What Happened to Jimmy Hoffa?

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"He knows the words, but he don't know the music."

Jimmy Hoffa (Jack Nicholson)

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What became of Jimmy Hoffa?

We all know he disappeared in the summer of 1975, and he is presumed dead. He was 62 when he disappeared so that is a reasonable presumption; if he is still alive, he would be well over 100 years old.

It's pretty safe to presume he is dead. The courts declared him deceased more than 35 years ago, and there has never been a credible account that he was still alive in all the years since. No Elvis sightings for Hoffa.

But it is still the kind of thing about which people like to speculate. In some circles it is like a parlor game. In others it is the inspiration for movies — one of which, "Hoffa," premiered on this day in 1992. Jack Nicholson played Hoffa, and Danny DeVito, who also directed the movie, played a character that merged several Hoffa associates from over the years.

The movie told Hoffa's life story in flashbacks, primarily in the form of thoughts DeVito had as he and Hoffa waited to meet with organized crime leaders in the summer of '75.

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That infamous meeting was supposed to take place at a roadside restaurant in a Detroit suburb in July 1975.

Jimmy Hoffa was long before my time, but from what I have learned Nicholson's portrayal was spot on.

I knew little about Hoffa's personal life before I saw the movie, and I knew little more than that after I saw the movie. And that, it seems to me, is appropriate. Hoffa was obsessed with the union. It was his whole life. Everything else came second.

To keep those and other matters in perspective, it was necessary for the story to have DeVito's character. Clearly he had to be created specially for this movie; if a person like that really existed, he wasn't willing to go on the record. And while the law frowns on fabricating witnesses, in Hollywood it is called poetic license.

So the audience had to accept Bobby Ciaro (DeVito's character), whose name fit the part and whose flashbacks filled in most — but not all — of the gaps in Hoffa's life story. Make no mistake about it. That is what "Hoffa" was. It was a biopic, not a theory about what happened to him.

I wouldn't recommend that a student doing research for a paper on Hoffa's life use the movie as a resource, though. At least, not as an unbiased one.

The movie did seem to provide faithful, albeit slanted, looks at Hoffa's well–known feud with Bobby Kennedy and his less–recognized conflicts with his successor as Teamsters president, Frank Fitzsimmons.

And I have no doubt that whenever and however Hoffa died, his last thoughts and acts were about the union.

The movie made a suggestion about how Hoffa died, by the way, but it didn't seem plausible to me. It didn't fit any of the facts with which I was familiar.

Then again it wouldn't be surprising to have witnesses go silent and physical evidence disappear in a case that might just involve organized crime. Would it?

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So maybe things did go down the way the movie suggested.

I don't know. And, after more than 40 years, I doubt that anyone will ever know the truth.

But I didn't get the feeling that "Hoffa" was really about a search for the truth — or, at least, the specific truth about Hoffa's disappearance. Unlike "JFK," which premiered about a year earlier, it didn't explore suspects or motives or anything much, just gave a brief dramatization of what could have happened — but didn't seem likely, given how randomly it was presented — and concentrated primarily on the events of Hoffa's life.

I would have preferred a movie that examined the known facts about Hoffa's disappearance and offered suggestions about what could have happened. But I suppose that would have deprived audiences of Nicholson's portrayal of Hoffa.

And I will concede that Nicholson gave a great performance. His appearance was startling, like every photograph I have ever seen of Jimmy Hoffa brought to life. I haven't heard many recordings of Hoffa's voice, but Nicholson's voice was more gravelly. The real Hoffa's voice was a little higher pitched.

But I suppose that is a minor thing.

While the movie tended to be sympathetic to Hoffa, I thought it was well done but not necessarily Oscar worthy.

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"Hoffa" actually was rewarded with two Oscar nominations, though — for Best Makeup and Best Cinematography. It won neither — understandably. Best Makeup went to "Bram Stoker's Dracula." In such a category, you can't beat vampires.

And Best Cinematography went to "A River Runs Through It." How could any movie compete with the Montana landscape?

A World of Toys

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"Four stores and many Christmases ago, my father brought forth a factory conceived in innocence and joy and squeezable fun for everyone."

Leslie Zevo (Robin Williams)

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You'd think that a movie called "Toys" that premiered at theaters exactly one week before Christmas would be a sure thing.

