I suppose it is a big part of the American dream to build one's dream house, and Cary Grant was no exception in "Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House," which premiered on this day in 1948.
But the American dream can come at a pretty steep price, even in 1948.
Which raises an important point. It is critical to keep in mind the difference between financial amounts in 1948 and comparable amounts seven decades later. Those amounts in 1948 were roughly one–tenth what they are today. For example, in the movie Grant's job paid him $15,000 a year, which sounds like poverty wages, but it was enough to support a family of four. In 2018, the same job probably would pay $150,000.
But be it 1948 or 2018, it is easy to become overwhelmed by that money thing, and Mr. Blandings soon learned how expensive renovating a home can be. To renovate the home he and his wife (Myrna Loy) had chosen easily exceeded a year's income when all the family's needs were addressed.
And that didn't include issues with his best friend, played by Melvyn Douglas.
In all, it was an entertaining movie in that "Holiday Inn" mold.
Father Malone (Tom Tully):We showed up for every game.
Steve:I'd say that was raw courage.
Most people probably think of westerns when they think of John Wayne. Or maybe war movies.
But "Trouble Along the Way," which premiered on this day in 1953, was neither.
I suppose you have to give credit for that to John Ford's "The Quiet Man," which premiered in 1952. That, I believe, was the first John Wayne movie that did not cast the Duke as a cowboy or a serviceman, and it opened up a whole new world for him, one on which movie production companies were only too happy to capitalize.
Ford didn't direct "Trouble Along the Way." Michael Curtiz (who directed "Casablanca") did. I don't often use the word heartwarming to describe a movie, but I could apply it to this one. I could also apply other words that are not as complimentary, but I think the writers may have realized that. To compensate, they loaded the script with dialogue that, in my opinion, was far wittier than most movies that were made in the late '40s and early '50s.
For example, when Wayne and Father Burke (Charles Coburn) were talking about the football program at St. Anthony's College, Wayne asked, "What system do you use?"
"'Do unto others as you would have others do unto you,'" Burke replied. "But, usually, the others do it to us first."
In "Trouble Along the Way," Wayne played a recently divorced football coach (actually a college athletics instructor who was chronically unemployed because he was apparently incapable of getting along with the folks in charge). He needed to find a job to retain custody of his daughter.
Meanwhile the folks at St. Anthony's faced the prospect of having to shut down due to heavy debt, but Father Burke theorized that the school could get out of debt if it fielded a winning football team because that would attract the financial support of well–to‐do alumni.
To accomplish this, Wayne was hired to coach St. Anthony's football team.
(By the way, if you're a football fan, you probably believe the myth that Vince Lombardi was the first to say, "Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing." Lombardi did say it, but he wasn't the first; in fact, it was John Wayne in "Trouble Along the Way.")
I suppose it goes without saying that Wayne's character had some rough edges. Thus, to smooth out those edges, Donna Reed entered the picture as a social worker.
By the way, film buffs should look for James Dean in an uncredited appearance as a football spectator.
There was a time when I was a devoted fan of Saturday Night Live.
I watched it faithfully whenever it was on. Sometimes I watched the reruns if I knew a program I had enjoyed the first time was being shown again.
But in recent years I have lost interest in Saturday Night Live. I don't mind if comedy occasionally takes sides on an issue, but Saturday Night Live's comedy has shown entirely too much bias for my taste in recent years.
I don't tend to watch late–night TV much anymore. And on Saturday nights, I usually find something else to do when Saturday Night Live is on. Such was the case last night.
I really regret that now.
This morning I saw a video of a skit that ran during last night's show that was so reminiscent of SNL in its prime. It was set during the Revolutionary War with colonial leaders gathering in Philadelphia's Independence Hall to discuss things. There was a collective groan when news reached them that the British had been defeated in New England.
At that point the patriots from New England came into the room, hoisting beer steins and boasting of their victories ("We are the patriots of New England, and we are unstoppable!") — especially the latest one in which their leader, Capt. Thomas Brady, had launched a great comeback with his cannon after the British had pushed the patriots "fohty yawds" behind their line.
Then the delegation from Philadelphia came in. They used words like youse and called Boston a "college town with a fishing pier" and referred to themselves as "rowdy Quakers." They brought food like venison hoagies.
Obviously the skit was poking fun at the participants in the Super Bowl, which is slated to start in a few hours.
Maybe you have to be a lover of history like myself to appreciate some of the humor, but it really struck me as the best skit of its kind since early in SNL's existence, when the program's trailblazers like Bill Murray and Garrett Morris saluted Lord Douchebag (Buck Henry).
Anyway, the skit came to an end when the two groups agreed to take their fight outside — and the delegates who remained in Independence Hall wondered if it would be possible for both to lose.
No doubt millions of people are wondering the same thing today.
"Behold, the bridegroom cometh. And no oil for my lamp as usual. A foolish virgin me. Oh, foolish anyway."
Daisy (Ann Harding)
On the rare occasions when I have seen "The Animal Kingdom," I have found it hard to believe it wasn't made in the 1960s. While it looks every bit the 1930s flick that it is, it was the classic tug–of–war between safe, conservative lifestyles/generations and rebellious ones.
In "The Animal Kingdom," which premiered on this day in 1932, Leslie Howard played a well–off book publisher who lived with his lover (Ann Harding), a Bohemian artist. (Remember, this was in the days before the implementation of the Hays Code.)
They also happened to be pretty close friends. Sex and friendship, as you may have noticed, do not always go hand in hand. In this case, though, they did.
His father wanted him to have a more conventional life, and when he acquiesced, his bride was Myrna Loy, who was socially prominent but did not have that same spark with Howard that he had with Harding.
It showed.
At Loy's insistence, Howard's character sold books he knew would sell — whereas, when he had been with Harding, he published the books he wanted to publish. Their sales potential had far less influence on his decisions.
