classmates.

Life wasn't any better for her when she got home from school, either, with a domineering religious fanatic of a mother (memorably played by Piper Laurie) waiting for her.

Of course, no one realized that Carrie had a very special power — telekinetic power — and Carrie herself was reluctant to acknowledge its existence. But when she was upset, it bubbled to the surface and almost took on a life of its own, and, when she could no longer deny what she saw happening around her, she felt compelled to research the possibility.

If only the folks in her world had been paying attention, they might have seen the tell–tale signs that her power was growing beyond her control and becoming more of a threat to others.

But, as humans are apt to do, they were obsessed with their own lives and didn't notice when a light bulb shattered in the girls' locker room and an ashtray sitting on the principal's desk flipped off and broke on the floor.

From most outward appearances, Carrie was a typical shy teenage girl fully engaged in the emotional roller coaster ride known as puberty.

But, if you were paying attention, she was boiling volcano about to erupt.

Well, I suppose the rest of the story is pretty well known by now. Carrie was set up to be escorted to the prom and then to be elected prom queen — and, as she was being crowned, a bucket of blood would be dumped on her — all of which transpired as planned.

But then the unplanned happened.

Carrie's telekinetic powers took over, slamming shut all exits from the gym and starting a fire that killed everyone who wasn't killed in another way. In a truly zombie–like state, Carrie strolled through the carnage out into the night and walked home, her dress still drenched in blood, where she killed her mother with flying knives that pinned her to the wall in a pose that resembled the crucifixion.

That part was a little heavy handed for me.

Both Carrie and her mother were crushed when Carrie used her powers to bring the house down, leaving a pile of rubble where Irving's wrist would be grabbed in the film's climactic scene.

In hindsight, I guess, that scene had the same shock value for that generation as the shower scene in "Psycho" had for the previous one.

And that really isn't surprising, given the admiration that director Brian De Palma has for the work of Alfred Hitchcock.

Clearly, the name of the high school — Bates High School — was taken from the villain of "Psycho" — Norman Bates. (I don't recall the name of the high school in King's original novel, but I am quite sure it was not Bates.)

And, while it wouldn't qualify as a variation from the book, De Palma used the same violin theme from "Psycho" whenever Carrie had a telekinetic episode.

There were other differences between the movie and the Stephen King book that inspired it — as there always are — but King himself told an interviewer that it was a "good movie" — and so it was.

It is a bit dated now, but it is still a good movie.

A Gangster Flick You've Probably Never Seen

2011-11-01T06:23:00.004-05:00

So you think you know gangster movies, eh?

I guess we all do — to a certain extent. I mean, who hasn't seen "The Godfather" movies? Or "Bonnie and Clyde," for that matter? Or "Goodfellas" or "Scarface?"

You could include "Pulp Fiction" in that genre, too, I suppose.

But I'm inclined to believe England's Empire Magazine may have been right when it named 1996's "The Funeral" as one of the "20 Greatest Gangster Movies You've Never Seen* (*Probably)."

"The Funeral" made its theatrical debut 15 years ago today. It didn't benefit from the same kind of hoopla that accompanied the premiere of "The Godfather" &mdash maybe because it wasn't based on a novel written by Mario Puzo.

When I watched "The Funeral" for the first time, all I really knew about it was that it was about organized crime — and, with any such movie, you expect a certain amount of violence. It's a given.

So it was prudent of me to approach this movie expecting abundant, even wanton violence.

I'm not a big fan of violence in the arts. I'm more likely to watch such a movie if I am drawn by something else, like a great story or great acting. Violence for violence's sake has never appealed to me.

I honestly don't remember what it was that drew me to "The Funeral," which was the story of three gangster brothers. One (played by Vincent Gallo) had been killed, and the two surviving brothers (Christopher Walken and Chris Penn) tried to come to terms with that each in his own way.

And, in the traditional gangster way, they swore revenge. Nothing groundbreaking about that.

Moviegoers of the time must have been able to put 2 and 2 together and at least anticipate what was in store for them. If they knew the movie was about gangsters and the title referred to a funeral, it stood to reason that there would be violence in the movie.

And I saw it after it had left the theaters. The gangster theme really was no surprise to me.

In a manner that was particularly reminiscent of "The Godfather Part II," much of the brothers' story was told via flashback. Through that, the audience learned how they came to live by violence early.

Nothing groundbreaking about that, either.

In hindsight, I can only guess that reports of the shocking nature — shocking even for a gangster movie — of the climactic scene were what attracted me.

I wasn't necessarily drawn by the acting — although Penn did win best supporting actor at the Venice International Film Festival, and he was nominated for best actor at the Independent Spirit Awards.

Personally, I thought the acting wasn't that great. It was all right, but it wasn't worthy of any awards.

Perhaps the writing had a lot to do with that. There were no memorable lines in the movie, no truly memorable plot twists.

Except at the end.

The ending really was shocking. After I saw it for the first time, I could honestly say, "I didn't see that coming."

Perhaps you have seen it already. The movie has been making the rounds on TV for several years now, but I won't spoil it for you if you have managed to go this long without seeing it.

And, unfortunately, many people still haven't seen it. Fifteen years later, it is still one of the greatest gangster movies you've probably never seen.

Barney's Double Standard

2011-10-30T08:29:00.003-05:00

Opie: I thought Barney had a girl, Thelma Lou.

Andy: He does. This is somebody else.

Opie: Well, what does he need two of them for?

Andy: He doesn't.

That was some set of rules that Barney (Don Knotts) made his long–suffering girlfriend, Thelma Lou (Betty Lynn), live by.

In the episode of The Andy Griffith Show that premiered on this day 50 years ago, Barney's odd logic was on hilarious display.

He didn't want Thelma Lou to show any affection in public — but he appeared to have no inhibitions about, in Thelma Lou's words, "acting like a silly school boy" for all to see when a pretty girl smiled at him.

The pretty girl, in this case, was played by an actress named Beverly Tyler, who had a largely undistinguished career in TV and the movies in the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s. Her role as Gladys "Melissa" Stevens was nearly her last — just before she retired from show business to marry and raise a family.

Fans of TV from that time might be more inclined to recognize her co–guest star, Jackie Coogan, whose career went back to the days of silent movies but gained his most lasting fame as Uncle Fester on The Addams Family.

Anyway, Barney's embarrassing fawning over Gladys/Melissa after she flirted with him led to a lover's quarrel with Thelma Lou, and the two broke up.

Barney: She's new here. Being an officer it's practically my duty to show her around, right, Andy?

Andy: Oh, yeah, yeah.

Thelma Lou: Just what did you have to show her that she couldn't find herself?

Barney: Oh, lots of things — the stamp machine, the parcel post window, the outgoing air mail slot.

Andy: Oh, yeah, they're hard to find.

Barney decided it was a good idea to put himself on the market, starting with actively courting his new love interest.

What Barney didn't know was that she was already married — to Coogan — and Barney was the intended victim of a bogus breach of promise suit. Coogan's character presented himself initially as the father of "Melissa," not her husband, then sprang into action when the intended victim resisted.

When Barney attempted to wriggle out of his supposed commitment to "Melissa," they tried to sue him. But Andy took a gamble — based strictly on a hunch — and revealed the scam, getting Barney off the hook.

Andy had figured out what was going on, that "Melissa" wasn't really George's daughter — that, in fact, they were married to each other.

But that, he told Barney, wasn't what convinced him.

You'll have to watch the ending for yourself to find out what persuaded Andy!

Another Look at Looker

2011-10-29T19:06:00.002-05:00

If you haven't already made your arrangements for Halloween viewing — and if you haven't, what have you been waiting for? — an option you might consider is "Looker," a movie that made its debut 30 years ago tomorrow.

It won't fit the bill for you if what you crave for Halloween is scary monsters or ghost stories. But if you lean to suspense thrillers with a touch of science fiction, well, "Looker" might be what you want.

It might not, though. It was more funny than spine–tingling, really a silly story.

