A Tribute to Taylor

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Today is Elizabeth Taylor Day at Turner Classic Movies.

This is the kind of thing that TCM does when a really prominent actor or actress dies — and, of course, Taylor died last month. When that happened, TCM rearranged its schedule and announced a 24–hour tribute to Taylor would be aired today.

Earlier this morning, the salute began with "Lassie, Come Home" and "National Velvet." In a few minutes, "Conspirator," from 1948, will begin, then TCM will show 1950's "Father of the Bride" with Spencer Tracy (and — no offense intended to Steve Martin or Diane Keaton or anyone else who was part of the 1991 remake — the one with Tracy and Taylor was way better) at 10:30 (Central).

As befits a tribute like this, all of those movies are good — and so, too, are the others that are scheduled to air between now and daybreak tomorrow. But everyone is so busy these days. Practically no one could watch them all, not even with a fleet of VCRs and DVRs.

If you have enough time to watch just one, I could recommend several, any one of which would be a satisfying experience. (Actually, the only ones I can't recommend are the ones I haven't seen. "Father's Little Dividend," the sequel to "Father of the Bride," is in that category. But, according to what I've heard, that really is no great loss.)

Personally, my favorite Taylor film is "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" but that might be a little heavy–handed for some folks.

And Taylor was just plain heavy in it. She was in her 30s and was considered one of the most beautiful women in the world, but she gained some 30 pounds (deliberately) to play the part of the middle–aged Martha. Her performance brought her an Oscar — and deservedly so.

You can see that one at 9 p.m. if you wish.

I could also recommend Taylor's first Oscar–winning performance — in 1960's "Butterfield 8." It will be shown at 7 (Central).

But I will recommend, instead, that — if you can only watch one Taylor film today — you watch "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" from 1958. It is based on Tennessee Williams' Pulitzer Prize–winning play, and it shows Taylor, who was in her mid–20s at the time, at her best.

It's the way I suspect she would like to be remembered. She isn't the pretty girl from "National Velvet" or the teenager from "Father of the Bride." She is a mature, alluring woman — and her performance as the sultry, sexy Maggie the Cat was pretty damn good, too. She was nominated for an Oscar for it, but she lost to Susan Hayward.

It wasn't a kewpie doll role, either. Maggie was a character in a Tennessee Williams play — as such, she was a complex component of a very cerebral story.

It will be shown at 5 p.m.

Truth is, you just can't go wrong with any of the films TCM will be showing today. Watch as many as you can.

Sidney Lumet Dies

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I was sorry to hear that Sidney Lumet, the man who directed one of my all–time favorite movies, 1957's "12 Angry Men," died of lymphoma today.

I was sorry to hear that for a couple of reasons.

First of all, as I say, Lumet directed one of my all–time favorite movies. Well, actually, he directed several of my favorites. In addition to "12 Angry Men," he directed "Long Day's Journey Into Night" in 1962, "Fail–Safe" in 1964, "Serpico" in 1973, "Murder on the Orient Express" in 1974, "Dog Day Afternoon" in 1975, "Network" in 1976, "Equus" in 1977 — and many, many others.

But, of all the films he made, I think I like "12 Angry Men" the best. It's a close call between that one, "Murder on the Orient Express" and "Network," I think, but I'd give it to "12 Angry Men" by a nose.

Of course, I really liked "Fail–Safe," too. It really is a tough choice, you know?

But, yes, I guess I would have to say that "12 Angry Men" was my favorite.

I appreciated the writing in it so much. Of course, I would have to say the same thing about all the others. And that would prompt me to make another observation about Lumet. He really knew how to select top–notch writing to make into a movie.

He didn't rely too much on splashy special effects, even when they had matured into the effects one sees in more recent films. Nearly all of the "action" in "12 Angry Men" takes place in the jury room.

Yet even under such limited circumstances — and in black and white, no less — each juror's true colors were revealed.

Ironically, Lumet died only a few days before the 54th anniversary of the film's premiere.

Lumet's death also make me think of my friend Mike, who died 20 years ago this August. He, too, was a victim of lymphoma, a particularly aggressive form, apparently, because Mike died only a few months after being diagnosed with the disease.

Mike was still in his 20s when he died. He still had so much of his life left to live — but he never got a chance to live it.

