The Cobalt Screening Room Balcony

Post #195: Gilda Radner, God rest her soul, treated us to some memorable moments and characters in the early days of *Saturday Night Live*, but today's feature reminded me tangentially of her portrayal of Baba Wawa, who would ask the innocuous question, "If you were a twee, what sort of twee would you be?" In *The Lobster* (2015) the variation on that question is much more insidious really and philosophically: What animal would you choose to be turned into by the government if you failed to find a suitable partner? Now, hold on--your answer may indicate more than you realize.

David (Colin Farrell) lives in a society anchored fifteen minutes into the future, in a dystopian Ireland that demands all people live as couples, bound by a singular defining trait. David has just been rejected by his wife, who has taken up with another, and so, as Society dictates, he must enter a governmentally sanctioned hotel wherein he has 45 days to find a suitable partner, or he will be turned into the animal of his choice, in his case a lobster. Living alone is not an option, as it is a criminal offense to the State. His brother, now a dog, has learned this the hard way. And during his initial acclimation period he has one arm secured behind his back to demonstrate how living in isolation without a partner can be inhibiting at best and impossible in the extreme. Try tying a shoe without two hands.

Right about now, if you've not heard of Yorgos Lanthimos's absurdist film, you're pondering my sanity at having chosen it for commentary today. If, on the other hand, you HAVE heard of it or even seen it, you're pondering my sanity at having chosen it for commentary today. For all its streaming accolades (earning no fewer than 55 nominations for prestigious awards internationally, winning the Grand Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival in addition to three other Cannes awards as well as thirteen other international awards) *The Lobster* will probably stand in your judgment as a very strong acquired taste--that is, your response, like the world it inhabits, may well be binary: love it or hate it once you determine what you thought of it. Simply put, it's a polarizing experience that reaches an audience who like to wrestle with philosophy and a lack of narrative resolution. *The Lobster* is the antithesis of *The Fast, Furious & Overinflated* franchise.

In his time in the hotel, David becomes acquainted with a lisping Robert (John C. Reilly) and the limping John (Ben Whishaw), who had suffered a permanent leg injury after trying to reconcile with his mother, who had been turned into a wolf. This trio comprise the only characters in the movie who have names; others are simply identified by their idiosyncrasies (i.e., Shortsighted Woman (Rachel Weisz), Heartless Woman (Angeliki Papoulia), Nosebleed Woman (Jessica Barden) and Loner Leader (Léa Seydoux)). If residents of the hotel are caught engaging in singular activities during their stay, as Lisping Man is found engaging in a solitary sexual experience, they are dealt a painful entreaty (Lisping Man has his offending hand fed into a toaster) to discourage such behavior in the future. Clearly this is not your parents' Holiday Inn.

So goes most of the humor in *The Lobster*--not just dark but black hole dense, seriously dry and absurd in the classical theater sense. When John (Limping Man) grows desperate as his days tumble toward the animal kingdom, he takes up with Nosebleed Woman by smashing his face repeatedly into wooden chair arms and walls to stimulate a similar condition, making them soul mates. Similarly David, seeing his days moving on without success, feigns a sociopathic leaning so he might couple with Heartless Woman; their first "romantic" encounter involves her pragmatically chewing an olive in a hot tub, then pretending to choke to death to see if David would try to save her. When he doesn't, she determines they might be suitably matched and institute a bloodless, emotionless pairing without the warmth of a corporate takeover.

According to the rules of the arrangement (and the film) the couple must live together in a double room for two weeks, then spend two weeks on a yacht anchored in the bay before they can return home. Unfortunately for David, Heartless Woman sees through his facade of sociopathy and tries to provoke an emotional response from him through a thoroughly repellent act I won't "spoil" here--but it's enough to cause David to take arms against his sea of troubles and by opposing, hoping to end them. He joins the hunted singles (Loners) in the forest, where he finds another form of restriction governing behavior. Meet the New Boss, same as the Old Boss.

The narration (a voice-over by Rachel Weisz, who is 007 Daniel Craig's wife in reality) is blandly matter of factual, reinforcing the overall direction of the film as a world populated by the affectless. Presented this way, *The Lobster* pulls us into a social construct of pure acceptance of all phenomena as routine, ordinary, and ultimately passive. Read in an almost childlike disassociative monotone, perhaps drawn from Shortsighted Woman's journal with less than zero emphasis or involvement, the voice-over lends an almost documentary feel of events determined to run their course regardless of free will. To be clear, this is not a Saturday Night First Date Movie attended to promote romantic interludes later. It is coldly rational in its observance of the "rules" of the film: Cerebral, satirical and involving only if you allow yourself to be pulled into its intention.

When David and Shortsighted Woman covertly establish a sincere relationship, bound by their less than perfect eyesight, but coupling is strictly verboten in the Loners' vision (sorry for the pun there), dramatic, severe consequences must be enacted, and they are as Lone Leader, like David's Heartless Woman, sees through their ruse and sabotage their love by blinding Shortsighted Woman, thus making them incompatible once again. Will the course of true love see them through the conflict? Will they make life-changing decisions that will forever alter their union? Well, folks, a double No-Spoiler here: I won't tell you what the final scenes suggest, and even if I did, you would have no concrete answer anyway. You are left to determine what happens after the credits roll. And this, my friends, is what makes some audiences scream internally "Wait! I spent two hours of a bunch of losers and there's no payoff? I want resolution! I want a happy ending! I want my money and time back."

But again, as with *No Country For Old Men* (2007) or *Scarecrow* (1973) with Gene Hackman and Al Pacino [I'll have to comment on that one soon], our interpretation of the end scene reveals something about us, not only in relation to the film but to those around us and the worlds we frequent. The old chestnut "What Would You Do?" (or What Would Jesus or The Jesus Do, if you're into *The Big Lebowski* (1998). . .) becomes a talking point. In *The Lobster* that's the whole point. And if you're really into inquiry, while you're at it, is the title of the film indicative of a choice in the final scene? Thinking about what we learn about lobsters from David might help. Or not; it could be ambiguous.

Colin Farrell, interviewed by *Entertainment Weekly*, and asked about meaning of the mysterious ending, said, "I couldn’t tell you. The writer and director can’t tell even you — and it’s not because we’re holding the answer close to our chests, but because there is no answer. In the film, there is no before; there is no after. That’s the thing about Yorgos [the director, producer, writer]. He doesn’t want to get into conversations with his actors about backstory and objective and intention. He casts people based on their work and he trusts that we’d all have an understanding of the tone that he was reaching for. . . For my final shot, we rolled film for five minutes, so I was allowed to fool around with it and get closer and hesitate. I had a lot of freedom to play with it and Yorgos had tons of footage to do what he wanted with. But I never took it past that point of deliberation."

Okay, so I promise not the spring films like this on you very often. A friend of mine, let's call him Space Cadet, calls films like *The Lobster* "art-house" films, and he's probably right. He doesn't use that term as a pejorative, just a moniker for films that fall somewhat out of the mainstream of audience expectations. Some "art" films are in fact pretentious, overblown paeans to the presumed intelligence of their creators, and I tend to hate those films that look down on their audiences, but I don't see *The Lobster* quite in that natural light (which is how the movie was filmed, incidentally, in pure natural light without makeup and with a color palette of blues, greens and reds--symbolic in itself).

I see it as a commentary on our social construct today, especially with the advent of Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and such as media for "connecting" while simultaneously distancing ourselves from meaningful interaction. On one hand we do our best to extol individuality but harbor an innate trust against anyone who is genuinely unique, one who will "Go Your Own Way [so] You Can Call It Another Day." On the other hand we do our best to homogenize, to join, because there's safety in numbers and questions of your sexuality can arise if you're in your middle years and haven't "settled down" with a nice companion. And on the other hand we do celebrate couples, almost naturally trying to "fix up" our friends who are still single and alone and "Whattaya want to do--die alone in a cardboard box without any family to remember you?" Perhaps it's less pervasive than when I was "programmed to receive and you can check out any time you like but you can never leave. . ." the respectability of another person validating your existence. [I recall at one point, when I had not yet established a meaningful relationship, though I was eager to do so, my dad said, "Well, I can see the Phillips name stops with you." No pressure. . . .]

So finally, *The Lobster* is an extremely well made film. Colin Farrell put on an additional forty pounds for his portrayal of David, saying "Well, he wasn’t written that way. He wasn’t written with any physical definition at all. But myself and Yorgos had spoken about it and because this world was so unusual I wanted to have some physical separation from what I was used to. I’ve messed around with my body for roles, whether it was losing a load of weight or bulking up for action films. And so Yorgos and I talked about me dropping a bunch of weight and looking quite famished. But then I said, “I bet this guy was something of a comfort eater.” He’s probably not someone who ever realized that there was such a term as “let yourself go,” because there really is no consideration of the self. But he might’ve liked his grub."

It will play with your sensibilities and plop a philosophical pie right into your lap, but if you're up for the game, you might well decide if among all the bitterness, roiling frustration and stiletto-pointed satire you can still find a romantic spirit tamped down but pushing to the surface. And if you see the film, totally disagree with my assessment, and discount everything I've ever suggested, just call up Gilda Radner as Emily Littella's famous retort, "Never mind."
Enjoy.
Jeff

This movie looks brilliant I am off to find it on the interwebs. Always have a bit of a soft spot for films done over here and I do appreciate how good an actor Colin Farrell is when starring in Indy films.

Another gem found in the balcony. Thanks Jeff.

