Living for the Moment

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"You make it with some of these chicks, they think you gotta dance with them."

Tony (John Travolta)

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John Travolta was becoming a household name when "Saturday Night Fever" premiered on this day in 1977.

His career had been gathering momentum with his appearance in "Carrie" and his regular role on TV's Welcome Back, Kotter. Then "Saturday Night Fever" became a blockbuster — the fifth–highest grossing movie of 1977 — and Travolta's career took off. After an appearance in the very forgettable "Moment by Moment," his next two movies, "Grease" and "Urban Cowboy," were huge hits.

I don't think Travolta ever played a character quite like Tony Manero.

At the Brooklyn disco where he spent his evenings, Tony was the ruler of all he surveyed. Outside the disco, he was nobody — even in his own home. It was safe to say that he lived for those moments in the disco and that he gave little if any thought to the future. Outside the disco he got into fights with his father and struggled to live up to the example of his brother the priest.

And his job at a paint store was a dead end.

But that all changed when he was in the club. As I say, he lived for the moment there.

Things were different when he met Stephanie (Karen Gorney) whose thoughts and dreams took her beyond Brooklyn and the club. The fact that Tony didn't envision a life beyond Brooklyn frustrated Stephanie, who replaced Annette (Donna Pescow).

"You live with your parents," she told Tony at one point, "you hang with your buddies and on Saturday nights you burn it all off at 2001 Odyssey. You're a cliche. You're nowhere, goin' no place."

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Tony wanted to argue, but what could he say? He knew she was right. And that was his turning point.

What was less clear was what Tony's future treatment of women would be. Like many men of his generation — as well as generations before and since — Tony struggled to relate to women outside the bedroom or the dance floor. While the Tonys of the world are getting paid back today in the form of sexual harassment scandals, I doubt that a movie like "Saturday Night Fever" could be made today. After all there was overt as well as covert sexism going on in that movie that would not be permissible in today's politically correct–charged atmosphere.

"Saturday Night Fever" supposedly told the story of the social scene in the U.S. in the '70s, but ironically it was based on a 1976 article by British journalist Nik Cohn that Cohn admitted — 20 years later — had been fabricated.

"Without Cohn's original story, it's possible that disco would be a dimly remembered fad from the days of the Ford administration: no Bee Gees megahits, no Travolta superstardom, no nostalgic polyester parties for decades ever after," observed Mark Rozzo in the New York Times. "Barry Gibb reportedly once said to Cohn, 'It's all your bloody fault, isn't it?' He may have been right."

Travolta received the movie's only Oscar nomination — for Best Actor — but he couldn't compete with Richard Burton, Woody Allen, Marcello Mastroianni and the winner, Richard Dreyfuss.

The best–selling soundtrack featuring songs recorded mostly (but not exclusively) by the Bee Gees received no Oscar nominations. Nevertheless it is one of the bestselling movie soundtrack albums of all time.

And it is a testament to the influence of disco music on '70s America — even if that influence was exaggerated at times.

The Moral Conscience of All in the Family

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People often forget how groundbreaking All in the Family was. And much of it was because of Edith (Jean Stapleton). She was never the dingbat Archie said she was. She was, in fact, the conscience of the show.

A couple of days ago I wrote about how the sitcom addressed sexism — at a time when it wasn't really a topic of conversation. We live in a time when a woman has been nominated for president and three women sit on the Supreme Court; the subject matter of that episode probably seems quaint to many people who weren't around when All in the Family was on the air.

Ironically Edith wasn't the conscience of that program, but the theme of the series evolved so that, five years later, Edith was the moral influence on the family.

Forty years ago today, All in the Family took on homosexuality, another topic that wasn't popular in the 1970s — and, in its typical fashion, did so in an unexpected way.

As the episode "Cousin Liz" began, Archie (Carroll O'Connor) and Edith had traveled to New Jersey for the funeral of one of Edith's cousins, Liz, who had died unexpectedly. As the Bunkers prepared in their motel room to go to the service, Edith lamented the fact that Liz had never married and Archie revealed that he had once had a crush on Liz.

"What did you do about it?" Edith asked.

"I kissed her," Archie replied.

"Was that all?" Edith asked.

"She wouldn't do nothin' else," Archie said.

No one — Archie, Edith, the audience — realized how much that said about who Liz really was.

Homosexuality simply wasn't brought up in those days. Roommates of the same sex were presumed to be in a platonic relationship, perhaps sharing a place to live to save on expenses; at least that is how it was always presented on TV. In Liz's case, she had been living with a woman (Veronica Cartwright) for a couple of decades, but everyone in the All in the Family universe assumed that, being low–paid teachers, they did so to save money.

Well, that may have been part of it, but in truth they were lesbians. The fact that they kept the true nature of their relationship secret is entirely consistent with the way things were in those days. Even Edith didn't know about her cousin's sexual orientation.

But she was about to find out.

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As Liz's closest living relative, Edith stood to inherit a valuable tea service that had been in the family for years and had been in Liz's possession when she died. So she brought it up with Liz's roommate at a post–funeral reception.

But Liz's roommate asked Edith if she could keep it, explaining that she and Liz had shared tea in the afternoons after school. It was a time they eagerly anticipated each day, a time that was set aside just for them.

When Edith pressed her on the matter, Cartwright tried to explain that she and Liz had been lovers, telling Edith that their relationship was "like a marriage."

That was hard for Edith to understand. Her concept of marriage was a traditional one, but her faith in love transcended that.

Edith had many memorable moments during the series' run, but some of her finest were in the episode that aired on this night in 1977.

She told Cartwright that she was sorry she knew the truth — not because she didn't approve but because Cartwright had lost the love of her life, and that grieved a kind soul like Edith's. And she told Cartwright she could keep the tea service because she really was Liz's next of kin — a status that has only been legally recognized in the United States in recent years.

But Archie would be a problem. Once he knew the value of the tea service, he had to have it — or, at least, had to have the money it would bring.

When Edith told him the truth about Liz's relationship, he threatened legal action, which would have meant the end of Cartwright's teaching career. That didn't bother Archie.

"Who the hell wants people like that teachin' our kids?" he bellowed. "I'm sure God don't! God's sittin' in judgment ..."

"Well, sure he is," Edith replied, "but he's God. You ain't!"

(I've always thought that is pretty good advice for anyone who presumes to speak for God on anything. And, in my experience, far too many do presume to speak for God.)

Then she shamed Archie for considering what amounted to blackmail, saying "I can't believe you'd do anything that mean."

Edith's assumption of the role of the family's moral conscience had been in progress for quite awhile, but I think it reached a turning point with this episode. Within the next few episodes, Archie — who had been a bigot's bigot from the start — moved so far to the center that he was taking on the local branch of the Ku Klux Klan. That was almost certainly the result of Edith's influence.

But the story of Archie's confrontation with the KKK is a story for another day.

More Than Meets the Eye

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In the early 1970s, there was probably no more popular work of fiction than "Jaws."

Nearly everybody read it, and then it was made into what was probably the first true summer blockbuster.

