The Cobalt Screening Room Balcony

One of the Roku free streaming apps has a ton of Carry On movies available. But I can't remember which one. Maybe I'll scout around a bit later.

Post #452: In the annals of classic comedy, have you ever noticed that no one really mentions the team of Fred MacMurray and Jack Oakie as a legendary duo? I know, it's a question that has been plaguing you for years now. But through exhaustive research I've discovered why that lingering mystery exists: It's because they turned down today's feature, *Road To Singapore* (1940), renamed from the original plan to call it *Road To Mandalay*. Instead it went on to star two guys you may have heard of--Bob Hope and Bing Crosby--in the first of a seven-film series that would last nearly twenty-five years. And since I believe in symmetry, here it is, counterbalancing my commentary on the last of the *Road* pictures, *Road To Hong Kong* (1962) last week.

As the prototype for the successful franchise, *Road To Singapore*establishes the initial rhythm that would be carried through the next six films, with Bing taking the lead as romantic crooner who always gets the girl, Dorothy Lamour forming the apex of the love pyramid, and Bob Hope zinging through his portrayal as the hapless partner who never seems to catch a break. Introducing the famous Patty-Cake motif along with snappy pattered in-jokes about Bing's weight and Bob's profile, *Road To Singapore* hints at a sure-fire formula that brought audiences back into the theater in greater numbers as America sought refuge from the somber war effort.

Under the direction of Victor Schertzinger, himself an accomplished violinist and composer, *Road To Singapore* is much more a musical than a zany tour of tropical intrigue, with five songs--two lilting ballads ("Too Romantic" and "The Moon And The Willow Tree") and three more upbeat numbers including a stand-out co-penned by Schertzinger, "Captain Custard," and "Kaigoon" sung in Esperanto; the Paramount DVD also offers a sing-along version of the top 20 hit "Sweet Potato Piper." Of all the *Road* pictures, this initial outing offers a bit more plot and fewer over-the-top gags though the greatest pleasure comes from watching the free-wheeling camaraderie of Hope and Crosby as they sneak in ad-libs whenever they can.

At first both Dorothy Lamour and Schertzinger found themselves at sea as much as Hope and Crosby's characters' escaping marital impingements of the plot: Free-spirit sailors Josh Mallon (Bing) and Ace Lannigan (Bob) return from their rollicking adventures in bachelorhood to find themselves constrained by others' expectations. Josh is the heir to a shipping fortune lorded over by his magnate father (Charles Coburn), who is eager to forge a business merger and marriage by getting his wayward son hitched to socialite Gloria Wycott (Judith Barrett). And Ace has a girl in every port (and a little port in every girl he meets) until he runs afoul of the insistent family of one of his conquests who demand he marry her. Being men of honor, they immediately hop passage to Singapore and the single life, swearing off women altogether.

They make it as far as the island Kaigoon before their funds dwindle and they catch the eye of local (but not native) performer Mima (Dorothy Lamour) and her possessive whip-wielding dance partner (Anthony Quinn). Indulging their penchant for starting fights, they escape with Mima and take up residence in a beach shack that Mima immediately domesticates for them. So much for giving up women. With that premise the boys are off on money-making scams between songs and insults, much to the confusion of their director.

"For a couple of days," Bing recalled, "when Hope and I tore freewheeling into a scene, ad-libbing and violating all of the accepted rules of movie-making, Schertzinger stole bewildered looks at his script, then leafed rapidly through it seaching for lines we were saying." Similarly, Dorothy Lamour said, "I kept waiting for a cue that never seemed to come, so finally, in exasperation, I asked, 'Please, guys, when can I get my line in?' They stopped dead, broke up, and laughed for ten minutes. . . . [Finally giving up trying to learn the script in advance] I would read over the next day's work only to get the idea of what was happening. What I really needed was a good night's sleep to be in shape for the next morning's ad-libs."

Screenwriters Frank Butler and Don Hartman were less enthused by the shambles Bob and Bing made of their scripted lines, causing Bob to remark when they showed up on the soundstage, "If you recognize any of yours, yell bingo!" Butler and Hartman complained to the studio heads, but the energy was so successful that nothing came of their protest; Hope and Crosby's was a give-and-take, call-and-response that sizzled and popped, giving the audience a snappy rapport that seemed spontaneous and real. The result was Hollywood's highest grossing movie of 1940, earning $1.6 million at the box office and securing Schertzinger's place as director, as well as Butler and Hartman as scripters and Johnny Burke as lyricist, of the sequel *Road To Zanzibar* (1941). And as host of the 1940 Oscars Bob received special recognition: a plaque for "unselfish services for the motion picture industry" as "the man who did most for charity in 1940." His audience of fourteen hundred wildly applauded for a full minute, the longest ovation of the evening, according to Hope's biographer Richard Zoglin.