The story, which was written and directed by Michael Crichton (better known for writing things like "Jurassic Park" and "The Andromeda Strain"), had some intriguing ideas behind it — and, in its way, was similar to "Network" in its anticipation of how modern mass communication would seek to manipulate the masses. But it never quite lived up to its promise.

"Network," which will mark its 35th birthday next month, addressed the concepts of news as entertainment and reality programming long before they popped up on the popular radar. "Looker" focused on advertising and absurdly precise measurements of physical beauty that determined what agencies did — and the lengths to which models would go to please the agencies.

Albert Finney, who had been nominated for Oscars twice prior to making this movie, was probably the most bankable star in a cast that included several familiar faces. He played a plastic surgeon who had performed apparently unnecessary operations on models who then turned up dead.

(These models, I should point out, were physically perfect, but not perfect in every way so a research company used digital scanning to acquire computer–generated models that could be animated in future commercials.)

Susan Dey, who was probably better known to moviegoers of that time as Laurie Partridge of TV's The Partridge Family, played one of Finney's patients. Her character worked with Finney to uncover a plot to kill the models.

At this point in her career, Dey was between her breakthrough role as the alluring yet virtuous Laurie and her next big role as the more mature lawyer, Grace Van Owen, in L.A. Law, and she was trying desperately to shed her squeaky–clean image.

She shed more than her image in her theatrical debut, 1977's "First Love." In fact, it could be argued that she exposed too much in that movie. When she made "Looker" about four years later, Dey seemed to have learned a lesson or two about the value of mystery — promise more but show less.

She teased the audience more in "Looker," and, ultimately, she delivered less. But, then, so did "Looker" in comparison to "First Love."

"First Love," at least, had a comprehensible, if schmaltzy, story. "Looker," on the other hand, was a bit contrived and there were elements that were simply never explained — except many years later in the commentary option on the DVD.

But it was fun then, and it should be fun now. If you don't have Halloween plans, you might give it some thought.

A Crane's Critique

2011-10-22T00:04:00.003-05:00

One of the most entertaining angles of the Frasier series was always the sibling rivalry between Frasier and his brother Niles.

It was constantly a source of fresh humor since it often focused on the elitist tastes the brothers shared. In the 11 years the show was on the air, the writers explored the Crane brothers' mutual passions for wine, caviar, opera, fine dining, literature, exclusive clubs and spas and their innate desire to be descended from royalty, among other things, and their wish to rub elbows with the most eccentric and the most prominent.

I always enjoyed those episodes. Frasier and Niles were both so quirky — and so transparent — that it was hard not to be amused by their petty bickering and squabbling.

One of the best of those episodes made its debut 15 years ago tonight.

Sitting at a table outside the coffee bar they frequented, Niles and Frasier spotted a reclusive writer named T.H. Houghton from a distance. Houghton (played by the late Robert Prosky) was inspired by J.D. Salinger, whose "The Catcher in the Rye" was published 60 years ago this year.

Thus began a merry chase in which Frasier and Niles kept trying to meet the writer — and kept missing by inches and seconds — while their father struck up a close friendship with him, going to ball games with him and talking about classic TV shows like Bonanza.

The final indignity for Frasier was the fact that Houghton had forged a bond with Eddie the dog — "fed him his afternoon biscuit," according to Daphne.

It was all too much for Frasier, who wondered, "Will the madness never end?"

Niles suggested that their father might bring Houghton back to the apartment after dinner.

In one of my favorite lines in the entire series, Frasier replied, "I doubt it. They'll probably run into J.D. Salinger and Salman Rushdie — go out for margaritas."

That was a doubly funny line because, as I say, the Houghton character was inspired by Salinger.

But Houghton went Salinger one better. He had a manuscript for a second novel that he was in Seattle to show a publisher — and he accidentally left it in Frasier's apartment when he and Martin went to a Mariners doubleheader.

Frasier and Niles seized on the opportunity to read the manuscript, prompting a scolding from Daphne.

But they got rid of her by giving her the day off and proceeded to read the manuscript in privacy ...

Until Houghton showed up with Martin.

Frasier and Niles tried to cover for their transgression, assuring Houghton that the book was wonderful — "It was great," Niles said. "Wow!" said Frasier.

Martin was furious. "If you were Hoss and Little Joe," he fumed after Houghton excused himself to use the restroom, "Ben Cartwright would kick your sorry butts right off the Ponderosa."

Niles and Frasier tried to apologize, then, after Martin had left the room, Frasier observed, "He's back on the Cartwrights again. You know, someday we really should ask him just who the hell they are."

What concerned the always image–conscious Frasier more was the impression their "pithy comments" left with their idol.

"Houghton's going to leave here today thinking we're a couple of inarticulate simpletons," he told Niles, and they agreed to share more learned comments with him when he emerged from the bathroom.

Unfortunately, they inadvertently persuaded Houghton that the entire book had been stolen from Dante. "I was a fool to think I had another book in me," he cried, calling himself a "talentless hack," and he disposed of the manuscript by tossing part of it in the fireplace and the rest off Frasier's balcony. Then he walked resolutely from the apartment, saying that at least he could leave with his dignity ... not noticing that a page from his manuscript was stuck to the bottom of one of his shoes.

Frasier and Niles were chastened and despondent. "We've destroyed a man's life," Frasier said. "Not to mention depriving future generations of a work of art," Niles added.

The two rationalized, however, that they had spared Houghton a thorough trashing from the critics (who would certainly have noticed the parallel between his work and Dante's) that his fragile ego couldn't withstand — and thus became heroes in their own eyes.

"You know, Niles," Frasier said in his self–congratulatory way, "we saved that man's life."

As well as his image — with himself.

Chuck Berry Is 85

2011-10-18T11:01:00.011-05:00

The fact that Chuck Berry has lived to his 85th birthday is a significant milestone, one that many of us feared he might not reach not too long ago.

Earlier this year, it was reported that Berry had collapsed at a New Year's show in Chicago. Thankfully, he seems to have rebounded.

There doesn't seem to be any real agreement on how rock 'n' roll came to be. About the only thing on which there does seem to be agreement is the idea that it originated in the South in what can only be described as a convergence of several musical styles — blues, country, jazz, gospel, folk, swing — that evolved into rock 'n' roll.

Because it was such an evolutionary kind of thing, it's been tough for music historians to pinpoint when the phrase "rock 'n' roll" was first applied to music. It was apparently used in the early part of the 20th century to describe both the fervor of the religious faithful and the ecstacy of a sexual encounter.

But the phrase caught on — in a musical sense — in the 1950s. Some people credit Bill Haley and the Comets and "Rock Around the Clock." Others say Elvis Presley or Jerry Lee Lewis or Little Richard deserve the credit.

They're all rock 'n' roll legends and all equally deserving of recognition, but I say Berry is as worthy as any, and "Johnny B Goode" is as good a demarcation point as you will find. It may be Berry's most recognizable song. It's bound to be the Berry song that has been covered the most, from Elvis, Bill Haley, Buddy Holly and the others to Michael J. Fox in "Back to the Future."

If anything is absolutely certain, it is that rock 'n' roll has been around for a long time, so long that dictionaries don't agree on its definition.

Some dictionaries will tell you that "rock 'n' roll" is synonymous with "rock music" while others will say that rock 'n' roll preceded rock music and is a different genre, even though the two have many things in common.

I doubt that such distinctions have ever really mattered to Berry. As Bobby Gillespie wrote in The Guardian last year, "Berry started the global psychic jailbreak that is rock 'n' roll," but I suspect that, if asked, Berry would tell you that what has always mattered to him was whether the music sounded good, whether it made the listeners move their feet — and the rest of their bodies — and sing along (even if, like me, they have no real talent for singing).

And that, I suppose, tells you all you really need to know.

Rock 'n' roll is as much a state of mind as a state of being. It is at the heart of being young and thinking young.

It is why, at the age of 85, Chuck Berry is still singing and playing for audiences.