Author Peter Benchley's next novel, "The Deep," was also successful, and the movie it inspired, which premiered on this day in 1977, was one of the top moneymakers in the United States — a considerable feat when you think of the movies that premiered in 1977, movies like "Star Wars," "Smokey and the Bandit," "Close Encounters," "Annie Hall" and "Saturday Night Fever" to name a few.

But neither the book nor the movie did nearly as well as "Jaws."

In its own way, though, I thought the story was just as suspenseful — although it got overshadowed by off–screen controversy about something minor that was on the screen. Jacqueline Bisset played one–half of a vacationing couple (Nick Nolte was the other half) who discovered sunken treasure while diving on the reefs of Bermuda. In the diving sequences, Bisset could be seen in a rather revealing T–shirt.

It is still an iconic image. Ask someone who is over a certain age what comes to mind when Bisset's name is mentioned, and I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that the answer will be her wet T–shirt in "The Deep."

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Given that Bisset has been in several dozen movies, that doesn't seem fair, and it almost certainly would not raise any eyebrows today, but remember this was 40 years ago.

It is also important to remember that "The Deep" was made when Bisset was 32 and still getting movie roles primarily because of her youthful beauty. Still beautiful but no longer young, she has continued to make movies into her 70s, proving that looks may change but talent never does.

There can be no denying the boost those shots gave the movie at the box office. Even its producer believed they made him a wealthy man, but the story was enough to keep audiences on the edges of their seats.

The divers found all kinds of treasure — the old–fashioned kind (jewelry and the like) and the new kind (ampules of morphine from a ship that sank during World War II).

And therein lay the plot of the movie. In the grand tradition of shallow summer escapism, the movie had nothing remarkable to say. It was just a good movie to watch on a summer afternoon or evening.

In 1977 that sort of thing was believed to be behind us. It was practically an article of faith that escapism movies would dwindle in the years ahead and deeper and more complex topics were the new order. But the summer of 1977 was loaded with escapism.

So much for that theory.

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What made "The Deep" work for audiences, I suppose, was the fact that it was plausible escapism.

"Jaws" wasn't really plausible. It was inspired, as I understand it, by a real event — but the very rarity of that event (a great white shark in the North Atlantic) is what makes it implausible. Like most horror stories, believable implausibility made "Jaws" work.

The story of Nolte and Bisset was the kind of thing that, seemingly, could happen to anyone.

Benchley, of course, is not remembered for "The Deep." He is remembered for writing "Jaws" and the series of movies it inspired.

Ironically, I guess, two members of the cast of "The Deep" appeared in the "Jaws" movies — Robert Shaw played the shark hunter in the original, then played a treasure hunter in "The Deep" and Louis Gossett Jr. was a drug kingpin in "The Deep," and then played a SeaWorld park owner in one of the "Jaws" sequels.

A Special Night

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"I just wanted you to know that sometimes I get concerned about being a career woman. I get to thinking my job is too important to me, and I tell myself that the people I work with are just the people I work with and not my family. And last night, I thought, 'What is a family, anyway?' They're just people who make you feel less alone and really loved. And that's what you've done for me. Thank you for being my family."

Mary Tyler Moore

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I think I will always regret the fact that Mary Tyler Moore did not live a few more months.

I had nothing to do with her death, of course. I have no more power over life and death than any other human being, and I completely understand that we all will die someday so I do not lament the fact that she is dead. She was 80 years old, after all.

But I do wish she could have lived until today — the 40th anniversary of the final episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show, which is still one of the best television programs of all time. It just doesn't seem right that she missed this milestone.

The episode was called, appropriately, "The Last Show." That isn't quite as flippant as it sounds. Yes, it was the last episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show — but it was about the last news broadcast at fictional TV station WJM with the familiar crew of Mary, Murray (Gavin MacLeod), Ted (Ted Knight), Sue Ann (Betty White) and Mr. Grant (Ed Asner).

Well, one person would remain at WJM.

The story line was that there was a new station manager (Vincent Gardenia) who wanted to make some dramatic changes. He came to speak to Lou (Ed Asner) to get some input on where to make cuts in the newsroom, and Lou suggested that he should watch the evening news and judge for himself.

Ted (Ted Knight) was certain that this would be the end for him so he began doing everything he could to ingratiate himself to the new boss.

And, apparently, it worked, because the station manager decided to let everyone go — except Ted. For long–time viewers of the show, I guess that was really the only way it could have gone. It made it seem more final — if such a thing is possible.

I guess the last half of the episode was mostly a sentimental journey for the cast and the show's fans. Mary was depressed by the turn of events, and Mr. Grant, in an attempt to raise her spirits, arranged for her old friends Rhoda (Valerie Harper) and Phyllis (Cloris Leachman) to return to Minneapolis for a visit.

Back in the newsroom the inevitable time for goodbyes arrived following the final newscast. That led to a group hug and an oft–imitated exit with the cast marching out of the newsroom singing "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" and Mary peeking back in the newsroom one last time.

The story itself wasn't especially memorable — even though it did reunite Mary with two of the series' early regulars who left the show before Sue Ann and Georgette (Georgia Engel) joined it; thus the final episode was the only time all of the primary characters in the series — the ones I have already mentioned along with news writer Murray Slaughter (Gavin MacLeod) — appeared in the same episode together.

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And when all eight came out and took a curtain call after the episode ended, that was a first as well.

Actually, I don't believe the show's cast ever did a curtain call before — so that was a one–time–only event.

And I am quite sure they never appeared on the same stage at the same time either before or after the night the episode was taped.

It was a special night all the way around.

Who Cares What Others May Think?

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Mary (Mary Tyler Moore): I didn't think I was asking for that much, but I haven't met anyone who even comes close. Someone who doesn't care how I look because he's more concerned with who I am. Somebody strong and intelligent who respects me, who I can respect, who has gentleness in him. I guess there just aren't any men like that.

Georgette (Georgia Engel): Sure there are. You know one.

Mary: Well, if I do, I sure wish you'd point him out.

Georgette: Lou Grant.

Mary: Come on!

Georgette: He has every quality you said you wanted, and I'll throw in one of my own — he's cute as a button!

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With any other sitcom, I would say that the subject matter of the episode that premiered 40 years ago tonight was the introduction of a new plot twist, which is a common strategy to spice up a once–popular series that is rapidly declining in the ratings.

And with any other sitcom, I would probably be right.

But I am speaking of the episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show that premiered on this night in 1977 — exactly one week before the series took its final bow. And it was still popular. The decision to leave 'em while they still wanted more was made by the cast and creators, not by the network.

If you could have polled the show's fans 40 years ago, I'm certain that just about all of them would have voted to keep the show on the air. But if it had remained on the air, it is doubtful that the episode that first aired on this night in 1977 never would have aired at all. It would have marked a significant shift in the direction of the show; it was probably best to leave it

In the episode "Lou Dates Mary," a date that ended badly prompted Mary (Mary Tyler Moore) to reflect on a lifetime of dating (2,000 dates by her calculation) and conclude that maybe there wasn't a "Mr. Right" in the cards for her.

She was telling this to Georgette (Georgia Engel) who suggested that Mary should date Lou Grant (Ed Asner). Initially, Mary scoffed at the suggestion, but it gradually dawned on her that Georgette might be right so she went into Lou's office and, even though her upbringing made it difficult for her to ask a man out, she did so, anyway.

