I am no expert on war movies, but it has always seemed to me that "The Enemy Below," which premiered on Christmas Day 60 years ago, was the first war movie that really portrayed the opposing combatants equally.
Well, maybe someone told me that way back when, and I just think that I have always thought that.
And maybe it wasn't the first war movie to be sympathetic to both sides — just the first to be that way about World War II.
It didn't draw any conclusions — except that there really was no difference between Robert Mitchum, who played the commander of an American destroyer, and Curt Jurgens, who played the commander of a German U–boat. Their characters were men who were defending their homelands.
They didn't start the war. It wasn't personal. In civilian life, they may or may not have held strong political views. As civilians, they might have liked each other, might have been friends. In war, they had jobs to do, and they did them.
Mitchum's character was newer to the job than Jurgens' was. It was a new command for Mitchum, and he was about as new to the Navy as most of his crew. The destroyer was on patrol but did not anticipate any action.
Jurgens, on the other hand, was a career Navy man whose sacrifices for Germany — two sons — had been considerable over the years. The U–boat was on courier duty and was likewise not expecting any combat.
Nevertheless on the silver screen, the captains and their crews were engaged in a taut thriller in the South Atlantic in which a mistake could be fatal.
They didn't want to think about what they had in common. That would get in the way of what had to be done.
At one point Mitchum remarked, "I have no idea what he is, what he thinks. I don't want to know the man I'm ... trying to destroy."
That's about as blunt as it gets.
(Incidentally, the slogan seen in the submarine — "Führer befiehl, wir folgen" — means "The leader commands, we follow.")
It's become a cliche to label something a cat–and–mouse game, but that is what this was. The analogy is apt.
In "The Enemy Below," both sides kept maneuvering until the final showdown. When the duel had been decided and the two captains caught a glimpse of one another, they exchanged silent salutes. Gestures of mutual respect.
It was that respect, perhaps, that led Mitchum to save the U–boat commander. Later, with the battle behind them, Mitchum's character offered a cigarette to his former adversary, who took it and remarked, "I should have died many times, Captain. But I continue to survive somehow."
Maybe that is what the art of warfare really is — the art of survival.
"Greatness? Ha! If that great philosopher, Socrates, were living today, he'd be reduced to sitting on a cracker barrel, chewing tobacco. That's what America does for greatness."
Professor Stiles (Nigel Patrick)
When I first saw "Raintree County," which premiered on this day in 1957, my first reaction was that it must have been intended as a Northern version of "Gone With the Wind."
I had read nothing about the movie before I saw it, but after I did I read comments from film critics that showed I wasn't the only one who perceived it that way. I have no doubt that MGM saw it that way, too. But that isn't how things worked out.
It wasn't the award–winning blockbuster that had been envisioned. In fact the movie was a failure at the box office, and it was widely panned by critics. Elizabeth Taylor was nominated for Best Actress, and the movie was nominated for Best Art Direction, Best Costume Design and Best Original Score, but all those awards went to other nominees.
The funny thing is that I know some people who really like "Raintree County." I guess it is true what they say. There really is no accounting for taste (or the lack thereof).
People often forget that film critics merely express their opinions — and opinions are not statements of fact.
In this case, though, I tend to agree with most in their negative assessments.
I suppose if you were going to select a couple, you couldn't pick an odder one than Montgomery Clift and Taylor (who were actually pretty good friends in real life). Clift's character, a Yankee abolitionist, and Taylor's character, a self–absorbed Southerner, met before the Civil War broke out.
In its best opposites–attract mode, the story showed how Clift and Taylor were drawn together. Eva Marie Saint, who played a girl–next–door type, probably should have been Clift's bride — but that would be in an ideal world. And the pre–Civil War world they occupied was far from ideal.
The coupling was far from ideal as well. A friend of mine once observed, "Montgomery Clift went to bed with Scarlett O'Hara and woke up with Blanche DuBois." That should tell you everything you need to know about the volatile nature of the relationship.
The lead characters were really the only ones that were given any kind of in–depth examination. The supporting talents were mishandled. Lee Marvin wasn't suited for the kind of comedic role in which he was cast, and Agnes Moorehead was given very little with which to work. Rod Taylor was reasonably convincing albeit in a small part.
The odd thing about "Raintree County" was that, while it was set against the backdrop of the Civil War, more attention was given to Clift's character and his quest to find the meaning of life than to the far more significant events that were unfolding around him.
Clift, by the way, was nearly killed when he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed his car into a telephone pole after leaving a dinner party at Elizabeth Taylor's home. Summoned from the party Taylor rushed to Clift's side and removed a tooth that was lodged in his tongue. If Taylor had not done that, Clift might have choked to death.
