Everybody Loves Raymond

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"Raymond Shaw (Laurence Harvey) is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful human being I've ever known in my life."

Several characters

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"It's not that Raymond Shaw is hard to like. He's impossible to like!"

Frank Sinatra

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Most people today probably think of kindly Jessica Fletcher of TV's Murder She Wrote when they think of Angela Lansbury. They don't think of her as anything even remotely bordering on evil.

But her performance in John Frankenheimer's "The Manchurian Candidate," which premiered on this day in 1962, was ranked No. 21 on the American Film Institute's list of the silver screen's greatest villains.

Lansbury could do evil characters, and Mrs. Iselin was clearly evil, brainwashing her son (Laurence Harvey) to be used as a pawn to further her husband's political ambitions. Well, they were her ambitions for him, and I gathered that no one ever refused Mrs. Iselin anything. At least, not for long and no more than once.

Manipulative might be a better word for Mrs. Iselin. But her son, Raymond Shaw, resisted, and that was the source of some problems.

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He was an obvious choice to be the Manchurian candidate; with his psychological profile, he was perfect for the part of a brainwashed assassin trained to do the bidding of his American handler — Mrs. Iselin — in a Cold War suspense thriller that hit America's movie screens at the same time that a real–life suspense thriller — the Cuban Missile Crisis — was playing out on America's TV screens.

"The Manchurian Candidate" was about a complex international Communist conspiracy, but for Mrs. Iselin, it was all leading up to the assumption of the presidential nomination by her husband. How it was to be achieved, though, is one of those things a viewer must see for himself so I will avoid giving away any of the details of the story — the same goes for the way that Frank Sinatra's character helped Raymond cast off the shackles that bound him.

I will say, though, that, if like Janet Leigh (who played Sinatra's love interest), you come in in the middle, chances are good that you will miss something.

But even if you watch it from start to finish, you may end up like me. I had to watch "The Manchurian Candidate" several times before I finally got a full grasp of the story. Some movies are like that.

Brainwashing was a new concept in 1962 and it remains a misunderstood condition today. It was developed during the Korean War, which is when the events in this story began. There were so many timely elements in the story as well as elements that became timely in hindsight — the political assassinations (and attempts) in the last half–century, including the assassination of President Kennedy a little over a year after this movie's debut and the lingering suspicion that Kennedy's assassin was a real–life Manchurian candidate.

Indeed, in every high–profile attack on a famous person, the suggestion is made by someone at some point that the perpetrator was some kind of unsuspecting agent. That suggestion is more plausible in some cases than others, but it is an indication of the lasting influence of "The Manchurian Candidate."

Frankenheimer's brilliant direction managed to convey so much in a movie that really was ahead of its time. I've always felt one of the best examples of his distinctive style came early in the film when the men in Shaw's unit believed they were in a ladies' garden club meeting — but the attendees were actually Russian and Chinese brass.

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It was a chilling movie that told a story that continues to be relevant today — perhaps even more relevant today than it was then.

Lansbury was nominated for Best Supporting Actress, but she lost to Patty Duke in "The Miracle Worker."

A Clear Case of Mental Stalking

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"The girl is certain she is going to die. She's praying. In her mind she's praying."

Cayce (Ally Sheedy)

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I remember a time in 1991 when one of the premium movie channels — HBO or Cinemax or Showtime, I don't remember which one — was doing one of its periodic free weekends, when all the subscribers to the cable provider got the service for free for a few days. Presumably, it would show the subscribers what they were missing and convince some of them to add it to their service.

I suppose they still have those free weekends from time to time. I never seem to be aware of one, though, until it is too late.

Expanding my cable package was never an option for me in those days. I was in graduate school at the time and seldom had time to watch much TV when classes were in session. In fact, on that particular weekend, as I recall, I was busy with some sort of school–related project, probably the sort of thing that kept me in the library for hours, and I had to video tape things to watch later. Much later.

One of the things that I taped was a movie called "Fear," which actually made its debut on this day in 1990. Originally, I think the plan was to show it at theaters first, then move on to cable and then video distribution — but I don't think it ever made it to the theaters. For whatever reason, I think it made its debut on one of those premium movie channels and then was sold on video. That was why I had no memory at the time of it being in movie theaters. It never was.

In hindsight, I was glad I taped it — because I have never seen it again. It is possible that it was scheduled for broadcast a time or two in an area where I happened to be living, and I just didn't know it. But my experience has been that it is rarely, if ever, shown so, if you get the chance to see it, don't let it slip through your fingers.