Post #196:  It's not even Thanksgiving, and one of the local radio stations is treating all of us to a "Weekend Of Christmas Hits."  Oh joy. If only they'd play a little James Brown between Johnny Mathis and The Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  The station must have received its prompt from The Hallmark Channel, because for the past three weeks they've been running nothing but Christmas movies.  And with snow on the ground and the Arctic Blast passing through town again this weekend, could I enlist anyone out there to press me down in a vat of eggnog like Richard III's half-brother Clarence? Any takers?  Oh well, let's buckle under to the pressure and offer a charming little Christmas tale about heisting a casino, facing greed and betrayal firmly in the eye, and hearing Jesus's name called in vain far too often to be mistaken for a birthday wish.  Friends, welcome to *Reindeer Games* (2000) by John Frankenheimer.

Don't you just hate it when people say "I'm not a prude, but. . . "?  Seventy-seven times out of one hundred it just draws attention to the fact that they ARE prudes masquerading as hipster doofi (that's the plural of Doofus; I took three years of Latin. Voluntarily. Taught by the great old lady who taught it to my father as well, and may well have learned it as her native tongue in the Circus Maximus, or so we speculated).  Now, I have a pretty high tolerance for movie scenes saturated with violence, coarse language and even sex if these elements serve the purpose of the plot and direction. Heck, *The Big Lebowski* dropped the infamous F-Bomb 260 times and came in 24th in a poll of most frequent cinematic usage, and it's still one of my favorite movies because for me the word consciously exhausts the characters' ability to communicate, demonstrating their limitations.

So with all that said, if not for the almost totally and excessively gratuitous language, *Reindeer Games* might have made it to my Subversive Christmas Movie List as a weirdly festive alternative to Hallmark's *Love In Mistletoe Village* or *Grandma Goody's Gigglefest Gallery For The Lovelorn Adult Orphans*.  I can take Gary Sinise going full-tilt nutball, Ben Affleck bearing the brunt of beatings, and Clarence Williams III and Danny Trejo looming large over everyone sweating buckets of brooding doom just by standing before a low-angle camera.  And if Charlize Theron considers this to be "the worst movie" she ever added to her resume, despite her deep respect for director John Frankenheimer--that's okay too. In my mind it holds all the elements to be shown as a B-feature second bill to *Die Hard* (1988), but stumbles before reaching the back row of the theater.

Affleck plays prison convict Rudy Duncan, who like his cellmate Nick Cassidy (James Frain), will be released in two days.  Rudy dreams only of returning home for a holiday dinner and a hot chocolate, while Nick is ravenous to meet his pen pal girlfriend Ashley (Charlize Theron) and start a life with a nice girl.  All that is thwarted, though, when a con with a grudge comes after Rudy and plunges a shank into Nick's stomach while Rudy escapes danger and certain death. (In this scene Dana Stubblefield, who played the aggressor, accidentally knocked Affleck down, causing a concussion.) Upon Rudy's release (and Affleck's convalescence), he makes a snap decision to "become" Nick, adopting his late cellmate's identity, and, at least until New Year's a week away, spend some "quality" time with Ashley.  After all, Rudy is a humanitarian who would not like to see his buddy's girl upset for Christmas.

Within two breaths of screen time Rudy (now Nick) and Ashley hole themselves up in a Northern Michigan hotel and spend all their time playing Naked Twister until Ashley's greasy brother (Sinise, who was actually romantically involved with Theron at the time of filming) and his band of merry malice makers break in and subject Rudy to one of a series of pummelings, insisting Nick's former security job at a Native American casino is the perfect "in" to heist the joint.  Rudy tries to confess he's not Nick, but that would just shorten the movie to an hour-long episode of *World's Dumbest Criminals*, and besides, these guys have waited a long time to get rich, so there is no reasoning with them.

So begins an elaborate set of beatings, planning, and countermeasures to set up the Christmas Eve robbery.  Now, I watched the Director's Cut of the film, which runs two hours and four minutes, as opposed to the theatrical release which trimmed twenty minutes to better suit test audiences at 104 minutes, so I'm basing my commentary on Frankenheimer's vision.  As Frankenheimer envisioned it *Reindeer Games* is full of action, suspense, tension and little smatterings of comedy that help leaven the dark proceedings.  Certainly the classic Christmas music dancing through the background of many scenes adds an ironic counterpoint to the action.  And the character names (Rudy, as in Rudolph, and Nick, as in St. Nick; and Gabriel as God's right Hand angel, and Merlin (Clarence Williams III)) are sly jokes with a largely seasonal edge: Nick sets the plan and Rudy leads the execution, guiding the slay ride.  More humor could have lifted the heist without diluting the spiked punch.

Now, I'm not a prude, but. . . I was put off by the constant drubbing the audience takes linguistically.  Sure, I can take the F-Bombs for the most part, though they did nothing to establish character or comment on the characters' mental states. They just liked to shout it--everyone, not concentrated in the "bad guys," but just about every character was given the opportunity to flame out indiscriminately. But the Noah's Flood of "JC"s, even over completely inconsequential events like leaving a window open, was unnecessarily gritty, the verbal equivalent of underlining "I'm frustrated" in red ink forty-two times.  Okay, we get it--this is an upsetting or surprising or game changing moment, you don't have to telegraph it with an air horn. Besides, Jesus probably heard you the first time.

This was Frankenheimer's last theatrical release, as it turns out.  And with scenes edited from the print, most audiences felt the story was incomplete or at least poorly motivated.  Little did audiences realize the MPAA insisted on cutting several dramatic scenes which upset their hipster doofus sensibilities and left them hot and bothered.  One such  scene, for example, reinstated in the Director's Cut involves Sinise's Gabriel challenging Rudy/Nick to a game of darts following a beating, rendering Affleck's character nearly incapable of holding a dart let alone hitting the board.  Yes, it's a rough scene, as is an exchange with a Uper in an ice shanty.  Other deleted scenes include heated conversations between Ashley and Rudy and another between Ashley and Gabriel.  But to me these scenes help delineate to what lengths Gabriel will extend his vitriol in pursuit of the heist.  Excising them may defang the character, leaving him just another peeved prig.

But this is Frankenheimer's movie.  HE is the reason you jump into his labyrinth and come upon some terrific blind ends. His camera work, shifting from quirky close-ups to unexpected tilts and angles, move the film along so briskly, if you're like me, you really won't mind the lapses in logic--I doubt Frankenheimer did, as he seems to be having fun with his twisting and veering plot with the full realization that this is pulp friction he's filming.  Personally I have found Ben Affleck to be like a block of wood--solid, sturdy and a bit clunky, though here he's fairly believable as a guy who's done six years for boosting a car and who may not be able to travel easily in notorious circles (He reminds me of an old throw-away line my college mentor and advisor dropped, totally deadpan, in class one day: "Stop walking in circles or I'll nail your other foot to the floor.") But in *Reindeer Games* he brings a certain capable confusion to his role that accounts for his weak attempts at taking charge then retreating like a snarling dog who's just heard the snap of a newspaper against his owner's hand.

Charlize Theron, at least to me, has evolved into a wondrous actress. And I can see some subtleties in her performance early on in *Reindeer Games* that made me realize how nuanced she can be in the right scene.  Her coy innocence in a diner sequence when she first meets "Nick"/Rudy allows some sweetness that makes the improbability of a woman so attractive to mask a wounded history seem possible; she made me suspend, for a moment, my disbelief.  Later convolutions of the plot made me even more impressed by her performance, though (no spoilers) in a few concluding shots she seemed less in her element, falling victim to stereotypical shorthand facial expressions that validate her disdain for the film as a whole.  And since this is early in her career, her tendency to bare her breasts, especially the second time around in the film, is more distracting than sensual--sometimes the hint of what's covered is more provocative than the full scale dermatological examination.

As a Christmas present to the audience, *Reindeer Games* is a big, noisy extravaganza that can be fun if you take it as an expensive goof on the audience that does not take itself too seriously.  It's a stocking full of mouse traps and white chocolate bark (and a couple bites).  The twists at the end elevate it from the depths of Lake Michigan, and as a Michiganian I loved its being set in the Upper Peninsula.  Dennis Farina reprises his favorite role as a blustery, pinched casino owner who dreams of Vegas because "In Vegas, there is no snow. In fact I think they have laws against the s**t." Look for cameos from Isaac Hayes (he's a bad mutha--shut your mouth!) as a convict who starts a food fight because of his Jell-O, and Ashton Kutcher as a casino patron in a bathroom (wow, one of his best roles).  And I'd be hard pressed to determine what the Director's Cut would have yielded at the box office since the theatrical version recouped only $32.2 million worldwide of its estimated $42 million budget.  Amazon's ranking placed it with 73% four- and five-star ratings with only 12% rating it one star, but again there's no telling if that's a composite of the theatrical or Director's Cut.

But if your tastes around now run from Hallmark's *How Candee Christmas Found Prince Chow Mein During The Hollyivy Winter Carnival* and toward *Bad Santa* (2003), *On Her Majesty's Secret Service* (1969), *Kiss Kiss Bang Bang* (2005), which I will comment on in the coming weeks, or *Die Hard 2* (1990), and your language tolerance is high, try joining Nick and Rudy and their festive gang--Merlin, Jumpy and Pug, all dressed as Santa--as they hold Jack Bangs at gunpoint.  When the smoke clears, maybe Santa will have a brand new bag, even though it's a man's world but it don't mean nothing without a woman or a girl. Hah! Hunh! Oww! Give it t'me!. . . .
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #197: I think I can count on my thumb the number of films I've seen that make me want to live inside them: Wish to be a neighbor and finally a friend to their people, to be welcome in their spaces, to walk their streets and beaches, to belong as they do to the land. Maybe that's such a strange sort of dream that it's totally foreign to you and may give you reason once again to question my relative sanity. Or maybe you've been blessed to have seen *Local Hero* (1983) and experienced something akin to that wonder. If you haven't, please, especially in these days of the Arctic Speedway, wrap yourself in a blanket, slow the pace of your breathing and submerge yourself in this film.

