Birth of a Notion: 1975

Showing posts with label 1975. Show all posts

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

When the Bunker Baby Was Born

On this night in 1975, All in the Family concluded its two–part episode on the birth of Archie and Edith's grandson.

When the audience last saw her a week earlier, Gloria (Sally Struthers) was in labor in a phone booth in an Italian restaurant. The door of the phone booth was stuck, and emergency workers were trying to get her out so she could be taken to the hospital — where Archie (Carroll O'Connor) and Edith (Jean Stapleton) were waiting. Meanwhile, her husband Mike (Rob Reiner) was practically hysterical.

The admissions nurse kept insisting that Gloria hadn't arrived, but Archie, who had been in a minstrel show at his lodge when he was summoned to the hospital, was sure that he saw Gloria's name on the register and set off to find her, still wearing blackface.

Needless to say, it wasn't Gloria. The name was, as the admissions nurse had said, "Stipic," not Stivic.

The delivery scene really was entertaining. The doctor told stories about two sisters, Dorothy and Bernice, who worked as nurses at the hospital. Apparently, they lived together, but they didn't really get along too well.

At one point he instructed Gloria to push as if she were putting her foot to the accelerator of a car. Between breaths, Gloria replied, "I don't drive."

Mike, who was still hysterical, observed that Gloria was panting and pushing and still making jokes. "Isn't she terrific?" he kept saying. "You're terrific, honey!"

Bernice, who was assisting, told Mike to relax. "We haven't lost a father yet."

Mike observed that the nurse was "terrific. Everybody's terrific!"

After the baby was born, Mike went to the waiting room to deliver the news to Archie and Edith.

What followed was a scene most All in the Family watchers probably thought they would never see — Archie and Mike embracing.

Archie was a traditionalist, a man's man (at least in his own eyes) who wouldn't hug another man. But this was a special occasion for both.

I can't say whether this was one of the series' most memorable moments for the majority of its fans. I was a fan of the show, and I remember the episodes. Why, I cannot say with any certainty. Why does any episode of any series stick with people? OK, some really are special for one thing or another, like I Love Lucy's early episode in which Lucy did a commercial for a product that had a pretty high alcohol content or the Mary Tyler Moore episode in which the unseen Chuckles the Clown was killed in a circus parade and the newsroom gang attended his funeral.

But it seems to me that other TV episodes are memorable because they evoke certain emotions within the viewers. They may not have anything special to say about the topic, no lesson to teach, nothing more than observations about life.

Those two episodes were probably among the best of that season for All in the Family. Were they among the best of the series' entire run? I can't say that for certain.

But I would rank them in my personal Top 10 for the series.

Friday, December 18, 2015

The Story of a Scoundrel

"Fate had determined that he should leave none of his race behind him and that he should finish his life poor, lonely and childless."

Narrator

If there ever was a movie that proved how versatile its director was, the movie that premiered on this day in 1975, "Barry Lyndon," was such a movie.

And its director, Stanley Kubrick, was such a director.

I've been a fan of Kubrick's work for a long time, and he was very versatile. Each movie was different from the others he made. He made some comedies, he made some dramas. He explored space, he explored nuclear war, he directed scary movies. He did it all.

"Barry Lyndon" was set in the 18th century, and it told the story of an Irish adventurer.

It was one of those movies that wasn't particularly well received when it was showing at the theaters, but it has become more highly regarded in the years that have passed. In some surveys, it is regarded as Kubrick's finest work, eclipsing "Dr. Strangelove," "2001: A Space Odyssey" and "A Clockwork Orange."

Yes, I know, that is high praise, but I believe "Barry Lyndon" lived up to it. And I am a fan of all those movies.

The movie was based on a novel by English writer William Makepeace Thackeray, and apparently it followed the style of its day, which was to tell a character's life story as if it were a chronological biography, from birth to death. I never read the book, but the narrator spoiled any suspense by informing the audience of what was to come. Thus, when Barry's demise finally comes, it is no surprise to anyone.

Barry Lyndon led a checkered life, to be sure. He participated in duels, fought in war, married a countess (Marisa Berenson) and generally enjoyed the existence of a narcissist, spending his wife's money on excessive living, but eventually he was forced to end the marriage and leave England when his stepson seized control of the countess' estate.

The story was told with a detachment that may have been commonplace in the 19th century but probably came across as flat to audiences in the late 20th century. For Kubrick, though, it worked.

"Kubrick has directed Ryan O'Neal in the title role as if he were a still life," wrote film critic Roger Ebert. "It's difficult to imagine such tumultuous events whirling around such a passive character. He loses a fortune, a wife or a leg with as little emotion as he might in losing a dog. Only the death of his son devastates him and that perhaps because he sees himself in the boy."

Even though the movie took place in a different century than any of Kubrick's other movies — well, with the noteworthy exception of "Spartacus," I guess — I could see Kubrick's stylistic touches in "Barry Lyndon" that were recognizable in those other films. The camera angles he used and the way he utilized lighting in the scenes. Clearly Kubrick. His directorial fingerprints were all over "Barry Lyndon."

The great directors have certain touches that you know are theirs — and theirs alone. There may be other directors who seek to imitate them — but some things can't be duplicated.

"It is certainly in every frame a Kubrick film," agreed Roger Ebert, "technically awesome, emotionally distant, remorseless in its doubt of human goodness."

"Barry Lyndon" in the hands of anyone else would never have been the same. Kubrick was nominated for Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay. "Barry Lyndon" was nominated for Best Picture.

The movie didn't receive Oscars in those categories — all three went to "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" — but it was rewarded with Oscars for Best Costume Design, Best Cinematography, Best Art Direction and Best Original Song Score or Adaptation Score.

Tuesday, December 15, 2015

Archie's Only Grandson

Forty years ago tonight, a TV baby started to make his appearance in what was, perhaps, the most anticipated birth on TV since Lucy gave birth to Little Ricky. (I say started because this was the first episode of a two–episode story.)

It was on All in the Family, the top–rated program in America in the 1975–76 season. Fans of the show knew that Gloria (Sally Struthers) had been pregnant and was due to deliver in the late fall, but, as viewers learned on this night in 1975, Gloria was two weeks overdue. She was remarkably calm, given the situation; even so, Mike (Rob Reiner) tried to get her mind off things by taking her out to dinner at an Italian restaurant.

In fact, it was while they were drinking some wine that Gloria told Mike she was in labor. But I'll get back to that in a minute.

Archie (Carroll O'Connor) wasn't thinking about Gloria's problems. He was obsessing over a minstrel show at his lodge in which he was supposed to be a participant — but he desperately did not want to do it.

A couple of his lodge brothers came over to drag him to the lodge, but Archie resisted. He tried everything he could think to try, and his lodge brothers began to talk about having him kicked out of the lodging, threatening him with the loss of his benefits — a life insurance policy with "a cash value of $90" and a burial plot that would be weeded twice a year. Archie didn't want to lose any of that so he swung back to the lodge — until he was told he would have to do the minstrel show.

Then he swung back in the other direction.