And yet Barry Levinson's "Toys," which starred Robin Williams and made its debut on this day in 1992, failed to make back half of its budget.

Perhaps, all evidence to the contrary, that is because "Toys" really wasn't a children's movie. It created a whimsical world, much like, say, "Willy Wonka" did, but it used simple childhood experiences and memories to make more complex and mature points.

A kooky toymaker (Donald O'Connor) was at death's door, and he knew it, but he had to decide who should inherit his toy empire. He didn't feel his children (Williams and Joan Cusack) were ready for the responsibility so he decided to leave it to his brother (Michael Gambon), a military general. He wasn't really suited for it; Williams' character had more in common with his father and would have made a better choice. He would have been more likely to represent continuity in the operation of the business.

Well, that was my opinion. (Of course, if the producers had done things in the way that made sense to me, they wouldn't have had a story to tell.)

For example, when the old man finally died, Williams and Cusack opted not to ride in a limousine to the graveside service, choosing instead to ride in their father's car — a bumper car.

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It's the sort of thing their father would have done.

But their uncle was a different kind of guy. Frustrated by a career in the military that fell short of his expectations, he agreed to take over the toy factory when his brother died (after consulting with his father, played by Jack Warden in a very limited role) and made his biracial son (rapper LL Cool J) his second in command. He decided to run the factory in a very military way, cracking down on leaks and inaugurating the production of war toys.

That was important because his brother objected to war toys, wouldn't make them in his factory, and Williams' character had inherited that predisposition, it seemed.

The movie seemed to lose its direction, though. Critic Roger Ebert summed it up this way: "The opening scenes create a completely original world, and then the second half of the film invades that world, not with fresh imagination but with tired old conflicts. What are we to make of a world where the battle against war toys is carried out ... by programming peaceful toys to fight?"

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It's even more bewildering when you realize how prescient "Toys" was. Several years before most people had heard of virtual reality, "Toys" introduced them to the concept.

"Toys" also introduced viewers to drones — again, many years before they became commonplace.

As always Robin Wright was pretty and charming, and there was an authentic quality to her down–home accent. I guess you could expect that, seeing as she was born in Dallas, but she was raised in San Diego. Maybe that's where she picked up her dolphin imitation.

In its way, I guess "Toys" was kind of a "Peter Pan" story for its generation. It was, more than anything, a tale about those who refuse to grow up — and those who are determined to drag them, kicking and screaming, into the adult world anyway.

Something's gotta give.

Salesmen Under Pressure -- Or Is That Redundant?

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"I subscribe to the law of contrary public opinion. If everyone thinks one thing, then I say, bet the other way."

Ricky (Al Pacino)

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The Chicago-based real estate office in "Glengarry Glen Ross," which premiered on this day in 1992, probably could be any office in any business anywhere.

It certainly resembled offices in which I have worked (even though I have never worked in real estate) — a fairly small staff liberally laced with profanity (because the script did have so much profanity, I understand the cast jokingly referred to it as "Death of a Fuckin' Salesman").

The layout reminded me of the newsroom at a daily newspaper where I once worked. The editor had a little glassed–in office from which he could observe everything that went on in the newsroom — but nothing that went on in his office could be heard from outside when the door was closed (at least it couldn't be heard clearly). It was pretty much the same in this real estate office, where, in telephone conversations with prospective customers, the salesmen would pose as wealthy investors who were in town briefly but could juggle their commitments to allow for an in–house visit with a lead who had already proven to be hesitant or financially unable to invest in land.

It was a familiar ploy, but everything was familiar to the salesmen in "Glengarry Glen Ross." The salesmen had seen all these leads before and knew they were dead ends. It was frustrating. You could hear the frustration in their voices. You could see it in their eyes. I guess they continued to play the game in the hope that the outcome would change.

What did Einstein say? The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. The only reason that wouldn't apply in this case is the salesmen in "Glengarry Glen Ross" didn't think anything would change.

Why did they continue to play the game? Maybe they harbored an ill–defined hope that maybe a miracle would occur. Or maybe it was all they knew.

Profanity was about all the salesmen in "Glengarry Glen Ross" had left — the leads on which their livelihoods depended were worthless.