Loy was also steering Howard away from his old friends; in fact, she just wanted him to sell the business and live with his father in New York where they could assume their rightful places as respectable members of society.
In the meantime, although she tried to stay away from Howard, Harding and the couple's circle of friends found it impossible to believe Howard truly was happy. That was a tough one for viewers to accept, too, given the fact that Howard kept seeking out Harding to use as a sounding board on, well, everything.
I know that Howard was a matinee idol in the '30s, and I know he was a civilian hero during World War II — but I also know that the characters he played (well, the ones I have seen) were weak–kneed schlemiels. Maybe that was just the kind of character he played — or perhaps that was how he chose to play all his characters, whether they were intended that way or not. Nevertheless his character in "The Animal Kingdom" fit that description.
Tom, his character in "The Animal Kingdom," was every bit as malleable as Ashley Wilkes in "Gone With the Wind."
I doubt that anyone ever mistook Leslie Howard for John Wayne.
I only recently became aware of this movie; while I liked it, the title baffled me and still does. At first I concluded that it was an allusion to the fact that humans, as advanced as we are, are still animals, and we act on our animal instincts, primitive though they may be.
But the second time I watched it I picked up on one of Harding's lines — "For all our big talk, we both still belong to the animal kingdom."
And I began to think that maybe it means more than animal instincts. Maybe it is a reference to the different ways humans find to survive trials and tribulations.
And isn't the instinct to survive the most powerful instinct of all?
"You should be very glad I'm not 12. I was a very straightforward child. I used to spit."
Susan (Ginger Rogers)
One of the things I enjoy most about my informal study of movies is observing how styles — both acting and directorial — evolve over time.
Take Billy Wilder, for example. He was a fledgling director when his comedy "The Major and the Minor" premiered on this date 75 years ago. There were many great movies in his future, movies that would bring him fame and fortune and half a dozen Oscars.
But the seeds for the things he did in those classic triumphs — like "Some Like It Hot" — were planted in his earliest efforts.
The female star of "The Major and the Minor" was Ginger Rogers. She was 31 years old — and had to play a woman who posed as a girl of 12 to get half fare on a train ticket. That was the premise of the story.
It was a preposterous premise.
No one who saw Ginger Rogers could be expected to believe she was 12 years old at that time. It was so remarkable that the tag line for the movie — the line that appeared on every poster — was "Is she a kid — or is she kidding?"
But I saw a clip of Wilder speaking about what he learned from "The Major and the Minor." He said he learned that audiences could accept and go along with outrageous notions — like a 31–year–old woman being mistaken for a girl less than half her age — under certain circumstances — like if you made viewers feel they were being let in on something.
That lesson served him well when he made "Some Like It Hot" more than 15 years later. After all, no one would have mistaken Jack Lemmon or Tony Curtis for women, but audiences could accept them as men who were posing as women because they knew why they were doing it.
It was the same logic, I suppose, that made dress–wearing Klinger one of the most popular characters on the TV show M*A*S*H. (Of course, Klinger wasn't posing as a woman nor was he a transvestite. He was pretending to be crazy so he would be discharged from the Army.)
It was probably easier to accept the gag when you saw how much Rogers seemed to be enjoying playing the part. In fact, I have heard that it was her favorite of all her movies — surprisingly, above "Kitty Foyle," which brought Rogers her Best Actress Oscar two years earlier.
Being an Oscar winner brings with it certain privileges, and by 1942 Rogers was in position to insist on certain things. One of the things she insisted on was having Wilder as the movie's director. It was a significant moment in his career.
"We had a lot of fun making the picture. It was that kind of story. And even though it was his first film, from day one, I saw that Billy knew what to do. He was very sure of himself. He had perfect confidence," Rogers said. "I've never been sorry I made the film. 'The Major and the Minor' really holds up. It's as good now as it was then."
Another person from the movie who would play a big part in Wilder's success was Rogers' male co–star, Ray Milland, who played a paternal Army major from a military academy. The story goes that, upon winning the job of the movie's director, Wilder pulled up at a red light next to Milland and called out to him that he was making a movie. Did Milland want to be in it? Milland said he would, and Wilder sent him a copy of the script. Milland liked it and made the movie.
A few years later, the two of them worked on another movie together, "The Lost Weekend." It won four Oscars — Best Picture, Best Actor and two for Wilder (Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay).
Just goes to show you that your life can change direction suddenly, probably when you least expect it. A seemingly chance encounter at a red light may well have been the catalyst for both men's careers — although I rather suspect both men would have succeeded even if their cars had not been next to each other at a stoplight.
Milland's character was just about the only one who didn't seem to know that Rogers was quite a bit older than she was letting on. He met Rogers on a train, bought the idea that she was really a 12–year–old girl and took her under his wing, encouraging her to call him Uncle Phillip.
Talk about asking the audience to suspend disbelief.
Even Diana Lynn, who played the younger sister of Milland's fiancée, knew that Rogers wasn't 12. Only Milland didn't know — or at least suspect — the truth.
But in true screwball comedy fashion, everything worked out in the end. Milland realized that Rogers was a grown woman, not a 12–year–old girl, promptly fell in love with her and seemed to be en route to a quickie wedding in Reno while traveling to the West Coast.
Only possible in Hollywood, the land of make believe.
"Four stores and many Christmases ago, my father brought forth a factory conceived in innocence and joy and squeezable fun for everyone."
Leslie Zevo (Robin Williams)
You'd think that a movie called "Toys" that premiered at theaters exactly one week before Christmas would be a sure thing.
And yet Barry Levinson's "Toys," which starred Robin Williams and made its debut on this day in 1992, failed to make back half of its budget.
Perhaps, all evidence to the contrary, that is because "Toys" really wasn't a children's movie. It created a whimsical world, much like, say, "Willy Wonka" did, but it used simple childhood experiences and memories to make more complex and mature points.
