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.

Ship of Dancing Fools

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"There's no such thing as too late. That's why they invented death."

Charlie (Walter Matthau)

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Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon made a wonderful comedy team. Individually, they were great; together they were even better.

And together they made nearly a dozen movies. If you want to see them at their best, though, I tend to recommend their early efforts. At some point, they began to lose their edge. Toward the end, their movies shouldn't have been made at all.

Now, that's just my opinion. I confess that there were things about some of their later movies like "Grumpy Old Men" that I thought were good, but I still think most of their later efforts shouldn't have been made.

I put "Out to Sea," which premiered on this day in 1997, at the top of that list. I know people who feel differently, and that's OK. Lemmon and Matthau were always terrific together, even when the material wasn't worthy of them.

And their efforts really were wasted in this one.

Maybe they were victims of their own success. When they were together, they were typecast in the public mind as the characters they first played in "The Odd Couple." Matthau was usually the flawed but generally affable one while Lemmon was the fussy, fastidious one — Oscar and Felix. The characters had different names — except in the thoroughly inadequate sequel the two made in 1998 — but otherwise they were quite similar.

In "Out to Sea," they were brothers–in–law, just as they were more than 30 years earlier in "The Fortune Cookie," their first (and possibly best) movie together.

But this was no sequel.

In that first movie Matthau played a shyster lawyer with a weakness for angles and loopholes. In "Out to Sea," his weakness was gambling. He liked it and he knew how to place bets; he just wasn't very good. To get away from all the folks to whom he owed money, Matthau conned Lemmon — the husband of his late sister — into accompanying him on an all–expenses–paid cruise to Mexico. But he didn't tell Lemmon the catch until the ship was on its way — Matthau had signed them up to work as dance hosts aboard ship.

Now, as I say, Matthau was a bad gambler, but he did know how to place bets. He had no clue how to dance.

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Lemmon knew how to dance. By his own admission, he and his late wife had been dancing for decades.

They both ended up falling in love. Lemmon's love interest was Gloria DeHaven in what turned out to be her final movie role.

Matthau fell in love with Dyan Cannon, perhaps more because he believed her to be wealthy than because of her physical qualities. At age 60, Cannon was probably too old to be playing the kind of sexpot love interest that she did — although she did come across as younger than Matthau by comparison and was almost still capable of pulling off playing a much younger woman.

But Cannon, now 80, was one of those women who remained beautiful late in her life, and at the time "Out to Sea" was made, she still possessed attributes that the 76–year–old Matthau could appreciate. In his character's colorfully vivid way, he described one such attribute this way: "An ass so beautiful it's a shame she has to sit down on it."

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The story was amiable enough, and it was always hard not to like Lemmon and Matthau, but "Out to Sea" nearly achieved the unthinkable.

"Out to Sea" should have been put out with the trash.

Just my opinion, you understand.

The Beginning of a Beautiful Partnership

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Professor Winterhalter (Sig Ruman): All these newfangled machines. Fake! It proves nothing. In the old days, we used to do these things better. The man says he's paralyzed, we simply throw him in the snake pit. If he climbs out, then we know he's lying.

Specialist (Bartlett Robinson): And if he doesn't climb out?

Professor Winterhalter: Then we have lost a patient, but we have found an honest man.

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I'm really fond of the Walter Matthau–Jack Lemmon movie partnership, and today is a milestone anniversary for that partnership. It began — officially — 50 years ago today when Billy Wilder's "The Fortune Cookie" premiered in New York City.

It actually began, of course, whenever the movie was being shot, but as far as the movie–going public was concerned, it began 50 years ago today.

Lemmon played a TV cameraman in Cleveland who was doing sideline work at a Cleveland Browns game on a frigid Sunday afternoon. One of the Browns (played by Ron Rich) ran out of bounds and collided with Lemmon, knocking him backwards over a rolled–up tarpaulin in full view of the folks at the game and watching on TV.

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He was taken to the hospital, where his injuries were minor, but his conniving brother–in–law, an ambulance–chasing lawyer known as "Whiplash Willie" played by Matthau, cooked up a scheme to sue for big money.

Apparently Lemmon's character had suffered a compressed vertebra when he was a child, and Matthau observed that a new back injury was indistinguishable from an old one in X–rays. Matthau's plan was for Lemmon to fake paralysis to win the suit, then make a gradual recovery. Lemmon was resistant — until Matthau implied that it would be a good way to win back Lemmon's ex–wife, Sandy (Judi West) who had run out on him.

Matthau knew Lemmon was still carrying that torch. "You could carry it to Mexico City (site of the next Summer Olympics)," Matthau told him. And he was right. Lemmon's ex–wife was his Achilles' heel, and Matthau used it repeatedly to keep his brother–in–law in line and his plan from imploding.

Now, it imploded, anyway, and the discovery of how it imploded is the kind of movie experience that every viewer should have first hand. I don't want to spoil it for anyone.

But I will tell you that some of the funniest moments in the history of Matthau–Lemmon movies — and they weren't all comedies, but most of them were — occurred in "The Fortune Cookie."

Whiplash Willie must be one of the funniest characters ever to appear in one of Billy Wilder's movies — and that is certainly saying something. As one of the lawyers in the defendants' cadre of counselors described him, Willie was "so full of twists he starts to describe a doughnut, and it comes out a pretzel."

The defendants' lawyers wanted Lemmon to be examined by a team of specialists; all but one concluded the paralysis was genuine. With no medical evidence to contradict the claim, the lawyers hired a private detective (Cliff Osmond) to put Lemmon's apartment under surveillance in hopes of catching him doing something he couldn't possibly do if the paralysis story was true.

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Matthau knew about this and warned Lemmon to be careful. That wasn't so hard until the ex–wife returned to look after him. Matthau told Lemmon to avoid any kind of hanky panky, which was a lot easier said than done.

Lemmon's conscience was bothering him. The player who had collided with him on the sideline was so ridden with guilt that it was ruining other aspects of his life. He performed poorly in a game and got into a fight in a bar. Lemmon battled with his inclination to give up the lawsuit and let the guy off the hook. At the very least, he wanted his brother–in–law to represent the player in court, but Matthau was too busy negotiating a settlement with the defendants in Lemmon's lawsuit.

