'Achtung Baby' Was a 180-Degree Turn for U2

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I'm not what you could call a fan of U2. Don't get me wrong. I like many of the band's songs, and I have owned some of U2's albums in the past. Today I have some of the band's CDs on my shelf. That doesn't make me a fan, though.

I once worked with a guy who was really a fan of U2. He knew every song, every album. I'm that way about some groups, too, so I understood.

Still I am hardly qualified to select the best U2 album ever made, but if I was asked which one I like best — and that could change if I hear a U2 album I have never heard before — I would name "Achtung Baby," the album that hit music stores 25 years ago today.

I don't know if it was the best album the band ever released — I like "War" and "The Joshua Tree," too — but I can say that it is the best U2 album I have heard in the last 25 years.

It certainly was different.

For reasons I never really understood, U2's "Rattle and Hum" was panned when it was released in 1988. I liked it, and it did pretty well commercially, but still it was widely criticized.

So when U2 released "Achtung Baby" three years later, the band had a few surprises in store for folks; even people who had been listening to U2 for many years had to have been surprised. What had come before had a distinctly American sound to it, but the music on "Achtung Baby" had an — I don't know — postmodern British sound. It incorporated elements you typically found on David Bowie's albums.

Five singles were released from the album. "Mysterious Ways," which was released as a single about a week after the album, was the most successful in the U.S., reaching #9 on the charts, but "One," which followed four or five months later, climbed to #10.

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Those two songs and "The Fly," which was released as a single nearly a month before the album, all went to #1 in U2's home country of Ireland.

Back to that new sound.

Seldom, if ever, do you see a band do an about–face as successfully as U2 did on "Achtung Baby."

That was clear from the very first song, "Zoo Station."

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"Achtung Baby" was inspired by the reunification of Germany, and the music, in its way, has always reminded me of Mike Myers' Saturday Night Live character Dieter and the comedy sketches about his fictitious West German TV show Sprockets. Those sketches were popular at about the same time as the album was riding the charts. Maybe that's where I make that mental connection.

Anyway, "Achtung Baby" was widely accepted, sold 18 million coies, got great reviews, debuted at #1 on the Billboard chart, won a Grammy and has been named one of the all–time great albums by several music critics.

Now, that is a successful transformation.

The Late, Great Stevie Ray's Final Album

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Stevie Ray Vaughan had been deceased for more than a year on this day in 1991 when an album of 10 of his previously unreleased recordings was released.

(Well, actually, one of the songs had been released on an album when Vaughan was alive, but the recording of the song that was used in the posthumous album was a different version.)

Called "The Sky Is Crying," the album was a bittersweet reminder of how much we lost when Stevie Ray died in a helicopter crash in Wisconsin in August 1990. It was a collection of pieces written mostly by other artists, like Jimi Hendrix, Howlin' Wolf and Elmore James, but there were a couple of songs penned by Vaughan.

And there was one song, "Life by the Drop," that was written by Doyle Bramhall, one of Vaughan's friends.

Bramhall clearly knew Stevie Ray's style. I always thought the song was perfect for him. It captured his style in a way that none of the other songs did.

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The title track was written by James, but Albert King probably recorded the most widely recognized version of it.

Much of the album was the hard–driving blues for which Vaughan was known, but it was really a showcase for Stevie Ray's diverse (if unheralded) guitar styles. They were all influenced to a certain extent by the blues, of course — but the influence was not exclusive.

My favorite track has always been an instrumental piece called "Chitlins Con Carne." That one really was different for Stevie Ray. I have often wondered why he recorded it. Did he just do it as a lark with no intention of releasing it?

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Perhaps. I haven't heard any other songs that could have been used on an album with it. But surely these weren't the only outtakes in Stevie Ray's portfolio.

"Chitlins Con Carne" was written by jazz guitarist Kenny Burrell, and it offered a glimpse into the jazzy side of Vaughan's musical personality, which was an intriguing departure. Stevie Ray was a great guitarist, one of the best who ever lived, but he seldom seemed to stray from what made his reputation. Most of the time that is a good strategy. Dance with who brung you, Texas football coach Darrell Royal used to say, and it was advice that Texas–born Stevie Ray Vaughan seemed to take to heart.