"Charming" is a label I employ very sparingly, but it's the very definition of this Bill Forsythe adventure scored by Dire Straits' Mark Knopfler (who also scored another of my favorite films of all time, *The Princess Bride* (1987), another film filled with magic. But *Local Hero*'s magic is not otherworldly or beyond the reach of traditional physics. It's purely human. Now for some, the flow of the unfolding of story may be deemed "plotless" or "inconclusive," and to those folks I would respectfully submit the belief that they didn't watch carefully enough or their mindset was "blowed up good" by too many movies like yesterday's action genre. *Local Hero* is a quiet, perhaps delicate mix of humor and awareness based solely in kindness and civility.

Enough with the abstractions, here's what presents itself on the screen: "Mac" MacIntyre (Peter Reigert) is a rising star at Knox Oil And Gas, based in Houston, Texas, negotiating the acquisition of the quaint Scottish village of Ferness which will be the site of Knox's next oil refinery. Before he's dispatched, Mac is given a cryptic special assignment by the eccentric CEO of the company, Felix Happer (Burt Lancaster), to watch the Scottish skies, especially around Virgo, and immediately report any observations he makes: comets, meteor showers, anything out of the ordinary.

Mac has limited interest in this assignment, however, for several reasons: He is a technocrat who lives for electricity and telephones (he even prefers talking to his co-workers via phone even though he's seven feet away from them), he misses his telex and his Porsche, and he relishes his apartment view of the light-spotted Texan skyline, as all these diversions distract him from the quiet emptiness within. When he visits Knox's Aberdeen research facility, Mac meets his Scottish counterpart Danny Oldsen (Peter Capaldi, the Twelfth Doctor Who, who is gangly and gawky here), who will accompany him to Ferness to initiate negotiations. The Aberdeen researchers, particularly Marina (Jenny Seagrove) for whom Danny holds great fascination, believe some of the land will be used for a new research facility.

Once in Ferness, Mac encounters culture shock as life in the small village is lived slowly, in full measure with one telephone box serving the entire community. The only nod to the hectic pace to which Mac is accustomed is a speeding scooter cyclist who pays scant attention to pedestrians. Lodging with pubtender/hotel owner and accountant, Gordon Urquhart (Denis Lawson) and his wife, Stella (Jennifer Black), Mac works with Gordon to determine how receptive the townfolk will be to selling their village. As time passes, the quiet magic of Scottish custom and quirkiness pulls Mac closer to its breast, while the townspeople do their best to feign indifference to the deal, even though they are all eager to sell and live a more ostentatious life.

This is the essential nature of the film--the daily encounters with accepting Scots and their individual foibles, and the readiness of relationships. Slowly Mac comes to love the town and its citizens, drawing him closer and closer to an internal battle with what the town will become if he's successful at his job. In his time in Ferness he's seen the night sky for the first time, it seems, meteor showers streaking through the deep blue and the aurora borealis stretching the horizon with an undulating canvas of color. In awe he relates this to the giddy Mr. Happer, who hosts his own dream of one day siting a comet which will bear his name.

Danny, full hearted, continues to meet with Marina, who frequents the Ferness waters in research and finds herself much more at home in the water than land. Gordon and Stella spend every spare minute in one another's arms, sneaking away whenever they can. Victor (Christopher Rozycki), a capitalist Soviet fishing boat captain, is greeted as a prodigal son at his arrival to check in with Grodon, who manages his investment portfolio and to bask in the warm fellowship of his friends. And Ben Knox (Fulton Mackay) proves to be the only impediment to Mac's deal, as a descendant of the original founders of Knox Oil and Gas, now a beachcomber who tends a four-mile stretch of beach from his makeshift home made from driftwood and determination. Can Mac persuade him to sell his land, or--even more pointedly--should Mac persuade him to sell? That question, and its ultimate answer, is what finally drives the narrative.

Director and writer Bill Forsythe has crafted this sweet, amiable tale with care and humanity, its appreciation of life in Ferness a gift to the audience. Forsythe said, "I saw it along the lines of a Scottish Beverly Hillbillies -- what would happen to a small community when it suddenly became immensely rich -- that was the germ of the idea and the story built itself from there. It seemed to contain a similar theme to *Brigadoon* (1954), which also involved some Americans coming over to Scotland, becoming part of a small community, being changed by the experience and affecting the place in their own way. I feel close in spirit to the Powell and Pressburger feeling [writers and directors of *A Matter Of Life And Death* (1946) commented on earlier here], the idea of trying to present a cosmic viewpoint to people, but through the most ordinary things."

Three comic scenes in particular have become among my favorite moments in a film saturated with sweet vignettes. One follows Mac and Gordon after a night of celebratory drinking. Mac bargains with Gordon to trade jobs with him--he would take over the pub and hotel, and Gordon could return to Texas (and Mac's Porsche) and all the benefits his job can offer. "And what about Stella?" Gordon asks, to which Mac responds, "I was getting to that. . . " A second scene involves a running joke with Felix Happer, whose therapist believes in Happer's working through of conflict issues by persistently haranguing him; in this scene the therapist hangs by a tether outside Happer's floor-to-ceiling penthouse office windows, pasting an offensive epithet letter by letter. And in one of the most character revealing scenes Ben Knox lifts a handful of sand and asks Mac if he'd pay him a pound for every grain in his palm, a scene that Fulton MacKay improvised during filming. In beautiful simplicity these scenes made me homesick for a place I've never visited.

*Local Hero* offers no dark visions, no cynical explorations of the Seven Deadly Sins, no hard metaphors for the ways we're going astray. It uses a soft voice to welcome your own conclusions and themes, it engages without misplaced forays into sentimental twaddle intended to manipulate false emotion, the soundtrack is quietly hypnotic and the main musical theme "Going Home" by Mark Knofler can break your heart with nuance. His soundtrack, in fact, has sold more copies than DVDs of the film for which it was written. And as a wonderful grace note, because of this film, Asteroid "7345 Happer" has been named after Burt Lancaster's character, fulfilling the actor's wish to one day have a comet named after him.

It's not a "Christmas" movie by any stretch if what you're used to is snow, candy canes, ruddy cheeks, FAO Schwartz, gales of happy carolers and Red Ryder BB gun that'll put your eye out. But if you're in the mood for the feelings that are supposed to be aroused by such things, and you're buoyed by the belief that good will is something more than a repository for clothes you've outgrown, then please sit down with this film. You may be a little wistful when the end credits roll, but you might just feel a little warmer because of it.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Just thought Ya might like to see one of my many coffee mugs.

You must be my brother from another mother, Space.
Jeff

While I don't actually collect coffee mugs, I have a fairly extensive collection. Mostly, because so many people give them to me as gifts. It's been said that I drink a lot of coffee. I say;

"I used to drink coffee for the enjoyment of it. Now I drink coffee, mostly for the safety of others."

Post #198: Okay, let's get this out in the open first: Today's feature *Salome* (1953) is neither historically accurate nor a Biblically-correct representation of what we know about Salome or just about anyone else connected to the story. BUT it's got Rita Hayworth, not to mention Sir Cedric Hardwicke, Charles Laughton, Rita Hayworth  Dame Judith Anderson, and Stewart Granger and Arnold Moss, and Rita Hayworth.  Now I've never openly confessed this in any forum, but I am a little psychic (that's PSYCHIC, not PSYCHO), so with that precognitive power I can read what you're thinking: "WHAT? Hollywood taking liberties with historical fact?  Do you mean this film is not to be taken as gospel (or Gospel) truth but embraces inaccuracy as a method of making money? Why, I swan--I've never heard of such a thing in a Hollywood epic! I've gained most of my historical training from the movies!  Like knowing Moses' wife was Joan of Ark!"

Sorry to let you down and perhaps question the very fabric of your belief system, but this is another cinematic "epic" that hoses down reality.  That caveat breached, we can comment on the film itself and not judge it on the merits of such piddling little details like the inclusion of Evinrude E-Tech G-2 outboard motors helping the slaves cut through the waters to Galilee or the inadvertent flashing of a label from Dicker And Dicker of Beverly Hills from John The Baptist's ragged fur cloak.  That's just product placement, all the studios do it.

For those among us who may be Biblically challenged, or who may have missed out during a nap in history class that day, here's a quick paraphrase of the story: Salome (Rita Hayworth) was the step-daughter of Herod (Charles Laughton), daughter of Herod's wife Herodius (Dame Judith Anderson).  The Queen shipped her off to Rome at an early age to save her from the lascivious lip-smacking of the King, with whom Herodius held a tenuous union. Years later, after a heated argument with her Roman lover, who buckled to his father's will to forbid marriage to a "Barbarian," Salome was banned to her native Galilee.  At the same time John the Baptist (Alan Badel) was inciting nonviolent moral upheaval against the Crown who in his eyes were steeped in sin, the Queen being an adulteress.