Happy birthday, Chuck, and many more.

Agatha Christie's Last Mystery

2011-10-17T16:08:00.001-05:00

It is fitting, I suppose, that a certain amount of mystery surrounds the final books that were published by the all–time best–selling mystery writer, Agatha Christie.

Many people, you see, think — erroneously — that "Sleeping Murder," which was published 35 years ago this month, was the last book that Christie wrote. But it was not. It was the last of her books to be published — and it was published nearly a year after her death.

And that is an entirely different thing.

In fact, if what I have heard and read is true, "Sleeping Murder," which featured Christie's elderly sleuth, Miss Marple, may have been written as many as 35 years before it was published.

Long before they were published, Christie wrote novels that were intended to be the final cases for her primary detectives, Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. The manuscripts, so the story goes, were sealed away for decades until Christie, in the final years of her life, authorized the publication of "Curtain," Poirot's final case.

I don't think Christie ever confirmed the details about when she wrote the books, but devotees of her work deduced, in true mystery reader fashion, that she must have written both during World War II — although some have speculated recently that "Sleeping Murder" may have been written after the war.

No matter. It presented no major continuity problems in the story line of Miss Marple. She didn't die in the end (unlike Poirot) which might have been something of a problem.

Death is so final, as any fan of Agatha Christie must surely know.

And, as many of her fans have observed, the general timing of the story's penning could be determined by the references to a play that opened in London in the mid–1940s.

If Miss Marple died at that time, it would have made it awkward to explain things in novels that had been written since "Sleeping Murder."

But nothing in the story remotely suggested that it was Miss Marple's last case. At the end of the book, the reader could only conclude that Miss Marple had returned to her home in a fictional village near London and resumed her life.

At the time it was published, some people said it was the perfect swan song for Christie. I never thought it was a particularly remarkable story. It was all right, but I really think she wrote better books in her life.

Essentially, the story was about a young woman who purchased a home for herself and her husband — without realizing that she had lived there once as a small child.

Her memories began to come back to her, and it occurred to her that she had witnessed a murder there when she was small — and she and her husband began investigating whether her "memories" were real or imagined.

The story reminded me of so many reports that I have heard in recent years — of people who have repressed memories since childhood and something summoned them to the surface.

I have often heard such people speak of the places where these repressed memories were based as if the places themselves were possessed by restless spirits. Sometimes, when those spirits were "appeased" in some way, they left in peace.

That was the sense I got from the conclusion of "Sleeping Murder:"

"Poor Helen ... poor lovely Helen ... who died young. ... You know, Giles, she isn't there any more — in the house — in the hall. ... I could feel that yesterday before we left. ... There's just the house. And the house is fond of us. We can go back if we like ..."

To Dream the Impossible Dream

2011-10-15T06:20:00.006-05:00

Perhaps no one in TV history was as good at interpreting recurring dreams as Dr. Frasier Crane — until he had to interpret one of his own.

Fifteen years ago tonight, Frasier was being tormented by a recurring dream in which he woke up in a seedy motel room with a crescent moon lamp, a nearly empty bottle of tequila and the word "Chesty" tattooed on his left forearm. As the dream played out, it was revealed that Frasier was in the motel with Gil Chesterton, KACL's prissy food critic who was widely assumed to be gay — or, at least, to have gay tendencies.

In typical Frasier fashion, he obsessed over the dream. What could it mean? He sought Niles' input and followed up on every theory the two of them proposed — that the dream was related to Frasier's diet or that it was connected to his relationship with his deceased mother.

But each one fell apart on closer inspection.

Finally, Frasier was forced to face the possibility that perhaps the dream was telling him something about his sexuality.

That wasn't a prospect that Frasier wanted to consider — in fact, he had been trying to avoid it — and it sure wasn't the kind of thing his father wanted to talk about in the wee hours of the morning when he couldn't sleep. But when Frasier obsessed about something, he could not be denied.

"You don't care if I ever sleep again, do you?" Martin asked when Frasier told him what the dream had been about — but, in spite of his uneasiness about the topic, he persuaded Frasier that the dream couldn't possibly be a message about his sexuality because "you would have known by now."

That left Frasier with only one option. His call–in show hadn't been presenting him with anything that was challenging enough for his intellect so his subconscious mind had created a dream for him to interpret that defied easy interpretation.

Convinced that was the answer, a relieved Frasier went to bed, certain that he wouldn't be bothered in his dreams again.

Until Sigmund Freud paid him a visit during what Gil called Frasier's "midnight movie."

On another note about Frasier ...

One of the things that I always liked about Frasier was the vignettes that could be seen played out behind the closing credits. They were, at best, a minute long and always related in some way to the main story that had just been told.

Those vignettes always enhanced the stories — occasionally, I thought they were better than the stories.

Anyway ...

When this episode ended, Eddie the dog could be seen dreaming about a plate of muffins on the kitchen counter, and he was jumping continuously, catching brief glimpses of the muffins each time.

As the credits concluded, Eddie could be seen slowly sauntering from the kitchen into the living room. Had he finally gotten the muffins? Had he tired of jumping? One could only guess. All that was certain was that the episode and its credits were over.

Perhaps it was the way that particular vignette focused on the dog in the household, but it reminded me then — and still reminds me today — of the occasion when I went with my mother and some family friends to see "The Muppet Movie."

When the story had ended and the closing credits scrolled on the screen, our group remained in our seats transfixed while everyone else in the theater got up and left. At the very end, the camera focused on Animal, who stared straight at the "audience" and implored them to "Go home! Go home!"

We all stood up, laughed and left the theater per Animal's instruction.

And, in a non–verbal way, the Frasier closing served the same purpose. When, in his dream, Eddie came sauntering into the living room from the kitchen, it was clear that the story was finished.

How Terribly Strange; Paul Simon is 70

2011-10-13T05:56:00.001-05:00

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"Can you imagine us years from today?
Sharing a park bench quietly
How terribly strange to be 70."

Paul Simon
"Old Friends" (1968)

I have many memories of my mother, and one of the most lasting, I think, will always be her admiration for Paul Simon's music.

Mom was brought up in the Depression, and it nurtured a frugal side to her nature. When I was a child, she was not inclined to spend money recklessly (for example, when I was little, I remember that, for awhile, she gave me powdered milk because it was cheaper to add water than buy bottled milk at the store). Spending money on records was, for the most part, too reckless for her when she had two growing children to feed and clothe.

But she bought most of Simon and Garfunkel's albums, anyway, and she introduced my brother and me to their enduring harmonies.

When my brother and I were older, Simon and Garfunkel, who had split up several years earlier, reunited and went on tour. On a memorable August night only a few days before Mom's birthday, the whole family went to see them when they played in the Cotton Bowl here in Dallas.

It was Mom's kind of show, and I am glad I could share it with her. It is a memory that shines brightly for me now.

Mom's been gone for more than 15 years so, needless to say, we were all a lot younger in those days. And I know that time waits for no man.

Nevertheless, it's a bit stunning to think that Paul Simon is 70 today. Time, it turns out, doesn't march by. It sprints.

How "terribly strange" it is, as Simon wrote in his song "Old Friends" in 1968.

I observed back in the spring that Bob Dylan turned 70 in May, but somehow that seemed different to me. There was no TV in my home until I was in grade school so I have no memory of public figures who, prior to the time when our family did acquire a TV, were familiar to people who had one — except from the photos and films I have seen.

I don't recall the young Bob Dylan who burst onto the scene. The Dylan I knew always seemed older to me than Paul Simon — and not just by months, either.

Maybe it was because Paul Simon always came across as more naive — in his songs and his appearance. Dylan was a much more hardened realist, and he always seemed to look the part. Simon was a dreamer and a romantic. Even in middle age, he looked like a young boy.

His hair is gray now, but his face still has that youthful quality to it. In the attached video, Simon sings on last month's 10th anniversary of the September 11 terrorist attacks — and, if you ignore the color of the hair peeking out beneath his baseball cap, he looks and sounds like he did 40 years ago.