As it was, Clift suffered several injuries, including a broken jaw and nose, that required reconstructive surgery. His matinee idol looks were never the same again. In fact, they weren't even the same from scene to scene. If you watch closely, you can see differences in his profile — and, in closer shots, his nose and chin.
The cinematographer tried to work around it and did a generally good job. But the damage was too extensive to cover completely.
"Do not speak to me of rules. This is war! This is not a game of cricket!"
Col. Saito (Sessue Hayakawa)
Not all battles in a war are fought on a battlefield.
Set in World War II, director David Lean's "The Bridge on the River Kwai," which made its American debut on this date in 1957, was about one of the smaller battles that was fought during that war. And while there are legitimate doubts about the historical accuracy of the story, the message was unmistakable.
Alec Guinness took home Best Actor for his performance as the senior British officer at a Japanese prison camp who kept insisting that the Geneva Conventions excused officers from manual labor. The commandant of the camp (Sessue Hayakawa) was under a great deal of pressure. He had to build a bridge across the Kwai River in Burma to expedite the movement of Japanese troops and matériel. What is more, this strategic structure had to be completed by a specific date.
Time was of the essence so the commandant pressed every able–bodied prisoner into service, even the officers. The British officer balked and was punished repeatedly but refused to yield.
Thus the two men were locked in another war — a war of wills.
For the commandant it was literally a matter of life and death; failure to complete the bridge on time would force him to take his own life in keeping with his moral code. But the British officer absolutely would not compromise.
Meanwhile a Navy officer (William Holden) and two others attempted an escape from the prison camp. The others were killed, but Holden, although injured, managed to get away. As he was recuperating, he learned that he had been assigned to return and destroy the bridge before it was fully functional.
What Holden's character did not know was that Guinness and his men were now working toward the completion of the bridge, not its destruction — and not because of the benefits the Japanese would derive from it but for their own pride and morale.
How it all played out is something no movie lover should miss.
I heard it said once that there are no "war" movies, only "anti–war" movies, and sometimes I think that is true (although other times I am not so sure). The essence of being anti–war is to expose war's brutality, and the intriguing thing about "The Bridge on the River Kwai" is that it does that — but not in the way you might think.
When one thinks of the brutality of war, one is inclined to think of physical brutality. "The Bridge on the River Kwai" was more about psychological brutality.
I have long admired Joanne Woodward, and I remember the first time I saw "Sybil," the supposedly true story of a woman with more than a dozen personalities. Woodward played the psychiatrist who treated the woman in that made–for–TV movie.
At the time, I did not know Woodward had been in a similar movie some 20 years earlier in which she played the patient so "Sybil" was a role reversal for her. The movie in which Woodward was the patient was called "The Three Faces of Eve," and it premiered on this day in 1957.
There were many similarities between the stories. Given the subject matter, I suppose that was unavoidable.
By comparison Woodward had it easier in 1957 than Sally Field did 20 years later. Granted Woodward only had to portray three different personalities while Field had to do some 16, but I couldn't help feeling, when I saw "The Three Faces of Eve" that Field must have picked Woodward's brain or watched "The Three Faces of Eve" — or both — before she started work on "Sybil."
I saw "Sybil" first. When I saw "The Three Faces of Eve," much of what I saw Woodward do was what I had seen Field do.
But Woodward did it first — and won an Oscar for Best Actress in the process. So, arguably, one could say Woodward did it better — although Field did win an Emmy.
Lee J. Cobb played the role that Woodward eventually played in "Sybil." He was the doctor who treated her, who diagnosed her condition.
Although it was not her real name, the patient was known as Eve White, a timid and reserved individual who suffered from excruciating headaches and occasional blackouts. Her behavior became so erratic that her husband (David Wayne) brought her in for treatment. While speaking with Cobb, a second personality emerged, one whose personality was the opposite of Eve White's — so she was given the name of Eve Black.
Eve Black knew all there was to know about Eve White, but Eve White was oblivious to Eve Black's existence.
After Eve White had been sent to a hospital for observation and released, Eve Black attempted to kill Eve White's daughter, and her husband decided he had had enough. He left his wife and took their daughter to live with relatives.
That, too, was similar to "Sybil." Brad Davis played Field's long–suffering boyfriend who started out being supportive but apparently concluded that he, too, could not live with that.
Cobb believed Eve White and Eve Black were incomplete personalities, that they had to be united to form a complete personality, and that was the conclusion that Woodward's character reached in "Sybil."
And it would be hard to imagine anyone who was more different from Eve White than Eve Black. Eve Black was constantly going out on the town, drinking, carousing in night clubs.
But while Eve Black seemingly knew everything about Eve White, there were gaps in her knowledge. A third character could resolve things, and it turned out this comparatively stable character was named Jane.
