Based on what I knew about hitman Richard Kuklinski before I saw the movie based on his life story, "The Iceman," which premiered in Lebanon on this day in 2013, I assumed his nickname was due to his demeanor.
That was a reasonable assumption, given that Kuklinski seemed to have ice water running through his veins. He was said to have killed more than 100 people — and showed no emotion when doing so — before he was taken into custody.
In truth, though, Kuklinski earned that nickname because of his proclivity for freezing victims to obscure the times of their deaths. But he did have his standards. He wouldn't kill women and children.
Michael Shannon, who played Kuklinski, is a large man, but he isn't as imposing as the character he portrayed. Kuklinski stood 6'5" and weighed in at 270 pounds — and, while technically regarded as a contract killer, he was also considered a serial killer because many of his murders were carried out on his own initiative with little or no input from anyone else.
Kuklinski was also a secretive sort whose double life was never suspected by his family. His wife (Winona Ryder) never seemed to suspect a thing, even when his behavior at home became erratic. In fact, his job was dubbing movies, and his wife and family believed he dubbed Disney movies when, in fact, he dubbed porn movies.
He claimed that his first murder occurred when he was little more than a boy himself, about 12 or 13. His first victim was alleged to have been a neighborhood boy who had taunted him.
The movie never mentioned that — or any of the killings Kuklinski was said to have carried out on his own. It suggested that his first murder was of a random homeless man at the insistence of a crime boss played by Ray Liotta.
Whether that was true or not, I don't know.
There were certainly times when the violence in "The Iceman" seemed gratuitous, over the top. But that was how he lived his life, how he conducted his business.
"Fate is not a straight road. There are many forks in it. You have the free will to choose which one you take, but sometimes it will bend around and bring you straight back to that same stubborn fate."
Odd Thomas (Anton Yelchin)
The first time I ever saw Anton Yelchin in a movie was when he appeared in "Hearts in Atlantis," which was based on a Stephen King story.
He was still rather new to the acting profession, but I was impressed with his talent. Sadly, though, I have only seen him in one other movie — "Odd Thomas," which made its debut at the River Bend Film Festival on this day in 2013 — and I will get no opportunities to see him in a new release. He died in a freak accident nearly two years ago.
"Hearts in Atlantis" was one of his first movies. He made many movies in his all–too–short career, but, considering how he died, "Odd Thomas," in which he played a clairvoyant short–order cook, would have been a good finale for his career — which, by the way, was far from what we have come to expect from child stars. Other child stars seem to hit the wall when they try to transition from children's roles to adult roles, but Yelchin was an exception to that rule.
"Odd Thomas" was based on a novel by Dean Koontz.
Like the youngster in "The Sixth Sense," Odd Thomas could see dead people, and they never spoke to him, either, but, in his own words, "I do something about it." His tipoff that something big was going to happen was when he saw the shadowy bodachs who thrived on pain and carnage — and, as the movie began, he started seeing the bodachs more and more.
They seemed drawn by a stranger in town, and Odd (that was really his given name — an explanation was given early in the movie) said there were more bodachs around him than he had ever seen before. But they seemed to lose interest, which was puzzling — until Odd Thomas did some further investigating.
Odd Thomas, I should mention, had a working relationship with the chief of police (Willem Dafoe), who knew of his talent — but Odd Thomas was at the center of things.
At this point, I ought to remind you that this is a movie about supernatural talent — and it is probably best to avoid giving away any other details.
But "Odd Thomas" had a few other things in common with "The Sixth Sense" — including an unexpected ending for which viewers should have been prepared by all that had come before.
Of course, that's the way it was in "The Sixth Sense," and the finale of "Odd Thomas" probably lost much of its impact because of its similarity to that earlier movie.
But that didn't mean "Odd Thomas" wasn't worth seeing.
Daniel Madigan (Richard Widmark):I'm in love with Julia.
Jonesy (Sheree North):Who's asking for love?
The book on which "Madigan," which premiered on this day in 1968, was based primarily focused on the character of the police commissioner (played by Henry Fonda) — but the decision was made to emphasize a detective on the street (Richard Widmark).
Thus, the movie began with a small–timer getting the drop on Widmark and his partner, relieving them of their weapons when they became momentarily distracted by the small–timer's naked girlfriend and escaping after trapping them on the roof of his building. That small–timer became the chief suspect in a homicide.
That kicked off a 72–hour odyssey for Widmark and his partner, and catching this small–timer was only part of it. The commissioner gave them 72 hours to round up the small–timer, but Widmark had other things to deal with during that time frame as well.
The cinematography of the movie is important. While some portions were filmed in Hollywood backlots, many were filmed with the New York City of 1967 as its backdrop — which was appropriate, since most of the action took place in Spanish Harlem. Consequently the movie absorbed much of the look and feel of New York in the '60s, which became, as backdrops often do, a character in the story.
Madigan had problems with the commissioner, who didn't trust him, and his wife (Inger Stevens). The commissioner had his own problems. He had been looking forward to delivering a commencement address to graduates of the police academy, but this matter with Madigan demanded his attention, as did the case of an inspector (James Whitmore) shaking down a bar owner and complaints from a black minister that his son had been harassed by police when he was picked up for questioning in a rape case. On top of that, the commissioner's married mistress had made the decision to end their relationship.
It was a gritty movie with a lot of twists and turns. I'm not usually a fan of police movies, and this one is a little dated, but it has a first-rate cast — including a rather brief appearance by Sheree North as a sexually frustrated nightclub singer with whom Madigan had once been involved. She didn't try to conceal her continuing attraction to Madigan. Madigan, though, was direct with her, saying that he was in love with Stevens — whose character was also sexually frustrated by Madigan's job and his frequent absences.
But North wasn't interested in love.
A pivotal absence occurred when Madigan took his wife to a dress ball that included a night in a fancy hotel. That appeased her until she realized that he was going to skip out early to go back to work on bringing in the small–timer. He left her in the care of a colleague, who tried to get her drunk and seduce her. He nearly succeeded, too.
That's the kind of thing that you don't have to be in law enforcement to see — although I have no doubt that being the spouse of a detective is a lonely and stressful way of life — and Stevens portrayed it well, especially in her final scene. That was in the hospital where Widmark had been taken after being shot and where he ultimately died.
In my newspaper career, I saw many people who either never married or had their marriages destroyed by their work. Spouses make sacrifices that others don't see — and sometimes those sacrifices are simply too great.