We can be thankful, though, that Lumet did — and that he leaves behind so many fine films as his legacy.

The Canister Conflict

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I didn't watch Everybody Loves Raymond much when it was part of the prime time lineup, but I've been making up for lost time since it has been in syndication.

There are several episodes that always make me laugh, and the one that first aired 10 years ago today is one of them.

It is called "The Canister," and it is the tale of a can that had great sentimental value for Marie and her two sons. It once belonged to Marie's mother and had been passed along to Marie in due course. Ray and Robert had fond memories of the cookies their grandmother always kept in that canister.

Speaking of cookies, Marie (who reminds me more and more of my stepmother with every episode I watch) had made some cookies for her grandchildren and wanted Debra to give back the canister, insisting she had loaned it to her, but Debra claimed she had returned it. Marie didn't (or wouldn't) believe that, but she finally accepted Debra's version of events and apologized for impugning her honesty.

It was the day before Easter, she observed, and she wanted it to be a good holiday for the whole family.

Everyone in Ray and Debra's kitchen at that moment — Ray, Debra and Robert — was stunned. "Wow! A Marie Barone apology," Robert said in astonishment. "Until today, I had only heard about it."

"And to you," an equally stunned Raymond said to Debra. "There's your Easter miracle."

Debra was generous in her victory. That apology had been a difficult thing for Marie, she said, but it had been sincere.

Then Ray and Debra's daughter came in and spoiled the whole thing.

She was carrying the canister. "Is this what Grandma was looking for?" she asked. When Debra asked where she had gotten it, she replied, "You gave it to me" — ostensibly for storing her crayons.

So, as it turned out, Marie had been right — and Debra was afraid of how miserable Marie would make her life because of that. She decided to throw the canister away, and she swore Raymond and Robert to secrecy.

But, like the proverbial bad penny, the canister kept coming back. When the family was preparing to go across the street for Easter lunch, it came tumbling down the stairs. The twins, who had retrieved it from the garbage, were playing a version of kick the can, and Ray decided that the canister had to be returned to his mother's house.

The fact that the canister had come back twice was a sign, he told Debra. "It's like when you think the movie is over, and then a hand comes up!"

They conspired to smuggle it into the house and leave it somewhere where Marie would find it — and deduce that it had been there all the time.

In spite of various obstacles, they managed to get the canister into the house, but then things began to unravel when Frank caught Debra holding it. Debra asked Frank what she should do. "Give your heart to God," he advised, "because your ass is Marie's."

But, at the moment of truth, Frank couldn't permit that to happen, and he took the fall — and the scorn and abuse Marie heaped on him. Frank took it all silently.

Debra was overwhelmed. "I don't know what to say," she told him. "Why did you do that?"

"I didn't want that to happen to you," he confessed. "You're like my daughter."

Then, before things could get too sentimental, he added, "And she was going to yell at me like that, anyway. I ate the backside of that ham."

Sure enough, a couple of seconds later, the audience could hear Marie bellowing from the kitchen, "Frank!"

And Frank smiled and looked at his wristwatch. His prophecy had been fulfilled.

Patricia Heaton (Debra) won an Emmy for her performance in that episode.

Coming of Age

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"In everyone's life," the tag line went, "there's a 'summer of '42.' "

It was a "coming of age" story, audiences were told — and (to the adolescent mind, anyway) that was code language for sex. The movie premiered on April 9, 1971.

That code, by the way, didn't always hold up — neither, for that matter, did the prevailing belief that, if a move was rated R, that had to mean that some bare part of the female anatomy was exposed for at least a few seconds. (More often than not, that probably was true, but an R rating could also mean excessive violence or objectionable language — and I knew very few adolescent boys of my generation would prefer to see violence or hear bad words instead of seeing naked women if they could somehow be allowed into an R–rated movie.)

Whether that nudity was seen as the result of an obvious fantasy or a believable story really made no difference to the adolescent mind. As it turned out, though, the nudity in "Summer of '42" wasn't blatant — mostly suggested and implied.

In fact, "Summer of '42" was based on screenwriter Herman Raucher's memoir of a summer vacation on Nantucket Island when he was 14 — and most of his memories were decidedly PG. He became friends with a young woman (played by Jennifer O'Neill in the movie) whose husband was serving in the military during World War II. They slept together after she received word that he had been killed.