But again, this is Hollywood's Galilee, a mecca bursting with Technicolor brilliance, burnished gold, baby blue eyes sparkling from John's head in the gauzy sunlight, and Rainbow Brite gowns of every hue on the serving girls in the castle. Clearly Herod had a big mother budget and the Queen wasn't born with it--it was Maybelline. Like any university kid banned from Rome, Salome moves back home, under the googling and giggling of her step-father's forced celibacy and the political paranoia of her mother--you know, a typical First Century Nuclear Family: a lot of bickering about the masses over dinner, a little sniping about the Queen being a haughty harpy hot for civil war, the King being a spineless little snot in his defense of the John the rabble rouser, that sort of thing.

Behind the scenes Salome, who some historians surmise was between eleven and thirteen years old but now played by the radiant 35-year-old Rita Hayworth, starts to fall for Claudius (Stewart Granger), a stoic Roman palace guard who is a closet Christian after heeding John the Baptist's call.  It is he who stimulates Salome's interest in The Baptist, and she sneaks into the marketplace one day to hear him for herself.  There she debates John and comes away unconvinced, tempting Claudius with kisses to arrest him and save her mother from certain death as a floozy at the hands of the riled citizenry.  But Claudius plays "Deal Or No Deal" and refuses the seductive bankable offer.

Now here's where the Sea of Galilee gets really muddy: After encountering an arrested John the Baptist in the palace cellar prison, “And what happened, then? Well, in Whoville they say – that Salome's small heart grew three sizes that day. And then – the true meaning of Christmas came through, and Salome found the strength of ten Salomes, plus two!” She would make the ultimate sacrifice by dancing for the King's birthday, an action that would make her his property. But she would do so to save John The Baptist's life!

Hey, you say, that's not what the Bible and history say happened! She was dancing for his head on a silver platter! Yeah, well, studio executives couldn't have Rita Hayworth playing a beastly beeyotch who was a bad girl to begin with (that part of Salome's behavior was given the ole Lysol treatment as well, for the sake of the children in the audience and the film's backers), on top of it calling for the pitiful pitfall of the pious.  As Willy Wonka said, "So much time and so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it." History as it was can be improved upon, made more dramatic, more soul-stirring, the studios said. (I'm just glad they didn't show Jesus' crucifixion, substituting the words "Don't go away--we'll be right back" for the Last Seven Words of Christ on the cross since these would "play better in Dubuque.")

Which brings us to the reason for the film in the first place: Salome's sexy sinewy Dance of the Seven Holy Hanna They're Sheer Veils.  There is no question in the minds of anyone who has eyes that Rita could have danced Cleopatra's asp off in this sequence.  She is positively gorgeous and her fluid movements, a few in particular at the base of the King's throne, could clang the chrome off the soldiers' costumes.  Evidently Rita Hayworth credited the sequence as "the most demanding [dance] of my entire career," and said it required "endless takes and retakes."  If it's any consolation, it was worth the work, as it boldly exemplifies the newfound passion of sacrifice for Salmome's turning toward faith, a fierce collision of sex and religion which Hollywood expends so much energy in filming.  The Dance simply breathtaking . . .even while the sequence's cut-in reactions are bilious and laughable to the point of wincing.

Charles Laughton minces and rolls his eyes comically in arguably his most blatantly over-the-top performance.  No attempt to disguise his erotic fascination, not the faintest foggiest notion of moderation or understatement gained from nuance--I was reminded of John Belushi's famed one arched eyebrow and lecherous but knowing leer into the camera in *Animal House* (1978) when catching a covert glimpse of Mandy Pepperidge disrobing.  Someone empty Mr. Laughton's drool bucket, for it's about to overflow.  (Laughton himself was reportedly disgusted with the script and paused between takes to review his Bible for motivation.)

Meanwhile, as the studio lights caress Rita Hayworth's flawless face given over to covetous coquettishness, Dame Judith staples her nose to the ceiling at Herod's (or Laughton's) fawning.  As the cruel and manipulative Queen she seems to be secretly sucking on a lemon in her post-*Rebecca* (1940) Mrs. Danvers reprise.  Stewart Granger does his best to tower over everyone and look handsome with his square jaw in later scenes, though I found his early scenes of bemused flirtation with the spoiled Salome more authentic than his earnestness as one of the faithful.  Arnold Moss and Sir Cedric Hardwicke float in and out, leaving their signature gravitas and finely honed articulation as memorable calling cards.

But for me, Alan Badel, who has worked in only one film prior to this one, presents John the Baptist as such a wild-eyed asylum refugee that he completely invalidated the charismatic urgency of such a man.  He is pivotal to the narrative, but so horrifically overplayed, constantly looking skyward with eyes bulging from their sockets and his pupils small blue blots against a vast sea of white, his John suggests painfully binding undershorts much more than hallowed, impassioned belief.  Lord help me, my faith is my rock, but if I had seen this guy I would have prescribed a full leather pouch of Prozac or a Thorazine shot.  Looking at him it's no wonder Herodius was afraid of him.  He is, in a couple late scenes, more composed, allowing his eyes to water on cue, which helps to humanize him, but by that time the damage is done.

At 103 minutes, even though it's touted as "another event of the first magnitude" whose story has been lying dormant for 2000 years, seething to be told. . . . most of *Salome* will not ignite the screen or your heart or your loins one bit. Yes, Rita's whirling and hip-hitching will give you something to admire, and for my money, she's one of the most lovely and graceful classic beauties of the Screen, but the sanitation of the script remains rather uninvolving beyond a basic measure because the surrounding characters are caricatures or somewhat goofy cartoons.  Oh, the colors are smashing, the sets are lush, the soundtrack is there, and no one will get upset that Jesus is not shown face front, as given the track record of the folks who brought this to the screen, He might have been played by Sterling Holloway or Elijah Cook Jr.  It won't shake your faith, reinvigorate your agnosticism or make you wish to devote yourself to a fringe cult who worship Recycled Used White PF Flyers or Red Ball Jets, but you won't be set screaming into the desert for forty days either.  And in my book, that means it was okay for what it is and better than a kick in the toga with sharp sandal. I just wish it offered more Rita Hayworth.
Enjoy.
Jeff

So, this flick is basically a few overblown buildup scenes, followed by a few understated letdown scenes in order to justify a hot hoochie coochie dance? Sounds like a winner to me?

We don't need no stinkin' historical accuracy. We need more Rita shimmyin".

Amen to that, I say, Amen.

Amen to what you say? To Space of course, I couldn't understand a word Ghemrats was saying, but I can't wait to see Rita - one of my all time favs.

Post #199: With five versions of today's feature *The Spoilers* (1942) under our belts, the last one in 1955, I fear it may be time for Hollywood to be dumbstruck with a flash of creative brilliance and fund another remake, kind of like a four-remake deal with *A Star Is Born*.  I shudder to think of mine owners Kevin Hart and Dwayne Johnson fighting corrupt gold commissioner Arnold Schwarzenegger and crooked judge Adam Sandler for possession of their land and the affections of Jennifer Lopez in the 1900 Alaskan gold rush. Even so an extended fist fight between Hart and Schwarzenegger might be worth a ticket.  Then again, maybe not.

With such a roster as John Wayne, Randolph Scott, Marlene Dietrich, Harry Carey, Richard Barthelmess and the ever popular icon Charles Harton, there is absolutely no reason to film another version.  Which is precisely why it's probably already in the planning stages.  This 87-minute western exercise in greed is just dandy on its own.  I can now conclude that I was completely wrong about Marlene Dietrich's ability to command the screen: She is gorgeous as Cherry Malotte, and her affectation of cool unattainability smacks you across the face. With her Gibson-Girl blonde coiffure defying gravity and her shimmering wardrobe, she can believably induce panting from John Wayne and Randolph Scott.  No modern horse opera could ever replicate the sparks generated from this trio.

Trim and economical in its pacing, *The Spoilers* does not give one minute's lag as it clips along with action, comic moments, suspense, and the usual classic "prairie gibberish" from a grizzled cast of beer guzzlers and card sharps. Best of all it's capped by a terrific four-minute bare-knuckled brawl between Duke and Scott moving from Cherry's boudoir over the bar railing in the balcony and through the saloon to the mucky sucking mud streets. This show stopper took five days to plot and shoot, and may have been fueled a bit more by John Wayne's sore feelings over his recent separation and Scott's contractual billing above his name, and Randolph Scott's anger at not being given Wayne's role as hero maverick Roy Glennister.  Between Dietrich's smoldering and the leading men's bravura, you can't beat this little slice of Americana for entertainment.

The story is standard western fare: Evil gold commissioner Alexander McNamara (Scott), aided and abetted by the "eyes of the law" Judge Horace Stillman (Samuel S. Hinds), comes to Nome, Alaska, to make a fortune swindling and claim jumping the yokels.  Believing that the law is on their side, miners Roy Glennister (Wayne) and his feisty partner Al Dextry (a great sputtering Harry Carey) let the trial governing ownership pan out.  Complicating the clash between McNamara and Glennister--wouldn't you just know it--are two women, shrewd businesswoman and owner of the Northern Saloon Cherry (Dietrich) and the judge's flirty daughter Helen Chester (Margaret Lindsey, who might have stood a chance if it weren't Marlene Dietrich vying for Roy's affections). Throw another suitor into the mix as Bronco Kid Farrow (Richard Barthelmess) wants his shot at Cherry as well and you've got not just a love triangle but a lust trapezoid roiling under all the land grabbing and gunfire.