With that in mind, I thought it may have been Stevens' best performance — even if it was in a supporting role.
In the end, Stevens grieved Widmark's death in the execution (so to speak) of his job, but I got the feeling that the others, while sorry that Widmark was gone, didn't feel the loss as deeply as she did. They knew it was the risk they all took.
I've heard some people say they were bored by the story. Perhaps it was too tame for audiences accustomed to more modern treatments of crime and punishment.
I've heard others say the story is engaging, even after half a century.
I'm somewhere in the middle, I suppose. The movie could benefit from what they call reimagining these days. If that doesn't happen, though, "Madigan" stands the test of time — provided you keep it in the context of when it was made.
"Raymond Shaw (Laurence Harvey) is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful human being I've ever known in my life."
Several characters
"It's not that Raymond Shaw is hard to like. He's impossible to like!"
Frank Sinatra
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.
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.
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."
"Well, Cinderella, I was beginning to think you'd never come for your shoe."
Mal Reese (John Vernon)
1967 was a rough year for crime films.
Any crime film that was in the theaters in the same year as "Bonnie and Clyde" almost had to take a backseat.
There were lots of other crime films that year — both fiction (most notably "Cool Hand Luke" although there was also "Wait Until Dark") and nonfiction (i.e., "In Cold Blood") stories — that are remembered by film buffs today, but "Bonnie and Clyde" really sucked up most of the oxygen in the room at the time and continues to demand a lot of the attention.
Consequently, a pretty good crime film like "Point Blank," which made its debut on this day in 1967, was forgotten practically from the start. It was far from a box–office smash, and today it is a hidden gem that you will seldom find shown on television. If you want to watch it, you may have to buy the DVD.
Which may not be such a bad idea. The movie was declared "culturally, historically or aesthetically significant" by the Library of Congress and chosen for preservation in its National Film Registry last year. My guess would be that was the first time that many people ever heard of it.
It got good reviews when it was released half a century ago and deservedly so. But "Bonnie and Clyde" (which was selected for the National Film Registry in 1992) had been in theaters only a couple of weeks when "Point Blank" premiered so it was all but ignored by the moviegoing public.
Timing, as they say, is everything.
If you ever saw "Animal House," you must remember John Vernon. He played Dean Wormer.
But more than a decade earlier, Vernon played a character who teamed up with Lee Marvin in "Point Blank" to steal a lot of money from a courier for a gambling operation — then he double–crossed Marvin, shooting him and leaving him to die. He took the money and Marvin's wife with him.
But Marvin didn't die, and he recovered with the help of a perplexing character played by Keenan Wynn. A few years after being shot he popped up to take revenge, aided by his sister–in–law (Angie Dickinson), and get his money (an objective he mentioned several times). Carroll O'Connor had a supporting role in the years before he found fame as TV's Archie Bunker.
Part of his revenge involved killing Vernon's character in a particularly brutal way.
I guess the moral of that story is — if you're going to kill people, don't wound them and then leave, assuming they will die. Finish the job. Don't leave the ultimate witness still breathing.
If you do, in keeping with Murphy's law, they will survive, and, at the very least, they will identify you.
At the very worst, well, they will do something like what Marvin's character did. As I say, it wasn't pretty.
But I suppose it is true what they say — No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of criminals.
Even in the movies.
That brings me to one more point.
Film critic Roger Ebert had a few questions of his own, most of which seemed to deal with plot logic. But, in the mostly make believe world of the movies, it is not wise to expect too much logic.
Still, if you like suspense thrillers, "Point Blank" is pretty good. As I say, it was ignored at the time — but it has come to be regarded as one of the best of its kind in the '60s.
Usually, they aren't improvements on the originals. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Oh, I concede that technical advances in filmmaking have made it possible for a remake to be better than the original. But even in the 21st century, remakes are rarely, if ever, improvements.
I offer, as Exhibit A, "The Invasion," which premiered on this day in 2007.
Film critic Roger Ebert wrote that "The Invasion" was "the fourth, and the least, of the movies made from Jack Finney's classic science fiction novel." I don't feel qualified to agree or disagree with that statement since I haven't seen all three of the previous incarnations. But Ebert's assessment surely affirms my own of remakes.
I also have a definite opinion about Nicole Kidman, the female lead of "The Invasion." I like her. I liked her the first time I can remember seeing her — in "Dead Calm." And I have liked other movies in which she appeared — "To Die For,""The Others" and "Eyes Wide Shut" come to mind. So does "Moulin Rouge," for that matter.
But Kidman has had about as many misses as hits in her career, especially in recent years, and I would put "The Invasion" on that list.
And it isn't necessary to see the other three film versions of the story to reach that conclusion, either.
All four movies do have a few things in common — primarily, the extraterrestrial invasion. The first couple of movies were transparently titled "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." The third was named, simply, "Body Snatchers."
(Returning — ever so briefly — to the plausibility angle, Ebert asked, "Do you expect a movie titled 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers' to be plausible?" It is a fair question, and my answer, after careful reflection, would be, "Yes. It doesn't have to be completely plausible — which is good since it is hard to imagine how it could be. But there needs to be enough plausibility to allow the viewers to suspend considerable disbelief.")
As I presume it was with each movie version of Finney's novel, "The Invasion" opened with the arrival of alien spores on Earth. In the only version I saw previously (and I have heard it was the same in the other two), these spores took the form of pods that encased their victims. They changed that a bit in "The Invasion" — the spores apparently attached themselves to a space shuttle that crashed following re–entry and scattered its debris from Dallas to Washington (that's a pretty impressive debris field). The debris was contaminated, and anyone who touched it became infected. When the victims fell into deep sleep, the infection seized control of them entirely.
Replacing the pods in "The Invasion" was a kind of film that covered the victim while he/she slept.
No one really seemed to notice what was happening at first. Oh, there were reports in the news of some strange virus in the U.S., and there were more dire reports from abroad. But, like most people, Kidman (a Washington–area psychiatrist in the movie) went about her daily routine, oblivious to what was happening until one of her patients, a victim of domestic abuse (Veronica Cartwright, who appeared in the 1978 version of the story), told her, "My husband just isn't my husband anymore."
Now, given the conversations those two were sure to have had in the past, it would be plausible for Kidman not to understand that Cartwright wasn't discussing abusive behavior — but rather the zombie–like behavior of those under the influence of the aliens. Her husband was one of them. The viewers never saw that character when he wasn't under the aliens' influence, but they knew it the first time they saw him sitting in Kidman's waiting room.
