Grace Kelly's Greatest Performance

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Bernie (William Holden): Does your wife really want you to play this part?

Frank (Bing Crosby): Yeah, she's all for it.

Bernie: I was just wondering. The day I met her, she seemed a little difficult about terms and rather domineering, I thought.

Frank: She wasn't always like that.

Bernie: Oh I know, I know. They all start out as Juliets and wind up as Lady Macbeths.

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For a woman as beautiful as Grace Kelly was, it seems ironic that she won her only Oscar for portraying a rather plain woman.

It proves how versatile she was as an actress — and how much the world lost when she gave up her acting career to marry and raise a family.

It wasn't so much that her character was a plain woman. You could see in her face traces of the once–beautiful young girl her character had been. After all, you could only do so much to Kelly's natural beauty, and Kelly herself was only 25 when "The Country Girl" premiered on this day in 1954. Making her look truly plain would have been an Oscar–worthy makeup achievement — if makeup had been honored by the Oscars at that time.

Maybe her character wasn't so much older than Kelly. Maybe it was just that she had grown bitter from her life's experiences. She struggled to keep her marriage to an alcoholic actor (Bing Crosby) afloat while he was trying to resurrect his career.

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But he was weak.

And William Holden, as a young director and fan of Crosby's, intervened. At first, he was convinced that Kelly's character was the problem. But he came to realize that Kelly had been the one keeping Crosby going.

No, Grace Kelly was much more than a pretty face. In "The Country Girl," she proved she could act, too.

That really shouldn't have surprised anyone. Even though her prior roles emphasized her youth and beauty, her performances were good, too. They were just overlooked. It was often forgotten that she had been nominated for Best Supporting Actress the year before, but she wasn't nominated for her work in Alfred Hitchcock's movies — and she appeared in three of them — nor was she nominated for her work in "High Noon."

It came as a huge surprise to a lot of people when Kelly won Best Actress. The smart money said Judy Garland would win for "A Star Is Born," Garland's cinematic comeback. So certain, in fact, was NBC (the network that carried the Oscars in the 1950s) that a camera crew was dispatched to Garland's hospital room to broadcast her reaction when she won. Garland had just given birth to her son.

But Kelly won, and the camera crew had to silently pack up and slip out of the hospital. I've heard that many of them had left Garland's room before Kelly made it to the stage to accept her award.

Some people will still tell you that Garland deserved the award, but let me tell you this. I have seen both movies, and I am convinced that Kelly really deserved the Oscar that year. If Garland had beaten Kelly, that would have been a P.R. triumph, a case where the Oscar voters were bullied into voting for a particular nominee, not a case of the best actress being recognized for her performance.

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I am sure that sort of thing happens from time to time. Thankfully, it did not happen 60 years ago. "The Country Girl" probably was Kelly's greatest performance in a career that, while short, was loaded with great performances.

Kelly wasn't the only one nominated for an Oscar. The movie was nominated for Best Picture, George Seaton was nominated for Best Director, Bing Crosby was nominated for Best Actor, Seaton was nominated for Best Story and Screenplay, and the art and set crews were nominated for Best Art Direction. But, other than Seaton (who won for Best Story and Screenplay), Kelly was the only one who won.

'So Many Steps to Death' Wasn't Your Typical Agatha Christie

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No matter how many conversations you may have about murder mysteries (I'm speaking of books here, not TV adaptations, so I'm guessing that number is actually lower than you may first have imagined), and no matter how many of them include discussion of Agatha Christie's works, I'd be willing to wager that "So Many Steps to Death" never came up.

And, most likely, it wasn't mentioned under its original title, either, which was, aptly, "Destination Unknown."

But it was probably only possible for Christie to write it in the 1950s. Actually, it was published on this day 60 years ago. The story featured things like a missing nuclear scientist (who may have defected to the Soviet Union) and a secret scientific research facility disguised as a leper colony/leprosy research center in northwest Africa.

The story centered around a woman named Hilary Craven, one of Christie's more inspired character names, I thought — not unlike some of the names of the James Bond characters. Like Ian Fleming's spy novels, "So Many Steps to Death" was a light–hearted thriller, the kind of book Christie had written before — and reasonably successfully.

But Christie was always Bond Lite, in my opinion. I guess it wasn't really her genre. Fleming's stories always had more heft to them. They had more of everything, really — especially more rogue criminals who were just plain evil, perfect for the post–Hiroshima Cold War paranoia in which they were written.

Christie was better at writing detective stories, and hers were the gold standard of that genre. But her thrillers were like horse–drawn carriages compared to Fleming's thrillers, which were like sleek sports cars.

