In Pursuit of Justice

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Even when he was dying from lung cancer, Paul Newman always looked younger than he really was.

Most of us would consider that a blessing in a culture that worships youth and beauty, but it can be a real hindrance for an actor. True, appearing to be forever young has helped some get roles that might otherwise have gone to others, but it seems to me that, at some point, a performer wants to play roles that more closely match his/her age, with the knowledge and experience that come with it.

I mean, it seems that it would be darn near impossible to be in your 40s and try to plausibly play a twentysomething. Too much happens in the interim.

"I always thought drinkin' men lost their looks," Elizabeth Taylor said to Newman in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." Newman was 33 when he played the part of Brick, who was probably about that age in that story but obsessed with his glory days as a high school athlete. He still looked the part (to Maggie the Cat's chagrin) — and his character even tried to do some of the things he once did only to learn that time always has its way. So does gravity. Even if it doesn't yet show in one's face.

But that's an easier assignment than being, say, in your 60s and playing a character 15 or 20 years younger. So perhaps Newman's youthful appearance worked against him at times.

When Newman made "The Verdict," which premiered on this day in 1982, he wasn't quite 60 years old. I don't know how old his character was supposed to be, but he was a lawyer and a drunk, which is not a good combination, least of all for assessing one's age. Based on things that were mentioned in the movie — when he finished law school, when he became a partner, etc. — Newman's character was probably five or six years younger than the actor.

Not really a stretch, especially for someone who was graying but whose hair hadn't turned totally white. Newman faced greater challenges in his career.

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Newman's character's story was a cautionary tale. All the failures in his life — his career, his marriage, everything — could be traced to his struggle with the bottle. But he was still in there pitching. He was mostly an ambulance chaser but a successful one. He seldom lost his cases, and a good friend and ex–teacher (Jack Warden) threw some work his way so he could keep a roof over his head and food on the table.

"The Verdict" was about one such case, a medical malpractice case that appeared to be open and shut. It was a "moneymaker," Newman's friend told him — an enticing word for a down–on–his–luck lawyer. A young woman who was about to deliver a baby was given the wrong anesthetic and was rendered comatose after choking on her own vomit. The Catholic–run hospital was willing to settle out of court, but after a visit to the hospital where the woman was being treated, Newman was determined to take the case to trial.

It was no longer about winning. It was about justice, and it was about redemption.

And the movie wasn't just about professional redemption. Charlotte Rampling was his opportunity for romantic redemption.

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I advise the student newspaper at a local community college. Recently I was having a conversation with one of the other advisers about our favorite Paul Newman movies. We compiled a predictable list until I mentioned "The Verdict," and he replied, "Yes, I forgot about that one."

We spoke of the acting — and it received plenty of recognition at the Oscars. Newman was nominated for Best Actor, and James Mason as the lead defense attorney was nominated for Best Supporting Actor.

The movie was also nominated for Best Picture, Best Director (Sidney Lumet) and Best Screenplay Based on Material From Another Medium. But it didn't win any of those Oscars. It was the year of "Gandhi," and "Gandhi" claimed three of the Oscars for which "The Verdict" was nominated.

A little trivia for you now:

Warden and Edward Binns, who played a bishop, were reunited in a Lumet–directed movie. Twenty–five years earlier, they played jurors in Lumet's "12 Angry Men."

Also, the next time you see "The Verdict," watch for a young Bruce Willis. He was a courtroom observer in this, one of his first movie appearances. Look for him during Newman's closing argument.

(Side note: Whenever I watch "The Verdict," I think about my senior play in high school, Ayn Rand's "The Night of January 16th." I played the judge in that production, and everyone had to stand when I entered or left the room. I thought that was cool.)

Remembering Marty Feldman

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"My looks are my comic equipment, and they are the right packaging for my job."

Marty Feldman

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As hard as it is for me to believe, it was 35 years ago today that Marty Feldman died of a heart attack in Mexico City.

He was 48 years old.

I was deeply saddened when he died. It was no secret that Feldman had health issues — he suffered from thyroid disease and developed Graves' ophthalmopathy, causing his eyes to bulge, among other things — but Mel Brooks, who directed two movies in which Feldman appeared ("Young Frankenstein" and "Silent Movie"), apparently had a pretty good idea why Feldman died so young.

"He smoked sometimes half a carton of cigarettes daily," Brooks said, "drank copious amounts of black coffee and ate a diet rich in eggs and dairy products."

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Feldman was a unique comedic talent, and, yes, he was right when he said his looks were his equipment. His bug–eyed look was a huge part of his appeal. It is impossible to overestimate the value of his looks to his vocation.

Somehow I think he still would have been funny with more normal eyes.

But without those bug eyes would it have been as funny when Gene Wilder said, "Damn your eyes!" in "Young Frankenstein," and Feldman replied, "Too late"?

I seriously doubt it.

I know that, if he had lived, Feldman would be in his 80s now and almost certainly retired. But we sure could have used his sense of humor in as many of the last 35 years as the fates would allow.

Back in the Saddle Again

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Coach (Nicholas Colasanto): Damnedest thing. I've been shivering all the way over here.

Diane (Shelley Long): Well, Coach, you don't have a coat on. It's 30 degrees outside.

Coach: Oh, thank God. I thought I had malaria.

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I often think what a shame it was that Nicholas Colasanto died only a few seasons into the lengthy run of Cheers!

As a result, many of the people who watched the show never knew Coach — just as many people who watched M*A*S*H never knew Henry Blake (McLean Stevenson).

Stevenson left M*A*S*H voluntarily but later said he regretted that decision.

Both departures were abrupt. Through nearly all of his last episode, Stevenson was believed to be going home (leaving open the possibility of future guest appearances) — until his airplane was reported shot down over the Sea of Japan in the episode's final minutes. Coach just died without any explanation being given.