Jane knew how the personalities had split. It went back to when Eve was a little girl. Her grandmother had died when she was 6, and it was a family custom for everyone to kiss the deceased person at the viewing. This was supposed to make it easier for them to let go.
When Eve's mother (played by Nancy Kulp years before she was Miss Hathaway on the Beverly Hillbillies) took her in to kiss her dead grandmother, it so traumatized the child that the personality split occurred.
If you have never seen the movie before but when you do you think the voice of the narrator is familiar, you're probably right. The narrator was Alistair Cooke, a journalist and broadcaster by trade who achieved his greatest popularity in America as the host of television's Masterpiece Theater for more than 20 years.
In nearly all of John Ford's movies, there is at least one star with whom the viewer is familiar — John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart, for instance, were Ford's friends as well as frequent collaborators.
In other words, you usually knew what you were getting. And with Ford, you usually got a western — but not always.
Take, for example, "The Rising of the Moon," Ford's Irish anthology that made its debut on this day in 1957. (It took its name from Augusta, Lady Gregory's play that was first produced in 1907. That play was the basis for the third story, titled "1921" in the film.) There were no recognizable stars. It was a trilogy of short stories, and nary a one was set in the West. They were all set in Ireland.
Well, it isn't entirely true that there were no known stars in the movie. Tyrone Power served as the movie's narrator, tenuously linking each of the three stories together. Modern students of motion pictures need not rack their brains trying to remember where they might have seen any of the folks in "The Rising of the Moon."
If you are any kind of movie buff, though, you are bound to have seen at least some of them before. Some appeared in successful American movies during their careers but usually in small roles; even audiences of six decades ago would not have recognized the casts in "The Rising of the Moon" unless they had a knowledge of Irish actors.
And most Western moviegoers, then and now, knew little about Irish actors.
Neither did Western audiences know much about Irish history — and it requires a certain amount of knowledge on that topic for the stories about Irish life in the early 20th century to make sense. The viewer needs more than passing exposure to Irish traditions and customs in many cases, but knowledge of Irish history is almost entirely the key to understanding that third vignette, a darker tale that appears to support the Irish Republican Army.
Now, during the 1920s, the IRA was involved in a savage round of ethnic cleansing. In Ford's trilogy, the IRA — the Al Qaeda or ISIS of its day — was given a hero's treatment while its foes, the "Black and Tans," a British paramilitary force during the Irish War for Independence, were treated as villains.
I suppose how one interprets the roles of the groups involved in the War for Independence largely depends upon whether one supports the Protestants or the Catholics. But to choose sides it is necessary to have some knowledge of the history of the conflict.
The other two vignettes didn't rely nearly as much on historical knowledge.
But to understand what was being said it was helpful to have more than a passing knowledge of an Irish brogue.
So even though the movie has a unique charm, most viewers probably wouldn't get much from watching it.
And that really is a shame because, like all John Ford movies, it has a number of rewarding qualities. Since the audience knows few, if any, of the actors, there are no expectations, freeing the audience to revel in some great performances. And the cinematographers should have been recognized, as many of Ford's cinematographers on other projects were, for their work.
But modern movie viewers can appreciate it — if they have an opportunity to see it.
Ben (Glenn Ford):I mean, I don't go around just shootin' people down. I work quiet, like you.
Dan (Van Heflin):All right, so you're quiet like me. Well, then, shut up like me.
Glenn Ford's character in "3:10 to Yuma," which premiered on this day in 1957, reminds me of some guys I knew in high school.
Now, when I say I knew them, I mean we were acquaintances. We passed each other in the halls. Sometimes we had classes together. But they were never my friends, and I was never theirs.
They were the kind of guys who cut corners, who figure it is easier to take what they want than to put in the effort required to acquire it, whether it is a good grade or money or a car — or the affection of a beautiful (and even not–so–beautiful) girl.
Of course, it is easier. It's always easier to cut corners. It just isn't particularly honest.
Ford was like that in "3:10 to Yuma." He was the leader of a ruthless criminal gang that started to rob a stagecoach of its shipment of gold and wound up gunning down the driver of the stagecoach. After the shooting Ford and his gang went into town posing as cowhands and got drinks at the local saloon. Ford seduced the pretty but lonely barmaid (Felicia Farr), a decision that would cost him his freedom as it gave those who were pursuing him time and opportunity to catch him.
Farr was like many of the girls I knew in high school. She was friendly enough to the males she saw each day, but she had a real weakness for the bad boys, the ones who were usually in trouble. The bad boys didn't stick around long, either. They were usually the love 'em and leave 'em types.
And the bad boys were the smooth talkers. Ford told Farr the kinds of things he knew she wanted to hear.
That made an impression on Farr, who didn't really play an extensive role in the movie. She was there mostly to give the viewers an idea of what kind of man Ford was. Mission accomplished.