Anyway, back to Hilary Craven. She had been abandoned by her husband, and she was grieving the loss of a child. She had reached a point in her life where she had nothing to lose and was contemplating suicide — when she was approached about posing as the wife of the missing nuclear scientist to help investigators. She was told that it was a hazardous assignment, but she accepted, anyway. What difference did it make if she died by her own hand or someone else's?

Well, I suppose that gives you an idea of what kind of ride you're in for if you sit down to read this book. I'm not saying it isn't enjoyable because it is — but it isn't typical Christie.

Consider yourself warned.

Judy Garland's Comeback

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"He gave me a look at myself I've never had before. He saw something in me nobody else ever did. He made me see it, too. He made me believe it."

Esther Blodgett/Vicki Lester (Judy Garland)

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We're overdue for another remake of "A Star is Born."

The original version, starring Janet Gaynor and Fredric March, was made in 1937. The first remake premiered 60 years ago today, and the third version, with Barbra Streisand and Kris Kristofferson, hit the theaters 22 years later.

Of the three versions, the one that premiered on this day in 1954 was superior to the others. After all, it starred Judy Garland, and no one could sing like Judy Garland. Her co–star was James Mason as the fading star who tries to give her a boost as his career begins its descent.

Apparently, it was treated as Garland's comeback, given the fact that it had been about four or five years since her last movie. She was nominated for the Best Actress Academy Award, and everyone seemed to assume she would win. She couldn't attend the Oscars ceremony because she had just given birth to her son so NBC, which broadcast the Oscars in the 1950s, sent a camera crew to her hospital room so she could give her speech on TV.

Except she didn't win. Grace Kelly did — for "The Country Girl."

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I suppose, if one is going to launch a show–biz comeback, being in a movie that is about show biz is a pretty good way to do it.

Director George Cukor's story certainly must seem predictable to 21st–century viewers. Considering that it was a remake, it should have been familiar to viewers in 1954, too. After all, it was faithful to the story that was told in the Janet Gaynor–Fredric March movie.

Garland played an up–and–coming singer/actress who married an alcoholic actor on the downside of his career. She relied on his wisdom at first, but, as she became more self–sufficient, she needed his intervention less and less, and Mason's character, already struggling with alcohol, retreated deeper into the bottle.

It was a battle his character did not win. Although he sought treatment and seemed to recover, he suffered a relapse when Jack Carson, playing a publicist, accused him of living off his wife's income. This sent Mason's character on a drinking binge that led to his arrest.

When he realized that Garland had decided to sacrifice her career to care for him, Mason committed suicide in the famous scene in which he walks into the sea and drowns. (Well, March did it first.) His hope was to free Garland to pursue her destiny as a star — but, instead, she became a recluse.

A friend snapped her out of it by telling her she was wasting the career that Mason's character wanted to save, and she agreed to appear in public again, introducing herself as "Mrs. Norman Maine."

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When I was younger, I thought Streisand and Kristofferson gave the movie its musical spin even though I knew Garland was in the 1954 version. But I was wrong. Garland gave it its first musical spin. She sang lots of songs in "A Star Is Born." If you went to a theater 60 years ago today hoping to hear Judy Garland sing, you weren't disappointed.

But people who hoped for a blockbuster of a movie were disappointed. By 1954 standards, it was very expensive to make. It made more than $6 million — an impressive figure for 1954 but not enough to recover the investment that was made in it. Was that a factor in the Oscar vote that year?

"A Star Is Born" was nominated for six Oscars and lost them all.

An Iconic Shot

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Even if you weren't around at the time "The Seven–Year Itch" was made, even if you've never seen the movie, you've probably seen the above shot — or one like it — from the movie.

It is regarded as one of the most recognizable images from the 20th century.

The 60th anniversary of the release of "The Seven–Year Itch" is next year, but director Billy Wilder was filming the movie at this time in 1954. And, on this day, he was scheduled to film the famous scene in which Monroe is walking along a New York City sidewalk with Tom Ewell when a subway comes along, and the breeze it creates blows Monroe's dress up, revealing the lower half of her body.

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Originally, the scene was shot late at night on location outside the Trans–Lux 52nd Street Theater in Manhattan, where a crowd had gathered to watch (including Monroe's then–husband, baseball player Joe DiMaggio); a second take was filmed later on a sound stage. The story I always heard was that the on–location crowd made too much noise, and the second take was needed to get the dialogue. But I have also heard that portions of both takes ended up in the movie.

The on–location publicity stills were photographed by Sam Shaw, who first met Monroe on the set of "Viva Zapata!" few years earlier.

The Mother of all Tearjerkers

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Edward Randolph (Otto Kruger): Once you find the way, you'll be bound. It will obsess you, but believe me, it will be a magnificent obsession.

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"Magnificent Obsession," which made its premiere 60 years ago today, has a few reputations of which you should be aware if you decide to sit down and watch it.