Well, Archie wound up dressing up in blackface to do the minstrel show, but the news that his daughter had gone into labor gave him the perfect excuse to skip out.

It wasn't perfect as far as his buddies were concerned, and they threatened him with expulsion as he left the building. "You're going to have a lot of grandchildren," one of his buddies told him, "but this is a big show!"

(In fact, this turned out to be Archie's only grandchild. Mike and Gloria moved to California a few years later, and their characters could have had another child, but there were never any reports of one.)

Meanwhile, back at the Italian restaurant ...

Gloria and Mike had gone into a couple of pay phone booths — if you're too young to remember those, it's OK; you can't find pay phones anymore anyway; they're prehistoric relics now, I guess — well, Mike and Gloria went into phone booths that were old–fashioned then. The kind with glass doors that you closed to give yourself a little privacy.

Keep that in mind. It's important.

Mike called Edith (Jean Stapleton) and told her the news. She made a beeline for the lodge to get Archie. Mike opened the door of the booth and stepped out into the restaurant.

Gloria called the doctor and told him she was on her way. Then she stood up and tried to open the door — but it wouldn't open. She tried to calmly inform Mike that she was stuck.

Mike seemed to react rationally — at first. "You're not stuck," he said soothingly to Gloria. "These doors are a little bit sticky. They can be opened. There's no problem. Trust me." He tapped on the door a couple of times, then swung around and, in an hysterical voice, shouted, "She's stuck! My whole family is stuck in a phone booth!"

As the episode ended, viewers saw Gloria, still in the phone booth — only it was on its side. Emergency workers were trying to extricate her.

And her contractions, which had been 20 minutes apart, were now 10 minutes apart. Mike was hysterical, and Gloria was calm, answering a call from her doctor and explaining to him that she was still in the phone booth.

Viewers were left to await the resolution of the episode the following week.

And that was a television cliffhanger circa 1975.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Flying Over the Cuckoo's Nest

"If Mr. McMurphy doesn't want to take his medication orally, I'm sure we can arrange that he can have it some other way."

Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher)

As Roger Ebert wrote, Miloš Forman's "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," which premiered 40 years ago today, "is on every list of favorite films." There's no arguing with that, I guess. In almost every conversation I have had with people who are movie fans, it winds up on such a list — and deservedly so. The American Film Institute ranks it #33.

But, in all that time, I have found zero agreement on what the movie is. Just about as many people say it is a comedy as say it is a tragedy — and even within those two groups, there is little further agreement.

I suspect that, as it so often is, the truth is somewhere in between. As the commercial parody on Saturday Night Live used to say, "It's a floor wax and a dessert topping."

The arrival of R.P. McMurphy (Jack Nicholson), a free–spirited repeat offender, in a mental institution caused ripples in the institutional framework that had been established by the dictatorial nurse in charge, Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher). McMurphy was just trying to convince the authorities that he was suffering from mental illness, and he could do his time in a mental hospital instead of a prison, but he was interfering with Nurse Ratched's oppressive regime of degradation, drug therapy and a mind–crushing routine.

The stage was set for a battle of wills — and, for the first three–quarters of the movie, I suppose, McMurphy had the upper hand. That part of the movie was definitely comedic, with McMurphy increasingly getting the better of Nurse Ratched. That wasn't easy to do because Nurse Ratched seemed to know what each patient's vulnerable spot was, and she didn't hesitate to exploit it.

I have never read the book on which the movie was based so my next observation may be obvious, but I always felt, for example, that when Nurse Ratched advocated keeping McMurphy in the ward even though her colleagues favored sending him back to prison — and prevailed — that she was motivated by the desire to break McMurphy as a warning to the others. Don't mess with me.

Maybe the group therapy sessions she had with some of the patients gave her insights that she noted for future reference.

McMurphy seemed to outsmart her at every turn in the first three–quarters of the movie, and there are some parts that everyone remembers about "Cuckoo's Nest" — even if the viewer has only seen it once.

For example, everyone remembers the fishing trip on which McMurphy took his colleagues. He hijacked a bus, then introduced the group (truthfully) as being from the mental institution but then (untruthfully) called nearly all of them "doctor."

A part that I always remember is McMurphy's reaction upon learning that most of the patients in the ward were there voluntarily and could leave whenever they chose — but he was committed and could be kept there indefinitely. Few people seem to remember it unless it is mentioned to them.

"Jesus, I mean, you guys do nothing but complain about how you can't stand it in this place here," McMurphy said, "and you don't have the guts just to walk out? What do you think you are, for Christ's sake, crazy or somethin'? Well you're not! You're not! You're no crazier than the average asshole out walkin' around on the streets, and that's it."

I suppose, if you mention that to one–time viewers, many of them will then remember that scene — and perhaps some will also remember how it foretold what the Chief (Will Sampson) did at the end of the movie.

But, as I say, they remember the fishing trip.

Or they remember McMurphy's campaign to have the TV tuned to the World Series. That was the first significant confrontation with Nurse Ratched, and McMurphy won it by persuading the Chief, who was believed to be deaf and dumb, to vote for the World Series.

But Nurse Ratched, in her controlling way, closed the vote before the Chief could break the tie and give McMurphy his victory. So I guess it wound up being a draw.

If you haven't seen it, I won't say any more — except to observe that "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" received nine Oscar nominations and won five — becoming the first movie in more than 40 years to sweep the five major categories — Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Actress and Best (Adapted) Screenplay. Only one movie has duplicated the feat in the 40 years since.

I don't know if it was their first movie appearances, but it was the first time I recall seeing Christopher Lloyd and Danny DeVito in anything. A few years later, though, they would both be cast in one of my favorite TV shows, Taxi.

Nothing's Gonna Touch You in These Golden Years

"I'll stick with you, baby, for a thousand years
Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years."

The older I get, the more aware I become of the uselessness of many skills I had when I was younger.

Some of those skills were skills I learned in school — like how to process film (in my college photography class). In the digital age, dark rooms simply do not exist. As a result, that knowledge has no value anymore.

Other skills were useless even at the time. For example, I mastered the timing of the snapping of fingers and the clapping of hands at the beginning of David Bowie's "Golden Years," which made its debut on this day in 1975. I was proud of that at the time, but it has had zero value in my job searches over the years.

Employers simply aren't interested in whether someone can snap fingers and clap hands in time with the background singers on "Golden Years," and it is a skill that is incredibly difficult to work into one's resume.

It is even more difficult to work into a conversation.

But, anyway.

"Golden Years" never really seemed like it belonged on Bowie's "Station to Station" album, which came out in January 1976. Musically, I suppose it had more in common with the "Young Americans" album that was released earlier in 1975. It had kind of a funky, soul–like quality to it. It even had a touch of disco in it — but not much, really.

It was just out of place on "Station to Station." To me, "Station to Station" always seemed to have more of an edge.

Want another kick in the head? Bowie has said he offered the song to Elvis Presley, but Elvis turned him down. Can you imagine "Golden Years" sung by Elvis?

"Station to Station" was an extension of Bowie's journey into funk and soul, I guess, but "Station to Station" had more of a synthesizer sound than the "Young Americans" album — or "Golden Years," for that matter.