"Some men you see every day for 10 years and you never notice," she remarked shortly after she apparently went to bed with Ford (1950s viewers had to make that assumption, given that they never actually saw the couple in bed together but only as they were exiting Farr's quarters). "Some men you see once, and they're with you for the rest of your life."
When they parted, Farr admitted — seemingly ruefully — that Ford would be one of those who remained with her for the rest of her life.
An observation that reeks of insincerity.
Con men are like that. History always remembers the con men, but people don't always remember history.
Some folks see right through the con men. Van Heflin was that kind of character in "3:10 to Yuma." Of course, it helped to have the insight Heflin's character possessed. He had seen how, while robbing a stagecoach, Ford's character had cold–bloodedly gunned down both the stagecoach driver and a member of Ford's own gang who had been seized by the driver and used as a human shield.
And he had seen how Ford manipulated people to get his way.
Heflin was an honest, hard–working pragmatic rancher who never seemed to catch a break. When Ford lingered in town to seduce the barmaid, Heflin and the town drunk took him into custody. Then it fell to Heflin to guard Ford until he could be put on a train to Yuma in Southwest Arizona, where Ford would stand trial.
It was during the hours of waiting for the 3:10 to Yuma — and trying to be ready in case Ford's gang tried to liberate him — that Ford and Heflin engaged in intriguing cat–and–mouse dialogue — just the sort of tactic a con man tends to use.
The audience already knew how Heflin had struggled to make ends meet and how his family had suffered because of it, and Ford tried to use that to his advantage, offering Heflin ever–escalating amounts of money for his freedom. Claimed to have the money in his pocket.
I can only imagine what a fortune that must have been in the 19th century, and Heflin's character was clearly tempted to take Ford's offer. But he resisted temptation, knowing what the money could mean to his family.
And, of course, no one could say whether Ford really had that money. No one ever saw it.
It could have been one more example of a con man doing his thing.
The story was set in the old West, but it could so easily have been set at any time in any genre. It was a tense thriller as much as a western and deserving of the praise it received.
Nevertheless, I had a couple of problems with it.
For one, it was a little spooky to hear Ford whistling the movie's theme song — which undoubtedly had not been written at the time the movie portrayed.
But that was small potatoes. In the end, Ford helped Heflin escape to safety rather than take the easy way out. It meant that Ford would go on to face trial in Yuma. His reason? Heflin had saved Ford's life earlier, and Ford didn't want to be in anyone's debt.
This is a milestone anniversary in the annals of 20th century music.
For it was on this day in 1957 that John Lennon and Paul McCartney, perhaps the most successful songwriting team in history, met for the first time.
Three years before forming the Beatles, Lennon and his band, the Quarrymen, were performing for the second time. They were providing the music at a church festival. McCartney was there.
Lennon asked McCartney to join the band, and he did — even though his father and aunt didn't approve of Lennon. They considered him to be beneath them — although McCartney's father allowed the band to practice in his home.
It was through McCartney that Geoerge Harrison joined the band. McCartney recommended him to play lead guitar, but Lennon thought he was too young (14 at the time). Harrison won him over by playing "Raunchy" on the top deck of a bus in Liverpool.
Ringo Starr joined the band later.
It was 60 years ago today, though, that the nucleus of the band that would dominate popular music for a decade and beyond was born.
"There must be something between us, even if it's only an ocean."
Nickie (Cary Grant)
I'm not the kind of person who is interested in romantic movies.
But, as a writer, I do appreciate a good story, even if it is a romance — and "An Affair to Remember," which made its debut on this day in 1957, was both.
It was such a good story that more than 35 years after it was playing in theaters, it was mentioned frequently in "Sleepless in Seattle," sparking something of a revival. How much of a revival? Well, sales of the video tape went up by some 2 million copies.
Make no mistake, though. "An Affair to Remember" was melodramatic, and the story might not seem as good if someone remade the movie, scene for scene, today. You would certainly have to make some concessions. The world of 1957, after all, was quite different in many ways from the world of 2017, but I think it could be done.
In some ways, it might even be better.
Take, for example, the addiction so many people have to smartphones. Every day I see people walking along on sidewalks with their eyes glued to their smartphone screens, completely oblivious to what is going on around them. Late in the movie when Deborah Kerr's character was struck by an automobile while she was crossing the street, the reason that was given was that she was in a hurry to her meeting with Cary Grant at the Empire State Building and simply wasn't paying attention. It would certainly be plausible for her character to be so engrossed in her smartphone that she walked into oncoming traffic — but it might imply that the woman was more interested in her smartphone than the rendezvous she was on her way to keep.
(Actually, "An Affair to Remember" was a remake of a 1939 movie starring Irene Dunne and Charles Boyer, "Love Affair.")