When she did, Lou's response was probably what mine would be if a much younger female colleague came to me and told me she wanted to date me. He laughed. It was preposterous.

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But Mary was serious, and, after some deliberation, Lou accepted. They agreed to have dinner at Mary's place that night.

As the appointed hour drew near, though, Lou was vacillating. He and Murray (Gavin MacLeod) had drinks after the evening news was finished. They were going to talk, but Murray had no idea what they were going to talk about.

(Now, as a journalist, I have to point out something here. Perhaps I am nitpicking and, granted, my experience in journalism has been on the print side so take this with as many grains of salt as you require. We lived by deadlines. I presume that people in broadcasting live by deadlines as well, but their deadlines involve broadcast schedules.

(In every city in which I lived, the local TV stations had early and late newscasts. They were always live. The late newscast was never a tape of the broadcast from four hours earlier. Too much can — and does — happen in that span of time, and someone, usually several someones, must be there in case the weather turns bad or a jury reaches a verdict in a high–profile trial — or, as was the case here in Dallas last summer, some police officers get shot during a protest. Presumably the folks at WJM had a late newscast, too, but they were always socializing after their newscast — presumably the one at 6 p.m. — was over. If there was a later newscast, it must have been manned by other people.

(I've worked for newspapers that had multiple deadlines, but social lives were put on hold until after the final deadlines. I have long wondered how many people were moved to become journalists after watching the Mary Tyler Moore Show, believing it would be a regular 9–to–5 job that paid well enough for them to dine at fancy restaurants and have drinks in ritzy clubs in their off hours. Boy, were they in for a rude awakening!)

Anyway, Lou confided in Murray, who was stunned at first but ended up reassuring Lou that it wasn't such a ridiculous idea, and Lou proceeded to Mary's apartment.

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Lou didn't want to show up empty–handed so he brought flowers. But he couldn't remember Mary's favorite flower so he brought three bouquets — along with a bottle of wine, some chocolates and a can of mixed nuts.

Ladies, when was the last time a gentleman caller brought you three bouquets, a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates and a can of mixed nuts?

Even though Mary and Lou had known each other for seven years, this was a new situation, and there was the usual awkwardness of a first date.

"It's funny," Mary observed at one point, "the two of us who have known each other as long as we have suddenly ill at ease, in suspense ..."

"In suspense about what?" Lou asked.

"You know," Mary replied, "about what's going to happen. Both of us wondering whether you're gonna, you know, kiss me." Then she turned away from him in that kind of shy schoolgirl way young girls have of covering how much more worldly they are than they appear.

The evening was suspenseful for both of them. Mary ruled out shop talk, then they found it hard to make the kind of small talk one is apt to make on a first date. Finally, they decided they had to kiss before they could feel comfortable enough to decide where this relationship would lead.

And they both started to giggle in the middle of their kiss.

"That was really silly kissing you," Lou said with a grin.

"That turned out to be just so dumb!" Mary replied.

They both concluded that it wasn't going to work.

So they said "Good night" — to the date, that is — then sat down to finish their dinner — and talk shop.

It probably is true that the best romantic relationships start as friendships. But after a certain amount of time, as Lou and Mary learned on this night in 1977, good friends should probably just remain good friends.

The Night the Lights Went Out in Minneapolis

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Mary Tyler Moore was notorious in her 1970s sitcom for throwing epically lousy parties. It was a running joke, the kind that all the successful sitcoms have — you know, like Debra Barone's awful cooking or Michael Stivic's insatiable appetite. Or Fibber McGee's closet.

The mere mention of one of Mary's parties would cause eyes to roll and excuses to be made. Each party was worse than the one before, and it wasn't really a matter of being spectacularly bad. The parties generally weren't too bad — until one thing went wrong in a spectacular, only–at–one–of–Mary's–parties way.

That was what happened in the episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show that aired 40 years ago tonight, "Mary's Big Party."

Mary almost always believed that her next party was going to be a game changer for her, and this time was no exception. She was convinced that this party would be the one to change her reputation. After this she was certain that people would want to attend her parties, not avoid them.

A guest at the party was going to be a congresswoman with whom Mary was acquainted. But the congresswoman would not be the main attraction. The congresswoman had a special guest coming into town to M.C. a charity event — Johnny Carson — and she asked Mary to have a small dinner for him so they could be spared the crush of admirers they were sure to encounter at a restaurant.

Mary wouldn't reveal the name of the special guest so everyone in the newsroom came to the party to find out who it was — even though most clearly expected another one of Mary's disastrous parties. When Mary told Mr. Grant (Ed Asner) that this would be a terrific party, he replied, "It better be. I gave up tickets to midget wrestling."

Finally Mary could contain herself no longer, and she spilled the beans. When she did, Mr. Grant conceded that it might be a "fair" party after all.

Mary was feeling triumphant and insisted it was going to be a great party — when the lights started to flicker, and then the apartment was plunged into darkness. The only lights that could be seen were a few lights from a distant building visible through the glass doors leading to Mary's balcony. Apparently the power was out over most of the city.

Mary had a flashlight, but the batteries were dead. And she had candles — somewhere. They were left with no alternative but to talk in the dark. Mary fretted that this would be her worst party ever.

"That's impossible," Mr. Grant said. "You'd really have to go a long way to top some of the bad parties you've had."

And that set up a series of flashbacks to the bad parties in Mary's past.

For Mr. Grant, Mary's worst party had been one that she had thrown with her friend Rhoda (Valerie Harper), and Mary set him up with a blind date who "turned out to be a little old lady."

Sue Ann (Betty White) remembered when the congresswoman attended another one of Mary's parties, and Sue Ann prepared a special veal dish for the occasion — but with just enough for each guest to have a single portion. Then Rhoda showed up with a date (Henry Winkler). He had been one of Rhoda's co–workers, but he had just been fired, and Rhoda couldn't let him be alone when he was feeling so vulnerable.

Feeding him would be a problem with only six portions of the veal and six people already at the party. Rhoda told Mary that her friend could have half of her portion. Problem solved — temporarily.

Then, when Mary was serving the veal, Mr. Grant took three portions — and Mary had to talk him into putting two portions back. Reluctantly he did so, explaining to the other guests that "I'm not as hungry as I thought I was."

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Eventually Mary's special guests did show up. They had been stuck in the elevator when the power went out. They were only liberated after Johnny climbed through the trap door at the top.

Bear in mind that the stage was still cloaked in darkness. In that setting, Carson delivered one of the best deadpan lines I have ever heard: "Nice place you've got here."

Carson was never seen. I have heard that it was because he was under contract to NBC and could not be seen on the other two networks (the Mary Tyler Moore Show was on CBS). I don't know if that was true, but I do know it was a very entertaining episode, aired just two weeks before the series' grand finale.

A Time for Being Damn Sweet

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"There are plenty of times in life when you do the competent, responsible thing. But every once in awhile we need to be damn sweet. If we're lucky, we'll never have to regret it."

Lou Grant (Ed Asner)

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Mary Tyler Moore, who died a few days ago, wasn't always the focus of her own show. That was part of what made The Mary Tyler Moore Show so great. There were many talented people involved with that show. The cast was first rate, and so was the writing.