Along for the fun clocking in at 85 minutes, Jerry Colonna makes a hilarious cameo as Achilles Bombanassa, a much put-upon official in the offices of local government. A staple in Bob's radio show, Colonna is a walking cartoon with his incredible breath control, his expressive Barney Google eyes and his handlebar mustache, providing a perfect rube for Ace and Josh's spot removing scam. Topping off the controlled madness is a great finale, a huge production of a native wedding ritual that is simultaneously suspenseful and goofy as Ace and Josh ape choreography without knowing what their movements imply to the Chieftan and dancing girls.

So while we will never know what Fred MacMurray and Jack Oakie might have done with this script--and since George Burns and Gracie Allen passed on the project as well--I for one don't lose any sleep over what might have been--the end result is too much fun to raise such speculation. I'm with Willie Nelson on this one: "Just can't wait to get back on the road again."
Enjoy.
Jeff

I have watched the road movies over and over and thankfully they are still funny years later. It just worked. Funny for breaking the fourth wall. Always Bob and the tax jokes.

This one's for my Cobalt Family.

Post #453: Chapter 39: As you recall, Jack, Billy and Betty were on their way to the No Bikini Atoll in the far flung Isle of Langerhans in search of Uncle Hunter when The evil Oyster sabotaged their plane, sending them into a spiraling dive with little hope of survival. As we tune in today, we hear Jack struggling to maintain a cheerful outlook while Billy and Betty hyperventilate in terror; let's listen. . . "Jumpin' jiminiy gee whiz, Jack, I don't think we've been in a worse position than this before." "Oh buck up, Billy. are you forgetting that time we infiltrated that Yoga Bear Cult in West Noobistan and had to sit in the lotus position while scratching our right elbows with our right hands? You just mark my words: One day we'll look back on our crash landing here through the ceiling of the Spiraling Dive Restaurant amid these bloodthirsty cannibals and headshrinking diners of the Guyfieri Tribe and laugh with crazy abandon. Say, Betty, do you see anything on the menu that tickles your fancy?" "Golly gosh and gully washers, Jack, I was so shook up from the crash and the way this rooftop restaurant revolves to offer a scenic view of the tropics, I didn't even check. Besides, I've been distracted by that native at the next table who keeps reaching over to tickle my fancy." [Organ sting] "Wait a minute, Gang. Don't look now, but I think the Oyster just sat down at the window table--" "Gosh all willikers, Jack, do you think he noticed the remnants of our plane shooting off sparks over the bandstand?" "No telling, Billy. If luck is with us, he'll just think it's part of the stage show, but even if he does, I have a plan that will steam his clams once and for all. . . ." [Organ flourish] Say, what is that masterplan Jack has cooked up? Will he and the Gang get chopped or make it to the next round? And why does The Oyster think the world is his? Tune in tomorrow as we address these and other questions in *Jack Headstrong, The ALLLLLLLLLLLL Americanguy.*

I love old radio shows. I started collecting in 1968 or so when local radio stations started running tapes of *The Shadow* on Sunday afternoons at 5:00, just as they did in the '30s. I was hooked, and now I have over 250,000 shows in my cache. So when George Lucas decided to indulge his radio fanaticism with today's feature, *Radioland Murders* (1994) with the most spectacular assemblage of actors, I was ecstatic. And watching it last night again confirmed by enthusiasm, even though the film was critically a box office bomb. Who cares? I love this movie, and some of you will undoubtedly call me a heretic because for me it makes the Kessel run around the first three *Star Wars* movies (*Phantom Menace*, *Attack Of The Clones* and *Revenge of the Sith*, which I found abysmal) for sheer entertainment energy.

To be clear, Lucas wrote the story and served as executive producer for *Radioland Murders*, drawing much of its inspiration from one of my favorite Abbott and Costello films *Who Done It?* (1942), which centered around one of my all-time favorite radio shows *Murder At Midnight*. In many ways that's the way you have to enter the world of *Radioland*--it's a faithful homage to the goofy antics of WWII comedies: It's loud, faster than a speeding bullet, manic, brimming with period accents and Art Deco sets, frantic in its pacing, and overflowing with slapstick that hearkens back to Red Skelton's *Whistling* trilogy (1941 - 1943) and Bob Hope's *Cat And The Canary* (1939). Critics were put off by the breakneck speed of the narrative, but director Mel Smith's aim is true, negotiating the huge cast with bursts of laughter.

It's 1939 and fledgling Chicago network WBN is making a bid for a competitive spot against the Big Three networks with its special brand of radio programming--splashy musical numbers, heart-pounding serials, homey soaps and variety shows, all blending together over the span of their opening night under the watchful eye of General Walt Whalen (Ned Beatty), who's doing his best to sell affiliates with the live show. Behind the scenes harried head writer Roger Henderson (Brian Benben), assistant director Penny Henderson (Mary Stuart Masterson, in the screwball comedy mold of Katherine Hepburn), frantic page boy Billy Budget (Scott Michael Campbell), engineer Max Applewhite (Stephen Tobolowsky), conductor Rick Rochester (the fantastic Michael McKean), announcer Dexter Morris (Corbin Bernsen), rug-wearing director Walt Whalen, Jr. (Jeffrey Tambor) and stage manager Herman Katzenback (Larry Miller) fight for control as chaos reigns supreme with last-minute script changes.