Yes, an updated story could be an improvement, but how could you top the casting of Grant and Kerr? Actually, Grant might have been paired with Ingrid Bergman or Doris Day. Both were considered for the role — and both would have been good, although their interpretations of the role would have been different. And "An Affair to Remember" would have been a different movie.
Based on that, you would have to conclude that the right casting choices were made (Bergman, of course, was the female lead in "Casablanca").
To modern audiences, the story must seem almost laughable. Grant and Kerr met on an ocean liner. Although each was involved with someone else, they developed a friendship that quickly evolved into something deeper.
Upon their arrival in New York, they agreed to meet at the top of the Empire State Building in six months — if they had split up with their significant others and embarked on new careers.
On the appointed day Kerr's character was struck down by a car and taken to a hospital. In the meantime, Grant's character waited at the top of the Empire State Building for hours, finally conceding that Kerr wasn't coming.
Eventually, I suppose, the moral of the story was that love will find a way. Grant and Kerr were reunited at the end, pursuing professional interests both had suppressed for years.
"An Affair to Remember" was nominated for four Academy Awards — Best Original Score, Best Original Song (sung by Kerr's character in the movie but actually dubbed by renowned singer Marni Nixon — who also dubbed for Natalie Wood in "West Side Story"), Best Costume Design and Best Cinematography — and lost all four.
"I'd hate to take a bite outta you. You're a cookie full of arsenic."
J.J. (Burt Lancaster)
I am a fan of black–and–white movies for many reasons, but one of the things I really like about them is they remove the distraction of color.
Don't get me wrong. Color movies have their place, and some stories simply could not be told without color. But the absence of color somehow allows more emphasis to be placed on the characters and their dialogue — and that is where I think "Sweet Smell of Success," which was first shown on this day in 1957, really came through for the audience.
It came through on several levels.
Frankly, I don't care how long you have been watching film noir movies or how many you have seen. You've never seen one with dialogue that crackled like this one did — and it seemed that everyone in the movie, from the stars to the bit players, got to deliver at least one snappy line. Clifford Odets and Ernest Lehman should have received an Oscar nomination for their writing. It's some of the best you'll ever experience (this is a lifetime of writing talking here).
They weren't the only ones who contributed to "Sweet Smell of Success," but no one received an Oscar nomination for work on that movie.
And that was a big mistake. Tony Curtis gave what many people regard as his greatest performance as Sidney the smarmy press agent. If he was outdone by anyone, it was Burt Lancaster who played J.J. the callous newspaper columnist who wanted to prevent his sister from marrying perhaps the only good guy in the movie. His lines in the movie were the most savage.
But Curtis had some pretty good — and pretty insightful — lines, too. At one point, he advised, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" then observed, "That gives you a lot of leeway."
I can understand why "Sweet Smell of Success" got no Oscar nominations. As I have mentioned on this blog before, the folks who vote on the Oscars seem to like to reward movies that promote the positive side of human nature — love, loyalty, honesty, integrity, that sort of thing. The Oscars rarely recognize movies that focus on the gritty reality of life with so much as a nomination. It is as if the voters don't even want to have the option of voting for such a movie, let alone rewarding it with a statuette.
Of course, there are exceptions to that, but it does seem to be an unwritten rule.
To maintain a sort of balance, the Oscars tend to avoid nominating comedies, which is why some of the greatest entertainers in movie history were never nominated for Academy Awards.
"Sweet Smell of Success" was hardly a comedy, but you really had to look hard to find a good guy in the story.
"All gunfighters are lonely. They live in fear. They die without a dime, a woman or a friend."
Wyatt Earp (Burt Lancaster)
I love to watch movies that are based on famous people or events from history — like John Sturges' "Gunfight at the O.K. Corral," which made its debut on this day in 1957.
But I seldom recommend such movies to people as reliable sources for, say, facts a student could use in a term paper.
For that kind of purpose, you're usually better off referring to books on the subject, and that is certainly the case here.
Not that the real gunfight at the O.K. Corral was lacking in drama, but, as is so often the case, the facts apparently weren't dramatic enough, which led to several historical inaccuracies.
None of those inaccuracies alone could change the outcome of the gunfight — but the cumulative effect was enough make you wonder who survived and, for that matter, who won the shootout.
Most of that would be speculation, but you would be right to wonder who was actually there. Johnny Ringo, a well–known outlaw played by John Ireland in the movie, wasn't there at all and shouldn't have been a character in the movie. Nevertheless he was.
Doc Holliday (Kirk Douglas) apparently was in Tombstone that day, but the movie suggested that he came there with Wyatt Earp (Burt Lancaster). That wasn't true. He showed up much later.
And, while the movie indicated that Earp saved Holliday's life, it was actually the other way around.