Bowie was in a transitional phase when "Golden Years" was released. As I understand it, his cocaine addiction was at its worst at that time, too, and he has said that he remembers little of the "Station to Station" recording sessions.

I knew nothing about his cocaine dependency when "Golden Years" was being played frequently on the radio. In my rather sheltered hometown talk of things like cocaine really didn't exist in 1975. Conversations about marijuana were about as hardcore as it got.

I don't really think about it when I hear that song now, either. But I do think of what my life was like in 1975 and the line in Bowie's song that goes, "Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years."

And I think of all the people I knew, all the people I went to school with, my parents and their friends, my grandmothers (both of whom were still living at that time). The image is frozen in my memory as if we were all posing for a group photo. Many of those people I knew are gone now. Something obviously did touch them in the intervening golden years.

But I've been lucky, I suppose. I've had my share of setbacks, and I haven't had perfect health, but nothing has touched me that dramatically or directly. I have been touched indirectly, I guess — when I have lost people I cared about.

I recall once many years ago when I lost a friend to cancer. At the time, I was working as a teaching assistant at the school where I was completing my work on my master's degree. When I came home after the funeral, one of my students came up to me and asked me how I was doing.

"I'm all right," I told her. "If you live long enough, these things are bound to happen. You will lose people you care about."

I don't know. At the time, I guess I thought I was sharing some special wisdom with her, but it really isn't wisdom. It's something anyone can figure out — provided one lives long enough.

I've had far too many opportunities to reflect on that conversation in the years since. Many of the people I cared about are gone now. When I heard David Bowie singing "Golden Years," it never occurred to me which of my friends and family members I would lose in my lifetime. It just wasn't something I thought about. Of course, I don't remember giving much thought to the lyrics, either.

Yep, I've been lucky. I've lived all these years, these golden years, and nothing has touched me. One day, it will. It happens to everyone. It has already happened to many.

So Bowie wasn't entirely correct, was he? Something will touch us. Sometime.

It's still a catchy song.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

A Lesson in Commitment

I've never been married, but most of my friends have. (Why do I suddenly feel as if I'm writing a script for a Holiday Inn Express commercial?) I have observed most of the aspects of married life through them.

Consequently, I've never been through the experience of being the expectant spouse, either — although most of my male friends have. Again, I have observed most of the aspects of that experience through them.

Based on my very secondhand knowledge, I would have to say that there is more than a nugget of truth in the episode of All in the Family that was first shown 40 years ago tonight.

All of the episodes that dealt with Gloria's pregnancy seemed to ring true. Her mood swings were plausible, and the situations were realistic, if a bit exaggerated.

The episode that first aired on this night in 1975 was a good example. Archie (Carroll O'Connor) and Edith (Jean Stapleton) were excited about their soon–to–be born grandson, but Gloria (Sally Struthers) was going through that stage that expectant mothers always go through — feeling fat and unattractive.

"How do you feel?" Edith asked Gloria.

"Like it should say 'Goodyear' right across here," Gloria said, indicating her belly with her hand.

Gloria was also uneasy about Mike (Rob Reiner), who had been tutoring a comely coed named Linda (Bernadette Peters), who suddenly needed two sessions a week instead of one.

"I guess she's only half as smart as she thought she was," Edith said.

"She doesn't have to be smart," Gloria replied. "She might have a C–minus brain, but she's got an A–plus body."

It had been Linda's habit to come to Mike and Gloria's house for her tutoring sessions. But on this occasion she had asked Mike to come to her place.

Gloria confided to Edith, "I'm beginning to wonder if Linda is taking lessons or giving them!"

When Archie learned of Gloria's suspicions, he tried to reassure her that Mike loved her, but as soon as she left, Archie turned to Edith and asserted that Mike was "fooling around." Edith wouldn't accept that, insisting that all Mike was doing was earning some extra money.

Archie resolved to get the truth out of Mike while Edith and Gloria were at the movies. He said he would get Mike drunk on wine and find out what was going on.

By the commercial break, it appeared that something, indeed, was going on between Mike and Linda.

After he had stumbled around Linda's apartment, both verbally and physically, when he tried to get started on the tutoring session, Mike found himself with Linda sitting on his lap and kissing him passionately. Fade to black.

When the broadcast resumed, Mike was at Archie's, drinking wine and — apparently — bonding. They were so chummy that Mike started to confide in Archie. He wanted to tell him what happened at Linda's place, and Archie appeared to comprehend before Mike said anything, but then he passed out — and missed Mike's affirmation that he had resisted temptation.

"When the chips were down," Mike said, "I thought to myself, 'What am I, crazy? I mean, I've got a wife that I love and a baby on the way. What am I gonna do? Am I gonna throw all that away?' So, before anything happened, I jumped up, and I got the hell out of there."

Mike certainly was to be commended. Not many men could resist Bernadette Peters.

And he was to be commended for what he did the next morning. He bolted out of the house early, leading Gloria to further suspect that he was up to something — which he was, but it wasn't what she thought. When Mike returned to the Bunkers' home that morning, he said he had a big surprise. Gloria confronted him and demanded to know what had become of the money he had been supposedly earning through tutoring.

Mike told her that was the big surprise he had for her and went out to the porch of the Bunkers' home, returning with the baby buggy he and Gloria had been wanting, but they had decided it was too expensive.

It also happened to be the same buggy Archie had picked up the day before.

Within a month, Gloria would give birth to the Bunkers' grandson — and the infant would inevitably lead the ground–breaking series to new television milestones — like the first case of full frontal nudity on television when Archie tried to change the baby's diaper.

But that is a topic for another blog post about two months from now.

Sunday, November 08, 2015

The Day Ted and Georgette Got Married

Mary (Mary Tyler Moore): You do love him?

Georgette (Georgia Engel): Of course, Mary. Somebody has to!

The Mary Tyler Moore Show was consistently good for seven years, then voluntarily bowed out while the ratings were still high. In other words, they left 'em begging for more.

The episode that aired 40 years ago tonight has always been one of my favorites. It was sitcom script writing at its finest performed flawlessly by a top–notch cast. Ahhhh, they just don't write 'em — or perform 'em — like that anymore. More's the pity.

The episode that made its debut on this night in 1975 centered on something that we've all experienced — a wedding. Even if you have never been married, you have probably participated in one or, at least, attended one. Maybe more than one.

And, centered around this universal theme, the story gave perfect capsule glimpses into the hearts and souls of the characters in the series.

Yet, true to tradition, this wedding was about the bride, Georgette (Georgia Engel). She was the girlfriend of Ted Baxter (Ted Knight) and a recent addition to the ensemble. The viewing audience hadn't had much of a chance to get to know her yet, but that would change. Yes, this wedding, like all the others, was about the bride. Strangely, though, the title of the episode was "Ted's Wedding."

Let me share samples of the dialogue with you.