Anyway, on this occasion, the movie wasn't going to be shown while I was in the library; it was going to be shown at a time when I would be in bed. So I set my VCR to record it, and I put the tape aside to watch later. I tried watching it piecemeal — you know, while I was getting ready to go to work in the morning, when I came home for lunch, etc. — but I discovered that did not work.

The movie put me under its spell. I had to watch it from start to finish. No interruptions.

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Ally Sheedy was the star of the show. Well, actually, she was at her peak in popularity a few years earlier as a member of Hollywood's heralded "Brat Pack" (Sheedy, Emilio Estevez, Anthony Michael Hall, Rob Lowe, Andrew McCarthy, Demi Moore, Judd Nelson and Molly Ringwald). By the time she made "Fear," she was probably on the downside of her career — even though she was only 28.

Sheedy played a psychic whose special skills included mentally seeing images or scenes from a distance and experiencing what another person experienced simply by being wherever whatever it was had happened or seeing photographs of the scene or touching clothing that had been worn by the victim — or touching an object at the scene. She often assisted the police in cracking murder cases — as she had the ability to mentally connect with murderers without their knowledge — and she used that skill to help the police catch them. It was her special advantage — or so she thought.

Sometimes she was able to prevent a terrible crime. Most of the time, she could only help the police find the person who committed a terrible crime — or a series of them.

Anyway, she was helping the police track another serial killer when she discovered that the suspect was a psychic, just like she was — and he was better at it than she was, too. He used that ability to terrorize Sheedy and Lauren Hutton — who, as I recall, played Sheedy's friend and agent.

The Shadow Man, as he was called, wanted to experience the fear of his victims, whatever scared them the most. He fed on it. And he seemed to have an almost orgasmic reaction to the knowledge that he and Sheedy could connect mentally. While it wasn't called this in the movie, I would label it mental stalking.

As I watched it unfold, it struck me that this would be an enormous invasion of privacy. Every thought a person might have would hold the potential to wreak tremendous havoc — for that individual and everyone who was close to him/her. Everything that was secret or personal or confidential would be an open book.

Through Sheedy, the Shadow Man learned that Hutton's character feared suffocation — so that is how he killed her, by holding a plastic bag over her face until she died. As I recall, Sheedy didn't even have the thought. Hutton's character confessed her phobia to Sheedy, and the Shadow Man heard the confession.

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Sheedy learned of what was happening to her agent/friend when she was powerless to do anything about it. The movie did a superb job of making the audience feel her helplessness as, in her mind's eye, she could only watch her friend die — and feel the terror that engulfed her.

With the help of a good Samaritan friend (played by Michael O'Keefe — lots of folks remember his performance in "Caddyshack" a decade earlier), Sheedy was able to foil the Shadow Man in a real battle of wills as the hunter became the hunted. It was nicely done.

Oh, I knew I was being manipulated. But it was one of those times when you enjoy being manipulated. The movie experience would be incomplete without it. You know what I mean?

As I say, I suggest you watch it if you can.

Killing Time

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"That's no ordinary look. That's the kind of a look a man gives when he's afraid somebody might be watching him."

L.B. Jeffries (Jimmy Stewart)

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I have written here before of my fondness for Alfred Hitchcock's movies.

I've seen most of them on TV, but "Rear Window" was an exception. In 1984, it was re–released to theaters to celebrate its 30th anniversary, and I took advantage of that opportunity. In fact, I remember going to the theater to see it. I couldn't tell you the exact date, but I remember the experience of seeing that movie in a theater — and not one of today's multi–cubicle screens but a single–screen theater like the kind that existed when "Rear Window" was first released.

It has always made me regret not having seen more of Hitchcock's movies on the big screen — because that really is where they should be seen. Well, most of them, anyway. Hitchcock's work predated the wide–screen format; because of that, I'm not sure if his early works are more impressive on a big screen than they are on a television screen. Some might be; others might not.

All of Hitchcock's wide–screen films probably should be seen on the big screen — at least once.

Anyway, that was the conclusion I reached after I saw "Rear Window" at the theater. It premiered 60 years ago today, but it was fresh and new to me when I saw it in 1984. I thought I was in love with Grace Kelly before I saw "Rear Window," but she was breathtaking when I saw her on the big screen.

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I felt there was an electric kind of attraction between Kelly and Jimmy Stewart. I really regret that their only movie together was "Rear Window." Don't get me wrong. It was a great movie, but it was a one–shot wonder. They could have been one of the great movie teams of all time.

The American Film Institute rated "Rear Window" 48th of all time. AFI also named it 14th among the thrillers. Besides, the movie matched the #3 actor and the #13 actress of all time, according to another AFI list.