Jo Van Fleet and Rhonda Fleming played the female roles in the largely male ensemble. Van Fleet played Holliday's girl, and Fleming played Earp's love interest. As I understand it Van Fleet's character was, in real life, a prostitute and Holliday's common–law wife. I haven't been able to find out anything about Fleming's character, but I do know that Earp came to Tombstone with a common–law wife of his own. He had three during his lifetime and none had the name of Fleming's character in the movie.
These inaccuracies didn't prevent the movie from being a big box–office hit.
It was entertaining, and I suppose folks were willing to overlook some things.
Like the fact that the actual gunfight lasted just 30 seconds, three men were killed in mostly face–to–face encounters and only a few firearms were involved. In the movie the gunfight lasted five minutes, and there were considerably more fatalities shot from medium range with a large arsenal.
But, hey, if you're gonna have a movie with the word gunfight in the title, you've got to have a lot of guns and a lot of gunshots, right?
"Gunfight at the O.K. Corral" was nominated for two Oscars and lost both — Best Sound Recording and Best Film Editing.
By the way: Dennis Hopper, who was appearing in only his fourth movie, was born and raised in Dodge City, Kansas, which is where Wyatt Earp was sheriff a few years before the gunfight occurred.
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.
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.
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.
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?
"Now, I don't propose to sit on a flagpole or swallow goldfish. I'm not a stuntman; I'm a flier."
Charles Lindbergh (Jimmy Stewart)
It was 60 years ago today that the story of Charles Lindbergh — "The Spirit of St. Louis" — premiered on the big screen.
I have often wondered why it premiered on April 20, 1957 — when, if the makers of the movie had waited 30 days, it could have debuted on the 30th anniversary of the historic flight it commemorated. That's right. Lindbergh's famous New York–to–Paris flight began on May 20, 1927.
I still don't know why it didn't premiere on May 20. It couldn't have hurt its earnings. It was a box office flop as it was.
But I do know a few other things about the movie. For example, I know that Jimmy Stewart was just about no one's choice to play Lindbergh.
As much as I admire Stewart's work in movies like "It's a Wonderful Life,""Harvey" and "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," I have always had a soft spot in my heart for "The Spirit of St. Louis." Maybe that is because it tried to tell a great story from history — and I have always loved history.
But, as far as I am concerned, Stewart was the wrong choice because he was nearly twice as old as the man he portrayed. Now, I don't feel that an actor or actress has to be precisely the same age as the person being portrayed, but Stewart was 47 trying to portray a 25–year–old. Maybe the movie can get away with that with modern viewers who have no memory of Lindbergh, but most of the people who saw that movie in 1957 must have had a memory of Lindbergh.
Producer Jack Warner favored a younger and less well known actor in the role. Warner called the finished product "the most disastrous failure we ever had."
And Lindbergh, I have been told, was not satisfied with Stewart's portrayal. I guess I can't argue with him there. When Stewart shrieked out the window of his airplane, he sounded like Lindbergh channeling his inner George Bailey. Some critics complained that Stewart's Lindbergh did not give viewers enough of a glimpse into his personal life, his motivations, that Lindbergh in Stewart's hands was a mechanical and routine character.
Perhaps those who complained that Stewart did not act so much as provide a character type that he did well were justified — to a degree.
But Lindbergh's flight was a rousing success, and it was a story that deserved to be told. It is sure to be lost on most living Americans that Lindbergh's feat required enormous courage, which makes it a valuable resource for anyone who wants to learn about the history of aviation. The movie, directed by the great Billy Wilder, was based on Lindbergh's own autobiography, which won the Pulitzer Prize.
I have always assumed that meant the film was mostly accurate in its facts, but I do know of at least one tidbit in the movie that was incorrect. In the movie, Lindbergh is shown as being in bed the night before his flight, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Later, during his 33–hour flight to Paris, he observed how tired he was and lamented not having taken advantage of a warm, soft bed the night before.
In reality, the 25–year–old Lindbergh was out partying most of the night. Well, you can get away with that kind of thing when you're 25.
(Those who may be inclined to criticize the reality and praise the fantasy ought to remember that several pilots had already died in their pursuit of the Orteig Prize, a $25,000 prize — that's more than one–third of a million dollars in modern currency — that was offered to the first to fly nonstop from New York to Paris. Lindbergh — and any other pilot who accepted the challenge — could be forgiven for taking the chance to live it up the night before departure.
(But the movie gave no hint of that.)
And the movie appears to have developed a following in recent years that it didn't have in the 1950s — it was judged a flop, primarily, it seems because the project went well over budget.
Stewart was nominated for Oscars five times in his career, and he even won it once for his work in "The Philadelphia Story," but "The Spirit of St. Louis" received only one Oscar nomination — for Best Visual Effects.
