'Coal Miner's Daughter' Was Two Stories in One

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Doolittle (Tommy Lee Jones): [after Loretta's first appearance on the Grand Ole Opry] What we got to do next is figure out what to do next.

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"Coal Miner's Daughter," which premiered 35 years ago today, was really two stories in one.

The first story was about a rural Kentucky girl named Loretta Webb, raised in poverty in a bump in the road called Butcher Hollow ("Holler" in Kentuckyspeak). For the first half of the movie, the focus was on Loretta (Sissy Spacek) and a young man, Doolittle Lynn (Tommy Lee Jones), who wanted to marry her.

Doolittle was kind of wild, and Loretta's father (played by my fellow Arkansan, Levon Helm) disapproved of the relationship. But when the two decided to get married, he didn't stand in the way. In fact, he showed up at the little country church where vows were being exchanged — at least long enough to answer in the affirmative when the preacher asked, "Who gives this woman's hand in marriage?"

So the two embarked on their life together, but life was hard for the newlyweds — until Doo discovered Loretta's musical talent, which led to her well–received performance before an audience.

That was the transitional moment. The audience loved Loretta, and she and Doo used it to launch her musical career. They succeeded — and found that fame and fortune didn't solve all problems. They merely created new ones.

But that scene in which she sings in public for the first time is an empowering moment. You could see her gaining confidence with each note.

It was the transition to that second story in the movie — about the problems that fame and fortune brought to their lives. Such is the nature of biographical movies, I guess. Of course, the fact that such a movie is being made at all is evidence that the subject of the movie succeeded — to an extent, at least — in overcoming his/her demons.

Loretta Lynn often used those problems as inspirations for her most successful songs.

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Spacek also re–created the relationship Lynn had with country music legend Patsy Cline, a relationship that ended tragically when Cline was killed in an airplane crash. As big a star as Cline was, Lynn was probably country music's first female superstar, and their scenes together represented more than a friendship. They represented a transitional period in country music.

There was kind of an odd dichotomy, though, in the film's treatment of that relationship. On the one hand, the stars — Spacek and Beverly D'Angelo in the role of Cline — didn't lip synch while someone else did the singing for them — even though lip synching was usually done in that kind of movie at that time. The refusal of the film to yield on that point suggests (to me, anyway) a commitment to an honest approach by the actors — rather like not having a stunt double do the rough stuff in one's scenes.

On the other hand, though, the film did take certain liberties with the truth. For example ...

Lynn and Cline never toured together. In the movie, they tour together and confide in each other. They were confidants in real life, but they never toured together. I don't know whether touring together was the custom of the time for popular stars, country or otherwise, but I know Cline and Lynn never toured together.

They might have talked about it, though. I have heard that Cline may have been thinking about buying a touring bus shortly before her death. If so, then there are scenes in "Coal Miner's Daughter" that offer a tantalizing glimpse into what the future might have been like if Cline had not died.

But they do not re–create actual events.

Now, I'm a history buff, and I always enjoy good historical movies. And I know that, the movie business being what it is, even the best stories are going to get embellished in some way before they make it to the silver screen — whether I think the stories need embellishment or not. Sometimes I can live with those embellishments. Sometimes I can't.

In "Coal Miner's Daughter," I have decided I can live with the ones I know about. I can't say how I will feel if I learn about embellishments of which I had no knowledge. Depends on what they are, I guess, and how crucial they are to the story.

The scenes from the tours were kind of used to tie together loose ends and establish the closeness of Lynn's relationship with Cline. It was during such a Hollywood–created tour, for example, that Lynn caught Doo cheating on her, and she confided in Cline. Now, that didn't fundamentally alter the facts. Doo still cheated on her, and that still led to her authorship of one of her biggest hits.

That's the kind of Hollywood lie that I can live with, though. In the movie, Cline was the sympathetic friend, an innocent bystander. She wasn't the one with whom Doo was cheating nor was she the one who broke the news to Lynn. If the script had altered either of those conditions, it would have fundamentally changed the story and almost certainly changed the nature of Cline's relationship with Doo.

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Speaking of Doo, I think this may have been the first time I ever saw Tommy Lee Jones in a movie. He had been in movies for about 10 years prior to that, and I saw some of the movies he made in the '70s, but I believe I saw them on TV long after they made the rounds of the theaters. If I saw one or more of them before I saw "Coal Miner's Daughter," his appearance(s) made no impression on me.

