The Scales of Justice

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A decade ago tonight, as the Frasier series was coming to a close after 11 seasons, Frasier and his KACL colleagues were competing with a rival radio station to lose weight. The prize for the winners would be a trip to Las Vegas.

The KACL gang resorted to a number of strategies, including gorging just before the initial weigh–in to artificially boost their group weight ...

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Bulldog Briscoe (Dan Butler): We got cheeseburgers, doughnuts, french fries, tacos ...

Gil Chesterton (Edward Hibbert): And a duck confit that's as rich as Donald Trump and twice as greasy.

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and trying to steam away additional pounds in the hours before the penultimate weigh–in. Eventually, it all came down to a hilarious moment when Roz (Peri Gilpin), in a Rockyesque moment, got one of her colleagues to "cut me" (meaning her ponytail) — to claim victory by an ounce or so.

Frasier was disinterested, at best, and his initial weight–loss strategy was to add a salad to every meal (for you dieters out there, it didn't work — so don't try that at home!). But, after the first weigh–in, he had a brand–new motivation. At the weigh–in, he discovered that a prep–school nemesis was on the other team.

Apparently, in addition to being Frasier's main rival for the affections of a Scandinavian exchange student, this nemesis was memorable for how he tormented Frasier when he mistakenly signed up to play girls field hockey. To hear Frasier tell it, it was a completely understandable error.

"The sign said 'F Hockey,' " Frasier protested. "I assumed it meant 'Freshman Hockey.' "

"The little plaid skirt didn't tip you off?" Martin (John Mahoney) asked.

"I thought it was a kilt!" Frasier replied.

As a result, to the winners of the competition would go more than merely trips to Las Vegas. Frasier and this one–time nemesis made a bet. If Frasier's team lost, he would have to wear his field hockey uniform. And if Frasier's team won, the nemesis would have to replace a chess set he took from Frasier in prep school.

Bess Armstrong, making her second appearance on the show, was the host of the local TV program on which the competition played out and acted as the moderator for the competition.

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In a parallel (although not necessarily connected) story, Niles (David Hyde Pierce) and Martin tried to nurse an ailing pigeon. The pigeon was a "buddy" of Eddie's who flew onto Frasier's balcony and observed Eddie through the glass doors — while Eddie observed him.

In explaining the relationship to Frasier, Martin said, "The bird's like his pet."

"Eddie is a pet," Frasier said. "He doesn't get to have a pet."

To prevent the pigeon from flying into the glass, Martin had put a smudge on it, but compulsive cleaner Niles cleaned up the smudge, and the pigeon — whom Martin called Barney — had flown into the glass.

"Are you happy?" asked Martin when they hurried to the balcony to see if Barney was all right. "You killed Eddie's friend. Poor little guy."

Then, after a pause, he looked at Niles and asked, "Now what should we do? Just kick him over the edge?"

The pigeon wasn't really dead, though, so Niles and Martin put it in a box and tried to nurse it back to health.

But, in the end, Eddie was the instrument of Barney's destruction.

Martin put the box on the floor next to Eddie and urged him to "say hello." Instead, Eddie stuck his head in the box, grabbed the bird and ran off down the hall.

Niles, who had been out of the room, returned, and Martin quickly closed the lid of the box. He told Niles that the bird was asleep, and Niles set down a bowl of bird seed he had in his hand.

"You know, Dad," Niles said, "I think he may like me even more than he likes Eddie."

"No contest," Martin replied.

The Love Doctor

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Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan (Loretta Swit): She's darling, Henry. Looks a little like your oldest daughter, doesn't she, Frank? He has three.

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In the episode of M*A*S*H that aired on this night 40 years ago, Henry Blake (McLean Stevenson) was returning to the camp after spending a week in Tokyo.

While he was in Tokyo, Henry made the acquaintance of Nancy Sue Parker (Kathrine Baumann), a 20–year–old former cheerleader, and thought he had fallen in love — even though the 40–something C.O. had a wife and family back home.

It's the kind of scenario of which many a middle–aged man has fantasized. There was a lesson about fidelity to be found in the episode, but mostly, I think, it was just good for a lot of great dialogue.