You would think its odds were pretty good. There was only one other nominee for that Oscar — but it lost.
I have never read Charles Shaw's novel on which John Huston's "Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison," which premiered on this day in 1957, was based.
But if the movie was true to the book, I think I would like to read it sometime.
I guess it would be called an "offbeat love story." But I've never really liked that phrase because it suggests that it is an atypical love story. But what, pray tell, is a typical love story? Aren't all love stories unique? A love story may share certain characteristics with other love stories, but it seems to me that every love story is unique because the people involved in them are unique, and their circumstances are unique to them.
When the movie began, the audience saw an inflatable life raft floating somewhere in the south Pacific in 1944. Stretched out in the raft was Robert Mitchum. The audience later learned that he was a Marine aboard a submarine who had managed to escape after being fired on by the Japanese.
Mitchum didn't speak for the first eight or nine minutes of the movie. In fact, there was no dialogue at all for the first eight or nine minutes. It was during that time that Mitchum's life raft floated near an apparently uninhabited island, and he made his way to it. As Mitchum explored the island, he saw structures in which others had lived at one time, but there was no one to be seen.
And the audience could more or less imagine the questions that were going through his mind. Who had lived there? Was anyone still around? Were they friendly or hostile?
Then he came upon a building that was clearly a church, but there was no human activity around it and no sound coming from it — until a nun (Deborah Kerr) emerged with a broom.
Kerr told Mitchum she had only been on the island a few days. She came with a priest to evacuate another priest, but they discovered that the Japanese beat them to it. The natives who brought them to the island were scared and left abruptly. The priest, who was elderly, died a short time after, and the nun had been left alone on the island. At least until Mitchum arrived.
For awhile the two were alone on the island — until some Japanese landed with the intention of setting up a meteorological camp — a place to monitor weather conditions and provide up–to–the–minute data for Japanese forces. Mr. Allison and the nun retreated to a cave and kept out of sight. For food Mr. Allison would go out spearfishing after dark when he figured the Japanese weren't watching, but they couldn't risk a fire so they had to eat whatever he caught raw. The nun found it hard to digest so Mr. Allison crept to the camp and stole some canned goods.
While he was doing that he could see flashes on the horizon and concluded there was some kind of naval battle between American and Japanese forces. The Japanese who were on the island soon left, which led to all sorts of speculation on Mr. Allison's part about who had won the battle, whether anyone would be coming to their island and what that would mean for them. Partly out of frustration and partly out of jubilation, I suppose, Allison got drunk on some sake that had been left behind.
That was when he confessed to the nun his true feelings for her. He told her he loved her and he thought it was pointless for her to remain dedicated to her vows — she had not yet taken her final vows — since they were stranded on the island with little hope of being saved.
The nun ran out into the night and a tropical rain, becoming ill in the process. After Mr. Allison sobered up he found her shivering and carried her back to the camp. Meanwhile the Japanese had returned, and Mr. Allison took the nun back to the cave.
Mr. Allison tried to care for her, but she needed blankets, and the only blankets to be found were in the Japanese camp. He went back there to get some and was discovered, forcing him to kill a Japanese soldier. Consequently the Japanese realized they were not alone and started setting fires in the jungle to force the pair out into the open.
They remained in the cave, though, and expected a grenade to be thrown in with them — until they heard an explosion that Mitchum realized was not a grenade. It was a bomb. The Americans were attacking the island ahead of their landing.
Mitchum also knew that, when they returned to the island, the Japanese brought four big artillery guns that were well concealed — and he knew where they were. When the Americans tried to land, Mitchum mused, the Japanese would come out of their bunkers and open fire with those guns. It would be a messy landing.
Then he had the inspiration to disable the weapons before the landing began, and that is what he did. He was injured in doing so, but he still managed to disable them, and the Americans easily overpowered the Japanese.
As the movie ended, the nun told Mitchum, in what the audience presumed would be the last time they would see each other, that they would always be close companions, and the Americans were puzzled by how the Japanese weapons had been disabled.
Mr. Allison never said a word. It was a time when movies and movie audiences still believed that virtue was its own reward.
"Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison" received two Oscar nominations. Kerr was nominated for Best Actress but lost to Joanne Woodward in "The Three Faces of Eve." And Huston was nominated with John Lee Mahin for Best Adapted Screenplay but lost to Michael Wilson, Carl Foreman and Pierre Boulle for "The Bridge on the River Kwai."
Today, it almost seems like an obvious thing, a cliche of moviemaking.
"12 Angry Men," originally a TV play, made its debut as a movie 55 years ago today. I wasn't around in those days, but I have to think that the basic premise — a solitary member of a criminal jury votes "not guilty" and persuades his fellow jurors to change their votes — wasn't new then.
It probably just hadn't been used as much as a plot device by 1957 as it has in the 55 years since.