But the tracks on "The Sky Is Crying" allowed Stevie Ray to step out of his comfort zone — from the grave, if you will.

Hendrix's "Little Wing" was a rare opportunity to hear Stevie Ray doing blues rock. Stevie Ray's style was more blues than anything else.

The songs on "The Sky Is Crying" were recorded in sessions from 1984 to 1989. For reasons that may have been known only to Stevie Ray, they weren't included on albums from 1984's "Couldn't Stand the Weather" to 1989's "In Step."

It all worked out in the end, though. The 10 tracks combined to form what may have been Stevie Ray's best studio album — perhaps even better than "In Step."

The 25th anniversary of the release of "The Sky Is Crying" is a reminder of what we lost, and it revives questions I heard asked when "The Sky Is Crying" was released.

How many other unreleased Stevie Ray recordings are there? And when will we get to hear them?

Getting a Second Chance

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Mike Nichols' "Regarding Henry," which premiered on this day 25 years ago, was about an unlikely second chance — and, in my opinion, it was Harrison Ford's finest performance.

I know, Ford is mostly known for his iconic roles as Han Solo and Indiana Jones — and, the more I think of it, Ford's performance in "Regarding Henry" may not have been his finest. Perhaps the better word would be challenging. I thought he did a remarkable job in meeting that challenge.

Ford played Henry, who was, at the start of the movie, a narcissistic lawyer (is that redundant?), too absorbed in his career to pay any attention to his wife (Annette Bening) and daughter (Mikki Allen). But then he got shot in the head when he interrupted a robbery at a convenience store, and the rest of the movie was about his struggle to regain his memory and his mobility.

And, as anyone in such a position would be expected to be, Ford's character was a changed person — not in that near–death experience kind of way in which the victim holds life to be more precious than he did before (and has been overdone on TV and in the movies) but in the sense that he was a completely different person.

(Roger Ebert wrote that Ford's former character had been a "taciturn taskmaster who treats his young daughter as if she were a balky client and his wife as a partner with whom he is friendly but not intimate. After the grievous wound to his brain, Henry recovers into an altogether more pleasant person.")

So, while Ford played a single character, it had two distinct and different personalities and tastes. In effect, they were two entirely different characters.

For example — and on a very basic level — the original Henry loved eggs for breakfast, but the post–shooting Henry didn't care for eggs at all.

On more significant levels, Henry did not recognize anyone he had known before the shooting — his wife, his daughter, his associates at the law firm, his mistress ...

You read that right. Mistress. A young woman from his office. As it turned out, Henry's wife had been having an affair with one of his colleagues. It was that kind of relationship — if you can call it a relationship.

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But things were different between them after the shooting. Henry's personality was almost childlike, dependent on and trusting of everyone. When he was told by his family that he loved eggs, he obediently ate the eggs that were given to him — even though the new Henry despised eggs. And he noticed — and appreciated — things he never noticed before, like his surroundings and the people in his life.

His discoveries about the kind of person he had been before the shooting were powerful moments. The movie was filled with powerful moments — yet after I had seen it, I felt that the movie was emotionally manipulative. Ebert appears to have agreed with me.

"There is possibly a good movie to be found somewhere within this story, but Mike Nichols has not found it," Ebert wrote. "This is a film of obvious and shallow contrivance, which aims without apology for easy emotional payoffs and tries to manipulate the audience with plot twists that belong in a sitcom."

It was telling, too, as Ebert observed, that Ford's personality and mental sophistication were conveniently childlike when they needed to be but almost as conniving as before the shooting when it suited the story.

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For example, before the shooting, it had been arranged that Henry's daughter would be going to a boarding school — a plan that the family at least attempted to carry out. The daughter was resistant, but Henry talked her into going ahead with it by telling her of a similar childhood experience he had on his first day of school and how everything worked out beautifully.

"That's sweet," his wife said after their daughter went off to join her new classmates. "I didn't know you remembered that."

"I don't," Henry replied.

It was an entertaining movie — but blatantly manipulative. Now, I don't have issues — in general — with manipulation, but it seems to me that you have to do some work to justify its use. As Ebert wrote, "Regarding Henry" went for "easy emotional payoffs." It wasn't above bending the facts (inasmuch as a fictional story can have any facts) to suit the purpose.

