Please Don't Make Me Watch 'The End of the Affair' Again

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Maurice (Ralph Fiennes): I'm jealous of this stocking.

Sarah (Julianne Moore): Why?

Maurice: Because it does what I can't. Kisses your whole leg. And I'm jealous of this button.

Sarah: Poor, innocent button.

Maurice: It's not innocent at all. It's with you all day. I'm not.

Sarah: I suppose you're jealous of my shoes?

Maurice: Yes.

Sarah: Why?

Maurice: Because they'll take you away from me.

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If I had to select a movie to watch starring any actress who ever lived, wow, that would be a really tough choice to make. There are so many actresses I admire. It would be almost impossible to narrow it down.

But if I had to select a movie to watch starring any contemporary actress, it would be easy for me. I'd pick just about any movie with Julianne Moore. Oh, I like other actresses of our time, too — Meryl Streep, Glenn Close, Helen Mirren, Nicole Kidman, Holly Hunter, just to name a few — but there really is something special about Moore. She is an accomplished actress. She is versatile. In my opinion, she is still as beautiful as she was the first time I saw her in a movie more than 20 years ago.

And I would watch her in just about anything. But I wouldn't watch "The End of the Affair" again.

Some people liked it, I suppose, although the box office suggests that the viewing public agreed with me. It made back less than half what it cost to make.

I can only hope that the Graham Greene novel on which "The End of the Affair" was based was superior to the movie that premiered on this day in 1999.

Of course, it might not have been. The story was set around the end of World War II, and it had a lot of wartime intrigue, which probably had more of a punch when the book was published in 1951 than it had at the end of the 20th century.

For that matter, I'm guessing the movie version that came out in 1955 (starring Van Johnson and Deborah Kerr) had more relevance to viewers than the version that came out 44 years later. I don't know that for certain, of course; I hadn't been born when either the book was published or when the first movie premiered. For that matter, I've never seen the first movie version.

So I do not know how good (or bad) the original novel was or whether the '55 version was better than the '99 one.

I do know that the stars of the 1999 version, Julianne Moore and Ralph Fiennes, were among the hottest stars of the screen at the time. Their combined credits from the '90s cover many of the decade's most popular movies.

For her part, Moore had appeared in "Short Cuts," "Nine Months," "The Lost World: Jurassic Park" and "Boogie Nights."

Fiennes, too, had been in his share of critically acclaimed and commercially successful movies — "Schindler's List," "Quiz Show," "The English Patient."

"The End of the Affair" may have been exactly what fans of illicit romance movies want. That isn't my genre. I thought Fiennes' performance was a little too "The English Patient" for my taste. Maybe he was still in chick flick mode. I might have liked his character better if it had leaned more to the villainous types he portrayed in "Schindler's List" and "Quiz Show."

So I may have been guilty of expecting more than I got. It isn't as if I wasn't warned. As the title would suggest, it was largely a soap opera. Fiennes' character had an affair with Moore's character, who happened to be the wife of his best friend. Their affair ended; later Fiennes was approached by Moore's husband (Stephen Rea) about learning the identity of her current lover.

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Movie critic Roger Ebert observed that "[i]t is raining much of the time in 'The End of the Affair,' and that is as it should be. The film is about love and adultery in cold, dark, wartime London — when sex was a moment of stolen warmth, an interlude between the air raids and the daily grind of rationing and restrictions."

I never thought about whether the dreary weather was deliberate, or whether it played a conspicuous role in Greene's novel. In hindsight, I suppose it had to have been written into the story because so much of what happens does take place in dismal conditions.

I like both Moore and Fiennes, and I thought they did good jobs with what they had. Moore was even nominated for an Oscar (which she lost to Hilary Swank).

But I couldn't get away from the fact that I felt unmoved when the movie was over. Why was that?

My greatest issue with the movie was the vacuous dialogue, like the example at the top of this post. (It is reminiscent of the taped conversation between Prince Charles and his lover — and later wife — Camilla Parker Bowles in which Charles expressed a desire to be Camilla's tampon.)

Ebert mentioned the movie's dialogue, too. "Not impossible dialogue," Ebert wrote, "but we expect better from a novelist."

That is true.

Since I haven't read Greene's novel, I don't know if the movie was true to it or if it was merely based on it ("based," as you probably know, means the screenwriter[s] liked someone else's basic idea well enough to use it — but not necessarily well enough to tell the same story).

While I appreciated the realistic quality of Fiennes' and Moore's affair being interrupted by a German air raid, I couldn't see how anyone could survive it, and neither could Moore, who knelt in prayer amid the smoke and rubble; nevertheless, the audience saw Fiennes rising up behind her — like the villain from one of those slasher movies who never dies, no matter what is thrown at him.

I have read other Greene novels in my life, and I couldn't imagine the scene in the movie being what he had in mind when he wrote the book. I thought it was an example of Hollywood at its worst.

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Ebert apparently had read the novel, and I got the sense that his conclusion wasn't that much different from my own.

But his objection wasn't the implausibility of elements of the movie, it was its "hangdog" mood.

"It is the story of characters who desperately require more lightness and folly; one can be grim in the confessional and yet be permitted a skip in the step on leaving the church," Ebert wrote. "The characters seem too glum. We see release but miss joy."

It really was a joyless kind of story. Even when I was a child, the word affair always seemed to imply a festive feeling. It took on a more illicit feel when I got older, but it still suggested a thrill that really was missing from "The End of the Affair," except when Fiennes made his implausible rise from the dead.

(It kind of reminded me of a line from "Same Time Next Year." Alan Alda confessed to Ellen Burstyn that he felt guilty about their once–a–year weekend trysts. An exasperated Burstyn replied, "You admit it? You take out ads. You probably have a scarlet A embroidered on your jockey shorts!")

"The End of the Affair" was nominated for two Oscars — Best Actress (Moore) and Best Cinematography — and lost both.

Poking Fun at the Church

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Bethany (Linda Fiorentino): What's he like?

Metatron (Alan Rickman): God? Lonely. But funny. He's got a great sense of humor. Take sex, for example. There's nothing funnier than the ridiculous faces you people make mid–coitus.

Bethany: Sex is a joke in heaven?

Metatron: The way I understand it, it's mostly a joke down here, too.

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"Kevin Smith's 'Dogma' grows out of an irreverent modern Catholic sensibility," wrote Roger Ebert when "Dogma" premiered on this date in 1999, "a byproduct of parochial schools, where the underlying faith is taken seriously but the visible church is fair game for kidding."