First of all, it was a textbook drama — make that melodrama. I guess it really was more of a soap opera; it was one tragic event after another, which leads us to another reputation. "Magnificent Obsession" was a tearjerker. Make sure you have plenty of Kleenex on hand, but that shouldn't be a problem since, unless you catch it at some sort of film festival, you're most likely to see it in your living room, not at the neighborhood theater.

That will make it easier for you to access the tissues — and you won't be as self–conscious as most of the folks who saw it in 1954 must have been.

Rock Hudson was no newcomer to movies, having had two dozen credited appearances (and a few uncredited ones as well), but he hadn't had many leading parts.

Jane Wyman was no newcomer, either. She had been nominated for Oscars three times — and won it half a dozen years earlier.

When you think of the plot of "Magnificent Obsession," it seems like a parody worthy of Saturday Night Live or one of those parodies they used to do on The Carol Burnett Show.

(In fact, I can easily imagine Carol Burnett playing Wyman's part and Lyle Waggoner playing Hudson's in one of their trademark sendups. It is so vivid, in fact, that it may well have been one of the show's parodies. I may have seen it years ago and simply forgotten it.)

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Hudson played a self–centered playboy whose reckless behavior led to the death of Wyman's husband, a kind and locally admired doctor. That alone was enough to alienate Wyman and her stepdaughter (Barbara Rush), but Hudson managed to win them over to an extent. Then he inadvertently caused an accident that left Wyman's character blind.

The general theme of the movie at that point became the apparent repentance of Hudson's character and his efforts to make amends. He befriended Wyman under an assumed character and fell in love with her, committing himself to the goal of becoming a doctor so he could fulfill the ambitions of the doctor whose life had ended because of his self–absorption.

Although blind, Wyman discovered who Hudson really was. She had fallen in love with him, too, but she had decided to disappear because she feared becoming a burden to him.

Eventually, after becoming a doctor, he found her and performed surgery on her, restoring her sight.

A word should be said about Agnes Moorehead, who played a personal nurse. She looked so little like the woman who played Endora on Bewitched that I remember doing a double take, even a triple take, when I saw her on my TV screen. Bear in mind, this was a decade before Bewitched premiered, and her movie career seems to have prepared her for her TV role quite well. She was seldom a lead, almost always a supporting character, and the support she gave in "Magnificent Obsession" was more than adequate.

For that matter, Hudson did respectably well in what was, at the time, a rare leading role for him. My main complaint — as I'm sure it would be for viewers today — was the material. For lack of a better word, it was corny.

At best, it was predictable. It was probably predictable in 1954 — it was probably predictable in the first screen version of the story, which was made nearly 20 years earlier.

Wyman received an Oscar nomination for Best Actress (she lost the award to Grace Kelly).

Killing Time

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"That's no ordinary look. That's the kind of a look a man gives when he's afraid somebody might be watching him."

L.B. Jeffries (Jimmy Stewart)

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I have written here before of my fondness for Alfred Hitchcock's movies.

I've seen most of them on TV, but "Rear Window" was an exception. In 1984, it was re–released to theaters to celebrate its 30th anniversary, and I took advantage of that opportunity. In fact, I remember going to the theater to see it. I couldn't tell you the exact date, but I remember the experience of seeing that movie in a theater — and not one of today's multi–cubicle screens but a single–screen theater like the kind that existed when "Rear Window" was first released.

It has always made me regret not having seen more of Hitchcock's movies on the big screen — because that really is where they should be seen. Well, most of them, anyway. Hitchcock's work predated the wide–screen format; because of that, I'm not sure if his early works are more impressive on a big screen than they are on a television screen. Some might be; others might not.

All of Hitchcock's wide–screen films probably should be seen on the big screen — at least once.

Anyway, that was the conclusion I reached after I saw "Rear Window" at the theater. It premiered 60 years ago today, but it was fresh and new to me when I saw it in 1984. I thought I was in love with Grace Kelly before I saw "Rear Window," but she was breathtaking when I saw her on the big screen.

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I felt there was an electric kind of attraction between Kelly and Jimmy Stewart. I really regret that their only movie together was "Rear Window." Don't get me wrong. It was a great movie, but it was a one–shot wonder. They could have been one of the great movie teams of all time.

The American Film Institute rated "Rear Window" 48th of all time. AFI also named it 14th among the thrillers. Besides, the movie matched the #3 actor and the #13 actress of all time, according to another AFI list.

Who could ask for anything more?

"Rear Window" had the benefit of Hitchcock (nominated for an Oscar for his direction) and screenwriter John Michael Hayes (also nominated for an Oscar). That combination produced possibly the best of Hitchcock's movies. Well, that is what I have heard some critics say; that isn't a conclusion I would reach because I tend to think that "North by Northwest" is Hitchcock's best. My second choice probably would be "Psycho" or "Vertigo" — and then "Rear Window."