They were men under pressure, intense pressure, and it has been my experience that people who are under pressure are more apt to do things they might not do otherwise, like resort to profanity (if not worse). Such a situation is not improved when the people in charge look for ways to ratchet up the pressure.

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And the boys downtown found a way to do precisely that — in the person of Alec Baldwin, who was sent to announce to the salesmen the latest sales contest. The salesman with the top sales for the week would win a car. Second place would be a set of steak knives. Third place was a pink slip. Thus, the top two would be retained. The other two would be terminated.

The announcement caused considerable angst among the salesmen in the office. Jack Lemmon played a salesman who had once been the best but had fallen on hard times. He may have been under more pressure than anyone else with an ailing, hospitalized daughter. His character certainly elicited the audience's sympathy, but there were others — Alan Arkin, Ed Harris, Al Pacino — who were fighting their own battles.

This was a period when Lemmon, who had already enjoyed a long and distinguished career, had some of his finest moments on the silver screen. His work in "Short Cuts," is often overlooked — and, to my great regret, I overlooked it when I wrote about that movie a few years ago (which was a mistake because his character's monologue on his infidelity must certainly rank among the best moments he ever had) — but "Glengarry Glen Ross" preceded it and contained some equally impressive performances.

In one scene Lemmon spent an evening at the home of a reluctant client who clearly did not want to invest. Lemmon knew it was a dead end, but he persisted until the man physically ejected Lemmon from his home. Desperation had driven both men to the inevitable.

In another scene, Lemmon tried to buy the new premium leads from office manager Kevin Spacey but ultimately could not because Spacey demanded payment up front.

The new leads were on everyone's minds. They were the leads that promised deals that could be closed — and Lemmon, under pressure, stole the leads and sold them to a rival. That led to another great scene between Lemmon and Spacey — in which Lemmon's role in the mysterious disappearance of the leads was revealed.

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Lemmon deserved more recognition for his work. He did win Best Actor in the National Board of Review's D.W. Griffith Awards, but Pacino received the movie's only Oscar nomination, losing Best Supporting Actor to Gene Hackman in "Unforgiven" — but winning Best Actor for "Scent of a Woman."

Perhaps Lemmon got the last laugh. His character was the inspiration for Ol' Gil Gunderson, the real estate agent on The Simpsons.

And that may be the more lasting legacy.

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.

The Blood is the Life

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Dracula: They say you are a man of good ... taste.

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I read Bram Stoker's novel "Dracula" when I was in my teens.

That already had been many years when the movie adaptation came out 20 years ago today so my memory of some passages in the book wasn't as clear as it would have been if I had just finished reading it, but my overall impression was that the Dracula of the movie (under the direction of Francis Ford Coppola) was inspired more by passion than by a desire for blood — and that marked a departure from most of the movie Draculas and generic vampires who had come before.

Gary Oldman, in the same kind of understated way that he approached the role of Lee Harvey Oswald in Oliver Stone's "JFK," played Dracula. Prior screen Draculas were very sexual beings — in a taboo kind of way; Oldman's Dracula, on the other hand, was mostly a loyal monogamist. He exhibited a clear sense of grieving for his late wife and longing for the film's heroine, the mirror image of his beloved Elisabeta (both of whom were played by Winona Ryder).

It was often hard for me to spot Oldman on screen, his appearance changed so radically.

When we first saw him, it was as the young and virile Vlad Dracula in the 15th century, flush with victory over the Turks, but he was soon plunged into despair when he found that Elisabeta, who had been falsely told of Vlad's death, had committed suicide. In his rage, Vlad renounced God, stabbed a cross, causing it to bleed, and drank the blood.

"The blood is the life," he muttered. It was a recurring theme.

Later, as the host of a young solicitor (Keanu Reeves) a few centuries later, Dracula appeared as a much older man.

Then, he was a wolflike creature, assaulting Ryder's host (played by Sadie Frost) on a dark and stormy night (really).

And then he was a young and suave man in London, pursuing Ryder (whose love interest, in her incarnation as the modern–day Mina, was played by Reeves).

In a memorable scene from that portion of the film, Oldman turned Ryder's tears into diamonds.

That was something the boyish Reeves just couldn't pull off. (And, for the record, his British accent wasn't at all convincing.)