A kooky toymaker (Donald O'Connor) was at death's door, and he knew it, but he had to decide who should inherit his toy empire. He didn't feel his children (Williams and Joan Cusack) were ready for the responsibility so he decided to leave it to his brother (Michael Gambon), a military general. He wasn't really suited for it; Williams' character had more in common with his father and would have made a better choice. He would have been more likely to represent continuity in the operation of the business.
Well, that was my opinion. (Of course, if the producers had done things in the way that made sense to me, they wouldn't have had a story to tell.)
For example, when the old man finally died, Williams and Cusack opted not to ride in a limousine to the graveside service, choosing instead to ride in their father's car — a bumper car.
It's the sort of thing their father would have done.
But their uncle was a different kind of guy. Frustrated by a career in the military that fell short of his expectations, he agreed to take over the toy factory when his brother died (after consulting with his father, played by Jack Warden in a very limited role) and made his biracial son (rapper LL Cool J) his second in command. He decided to run the factory in a very military way, cracking down on leaks and inaugurating the production of war toys.
That was important because his brother objected to war toys, wouldn't make them in his factory, and Williams' character had inherited that predisposition, it seemed.
The movie seemed to lose its direction, though. Critic Roger Ebert summed it up this way: "The opening scenes create a completely original world, and then the second half of the film invades that world, not with fresh imagination but with tired old conflicts. What are we to make of a world where the battle against war toys is carried out ... by programming peaceful toys to fight?"
It's even more bewildering when you realize how prescient "Toys" was. Several years before most people had heard of virtual reality, "Toys" introduced them to the concept.
"Toys" also introduced viewers to drones — again, many years before they became commonplace.
As always Robin Wright was pretty and charming, and there was an authentic quality to her down–home accent. I guess you could expect that, seeing as she was born in Dallas, but she was raised in San Diego. Maybe that's where she picked up her dolphin imitation.
In its way, I guess "Toys" was kind of a "Peter Pan" story for its generation. It was, more than anything, a tale about those who refuse to grow up — and those who are determined to drag them, kicking and screaming, into the adult world anyway.
And Rob Reiner's "The Bucket List," which premiered in Hollywood on this day in 2007.
Edward (Jack Nicholson), a billionaire, and Carter (Morgan Freeman), a blue–collar mechanic, had nothing in common — until they found themselves sharing a hospital room after being diagnosed with terminal cancer. They gradually got to know each other, and one day Edward saw Carter writing on a notepad. He asked Carter what he was doing, and Carter said nothing special, just scribbling.
Turned out Carter was engaging in an exercise in forward thinking that a philosophy professor had assigned many years earlier. It was a bucket list — a list of things one wants to do before one "kicks the bucket." In Carter's case it was more a list of things he wanted to achieve — like "help a complete stranger for the good" and "laugh until I cry." Edward's list was more about things he wanted to see — such as the Pyramids — and do — like skydiving.
I am not a linguist so I do not know how long the phrase bucket list has been in existence. Most people have always had in mind certain things they wanted to do before they died — whether they actually did them or not — compiled in a mental list. I just don't know if it had been given a name before the movie premiered.
And I have known people who really did cross off items on their bucket lists — but they did so in very piecemeal fashion as if actively crossing off items on a list was an admission that they would die. So they did things one at a time with lots of time in between.
I do know that it was on everyone's lips afterward, even long after the movie left the theaters — and today, if someone mentions bucket list, you know exactly what is meant. In the movie it required a little explanation.
But the underlying concept was easy to grasp, just as it was in "Groundhog Day." Like Bill Murray learning to function within his new reality, Edward and Carter were forced to face their mortality.
So they embarked on an adventure. It was something most people could understand even if it was impossible for them to achieve. But Edward, as I said, was a billionaire, the developer of hospitals, including the one in which he met Carter, and when he brought up the idea of traveling the world and seeing and doing things they had always dreamed of seeing and doing, it appealed to Carter, who probably never thought any of his dreams would come true.
That may have appealed to moviegoers, too, the thought of having money restrictions taken out of the equation. That can be very liberating, and the premise can be very profitable. ("The Bucket List"earned nearly four times what it cost to make.)
Thus Edward and Carter went on something of a road trip — although it is rather hard to see a skydiving interlude in a road trip context. For that matter the road trip crossed continents that were separated by oceans so the entire trip did not take place on a road.
But perhaps that is being too literal.
There were lots of contradictions in the movie, which led to a wide range of opinions about it. Some people see it as a great buddy movie while others think it was awful.
I have mixed opinions.
When I referred to being too literal, that was sort of a hint about my thoughts on "The Bucket List." While it dealt with a serious topic, I felt that the movie, like most movies that are made, should not be taken too literally. I found it worked best when one looked at it as a fantasy.
I mean, people are diagnosed with some form of cancer every year, and the daily battles that cancer victims must wage are too unpleasant to talk about. That's the reality. And another reality is that few cancer victims have the good fortune to meet someone who can foot the bill while they go chasing all their dreams.
Like, for example, seeing the Pyramids — but that was really the billionaire's goal. The mechanic was just along for the ride.
Which brings me to a point that critic Roger Ebert made: "The boys in front of the Pyramids look about as convincing as Abbott and Costello wearing pith helmets in front of a painted backdrop."
That was essentially Ebert's verdict on the movie's special effects, and it was certainly valid, as was his observation that, in this road trip, "the only realistic detail is the interior of Edward's private jet." And I could live with that.
But as Ebert went on to point out, the emphasis was largely on Nicholson's character who "throws his money around like a pig and makes Carter come along for the ride." He was the least likable of the two, and the movie probably would have benefited if Carter had been the focus, if the narration at the start and end of the movie had been Nicholson praising Freeman's virtues and how he had changed what little life he had left — instead of the other way around.