Supposedly, it was a true story. I've heard that, after the movie came out, the woman about whom Raucher had written contacted him and told him that she hoped he hadn't been traumatized by their one–night stand nearly 30 years earlier.

Years after that, Raucher lamented that he hadn't heard from her again and didn't know what had become of her.

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I was much too young to be permitted into an R–rated movie in 1971, but I saw it years later and had mixed feelings about it when I did.

"Summer of '42," which was directed by Robert Mulligan, was a surprise hit 40 years ago. At times, it was a little heavy on the nostalgia for my taste — particularly since it wasn't my nostalgia (any more than the nostalgia in "American Graffiti," which was set 20 years later, was my nostalgia) — but the emotions of the story were timeless, really, which kept it plausible. I suppose it could have been about any young widow on any side in any conflict.

I mean, it could have been about a young widow (British or American) in the Revolutionary War, I guess. Or a young widow (North or South) in the Civil War.

But it was about a young American widow in World War II, the war that was fought when Raucher was a teenager. Since Raucher is an American, it would follow naturally that the widow was an American as well, although the story could have been about a young boy and a young widow in any of the countries that participated in that war — and they wouldn't necessarily have to be from the same country.

The knowledge that they were from the same country made the story easier to accept, I guess. I mean, if it had been a German widow and a young Jewish boy in a concentration camp or something, it would have introduced all sorts of other issues.

I have often wondered, in fact, if the story might have been more effective in the hands of a German writer set against the backdrop of Nazism, perhaps even at the end of the war, when German soldiers and civilians alike were dying in massive bombing raids.

It was pretty effective as it was, though. And one of the great ironies of the story is a line delivered by Raucher's friend, Oscar — the original inspiration for the story (and who was killed during the Korean conflict) — who observes that "sometimes life is just one big pain in the ass."

Yes, it is — but in everyone's life, I guess, there must be a pain in the ass.

At least one.

Playing Ball

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A new baseball season has begun.

It is a time of new life — and of remembering when life was new. For many of us, those memories involve baseball, the smell of dirt and grass on a warm spring day, a light breeze in your face, a glove or a bat in your hand.

Some movies bring back memories like that. Such a movie made its debut on this day in 1976 — "The Bad News Bears" — and, while it didn't exactly mirror my childhood memories, it does bring back a specific memory to me.

I don't recall hearing much about the movie before I saw it at the theater. What I do remember about the day I saw it was that it was perhaps the last time my brother and I went to a movie with my grandmother — just three of us. If there was a later occasion when just the three of us went to a movie, I don't remember what it was.

My brother and I were both teenagers by that time, and we were getting a bit old to be going to movies with our grandmother, but she insisted that she wanted to take us to see this movie.

I must confess that I felt somewhat obligated. I remembered years earlier, when she and my grandfather had visited my family in our home in Arkansas, and my grandfather wanted to drive me to school one morning. But I was short–sighted. I didn't want to do that. I wanted to ride in the bus with my friends, as I did every day.

In the end, Grandpa relented, but I can still hear him complaining to my mother, "All my friends get to take their grandchildren to school."

In hindsight, I can see I denied him that pleasure. And it is a regret that has remained with me all these years.

I never had the chance to make it up to him. He died a month later.

In 1976, I decided that, if it would make my grandmother happy to take me to see a movie, it was worth a couple of hours of my time. But, after I saw it, I couldn't help wondering why she wanted to see it.

Maybe she was drawn in by the casting. My grandmother was a fan of Walter Matthau, who was the star of the film. As I have written here, her fondness for Matthau went back at least to his work in "The Odd Couple" — and might have gone back farther than that.

It is possible, I guess, that the only thing she knew about the movie before she saw it was that Matthau was in it. At least, that is what I assumed at the time.

She was an avid reader of movie reviews in the Dallas newspaper, but I don't remember her saying anything about what the critics said about that movie. If she had read a review of it, she might have been a bit put off by it. There was a lot of language in it that she almost certainly didn't like — and it's hard for me to imagine that, in the straight–laced city that Dallas was at that time, the reviewers didn't at least mention that children were using objectionable and offensive language throughout the film.