Mary often had to take a backseat to others — and it always worked.

And on this night in 1977, in the episode "Sue Ann Gets the Ax," the sexually insatiable Sue Ann Nivens (played by Betty White, who won two Emmys for her work) lost her job. Her program, The Happy Homemaker, had been canceled due to low ratings.

Sue Ann tried to put up a brave front. She had been offered work doing odd jobs at WJM so she wasn't exactly being thrown out in the street, and she indicated to the folks in the newsroom that she wasn't going to be beaten by what was clearly a demotion. In the privacy of Mr. Grant's (Ed Asner) office, though, she confessed that her show had been the best thing that had ever happened to her and that she no longer wanted to live.

She asked Mr. Grant for a job in the newsroom, and he tried to wriggle out, claiming that the task of hiring and firing in the newsroom was Mary's. So Sue Ann asked him to ask Mary to give her a job. With a decided lack of enthusiasm, he agreed to do so.

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At that point, it wasn't actually one of Mary's responsibilities to hire and fire people, though, so Mr. Grant had to do something about that. His solution was to tell Mary that he had decided to give her more authority in the newsroom. At first, Mary was elated. Mr. Grant made it sound like she was going to play a more significant role in how things were done in the newsroom, and she was pleased.

Until she found out that Sue Ann wanted a job in the newsroom — and concluded (correctly) that she had been given this new authority only because Mr. Grant couldn't say no to Sue Ann. But Mary could — and did.

So Sue Ann began recording "house ads" — a few seconds of voice–overs promoting upcoming programs on WJM recorded in a tiny booth with Sam (Louis Guss) the engineer and under–the–table groper.

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Things went from bad to worse for Sue Ann. She left the voice–over work to be Aunt Daisy on a program called the Uncle Bucky Show — presumably WJM's replacement for Chuckles the Clown, who, as show aficionados know, died in an episode that aired a couple of years earlier. I don't recall Uncle Bucky ever being mentioned again. Chuckles, on the other hand, had been a frequently mentioned but almost never seen presence at the station.

In that part of the episode, Sue Ann got told off by two rabbit hand puppets and was ordered off the set. She went to the newsroom and told Mr. Grant and Mary that she had resigned, calling her experience with the puppets "the final humiliation."

Mary felt bad for Sue Ann, but she insisted that she believed she had made the right decision. Sue Ann begged Mr. Grant to ask Mary to change her mind, and he tried to convince her, but he couldn't make her budge.

What did make her budge, though, was Sue Ann, who was dissolving into tears. Mary could resist no longer and gave Sue Ann a job. Sue Ann thanked her profusely and promised never to let her down.

After she left, Mr. Grant told Mary, "That was a nice thing you did."

"That was a terrible thing I did," Mary replied. "I hired someone for all the wrong reasons — not on the basis of merit or qualifications but simply because I felt sorry for her."

"That's not such a terrible reason," Mr. Grant insisted. "What's wrong with that?"

"There are people who went to journalism school who worked long hard hours to get a chance at a job in this newsroom," she said. "And they deserved it. And now they won't get that chance because I weakened, because I felt guilty, because I had pity for someone."

"It's not the first time it's happened," Mr. Grant replied.

"Well, a good news executive wouldn't have done that," Mary said.

"I did," Mr. Grant said.

"When?" Mary asked.

"Seven years ago," Mr. Grant said, "a young girl walked into my office, and even though she had never been in a newsroom before, she had the audacity to sputter out a request for a job as an associate producer. Know who I'm talking about?"

Mary nodded. "I didn't have very many qualifications, did I?"

"You had zilch. Did I ever tell you the reason I hired you?" Mary shook her head. "A little run. A tiny little run in your stocking on your knee. You kept trying to cover it up."

"And you noticed that?"

"It's hard not to notice something with two hands, a pocketbook and a leg over it," he replied. "I thought to myself, 'What kind of a girl is this who is so afraid of a thing like that?' Do you think that was a bad reason to hire you?"

"It was kind of sweet."

"It was damn sweet," Mr. Grant replied. "There are plenty of times in life when you do the competent, responsible thing. But every once in awhile we need to be damn sweet. If we're lucky, we'll never have to regret it."

That was a good lesson, one that is worth an occasional reminder because people do tend to forget it. It's a timeless message, really, that has been expressed in many different ways. I suppose it is a variation on the wisdom from the Bible, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

After all, as John Donne wrote, "No man is an island."

But then, in typical Mary Tyler Moore Show fashion, came the punch line.

As Mr. Grant walked toward his office, Mary asked him, "Mr. Grant, have you ever regretted hiring me? I've done a pretty good job, haven't I?"

It took courage to ask that. After all, no matter how well you think you have done your job, you can never be sure what an employer will say when asked those questions. Mary was really putting her self–image on the line, and initially Mr. Grant was reassuring.

"Pretty good?" Mr. Grant asked. "You kidding? You've done a whale of a job. You've been just great."

Then came the punch line.

"Until you went and hired Sue Ann."

Be Careful What You Wish For

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Karl (Eric Braeden): What you're watching at this very moment is a classic example of what's wrong with television in this town. It is the pursuit of personality at the expense of competence.

Ted (Ted Knight): I'm not sure I understand.

Karl: I'm sure you don't.

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The episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show that first aired on this night 40 years ago, "The Critic," began innocuously enough — Mr. Grant (Ed Asner) was trying to put together a softball team to play WJM's crosstown rival.

But Mr. Grant and the rest of the staff had to leave the newsroom to attend the station manager's reception for Professor Karl Heller (Eric Braeden), a well–known critic who was going to be teaching some classes at the University of Minnesota. He also happened to be a friend of the station manager (David Ogden Stiers, in a pre–M*A*S*H recurring role), who had decided to hire him as an on–air critic at WJM one night a week.

The station manager said the news had become stale and predictable; he wanted controversy because controversy builds ratings.

As the staffers tried to make conversations with him, mentioning plays and movies that they had liked, it dawned on them that the professor was negative about everything.

Murray (Gavin MacLeod), for example, told the professor that he loved watching movies on TV. "That's where they belong," the professor replied.

"Come on, you must like some movies," Murray said.

"Well, at best, which it seldom is," the professor conceded, "a film can be powerful. There was one absolutely first–rate Ukrainian film at the last festival. It was called 'Blood On A Dog's Face.' It was about deformity. But somehow the subtitles missed all the whimsy."

When he left the professor, Murray walked over to Mr. Grant. "You want to know something?" Murray asked. "That guy's a pain in the neck."

"I have an even lower opinion of him," Mr. Grant replied.

In his first appearance on WJM, the professor pledged to spend the coming weeks evaluating the people of Minneapolis and trying to determine "why no first–rate art has ever been created in this vacant — but intellectually famished — arid and sterile city."

If the station manager wanted controversy, he got it. "That is the cruelest man I have ever seen," the perpetually amorous Sue Ann (Betty White) told her colleagues in the newsroom. "I think I am in love!"

The professor's commentary about Minneapolis had the phones ringing off their hooks. And it persuaded the station manager that one night a week wasn't enough. He wanted the critic to be on the air every night.