In today's PC-afflicted environment eyebrows will be raised, in this case rightfully so, with the wonderful Marietta Canty as Cherry's right hand Idabelle, who is the film's voice of reason and comic repartee, and John Wayne appearing in blackface (and a dress!), a first for Duke on both counts.  It is a little cringeworthy to see Idabelle mistake a disguised Duke as a man of color with his mimicry of an Alabama accent, but excising the scene for the sensitive today would omit an important bit of exposition and character study.  Go get a sandwich during this scene if it upsets.

It's all great fun with another standout sequence as the disgruntled cheated miners storm a barricade with a steam locomotive and more grit and determination than the Northern Saloon can contain.  But one of the high points of the film for me remains the dialogue which is crisp and witty and more than a little pregnant with innuendo. Boy, those were the days when the cock of a hip and eyebrow and an unexpected slap across the jaw could reduce John Wayne to shambles in the presence of womanly wiles in a way no five-minutes of knuckle-busting never could. I'd call that film a keeper.

Now, tomorrow marks my 200th consecutive posting, and to celebrate this negligible contribution to public discourse, I'm going to switch up a bit and offer my Top Ten Films drawn from the roughly 200 I've commented on here.  And on Friday I'll follow up that list with another--citing more favorites I haven't commented on, for one reason or another.  So if you've a mind to check the Cliff's Notes edition, stop by tomorrow.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #200: Welcome to Name That Favorite! Winnowing down a list of 200+ movies I've commented on daily since May to a Top Ten is One Tough Job. "This is a very complicated case, Maude. You know, a lotta ins, lotta outs, lotta what-have-you's. And, uh, lotta strands to keep in my head, man. Lotta strands in old Duder's head."

With so many divergent styles, compiling a list is like comparing apples and left-handed sewer flutes. On round one I got the list down to 32 favorites (the list of Awful Films was easier). The round two started categorizing (Best Noir, Best Long-Time Favorites, Best Italian Sandwich Without Black Olives). So now I used a single criterion to determine The Generic Round, genres be hanged: What would I want to watch again now, so soon after having completed a six and one half month marathon?

The top two or three were no-brainers; the rest had to fight each other for a place. So here goes, with thanks to a dear friend for suggesting this mental wrestling match:

10. *Molly's Game* (2017) Jessica Chastain
9. *Faults* (2015) Mary Elizabeth Winstead
8. *Safety Not Guaranteed* (2012) Audrey Plaza
7. *The Square* (2008) David Roberts
6. *Night And The City* (1950) Kirk Douglas, Gene Tierney
5. *Get Low* (2010) Robert Duvall, Bill Murray
4. *TIE: *Predestination* (2014) and *The Apartment* (1996)
3. *Seconds* (1966) Rock Hudson
2. *Trouble In Mind (1985) Krist Kristofferson, Genevieve Bujold

And the Number One Favorite From The 200+ Films Watched Since May:
1. *Local Hero* (1983) Burt Lancaster, Peter Riegert

Honorable Mentions include the following:
*Out Of Time (2003) Denzel Washington
*The Presence* (2011) Mira Sorvino
*Exam* (2005) Adar Beck, Gemma Chan
*Melancholia* (2011) Kirsten Dunst

I have left off two big categories in this list: Best Noir and Ghemrats Family Favorites, which I will post in the future, perhaps tomorrow. Rita Hayworth and Gene Tierney as well as Marlene Dietrich belong in categories of their own and tend to populate one of the two aforementioned categories, so in this list I went for the wondrous and quirky. So stay tuned as tomorrow will be another list, after which we'll return to movies on Saturday. I've got some doozies planned.

In the meantime, how'sabout you put your favorites in nomination? Love to know what you think and watch.
Enjoy.
Jeff

This post inspired me to scroll through and skim over the entire thread. It's truly epic in scope. I'm not gonna post a favorites list, because I already did that in another thread. But here are a few observations.

1) I prefer your take on films, over the "reviews" of "professionals." Yours feels like more of a humanistic approach. Theirs seem more like an ego driven attempt to prove their superior intelligence.

2) I'm eagerly awaitin' a comparative treatise for the two definitive modern Sci-Fi epics, Star Wars: A New Hope and Battle Beyond the Stars (Aka John Boy In Space).

3) I know it can be intimidatin' to tread on the toes of giants. But buck up ol' buddy. At some point yer gonna have to go after the true Titan of Film. At some point I expect to see reviews of the works of Roger Corman.

Roger Corman!

Wow! I'll set my sights higher, with your inspiration and help, Space.
And thanks sincerely for your comments. Sometimes I don't know if I'm yelling into a void. Tomorrow I'm going to post my All-Time Favorites of Noir and perhaps another. Then Saturday we'll be off to play with some vintage stuff again.
Jeff

Post #201:  It's a special day in the neighborhood today: It's Mrs. Ghemrats's birthday. Yes, she's turning 35 again. So in her honor I offer the trailer (but the commentary will have to come later) for her favorite holiday movie, *The Bishop's Wife* (1947) with one of the best casts ever--David Niven, Loretta Young and Cary Grant. I think you'll love this trailer as it's vintage Hollywood, and it coyly tells nothing of the film. Classic!

As promised, today's focus is on another Top Ten List, in this case a double feature: Top Ten Film Noirs Culled From The Last 200+ Commentaries--and a special bonus saved for the end.  First off, Top Noirs:

10. *Judas Kiss* (1999) Carla Gugino and Alan Rickman
9.  *Bedroom Window (1987) Steve Guttenberg and Elizabeth McGowan and Isabelle Huppert
8. *The Crimson Kimono* (1959) Glenn Corbett and James SHigeta
7.  Now we're getting into the really good stuff--*Leave Her To Heaven* (1945) Gene Tierney & Cornell Wilde
6. *In A Lonely Place* (1950) Humphrey Bogart
5. *2 Days In The Valley* (1996) Charlize Theron, James Spader, Danny Aiello
4. *Where The Sidewalk Ends* (1950) Gene Tierney and Dana Andrews
3.  *The Big Heat* (1952) Glenn Ford, Gloria Grahame, Lee Marvin
2.  *The Big Clock* (1948) Ray Milland

And ending Big, the Number One Film Noir From The Past 200+ . . .

1. *The Big Combo* (1955) Cornell Willde and Jean Wallace

And now for something completely different, but not that different: The Top Ten Noirs I HAVEN'T Posted Yet But Will:
A quick note of clarification: As you regular friends know, I have tried to stick mostly with independent or lesser known films because so much has already been said about blockbusters, I would be even more useless than I already am. So for this list, I am not counting *The Big Sleep* (1946), *The Maltese Falcon* (1941), *This Gun For Hire* (1942), *Kiss Me Deadly* (1955) or *Touch Of Evil* (1958).  Instead, this list comprises a few wonders that often get short shrift.  As
Little Jack Little would say, Here 'tis. . . .

10. *Somewhere In The Night* (1946) John Hodiak and Nancy Guild
9. *I Wake Up Screaming* (1941) Victor Mature and Betty Grable
8. *Mirage* (1966) Gregory Peck and Diane Baker
7. *Body Heat* (1981) William Hurt and Kathleen Turner (Her film debut)
6. TIE: *Dark Passage* (1947) Bogart and Bacall and *Torrid Zone* (1940) James Cagney and Ann Sheridan
5. *The Lady From Shanghai* (1948) Orson Welles and his wife Rita Hayworth
4. *Pickup On South Street* (1953) Richard Widmark
3. *Cape Fear* (1991) Remake with Robert DeNiro and Nick Nolte
2. DEAD TIE: *Double Indemnity* (1944) Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck and *The Postman Always Rings
                       Twice* (1946) Lana Turner and John Garfield (Both penned by James M. Cain)

And the Double-Feature to End All Double Features:

1. *Laura* (1944) Clifton Webb and Gene Tierney and *Gilda* (1946) Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford!

So to recap, because I'm working for the Department of Redundancy Department, these WILL be commented upon in the coming weeks, and *The Bishop's Wife* will float in a little closer to the holidays as I work to dredge up some festive films that are less known than the standards.  Tomorrow, we'll have a nice little vintage film perhaps few people have seen in this forum; we'll find out.  And as always, thanks so much for your support; it means a lot to know these words are not trickling into the Void.
Enjoy.
Jeff

The Bishop's Wife is Mrs. CDM's favourite Christmas movie also, and everything else Cary Grant made are her all-time favourites.

Excellent lists Jeff. And a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Mrs. ghemrats. And how is she doin'? Gettin' stronger every day I hope.

Try to figure out this list. And no cheatin', if Ya please. Individual movie, not series'. If Ya had to choose just 10 movies for the rest of your life, which would it be?

I like all the movies on Jeff's lists but just like Desert Island Discs, if I had to pick just 10 for the rest of my life I'd pick the following, not in any particular order.

McLintock - John Wayne & Maureen O'Hara
A Man For All Seasons - Paul Schofield
Notting Hill - Julia Roberts & Hugh Grant
Double Indemnity - same as Jeff
Ruggles Of Red Gap - Charles Laughton, Mary Boland, Charlie Ruggles (coincidence) & Zazu Pitts
Hobson's Choice - Charles Laughton, John Mills & the wonderful Brenda de Banzie
It Happened On 5th Avenue - Don DeFore, Ann Harding, Charlie Ruggles & Victor Moore
Cover Girl - Rita (say no more - we totally agree there Jeff!)
The Quiet Man - John Wayne, Maureen O'Hara and Victor McLaglen
Anatomy Of A Murder - Jimmy Stewart, Lee Remick & Ben Gazzara

Post #202:  "In order that your friends may enjoy this picture, please do not disclose the ending." I'm posting this first to let you know the final frame of today's movie, *The Strange Affair Of Uncle Harry* (1945).  But no spoiler alert. Yes, it has a twist ending. Yes, the movie had test screenings with FIVE different endings. Yes, the Hays Commission ruled that the original ending had to go, another win for censorship. Yes, producer Joan Harrison (who went on to produce the entire series *Alfred Hitchcock Presents*--361 episodes over a decade) was so distraught over the final product that she resigned from Universal Pictures. Yes, there is more than one similarity between this film and Hitchock's body of work, which I'll get in to later. And Yes, even though this film has been looped in with film noirs, I am probably in opposition with most critics who found *The Strange Affair of Uncle Harry* is pretty durable little film.