WBN is a pressure cooker of egos and temperaments, and Penny is the valve who keeps the whole operation from imploding, exploding and erupting in a messy volcanic furor. In addition to keeping the show moving before a live studio audience, she is fighting to keep the anger and pending divorce from her husband Roger in check, as she suspects his infidelity with WBN's smokey siren sexpot Claudette Katzenback (Anita Morris, in her final film role). Adding to her mounting tension and struggle for stability are the methodical murders of key personnel, each announced by an ominous and sonorous Voice interrupting the transmission from an elusive source.

Because this is a harmless comedy, the deaths are treated with a Warner Brothers' cartoon irreverence and bloodless intent. But as the bodies mount we are treated to wonderful snapshots of the ensemble cast, including Robert Klein, Bobcat Goldthwait, Harvey Korman, Joey Lawrence, Dylan Baker, Michael Lerner, Candy Clark (from Lucas's *American Graffiti* (1973), Bo Hopkins, Robert Walden, Peter MacNichol, and as The Miller Sisters Bridgett Newton, Amy Parrish and Nina Repeta. If that's not enough, *Radioland* also offers Christopher Lloyd as Zoltan the sound effects man in a brilliant series of scenes (all filmed in one day), as well as Tracy Bird, Billy Barty, Rosemary Clooney and George Burns (all in their final films). There are parodies of Spike Jones and the Andrews Sisters, kids' adventure serials, faux commercials perfectly capturing the age, quick costume changes dominated by the giddy showmanship of Michael McKean as a charismatic bandleader, and eleventh hour script revisions that get jumbled on the way to the stage. Oh, it's chaotic, all right, but gleeful in its choreographed insanity.

*Radioland Murders* took twenty years to make it to the screen, originally slated to star Steve Martin and Cindy Williams (also from *American Graffiti*) as the story and script were developed at the same time Lucas sold Universal the rights to *American Graffiti* and the as-yet-untitled nine picture space opera deal. It languished in "development hell" for quite a few years until Ron Howard recommended Jeff Reno and Ron Osborn (known for their work on the Bruce Willis-Cybil Shepard TV detective comedy *Moonlighting*) for a revision. Though Lucas's Industrial Light And Magic kept the budget from moving closer to Tatooine than San Marin county, the film's budget of $15 million was not recouped, pulling in a paltry $1.37 million, ultimately ranking among the top ten widely released films for having the biggest second weekend drop at the box office, dropping 78.5% from $835,570 to $179,315. A Death Star denouement.

And in my mind that's a shame, because *Radioland Murders* really captures the old time silliness of a simpler time. Today it holds an 82% four- and five-star rating on Amazon with audiences evidently ready to relive those thrilling days of yesteryear. While I am averse to comparing movies, *Radioland Murders* for me belongs in the same Affectionate Modern Love Letter To Bygone Days genre as Woody Allen's sweet *Radio Days* (1987) and *The Purple Rose Of Cairo* (1985), Jean Shepherd's *A Christmas Story* (1983) and for television *My Favorite Year* (1982). For me it's 108 minutes of pure nostalgia with a delicate precision evoking suspense and great comic timing. And the murders put it squarely in the wheelhouse of *Murder By Death* (1976) and *The Cheap Detective* (1978) in harmless pleasure.

Maybe audiences didn't care for it because it wasn't *Star Wars* or they entered theaters with a mindset of preconceived expectations. I don't know, but I am pretty sure they missed some of the great throwaway lines and nods to the Skywalker legacy that always draw a knowing smile from me: As when Penny says to Roger near the end, "I love you," and Roger responds, "I know" which immediately launches them into a verbal fight, something I was waiting for in *The Empire Strikes Back* (1980). Also the opening pan from the stars is a coy call-back to our first immersive shot from the series in 1977. There are also echoes of Hitchcock's Bernard Herrmann scores in the climax, as well as beautiful tips of the fedora to *King Kong* (1933), Jack Benny's *The Horn Blows at Midnight* (1945) and The Marx Brothers' *Love Happy* (1949). And for the real trivia aficionado, George Lucas has acknowledged that Penny and Roger Henderson are actually the parents of Curt Henderson (Richard Dreyfus in *American Graffiti*)--Take THAT, Ken Jennings.