Things cut a little too close to the bone, though, when the professor turned his spotlight on WJM.

And he got told off by, of all people, normally timid Mary.

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After she finished, Mr. Grant and Murray were about to throw some punches at the professor when he pointed out that they would not do so because he had stated an honest opinion, and people in the news business don't attack people for that.

Sue Ann came in carrying a pie. She was angry about what the professor had said about her show in his critique, but he used the same rationale to mollify her. "You're sensible, rational people," he said, "and sensible, rational people do not throw either pies or punches at someone's face for simply stating an honest opinion. Only a fool would vent his frustration in those ways."

At that moment, Ted walked into the newsroom and pushed Sue Ann's hand that was holding the pie into the professor's face.

It was unanimous.

The Extraordinary Life of a Silent Film Icon

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Today is a milestone anniversary in the story of Charlie Chaplin.

On this day in 1977, the silent movie icon died in Switzerland at the age of 88.

And 15 years later, on this day in 1992, a movie about his life (directed by Richard Attenborough) made its debut.

I couldn't say how old I was when I first saw a Charlie Chaplin movie. Not very old, I'm sure. I just know that I have always enjoyed his work.

Nor am I sure how long I have admired Richard Attenborough.

It probably began whenever I was first exposed to his work as an actor, but who knows which film that was? He was acting in movies long before I was born so it may have been in a movie that was shown on TV (i.e., "The Great Escape") or it may have been a movie I saw at the movie theater ("Doctor Dolittle").

I'm sure my first introduction to Attenborough was not through a movie he directed — that was probably "Gandhi," and I know I was aware of him long before that.

Attenborough is mostly retired now. He is, after all, 89 years old, and he hasn't participated in the production of a film since 2007. It was an increasingly rare occurrence at that time, and Attenborough's brother said last year that he probably won't be making any more movies.

That is, indeed, a shame. His skill as a director surely exceeded his talent as an actor, and "Chaplin," his biopic that was released 20 years ago today, is a fine example of that.

As I have written here before, I truly admired his biopic of Gandhi — but Gandhi's life was so publicly inspiring that it always seemed to me just about anyone could hit that softball out of the park.

Chaplin's life story was a lot more challenging — but, in its way, every bit as inspiring.

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As I say, that life ended 35 years ago today. I can't say with any certainty that I remember what was said about the timing of the release of the movie about Chaplin's life, but I'm just about convinced that it wasn't coincidental.

I must say, though, that I found Robert Downey Jr.'s frenetic portrayal of Chaplin to be revealing in unexpected ways — not the least of which was the obvious, albeit unspoken, comparison of Downey to his subject.

For all his talent, Chaplin had a private sort of greatness, and I suppose the same could be said of Downey.

Lisa Kropiewnicki of AllRovi wrote that the movie was "a thoughtful mixture of melancholy and humor, juxtaposing Chaplin's private loneliness and loss with his professional comedic talents and fortitude."

That's probably an accurate assessment of both Downey and the man he portrayed. But Downey's downfall after "Chaplin" really is another story, isn't it?

I can't help reflecting on the irony, though.

Downey was nominated for an Academy Award for his performance as Chaplin, yet Chaplin was seldom recognized with an Oscar nomination during his life (although he was given an honorary Oscar five years before his death).

Chaplin was a "genius," said George Bernard Shaw, and he was the world's best–known movie star by the end of World War I.

Twenty–two years after Chaplin's death, he was named the 10th–greatest male star of all time by the American Film Institute

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Downey's performance was a fitting tribute to Chaplin's remarkable life, warts and all.

A Slice-of-Life Movie

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When I was growing up, Neil Simon was probably the biggest name in the playwrights' world universe.

I admired many writers as a young man. Most were writers of nonfiction, but among the fiction writers, Simon was in a league by himself. Even those who did not read much — and there were (and are) many of those — Simon was known for his many works that were brought to the big and small screens.

Like anyone, Simon has missed the target on occasion — but he's had more hits than misses. He may have been hitting his stride 35 years ago today when "The Goodbye Girl," made its theatrical debut.

The title was an example, I think, of what made Simon so popular. His characters always seemed to have occupations that were exotic — when compared to most humdrum, routine jobs — and sometimes it seemed that the common man could have very little in common with them.

But those characters weren't seen as distant because they were always facing very human predicaments, things to which anyone could relate. They were multi–dimensional.

In "The Goodbye Girl," Marsha Mason played a former Broadway dancer who became known as the Goodbye Girl because of all her failed relationships. The story found her living in the apartment of her latest ex (who had skipped out) with her precocious 10–year–old daughter, Lucy (Quinn Cummings).

Younger viewers may only know Mason as Martin Crane's love interest on Frasier in the late '90s. Similarly, they may only know Dreyfuss as Mr. Holland. And they probably don't know Cummings at all.

But, in "The Goodbye Girl," they played people with whom audiences could sympathize. Dreyfuss played his role so well he was rewarded with an Oscar for Best Actor.

Mason, Cummings and Simon were all nominated for Oscars, and the movie was nominated for Best Picture, but only Dreyfuss won.

And it really wasn't hard to understand why. Dreyfuss had been showing up on TV and in movies for about a decade, but he had rarely been the featured star (exceptions had been 1975's "Jaws," 1977's "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" and a few others).

Cummings, of course, was a bit of a newcomer. If she had won for Best Supporting Actress, she would have been in exclusive company — a few years older than Tatum O–Neal was when she won the Oscar for "Paper Moon," and she was a couple of years older than Anna Paquin was when she won Best Supporting Actress for "The Piano."

But all that is irrelevant because, of course, Cummings did not win. I suppose there is an argument to be made that, if Cummings had won the Oscar, she might have become more of a presence in movies than she became. Most Oscar winners do.

But, as I say, Cummings did not win, and she hasn't appeared in a movie in more than 20 years.

Dreyfuss, who did win, has appeared in many movies since then, and he has become a familiar face to moviegoers in the process.

It wasn't just the acting that drew me to this movie, however. As is true with most of the movies that I really like, a lot of its appeal is in its witty dialogue. We can thank Simon for that. He put some great lines in the characters' mouths.

For example, early in the movie, when Mason and Dreyfuss are still testy with each other, Dreyfuss's character says, "I love listening to you talk. I hate living with you, but your conversation is first rate."

Dreyfuss had the most immediately memorable lines — or perhaps he made them memorable with the quality of his acting — but I discovered, upon reflection, that many of Mason's lines had a staying power of their own.

For instance ...

When Mason's character tells her daughter to be tactful in her interaction with Dreyfuss.

"What's that?" Lucy asked.

Without batting an eye, Mason replied, "Lie!"

Or when Dreyfuss — in what could only be charitably referred to as his first negotiation with Mason — suggested that she was a "sharp New York girl."

"No a dull Cincinnati kid," Mason replied, "but you get dumped on enough and you start to develop an edge."

"The Goodbye Girl" was a real slice of life.

A Close Encounter

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When I was growing up in Arkansas, there was a domed movie theater in a shopping center in the nearby city of Little Rock that always seemed to have the latest hit movies.