In fact, I remember stealing glances at her while we watched the movie on a warm early summer afternoon in Dallas. I wanted to see how she reacted to the vulgarity and the ethnic slurs that came from the mouths of several children, one in particular.

It was hard to tell much in that darkened theater, but she seemed to enjoy the movie and never mentioned the language to me — or anyone else (at least not within my hearing range). My memory is that, when the three of us returned from the movie, she was full of praise for the story and the acting and laughed as she recalled several scenes.

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I don't know what she thought of Matthau's co–star, Tatum O'Neal — who had won an Oscar for her performance in "Paper Moon" a few years earlier. We never discussed O'Neal.

For his part, Matthau also was coming off an Oscar–winning performance. But the performance wasn't his, it was George Burns' in the film in which they co–starred, 1975's "The Sunshine Boys."

In a way, I guess Matthau's character was a precursor to Tom Hanks' in "A League of Their Own." Matthau was a drunken manager of a Little League team that was getting pulverized in every game — until he brought in a couple of "ringers." Then the team started winning and wound up facing its rival in the championship.

A couple of the other adults in the cast would have been familiar to audiences in 1976 — Vic Morrow was in it, and so was Joyce Van Patten — but none of the other children has gone on to do much in movies. Brandon Cruz appeared as Bill Bixby's son in the TV series The Courtship of Eddie's Father in the late 1960s and early 1970s, but, other than that ...

Not even O'Neal, whose career has been a bit sporadic in the last 35 years, did much after "The Bad News Bears." Yes, she's been in some movies. Yes, she's been on some TV shows. But her career seems to have fizzled as she got older.

The makers of the film knew how to set audiences up for sequels and remakes, though. "The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training" came along the following year, and that was followed the next year by "The Bad News Bears Go to Japan," neither of which came close to matching the original.

Then, about a quarter of a century later, Hollywood issued a remake of the original starring Billy Bob Thornton. I've heard it wasn't bad, but I've only seen clips.

I guess I inherited my grandmother's appreciation for Matthau.

And I guess I figured that you can't improve on perfection.

Say Good Night, Bonzo

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I've heard that Ronald Reagan regarded it as his least favorite of the films he made during his movie career.

And how anyone else feels about it may depend upon whether that person tended to agree or disagree with Reagan politically.

For his part, Reagan said he never watched it — and who could blame him?

Personally, I would have to say that "Bedtime for Bonzo," which made its debut on this day in 1951, wasn't all that good. I found it predictable ... and, for the most part, boring. It was white bread. Stale white bread, for that matter.

Not everyone felt that way, though. "Forget what you've been led to believe," writes Hal Erickson for AllMovie.com. "Bedtime for Bonzo is a most enjoyable film."

I wouldn't call it "enjoyable." I have other words for it.

It's the old "nature vs. nurture" argument, which could have been presented more effectively. Reagan played a college professor who was trying to teach morals to a chimpanzee. Reagan's character was a bachelor, and he decided that he would need a mother to complete the study.

What followed was, as I say, predictable.

I will admit, though, that there were times when I found the dialogue unexpectedly amusing.

Like the time when Reagan says to co–star Diana Lynn, "You're no dope. You couldn't be. You haven't a university degree and you don't teach logic."

In the context of the rest of Reagan's career and life, that really sounds like something he might have said.

I heard that, 30 years ago, during Reagan's first successful campaign for the presidency, some people wanted to air this movie as a kind of reverse political statement — implying something along the lines of "Do you want someone who once read a bedtime story to a chimp to be president of the United States?"

But then I heard more plausible stories that, because of laws requiring "equal time" for candidates for political office, no TV station would show the film before the election. If they did, they would have to provide the same amount of time and charge the same fee to the opposition — and no one was willing to provide 83 minutes of air time to Reagan's rivals.

That made sense to me. Not once during the 1980 campaign did I see "Bedtime for Bonzo" on the TV schedule.

I eventually saw the movie a few years after Reagan was elected. But I only saw it once. That was enough.

I rarely agreed with Reagan on anything, but I will admit that I agreed with him on that point. "Bedtime for Bonzo" was a waste of time.

All The President's Men

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I guess the really implausible part of the whole Watergate story was the idea that the president of the United States — a man who had been nominated for national office five times and had been elected president twice — could be such a charlatan.