Not long after Henry's return, Nancy Sue visited the 4077th, giving Henry a chance to show her off and inspiring many jokes, not the least of which were the reactions of the male staffers to the attractive young lady.

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When she pulled up in a Jeep, her physical attributes were immediately obvious, and she hadn't said a word.

"I'm a doctor; you can believe me," Hawkeye (Alan Alda) said to Trapper John (Wayne Rogers) as they watched Henry run to greet her. "That is a nice leg."

"That sweater's not stuffed with chopped liver, either," Trapper replied.

The gags continued when Henry introduced Nancy Sue to the staff.

"It's a very genuine pleasure to have you at the 4077th, Nancy dear," Hot Lips said to her.

"Oh, it's mine, too," the bubbly Nancy Sue replied. "Everyone's been so terrific about being nice to me!"

"It's nice to be nice ... to the nice!" Frank Burns (Larry Linville) contributed. (Frank, it is worth noting, was never known for his eloquence.)

Later, Nancy Sue gave a demonstration of the cheers her character had given at Ohio State. In fact, Baumann was a cheerleader in high school, and she was Miss Ohio five years before her appearance on "M*A*S*H" so her leaps and cheers were authentic.

Hawkeye and Trapper watched Nancy Sue, then glanced at Henry, who was beaming from ear to ear.

"The proud father," Hawkeye remarked.

Nancy Sue left a lot of people tongue–tied — but she did know how to untie some tongues, in a manner of speaking. While Henry was busy in surgery, she came on to Hawkeye when he escorted her to her tent. Hawkeye had a reputation for being a ladies' man, but the situation clearly made him uncomfortable.

After Nancy Sue kissed him, Hawkeye said, "In the first place, I want to thank you from the bottom of my mouth. Secondly, we're not in the parking lot at the prom. And lastly, one of us loves Henry Blake, and I think it's me."

(He later described the kiss to Trapper as a "good–night tonsillectomy you wouldn't believe.")

Henry, as it turned out, had already figured out that his place was with his wife back home, not young Nancy Sue.

And, inevitably, Henry's red–hot romance fizzled out.

George Reeves' 100th Birthday

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"Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's Superman!"

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George Reeves, who was probably best known as TV's Superman, was born on this day 100 years ago.

The first glimpse that most people got of him was 75 years ago in "Gone With the Wind." He was one of the Tarleton twins seen early in the movie flirting with Scarlett.

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Before he landed his career–defining role as Superman, Reeves appeared in several B movies, co–starring in a few with Ronald Reagan and James Cagney. The Superman role led to some other movie roles as well. In general, I guess you could say the '50s were good years for Reeves.

At least, until the last one.

In the early morning hours of June 16, 1959, Reeves died of a gunshot wound to his head. Initially believed to be a suicide, many people refused to accept that Reeves would take his own life; thus, the truth about Reeves' death remains shrouded in mystery more than half a century later.

Coincidentally, one of Reeves' last remaining co–stars from "Gone With the Wind," Alicia Rhett, died yesterday at the age of 98 in Charleston, S.C. Rhett played India Wilkes, the sister of Scarlett's love interest, Ashley Wilkes.

The 75th anniversary of the release of "Gone With the Wind" is coming up later this year.

If your only exposure to Reeves has been in his role as Superman or even "Gone With the Wind," you might want to look at Turner Classic Movies today. Four of his pre–Superman movies will be shown, starting at 9 a.m. (Central).

Picking Up Extra Money

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Oscar (Jack Klugman): I wouldn't bet somebody else's money on just a horse. I bet it on a horse. A sure thing.

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Once, I gave some money to my friend Steve, about whom I have written before, to run an errand for me.

I don't remember the details surrounding that now. Maybe I had to work a double shift or something. Maybe that is why I couldn't run the errand myself.

Anyway, I gave this money to Steve and told him what I needed him to do with it — and he wound up betting it on a horse. I confronted him about that. I was angry about the way he had used my money after swearing to me that he would run my errand as I requested. Steve got a little defensive. I guess neither of us handled that matter terribly well.