When you look at it that way, it really is no surprise that George Carlin was in the cast — as a bishop who tries to modernize the church's image with a "Catholicism WOW!" campaign and a masses–friendly Buddy Christ.

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Anyone who ever heard Carlin's "Class Clown" album knew he was a natural for the church ribbing of "Dogma." Frankly, I would have been disappointed if he had not been in it. I'm sure he got a kick out of all the inside jokes that probably had many Protestants scrambling for a Catholic catechism.

"For those reared in such traditions," continued Ebert, "it's no reach at all to imagine two fallen angels finding a loophole to get back into heaven."

That was the real premise of the story. The fallen angels (Matt Damon and Ben Affleck) had been exiled to Wisconsin and thought they had found a loophole in church teaching that would allow them back into heaven — through plenary indulgences being offered to anyone who entered Carlin's cathedral.

As Ebert observed, there are times in "Dogma" when a certain amount of Catholic education — or, at least, exposure to church teaching, if one is not Catholic — is required. Ebert pointed out that "not everybody knows what a plenary indulgence is." I grew up in a Protestant household and attended public schools; if it hadn't been for the fact that my father was a religion professor, and through him I was exposed to a lot of different faiths, I probably wouldn't have known what a plenary indulgence is. But I did.

Consequently, I probably grasped where the story was going before most non–Catholics in the audience did, even those watching at home with the luxury of pausing the tape or DVD and looking up theological definitions before proceeding.

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Loki (Matt Damon): Church laws are fallible because they're created by man.

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The greater problem with the plenary indulgences was this: if the fallen angels were allowed to re–enter heaven, God would be proven infallible, and all existence on earth would end. Bethany (Linda Fiorentino) was told that, as Christ's last surviving relative, it was her duty to prevent this from happening.

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In its way, I suppose, it was a modern–day Revelation.

I agree with Ebert. It helps to know a bit about Catholic teaching to get many of the jokes. Of course, I guess you could just listen to "Class Clown" before watching "Dogma."

Peeking Behind the Scenes at the 'West Wing'

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Laurie (Lisa Edelstein): Tell your friend POTUS he's got a funny name, and he should learn how to ride a bicycle.

Sam (Rob Lowe): I would, but he's not my friend; he's my boss. It's not his name; it's his title.

Laurie: POTUS?

Sam: President of the United States. I'll call ya.

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Fifteen years ago tonight, one of my favorite TV programs of all time, The West Wing, made its first appearance on America's TV screens. (Of course, I am a political junkie, anyway, so I suppose it isn't really surprising that the show appealed to me.)

That first episode was a mangled, dangling mass of loose strings — or so it must have seemed to many viewers. Some of those loose ends took seven years to tie together. It was a very literate script, written by very savvy writers. Frankly, there were times when I thought that, in spite of the elementary nature of that first episode, parts of it might be over some viewers' heads. I suppose that is a risk you run with just about anything on TV.

That very basic first story dealt with how the president got hurt riding a bicycle. As the episode unfolded, viewers became acquainted with the characters — and learned that there was much more to the story than met the eye. The West Wing was like that; it tended to set up its viewers — and usually delivered a gentle knockout punch in the last five minutes — gentle in the sense that viewers almost never saw it coming.

In some ways, the cast of that first episode did not really resemble the cast of the final episode seven years later. There was a core of characters who remained with the show from start to finish, but others came and went, as they do in the real West Wing. I felt that angle added a touch of realism to the stories, kind of like the ever–changing nature of the ensemble cast of "M*A*S*H."

Some of those characters, like Allison Janney who played C.J. the press secretary, became very well known through their work on the series — even if some weren't originally intended to be regulars. Others, who may have been expected to be long–term characters, were there briefly, then left and were never heard from again.

Martin Sheen, who played the president, wasn't supposed to be a major presence on the show. The series was really supposed to be about the president's staff. But he quickly became a regular, as did the first lady (Stockard Channing), who wasn't even seen 15 years ago tonight. I think the only time she was mentioned was during Sheen's monologue near the end of the episode.

I believe Janel Moloney, who played Donna, the aide to Josh (Bradley Whitford), was only intended to be an occasional character, but she wound up staying with the series to the last episode — and became a much more significant (and popular) character in the process.

Ironically, viewers weren't sure just how attached they should get to Whitford's character that first night. He was, in the words of the first President Bush, in deep doo–doo after insulting a pundit from the Christian right on the air; as a result, the as–yet unseen president was said to be ready to fire Josh — but had not, primarily because of intervention on his behalf by others, especially Leo, the chief of staff (John Spencer).

For that matter, I wasn't sure about Lisa Edelstein's character, a "high–priced call girl" who appeared destined to be the significant other for Sam the speech writer (Rob Lowe). There was something noble about Edelstein. Her character was using the proceeds from her prostitution to pay for her education so she wasn't your run–of–the–mill call girl. She was in a few other episodes in that first season, and her relationship with Sam seemed to be blooming, but she did not remain with the series. I recall no explanation being given.

Sam had kind of a shaky start that night. He didn't know Edelstein was a call girl when he slept with her — and, unfortunately, when he tried to explain to the communications director, Toby (Richard Schiff), what had happened, he neglected to elaborate after he said, "I accidentally slept with a prostitute." Toby was, understandably, bewildered. "Accidentally? I don't understand. Did you trip over something?"

Likewise, Moira Kelly played a political consultant and Josh's former girlfriend. She seemed to be destined for a long–term role on the show but left after the first season (actually, her involvement was less and less each week until it apparently dwindled to nothing before the end of the season) and was never mentioned again.

The reason for Sheen's bicycle accident was mostly a mystery that first night — until Sheen showed up near the end of the episode and clarified things considerably. That, as I understand it, was kind of how the series was originally designed. The focus would be on the staff, the president would pop in from time to time to sort of tie together the loose ends.

On this occasion, though, it seems more appropriate to reflect on the series, which ran for seven years, than to obsess over the meat of that first episode. The show was pigeonholed by some as a liberal's fantasy of how things ought to work — and it was that, to be sure. It was a product of its times, patterned to a great extent after the Clinton administration, a clearly Democrat president contending with a Congress that just as clearly was dominated by Republicans.

Many of the show's advisers came from the Clinton administration, and sometimes episodes were almost wistful reflections on how the writers apparently wished things could have been in the late 1990s.

The great thing about the West Wing, though, was how it appealed to people across the political spectrum. I knew people who were Democrats, Republicans, even independents who watched the show faithfully and wished for a president like Jed Bartlet.

Makes you wonder, doesn't it? If they can agree on a TV show about a president and a Congress held by opposing parties ...