It was in the era before the multiplex theaters with a dozen or more screens. In those days, most theaters only showed one movie at a time.

And if anyone had asked me where I would like to see any movie, that was the place I would have chosen.

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This theater had a very futuristic name to go with its futuristic look — Cinema 150. And it was such a great place to see a movie — it was designed so virtually no one's view of the screen could be obscured by a person sitting in front and with a state–of–the–art sound system that could make anything sound good.

I'm told the Cinema 150 went out of business many years ago. That both saddened and surprised me. We live in the age of, as I mentioned before, multiplex theaters, and Cinema 150 was not designed for that — so the fact that it went out of business didn't particularly surprise me because I never figured that a single–screen theater could survive in the modern environment.

But I was still surprised because, frankly, I just never imagined Cinema 150 not being there.

And I was saddened because so many of the movies that I still love today were movies I saw for the first time at Cinema 150 — even if they weren't always recent releases (and many of them weren't).

Some of those movies are regarded as classics; others, I suppose, would fall under the heading of guilty pleasures. Most fall somewhere in between, I guess. But when I see them now, those films always bring back warm memories of afternoons and evenings spent with friends and family.

On this occasion, I have been thinking of the time I first saw "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," which premiered on this date in 1977.

I saw "Close Encounters" at Cinema 150 — the perfect place, I remember thinking at the time, to see a sci–fi flick like that — a few weeks after it premiered.

And I saw it with Karen, my girlfriend. At that time in my life, I judged whether a day was good by how much of it I spent with Karen.

That was — indisputably — a good day. In my mind at the time, nothin' could be finer.

We drove to Little Rock one Saturday evening — as we often did — and went to Cinema 150 to see the movie. When we emerged after the movie was over, we walked from the theater to my car, which was parked about midway through the parking lot.

On our way, there was a sudden clap of thunder. Karen and I looked at each other, and, wordlessly, we made a mad dash for the car, arriving and unlocking the doors only a few seconds too late to avoid getting drenched in the downpour.

We sat in my car for a few seconds, staring at each other, our mouths hanging open, and then we both began laughing simultaneously. And we hugged each other.

And then we drove home, talking all the way about the movie and our eerie trek from the theater to the car when it was over.

I don't remember now what we talked about. Points of the plot, I suppose. Maybe we spoke of lines of dialogue from the movie. Steven Spielberg's movies always have lines that I remember long after I've forgotten points from the movie.

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One of my favorites at the time (and still today) was when Richard Dreyfuss' long–suffering wife, Teri Garr, said to him, after being dragged from her bed at 4 in the morning to stand in the middle of nowhere waiting for whatever it was (and, at that point, only the audience really seemed to know what was going on) to return, "I remember when we used to come to places like this just to look at each other ... and snuggle."

At the time, I was a teenager in love, and I couldn't imagine being so obsessed with anything that it would distract my attention from my love interest — yet that was precisely the case with Dreyfuss when Garr made that remark. And I remember pondering that in the theater, temporarily losing track of the story.

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(Karen had her own distractions, particularly her weakness for "little ones," and there was none cuter in any of the movies we saw together than the young feller who played Melinda Dillon's son.

(He wasn't a distraction for much of the movie, though. The aliens abducted him early, and he wasn't seen again until near the end.)

Ah, yes, the end of the movie. Spielberg has this knack you may have noticed. Although he is revered in an almost godlike way by many, Spielberg does make a movie now and then that is mostly ordinary — but there is always a segment in his movies that is unique, something that elevates them and gives other movies of that genre something for which to shoot.

Few, if any, manage to hit that target, but that is Spielberg's role, I guess, to provide the target — even where one may not have existed before.

In "Close Encounters," that segment came at the end, when the aliens returned, and people who had been missing for decades emerged from their spaceship.

It was a breathtakingly fantastic sequence for which I can provide no insights that haven't already been offered repeatedly in the last 35 years.

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And, if you've seen it, you'll understand why the memory of that jog across a Little Rock parking lot in a cloudburst is still so vivid in my mind.

In Praise of Equus

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I knew nothing of the play "Equus" when it premiered in 1973.

In fact, I'm not sure I knew anything about it when a movie adaptation was made four years later. I guess I must have read about it, but I probably didn't comprehend much about the plot. I suppose I went to see it when it came to our town only because I knew Richard Burton was in it, and I was one of Burton's admirers.

So I went to see "Equus" sometime in 1978, even though it premiered on this day in 1977.

It was a haunting tale, inspired by a true story of a teenager who blinded six horses. When he wrote the play, Peter Shaffer knew few, if any, details of the case, and he tried to create a fictionalized explanation for what might have happened.

I was enthralled by the story — and, at the same time, repulsed by it. I have always admired horses — so, from that perspective, I suppose I can understand how the main character could regard horses (and their god figure, Equus) as deities. Swirling around them were the themes of ritual sacrifice and religion.

The main character (Peter Firth), as the audience discovered, had been the recipient of contradictory messages on religion from his devoutly Christian mother and atheist father. He also developed, from an early age, a sexual attraction for horses.

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I'm telling you, there's a lot going on here, and it was Burton, playing the role of the psychiatrist, who had to peel away the layers and find out the truth.

It was a meaty role for Burton, appearing in one of his final films (and, in the assessment of many, giving his last great film performance) — a worn out psychiatrist doubting himself and his life's work with troubled young people tries to unravel what may be the greatest challenge of his career. Why would a young boy blind several horses?

I often think of the first time Burton's character, already working with more patients than he can handle, and Firth's character meet in Burton's office. I've been in offices like that — musty and crowded with books. If we could smell it, I suspect it would be a mix of odors, mostly old papers, pipe tobacco and quiet desperation.

Burton's character kept trying to get basic information from Firth's character, who insisted upon singing commercial jingles and little ditties that revealed nothing.

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But Burton pressed on.

Jenny Agutter aided in this endeavor, playing a young woman who met Firth's character in the shop where he worked. Agutter's character had close contact with horses, which drew Firth's attention.

And she was drawn into the story, participating in a tryst at which (I presume) the stage play only hinted — but was on full display in the movie. For awhile, it appeared Firth's character might begin to understand the complicated nature of his twisted relationship with sex, religion and horses.

But then he heard horses making noises in the stable where Agutter had been seducing him, and he pulled away from her.

It was, as I say, a haunting story, a disturbing film.

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So many moments linger in my memory, even though it has been years since I have seen this movie.

It was a story of faith — and the loss of faith. In a tale full of symbolism, a typical example came when Burton told Firth a story about the "old gods ... before they died."

"Gods don't die," Firth replied.

"Oh, yes, they do," Burton said.

Burton received his seventh — and last — Academy Award nomination for his performance in "Equus."

Conversations With the Almighty

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"You can love each other, cherish and nurture each other or you can kill each other. Incidentally, 'kill' is the word. It's not 'waste.' If I had wanted 'waste,' I would have written 'thou shalt not waste.' You're doing some very funny things with words. You're also turning the sky into mud. I look down, I can't believe the filth. Using the rivers for toilets, poisoning my fishes. You want a miracle? You make a fish from scratch. You can't. You think only God can make a tree? Try coming up with a mackerel. And when the last one's gone, that'll be that. Eighty–six on the fish, goodbye sky, so long world, over and out."