Who could ask for anything more?

"Rear Window" had the benefit of Hitchcock (nominated for an Oscar for his direction) and screenwriter John Michael Hayes (also nominated for an Oscar). That combination produced possibly the best of Hitchcock's movies. Well, that is what I have heard some critics say; that isn't a conclusion I would reach because I tend to think that "North by Northwest" is Hitchcock's best. My second choice probably would be "Psycho" or "Vertigo" — and then "Rear Window."

They're all good, certainly worth seeing on a big screen. (If I have a cinematic bucket list, it would include seeing those other three Hitchcock movies on a big screen before I die. Actually, I'd like to see them all that way, but if I can only see three, those are the three I would choose.)

The movie dealt primarily with voyeurism. "It's wrong, we know, to spy on others," wrote critic Roger Ebert, "but after all, aren't we always voyeurs when we go to the movies?"

Stewart's character was stuck in his apartment while he recuperated from a broken leg. A successful photographer, he filled his days by spying on his neighbors through the lens of his camera. The audience saw everything he saw. When he dozed off and missed things, the audience did, too.

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His only regular visitors were his nurse (Thelma Ritter) and his girlfriend (Kelly). They were skeptical at first when he suggested that one of his neighbors (Raymond Burr) had apparently killed his wife, but Stewart's character persuaded them.

It didn't require much persuasion. Kelly's character was already eager to get Stewart's character to commit to her. It seemed like she would do just about anything to score points with him. "How far does a girl have to go before you notice her?" she asked at one point.

"Well if she's pretty enough," Stewart replied, "she doesn't have to go anywhere. She just has to be."

He insisted that "I'm not exactly on the other side of the room." They were locked in a passionate embrace at the time, which made it difficult to dispute what he said, but, nevertheless, Kelly begged to differ.

"Your mind is," she said. "When I want a man, I want all of you."

And I had to give it to Stewart's character. He kept his mind on the mystery he was trying to solve. Most men probably wouldn't have that kind of will power. I wouldn't. Not with Grace Kelly in my arms.

A lot of things have changed since "Rear Window" was made, and, if someone found himself in Stewart's position in 2014, he might not be able to use the same camera tactics that Stewart did — like using the flash to blind Raymond Burr when he was lured from his apartment and confronted the wheelchair–bound Stewart.

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I had never seen Burr in a bad–guy role before. When I was a child, my father used to like to watch reruns of Perry Mason and Ironsides on weekend afternoons, and I watched them with him. As a result, I had an image in my head of Burr as the kind of guy who investigated and/or prosecuted crimes. He wasn't the kind of guy who committed crimes.

But, in "Rear Window," he was. At least, he was the kind of guy who could murder his wife and then try to dispose of her body. Stewart had reached that conclusion on his own; his problem was that he didn't have the kind of evidence that courts like to have.

"Rear Window" received four Oscar nominations, including (as I said earlier) one for Best Director (one of five for Hitchcock).

Playing WarGames

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"WarGames" had a lot more impact when it was released 30 years ago today than it has now.

After all, the Cold War mentality was still strong in 1983. The Soviet Union hadn't collapsed, and the Reagan administration had made winning the Cold War its top foreign policy priority.

Thus, in the late spring and early summer of 1983, movie audiences were understandably unnerved by the story "WarGames" had to tell.

Even though the Cold War ended within 10 years, "WarGames" offered a glimpse into a future that, in hindsight and for several reasons, may be even more troubling. Matthew Broderick, the lead character, had an obsession with computers and video games that was rare in the early 1980s but might be regarded as mainstream today.

About six months ago, when the shootings in the Connecticut elementary school occurred, there was general angst about the fact that the shooter had devoted much of his spare time to violent video games, a trait that is not uncommon with many young men of his age group.

In "WarGames," Broderick played a similar young man, but the havoc he wreaked in the fictional story went far beyond a single classroom or school. He had a home computer at a time when that was still a rarity in most homes, and he used it to tap into his school's computer to do things like alter academic records for himself and his love interest (played by Ally Sheedy).

He also used his computer to play the most challenging video games of that time. In pursuit of that form of pleasure, he unknowingly hacked into the Pentagon's computer system and activated a nuclear war simulation, thinking that it was merely a very realistic computer game.

Which it was — so realistic that the computer didn't know it wasn't real.

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In hindsight, I suppose, "WarGames" was a bit of a gamble as far as the cast was concerned. Broderick has been in some successful films in his career, but "WarGames" was the very beginning of that career.

Sheedy, it often seems, grew up in front of the movie camera. And, in fact, she did. She has been involved in acting, in one form or another, since she was a teenager.