He had the look.
If you ever saw "The Stepford Wives," you would recognize the look — flat, dull, emotionless. Bloodless. Soulless. Measured in words and actions.
Kidman's character had to become proficient at the look, pretending to be one of them in order to maneuver around the city without drawing attention. That required her to maintain total outward neutrality no matter what was happening around her.
Absent any real plausibility, "The Invasion" suffered when it asked viewers to accept some pretty preposterous things.
Like, for example, the fact that a medical researcher (played by underrated actor Jeffrey Wright), a colleague of Kidman's love interest (played by Daniel Craig), was able to discern all kinds of information about this previously unknown virus from a single sample — in a couple of days. He was also able to determine how to eradicate the virus. Cancer researchers who watched this movie must have been jealous.
That would have been enough as far as I was concerned, but then there was a scene when Kidman and her young son were trying to get away in a car that was set afire by a Molotov cocktail. After it was struck the car could be seen virtually engulfed in flames, and I am pretty sure the windshield was broken when the vehicle was hit, but the car kept going, even seemed to accelerate, toward the occupants' appointed rendezvous with a helicopter.
I had to wonder how would it be plausible for someone to keep driving with flames all around like that? I mean, I was never any great shakes at science when I was in school, but you don't have to be a physics major to imagine what would happen to someone who tried to keep driving under those conditions.
Sorta like someone trying to continue driving with one flat tire. Common sense tells you it won't end well.
Then there were things that required specific knowledge of how they do things in Washington to comprehend how off the charts the plausibility factor had become.
For example, in Washington the law prohibits any building in the city from being taller than the Capitol — yet the movie clearly showed the helicopter landing on top of a (nonexistent) D.C. skyscraper.
I know how Hollywood loves to run a good thing into the ground, but trust me, this story has been driven deep into the ground. Let's move on to something new, shall we?
Ben (Glenn Ford):I mean, I don't go around just shootin' people down. I work quiet, like you.
Dan (Van Heflin):All right, so you're quiet like me. Well, then, shut up like me.
Glenn Ford's character in "3:10 to Yuma," which premiered on this day in 1957, reminds me of some guys I knew in high school.
Now, when I say I knew them, I mean we were acquaintances. We passed each other in the halls. Sometimes we had classes together. But they were never my friends, and I was never theirs.
They were the kind of guys who cut corners, who figure it is easier to take what they want than to put in the effort required to acquire it, whether it is a good grade or money or a car — or the affection of a beautiful (and even not–so–beautiful) girl.
Of course, it is easier. It's always easier to cut corners. It just isn't particularly honest.
Ford was like that in "3:10 to Yuma." He was the leader of a ruthless criminal gang that started to rob a stagecoach of its shipment of gold and wound up gunning down the driver of the stagecoach. After the shooting Ford and his gang went into town posing as cowhands and got drinks at the local saloon. Ford seduced the pretty but lonely barmaid (Felicia Farr), a decision that would cost him his freedom as it gave those who were pursuing him time and opportunity to catch him.
Farr was like many of the girls I knew in high school. She was friendly enough to the males she saw each day, but she had a real weakness for the bad boys, the ones who were usually in trouble. The bad boys didn't stick around long, either. They were usually the love 'em and leave 'em types.
And the bad boys were the smooth talkers. Ford told Farr the kinds of things he knew she wanted to hear.
That made an impression on Farr, who didn't really play an extensive role in the movie. She was there mostly to give the viewers an idea of what kind of man Ford was. Mission accomplished.
"Some men you see every day for 10 years and you never notice," she remarked shortly after she apparently went to bed with Ford (1950s viewers had to make that assumption, given that they never actually saw the couple in bed together but only as they were exiting Farr's quarters). "Some men you see once, and they're with you for the rest of your life."
When they parted, Farr admitted — seemingly ruefully — that Ford would be one of those who remained with her for the rest of her life.
An observation that reeks of insincerity.
Con men are like that. History always remembers the con men, but people don't always remember history.
Some folks see right through the con men. Van Heflin was that kind of character in "3:10 to Yuma." Of course, it helped to have the insight Heflin's character possessed. He had seen how, while robbing a stagecoach, Ford's character had cold–bloodedly gunned down both the stagecoach driver and a member of Ford's own gang who had been seized by the driver and used as a human shield.
And he had seen how Ford manipulated people to get his way.
Heflin was an honest, hard–working pragmatic rancher who never seemed to catch a break. When Ford lingered in town to seduce the barmaid, Heflin and the town drunk took him into custody. Then it fell to Heflin to guard Ford until he could be put on a train to Yuma in Southwest Arizona, where Ford would stand trial.
It was during the hours of waiting for the 3:10 to Yuma — and trying to be ready in case Ford's gang tried to liberate him — that Ford and Heflin engaged in intriguing cat–and–mouse dialogue — just the sort of tactic a con man tends to use.
The audience already knew how Heflin had struggled to make ends meet and how his family had suffered because of it, and Ford tried to use that to his advantage, offering Heflin ever–escalating amounts of money for his freedom. Claimed to have the money in his pocket.
I can only imagine what a fortune that must have been in the 19th century, and Heflin's character was clearly tempted to take Ford's offer. But he resisted temptation, knowing what the money could mean to his family.
And, of course, no one could say whether Ford really had that money. No one ever saw it.
It could have been one more example of a con man doing his thing.
The story was set in the old West, but it could so easily have been set at any time in any genre. It was a tense thriller as much as a western and deserving of the praise it received.
Nevertheless, I had a couple of problems with it.
For one, it was a little spooky to hear Ford whistling the movie's theme song — which undoubtedly had not been written at the time the movie portrayed.
But that was small potatoes. In the end, Ford helped Heflin escape to safety rather than take the easy way out. It meant that Ford would go on to face trial in Yuma. His reason? Heflin had saved Ford's life earlier, and Ford didn't want to be in anyone's debt.
Graham (Mel Gibson):I suppose it would depend on its usage.
Tracy:How about 'John, you're a douche bag for kissing Barbara'?
Graham:It's a curse.
I found "Signs," which premiered on this day in 2002, to be entertaining — even though it came perilously close to violating my plausibility standard for science fiction movies. I suppose credit for that should go mostly to director M. Night Shyamalan, who seems to have a knack for making science fiction films that manage to entertain even nonscience fiction types like myself.
But his films are not created equal. "The Sixth Sense" was a remarkably good film, especially when you consider that it was only Shyamalan's third directorial effort. He's had some pretty good efforts in his career, but none of his succeeding films (at least, none that I have seen) have come close to matching that one.