When I think of Paul Simon after his split with Art Garfunkel, I often think of his performance on the early Saturday Night Live wearing a turkey outfit for Thanksgiving and singing "Still Crazy After All These Years." He was the same old trusting, even gullible, starry–eyed dreamer he'd always been.

But I also think of the music my mother played on the family stereo when my brother and I were little. In hindsight, it is clear to me why the music appealed to Mom the way it did. Simon's songs were optimistic and sentimental, expressing hope, joy, sorrow, uncertainty, regret. Perhaps more than any other singer/songwriter of his generation, he sang of the wide range of human experience.

He spoke to — and for — millions. He continues to inspire today.

Happy birthday, Paul Simon.

Debut of a Masterpiece

2011-10-10T06:22:00.008-05:00

In the movie "Amadeus," Mozart makes a reference to his own music as "the best yet written."

In the movie, it was kind of a running joke. A composition by Mozart's rival had been publicly praised as "the best yet written" so Mozart defiantly referred to one of his pieces that way.

I don't know if Mozart ever really said that, but, seen from the perspective of the 18th century, it may have been true even if it was said in jest. And, more than 200 years after his death, I am still inclined to think of many of Mozart's compositions as the best classical music ever written.

But there has been music that was written in the last two centuries for which that phrase is appropriate as well.

On this day in 1966, Simon and Garfunkel released what was probably their best album to date. They had only released two others, and both were good, but neither really came close to the quality of the album that was released 45 years ago today, "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme."

Whenever I listen to it, that album always brings back special memories of my mother, who has been gone for more than 16 years now.

During her life, she was a fan of the music of Simon and Garfunkel. That is one of my strongest memories from my childhood — Mom's admiration for their music. Originally, she only bought the old 45–rpm singles of her favorite S&G songs, then later she branched out and bought some of their albums (I think they only recorded five).

When I was a child, it seemed the sounds of Simon and Garfunkel constantly filled the house. I grew up knowing the words to just about every song they ever recorded. I can still remember them, too. (Can't sing worth a damn, but I can remember the lyrics.)

On what turned out to be the last Christmas of Mom's life, I gave her a set of the Simon and Garfunkel albums on cassette tapes. They had been remastered and represented what was, at the time, state–of–the–art quality. And Mom listened to those tapes on her cassette player in her home office.

Unfortunately, though, she died in a flash flood a little more than four months after I gave her those cassettes so she didn't have long to enjoy them.

I don't remember which Simon and Garfunkel single Mom purchased first when I was little. She seemed to like all of their songs, but one of her special favorites was "The Dangling Conversation." It was included on "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme."

About three weeks ago, the Washington Times compiled a list of the 10 best Simon and Garfunkel songs. It was gratifying to note that "The Dangling Conversation" was on it.

"This haunting song about broken love and failed communication reveals some of Mr. Simon's best lyrics," wrote the Times — which is saying something, when you consider some of the songs Simon has written — many of which were listed in the Times.

But I agree with that. I've always loved the song's imagery — "You read your Emily Dickinson/And I my Robert Frost/And we note our place with bookmarkers/That measure what we've lost." I consider it one of the unheralded gems in Paul Simon's body of work.

I was a mere child when I heard it the first time, but the stark beauty of those lyrics literally took my breath away. Even then. Perhaps that is when my love for great writing truly was born.

Hearing that song today brings back memories of my childhood, when Mom would play that album. She got what I can only describe as a faraway look in her eyes when she listened to "The Dangling Conversation." I don't think she could equate it to her own life. I think she admired the storytelling, the richness of the words and the beauty of the music.

In my mind's eye, I can still see that old album — and the cover, which became worn and faded much sooner than it probably should have. The record itself became scratched and darn near unplayable, but that didn't keep Mom from playing it, anyway.

And sometimes she would sing along with it.

I'm not a trained musician — and I was biased, anyway — but I always thought Mom had a beautiful singing voice.

Today, I have most of Simon and Garfunkel's albums on CD — including "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme" — and I always think of Mom when I listen to them.

And I miss hearing her sing along with those songs.

I have tried to pick up the slack, but I just can't do it. I honestly do believe that I inherited some of Mom's talents, but singing wasn't one of them.

I still admire the music, though.

When Love Hurts

2011-10-04T06:18:00.004-05:00

There is a condition called paraphilia in which people experience sexual arousal through extreme, usually nonsexual circumstances.

A really extreme form of this condition provided the premise for a movie that was released on this day in 1996 — "Crash."

The topic was rather controversial at the time — and, I suspect, it would still be controversial today. The paraphilia sufferers in the movie experienced sexual pleasure from car accidents.

The movie starred James Spader, who was no stranger to controversy, having played a voyeur in "sex, lies and videotape" seven years earlier, and Holly Hunter, who also was no stranger to controversy, having played a mute 19th–century woman who has an affair in "The Piano."

And, while both of those characters could be considered dysfunctional to some degree, they were hardly as dysfunctional as the characters those actors played in "Crash."

Depending upon how you feel about that movie and those characters, it represents a high point or a low point in their careers. I'm not sure where I fall on that scale, but, either way, it was a disturbing movie.

It was disturbing when Spader's and Hunter's characters crossed paths the first time, and it got more bizarre.

They were involved in a two–car collision in which Hunter's husband was killed. As they waited, trapped in the wreckage, for help to arrive, they could see each other and Hunter, after pulling off the shoulder strap of her seat belt, exposed one of her breasts.

They met again while recuperating in the hospital. This time, Spader met a man named Vaughan who began to draw him into the world of paraphilia.

And Spader was drawn into Vaughan's shadowy underworld, in which he staged re–creations of famous car accidents, like the one that took James Dean's life in the 1950s, for the entertainment and arousal of his fellow paraphiliacs.

(Ironically, the movie was released only a few days after the 41st anniversary of Dean's death.)

I had never heard of paraphilia before I saw "Crash," but, apparently, it transcends sexual preference, and I suppose it is obvious (if one has seen the movie) that it fairly decisively overrules traditional gender roles.

Both Spader and Hunter had homosexual affairs in the movie, and, at one point, it was implied that a ménage à trois might be about to happen, although, as I recall, that was never confirmed either visually or via dialogue.

(I suppose supporting actress Rosanna Arquette had the most varied sexual activity in the movie. A beautiful member of Vaughan's group whose legs were encased in steel braces, Arquette's character had a scar on the back of one of her legs that resembled female genitalia — and was used as such by Spader's character — but she also had an intense lesbian affair with Hunter's character.

(I guess nothing is as hot as twisted steel.)

It may go without saying that this was not a movie for the squeamish. But, as I say, it introduced me to a world that I never knew existed. It broadened my horizons.

But, if the entry fee for that world is injury in a car crash, I think I can live without it.

Isaac and Ishmael

2011-10-03T06:04:00.010-05:00

Inspiration comes from many sources.

And, as terrible as Sept. 11, 2001, was, it was a definite source of inspiration — for musicians, for artists and for writers.

Aaron Sorkin, a writer for The West Wing, was inspired by the events of that day to write a special episode of the series. The episode had no real place in the story line, but it served as the unofficial start for the series' third season, and it educated an American public that was ignorant of many of the issues that so enraged the Muslim extremists.

(I have always been frustrated by the public's eagerness to accept simplistic — and ridiculous — explanations for those terrorist attacks, such as "They hate our freedom" or "They hate democracy." In truth, Muslim anger at the West had — and continues to have — far more to do with Westerners' treatment of Islam, its values and its adherents in the Middle East than it has ever had to do with systems of government, here or anywhere else.

(And, while many Muslims walking the streets of America may have been offended by the sights of casinos, strip clubs and bars, so, too, are people of other faiths — and none, including Muslims, have launched holy wars because of them.)

Apparently, the West Wing story came to Sorkin in a burst of inspiration — it was written, filmed and broadcast within three weeks of the terrorist attacks. And, even now, people mention it to me in conversations about the TV series.