The episode opened with Georgette and Ted having Saturday brunch at Mary's apartment. Mary was trying to be sensitive to Georgette's concerns that everyone in the newsroom treated Ted with disdain, but Ted really hadn't been helping his own cause, even with Georgette. For months, he had been proposing to her, she had accepted, then he found a way to get out of it and she allowed him to do so. This had happened so often that Ted was treated like the fabled boy who cried wolf. No one, least of all Georgette, took his proposals seriously.

Anyway, Mary was making an effort to include Ted in more things, and her way to get the ball rolling was to invite Ted and Georgette to brunch at her apartment. She also tried to include Mr. Grant (Ed Asner), explaining to him that this kind of thing would make Ted a better anchorman — instead of being preconditioned to be oafish and vain by the negative perceptions of his peers.

Adopting a professorial demeanor, Mr. Grant told Mary that she was speaking of the "self–fulfilling prophecy," in which a person's behavior is governed by the assumptions of others. People expect a certain kind of behavior from someone, be it good or bad, and that is precisely what they get.

Mary was fascinated to learn that there was an entire theory devoted to what she had been thinking. She was also gratified that Mr. Grant understood what she was talking about, and that knowledge emboldened her.

She said she wanted Mr. Grant to join them for brunch, and, in one of the most delightful exchanges I believe I have ever seen, Mr. Grant wiggled out of it by asking Mary what her assumption had been about his response. She conceded that she had assumed that he would say no.

"Well, there you are!" Mr. Grant exclaimed with a triumphant grin on his face. "Personally, I'd have loved to have come. I probably would have had the time of my life. But your previous assumption made it impossible for me to come. You do see that, don't you, Mary?"

And so it was that Mary found herself having brunch alone with Ted and Georgette. Mary complimented Georgette on her dress, and Ted was inspired to propose — again — this time with an onion roll in his mouth.

But this proposal was met with a frosty resistance from Georgette, who asked Mary if she and Ted could have a few minutes of privacy. Mary went into her bedroom.

Georgette told Ted she had doubts that he had ever been serious about marrying her. "If you really wanted to marry me," she said, "you wouldn't talk about it. You'd do it."

Ted protested that he'd get married that day if he could.

"We can, Ted," Georgette countered. "We've had the blood test. We have the license, and it's still valid. We can call and get a minister over here. We can call our friends and tell them to come over here. What else do we need?"

Then mousy Georgette, usually so soft–spoken you couldn't hear her if she was shouting into a megaphone, delivered her character's best line ever. With her hands on her hips, she said, "So whaddya say, buster? Ya still wanna get married?"

Ted was just as assertive in his reply. "Yes, I do."

Then came The Shriek. I know you've heard The Shriek. You may even have emitted a Shriek — but only if you're a female. It seems to be a biological characteristic that only females possess.

The Shriek brought Mary running into the living room. "What would you do if I told you there's going to be a minister over here with all our friends in the next half hour to have a wedding?" Georgette asked her.

Mary's reply: "Vacuum!"

Getting the wedding together in half an hour was a bit more problematic.

Mary called Mr. Grant and had to talk him into coming over instead of watching a basketball game. Besides, she said, if everything was done quickly, he could get to the bar before the game was over.

Murray (Gavin MacLeod) had to be dragged away from his son's football game — he was the coach.

The minister was playing tennis, but Georgette said his wife had assured her she would try to get in touch with him. Georgette didn't tell the minister's wife why he was needed. She only said it was an emergency.

"I wasn't sure he'd interrupt a tennis game for a wedding," she told Mary.

Ted tried to get his mother to come over, but she declined. After hanging up, Ted explained that she had to wash her hair. "But we can save her a piece of cake," Ted said. "We do have a piece of cake, don't we, Mary?"

"The whole wedding was put together in half an hour," Mary replied as the doorbell rang and she went to answer it. "You can't expect too much preparation on that kind of notice."

Enter Sue Ann (Betty White), the Happy Homemaker, radiant in wedding attire and carrying flowers for the ceremony, champagne and rice for after the ceremony and a veil for Georgette to wear — as well as a gift for the "happy couple." Sue Ann was always the bridesmaid, never the bride, and she was always ready for the occasion. And she wouldn't tolerate slackers. "What are you all standing around with your thumbs up your noses for?" she demanded. "We've got to get this show on the road!"

Part of getting that show on the road was settling on a best man, and Mr. Grant wound up with the honor.

Turned out his primary responsibility as best man was to reassure Ted that he was doing the right thing.

"If you're going to get married," Mr. Grant told Ted, "you're going to have to stop acting the way you do."

"What way?" Ted asked.

"The way you act," Mr. Grant said somewhat evasively. But he could see he wasn't getting through so he tried a different approach.

"Ted, what I'm trying to say is, you gotta become different."

Ted still didn't understand.

"Look," an increasingly exasperated Mr. Grant said, "you know how you always are?"

Ted said, "Yeah."

"Don't be that way," Mr. Grant told Ted.

The minister was played by John Ritter, and he arrived dressed in his tennis clothes and carrying a tennis racquet. He was newly ordained and unprepared to conduct a wedding ceremony, but Georgette suggested that they should each say something instead of repeating vows. Ted, as an anchorman, was accustomed to having Murray write the words he would deliver so he had Murray come over next to him and whisper in his ear what he should say. It came out like this:

"Georgette, I promise ... to be a devoted husband ... and to never give you cause ... to regret ... having married ... such a cluck!"

Anyway, when the wedding was over and everyone had left, Mary, Ted and Georgette looked at each other.

"Well," Mary said.

"Well," Georgette said.

"Well," Ted said. "What's for dessert?"

John Denver's Triple

John Denver was one of my early favorites.

Not long after I got my first stereo, I was listening to Denver's music on a regular basis (along with Three Dog Night and Cat Stevens). At one time in my life I had most of his albums, but I wasn't exactly blazing a trail there. I mean, a lot of people liked John Denver in those days. He was quite popular. You didn't really have to have his records in your possession to listen to him, either. You could hear his latest hits on mainstream radio pretty frequently.

But if you wanted to hear his latest songs that were not being played on the radio, you pretty much needed to have his latest album.

I would venture to say that most people didn't think of John Denver as a country musician. He was primarily regarded as a pop star, but he sang about country topics — simple pleasures, the rural lifestyle and small–town values — but his music never really met the definition of country music that had been established by David Allen Coe as a spoken interlude in his 1975 recording, "You Never Even Called Me By My Name" — at least not in my opinion.

"Well a friend of mine named Steve Goodman wrote that song
And he told me it was the perfect country and western song.
I wrote him back a letter and I told him it was not the
Perfect country and western song because he hadn't said
Anything at all about mama or trains or trucks or prison or gettin' drunk."

No, that wasn't John Denver's style.

He had a lot of crossover appeal, though. It seemed there were a lot of artists who were like that in the '70s — or maybe it just seems that way in hindsight. Most of today's music seems to be designed to appeal to a narrow niche.

Of course, there are acts that try to blend styles and create something new, but that isn't really the same thing. Most such acts seem to be little more than cynical attempts to cash in on more than one market simultaneously.

What I'm talking about is a genuine connection to people and how they relate to others, to places, to themselves. Earlier in 1975, Denver had a big hit with a song titled, "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," which spoke to the human condition more than it did to musical genres. That was the essence of Denver's music. It was a uniter, not a divider, to borrow a famous phrase.

