How to Get Over Heartbreak

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Most of us have had the painful experience being dumped, and that is what "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," which premiered on this day in 2008, was about.

Jason Segel, who will probably always be remembered for the role he played in How I Met Your Mother, played a composer who worked on the same TV detective show in which Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell) was a co–star. They had been lovers for quite some time, too — until Sarah rather unceremoniously dumped him early in the movie for a British rock star (Russell Brand).

Granted, that's a higher altitude than most of us reach in our relationships, but it is still possible to empathize with Segel's devastation — especially considering that he was naked when she told him it was over. Film critic Roger Ebert referred to it as "a humiliating, emotionally naked break–up and breakdown."

And it was. I felt it was one of those movie moments that you only want to see once — if at all. It almost felt like intruding on what was a very personal and very private experience.

Segel did everything he could to get over Sarah, but nothing worked. So he decided a change of scenery might help, and he went to Hawaii. Turned out Sarah and her rock star boyfriend were staying at the same resort.

It was at that resort that Segel's character encountered a hospitality clerk (Mila Kunis), and she became his new love interest. In the process, he learned more than he probably wanted to know about Sarah Marshall — like the fact that Sarah and the rock star boyfriend had been having sex for a year before she dropped Segel.

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Eventually, Sarah came to realize she had made a mistake, but it was too late.

Ebert thought the story was told well, but I disagreed. Far too many of the lines were about sex, either directly or indirectly. And while that is an important element of relationships, it is hardly the only one. Trust plays a big role, too, and the messages about trust were mostly implied — whereas the jokes about sex were, if anything, a bit too much in your face.

"We all do stupid, destructive and self–destructive things for which we're probably not going to forgive ourselves," Ebert wrote, "so the best thing in the world is when somebody else forgives us. In the movie's moral universe, there are no irredeemably bad people — just those afflicted to various degrees with shallowness, immaturity, selfishness, obliviousness, ambition."

I can't argue with that — but I also can't deny that the humor was often sophomorish. I didn't agree with Ebert's glowing assessment of it.

Playin' Those Mind Games

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"The key to this game is being able to read people."

Ben (Matthew McConaughey)

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When I was a boy, I had a big crush on Goldie Hawn. She was still young and beautiful in those days, had moved on from television work and had already won an Oscar in a still–nascent acting career.

Her daughter, Kate Hudson, co–starred with Matthew McConaughey in "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days," which premiered on this day in 2003. I would have regarded that title as an oxymoron if Goldie Hawn had starred in such a movie when I was a boy. I couldn't possibly understand why anyone wouldn't want to be with Goldie Hawn. I just thought she was so dang cute.

And, before I saw the movie, I found it pretty hard to comprehend about Goldie's daughter, too. Hudson looks a lot like her mother. She probably looked more like her mother a few years earlier when she was nominated for Best Supporting Actress (for "Almost Famous"). Unlike her mother, though, she did not win the Oscar — and she hasn't been nominated for one since.

It was hardly surprising that neither she nor McConaughey was nominated for "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days," considering that it had all the elements of a screwball comedy, which are audience pleasers but seldom regarded as Oscar material.

Except it couldn't pull it off.

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Hudson was a how–to writer for a women's magazine. McConaughey worked for an ad agency. They were thrown together by work–related wagers. Hudson was doing research for a how–to in reverse — all about the things that women do to drive men away. McConaughey's wager, to make a woman fall in love with him in 10 days, was tied to his pitch for a multimillion–dollar account.

Egged on by their respective bosses (Bebe Neuwirth and Robert Klein) Hudson and McConaughey pursued their hidden agendas, feeding off each other with reckless abandon — until that inevitable moment when they learned the truth — you know, the just desserts payoff that defines the screwball or romantic comedy and essentially justifies all that has come before.

From this premise, I will admit, the writers came up with some clever angles, and I do know a few young women who consider "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days" the greatest romantic comedy of all time — but that's really a stretch when you consider the truly great romantic comedies of the past.

Perhaps in the realm of the modern romantic comedy (roughly, the last two decades), it might be considered the best, but that is because romantic comedies themselves have changed in that time — and not for the better, in the eyes of some. Modern romantic comedies tilt rather heavily toward stereotypes that, by their definition, exclude chunks of the audience. Classic screwball/romantic comedies relied on truly bizarre circumstances that were not exclusive.

Weird things happen. Really weird things happen in rom–coms and screwball comedies.

For instance, more people could relate to Cary Grant's conundrum in "My Favorite Wife," in which his wife, who had been missing for seven years and was presumed dead, showed up just as he was about to remarry, than to Hudson and McConaughey, two upper–class, well–paid and well–educated young people playing mind games with each other.

And when they weren't playing with each other, they were watching the NBA Finals from practically courtside seats. Sometimes they killed two birds with one stone. Pretty unrealistic.

Of course, rom–coms have always been unrealistic. It is their exaggerated circumstances that usually make them work. But there are those who believe they have taken a darker turn of late.

I have read of the unhealthy effects of modern rom–coms on real–life relationships and how they interfere with people's ability to communicate with each other. That makes sense to me.

Frankly, though, "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days" wasn't good enough, by those standards, to have that kind of influence on people.

I thought it was mostly silly — and, seen in that light, it may have been a worthy successor to the Rock Hudson–Doris Day flicks. Rom–coms are nothing if not silly.

But I really didn't feel that Hudson and McConaughey had that kind of chemistry.

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Consequently, when their moments of comeuppance came, I found it hard to care. Their behavior may have justified those moments but not the two hours I invested in watching the movie.

(By the way award–winning composer Marvin Hamlisch made a cameo appearance during the comeuppance. I liked Hamlisch, and I suppose someone had to play such a role, but I lost a little of my regard for him when I saw him in this movie.)

Sometimes I wonder if that isn't expecting too much from a rom–com. The romantic/screwball comedy genre is and always has been escapism, and "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days" delivered in that regard.

Mostly.

It had that light–hearted wink wink nudge nudge kind of humor that is so characteristic of such a movie, but, in this case, it struck me as almost sad the way these characters reeked of insincerity.

I guess the joke was that neither was sincere to begin with.

When There's a Full Moon Over Brooklyn

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"Love don't make things nice — it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die."

Ronny (Nicolas Cage)

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Love triangles are, by their nature, complicated.

They become more complicated when all the parties are friends — and even more complicated when some are related. Most of the time, I suppose some of the parties are related by marriage, but sometimes they are related by blood.