I mention that now only because it is relevant to the episode of The Odd Couple that aired 40 years ago tonight. It was called "The Moonlighter," and it was about how Oscar had been given some money to buy season tickets to the Yankee games. He had gambled the money on "a sure thing" that turned out to be not so sure after all, and he was moonlighting at a diner to earn the money back.

His roommate, Felix (Tony Randall), was understanding about Oscar's predicament — until he learned it was his money that had been squandered. Well, actually, it was one of Felix's clients' money, but Felix had trusted Oscar with it, and he felt his trust had been betrayed.

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Felix didn't like the idea of Oscar continuing to work in the greasy spoon at nights. He thought it would jeopardize Oscar's full–time job at the newspaper, and he suggested that Oscar work in Felix's photography studio to earn the money to cover the price of the tickets.

There was no real lesson to be learned from the story, I suppose. Felix was going to do a photo shoot with three beautiful girls, and he instructed Oscar that he was to treat them as "colleagues and co–workers" — which Oscar did, sort of.

The lesson, perhaps, came at the end when Oscar, to show his appreciation to Felix for his help and understanding, made a meaningful gesture.

Well, it was meaningful to Felix.

Oscar, the ultimate slob, had cleaned up his room.

Felix was stunned upon seeing it. "I'm very impressed," he told Oscar — until he lifted the bed cover to reveal Oscar's dirty clothes. Apparently, Oscar had just gathered them up off the floor and stuffed them under the bed cover until after Felix's inspection.

Same old Oscar.

A Ride on the Orient Express

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Agatha Christie's "Murder on the Orient Express," which was published 80 years ago today, wasn't the first Agatha Christie book I ever read.

But it was one of the first, and it remains one of the best.

(It was the first Agatha Christie novel–inspired movie I ever saw, and I was, in turn, inspired to read the book after I saw the movie.)

Its primary inspiration was the kidnapping and murder of Charles Lindbergh's infant son in the spring of 1933. When Christie wrote the novel, the case was very much in the news. In the hands of a talented writer, such a case provided the revenge motive for the murderers.

Christie also was influenced in "Murder on the Orient Express" by another real–life event — the winter of 1928–29, said to have been the harshest winter Europe had experienced in decades. Blizzards and gale–force winds hammered the continent for weeks. Transportation was brought to a virtual halt by all the snow and ice.

The Orient Express was sort of a land version of the Titanic. It boasted luxurious accommodations and was believed to be infallible so, in spite of warnings from stations all along the train's route, its owners unhesitatingly gave the go–ahead to proceed from Paris to Turkey in late January; it was hindered all the way by snow and ice on the tracks. It did make it across the Turkish border but was stopped by huge snowdrifts. The passengers were trapped for days before realizing that help was not on its way, and they tunneled their way out, then crossed the snowy Turkish countryside in search of food and a place to sleep until help did come for them.

This was fairly typical of Christie — she often used real events as the basis for her stories but rarely as well. She made some changes to the facts, enough to make it her own story, and then threw in her usual twists and turns, just to keep the reader guessing.

And there was plenty of guesswork for the reader in "Murder on the Orient Express." Each of the passengers aboard the Orient Express had some kind of connection to the Armstrong family, which had lost its little girl, Daisy, and then suffered additional tragedies as a result of the initial crime.

Poirot, who happened to be on board the train, conducted the investigation and concluded that there were two possible resolutions: either a stranger had entered the train while it was stopped by snowdrifts and committed the murder, or everyone on the train (with the exception of Poirot) had participated.

The former was too easy for Christie's creative mind, so, for one of the few times in her writing career, Christie took an option that would permit the guilty to escape justice. All of the passengers on the train (including the conductor) wanted vengeance, and Poirot, having solved the case, permitted them to have it. He told the authorities that he had concluded that a stranger was responsible for the murder.

It was an interesting twist on the usual formula for a Christie novel. More often than not, she arranged for the least likely suspect to be the actual guilty party.

I guess a least likely suspect would be hard to choose in this case. There were several plausible candidates.