There aren't many performers these days who try to push the envelope and make music that attracts a diverse audience, but it wasn't too uncommon 40 years ago. It seems as if I was always surprised to learn that a pop star I liked was getting a lot of airplay on country stations.

John Denver was one of those musicians, and the best evidence of that may be that on this day in 1975, his single "I'm Sorry," which had been released in July, reached the top spot on Billboard's Hot Country Singles chart. In September, the song reached the top position in Billboard's Hot 100, just as "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" had.

I suppose the greatest difference between the two is the fact that "I'm Sorry" turned out to be the final #1 pop hit of Denver's career.

In the mid–'70s, Denver probably was at his peak in popularity with a string of #1 songs and #1 albums, crossing over into multiple categories. "I'm Sorry," for example, not only occupied the top spot in Billboard's Hot 100 before claiming the same spot on the Hot Country Singles chart, but it was also #1 for awhile on Billboard's Easy Listening chart (now Adult Contemporary).

"I'm Sorry" was Denver's last #1 hit on the Hot Country Singles chart — the last of three, all in the mid–1970s. He had been topping other charts in the earlier years, but he had only reached #1 with the country audience for the first time about a year earlier with "Back Home Again," a song with a country flavor but still very much the folk music for which Denver was known originally.

In fact the B side of "I'm Sorry" is a good example of Denver's versatility. One would never mistake it for a country song.

Until just a few years ago, I thought the B side — "Calypso" — was an A side. It was a tribute to French oceanographer Jacques Cousteau and his vessel, the Calypso, and it was featured in a television documentary about Cousteau's work. I was certain I had heard it played on the radio more often than I had heard "I'm Sorry." And, as I say, I was a John Denver fan in those days.

Truth is, "Calypso" apparently did receive more airplay than "I'm Sorry" did, and RCA reversed the order on the single, making "Calypso" the A side and "I'm Sorry" the B side.

"Calypso" may have had more airplay, but it never made it to #1 on any chart.

Friday, November 06, 2015

Spreading a Little Sunshine

Ben Clark (Richard Benjamin): I'm getting chest pains. You give me chest pains!

Willy Clark (Walter Matthau): It's my fault you get excited?

Ben Clark: Yes! I only get chest pains on Wednesdays!

Willy Clark: So come Tuesdays.

If there is a moment that sums up "The Sunshine Boys" — which made its debut on this date in 1975 — for me, it would be late in the movie, when Walter Matthau's character was recuperating from a heart attack.

His nephew Ben (played by Richard Benjamin) was visiting him on a Wednesday, as he usually did, and he suggested to his uncle that he should move into a retirement home across the river in New Jersey.

Matthau's character wanted to know if his nephew would continue to visit him at the retirement home, and his nephew assured him that he would. Why would he think otherwise? Ben asked.

"Well, you know," Matthau said, his eyes glistening, "people don't go out to New Jersey unless they have to."

Those few words revealed so much about Willy Clark; the audience finally understood that he was driven by a fear of abandonment that was rooted in experience. As half of a successful Vaudeville act, he had experienced the abandonment of his long–time partner (played by the one and only George Burns).

Through much of the movie, Willy was a tough guy, but at the very end the audience saw just how squishy soft, how vulnerable he really was.

It was a poignant moment for that character.

For the most part, I suppose poignance is not what audiences were after in 1975. Furthermore, I presume that those audiences expected — and rightfully so — that a movie starring Walter Matthau and George Burns was bound to have a lot of laughs.

And "The Sunshine Boys" certainly had plenty of laughs. But poignance is what gave the comedy its true meaning.

"The Sunshine Boys" was recognized then and is known today as a comedy, one of the best ever, the story of former Vaudeville partners teaming up again for one night only.

And there was never anyone better for a comedy than George Burns.

There are so many moments in "The Sunshine Boys" that showcased Burns' talent, but my personal favorite has always been the scene where Matthau's nephew (and agent) went to visit Burns to try to persuade him to reunite with Willy in a one–time–only performance of some of their greatest Vaudeville routines.

Burns' character was living with his daughter, son–in–law and grandchildren. When Ben arrived and began making his pitch, Burns interrupted him.

"How old are you?" he asked.

Ben replied, "I'm 34. Why?" Turned out Burns wanted to tell him why he and Matthau split up.

"He called me a son of a bitch bastard," Burns said, then quickly looked around the room. "The kids aren't home from school yet, are they?"

Assured that they were not, he went on to explain that he had been called that simply because he didn't want to do the show anymore.

Well, they got over their personal issues and got together to do their act again.

And Matthau's previous trauma with Burns poking him in the chest with "the finger" appeared to be playing out again. Yep, everything seemed to be going according to Matthau's fears ... er, expectations.

Of course, there were some good things about their routine — like blonde bombshell Lee Meredith, more eye candy than actress who began her big–screen career as a mostly silent office bimbo in "The Producers" seven years earlier and ended it as a Vaudeville bimbo in "The Sunshine Boys."

I don't know what Meredith has been doing with herself for the last 40 years, but being in a movie with George Burns and Walter Matthau would be the highlight of most people's careers.

Surprise! Meredith didn't get an Oscar nomination for her performance.

Of course, that really isn't unusual for comedies — even though some of the greatest performances I have ever seen were in comedies.

Nevertheless, Matthau was nominated for Best Actor — but lost to Jack Nicholson for "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Burns was nominated for Best Supporting Actor — and won. Neil Simon also received a nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay, and Albert Brenner and Marvin March received a nomination for Best Art Direction.

Four Oscar nominations and one win. Not bad for a comedy.

Saturday, October 17, 2015

Stephen King's Favorite Novel

"... the Lot's knowledge of the country's torment was academic. Time went on a different schedule there. Nothing too nasty could happen in such a nice little town. Not there."

Stephen King, 'Salem's Lot (1975)

On this day in 1975, Stephen King published his second novel — "'Salem's Lot." It was his first novel since the phenomenally successful "Carrie," which may have been in its movie production by this time.

King has frequently said that, of all his novels, "'Salem's Lot" was his favorite. "In a way it is my favorite story, mostly because of what it says about small towns," he said.

Having grown up in a small town, I have a pretty good idea what he meant by that.

The protagonist was returning to his hometown, Jerusalem's Lot, a fictional town in Maine, after being away for 25 years. He planned to write a novel — and, in the process, exorcise a few demons of his own — inspired by a spooky old house that had been the scene of an unpleasant childhood experience for him.

Things went pretty well for him initially. He struck up a friendship with a high school teacher and a romantic relationship with a young recent college graduate.

He discovered that the house had been purchased by an Austrian immigrant, who intended to open a business. He wasn't home when the protagonist arrived in town. He was on a buying trip. His business partner was in town.

About the time they showed up, a young boy disappeared, and his brother died — and became the town's first vampire. Within just a few weeks, he had turned several townspeople into vampires.

It began to dawn on the protagonist that something sinister was afoot.