And both departures brought replacements — Col. Potter on M*A*S*H and Woody on Cheers! — who are remembered and loved while their predecessors have mostly faded from memory.

The episode of Cheers! that first aired on this night in 1982, "Coach Returns to Action," provides an indication of what was lost.

For the benefit of those readers who missed the character entirely: Coach was a former baseball coach, and he had been Sam's coach before the series' timeline began. When the series premiered, Coach was retired from coaching, now a bartender for Sam (Ted Danson). He was rather slow and plodding but with the proverbial heart of gold.

As the episode opened, Coach was even more out to lunch than usual. An attractive young woman named Nina (Murphy Cross) had moved into his apartment building, and he had helped her with her furniture. In the process he had become smitten with her.

The thing that bugged Coach was the difference in their ages. It was never specified for the audience, but there was a quarter century between the ages of the actor and actress, and the audience could see there was an age gap when Nina visited the bar.

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Diane (Shelley Long) encouraged him to ask her out. She also ran interference for Coach, trying to dissuade notorious ladies' man Sam from approaching her. Sam approached her anyway and kept getting shot down.

Meanwhile, Coach made a sincere attempt to invite Nina out to dinner, but she insisted she still had a lot of unpacking to do.

That was when Coach used a ruse to turn things around. I'd rather not spoil it for those who haven't seen it. Catch it on the DVD of Season 1 or on Netflix. You'll thank me for it.

This episode also had one of my favorite Cheers! dialogues that had nothing to do with the story but everything to do with the characters' personalities.

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Diane wondered aloud why people drink cold beer in winter. Norm (George Wendt) turned to know–it–all Cliff (John Ratzenberger) and asked for an explanation.

"How do you know he has one?" Diane asked Norm.

"Five bucks says he does," Norm replied. "Ten bucks says it's a doozy."

They both looked at Cliff, who said, "When the British ruled the Punjab ..."

"Ten bucks all the way!" Norm said triumphantly.

An Ode to Journalism, Be It Fake or Yellow

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We can do 'The Innuendo'
We can dance and sing
When it's said and done we haven't told you a thing
We all know that crap is king
Give us dirty laundry!

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It is easy these days for people whose lives have not been involved in journalism the way mine has to believe that sensationalism and yellow journalism in the media are new.

But I could have told you back when I was an undergraduate studying journalism that neither is new.

On this day in 1982, Don Henley (initially of Eagles fame) released a solo single called "Dirty Laundry" that criticized the media of that time. If you listen to the lyrics, you must conclude that little has changed.

(Actually, the song was from an album titled "I Can't Stand Still," which had been released two months earlier.)

I studied print journalism in college, then practiced it in the real world. And it was an article of faith in every newsroom I was ever in that broadcasters weren't really serious journalists — that, in the words of the lyrics from the song, they only had to look good (while they read what someone else had written for them, either from the hard copy or from a teleprompter). Being "clear" was not required.

I don't know if the song fits in the modern–day debate over "fake news," but if fake news exists it is merely an outgrowth of the kind of journalism Henley criticized in the song.

I liked the song because, even though I hadn't been in the business long when "Dirty Laundry" was still being played on the radio, I knew enough about it to know that bad news will happen on its own. It doesn't need any help from journalists, whether they are legitimate journalists or not, and I have always despised those who try to stir things up needlessly.

And I also enjoyed a little tidbit that only journalists would know. There's a line in the song that goes "Is the head dead yet?" The song, as I understand it, was largely inspired by the media coverage of the deaths of John Belushi and Natalie Wood — but that particular line has a real role in newspaper history. It asks whether the major headline story (or head) is ready to go. If a head is dead, it means it is all set and is being printed — and it is too late to make a change.

I suppose that yellow journalism is the same thing as fake news. It depends on the label you want to slap on journalism that uses little, if any, research or facts and is presented in the most sensational, eye–grabbing way possible.

And that kind of thing has been going on in America since at least the 19th century and the days of Pulitzer and Hearst.

If it preceded that time — and I am sure it did — journalism historian Frank Luther Mott probably could have told us. He wrote the textbook on American newspapers from 1690 to 1940 that was used in most college journalism history courses for many years — and, for all I know, may still be in use in some classrooms today.

But Mott died in 1964. Not that he would be likely to still be around today. After all, he'd be over 130. Still, it would be good to hear his insights about modern journalism. No doubt he would be able to compare this time in journalism history to another period, whether it qualified as yellow journalism or required a different label.

And Mott, who led journalism departments at the University of Iowa and University of Missouri, was good at naming things. For example, he was responsible for the term "photojournalism."

He didn't coin the term "yellow journalism," but he did define it so I am sure he would have some thoughts to share on fake news — or whatever it is.

Absent Mott, though, you can listen to "Dirty Laundry" and get an idea what broadcast journalism was like 35 years ago.

And, as I said earlier, you will realize that things really haven't changed that much.

The Debut of Cheers!

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Coach (Nicholas Colasanto): I'm working on a novel. Going on six years now. I think I might finish it tonight.

Diane (Shelley Long): You're writing a novel?

Coach: No, reading it.

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The great thing about Cheers! was that, although it was ostensibly about a bar, it was really about the people in the bar. The place where everybody knows your name.

When it finished its 11–year run, viewers felt as if they knew the folks on the show — their strengths, their weaknesses, their personality quirks — so well that sometimes I think any one of them could have starred in a spinoff and been successful.

Frasier (Kelsey Grammer) was the character who was spun off and had an 11–year run of his own, which is kind of ironic since he wasn't in the Cheers! cast when the show premiered on this day in 1982. In the first episode, "Give Me a Ring Sometime," the emphasis was on the barmaid who would be viewers' introduction to Frasier's woeful love life — Diane Chambers (Shelley Long).