So if you have trouble tuning in to Chapter 39 of the continuing adventures of *Jack Headstrong, The ALLLLLLLLLLLL Americanguy* to see if Jack's plan against The Oyster holds water, try *Radioland Murders*. It's for me a pearl born of frustration and irritation, but it shines just as bright as the WBN tower.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #454: Pepsi-ABismol, America's favorite pink soft drink that quenches your thirst while it coats your stomach and nukes your nausea, is proud to pry open that squeaky door to reveal what mysteries lie lurking on the hangers in . . . Clews' Closet [organ theme up and under]: Yes, it's once again time to pass through that hidden panel in the penthouse apartment of those two intrepid detectives Skip Tumaloo and Mary Lou "Blues" Clews, who under the guise of millionaire high profile clothes designers weekly solve crimes even the G Men cannot unravel. From their secret walk-in headquarters behind their well stocked glass and chromium bar, they strike fear in the hearts of wrong-doers and the fashion-impaired world wide--all from the sanctity of . . . Clews' Closet!

All right, so maybe radio never offered these convoluted crimebusters to a wide listening audience, but it should have. After all, radio detectives came in all shapes, sizes, ethnicities and quirks. And the movies used their adventures as fodder for countless star vehicles wherein logic was a mere passing whim. One such example is today's comedy feature, *Whistling In The Dark* (1941), the first of Red Skelton's trilogy following "The Fox," a radio sleuth who gets suckered into real peril with his girlfriend Carol Lambert (Ann Rutherford). Wally Benton (Red) writes and stars in his radio program as a brilliant criminologist who, in this installment, captures the attention and imagination of crooked cult leader Joseph Jones (was he Jim's cultish relative, I wonder) inhabited by Conrad Veidt.

Mastermind behind The Silver Haven, a scam dedicated to bilking rich dowagers out of their millions through "spiritual enlightenment," Jones runs into a snag when one of his benefactors dies with a nephew in line to inherit the fortune she bequeathed to the cult. No fair, say the thieves, and immediately decide the heir must die. But how? Their answer comes from the radio as The Fox formulates air-tight murders and solves them weekly. And so on the eve of Wally's marriage to Carol, he's whisked away by Jones and his minions to concoct a seamless murder--for real. Leveraging their persuasion, Jones and his righthand hood Sylvester ("Rags" Ragland) also kidnap Carol and the daughter of Wally's sponsor, Fran Post (the smart Virginia Grey), threatening their safety if Wally doesn't cook up the perfect crime. And the game is afoot.

Since this is early in Red Skelton's film career, *Whistling In The Dark* serves as a warm-up for his famous persona which will blossom in the years to come. Here he's not a bumbling boob but a rather intelligent schemer, and while he avoids the pitfalls of the cowardly begrudgingly heroic protagonist, he still is given ample opportunity to mug and goof in a mold fashioned by Bob Hope in *The Ghost Breakers* (1940). Fans of the later Red of TV fame will find him a little more subdued here, though still in command of slapstick antics. Conrad Veidt is properly insidious and menacing, while Don Costello's "Noose" Green adds some nice color as a dumb henchman. It's probably me, but I actually preferred the wisecracking Virginia Grey to romantic lead Ann Rutherford, but that may be a function of the script, though it didn't stop me from wishing Fran were the real object of Wally's affection; she just seemed to have more fire and verve.

It's a fast, slight 78 minutes that was very popular upon its release, with some good fight sequences complete with a side trip into secret rooms littered with skeletons and mummies and Egyptian artifacts, and an extended bit with a jerry-rigged radio acting as a microphone and receiver. (No, it's best not to ask if this is really possible--it's a family movie where such questions are akin to rat poison.) Amazon audiences rate it at 84% four- and five-stars, and critics praised Red for his smoothness at the time of release. It's a durable comedy along the lines of Abbott and Costello films--a few chuckles and certainly safe for all ages, spawning two sequels over the next few years. For me, it was easy amusement representative of the time, though not high on my must-see list. In the company of radio shows, it's not up there with unforgettables like *The Thin Man* or *Richard Diamond* or *Sam Spade*, but it's not at the bottom of the dial with *Danger With Granger* either. It's rather like a funny *Frank Race*. . . or the third hanger from the right in *Clews' Closet*.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #455: For a good seventeen minutes in movie career longevity, it seems, Brendan Fraser was one of our family's favorites, scoring some good old fashioned roles. My sons and I loved his two *The Mummy* movies (1999 and 2001), all three of us cringed a bit through our laughter when we watched *Monkeybone* (2001) with my wife in the room, and I thought he did a nice turn in the remake of the Dudley Moore/Raquel Welch movie *Bedazzled* in 2000. But in one of my wife's top five favorite films, today's feature *Blast From The Past* (1999) he excelled as an out-of-his-time wide-eyed romantic. It's still on her radar when she tires of a three-time-in-a-row screening of *You've Got Mail* (1998). So, don't cry, Shopgirl--today's commentary is for you.

Written, produced and directed by Hugh Wilson, the creator of TV's *WKRP In Cincinnati*, *Blast From The Past* trippingly offers the adventures of the Webber family, (Christopher Walken, Sissy Spacek, and Brandon Fraser) as they huddle in their fallout shelter beneath their backyard in 1962 at the first sign of atomic chaos initiated by the Cuban Missile Crisis. Eccentric scientist Calvin (Walken) and his pregnant wife Helen (Spacek) have stockpiled everything they need--electricity, provisions, cultural artifacts like music and TV shows--for the next thirty-five years, when the time lock on the vault will open again.