But "WarGames" was practically her first big–screen movie. Practically. It almost certainly was her most extensive role to date. More extensive screen time came with later films, like "The Breakfast Club" and "St. Elmo's Fire," but, for many moviegoers, this was their first real look at the young actress.

And there was a lot to like. Admittedly pleasing to the eye with her chestnut hair and athletic build, Sheedy, it turned out, was a pretty good actress, too — and that certainly contributed to the quality of the story.

But the real attraction to "WarGames" was the public's uneasiness with computers. Audiences in 1983 weren't as sophisticated as they are in 2013. The public's mindset probably was unchanged since the 1950s — when people heard the word computer in 1983, they still thought of some massive mechanical monstrosity (presumably like the one that virtually filled a room in 1957's "Desk Set") that was beyond their comprehension.

The public's general ignorance about computers made the story of an accidental nuclear war more plausible than anything that had been made in 20 years. In many ways, it was a more innocent time, a time when cable TV was still in its infancy and the commercial internet was still in the future.

Because of the amazing advances we have witnessed in the last 30 years, I doubt that the story in "WarGames" would be taken seriously today. A whole generation of Americans has grown up playing computer games and using tech–savvy lingo, and most of those folks would probably be unimpressed by a computer that took so long to learn the simple lesson of Tic–Tac–Toe.

But there is little doubt that it was highly effective in 1983.

For The Birds

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As I have written here before, I am a great admirer of Alfred Hitchcock's work.

It's something I picked up from my parents. They were Hitchcock fans, too, and they introduced me to many of his best movies.

And a lifetime of watching Hitchcock movies has convinced me that you can learn a lot about a person based on which Hitchcock movie is his/her favorite.

But I'll be darned if I know what it is.

Personally, I'm torn. I really like 'em all, but my very favorites are "North By Northwest" and "Psycho." I can, however, make a case for "Vertigo" or "Rear Window" or "Strangers On A Train." Depending on my mood, I can even make a case for "To Catch A Thief."

Well, I told you I'm a Hitchcock fan!

I know several people who would tell you that the Hitchcock movie that premiered 50 years ago today — "The Birds" — is their favorite.

It's never been my personal favorite. I watched it for the first time when I was about 20, and I thought it was good, but, if anyone had asked me at the time, I would have said that I preferred maybe half a dozen Hitchcock films to that one.

My opinion hasn't really changed over the years, and I have often wondered about why that is so. Here is what I have concluded:

"The Birds" is the only Hitchcock movie I can think of in which the villain is not a human.

That's an important distinction for me. You see, however bizarre their behavior may have been, anything that birds do falls under the heading of natural phenomena in my book.

It is not a conscious choice. Blaming animals for behavior that leads to the loss of human life makes as much sense as blaming a tornado or an earthquake.

Human behavior, on the other hand, frequently is the result of a conscious choice — at some point and on some level.

Well, that's the distinction. And I think it does say something about those who pick "The Birds" as their favorite Hitchcock movie.

But, as I say, I'll be darned if I know what it is.

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I do know, however, that animals and suspense movies are an effective combination.

The shark in "Jaws," after all, was named to the list of the movies' greatest villains by the American Film Institute. "Snakes on a Plane" provided considerable chills for moviegoers as did the dinosaurs in "Jurassic Park."

But those creatures were always menacing in those movies. The only time they were not threatening was when they appeared to be confined.

The birds in "The Birds," though, were docile at the beginning of the movie — and at the end, even when they seemed to have congregated in one spot.

The official story I heard was that "The Birds" was inspired by a novel, and I don't doubt that, but I am inclined to think the reason why Hitchcock was drawn to a story about birds gone wild is because, for the most part, birds are seen as nonthreatening creatures. The same cannot be said of sharks or snakes or even dinosaurs (although dinosaurs disappeared long before man came along).

Nonthreatening creatures that suddenly become threatening seem to be more frightening. Maybe that's because we are taught from an early age that dogs and cats — and birds — are friendly creatures whereas sharks and snakes and bears are hostile. We don't expect dogs or cats — or birds — to be hostile; when they are, we don't know how to react.

I suppose that is particularly true of birds.

As I was writing this, a flock of birds flew past my window. Under ordinary circumstances, I probably wouldn't think twice about that.

But I've been writing about Hitchcock's "The Birds."

Spooky.

'Wait Until Dark' Was Classic Suspense

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Few of their mid–20th century contemporaries could match the appeal of Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly.

A large part of their appeal, I think, was the fact that they could be credible damsels in distress — but, when it became clear that no one was going to come to their rescue, they were able to rescue themselves ... plausibly.