Norman Jewison's "Moonstruck," which premiered in New York on this day in 1987, had both — well, kinda. There were several romances going on, and sometimes they overlapped. And all that got complicated, too.

The primary love story in "Moonstruck" involved a widow named Loretta (Cher), her boneheaded fiancé Johnny (Danny Aiello) and Johnny's brother (Nicolas Cage).

I liked a description that film critic Roger Ebert wrote several years ago. The story, Ebert wrote, "exists in a Brooklyn that has never existed, a Brooklyn where the full moon makes the night like day and drives people crazy with amore, when the moon–a hits their eyes like a big–a pizza pie. The soundtrack is equal parts 'La Boheme' and Dean Martin, and Ronny Cammareri's feelings are like those of an operatic hero, larger than life and more dramatic, as when he tells Loretta why he hates his brother Johnny."

So there's that.

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Johnny proposed to Loretta before departing for Sicily to be with his dying mother. Loretta accepted the proposal but said she wanted to be sure they followed tradition. It was her failure to do so the first time, she believed, that put the curse on her first marriage, leading to her first husband's death. Following tradition was OK with Johnny, and he told Loretta to be sure Ronny was invited to the wedding.

Loretta did not love Johnny; convinced that she was unlucky in love, Loretta was content to marry him even though she did not love him, but everything changed when she met Ronny.

Life can be funny that way, you know?

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Further complicating things were a couple of extramarital affairs in Loretta's own family.

Her father (Vincent Gardenia) was having an affair and so was her mother (Olympia Dukakis).

Cher and Dukakis took home Oscars for their performances. Jewison was nominated for Best Director, and Gardenia was nominated for Best Supporting Actor. And the movie was nominated for Best Picture.

Unholy Matrimony

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"Ever hear of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire? That was our crowd."

Jennifer (Veronica Lake)

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It would be an understandable — but false — conclusion that "I Married a Witch," which premiered on this day in 1942, was the genre predecessor to TV's Bewitched. I've always felt it had more in common with "Bell, Book and Candle," which, in turn, was probably more of an inspiration for Bewitched. But that is really just my own opinion.

The story dated back to the famed witch hunts of colonial days. Two witches (Veronica Lake and Cecil Kellaway) were burned at the stake after being denounced by Frederic March. The witches' ashes were buried beneath a tree to imprison their spirits. Lake put a curse on March and his descendants — they would all marry the wrong women.

And, as the movie showed through the generations, March's descendants (all played by March) did indeed end up with the wrong women. One of March's descendants, who was living at the time of the Civil War, opted to sign up to fight in the war rather than stay at home with his wife.

Then one day lightning split open the tree, and the spirits were freed. Lake and Kellaway, who played her father, went looking for the latest member of March's family. He was running for governor and was about to marry perhaps the greatest shrew of them all (Susan Hayward).

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The wedding was to be held on Election Day — a little publicity stunt dreamed up by March's soon–to–be father–in–law.

It was a slapstick love story in the same kind of mistaken–identity way as "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Lake originally intended to torment March, but she ended up accidentally drinking a love potion that had been meant for him — and she became determined to help him in any way she could.

Her father was against helping anyone in March's family so he and Lake were at cross purposes. It seemed he would win out when Hayward found March and Lake embracing and called off the wedding. Her father embarked on an 11th–hour campaign against March in all of his newspapers, and March went from a heavy favorite to a heavy underdog.

But Lake turned things around, engineering a unanimous landslide for March in which even his opponent didn't vote against him.

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Who would need to collude with the Russians — or anyone — with a lover who could do that?

(In hindsight, it is rather astonishing that Lake was able to generate a persuasive on–scene attraction to March. She didn't have much good to say about working with him. "He treated me like dirt under his talented feet," Lake said. "Of all actors to end up under the covers with. That happened in one scene, and Mr. March is lucky he didn't get my knee in his groin."

(March didn't regard "I Married a Witch" to be a highlight of his career, either. He said it was the worst experience he had ever had.)

Considering the chemistry that Lake and March had on the screen, it can be a bit of a letdown to learn that they really didn't care for each other. But that is the magic of Hollywood, isn't it? They certainly weren't the first co–stars who couldn't stand each other — nor were they the last.

It is hard to know which, if either, was right, but the evidence I have seen suggests that Lake was the problem. Actor Joel McCrea was considered for the role that eventually went to March. He was even announced as the lead actor in the movie, but he backed out, later claiming it was because he did not want to work with Lake again. The two had been paired in 1941's "Sullivan's Travels."

Well, she may have been hard to work with, but she got results.

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The slapstick nature of the story was aided by what I thought was one of Cecil Kellaway's most enjoyable performances — and the South African character actor had a lengthy movie resume that included a rather brief but still memorable role in "Harvey".

"I Married a Witch" received one Oscar nomination — for Best Dramatic Score — but lost to "Now, Voyager."

Telling a Story

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The Grandson (Fred Savage): Grandpa, maybe you could come over and read it again to me tomorrow.

Grandpa (Peter Falk): As you wish.

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My mother loved "The Princess Bride," which premiered on this day in 1987.

That is what I most remember about the movie.

Mom saw it at a theater. I didn't see it with her. For years after that, she kept urging me to rent the video tape, but I never did. Finally, she gave me a copy of the video tape for Christmas — just a few months before she died in a flash flood.

At the time of her death, I still hadn't watched the tape. I still had it, but I hadn't watched it. So one night I decided I was going to do it for Mom.

I thought the movie was cute, and I could see why Mom liked it, why so many people liked it. Critics liked it, and it was a modest success at the box office, too.

I would have liked to talk with Mom about it. That was what we did almost every time we saw a movie together. Our discussions were brief sometimes, extensive other times, but they were almost always the best part of the movie watching experience for me.

I miss many things about my mother, but that exchange of thoughts and ideas may be what I miss the most. I have no doubt that our conversation about "The Princess Bride" would have been one of our best.

Reading Roger Ebert's review was almost as good. Not quite, but almost.

"'The Princess Bride' reveals itself as a sly parody of sword and sorcery movies, a film that somehow manages to exist on two levels at once," Ebert wrote. "While younger viewers will sit spellbound at the thrilling events on the screen, adults, I think, will be laughing a lot."

I wanted to know which parts Mom found funny — and why. I think I know the answer, but I never truly will.

Ebert elaborated on that point, and I couldn't disagree.