Then Lemmon learned that the only reason his ex–wife was there was because she wanted a share of the money from the suit to put on a show at a prestigious club and give her singing career a boost.

And the jig was up.

Perhaps I have said too much already. But the ending alone was worth the price of admission.

Matthau won Best Supporting Actor for his performance. Wilder wasn't nominated for Best Director, but he shared a nomination for Best Original Screenplay with I.A.L. Diamond, a frequent collaborator.

There are all sorts of lists of movies that people should see before they die. I would put "The Fortune Cookie" on mine.

Henry Fonda's Pursuit of Happiness

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"All right! Who did it? Who did it? You are going to stand sweating at those battle stations until someone confesses! It's an insult to the honor of this ship! The symbol of our cargo record has been destroyed, and I'm going to find out who did it if it takes all night!"

James Cagney

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After a lifetime of watching movies, I have reached a conclusion that may seem obvious, but it is truly amazing how few people really consider it before embarking on a moviemaking project. If they did, untold millions — perhaps billions — of budget dollars could be spared.

The best movies are the ones that honestly examine human conditions and traits (both good and bad) that are fairly common. John Ford's "Mister Roberts," which premiered 60 years ago today, was such a movie.

It was a clever twist on the end–of–the–war theme that has been done dozens of times, but there was much more to it than that. The Mister Roberts of the title was Henry Fonda, reprising his Tony Award–winning stage role as an officer on board a cargo ship in the Pacific at the end of World War II. The cargo ship was far from the action — so far, in fact, that it could just barely be regarded as being involved in the war at all — and Fonda's character craved action. So he was forever writing letters asking to be transferred, which were passed along as required by Navy regulations.

His problem was the captain of the cargo ship (James Cagney) consistently refused to endorse Fonda's transfer requests. Without the captain's endorsements, the requests weren't considered — and Fonda's character felt trapped, helplessly watching as the war seemed to be ending in front of his very eyes.

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Cagney's character took a heavy–handed approach to his job, and Fonda's character served as a buffer between the captain and the crew, always letting the men bend the rules. He had two friends with whom he shared quarters and frustrations — the ship's doctor (William Powell in his last movie role) and Ensign Frank Pulver (Jack Lemmon) who spent most of his time trying to avoid both the captain and work of any kind.

Although Mister Roberts was worried that he would never get into the war before it ended, he was unselfish in his relationships with the men he commanded. It was an unselfishness that went beyond merely bending the rules. Mister Roberts went behind the captain's back and requested liberty for the long–deprived crew, which was granted, but then the captain refused to permit the crew to go on liberty when they reached the port. Fonda confronted Cagney, who told him he would permit the liberty if Roberts stopped writing letters asking for a transfer, enforced the captain's rules and pledged never to reveal what they had discussed. Roberts agreed to the conditions — he didn't like them, but he agreed to them — and the liberty was permitted.

But the crew had been without liberty for a long time, and several crew members got a little boisterous, which led to their arrests by the military police — and the captain being chided by the port admiral. That didn't go down easily for the captain.

At the same time, the crew was baffled by Mister Roberts' inexplicable rigidity about discipline, and Cagney made them even more suspicious by implying that Roberts was selling them out for a promotion. They were even more confused by his refusal to take advantage of a new Navy policy that could make it possible for him to get a transfer without the captain's endorsement.

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Roberts' sense of urgency was heightened when news of Germany's surrender in Europe reached the Pacific. At first, he was despondent, realizing that the war was rapidly coming to an end — when he was inspired to throw a prized palm tree — a reward for the ship's cargo record — overboard.

And it was when the captain confronted Roberts — and their entire conversation was broadcast over an open microphone — that the crew understood what had happened.

A few weeks later, Roberts received an unexpected transfer. The crew had competed in a secret competition for the opportunity to forge the captain's signature. Before he left, the crew presented Mister Roberts with a homemade medal, the Order of the Palm.

Lemmon was appointed to replace Roberts as cargo officer, and he and the doctor received letters at the same time. The doctor's letter was from Mister Roberts, who wrote with enthusiasm about his joy to be aboard a destroyer. Then Lemmon's character read his letter, which was from an ex–classmate, who informed him that Roberts had been killed in a kamikaze attack shortly after mailing the letter to the doctor.

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It was an indication of how well written the script was that it could turn on a dime from comedy to pathos — and then back again as Lemmon's character fully assumed Fonda's role, tossing the replacement palm tree overboard (in spite of a new chain that was supposed to keep it securely in place) and then storming into the captain's quarters, demanding answers about movie nights on board ship.

If I didn't know better, I would have sworn Billy Wilder did at least some of the writing. But he had no connection to the original novel — or the successful play that was based on it or the movie adaptation that premiered 60 years ago today. Of course, it was also a credit to the considerable skills of the cast — especially Fonda, who was so good at being the good guy that, when he played a really bad guy in 1968's "Once Upon a Time in the West," many viewers who saw the movie were shocked.

"Mister Roberts" received Oscar nominations for Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor (Lemmon, who won) and Best Sound Recording.

On the Long Road With the Great Leslie and Professor Fate

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Leslie (Tony Curtis): Are you a native of Burracho?

Lily Olay (Dorothy Provine): I ain't no native. I was born here!

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"The Great Race," which made its theatrical debut half a century ago on this day in 1965, was pure slapstick from start to finish. If there was any doubt, the opening credits included this tribute: "For Mr. Laurel and Mr. Hardy."

It was set shortly after the turn of the 20th century. It was about a New York–to–Paris (by way of the Bering Strait) road race, and it was directed by Blake Edwards at a time when he was getting rave reviews for his early "Pink Panther" pictures — if you are familiar with his directorial style, you could see similarities between "The Great Race" and Edwards' other comedies.

Edwards made many of those movies, of course, with the great Peter Sellers, who had nothing to do with "The Great Race." In "The Great Race," Edwards worked with another of his frequent collaborators, Jack Lemmon.

The project also reunited Lemmon with his "Some Like It Hot" co–star, Tony Curtis, this time as genuine rivals (rather than the implied rivals — for Marilyn Monroe's affections — that they were in "Some Like It Hot"). And, although she seemed to shift her loyalties throughout the movie, Natalie Wood, as a feminist journalist reporting on the race, played Curtis' love interest.