John Denver's 70th Birthday

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"Heck, I'm no Henry Mancini or Michel Legrand. I just play the guitar and write songs."

John Denver (1943–1997)

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If I had to name one popular recording artist who embodied the '70s, I would have to pick John Denver.

I'm sure there are '70s musical artists who were more commercially successful than Denver — Elton John, perhaps, or the Bee Gees or the Eagles — and any would probably be better representatives of the decade.

But Denver has always been the '70s to me. It's not so much his music — although that is part of it. It is more his fresh–faced, innocent (almost naive) look, I suppose.

That may be at odds with your mental image of the '70s, but that's the thing that people, especially those who weren't around then, need to understand. The '70s were contradictory years.

They were full of vulgar musical acts, the spiritual fathers of heavy metal, grunge and other extremist variations. They also had more innocent–appearing, wholesome performers than any decade other than the '50s.

John Denver was part of the latter. He wore his hair long, yes, but it was always combed and fashionable. He wore blue jeans like many of his contemporaries, but they were clean and fashionable. He wore colorful shirts, but they, too, were stylish. My grandmother couldn't tolerate most of the musicians I liked — she thought they were "scraggly" — but she had no objection to John Denver. As far as she was concerned, he was a good–looking young guy with a nice voice who needed a haircut.

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And, unlike most of the groups I liked, my grandmother could understand what Denver was singing.

My mother really liked Denver's music, and I acquired my fondness for his recordings from her. I guess you could describe much of his music as "folk music" — he started his professional career playing with folk groups in the 1960s — but that wasn't his only genre. He also wrote and played pop songs. He did perform mostly acoustic guitar — power guitar wasn't his style.

It didn't surprise me that Mom gravitated to Denver's music. Mom liked folk music. I think of Simon and Garfunkel most when I think of her — they were her favorites — but I also think of John Denver and Don McLean. In fact, I often listen to Simon and Garfunkel when I go to the cemetery to visit Mom's grave, but I listened to John Denver the last time I went there. It seemed appropriate, given that his 70th birthday was coming up.

And now it is here.

Born Henry John Deutschendorf Jr. in Roswell, N.M., his first hit composition, "Leaving on a Jet Plane," actually was a hit for Peter, Paul and Mary, who made it the #1 hit on Billboard's Hot 100.

Most of his solo career was in the 1970s. That's when he released his biggest hits — "Take Me Home, Country Roads," "Rocky Mountain High," "Sunshine on My Shoulders."

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In fact, John Denver was one of the first recording artists I ever saw perform in concert.

I've seen many concerts since. I wish could say that it was the greatest thing I ever saw, but, really, the only thing that was memorable about that concert for me was that it was one of my first.

My memory is that it was a low–key concert. No fireworks or explosions or anything like that. Modern concertgoers probably would be disappointed. I don't think there was even a big screen behind him showing images that were relevant to the songs he sang.

Just Denver playing the guitar and singing with the background musicians and singers making their contributions but never taking the spotlight unless invited to do so by Denver. It was Denver's show.

That makes it sound like he might have been some kind of micro manager or an obsessive type, doesn't it? I don't mean to imply that. I don't know what kind of personality he had. I never got the sense that Denver was a control freak or anything like that.

(At one time in my life, my favorite album was Denver's two–record concert album, "An Evening With John Denver." I have it now on CD — thanks to CD technology, it is even better with the addition of half a dozen tracks. It's a pretty good example of what Denver's concerts were like around the time I saw him.

(Speaking to the audience in that album, he encouraged them to "go wherever the music takes you — any time you feel like singing along, as always you're welcome to do that — please limit yourselves to the choruses of the songs and let me do the verses!")

It was well known that he was committed to humanitarian causes, which suggests a generous spirit. It was also known, although perhaps not as widely, that he had had problems with alcohol, which led to other problems in his life.

For some reason — and I don't know why this is so — I got the impression that the dovetailing of his career in the 1980s was connected to his alcohol abuse. Perhaps I read an article that said that.

But that may not have been the case. Perhaps, for whatever reason, people stopped paying attention to him. I know I did, but I don't think it had anything to do with his drinking. My interests changed.