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"In its own peculiar way, 'The Princess Bride' resembles 'This Is Spinal Tap,' an earlier film by the same director, Rob Reiner," he wrote. "Both films are funny not only because they contain comedy, but because Reiner does justice to the underlying form of his story. 'Spinal Tap' looked and felt like a rock documentary — and then it was funny. 'The Princess Bride' looks and feels like 'Legend' or any of those other quasi–heroic epic fantasies — and then it goes for the laughs."

Without going into too much detail, the movie was the telling of a story by a grandfather (Peter Falk) to his bedridden grandson (Fred Savage) — and if Mom could be here, I have no doubt she would say that I shouldn't spoil too much for anyone who hasn't seen it.

I don't think it would spoil too much, though, if I told you that, in the context of the story, it was established that the phrase "As you wish" really means "I love you."

When I discovered that, I understood the meaning of the note Mom had attached to that Christmas gift. "I think you'll like this," Mom wrote. "As you wish."

I remember being puzzled by that at the time, and I asked Mom about it. But all she did was smile. She knew what it meant, and she knew I would understand only if I watched the movie.

Ship of Dancing Fools

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

Charlie (Walter Matthau)

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

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

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

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

And their efforts really were wasted in this one.

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

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

But this was no sequel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just my opinion, you understand.

Hepburn and Tracy Doing What They Did Best

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If you ask anyone who is familiar with the movies of Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy to name his/her favorite Hepburn–Tracy movie, my guess is that most people wouldn't name "Desk Set," the movie that premiered on this day in 1957.

But I would.

The fact that it is a romantic comedy has nothing to do with it — I have nothing either for or against romantic comedies. As I have said many times, I like a well–written story. It can be a drama, a comedy, a romance, a thriller, whatever. Explosions and car chases don't impress me. Good writing impresses me.

And "Desk Set" is loaded with good writing. The dialogue between Hepburn and Tracy sizzles.

My favorite scene, the one I always have to watch unless I stumble onto a TV showing of this movie and it's past this part, is when Tracy (an efficiency expert) gave Hepburn (an office manager) a personality test while they were having lunch (sandwiches and coffee) on the roof of their building — in November.

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Tracy asked Hepburn what observations she had, if any, about this sentence: "Able was I ere I saw Elba."

"I doubt that Napoleon ever said anything like that," she replied.

Tracy pressed her. Anything else? No, she couldn't think of anything "unless you mean that it is spelled the same backwards and forwards."

A closeup of Tracy's face indicated that was precisely what he had meant. It's a palindrome.

"I know another one," Hepburn said. "'Madam, I'm Adam.'"

"I doubt that he ever said that," Tracy replied.

You know, moviegoers knew what they were getting when they went to a Hepburn–Tracy movie. This was their seventh movie, nearly twice as many as Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall made together — and everyone pretty much knew what to expect when Bogie and Bacall were teamed up in a movie.

It was a combination that worked, no matter what the subject.

And the subject in this movie happened to be computerization, which was still in its primitive stages in 1957 although it was almost prescient in its identification of the issues that would be prominent when computerization really took hold. For example, Tracy at one point told Hepburn what management has been telling employees for decades — that computers will make their work easier and they will be freed to pursue the kinds of projects for which they presently had no time.

And the subject of the computer eliminating jobs entirely was a prominent topic as well. It is no secret, 60 years later, that automation has eliminated many jobs. Computers have not made some lives better.

A lot has changed, though, which is part of the fun of watching this movie. This was made at a time when the popular image of a computer was some huge, complex machinery that filled an entire room and required multiple advanced degrees to operate.

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The computer generation will no doubt find that very funny, but "Desk Set" is a glimpse — albeit a humorous one — at a world that no longer exists.

After all, the computer on which you are reading this — no matter how big or small — is more powerful than the computers that were used to send men to the moon nearly 50 years ago. And "Desk Set" predated Apollo 11 historic journey by more than a decade.

Because of all the changes since the movie was made, it is best to treat it as what it was originally intended to be — a vehicle for Hepburn and Tracy to make their big–screen magic. When the movie began, Hepburn's character was involved with Gig Young, but as the story evolved so did her feelings for Tracy — and, for that matter, his for her. The knowledge that they would end up together was probably the worst–kept secret in the whole movie.

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But it still has some worthwhile points to make about office politics, points that are every bit as relevant today as they were in 1957.

I think it could be remade in 2017, updated with only a few tweaks here and there. Of course, the computer angle would have to be different, considering the hugely influential role the computer plays in 2017 compared to 1957. Who would you cast in Hepburn and Tracy's roles?

A Sentimental Journey

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People watch movies at different times and for different reasons.

And when I was a boy, it seemed that there was always something to be seen at the movies that would fit whatever mood you were in — whether you wanted to learn something or feel inspired or hear some catchy tunes ... or be amorous.

It seems less that way now to me. People don't seem to care as much about those things today as they do about splashy special effects, but human nature always seems to crave the same things — moreso for some at certain stages of life, I suppose — and the progression of the generations does not change that.

(As a writer, I like a good story, regardless of the setting.)

Sometimes you want to see a movie that will make you feel good, and in the months and years following World War II, America seems to have wanted to feel good again when it went to the movie theaters.

If that is what people were looking for when "It Happened in Brooklyn" premiered 70 years ago yesterday, they weren't disappointed.

Frank Sinatra played a returning veteran who had built up Brooklyn in his mind to heights it could never possibly reach. No place could, and Brooklyn failed to live up to the buildup. It was a disappointment for him.

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Well, everyone has problems.

Sinatra's buddy, played by Peter Lawford, followed him to the States from England in hopes of overcoming an extreme case of shyness. Lawford, as it turned out, was heir to a dukedom back in merry old England, but the journey to America seemed to be just the thing to bring him out of his shell.

If not, then love interest Kathryn Grayson could be.

That might be enough to make the plot thicken since Grayson was originally Sinatra's love interest — but, you see, the movie was really about how all these characters tried to launch careers in something other than the humdrum routine work they were doing.

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Sinatra moved in with an old friend, played by Jimmy Durante (for whom the movie production was halted for a week and a half so he could finish work on another movie), and went to work as a shipping clerk, but he wanted to be — guess what? — a singer, and that dream was shown to come true. There's a surprise, huh?

In fact, nearly every dream in the movie did come true. Grayson, who was a schoolteacher, dreamed of being an opera star. That was a dream that was not shown coming true — but, with her relationship with a duke–to–be, the audience could presume that her dream came true as well.