And when a fighter jet crashes into their suburban home, safely stowed they assume The Bomb has dropped and tuck themselves in for the long haul with their new son Adam knowing only life underground in an existence as close to 1962 normalcy as the Webbers can create. Surfacing in 1999 with Calvin falling ill, Adam enters the "strife torn post-apocalyptic world" with the innocence and wide-eyed wonder of a child, a stranger in a strange land filled with "mutants" and survivors. When he exits the elevator taking him to what used to be the Webber family backyard, Adam discovers the neighborhood has deteriorated into a sad ruin of what it once was, now an abandoned night club inhabited by Melcher (Joey Slotnick), an alcoholic owner of the property who mistakes Adam for a godlike being.

Striking out for supplies, Adam decides to sell his father's classic baseball card collection to a hobby shop, but employee Eve Rustikoff (Alicia Silverstone) recognizes the value of the collection, stops Adam from selling it to her opportunistic boss, and is fired on the spot. Trusting Eve, Adam hires her to help him negotiate this brave new world, helping him fulfill his mother's greatest wish to find a bride "to marry a nice girl from Pasadena,'' which he echoes in his birthday wish for himself: "A girl. One who doesn't glow in the dark. . . .who is not a mutant." With the help of a fashion makeover from her gay housemate and best friend Troy (Dave Foley), Adam adjusts to his new life while gathering provisions, paying Even $1,000 a week for her assistance.

Since this is a cheerful romantic comedy, sweet tempered miscommunications pepper the plot before Adam and Eve become an item: Adam demonstrates his spectacular dancing talents in a 1940s retro-swing club, he more than capably holds his own in a goaded fight with Eve's former beau (Nathan Fillion), and he reflects a basic, old fashioned set of behaviors that confuse the cynical Eve and charm everyone else he meets. "Manners," he says, "are a way of showing other people we care about them." His simple goodness and enthusiasm are so unusual in these days that Troy speaks in awe of him to Eve: "He said, good manners are just a way of showing other people we have respect for them. See, I didn't know that, I thought it was just a way of acting all superior. Oh and you know what else he told me? He thinks I'm a gentleman and you're a lady. I mean, I thought a 'gentleman' was somebody that owned horses. But it turns out, his short and simple definition of a lady or a gentleman is, someone who always tries to make sure the people around him or her are as comfortable as possible."

Slowly Eve and Troy uncover Adam's upbringing, signaled by his cache of "worthless" stocks, including IBM and his essential truthfulness, but not before he's committed to psychiatric care for what Eve believes are delusions but are actually just springs of human kindness. *Blast From The Past* is a fizzy concoction of 7-Up and cherry juice with the subtle commentary on how far afield we have grown from what was once "common" decency. There is no irony in Brendan Fraser's acting juxtaposed against Alicia Silverstone's world-weary, skeptical Eve, now a few years older than *Clueless*'s Cher. Christopher Walken shines in his role as patriarch of the Webber clan, while Sissy Spacek provides great comic timing and a nice homage to her role in *Carrie* (1976) when she first rises in a red light from the subterranean lair. Hugh Wilson keeps the pace light and filled with energy while successfully avoiding the standard tropes of the rom-com.

Roger Ebert gave it three out of four stars, stating, "I was grateful that it tried for more: that it was actually about something, that it had an original premise, that it used satire and irony and had sly undercurrents. Even the set decoration is funny. I congratulate whoever had the idea of putting Reader's Digest Condensed Books on the shelves of the bomb shelter--the last place on earth where you'd want to hurry through a book." And Amazon viewers give it an unprecedented 95% four- and five-stars with glowing reviews--for good reason.

In these days of confinement and social distancing, plop this one in for a special lesson in grace: What we're navigating is a great challenge certainly, but compared to spending thirty-five years cooped up with your family in artificial light and plastic grass while lounging on patio furniture, we should be able to manage and still retain a semblance of civility. *Blast From The Past* should give us all a chance to smile and re-examine what it takes to help others feel good about themselves. If it's good enough for Adam and Eve, it's good enough for us. Enjoy.
Be safe. Be blessed.
Jeff

"A duck walks into a bar..."

Love this movie. It's not art. It's just a refreshing new take on an old genre, the "Feel Good" movie. This and Secondhand Lions are to me, the best examples in recent history. But I'd love to find more.

Post #456: Anyone who has ever spent more than seven minutes in my presence knows my favorite, most quotable movie experience is *The Big Lebowski* (1998), but five years before that would surface, Jeff Bridges (The Dude) and John Turturro (The Jesus) would make a gut punch of a film that should have garnered Jeff Bridges an Academy Award. [He has been nominated seven times, with one win for *Crazy Heart* (2010).] With a screenplay by Rafael Yglesias from his novel of the same name, *Fearless* (1993) is in the words of critic Pauline Kael "A masterpiece," proving Jeff Bridges "may be the most natural and least self-conscious screen actor that has ever lived." Also giving Rosie Perez the opportunity to be nominated for her only Best Supporting Actress Oscar, *Fearless* is a tour de force, an affecting morality tale of staring down fate and struggling with what it is to live truly, madly and deeply.