Opening Some Doors

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"Actually, I don't remember being born. It must have happened during one of my blackouts."

Jim Morrison (Val Kilmer)

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Watching Oliver Stone's "The Doors," which premiered on this date in 1991, was "like being stuck in a bar with an obnoxious drunk," film critic Roger Ebert wrote, "when you're not drinking."

It wasn't quite that bad — although my reaction the first time I saw the movie was probably close to Ebert's. Make no mistake about it. "The Doors" was not for the faint of heart.

And I agree, it could be painful to watch. So, too, it seems to me, it would have been painful to watch Jim Morrison's life unfold — but the audience wasn't spared a portrayal of that.

That is what Stone was trying to do with his biopic. It was about the band, of course, but Morrison was the band. He was the one who wrote most of the lyrics. He was the one the fans came to see. And you couldn't tell that story without telling what came before.

It wasn't hard to see why Val Kilmer was cast as Morrison. Compare pictures of the two. Kilmer is virtually the spitting image of Morrison.

I don't know how much Meg Ryan resembled Morrison's common–law wife Pam. I'm not sure I have ever seen a picture of her.

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But I have heard they had a volatile relationship, and that part came across loud and clear in the movie.

As I understand it, they had an open relationship, and Pam had problems with that. Everything boiled over at a group gathering of the Doors and their significant others. If you have seen the movie, I have no doubt you will remember the scene. Pam became an hysterical, screaming maniac, thoroughly disrupting the occasion and driving people away. Now, Pam was a hippie chick, but the whole communal scene never seemed to work for her, and Meg Ryan did a good job of presenting what must have been a very complex character.

Yet I'm convinced Ebert was onto something when he wrote that Pam really was one of many "supporting characters who drift in and out of focus during his long, sad binge."

The character who had the most significance — other than, I suppose, the members of the band — was played Kathleen Quinlan, "an older rock journalist," wrote Ebert, "who is heavily into sadomasochism and the trappings of witchcraft."

The part of the film in which she managed to penetrate the haze of booze and drugs that enveloped Morrison was worth the price of admission.

"[T]he character is miles different from anything she has played before," Ebert wrote, "and brilliantly conceived and executed."

I agree, although Quinlan has taken on other acting challenges since "The Doors," rendering Ebert's judgment less absolute. In 1991, though, it was still a stretch for an actress who was nominated for an Oscar early in her career for her portrayal of a schizophrenic young woman.

Ebert acknowledged the movie was "not always very pleasant," and that is something I have observed in less tactful language, I suppose. Ebert explained it better than I can:

"There are the songs, of course, and some electrifying concert moments," Ebert wrote, "but mostly there is the mournful, self–pitying descent of this young man into selfish and boring stupor. Having seen this movie, I am not sad to have missed the opportunity to meet Jim Morrison, and I can think of few fates more painful than being part of his support system. The last hour of the film, in particular, is a dirge of wretched excess, of drunken would–be orgies and obnoxious behavior, of concerts in which the audiences wait for hours for the spectacle of Morrison stumbling onstage to fake a few songs or, notoriously, to expose himself."

Yeah, that about covers it.

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I have noticed that Oliver Stone always seems to walk a tightrope between art and documentary in his films — and he doesn't always maintain his balance. "The Doors" was no different.

Ebert observed that "the concert scenes ... play with the authenticity of a documentary." They are convincing. If you didn't know better, you would swear you were watching archival footage of the Doors in concert.

But then the artistic part comes in, and it isn't so artistic. The artsy part, I presume, was when Stone tried to capture Morrison's drug experiences on film — but, in hindsight, it seems to me that the artsy part was really the gritty slices of Morrison's life — which included his fascination with death.

Once again, Ebert nails it.

"He's like Edgar Allen Poe on acid, crawling along the ledges outside hotel windows, or begging his lovers to stab him in the heart."

I guess the Morrison character summed it up best in the movie when he said, "This is the strangest life I've ever known."

The Search for the Truth

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X (Donald Sutherland): Fundamentally, people are suckers for the truth. And the truth is on your side, Bubba.

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I had a lot of things on my mind in December 1991.

I was about to receive my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas.