They're all good, certainly worth seeing on a big screen. (If I have a cinematic bucket list, it would include seeing those other three Hitchcock movies on a big screen before I die. Actually, I'd like to see them all that way, but if I can only see three, those are the three I would choose.)

The movie dealt primarily with voyeurism. "It's wrong, we know, to spy on others," wrote critic Roger Ebert, "but after all, aren't we always voyeurs when we go to the movies?"

Stewart's character was stuck in his apartment while he recuperated from a broken leg. A successful photographer, he filled his days by spying on his neighbors through the lens of his camera. The audience saw everything he saw. When he dozed off and missed things, the audience did, too.

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His only regular visitors were his nurse (Thelma Ritter) and his girlfriend (Kelly). They were skeptical at first when he suggested that one of his neighbors (Raymond Burr) had apparently killed his wife, but Stewart's character persuaded them.

It didn't require much persuasion. Kelly's character was already eager to get Stewart's character to commit to her. It seemed like she would do just about anything to score points with him. "How far does a girl have to go before you notice her?" she asked at one point.

"Well if she's pretty enough," Stewart replied, "she doesn't have to go anywhere. She just has to be."

He insisted that "I'm not exactly on the other side of the room." They were locked in a passionate embrace at the time, which made it difficult to dispute what he said, but, nevertheless, Kelly begged to differ.

"Your mind is," she said. "When I want a man, I want all of you."

And I had to give it to Stewart's character. He kept his mind on the mystery he was trying to solve. Most men probably wouldn't have that kind of will power. I wouldn't. Not with Grace Kelly in my arms.

A lot of things have changed since "Rear Window" was made, and, if someone found himself in Stewart's position in 2014, he might not be able to use the same camera tactics that Stewart did — like using the flash to blind Raymond Burr when he was lured from his apartment and confronted the wheelchair–bound Stewart.

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I had never seen Burr in a bad–guy role before. When I was a child, my father used to like to watch reruns of Perry Mason and Ironsides on weekend afternoons, and I watched them with him. As a result, I had an image in my head of Burr as the kind of guy who investigated and/or prosecuted crimes. He wasn't the kind of guy who committed crimes.

But, in "Rear Window," he was. At least, he was the kind of guy who could murder his wife and then try to dispose of her body. Stewart had reached that conclusion on his own; his problem was that he didn't have the kind of evidence that courts like to have.

"Rear Window" received four Oscar nominations, including (as I said earlier) one for Best Director (one of five for Hitchcock).

The Conscience of the Docks

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"I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it."

Terry (Marlon Brando)
American Film Institute's third–greatest movie quote

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"On the Waterfront," which premiered 60 years ago today, was a classic story about mob informers set on the waterfront of the Northeast. If it had the ring of truth to it, it is because the tale was loosely based on some Pulitzer Prize–winning true stories that were originally published in the New York Sun.

The American Film Institute ranked "On the Waterfront" #19 in its list of the Top 100 movies of all time. Marlon Brando's Terry Malloy, the never–was professional boxer, was rated the #23 hero of all time.

Lee J. Cobb played a union boss with mob ties who ruled the docks with an iron fist. Local law enforcement knew he was behind some murders, but no one on the waterfront was willing to inform on him, preferring to remain alive and working.

Rod Steiger played Cobb's right–hand man; Brando was his brother. Apparently, Brando was once a boxer with a lot of promise, but his brother (on instructions from Cobb) told him to lose a fight intentionally. Cobb had placed a bet on Brando's opponent.

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The memory of that gnawed at Brando, who went on to work on the docks instead of contending for a boxing championship.

Brando's character was smitten with Eva Marie Saint, who played the sister of another dockworker. Brando was used as bait to lure her brother, who was about to testify against Cobb, into an ambush, in which he was killed. Brando thought they were only going to "lean" on him and resented playing any kind of role, albeit unknowingly, in the other man's death.

Saint and a priest (played by Karl Malden) persuaded Brando to testify against the union boss. His decision cost his brother his life, and it nearly cost him his own when Cobb's henchmen beat him up.

"Conscience," Brando's character said. "That stuff can drive you nuts."

Indeed it can.

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"On the Waterfront" was nominated for 12 Oscars and won eight, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor and Best Supporting Actress.

Incidentally, you can see "On the Waterfront" in a couple of weeks on Turner Classic Movies' Aug. 11 salute to Marlon Brando during TCM's annual "Summer Under the Stars."

Seeking 'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers'

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Milly (Jane Powell): Well, it wouldn't hurt you to learn some manners, too.

Adam (Howard Keel): What do I need manners for? I already got me a wife.

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I think I must have seen "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" on TV when I was small. It is just the kind of movie that my grandmother loved, and it is not a reach for me to imagine her watching it with my mother.