Seeing the 'Beauty' of Life

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"Remember those posters that said, 'Today is the first day of the rest of your life'? Well, that's true of every day but one — the day you die."

Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey)

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Middle–aged office worker Lester Burnham is the sort of man for whom masturbating during his morning shower is the highlight of his day.

In that regard, I suppose the protagonist of director Sam Mendes' "American Beauty," which premiered nationwide 15 years ago today, is not that much different from many, perhaps most, men who are leading quiet lives of desperation.

And it was his performance in this everyman role that won Spacey the Oscar for Best Actor.

The word beauty was used a lot — and in many ways — but the story wasn't even that direct.

"'American Beauty' is a comedy because we laugh at the absurdity of the hero's problems," wrote critic Roger Ebert. "And a tragedy because we can identify with his failure ..."

While most people probably can empathize with Lester when it comes to his feelings about his job, not everyone can relate to the rest of his experience — his disconnection from his wife (Annette Bening) and daughter (Thora Birch) or his fantasies about his daughter's cheerleader friend (Mena Suvari).

Still, the idea of blackmailing your employer when you quit your job probably appealed to quite a few people who saw "American Beauty" in 1999. I didn't see it until it came on cable so I don't know what motivated people to see it on the big screen — or what it was in the story they found particularly appealing.

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Maybe the audience sympathized with Lester, who believed his wife and daughter thought he was a "gigantic loser.

"And they're right," he tells the audience. "I have lost something. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but I know I didn't always feel this — sedated. But you know what? It's never too late to get it back."

The audience learns a lot about Lester by watching "American Beauty." It is about him, really, although he isn't the American beauty of the title. Do you suppose the American beauty is his daughter's friend? Lester often fantasizes about her, frequently picturing her laying naked on her back while rose petals come cascading down around her.

Lester tries to, I don't know, embrace the future by re–living his past. Life was simpler when he was a burger–flipping teen, getting high and getting laid every night so he blackmails his boss, applies for a job flipping burgers and starts working out so he will look good in the nude.

Ebert wrote that Lester was rebelling. That isn't my take on it. I think he was pursuing beauty — obsessively, at times, which could be confused with rebellion — and his daughter's friend was merely the most accessible representation.

The beauty of the title doesn't appear to be his wife, whose only real passion seems to be for her work as a realtor. She psyches herself up to sell a house, then slaps herself out of her funk when she fails to sell it. She does have some passion, though, which she saves for a competitor (Peter Gallagher), who tells her, "In order to be successful, one must project an image of success at all times." It becomes her mantra.

His daughter loathes both her parents and has very low self–esteem. Her friend wants a career as a photo model — and sees sexual attention from males as an indication that she's on the right track.

And that was how life was for Lester and the people in his immediate circle — until a new family moved into the neighborhood, a retired Marine colonel (Chris Cooper), his introverted wife (Allison Janney) and their son, who wanted to be a filmmaker but was currently a marijuana smoker and dealer, which was how he could afford his high–tech equipment (his father thought he paid for it through catering). He, too, was pursuing beauty — through the camera lens. His favorite video was one he shot of a plastic bag dancing in the wind.

"Sometimes," he says while watching the video, "there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart is just going to cave in."

Whew.

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Watching the Burnham family eat a meal together is definitely not a beautiful experience. Excruciating is more like it — especially when Lester tells his daughter about his day (in which he quit his job and blackmailed his employer for $60,000) and his wife laughs hysterically, pausing long enough to tell their daughter, "Your father seems to think this kind of behavior is something to be proud of!"

Actually, when compared to the behavior of others in the movie, Lester's behavior doesn't seem so bizarre — almost rational, in fact.

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"It's a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself. Makes you wonder what else you can do that you've forgotten about."

Lester Burnham

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And, at the end of the movie — and his life — Lester seems to have figured it all out.

I must say that I really liked the ending — not the part where Lester was killed by the homophobic Marine next door but the part after that, where the audience heard his voice saying, "I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me, but it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world."

If that is symbolic of perfect acceptance, maybe Lester didn't figure it all out after all because then he said, "Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain, and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life."

Then he observed, "You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry. You will someday."

The movie won five Oscars — Best Picture, Best Actor (Spacey), Best Director (Mendes), Best Writing and Best Cinematography — and was nominated for three more.

Now, THAT Was a Surprise Ending

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Cole (Haley Joel Osment): I see dead people.

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I rate the effectiveness of a supernatural thriller by how long it takes me to figure out what is really going on, and I cease to be surprised by what I see on the screen.

I never reached that point with M. Night Shyamalan's "The Sixth Sense," which premiered 15 years ago today. I was completely fished in, and its now–famous surprise twist ending took me completely by — well, surprise.

I wasn't alone. Film critic Roger Ebert said he was "blind–sided by the ending."

Initially, it appeared to be the story of an isolated young boy (Haley Joel Osment) and the psychologist who was trying to help him (Bruce Willis). Willis' character had been shot by a former patient, who then turned the gun on himself, and the next thing the audience knew, Willis, seemingly healed physically but struggling emotionally, was treating Osment's character, whose case was similar to the case of that former patient.

Osment's character told Willis he could see ghosts. They walk among the living, he said. They don't know that they are deceased.

Willis' advice was for him talk to the ghosts and see if he could help them with what seemed to be unfinished business that they had to complete before they could go on to whatever was next. Osment was dubious; the ghosts scared him, but he decided to give it a try.

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In his review, film critic Roger Ebert observed that "[i]t has long been believed that children are better than adults at seeing ghosts; the barriers of skepticism and disbelief are not yet in place."

I had a general understanding of that at the time, and I'm sure other moviegoers did, too. It made the story more plausible, more accessible — although I have no memory of personally conversing with ghosts as a child.

A breakthrough for Osment's character was his communication with a girl who had become ill and died. She indicated that she wanted him to take a box, which contained a video tape, to her funeral, which he did, and he gave the tape to the girl's father.

The tape, which had been made clandestinely, showed the girl's mother deliberately giving the girl tainted food, causing her death. That apparently was what was needed for the girl's soul to be at peace.

After that, Osment was able to interact with his schoolmates better than he had before, and he seemed to have learned to co–exist with the ghosts. Willis, on the other hand, was still struggling. His wife seemed to pay him no attention, and she had been the model of a devoted wife before he was shot. He was baffled.

Until he came home one night and found his wife sleeping on the couch. In her sleep, his wife asked her husband why he left her, and his wedding ring slipped from her hand. It was only then that Willis realized he had not been wearing his ring, that he was, in fact, one of the dead people Osment had been seeing.

