"I'd hate to take a bite outta you. You're a cookie full of arsenic."
J.J. (Burt Lancaster)
I am a fan of black–and–white movies for many reasons, but one of the things I really like about them is they remove the distraction of color.
Don't get me wrong. Color movies have their place, and some stories simply could not be told without color. But the absence of color somehow allows more emphasis to be placed on the characters and their dialogue — and that is where I think "Sweet Smell of Success," which was first shown on this day in 1957, really came through for the audience.
It came through on several levels.
Frankly, I don't care how long you have been watching film noir movies or how many you have seen. You've never seen one with dialogue that crackled like this one did — and it seemed that everyone in the movie, from the stars to the bit players, got to deliver at least one snappy line. Clifford Odets and Ernest Lehman should have received an Oscar nomination for their writing. It's some of the best you'll ever experience (this is a lifetime of writing talking here).
They weren't the only ones who contributed to "Sweet Smell of Success," but no one received an Oscar nomination for work on that movie.
And that was a big mistake. Tony Curtis gave what many people regard as his greatest performance as Sidney the smarmy press agent. If he was outdone by anyone, it was Burt Lancaster who played J.J. the callous newspaper columnist who wanted to prevent his sister from marrying perhaps the only good guy in the movie. His lines in the movie were the most savage.
But Curtis had some pretty good — and pretty insightful — lines, too. At one point, he advised, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" then observed, "That gives you a lot of leeway."
I can understand why "Sweet Smell of Success" got no Oscar nominations. As I have mentioned on this blog before, the folks who vote on the Oscars seem to like to reward movies that promote the positive side of human nature — love, loyalty, honesty, integrity, that sort of thing. The Oscars rarely recognize movies that focus on the gritty reality of life with so much as a nomination. It is as if the voters don't even want to have the option of voting for such a movie, let alone rewarding it with a statuette.
Of course, there are exceptions to that, but it does seem to be an unwritten rule.
To maintain a sort of balance, the Oscars tend to avoid nominating comedies, which is why some of the greatest entertainers in movie history were never nominated for Academy Awards.
"Sweet Smell of Success" was hardly a comedy, but you really had to look hard to find a good guy in the story.
Leslie (Tony Curtis):Are you a native of Burracho?
Lily Olay (Dorothy Provine):I ain't no native. I was born here!
"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.
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.
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!
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.
Helen Gurley Brown (Natalie Wood):You know, when you smile like that, you do look like Jack Lemmon!
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).
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 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.
Sugar Kane (Marilyn Monroe):Story of my life. I always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop.
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.
Film critic Roger Ebert wrote that "The Boston Strangler," which premiered on this day in 1968, "requires a judgment not only on the quality of the film (very good), but also on its moral and ethical implications."
And, as a journalist, I agree. The Boston Strangler case was terrifying for the people in the Boston area and disturbing for everyone else. A film account needed to be faithful to the known facts, to promote knowledge instead of fear — but, as Ebert pointed out, "real events [were] being offered as entertainment." In my opinion, the movie was a clear attempt to capitalize on emotion, a tactic that has been used more frequently in the years that have passed, presumably because it was mildly successful in 1968 (the movie earned more than four times what it cost to make it).
Ebert felt the movie was a "deliberate exploitation of the tragedy of Albert DeSalvo and his victims." And that, I think, is a legitimate complaint.
But one of the things I have learned is that the truth is often up for grabs, especially in the movies. Then as now, people wanted easy, satisfying answers like the ones they saw on TV shows like Perry Mason (today I suppose it would be Law & Order), even if the facts have to be manipulated.
And the DeSalvo case was loaded with inconsistencies and other factual issues.
Ebert complained that the movie wasn't as "beneficial and ... educational" as its defenders claimed, but he seemed to buy the basic premise, that Albert DeSalvo (played in the movie by Tony Curtis) was, in fact, responsible for killing 13 women in the early 1960s.