I have no distinct memory of that, and I could be wrong. But some of the shots — and the music that goes with them — are so familiar, it is as if, whenever I watch it, the movie is tapping on some mostly forgotten memory buried deep in my brain.

It's more than that, I suppose. The images of 19th–century Oregon in that movie match my mental picture of the Old West. But, for some reason, my picture of a pioneer woman isn't of Jane Powell. It is of Debbie Reynolds. Strange. Perhaps I am confusing "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers," which premiered 60 years ago today, with "How the West Was Won" in my mind?

Maybe someday I will remember — and it will all seem so obvious to me, as things often do in hindsight, why it has been lodged in my brain all these years. What was it, I would like to know, about "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" that stood out for me? Was it the music?

Actually, none of the music in "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" struck me as exceptional. None of the songs made the American Film Institute's list of the Top 100 movie songs of all time. The movie received five Oscar nominations; not one was for Best Song.

Yet AFI did rank the movie #21 among movie musicals.

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Why?

People who know more about movie musicals than I do have told me "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" is perhaps the best of MGM's musicals from the 1950s.

That is quite a claim, considering that MGM was synonymous with musical excellence, especially in the '50s with movies like "An American in Paris" and "Singin' in the Rain" earlier in the decade. "The Band Wagon," considered a classic today but hardly a blockbuster when it was at the theaters, came out a year before "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers."

It was a time when television was keeping more and more people away from the theaters. MGM released what is regarded as its last great musical, "Gigi," in 1958. The genre sputtered along through the '60s and '70s — fueled by other studios — and seemed to reach its zenith when "Chicago" won Best Picture in 2003.

The entertainment landscape was already shifting when audiences watched Powell and Howard Keel sing and dance in "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers."

The movie musical wasn't dead — but it was moving in that direction. To remain viable in the years ahead, musicals would have to be even more lavish, more outlandish. They would have to have a few tricks up their sleeves.

One trick was color. Color television was available in 1954 — but it was still new and very expensive. It was a real status symbol to own a color TV in those days.

Routine color programming of TV series was still more than a decade away. Meanwhile, more movies were being made in color.

To emphasize the color — and to differentiate between them — the seven brothers of the title wore differently colored shirts.

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I have to concede that Keel and Powell were a good match on the screen, even if their relationship was a little odd. They met when Keel, the oldest of the seven brothers, came to town for supplies — and "get a wife" was on his to–do list.

Inexplicably, he did find a bride (Powell) and took her back to his rural home, which he shared with his six brothers. Powell not only met his brothers for the first time, she learned of their existence at the same time. And it became her mission to clean them up and make them presentable to court brides of their own.

Her character was also a bit of a feminist for that time. She resisted the idea that a wife was only good for cooking and cleaning.

And the dancing in "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" was extraordinary — better than most, in my opinion. I suppose much of that was due to the fact that about half of the brothers were played by professional dancers. That paid some nice dividends in the barn–raising scene, which still has some of the most astonishingly athletic dance moves I have ever seen on film.

Unfortunately, co–star Julie Newmar, who did have professional dance training, was paired with one of the brothers who did not. Consequently, her character and her beau could be seen off to the side during some of the dance numbers. Her only dancing came with the other bride wannabes.

She went on to a certain amount of fame a decade later as the villain Catwoman on TV's Batman.

The Dawn of the Age of Elvis

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Sixty years ago today, 19–year–old Elvis Presley recorded "That's All Right (Mama)" at Sun Studio in Memphis.

It was the first commercial recording of Presley's career, and it launched him to superstardom.

There are stories of some noteworthy recordings that were made at Sun Studio, which opened 4½ years before Elvis recorded "That's All Right (Mama)" there and changed everything for himself and the studio, but the studio struggled at first, and, apparently, it would record anything in its early years.

In fact, the studio's slogan was "We Record Anything, Anywhere, Anytime." That included recording special events like weddings and baptisms and graduations, and anyone could walk in off the street and make a record — for a fee. That's what Elvis did.

It wasn't his first #1 hit — that was "Heartbreak Hotel" about 18 months later. In fact, it wasn't even the first recording he made at Sun. But it was released a couple of weeks later and went on to become a reasonably big regional hit.

Elvis was really before my time. In fact, I have rarely owned an Elvis album in my life.

I have to give all credit for my first such purchase to my friend Brady, who shared with me his recording of Elvis' Sun sessions — and told me a bit about Elvis' history with Sun. Until that time, I don't think I had heard "That's All Right (Mama)" — or "Blue Moon of Kentucky," the other noteworthy song he recorded 60 years ago.

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But I liked them well enough that I went out to get a copy of that record.