It wasn't exactly a classic, and you can probably guess everything that is going to happen before it happens, but "It Happened in Brooklyn" is still fun to watch.

Oscar–winning pianist and composer André Previn played the piano solos in the movie.

Having Fun With Olivia

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Olivia de Havilland, who marked her 100th birthday about three weeks ago, was an astonishingly fortunate woman in her youth.

She was one of those women who always looks younger than she is. Now, that is one of those things that most people attempt but few achieve. The ones who manage it seem to do so effortlessly. Perhaps some do. Perhaps others achieve it only after spending several hours working on it every day.

From what I have heard, de Havilland was one of those people who achieved it with no special effort. As a youth, I guess she was a natural beauty. It isn't necessary to guess, though. You can see it for yourself. She was in her early 20s when she made "Gone With the Wind."

She put that trait to good use in "The Ambassador's Daughter," which premiered on this day in 1956. In reality, de Havilland was 39 when the movie was being made — and turned 40 just before its theatrical premiere — but her character was probably in her 20s and, as the title suggested, the daughter of an ambassador (played by Edward Arnold), the ambassador to France to be specific.

A senator from America (Adolphe Menjou) declared Paris off limits to servicemen due to their misbehavior, and de Havilland's character took it upon herself to prove that U.S. servicemen could be gentlemen. She decided to do this by dating a serviceman who would not know her true identity. The serviceman (John Forsythe) was under the impression that she was a model, and he took her to nightclubs and on a humorous excursion to the Eiffel Tower.

There were some moments of deception on both sides.

Forsythe's character offered to buy de Havilland's character an airplane ticket to America when news of an emergency back in the States reached her, and she was suitably impressed — until she learned that counterfeit airplane tickets were a commonplace scam used by U.S. servicemen to score points with girls.

Forsythe, on the other hand, had been told that de Havilland was a Christian Dior fashion model, but when he went looking for her at a Dior fashion show, he discovered that Dior's staff had never heard of her. Then he saw de Havilland watching the show with the senator — and assumed they had some kind of relationship.

Everything got cleared up at the end when the two attended a performance of "Swan Lake."

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Myrna Loy as the senator's wife, in a rather understated role for her, joined forces with de Havilland to persuade the senator to lift his ban. Thus, all was well that ended well.

Director Norman Krasna built his reputation in screwball comedies — which would, understandably, make potential viewers think they would be in for an off–the–wall experience with "The Ambassador's Daughter." But they would be wrong. It was a romantic comedy, but that really isn't the same thing. The dynamics of a romantic comedy and a screwball comedy are different — in often subtle ways but still different.

The cast seemed to have a good time, but as for the audience ... I can only guess.

Well, it would be hard not to have a good time watching de Havilland have a good time.

Keeping Up With Miss Jones

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"It is a truth universally acknowledged that, when one part of your life starts going OK, another falls spectacularly to pieces."

Bridget Jones (Renee Zellweger)

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For some reason the late '90s and the early 2000s were prime years for TV shows and movies about the trials and tribulations of young single women.

Well, perhaps it wasn't quite as extreme as all that, but it is true that, from Calista Flockhart in Ally McBeal to Renee Zellweger in "Bridget Jones's Diary," young single women were hot properties during those years.

Speaking of "Bridget Jones's Diary," which premiered in the United Kingdom (where the story was set) on this day in 2001, film critic Roger Ebert apparently read the book upon which the movie was based. "Glory be, they didn't muck it up," he wrote in his review.

I never read the book, but based on what I saw in the movie, it must have been a fun read.

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"As in the book, Bridget arrives at her 32nd birthday determined to take control of her life," wrote Ebert, "which until now has consisted of smoking too much, drinking too much, eating too much and not finding the right man, or indeed much of any man."

That sounds like a recipe for a pretty endearing character — a clearly flawed character but, nevertheless, charmingly so. And, to be honest, Zellweger was perfect for the part. She has such a captivating personality.

And, based on Ebert's description of the Bridget Jones of the book — "a heroine both lovable and human" — I don't have to read it to presume that Zellweger was ideal for the role. I'd like to read it, though. As I said earlier, it sounds like a fun read. Maybe I will read it this summer.

"Zellweger's Bridget is a reminder of the first time we became really aware of her in a movie," wrote Ebert, "in 'Jerry Maguire,' where she was so cute and vulnerable we wanted to tickle and console her at the same time."

Ebert went on to observe that "[a] story like this can't work unless we feel unconditional affection for the heroine, and casting Zellweger achieves that." I agree.

One of my favorite moments in the movie was when Bridget said she felt like a "screen goddess in manner of Grace Kelly" — just before her Kellyesque scarf blew off as she was riding in a convertible — "though perhaps ever so slightly less elegant under pressure."

The rest of the casting seemed pretty solid as well. Hugh Grant is not my favorite actor, but he was the right choice to play Bridget's pompous boss Daniel, who embodied all of the personality quirks that Bridget made a point of stressing in her diary that she wanted to avoid in future relationships.

Bridget worked at a book publishing company, by the way.

I had more of a lukewarm response to Colin Firth, who played an interesting role. He and Bridget had been children together — and he and Daniel had been friends until they had a falling out.

As is so often the case, the heroine of the story fell for the rogue.

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But the audience always suspected — as I guess the readers before them did — that Firth's character was really the one for her.

The audience found that out for certain when Bridget discovered that Daniel had been cheating on her. This revelation, by the way, came before the midway point of the movie.

I have to admit that, as a journalist, I was drawn in by the part of the story where Bridget became a TV correspondent. My career has been in print, and print journalists usually look down on TV journalists as not being very, well, journalistic. The prevailing attitude is that TV journalists are more entertainers than journalists — and Bridget certainly seemed that way when she did things like slide down the fire station pole in one of her early broadcast pieces.

But later, when she was dispatched to get an in–depth interview with a British aid worker and the Kurdish freedom fighter, I could relate to her emotions. The aid worker had married the freedom fighter and had been trying for five years to keep him from being returned to his home country where he faced all but certain execution. The decision was to be handed down, and Bridget was sent to cover it.

I could relate to her sense of significance in the world as she went to cover the event. I remember feeling that way when I was assigned to a big story. "Am suddenly hard–headed journalist," she wrote in her diary, "ruthlessly committed to promoting justice and liberty. Nothing can distract me from my dedication to the pursuit of truth."