(I hope I haven't given away the surprise ending to anyone — but it was in the theaters 15 years ago, after all!)

Just before Willis' (and the audience's) revelation, Osment and his on–screen mother (Toni Collette) had something of a reconciliation.

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She had been skeptical of whatever he was experiencing all along.

One day, while they were stuck in a traffic jam, Osment's character decided the time was right to tell her what was going on, and he did. She didn't want to believe him when he said he was visited by his grandmother, but he began to convince his mother when he told her a story from her own childhood that she, apparently, had never told him before.

The clincher was when he said that his grandmother had told him his mother had visited the grave and had asked a question. Her answer, Osment said, had been "Every day," but he didn't know the question. A visibly emotional Collette told him.

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Osment, wrote Ebert, "is a very good actor in a film where his character possibly has more lines than anyone else. He's in most of the scenes, and he has to act in them — this isn't a role for a cute kid who can stand there and look solemn in reaction shots."

That's true, although Osment did do essentially that in his previous important movie, "Forrest Gump." Of course, he was only 5 years old when that movie was made. He was 10 when he made "The Sixth Sense" and, presumably, more mature.

Ebert had more praise for Osment's performance — and Willis'. "Although the tendency is to notice how good he is, not every adult actor can play heavy dramatic scenes with a kid and not seem to condescend (or, even worse, to be subtly coaching and leading him)," Ebert wrote. "Willis can."

"The Sixth Sense" was nominated for six Oscars, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Supporting Actor (Osment) and Best Supporting Actress (Collette) but won none.

'Eyes Wide Shut' Was Psychological More Than Sexual

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Some people think "Eyes Wide Shut," which premiered 15 years ago today, was a fitting finale for director Stanley Kubrick.

Some folks don't.

I saw many trademark Kubrick touches in the movie, and the story was very much in his style — if Kubrick had a style. His movies differed so much in content from each other that I suppose it really isn't accurate to refer to his style in any context other than camerawork.

He could do comedy, he could do satire, and he could do drama.

He had something of a reputation, and so did the source material for his movie, an Austrian novella, "Dream Story," that was published more than 70 years earlier. "Eyes Wide Shut" dealt with the thoughts and personal conversions a Manhattan doctor experienced after his wife told him she had fantasized about having an affair.

Kubrick died shortly after the completion of filming.

I've never read the book so I don't know if the two are described in it as attractive or plain. I suppose it doesn't matter too much in a book, where a reader can imagine characters to be anything that isn't spelled out for them by the author.

It is different in a movie. A character's appearance leaves little to the imagination in a movie. If the book isn't specific — and even if it is — the viewer has to accept the appearance that is given in the movie. Through casting, acting, direction, even story revision, all of the heavy lifting is done for the observer; his/her images will be those created by the writer(s), director and actors.

In casting his movie, Kubrick put two actors in the roles of the husband and wife whose reputations for sexually charged performances preceded them — Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. At the time, they happened to be real–life spouses, which probably raised their level of intensity in the movie. They split up a couple of years later.

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Anyway, the talk before "Eyes Wide Shut" made its debut was that it was going to be a sexy movie. Given the nature of the trailers that had been showing in theaters, that is certainly easy to understand.

But it occurred to me as I watched it that Kubrick may have taken a page from Alfred Hitchcock's playbook.

Hitchcock was known for his cameo appearances in his movies; when it was brought to his attention that audiences had been watching for his cameo and didn't settle in for the story until they saw him, Hitchcock began positioning his cameos earlier and earlier in his movies.

In Kubrick's case, audiences were expecting nudity so my guess is that he tossed them a crumb. The audience saw Kidman changing clothes for a party very early (and very briefly) in the movie.

To me, it was as if Kubrick was saying, "OK, there's the nudity. Now, let's focus on the story."

As nearly as I could tell, the story was about jealousy and obsession.

(I've seen this movie six or seven times, at least. I'm still not sure what it was trying to say. It seems to be saying something different each time I watch it.)

That wasn't the end of the nudity, of course.

In fact, the story was about sex and titillation — as well as jealousy and obsession — and nudity, too, but the nudity didn't tend to take the viewers where they probably thought they were going. It may seem like a strange dichotomy, but sex and nudity don't necessarily go hand in hand in the movies — especially a Kubrick movie. Nudity in "Eyes Wide Shut" was treated almost casually. So was sex, for that matter.

Make no mistake, though, there was lots of nudity — and there was some sex, too — but it was interesting that the next time the audience saw Kidman (only about a minute later), she was doing something decidedly not erotic (although some might argue that it was intimate) — sitting on the toilet — while Cruise put the finishing touches on his appearance.

And they were conversing in the way that married people do. She asked about her hair. Did it look all right? He said it looked great. She said he hadn't looked at it — so he did and repeated his compliment.

The night after the party — which was a nice blend of significant moments and red herrings — Cruise and Kidman fired up a joint and engaged in some candid conversation, in which Kidman told Cruise she had fantasized about having an affair — with an anonymous naval officer she had seen during their vacation in Cape Cod a year earlier.

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Kidman felt drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. "If he wanted me," she told Cruise, "I would give up everything." She expressed relief that one day he disappeared and never returned. It meant she wouldn't have to make such a choice.

That mental image really lit a fire under Cruise, and he embarked on a two–night odyssey through New York's sexual underworld.

The odyssey took him to many places, and he didn't have to look too hard to find opportunities to be unfaithful to Kidman. Such opportunities found him.

He dabbled in them, was tempted by them, nearly succumbed to them at times.

I guess this was the thing about "Eyes Wide Shut" that I found especially fascinating — Cruise's transformation from a kind of stuffy yet high–minded sort to a no–holds–barred sexual adventurer, all because his wife had told him that she had fantasized about having an affair.

And yet ...

He never gave in to the temptation.

At one point, while making arrangements for a costume to wear to an orgy (which was hosted by an unidentified secret society), Cruise met a young girl (Leelee Sobieski), the daughter of the owner of the costume shop. When Cruise came back the next day to return the costume, the shop owner strongly implied that his daughter was available for sexual favors.

(Some people think Sobieski, who was 13 when filming began and 16 when it ended, bears a resemblance to Helen Hunt, who was one of the most popular actresses in Hollywood at the time. I could see hints of a young Hunt in Sobieski's face in "Eyes Wide Shut," but, overall, as she has grown older, I see less and less of it.

(I guess that was consistent for me. I once worked with a woman who told me she was a dead ringer for Julia Roberts. I didn't see that, either.)