It was in August 1953 when Elvis, a recent high school graduate, first walked through the doors of Sun Studio and met a receptionist, who asked him about his musical style. What kind of music did he play? "I sing all kinds," he replied. The receptionist repeatedly asked him who he sounded like. "I don't sound like nobody," he kept saying.

On that occasion, he recorded two songs ("My Happiness" and "That's When Your Heartaches Begin"). The receptionist made a note that he was a "good ballad singer."

Nothing came of it. Nor did anything come from a second session in January 1954, when Elvis recorded "I'll Never Stand In Your Way" and "It Wouldn't Be the Same Without You."

Sam Phillips, the original owner of the studio, was looking for a white singer who sound like he was black; he thought such a performer would be a huge success. He invited Elvis to record some songs on this night in 1954, but the session yielded little until near the end. Elvis started playing "That's All Right (Mama)," a hyped–up version of a 1949 blues number by Arthur Crudup, and the studio musicians who had been working with him that night joined in.

Phillips asked them to start over, and he recorded what they played. It wound up being the demo that he shopped around to local DJs and led to a single that was released on July 19, 1954 — with "Blue Moon of Kentucky," originally a Bill Monroe bluegrass tune that Presley gave a rock 'n' roll makeover, on the B side.

And the rest was rock 'n' roll history.

Anatomy of a Mutiny

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"The first thing you've got to learn about this ship is that she was designed by geniuses to be run by idiots."

Lt. Keefer (Fred MacMurray)

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Sea adventures always seem to have fascinated moviegoers.

I'm not sure why that is so. Maybe it is because when there is a conflict at sea, the only choice is to resolve it somehow. There is only so much space to occupy; outside of that is miles and miles of ocean.

When a conflict occurs on dry land, there is always (well, usually) the option of going someplace else.

Things went very wrong for the fictional crew of the equally fictional USS Caine during a typhoon.

Before I say anything else about this movie, let me ask you a question: Which Humphrey Bogart performance do you think was his best, his most memorable?

Would you pick "Casablanca," which won Best Picture? Bogart was nominated for Best Actor, but he lost to Paul Lukas for "Watch on the Rhine."

Or would you pick "The African Queen," which was not nominated for Best Picture? Bogart won his only Best Actor Oscar for that one.

Would you pick a movie like "The Maltese Falcon" or "The Treasure of Sierra Madre," for which he was not nominated for Best Actor?

Or would you pick "The Caine Mutiny," which made its debut 60 years ago today? Bogart received his third and last (and perhaps most deserving) Best Actor nomination for it — but he lost to Marlon Brando for "On the Waterfront."

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For many reasons, I might be inclined to pick "The Caine Mutiny," which was a first–rate sea adventure. However, I have always seen similarities between the role Bogart played in "The Caine Mutiny" and the one he played in "The Treasure of Sierra Madre."

It may not be Bogart's best performance, but, for me, it may be his most memorable because the character is so different from the roles he usually played.

Bogart's characters were always flawed in some way. Sam Spade and Rick Blaine were in love with women they couldn't have — and they knew it. Fred C. Dobbs was consumed with the desire for wealth, and Charlie Allnut, well, he had more problems than can be mentioned here.

But even though they had personal issues, all those characters were self–assured. They could manage things well enough on their own. Captain Queeg could not. He had been under great pressure throughout his naval career, and the story of how he cracked under the strain of commanding a nondescript vessel was the story of the Caine itself.

At the heart of the story was a young, affluent ensign on his first assignment. He didn't care for the commander in charge and was glad when he was replaced by Queeg, who appeared to be more of a disciplinarian.

"Mr. Maryk," he said to Van Johnson, his executive officer, "you may tell the crew for me that there are four ways of doing things aboard my ship: The right way, the wrong way, the Navy way and my way. They do things my way, and we'll get along."

That was reassuring — temporarily — until Queeg's behavior brought his stability into question, particularly when he began rolling a pair of steel balls in his hand.

It was bad enough when, distracted by a crewman who was out of uniform, Queeg permitted the ship to go in a circle and cut its own towline. But later, when Queeg went on a preposterous search for strawberries that went missing, most of the crew began to doubt his stability.

At that point, three staffers from the Caine — Johnson, Fred MacMurray (a writer) and Robert Francis (the young ensign) — set out to report Queeg's erratic behavior to the admiral but thought better of it at the last minute.

Things reached a boiling point on board the Caine during the typhoon. Queeg froze under pressure, and Johnson relieved him of command — thus setting in motion a sequence of events that led to a court–martial for Johnson and Francis. They were represented by Jose Ferrer, who was reluctant at first. He admitted that he would prefer to prosecute.

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There were high hopes among the defendants when MacMurray's character was called to testify. He, of course, had been the one who had planted the idea of Queeg's mental instability in everyone's heads. He was a writer, they said. He had a way with words and would be able to explain to the court what it had been like on the Caine, but he wound up taking no responsibility. When he heard that Queeg had been relieved of command, MacMurray said, he was "flabbergasted."