So, yes, today's feature is a somber change of pace after a week's worth of comedies; it doesn't get any more dramatic or uncompromising than this. But if you're in the serious state of mind and want to see actors at the top of their game, *Fearless* will give you a gourmet meal to digest. Directed by the great Australian artist Peter Weir (*Witness* (1985), *Dead Poets Society* (1989) and *The Truman Show* (1998)), *Fearless* opens with Max Klein (Bridges), a San Francisco architect, slowly making his way through a smoke enshrouded corn field, carrying a young child and leading a group of people in shock to a clearing, the few having survived a horrific plane crash; this was inspired by a real 1989 DC-10 airline disaster, United Airlines flight 232 in Iowa.

Through a series of flash cuts we see how Max had boarded the plane with his best friend and business partner Jeff Gordon (John De Lancie) admitting his fear of flying. But as the flight flew into distress, literally tearing the plane apart, Max developed a serene, enveloping sense of peace, walking down the aisles offering assurance to fellow passengers that everything was going to be fine. Among those he calmed were Carla Rodrigo (Perez) holding her infant son and Byron Hummel (Dano Cerny), a young boy traveling alone. In the grim aftermath, as FAA officials and police comb the remains and tend to those who have sustained serious injuries, Max remains placid and untouched, eschewing media and trauma teams' chaotic attention and leaving the scene amid the confusion.

Curiously unscathed by the tragedy save for one wound in his side (start drawing the Christlike imagery if you haven't already; there is a lot of it), when Max drives home he stops to meet with his former girlfriend Alison (Debra Monk) whom he hasn't seen in twenty years and to whom he reveals his newfound silent lucidity and love of life. Approached by the FBI and airline representatives, he admits absolutely no fear of flying and a desire to fly home first class, much to the surprise of all. Seated next to him on his travel home is Dr. Bill Perlman (John Turturro), the airline's psychiatrist who concludes Max is experiencing a form of PTSD, leaving him with a sense of invulnerability.

Back home his wife Laura (Isabella Rosselini), son Jonah and friends notice the radical change in his behavior--he's distant, freely acknowledging his partner Jeff had died in the crash, intolerant of and hostile to his attorney Steven Brillstein's (Tom Hulce) insistence that he inflate his testimony for maximum payout from the lawsuit ("Did you see him die?" the lawyer asks. "That could be worth extra money"), and subject to panic attacks when pressed about his feelings. Labeled "The Good Samaritan" for his calm resolve in the aftermath of the crash and branded a hero by the media, at Dr. Perlman's suggestion Max meets with a nearly catatonic Carla Rodrigo who tragically holds herself responsible for the loss of her son in the melee. Hesitant yet prodded on at the behest of her husband Manny (Benicio Del Toro), Max agrees, and the two bond in the shared experience.

*Fearless* explores the raw pain of life-changing events and the resiliency of the human spirit. The collateral damage of the plane crash is substantial, and as such producers were initially skeptical that such a fiercely introspective, philosophical novel could be successfully translated to the visual medium. But those fears are completely groundless as the film boldly plumbs the depths of despair and the heights of being released from inhibiting fear--Max feels God has tried to kill him and couldn't do it, so he has no responsibility to the niggling little compromises that people thrust upon him. Hal Hinson of the *Washington Post* wrote, "As Max, Bridges turns in another in what has become an astoundingly long list of brilliant performances. Using the simplest means imaginable, he steps into a role as nonchalantly as he might slip into his trousers. And the fit is exquisite. As a performer, Bridges has a complete lack of vanity; nothing in his work here is designed to impress or to soften the hard edges of his character."

This is a meaty film, saturated with thoughtful but not hammer-in-the-forehead symbolism, as Peter Weir knows how to explore the themes of redemption, grace, belief and haunting beauty. “I like films that are unsettling, unpredictable, and have tension,” he's said, using the close up as one of his best tools: “the great discovery of the cinema … no one has yet come up with anything more extraordinary.” His use of U2's "Where The Streets Have No Name" is one of the emotional high points in the film, building manic energy on the screen until it literally explodes in a crescendo accompanied by a powerful image of a pink heart bearing an eye and a crown of barbed wire thorns. Weir said, "Music is the fountainhead: everything comes from that. At the moment, I'm getting intoxicated on Beethoven, and I use Pink Floyd for inspiration while making a film. Their music contains a sound for almost everything I do." And we can hear those echoes in the marvelous, diaphanous soundtrack by Maurice Jarre.