That alone would have been enough to warrant most of my attention, but, earlier in the year, I learned that an old friend of mine in Arkansas had been diagnosed with a particularly aggressive variant of cancer, and I put my academic plans on hold while he waged a losing battle with that disease.

Mercifully for him, I guess, that battle was over rather quickly. I drove back to Arkansas to be a pallbearer at his funeral that August, and I resumed work on my master's a few weeks later. I took the final class for which I needed credit, and I took the comprehensive exam, clearing all the remaining hurdles before receiving my degree on December 14.

That night, I attended a post–graduation party that was given by some younger people who had received their B.A.s that day — and who had been my students when I worked as a teaching assistant.

At the party, I remember discussing with several people the approaching premiere of Oliver Stone's newest film, "JFK."

I cannot remember a time in my life when I was ever too preoccupied to talk about the Kennedy assassination.

Like many people, I have long been fascinated by the Kennedy assassination — especially, I suppose, because it happened in Dallas, where my parents grew up, where my grandparents lived most of their lives and where I have observed many of the milestones in my life.

That's part of what I have tried for many years to reconcile — the fact that a city that holds so many valued memories for me could have been the scene of one of the greatest tragedies in American history. I guess it makes the Kennedy assassination that much more personal for me.

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And, like most Americans, I want to know the truth. I don't believe I have been told the truth, and I would like to know what the truth is before I die.

Perhaps L. Fletcher Prouty, the former Air Force colonel who served the Joint Chiefs of Staff under President Kennedy, could have told us the truth. He was the inspiration for the character of X, the informant who met with Kevin Costner in "JFK."

X seemed to know more than he was telling — even though he told Costner quite a bit. And, in his life, there were certainly times when Prouty seemed to know more than he was saying.

My impression of Prouty, who has been deceased for 10½ years, is that he believed (whether he had evidence to support it or not) that participation in the Kennedy assassination and/or its coverup was consistent with a pattern of behavior that he witnessed within the intelligence community.

The existence of the "Secret Team," as he called it in one of his books, combined with his stated belief that the Kennedy assassination was a coup d'etat, may well have made it possible for other secret groups (i.e., Nixon's "Plumbers" in the 1970s and Oliver North's covert sale of weapons to Iran and diversion of the profits to Nicaraguan Contras in the 1980s) to do things in the future that Congress had not authorized them to do — things that, frequently, were not only outside congressional oversight but outside the law as well.

I fear I am nearing my limit of major mystery resolutions, though. I was a teenager during the Watergate era, and I always wanted to know the actual identity of Deep Throat. The truth about that became known several years ago.

There are other mysteries that I would like to see resolved before I die, and the Kennedy assassination is one of them, perhaps the most prominent one. But I am increasingly skeptical that it will ever be satisfactorily resolved.

Like the fates of D.B. Cooper and Jimmy Hoffa, it is tumbling into the dustbin of history.

What I really liked about "JFK" was that Stone tried to put all the questions that had been raised over the years — in articles, books, documentaries — into a single coherent package. And, to be fair, a few have been answered.

But many, many more have been raised.

"What is past is prologue" appeared on the screen at the end of the film.

That is a line from Shakespeare's "The Tempest," which was written about 400 years ago. It is engraved on the National Archives Building and, in the modern interpretation, it means that history influences the present.

But in Shakespeare's day, it had a somewhat different meaning — the past had led the characters to the verge of a murder. It suggests that those who commit heinous acts are fulfilling destinies over which they are powerless.

I have never believed that we were powerless to learn the truth about what happened here nearly 50 years ago.

But, as the search for truth has gone on these last 20 years, I have wondered if that truth will ever be fully revealed.

Hooked

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Every person is, of course, an individual, with unique personal experiences.

But some experiences, especially the ones from childhood, are universal. We all have them — eating ice cream cones on hot summer days, watching fireworks on the Fourth of July, going to school with the other children our age, learning to read and write and add and subtract — and looking forward to being allowed to go outside for recess on a sunny spring day.

And most parents read stories to their children. You know the stuff I'm talking about — "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz," anything by Dr. Suess.

J.M Barrie's story about Peter Pan and the Lost Boys of Neverland certainly belongs on that list.