That, it seemed to me, was the statement that this movie needed to make.
But Edward was the one with the money, and money makes the world go around — and makes others go around the world.
"Well, I suppose Lust and Gluttony really have to be rather near the bathroom."
Stanley (Dudley Moore)
Every generation has its sex symbol, and Raquel Welch was the sex symbol for mine — at least when I was a boy.
Her appeal had long been eclipsed by others when I got older — but she was 27 and still in her peak years when she appeared in a British Faustian comedy, "Bedazzled," that premiered on this day in 1967.
Well, she played a character named Lust. That should tell you everything you really need to know.
(Side note here: "Bedazzled" combined elements that could be seen in past and future projects. It reminded me of a Twilight Zone episode that first aired seven years earlier and a movie that was in theaters more than 30 years later.)
But she wasn't the object of Dudley Moore's affections when the movie began. Moore's character, a short–order cook, was smitten with a waitress (Eleanor Bron) with whom he worked. And he earnestly prayed for the courage to approach her.
Observing all this was the Devil (Peter Cook), who struck a deal with Moore for his soul. In exchange, Moore received seven wishes.
There were some inside jokes that mostly Britons would get. For example, after acquiring Moore's soul, Cook asked him what his first wish would be. Did he want to be prime minister? Then Cook corrected himself: "No, I've made that deal already."
Actually, Moore's wishes all involved winning the waitress, but the Devil kept manipulating things to make the wishes fail.
Well, the waitress might not have been terribly responsive, but Lust certainly was, visiting Moore in his bedroom and shucking her dress, revealing red bra and panties she wore underneath. Raquel often wore revealing clothes and underclothes — but I don't think she ever revealed much beyond that — in her movies.
If she had been the sex symbol for a later generation, she might have. But not at that time.
That tricky Devil really had it in for Moore, though. He made him squander his wishes, then cheated him out of the last one by claiming that the first "wish" had been one Moore made at the Devil's urging — to prove he really was the Devil.
That left Moore having to spend the rest of his existence in the form of his last wish — in Moore's case, that was as a nun.
And at a farewell party for Moore, Raquel was a go–go dancer.
Actually, it was a rather small part for Raquel. Not many lines. Not much screen time. I guess she was mostly eye candy.
As the story required personifications of the Seven Deadly Sins, someone had to play Lust. And who better than the sex symbol of the day? But I really thought that Lust would figure more prominently in this kind of story.
Anyway, Moore had the last laugh, reacquiring his soul and returning to his old life as a short–order cook with the same crush on the waitress — but determined to get no more help from the Devil.
"Bedazzled" was underrated by the critics of the day, but it had a wry sense of humor that seems to gain admirers with the passage of time.
"My looks are my comic equipment, and they are the right packaging for my job."
Marty Feldman
As hard as it is for me to believe, it was 35 years ago today that Marty Feldman died of a heart attack in Mexico City.
He was 48 years old.
I was deeply saddened when he died. It was no secret that Feldman had health issues — he suffered from thyroid disease and developed Graves' ophthalmopathy, causing his eyes to bulge, among other things — but Mel Brooks, who directed two movies in which Feldman appeared ("Young Frankenstein" and "Silent Movie"), apparently had a pretty good idea why Feldman died so young.
"He smoked sometimes half a carton of cigarettes daily," Brooks said, "drank copious amounts of black coffee and ate a diet rich in eggs and dairy products."
Feldman was a unique comedic talent, and, yes, he was right when he said his looks were his equipment. His bug–eyed look was a huge part of his appeal. It is impossible to overestimate the value of his looks to his vocation.
Somehow I think he still would have been funny with more normal eyes.
But without those bug eyes would it have been as funny when Gene Wilder said, "Damn your eyes!" in "Young Frankenstein," and Feldman replied, "Too late"?
I seriously doubt it.
I know that, if he had lived, Feldman would be in his 80s now and almost certainly retired. But we sure could have used his sense of humor in as many of the last 35 years as the fates would allow.
"After three husbands, it takes a lot of butter to get you back in the frying pan."
Rose (Rosalind Russell)
Natalie Wood was in a distinctly different phase of her career when she appeared in "Gypsy," which premiered on this day in 1962.
She began her career just shy of her fifth birthday and made more than 20 films as a child — including "Miracle on 34th Street."
But as Wood got older, she began transitioning into more mature roles in the 1950s and early 1960s — and her performance in "Gypsy" was, to say the least, mature.
Or, to be more specific, for mature audiences.
It didn't begin that way. It started innocently enough.
But the young girl who captured the nation's hearts in "Miracle on 34th Street" grew into a complex young woman, alternately enchanting, captivating and beguiling on the silver screen.
Sometimes she was all three. That was how it was in "Gypsy."
When the movie began, Wood played Rosalind Russell's supportive daughter. Russell was the epitome of a stage mother, but she wanted Wood's older sister (Ann Jillian) to be the star so, with the help of an agent (Karl Malden), she formed a Vaudeville act around the girls and took it on the road. That wasn't what Jillian wanted, though, and she eloped.
That left Wood, and Russell's character pushed her onto the stage — but it turned out to be a different kind of stage.
See, part of Russell's pitch was presenting her daughters as young girls. But, of course, no one stays young forever, and that illusion became harder and harder to maintain as the years went by.
Jillian just couldn't keep doing it and eloped with one of the dancers in the sisters' Vaudeville act, which left Wood — Russell's less talented daughter — and Russell poured everything she had into promoting her.
But there was a complication.
The rising popularity of movies with sound was causing a decline in the popularity of stage entertainment, and work was scarce. To make ends meet the act took a job at a burlesque house, in effect providing cover for the more unsavory activities that went on there.