She wasn't a barmaid at the time. She came in to the bar with her fiancé. They planned to go to Barbados, where they would be married, but Diane's fiancé wanted to get the ring from his ex–wife, so he left Diane at Cheers! with a promise to return.

By the end of the episode, though, it was clear that he was not going to return, that he had probably reconciled with his ex–wife. Forlorn Diane was offered the job of a barmaid.

Her conversation with her first customers kind of set the tone for the series:

"Welcome to Cheers," she told the middle–aged couple. "My name is Diane. I will be serving you. Why don't you sit down right over here? You know, I should tell you, parenthetically, that you are the first people that I have ever served. In fact, if anyone had told me a week ago that I would be doing this, I would have thought them insane. When Sam over there offered me the job, I laughed in his face. But then it occurred to me, here I am, I'm a student — not just in an academic sense but a student of life. And where better than here to study life in all its many facets? People meet in bars, they part, they rejoice, they suffer, they come here to be with their own kind. What can I get you?"

To which the man replied, reading from a phrase book in broken English, "Where is police? We have lost our luggage."

The episode was also a setup for the other people in the bar, especially the proprietor, Sam (Ted Danson), who had been a major–league baseball player until his struggle with alcohol ended that chapter in his life.

Many of the characters who went on to be regulars on the show were there — waitress Carla (Rhea Perlman) and patrons Norm (George Wendt) and Cliff (John Ratzenberger).

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"Coach" (Nicholas Colasanto), the bartender, was there, too, but he died of a heart attack a few years later, and the character was written out of the series. Woody (Woody Harrelson) was brought on as Coach's replacement.

And that is probably what prevented the episode from being regarded as one of the best of the series. The first episode essentially introduced the viewers to the characters in the series, and that took most of the time.

So the first episode couldn't be too in depth. There simply wasn't enough time, you see.

It served its purpose, though. It got the audience hooked and set the stage for the show's 11–year run. And that provided plenty of time to explore various personalities and themes.

Good thing for all of us, too.

Growing Pains and Growing Up

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"Not all the obstacles that can trip you up are on this base. Let me tell you something about the local girls. Ever since there's been a base here, there's been what you'd call the Puget Sound Debs. The poor girls come across the sound on the ferry every weekend with just one thing in mind, and that's to marry themselves a naval aviator. A Puget Deb will tell you, 'Don't you worry about contraceptives. I've got that all taken care of.' Don't believe it, sweet pea. A Puget Deb will do anything and say anything to trap you. I know this sounds silly, especially in this so–called modern age, but you scuzzy college pukes should watch out because they're out there, and you, sweet peas, are the answer to their dream!"

Foley (Louis Gossett Jr.)

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Film critic Roger Ebert wrote this about "An Officer and a Gentleman," which premiered on this day in 1982:

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"'An Officer and a Gentleman' is the best movie about love that I've seen in a long time. Maybe that's because it's not about 'love' as a Hollywood concept, but about love as growth as learning to accept other people for who and what they are."

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Perhaps Ebert was right about that. I don't know.

All I know is how I felt about it when I saw it for the first time. I thought it was overly melodramatic. I thought it was probably a pretty accurate portrayal of the behavior of some single women in military base towns — but probably an exaggeration as well.

And loaded with cliches. So how come Ebert said it was "the best movie about love that I've seen in a long time"?

Perhaps I, like the pilot candidates, simply refused to believe a woman could be that conniving. I was young and naïve, and perhaps I was prone to give women the benefits of more doubts than they deserved. (The flip side of that is that there are guys who give women the benefits of too few doubts.)

I'm older now, though, and I have had experiences that I hadn't had when I first saw "An Officer and a Gentleman," and I have concluded, in hindsight, that it was better — and probably a lot more accurate — than I originally thought. At the very least, it was entertaining.

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And, OK, it was kinda schmaltzy, too. But I suppose that is inevitable when the subject is growing pains and growing up. It is a universal experience, as old as human life. Is there anything new left to say about it — except that, like death, it is a personal experience and different for everyone?

Only the circumstances are different, really — and the times when these profound changes occur. For some it happens in their teens. Others are in their 20s. In rare cases, it is later.

At this point, I guess I am more inclined to give the story the benefit of the doubt. People? Not so much.

(Perhaps, as the announcer in "A League of Their Own" said, "I have seen enough to know I have seen too much.")

Anyway ...

I would say the young men who were the focus of the story — Richard Gere and David Keith — were inclined to put women on a pedestal, which probably made it easier for Puget Sound Debs, as they were called in the movie, to achieve their objective.

That changed.

The change was tragic, brought about by Keith. His character withdrew from the pilot training program, and his girlfriend broke up with him. Still believing it was the real thing, he proposed to her, but she refused. "I don't want to marry you," she told him. "I really like you, and we've had ourselves some really great times, but I thought you understood. I want to marry a pilot. I want to live my life overseas — the wife of an aviator."

Keith's character hanged himself.

But it was the real thing for Gere and his girlfriend, Debra Winger. Things were rocky near the end of the movie, but, ultimately, in a big–screen moment that has been parodied frequently in the intervening years, Gere literally swept Winger off her feet at the factory where she worked and carried her off.

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Louis Gossett Jr., in the role of Sgt. Foley, became the first black actor to win Best Supporting Actor. "An Officer and a Gentleman" received five other nominations, including a Best Actress nomination for Winger, and won for Best Original Song ("Up Where We Belong").

Don't Overlook This Gem

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"I wonder if it would not be, well, just a trifle starry–eyed of me to contemplate a partnership where I could count on no sense of moral obligation whatsoever."

Sidney (Michael Caine)

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There were a lot of movies in the theaters in 1982. Some were good, some were not, but nearly all of them, it seems, spent more time in the spotlight than "Deathtrap," which premiered on this day 35 years ago.

And that really is a shame because "Deathtrap" may have been the most creative movie out there — and I say that knowing that 1982 brought us "Poltergeist," "E.T.," and "Tootsie," among others.