King said he was inspired to write the book when he was teaching a high school course in fantasy and science fiction, and the class was reading and discussing Bram Stoker's "Dracula." King began to ponder what Dracula's story would be like if he came back to 20th–century America. His wife suggested that he would probably be run over by a taxi, and King had to agree she probably was right — if Dracula came to New York City.

But what if he came to a "sleepy little country town" instead? What would happen?

"I decided I wanted to find out, so I wrote ''Salem's Lot,'" King said.

King also said he was influenced by the politics of the time. "I wrote 'Salem's Lot' during the period when the Ervin committee was sitting," he said. "That was also the period when we first learned of the Ellsberg break–in, the White House tapes, the connection between Gordon Liddy and the CIA, the news of enemies lists and other fearful intelligence. During the spring, summer and fall of 1973, it seemed that the federal government had been involved in so much subterfuge and so many covert operations that, like the bodies of the faceless wetbacks that Juan Corona was convicted of slaughtering in California, the horror would never end. ... Every novel is to some extent an inadvertent psychological portrait of the novelist, and I think that the unspeakable obscenity in 'Salem's Lot' has to do with my own disillusionment and consequent fear for the future."

There's no mistaking the political influence on "'Salem's Lot." It has been adapted for television twice, and its message seems just as appropriate for audiences 40 years later as it was in 1975.

Sunday, October 11, 2015

The Birth of Saturday Night Live

[talking into the telephone] "What are you wearing right now? No bathrobe? [notices the audience, hangs up telephone] Good evening. I'm Chevy Chase!"

Chevy Chase, Oct. 11, 1975

American television changed 40 years ago tonight. At least on Saturday nights.

In 1975, CBS ruled primetime on Saturday nights with "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," "The Bob Newhart Show" and "The Carol Burnett Show" running in a two–hour block from 9 to 11 p.m. (Eastern time), but late night was still a vast, unexplored frontier. NBC's affiliates had been running "Best of Carson" compilations from Johnny Carson's Tonight Show on weekends, but Carson announced in 1974 that he wanted the weekend programs pulled and archived so they could be used during the week when he wanted to take time off.

My memory is that Carson always invited a guest to substitute for him when he took time off, though, right up until his retirement in 1992, and I'm not sure how extensively "Best of Carson" was used, if at all, in some markets. Its weekend schedule was very flexible. Affiliates were allowed to show episodes either on Saturday or Sunday, at their discretion.

In the days leading up to that first show, inaugural host George Carlin appeared on primetime promotional ads in which he was depicted as a participant in a stage construction project. NBC was putting the finishing touches on a new show, he told the TV audience, and he invited everyone to tune in on Saturday night.

If you were a George Carlin fan, you were already familiar with the material he used in the first–ever Saturday Night Live monologues. He didn't deliver an original and topical monologue, as hosts do now. He basically lifted jokes from several albums that had been in circulation for years and compiled them into a monologue.

But it was still a treat to see him doing those routines. And he commanded enough star power to draw audiences. So, too, I suppose did the first show's musical guests, Janis Ian and Billy Preston, both of whom had enjoyed some popularity in the early to mid–'70s.

And that is the primary objective of a new TV program — attract an audience. There certainly was a late night audience waiting to be tapped. In 1975, most of America still had only the three networks, a public broadcasting network in many (but not all) areas and maybe an independent station or two. Cable TV was a presence in only a few areas — and wasn't nearly as extensive as it is today.

Everything about the show was new and evolving. Even the name was different. It started out as just Saturday Night. When the program debuted, there already was a program called Saturday Night Live starring Howard Cosell on ABC, and it remained on the air for the first months of SNL's existence. More than a year after Cosell's program was canceled, the show now known as Saturday Night Live took that name — in March 1977.

What we now know as Saturday Night Live began simply as NBC's Saturday Night. The "live" was a description. Go back and watch Chevy Chase's intros of those early programs. "Live from New York," he always said, "it's 'Saturday Night.'"

If you remember those days, you can probably hear Chevy saying that in your head without having to look up a clip at YouTube or anyplace else. Of course, SNL has been using that inroduce each episode for 40 years now so you don't really have to search your memory bank for an audio file of Chase saying that phrase.

Chase said it that way from the first. Then, as now, the show opened with a skit. That first skit showed two people sitting in chairs facing each other. One was writer Michael O'Donoghue who played a professor giving a European immigrant (John Belushi) English lessons. That skit is remembered as the "Wolverine" sketch because the professor was always giving the immigrant sentences to say that included that word. For example ...

Professor: Let us begin. Repeat after me. I would like ...

Immigrant: [in a thick accent] I would like ...

Professor: ... to feed your fingertips ...

Immigrant: ...to feed yur fingerteeps ...

Professor: ... to the wolverines.

Immigrant: ... to de wolver–eenes.

The English lesson was cut short when the professor clutched his chest and collapsed on the floor.

From off–camera, Chase emerged to announce that it was Saturday Night. Ever since that time it has been a staple of the show to have someone — sometimes several people — break character to utter that familiar phrase.

The show, as I say, was evolving. My memory is that Carlin didn't participate in any skits other than his opening monologue. Today, of course, guest hosts are full participants in that week's show. I don't know when that changed. It probably developed over time. SNL always has been a work in progress.

The skits were handled by the Not–Ready–For–Prime–Time Players, which introduced America to people who became quite familiar in short order — Chase, Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, Laraine Newman and Garrett Morris.

Often, SNL has created cultural catchphrases, reaffirming its social relevance after four decades on the air. It has been resilient. In the late '70s, few people thought SNL could survive the departure of Chevy Chase, but it did. It has become a training ground and career launching pad for the stars of tomorrow.

The program's political skits have become so legendary that a compilation program of politically themed skits always airs during a presidential election campaign, and Chevy Chase's early portrayals of a clumsy Gerald Ford are sure to be included.

In countless unexpected ways, SNL has influenced the culture. Who would have thought on this night in 1975 that it would still be on the air in the 21st century?

Tuesday, October 06, 2015

Paul Simon's Most Personal Album

I don't think there was a song on Paul Simon's "Still Crazy After All These Years," which hit the music stores on this date in 1975, that I didn't like.

I haven't been able to say that about many albums in my life, but I can say it about that one.

I don't know if the songs on it were great, but I know they were unique. I haven't heard all of Paul Simon's albums, but "Still Crazy After All These Years" was the most personal album of his that I have heard.

One, "My Little Town," musically reunited Simon with his old partner, Art Garfunkel, for the first time since their well–publicized breakup five years earlier. There would be several actual reunion attempts in the future, but this was the first thing they had done together since 1970 — even though a song from their 1968 "Bookends" album was released as a single in 1972 to promote a greatest hits album — and would qualify technically as the duo's most recent hit.

"My Little Town" was a substantial hit as well, climbing to #9 on the charts — fueled, no doubt, by the rather rampant speculation that this was a sign that Simon and Garfunkel were getting back together. I suppose it didn't hurt sales that the song was on both Simon's album and Garfunkel's "Breakaway" album, but the truth is that it was never a prelude to a reunion. Well, not an impending one, anyway.