You know, I always thought — at least until I saw this movie — that the Bela Lugosi version of "Dracula" was the truly goth production.

But as I watched Coppola's adaptation, it occurred to me that it was more goth than Lugosi's. Maybe it was the way it combined elements of "The Exorcist" and "Willard" in his confrontation with Van Helsing (played by Anthony Hopkins).

I just found it spookier — what with its variety of shadowy figures and otherworldly characters in the background of scenes.

Even the first time that I watched Lugosi's version, I giggled at lines like "Listen to them ... children of the night. What music they make." It just didn't send that chill down my spine.

But this movie did.

Coppola supposedly wanted lavish costumes to show off his cast, and he invested a lot of money toward that goal.

I guess it paid off. Eiko Ishioka won an Oscar for costume design. The movie also won Oscars for makeup and sound effects. All well deserved.

But the actors got little recognition, as I recall. Probably also well deserved.

With one often overlooked exception. I would be remiss if I did not mention Tom Waits' performance as the insect–munching Renfield.

Although I thought Dwight Frye was great in the role in the 1931 film version, Waits was better, striking just the right balance for portraying an unbalanced individual.

It was a bit of a thankless role — I'm sure Waits didn't mind, though — that really didn't see that much screen time, considering that "Bram Stoker's Dracula" was more than two hours long.

But when Waits was on the screen as Renfield, he really stole the show.

Now, if only Lugosi had been paired with Waits ...

The Danger of Being Single, White, Female

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Twenty years ago today, Bridget Fonda already had appeared in several movies — even if you didn't count her nonspeaking bit roles in "Easy Rider" and another movie.

I had heard of her — I had even seen some of her movies — but, honestly, I didn't recall seeing her in anything before this day in 1992. I guess I just didn't notice her in those earlier films, but the summer of 1992 was a busy time for me. I had just moved to Norman, Okla., and I was getting settled in to my apartment.

I really wasn't noticing much of anything.

I didn't really have time to go to movies in August 1992, and I just never saw "Single White Female," which premiered 20 years ago today, until awhile later, when it began showing up on cable TV.

And I learned that, far from being an excuse to parade Fonda and Leigh in front of cameras sans clothes, it was a good movie. Hitchcockian in its way.

I had certainly heard of Jennifer Jason Leigh. She had been in quite a few movies in the last decade, and she had earned a reputation for meticulously researching every role she played.

And she had also earned something of a reputation among young males for appearing nude in several movies. Those who went to "Single White Female" hoping to see Leigh in the altogether were not disappointed.

Nor were those who came hoping to catch a glimpse of Fonda. Her scenes tended to be shot more strategically and less revealingly, but nudity seekers saw plenty of both.

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The story must have struck fear in the hearts of just about anyone who ever posted an advertisement anywhere — newspaper classifieds, online, grocery store bulletin board — seeking a roommate.

And when I saw it, my thoughts were immediately drawn to my female journalism students — none of whom were as beautiful as Fonda but any one of whom I could easily imagine being in a similar situation.

Leigh was a textbook nut case in "Single White Female," emulating the sophisticated and successful Fonda to the point of looking so much like her that her character was able to bed Fonda's philandering boyfriend (played by Steven Weber).

The audience learned early that Weber's character had a rather indiscriminate sexual appetite. Only hours before climbing into bed with Fonda, he had jumped into another bed with his ex–wife, something both the audience and Fonda learned by overhearing Weber's phone conversation with his ex.

So perhaps sleeping with Weber's character wasn't such a special accomplishment after all. Or maybe it was. Leigh's character had dyed her hair and cut it to the length Fonda wore it, and she had worn clothes that either belonged to Fonda's character or closely resembled clothes she would have worn. And she passed herself off as Fonda.

Weber only realized it was not Fonda after the fact.

In other films, she came across as beautiful and sexy, but, as Brian Dillard observed for AllMovie, "With her malleable looks and easily projected neediness ... Leigh is downright creepy."

One could almost imagine Leigh's character at the heart of an identity theft scam if such a film might be made today. And Fonda's character, with only a few modest adjustments, could be its victim.

The biggest obstacles to overcome, I suppose, would be technological. The plot would have to be revised significantly to accommodate a world in which cell phones and the internet were ordinary. In 1992, they were barely in use at all.