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It is true that Denver's best–known songs were recorded and released in the 1970s, but I thought that many of his most thoughtful, most insightful, most meaningful songs were products of the 1980s, when the spotlight seemed to have passed him by — songs like "Perhaps Love," which he recorded with Spanish tenor Placido Domingo, and "Love Again," which he recorded with French singer Sylvie Vartan.

In those later years, after both of his marriages had ended in divorce, including the one that had inspired the phenomenally popular ballad "Annie's Song" at the height of his popularity, his music seemed to speak of his yearning for love and his desire to understand it.

That's a pretty tall order for most of us.

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On a Sunday in October in 1997, Denver perished when the private airplane he was piloting crashed in the Pacific Ocean.

(There is, in hindsight, a poignant moment early in that concert album in which Denver speaks of arriving in Los Angeles prior to the concert and going to the beach. "I felt very good," he says, "about being with the ocean again." Since his death, I have often wondered if he felt that same sense of exhilaration in the moments before he died.)

What would he have done in these last 16 years? I don't know. I imagine he would have continued to compose and record. Perhaps he would have found the love of his life and retreated into a comfortable retirement.

Just speculation, of course. Today is merely the 70th anniversary of Denver's birth. He isn't celebrating his birthday. He is no longer living.

But it is beyond dispute that his influence continues to be felt. A few years ago, the Colorado legislature made "Rocky Mountain High" one of two state songs.

And I still hear his music on the radio. Not as often as I once did but more often than you might think.

Perhaps, in a way, he does still live.

Rosalind Russell's Most Memorable Performance?

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"Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!"

Auntie Mame (Rosalind Russell)

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Rosalind Russell is remembered for many movie roles, but perhaps the one with which she is most associated is the title role of the movie version of "Auntie Mame," which premiered 55 years ago today.

It was a comedy, but a very sophisticated one. Russell's character insisted on being called Awntie Mame. I was raised to pronounce the word like ant, which seems to be the way most Americans pronounce it (well, most Southern Americans, anyway). Awntie seems like more of a British pronunciation to me.

Well, however you pronounce it, Auntie Mame was a flamboyant character, and the choice of Russell to play it was perfect.

My grandmother was a big fan of "Auntie Mame," although I never knew it while she was living. The evidence was all around me. I just never saw the movie until after my grandmother died.

I will always remember watching it for the first time and hearing Russell speak in that exaggerated way she had — and I realized it was the way my grandmother liked to speak at times when she was feeling playful. It always struck me as an inside joke that the grownups all seemed to get, but I didn't get it. I guess I never asked for clarification.

Auntie Mame was more of a free spirit than my grandmother was. And her decorating style definitely was more fluid than my grandmother's. In all the time that I was growing up, I don't think anything in my grandmother's house changed. The furniture was always the same. The art on the walls was always the same.

(Whenever I woke during the night in my grandmother's home, and I wasn't sure where I was, the grandfather clock in the living room was sure to chime every quarter hour, and, when it did, I knew instantly where I was. My brother has that clock now. I don't think it works now, but he has it, and he claims he will get it working again. He probably will. He's always been very mechanically inclined. And, when he does, I am sure I will have a real sense of deja vu when I hear it chime.)

But Auntie Mame's apartment was constantly changing. It was a device for showing the passage of time, I suppose, but the viewer had to reorient him or herself with each new chapter in the story. The only thing that was recognizable was the grand staircase; the decor surrounding it was always different.

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Mame threw some wild parties in her home; in fact, she was in the process of throwing such a party when she first met her nephew.

See, in the movie, Mame's eccentric ways were put to the test when she became the guardian of her late brother's son. Her brother was very affluent when he died so the nephew's inheritance came with a trustee who didn't approve of the way she lived her life. Neither, for that matter, had her brother, who left instructions for how his son was to be raised if he should die a premature death.

But, with apologies to Little Orphan Annie, it probably never was so much fun being an orphan.

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Auntie Mame: Please, dear, your Auntie Mame's hung.