Other interesting angles of the story:

Sydney Pollack played the wealthy patient who hosted the first party and was revealed to have been one of the guests at the orgy. Originally, Harvey Keitel was cast in that role, but he dropped out — as did Jennifer Jason Leigh, who was cast to play Marion, the daughter of one of Cruise's old friends — because of another commitment.

Marion's father was dying, and Cruise was summoned to his side. In the movie, Marion tells Cruise she loves him and kisses him. Marie Richardson played the role instead.

Some movie reviewers classified "Eyes Wide Shut" as an erotic thriller. It was even marketed that way. But that really was misleading.

The final product was really more of a psychological thriller, partly because of things that were done in the editing process.

Apparently, the sexual content was even more graphic than people saw on their movie screens, but, to avoid an NC–17 rating, certain techniques were used to mute it.

That was done after Kubrick had died. Who knows if he would have agreed to what was done?

Of that attempt to mute the content, film critic Roger Ebert wrote, "[I]t is done well, even though it should not have been done at all. ... 'Eyes Wide Shut' should have been released as [Kubrick] made it."

Sounds a lot like the argument I made against "colorizing" black–and–white movies. A movie is a work of art, and the director is the artist. Since the advent of color in the movies, it has always been an artistic decision whether to use it — although the cost played an important role in that decision for many years.

The content of a movie is even more of an artistic decision so I agree with Ebert. The edits should not have been done at all — even if leaving the film as it was meant an NC–17 rating.

The Unnecessary First Chapter of the Star Wars Saga

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"Every Generation Has A Legend. Every Journey Has A First Step. Every Saga Has A Beginning."

Tagline

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Every story must start somewhere, and I suppose that the Star Wars saga needed a first chapter. (I was OK with leaving the original "Star Wars" as the first chapter — forget this prequel stuff — but no one asked me ...)

But I really felt like "The Phantom Menace," which made its highly anticipated debut 15 years ago today, was the weakest of the six Star Wars movies that have hit the theaters — so far.

I didn't see it at the theater. I was never terribly excited about it, even though I saw the fan frenzy that the movie inspired among supposedly otherwise normal people who stood in long lines for tickets. I didn't go through that; a co–worker bought it when it was released on video tape, and I borrowed it from him.

I could understand why reactions were mixed.

Film critic Roger Ebert said it was "an astonishing achievement in imaginative filmmaking."

Mark Deming of AllMovie.com was less glowing in his assessment.

"While the computer–generated alternate universe was top notch and [George] Lucas' knack for whiz–bang special effects action reached an apex in the Ben–Hur–esque pod race," Deming wrote, "critics (professional and otherwise) objected to the wooden human characters, overly kiddie–friendly atmosphere, and goofy alien sidekick Jar Jar Binks."

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That pretty much covered it for me.

When I watched it on video tape, my initial impression was that the entire project was designed to market a line of children's toys. Oh, sure, there has always been an element of that in the Star Wars movies, going back to the original. But it was always kept under control in the first trilogy (OK, things were starting to unravel in "Return of the Jedi").

It was rampant in "The Phantom Menace." For a long time, I was convinced the movie had been written to support the toys that were flooding the market. (There's a part of me that is still not convinced the movie wasn't motivated entirely by commercial interests.)

And "goofy" is only one of the words I would use to describe Jar Jar. Others would be "annoying," "stupid," "distracting."

"Grating," possibly. Definitely "irritating."

But certainly not "endearing."

I know some people who liked Jar Jar. I didn't. That won't change. Let's move on, shall we?

I had to agree with Deming when he praised the special effects in the movie, and the pod race did bear a striking resemblance to "Ben–Hur." I suppose it was a glimpse into what that chariot race scene might have been if the makers of "Ben–Hur" had the technological advances that were available to the makers of "The Phantom Menace."

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Ebert was enamored with the whole eye candy thing.

"Unlike many movies, these are made to be looked at more than listened to," Ebert wrote, "and George Lucas and his collaborators have filled 'The Phantom Menace' with wonderful visuals."

If the visual was more important than the audio, then perhaps anyone could have played the parts, but I didn't really think that was true. Some people complained that the actors were wooden, but I felt they did as much as their parts would let them. Liam Neeson made a strong contribution to the story as the Jedi knight who trained Ewan McGregor as his apprentice, a young Obi–Wan Kenobi. It gave the audience some new insights into the old Obi–Wan Kenobi.

Please don't misunderstand. I thought the visuals were impressive. But, for the most part, I thought that was most of what "The Phantom Menace" really had to offer.

And I expect more from a Star Wars movie. Or I did — until 15 years ago.

Likewise, Natalie Portman did a good job as Queen Padmé Amidala, who went on to marry Anakin Skywalker (later Darth Vader) and give birth to Luke and Leia. (I don't need to tell you who they were, do I?)

In "The Phantom Menace," Anakin was portrayed by 10–year–old Jake Lloyd. His character was played by an older actor in Episodes II and III.

Actually, I am inclined to think that maybe Ebert was on to something when he spoke of the appeal of the visuals, possibly at the expense of the story.

"We are standing at the threshold of a new age of epic cinema, I think, in which digital techniques mean that budgets will no longer limit the scope of scenes," he wrote. "Filmmakers will be able to show us just about anything they can imagine."

From the perspective of a mere 15 years down the road, it seems positively prophetic, doesn't it?

Tough Love for Heretics

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Frasier (Kelsey Grammer): Obviously, the station is so pleased with my show that they're looking for more of the same. They could hardly ask me to do another three hours. Imagine how exhausting that would be.

Niles (David Hyde Pierce): And for you as well.

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Frasier's call–in radio show was enjoying good ratings in the Frasier timeline on this night in 1999, and KACL, in the finest broadcasting tradition, decided that more of a good thing would be better.

So Frasier was asked to interview prospects to host a second psychiatric advice show, and he was enamored with one applicant, Dr. Nora (played by Christine Baranski and ostensibly modeled after conservative talk–show host Dr. Laura Schlessinger). She got Frasier's endorsement — and, consequently, the job.

Frasier was under the impression that Dr. Nora would be his protege, but he was shocked to discover that Dr. Nora was not at all what he thought.

"This is a woman who thinks the Spanish Inquisition was just tough love for heretics!" Frasier complained after hearing her rigid advice to her callers.

(Well, "advice" really doesn't seem like the right word. What Dr. Nora did was label her callers whore and slut and condemn things like premarital sex and divorce. Nor could her "advice" be regarded as constructive criticism. She berated callers in a manner that could only be seen as abusive.)