There was steel beneath the facade.

Not an easy task, considering that both actresses, especially Hepburn, seemed rather frail. You wouldn't think from looking at them that either could stand up to a sudden gust of wind.

But, somehow, they did. It was largely because the characters they played were resourceful and independent — truly deserving of admiration.

My admiration for Kelly knows no bounds, but, frankly, Hepburn takes the prize for her performance in "Wait Until Dark," a movie that made its debut 45 years ago today.

Hepburn played a young blind woman who was believed to be in possession of a doll that had been used to smuggle heroin into the country.

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The doll had actually been given to Hepburn's husband by a woman he met on a flight. The doll's presence in the apartment was unknown to Hepburn.

But that was something that a trio of criminals — played by Alan Arkin, Richard Crenna and Jack Weston — who wanted the doll (or, rather, what was inside it) did not know. They assumed she knew things she did not.

And they tried to take advantage of her blindness, playing the roles of police officers who were investigating a suspicious death in the neighborhood. Through this ploy, they won her confidence, gained access to the apartment and searched unsuccessfully (and right under Hepburn's nose) for the doll.

With the help of a young girl named Gloria, Hepburn's character discovered what was really going on around her and fought back.

Modern audiences might not appreciate the way most of the action in the film takes place in a small apartment. But "Wait Until Dark" was a psychological thriller, and there are few scenes in movie history that are as gripping as the climactic struggle between Hepburn and her ruthless nemesis, played by Arkin.

Each time I have watched "Wait Until Dark" — and I have watched it many times — I have been struck by how effortlessly the movie leads the viewer to empathize with Hepburn's predicament.

That, it seems to me, is the essence of a truly suspenseful movie. The viewer can see the threats to Hepburn, but she cannot. It reminds me of what the master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock, used to say.

Hitchcock rejected the idea that suspense could be achieved merely by watching an explosion. True suspense, he said, came from letting the audience in on the presence of a threat — a ticking bomb, perhaps — of which none of the affected characters in the scene was aware.

Hepburn proved that he was right.

'Deliverance' From Evil

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I didn't see "Deliverance" when it was making its rounds of the theaters in the second half of 1972.

"Deliverance" was rated R, and I was too young to go into an R–rated movie without my parents.

It was several years before I saw it. That's ironic, I suppose, because it probably would be rated PG today.

It's a suspenseful movie with some disturbing scenes, but there is no nudity that I can recall so it would probably get a milder rating to help boost the box office revenue. Especially since it had no splashy special effects.

That doesn't mean that I think it should have been rated PG.

And, frankly, there really was nothing wrong with the box office for "Deliverance." It was made for a budget of $2 million and earned more than $46 million.

"Deliverance" premiered 40 years ago today. Initially, the story was a pleasant one — about a group of friends getting away from their big–city lives to do some canoeing in the wilderness. While at the launch point, Ronny Cox jammed with one of the hillbilly locals in a tune that became a huge hit, "Dueling Banjos."

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But the outing quickly turned horrific.

Most people who went to see the movie when it made its theatrical run were probably drawn by the star power of Burt Reynolds, possibly Jon Voight as well, but most who have seen "Deliverance" probably will speak of the powerful scenes they saw, not the stars.

They will tell you that the "Dueling Banjos" scene is one of two scenes in the movie that stuck in their memories.

The other was a very disturbing scene about a male rape by apparently inbred hillbillies. It was not graphic (mostly implied), but it was nevertheless terrifying.

Ned Beatty, appearing in his first feature film, was the victim who was told by his assailants to "squeal like a pig."

I only recall asking my parents once if I could see "Deliverance," and I don't know how much they knew about it, but I'm sure my mother's thoughts, at least, must have been influenced by the memory of the time, just a handful of years earlier, when I first saw "The Wizard of Oz" on TV.

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The flying monkeys gave me nightmares for weeks — shoot, I got upset when I saw "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" on TV. I can only imagine the trauma I would have experienced after seeing even that relatively sanitized — by modern standards — scene in "Deliverance."

While I don't want to give away anything if you haven't seen "Deliverance" — and, if that is the case, I urge you to see it — I will say that the ending has always reminded me of the ending of "Carrie."

And I would be inclined to say the ending of "Deliverance" was inspired by "Carrie" — except that "Carrie" was made four years after "Deliverance."

Remember earlier when I wrote of the irony of ratings? Well, there's another irony to this anniversary.

"Deliverance" told a story of rather ordinary people engaged in an ordinary recreational activity who found themselves in an extraordinary situation.