I seldom need encouragement to talk about The West Wing — and I need even less encouragement to talk about that episode, which was titled "Isaac and Ishmael."

As incredible as it is to believe, that episode first aired 10 years ago tonight — when the shock of the September 11 attacks was still fresh.

The episode, as I said, had no real place in the series' timeline — but it did utilize a familiar West Wing technique with parallel stories taking place within it.

One story involved a group of young people who were visiting the White House. A "lockdown" occurred when it was discovered that a White House staffer's name was the same as a known terrorist.

The group was ushered into the mess hall, where most of the cast members came by and discussed terrorism, racism and religion with the students.

The other story focused on the staffer — who was previously unknown to viewers and never, to my knowledge, appeared in the series again — undergoing interrogation.

In all, I thought it was a great one–hour lesson for Americans who knew little about the Middle East, little about Islam, little about a lot of things, as it turned out.

Americans had been through — and were continuing to experience — day after endless day of 9/11 footage.

The West Wing gave them an opportunity to learn about something that scared and bewildered them mostly because they still knew so little about it — and, thus, were susceptible to all kinds of .

For that matter, many viewers probably didn't understand the name of the episode, even after it should have been made clear at the end.

The first lady told the story that inspired the title — the story of Isaac and Ishmael, the sons of Abraham from the Bible, and how the conflict between Jews and Muslims began.

I am neither Jewish nor Muslim, and I have never had much interest in the origin of their conflict so I wasn't all that different from anyone else who watched this special episode of The West Wing 10 years ago tonight. But watch it I did, and I even learned a few things in the process.

And that was no small accomplishment, given the backlash against Muslims in this country at that time.

There were hints of that backlash in the interrogation of the staffer by the chief of staff. At one point, he made a wisecrack, following an exchange that raised one of fundamentalist Muslims' greatest complaints of Western occupation of Middle Eastern cities and countries:

"You sent an army composed of women as well as men to protect a Muslim dynasty where women aren't even allowed to drive a car," the staffer said.

To which the chief of staff replied, "Maybe we can teach them."

The staffer, frustrated by it all, finally told the chief of staff, "You have the memory of a gypsy moth.

"When you and the president and the president's daughter and about a hundred other people — including me, by the way — were met with a hail of .44–caliber gunfire ... not only were the shooters white, they were doing it because one of us wasn't."

I guess you have to put it in the context of those times and the times that followed. Emotions were running quite high in the United States, and Muslims were the new targets of hate crimes that previously had been almost exclusively mentioned in connection with acts against blacks and women.

There weren't many mainstream Americans standing up to defend the rights of Muslims. Everyone knew they were the enemy. Why, defending the rights of Muslims in America in 2001 would have been roughly the same as saying during World War II that putting Japanese–Americans in those internment camps was wrong.

Relations between non–Muslims and Muslims in this country are better today than they were then, but that really isn't saying much. There really was nowhere to go but up.

There was a lot of anger, fear and suspicion between those groups at the time, which was understandable, I suppose, given what had happened, and much of it has receded. But a significant amount remains because a significant amount has always been there. It was there after the Oklahoma City bombing, when a man of Middle Eastern descent was detained and interrogated for hours — and then released when the real perpetrator, a white Christian, had been taken into custody.

It has taken root.

I'd like to think that The West Wing contributed to the improvement we've seen, and maybe, in its own, small way, it did.

I often wonder, though.

Truly unifying national experiences on television don't happen frequently anymore — and, when they do, it is more often than not the immediate result of an unexpected and terrible event. Consequently, I'm inclined to think that the televised multi–artist concert to benefit the victims of the attacks and their families a few days after the attacks was such a unifying experience.

The West Wing's episode — as remarkable as it was — was a few weeks in the making. The nation's notoriously short attention span had already been diverted to the randomness of the anthrax attacks

Although it was written, filmed and broadcast in a remarkably brief period for such a project, I don't know if "Isaac and Ishmael" was as unifying an experience as I thought it was at the time.

I've never seen the ratings for that episode, but I always felt the audience was rather large. The West Wing was ranked 13th in the country at the end of the 2000–2001 season and appeared poised to keep rising in the ratings.

And, as it turned out, the 2001–2002 season on which the series was about to embark was its best in the Nielsen ratings.

So there is good reason to think that quite a few people saw it when it aired for the first time 10 years ago — and countless others have seen it in reruns and on home video and DVD.

And, of course, there is that imprecise figure based only on my observations at the time — and the people who have mentioned it to me in the years since.

I watched it again recently, and I was amazed by how timely it remains a decade later. There are still things in it that need to be said — and, I suspect, will be needed to be said again in the future

The Day the Earth Stood Still

2011-09-28T11:43:00.001-05:00

I'm not a devotee of science fiction, in either print or film.

There are certain offshoots of the genre that I do find appealing, but they are more mainstream, I suppose, combining elements of drama or comedy or whatever — and I've never been like one of those guys I knew in high school who had bookshelves filled with obscure science fiction titles and spoke to each other in Klingon.

I don't know why science fiction never really appealed to me. I've always liked good fiction. Maybe it was the science part that turned me off. (Science was never my strong subject in school.)

Science fiction, though, has often meant space exploration in my experience, and I was a child during the most intense years of the space race so you might think, therefore, that I would have more than a passing interest in it. And, to be honest, there are some films that are designated as science fiction movies that I appreciate and always enjoy watching.

One of those movies is "The Day the Earth Stood Still," which made its debut on this date 60 years ago.

In 1951, science fiction as a movie art form was still in its nascent phase. Prior to that time, the science fiction that most audiences saw in the theaters was in the form of the serials of the time or horror movies.

"The Day the Earth Stood Still" was one of the earliest movies to introduce space travel and alien beings — and special effects — to the big screen and helped to usher in what was arguably the golden age of science fiction movies. "Forbidden Planet," which came along a few years later, is often mentioned by film historians as the movie that launched the science fiction genre, but I believe, as I wrote in the spring, that it more accurately marks the maturation of it.

While "The Day the Earth Stood Still" is rightly remembered as a science fiction movie, it was really a drama in the finest tradition of that genre — and just happened to use space travel as its backdrop. It was intended, as I understand it, as something of a metaphor for the Cold War and how it was changing the way people thought about themselves and each other.

There were messianic themes evoked by the resurrection of the visitor from space (similar themes, I might add, were part of the "Star Wars" trilogies). There were the elements of fear, hatred and suspicion that became common during the four–decade Cold War, which was still a new development in 1951.

Academy Award–winning composer Bernard Herrmann wrote a haunting score for the film.

I won't dwell too much on the story because, if you have never seen it, you should. It is worth seeing, even after 60 years.

Patricia Neal is probably the best–known star in the cast — although Andy Griffith Show fans will recognize Aunt Bee (Frances Bavier) in a supporting role, and folks who are fond of movie trivia may be intrigued to know that Spencer Tracy and Claude Rains were each considered for the role of Klaatu, the visitor from space.

Eventually, Klaatu was payed by Michael Rennie, an English actor.

And, then, there was Gort, the tall robot, who was played by a fellow named Lock Martin. What's that, you say? You never heard of Lock Martin?

No reason why you should have, actually. The 7½–foot Martin worked as doorman at Grauman's Chinese Theatre when he was chosen to play the robot. That was when it was still said that movie stars could be "discovered" sitting on drug–store stools and in other unlikely places.

When you're 7½ feet tall, though, it's hard to imagine how you could be overlooked.

Anyway, Martin had something of a modest acting career in the years after he played Gort. He was known as "The Gentle Giant" because (1) he apparently did not possess the physical strength to match his imposing height, and (2) he liked reading stories to children (which, apparently, he did professionally for awhile on a TV show in Los Angeles).

Of course, there was the iconic phrase — "Klaatu barada nikto" — that Rennie's character told Neal to utter to the robot if anything happened to him, which she did — and, in the process, supposedly prevented him from destroying the earth in retaliation.