Of course, Simon and Garfunkel did nothing to dispel such talk. Less than two weeks after Simon released his "Still Crazy After All These Years" album, he and Garfunkel appeared together on the second–ever episode of Saturday Night Live and performed three songs together, two hits from the '60s and a rendition of their latest recording, "My Little Town."

I always related to the lyrics. I was the son of a college professor in what was then a small Arkansas town: "In my little town," Simon wrote, "I never meant nothin', I was just my father's son." I know that feeling well.

Simon said he wrote the song with Garfunkel specifically in mind. So I suppose, in hindsight, the fact that they recorded the song together really had no significance, but the rather half–hearted denials that it was a reunion in the making largely fell on deaf ears.

I have always liked Simon's solo work, but he always seems to sound better when he performs with someone — like Art Garfunkel or, in one of my favorites from this album, the late, great Phoebe Snow singing "Gone at Last." It made it to #23 on the charts.

Once described as "a contralto grounded in a bluesy growl and capable of sweeping over four octaves on the slightest provocation into a gospel–charged upper range," Snow's voice was perfect for the song. It sounded like the kind of music I heard in black churches in the South when I was growing up and my father, a religion professor, took my brother and me to various church services in central Arkansas. It had an energy unlike anything I had ever heard on a Paul Simon album, and I have to believe it never would have achieved the success that it did without Snow's vocal contribution.

She was that good. She was sort of like a bolt from the blue. Her appearance with Simon was about a year after her debut hit, "Poetry Man." I've seen her listed as a background vocalist on the song, but that really isn't true. It was a duet, and, if anything, Snow's vocals eclipsed Simon's.

Listen to it, and you'll see what I mean.

There was one song from the album that was the public's clear favorite — "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover." With its all–star lineup — Snow provided background vocals, as did Patti Austin and Valerie Simpson — it went all the way to #1 on the charts.

I liked it at first, but it became trendy to play around with lyrics and produce parodies. The Muppets covered it, and the Jacksons (previously the Jackson 5) parodied it, but those were legitimate. The ones that bugged me were the ones that made obvious and unamusing plays on words:

"You just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just listen to me
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free"

Before long, there were more parodies than you could shake a stick at. It became something of a cliche.

It was a great album, though, probably my favorite Simon solo album. Except, as I have pointed out, it was far from a solo achievement.

Mike's Not-So-Sympathetic Pains

Archie (Carroll O'Connor): Women are supposed to have pain in childbirth. That's one of God's commandments.

Mike (Rob Reiner): One of God's commandments?

Archie: Yes, yes, it's in the Bible. If you read it, you'd know. It's right in the beginning there, in the book of Generous. The Lord said to the women, 'In pain shall youse bring forth children.'

Mike: God said 'youse'? He must have been hanging around the Lower East Side of Heaven that day.

In the 1970s, natural childbirth was very fashionable — you know, no drugs and the father taking part in the delivery, that sort of thing. At least, I heard a lot more about it then than I have since. Thus, it was a hot social topic that was (pardon the pun) fertile ground for a sitcom plot.

On this night in 1975, All in the Family's Gloria (Sally Struthers) was in her fourth month of pregnancy. In the episode that aired 40 years ago tonight, Gloria revealed that she was taking natural childbirth classes, and attention shifted to whether Mike (Rob Reiner) would be in the delivery room for the birth of their child. Archie, of course, was against it.

It seemed to be all settled that Mike would be in the delivery room — until he confided that he wasn't excited about the idea — which prompted a fight between the Stivics. The fight continued as Sybil from the neighborhood market came by to perform some "tests" that would (supposedly) tell them which gender to expect when the baby was born.

Archie (Carroll O'Connor) dismissed it as "crapola" — until Sybil predicted the baby would be a boy.

Afterward, Sybil and Edith (Jean Stapleton) reminisced about when they gave birth to their babies. Edith said childbirth was "the biggest thrill" and expressed regret that, when Gloria was born, she could see the whole thing reflected in the doctor's eyes and "I wished they was Archie's eyes."

Mike and Gloria slipped into the kitchen, where Mike told Gloria he had decided to be in the delivery room with her.

"There will be plenty of room for me in that delivery room," Mike said. "I won't be in anybody's way."

Gloria insisted that wasn't the real reason for his change of heart, and Mike conceded she was right.

"I figured, if you're going to see our baby's birth in somebody's eyes," Mike said, "I want 'em to be mine."

Then he added, "Unless I pass out."

"If you do," Gloria told him, "I'll have the doctor give you mouth–to–mouth resuscitation."

In his best Groucho Marx voice, Mike replied, "Make it a nurse, and you've got yourself a deal!"

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Drawing the 'Curtain' on a Beloved Detective

It was 40 years ago this month that Agatha Christie published her final mystery novel featuring her most popular detective, Hercule Poirot. The novel was published only a few months before Christie's death, and it really brought her lifelong odyssey with that character full circle.

Since it has been so long since the publications of "Curtain" and "Sleeping Murder," Miss Marple's last case, it is important to advise the millennial generation that, while they were the last of Christie's books to be published, they were not the last books Christie wrote. She wrote them more than 30 years earlier, during the London blitz in World War II, fearing that she would die in the daily bombing raids. She did not die, of course, and held the manuscripts in bank vaults until the mid–1970s.

As I understand it, Christie was reluctant to let either book be published, but she relented when her publisher pointed out to her that the only way to have any long–term control over her character would be to kill him off herself in print. If she didn't, some other writer might try to keep him alive — as Kingsley Amis did with James Bond after Ian Fleming's death.

I've heard it said that Christie may have had another reason for permitting "Curtain" to be published while she was still living. She always seemed to have an adversarial relationship with her beloved detective. She was irritated by the character's popularity and might have experienced considerable satisfaction from being rid of him.

I remember how excited my parents were about the publication of a new Agatha Christie novel. It was truly an event in our house, a cause for intense anticipation, and one of my parents (probably my mother) purchased a copy the day it hit our local bookstore. I don't remember now which one read it first, but one did, and then the other did, and my memory is they both liked it. (I knew they would. They were both Agatha Christie fans, and they both loved the Poirot character.)

They certainly discussed it a lot.

I guess it kind of came as a surprise to me at the time just how many Agatha Christie devotees there were. I suppose I was inclined to think of my parents' love for Christie as kind of a quirk. You know, it was a good thing they found each other and could share their passion for the same writer. That's probably how I felt about it at the time. Then I found out that there were a lot of people who shared that quirk. "Curtain" raced to the top of the best–seller lists in the United States and Great Britain and remained there for weeks.

I wanted to read it, too, but my mother told me that I would be wise to read several of Poirot's previous novels first, especially the first one, "The Mysterious Affair at Styles," which was published more than 50 years earlier and was an integral part of the plot of "Curtain." That would put everything into context, my mother told me.

So I did, but it took awhile. I was a teenager, easily distracted and didn't get around to reading those novels for awhile. When I did and I felt adequately armed to face Poirot's finale, I felt almost as if reading "Curtain" was a rite of passage — my admission to the world of adults. At least, the adults in my world.