He was in the ballpark with "Signs," though.
And speaking of ballparks, Joaquin Phoenix, who played Mel Gibson's younger brother, was a former minor–league ballplayer. It is important to know that — but it didn't seem important at first. Kind of like some of the details in "The Sixth Sense."
In the tradition of the great directors of thrillers, Shyamalan gives the viewers all the pieces they need to solve the puzzle — but he lets them assemble the pieces without knowing what the puzzle is ultimately supposed to look like. And then suddenly he reveals the whole picture, and the viewers begin to realize the things they got right — and the things they got wrong.
I like what film critic Roger Ebert wrote in his review of the movie.
"In a time when Hollywood mistakes volume for action," Ebert wrote, "Shyamalan makes quiet films. In a time when incessant action is a style, he persuades us to pay close attention to the smallest nuances."
The core of this story was the sudden appearance of "crop circles," those geometric designs in fields that pop up in the news from time to time. The more conspiracy theory–minded among us tend to believe that they are created by aliens, but probably most people — and certainly most scientists — even those who fervently wish the existence of aliens could be proven tend to dismiss them as likely hoaxes.
Gibson's character had once been an ordained priest, but he had given it up after his wife's death in a car accident.
That didn't prevent the locals from asking him faith–based questions, though, and he constantly had to tell them that he had no faith.
But then these crop circles appeared in his field, and they began showing up all over the world, too, and other phenomena began to occur, like reports of strange lights over Mexico.
Phoenix and his young niece (Abigail Breslin) and asthmatic nephew (Rory Culkin), who became convinced early that aliens were real and hiding in plain sight, fashioned caps out of tin foil to prevent the aliens from reading their minds. That was one of those "nuances" to which Ebert referred.
And Gibson's character wasn't convinced — initially.
As the movie progressed, though, viewers discovered that the aliens did exist and had been responsible for those crop circles.
And Gibson and his family took all sorts of precautions to keep the aliens from entering their home, but they were unsuccessful.
When they were first seen, the aliens appeared as shadows or reflections on a TV screen. Later on, though, Shyamalan brought them into the light of day.
And it was under such circumstances that Phoenix, who hit a lot of home runs during his minor–league career but also struck out a lot, used his longball–hitting skill to take on the unwelcome guests.
Gibson's loss of faith, while mostly underplayed through the movie, was nevertheless a constant theme and restoring his faith was his character's purpose. In the end, he appeared to have regained his faith as a result of his extremely close encounter.
In fact, the whole family seemed to be doing better.
Even though she was before my time, I am a fan of Marilyn Monroe.
My admiration goes beyond her obvious physical appeal. I think she was a talented actress, too, unappreciated during her life and still so decades after her death.
And I thought I had seen all of her movies — until one day a few years ago when I happened to see "Don't Bother to Knock" being televised. I realized I had never seen it before so I watched it. That movie, which premiered 65 years ago today, was definitive proof of talent that did not depend on good looks.
In that sense, I was reminded of Grace Kelly in "The Country Girl."
Like Kelly, Monroe was always beautiful, but there were variations to her beauty. Sometimes she was glamorous; in "Don't Bother to Knock," I guess her beauty was more understated. It would take concentrated effort to mar her beauty, but you could drape her in clothes that were rather plain and that would bring her beauty down a notch or two.
That, I would say, is what they did in "Don't Bother to Knock."
And Monroe reciprocated with a riveting performance.
It was part of her character. At first she came across as shy and demure. Her clothes were plain. Her demeanor was almost unassuming. But that was all deceptive.
Her character wanted to wear nice clothes and expensive jewelry. But she, like so many others then and now, did not feel she could ever have the finer things she desired. Some people turn to lives of crime to gain the things they want in life. When the audience first saw her in "Don't Bother to Knock," Monroe's character was content to take risks but not necessarily to commit crimes. Well, not exactly, but we'll come back to that.
She was Richard Widmark's love interest. He was on the rebound after being jilted by Anne Bancroft, who was the real glamour girl, a sultry lounge singer. Bancroft had had a fling with Widmark, decided it was one of those things and wrote him a Dear John letter. In this case, I guess you'd call it a Dear Jed letter.
Jed came to New York to try to talk Bancroft out of it, but she didn't budge. Back in his hotel room, Jed looked out his window and saw Monroe across the courtyard, wearing clothes and jewelry that belonged to her employers for the evening, an out–of–town couple (Jim Backus and Lurene Tuttle) who hired her to babysit their daughter (Donna Corcoran) while they were attending a banquet downstairs.
Widmark and Monroe agreed to have a liaison in Monroe's room. Widmark was unaware that the young girl was sleeping in the adjacent room until the girl walked in on them.
As the evening progressed, Widmark became more and more aware that Monroe's character was mentally unstable. At one point, he thought Monroe would push the child out an open window — modern audiences would probably be shocked to see no barriers of any kind on upstairs windows — no rails or bars or anything at a time when air conditioning was still a rare luxury and the only relief to be found on a hot night came from open windows.
I'll leave some of the intricacies of the plot for you to discover for yourself, but Monroe's character continued to descend into a mental state in which she was convinced that Widmark was actually her deceased fiance.
She also bound and gagged the child with whom she had been sitting that evening. Turned out she had a history of mental issues. She had been institutionalized after her fiance's death. She had tried to kill herself, too, by slashing her wrists.
"Don't Bother to Knock" was a mostly forgettable movie, I suppose. The characters lacked emotional depth, and there wasn't a lot of context given until near the end (which, I suppose, was typical of film noir).
But Monroe's performance as the psychologically fragile Nell undoubtedly was influenced by Monroe's own experiences with her mother. That alone would make "Don't Bother to Knock" worth watching.
It was Monroe's first truly dramatic effort after appearing in 17 other films, mostly comedies, and it was a few years before the comedies for which Monroe is best remembered — "The Seven–Year Itch" and "Some Like It Hot."
It was Bancroft's debut.
Monroe's wasn't the first film portrayal of a mentally disturbed individual — but seldom has it been as honest.
More often than not, it seems to me, the Oscars voters like to reward feel–good movies. I suppose, after spending most of the year profiting from violence and exploitation, Hollywood likes to shine the spotlight on its more uplifting — and decidedly more infrequent — positive efforts.