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Kind of an interesting twist, given that, only a few months earlier, Curtis and Wood had been adversarial co–stars in "Sex and the Single Girl."

In the context of 1965, "The Great Race" was a star–studded show with prominent people showing up even in small roles. Vivian Vance (probably best known as Ethel Mertz in the I Love Lucy sitcom), Keenan Wynn, Peter Falk, Larry Storch were there — along with others whose faces you probably would recognize even if you never knew their names.

"The Great Race" clearly identified the good guy and the bad guy. Curtis (The Great Leslie) was the good guy who always dressed in white; Lemmon (Professor Fate) was the bad guy, always dressed in black. And they periodically swapped the lead — for the screwiest of reasons.

In the end, the good guy seemed to be on the brink of victory — but he gave it all up to prove to Natalie Wood that he loved her.

When he stopped his vehicle inches from the finish line, Wood's character protested, "What are you doing?"

"Proving that I love you," Curtis replied.

"But you'll lose the race," Wood said.

"Can you think of a better way to prove it?" he asked before kissing her in a passionate embrace.

Sorta reminiscent of the Sylvester Stallone/"Rocky" experience, eh? When Rocky lost the fight and won the girl. Yo, Adrian.

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Max (Peter Falk): We gotta do something.

Professor Fate (Jack Lemmon): Oh, don't worry. Before this iceberg melts and we drown like rats, we're going to do plenty.

Max: Yeah? What?

Professor Fate: We're gonna starve!

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But Professor Fate wouldn't take a victory that way, though. After all, he had a reputation ...

"The Great Race" was terrific entertainment — complete with an honest–to–God pie fight near the end. Wood got pelted numerous times, but Curtis' character seemed unusually blessed, walking through a crossfire of pies without getting hit once, his all–white duds showing not even a trace of fallout from a pie — until almost the end of the fight.

Meanwhile, Lemmon's double, a dandified drunkard of a king, got hit with a brandy pie and encouraged the participants in the pie fight to hit him with more brandy pies, then got hit with a rum pie and scolded them with the admonition, "I never mix my pies!"

At the Oscars, "The Great Race" beat "Von Ryan's Express" for Best Sound Editing — and lost for Best Sound Mixing, Best Color Cinematography and Best Film Editing. Although he wasn't nominated for his work on "The Great Race," composer Henry Mancini went on to win four Oscars in his lifetime.

Turns Out, There Really Is No Place Like Home

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"And you're not getting away with anything! I got all your names and your addresses!"

George (Jack Lemmon)

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It was easy to sympathize with George (Jack Lemmon) and his wife, Gwen (Sandy Dennis).

They were from small–town Ohio, visiting New York City so George could interview for a big job. He was sure he would get it, too. And they were both excited on the flight to New York. This was the opportunity George had been building up to; now, all his hard work was going to pay off. They were finally going to live the kind of life they had always wanted.

But the beautiful dream soon became a nightmare in "The Out–of–Towners," a movie based on a Neil Simon play that made its debut on this day in 1970.

We've all had periods in our lives when it was just one damn thing after another, but George and Gwen's trip to New York was the mother of all bad experiences. It certainly made my worst one–damn–thing–after–another experience look like a walk on the beach.

It's safe to say George and Gwen suffered just about every indignity imaginable.

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The plane couldn't land because of air traffic and bad weather so, after circling long enough to ruin George's dinner reservation, the flight was diverted to Boston. George and Gwen had to take a train, which all the passengers on their flight and others were doing as well so the train was packed. They were hungry so, instead of dinner at The Four Seasons, they decided to eat in the train's dining car. But it was packed, and they had to stand in line. By the time they got a table, almost no food was left.

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George: I was going to take you to dinner at one of the best restaurants in the world. Here you are eating peanut butter on white bread with nothing to drink. If you ever get your mouth open again, I wouldn't blame you if you never talk to me.

Gwen: Oh, my God!

George: What's wrong?

Gwen: I lost my left eyelash!

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When the train arrived in New York, George and Gwen found out there was a strike, and they would have to walk to their hotel in the rain. By the way, their luggage had been lost.

And that was just their arrival in New York.

In some 24 hours, they were mugged twice — once while they were asleep in Central Park (their room at the Waldorf–Astoria was given to someone else because they did not contact the hotel by a certain time). At one point (probably my favorite part of the movie), George temporarily lost his hearing because a manhole cover on which he had been standing only seconds before was blown into the air and came crashing down next to him, creating a sound that kept echoing in his head and prevented him from hearing complete sentences. It was a harrowing time, to be sure.

Through it all, George kept writing down the names of the people whom he perceived to have mistreated him (whether they had or not) and their addresses, ostensibly so he could sue them when he got back to Ohio. And that really was where he would be going. I'm not sure when that became clear to the audience, but, long before the movie ended, I figured out that George and Gwen weren't going to be relocating to New York, that soon they would be on their way back to small–town Ohio.

(And I figured they would probably get on their knees and kiss the ground after they disembarked in Ohio.)

The experience appeared to make George paranoid. By the end of the movie, he really seemed to believe he had been the victim of some vast conspiracy, which was a hard sell, even if he could make a somewhat compelling case.

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But, as bad as their trip to New York was, it really seemed to make George and Gwen appreciate what they did have in small–town Ohio — even if it wasn't perfect and didn't have all the amenities of a big city.

When George finally did go to his interview, Gwen worried that he would be offered the job — and would accept. She had realized that she really didn't want to live in New York.

Turned out George had been offered the job.

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Gwen: What did you say, George?

George: What did I say? What do you think I said?

Gwen: I don't know, George. I was hoping you would say no. I was hoping you would say that you and your wife don't really belong in New York. That you wanted to live the rest of your life in Ohio. That you never wanted to see a big city again as long as you live. That you didn't want to live here or in, uh, Chicago or San Francisco or New Orleans or Paris or any other place where people have to live on top of each other, and they don't have enough room to walk or to breathe or to smile at each other. That you don't want to step on garbage in the streets or be attacked by dogs or have to give away watches in the middle of your sleep to men in black capes. That you were through traveling on trains that had no place to sit and no food to eat. And you didn't want to fly in airplanes that have no place to land and no luggage for you when you land there. That you wish you never came here, and the only thing in the world you really wanted was to pick up your wife and carry her to the airport and fly home ... and live happily ever after. That's what I was hoping you would say, George.