When she learned that the defendants she had hoped to interview had been spirited away, she feared losing her job, but it turned out that Firth's character had been the defense attorney, and he had instructed the defendants not to give any interviews.

He also arranged to give Bridget an exclusive interview.

And Bridget realized that he loved her just as she was.

That's what we all want, isn't it?

The Mother of Romantic Comedies

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Tracy (Katharine Hepburn): If you just face the facts squarely as I did.

Margaret (Mary Nash): We both might face the fact that neither of us have proved to be a very great success as a wife.

Tracy: We just picked the wrong first husbands, that's all.

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I suppose it is tempting to call "The Philadelphia Story," which premiered on this date in 1940, the best of Jimmy Stewart's career. After all, he received his only Best Actor Oscar for his performance in that movie — although he was nominated for "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," "It's a Wonderful Life," "Harvey" and "Anatomy of a Murder," all favorites of mine.

Frankly, if Stewart could only win Best Actor once, I would have preferred that he win it for any of those performances instead. Don't get me wrong. "The Philadelphia Story" was good, but it just wasn't unique, at least in the way those others were. Still, its influence was far reaching.

I suppose it can't really be said that "The Philadelphia Story" performance was the best by Katharine Hepburn, who was the star of the show and was nominated for Best Actress (she had a dozen Best Actress nominations in her career), but she didn't win (Ginger Rogers won for "Kitty Foyle").

Poor Cary Grant wasn't even nominated — and his performance in "The Philadelphia Story" is regarded as his best by many film critics.
In hindsight, I guess you could call "The Philadelphia Story" the mother of romantic comedies.

"The Philadelphia Story" certainly occupies an important place in the story of Hepburn's career. She won the Best Actress Oscar in 1934 and was nominated again in 1936, but her career had been on a downward spiral prior to this day in 1940. She had even been labeled "box office poison" so it could rightfully be said that "The Philadelphia Story" was what turned her career around — and made it possible for her to be nominated nine more times and to win three.

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Without "The Philadelphia Story," which was the fifth–most popular movie of 1941 (earning more than $2.3 million in North America), it is quite possible that Hepburn's career would have vanished into oblivion.

So even though she didn't win the Oscar, she probably won something that she valued more.

It was the kind of romantic comedy that was most popular in the '30s and '40s — one in which a married couple get divorced, dally with others, make their exes jealous and then get back together. Well, that's probably oversimplified for most of the movies in that genre — but it pretty much sums up the plot of "The Philadelphia Story."

And there was probably no one better prepared for the role he played in it than Grant. What the earthy John Wayne was to the western the debonair Cary Grant was to the romantic comedy.

Hepburn and Grant played a couple who apparently had married on something of a whim, then got divorced. Two years later, Grant showed up at Hepburn's home just before she was to marry someone else. Hepburn's character was a member of a socially prominent family so, naturally, her wedding drew folks from the press, one of whom was Stewart.

The stage was set for some high–society conflicts. In fact, "the stage" is an appropriate noun to use because "The Philadelphia Story" began life as a stage play. Hepburn acquired the film rights to it with the intention of using it as her comeback springboard.

Mission accomplished.

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Macaulay Connor (Jimmy Stewart): Doggone it, C.K. Dexter Haven. Either I'm gonna sock you or you're gonna sock me.

C.K. Dexter Haven (Cary Grant): Shall we toss a coin?

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If you've seen a documentary on the golden age of moviemaking, you have probably seen the memorable scene early in the movie when Grant's character, as he leaves Hepburn, puts his palm on her face and pushes her back inside the house. In conversations I have had with movie fans, that scene is probably second only to the one in which James Cagney grinds grapefruit into Mae Clarke's face in "Public Enemy" on the Most Memorable scale.

Kind of similar scenes. But not entirely.

"Public Enemy" wasn't a madcap romantic comedy, though, and "The Philadelphia Story" was. I'll leave all its quirky twists and turns for you to discover for yourself. That's the real fun of it.

The Truly Divine Miss M

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"Hi. It's me, don't you remember? The tomato from upstairs."

The Girl (Marilyn Monroe)

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I'm a fan of Marilyn Monroe — even though she was way before my time — and I have always believed she was more talented than she got credit for. You probably couldn't tell that, though, from her movie that premiered on this day in 1955 — Billy Wilder's "The Seven–Year Itch."

(It also happened to be Marilyn's 29th birthday.)

She was such a dumb blonde in that one that her character didn't even have a name. She was simply called "The Girl." Oh, there was a time or two when the male lead, Tom Ewell, tried to convince his wife (in imaginary conversations — he was in New York and she was spending the summer in Maine) that he wasn't as predictably faithful as he imagined that she thought. At one point, it was suggested that he had a blonde in his kitchen and was asked who she was. He responded by saying, "Wouldn't you like to know? Maybe it's Marilyn Monroe!" — which, of course, it was.

A nice little inside joke, eh? Just between Tom Ewell and the audience.

But her character was never addressed by any kind of name, not even as The Girl, by anyone in the movie — which suggests two possibilities to me that may have been at work (and both could be happening at the same time). First, it is an indication of how socially insignificant women were in the 1950s. By implication, that seven–year itch was afflicting the man. The Girl just happened to be there. It could have been any female. The man in the scenario had an itch to scratch. With whom he scratched it did not matter.

Second, because she was deemed to be of so little consequence, she wasn't worthy of a name. Even a dog has a name and is addressed by that name, but "The Girl" was not. For all intents and purposes, I suppose, her character was less than a dog. She was a prop, eye candy.

(It's ironic, really, that the girl was regarded as replaceable. I have heard that Wilder wanted to cast Walter Matthau as the male lead, but 20th Century Fox preferred to have Ewell reprise his Broadway role.)

Of course, it didn't help Marilyn's case that her character provided perhaps the most iconic image ever in the movies in the course of making it. It was a very suggestive image, which shouldn't be a surprise really. In spite of the Hays Code, Hollywood has always been about sex appeal. Rather than banning certain thoughts, words or images from the big screen, the Hays Code merely made some things even more tempting because they were forbidden and encouraged some movie makers to skirt around the edges of what was acceptable and what was not.

(And sometimes the movie makers played with fire. I've heard that it was the spectacle of the repeated takes of that scene, before a leering audience from across the street, that was the straw that broke the back of Marilyn's marriage to baseball icon Joe DiMaggio.)