There is, of course, the traditional story that Barrie wrote — nearly everyone must have heard that one — but that story has been re–told in many ways over the years, perhaps none quite as cleverly as the film version that premiered on this day in 1991.

In director Steven Spielberg's hands, the story was given a new twist.

At least, I thought so.

The movie focused not so much on the children but on their father (Robin Williams), who, it turns out, was once Peter Pan but was adopted and raised by an American couple — and forgot all about Neverland.

He was forced to confront his past when his old nemesis, Captain Hook (Dustin Hoffman), kidnapped his two children and took them to Neverland. With the help of Tinker Bell (Julia Roberts), Peter returned to Neverland to save them.

Like just about everything else Spielberg has done, "Hook" was enormously successful at the box office, but many critics complained that the movie failed "to find something new, fresh or urgent to do with the Peter Pan myth."

I disagreed.

It might have come as a surprise to the critics of 20 years ago, but Barrie apparently did conceive of something similar. In 2003, Andrew Birkin wrote that Barrie wrote some notes on the idea of a story in which Peter Pan grew up — but the idea never got past the note stage.

Spielberg apparently knew nothing of that when he made "Hook." His idea had its roots, he said, in his childhood when his mother read the original story to him. At the age of 11, he directed a school production of the story. You might say it's part of his DNA.

"I have always felt like Peter Pan," he once said. "I still feel like Peter Pan. It has been very hard for me to grow up."

Considering all the wonderful cinematic rides on which he has taken his audiences over the years, that's a good thing for the rest of us.

Smells Like Teen Spirit

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In the music industry, 1991 is remembered for a couple of reasons:

• the popularity of contemporary Christian music, which was probably best embodied at the time in the recordings of Amy Grant and their crossover appeal to more mainstream audiences; and


• the emergence of grunge as a popular offshoot of so–called "alternative" rock music.

Grunge had been around for awhile, but it really came into prominence in 1991.

And perhaps no other song exemplified that musical style better than the song that was first issued to radio stations on this date (it was released commercially as a single two weeks later and became Nirvana's biggest hit) — "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

TIME called it "an anthem for apathetic kids."

Rolling Stone ranked it ninth on its list of the 500 greatest songs of all time — ahead of everything by the Beatles except "Hey Jude" and ahead of anything by Elvis.

The story is that the title was inspired by some graffiti that a female friend of Nirvana lead singer Kurt Cobain spray painted on the wall of his apartment. The graffiti reportedly said, "Kurt smells like Teen Spirit," which was the name of a women's deodorant that Cobain's girlfriend wore. When the girl left him, Cobain used the line as his inspiration.

The song's success was completely unexpected — and a little contradictory to the anti–commercialism of grunge.

It was also more of a collaborative effort than anything else on the band's incredibly successful "Nevermind" album. Cobain presented the basic composition to the group, and then each one contributed at least one suggestion that was used in the final version.

Consequently, it was the only song on the album to list all three band members as authors.

The music video that Cobain and his band mates made was critically acclaimed as well.

In all fairness to Cobain, just how much success can one man stand?

Although the song was praised by the critics and brought Cobain and his band mates fame and fortune, they remained uncomfortable with it — to the extent of deliberately omitting it from concert playlists.

In what I suppose was a sign of the times, "Weird Al" Yankovic told Rolling Stone that Cobain "didn't realize he'd made it" until he heard Yankovic's parody of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

If that was so, Cobain must have been the only one who didn't know he had made it.

Finding the Secret of Life

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"Lord, we give you Curly. Try not to piss him off."

Cookie
At Curly's impromptu memorial service

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I didn't see "City Slickers" at the movie theater after it premiered on this date in 1991.

I saw it later that year — on Christmas Day. My brother gave me a copy of the video tape, and I watched it with my parents on Christmas evening.

My folks had seen the movie at the theater, and they kept telling me the best lines before the characters on the screen did.

In hindsight, I couldn't blame them. There really were some great lines in that movie.

Would the experience have been better or worse if I had seen the movie at a theater first? I don't know.

(I do know that I noticed some similarities between the plots of "City Slickers" and 1972's "The Cowboys." Granted, the former was a comedy and the latter was a drama — but both dealt with a group of green cowboys who persisted with their cattle drive in spite of various obstacles after their leader died.