Frasier was mortified that he had recommended her and was about to withdraw his recommendation when Kenny the station manager popped in with the news that Dr. Nora's advice had the phones ringing off the hook. Some listeners loved her, some hated her, but, either way, they were listening, and that was what mattered to Kenny.

Dr. Nora even mocked Frasier on the air, and Frasier decided he had to find a way to get her off KACL. So he and Roz (Peri Gilpin) did some research and dug up some dirt they could use on her. They discovered that her doctorate was in physical education — "She's a gym teacher!" Frasier exclaimed with glee — and she had been divorced twice and had an affair with a married man.

But Niles pointed out something he had observed during one of Dr. Nora's broadcasts. Based on things she had said about mothers, he felt there were some issues there — and he was right. Dr. Nora was estranged from her mother, had been for years.

Frasier had been wondering if, by using the dirt against Dr. Nora, he would be sinking to her level, and he decided it would be best if he tried to help her. Naively believing that, as an experienced therapist, he could reunite Dr. Nora with her mother, he contacted her and brought her to Seattle without Dr. Nora's knowledge.

Roz had been personally insulted by what Dr. Nora said about single mothers (Roz challenged her to a fight, saying, "If you want, I'll take it out on the street." Dr Nora replied, "That wouldn't be fair. You'd have the home–field advantage") and wanted to even the score with her — violently. But Frasier insisted that his way was better.

Frasier then met the mother (played by Piper Laurie), who seemed to be precisely what he had imagined in their phone conversation — but once she and her daughter were reunited, her true colors came through.

In the control booth, Roz jumped up and down and clapped her hands. "You were right, Frasier!" she shouted as Dr. Nora pleaded on the air, unsuccessfully, for her mother's forgiveness and acceptance. "Your way *is* better!"

The real Dr. Laura took offense — not because of the parody of her but because her mother was spoofed. That crossed the line, as far as she was concerned, because, while she was a public figure, her mother was not. And any journalist can tell you that commentary about public figures is protected as free speech, but commentary about private citizens is another matter.

The episode was pulled from syndication for a time, but that ban seems to have been lifted. I have seen it on other networks on several occasions.

Both Baranski and Laurie received Emmy nominations for their guest appearances, but they lost to Tracey Ullman.

Good Writing Still Matters

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Martin (John Mahoney): Well, how was dinner?

Niles (David Hyde Pierce): Let's just say that when I picked my lobster out of the tank at the restaurant, I had no idea it was in for a better evening than I.

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I am part of a vanishing breed, I suppose. I think good writing still counts for something in television — all evidence to the contrary.

Take the episode of Frasier that aired on this night in 1999. Frasier's brother, Niles (David Hyde Pierce), was eager to return to his home in the swanky Montana.

To save money during his divorce proceedings, he had moved into a less expensive apartment and sublet his permanent residence.

Now, his divorce from the never–seen Maris was official, and he could afford to resume his previous lifestyle, but the tenant who sublet his apartment still had some time left on his lease.

Frasier and Niles went to the Montana to speak to the tenant, who apparently had had some run–ins with the neighbors over his tendency to tap dance.

Niles assured the neighbors that the tenant would be leaving, but they were prepared to throw Niles out, anyway. He decided to invite them to a dinner party to persuade them to keep him in the building. His family, including Roz, came over to help out.

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Niles thought things were going swimmingly — until he was told that his pet parrot had died, supposedly because the bird ate one of the appetizers that was being served to the guests.

It wasn't much of a loss for Niles; he wasn't very attached to the bird. His neighbors at the low–rent Shangri–La where he had been living had delighted in teaching the bird obscenities.

Which set up exchanges like this one between Niles and Daphne:

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Daphne (Jane Leeves): I don't mean to alarm you, but there's something wrong with the hors d'oeuvre.

Niles: How do you know?

Daphne: A little bird told me. [lifts towel to reveal bird's body]

Niles: Did you see how it happened? Anything?

Daphne: Well, I did hear her last words, but I don't think they'd be of much comfort to you.

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To revive the party, it was decided to play a game of Murder, in which one guest would be the killer and someone else would have to deduce who it was.

Frasier volunteered to be the detective, and the activity seemed to be reviving the party — until one of the guests, Mr. Probst (Bill Morey), dropped dead.

Turned out that Mr. Probst was the only one who wanted to give Niles the boot — and none of Mr. Probst's neighbors seemed particularly upset that he was deceased. Well, they didn't actually know. They only knew that he had left early. They did not know that he had been taken to the morgue.

The board voted by acclamation to keep Niles in the building.

No moral to the story, I suppose. Just a reminder of what clever writing can do.

The Crane Boys Plan a Dinner Party

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Frasier (Kelsey Grammer): Dad, do you think we're odd?

Martin (John Mahoney): No, you're not odd. You're just ... special! Your mother told me that when you were kids, and I still believe it.

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I always enjoy the episode of Frasier that first aired 15 years ago tonight.

I'm not sure why. Maybe it is because just about the only words that were spoken were by the core cast members — Grammer, Mahoney, David Hyde Pierce, Peri Gilpin and Jane Leeves. (The exceptions were a few lines that were spoken by voice–only actors who were allegedly overheard on the answering machine.)

Gilpin's and Leeves' roles were rather diminished, though, and Martin's was slightly less so. The episode was largely about Niles and Frasier and their sibling relationship, which was always fertile ground for a sitcom episode.

It also had the feel of a stage play, with the only set being Frasier's apartment. In "Dinner Party," Frasier never spoke to any of the listeners on his radio show nor did he meet anyone for coffee at Cafe Nervosa.

Instead, Frasier and Niles were planning — in what was, essentially, real time — a dinner party with the objective of getting to know an unseen couple, the Ashbys. Most of the episode was devoted to their conflicts over first which night to have their gathering, then the selection of caterer, then whom to invite and whom not to invite.

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In the process, they began to examine their own relationship, particularly after they overheard one of the invitees speaking disparagingly of them, unaware that the phone line was still open.

And they began to wonder if they spent too much time together — which gave writer Jeffrey Richman the opoening to introduce a little historical tidbit.

Of course, ex–cop Martin (Mahoney) brought it up — the eccentric Collyer brothers, Homer and Langley, who lived together in New York.

Niles and Frasier had no idea who the Collyer brothers were so Martin filled them in.

"A couple of nutsos shared an apartment together in New York their whole lives," he said. "They even built a maze out of newspapers in there that only they knew how to get through. Then it collapsed on one of them, and the other one just sat there with the dead body until the neighbors complained about the smell."

It wasn't exactly that way.

For one thing, the Collyers lived in a large house, not an apartment. They purchased the property across the street from their house with the intention of turning it into an apartment building, but they never followed through on their plan.