Certainly, my journalism students weren't using them at that time. Nor was I. In fact, one of my colleagues in the journalism faculty in those days devised a brand–new course to guide his students as they began their tentative journey into the "virtual world."

That virtual world was treated as some kind of exotic thing 20 years ago. It is very real now, thoroughly accessible to just about anyone and fraught with danger.

And it would alter the story considerably.

But it wouldn't change the central truth — that it can be hazardous to your health to be a single white female.

Two Stories in One

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I'd be willing to wager that you probably never heard of Sydney Walker.

He spent most of his career on stage, and his film career was largely made of character roles, but the odds are pretty good that you saw him, however briefly, in at least one movie.

Maybe it was in his role as the bus driver who had a bit of a crush on Mrs. Doubtfire. Or as a doctor in "Love Story." (That one goes way back.)

But my guess would be that it was in his role as the old man who switches places with a young bride (played by Meg Ryan) in "Prelude to a Kiss," which was released 20 years ago today.

Well, that is the one that I think of when I think of Sydney Walker. And that isn't surprising, either, is it? I mean, his other roles were sort of minor, hit–or–miss propositions.

He took second billing behind Baldwin and Ryan because they were the bankable stars, but his part was as demanding as any in the film — and was primarily responsible for much of the movie's relatively modest financial success.

It occurred to me, too — when I first saw this movie — that it was like two plots in one.

The first plot probably could have stood on its own merits and been made into a complete story. It was about how opposites really do attract — and that has been done by many people. To make it work in 1992 would have required a really unexpected twist to the storyline.

Ryan's character was kind of a freewheeling free spirit. Her spouse (played by Alec Baldwin) was a bit stuffy, which certainly has been done before. That was the basic plot of Neil Simon's "Barefoot in the Park" nearly 50 years ago — with Jane Fonda and Robert Redford — and that is precisely where the story of "Prelude to a Kiss" seemed to be taking the audience — until about halfway through.

Enter Sydney Walker, playing the aging (and terminally ill, although he doesn't know it) father of Kathy Bates, with whom he has been living since his wife died. He is frustrated with his life.

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He gets on a train, choosing his destination at the last possible minute, and winds up at the wedding of Ryan and Baldwin.

No one in the wedding entourage can place him. And, while they're still puzzling over his presence, he asks if he can kiss the bride.

As he does, clouds pass by the sun, and, through supernatural interference, his soul is transferred to the bride's body. Meanwhile, the bride's soul is transferred to the old man's body, producing mayhem that was worthy of William Shakespeare a la "A Midsummer Night's Dream."

At first, neither realizes what has happened. But it is clear even before Baldwin confirms it to Walker (who is now playing Ryan's role).

And it was in that setting, with the two of them playing Scrabble in the kitchen, that Walker sums up life and observes to Baldwin that their love had been "a trip."

"It was bitchin' for awhile," he/she tells Baldwin with a sly grin that seems wholly inappropriate for Walker, but the audience could easily see the rough–edged Ryan saying it.

And Baldwin, in what may have been the most poignant line in the film (a truly sublime moment that spoke volumes about the maturity of loving relationships, all the more remarkable because it was delivered by one so young), says to Walker, "I adore you."

Walker, whose body was housing Ryan's spirit, still struggled with the host's physical ailments — shortness of breath, poor hearing, etc. — and couldn't hear what Baldwin said. Or, at least, he/she pretended that it was so.

Speaking a bit louder, Baldwin tells Walker that he/she would have hated the honeymoon in Jamaica — and Walker smiles a knowing smile. And the audience knows that he/she heard more than he/she let on.

I thought Walker pulled off his role splendidly. It couldn't have been easy to be convincing playing a young woman trapped in an old man's body. He deserved credit for that.

But so did Ryan, who wasn't seen nearly as much after the wedding scene but had to walk a similarly narrow line as an old man trapped in a young woman's body.

After their spirits had been restored to their bodies, Walker looked at his arms and remarked that it felt "like an old suit." It was a seamless transition.

"Prelude to a Kiss" successfully combined the first story — the one in which opposites attract — and merged it with the second — in which two people trade bodies involuntarily — and imagined the kind of problems the newlyweds would encounter.