(And, yes, there were some similarities between Jack Palance and John Wayne, but that really is a topic for another time.)

In some ways, I guess, it would have been better. For one thing, I'm reasonably sure that, if I had seen it at the theater, no one would have been handing me punch lines before the setup lines had been spoken.

And there were some really nice shots of the southwestern United States that would have benefited from being seen on the silver screen.

But I remember that Christmas evening with great fondness — just me with my parents.

In a way, I guess, it was kind of a movie viewer's version of a so–called speed date in which a roomful of men and women have a limited time to converse before they are told to switch partners (sort of like the "musical chairs" of dating, I guess).

That Christmas, the three of us were laughing at jokes that hadn't been completely told on the screen. It was a bit of a time saver.

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That was kind of what it was like to watch a movie with my parents that they had already seen — and, by 1991, they had reached a point in their lives where they went to see a lot of movies. They appreciated good lines, and they seldom passed an opportunity to recite one, preferably (but not always) within context.

(Actually, that is what it was like to watch a movie with my parents that they had seen recently. If it was a movie they had seen several years earlier and were watching for the first time in awhile, they would often listen to the joke all the way through to sort of refresh their memories — and then they would repeat the gag over and over after the movie ended.)

(I guess it goes without saying that it usually helped if any companions had seen the movie before, too.

(My mother, as I have written before, was a great fan of Peter Sellers and the "Pink Panther" movies, so much so that she would often recite, in her best Inspector Clouseau impression, her favorite lines — right in the middle of seemingly unrelated conversations. That could be baffling, to say the least, for anyone who was unfamiliar with those movies.

(Mom, it should be noted, was selective about those with whom she did this.)

Anyway, "City Slickers" starred Billy Crystal and Palance (along with some lesser–known, at least at the time, actors) on a modern–day cattle drive.

Crystal happened to be on this cattle drive because he and two of his closest friends were experiencing midlife crises, and they all went on a two–week getaway vacation.

And it was truly a revelation for all.

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During the vacation, everyone learned something about himself.

When the movie was over, I was sure they had all found that one thing that Curly said was the secret of life ...

... that one thing that is different for everyone.

That was the moral of the story. Each person has to find the thing that makes him/her happy.

Some folks never find out what that is.

But the characters in "City Slickers" did.

At least, I think they did.

There was a sequel, after all.

Brooks At His Best

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I really like Albert Brooks.

I guess I've always liked him, but it was awhile before I started to recognize who he was. Apparently, his career began with some TV work, but I remember seeing him when he was in his first movie role, in Martin Scorsese's "Taxi Driver."

Well, I say I remember seeing him in that movie, but, honestly, I can't say that I noticed him the first time I saw it. Maybe the second time. Probably the third time.

OK, most likely it was the fourth time ... or even the fifth time.

The star of that movie, of course, was Robert De Niro, and there were other people who were either recognizable at that time or on their way to being recognizable — Jodie Foster, Peter Boyle, Cybill Shepherd, Harvey Keitel — so not many people remember that he was in that film, even if they have seen it several times — but he was.

That wasn't your typical Albert Brooks fare, though. "Taxi Driver" was a drama, and, while Brooks did well in his role, his calling is clearly comedy.

For some folks, he is only a voice. At other times, his primary contribution has been as a director and/or writer.

I enjoy his acting and his facial expressions. He reminds me a lot of the late George Carlin. It can be entertaining just to watch him, but he is a very cerebral person, too.

There is more, much more, to Brooks than meets the eye. He delights in observing the human condition and spotlighting its inconsistencies.

There are many layers to Brooks' talent, just as there were to Carlin's.

In a discussion about Brooks' ability as an actor, I would have to say that my absolute favorite of his performances was his work in "Broadcast News," but it was 20 years ago today that one of the best examples of Brooks' skill as actor, writer and director made its debut.

I'm speaking of "Defending Your Life," the film in which Brooks co–starred with Meryl Streep as two recently deceased people who must defend their earthly existences in trial–like settings in the afterlife.

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As Rip Torn (who played Brooks' defender) told him, it wasn't really a trial. It was more like a review of a person's life to see if that person had learned all the things he/she should have learned during his/her time on earth. If he/she had, he/she could go on to the next level. If he/she had not, he/she would have to go back.