The main reason the property was not developed was because the older brother lost his eyesight.

Anyway, as the older brother's health worsened, the younger brother tended to his needs, carrying food to him through the maze. Then, one day, as Martin said, a portion of the maze collapsed on him, crushing him to death. The older brother, blind and paralyzed, died of starvation several days later.

Both brothers were found dead in the house in the spring of 1947.

The Crane boys decided that they liked spending time together, and they weren't going to be deterred by what others thought. Even if the Cranes were thought to be a lot like the Collyers.

Bait and Switch

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Martin Crane (John Mahoney): I'll bring a quart of whiskey in case of snakebite.

Niles Crane (David Hyde Pierce): Dad, Dad, there are no snakes up there.

Martin Crane: All right, I'll bring a snake!

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On the episode of Frasier that aired 15 years ago tonight, Niles was emotionally drained from watching the blossoming relationship between Daphne (Jane Leeves) and Donny (Saul Rubinek).

On the other hand, he was encouraged because Daphne had confided that she and Donny weren't sleeping together.

He was further torn because, although Donny was pursuing the woman Niles had worshiped for years, he had done a great job as Niles' divorce attorney.

For example Donny had secured a rustic cabin from Maris in the settlement, and Niles planned to go there to get away from things. Actually, the suggestion was made by Frasier, who suggested that he, Niles and Martin go up to the cabin for the weekend. Niles would go first, then Martin and Frasier would join him the next day because Martin had a dentist appointment.

Then, while having coffee at the cafe, Niles learned from Roz that she and Donny had been lovers at one time, but the relationship had soured because he wanted a family and she didn't. Roz lamented the fact that now she had a family (her daughter, Alice) but no Donny.

"I wonder who he's seeing these days?" she mused.

Niles started giggling, and Roz asked him what amused him so. Niles promised to tell her in a minute; he wanted a few seconds to savor the irony. When he told her that Donny and Daphne were dating, Roz wasn't amused.

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But Niles was hatching a plan.

He invited Roz to come to the cabin. "Frasier and Dad are coming up tomorrow," he told her, "but tonight it would just be us — love's losers, licking our wounds, laughing at our pain?" He told her she could bring her baby.

Roz agreed to it.

"This reminds me of that wonderful moment in 'Streetcar Named Desire' when the brutish Stanley says to the ultra refined Blanche, 'We've had this date with each other from the beginning,' " Niles said.

Roz protested that "I'm not all that refined."

"Actually," Niles replied, "I was picturing you more as Stanley."

Niles' plan was to invite Donny to the cabin as well — ostensibly to do some legal work. But the purpose was to reunite Roz and Donny, who would learn that Roz had the family he always wanted and, hopefully, be encouraged to drop Daphne — opening the door for Niles to step in.

It seemed to be working, too — until Frasier and Martin showed up a day early.

Frasier got the impression that Niles and Roz were having a rendezvous — and, although he had urged Niles to make a "fresh start" with someone now that Daphne was seeing Donny, he told Niles "Roz isn't the freshest start you could make."

While duck hunting with Martin, however, Frasier was reminded that opposites attract.

"Look at your mother and me," he said. "We went together six months, nobody thought it would last, we had 40 happy years together."

And the episode then became a revolving doors shtick with people popping in and out of rooms just in time to keep up various illusions.

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But, eventually, the whole thing collapsed when Daphne showed up unexpectedly.

Frasier figured out what was going on and encouraged Daphne and Donny to go off by themselves. Daphne had the idea to go to a bed–and–breakfast for the night.

A crestfallen Niles had no choice but to watch them walk out the door.

I have liked this episode for a long time, and I never understood why it wasn't nominated for any Emmy awards. It had an excellent mix of comedy and pathos.

Pierce did win a Best Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series from the Emmys (for the third time), but nothing specifically related to the episode was rewarded.

The Emmy for Outstanding Writing in a Comedy Series went to Frasier's Jay Kogen for an episode that I didn't think was as good as the one that first aired 15 years ago tonight. David Lloyd, the writer of this episode, was with the series from 1994 to 2001 and wrote 15 episodes, none of which received an Emmy nomination.

But he had already secured his spot in television history as the writer of the legendary "Chuckles Bites the Dust" episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Niles in the Spotlight

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The episode of Frasier that premiered on this night in 1999 is hardly my favorite.

In fact, as its title — "Three Valentines" — suggests, it is actually three vignettes, two of which I don't particularly like.

The one I do like has almost no dialogue. It featured Niles (David Hyde Pierce) in some of the best purely physical comedy I have seen. Good physical comedy needs no dialogue, and Pierce could convey so much about his character in the ways he moved and the things he did. He didn't need words.

I have had the audacity (in the opinion of some) to compare Pierce's performance to the best of Dick Van Dyke or Don Knotts, both of whom I admire very much. I understand where my friends are coming from, but I still think the comparison is justified.

Quite simply, Niles had been given use of his brother's apartment to entertain a Valentine's Day date. He was at his fastidious best, spotting a (mostly imperceptible) wrinkle in his trouser leg and setting about pressing it before his date arrived. But he got distracted by the meal he had cooking in the kitchen, and the trousers began to smolder after being under the iron too long.

The episode's other two vignettes simply weren't very amusing. In one, Frasier kept getting mixed signals from his companion about whether she was open to more than a kiss at the evening's end. In the other, Daphne and Martin were dealing with romance issues while dining together at a restaurant.

But Niles had the stage all to himself — except for Eddie, who watched Niles intently and barked occasionally. And Niles certainly was a sight to see.

He tried to press his trouser leg, but he noticed an errant thread. Distracted by the thread, he put the iron down on his trousers and went off to find scissors to cut the thread. (One of the hilarious touches was how Niles' childhood training kicked in as he retrieved the scissors, deliberately slowing down so as to be sure not to run with scissors and reversing the way he was holding them so the sharp end pointed down — no doubt as his mother had instructed him when he was a little boy.)

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He still succeeded in cutting his finger, producing some light bleeding, but, once again, Niles' childhood training kicked in, and he passed out frequently from supposed loss of blood.

Eventually, he accidentally set fire to his brother's couch and tried to put it out — but he just couldn't manage the fire extinguisher.

So he fell back on a pot of pasta from the kitchen, dousing the flames but filling Frasier's apartment with smoke.

Niles tried to get rid of the smoke by opening the door, but he caught a glimpse of his cut finger, remembered his blood loss and collapsed on the floor while Eddie ate the pasta in the couch cushion.

Game over.