So full disclosure: this is not one of my favorite films, not even if I were to categorize my list.  [My buddy Space​ has asked me to throw all labels aside and reveal my No Holds Barred, Only Ten Movies I Could Watch If They Were The Only Movies For The Rest Of My Life List.  Ohhhh, okay. I'll do it tomorrow, along with another movie which won't make the list but it's good nonetheless.]  But those of you who know me well can attest that I've looked on the sunny side of life [whistle] and found some redeeming qualities in it.  But first, we dance. . . . [That's a veiled allusion to *The Inspector General* (1949) with Danny Kaye]

Plot: Harry Melville Quincy (George Sanders) is one of the surviving members of the founding family of Cornith, New Hampshire, a once-thriving small town due to the family's textile mill, now in its death throes due to the depression. Middle-aged, dour and passive as a hedgehog, Harry lives in the family's Victorian manse with his two sisters--Lettie (Geraldine Fitzgerald) and Hester (Monya McGill, who is in life Angela Landsbury's mother), none of whom is presently married.  Hester is an affable, take-charge widow who seems to be the only voice of reason in a house wracked with manipulation and submission.  Lettie, on the other hand, is a flaming hypochondriac whose ability to be upright and mobile depends on her mood.  Over the scant 80 minutes she moves fluidly from wilting milkwood seed to aggressive, horny porcupine with poisonous quills.

Yet at the center of it all is "Uncle" Harry, as he's called by some of the townspeople since he's known to all as a mopey fixture of Corinth, rather like the town commode who's been used so much it's forgotten how to flush. Symbolic of his colorless life is his pet dog, who seems afflicted by the weight of the house, seldom rolling out of his bed on the floor beside Harry's favorite chair.  But things pick up with the arrival of New York fashion designer Deborah Brown (Ella Raines), a sharp dressed, sharp tongued force of nature in the sleepy 'burbs.  Even though a gentle breeze could knock Harry off his feet, the 77-knot hurricane on the Beaufort Scale named Deborah upends his world and for the first time in his life makes him smile.  Soon they decide to marry, and that ignites the inner weepy b*tch in Lettie.

There's a three-volume encyclopedia of double entendres working its way through this film, even with the Hays Code fluttering like a buzzard over most of the movie.  First of all, Lettie's abundantly clear incestuous possessiveness over Harry is paramount in the story. In a perfectly timed narcissistic maneuver, she even poisons Harry's dog for drawing attention away from her; of course, Harry doesn't fully comprehend this, attributing the pet's death to old age and infirmity. But it is interesting to see Harry (and George Sanders) finally break out a bit when he moves to impress Deborah with his "nine-inch telescope" in the dark of his studio.  And there's a more than electrical current flashing between Deborah and Lettie as Lettie works her best voodoo to drive a wedge between Harry and his new girl; these are two women who know with crystalline clarity what the other is up to.

Without giving away too much of the final twists, let's say Harry is the fraying rope in the tug of war between Lettie and Deborah, moving Harry into decisive action of which to me he seems unduly suited.  George Sanders is playing against type here, invoking a provincial hesitancy that made me want to slap him silly.  For God's sake, I wanted to yell, grow a pair, Harry.  But even saying that he seemed too repressed to even understand the reference.  Harry does grow somewhat during the unveiling of the narrative, and along the way during the last twenty minutes or so, there is some suspense, but I'm afraid I saw too much unfolding by rote.

Geraldine Fitzgerald is wonderful as the scheming Lettie, especially when she gains a little steam.  She is vain, selfish, casually vindictive around Hester and uncomfortably seductive around Harry; even the neighborhood gossips can see through her feigned illness from a distance.  But not Harry.  She works as a perfect foil for Ella Raines' coolly perceptive Deborah, whose very clothing clashes with modernity in comparison to Lettie's frilly and diaphanous couture, carefully staged in the past glory of her family's success.  At first I thought she would have been more effectively cast as Deborah, switching roles with Ella Raines, since on the whole I found her much more vibrant than Raines, much more attractive metal with which to draw Harry's affection.  

But I've revised that assessment--making her the more vivacious of the two complicates the family dynamic far more and makes the chemistry between her and Sanders more disturbing, more sinister--Raines plays Deborah with a harsher gaze, perhaps contrasting her character more demonstratively to the "softer" Fitzgerald.  Note especially the way she defiantly positions herself in the leather chair opposite Lettie, as well as the manly "tie and coat" she swaggers in.  For me it's another tug of war--Deborah's openly no-nonsense poise, self-assuredness and super-confidence vs. Lettie's girlish fluffy manipulation of a much more insidious amoral kind.  They are both manipulative, just employing different enticements: Lettie banks on family history, familial obligation and sedentary, comfortable routine.  Deborah plays on Harry's knowledge of the stars (which New Yorkers seldom see), a backhanded ultimatum of touring Europe with Harry's competition, and the promise of adventure, a new life of exciting choice away from the stifling confinement of the past and Corinth.   Or perhaps I'm wrong again. . . .

Robert Siodmak would go on to direct much higher success with *The Spiral Staircase* (1945) and *The Killers* (1946) as well as *Criss Cross* (1948) commented on in an earlier post, and he's been favorably compared to Alfred Hitchcock more than once.  Siodmak plays with dark passions and twisted ties to family [See Hitchcock's Guide To Family Harmony in *Psycho* (1960), *North By Northwest* (1959), *Strangers On A Train* (1951), and the film most compared to this one, *Shadow Of A Doubt* (1943).]   Siodmak also wrings suspense from a scene similar to Cary Grant's ascent of the staircase in *Suspicion* (1941). Joan Harrison, of course, was one of Hitchcock's revered screenplay artists and a long-time associate.  And *The Strange Affair of Uncle Harry* plays like one of the later *Alfred Hitchcock Hour* episodes.

But old radio fans will rejoice in the appearance of Harry Von Zell as Ben the friendly neighborhood pharmacist and frequenter of the local bar.  And overall the film does a really nice job of capturing the innocence and playful nostalgia of small town Americana where all the men gather 'round the old piano and sing in barbershop harmony while hoisting a few away from the womenfolk, where everybody knows your name, and you're always glad you came. For old trivia buffs it's also interesting to note that George Sanders and his brother Tom Conway reputedly build the telescope in Harry's studio, too.  So between some solid performances, some splendid '40s attention to detail in the sets, and some moderate suspense with a twist, *The Strange Affair of Uncle Harry* is worth its running time, even if for me the studio picked the wrong ending of the five they filmed.  For the record no one has access to the other four which have been lost to time sadly, but surely they could have chosen one that would have withstood the test of time (and greater satisfaction) to effect fuller than this one. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to check to see if Bobby Ewing is still in the shower in *Dallas*.
Enjoy.
Jeff

The Inspector General is my third favorite Danny Kaye movie. After The Court Jester and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. And now I have to rethink my 10 desert island movies list.


Thanks a lot!

I'll throw the thanks right back at you, Space. I've got a Top Twenty List, but getting it down to Ten is painful.

BTW: My wife is doing well, thanks for asking. She came through her maxiofacial surgery without an MS exacerbation, which we see as a blessing. The post-operation bleeding was minimal, and now that her stitches are dissolved, she's looking forward to a Ghemrats Family Thanksgiving where she'll be able to take small pieces of turkey and anything soft for dinner. (Her extended medications made her ineligible for dentures--no suction due to dry mouth caused by meds, which caused her to lose her teeth to begin with.)

She continues to be my Best Girl. I really appreciate your asking.
TOP TEN and a movie tomorrow. . . .
Jeff

Post #203: Come for the movie, stay for the Top Ten List.  That's the motto for today's feature, *Secondhand Lions* (2003) starring Robert Duval, Sir Michael Caine, and Haley Joel Osment.  When was the last time you watched a movie that could be viewed by the whole family, didn't descend to mawkish heavy-handedness and actually offered dialogue like this:  “Men are basically good.  Courage, honor and virtue mean everything. Money and power mean nothing. Good always triumphs over evil and true love never dies. Those are the things worth believing in”?  I'd thought such films were of a bygone age, relegated to some sub-basement in the Smithsonian in the No-Chance-At-The-Box-Office Wing, or perhaps available only on Beta.  Nope.

*Secondhand Lions* is a warm, sweet-tempered fable set in 1962, and may be based on the childhood of Bill Watterson, creator of my favorite comic strip ever, *Calvin And Hobbes,* according to a friend of writer/director Tim McCanlies.  I wouldn't doubt it, as the film dips into the same flights of fancy and joyful exuberance of the strip.  And it doesn't hurt that our fourteen-year-old protagonist Walt (!) Caldwell (Osment) grows up to be a cartoonist, whose work is penned by the great Berkeley Breathed's Bloom County​, also my favorite producing cartoonist. [I have two of his fine art prints with a hand-sketched Opus saying "Hi, Jeff" in the corner.  What a couple of treasures.]