That was a good word for the reaction of the defense, too. Later, when talking about MacMurray on the stand, Ferrer told the ship's crew, "You ought to read his testimony. He never even heard of Captain Queeg."

Ferrer's character had no choice but to put Queeg on the stand and ask him direct questions about his bizarre behavior. Queeg pulled out his steel balls and began rolling them in his hand while he testified. The point was made, and the defendants were acquitted.

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"The Caine Mutiny" was nominated for seven Oscars, but it took home none. That was unfortunate. Director Edward Dmytryk really deserved better than that.

Columbia Pictures, knowing this would be the last movie producer Stanley Kramer would make for the company, slashed the budget and relied on Bogart's reputation and the success of the book upon which the movie was based. The gamble paid off, but the financial restrictions under which he worked led Dmytryk to make — perhaps out of necessity — a great movie.

Bogart's acting achievement was only part of it. Johnson gave an astonishing performance as a foolish first officer whose intentions were good, and Francis was just as good as the naive and even more foolish ensign.

But I think that, perhaps, the most impressive performance was turned in by Dmytryk — creating a top–of–the–line movie for, essentially, bargain–basement prices.

The Wrong Number?

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Tony (Ray Milland): How do you go about writing a detective story?

Mark (Robert Cummings): Well, you forget detection and concentrate on crime. Crime's the thing. And then you imagine you're going to steal something or murder somebody.

Tony: Oh, is that how you do it? It's interesting.

Mark: Yes, I usually put myself in the criminal's shoes and then I keep asking myself, what do I do next?

Margot (Grace Kelly): Do you really believe in the perfect murder?

Mark: Mmm, yes, absolutely. On paper, that is. And I think I could plan one better than most people; but I doubt if I could carry it out.

Tony: Oh? Why not?

Mark: Well, because in stories things usually turn out the way the author wants them to; and in real life they don't always. I'm afraid my murders would be something like my bridge. I'd make some stupid mistake and never realize it until I found everybody was looking at me.

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"Dial M for Murder" premiered 60 years ago today.

That was before my time — which is true of nearly every Hitchcock movie — but I still enjoy watching it whenever it's on.

It seems dated now, I admit, but I didn't mind that when I saw it the first time. Nor did I mind that nearly all the action takes place in a single location, which makes it seem more like a stage play than a movie. Actually, the movie was based on a very successful stage play.

The author of that play, Frederick Knott, did the screenplay as well, which may account for its virtually seamless presentation. In my opinion, movie adaptations of books or plays usually turn out better if the original author is involved. That isn't always possible, of course, but if the author is involved, it seems to improve the chances that his/her vision will be faithfully represented on the big screen.

Well, it helps to have a good cast, too — and the cast of "Dial M for Murder" was top notch. I have written before of my admiration for Grace Kelly, and she was excellent as Margot, Ray Milland's wealthy and (for the most part) faithful wife. Her character was also a bit naive, I thought. But I'll get back to that in a minute.

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At one point, Kelly was roused from her slumber by a ringing phone (which was intended to lure her into the living room, where her intended killer waited for her). It seemed to me, when I first saw "Dial M for Murder," that only a handful of humans have ever been able to roll out of bed and look like they were ready to go out on the town. Apparently, Grace Kelly was one of them.

Her character was also alert enough to fight back against her attacker and stab him with some scissors. She was convicted of murder (in one of the few segments in the movie that took place outside the cozy little flat that Kelly and Milland shared), but, apparently, she never figured out that Milland had planned the attack.

Well, not until the very end.

She had had an affair with an American writer (Robert Cummings) but then broke it off. He wrote several letters to her, all of which she destroyed except one, which disappeared. But she never put two and two together until it was spelled out for her at the end — the man she had killed had been sent to her apartment by her husband to kill her.

She had acted in self–defense.

I guess Margot was an exceptionally trusting sort. The first time I saw "Dial M for Murder," I thought Milland's complicity was obvious. Apparently, it never occurred to Kelly's character. Well, they say love is blind ...

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In his droll yet understated way, John Williams, as the chief inspector, helped persuade her that her husband was behind it all.

But, while I always enjoy watching Kelly in any of her movies (and she made three of them for Hitchcock), I have to say I don't think her British accent was very convincing. For me, that was and continues to be a distraction, mainly because "Dial M for Murder" is such a talkative movie.

There is more to it, I suppose. My parents spent a lot of time overseas in the first years of their marriage, and they met many people from other countries, some of whom came to visit us in the United States later. A few of those people were British so I had more exposure to that accent (and some of its variations) than most.

But perhaps I am nitpicking. Most people probably didn't notice.