I don't mean that the Best Picture always goes to a Disney movie or anything like that. The characters in the Oscar winners do have their flaws, but there is usually something ennobling about at least one of them, too, something that tells the audience that no one is irredeemable. (Look, this guy is X, Y or Z, and yet he still managed to be A, B or C.)
There's nothing wrong with that. It's good to draw attention to movies that praise those qualities to which we should all aspire — even if the movies aren't box–office successes and the qualities they embrace aren't especially prevalent.
The box–office successes typically focus on the things that we all find unpleasant, but many people choose to spend their entertainment dollars watching those movies, anyway — perhaps in part due to an understanding that there are far more sinners than saints in this world.
Sometimes, though, Hollywood rewards movies in which none of the characters seems to have any good qualities. Such was the case when the Coen brothers' "No Country for Old Men," which premiered at the Cannes Film Festival 10 years ago today, won the Oscar for Best Picture.
And since its commercial release, the movie has become the Coens' biggest moneymaker — ever. Winning Best Picture didn't hurt at the box office, of course.
Neither did the facts that the Coens shared the Oscar for Best Director, and Javier Bardem won the Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his portrayal of the thoroughly evil hit man Anton Chigurh.
If there were any redeemable characters in "No Country for Old Men," they must have been the random minor characters who had the misfortune of crossing paths with Chigurh — and the audience never knew enough about them to conclude whether they really were redeemable.
Chigurh, though, was a mystery, a real enigma, although not entirely to at least one person — the arrogant bounty hunter (Woody Harrelson) who was put on his trail. Harrelson's character observed that Chigurh was a psychopathic killer, but "You could even say that he has principles. Principles that transcend money or drugs or anything like that. He's not like you. He's not even like me."
For that matter, no one knew how to pronounce Chigurh's name. One character pronounced it sugar, but there was nothing sweet about him. I suppose that was intended to be a paradox. The Coens like to work those in when they can.
Anyway, Chigurh was hired to recover the money from a drug deal that went bad in the west Texas desert. Josh Brolin, playing a struggling welder out hunting antelope, stumbled onto the scene and found the loot — more than $2 million — sparking a cat–and–mouse chase that is the heart of the story.
Brolin's circumstances may have aroused the audience's sympathy as he tried to get away with the money and, at the same time, protect his wife Carla Jean (Kelly Macdonald), but he really had no redeeming quality. He was every bit as ruthless, if not as violent, as Chigurh, the man who pursued and, ultimately, killed him.
Chigurh also killed the bounty hunter who was hired to bring him down.
Harrelson's performance was adequate but never really rose above my rather modest expectations. I enjoyed watching him on Cheers!, but I have hardly been blown away by his theatrical work, probably stemming from his post–Cheers! work in "Indecent Proposal," although that was far from his first movie. Unfortunately, it was not far from his best.
Most of the time Harrelson has been a supporting character — as he was in "No Country for Old Men."
And to be honest, that is what nearly all of the characters in the movie were. I suppose that is what nearly all the characters in every movie are, even the movies with "all–star" casts. Some of those stars, regardless of their statures in Hollywood, will be in supporting roles. How well they succeed depends upon how well they are able to keep their often considerable egos in check when only two of them are truly the stars of the show.
Even though he shared top billing with his lesser–known co–stars, Tommy Lee Jones was a supporting character as the rural West Texas sheriff hot on the trail of Brolin and Chigurh. He must have known that all along.
His character was about to retire, and his greatest contribution to the movie was serving as the inspiration for its title. Well, the actual wording comes from a poem from Yeats, but in the context of the story, Jones' character began the movie with his general lament that the area was so violent — and, at the end, he spoke of his dreams of his father, who had also been a sheriff, and how in one of the dreams his father, who was on horseback, told him he was going on ahead in a snowy mountain pass to make a fire and wait.
There was no place for him in West Texas. It was no country for old men.
In his way, I guess, Jones' character was seeking redemption — perhaps a way to win his father's approval — but he was really just looking for a way out of the place that was not meant for old men. I guess we all want that, to escape. That doesn't make us any nobler or any more worthy of admiration than anyone else.
"I always figured when I got older, God would sorta come into my life somehow," Jones' character remarked near the end of the movie. "And he didn't. I don't blame him. If I was him I would have the same opinion of me that he does."
His remarks were pithy, short and sweet as so many Texans are inclined to be — and that comes from a lifetime of observing Texans, including my own grandparents, who lived there most of their lives, and my parents, who did not.
As I say, the characters who may have had more cause for redemption were the minor ones who came in contact with Chigurh purely at random.
Carla Jean was such a character. She wasn't with Brolin when he stumbled onto the scene of the drug deal. She didn't play the cat–and–mouse game Brolin played with Chigurh. The only time she ever saw or spoke to him was near the end of the movie, when he came presumably to kill her.
I say presumably because the audience never saw him take her life — only his departure from the house where she had been staying and his casual glance at the soles of his boots. Knowing the character as the audience did, that strongly suggested that he might have been concerned that he had stepped in something — like fresh blood.
But the viewers never knew that for certain.
The genre of "No Country for Old Men" has always been a bit ambiguous.
I've heard some people call it film noir, even though that evokes thoughts of a private investigator — and, while it does deal with a crime — several crimes, in fact — film noir really isn't sufficient to describe it.
Of course, a serious problem with film noir is that it is something of a moving target when it comes to its definition. I would say that it can be whatever you want it to be. (And with the Coens there is no telling what that might be.)
Neither is it entirely accurate to call "No Country for Old Men" a western. That makes people think of cowboys and Indians, horses and stagecoaches, cattle drives and roundups.
And yet it is both at the same time — modern–day film noir and modern–day western. Not stereotypical of either. It defies easy and conventional description.
"I wonder if it would not be, well, just a trifle starry–eyed of me to contemplate a partnership where I could count on no sense of moral obligation whatsoever."
Sidney (Michael Caine)
There were a lot of movies in the theaters in 1982. Some were good, some were not, but nearly all of them, it seems, spent more time in the spotlight than "Deathtrap," which premiered on this day 35 years ago.
And that really is a shame because "Deathtrap" may have been the most creative movie out there — and I say that knowing that 1982 brought us "Poltergeist," "E.T.," and "Tootsie," among others.
It was an overlooked gem at the time, and it is still overlooked today.
"Deathtrap" also took a backseat to "Porky's," a putrid sex comedy that was nevertheless the fifth–highest grossing movie of the year. "Porky's" premiered the same day as "Deathtrap."