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After her money was lost in the stock market crash of 1929, Mame took on a series of employment challenges. She acted on the stage. She worked as a switchboard operator. She even worked in retail sales — where she met a rich Southerner (Forrest Tucker) and fell in love.

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They married and embarked on a 'round–the–world honeymoon, during which Tucker's photography–obsessed character fell to his death on the Matterhorn.

Mame returned to America and resumed her involvement in the life of her nephew, who had become as stuffy as she suspected from his letters.

If you haven't seen this movie, I'll stop discussing the plot here. But be advised that many people believe this was the greatest performance of Russell's career. She received her fourth and final Best Actress Oscar nomination for it.

Casting Out a Demon

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Chris (Ellen Burstyn): She doesn't remember any of it.

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It wasn't long after "The Exorcist" was released to theaters, 40 years ago today, that the news reports were full of stories about people losing their minds while watching it. Well, that's probably an exaggeration. I do remember hearing a lot of reports of moviegoers who fainted or vomited while watching it (some theaters made "Exorcist barf bags" available for squeamish patrons).

I was a child at the time and really didn't understand what was being said. I just knew the story was about a young girl who was possessed by a demon, and her mother sought the help of an exorcist to free her of the demon's grip.

The young girl was Linda Blair, who went on to encourage many a young boy's fantasies in the '70s. "The Exorcist" was the first real glimpse most people had of her. She had a couple of minor roles in some low–profile movies before that; her projects in the next few years could hardly be described as "low profile" — simply because she was in them.

But her movie career — which more or less ground to a halt after she ran into problems with the law in the late 1970s — is the subject for another article at another time.

On this day in 1973, Blair was about to turn 15 — and she was about to become a national sensation.

The role she played was inspired by the last recorded Catholic–sanctioned exorcism in the United States. In that 1949 case, a 13–year–old boy was the victim. Novelist William Peter Blatty altered the victim's gender and the age for the novel that spawned the 1973 movie.

I didn't see it until several years later. The movie was re–released to the theaters (why, I do not know) a few years after its initial release. I wanted to see it, but I was too young to get in without an adult so I talked my father into taking me to see it.

By that time, things like the scenes in which Blair's character vomited pea soup on the priests or spoke in a series of low–pitched voices were practically cliches. I remember being distracted from the story on the screen several times by the persistent giggles of a group of young people in the back of the theater.

No one was giggling in 1973.

The Oscars didn't reward makeup work until the 1980s; I suppose makeup was considered part of costumes until that time, but "The Exorcist," which was nominated for 10 Oscars, did not receive a nomination for its costumes — or any other category that would have taken into consideration the really impressive achievement of transforming a seemingly ordinary young girl into a victim of demonic possession.

Director William Friedkin (a recent Best Director winner for "The French Connection") broke a lot of ground in special effects (which, I suppose, included the makeup) and, simultaneously, pushed the project over budget. But it earned more than $440 million at the box office, which probably compensated for quite a bit.

In the movie, Regan's possession put mounting pressure on her actress mother (Ellen Burstyn), who first sought the help of doctors but gradually became convinced that her daughter's behavior was due to possession.

As with the case that inspired the story, a Ouija board was the conduit.

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The British theater director for Regan's mother died after falling from a window in Regan's bedroom, and a detective (Lee J. Cobb) was called in to investigate.

For her part, Burstyn called in a young priest (Jason Miller), who evaluated the situation and decided that an exorcist (Max von Sydow) was needed.

And the two priests did battle with the demon.

I read Blatty's novel before I saw the movie. When I saw it, I was disappointed that most of the theological conversations between the demon and the young priest that were in the book did not make it into the movie. I understood then (as I understand now) that it simply isn't feasible for everything in a book to be included in a movie version. There will always be things that are omitted, for one reason or another.

But I found those conversations to be the most thought–provoking parts of the book. The demon, essentially, challenged the priest's faith by pointing out inconsistencies in scriptures and religious practices and beliefs; the priest deftly defended his faith in a fascinating display of linguistic dexterity.

Because of the subject matter, I guess it was really no surprise that there were numerous claims that the project was cursed. There were so many incidents while the movie was being made that priests were brought in frequently for the purpose of blessing the set.