Pretty neat trick.

In a League By Themselves

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I have always been a devotee of history.

Even as a child, I read biographies (beginning with a series of biographies that were written especially for young people that I discovered in the public library in my hometown), and, as I got older, I branched out into other types of history–oriented books.

By the time I was in high school, I was reading scholarly treatments of important periods and events in history — works that probably were well beyond my years (certainly well beyond the years of most of my peers).

Anyway, this fondness for history extended into movies. I have never been able to resist a movie that was a re–creation (or at least perceived to be a re–creation) of an actual event — especially if it is an event of which I have little or no prior knowledge.

(That must be the reason why I liked "Quiz Show," the story of the quiz show scandal in the late 1950s. It was about an event that occurred before I was born. So, too, was "Eight Men Out," the story of the Chicago Black Sox scandal.)

"A League of Their Own," which made its debut 20 years ago today, thoroughly fit my bill.

Ordinarily, I suppose, I prefer a movie that tells the whole truth and doesn't invent anything for dramatic effect. I make allowances for small details, and I don't mind a fictional story using an actual event as its setting (i.e., "Titanic" in 1997) as long as the depiction of the actual event takes few, if any, liberties with the truth.

Tom Hanks' character in the movie was fictional, but it was inspired largely by two real–life ballplayers, Jimmie Foxx and Hack Wilson. Foxx actually did manage a team in the All–American Girls Professional Baseball League, but that was after World War II, and Hanks' character did have the same first name (but not the same surname).

Hanks' character probably had more in common with Wilson, though. Wilson struggled with alcohol like Hanks' character, he was considered colorful because of his off–field activities (read: fights) and his marriage ended in divorce.

When I saw "A League of Their Own," I already knew the stories of Jimmie Foxx and Hack Wilson. I worked on a metropolitan sports copy desk for more than four years, and some of the older guys on the staff were diehard baseball fans who never hesitated to share their recollections of the old–timers.

Through them, I even knew that Foxx had managed an AAGPBL team, but I didn't know any more than that. For that matter, I didn't know anything more about the girls' baseball league — other than the basic facts that it had existed in the 1940s and 1950s (again, before my time) and it didn't exist anymore.

So I enjoyed learning something about the league, even if the story was almost entirely fictional.

Something else was fictional, too.

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I guess everyone remembers Hanks telling a sniffling player, "There's no crying in baseball!" The American Film Institute ranks it 54th on its list of the Top 100 movie quotes.

It's a good line, and Hanks delivered it well, but it isn't true. I played baseball as a boy, and I saw other players — in baseball and in other sports — break down in tears following a loss, be it narrow or decisive.

The "thrill of victory and agony of defeat" wasn't just some promotional line. If you want to see just how emotional people can get about victory and defeat, tune in to the Summer Olympic Games in about four weeks.

I suppose, though, that "There's no crying in baseball!" line would be entirely appropriate if applied to Geena Davis' character, the star player and Hanks' virtual co–manager. She really didn't care about winning and losing. She only came to the AAGPBL's tryouts so her kid sister would get the chance.

The thing she did care about was the safe return of her husband from World War II. When he did come home, she dissolved into tears in his arms and left the team the following day.

But she also had her moments of regret.

I'll admit, there were times when I thought the story was a little too predictable, but, in general, I thought Penny Marshall did a decent job of directing. And the presentations of women who felt torn by their changing roles in society were honest and faithful to the women of that time.

When your project is the re–creation of an historical event or period, you can only take liberties for so long and with so much. (In the early 1990s, I remember hearing the politically correct folks of that day complaining about all the smoking in "JFK," and, a few years later, the same people complained about the smoking in "Apollo 13" — but the truth was that you couldn't do a realistic portrayal of those time periods without showing many adults smoking.)

Marshall could have used the opportunity to present an alternate reality, to make a feminist statement, but it wouldn't change the truth about life in the 1940s. That's a story that needed to be told.

And the truth was that, during World War II, women did take on new tasks and responsibilities that, previously, had been reserved for men.

But the men were in Europe or the Pacific. Someone had to, er, uh, step up to the plate.