No one ever translated it from the fictitious space language from which it sprang so no one really knows what it meant.

What do you think it meant?

Monty Python's Movie Debut Was Different

2011-09-28T08:32:00.003-05:00

In the 1970s and 1980s, Monty Python, a British sketch comedy group, made several entertaining and successful movies that were based on unifying themes, such as ...

1975's "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," which told the story of King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table from Monty Python's unique perspective;

1979's "The Life of Brian," which gave the Python comedic treatment to the New Testament; and

1983's "The Meaning of Life," which was a series of sketches that illustrated the various stages in a person's life.

But the very first Python movie was released 40 years ago today, and it had no such unifying theme.

"And Now For Something Completely Different" was a collection of the group's best sketches from its first seasons on British TV. For many Americans, I'm sure it was their first exposure to the zany, frequently irreverent comedy of Monty Python.

I knew little about Monty Python in those days. The show was picked up by the public broadcasting station in Dallas, and I watched it whenever we visited my grandmother here. But in Arkansas, where I spent most of my formative years, it wasn't being shown at the time.

My grandmother never really cared for Monty Python. I don't think she understood the humor. So Monty Python was sort of a guilty pleasure for me.

The humor certainly was different.

A priceless example was the "dead parrot" sketch, one of the most famous of Python's sketches, in which customer John Cleese tries to get a refund for a dead parrot from store owner Michael Palin.

Likewise, my grandmother didn't get the humor in the "marriage counselor" sketch. It probably was a little risque for TV in those days, maybe even for movies.

I mean, a sketch in which a marriage guidance counselor has sex with the wife of one of his clients right under the client's nose does push the envelope a bit.

So, too, for that matter, did the "lumberjack song" — which really defies description.

You've gotta see it for yourself.

As I say, much of the material probably was new for many Americans. But my understanding is that there was little new for British audiences.

It was an opportunity to see the sketches in color — at a time when most Britons had only black–and–white TV sets. And that was something that really was completely different.

While some Britons felt compelled to complain that the title was misleading and didn't really offer anything new, the movie did well enough with British audiences that it turned a profit even before being taken overseas in 1972

Not bad for a collection of reruns.

When the Past Kicks the Door Down

2011-09-28T07:20:00.004-05:00

"Whenever it wants, the past can come kicking the door down. And you never know where it's going to take you. All you can do is hope it's a place you want to go."

Bobby as an adult
Hearts in Atlantis

I'm a fan of Stephen King's writings, and, a few years ago, I read "Hearts in Atlantis," mostly during my lunch hours at work.

I would pack a lunch — usually a couple of sandwiches — and go out to my car and read my book for about an hour. It was good, but it wasn't a single novel, like many of the King books I have read. It was one of his collections — some short stories and novellas that were linked (modestly and, to a great extent, chronologically) via some recurring characters.

And it wasn't the best of King's works that I have read. If I had to recommend any of his books — even a collection of his short stories — to someone else, I would never choose "Hearts in Atlantis."

The general theme of the stories in the collection is summed up by Peter Fonda's line from "Easy Rider" — "We blew it" — which is how King (or, at least, the narrator) opens the first story — and apparently feels about the postwar generation (also known as the "baby boomers") and its perceived failure to live up to expectations.

In a sense, I guess, that was a good simile for the movie, which was released 10 years ago today. It's kind of a Reader's Digest condensed version, emphasizing one story but trying to link elements of the others in the process — usualy without much context. At least the stories in the book were linked in ways that the reader could see clearly.

It was hardly clear in the movie, which was told as something of a flashback, with a now–grown man returning to his childhood home for the funeral of one of his childhood friends.

The title was explained in the movie only through a somewhat contrived comment that must have been created specifically for the movie. It actually comes from the name of the second story in the published collection, which takes place on a college campus, but the only story that was told in the movie, really, was the first, which was titled "Low Men in Yellow Coats." In that story, a young boy befriends an older man who moves in a couple of floors above the boy and his mother.

The man and the boy spend a great deal of time discussing books, and the man eventually works out an arrangement to pay the boy to read the newspaper to him, supposedly because his vision is not as good as it once was. As the two develop a bond, the man confides in the boy that he is being stalked by "low men in yellow coats," and he man tells the boy of the signs that warn of their presence.

Well, I don't want to give away the rest of the story, but it is a Stephen King coming–of–age story, in the mold of "Stand By Me" with some elements of some of his novels — and kind of a supernatural twist.

(The way King frequently focuses on childhood has often made me wonder if there was something traumatic in King's own childhood that perhaps the rest of us should know about.

(Well, he does what he does so well that perhaps we should be grateful that we don't know all the details ...)

Anthony Hopkins was wonderful, as always, as the older man who comes to live above the boy and his mother. Sometimes I think Hopkins was born to play the older man roles, even though he has been appearing in movies since he was in his 20s.

At such times, I can't help but think the first 20 or 30 years of his career — as loaded with praise and award nominations as they were — were merely prologue for this phase.

And I thought 12–year–old Anton Yelchin did a good job as Bobby, the boy who finds himself torn between his mother and his friend, but I wasn't overly impressed with Hope Davis as the mother.

I rarely have been, I guess. I mean, I wasn't impressed with her supporting performance in "About Schmidt" as Jack Nicholson's daughter, and I guess that was her most noteworthy role after "Hearts in Atlantis." To be honest, I can't recall seeing her in anything, even though I know I have seen movies in which she appeared. Perhaps that will tell you how little of an impression she has left on me.

But, to be fair, Davis' character was not as developed in the movie as it was in King's original story, and that really isn't surprising. King was able to explore many of her fears, her motivations, her reactions to her experiences in ways that a movie never really could — especially if the director (Scott Hicks) showed no real interest in making the attempt, which, apparently, he did not.

That is odd, too, because screenwriter William Goldman was responsible for the adaptation of King's "Misery" in 1990 — and "Misery" was one of the better (although, like the rest, far from ideal) adaptations of King's work.

Davis' character was self–absorbed and bitter about her relationship with her late husband, for reasons that became less clear as the story unfolded. But, in spite of her seeming disinterest in her child, she did show her maternal instincts in both the book and, to a less obvious extent, the film when she fretted about whether Hopkins' character might be molestiing her son.

But King, as I recall, left some gaps in the readers' knowledge of the mother that might have been helpful in understanding why she jumped to the conclusions she did.

Her concern was unfounded, of course, and it appeared to be mostly based on her own experience of sexual harassment by her employer (an angle that was explored in more depth in the story than in the film), not on anything Hopkins' character had ever said or done in her presence. Although Hopkins' character was courteous when they met, Davis' character clearly did not like him from the start.

Maybe there was more to it than met the eye..

It's been several years since I read "Hearts in Atlantis," but it seems to me that Bobby's mother may have had issues with men in general that predated her relationship with her husband. Perhaps she had been abused as a child. Perhaps she had been raped even before her boss assaulted her. I could be wrong, but I don't think King ever got into that much detail.

I suppose you could debate whether it was wise to tell readers and viewers so little about what influenced Bobby's mother to make the decisions she did. But the story really wasn't about her. It was about Bobby, his childhood friends and his special older friend.

"I wouldn't have missed a single minute of it," Hopkins told Bobby when the low men finally caught up to him and took him away. "Not for the whole world."

I'm glad I didn't miss the book — or the movie.

The King and the Impersonator

2011-09-27T04:06:00.004-05:00

As I wrote several times last spring, I thought the inaugural season of the reincarnation of Twilight Zone in 1985–86 was impressive.

I wasn't too keen on the season finale, but I felt the series had some momentum going for it as the second season approached, and I had high hopes when that season began 25 years ago tonight.

I was not disappointed.

The opening segment was one of those "what–if" tales from history that Twilight Zone — both the original series and the reincarnation — did so well — and far too infrequently, as far as I was concerned.

Nearly seven months earlier, Twilight Zone ran a great episode that speculated about how the Kennedy assassination might have been altered by a visitor from the future.