George: That's funny. That's what I told him, word for word.

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Lemmon and Dennis were perfectly cast. They had more than enough Midwestern values in their personalities to make the parts of George and Gwen work.

Personally, I always thought Lemmon and Dennis were superior to Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn, stars of the 1999 remake. I guess I could always imagine Lemmon and Dennis living in rural Ohio, and I couldn't really picture Martin and Hawn living there.

Not that Martin and Hawn weren't believable as a couple — but Lemmon and Dennis were middle class enough to pull it off.

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Lemmon was manic, like Daffy Duck on speed, meticulously keeping track of everyone who wronged him. Dennis was mousy, supportive of her husband but, when you got right down to it, determined and, like the famous Molly Brown, unsinkable.

It was a great character study.

Thoughts on 'Sex and the Single Girl'

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Helen Gurley Brown (Natalie Wood): You know, when you smile like that, you do look like Jack Lemmon!

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In 1962, Helen Gurley Brown's "Sex and the Single Girl" was a best–selling self–help book that encouraged women to become financially independent and to experience sex outside the traditional marriage relationship.

The movie that was released 50 years ago today had the same title and its lead character (played by Natalie Wood) had Dr. Brown's name, but that was just about all the two really had in common.

Tony Curtis played the managing editor of STOP magazine, a real rag of a publication, who wanted to get a scoop on Brown. He had already published an article alleging that Brown was a virgin, and that article had damaged her reputation. Half a dozen of her patients had quit on her, and Brown was intent on suing Curtis, who wanted to interview Brown but had no luck.

So Curtis' character impersonated his housemate (Henry Fonda) who worked in women's hosiery, pretending to be having marital problems so he could get closer to Brown. In the reality of the movie, Fonda actually was having problems with his wife (Lauren Bacall).

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And where would a Tony Curtis movie be without a car chase? That's how "Sex and the Single Girl" concluded: with just about everyone involved in a car chase and then living happily ever after (apparently).

Much of the movie was a farce about mistaken identity, sort of a single–joke "Midsummer Night's Dream." I have never read Brown's book, but it only inspired the screenplay, most of which apparently was written by Joseph Heller. Brown got partial credit for the story, but that may be because it was her book's title, not its content, that inspired it.

It wasn't clever. It wasn't thought provoking. It was mostly silly and contrived. It wasn't Heller's best work.

At one point, Fonda was accused of bigamy, which turned out to be false. That set up lots of cheap jokes about fidelity. To be honest, I had to wonder how stars of such stature as Fonda and Bacall got roped into this project.

In the interest of full disclosure, I admit that I laughed out loud when Brown compared Curtis' character to Jack Lemmon in "Some Like It Hot," but that sort of thing didn't happen very much. Curtis and Lemmon, of course, were co–stars with Marilyn Monroe in "Some Like It Hot" — and there are folks who will tell you it was the best comedy ever made. (That is hard — but not impossible — to dispute.)

I don't know if that is true, but I know that the talent in "Some Like It Hot" was superior to the talent in "Sex and the Single Girl" — at least when you compare how the talent was used.

Fonda, for example, was capable of comedy even though he was usually seen in dramatic roles. The same could be said of Bacall and Wood. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that the material in "Sex and the Single Girl" just wasn't worthy of their talents. (You couldn't say that about "Some Like It Hot.")

Maybe the producers should have been faithful to the original book.

Some Folks Still Like It Hot

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"Well, nobody's perfect!"

Osgood (Joe E. Brown)
#48 on AFI's list of memorable movie lines

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Some think that "Some Like It Hot," which hit the theaters 55 years ago today, was Billy Wilder's best movie.

That's really a matter of opinion, I guess. Wilder was director, producer and/or screenwriter of so many great movies it would be hard to pick the very best.

From that lengthy list of movies in which Wilder was involved in some way, the American Film Institute ranked "Some Like It Hot" behind "Sunset Boulevard" in its list of the top 100 movies of the last century — but it still landed in the Top 25 (at #22).

Since "Sunset Boulevard" is not a comedy, I suppose that means that AFI regards "Some Like It Hot" as Wilder's best comedy — and that is pretty impressive by itself, considering that he was a screenwriter of "Ninotchka" and director/screenwriter/producer of "Stalag 17," "Sabrina," "The Apartment," "The Fortune Cookie" and "The Seven–Year Itch."

AFI absolutely thinks "Some Like It Hot" is the best comedy of all time, and its female lead, Marilyn Monroe, is sixth on AFI's list of the 50 greatest actresses.

(Incidentally, of those six movies, only "Ninotchka" and "The Apartment" made AFI's Top 100 list. "Some Like It Hot" clearly is in a more exclusive club than I thought. Wilder worked on another movie that made the AFI list — "Double Indemnity" — but it definitely was not a comedy.)

Neither of the male leads — Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis — made AFI's list of the 50 greatest actors. Oh, well, guess you can't win them all.

Roger Ebert wrote that "Some Like It Hot" was "one of the enduring treasures of the movies." Coming from a guy who unflinchingly called 'em the way he saw 'em, that was high praise — and richly deserved, too.

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Sugar Kane (Marilyn Monroe): Story of my life. I always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

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Here's the premise of the movie: Curtis and Lemmon played musicians at a Prohibition–era watering hole in Chicago. They lost their jobs and wound up being witnesses to a gangland massacre in a garage on Valentine's Day. Sound familiar?

The two looked for a way to hide from the gangsters, then hit upon the idea of posing as female musicians in an all–girl band en route to sunny Florida. Along the way, they became acquainted with Sugar Kane (Monroe), and both were smitten — but they had to keep up appearances and not act on their attraction.

Sugar, meanwhile, had her own problems with men, and all sorts of other issues arose, not the least of which was the constant struggle that Curtis and Lemmon waged between their attraction for Sugar and their desire not to be caught by the gangsters who were following them.