If that was so, it must have gotten a fresh spin as a movie.
"12 Angry Men" has been remade a few times since then — and with some pretty big names, too — but I always maintain that the '57 version was the best — if only because of Henry Fonda, who played the lone juror.
Fonda was the perfect actor to cast if a director and/or producer of a movie had a lesson to teach, and Juror #8 (that was all the audience knew to call him — until the very last minute of the movie) had plenty of lessons to share.
But the roles were kind of reversed on this project.
Originally, Reginald Rose wrote the play for TV's Studio One, and the TV production did so well that Sidney Lumet was persuaded to direct a movie adaptation. Rose co–produced the movie along with Fonda — Fonda's only foray into movie production — and the two of them were responsible for bringing Lumet into the project.
The brilliance of the story lies in the way that each juror's true colors were revealed through a series of fairly typical jury discussions (I've served on my share of juries). After I watched "12 Angry Men" the first time (I was visiting my grandmother, as I recall, during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college), I felt that I knew the characters of each of those "jurors" better than I knew the characters of some people I had known most of my life.
In our polarized culture, I think there are lessons in "12 Angry Men" that might actually promote civility and tolerance of dissenting opinions.
"It's always difficult to keep personal prejudice out of a thing like this. And wherever you run into it, prejudice always obscures the truth. I don't really know what the truth is. I don't suppose anybody will ever really know. Nine of us now seem to feel that the defendant is innocent, but we're just gambling on probabilities — we may be wrong. We may be trying to let a guilty man go free, I don't know. Nobody really can. But we have a reasonable doubt, and that's something that's very valuable in our system. No jury can declare a man guilty unless it's sure."
Juror #8
As great as that piece of dialogue is, it really took someone of Fonda's moral authority to give it meaning.
For modern movie viewers, raised on the slick and the gaudy, the absence of splashy special effects — or even much variety in the setting (nearly the entire movie takes place in the jury room) — may be an obstacle to their enjoyment of the great story.
But anyone who has ever served on a jury will recognize at least some of the personalities of the jurors — the rather timid clerk; an anxious businessman whose thoughts are of his estranged son; a laborer; a sports fan eager to complete his jury obligation so he can attend a baseball game; a thoughtful older (and presumably retired) man; an immigrant; a bigot.
And more, much more.
I've watched it many times since that first time back in my college days, and I find it compelling each time. When it is over, I can't say enough good things about it.
Today is a special anniversary in the annals of popular music.
It was on this day in 1957 that the two halves of perhaps the most famous songwriting team in history — John Lennon and Paul McCartney — came together for the first time.
It was in a place called Woolton, a suburb of Liverpool. Lennon's band, the Quarrymen, was performing at some sort of social function at St. Peter's Church. McCartney happened to be there — although why I do not know.
Anyway, why he was there doesn't matter, I guess. The point is that they were introduced to each other 54 years ago today. By October, McCartney had joined the Quarrymen. A few months later, so did George Harrison.
The rest is history, I suppose. Lennon and McCartney formed a partnership and agreed to share the credit for all songs that were written by them, either collaboratively or separately. Between 1962 and 1969, Lennon and McCartney composed approximately 180 songs, most of which were recorded by the Beatles.
As just about any Beatles fan will tell you, most of those songs were not collaborative efforts. Most of them were written, entirely or mostly, by either Lennon or McCartney.
It was more of a team effort in the early days. Many of their early songs were compositions in which one had written an incomplete song that the other completed by adding a "middle eight," which tended to have a different melody from the rest of the song and acted as something of a bridge.There was a competitive element in their work in those days, and it produced some truly influential songs. "Yesterday," for example, has been cited as the most recorded/covered song ever by the Guinness Book of World Records.
Later on, nearly all of their songs were individual efforts.
Lennon spoke about the dynamic tension between his style and McCartney's — which was so critical in the creation of the Beatles phenomenon. In an interview near the end of his life, he told Playboy that McCartney "provided a lightness, an optimism, while I would always go for the sadness, the discords, the bluesy notes. There was a period when I thought I didn't write melodies, that Paul wrote those and I just wrote straight, shouting rock 'n' roll."
Typically, it wasn't hard to tell who was responsible for which song. The primary composer usually sang his songs on the albums so, if you could differentiate between the two voices, you could figure it out.
And, as Lennon observed, many of his songs were of the "straight, shouting rock 'n' roll" variety while McCartney leaned more to love songs and ballads.
But they struck a balance that worked — and worked well.
I got my bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Arkansas, and I got my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. Most of my adult life has been dedicated to writing and editing in one form or another. Most recently I have taught writing (news and developmental) as an adjunct journalism professor at Richland College, where I advise the student newspaper staff. Go, Thunderducks!