One day one of the strippers was arrested for shoplifting, and Wood was more or less drafted to fill in for her. She didn't make much of an initial impression, but as she gained confidence in herself, the audience responded.
And a star was born.
Inevitably, though, Wood's stardom clashed with her mother's obsessive behavior. Something had to give.
The audience got to witness a remarkable transformation. The first time Wood was seen, she was about 13. Roughly 15 years passed by the end of the movie, and Wood had turned from a rather ordinary young girl into a self–assured and beautiful young woman.
I always thought she deserved an Oscar nomination, but "Gypsy" received no nominations for acting. It did, however, receive three Oscar nominations — ironically, given the subject matter, one of the nominations was for costume design.
One of my colleagues at work is a member of the Millennial generation.
She is also a big fan of Audrey Hepburn, who died before my co–worker was born. I learned of her fondness for Hepburn last year when she told me how she dressed like Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" for a costume party given by the youth group at her church.
I asked a perfectly reasonable question: Did anyone know who she was pretending to be?
Her answer surprised me: Yes!
In fact, she said, just about everyone knew who she was.
I have always admired Hepburn, too, and I think one of the primary reasons for her appeal is that it wasn't really possible to pigeonhole her. She was an extraordinarily versatile actress who could do many things well. Even so she never seemed like the sort of star who would appeal to the Millennials.
At least that was my take on it. I stand corrected.
One of the best examples of her versatility was the British movie that made its debut on this day in 1967 — "Two for the Road" — which starred another versatile thespian, Albert Finney. They made an appealing on–screen couple.
Just one problem. That seemingly picture–perfect marriage was imploding.
As Roger Ebert observed in his review of the movie, "Love is ever so much more satisfactory in the movies where every other kiss is framed by a sunset, and people are always running toward each other in slow motion, their arms outstretched, while in the background the tide comes in, or goes out, or keeps busy, anyway."
Just about every married couple I know would tell you that isn't what marriage is really like.
That is what courtship is like. That's what going together (or whatever they call it these days) is like.
But when you say "I do," you're saying "I do" to a whole lot of stuff that is not mentioned directly in your vows — like the fact that you will have to work on keeping that spark of romance alive more often and in more ways than you think.
Some marriages can overcome that. Some can't.
That was the subtext of the story, and it was far from certain which way this couple would go. They had their two–seater transported to Northwestern France, and they took off on a road trip to the southeastern corner of the country. Finney played a successful architect, and they planned to participate in a celebration of the completion of a client's project.
The road through France was one they had traveled before, and the current road trip gave them the opportunity to reflect on events in their lives and examine where life had taken them since they met.
It was an intriguing story–telling technique, but the memories weren't always pleasant. There were moments of infidelity on both sides.
If you happen to catch this one on TV, look for Jacqueline Bisset in one of her early roles.
And listen for the title song, "Two for the Road," which was written by Henry Mancini. It wasn't nominated for an Oscar, unlike many of his other songs, but Mancini said it was his personal favorite.
In fact, the movie was all but ignored by the Oscars, receiving only one nomination, even though Ebert was adamant that "Two for the Road" was one of the best movies of 1967.
I thought it was a well–told story, balancing comedy and drama in that poignant way that real life does. To some viewers, the end may seem to be an unrealistic compromise in which the two remain together in spite of all that has passed before.
And there may be something to that.
But director Stanley Donen treated it differently than your typical Hollywood happy ending. He had Hepburn and Finney cross the French border into Italy, something they had never done before.
They symbolically turned the page and began a new chapter, traveling into unexplored territory.
"The Bachelor and the Bobby–Soxer," which made its debut 70 years ago today, was a silly story, but it had a strong cast that made it worth watching.
And, while it was silly, the story was interesting enough to keep audiences engaged — and the cast didn't hurt.
Cary Grant was one of the hottest stars in America (ranked #2 all time by the American Film Institute). The bobby–soxer was played by Shirley Temple, once the hottest star in the country (when she was a child) and ranked #18 among actresses by AFI. Myrna Loy didn't make AFI's list, but she found fame in the "Thin Man" movies in the years preceding "The Bachelor and the Bobby–Soxer."
All in all, a top–notch cast, and they produced an entertaining movie.
The first character the audience met was Loy, who played a judge at a time when female jurists must not have been too common. They can't be a lot more common today; the American Bar Association reported in 2014 that women made up slightly more than one–third of the American legal profession.
Loy may or may not have been seen as a trailblazer for women who aspired to careers in the law, but her portrayal may have been groundbreaking. I'm not aware of actresses who played judges in the movies before she did — although there may well have been some.
Anyway ...
Loy was presiding over a case in which Grant played a wrongfully accused defendant.
Grant's character was a bachelor artist who was charged with starting a brawl at a nightclub. When it became clear that the fight started between two women, both of whom wanted to be with Grant, Loy released Grant with a warning.
And Grant went on his merry way to deliver a lecture at a high school attended by Temple, who happened to be Loy's younger sister. As I observed earlier, Temple was the bobby–soxer of the story.
Now without going into too much detail — but for the benefit of any folks under 75 who are reading this — a bobby–soxer was a teenage girl — specifically one easily influenced by social trends or fads. Each generation has its own names for specific types of people, and bobby–soxer was the term used for impressionable teenage girls in the '40s.
Temple's character was susceptible to the messages — both real and imagined — from guest lecturers, and she fell in love with Grant, whom she (literally) saw as a knight in shining armor as he delivered his lecture on art.
Now that kind of puppy love has been around for a long time, and teenage girls, whatever your generation called them, always seem to be especially vulnerable to it.
Temple's character was a rather extreme case — even for a bobby–soxer. She manufactured a reason to be with Grant — as a model for one of his paintings. In a complex screwball comedy kind of way, Temple was discovered at Grant's apartment by Loy; Grant was arrested — and offered a deal. If he would pretend to date Temple and let the infatuation burn itself out, the charges would be dropped.