I know that Monroe often felt typecast and under–appreciated during her career — but it is easy to see how she could fall into that kind of trap when you see how easily she played clueless blondes like Sugar (and the girl in "The Seven–Year Itch" who was so clueless — and banal — she was known only as the Girl.)

Lemmon summed up her character nicely in "Some Like It Hot" when he watched her walk away early in the movie and remarked that she moved like "Jell–O on springs."

Another angle to the story involved the bandleader, who had issued a ban on drinking that Sugar was always violating. Lemmon (under the assumed name of Daphne) and Sugar were drinking on the train one night, and all the girls in the band (except Curtis, who slept blissfully unaware in the berth below — for awhile) had an impromptu party with each contributing some type of alcohol.

A cross–dressing comedy may not sound as intriguing to modern moviegoers (brought up on "Tootsie" and "The Birdcage") as it was to those half a century ago, but it was a rather new plot device in 1959.

If you have never seen "Some Like It Hot," you can probably imagine the many plot twists that were made possible by this story line.

But, then again, if you haven't seen it, you really can't imagine it — because the viewers never knew what Jack Lemmon or Marilyn Monroe (or Tony Curtis) would do until they saw them do it.

And you could never be sure what a Billy Wilder movie was going to be like until you saw it.

A Terrifying Coincidence

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Jack (Jack Lemmon): What makes you think they're looking for a scapegoat?

Ted (Wilford Brimley): Tradition.

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To understand why "The China Syndrome," which hit the theaters 35 years ago today, was so unsettling for movie audiences, it is necessary to understand the times.

Well, not so much the times when the movie was first released. There was no real hoopla that I can recall accompanying the premiere of "The China Syndrome" — other than protests from nuclear companies that the movie amounted to industrial character assassination.

Such claims were not heard 12 days later, when there was a nuclear disaster at a place called Three Mile Island, Pa. It was purely coincidental, but the timing couldn't have been better for the movie. While the performances were great and the story was first rate in "The China Syndrome," Three Mile Island probably deserves a lot of the credit for the movie earning 10 times what it cost to make.

Three Mile Island put everyone on edge, it seemed, and it made "The China Syndrome" the hottest (pardon the pun) movie ticket in every city and town in America.

In that chicken–and–egg conversation, the two subjects became intertwined; over the years, one has hardly heard the movie mentioned without the nuclear accident and vice versa.

In the movie, a TV reporter (Jane Fonda) and her cameraman (Michael Douglas) witnessed a nuclear emergency while at a local nuclear plant to do a story on energy.

Thanks to the quick response by an engineer (played by Jack Lemmon), a worse disaster was prevented.

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Fonda's character had her own agenda — she wanted to graduate from doing puff pieces to news with an edge to it, and reporting on a near–disaster was just the thing, but her supervisor refused to allow Fonda to report on it or to show footage that had been filmed on the sly by Douglas.

In the meantime, Lemmon did some research and discovered that all sorts of corners had been cut, leaving the plant vulnerable to a full–scale meltdown (dubbed the "China syndrome" in the movie, describing an incident that would blow the proverbial hole all the way through the earth to China).

Lemmon's character accumulated evidence supporting this and gave it to a soundman from the TV station, who promised to deliver it to Fonda and Douglas — but he was run off the road when trying to deliver it. Knowing that made me wonder if the movie wasn't based only, as advertised, on a 1975 nuclear power plant fire in Alabama — but also, perhaps, a bit on the case of Karen Silkwood, which was later dramatized in a movie starring Meryl Streep.

That event led Lemmon to conclude that his own life was in danger, and he took over the plant at gunpoint, demanding to tell his story on TV.

It was a first–rate thriller, as critic Roger Ebert said, "that incidentally raises the most unsettling questions about how safe nuclear power plants really are."

Those questions still haven't been answered satisfactorily. So often, it seems, the whistleblowers are demeaned and discredited. Why would anyone want to be exposed to that?

One wonders if the questions would have been raised at all had it not been for the coincidental nuclear accident at Three Mile Island.

I also wonder if the performances of Lemmon and Fonda would have been nominated for Oscars if it hadn't been for Three Mile Island. Their performances were good — especially Lemmon's — but I don't know if either was Oscar–worthy.

Taking Short Cuts to the Truth

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"Short Cuts," which premiered 20 years ago today, is one of my favorite movies of the 1990s, in large part because it combines the work of two people (writer Raymond Carver and filmmaker Robert Altman) I admire — not to mention the talents of an all–star cast.

Several of Carver's short stories were woven together in a narrative about roughly two dozen southern Californians whose lives intersect in often random ways before, during and after an earthquake.

As I say, the links between the stories are often random — and maintaining them is tenuous at best — but they are plausible enough to give some credibility to some already credible (if selfish) human foibles.

In one subplot, Andie MacDowell and Bruce Davison play the parents of a young boy who is about to have a birthday. His mother orders a special cake that requires a lot of extra work on the part of the baker (Lyle Lovett).

But the cake isn't picked up, and the baker, seething with rage, begins making harassing phone calls to the home. He doesn't realize that the reason the cake wasn't picked up is that the young boy for whom it was intended was hit by a car and lapsed into a coma.

He also doesn't know that Lily Tomlin, distracted by her problems with husband Tom Waits, was the one who struck the boy. She offered to take him for treatment, but, having been instructed by his mother not to take rides from strangers, he declined, insisting that he wasn't hurt, and walked home, unaware of how seriously injured he really was.

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The boy eventually dies, and the drama in the hospital set the stage for grandfather Jack Lemmon's monologue on fidelity, which just might have been the greatest dramatic performance in a career that included "Days of Wine and Roses."

In another subplot, three friends (Fred Ward, Buck Henry and Huey Lewis) go on a fishing trip and discover the body of a woman in the creek. They decide not to report their finding until the weekend is over — so as not to disrupt their plans.

In yet another, a new mother (Jennifer Jason Leigh) earns money by performing phone sex. Her husband, Chris Penn, doesn't like it, but he knows they can use the money.

Sex, of course, is a recurring theme. Amateur painter Julianne Moore and and her husband, played by Matthew Modine, prior to the arrival of some dinner guests, discuss for the first time her infidelity with another guest at a party a few years earlier.