It was an overlooked gem at the time, and it is still overlooked today.

"Deathtrap" also took a backseat to "Porky's," a putrid sex comedy that was nevertheless the fifth–highest grossing movie of the year. "Porky's" premiered the same day as "Deathtrap."

I must confess that I didn't see "Deathtrap" when it was in theaters, and that is something I have often regretted. I saw it much later on cable.

As I have mentioned here before, I am a fan of the work of Alfred Hitchcock. I got that from my parents, who were fans of Agatha Christie's books as well. If you have been reading this blog for awhile, you almost certainly have noticed that I have written about both Hitchcock's movies and Christie's books here — and I expect to do so again.

My parents loved mysteries, and they appreciated stories that had all kinds of twists and turns, requiring the viewer or the reader to mentally shift gears from time to time. "Deathtrap" had plenty of twists and turns, certainly enough to satisfy fans of Hitchcock and Christie, with a gut–punch ending that, I must confess, I kind of anticipated — but only because of a movie I once watched with my parents (I'll get back to that).

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Nearly the entire movie took place in the remote country estate belonging to Michael Caine's character, a once–successful playwright who was enduring a streak of flops, and his wife, played by Dyan Cannon, who suffered from a heart condition. They were doing well financially — a wall in the house that was decorated with weapons from Caine's numerous successful plays testified to that — but Caine's ego longed for another hit.

Caine had received a manuscript by a student (Christopher Reeve) from one of his writing workshops. The student wanted Caine's input. In private, Caine believed the manuscript was flawless, and he decided that he wanted to produce it as his own. He invited the student to come to his home, where they would discuss the play — and Caine would murder the student.

Cannon argued against the plan, but Caine rebuffed every argument — and after the student arrived, Caine did attack him, convincing Cannon to help him remove the body.

She also said nothing when they received an unexpected visitor, a psychic who was staying with some neighbors. The psychic walked around the house, observing that she sensed pain and death in the very places where those things had been happening to Reeve's character and warning Caine that he would be attacked by a man wearing boots.

After the psychic left, Caine and Cannon prepared for bed, and Cannon appeared to be coming to grips with what Caine had done — when Reeve stormed in with a log in his hand and appeared to bludgeon Caine to death. Then he turned his attention to Cannon and chased her around the house — until her weak heart gave out and she collapsed.

Caine appeared in the scene, unharmed although he had a few words of criticism for Reeve's performance with the stage prop log. The murders of Caine and Reeve had been staged to produce this very result as the audience learned when Reeve and Caine shared a kiss.

(I have read that, when "Deathtrap" was showing in theaters and Caine and Reeve were about to kiss, a woman stood up in one theater and exclaimed, "No, Superman, don't do it!" I don't know if that is true or not, but it is a great story, isn't it?)

Reeve moved in with Caine after Cannon's funeral, and they began working on manuscripts at an antique partners' desk. Caine continued to suffer from writer's block, but Reeve pounded out page after page — and mysteriously left his manuscript locked in a drawer whenever he was away.

Caine finally managed to get his hands on Reeve's manuscript and was shocked to learn that Reeve was using the circumstances of Cannon's death for a play titled "Deathtrap" (which, ostensibly, had been the title of the manuscript Reeve originally sent to Caine). Caine confronted Reeve, who insisted the story had great potential and he would continue writing it. He offered to share credit with Caine, who was coming to believe that Reeve was a sociopath, and he agreed to cooperate while secretly planning a resolution to the problem.

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The psychic paid another visit a few days later asking for candles in preparation for an anticipated thunderstorm. When she met Reeve, she told Caine that Reeve was the man in boots she had warned him about.

The last part of the movie is best experienced, but suffice to say that just as you think one of the characters is about to go to his reward, the ground shifts beneath your feet, and suddenly the other character has the upper hand.

Their struggle left both men dead — and the psychic was the beneficiary, apparently becoming the successful writer of "Deathtrap," the latest hit on Broadway.

As I say, I anticipated the finish. It reminded me of "The Ladykillers," a movie that was in theaters about 25 years earlier. I watched it with Mom and Dad — ironically, only about a year or two before "Deathtrap" was in theaters.

In "The Ladykillers" a gang of thieves used an old woman as the centerpiece of a robbery plan. In the end, they all killed each other, and the little old lady, who discovered the plan after the robbery had already been carried out, was the only one who benefited from it.

If you see this movie on your TV schedule — or the DVD in the discount bin — don't let the opportunity get away from you.

I'll Take a W

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On this day in 1975, Wheel of Fortune premiered as part of NBC's daytime lineup.

Pat Sajak wasn't the original host; Chuck Woolery was. And Vanna White wasn't the original assistant; that was Susan Stafford. Sajak and White took over in the early '80s.

It didn't all happen at once; there was some overlap. Woolery left the show in 1981, and he was replaced by Sajak. Then Stafford left the show in 1982, and she was replaced by White.

Sajak stayed until 1989, then he was replaced, briefly, by former pro football player Rolf Benirschke, who was replaced by Bob Goen. When the network show was canceled and it was picked up for syndication, Sajak returned as host. He's still there. So is White, who has been on the show now for more than 30 years.

Otherwise, the show (a Merv Griffin creation) is virtually unchanged from the one that made its debut 40 years ago — except for the fact that it is now in syndication and typically airs at night. It is the longest–running syndicated game show in the United States.

The basic format is still the same — and people still tune in by the millions. The truly dedicated have been watching now for 40 years.

Gender Bender

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Dustin Hoffman to Geena Davis: What kind of mother would I be if I didn't give my girls tits ... tips?

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Almost 15 years to the day after the debut of Dustin Hoffman's breakthrough film, "The Graduate," the moviegoing public was treated to a performance for which Hoffman had no apparent experience.