Not unlike the moviegoers in Colorado who recently found themselves at the mercy of a madman, the canoeists of "Deliverance" unexpectedly faced a life–and–death situation.

One can only wonder how he/she would respond when faced with something like that.

Something to Talk About

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From time to time in my life, a movie has come along that literally had everyone talking.

Usually, I suppose, that has been because the movie pushed society's boundaries in some way — and, to be honest about it, there were several such movies that were released in 1992.

But I really don't think anything — at least, up to that point — generated the kind of buzz that "Basic Instinct," which premiered 20 years ago today, did.

At first glance, it had the appearance of a first–rate murder mystery with just enough of a sexual angle to arouse the interest of those who weren't necessarily drawn to whodunnits.

It opened with a visual montage during the credits that was accompanied by a haunting score, all of which was worthy of Alfred Hitchcock at his best, in which a shadowy woman and an apparently prosperous man were making love. The woman appeared to be playfully tying the man's hands to the bedboard, introducing an element of bondage to their lovemaking.

And it seemed to be working. Judging from the sounds they made, both were excited, and the woman seemed especially so, grinding her hips on top of the man and appearing to flail her arms in a bit of a sexual frenzy.

But, in fact, she was reaching for a hidden ice pick, which she stabbed repeatedly into her partner.

And the stage was set for what could have been a great murder mystery.

Ultimately, though, the viewers got what was a good murder mystery that could have been — should have been — much better.

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I always thought it would have been better if certain things hadn't thoroughly distracted the viewers' attention.

I mean, Sharon Stone was a sexy woman in 1992. She always was, I suppose. I mean, she was a model in her late teens, and she did some acting work in her 20s, but it was her role as murder suspect Catherine Tramell in "Basic Instinct" that opened the door to international stardom.

And a big reason for that, I have always believed, was the fact that Stone exposed herself on screen in the infamous interrogation scene. That sure got people's attention.

Stone was not entirely unknown at the time, but it is safe to say that her name was not a household word. It didn't remain that way for long, and she never seemed hesitant to cash in on her notoriety, but still she protested that she had been a victim.

Stone claimed she didn't know in advance how revealing the scene would be. "I knew that we were going to do this leg–crossing thing," she said, "and I knew that we were going to allude to the concept that I was nude, but I did not think that you would see my vagina."

The first time she saw it on the big screen, she was "shocked," confronted director Paul Verhoeven and slapped him.

That may be true, but it is also true that, shortly after the interrogation scene, Stone's character could be seen having a revealing conversation with the detective (played by Michael Douglas) in the car.

They were talking about lie detector tests — Stone's character had just taken one — and how easy it would be to beat one. Stone's character observed that Douglas' character had beaten a lie detector test — which was true, although he had never mentioned it to her.

"You seem to know a lot about me," Douglas said, and Stone replied that Douglas knew a lot about her, too.

Douglas protested that all he knew about Stone fell under the heading of police business, and she smiled. "You know I don't wear any underwear, don't you?" she asked.

Seems to me that it would be hard not to know the graphic nature of such a scene if one must deliver a line like that.

I mean, I understand that scenes are shot out of sequence, but, still, Stone must have at least read the script before filming began.

And it seems like common sense to me that, if a character tells another something like that, the audience must be aware of it, too.

Tellingly, Stone acknowledged experiencing a thrill when watching the film with a room full of strangers who hadn't seen it before. "It was so fun!" she admitted.

And lucrative.

A Lost Opportunity

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"Virtually any unwanted contact between two people that directly or indirectly communicates a threat or places the victim in fear can be considered stalking."

National Center for Victims of Crime

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Stalking wasn't a new phenomenon 30 years ago. It just wasn't recognized for what it truly is. Not yet.

I'm not an expert on the subject, but my best, most logical guess would be that it's been around as long as there have been jilted lovers — which means, I suppose, that it has been around since virtually the dawn of time.

(Of course, one need not have been jilted to stalk someone else. Jilted suggests that some kind of relationship existed at one time — and that is not always true.)

When I was growing up, stalking was almost exclusively used in descriptions of hunting trips. I've never been hunting, but it didn't require very vivid terms for me to imagine the mindset of a hunter stalking his prey, anticipating its moves and seeking to exploit its vulnerabilities.

It's one thing, though, to apply the term stalking to the pursuit of an animal. No matter what one's thoughts on guns and hunting may be, it's quite another issue when the term is applied to human relationships.

Combine the mentality of a stalker with the emotion swirling around a case of obsessive love, and you've got a volatile (and potentially deadly) situation on your hands.