Marilyn certainly did her part to bring about the eventual demise of the Hays Code — in no small part because of the role she played in "The Seven–Year Itch." It was never explicit, mind you, but it was suggestive.

All of that contributed to her sex kitten image. Frankly, I think Marilyn shrewdly used that image whenever and however she pleased.

I've never really understood why Marilyn got such a bad reputation, especially since her character was often capable of some really insightful comments, the kind of thing you didn't hear women saying — openly, anyway — for a few decades, things like this ...

"You think every girl's a dope. You think a girl goes to a party, and there's some guy in a fancy striped vest strutting around giving you that I'm–so–handsome–you–can't–resist–me look. From this she's supposed to fall flat on her face. Well, she doesn't fall on her face. But there's another guy in the room, over in the corner. Maybe he's nervous and shy and perspiring a little. First, you look past him. But then you sense that he's gentle and kind and worried. That he'll be tender with you, nice and sweet. That's what's really exciting."

(Now, personally, I don't really buy that, but perhaps I have become jaded by the times in which I live. In the mid–'50s, though, it must have raised some eyebrows.)

But there was the flip side to that — and it was the side that fueled her dumb blonde image.

The Girl had some unusual tastes ...

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"Hey, did you ever try dunking a potato chip in champagne? It's real crazy!"

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The Girl thought things were elegant — it seemed to be her favorite word. She thought it was elegant that Ewell was married. Cool air on a hot summer evening was elegant, too — actually, she might have been on to something there.

And she thought it was elegant to have an imagination.

"I just have no imagination at all," she said. "I have lots of other things, but I have no imagination."

I'm not so sure that is true. Now, there was no doubt that Ewell's character had a vivid imagination — and, perhaps, when compared to his imagination, anyone's imagination would pale. He was a kind of dweebish publishing executive whose imagination was straining at its leash — the residue, I'm sure, of all his repressive years of proofreading manuscripts.

And there was no doubt that Marilyn's character did, indeed, have "lots of other things." (I suppose you can define that as you wish ...)

But I think she did have an imagination. It just couldn't compete with Ewell's. His only equal, I'm inclined to think, was Walter Mitty.

Even Walter Mitty couldn't conceive of the kind of scenarios Ewell's character could — for example, his fantasy about him and Dolores Rosedale (whose character did have a name — Elaine) in a spoof of the beach scene in "From Here to Eternity."

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I guess it wasn't necessary for Ewell to fantasize about Marilyn; her character, after all, was living in the apartment above his. He was alone for the summer. He still fantasized about her, though.

No fantasy could compete with the real thing. And the real thing was right there, up close and personal all the time; Ewell's fantasies took off.

Like, for example, when he fantasized about seducing her by simply playing Rachmaninoff.

"It isn't fair," he imagined her saying. "Every time I hear it, I go to pieces. It shakes me, it quakes me. It makes me feel goose–pimply all over. I don't know where I am or who I am or what I'm doing. Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't ever stop!"

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In reality, though, they had conversations and looked at books about photography and such.

I guess it was a concession that the movie made. In the play on which the movie was based, the two had sex. They couldn't do that in the movie. That made certain other changes to the story necessary as well.

In fact, Wilder called it a "nothing movie." It should be remade without censorship, he said. "Unless the husband, left alone in New York while the wife and kid are away for the summer, has an affair with that girl, there's nothing. But you couldn't do that in those days, so I was just straitjacketed."

Wilder and Monroe worked together again — in the biggest hit of Monroe's career, "Some Like It Hot."

Fantasy Does Have Its Problems

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"I just met a wonderful new man. He's fictional but you can't have everything."

Cecilia (Mia Farrow)

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I guess nothing epitomizes the concept of movie escapism like the 1930s — when unemployment was high and nearly everyone was struggling. No wonder the people of that time wanted to escape.

Fantasy can be a blessing and a curse, I suppose. Perhaps it is nature's way of protecting us — mentally and emotionally — from things that could overwhelm us, and that makes it a force for good. But if fantasy is allowed too much freedom in our lives, it can be a destructive force. It's a fine line.

Woody Allen's "The Purple Rose of Cairo" premiered 30 years ago today, and I have concluded — after watching the movie several times since that day in 1985 — that it explored both of those concepts within the same character, Cecilia (Mia Farrow).

Apparently, film critic Roger Ebert and I agreed. "The movie is so cheerful and open that it took me a day or two, after I'd seen it, to realize how deeply Allen has reached this time," Ebert wrote. "If it is true, and I think it is, that most of the time we go to the movies in order to experience brief lives that are not our own, then Allen is demonstrating what a tricky self–deception we practice."

The audience learned early Cecilia's reasons for such self–deception. She was a waitress (which must have been a pretty grim existence in the Depression) and she was trapped in an apparently loveless and abusive marriage. She often went to the movies and sometimes saw the same movie several times. "She is a good candidate for the magic of the movies," Ebert wrote. "Up on the screen, sophisticated people have cocktails and plan trips down the Nile and are recognized by the doormen in nightclubs."

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As our story began, she was watching a fictitious movie of the same name about an archaeologist in Egypt who meets a Manhattan playwright and his companions, and they all return to the U.S. for a "madcap Manhattan weekend."

She went to the theater to see the movie several times. Finally, the archaeologist (Jeff Daniels) turned to look at the movie audience (but his eyes were focused on Cecilia) and said, "You must really love this picture" — and stepped off the screen into Cecilia's life. It was a fantasy come true. Well ...

"He is a genial, open–faced smoothie with all the right moves," Ebert wrote, "but he has a problem: He only knows what his character knows in the movie, and his experience is literally limited to what happens to his character in the plot. This can cause problems. He's great at talking sweetly to a woman and holding hands and kissing — but just when the crucial moment arrives, the movie fades out, and therefore, alas, so does he."

That could be endearingly naive — and infuriating at the same time. I suppose that is evidence of how well Daniels played the role. "The Purple Rose of Cairo" wasn't his first film — he had been in three others prior to that, and his breakthrough role, I guess, was in "Terms of Endearment," which led to his starring role in "The Purple Rose of Cairo."

So it wasn't the first time I had seen him. But his modest appearance in "Ragtime" escaped me at the time, although I did notice it on additional viewings — and, when I saw "The Purple Rose of Cairo," I only remembered his supporting role in "Terms of Endearment," but I can't say I paid much attention to him in that one. His role in "The Purple Rose of Cairo" was the one that put him on my movie radar.