Like Harrison Ford's Philadelphia police detective in *Witness*, Robin Williams' professor in *Dead Poets Society* and Jim Carrey's incubated Everyman in *The Truman Show*, Jeff Bridges' Max is an ordinary man thrust into extraordinary circumstances as an outsider. He is pulled out of his normal routine and forced to confront essential truths about himself and his relationship with others. Atheistic or at least agnostic, he is teamed with Carla, an intense Catholic whose guilt threatens to consume her, and everywhere he turns Max finds challenges to his belief system, right down to being served by a waitress named Faith directly after the crash. Everywhere he turns he's confronted by images and spiritual nuances of salvation--he's hailed as an angel, he wears the slashed side wound of Christ, he's led people from death's maw into the light, and he's on a mission to "save" Carla. But the cost is his family, his friends, his mortality, leading him to face what value life holds if there is nothing to counterbalance it and we face it in isolation. For me his plea to Laura is profound and gorgeous in its simplicity, even as it is a bold re-imagining of the painting by Hieronymous Bosch as the dying go into the light of heaven "naked and alone." [I am being coy so as not to give away the last punch to the solar plexus in its concluding moments.]

When you're in the mood for a masterful piece of cinema that may leave you with lingering lessons for days afterward, watch *Fearless*. It is not easy entertainment, but it is rich with details and strange beauty, provoking your own definition of how life should be celebrated and not mourned. Tomorrow I'll shoot for something a little lighter, perhaps a little more fun, but no less caring. It's supposed to hit seventy degrees today, so breathe and enjoy, drawing inspiration from Sheryl Crow: "I'm gonna soak up the sun While it's still free I'm gonna soak up the sun Before it goes out on me."
Enjoy.
Jeff

What's Up Doc???

Still looking for it, Space. I know it's here somewhere. . . . In the meantime. . . .

Post #457: Big Time Confession: Yesterday I had to venture out to get a couple prescriptions, and as I was leaving my wife yelled after me, “And buy some Benefiber.” So much for going through the Drive-Thru. And since it was seventy degrees, I didn’t feel I could use my standard winter muffler wrapped around my head several times as a face mask to comply with the Governor’s dictum. So I had to go in to the drug store *naked* (that is, nude-faced) and prepare to be arrested for endangering the health of our community.

Well, that didn’t happen, but I did come away with a stifling sense of social irresponsibility, akin to being John Merrick’s (the Elephant Man’s) distant brother, as judging eyes fixed me from behind patriotic flag-waving home tailored masks. “I am not an animal—I am a human being—I just can’t find a face mask anywhere and my wife doesn’t wear scarves I can steal,” I wanted to cry. “And my dog hasn’t been to the groomers’ since the infestation, so I couldn’t steal his scarf either.” Instead I just kept my head down in penance and avoided all contact, eye- or otherwise. I felt even worse when I bought a pizza from Little Caesar’s and saw those kind vendors safely covered with Lone Ranger black mouth-and-nose coverings. I wanted to apologize to the clerks, but they took my money in one of those church offering baskets on an eight foot bamboo pole, so I just exited quickly and went home to find something to laugh about.

So I gained solace with one of the wackiest, over the top comedies in my library, today's feature, *The Man With Two Brains* (1983) to compensate for my lack of one good brain. In the Steve Martin canon, I can't think of one that is more eccentric or goofy, outdistancing *The Jerk* (1979) for pure laughs per minute--if you're in the right mood. The third of four Steve Martin films co-written and directed by comedy great Carl Reiner, *The Man With Two Brains* outrageously starts with an insane premise--very closely related to *Donovan's Brain* (1953) and *The Brain That Wouldn't Die* (1962) commented on earlier in these posts--with Martin as Dr. Michael Hfuhruhurr as the world's most innovative, brilliant neurosurgeon who has perfected a technique of the cranial screw-top zip-lock brain surgery.

Literally running into malicious, scheming, fortune-hunting sex-bomb Delores Benedict (Kathleen Turner) while giving an interview to a journalist, Dr. Hfuhruhurr rushes the unconscious temptress to the ER, performing his intricate surgery on her and saving her life. Recuperating from the operation and seizing an opportunity for greater wealth, Delores plays on the widower doctor's sympathies and maneuvers him into marriage, capitalizing on her intense powers of seduction while withholding intimacies with the fury of Lysistrata, claiming a perpetual headache. Michael rationalizes, in his kindness, that this is only natural since she's just had serious brain surgery and needs time--which she secretly uses to "entertain" the hunky gardener and any room service waiters she finds compelling.

Honeymooning in Vienna, where the elusive Elevator Killer has been injecting victims with window cleaner, Michael meets a fellow scientist Dr. Alfred Necessiter (David Warner), who has developed a radical new technique enabling him to store living brains in liquid-filled jars using the Elevator Killer's victims. While touring the doctor's laboratory Michael hears the sweet disembodied voice of Ann Uumellmahaye (an uncredited Sissy Spacek), telepathically speaking to him and singing with him from Jar 21. They form a bond and fall in love, despite the obvious impediment of her not having a body, proving Man CAN fall in love with a woman for her mind.