In the 1990s, states started to take stalking seriously as a threat, mainly to women, and began writing laws making it a punishable offense. But, prior to that, most jurisdictions treated stalking as a nuisance, a hindrance to investigations into legitimate crimes, not as a probable prelude to an attack.

It was in such an environment that "The Seduction" was released on this day in 1982.

The movie starred Morgan Fairchild, a rising actress at the time, as a TV news reporter who attracted the obsessive attention of a photographer. It was a classic tale of stalking in which the stalker's attention evolved from an almost schoolboyish crush to something far more sinister.

The tag line for the movie made no bones about it, either: "Alone ... frightened ... trapped like an animal."

In 1982, Fairchild was regarded as one of the entertainment world's most beautiful women. Consequently, her casting in this role was something of a mixed blessing.

Her presence almost certainly helped the film with its box–office revenue, but it distracted attention from a legitimate issue and may well have delayed society's recognition of it.

If such a movie was made today, it would be promoted openly as a cautionary tale about stalking. The script might even be structured to provide helpful hints for dealing with such a situation.

But, in 1982, it was labeled an erotic thriller — and was widely panned by critics. It also received three Razzie nominations, two of which went to Fairchild.

I didn't feel that was fair. The word erotic was misapplied — I sincerely doubt that any 21st–century woman who has been the victim of stalking would describe the experience as erotic — but I felt the word thriller was a fair description. Certainly, there were times when I thought the movie had an Alfred Hitchcock or Brian De Palma aura, particularly when the stalker was hiding in Fairchild's closet watching her without her knowledge.

Perhaps those who nominated films and people for the then–new Razzies expected to see more skin than they did. Given Fairchild's status as something of a sex symbol, that may explain their negative reactions.

I won't pretend that the script couldn't have been better — much better, in fact. When one looks at the movie today, many of the lines sound like cliches and the acting often lacks believability. As the story progresses, one comes to the conclusion that the story has been promising something it can't or won't deliver.

Nevertheless, a great opportunity may have been lost. Several celebrities were the victims of stalkers in the 1980s, eventually prompting California to become the first state to pass anti–stalking laws in the early 1990s.

If stalking had been taken more seriously when "The Seduction" was made, actresses Dominique Dunne and Rebecca Schaeffer might not have been killed and Theresa Saldana might not have endured a near–fatal stabbing.

But the movie was panned, and it took nearly another decade before society recognized stalking as the crime it is.

Part of the problem may have been the title. "The Seduction" made the actions of Fairchild's stalker seem almost noble — the passionate, heroic and romantic (and, in that context, excusable) acts of a man deeply in love.

I have no doubt that many stalkers see themselves precisely that way. Many may be totally unaware of the negative impact their actions have on the lives of the women they pursue. They believe they are being persistent and that the object of their affections will come around.

If the title had sounded more ominous, reflecting the odious nature of stalking, viewers might have taken the subject matter more seriously, and the opportunity to make a statement might not have been lost.

At least one prominent person apparently did appreciate the effort that was made — Bette Davis, who reportedly saw the movie on cable and was inspired to write a letter to Fairchild telling her how much Davis admired her work.

Fairchild's performance really was groundbreaking in much the same way as Elizabeth Montgomery's performance in TV's "A Case of Rape," which brought attention to the shabby treatment of rape victims by the legal system a few years earlier.

"A Case of Rape," however, had a better script, and Montgomery's performance was stronger than Fairchild's.

Still, I give credit where credit is due. For all its flaws, Fairchild's performance did rise above the exploitative nature of the script.

And I'd like to think that its cautionary tale wasn't entirely lost for a decade, that there were lives that were saved and acts of savagery that were prevented before legislators in most places enacted laws designed to curb stalking.

But I doubt it.

The Story of It

For some reason, my favorite authors tend to be rather wordy.

Most of my reading preferences were inherited from my parents, I suppose. From my father, I got my appreciation for the works of James Michener — and if you have ever picked up even one of his novels, you know that they were usually more than 1,000 pages long.

My mother leaned to somewhat shorter — although still lengthy by many people's standards — works by the likes of Mark Twain and Allen Drury.

Mom and I discovered the books by Stephen King at about the same time. For awhile, we would read King's books and exchange them when we had finished, getting double mileage from each paperback.

I forget which of us read which books first; I only know that we both read "The Shining," "The Stand" and "Carrie" — and others — over the course of the same summer. I still have those books on my bookshelf.

By 1986, I was living on my own, and I don't know if Mom ever read King's book that was published on this day that year, "It," but I did.