"Dial M for Murder" may seem to have a transparent plot — but you have to remember that the plot hasn't been a secret for 60 years. It probably packed quite a punch when it was new. Personally, I have always thought the early scene in which Milland blackmailed his old friend into murdering his wife was impressive.

AllMovie.com's Michael Costello appeared to agree. "Kelly, and Robert Cummings as her lover, are forced to contend with underwritten stock characters," Costello wrote. "Neither comes off particularly well."

I'm not sure I would take it quite that far. I have already praised Knott's "seamless" story and the quality of the cast — and I stand by that. I still think "Dial M for Murder" was a good movie, but maybe Costello was on to something. Kelly and Cummings did not come off well even though their characters prospered. Maybe it was hard for some viewers to care what happened to them.

Sometimes, I suppose, all the elements in a movie are good — until they're mixed together.

Technically, "Dial M for Murder" was noteworthy for its early attempt at 3–D. If you look closely, you can see remnants of the rudimentary technology that Hitchcock used to create the 3–D effect.

Personally, I have never really cared for the 3–D effect, but I was never sure why until I read an online journal entry by Roger Ebert.

"There is a mistaken belief that 3–D is 'realistic.' Not at all," Ebert wrote. "In real life we perceive in three dimensions, yes, but we do not perceive parts of our vision dislodging themselves from the rest and leaping at us. Nor do such things, such as arrows, cannonballs or fists, move so slowly that we can perceive them actually in motion. If a cannonball approached that slowly, it would be rolling on the ground."

I guess that explains it.

Rockin' Around the Clock

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Sixty years ago today, Bill Haley and His Comets first released "Rock Around the Clock" — their signature song.

Several versions of this song have been recorded, but Haley's version is the one that comes to mind for most folks.

It wasn't the first recording. It wasn't even the first recording for Haley, who started out as a country/western yodeler. After he made his transition to rock 'n' roll, he and his band came to be regarded by many as being as influential on the youth of their day as the Beatles and Rolling Stones were 10 years later.

In fact, the anniversary of the release of Haley's recording seems to have reignited — in some quarters — the debate over whether Haley is the father of rock 'n' roll.

That is a debate I have been hearing much of my life.

When I was growing up, I was under the impression that Elvis Presley was the father of rock 'n' roll. Presley, of course, was born and raised in Mississippi, and he made his adult home about 100 miles away — in Memphis.

I grew up in the neighboring state of Arkansas; being a good Southern boy, it wasn't hard for me to accept that premise — especially since I always believed Southern blues strongly influenced rock 'n' roll, and Presley's style was obviously influenced by the blues.

But, while Presley did make some demo recordings in 1953, they leaned toward ballads. He didn't record his first real rock 'n' roll song until July 1954 — and, by that time, Haley had already released "Rock Around the Clock."

(In fact, the top–selling recording artists of 1954 were Doris Day, Jo Stafford and Eddie Fisher.)

If Presley wasn't the father of rock 'n' roll, I figured it had to be Chuck Berry. Similarly, Berry started out singing the blues. His first rock 'n' roll single, "Maybellene," was recorded and released in 1955.

According to Margaret Moser in the Austin Chronicle, Haley died "haunted, embittered, and neglected" in 1981.

"Haley bought into the pointless argument of who invented rock & roll," Moser wrote, "believing he deserved the title. He had a legit claim, too, having recorded the genre's first bona fide anthem, 'Rock Around the Clock.' The other firsts he deserves credit for have been marginalized along with his memory."

As Moser observed, "Rock Around the Clock" has been credited with being an anthem for the youth of the '50s, but, for a song that supposedly had such an influence on that generation, Rolling Stone only ranked it #159 on its list of the top 500 songs of all time while other songs from the '50s — Elvis' "Hound Dog," "Heartbreak Hotel," "Jailhouse Rock," "Mystery Train," "Suspicious Minds" and "That's All Right" and Berry's "Johnny B. Goode," "Maybellene," "Roll Over Beethoven," and, ironically, "Rock & Roll Music" — were praised more prominently.

Those songs may be better known, but they all came along after "Rock Around the Clock."

The song got its first real exposure when it was played as part of the opening credits for "The Blackboard Jungle" starring Glenn Ford, Anne Francis and Sidney Poitier. With the help of that movie, it shot to the top of the charts, where it stayed for eight weeks.

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I think the first time I ever heard it was when it was used as the original theme music for the Happy Days TV show. Haley's recording was part of the soundtrack for the movie "American Graffiti," too, but I don't think I saw that movie until it was shown on TV years later.

(There was no special reason why I didn't see it sooner, I suppose.)

My first exposure to "Rock Around the Clock" came to me courtesy of Happy Days. Being young and naive, I thought it was an original song written for the TV show. I had no idea who Bill Haley and His Comets were.

I do now, of course.