The audience can only imagine, from what the two say to each other, what happened. Moore and the other guest were chosen to go get more liquor for the party but found that it was too late at night and most of the stores were closed. Modine's suspicions were aroused when the two were gone so long. Turned out the guest had propositioned Moore and, in an inebriated state, she accepted.

Apparently a simmering yet previously unexpressed issue for Modine, Moore is startled when he brings it up and spills her drink on her skirt. She takes off the skirt and tries to remove the stain, exposing the fact that she is wearing no underwear.

The husband observes it and, introducing yet another previously unexpressed (and unresolved) issue into the conversation, accuses her of trying to be like the subjects in her paintings, who always seem to be naked.

She ultimately confesses to him, but she attempts to excuse her infidelity by pointing out that she was intoxicated — and the man did not ejaculate.

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These were short stories originally, not one long novel, but I often wondered if Carver regarded them as parts of a whole. He died about five years before "Short Cuts" was released, and I don't know if he ever had a hand in the planning of the movie — or if that really began after he died.

It's just one of those things I wonder about, and there is no — excuse the pun — short cut to the answer.

The Big-Screen Debut of The Odd Couple

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Oscar Madison (Walter Matthau): Who wants food?

Murray (Herb Edelman): What do you got?

Oscar: I got, uh, brown sandwiches and, uh, green sandwiches. Which one do you want?

Murray: What's the green?

Oscar: It's either very new cheese or very old meat.

Murray: I'll take the brown.

Roy (David Sheiner): Are you crazy? You're not going to eat that, are you?

Murray: I'm hungry!

Roy: His refrigerator has been out of order for two weeks now. I saw milk standing in there that wasn't even in the bottle!

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The Walter Matthau–Jack Lemmon movie "The Odd Couple" made its debut 45 years ago today, a couple of years after the Neil Simon–authored play was a splash on Broadway.

It is one of my favorite comedies, and I have written about it before — when it was about to be shown on TV. I'm not sure there is much I can add to that.

Except to say that I have seen it many times in my life, and I still think it is funny every time I see it. I know what's coming. I know all the best lines by heart.

But I still laugh, especially at scenes that I have been laughing at for years. Not even scenes really. I always laugh at Jack Lemmon's portrayal of the fastidious Felix, and I always laugh at Walter Matthau's portrayal of the sloppy Oscar.

They truly were an odd couple. That's what made them funny — but, frankly, Lemmon and Matthau were already funny. When they were paired up, they were even funnier.

And "The Odd Couple" wasn't even their first pairing. That was a couple of years earlier in "The Fortune Cookie," for which Matthau won an Oscar.

Matthau played a lawyer in that movie; he played a sports writer in "The Odd Couple." No matter which movie he was in or which role he played, though, he always looked like he had been sleeping in his clothes.

He didn't have much of a wardrobe in "The Odd Couple" — mostly T–shirts and ball caps — but he didn't really need much.

It was a big part of his charm, I guess.

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Oscar Madison: Look at this. You're the only man in the world with clenched hair.

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Of Lemmon, I guess it can best be said that he proved his talent for comedic roles in "Mister Roberts," "Some Like It Hot" and "The Apartment," but it was a different kind of role in "The Odd Couple."

Lemmon got his share of laughs in "The Odd Couple," to be sure, but most of the time, I guess, he was Matthau's straight man, feeding him setup lines.

Like when he and Oscar were talking about the fairer sex in a bowling alley, and Felix remarked, "Funny, I haven't thought of women in weeks."

"I fail to see the humor," Oscar replied, gazing longingly at a group of excited young women jumping up and down after one of them bowled a strike.

My favorite exchange may have been when Felix said, "I think I'm crazy."

"If it makes you feel any better," Oscar said, "I think so, too."

It was one of the great film partnerships of all time.

'Missing' Is Memorable

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As a TV viewer, today is a really tough day for me.

On the one hand, two of the best NFL playoff games that I think we are likely to see this season will be played today — the Pittsburgh Steelers vs. the Baltimore Ravens and the Green Bay Packers vs. the Atlanta Falcons.

But on the other hand, Turner Classic Movies is going to be showing a couple of my favorite movies.

Thus, I am torn.

I'm not really sure if TCM has a particular theme for its broadcast schedule today. If it does, I suspect it may be something like "crime and punishment."

At 5 p.m. (Central), TCM will be showing "12 Angry Men," a courtroom drama in which all of the action takes place in the jury room — which isn't surprising since the film was based on a successful play.

Just to be clear, I'm talking about the original film from 1957 — the one with Henry Fonda and Lee J. Cobb — not the 1997 remake with George C. Scott and Jack Lemmon — which was pretty good and is worth seeing, although I never thought it equaled the original.

I have some flexibility with that movie. I have a recording of it. If the Steelers–Ravens game is close, I don't have to see the movie. But I seldom get to see "Missing," and I'd really like to see it. The Packers and Falcons should be at their intermission when the movie begins, and if one of the teams has a huge lead, that will make my choice much easier.

Lemmon can't be found in the version of "12 Angry Men" that is being shown on TCM today, but he can be seen — and fairly extensively a few hours later — at 9 p.m. (Central) in "Missing."

And like many of his performances in the last two decades of his life, Lemmon delivers a memorable performance. If you've never seen it, you won't want to miss this rare opportunity.

If you've never seen "Missing," I don't want to spoil it for you so I'll just touch on a few high points.

It's the true story of an American journalist named Charles Horman who disappeared during the Chilean coup that ousted President Salvador Allende in September 1973. It was later determined that Horman, who had been working as a freelance writer, had been murdered shortly after his abduction.

During that coup, Allende reportedly committed suicide, but the actual circumstances of his death have been vigorously debated for more than 35 years.

There were many mysterious deaths in those days. Most of the people who died were South Americans, I suppose, and, in that place and at that time, their disappearances could be swept under the rug by the local authorities, but Horman (played by John Shea in the movie) was an American so his disappearance attracted a certain amount of attention that was not so easily dismissed.

His father, played by Lemmon in the movie, came to Chile to look for him, aided by his daughter–in–law, Beth, played by Sissy Spacek.