When the AAGPBL was formed, it was filling a void left by the pro baseball players who had entered military service. When it became clear that the baseball players would be returning, many of the women of the AAGPBL went back to their homes and their domestic duties. And, for them, I suppose, their lives went on pretty much as they had before the war interrupted.

Some were not satisfied with that, though, not after experiencing life as a bread winner.

"A League of Their Own" was about a step forward for women — before anyone really knew about feminism.

To present it as a time of something that it really was not — a radical shift in societal gender roles, say — would have done the league and the women who played in it a disservice.

It wouldn't have been honest. It wouldn't have told the truth — and, in this case, at least, truth really was stranger than fiction.

The fiction that was written for the story was the harmless kind of fiction that, by and large, contributed to (rather than detracting from) the facts.

And, even after two decades, it is still a great summertime story — as just about any movie about baseball is, in my opinion.

On a hot summer night, I can do worse than watching something like "Bull Durham," "Field of Dreams" or "Pride of the Yankees."

Likewise, I can do worse than watching "A League of Their Own." Much worse.

Johnny's Farewell

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"I am one of the lucky people in the world; I found something I always wanted to do, and I have enjoyed every single minute of it."

Johnny Carson
May 22, 1992

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Was that really two whole decades ago?

Twenty years ago tonight, Johnny Carson appeared in his final Tonight Show.

As I mentioned yesterday, his final show was unlike any of the others he had done from 1962 to 1992. The audience included only family and friends — his and the rest of the crew's — and there were no guests, only clips of memorable moments on the Tonight Show.

In the course of that evening, viewers saw clips of great comedians and great musicians who had appeared on the Tonight Show over the years. They saw the famous and the powerful, politicians who became president and who sought to be president.

And they saw people they had never heard of before they were given a few minutes of national exposure, thanks to Carson.

Carson was kind of his generation's Ed Sullivan — but he did it five nights a week (except when he took his annual vacation to the Wimbledon tennis tournament), not one.

Twenty years ago tonight, the audience applauded when particularly beloved (and, often, departed) guests, like Lucille Ball and Judy Garland, were shown in those highlight clips.

The memories were thick that night, whether they were actually shown or were only in the viewers' memory banks.

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I thought of many moments when I watched that last show. Most people probably did. Johnny Carson was unique in entertainment. Even 20 years later, after so many have tried so hard to duplicate what he seemed to do so effortlessly, I can say that.

He was always a reflection of the times, whether it was through jokes he made in his monologue or his recurring routines as Carnac the Magnificent or Aunt Blabby or Floyd R. Turbo, American.

For awhile, at least some of the Tonight Show's commercials were done by Carson or his sidekick Ed McMahon, and there were times when they had to bail each other out in some way.

A memorable example was the time when McMahon was trying to do an advertisement for Alpo, but the dog who was supposed to scarf up the dog food didn't cooperate — and it fell to Carson to take his place.

And everyone in America was moved when Carson made his parting remarks:

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When he was finished, the cameras panned the applauding audience, and the band played one of Carson's favorite tunes, "I'll Be Seeing You." It seemed appropriate.

Like most people, I figured we would get to see him again. But, even though he spoke, in those final remarks, of perhaps returning to TV when he had a project of some kind that he wanted to share with the viewers, he only made one more TV appearance of which I am aware — a very brief (and wordless) one on David Letterman's show.

It was over.

And now, it's been 20 years since his last Tonight Show.

My heart tells me it can't possibly have been that long ... but my head tells me that, yes, it is true.

Carson's Last Night Before a Studio Audience

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Twenty years ago tomorrow, Johnny Carson made his final appearance as the host of the Tonight Show.

But the show that aired 20 years ago tonight was really the last one.

That's because, on the final night, Carson had no guests and no studio audience — at least not like the ones who had attended his shows for 30 years. It was strictly family and friends — both his and his crew's — who were there by invitation. It was a very nostalgic occasion with clips of folks who appeared on the show in the three decades that Carson was its host, punctuated by nostalgic conversations with Ed McMahon and Doc Severinsen and a memorable farewell.

Twenty years ago tonight, though, it was still business as usual.

Everyone knew that Carson was only hours away from his farewell program. TV viewers had been hearing about it — and most had been dreading it — for months.

But, on this night in 1992, it was still possible to watch the Tonight Show and almost persuade yourself that it all wasn't about to end.