It reminded me of episodes from the original series that dealt with historical events like Lincoln's assassination, Custer's last stand and Hitler and the Holocaust.

And in "The Once and Future King," viewers were encouraged to fantasize about the prospect that maybe — just maybe — Elvis Presley wasn't who we thought he was.

In the story, an Elvis impersonator is driving at night when he encounters another person driving erratically. The impersonator swerves to avoid hitting the other car and flips his own car in the process. When he regains consciousness, it is daylight — but it is the 1950s, not the 1980s.

He hitches a ride with the driver of an old pickup truck, who turns out to be Elvis Presley (in one of the delightful lines from the story, the real Elvis tells the Elvis impersonator "you look all shook up") — and it turns out to be just before his recording session that changed the course of American pop music history.

But the Elvis impersonator was disappointed in the real Elvis, who was planning to record a rather mundane song instead of "That's All Right," which was the first single Presley released. And the real Elvis dismisses the impersonator's selections and the provocative dance moves he suggests as the devil's work and concludes that the impersonator must be the devil himself.

A fight breaks out, and the real Elvis is killed. The Elvis impersonator then decides he must take the place of the real Elvis and live his life for him.

Most likely, you wouldn't recognize anyone in the cast. Jeff Yagher played both Elvis and the Elvis impersonator. He's done some film and TV work, but nothing that most people probably would remember.

Lisa Jane Persky, who played his agent, might be marginally more recognizable. When you see her face, you might think that you have seen it before. And, if you were watching this episode when it first aired 25 years ago tonight, you probably would be right. She did co–star with Robert Duvall in 1979's "The Great Santini."

One cast member you might have recognized was Red West, who played Elvis' boss. He had a memorable performance as Red in "Road House," but that wasn't his most impressive credential for this particular project.

In high school, West was a friend of Elvis' and later worked for him, first as a driver and then as a bodyguard. He was fired by Elvis' father the year before Elvis died for saying Elvis needed help with his dependence on prescription drugs.

Shortly before Elvis died, West co–wrote the first book that discussed the singer's drug addiction. Elvis reportedly read it and was upset by it; some people asserted that the book played a role in his death.

At this stage, I'm sure, that can only be speculation. It is almost certainly the kind of thing that cannot be proven.

Nor, for that matter, can it be proven whether Elvis really was Elvis — or an impersonator from the future.

If you're old enough to remember the 1950s or the 1960s — or just the 1970s — was that Elvis you saw in the movies and on TV?

Are you sure?

The Start of the Stones' Historic Tour

2011-09-25T13:01:00.007-05:00

In recent years, it has come to be regarded as one of the most successful rock 'n' roll tours of all time.

But when Sheila (one of my college buddies) and I decided to attend one of the Rolling Stones' shows in the fall of 1981, we didn't know that, of course.

We knew that we were in school in Fayetteville, Ark., and the Stones would be performing in two shows — on Oct. 31 and Nov. 1 — in the Cotton Bowl in Dallas. Sheila's sister was living in the Dallas area at the time. Sheila said we could get her sister to get the tickets for us, and we could stay at her sister's house before and after the concert.

(In hindsight, the shows in Kansas City in mid–December would have been closer, but neither of us knew anyone in Kansas City and the timing would have been awkward, right around the time of final exams.)

Halloween was on a Saturday so we figured we could drive to Dallas on Friday, see the show on Saturday and drive back to Fayetteville on Sunday without missing any class.

Thus, everything was covered. And so the decision had been made.

Looking back on it all, I can only shake my head at the sheer naivete — not to mention the monumental leap of faith — it took for us to not only undertake such a whirlwind trip but to believe (hell, to practically take for granted) that it would all go smoothly.

And, for the most part, it did.

It was a great show. ZZ Top was the warmup band, and I had always wanted to see ZZ Top, anyway, but, in my eyes, getting to see ZZ Top and the Stones on the same occasion would have made the tickets cheap at twice the price — even though I was a struggling student at the time.

And I got a great T–shirt out of it — which I wore with as much pride as an Olympian wearing a medal or a veteran wearing a Purple Heart — at least until it fell apart after numerous trips through the laundry.

There were a few setbacks. It rained on Halloween. It was kind of a sporadic rain, kinda heavy at times, but it was particularly intense during the Stones' portion of the show. The speakers started to make what I always described as snap–crackle–and–pop sounds during the Stones' encore.

That made the show I saw unique — even special — but I'll get back to that.

That 1981 tour began on this day in Philadelphia. The news had reached my friends and me in Arkansas in the weeks before that day that there had been millions of advance requests for tickets. Perhaps it was an omen of things to come.

That tour smashed attendance records in many places, including Philadelphia's JFK Stadium, which was demolished nearly 20 years ago. A little more than a month into it, the New York Times wrote that the tour was "expected to be the most profitable in the history of rock 'n' roll."

Well, the tour drew approximately 3 million people to 50 shows in 29 cities, and I heard that the Stones' profits from the tour, which was designed to promote the just–released "Tattoo You," exceeded $20 million so I can only conclude that the Times was right about that — at least in 1981.

(I don't keep up with these things the way I once did, but, surely, at least one tour has matched or bettered it in three decades — and perhaps the answer is so obvious that I should know it, but I don't. Maybe U2, with its astonishingly popular tours, has broken many of the records the Stones set in 1981. Perhaps Paul McCartney did. Possibly someone whose name does not occur to me at the moment.

(But, in 1981, the Stones were the undisputed champs.)

After 30 years, I can't tell you every song that was played or the order in which they were played on the day I saw the Stones. It was Halloween, and many of the concert goers came dressed in costumes. Some were quite elaborate — I remember a Darth Vader and a Grim Reaper in my immediate vicinity — and they grabbed my attention at times.

Certain songs stand out in my memory, such as "Under My Thumb," "Honky Tonk Women," "Sympathy for the Devil," "Street Fighting Man" and the Stones' latest hit, "Start Me Up."

(The next year, I bought the album that was made from tracks recorded during the tour, but it included several songs that I couldn't remember then from the show I saw, much less today — such as "Let's Spend the Night Together" and "Time Is On My Side."

There was one song on that album that I know wasn't played at the show I saw — "Satisfaction." I've heard that it was the grand finale of every other show on the tour, and, fittingly, it was the last track on the album.

But in Dallas on Halloween, it was raining so hard that the people in charge decided it was too dangerous to go on — and so the show was stopped before the Stones could play "Satisfaction."

That made the Halloween show unique on that tour.

There was no dramatic announcement. There was no apology for shortchanging the fans who had been standing in a rather cold Texas rain for hours. I don't remember the last song the Stones played that day, but I do remember that the Stones seemed a bit surprised to be told to wrap things up. Clearly, whatever song they had played was not intended to be the last one.

Besides, we hadn't heard "Satisfaction" yet.

That was still in the future on this day in 1981. The Stones' tour was under way — and, from what I heard at the time, it got off to a rousing start in Philly.

The Reincarnation of Charlie's Angels

2011-09-22T05:22:00.004-05:00

Thirty–five years ago tonight, the original Charlie's Angels began its first season on American television.

And tonight at 7 (Central), the reincarnation of that series will make its television debut. The timing of the premiere of this remake is hardly coincidental.

I won't be able to watch it — I teach a class at the community college on Tuesday and Thursday nights — but I will be interested in hearing what others have to say about it.

The original series, as I recall, was often ridiculed by critics for lacking substance. It was held out as an example of "Jiggle TV" because the "angels" usually wore skimpy or provocative clothes while carrying out their undercover investigations. (I have heard it said that creator Aaron Spelling wanted a bikini in every scene.)

That was what attracted viewers, critics complained — sex appeal, not clever stories or brilliant acting.

To be honest, I saw nothing wrong with that. I was a teenage boy when Charlie's Angels made its debut, and I watched it, as did my friends, for the same reason that teenage boys probably will today. We were curious about sex.