I must confess that I didn't see "Deathtrap" when it was in theaters, and that is something I have often regretted. I saw it much later on cable.
As I have mentioned here before, I am a fan of the work of Alfred Hitchcock. I got that from my parents, who were fans of Agatha Christie's books as well. If you have been reading this blog for awhile, you almost certainly have noticed that I have written about both Hitchcock's movies and Christie's books here — and I expect to do so again.
My parents loved mysteries, and they appreciated stories that had all kinds of twists and turns, requiring the viewer or the reader to mentally shift gears from time to time. "Deathtrap" had plenty of twists and turns, certainly enough to satisfy fans of Hitchcock and Christie, with a gut–punch ending that, I must confess, I kind of anticipated — but only because of a movie I once watched with my parents (I'll get back to that).
Nearly the entire movie took place in the remote country estate belonging to Michael Caine's character, a once–successful playwright who was enduring a streak of flops, and his wife, played by Dyan Cannon, who suffered from a heart condition. They were doing well financially — a wall in the house that was decorated with weapons from Caine's numerous successful plays testified to that — but Caine's ego longed for another hit.
Caine had received a manuscript by a student (Christopher Reeve) from one of his writing workshops. The student wanted Caine's input. In private, Caine believed the manuscript was flawless, and he decided that he wanted to produce it as his own. He invited the student to come to his home, where they would discuss the play — and Caine would murder the student.
Cannon argued against the plan, but Caine rebuffed every argument — and after the student arrived, Caine did attack him, convincing Cannon to help him remove the body.
She also said nothing when they received an unexpected visitor, a psychic who was staying with some neighbors. The psychic walked around the house, observing that she sensed pain and death in the very places where those things had been happening to Reeve's character and warning Caine that he would be attacked by a man wearing boots.
After the psychic left, Caine and Cannon prepared for bed, and Cannon appeared to be coming to grips with what Caine had done — when Reeve stormed in with a log in his hand and appeared to bludgeon Caine to death. Then he turned his attention to Cannon and chased her around the house — until her weak heart gave out and she collapsed.
Caine appeared in the scene, unharmed although he had a few words of criticism for Reeve's performance with the stage prop log. The murders of Caine and Reeve had been staged to produce this very result as the audience learned when Reeve and Caine shared a kiss.
(I have read that, when "Deathtrap" was showing in theaters and Caine and Reeve were about to kiss, a woman stood up in one theater and exclaimed, "No, Superman, don't do it!" I don't know if that is true or not, but it is a great story, isn't it?)
Reeve moved in with Caine after Cannon's funeral, and they began working on manuscripts at an antique partners' desk. Caine continued to suffer from writer's block, but Reeve pounded out page after page — and mysteriously left his manuscript locked in a drawer whenever he was away.
Caine finally managed to get his hands on Reeve's manuscript and was shocked to learn that Reeve was using the circumstances of Cannon's death for a play titled "Deathtrap" (which, ostensibly, had been the title of the manuscript Reeve originally sent to Caine). Caine confronted Reeve, who insisted the story had great potential and he would continue writing it. He offered to share credit with Caine, who was coming to believe that Reeve was a sociopath, and he agreed to cooperate while secretly planning a resolution to the problem.
The psychic paid another visit a few days later asking for candles in preparation for an anticipated thunderstorm. When she met Reeve, she told Caine that Reeve was the man in boots she had warned him about.
The last part of the movie is best experienced, but suffice to say that just as you think one of the characters is about to go to his reward, the ground shifts beneath your feet, and suddenly the other character has the upper hand.
Their struggle left both men dead — and the psychic was the beneficiary, apparently becoming the successful writer of "Deathtrap," the latest hit on Broadway.
As I say, I anticipated the finish. It reminded me of "The Ladykillers," a movie that was in theaters about 25 years earlier. I watched it with Mom and Dad — ironically, only about a year or two before "Deathtrap" was in theaters.
In "The Ladykillers" a gang of thieves used an old woman as the centerpiece of a robbery plan. In the end, they all killed each other, and the little old lady, who discovered the plan after the robbery had already been carried out, was the only one who benefited from it.
If you see this movie on your TV schedule — or the DVD in the discount bin — don't let the opportunity get away from you.
When I was a child, my mental image of Bela Lugosi was in black and white.
He was Dracula even though others had portrayed Dracula on the big screen. Lugosi was the embodiment of Dracula with his thick Hungarian accent. The others who played Dracula all imitated Lugosi to one extent or another, and few could come close to his natural style.
When I got older, my image of Lugosi became more defined, thanks to the biopic "Ed Wood" about the filmmaker whose mediocre efforts gave Lugosi's career a final chance. That, too, was in black and white — but that was by choice.
Most of Lugosi's movies were in black and white, but that was a choice that was driven by economics. Color was simply too expensive for many filmmakers in the '30s, '40s and '50s when Lugosi was in demand.
That was about the only thing that made "Scared to Death," which premiered on this day in 1947, noteworthy. It is the only feature–length movie on Lugosi's resume that was filmed in color. The credits proudly proclaimed that the movie had been filmed in "natural color," but it didn't look terribly natural to me. It was a cheap process called Cinecolor.
The premise, such as it was, was that a young woman had been literally frightened to death, and the movie (which ran slightly more than an hour) was devoted to the investigation into how this could have happened.
Aside from the fact that it was in color, "Scared to Death" could have been an Ed Wood movie. It had the same wooden acting and the same bad dialogue, presented as if it were a bad junior high film production of an already bad play. The only thing it lacked was one of Wood's cheesy titles — although the title that was used came pretty close.
Even the color was suitable for an Ed Wood movie. It was cheap and unnatural.
"Scared to Death" further resembled an Ed Wood movie in the sense that it used every outlandish plot device imaginable — including having Lugosi's colleague played by Angelo Rossitto, a three–foot actor whose character had other challenges besides his stature.
"My little friend Indigo is deaf and dumb; he cannot hear and he cannot speak but reads the lips," Lugosi's character explained. "And I will advise you to say nothing to annoy him for his temper is as short as he is."
Most of the plot developments were contrived and only loosely served their purposes — such as they were.
My advice? Do yourself a favor and watch one of Lugosi's black–and–white movies. Just about any of them would be better than "Scared to Death."
"Whenever it wants, the past can come kicking the door down. And you never know where it's going to take you. All you can do is hope it's a place you want to go."