Books and movies and music that deal with supernatural topics are often magnets for suspicion. Not surprisingly, I guess, "The Exorcist" was accused of many controversial things, the most controversial may have been the suggestion that it used subliminal effects in its sound and imagery. I recall hearing such allegations, but I don't recall the messages that supposedly were being transmitted.

Maybe it was fallout from the backward masking, both actual and alleged, in Beatles records a few years earlier.

If You Don't Pay Attention, You'll Get Stung

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Henry (Paul Newman): You beat him, kid.

Hooker (Robert Redford): You were right, Henry. It's not enough. But it's close.

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In 1969, director George Roy Hill teamed with Paul Newman and Robert Redford to make "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." It was a box–office smash, making $102 million, and a four–time Oscar winner. The American Film Institute ranked it 73rd on AFI's Top 100 movies list.

It was, quite simply, movie magic, the kind of movie magic that few people thought could be duplicated.

But, on this day in 1973, the second and final movie to team Newman and Redford (with Hill in the director's chair) was released. Their reunion was an even bigger box–office hit than the first one, earning more than $159 million after being made on a budget of $5.5 million. It won seven Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Director, and was nominated for three more.

It didn't make AFI's Top 100 list — but it should have.

"The Sting" was a Depression–era tale about a grifter (Redford) who was intent on avenging the murder of his partner (Robert Earl Jones, father of James Earl Jones). Redford and Jones had conned a numbers runner out of $11,000, and the dedication of the numbers runner's boss (Robert Shaw) was not to the numbers runner but to the money and his own reputation so he had Jones killed.

He was on Redford's trail — but this was the 1930s, remember. It wasn't a high–tech heyday. There was no internet or YouTube or faxes or anything like that. There wasn't even television. Heck, there was barely radio.

So, while the audience knew what the grifter looked like, the crime boss didn't.

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That's the kind of detail you needed to keep in mind when you watched this movie. You didn't want to miss anything; if you missed something, you were apt to be taken by surprise at the end. But, if that is indeed what happened to you, don't feel too bad about it. It happens to the best of us.

I had to watch it two or three times before I caught everything I needed to catch.

Anyway, before he was killed, Jones' character encouraged Redford to look up Newman's character. Newman, he was told, could teach him the "big con" — often called the "long con" — a confidence game in which, through a series of staged events, a con man gradually gains the trust of an affluent person or individual, setting up a "sting" by exploiting the target's vanity or greed or lust or something similar.

When Redford located Newman, he was sleeping one off. Redford rather unceremoniously roused Newman, then told him, "Luther said I could learn something from you. I already know how to drink."

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"The Sting" benefited from a very talented supporting cast — and, since the "big con" required the coordinated efforts of a crew of men, not merely one or two, that was essential for the success of the movie.

Everyone has his/her favorite, I suppose. Mine is Eileen Brennan, who played Billie, Newman's girlfriend and cathouse madam. She went on to greater fame several years later in "Private Benjamin," but she knew where all the bodies were buried in "The Sting."

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Billie (Eileen Brennan): Who told you this guy was in here?

Lt. Snyder (Charles Durning): Nobody. I just know what kind of woman he likes. Going to check all the joyhouses 'til I find him.

Billie: Oh, well, maybe I could help you, if you tell me his name.

Snyder: I doubt it. Which way are the rooms?

Billie: Right through there. But I wouldn't go in there if I were you.

Snyder: What you are going to do, call the cops?

Billie: I don't have to. You'd be busting in on the chief of police just up the hall.

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But I also liked Ray Walston (who is better known — probably — for his role in TV's "My Favorite Martian" or his performance as Mr. Hand in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High").

And I liked Charles Durning as the (somewhat) earnest cop investigating matters who got conned in a con on top of a con, distracting not only the mark in the movie but the audience as well.

It was hard not to like the guy who pulled off the con within a con, either — Dana Elcar — who, upon meeting Durning's character, cautioned him, "Try not to live up to all my expectations."

"The Sting" exceeded all of my expectations, and Marvin Hamlisch's Oscar–winning score certainly helped. If you haven't seen it, it will exceed yours, too.