That was the great leap that I believed most people had to take. They had to accept that they had been so utterly fooled by Richard Nixon — when they should have known better.

I reflected on that in March 2010 when Turner Classic Movies was set to televise the film.

At the time, I was baffled by TCM's decision to show the movie when it did — TCM's annual "31 Days of Oscar" had just concluded, I observed, and then I pointed out that the scheduling decision may have had something to do with the fact that March 4 had been the traditional inauguration day for presidents until the 1930s.

By the time of the Nixon presidency, I observed, inaugurations were held on January 20, as they are now. The only link between the date the film was scheduled to be shown and the film itself was the presidency.

"But the thing is that a movie about Watergate," I wrote, "has a great deal of relevance to the presidency — well, presidential power, at least. And Watergate was the story of how one president abused his power beyond the point that most Americans would have thought possible."

The thing that made the story implausible in real life also made it implausible in the often fantasy world of the movies.

And the reason why few newspapers picked up the articles that were printed by the Washington Post in the early days of the investigation — and, consequently, relatively few Americans had heard of Watergate when they went to the polls in November 1972 — was neatly summed up by one of the Post's editors following a staff meeting during the movie.

The Democratic challengers to insurgent candidate George McGovern were self–destructing in the spring of 1972, which made the activities at the Watergate (about a month before the Democrats were scheduled to nominate McGovern) even more suspicious. Nixon appeared to be on his way to an easy victory that fall. Why would the Republicans feel the need to do something like that?

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But even in the fantasy world of motion pictures, the idea that someone like Nixon (who was as despised — even by those who voted for him — as any public figure I have seen in my lifetime) could hoodwink millions and be elected president twice seemed too incredible.

In 1976, nearly two full years after Nixon resigned, that idea was still too far out there for some people — even though movie audiences of that time readily accepted stories that dealt with the concept of the antichrist, a giant ape on the loose in New York City, a telekinetic (and vengeful) high school girl who wrecks her prom and a past–his–prime boxer who gives the defending champ a run for his money.

There was nothing make–believe about the people in "All the President's Men," and one of the best was the rather understated character of Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee — portrayed admirably by Jason Robards.

Robards delivered some of my favorite lines in the film ...

Like when he said, "We're about to accuse Haldeman, who only happens to be the second most important man in this country, of conducting a criminal conspiracy from inside the White House. It would be nice if we were right."

Or when he said pretty much the same thing when he reminded Woodward and Bernstein that they were "about to write a story that says the former attorney general, the highest–ranking law enforcement officer in this country, is a crook!"

But especially when he urged them, near the end, to get some rest. The lesson was that there is no rest for those who protect freedom from those who would chisel away at it. Constant diligence is required, the same as is asked from those who stand between you and identity thieves — or between you and terrorists.

After 15 minutes of rest, Robards told Woodward and Bernstein, "Get your asses back in gear. ... Nothing's riding on this except the First Amendment to the Constitution, freedom of the press and maybe the future of the country. Not that any of that matters, but if you guys f**k up again, I'm going to get mad."

Even if you've seen it before, watch it again. It's a reminder of how important a free press is in a free society.

The Song of Life

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(Warning to readers: This is another installment in my ongoing defense of the reincarnation of the Twilight Zone in the mid–1980s.)

The episode that aired 25 years ago tonight, "Grace Note," made my point, I think.

It was about an aspiring (but struggling) opera singer who received a special gift from her dying sister (named Mary) — a glimpse into her own future.

Mary said she wanted to be remembered, and her sibling assured her she would be. "Until my dying day, you will always be in my heart," she said. But Mary had her doubts and, later, made the proverbial wish on a shooting star — for her sister the singer.

Still later, on her deathbed, Mary encouraged her sister to "follow the music" that only the two of them seemed to hear — but urged her to return.

And the older sister followed the music ... to what was the then–modern day of 1986, where she saw herself starring in La Traviata.

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She returned to Mary's bedside in 1966, where Mary gave her a pendant with her picture in it.

It was the same pendant that the older sister had seen herself looking at in her dressing room in her glimpse into the future.

Satisfied that her wish for her sister would be fulfilled, Mary died.

You probably wouldn't recognize anyone in the cast — unless you happen to be a devotee of opera. The star of the episode was Julia Migenes, a Grammy–winning opera singer but hardly a household name, either now or in 1986.