Sort of.

From the opening monologue, it was clear the show would be the usual madcap, no–holds–barred kind of entertainment that fans were accustomed to getting from Carson. As Carson wrapped up his monologue, he advised viewers that he had two "quiet, laid–back" guests in the house — Robin Williams and Bette Midler.

Williams, of course, was his usual manic self, and the recent riots in Los Angeles following the verdict in the Rodney King beating case were grist for his mill.

He had one–liners about everyone and everything. As always, then–Vice President Dan Quayle was worth a few laughs, most of which he had brought on himself by that time. Like anyone else in the public eye, he was unfairly targeted by some jokes, but Williams' humor managed to combine the reputation Quayle had for being a dunce with recent news events — his very public misspelling of the word potato, for example.

Business as usual.

Well, not for Midler, who was clearly emotional at the thought of Carson leaving. She sang an impromptu duet with Carson that must have brought tears to the eyes of anyone who saw it, and she wrapped things up with "One More For the Road."

A truly touching finale.

Something to Talk About

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From time to time in my life, a movie has come along that literally had everyone talking.

Usually, I suppose, that has been because the movie pushed society's boundaries in some way — and, to be honest about it, there were several such movies that were released in 1992.

But I really don't think anything — at least, up to that point — generated the kind of buzz that "Basic Instinct," which premiered 20 years ago today, did.

At first glance, it had the appearance of a first–rate murder mystery with just enough of a sexual angle to arouse the interest of those who weren't necessarily drawn to whodunnits.

It opened with a visual montage during the credits that was accompanied by a haunting score, all of which was worthy of Alfred Hitchcock at his best, in which a shadowy woman and an apparently prosperous man were making love. The woman appeared to be playfully tying the man's hands to the bedboard, introducing an element of bondage to their lovemaking.

And it seemed to be working. Judging from the sounds they made, both were excited, and the woman seemed especially so, grinding her hips on top of the man and appearing to flail her arms in a bit of a sexual frenzy.

But, in fact, she was reaching for a hidden ice pick, which she stabbed repeatedly into her partner.

And the stage was set for what could have been a great murder mystery.

Ultimately, though, the viewers got what was a good murder mystery that could have been — should have been — much better.

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I always thought it would have been better if certain things hadn't thoroughly distracted the viewers' attention.

I mean, Sharon Stone was a sexy woman in 1992. She always was, I suppose. I mean, she was a model in her late teens, and she did some acting work in her 20s, but it was her role as murder suspect Catherine Tramell in "Basic Instinct" that opened the door to international stardom.

And a big reason for that, I have always believed, was the fact that Stone exposed herself on screen in the infamous interrogation scene. That sure got people's attention.

Stone was not entirely unknown at the time, but it is safe to say that her name was not a household word. It didn't remain that way for long, and she never seemed hesitant to cash in on her notoriety, but still she protested that she had been a victim.

Stone claimed she didn't know in advance how revealing the scene would be. "I knew that we were going to do this leg–crossing thing," she said, "and I knew that we were going to allude to the concept that I was nude, but I did not think that you would see my vagina."

The first time she saw it on the big screen, she was "shocked," confronted director Paul Verhoeven and slapped him.

That may be true, but it is also true that, shortly after the interrogation scene, Stone's character could be seen having a revealing conversation with the detective (played by Michael Douglas) in the car.

They were talking about lie detector tests — Stone's character had just taken one — and how easy it would be to beat one. Stone's character observed that Douglas' character had beaten a lie detector test — which was true, although he had never mentioned it to her.

"You seem to know a lot about me," Douglas said, and Stone replied that Douglas knew a lot about her, too.

Douglas protested that all he knew about Stone fell under the heading of police business, and she smiled. "You know I don't wear any underwear, don't you?" she asked.

Seems to me that it would be hard not to know the graphic nature of such a scene if one must deliver a line like that.

I mean, I understand that scenes are shot out of sequence, but, still, Stone must have at least read the script before filming began.

And it seems like common sense to me that, if a character tells another something like that, the audience must be aware of it, too.

Tellingly, Stone acknowledged experiencing a thrill when watching the film with a room full of strangers who hadn't seen it before. "It was so fun!" she admitted.

And lucrative.