So he agreed.
But as the scenario played out, Grant and Loy began to fall for each other, much to the dismay of the assistant district attorney, who wanted Loy for himself. To get Grant out of the way, he agreed to drop all charges against Grant, thus freeing him of any further obligation to see Temple.
In the end, all the right people ended up with each other — as inevitably they must in a screwball comedy. Temple went back to her long–suffering high school boyfriend, and Grant and Loy were together as well.
Comedies, especially screwball comedies, are seldom rewarded with Oscar nominations, but "The Bachelor and the Bobby–Soxer" didn't just receive a nomination. It had an even rarer achievement when it won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay.
"He'll regret it 'til his dying day if ever he lives that long."
"Red Will" Danaher (Victor McLaglen)
When most people think of John Wayne, they probably think of cowboy movies or war movies — or, in the case of "The Alamo," I suppose, both, even though I guess the cowboys in "The Alamo" were really frontiersmen.
And I will admit that, if someone mentions John Wayne to me, my first thought will be of "The Searchers," which is my favorite John Wayne movie.
I wrote a year ago that I thought his performance in John Ford's "The Searchers" was his defining role, and I still feel that way. But a close second would have to be a movie in which he played neither a cowboy nor a soldier — another Ford–directed movie called "The Quiet Man," which premiered on this day in 1952.
Ford won his fourth and final Best Director Oscar for "The Quiet Man." His previous Oscar was for "How Green Was My Valley," which took place in Wales and also starred Maureen O'Hara (Wayne's love interest in "The Quiet Man"). Among movie fans "How Green Was My Valley" is remembered for being the movie that beat "Citizen Kane" for Best Picture. (Perhaps it was compensation for that injustice that "The Quiet Man," clearly the superior movie, was beaten for Best Picture by "The Greatest Show on Earth" — although "High Noon" was the betting favorite in that category.)
("Of all my films," O'Hara said, "'The Quiet Man' is my favorite, and John Wayne, who became a dear friend, was my favorite leading man.")
Wayne played an American boxer returning to the village in Ireland where he had been born. He had been traumatized by having killed a man in the ring so he had returned to reclaim the family farm and start a new life.
When he met O'Hara, she became part of his plan for that new life.
But there was one big obstacle — O'Hara's bullying brother played by Victor McLaglen. He had wanted that farm for himself. When the owner, a wealthy widow played by Mildred Natwick, didn't sell it to him, he declined to give his sister his consent. Then, on their wedding day, he refused to give her her dowry. Wayne's character cared nothing about the dowry, not realizing what it meant in Irish culture — and simultaneously creating a rift between them.
In those cowboy and soldier movies, the climactic moment typically had Wayne in some sort of gunfight; in "The Quiet Man," it was a fistfight as Wayne, the supposedly reformed boxer, took on McLaglen in a memorable fistfight that ended with the two of them expressing grudging admiration for each other.
Barry Fitzgerald played a curmudgeonly sort of character, the kind of part he was born to play. I doubt he ever did it better than he did in "The Quiet Man."
"The Quiet Man" received seven Oscar nominations and won two awards. Ford took home Best Director, and Winton Hoch and Archie Stout won the Oscar for Best Color Cinematography.
Really, with all that gorgeous Irish countryside to work with (Ford, certainly one of the most influential filmmakers of his generation, was known for his frequent use of on–location filming), how could they miss?
"Nancy, I'm not a doctor, but it's got no pulse, it's not breathing, and it's cold as a Popsicle. Believe me, honey, whatever he is, he's definitely dead!"
George (John Lithgow)
As I have mentioned here before, I usually like to look for the lesson or moral of a movie or TV show I write about.
But sometimes you don't want to watch something with a lesson or a moral. Sometimes you just want to escape. Know what I mean?
And if anyone in the movie industry knows about escapism, it's Steven Spielberg.
Spielberg didn't direct "Harry and the Hendersons," which made its debut on this date in 1987, but the production company he founded — Amblin Entertainment — produced it. And, unless you happen to believe in Bigfoot, it was pure escapism — reminiscent of "E.T." in many ways.
(In fact, I know people who think "Harry and the Hendersons" was better than "E.T." Personally, I don't, but that's just me.)
Actually, there was a lesson or two — kinda — at the end, but I'll get back to that.
When the movie began, the Henderson family (John Lithgow, Melinda Dillon and their children, played by Margaret Langrick and Joshua Rudoy) had been on a hunting/camping trip in the Pacific Northwest and were on their way to their home in Seattle when their car struck a large figure whose details were obscured by glare.
At first it appeared to be a bear but, upon closer inspection, the Hendersons concluded it must be Bigfoot. They also concluded it was dead and decided to bring it back with them, figuring it would be worth a lot of money to them.
But the creature (played by 7–foot actor Kevin Peter Hall) was not dead and, after learning rather belatedly that the world at large was not ready to accept the notion of Bigfoot's existence, they decided to make him a member of the family.
That was quite a challenge by itself. "Harry" (in the movie, it was suggested that his name originated from his appearance — but, in fact, it was an homage to Harry Nilsson. Bill Martin, who wrote the screenplay for the movie, also wrote some songs for Nilsson's "Harry" album) was not exactly domesticated and caused considerable damage to the house and the car.
And he was shocked to see Lithgow's hunting trophies on the wall. After all, some of them could have been Harry's friends.
But he was a gentle giant. His destructive behavior wasn't deliberate. It was mostly a matter of not knowing how his bulk and strength could affect his new environment — but you sure didn't want to make him mad.
He was remarkably intelligent. After only a short time with the Hendersons, he seemed to understand what they said to him. He even managed to speak one word of English before the end of the movie. Even in a situation in which observers really had to suspend their disbelief, that was tough to swallow.