Of course, when Hoffman made "The Graduate," he wasn't exactly a perfect fit. He was 30 years old with one year of junior college under his belt, playing a recent college graduate.

But that was nothing compared to the movie he made that premiered 30 years ago today — "Tootsie."

No actor has a hit every time out, but, in the 15–year period between "The Graduate" and "Tootsie," Hoffman enjoyed what can charitably be called more than his share of success. He got four Oscar nominations (one win) and appeared in five movies that were nominated for Best Picture.

That bears absolutely no resemblance to the character he played in "Tootsie."

That character, Michael Dorsey, was an actor — but that really was where any similarity between Hoffman and the character he played ended.

Michael Dorsey was a struggling actor. Like Hoffman, he had a great deal of talent, but he was hard to get along with, and folks just didn't want to work with him.

That's not an exaggeration. His reputation was so bad that he had to assume an entirely new identity (and a different gender) to find work.

Enter Dorothy Michaels.

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As Dorothy, he was able to secure steady employment on a soap opera, and his masculine attitude (interpreted as a brand of feminism) was a surprise hit with the show's viewers.

But there were down sides.

One of Dorothy's co–stars was attracted to her, as was the father of another co–star (Jessica Lange) with whom Michael desired a relationship.

To be sure, there was some gender bending going on.

And what I liked best about "Tootsie" was its honesty. It acknowledged that both genders labor under misconceptions about the other — and both have something to learn from each other.

"I was a better man with you as a woman than I ever was with a woman as a man," Hoffman told Lange at the end. "I just gotta learn to do it without the dress."

That sums things up pretty well.

Being Faithful in Spirit

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"No man's life can be encompassed in one telling. There is no way to give each year its allotted weight, to include each event, each person who helped to shape a lifetime. What can be done is to be faithful in spirit to the record and to try to find one's way to the heart of the man."

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I can understand why the filmmakers chose to preface their movie "Gandhi" with such a disclaimer.

It is a considerable task to tell anyone's life story — let alone one as complex as Mohandas Gandhi's — but, all in all, I think director Richard Attenborough did an incredible job.

I have long been a fan of biographical movies — "biopics," as they are called in our McNugget culture that appears to regard whittling things down to a single syllable or initial or two as progress — but "Gandhi," which premiered 30 years ago today, is my favorite.

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I remember reading about the movie when it was still in its casting stages and hearing that Ben Kingsley had been cast in the title role. I couldn't understand it. I wasn't familiar with his previous work — which was almost entirely, if not exclusively, in TV productions. I didn't necessarily think he was a bad choice. I just felt that the actor who was chosen to portray someone as significant to the history of the 20th century as Gandhi needed to be someone with stature in the acting community.

Actually, an actor with some heft in the acting community — Dustin Hoffman — reportedly was interested in the part, but he was offered the lead role in "Tootsie" and wound up taking that role instead.

(Among the actors I heard mentioned as possible leads before Kingsley was chosen were Alec Guinness, Anthony Hopkins, Peter Finch and Albert Finney. I don't know if any of them really were interested in the part, but, in hindsight, I don't think any of them would have been nearly as effective as Kingsley.

(And I say that as someone who has admired Hopkins' work for a long time. I thought he did a remarkable job of portraying Richard Nixon in Oliver Stone's "Nixon." I'm old enough to remember Richard Nixon, and I can say without fear of contradiction that Hopkins neither looked nor sounded like Nixon, but he had his personality down.)

Kingsley may not have brought a high–powered resume to the project, but he sure left with one. His performance earned him an Oscar and propelled him into acting's stratosphere. Ironically, Kingsley beat Hoffman for the Best Actor Oscar.

Kingsley has gone on to give brilliant performances in many movies, including another one of my personal favorites, "Schindler's List."

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Gandhi himself probably would have insisted that he couldn't have accomplished the things he did without the help and support of millions. Likewise, Kingsley was surrounded by an impressive supporting cast — Martin Sheen as the journalist Walker, John Gielgud as the viceroy, Candice Bergen as photographer Margaret Bourke–White.

In fact, I heard that the extras who were brought in to line the streets in the re–creation of Gandhi's funeral procession — roughly 300,000 — far outnumbered the extras who have appeared in any other movie.

But the portrayal of Gandhi was a triumph for Kingsley. He truly was faithful in spirit to the man and his life.

The Tragedy of Grace Kelly

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Friday was an odd kind of day for me.

I spent much of it working with journalism students, which isn't the odd part because I usually do that on Fridays during the school year, but my thoughts kept returning to that mid–September day in 1982, when I heard that Grace Kelly had suffered a stroke while driving in Monaco and died after crashing the vehicle.

She was perhaps the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and, at 52, she was much too young to be dead — even though she had been away from Hollywood for more than 20 years.

She gave up the life of a movie star to become a real–life princess — although I suppose just about anyone who saw her as a young woman would say that she always had a somewhat regal bearing.

But she retained the common touch.

"I just love Grace Kelly," Jimmy Stewart, her co–star in "Rear Window," said at her funeral. "Not because she was a princess, not because she was an actress, not because she was my friend, but because she was just about the nicest lady I ever met."

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Everyone loved Grace Kelly. I never knew anyone who didn't.

I remember the first time I saw "Rear Window." It had been re–released to theaters to mark the 30th anniversary of its original theatrical release so I went to see it on one of my days off.

It was a glorious thing to behold on the big screen. I could see for myself what my parents had always told me — that Hitchcock was meant to be experienced on the really big screen. No TV screen, no matter how large, could really do justice to a Hitchcock movie.

The reviewer in the local paper had seen it in all its restored splendor, and he promised his readers that Grace Kelly was "as beautiful as you remember."

Since it was my first time to see the movie, of course, I had no memory of her in it, but I had seen other movies in which she appeared — "High Noon," "Dial M for Murder," "The Country Girl" — and I looked forward to seeing her in it.