Anyway, Tom the archaeologist did have his problems, being a fictional character, but Tom was the problem for Gil, the actor who portrayed him in the movie. Emboldened by the first Tom's departure from his celluloid cell, the Toms in copies of the movie all across the country were trying to liberate themselves as well, causing chaos in movie theaters from sea to shining sea.

So Gil embarked on a mission — he was going to New Jersey to look for that first Tom, who by that time was off on a night on the town with Cecilia.

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Gil wanted Tom to return to the movie — he was wrecking Gil's acting career — and he was willing to go to great lengths to achieve that objective, including convincing Cecilia that he was in love with her — and forcing her to choose between the fictional and seemingly perfect but limited Tom and the real and flawed but virtually unlimited Gil. And, as infatuated as Cecilia was with the make–believe world of the movies — and as abused as she had been by her husband (Danny Aiello) — she chose the real. She committed herself to it by breaking up with her husband.

But Gil hadn't committed himself to Cecilia — only to his career — and he had used her to get Tom to return to the movie. When that was accomplished, he hopped a plane for Hollywood, leaving Cecilia homeless, loveless and jobless. And, once more, she retreated to the fantasy world of the darkened movie theater.

That led to what may have been Ebert's most salient observation.

"[Allen] is interested in the conflicts involving who you want to be, and who other people want you to be," Ebert wrote. "'Stardust [Memories]' was about a celebrity whose fame prevented people from relating to anything but his image. 'Zelig,' the other side of the coin, was about a man whose anonymity was so profound that he could gain an identity only by absorbing one from the people around him. In 'Purple Rose,' the movie hero has the first problem, and the woman in the audience has the second, and when they get together, they still don't make one whole person, just two sad halves."

Many words leaped to mind when I saw that movie the first time — poignant, ironic, touching. They are still appropriate because "Purple Rose of Cairo," as creative as it was, was still an Everyman tale at its core, that tug–of–war within every human heart between what is and what we think should be. As such, the story is timeless. It remains relevant for succeeding generations.

Allen was nominated for the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay but lost to Earl Wallace for "Witness."

Was 'Adam's Rib' Hepburn and Tracy's Best?

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I don't know if "Adam's Rib," which premiered 65 years ago today, was the best of the Spencer Tracy–Katharine Hepburn movies.

Tracy and Hepburn made nine movies, after all.

But the American Film Institute ranked it higher than any of their other movies — #22 overall.

They played a variety of roles in their movies. In this one, they played married lawyers who had to oppose each other in court. Hepburn was defending a woman accused of shooting her husband. Tracy was the prosecuting attorney. The defendant was played by Judy Holliday in only her second credited movie. Her husband was played by Tom Ewell, who went on to star in "The Seven–Year Itch" on both stage and screen.

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Amanda (Katharine Hepburn): What I said was true, there's no difference between the sexes. Men, women, the same.

Adam (Spencer Tracy): They are?

Amanda: Well, maybe there is a difference, but it's a little difference.

Adam: Well, you know as the French say...

Amanda: What do they say?

Adam: Vive la difference!

Amanda: Which means?

Adam: Which means hurrah for that little difference.

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Seems Ewell's character had been itching in "Adam's Rib," too. That is why Holliday shot him. She believed he had been having an affair, and she opened fire on him when he was with his girlfriend, but she wasn't a very good shot and only managed to strike his shoulder. She was distraught, not responsible for her actions.

Well, that was Hepburn's argument.

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Hepburn's defense really was ahead of its time — it was, essentially, the battered wife syndrome. Well, not so much battered as abused — as in emotional, not physical or sexual, abuse. Hepburn argued that Holliday had been forced to act as she did because of Ewell's poor treatment of her.

Tracy thought Holliday was guilty of attempted murder — then found out he had been assigned the case. Normally, that would be cause for celebration, but Tracy immediately realized it would mean a pretty unpleasant home life until the trial was over.

Therein lay the plot of "Adam's Rib." I'm sure you can guess many of the jokes. It could have been a routine comedy except for the professional approaches of Hepburn and Tracy.

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Amanda: No part of marriage is the exclusive province of any one sex.

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Even obvious jokes were enjoyable when they were delivered by Hepburn and Tracy, though. "Adam's Rib" may not have been an Oscar–worthy movie — unlike other movies they made together — but it delivered on entertainment. In fact, there are those who consider it a classic of the romantic comedy genre.

Garbo Laughs!

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"The last mass trials have been a great success. There are going to be fewer but better Russians."

Ninotchka (Greta Garbo)

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(1939 is widely regarded as the greatest year ever for the motion picture. Ten movies were nominated for Best Picture that year, and today I take a look at the eighth of those 10 movies to hit the theaters.)

In the first half of "Ninotchka," which premiered 75 years ago today, Greta Garbo lived up to her reputation for being somber and melancholy. But her character, a Soviet envoy, was seduced by the capitalist Count Leon (Melvyn Douglas) in the second half of the movie, and all bets were off.

The pitch for the movie 75 years ago was "Garbo Laughs!" and it was jarringly easy to make her laugh. All Douglas really had to do was take a pratfall, and she was laughing with the best of them.

But in that first half of the movie, she was a real stoneface.

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Ninotchka (Greta Garbo): [on a street corner] How long must we wait here?

Leon (Melvyn Douglas): Well, until the policeman blows his whistle again.

Ninotchka: At what intervals does he whistle?

Leon: What?

Ninotchka: How many minutes between the first and second whistle?

Leon: You know that's very funny. I never thought of that before.

Ninotchka: You've never been caught in a similar situation?

Leon: Yes, I have, now that I've come to think about it. It's staggering. Good heavens. If I add it all up, I must have spent years waiting for signals. Imagine, an important part of my life wasted between whistles.

Ninotchka: In other words, you don't know.

Leon: No.

Ninotchka: Thank you.

Leon: You're welcome.

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Garbo and Douglas had an impressive chemistry — which was appropriate, given that Garbo's character told Douglas that love was nothing more than a "chemical reaction." It's really no wonder that the story worked as well as it did. It was directed by Ernst Lubitsch, and it was co–written by Billy Wilder. Plus, its female lead is the fifth–greatest female star of all time, according to the American Film Institute. AFI also ranks "Ninotchka" #52 among the comedies. "Ninotchka" ranked even higher (#40) among the love stories. How could it go wrong?