It is safe to say that everyone had adjustments to make.
And while they were making those adjustments, there were other characters from outside the family circle who became involved in the story — notably a Bigfoot researcher (Don Ameche) and a Bigfoot–obsessed hunter (David Suchet).
Their contributions to the plausibility of the story were significant, and I'll leave it to you to discover how — if you're so inclined.
But as for the lessons of the story, which I mentioned briefly earlier ...
"Harry and the Hendersons" essentially told viewers not to judge a book by its cover. In this story some humans could — and did — behave in more beastly manners than the beast. Harry's compassion was genuine, but you had to look past his intimidating exterior to see it.
For those with more saintly dispositions, there was a lesson in the story that went like this: Forgiveness is a powerful thing. Do it whenever you can.
And another theme that was a little ahead of its time — but would be embraced by many today — is the suggestion that we should play an active role in protecting our environment.
It was more entertaining than I expected, and it was definitely a family friendly movie in the sense that objectionable language was kept to a minimum.
I really like Twilight Zone. There aren't many episodes I won't watch. In fact I have seen most of them multiple times.
I like Carol Burnett, too. There aren't many things that she has done in her career that I won't watch.
But you can't combine the two — although the powers that be tried to do that very thing 55 years ago tonight in an episode called "Cavender Is Coming." Such a combination is definitely an acquired taste, much like Richard Nixon's favorite food (cottage cheese with ketchup).
For my money it was the worst of the Twilight Zone episodes. It just wasn't a comedy series — although it did have its amusing moments. "Cavender Is Coming" always struck me as a slapstick kind of episode, not really a typical Twilight Zone episode.
It wasn't an isolated case, either. There were a few other Twilight Zone episodes that were silly and slapstick in nature as well, but "Cavender Is Coming" didn't straddle the line the way the others did. It went well past it.
In my mind, that is probably Twilight Zone's greatest shortcoming. From time to time, Twilight Zone's writers felt compelled to veer into comedy — and always fell flat on their faces in the attempt, too.
Anyway ...
I presume, gentle reader, that you have seen "It's a Wonderful Life," the Christmas classic starring Jimmy Stewart. Well, "Cavender Is Coming" followed a similar premise. An angel named Cavender — played by Jesse White, who was probably better known to people of my generation as the Maytag repairman even though he had a rather extensive career in movies and TV programs before he started making TV commercials — was trying to earn his wings. His assignment was to help a clumsy woman (Burnett) improve her life in 24 hours. The thing was that, while her life wasn't perfect, she wasn't unhappy.
Cavender had had other opportunities to earn his wings, but he had failed to do so, and it was taking longer with him than it had with any other angel. Consequently, failure to achieve this objective would result in demotion.
But a good performance would cause his superiors (one of whom was John Fiedler, who always played mousy parts but nevertheless was in several of the best movies of his time, including "12 Angry Men," "True Grit" and "The Odd Couple") to reconsider his case.
As you can probably imagine, this put Cavender under some pressure. Things weren't helped by Burnett's response, which was (to put it mildly) skeptical.
But he persuaded her that he was the real deal through a few "miracles" that were predicated on the belief that wealth equals happiness. That was an easy assumption to make, given that Burnett was unemployed and behind on her rent when he was given his assignment.
Burnett disabused him of that after he had transformed her into a wealthy socialite living in a mansion. He arranged for her to have a big party with lots of debutantes and celebrities — all the things he thought should make her happy.
One of the guests at the party was future Beverly Hillbillies star Donna Douglas, who was making her second appearance on Twilight Zone. She had a bit part as a debutante in this episode; she was the star (although someone else spoke her lines) in "The Eye of the Beholder" in the previous season.
Douglas spoke her own lines in "Cavender Is Coming," but she only had a couple of them.
It is a shame, really, that Twilight Zone made the episode so slapstick because it had a pretty good message about happiness that kind of got lost.
The bewildered and exasperated Cavender, desperate to get his wings, demanded, "Don't you want to be happy?" after Burnett told him she didn't want to live in the mansion and throw parties for debutantes.
"You don't understand me," she replied. "I was happy. I want it the way it was."
Cavender couldn't understand that. "The way it was? Unstable, unresolved and unemployed?"
Burnett smiled and nodded. "Disconnected, discombooberated and behind in my rent. But that's for me."
In other words, the happiest people aren't the richest people. They're just happy with what they have — and that makes them rich, as Cavender conceded near the end of the episode.
"You are the richest woman I know," Cavender told her. "You have an abundance of wealth. And it seems that I've had to travel a very long distance to find out that cash and contentment aren't necessarily synonymous."
That is probably true although it may also be true that, as Mrs. Howell once said on Gilligan's Island, "Whoever says money can't buy happiness doesn't know where to shop."
There was a certain sameness to Elvis Presley's movies. A prime example is "Double Trouble," which premiered on this day in 1967.
Now, you know when you watch an Elvis movie that you aren't going to be watching something that was nominated for an Oscar for anything — even the music, which was the reason for it all.
But the movies and the music didn't always fall as short of the mark as they did with "Double Trouble."
There was a symbiotic relationship between Elvis' records and movies. Elvis movies existed primarily to promote Elvis' latest records — and, since just about anything with Elvis' name on it was guaranteed to make money, there doesn't seem to have been much thought given to many of the albums he made or the films that were made to promote them.
One could say many things about Elvis Presley, but one thing you could say about him that would encounter virtually no dissent would be the assertion that Elvis did not record concept or theme albums.
The main concern seems to have been to grind it out as quickly as possible and move on to the next one. In many years, Elvis made two, three, even four movies.
Plot? What plot? Plots were flimsy at best. Sometimes they were (ostensibly) dramatic stories, and sometimes they were (again, ostensibly) comedies. "Double Trouble" was a comedy. Ostensibly.