I was not disappointed.

Kelly's role in that movie was much more complex than it may have seemed on the surface. For that matter, Kelly herself was more complex than she may have appeared to some.

There was a shyness to her that was often concealed by her smoldering beauty, and there was a mind–bending life–imitates–art quality (or should that be art imitates life?) to Grace Kelly. She played a princess on the screen, then became one in real life.

But she was always a princess in the hearts of her fans.

'Fast Times' Launched Some Careers

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There may be nothing that grows quite so tiresome quite as quickly when one gets older as a teen sex movie.

I guess it's always been part of the moviemaking landscape. I mean, "Blackboard Jungle," which premiered in 1955, wasn't a comedy, the way "Fast Times" was, but it was definitely a part of that teen angst genre. And James Dean's three–movie career was all about the teen experience.

"Blackboard Jungle" and Dean's career come to me just off the top of my head. I'm sure I could think of others if I sat down and reflected on only that for awhile.

And I'm equally certain that even moviemakers of the silent period made movies that focused on the young and their journey from childhood to adulthood. It's an enduring human theme.

But when one is older, such tales become less relevant — unless they can be applied to the experiences of one's children and/or grandchildren.

Thirty years ago, when "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" premiered, I was in that age range, and I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. I wasn't an adolescent — I would probably have been described as being more on the opposite end of adolescence by that time — but I wasn't that far removed from it.

Today, I guess, "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" is kind of like a time capsule, a glimpse into life as it was in the early 1980s. I don't know what most young people do for after–school jobs these days — I mean, it's tough enough for their elders to find work in this environment — but the same things that appealed to teens then seem to appeal to teens today, just in updated forms.

In 1982, teenagers congregated at shopping malls, where they could buy clothes, eat, go to the movies, play pinball games (or video games like Pac Man). In 2012, I guess it's much the same.

"Fast Times at Ridgemont High" was set — mostly — in two places: The mall where the principal characters either worked or congregated, and the school most of them attended.

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Of all the bad boys in all such films, Sean Penn's stoned surfer Jeff Spicoli was probably the baddest. He was the embodiment of teen rebellion at that time. The trouble was that he didn't really have any idea what he was rebelling against.

And he never really seemed to get the upper hand with his nemesis, history teacher Mr. Hand (memorably played by Ray Walston).

Penn wasn't exactly a newcomer, but he hadn't been featured enough to be pigeonholed in particular roles. He has accepted a variety of roles in the last 30 years, and he has earned the praise of the critics for his talent.

It probably didn't require much skill to play Jeff Spicoli, but it must be said that Penn got the most from what he was given. He played a very different (and, in my opinion, more demanding) bad–boy role in "Taps" the year before, but it really was "Fast Times" that launched his career.

At the heart of the story, I suppose, was Jennifer Jason Leigh, who wasn't exactly a newcomer, either, having already been in movies and TV programs for a few years.

(I suppose there is a certain amount of irony in the fact that the movie that really launched Leigh's career made its debut three weeks after Leigh's father, Vic Morrow, was killed while filming a movie of his own.)

Penn and Leigh even appeared together in a TV movie (along with future "Fast Times" co–star Anthony Edwards) the year before "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" came out. And they both kind of shot to stardom when "Fast Times" made roughly six times what it cost to make.

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I guess what really made "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" different from previous coming–of–age flicks was the fact that it examined both genders plotting to make a connection with the opposite sex. Leigh, for example, was seen conversing with the more worldly Phoebe Cates frequently about such things as the way to perform fellatio.

Cates also assured Leigh (who lost her virginity early in the movie) that intercourse would not be as painful in the future.

Speaking of that, an interesting angle of the story unfolded in scenes in which Leigh had sex. The camera focused on the kinds of things she would have seen from her vantage point — the ceiling tiles or light fixtures or the graffiti in the room.

I'm not sure if any movie before "Fast Times" ever did that. Previously, the emphasis was on what the male could see from his vantage point — usually the girl's breasts.

(If you could go back and talk to audiences in 1982, most probably would have predicted that Cates would be the biggest star to emerge from "Fast Times." And, to an extent, that was correct — for awhile. Cates certainly got a lot of exposure — in more ways than one — from "Fast Times." She made many more movies in the '80s, but her productivity dropped off dramatically after that.)

The approach to sex for young males was described pretty well by Robert Romanus when he told his inexperienced buddy (played by Brian Backer) of "the attitude" a man must bring to such encounters.

"The attitude dictates that you don't care whether she comes, lays, stays or prays," he said. "I mean, whatever happens, your toes are still tappin'."

Backer and Romanus appeared in other movies after "Fast Times," but their careers never really took off the way the others' did.

Other young actors made cameo appearances — Forest Whitaker, Eric Stoltz, Nicolas Cage — and went on to enjoy greater success.

It was a successful vehicle for several aspiring stars, even if the portrayals were cartoonish at times. But in between the sometimes comic caricatures were some missed opportunities to explore social issues in some depth. Leigh's character, for example, confronted Romanus after learning she was pregnant, and she seemed to object to the idea of aborting the fetus — but she voiced her objection only to her partner's accusation that "you wanted it as much as I did."

For the younger folks in today's audience, "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" offers a peek into musical tastes of the early '80s. I can't say that I remember the Go–Gos being more than one–hit wonders (largely, that hit was "We Got the Beat," which opened the movie), but Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were one of the groups that defined that time, and performers like Led Zeppelin, Joe Walsh, Jackson Browne, Don Henley and Stevie Nicks made names for themselves in the 1970s and continued to wield their influence in the 1980s.

Young viewers won't really get a feel for life in the '80s from watching this movie, but there is a particularly telling moment near the end that folks who remember that time may find amusing.