God (George Burns)

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Considering that there were three colleges in my central Arkansas hometown, I really find it astonishing, as I look back on my childhood, when I remember that there was only one theater in town until I was in junior high — when a modest two–screen theater opened in a strip mall (well, it was mostly a Walmart store with some smaller stores sprinkled around it).

The original theater had been one of those old–fashioned places with a marquee out front, a real lobby and an actual balcony section that one climbed a carpeted stairway to reach. It was the kind of theater you might see in old movies or TV reruns today — but seldom, if ever, anywhere else.

When that two–screen theater came along, it really was the beginning of the end for that old–fashioned theater. In fact, it went out of business a few years later.

But the two–screen theater faced its share of competition, too. Even though the number of movie options available locally had doubled, the city of Little Rock offered far more so that is where the college kids — and the high school kids, too — went on the weekends.

I've been thinking about that because it was 35 years ago today that "Oh, God!" — an amusing and thought–provoking comedy starring John Denver and George Burns — premiered on American movie screens. And that, in turn, reminded me of the first time I saw that movie.

Even with two screens in my hometown, it generally took many months for new releases to get there. If you wanted to see the latest hits while they were still hot, you had to go to Little Rock.

(The duplication of screens did speed things up some, as I recall. When I was a child, it wasn't uncommon for it to take a year or more for a hit movie to come to my hometown. After the two–screen theater opened, the wait was cut to about six months.)

Anyway, I recall one weekend when Karen (my high school girlfriend — I've written about her here before) and I had been through a rather stressful period. I don't remember what the cause of the stress had been, only that it had been stressful.

Karen's father suggested that we go see a movie, and he specifically suggested that we go see "Oh, God!" I suppose that wasn't surprising. Karen's father was a philosophy professor (and son of a Lutheran minister) — not to mention something of an admirer of screen comedians of Burns' generation. "Oh, God!" was a hot topic at the time. It was getting good reviews, and he thought it would be just the thing to lift our spirits.

But the thing I remember is that he kept calling it "Oh My God!" at the dinner table that evening, producing some muffled snickering at his mistake from Karen, her brother and sister and me.

(I guess, with OMG being such a popular acronym today, he might be regarded now as being ahead of his time.)

During that meal, however, he persuaded Karen and me to take the 30–minute drive to Little Rock to see the movie that evening — and we did.

And it certainly did lift our spirits.

AllMovie.com's Brendon Hanley writes that "[t]he movie's surprising charm owes a lot to the understated comic timing and charisma of vaudeville legend George Burns in the title role."

There was much truth in that. Burns, with his curmudgeonly appeal, would have been my choice to play the Almighty. He had the kind of demeanor I would like to think God has.

Like in the scene in which, after being urged by Denver to perform a miracle to prove his identity, God makes it rain inside Denver's Pacer (if you aren't old enough to remember the Pacer, consider yourself lucky).

When Denver observes that it is raining only in his vehicle, Burns replies, "Why should I spoil everyone's day?"

The premise of the movie, in case you've never seen it, was that God needed a messenger to spread the word that he was alive and he had provided the people of the earth with everything they needed.

His choice to serve in this capacity was an assistant manager of a grocery store.

Like most people probably would, Denver's character asked, "Why me?"

"Why not?" Burns asked. "Life is a crap shoot, like the millionth customer that crosses the bridge gets to shake hands with the governor. You thought I picked you because you're better than everyone?"

"I'm not?" Denver asked.

"You're better than some but not as good as others," Burns answered, "but you crossed the bridge at the right time."

I also thoroughly liked watching Teri Garr in the role of Denver's long–suffering wife who has questions about her husband's stability but stays with him in spite of it all.

(I would have enjoyed watching Garr, anyway. I first saw her in "Young Frankenstein" a few years earlier, and I thought she was cute.)

Denver actually was a pleasant surprise for me. I had been a fan of his music for awhile. I even saw him perform in person once. But I had no idea he could give such a plausible performance in a movie.

Denver's music was featured in several movies, both before and after his death in 1997. He also made several guest appearances on TV shows. But it really is a shame that he never starred in another movie.

His performance in "Oh, God!" offers glimpses into what might have been in store for us if Denver had chosen to share his acting talent with us more frequently.

He had a look of boyish wonder on his face in the rain–in–the–Pacer scene that thoroughly enhanced his straight–man line: "It's just like Noah's ark!"

"Same thing," Burns replied. "Without the smell."

Earlier, when Burns appeared before Denver and told him that he wanted him to be his messenger, Denver protested as many people probably would, "I don't even go to any church."

"Neither do I," replied Burns.

"Oh, God!" was quite a hit — and, as hits often do, it inspired some dreadful sequels that should have served as cautionary tales — but clearly, in many cases, they have gone unheeded.

As did Burns' parting line to Denver.

"[N]ow and then," Denver says, "couldn't we just talk?"

"I'll tell you what," Burns says. "You talk, I'll listen."

When Elvis Died

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Most of the time, it is my policy to write in my blogs about anniversaries that end in a five or a zero.

Nevertheless, I always write about the anniversary of Elvis Presley's death. Every year.

I'm not sure why that is so — except for the obvious reason, that Elvis truly is one of the undisputed superstars of rock 'n' roll. Even now, more than three decades after his death.

And that is clearly the case this week as his fans are gathering in Memphis to commemorate this milestone 35th anniversary of his death.

The Washington Post reports that Presley's ex, Priscilla, and their daughter, Lisa Marie, unexpectedly joined fans at the Graceland mansion for a candlelight vigil on the eve of the anniversary.

Elvis' heyday was really before my time, but his presence was constant when I was growing up, overshadowing everything else even if Elvis wasn't pushing a new record at the time. Bob Dylan, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones — along with others — took over the weekly top spot in record sales, but Elvis was always there, always the standard against which others were judged.

No one — except perhaps those closest to him who knew of his dependence on drugs — could have expected him to die at the age of 42.

When he died on this day in 1977, the outpouring of grief I witnessed was unlike anything I had ever seen and was really matched by only a few celebrities since — John Lennon, Princess Diana, Michael Jackson.

(It could truthfully be said, though, that John Lennon, Princess Diana and Michael Jackson died due to the actions of others — whereas Elvis brought about his own death. It almost certainly wasn't intentional, but it is an important distinction between Elvis and those other three.)

In many ways, the grieving never stopped. Maybe it was a sense of unfulfilled potential — even though Elvis had a couple of decades to make his mark whereas people like Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin had only a handful of years.

There are probably people out there who make their livings impersonating Morrison, Hendrix and Joplin — but there are many, many more who impersonate Elvis and make pretty good livings at it, too.

I have often wondered, in fact, if many of those "Elvis sightings" — you know, reports of seeing Elvis in convenience stores and walking along roads — were not hallucinations but rather sightings of Elvis impersonators.

The real thing, of course, is always with us in recordings and movies — and you can see the King in some of his better movies today on Turner Classic Movies.

The Debut of Star Wars

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Most people probably don't remember what movies were like before the "Star Wars" franchise was born on this date in 1977.