But you may have to watch it a couple of times.

A Hot War Story, a Cold Love Story

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"All this while I've been packing ice around my heart. How will I make it melt?"

Nicole Kidman

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"Cold Mountain," the Civil War drama that premiered 10 years ago today, is the kind of movie that can be frustrating.

It tries to tell a couple of stories at once. That's fine with me. I guess I was a weird kid. While most of my peers seemed to hate reading and went to sometimes extraordinary lengths to avoid it, I was the kind of kid who liked to read so much that I gravitated to lengthy books. My logic, I suppose, was that the longer the book, the more there was to enjoy.

As a teenager, I was reading books by James Michener, who was not only wordy but also tended to weave several stories into one. When it is done well, I have found it to be a rewarding reading experience. Consequently, the more the better. Same thing goes for movie plots, I guess.

But you can run into trouble trying to tell two stories at once.

As a war story, "Cold Mountain" did a good job of portraying the brutality and cruelty of war within the context of its times (as "Saving Private Ryan" did with World War II). The problem, though, is that director Anthony Minghella's movie also wanted to be a romance, and that is a tricky assignment.

It isn't impossible to achieve. It just requires a rather delicate balancing act. It was sufficiently thoughtful in its handling of war and the suffering it brought to not only the soldiers but the civilians as well.

But I didn't feel that it worked as a love story, mainly because the leads (Nicole Kidman and Jude Law) didn't really seem to have much genuine affection for each other. And that really was too bad because, above all else, I think, "Cold Mountain" was meant to be a love story. But it was aptly named because, all evidence to the contrary, Kidman and Law just didn't have much mutual chemistry.

At one point, for example, Law deserted during the war and made a beeline for home. Was he driven by a burning, insatiable desire to be with Kidman? Not so you could tell.

Near the end of the movie, Law spoke to Kidman of his desire to be with her, but the words were flat without any tangible evidence of his love for her. All the audience got was a few voiceovers by Kidman reciting the letters she sent to him. Law's character never spoke of wishing to be with Kidman, and audiences never heard his thoughts so who was to know what went through his mind?

It was only when he spoke of those thoughts near the end of the movie that viewers got a glimpse into his motivation. Even Kidman seemed bewildered. "We barely knew each other," she said.

I liked Renee Zellweger's performance as the earthy Ruby who helps Kidman's Ada run her farm, and I liked what Dana Rowader wrote about it for AllMovie.com: Zellweger's performance, Rowader wrote, "may be considered by some as hamming it up or chewing the scenery; however, her character injects life into the film where it would otherwise have fallen horribly flat."

I'm not sure I agree with the notion that the movie "would ... have fallen horribly flat." I suppose that is a matter of opinion.

Apparently, the Oscar voters liked Zellweger's performance, though. They rewarded it with the statuette for Best Supporting Actress.

Rowader suggests, though, that performances by Zellweger and others "upstage the two leads." And I'm willing to concede there may be something to that.

There really is no question that the supporting cast had a lot of interesting characters (and intriguing choices to play them).

There was Donald Sutherland as Kidman's minister father, a generally wise and upstanding man — and, on the flip side of the religious coin, there was Philip Seymour Hoffman as an amoral preacher.

There was Natalie Portman as the war widow forced to raise a child on her own who sought comfort in the arms of a stranger (Law, trying to get home).

Portman's performance may have been the best of the bunch, even in what was a relatively small role. The audience didn't need to know the details of her suffering. They could see it in her face, in her eyes, and they could hear it in her voice.

They saw an example of her suffering when Union soldiers seeking food occupied her dwelling, tied her to a post outside and left her crying infant on the cold ground. It occurred to me as I watched that Portman's character must have thought she was cursed.

Perhaps she did.

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Based on what I know of the Civil War, it seems to me that anyone who survived it must have thought he/she was cursed. As far as I could see, there really were no winners in a conflict that claimed so much blood and so much property.

As I say, as a war story, "Cold Mountain" was a strong statement.

But, as a love story, I have to admit that it left me cold.