Working together in a pizza place in the Ridgemont Mall, Leigh told Cates she didn't want to have sex. "Anyone can have sex," she said.

When Cates asked her what she wanted, Leigh replied that she wanted romance.

"This is Ridgemont," Cates answered. "We can't even get cable TV here."

What We Lost When We Lost Henry Fonda

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When I was growing up, I couldn't imagine a world that didn't have Henry Fonda or Jimmy Stewart in it.

They were always two of my favorite actors, still are even today. In fact, they were both in the first movie I can remember seeing at the movie theater in my hometown — "How the West Was Won" — which wasn't a new release when it came to my then–tiny hometown (but nothing ever was).

I guess every year has its share of deaths of irreplaceable people.

It is often said that a recently deceased person will be missed. And often, I suppose, that is true.

But I guess it was never more relevant than it was to the movie industry — and, by extension, the world — in late 1982.

In September, Grace Kelly died when she suffered a stroke while driving on the winding, hilly roads of Monaco and crashed her car. She died without regaining consciousness.

And about a month earlier, on Aug. 12, 1982 — 30 years ago today — Fonda died. His death had been anticipated — he'd been ill for awhile — but it was no less devastating.

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Audiences had come to take him for granted, I guess. I know I did. He was a steady, reliable performer. You knew what you would be getting when you saw a Henry Fonda movie — well, most of the time you did. When he played against type in "Once Upon a Time in the West," it was more than some moviegoers could fathom.

When he died in 1982, he had been in Hollywood for nearly half a century, and he had just been honored by the Academy Awards with the Oscar for Best Actor for his performance in "On Golden Pond."

It was recognition that he had long deserved but had been denied to him. His career had been filled with exceptional performances, but only once before had he been nominated for Best Actor — in 1940, when he was nominated for "The Grapes of Wrath" (but lost to Stewart for "The Philadelphia Story").

His performances in movies like "The Lady Eve," "The Ox–Bow Incident," "Mister Roberts," "Fail–Safe" and "Once Upon a Time in the West" — and dozens of others — went unnoticed repeatedly at Oscar time.

Over the years, Oscar didn't treat Fonda so well. The American Film Institute included two of Fonda's movies on its list of the top 100 movies of all time, but the only time one of his movies was nominated for Best Picture — "12 Angry Men" in 1957 — it lost (to "The Bridge on the River Kwai").

At the time that he died, it occurred to me that the old adage about not knowing what you've got until you no longer have it may never have been more relevant than it was when applied to Fonda's life and career.

On countless occasions in my life, I have been guided by the memory of the words and actions of characters that Fonda played in his life.

In his personal life, as I understand it, Fonda was a flawed individual, perceived by many of those closest to him, especially his children, as aloof and distant. And perhaps he was.

But when he was in front of a camera, the words he was given to speak and the roles he was asked to play took on even greater meaning because Fonda brought so much strength of character to each.

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I suppose that was also what made his performance in "Once Upon a Time in the West" so menacing. In the hands of another actor who didn't command the respect Fonda did, that role might have been almost laughable.

But Fonda, cast as a cold–blooded, indiscriminate killer, had a nearly immortal aura to him. He was kind of the Freddy Krueger of the spaghetti Western.

Fonda was truly a gifted actor. In most of his movies, his gift came across in an almost "aw, shucks" kind of way. On the night in 1982 when his daughter accepted his Best Actor Oscar for him because he was too ill to attend, she told the audience she was sure her father's reaction would be to praise those with whom he worked and, of his own recognition, to say, "Ain't I lucky?"

And that was how he looked at his accomplishments in his life, Jane Fonda said. He gave all the credit to those with whom he worked and paid little if any attention to his own skill.

We were the lucky ones — to have had him as long as we did.

After 30 Years, They're Still Here

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By 1982, Steven Spielberg already had done some remarkable things on film.

He had given us "Jaws," "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and "E.T." In the years ahead, he would give us "The Color Purple," "Empire of the Sun," "Jurassic Park," "Schindler's List" and "Saving Private Ryan," among others.

Few, if any, movie directors have had the kind of influence he has had — with so many groundbreaking filming techniques in so many genres.

Few directors have had the talent for telling a story — and telling it well, no matter how complex it might be.

And, to be sure, the movie that was released 30 years ago today, "Poltergeist," was one complicated tale. Spielberg didn't direct it, though. He produced it. "E.T." was his directorial project in 1982.

Tobe Harper actually directed it — but it definitely had a Spielberg feeling to it.

I never heard Spielberg — or anyone else — say what inspired the story — an ordinary family living in a subdivision whose lives are turned upside down by a supernatural intrusion.

The reason for the invasion remains hidden until near the end of the movie, when the family's patriarch puts two and two together and realizes that the property, which was once a cemetery, was not relocated as he had been told, that only the headstones had been moved. The bodies had been left where they were, and their souls were not at rest.

As a longtime fan of the Twilight Zone, I often thought the movie's plot was inspired by an episode about a young girl who vanishes to another dimension through a portal that appears in her room. Viewers of the Twilight Zone heard about the supernatural guests but never saw them.

Similarly, the youngest girl in "Poltergeist" was snatched away by spirits who gained access to her through the closet in her bedroom. (For the most part, they were never really seen, either.)

But I have found no evidence to support my conclusion that the show inspired the movie — other than my own suspicions.

It isn't important, I guess. A good story is a good story, whatever its inspiration may be, and "Poltergeist" was a darn good chiller for a hot summer day.

Of course, much of what makes a good story is good story telling, and there haven't been many directors in the last 35 years or so who could match Spielberg.

And, in Spielberg's hands, "Poltergeist" was more than simply a scary film. In the last three decades, it has come to be regarded as a true classic of the horror genre.

The line "They're here" — with that lilt in Heather O'Rourke's vocal delivery — is one of the most recognizable lines in movie history.