Adult Bobby (David Morse)
I'm a fan of Stephen King, and I remember reading "Hearts in Atlantis" before I saw the movie, which hit the theaters on this day in 2001. It was not a single story. It was a collection of two novellas and three short stories that involved the same primary characters and were told in roughly chronological order. "Hearts in Atlantis" was merely the title of one of the pieces in the collection — and it wasn't even the title of the story that was told in the movie.
The movie was a dramatization of the first and longest story in the book, "Low Men in Yellow Coats." I suppose "Hearts in Atlantis" was considered a more marketable title — but its meaning had to have been virtually incomprehensible to anyone who saw the movie but had not read the book. In the movie adaptation, Atlantis was casually mentioned a couple of times, justifying the title
Having said that, I was impressed as always with Anthony Hopkins' work. He is already extensively recognized and praised, but I think that, in the future after he is gone, he will be seen in hindsight as one of the best actors of his generation — if not of all time.
Anton Yelchin, who played his young friend, might have been one of the best actors of his generation. Roger Ebert wrote that Yelchin "is not just a cute kid but a smart and wary one." That seems to have accurately described him as he grew and appeared in quite a few other movies. He didn't fall into the self–destructive trap in which so many child stars seem to fall, but tragically he died earlier this year in what can only be described as a freak accident.
The movie, Ebert wrote, "weaves a strange spell, made of nostalgia and fear. Rarely does a movie make you feel so warm and so uneasy at the same time." As he so often did, Ebert made the perfect observation.
In my life I have learned that the best fiction writers are the ones who can vividly recall what it was like to be a child. The children in this story were living in 1960, which was before my time, but childhood experiences tend to be kind of universal, I guess. As such, I suppose it would be a natural assumption that anyone can write a story about being a child, which is not true. Anyone can feel a personal connection to such a story, but few can write the story. Fewer still can do it well.
I can think of no contemporary writer who is better at that than King, and "Hearts in Atlantis" really may have been one of his best — the best of the best. In the book, the novellas and short stories told the tale of Bobby (Yelchin), and that first story, "Low Men in Yellow Coats," was about an older man who was taken in as a boarder by Bobby's self–absorbed widowed mother (Hope Davis), who constantly complained about her late husband leaving nothing but debts when he died.
The story took place in the summer of Bobby's 11th year. His constant companions were Carol (Mika Boorem) and Sully (Will Rothhaar), but Ted (Hopkins) became his special friend, sort of a father figure for the fatherless boy.
In the book Ted and Bobby had a conversation about Carol that I was pleased to see was brought to the screen. Ted asked Bobby if he had kissed Carol; upon learning that he had not, Ted observed, "You will, and it will be the kiss by which all others in your life will be judged — and found wanting."
That isn't the sort of thing your typical 11–year–old wants to hear. But it is so true.
Having been an 11–year–old boy once, I know that most 11–year–old boys do like to talk about sports, and Bobby remembered his father telling him about seeing Babe Ruth and Bronko Nagurski. Ted told him about Nagurski's miraculous comeback. Six years after his retirement, Nagurski was persuaded to return to pro football because the NFL's teams had been depleted by World War II. He led the Chicago Bears to the NFL championship, as Ted said in the movie, but the victory he described over the crosstown rival Cardinals occurred on the final day of the regular season. It was not the NFL title game. That came against the Washington Redskins. Nagurski did score a touchdown in that game, but the Bears won that title game by 20 points.
Ted made it sound like Nagurski scored the touchdown that broke open a close game with the Cardinals, but that margin was 11 points. A little poetic license, I presume. Perhaps Ted knew that and just embellished the story a bit for Bobby's sake.
The movie was about the relationship between Ted and Bobby as much as anything — even though the movie began with the adult Bobby going to his old stomping grounds for Sully's funeral.
Ted recruited Bobby to be on the lookout for "low men," strange, mysterious men who wanted to have Ted under their control, apparently because of some kind of psychic ability Ted possessed.
"Some think of it as a gift," Ted told Bobby after confirming that the low men's pursuit of him was connected to the FBI's alleged recruitment of psychics in the war on communism, "but to me it's always been a burden."
Although it received nary a nomination from the Academy Awards, I liked "Hearts in Atlantis," probably because it reminded me of my own childhood and adolescence.
Every young person should be fortunate enough to have a mentor like Ted. Not every one does, of course. The prisons are filled with folks who didn't have such a positive influence in their formative years. But I did. I called her Aunt Bess — as did everyone in my hometown. We talked about all sorts of things. Sometimes I read to her, much like Bobby did for Ted. And she shared her wisdom with me.
I guess she was sort of like a grandmother to me. My own grandmothers lived more than 300 miles away. I saw them a few times a year, usually around holidays. I could see Aunt Bess every week — and most weeks I did.
Aunt Bess wasn't psychic — probably, although she always seemed to know when I was fudging the truth. Maybe that is something all adults — or at least the ones who have been parents — know or seem to know.
The best ones aren't bothered when their young charges prove fallible. And Ted was one of the best ones. Even after he had been captured by the low men, as he was being taken away, he saw Bobby and told him he wouldn't have missed the experience of being Bobby's friend for anything — even though it was Bobby's mother who had played a key role in his capture.
"sociopath — a person with a psychopathic personality whose behavior is antisocial, often criminal, and who lacks a sense of moral responsibility or social conscience."
Random House Dictionary
"The Bad Seed," which premiered on this day in 1956, was a thought–provoking — for its time — contribution to the debate over nature vs. nurture that influences so many behavioral discussions.
In this case, the discussion centered on sociopaths. We've all known sociopaths, even if we didn't know that was what they were. The term sociopathy came into use in the 20th century — but I'm sure sociopaths have been around since time began. The defining feature of sociopathy is antisocial behavior. Some psychiatrists caution laymen to avoid using the terms sociopathy and psychopathy interchangeably as the former is less likely than the latter to be mistaken for psychosis — and socioopathic behavior is not necessarily the same as psychotic behavior.
And, while I am not a trained psychiatrist, it seems to me that antisocial behavior is more or less in the eyes of the beholder. I have known people who judged certain behaviors that did not conform to their preconceived notions too harshly and labeled them sociopathic when most people probably would consider them introverted.
The things that seem to define sociopaths are the frequently criminal nature of their behavior and the complete absence of any kind of remorse for their actions. They are concerned only with themselves. All others exist — or cease to exist — to serve the sociopath's needs.
In "The Bad Seed," Patty McCormack played a young girl who, on the surface, appeared to be every parent's dream child — brilliant in school, excelling in all things. But if you looked closely enough, you could see a pattern of vicious behavior when things didn't go young Rhoda's way.