Savvy marketers know there is money to be made peddling fantasies. The angels of the '70s sure did inspire their share of fantasies (and, to be fair, so did girls in comedies like Three's Company), and the stars knew it.

"When the show was #3, I figured it was our acting," Farrah Fawcett said. "When it got to be #1, I decided it could only be because none of us wears a bra."

Of course, teenage boys in the 1970s had Farrah's iconic poster to inspire their fantasies when the show wasn't on. Today, I suppose, teenage boys will simply go to the internet to find pictures of their favorite 21st century angels. No doubt they will find many — legitimate and otherwise.

Well, that's what motivates teenage boys. I'm well past that stage in my life, and I'd like to hear the opinions of the veterans of the original series, but they've been disappearing in recent years.

Fawcett is gone now, of course. Her fellow angels, Kate Jackson and Jaclyn Smith, are still around — as are Cheryl Ladd (who replaced Fawcett), Shelley Hack (who replaced Jackson) and Tanya Roberts (who replaced Hack) — but the men of the series, John Forsythe (who provided Charlie's disembodied voice) and David Doyle (who played Bosley, Charlie's middle man), are deceased.

So, while it will be possible (in theory, at least) to get feedback from some of the I suspect, though, that the series remake will be a back to the future kind of experience for TV viewers who remember the original.

Sarah Bull of The Daily Mail wrote back in May — after previewing the program — that its objective appears to be "to live up to the legacy of the original TV series and film remakes."

Interestingly, though, Bull mentioned by name the stars of the movie that was inspired by the series — but not the stars of the original TV series, without whom the movie and the remake that airs tonight would not be possible.

The movies were pretty successful. I presume the series will be, too. But will it be successful because, like the original, it appeals to Americans' obsession with sex? Will it be successful because the writing is terrific and the acting is great?

Or will it be successful because of a combination of the above?

A Neighborhood Concert for Half a Million People

2011-09-19T00:02:00.002-05:00

On this day in 1981, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel reunited for a free concert in New York's Central Park.

My memory of that time is that there was considerable publicity surrounding the event. It had been at least 10 years since the two had performed together in public (with a few exceptions when they reunited briefly, as they did in 1975 when they recorded "My Little Town") and half a million people showed up on that mid–September Saturday to hear a couple of native New Yorkers in what Paul Simon called "a neighborhood concert."

I guess it goes without saying that expectations were quite high.

Sometime after that day, it was announced that a recording of the concert would be released in 1982. A friend of mine and I waited — not always patiently, I might add — for that record to come out, and, for awhile, one of us went to the local record stores every day and reported to the other that it still wasn't available.

"Not yet," the one who had checked the record stores would report. No further elaboration was needed.

I don't remember which of us got the album first, but whoever it was called the other with the joyful news. I do remember that it wasn't long at all before we both had a copy of it.

It was one of the few times in my life when I eagerly anticipated something — a book, a movie, a record — that did not ultimately disappoint. This album exceeded my expectations.

As I say, Simon and Garfunkel hadn't performed together in public in more than 10 years. I assume they did rehearse before the concert in Central Park, but, to the ears of someone who was raised on their music, they sounded as if the last time they played for an audience was just the night before.

They sounded that polished, that flawless to me.

They were comfortable playing the songs that made them one of the most beloved duos in history, and some songs — "Old Friends" springs to mind — were stunningly poignant.

Sometime in the spring of 1982, I saw a videotape of the concert on cable. I hadn't had the album all that long, but I had listened to it almost exclusively, and I could sing along with every song on it. I knew every sound, every vocal inflection, every spot that differed from the old studio recordings in any way.

I thought that the only difference was that I could see them singing the songs — I considered that a tremendous step forward, too.

But I was wrong. There was a significant difference. The album didn't include a song called "The Late Great Johnny Ace," a tune Simon wrote following the murder of John Lennon the year before but had never recorded.

The song didn't mention Lennon until near the end, but, when it did, a disturbed fan rushed the stage and was pulled away before he could reach Simon.

Lennon's murder was still an open wound for many people, and that song, sung as it was a short distance from where Lennon had been gunned down, may have been regarded as too controversial for the executives at Warner Brothers.

It was an open wound for me, too, but I still would have liked to have had that song on the album. I thought it was a great song, and a good example of something that has really always amazed me about Paul Simon. Almost without fail, every song he has written and recorded has been damn near perfect — in concept, in execution, in everything.

He always seems to convey precisely the mood he wants to convey.

And the familiar Simon and Garfunkel songs like "Mrs. Robinson," "Homeward Bound," "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and so many others (I really wanted to hear songs like "I Am A Rock," but they probably would have had to play all night to cover everything I wanted to hear) sounded great — but so did the songs from Simon's solo career, like "Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard" and "Kodachrome" and "Slip Slidin' Away" — all of which benefited from the addition of Garfunkel's tenor.

Particularly noteworthy was "Late in the Evening," which was part of Simon's soundtrack for the 1980 movie "One Trick Pony."

"Late in the Evening" was played about midway through the show — and then it was reprised as the finale. It's the only song that was played twice that night.

The concert wasn't entirely about their folk–rock hits from the 1960s. There were songs from both of their solo careers. Garfunkel's solo career was more modest than Simon's, but the concert did include "A Heart in New York" from the album Garfunkel released just before the concert in Central Park.

But nothing could compare, really, to their renditions of the songs that made them famous. It was what all those folks came to Central Park to hear.

They came to hear songs like "Bridge Over Troubled Water."

So many people have sung that song over the years.

But nobody ever sang it as well as Art Garfunkel.

And perhaps he never sang it quite as well as he did on this evening 30 years ago.

The Story of It

2011-09-15T05:42:00.004-05:00

For some reason, my favorite authors tend to be rather wordy.

Most of my reading preferences were inherited from my parents, I suppose. From my father, I got my appreciation for the works of James Michener — and if you have ever picked up even one of his novels, you know that they were usually more than 1,000 pages long.

My mother leaned to somewhat shorter — although still lengthy by many people's standards — works by the likes of Mark Twain and Allen Drury.

Mom and I discovered the books by Stephen King at about the same time. For awhile, we would read King's books and exchange them when we had finished, getting double mileage from each paperback.

I forget which of us read which books first; I only know that we both read "The Shining," "The Stand" and "Carrie" — and others — over the course of the same summer. I still have those books on my bookshelf.

By 1986, I was living on my own, and I don't know if Mom ever read King's book that was published on this day that year, "It," but I did.

A friend of mine was a big fan of King's work and always got his books in hardback. I borrowed "It" from her a month or two after it came out. I enjoyed it, savored it, as I did every Stephen King book.

The book was typical Stephen King fare, I suppose, but with a unique plot — one that was probably a little better than most. It told the story of a group of seven friends who bonded as children to battle a malevolent creature known mostly as "It" who terrorized a small town in Maine.

It preyed mostly on children and seemed to go into hibernation for decades at a time, but, when not hibernating, It frequently appeared to people in the form of a seemingly benevolent clown named Pennywise. And Pennywise had razor–sharp teeth.

In spite of that, the seven faced down the creature and made a pledge to return to Maine if It was ever aroused again. They reunited as adults to intervene again when It awakened from its slumber so two stories were being told simultaneously.

Many people knew little about the book until four years later, when ABC aired a two–part adaptation that starred, among others, Tim Curry, John Ritter, Richard Thomas and Annette O'Toole. Curry, incidentally, played Pennywise.

I thought the adaptation was good, but it couldn't match the book, which was understandable for several reasons.

For one thing, you simply couldn't dramatize everything, even in a three–hour made–for–TV movie.

And that was for the same reason that most adaptations of King's works eventually fall short of his fans' expectations: so much of what takes place in a Stephen King novel is mental — often a person's perceptions of what might be real and what might not.

I learned long ago that Stephen King likes to play with your head — and it's probably for the best to allow him to do so because he's going to take you on an exciting ride, whether someone brings it to the screen or not.

And "It" was a pretty good ride, indeed.