Indeed, "Poltergeist" seemed like a blessing for all who were affiliated with it. It cost less than $11 million to make and took in more than $120 million at the box office.

Those numbers were dwarfed by "E.T.," however, and, ultimately, "Poltergeist" and its series of sequels earned a reputation for being cursed. That was because some of the movie's stars died prematurely — a series of tragic coincidences that were, nevertheless, enticing for the movies' genre.

It all began 30 years ago today.

Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid

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Rigby Reardon (Steve Martin): When I arrived in Carlotta, I thought of the words Marlowe had said to me over 15 years ago: Dead men don't wear plaid. Huh. Dead men don't wear plaid. I still don't know what it means.

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In 1982, if you were a fan of old movies, especially film noir and detective stories, "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid" was made for you.

Steve Martin and Carl Reiner created a spoof that featured clips of stars of the '40s like Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant, Kirk Douglas, Burt Lancaster, Barbara Stanwyck, Ingrid Bergman, Bette Davis and others. Dialogue was written around some of their classic — and not so classic — movie lines.

It was a silly movie, really, but it was clever, too, sort of stories within stories. It was all a rather flimsy excuse for taking a bunch of unrelated movie lines and writing dialogue around them.

Like, for example, when Martin's character had a conversation with Grant (via a film Grant made 40 years earlier). In the 1982 story, Grant insisted he had to give up his seat because the smoking of his companions bothered him:

"You don't smoke, do you?" Grant asked.

"No, I have tuberculosis," Martin replied.

"Oh, thank heaven for that," Grant said.

And there were — nudge, nudge, wink, wink — exchanges between Martin and co–star Rachel Ward that did a lot more than hint at sexual fireworks.

Early in the film, for example, Ward came to Martin's office and fainted. Martin placed her on a couch and started feeling her upper torso. She came to and said, "What are you doing?"

"Adjusting your breasts," Martin replied. "You fainted and they ... shifted all outta whack."

"Thank you," Ward said.

"You're welcome," Martin answered.

At the end of the movie, Ward returned the favor. She and Martin were locked in an ardent embrace after all the loose ends had been tied together, and she slipped her hand out of sight of the camera.

"What are you doing?" Martin asked.

"Adjusting your willie," Ward replied. "When you fell through the window, it shifted out of whack."

I didn't see the movie when it was at the theaters. I had just finished college, and I was busy setting up my new home in a new town. It was probably a year or two later, when it was showing on TV, that I saw it for the first time.

Being a lifelong fan of B&W movies, as well as many of the stars who appeared in them, I was already familiar with some of the lines around which jokes in the movie were written — and I could see many of them coming.

I didn't laugh any less just because I knew what was coming. It was sort of like the humor in "Murder By Death," which poked fun at the famous film detectives but didn't use actual clips from classic movies. I have seen "Murder By Death" many times, and I always laugh at the same parts. It's the same with "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid."

Or any well done parody.

The End of a Force of Nature

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OK, I'll admit it. The knowledge that it has been 30 years since John Belushi died is disconcerting.

I do feel older — but not for the obvious reason.

You'd have to call Belushi a force of nature, I think. No other phrase really does him justice.

I am an adjunct professor in the local community college, and most of the students with whom I work are in the traditional college age range. Memories of Belushi are relics from my college days, not theirs.

In order to have more than a fleeting memory of Belushi when he was re–defining TV comedy on Saturday Night Live, a person would have to be in his/her 40s — at least.

I have worked with a few of those — but not many and none this semester.

Most of the people who would have watched him in his SNL and Not–Ready–for–Prime–Time days had to have been old enough to be allowed to stay up late on a weekend night.

Even with unusually permissive parents, anyone under 10 probably won't have enough stamina to stay awake that late. The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is usually weak.

Consequently, I assume that you had to be at least a certain age then to have any memory of John Belushi now.

I was in high school at the time so staying up late on weekends was not an issue for me — and I remember his most classic routines — the Samurai warrior (and his variety of Western occupations), the Blues Brothers, the King Bee, his spot–on impersonation of British rocker Joe Cocker, his obese Elizabeth Taylor being interviewed by a starstruck Bill Murray on Weekend Update (and nearly choking on a turkey leg), his takeoff on Beethoven, his contributions to skits featuring the Coneheads and the Land Shark.

Those were the days (well, I guess nights would be more appropriate than days).

Thoughts of his Point/Counterpoint segments with Jane Curtin on Weekend Update never fail to bring a smile to my lips — if not an outright laugh. I still crack up whenever I see his impersonation of Bill Shatner as Capt. Kirk.

I always liked his "little chocolate doughnuts" commercial — in which he played an Olympic athlete who claimed, with a smoldering cigarette in one hand, that little chocolate doughnuts had been part of his training regimen since he was a child.

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When the country was more or less familiar with him from his Saturday Night Live years, he embarked on a movie career that was short but no less entertaining.

I guess most people remember "The Blues Brothers" when they think of Belushi's movies, but I think first of "Animal House" — and Belushi's somewhat twisted take on Pearl Harbor.

The guy was just funny, no matter what he did. I honestly think he could have come out on stage and read the New York metro phone book and the audience would have been in stitches.

And then I think of that day 30 years ago today — when I heard that the laughter had died.

I was in college. It was spring break. The country was struggling economically, jobs were hard to find. It wasn't a great time to be getting out of college, but it still seemed like a wonderful time to be young and free and alive. The news of Belushi's death cast an enormous shadow over everything, at the time and ever since.

There were, of course, the recriminations, as there always are — the accusations, the investigations, the charges and trials. Books were written. Life went on.

But just think of all that we missed.

What a gift it was to make people laugh as easily as Belushi did — and what an appalling waste it was to lose him so soon.

Thirty years without Belushi. It wasn't fair to him — or us.

A Lost Opportunity

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

National Center for Victims of Crime

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I doubt it.