Her life has been devoted to music. She has rarely been on the screen — and sometimes only to sing (although "only," in this usage, refers strictly to the number, not quality, of the tasks she performed, because she is not a bad actress).

On this night 25 years ago, she was permitted to stretch her wings and do both.

"To live life fully, one should hear the melody the world makes," said the narrator at the end of the episode. "Pity those who stumble through their years without ever hearing the song. The greatest gift we can bestow on those we love is to help them hear it. One life ends, another begins. But the song of life fills the universe, even into the last highest darkened balcony row ... in the Twilight Zone."

Words worth remembering ... and an episode worth seeing.

Eddie Murphy Is 50

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In the 1980s, I guess there was no comedian who was hotter than Eddie Murphy.

He really seemed to be on top of the world. He was the star of Saturday Night Live for some five years, then he began making movies — and comedy specials for cable TV.

Murphy was his generation's Richard Pryor or George Carlins in the 1980s — both were influences on him, by the way, as they were for, most likely, every comedian who has come along in the last 40 years. Comedy Central ranked them as the top two comedians of all time, but it had a lot of regard for Murphy, too, ranking him 10th.

His career — and his life, too, for that matter — has had its peaks and valleys, I suppose, and he was criticized at times for being too insensitive. But he has managed to re–invent himself whenever it has been necessary.

I guess it is only to be expected that, from time to time, he would fall from such lofty heights. Murphy's films, according to Box Office Mojo, are second only to Tom Hanks' in box office receipts.

His lifetime total — for his voice work in the "Shrek" movies and his signature performances in films like "Beverly Hills Cop," "Coming to America," "Trading Places," "48 HRS." and "The Nutty Professor" — exceeds $3.7 billion.

Happy birthday, Mr. Murphy, and I would wish you many more — except I have to wonder if there are any mountains left to climb.

Science Fiction Comes of Age

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It was 55 years ago that "Forbidden Planet" premiered on America's movie screens, and I suppose it's kind of a bittersweet time for fans of the sci–fi classic.

Anne Francis, who was in her mid–20s when the film was made, died three months ago at the age of 80. Her co–star, Leslie Nielsen, died about five weeks earlier. He was 84 — would've turned 85 in February.

By 1956, filmmaking in general had been maturing for decades, but some genres — science fiction, for example — were still in their infancies. Bruce Eder of AllMovie observes that science fiction didn't really begin to distinguish itself from "horror films and movie serials" until after World War II.

Nielsen and Francis helped the genre come of age.

A few years ago, the American Film Institute came out with its Top 10 lists of movies in 10 categories — and "Forbidden Planet" wasn't on the list of science fiction's best.

That wasn't terribly surprising. Only two of the films on the list (and I would argue that one of those films would be more properly designated as a "horror film," to borrow Eder's phrase) were made before "Forbidden Planet" — and the subsequent films on the list all came along more than a decade later, when the special effects were more advanced.

A sci–fi film's special effects are crucial, and the effects in "Forbidden Planet" often look cheap to modern eyes. Thus, it may come as something of a surprise to those modern viewers to know that most critics, Hal Erickson of AllMovie among them, think the special effects were state of the art.

And they were — for that time.

Beyond the special effects, though, the story was great — timeless, in fact — and the cast was top notch.

Ultimately, I guess, that is what "Forbidden Planet" proved on this day in 1956. Even though sci–fi flicks have always needed whatever special effects the then–current technology could provide, they will always need a good story to hold everything together.

And there was no question that "Forbidden Planet" had a great story. It was inspired by Shakespeare's "The Tempest." Consequently, it was really more of a romance than it was a story about space exploration.

It was a story about a lot of things, really. Obviously, it raised some eyebrows over the subplot's hints at Francis' relationship with her father (played by Walter Pidgeon).

But it also introduced a more humanlike robot — "Robby" — to the science fiction story. Robby has been the model for generations of mechanical companions that have followed (the robot from Lost in Space, the characters in the "Star Wars" movies, etc.); after "Forbidden Planet," robots were routinely members of the cast.

It has been observed that, before "Forbidden Planet," science fiction was a genre that mostly appealed to juveniles. After "Forbidden Planet," the genre came of age.