For the adults in her world, it was easier to simply dismiss some things as childish misbehavior that she would certainly outgrow.
But a time came when the behavior could no longer be so easily excused.
That was when Rhoda did not win a medal for penmanship that she had believed she would win. When the boy who did win the medal turned up drowned at a school picnic, those closest to Rhoda began to examine her behavior with alarm. She just didn't respond to the tragedy the way the adults expected. A young girl, they reasoned, should be traumatized by such an event, but when Rhoda came home, all she said was that she was hungry because the picnic had been canceled before anyone could eat.
The boy's mother, played by Eileen Heckart, knew something — somehow. Perhaps she sensed it. It was known that Rhoda had been the last person to see the boy alive; they had been seen struggling near the lake where the boy's body was found.
Anyway, the boy's mother showed up at Rhoda's home, clearly intoxicated and accusing Rhoda's teacher of concealing information about how her son had died.
And Leroy the handyman (Henry Jones) stumbled on to Rhoda's secret — and paid for it with his life when he was set on fire by Rhoda.
Rhoda's mother (Nancy Kelly) confronted her daughter with her suspicions and Rhoda tearfully confessed that she had killed the boy — and also confirmed her mother's suspicion that she had been responsible for the death of an elderly lady who had lived near them at one time. The elderly lady promised Rhoda she could have a trinket that she had admired "after I'm gone." Rhoda arranged for things to be moved up.
All this came at the same time that Rhoda's mother learned she had been adopted when she was young — and her biological mother had been a serial killer.
Thus the question of whether sociopathic behavior is learned or inherited was introduced into the story.
Rhoda's mother believed it was inherited, that she and her biological mother were responsible for this "bad seed" that she had spawned, and she took it upon herself to end it, once and for all. She gave Rhoda a lethal dose of barbiturates, then shot herself in the head. The sound of the gunshot brought people to the scene. The mother died, but the daughter was rushed to a hospital, where she was saved.
And it appeared that evil would triumph over good. Except ...
When a recovered Rhoda went out to the lake to retrieve the medal, she was struck by lightning.
The movie received four Oscar nominations in three categories but lost them all.
Kelly was nominated for Best Actress but lost to Ingrid Bergman in "Anastasia." Heckart and McCormack were both nominated for Best Supporting Actress but lost to Dorothy Malone in "Written On The Wind." Harold Rosson was nominated for Best Black–and–White Cinematography but lost to "Somebody Up There Likes Me."
"Nobody hates history. They hate their own histories."
Robert Langdon (Tom Hanks)
I kind of had an unfair advantage over many people who saw "The Da Vinci Code" after it premiered on this day in 2006.
Less than two months earlier, I was laid up for a couple of weeks after shoulder surgery. That's kind of a long story, and I really only mention it because, during my convalescence, I read Dan Brown's "preposterous" (in Roger Ebert's words) novel on which the movie was based.
The novel was published three years earlier, which is probably when most people read it — it was outsold only by the latest in the Harry Potter series — but I didn't read it then. I was busy with other things. Then, when I found myself with time on my hands in early 2006, I read a secondhand paperback copy of that novel.
That worked in my favor when the movie came out, though, because the plot was fresh in my mind. The people I knew who read it when the book was a best–seller in hardback had forgotten some of the finer points of the story, and I am sure they weren't alone.
(I'll bet dollars to doughnuts that it was considerably more challenging for moviegoers to follow the plot if they hadn't read the book. I mean, you at least had to be aware of about 2,000 years' worth of religious rumor and innuendo — as well as history. Lawrence Toppman of The Charlotte [N.C.] Observer wrote that "unlike most Hollywood blockbusters, this one assumes audience members will be smart." I worked for newspapers long enough to know that was probably a mistake.)
But I was fortunate to have the father I had. Dad was a religion professor when I was growing up so I got a lot of exposure to things about which most of my friends knew little, if anything — at least when it came to religion. Dad was a great resource for me when I was reading Brown's novel.
But he was a good resource in another way. Dad has always been an avid fan of mystery novels. As such, he was invaluable in helping me to differentiate between elements of genuine religious and historical significance and elements of good mystery writing. In such a novel, they are bound to overlap; without his help, it would have been easy for me to confuse the two.
On top of that, I saw the movie with Dad. We saw it on Father's Day that year — about a month after its premiere. We figured the crowds wouldn't be as great after a month. Boy, were we wrong. Around the time we saw it, "The Da Vinci Code" became the second film of 2006 to exceed $200 million in the United States.
It was still packing 'em in.
Ron Howard's movies always pack 'em in, though, and they are almost always good so that was understandable. What's more he had two–time Oscar winner Tom Hanks in the leading role and two–time Oscar nominee Ian McKellen in a supporting role. French actress Audrey Tatou, who was largely unfamiliar to American movie audiences at the time, co–starred with Hanks. How could Howard go wrong?
Well, apparently, he did.
The response to the movie was, at best, mixed. I think most people recognized the controversial nature of the subject matter — as well as the fact that considerable resistance could be expected from the Roman Catholic Church. More than a dozen countries censored the film — if they didn't ban it outright.
So there were some headwinds facing the movie when it made its debut. But that didn't seem to dampen audience enthusiasm. As mentioned earlier, it was the second–highest grossing film that year. Anyone looking for evidence that critical endorsements' have little effect on consumer behavior need look no further than "The Da Vinci Code."
Still, the critics could be harsh, and Howard said he found their responses "frustrating."
And I guess they were.
But that is to be expected, I suppose, when a movie challenges people's religious beliefs, and that is precisely what "The Da Vinci Code" did. How could anyone think otherwise? Hanks' character was a professor of religious iconography and symbology involved in a quest for the Holy Grail.
What was not expected — at least, by me — was the negative reaction to Howard. After all, who didn't like Opie? Or, depending on your age, Richie Cunningham? Getting rough with Ron Howard is like getting rough with the Easter bunny.
I agreed with his assertion that the book on which the movie was based was "preposterous" — and with that stuff about the movie being preposterously entertaining.
If you haven't read the book or seen the movie, I encourage you to do so.
Just remember that it is neither purely history nor purely mystery. Perhaps a little of both.
I got my bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Arkansas, and I got my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. Most of my adult life has been dedicated to writing and editing in one form or another. Most recently I have taught writing (news and developmental) as an adjunct journalism professor at Richland College, where I advise the student newspaper staff. Go, Thunderducks!