I've never read the book upon which the movie is based ("The Execution of Charles Horman" by Thomas Hauser), but, from what I have read, the film is accurate in its depictions of Horman's wife and father.

Lemmon had a long and distinguished career as an actor. He worked with many of the great actors and directors of his day. He was nominated for — and occasionally won — Oscars for his performances in many of the finest films made in his lifetime.

I always felt that Lemmon had two phases in his acting career. The first half of his career was largely dominated by comedic roles. There were occasional indications of his flair for drama (i.e., "Days of Wine and Roses"), but his reputation was made in comedies like "Mister Roberts," "Some Like It Hot," "The Apartment," "The Fortune Cookie" and "The Odd Couple."

Then Lemmon won his only Oscar for a dramatic performance (1973's "Save the Tiger"), and, in the second half of his career (from the late 1970s until his death in 2001), his most memorable roles came in dramas — "The China Syndrome," "JFK," "Short Cuts," TV remakes of "12 Angry Men" and "Inherit the Wind" and a TV movie based on the notorious Mary Phagan murder case of the early 20th century.

And, of course, "Missing."

"Missing" was the last of Lemmon's Oscar–nominated performances. He didn't win, but I would rank it among his best.

Spacek, too, was nominated for an Oscar for her performance as Beth.

Ed Horman came to Chile conditioned to believe and support authority — and he was skeptical of the conspiracy theories he heard from his daughter–in–law.

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But he learned he wasn't in America anymore, and he gradually realized that his own government wasn't telling him the truth about what had happened so far from his home.

I don't know if the lines in the movie are actually the lines that the real Ed and Beth spoke during that time or if they were speculative, the kind of thing the characters might have said under the circumstances — kind of like the dialogue on board the ill–fated Andrea Gail in "The Perfect Storm." No one who was on board that ship is alive to tell what really happened.

(Perhaps Horman's father and wife contributed to Hauser's book. If so, those lines may well have been verifiably attributable to them.)

But I've always liked the dialogue in "Missing." Maybe it was manufactured, but it seemed honest to me.

Like a conversation Beth and Ed have about Charles after his disappearance.

"He seems so innocent," Ed says. "Almost deliberately naive."

"Is that so bad?" asks Beth.

"Is that so good?" Ed replies.

"You raised him," Beth says.

If that was made up, it was simply good, honest writing — delivered by two of Hollywood's best.

Later, the Lemmon character, after a crash course in how things were done in Chile at that time, tells Beth admiringly, "You're the most courageous person I've ever known."

That line may not seem like much when viewed in the relatively antiseptic atmosphere of a video screen, but, in the context of the film, it amounts to an incredible admission by Beth's father–in–law.

Up to that point, he had seemed to be defending the authorities, taking their side over his son's, but his remark to Beth indicated that he understood, finally, what they had been up against in Chile.

It was Ed's recognition that they — and, then, she — had been dealing with unimaginable adversity alone, that he had misjudged them and, from that moment on, as I recall, he was a lot more supportive of his son and his daughter–in–law — and much less tolerant of those with whom he had been allied at first.

That's quite a price to pay for belatedly discovering that blood really is thicker than water.

Another line from the film has always stayed with me. It was powerful, mostly in what it did not say.

I forget the name of the character or what role he played in the story. It seems to me that he was a native of Chile and understood its culture better than the Americans.

"You Americans," he says, "you always assume you must do something before you can be arrested."

Remembering Jack Lemmon

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Nine years ago yesterday, Jack Lemmon died.

Young moviegoers may only remember him as Walter Matthau's sidekick in the far inferior (and nearly three decades overdue) sequel to "The Odd Couple," as well as the original "Grumpy Old Men" and its sequel.

And it is true that his screen partnership with Matthau (and the friendship it spawned) was one of the most successful in Hollywood history. Over the years, they were in 10 movies together — 11 if you count "Kotch," in which Matthau appeared and Lemmon directed.

It's been a long time since I've seen "Kotch," but I think Lemmon had a cameo role in it. That isn't the same thing as co–starring with someone, though, is it? For that matter, it is hard for me to include "JFK" among the films in which they appeared together. They were both part of an ensemble cast so neither was the star, and their characters never interacted.

"JFK" was an exception to the rule in another way. Lemmon and Matthau seldom appeared in dramas together. Most of the time, they appeared in comedies. The first time was in the mid–1960s, in a Billy Wilder comedy, "The Fortune Cookie" — in which Lemmon played a cameraman who was injured at a football game and Matthau played his shyster lawyer brother–in–law. Matthau won an Oscar for his performance — and deservedly so — although Lemmon often played his straight man.

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But Lemmon did have a career that was separate from Matthau, a career that paired him with many of the greats of filmmaking, both in front of and behind the camera. And it was a career that often took him in dramatic directions.

About 10 years before making "The Fortune Cookie," Lemmon was cast as Ensign Pulver in "Mister Roberts," eventually winning an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor. The role allowed him to appear with legends like Henry Fonda, William Powell and James Cagney.

A few years later, he appeared in what may have been Billy Wilder's comedic masterpiece, "Some Like It Hot," in which he was paired with Tony Curtis, Marilyn Monroe and Joe E. Brown, who delivered the film's memorable final line in the clip at the top of this post.

He was nominated for an Oscar for Best Actor for his performance in that film, as he was the following year for his role in "The Apartment," another Wilder film that cast him with Shirley MacLaine and Fred MacMurray.

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In 1962, Lemmon was nominated for Best Actor again — this time for portraying a recovering alcoholic in "Days of Wine and Roses." That role may not have been as much of a reach for him as many no doubt thought at the time. Both he and director Blake Edwards reported drinking heavily while the film was being made, and both men, as well as Lemmon's co–star, Lee Remick, eventually sought treatment for alcohol abuse.

In that film, I suppose, it could truly be said that life imitated art — to an extent. I don't think Remick's character sought treatment in the film, but Lemmon's did.

A decade later, Lemmon finally received the recognition he had long deserved from the Oscars, receiving a Best Actor award for his performance in "Save the Tiger," in which he played an executive doing whatever he could to preserve the lifestyle his failing business had made possible — even to the point of considering arson to destroy the warehouse and win an insurance settlement.