He had an attractive co–star (Annette Day). His co–stars were always attractive, though. The story was set in Europe, but Elvis' movies were set all over the world. They say it's good to be King.
There were better Elvis movies. Most of them, in fact.
Elvis made more than 30 movies, three of them in 1967, which was probably his weakest year on the big screen.
"Double Trouble" was arguably the weakest of the three. The soundtrack album the movie spawned was clearly the weakest of the three that hit music stores that year.
Nevertheless, the movie was the No. 58 moneymaker at the box office, and Presley's album reached No. 47 on the Billboard charts despite the absence of any true hits.
As I say, anything with Elvis' name on it made money.
But ...
If you see "Double Trouble" listed in your TV listings, do yourself a favor.
"Is there a man in the world who suffers as I do from the gross inadequacies of the human race?"
Sheridan Whiteside (Monty Woolley)
There are some actors and actresses who become typecast for spot–on portrayals in large — and not–so–large — roles. Carroll O'Connor as Archie Bunker comes to mind. So does Max Baer Jr. as Jethro Bodine.
Monty Woolley almost surely fit that description for audiences of an earlier generation with his portrayal of Sheridan Whiteside in "The Man Who Came to Dinner," a movie that premiered 75 years ago today but was based on a play in which Whiteside starred on Broadway a few years earlier.
Sometimes people who become typecast in the public's imagination as certain characters embrace them, and Whiteside could be put in that category. After hundreds of stage appearances and a big–screen performance of the same role, he went on to be Sheridan Whiteside on TV, too. He didn't just embrace the role, he embraced the emerging technology of his day.
There probably was no one more qualified to play Whiteside on the big screen than Woolley, who gave nearly 800 stage performances as the sharp–tongued radio curmudgeon who slipped on some ice and injured his leg when visiting the home of a prominent Ohio family (the matriarch was Billie Burke, perhaps better known as Glinda the Good With of the North from "The Wizard of Oz") during the Christmas season.
Whiteside was told he had to stay where he was until he healed so the wheels were set in motion. Do you think millenials are self–centered? They are amateurs compared to Sheridan Whiteside. If you look up the word narcissist in the dictionary, you'll probably find a picture of Sheridan Whiteside next to the definition.
The conniving Whiteside soon came to dominate the household and all who came in contact with it.
As this guest who would not leave, he began to wreak all sorts of havoc — all under the guise of being seriously injured. You see, Whiteside — and the audience — learned fairly early on that he wasn't as seriously injured as previously thought. Still he faked his injury and sought to impose his will on everyone else.
He lavished insults on everyone, ran up huge phone bills, entertained a parade of unsavory visitors and monopolized the time and energy of the house staff. He told the patriarch's children to follow their dreams, which was very much against their father's wishes (not to mention the societal norms of the times). He tried to sabotage his assistant (Bette Davis) in her budding romance with a local newspaperman using Ann Sheridan. Then when his plan backfired he tried to get Ann Sheridan out of the way with the help of his buddy, played by Jimmy Durante.
Woolley wasn't the only original Broadway cast member to appear in the movie. Making her big–screen debut was Mary Wickes, who returned as Nurse Preen. She became a familiar face but was known more as a character type, not a specific character.
Woolley, with his trademark whiskers, was the embodiment of his character type, and that character type was synonymous with his elitist–sounding name — Sheridan Whiteside.
I guess Woolley had every right to be proud of his performance. Both Charles Laughton and Orson Welles were considered for the role even though Woolley had been in all those Broadway productions. Welles did eventually play Sheridan Whiteside — in a TV adaptation.
"Believe me, I know women — upside down and backwards, which is not a bad way to know 'em, huh?"
Vic (Dan Aykroyd)
Whoever you are and wherever you live or have lived, you're sure to have your share of bad neighbor stories.
Unless, of course, you are a bad neighbor.
"Neighbors," which premiered on this day in 1981, was the story of the ultimate bad neighbors, I suppose, and one man's (John Belushi) response to their intrusion into his space.
"If there's one quality that middle–class Americans have in common," wrote Roger Ebert in his review of the movie, "it's a tendency to be rigidly polite in the face of absolutely unacceptable behavior. Confronted with obnoxious rudeness, we freeze up, we get a nervous little smile, we allow our eyes to focus on the middle distance, and we cannot believe this is happening to us. It's part of our desire to avoid a scene. We'd rather choke to death in a restaurant than break a plate to attract attention."
But everyone has a breaking point, and Belushi's character reached his when Dan Aykroyd and Cathy Moriarty moved into the neighborhood.
"They are everything we dread in neighbors," Ebert observed. "They are loud. They are blatant freeloaders. The man is gung–ho macho. The woman is oversexed and underloved. They park some kind of customized truck on their front lawn. They invite themselves to dinner."
Given that nugget of information, it probably isn't hard to guess how the plot unfolded — especially since it included the team of Belushi and Aykroyd.
But what was intriguing about "Neighbors" was not the sometimes predictable dialogue. It was Belushi and Aykroyd's unexpected role reversal. In most of their work together, on the big or small screen, Belushi was the wild man and Aykroyd was the plain vanilla guy.
In "Neighbors," it was the precise opposite. Belushi played Earl, a routine kind of guy living a quiet life in his little corner of the world. Then Aykroyd and Moriarty invaded.
Sadly, Belushi died a few months after "Neighbors" made its theatrical debut.
"Neighbors" was an indication of how much we lost when we lost Belushi. With Belushi and Aykroyd taking roles that were unexpected, we got a glimpse of their versatility. All their movies would not have been "Blues Brothers" retreads. Unfortunately, we never found out.
Belushi had many irons in the fire at the time of his death. One of his planned projects was to appear in "Ghostbusters" with Aykroyd.
Makes you wonder what might have been, doesn't it?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