I saw "Coal Miner's Daughter" on the big screen when I saw it the first time, and I was impressed with the work done by all the participants, not just Spacek, who took home the Oscar for Best Actress. Jones really did make an impression on me with his performance. I'm tempted to describe it as sensitive — but that almost seems to deny a steely resolve that Jones brought to the role of Doo. If Doo really was that persistent, it's no wonder Lynn became a country superstar.

Whether it was the first time I saw him or not, I have seen him in quite a few movies since — and I honestly think this was his best performance. Or, at least, I believe it is the best performance I have seen him give. He wasn't nominated for an Oscar for his work — that kind of recognition came later, perhaps belatedly, although it would have been hard to wedge him in as a nominee for either Best Actor or Best Supporting Actor that year.

Without him, though, it is hard for me to imagine Spacek winning Best Actress — so maybe that was as much his award as it was hers.

The Story of an Awkward Teenager

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Thirty–five years ago today, the screen adaptation of Stephen King's "Carrie" made its debut.

Almost immediately, the final scene, in which a hand reaches up from the rubble and grabs Amy Irving by the wrist, became iconic. Virtually everyone, it seems, even those who have never seen the movie, is familiar with it.

I, however, had not heard of that scene when I saw the movie a few weeks after its premiere — and I jumped in my seat when I first saw it — just as I did a few years later when I saw "Alien" on the big screen or when I saw the climactic scene of "Silence of the Lambs" more than a decade later.

If only one could enact an enforceable law that would prevent people from revealing the ending of a movie like "Carrie" to someone who hasn't seen it. It's like blowing the punch line of a joke ...

It was a story to which anyone who ever felt awkward as a teenager could relate.

Carrie (played by Sissy Spacek, who was mostly unknown at the time, at least in comparison to her status after the movie made the theatrical rounds) was an outcast in her high school, taunted and abused by her classmates.

Life wasn't any better for her when she got home from school, either, with a domineering religious fanatic of a mother (memorably played by Piper Laurie) waiting for her.

Of course, no one realized that Carrie had a very special power — telekinetic power — and Carrie herself was reluctant to acknowledge its existence. But when she was upset, it bubbled to the surface and almost took on a life of its own, and, when she could no longer deny what she saw happening around her, she felt compelled to research the possibility.

If only the folks in her world had been paying attention, they might have seen the tell–tale signs that her power was growing beyond her control and becoming more of a threat to others.

But, as humans are apt to do, they were obsessed with their own lives and didn't notice when a light bulb shattered in the girls' locker room and an ashtray sitting on the principal's desk flipped off and broke on the floor.

From most outward appearances, Carrie was a typical shy teenage girl fully engaged in the emotional roller coaster ride known as puberty.

But, if you were paying attention, she was boiling volcano about to erupt.

Well, I suppose the rest of the story is pretty well known by now. Carrie was set up to be escorted to the prom and then to be elected prom queen — and, as she was being crowned, a bucket of blood would be dumped on her — all of which transpired as planned.

But then the unplanned happened.

Carrie's telekinetic powers took over, slamming shut all exits from the gym and starting a fire that killed everyone who wasn't killed in another way. In a truly zombie–like state, Carrie strolled through the carnage out into the night and walked home, her dress still drenched in blood, where she killed her mother with flying knives that pinned her to the wall in a pose that resembled the crucifixion.

That part was a little heavy handed for me.

Both Carrie and her mother were crushed when Carrie used her powers to bring the house down, leaving a pile of rubble where Irving's wrist would be grabbed in the film's climactic scene.

In hindsight, I guess, that scene had the same shock value for that generation as the shower scene in "Psycho" had for the previous one.

And that really isn't surprising, given the admiration that director Brian De Palma has for the work of Alfred Hitchcock.

Clearly, the name of the high school — Bates High School — was taken from the villain of "Psycho" — Norman Bates. (I don't recall the name of the high school in King's original novel, but I am quite sure it was not Bates.)

And, while it wouldn't qualify as a variation from the book, De Palma used the same violin theme from "Psycho" whenever Carrie had a telekinetic episode.

There were other differences between the movie and the Stephen King book that inspired it — as there always are — but King himself told an interviewer that it was a "good movie" — and so it was.

It is a bit dated now, but it is still a good movie.

'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."