As much as I always enjoy watching Lemmon in his comedic roles, I have always had a special fondness for the dramatic roles he played in the next couple of decades. Some were widely recognized, others were not.

And, while each of those dramatic roles was unique, there was an honesty in Lemmon's performances that told the audience that what he said and what he did were genuine — men in these conditions, knowing what they knew and believing what they did, would behave as Lemmon did.

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"The China Syndrome" attracted a lot of attention at the time, in part because its theatrical release was followed closely by a nuclear accident in Pennsylvania. Talk about life imitating art. When one of Lemmon's co–stars, Michael Douglas, appeared on The Tonight Show shortly after the accident, Johnny Carson said to him, "Boy, you sure have one hell of a publicity agent." Perhaps, but Lemmon was the one who was nominated for Best Actor. Jane Fonda was nominated for Best Actress.

Lemmon was nominated again the following year for "Tribute," in which he played a terminally ill man trying to reconnect with his estranged son, played by Robby Benson. In some ways, the role always reminded me of his performance in "Save the Tiger." Each character was trying to retain or recapture something of personal value.

There was nothing, really, that I could have seen that would have prepared me for "Missing," a movie that was inspired by the true story of the disappearance (and, as it turned out, execution) of an American journalist during the Chilean coup of 1973 — although the character did have certain qualities that he shared with the other two.

Lemmon played the father of the missing journalist. His son (played by John Shea, who is better known, perhaps, for his TV work) and his son's wife (played by Sissy Spacek) were virtually polar opposites of the ultra–patriotic Lemmon, who came to search for his son believing his son had been at least partially responsible for his disappearance, only to conclude that he and his family have been lied to by their own government.

Lemmon's career continued on a dramatic arc in the 1980s. Late in the decade, he appeared in a made–for–TV film based on the death of a young girl in an Atlanta pencil factory near the turn of the century. The case formed the basis for a new documentary about the case on PBS last fall. But I don't think there have been any new developments since Lemmon was nominated for a Golden Globe for his performance as Georgia's governor, who sought in vain to prevent the lynching of the plant manager.

Then, in 1991, Lemmon was reunited in film with Matthau when both appeared in Oliver Stone's "JFK." They were never on screen together, as I mentioned earlier. Their real–life counterparts — Lemmon played a private investigator, Matthau a U.S. senator — were both from Louisiana but, otherwise, had nothing apparent in common.

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Lemmon resumed his comedic ways in the last 10 years of his life, doing the "Grumpy Old Men" movies and the sequel to "The Odd Couple," but he continued to impress me with his dramatic performances, most of them on television.

An exception was his turn in 1994's "Short Cuts," another ensemble production, in which he played a man haunted by his past infidelity and his inattention to his son who seeks to reconnect with his son when his grandson is in the hospital.

A few years later, he appeared in a TV remake of "12 Angry Men," playing the role Henry Fonda played in the movie 40 years earlier. Then, in 1999, he appeared in a TV remake of "Inherit the Wind," playing Spencer Tracy's role. In both productions, he co–starred with George C. Scott.

There are times when it is hard for me to believe Lemmon has been gone for nine years. But he has.

That's a shame. I always thought he had more to say to us.

'Odd Couple' Still Funny After All These Years

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You know a comedy was good when there are lines in it that you can tell your friends and family over and over again — and they're always funny, no matter how many times you tell them.

Seems to me that just about every movie that was based on a Neil Simon play was like that. But I think it was especially true of "The Odd Couple," which was turned into a movie starring Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon in 1968.

Matthau played Oscar, a sloppy sportswriter, and Lemmon was Felix, a compulsive neat freak who worked as a news writer. The play/film never established whether they worked for the same news organization, but they lived in New York, which then, as now, had several newspapers.

Anyway, their employer(s) didn't figure as an important part of the story. And the lines are still as good, still as funny as they were in 1968.

My grandmother was probably the best evidence of that. She wasn't the sort of person to recite humorous dialogue from movies, but there was one scene from "The Odd Couple" that always made her laugh. And she loved to tell it.

Oscar asks Felix to move his plate of pasta from the dining table. He calls it "spaghetti." Felix laughs.

Oscar asks him, "What the hell's so funny?"

Chuckling, Felix replies, "It's not spaghetti, it's linguini."

Without saying a word, Oscar picks up the plate of linguini and flings it at the kitchen wall.

He turns around and glares at Felix. "Now it's garbage," he says slowly, softly and deliberately.

I can't tell you how many times my grandmother told us about that scene — or how hard she laughed at the memory of it, years after she first saw it.

The story was really deceptively simple. Felix has been thrown out of the house and considers ending his life, but he winds up at the home of Oscar, his best friend, who gives him a place to stay. Seems like a good solution, right? Wrong. The two personalities are so different that they can't co–exist.

What ensues is some of the best dialogue ever written by Neil Simon. And it was delivered flawlessly by Lemmon and Matthau.

If you've never seen it, I won't spoil it for you by telling you some of the best lines. I'll just urge you to watch it.

You can see it tonight on Turner Classic Movies' "31 Days of Oscar."

It's on at 10:15 p.m. (Central).

The Fortune Cookie

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Here in Dallas today, the temperature is 95° and the heat index is a brutal 108°.

When it is that hot outside, nothing makes me feel cooler than thoughts of a football game.

No games are being played today, so I'm going to stay inside tonight and watch "The Fortune Cookie" on Turner Classic Movies at 7 p.m. (Central).

It's one of my all–time favorite movies. Walter Matthau plays Whiplash Willie, a lawyer who represents his brother–in–law, Jack Lemmon, in a million–dollar lawsuit after Lemmon, a TV cameraman, is run over while covering a pro football game. Even though the fans in the stadium, not to mention the TV audience, saw the whole thing, the defendants in the lawsuit are convinced that it is a hoax, and they make every effort to catch Lemmon and Matthau in the act before the suit can come to court — or before they have to agree to a costly settlement.

The film, which was directed by the legendary Billy Wilder, was made a couple of years before "The Odd Couple" and many years before "Grumpy Old Men." In fact, I believe it was the very first pairing of Lemmon and Matthau.

Even if it wasn't, though, it was hilarious. Everyone should see it.

Settle in and watch it tonight.