My guess is that it must have caught a lot of people by surprise that Garbo was so skilled at comedy; paired with Douglas, perhaps the most sought–after romantic lead of his day, the result was a sophisticated romantic comedy that is often overlooked, I think, by people who regard themselves as students of film.

That's a shame because "Ninotchka" is still funny, especially if it is kept in context when it is watched. It was one of the first movies to poke fun at the humorless culture of the Russian Revolution — and how vulnerable people in such a culture were after they had been exposed to the freedom of the West.

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Ninotchka: Why should you carry other people's bags?

Porter: Well, that's my business, Madame.

Ninotchka: That's no business. That's social injustice.

Porter: That depends on the tip.

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"Ninotchka" received four Oscar nominations. In addition to its nomination for Best Picture, it was nominated for Best Actress, Best Story and Best Screenplay, but it didn't win any of them.

Day's Dream

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Did you ever notice how much dreams figured in the career of Doris Day (who recently marked her 90th birthday)?

This isn't a joke. I'm serious.

Her second hit song was "My Dreams Are Getting Better All the Time."

She had a 10–inch LP called "I'll See You in My Dreams," which was the soundtrack for one of her movies, and she had two 12–inch LPs, "Day Dreams" and "I Have Dreamed" (which had seven songs that included the word dream in the title).

She appeared in two movies that had dream in the title and one TV short from the mid–1960s, "Every Girl's Dream."

Well, to be fair, I guess dreams do figure prominently in the existence of entertainers. In a sense, it is their business to sell dreams. I guess they aren't much different from sales people — except that they have to be entertaining. They're not selling a product; they're selling a mood, a state of mind. That's the key difference.

Most entertainers are not as obvious; they find synonyms (suitable ones for dream, for example, are "imagine/imagination," "fantasy," "thought," "reverie" and so on) to use.

But Doris Day was more direct with her fans, I suppose. And, to be fair, few entertainers have been as entitled to dream — even after it seemed their dreams came true — as Day.

At one time a frequent star of the big screen, Day hasn't been in a movie since the death of her husband/manager in 1968 left her penniless and deep in debt. She re–created herself for the small screen of television.

Initially, her dream was to be a dancer, but after she nearly died in a car crash, she refocused her attention on singing and acting.

In her mid–20s, she made her big–screen debut in a movie with Jack Carson, and a partnership of sorts was born. It may seem as if she made many more movies, but Day was in 39 — some with Carson, and, more widely remembered, some with Rock Hudson.

Her second movie, director Michael Curtiz's "My Dream Is Yours," which premiered 65 years ago today, also co–starred Carson.

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Like many of Day's movies, "My Dream Is Yours" was so light and airy it could have floated away on its own.

Carson played theatrical manager for Day, a widowed mom. He took her to Hollywood where she became a star. Her blossoming career, achieved in part at the expense of another performer for whom she has feelings, keeps them apart through most of the film — but not, apparently, off screen.

Suffice to say, the plot was not really the main attraction for the movie — nor is it today.

But, whereas Day was certainly an attraction for audiences in 1949, today the main attraction is to see an early example of a truly Roger Rabbitesque touch.

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Day and Carson, dressed in bunny suits, did a live action/animation sequence with Bugs Bunny and Tweety Bird (voices supplied by the late Mel Blanc) to "Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2" by Franz Liszt.

Now that was a dream sequence.

An Offbeat Love Story

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Princess Ann (Audrey Hepburn): I've never been alone with a man before, even with my dress on. With my dress off, it's MOST unusual.

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I have written here before that I consider Audrey Hepburn one of the most beautiful actresses ever to appear on the big screen.

The movie for which she won her only Best Actress Oscar — William Wyler's "Roman Holiday" — was released on this date in 1953. It wasn't her first appearance in a movie; it wasn't even her first lead role.

But, in a career that included several great performances, this one stands out, even today, more than two decades after Hepburn's death.

It isn't because Gregory Peck was her co–star. She appeared with many of the top leading men of her day.

It isn't because she won an Oscar — she was nominated four other times but lost each time.

So what was it about "Roman Holiday" that made it Hepburn's defining role in the opinions of so many?

In large part, I have to think it was because Hepburn was at her most charming and most naive in "Roman Holiday" — although I personally think of "Wait Until Dark," in which she played a very different kind of role, whenever I hear her name, not "Roman Holiday."

Still, she always seemed delicate, no matter the role she was playing. She was that kind of female, sort of frail (but not in an old lady kind of way, more in the helpless female, damsel in distress kind of way, thin and willowy) and I often think that was what made her — and Grace Kelly — stand out in an era that was dominated by shapely, well–endowed bombshells.

But I can't rule out the incredible setting of Rome for the movie, either.

In the 21st century, the public has grown accustomed to the idea that a movie will be filmed on location, no matter how exotic or remote it may be, but I gather from what I have read that, unless a movie was filmed domestically, that was a rare occurrence 60 years ago.

Nevertheless, most of "Roman Holiday" was, indeed, filmed in Rome, and it is hard to imagine anyone putting the city to better use as a movie set than Wyler did.

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And that, in turn, seemed to get the best out of the cast.

Hepburn, of course, played a very appealing character, a young princess who craved fun and anonymity. Peck, of course, was always magnetic but rarely was he as charismatic as he was in "Roman Holiday," playing a reporter who wants to scoop the competition but falls under Hepburn's spell.

And then there was Eddie Albert — the same Eddie Albert who entertained TV audiences a decade later as the lawyer–turned–farmer Oliver Wendell Douglas in Green Acres. Many folks of my generation may not know until they see "Roman Holiday" that Albert had a career on the big screen.

But the truth is that he made lots of movies before and after "Roman Holiday." Some were quite good; most were average at best. But none was as good.

How good? The American Film Institute rates it #4 among all romantic comedies.

But a few more words about Albert ...

He received an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actor but lost to Frank Sinatra for "From Here to Eternity." Frankly, that was a pretty tough category that year. Just being nominated really was an honor. I know that is a cliche, but it is true.

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I always thought his character, a photographer named Irving who never lost sight of the career implications of his association with the princess (unlike Peck's character), kept the story grounded in reality. For example, when Peck started wavering on whether to profit from the opportunity to sell a candid story (with photos) about the AWOL princess, Irving reminded him that "[i]t's always open season on princesses."

Irving's presence was a much–needed reality check — not to mention a breath of fresh air — that elevated the tale to something more than an offbeat love story.