A friend of mine was a big fan of King's work and always got his books in hardback. I borrowed "It" from her a month or two after it came out. I enjoyed it, savored it, as I did every Stephen King book.

The book was typical Stephen King fare, I suppose, but with a unique plot — one that was probably a little better than most. It told the story of a group of seven friends who bonded as children to battle a malevolent creature known mostly as "It" who terrorized a small town in Maine.

It preyed mostly on children and seemed to go into hibernation for decades at a time, but, when not hibernating, It frequently appeared to people in the form of a seemingly benevolent clown named Pennywise. And Pennywise had razor–sharp teeth.

In spite of that, the seven faced down the creature and made a pledge to return to Maine if It was ever aroused again. They reunited as adults to intervene again when It awakened from its slumber so two stories were being told simultaneously.

Many people knew little about the book until four years later, when ABC aired a two–part adaptation that starred, among others, Tim Curry, John Ritter, Richard Thomas and Annette O'Toole. Curry, incidentally, played Pennywise.

I thought the adaptation was good, but it couldn't match the book, which was understandable for several reasons.

For one thing, you simply couldn't dramatize everything, even in a three–hour made–for–TV movie.

And that was for the same reason that most adaptations of King's works eventually fall short of his fans' expectations: so much of what takes place in a Stephen King novel is mental — often a person's perceptions of what might be real and what might not.

I learned long ago that Stephen King likes to play with your head — and it's probably for the best to allow him to do so because he's going to take you on an exciting ride, whether someone brings it to the screen or not.

And "It" was a pretty good ride, indeed.

Thoughts About 'Psycho'

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Last night, I watched Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho" on Turner Classic Movies.

I didn't intend to. I've seen it many times over the years. But it's one of those movies that, if I sit and watch it for even a minute or two, I'm hooked. Might as well resign myself to the idea that I'm going to sit in front of my television until the bitter end. And I did.

The problem is, though, that there is no time like the first time with a movie like "Psycho."

I can watch some comedies and enjoy the jokes over and over again. It doesn't matter how many times I've seen them.

And I can watch some dramas and marvel at the performances or the cinematography or the writing.

But suspense movies lose a lot when you know what's going to happen. The acting may be great, the cinematography may be remarkable, the writing may be brilliant. But without that deliciously uneasy sense of anticipation, a suspense movie almost loses its reason for being. There may be many things about the movie to appreciate, but I already know the story. So, while I watched "Psycho," I found myself paying little attention to the plot as my thoughts drifted to related subjects, such as ...

• The first time I saw that movie. I was finishing my junior year in high school. In fact, school had just let out for the summer. One of the area's TV stations was going to show "Psycho" as the midnight movie on a Friday night, and my best friend's mother said we could watch the movie in her living room as long as we kept the sound low enough that she could sleep. So that Friday night, my friend and I, along with two other friends from our high school, turned off the living room lights and watched "Psycho" for the first time.
  
  When that knife started slashing at Janet Leigh in the shower, I jumped just as I have the first times I've seen the best suspense movies. But, no matter how good it was, it's never completely the same experience to watch a suspense movie once I've seen it.


• Then I began to think about the fad several years ago in which classic black–and–white movies were "colorized," presumably to appeal to those modern viewers who won't watch a movie that isn't in color. That was something I never really liked. Black and white was a part of some movies. Like any new innovation, color was expensive at first. Some studios chose to use color, others didn't. In those early days, it was as much a financial decision as it was an artistic one.
  
  Sometimes, of course, the story demanded color. Can you imagine watching the Munchkins sing about the Yellow Brick Road or Judy Garland and the other stars sing about the Emerald City in black and white? "The Wizard of Oz" wouldn't have been the same experience if the Oz segments hadn't been in color.
  
  And the burning of Atlanta wouldn't have had the same impact if "Gone With the Wind" had been in black and white.
  
  But "Citizen Kane" is a black–and–white classic. So are "Casablanca" and "The Maltese Falcon."
  
  As the years went by, the cost of color film production became less of a consideration. It struck me last night that "Psycho" could have been filmed in color. The cost wasn't as prohibitive in 1960 as it had been 20 years earlier, and Hitchcock certainly had made other films in color. But I'm not sure "Psycho" would have been as powerful in color. Black and white was as much a part of the story as the acting or the writing.
  
  I don't think color would have added anything to it.

Incidentally, if you want to see some of Hitchcock's best color films, I recommend that you switch on Turner Classic Movies on Monday night. "Vertigo" is on at 7 p.m. (Central), followed by "North by Northwest" at 9:15 p.m. (Central). James Stewart followed by Cary Grant. It doesn't get much better than that.