And he never stated how the movie could have been educational.
It is important to remember that the crimes and DeSalvo's arrest and conviction — and the premiere of the movie about the case — all occurred in the 1960s. That was at least a quarter of a century before most people ever heard of DNA evidence. Until then, physical evidence linking DeSalvo to the killings was tenuous. It was only through a confession he gave after being arrested on a rape charge that he became a suspect.
In fact, DeSalvo was never convicted of any of the Boston Strangler killings. He was convicted of a series of rapes. Henry Fonda gave his usual stellar performance as the investigator who interrogated DeSalvo and obtained his confession to the crimes, and Ebert had praise for him. Curtis, too. Ebert wrote that Curtis "acts better than he has in a decade."
But his complaints didn't really address the fact that the story seemed to have been written to fit a particular worldview. In that way, I have always likened it to the Warren Commission report on the Kennedy assassination — which is ironic, I suppose, since one of the Boston Strangler's victims was killed the day after the assassination.
The Warren Commission has been accused of overlooking or glossing over some things that didn't fit a preconceived conclusion. I have my own thoughts on that, and that is another discussion for another time, but I definitely believe that the Boston Strangler case was that way.
Of course, if the technology to obtain the necessary evidence didn't exist 50 years ago, there wasn't much that could be done about it. But even after that technology became available, there were questions about the cases that remained unanswered.
Ultimately, DNA evidence did link DeSalvo to at least one of the victims, but there were too many variations for one killer to be responsible for all, some continue to say. There was a wide disparity in the ages of the victims (the youngest was 19, the oldest was 85), they belonged to different demographic groups and occupied different social positions, and the methods of killing weren't the same. Some were strangled, some were stabbed, some were beaten.
But, at the time, apparently there was a widespread belief that the killings were the work of one man. The justice system — and then Hollywood — encouraged that conclusion.
In telling the story, the movie utilized a split–screen technique that was popular at the time — and continues to be used today.
It is a technique that can be easily misused or overused, but sometimes it can be effective, which was what I thought of its use in this movie.
The story was that DeSalvo had a split personality — the homicidal one and the devoted family man. Neither, apparently, was aware of the other's existence, and the split–screen technique was probably the best way to illustrate that.
It was also a powerful method for showing the growing fear and tension in the city.
Forty–five years after its debut, it remains a potent drama, but I urge first–time viewers to watch it with more than a grain of salt. Legally, the case of the Boston Strangler may be closed — or practically closed — but there are probably as many issues surrounding whether DeSalvo acted alone — or whether he was even involved at all — as there are with Lee Harvey Oswald.
There was a saying when I worked in newsrooms that I presume still has some value even though many years have passed since I worked in a newsroom.
Essentially, the idea was that the deaths of prominent people come in threes. The logical extension of that, I suppose, would be that the deaths of prominent people in the same business come in threes.
If that is true — and, in my newsroom experience, it usually was — the motion picture industry exceeded its quota this week.
It started last Sunday when Gloria Stuart, the actress who played the elderly version of Kate Winslet's character in "Titanic," died at the age of 100.
Stuart had quite a career long before she made "Titanic," but she earned her only Academy Award nomination for playing the 101–year–old "Rose." The film won 11 Oscars, but Stuart lost to Kim Basinger.
I suppose it is inevitable that, when you are Stuart's age and you are nominated for an Oscar for a film you made when you were in your 80s, that is what you would be remembered for. There wouldn't be many people left who would remember the early years of your career.
And that is a shame because she really was an attractive young woman, svelte and sultry. Even decades later, when Stuart was in her 80s and her skin was wrinkled with age, you could still see some of that young beauty in her eyes and her face.
"Wasn't I a dish?" she asked her granddaughter in the film. It wasn't just a line in a movie. She was a dish in her youth.
Then, two days later, Arthur Penn, the man who directed "Bonnie & Clyde," passed away at the age of 88.