Sort of an afterlife performance review. Sounds like a lot of pressure, doesn't it?

But it isn't all bad. I mean, you can eat as much as you want and never gain an ounce — and, as fantastic as the food seems to be in this movie, that's a real plus, considering that Judgment City is something of a purgatory.

If the time one spends there is measured in the famous eons of the Catholic faith, I can think of worse ways to spend an eon than being able to eat whatever you want and as much as you like.

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While the movie was a comedy, it also had elements of drama. But Brooks managed to turn the dramatic moments into ironic interludes that always brought a chuckle ...

... like when he showed that, in spite of a badly broken leg suffered in a snowmobile accident, he had crawled three miles for help — and then had to justify why it was not evidence of cowardice that he had never ridden a snowmobile again.

The issue was not his survival instinct, his prosecutor reminded everyone. It was his courage.

Nor was his decision about cowardice, Brooks countered — and proceeded to outline the reasons why snowmobiling just wasn't his thing.

"I hated it!" he protested, calling the snowmobile "a rotten contraption."

Anyway, Brooks, being the star–crossed individual he almost always is in his films, was, in the end, being sent back to earth while Streep was being sent to her next phase. But something happened to convince the watching judges that Brooks truly was worthy of advancement.

I won't tell you what happened because, if you haven't ever seen it, you should.

I'll just say this. It really is Brooks at his best.

On the Trail of a Serial Killer

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It was 20 years ago today that "The Silence of the Lambs" made its debut on the big screen.

In the long history of the Oscars, slightly more than three dozen films have been nominated for all of the so–called "Big Five" awards — Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Actress and either Best Adapted Screenplay or Best Original Screenplay.

"The Silence of the Lambs" was the first in a decade to be nominated in all five categories. Only four films have been so honored since.

Even fewer — only three, in fact — have swept all five awards.

The last to do so was "The Silence of the Lambs."

It takes a remarkable film to achieve that, and I had every intention of going to the theatre to see it. Of course, I had no idea on this day 20 years ago that it would be nominated for the "Big Five" because that didn't happen until a year later.

But I had heard a lot about it, and I had read a lot about it — and I was eager to see it.

Unfortunately, I got sidetracked.

About a month after it hit the big screen, I learned that an old friend of mine in Arkansas was in the hospital. He had been diagnosed with an especially aggressive form of cancer that wound up taking his life within a few months.

I was preoccupied with that, as well as my studies in graduate school in Texas, and I never got around to seeing the film while it was in the theaters.

More than a year later, after it had been nominated for the "Big Five" and had become the first film to sweep all five awards since "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," it was featured in one of those free previews that the premium channels did in those days to try to attract subscribers.

(I guess they still do that, although not as frequently.)

I recorded the film, watched it and brought the tape with me on a trip to Arkansas to visit my friends. As luck would have it, my friends hadn't seen the movie, either, so I popped the tape in the VCR.

At left, you can see a picture of two of my friends, totally absorbed in the story.

And that was understandable. The film was a nearly perfect blend of crime and horror. It had a clear aura of realism, with the serial killer nicknamed "Buffalo Bill" because he took sections of skin from his victims and the FBI's at times frantic efforts to pry useful information from another serial killer they had in custody.

It isn't really necessary to go over the plot, is it? Anthony Hopkins and Jodie Foster were ideal choices for their roles, and they certainly deserved their Oscars.

But, remarkably, Hopkins wasn't the first choice to play Hannibal Lecter. Gene Hackman was supposed to play the part, but he backed out. Other Hollywood heavyweights like Jack Nicholson, Dustin Hoffman, Robert Duvall, Robert De Niro and Sean Connery were offered the role before it went to Hopkins.

Foster, too, was a substitute choice. One of the most popular actresses of that time, Michelle Pfeiffer, was the first choice, but she turned it down. She told Barbara Walters she was nervous about the subject matter. Reportedly, there were about 300 other actresses who had applied for the part, including Melanie Griffith, Geena Davis and Meg Ryan, but it went to Foster.

In hindsight, it is hard to imagine anyone else playing either role. The American Film Institute named Hopkins the #1 film villain of all time and Foster the #6 film hero.

I can't picture Hackman or Pfeiffer doing any better.