I do, but, in all honesty, I don't remember the "Star Wars" premiere. There was no fuss about it that I can recall.

It was definitely a "summer blockbuster" — it was made for $11 million and wound up earning nearly half a billion dollars — but the concept of the summer blockbuster was still new. Hollywood has turned it into a marketing art form, but it was still a bit primitive in 1977, and, to be candid, "Star Wars" caught nearly everyone by surprise.

Today, it isn't uncommon for movies to spend a month or so at theaters — if that — before being yanked and prepared for cable and home video markets, but, in 1977, cable represented an extremely small share of the market, and home video was still in its infancy.

Thirty–five years ago, movies often spent months showing at theaters, many of which were still single–screen facilities, and then went on to drive–ins, where the objective was to squeeze a few more dollars in revenue, after which they were relegated to commercial television.

In 1977, successful movies spent months at theaters. It was the flops that were gone in a matter of weeks, seldom to be heard from again.

And there were some movies that got quite a bit of fanfare upon their release — but "Star Wars" wasn't one of them, and such fanfare could accompany just about any movie at just about any time of year.

It probably seems remarkable today, but movie promoters seemed to be oblivious, at least until 35 years ago, to the fact that there were huge potential audiences out there — teenagers — who had time on their hands and money in their pockets.

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But nothing about "Star Wars" seemed designed to appeal to a mass audience.

With the exception of Alec Guinness, I suppose nearly everyone in the movie was an unknown to the moviegoing audience, and the book upon which "Star Wars" was based was familiar to sci–fi fans — but few others. James Earl Jones, of course, was familiar in both face and voice, but only his voice was used in the role of Darth Vader.

I was working on a maintenance crew that summer, and one of my co–workers — Brad — told me under the least glamorous conditions imaginable — while we we stood knee–deep in fresh manure and shoveled it into flower beds — about the movie he had just seen.

Now, Brad was a sci–fi fan, and he had read the book. He raved about the movie, and I promised him I would go to see it — probably figuring that I never would.

But I did, about three months later. It was a group excursion from my hometown of Conway, Ark., to the nearby state capital of Little Rock to see the movie.

"Star Wars" had been causing quite a stir by then. Promoters of that time hadn't done the things that promoters would do in years to come, and they had to play catch–up as first the movie and then the double album soundtrack made buckets of money.

I was dating my first serious girlfriend — Karen — at the time, and she wanted to see the movie. So did her parents and her younger brother and sister — and the foreign exchange student who was living with them. And so did my mother.

So all eight of us piled into her parents' Volvo station wagon — four of us in the rear area — and drove to Little Rock one hot August night.

Karen and her family had only moved to Conway a year earlier. They had lived in northern California and Indiana before they moved to Arkansas, and the car they drove did not have air conditioning. I remember how grateful I was when we arrived at the theater, and I felt that wonderful cold air on my sweaty skin when we walked inside.

I was even more grateful when I got a cold drink and felt that icy liquid go down my parched throat.

But I felt no real sense of excited anticipation before the movie began.

For that matter, I had no real sense that I had seen the first installment in a series of movies that would define the art of filmmaking for the next three decades. I enjoyed it, but, if someone had asked me, I would have said I thought it was a one–shot deal, an entertaining movie but with very limited long–term appeal.

In fact, I remember vividly being somewhat surprised when I heard Karen and her siblings speculating about what the sequel would reveal. Until that moment, I had not even thought about the possibility of a sequel.

With whom would Princess Leia end up — the rakish smuggler Han Solo or the still naive Luke Skywalker who was training to be a warrior? That was at the heart of their discussion.

As I say, I enjoyed the movie, but I thought little of the notion of a sequel. I didn't think there would be one.

History has shown that I seriously underestimated the market's appetite for the story.

Art Imitates Life

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Alvy Singer (Woody Allen): Sun is bad for you. Everything our parents said was good is bad. Sun, milk, red meat ... college.

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When Woody Allen's name is mentioned, the listener probably thinks of many things.

A successful career directing movies and occasionally appearing in them;

a successful career prior to that as a Broadway playwright and a TV writer;

his somewhat soap operatic private life.

I know I think of many things when I hear Allen's name.

But the thought that comes immediately to mind for me — and, I suspect, for many others — is of "Annie Hall," the movie that premiered 35 years ago today.

I owe that, I suppose, to the fact that I was in the throes of my first real love when "Annie Hall" was making the theatrical rounds. Karen and I saw most of the movies that came out that year — the good, the bad and the ugly.

Going to a movie was about the only way I could figure to get time alone with her so we went to see anything and everything. The really special movies stood out, of course, but there's no doubt that we saw some real dogs that year, too.

"Annie Hall" was no dog. It wound up winning the Oscar for Best Picture, and Allen was named Best Director, although he wasn't there to accept the award. Instead, he was playing clarinet with his buddies in a jazz band in Manhattan, as he always did on Monday nights.

I don't know how such a thing would be received today. In the late 1970s, it was seen as delightfully quirky. Of course, that was in the days before Allen's very public legal wrangling with longtime partner Mia Farrow — and the revelation of Allen's (in the words of a judge) "grossly inappropriate" relationship with her adopted daughter.

I suspect the reaction would have been much less tolerant if Allen had made that film 15 years later.

When"Annie Hall" hit the theaters, Karen and I hadn't started dating yet. That came along a couple of months later. But 1977 was a different time. Hit movies routinely spent several months in theaters. Video recorders weren't unheard of in private homes, but they were extremely rare so there was no rush for theaters to get rid of one movie to bring in another one, especially one as popular as "Annie Hall."

Made on a $4 million budget, it made more than $38 million at the box office.

My memory is that Karen and I saw that movie in the summer. We saw a lot of movies that summer. I think her father recommended it to us. He was (and, I assume, still is) a big fan of Woody Allen.

I am, too, I guess, although I haven't seen all the movies he's made in the last 20 years. But, at the time that Karen and I were dating, I had seen most of his early movies, and I loved 'em all.

"Annie Hall" had a similar sense of humor, but it was different from those earlier efforts, too. It was humorous like the others, but the humor was much more autobiographical, much more personal. I was at a time in my life when I appreciated personal irony and self–deprecating humor, and "Annie Hall" was loaded with both.

That was obvious from the opening monologue, in which Allen looked into the camera, spoke directly to the viewers and said, "Two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, 'Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.' The other one says, 'Yeah, I know; and such small portions.' "

(I laughed so hard at that I almost missed the next joke.)

"Well, that's essentially how I feel about life — full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly. The other important joke for me is one that's usually attributed to Groucho Marx; but, I think it appears originally in Freud's Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious, and it goes like this — I'm paraphrasing — 'I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.' "

Those were, Allen told the viewers, the jokes that had the most relevance to his adult life.

I saw "Annie Hall" on the big screen twice, and it occurred to me, as I was watching it for the second time, that sometimes his brand of humor — and his deadpan delivery — went right over most people's heads.

In his earlier movies, he could write pure slapstick and get away with it, but "Annie Hall" was much more cerebral. It was a thinking man's kind of humor.

It still makes people think after 35 years. I guess that's the best compliment that can be paid to a film.