It is, primarily, for "Bonnie & Clyde," I suppose, that Penn will be remembered, and I guess that is fitting. It was a movie that really changed the motion picture landscape in its presentation of both sexuality and violence.
But as much as I admire what Penn accomplished with "Bonnie & Clyde," my favorite of his films had to be "Little Big Man."
It would be a mistake to think that everything Penn touched in his life turned to gold. He enjoyed great success with some groundbreaking films, but he had his share of misses as well.
"Penn’s later movies seemed to confuse people," wrote Bruce Eder for the AllMovie Blog, "[a]nd his last movies ... were more noted by critics than the public."
Well, as Chief Dan George's character said in "Little Big Man,""Sometimes the magic works, sometimes it doesn't."
If you want to see some of the magic of which Penn was capable, Turner Classic Movies will be showing "Bonnie & Clyde" at 7 (Central) tonight.
Then, the following day, actor Tony Curtis died at the age of 85.
He is being remembered, as he should, for his performances in Billy Wilder's classic comedy "Some Like It Hot" and Stanley Kramer's drama "The Defiant Ones."
But I really think more of Jack Lemmon when I think of "Some Like It Hot," and I tend to think of Sidney Poitier when I think of "The Defiant Ones." That doesn't mean I don't recognize the contributions Curtis made to both films. He just isn't the person I associate with either one.
The film I do associate with him is "The Boston Strangler," which was based on the true story of the murders of several women in the Boston area.
It wasn't the best film he ever made. It probably wasn't his best performance. But it was a departure from the norm for him. And I liked that.
Curtis readily acknowledged that — in his early years, at least — he got by on his looks. "But behind the pretty–boy looks was a dramatically potent combination of naked ambition and deep vulnerability," wrote Dave Kehr of the New York Times.
In "The Boston Strangler," I think he used that vulnerability to tap into the character of Albert DeSalvo. The film acted on the assumption that DeSalvo was guilty, but his confession has been vigorously disputed, and there were times in the movie when I felt Curtis' portrayal reflected the ambiguity that surrounds DeSalvo long after his death just as it surrounded him in life.
Some would argue that was symptomatic of DeSalvo's alleged multiple personality disorder, but he was never diagnosed with that illness to my knowledge.
Well, anyway, that's three.
But there was a fourth this week. The same day that Curtis died, an actor named Joe Mantell died at the age of 94.
Mantell's was not a household name, even though he had a lengthy career as a supporting actor in the movies and on television.
But, as Bruce Weber wrote for the New York Times, he had the distinction of delivering two of the most memorable lines ever uttered by a movie sidekick.
In the mid–1950s classic "Marty," as Ernest Borgnine's best friend Angie, there was a running dialogue between the two, Weber observed.
"Angie began almost every conversation with the same question — 'What do you feel like doin' tonight?' — and always got the same answer: 'I don't know, Ange. What do you feel like doin'?' "
The second line was delivered at the end of "Chinatown," when Jack Nicholson's character is recoiling from the story's unsatisfying conclusion. Mantell, in a small role as a private investigator, encourages Nicholson to go home and try to put the matter behind him.
"Forget it, Jake," Mantell's character said. "It's Chinatown."
I guess that's a fitting eulogy for this week in the motion picture industry.
None of the four people who died in the last seven days was younger than 85 so their deaths can't be said to have been tragic in the way the loss of a young person is believed to be tragic. All four lived longer than most of us probably will.
All four probably earned more money than most of us will, and their names, even Mantell's, will be remembered after most of us are gone. They were not denied the fame and fortune that most of us are denied.
And, yet, something of value seems to have been lost to us — inexplicably, perhaps.
I got my bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Arkansas, and I got my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. Most of my adult life has been dedicated to writing and editing in one form or another. Most recently I have taught writing (news and developmental) as an adjunct journalism professor at Richland College, where I advise the student newspaper staff. Go, Thunderducks!