In Excelsis Deo

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Ten years ago, I became a fan of The West Wing. I still admire the show, even though it has been off the air for more than three years.

From the series' debut in September 1999, it was clear to me that the writing and acting were head and shoulders above just about anything else on network TV. That impression was permanently reinforced 10 years ago Tuesday, when "In Excelsis Deo" aired.

It was the first program with a Christmas theme on The West Wing, and the story was deceptively simple, but it delivered a potent punch at the end. Toby, the communications director, was summoned to a park where a homeless man had died on an unusually cold night. The man was wearing a coat Toby had given to charity, and one of his business cards was found in the pocket.

Toby saw a Marine Corps tattoo on the man's arm and realized he served in the Korean War. He set out to find the man's next of kin (the only relative he could locate was a brother, also homeless) and arranged for a funeral and an honor guard, using the influence of the president's office.

When he found out, the president could only manage mild exasperation, confirming that "We're still in NATO, right?" and Toby went ahead with the funeral, accompanied by the man's brother and the president's secretary, Mrs. Landingham.

Earlier in the episode, Mrs. Landingham revealed that the holidays always brought her down because her twin sons had been killed in Vietnam on Christmas Eve 1970. And she lamented the fact that she hadn't been there for her sons when they were dying.

Anyway, try as she might to feign her disapproval, it was clear that she was glad Toby had done what he did. That's why she insisted on joining him. And so the two went to the funeral for a man they never met.

You can see the conclusion of the episode in the attached clip, and I sincerely hope you will take the time to watch it. It was a powerful episode, involving many stories at once, all of which had their unique connections to the Christmas season, but the story of the homeless man was clearly the centerpiece.

It seems that every series in the history of television has had at least one Christmas episode, and there were others in The West Wing's seven–year run, but "In Excelsis Deo" was a standout.

I guess if I was going to quibble over technicalities, I would point out that it appears that a 21–gun salute is fired in the homeless veteran's honor, but 21–gun salutes traditionally are reserved for presidents, former presidents and other heads of state.

That's a minor point, though, one that can be dismissed as poetic license. If you don't have the DVD of that first season, rent it and watch the episode. It is a reminder of what is truly important at this time of year.

Frasier's Standard

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Of all of television's genres, the situation comedy has been a part of television's landscape from the beginning. In fact, many of TV's early programs were adaptations of popular radio programs. Or they were created for established stars.

As television's technology has matured, so has its audience. And modern programming has, at times, struggled to keep up.

The truth is, in the predatory world of ratings–driven entertainment, it is difficult for a new TV show, even one that boasts recognizable stars and established writers, to last a single season, much less be renewed for one year or two or three. If a television show lasts until its seventh season, it is probably a hit. And hits are held to a higher standard. In the case of the hit sitcom, it is expected to be funny in unexpected ways.

That reminds me of something comedian Lewis Black said in a comedy show I saw once. Black chastised his listeners for telling their friends, "You've gotta see this guy! He's really funny!"

Black paused and stared at the audience. Then he growled, "That puts a lot of *** **** pressure on me!"

In my life, there haven't been many TV shows that have lasted seven years. Shows that lasted a decade or longer were even harder to come by.

Such shows that were spinoffs of earlier hits were damn near unheard of.

But one of those shows was Frasier. Ten years ago, Frasier had embarked on its seventh season. And it was funny.

And I'm sure that everyone — the ensemble cast, the brilliant writers — felt pressure to be witty and clever and downright funny every week. Think about the pressure that such people must feel. It's bound to be hard to be fresh and original and just plain funny after approximately 150 episodes.

Well, in my opinion, the seventh season of Frasier delivered. At times, it delivered in ways I couldn't see at the time, but I've come to appreciate since.

Over at TV.com, guests can rate individual episodes of TV shows, and the site recalculates overall ratings each day. Apparently, based on the latest data, the site also revises its list of the top episodes in a series every day. For the short–lived series, this probably isn't a tough list to compile. For a series like Frasier, there are a lot of prospects.

When Frasier began its seventh season, it was only slightly past what turned out to be the midway point of its run, but, according to the latest viewer ratings I saw at TV.com, more than three–quarters of its best episodes had already aired.

And, in fact, visitors to TV.com believe that only one–tenth of the series' best episodes aired in its final four seasons.

But those visitors to TV.com apparently believe that Frasier's seventh season was like a last hurrah.

By the seventh season, the audience and the cast and the writers had reached a comfort zone. It would deteriorate in the seasons to come — and I have to admit there were times when there were elements of the storylines that I found hard to accept. It was in the seventh season that Niles and Daphne took their relationship past the point of no return — which seemed to be as improbable a development as when Ricky and Lucy moved to the country or Fonzie jumped the shark.

But mostly, I found the episodes to be creative, deftly exploring well–established character traits with some surprise twists — like the one that aired 10 years ago today.

"Everyone's a Critic" introduced the audience to Poppy Delafield (Katie Finneran), the daughter of the latest station owner. Frasier promised to show her around but got out of it when he discovered how gabby she was. And she managed to pin everyone down at some point.

In Cafe Nervosa, Poppy was talking with several people from the radio station. Frasier observed from a table near the door. Roz came in and remarked, "I see Poppy's having a little party."

Frasier corrected her: "That's not a party. That's a hostage situation!"

A minute or two later, the effeminate Gil managed to free himself from the group and stopped at the door long enough to complain that "I feel like a mongoose at the mercy of a chatty cobra!"

But the pretentious Frasier needed Poppy and her connections to lobby station ownership for his idea for an arts review show. His sibling rivalry with his brother was percolating because Niles got a job as an arts critic for an upper–crust magazine, and Frasier was jealous of the special treatment Niles was getting.

There was also a side element to the story that played well on Martin's relationship with his dog Eddie.

But the unexpected twist was the fact that the talkative Poppy wound up getting the arts show gig Frasier had imagined for himself.

And Frasier's attempt to match his brother's achievement apparently had failed.

Then Frasier learned that Niles had lost his critic's job. And the two came to an agreement that being critics, as much fun as it was for them, was distracting them from their psychiatric work.

A few weeks later, Poppy was at the heart of another sibling rivalry tale in which Frasier and Niles each thought the other was after the affections of his love interest — and Poppy was Niles' love interest. The following week, their snobby ways were on display when they erroneously believed they were descended from Russian royalty. And later in the season, their competitiveness formed the basis of an episode in which they both were candidates for the coveted position of corkmaster at the wine club.

The show that made its debut 10 years ago today wasn't the best episode of the Frasier series. It wasn't even the best show of the seventh season. But it is representative of the show's quality, even after seven years.