I'm going to recommend this film to anyone who needs a punch in the arm to assure him/her that people still do see value in solid moral lessons that don't patronize or apotheosize to the point of sad resignation.  No, *Secondhand Lions* adds touches of 1930s adventure and swashbuckling bravado with the comforting message that it's okay to hold the thought that life can be magical through the power of belief.  That's something we just don't hear very often anymore, sad to say.  Movies by and large have grown cynical and irony passes now as truth in many cases, at least to me.  Advancing agendas has taken the place of storytelling, or many stories are tedious, derivative retreads of yesterday's successes (and in some cases failures, evidenced by the umpteenth retelling of *Charlie's Angels* once again blowing a crater in this weekend's opening receipts at $7.8 million after a mid-50 million dollar budget.  To which I say, in the laugh of *The SImpsons*' Nelson, "HA ha.").

*Secondhand Lions* is a simple tale: Fourteen year old Walt is unceremoniously dropped at the feet of two irascible old bachelors Hub (Robert Duvall) and Garth (Sir Michael Caine) McCann, Walt's uncles who live in a ramshackle farmhouse in rural Texas. Walt's mother Mae Caldwell (Kyra Sedgwick) is a flighty, catch-as-catch-can drifter constantly in search of Mr. Right, or Mr. Right Now, with dreams of settling down with the uncles' legendary fortune when they pass. In her flight she jettisons the baggage of her son with an earful of lies and a vague promise to see him again "real soon," leaving him in a cloud of gasoline and dust.  It's a pivotal time for Walt, who remains introspective, sheltered and at sea with these two eccentrics who'd just as soon shoot over the heads of traveling salesmen as waltz with a pig.

With no telephone or television, Walt is consigned to an attic turret bedroom with an oil lamp and a creaky rusted bedspring bed.  Hub is cantankerous and largely silent, leaving all the talking to his brother Garth, who weaves for Walt fantastic tales of the brothers' exploits in the Foreign Legion, Africa and far off regions where Hub fell in love with an Arab Sheik's promised bride Jasmine.  Told in a succession of flashbacks enacted in bold strokes, the stories reveal the rich inner life of the brothers, whose present-day opportunistic money grubbing relatives parade unannounced through their lives, hoping to ingratiate themselves into the fortune Hub and Garth are said to have hidden somewhere on their land.  

Are they telling the truth, or are their wondrous stories just fabrications?  Why does that matter?  Duvall has said of his character, "It's not that he's getting old; it bothers him because he's becoming useless."  And that potent drive fuels the film, leading Hub to give his "What Every Boy Needs To Know To Become A Man" speech, excerpted here for Walt: "Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good; that honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil; and I want you to remember this, that love... true love never dies. You remember that, boy. You remember that. Doesn't matter if it's true or not. You see, a man should believe in those things, because those are the things worth believing in."

Delivered by less credible, less seasoned actors, such lines could easily be trumpeted Big Moments in lesser hands, but director/writer McCanlies' touch is light, unassuming and powerful because of it.  These are flesh and blood people who have lived through heartache and joy, and their emotional rescue of Walt makes for one special, moving experience on film.  And in my mind it's sad that some (very few) misanthropic critics have registered Caine's and Duvall's performances as "dumbed down schmaltz" and "boring"; clearly these critics were sitting by themselves in a smoky little room with no air, for audiences--literally hundreds of IMBD posters alone--have consistently given this film 10 out of 10.

*Secondhand Lions*'s ending was re-tailored slightly after test audiences wished for a different denouement.  Our DVD copy offers both versions, the second ending released to theaters costing $600,000, and while the original ending, in my mind, was a little too extended, finally focusing on a muted tone of sadness, the theatrical release offers a clean blend of love and loss; it's the one to see.

McCanlies, who also wrote the screenplay for *The Iron Giant* (1992), really understands his craft. He said, "This is what happens in a script — your characters become alive. So the lion became alive and escaped into the cornfield and thought it was the jungle. I had no idea it was going to do that! But I realized that this lion is a metaphor for these two guys. They, too, are sort of toothless. I had this metaphor in my head of the lion railing at night at the moon in frustration and impotence. And it seems like that is what Hub is doing. He's really angry that he's old and that he can't do the things he used to do."

Producer Cary Sienega sees *Secondhand Lions* as an exercise in the power of confidence, strength, and vision: “These are things that can be given to you by anyone who truly cares about you ... somebody who believes in you and who’ll remind you that you’re special, that you’re worth it. Ultimately, I think the movie is about believing in yourself, and a reminder to believe in the good qualities in other people—even during the difficult times.”

In short, this is the movie you should break out for Thanksgiving.  You won't need to worry about raging violence, untoward language and blooming sexuality--just a good story with a solid foundation for the whole family.  I'd even go so far as to say, buy a copy since I would almost guarantee you'll want to watch it again.  It is that good. As Walter Brennan used to say on *The Guns Of Will Sonnett*--No brag, just fact.  And my deepest thanks go to my pal Space Cadet for putting me onto this one.  This year at Thanksgiving, you get the heart, buddy.

*************

And now, in the words of Rocket J. Squirrel, here's a feature I hope you'll really like: It's my Top Ten Of All Time Favorite Desert Island Movies List.  (You have no idea how many people have asked me for this through the years--the number would surprise you, I'm sure. . . . not that my opinion matters all that much. . . )

10. *Wild Strawberries* (1957) Ingmar Bergman's classic (though *The Seventh Seal* is close)
9.  *Back To The Future* (1985) Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd without a single wasted frame of film
8.  *Strangers On A Train* (1951) Hitchcock at his suspenseful best with Farley Granger and Robert Walker (though *North By Northwest* (1959) is biting at its heels with Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint
7.  *The Bishop's Wife* (1947) or *It's A Wonderful Life* (1946) or *Going My Way* (1944)--Honest to God, I cannot separate those for the best Christmas films on film
6.  *The Court Jester* (1955) with Danny Kaye. . . although *The Inspector General* (1949) is darned close
5.  *Army of Darkness (1992) Bruce Campbell in the second most quoted movie in our house
4.  *Brazil* (1985) Terry Gilliam's brilliant film with Jonathan Pryce
3.  TIE: *Casablanca* (1944) How could it NOT be here?  and (not or)*The Princess Bride* (1987) As you wish. . . Most romantic movies ever filmed, at least to me
2. *The Big Lebowski* (1998) No, man, YOU'RE Mr. Lebowski--I am The Dude. . . .

And the Number One Film Favorite of ALL Time:
1.  *Field Of Dreams* (1989) No other movie, except perhaps *Going My Way*, makes me tear up as much.

And if you act before last midnight, you can also receive as a free gift these FIVE Honorable Mentions:

*Trouble In Mind* (1985) Commented on earlier in this forum;
*Local Hero* (1983) Ditto
*Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb* (1964) Comic genius
*Gilda* (1946) Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford!
*The entire run of the James Bond 007 features (Sean Connery and Daniel Craig rule the part)

And tomorrow will be the movie I originally planned to post today, but a $600,000 reshoot was called up at the last minute.  In the meantime, let me know your all time favorites.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Jeff, I'm happy that you enjoyed this one. Secondhand Lions is one of those rare movies, where heart trumps art. It's not a technically great movie. It's not a complex movie. It's just a fun movie, with characters we want to believe in.

As to my top 10 list. I dunno. So far, I'm doin' good to get it down to a top 50. At this point, I couldn't even get it down to a top 10 animated movies.

ARRRGH!!! I completely forgot to add The Iron Giant to the contenders.

Post #204:  Since we're two weeks out from Thanksgiving, it's nearing the time we think most fondly of family gatherings and the warmth of human kindness and kitchens brimming with baked blessings.  So what could be better than a celebration of the family unit with Basil Rathbone in *Tower Of London* (1939) as Richard, Duke of Gloucester and Boris Karloff as his fawning club-footed executioner Mord [TOWER OF LONDON 1939]

Based less on Shakespeare's *Richard III* and more on extensive research by producer/director Roland V. Lee's brother Robert, *Tower Of London* also offers Vincent Price (in his third film), Barbara O'Neil, Ian Hunter, Leo G. Carroll and John Sutton.  Everyone in the cast devotes the full measure of serious intent to the parts, and because of it, it's a fine mixture of historical drama and ultimately horror chronicling arguably one of the most dysfunctional families of the 15th century.

Rathbone's Richard secretly visits a dollhouse of his own ambition decked out as a throne room and locked away in a cupboard, complete with medieval Barbies and Kens dressed as the royal family. Since he is sixth in line to the throne, his GI Richard stands at the periphery of the tableau, but tends to move closer and closer to the throne as intrigue and unfortunate deaths are visited upon the life-size counterparts of his doll collection. To Richard the successors to the throne are little more than wax replicas anyway, easily tossed onto the fire as he blazes a trail toward ruling.

Even when he's feigning attentiveness and loyalty to the King Edward IV (a droll, engaging scoundrel as Ian Hunter interprets him), Rathbone's Richard Crookback exudes insidious intent with his aquiline nose and penetrating gaze (does this guy ever blink?).  So immersed is he in this role that with his bowl cut and bangs that it's hard to imagine he would be so transformed for his iconic Sherlock Holmes persona.  And in this role he is wholly believable as malice incarnate.

Boris Karloff as his righthand hump Mord is perfectly cast as he twists his noble body into a monstrous pretzel who must physically pull at his knees in painful lifting to negotiate even the most simple staircase.  His gaze, too, would paralyze Medusa and Voldemort into stone silence--even when he's smiling.  The performances here are as chilling as any you'll see in the rest of the Universal monster lot.  Perhaps more so because they are based on real people.