Maybe I should have waited a few years. In hindsight, I think I would have appreciated the material more if I had waited. But you know how young people are — always in a rush to grow up.

Timing, they say, is everything, and I suppose that was never truer than it was in the case of the publication of "Curtain" and the final Miss Marple mystery. If Christie had died in those World War II bombing raids and those two books had been published in the 1940s, my guess is that Christie would be remembered as a solid mystery writer from the prewar period — although many of her books most likely would be out of print today.

Instead, most of her books remain in print the world over.

"Curtain" and "Sleeping Murder," too, might be out of print — for it was after the war that Christie, producing at least a book a year almost to the end, literally added volumes to the Poirot and Marple stories. In fact, when Christie wrote "Sleeping Murder" during those bombing raids, Miss Marple had been the subject of only three novels and one collection of short stories.

The novel that ended her career and the one that ended Poirot's career wouldn't have had the same meaning if they had been published in 1943 instead of the mid–1970s. As it was, though, they were modern literary events.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

Who Ya Gonna Trust?

Kathy (Faye Dunaway): Do you trust him?

Turner (Robert Redford): [shaking his head] Trust.

Kathy: Does he trust you?

Turner: He's in the suspicion business. He can't trust anybody.

Kathy: How could anybody fool them?

Turner: Maybe nobody did.

Kathy: Then ...

Turner: Maybe there's another CIA ... inside the CIA.

As Roger Ebert wrote about "Three Days of the Condor," which premiered on this day 40 years ago, the story was "all too believable" in the aftermath of Watergate.

That was kind of an ironic observation, given that, within a year, Redford would co–star with Dustin Hoffman in a movie about the early days of the Watergate investigation. (A friendly warning: If you haven't seen "Three Days of the Condor" before, the images of the World Trade Center that keep popping up can be a little unsettling even though they were really only props in the movie, and it was made about 26 years before the terrorist attacks brought them down.)

His co–stars in "Three Days of the Condor" were Faye Dunaway, Cliff Robertson and Max von Sydow. The director was Sydney Pollack.

"How soon we grow used to the most depressing possibilities about our government," Ebert wrote, "and how soon, too, we commercialize on them. Hollywood stars used to play cowboys and generals. Now they're wiretappers and assassins, or targets."

Considering the times we live in, that makes me wonder what we'll be seeing on our movie screens in the not–so–distant future.

In this movie, Redford played a target, a seemingly naive character who worked as a reader for the American Literary Historical Society, which was actually a front for the CIA. And Redford was a CIA analyst (code name: Condor) who read books and periodicals from around the world looking for concealed meanings. In the early part of the movie, he filed a report on a spy thriller he had been reading, commenting on unusual plot twists and the number of languages into which it had been translated in spite of the fact that it wasn't commercially successful.

Then, one day, when Redford was out getting sandwiches for the office, someone came in and shot up the place. When he returned, he found everyone dead.

From that point on, you really had to follow the story carefully because, in true spy thriller fashion, people got shot on a frequent basis. Characters you thought you knew. Characters you didn't know at all.

Faye Dunaway entered the story as kind of an innocent bystander. Redford spotted her in a store and, needing a place to hide, forced her to take him to her apartment, where he held her prisoner while trying to decide on his next move. As time went by, they became lovers.

Max von Sydow played a shadowy contract killer who had been behind the shootings in Redford's office. He turned his attention to Redford, the one who got away.

Cliff Robertson played Redford's section chief, but Redford had never met him and, knowing the environment in which they both worked, didn't exactly trust him.

Perhaps now you can see why Ebert said the movie was believable. And I believed the story, too — except for the part about Redford and Dunaway becoming lovers after he had abducted her at gunpoint. Let me clarify that. I didn't believe it at the time I saw it; since that time, I have heard of a number of incidents in which an abductee did fall in love with the abductor. Seems to me that is called the Stockholm syndrome — when a hostage bonds with the abductor. Anyway, it has more credibility with me now.

And I suppose that must have been what the movie was portraying in the side story about Redford and Dunaway.

Hey, it had to be. Dunaway took a shower and, when she came out of the bathroom, witnessed Redford shooting a guy who had been sent by his superiors to kill Redford. And she stayed with him.

You really had to pay attention to the story, or you would miss something important. For some people, that is simply too much work. For them, movies are for escapism, something that should wash over you while you devote little effort to the experience. Spy thrillers (well, the really good ones, anyway) aren't that way in print, and they aren't that way in the movies.

"Three Days of the Condor" seemed like the kind of movie Oscar usually rewards, but it only received one nomination — for Film Editing — and lost to "Jaws."

Monday, September 21, 2015

Walking a Fine Line on a Summer Afternoon

"That's all they're interested in — it's a freak show to them. I can't control it, Sal — let 'em say what they want. Forget it. It don't matter."

Sonny (Al Pacino)

After all these years of working in and around the news business, I guess this sort of thing shouldn't surprise me. But the events depicted in "Dog Day Afternoon," which premiered on this date in 1975, were based on real events, and it was one of the strangest stories you will ever see or hear.

A couple of men really did rob a bank in Brooklyn in August of 1972, and they concocted an elaborate scheme that was re–created in "Dog Day Afternoon." Their plan was to get enough money to finance a sex–change operation for Al Pacino's lover, Chris Sarandon.

But things went wrong from the start. In the first place, they arrived too late in the day. The daily cash pickup had already occurred, and there was very little money in the bank. To make up for it, Sonny decided to take some traveler's cheques, but he made a big mistake when he tried to prevent the cheques from being traced by burning the bank's register, which sent smoke billowing out of the building, alerting a neighboring business to trouble in the bank, and the police were notified.

As people gathered outside the bank, it became clear that a simple getaway was not possible so Pacino and his accomplice Sal (John Cazale) bargained with the police. Pacino asked for a helicopter to land on the roof. The helicopter would take them out of the country. Well, that wouldn't work, Pacino was told, because the roof would not support a helicopter.

So Pacino demanded to be taken to the airport where they would select a jet to take them out of the country.

But that pattern persisted. Every time Pacino's character tried to do something to prevent something bad from happening, there was a roadblock of some kind. Or there were diversions. Sonny had an uncomfortable phone conversation with Leon, his lover who wanted a sex–change operation.

Ultimately, the episode was brought to an end on the airport tarmac. Sal was shot in the head, and Sonny was arrested. Subtitles informed the viewers that Sonny was sentenced to 20 years in prison. Leon eventually got his sex change, and Sonny's ex–wife and children were on welfare.

"It's an actor's picture," wrote Roger Ebert. "[Director Sidney] Lumet and his editor, Dede Allen, take the time to allow the actors to live within the characters; we forget we're watching performances. Although the movie contains tragedy and the potential for greater tragedy, it is also tremendously funny. But Frank Pierson's Oscar–winning screenplay never pauses for a laugh; the laughter grows organically out of people and situations."

It would have been easy to exploit this story, but Lumet resisted that temptation and produced, instead, a movie that simultaneously observed both the human comedy and the deadly serious stakes of the situation.