I must admit I was surprised by the body count and violence on display in this 92-minute epic, even though I was pretty well versed in my history.  While I know the censorship boards were in full swing, there is still a very creepy sense of doom over the entire production; even innocents like the Queen (Barbara O'Neil as an extremely humane but hamstrung Elizabeth), her nephew John Wyatt (John Sutton, a budget-minded Errol Flynn, in a role tailored for suspense and dedicated hope amid the dread) and her handmaiden Lady Alice Barton (Nan Grey, love interest for Wyatt and gorgeous in her sumptuous gowns)--all seem swept up in a tragic determinism borne of vicious political gain and egoistic self worship.

As Richard methodically prunes away at the family--beheading Lord Devere (Riordan Rathbone, Basil's illegitimate son who wished to break into film) first and then escalating the brutal dispatching from then on--Roland Lee's direction is relentless in the best possible way.  *Tower Of London* offers us some memorable sequences, for me especially the drinking contest between the Duke of Clarence (Vincent Price) and Richard in the wine cellar of the castle.  With Malmsey Madeira wine as his weapon of choice, a rather fey, foppish Clarence quaffs tankard after tankard in a Drink to the Death--until Richard feigns a loss of consciousness, allowing Clarence to believe he's won and in celebrating passes out. The Deposit-But-No Return Policy is enforced as Mord picks up the drunken Duke and encases him in a vat of Malmsey until he drowns, fulfilling Richard's promise that he would never stab or beat the Duke to death.

Here Price and Rathbone match each other as comedy mixes with horror and wine.  During the filming, according to Price, when Karloff unceremoniously dumped him the vat, Karloff sat atop the cask until Lee called "Cut"--and then sat for a bit longer while Price sputtered an choked beneath in his drink, as practical jokers Karloff and Rathbone laughed, finally pulling Price out as he spewed and coughed.  Since wine could not be used, Lee had substituted Coca-Cola as a facsimile wine, and after Price had consumed so much during the sequence, he grew ill at its consumption. Karloff "apologized" by rewarding him with a case of Coke after the filming.

When the Queen's young sons are taken in proprietorship by Richard, "safely" stowed, and Mord is commanded to kill the young Princes, Karloff shows a masterful moment of empathy, all too brief, for the doomed boys, cradling one and resting him on his bed and covering them both before retreating.  It's almost enough to save him from being one of the most bloodthirsty villains of 1930s film.  Their killing remains one of the most unnerving scenes in the film, along with Richard's killing of the enfeebled King Henry (Miles Mander) deep in prayer.  Of course John Wyatt's torture scenes are no picnic in Hyde Park, though Karloff's sense of dark humor shines.

The final battle sequences--Battle of Tewkesbury and Battle of Bosworth--were horrors in their own right. Filmed over two weeks in August and September, 1939, wind storms and rain storms wrought havoc with the filming.  According to Rathbone, the winds blew away the atmospheric fog generated by machines, and many of the background soldiers' armor was actually paper mache and cardboard, prone to disintegrate when the rains hit.  The film finally wrapped ten days and roughly $80,000 over budget, but the film is now regarded as a classic piece of historical drama with some fictionalized elements.

*Tower Of London* may not be totally factual, but as we've discussed before, it's fine entertainment with some magnificently malevolent acting.  Now, you might not wish to show it after the football games on Thanksgiving, but you can certainly take heart that no matter how many conflicts you might face with family as you tussle over the drumsticks, it won't be the bloody mess THIS family endured. And for that we give thanks. I just hope you don't have some crazy uncle who plays with dolls in a locked hutch and who wears his hair like Moe Howard. (He might be good at carving up the turkey, though)
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #205: Don't you just hate it when, days after advertising your Top Ten Favorite Movies of All Time, you suddenly remember another film that should have made that list? I know, it happens to you all the time. But it has not happened to me because until recently I had never "officially" compiled such a list and put it out there for everyone (oh, you egotistical knucklehead--be real. You're lucky if two people care about your choices) to see. Well, this is another Can't Miss Movie, great fun for the whole family: *My Favorite Year* (1982), a rollicking comedy with a heart.

Based on the film's producer Mel Brooks' experience in the 1950s when working for *Your Show Of Shows*, *My Favorite Year* stars Mark Linn-Baker (TV's *Perfect Strangers*) as a stand-in for a young Mel Brooks, narrator Benjy Stone. Benjy is a novice junior comedy writer for a monumentally successful TV variety program "Comedy Cavalcade," starring the egotistical perfectionist Stan "King" Kaiser (Joseph Bologna at his best), a character based on Sid Caesar. When swashbuckling Hollywood Legend Alan Swann (Academy Award winning Peter O'Toole, as an Errol Flynn stand-in) has been booked for the show, despite concerns surrounding his notorious carousing and frequent drunkenness, Benjy is recruited as Swann's chaperone and "keeper." His is a huge responsibility--Ensure Swann shows up for rehearsals and the live performance without crawling into the base of a bottle, or twelve.

For Benjy, Alan Swann is his ultimate hero, a man who has always done his own stunts in countless cinematic classics. But those days are behind the star, who now banks on his former successes and infinite charm to drink, womanize, drink and then drink a bit more. Benjy's trials are compounded by a cast of fabulous behind-the-scenes characters, invasive family members and his love interest, KC Downing (sweet and unassuming Jessica Harper). On top of it all, a union mobster, Boss Karl Rojeck (Cameron Mitchell, basing his character on Jimmy Hoffa), has tired of Kaiser's relentless parody of him on the show as "Boss Hijack" and has sworn vengeance against him.

What ensues is a compendium of memorable scenes, gaily mixing broad comedy with subtle human interest and genuinely touching moments of pathos. Richard Benjamin, in his film directorial debut, keeps the pacing light and fast on its feet, the script crackling with smart dialogue and sharp characterizations. When Benjy's overbearing family insist he bring the famous Alan Swann to dinner, we are treated to a hilarious encounter as the ever-polite actor with characteristic British understatement encounters Benjy's Jewish mother (Laine Kazan, terrific as she dispenses advice like soup to "Swanny"), her Filipino bantamweight boxer husband Rookie Carroca, and the invasive Uncle Morty (Lou Jacobi, who's concerned with Swann's "schtupping" practices). Incidentally, Laine Kazan was the only original from the film to star in a Broadway treatment of *My Favorite Year* a decade later; she, along with Tim Curry in the Alan Swann role, was nominated for a Tony Award.

Peter O'Toole felt it was his obligation to fans to do all his own stunts, within his ability, even talking the producers into hiring a fencing coach to ensure his swordplay would be authentic. Benjamin has noted in the DVD commentary that O'Toole believed the great swashbucklers like Errol Flynn did many or most of their own stunts, so when the audience saw the action sequence, they knew it was really the star in the scene, and not some fakery done in a cutaway shot. This realism gave authenticity and believability to a sequence which would be lost if doubles were substituted in long shots.

This closeness to reality is, to me, a vanishing reward to moviegoers. With the advent of sophisticated computer regeneration and camera manipulation, few directors today employ "practical" shots, that is, filmed sequences done without special effects or video augmentation. Films like *The Sea Hawk* (1940) and *The Adventures of Robin Hood* (1938) stand in my memory precisely because that actually WAS Errol Flynn fencing and swinging for the mastlines and lanyards. The illusions were palpable, the bruises and blisters actual, the slash of the blades ear-stinging in their clashing. How often today do we develop a cool immunity to a quickened heartbeat because the sheen of pixilation onscreen is too slick? Many times we don't even hazard an incredulous "How'd they DO that?" in favor of a passive "Nice CGI, huh." In *My Favorite Year* we never get the sense that these are integers we're watching--these are honest people with actual, if sometimes nutty, personalities, and we like being in their company.

But amid the crazy hijinks are fabulous supporting character roles that hold the mayhem together with their own unique talents: Selma Diamond, who was a writer for the original *Your Show Of Shows* and was the inspiration for Sally on *The Dick Van Dyke Show*, plays seasoned wardrobe mistress Lil here, who is as handy with a needle as she is with a retort; a Neil Simon-inspired writer Herb Lee is played by Basil Hoffman, who like Simon whispers lines rather than shouts; and noted lyricist and playwright Adolph Green keeps King Kaiser in check as his temper and ego spiral out of control. One of my favorite scenes involves Alan Swann taking refuge in a ladies bathroom. Lil cracks, "Hey, this is for ladies only." To which Swann replies with a slight look down, "So is this, mum." Selma's reaction is priceless.

And I don't care what anyone says--Any movie that opens with Nat King Cole singing "Stardust" is bound for glory. That sweet rendering of the classic tune puts you perfectly in the right frame of mind to sit back and roll with the deeply human comedy that spools away at a brisk 92 minutes. In those wonderfully nostalgic scenes you'll find the comfort of old friends visiting, the joy of good-natured comedy without crassness or cynicism, and the long neglected tribute to a day when heroes, flawed though they may be in reality, could sweep you up and carry you to the realization that life truly can give you memorable moments etched against the walls of your heart.

So look at my All Time Favorite List with the knowledge that it's going to morph and twist and be in a continuous state of revision. Oh, those I've already noted will stay there, but as time passes, more and more addenda, or codicils, will need to be added. In that way I guess it's like a living will--will to be moved one way or another. But you're always welcome to join the ride and form your own roadmap along the way, thumbs up and out.
Enjoy.
Jeff