Meanwhile, Delores prepares to leave Michael, tiring of him, until she discovers he's just inherited several million dollars from a distant relative, which reignites her tolerance of him--until she sees him in a romantic row boat kissing a brain in a jar. Flying into a jealous snit, she places Ann In The Jar in the oven to bake at 450 degrees. Outraged Michael forcibly throws her out, aptly branding her "Scum Queen," and in a panic searches for a body in which he can transplant Ann's slowly dying brain, even going to far as to fill a syringe with the Elevator Killer's Pane In The Glass Window Cleaner to expedite the transfer.

Okay: So I've given away too much, but no so much that you won't be surprised by the twists and turns and wall-to-wall non-stop comic bits based in absurdity. What is so impressive to me is the sheer physical dexterity Steve Martin invests in his character. In recent years his comedy has turned a little more cerebral, though no less funny, but here his entire body is transformed into a rubber band under constant stretching. There are few comedies that blend hilarious sight gags with sterling wordplay, but this is one of them. Now, be aware it's rated R for a reason, with nudity and some adult humor, but there is such a sense of innocence in it that it's not terribly objectionable. One scene of terrific cognitive dissonance involves a visit to the Seadie Hotel and Fran (Randi Brooks), a knockout prostitute with the worst voice imaginable, who is terribly accommodating even after Michael admits he was going to inject her with window cleaner: "I don't mind."

A real representative of the middle '80s, *The Man With Two Brains* also sports a delightfully cheesy electronics-laced score by Joel Goldsmith that simultaneously dates and ironically pays homage to the video game industry so popular at the time, now standing as a nostalgic throwback. When Michael works with Dr. Necessitor to achieve his goal, there's a great toss-away joke about the mainframe being coin operated since it used a video machine as its prototype. Kathleen Turner is in fine form, basing her Delores on her turn as Matty Walker in her film debut *Body Heat* (1981); this was her second film role and she owns the screen. She said, "After *Body Heat* I got a lot of offers but none of the films were good enough. I wanted this part because it's a comedy and because the character was so outrageous. I thought if I was very brave I could do some extraordinary things with it. It wasn't a run-of-the-mill token female role." Far from it--she perfectly encapsulates the raw energy and sexual confidence of the character while still retaining fabulous comic styling.

But it's Sissy Spacek's Ann who really brings the heart to the film, in spite of never appearing on screen. For me her portrayal and emotional range are among the most touching moments, predating Scarlett Johanssen's Samantha in *Her* (2013) for perfect voice casting. Anyone who can utter these lines and still convey earnestness and empathy is top notch: Ann says to Michael: "I don't think there's a girl floating in any jar anywhere who's as happy as I am. Michael, you do so much for me, and I do nothing for you." To which Michael responds, "Are you out of your head? [He winces] Sorry, I forgot."

And for sheer amazement, Carl Reiner recalled, "That movie has one of my favorite scenes ever, with the little four-year-old girl. She's standing on the corner watching, and Steve has just run over Kathleen Turner and almost killed her, and she's lying there and she needs help. He says to the four-year-old girl (Mya Akerling), 'Listen, take these instructions,' and he gives her the most complicated instructions--has her call the ER and gives her four telephone numbers, and then he gives her ten different kinds of medical treatments. And he has her repeat it, and she repeats it to him, word for word. I'll never forget that, because I thought we'd be there all day. Luckily I took a close-up of her, because she repeated it word for word and that's the only take we ever took." Afterwards the interviewer said he thought the little girl was reading from a cue card. Reiner replied, "No, no, she was four, she couldn't read! That was one of my favorite human beings ever, that little girl."

Amazon's viewers rate this at 86% four- or five stars, and it has been included among the American Film Institute's 2000 list of the 500 movies nominated for the Top 100 Funniest American Movies. In my mind this one ranks up with my favorite Steve Martin films for its free-for-all parody of mad scientist movies, its frantic inability to stand still and the registry of jokes that more often than not make me laugh out loud. It's in the same vein as *Top Secret* and the *Hot Shots!* movies except it's also got a plot that riffs and rifles through Carl Reiner's inestimable comic catalog.

And since I am now afraid that the Medical Police may be staking out my house for my indiscretion yesterday, I plan to hunker down even more that I already have and try ordering more goods from Amazon than from neighboring businesses--to keep America safe. You never know when the Elevator Killer might be hovering around, ready to take out more infidels who let their bare faces hang out. If I learned anything from Dr. Hfuhruhurr, it's If you've got a brain, use it.
Enjoy.
Jeff

I wonder where my copy of The Three Amigos went?

That one I've got.

Post #458: I find it fitting that David Foster Wallace's *Infinite Jest* figures prominently in today's feature, *Liberal Arts* (2012) as in that novel he says, “We're all lonely for something we don't know we're lonely for. How else to explain the curious feeling that goes around feeling like missing somebody we've never even met?” When I read that, I was struck by how cleanly he articulated such a ringing truth. (Again, in full disclosure, I still have made it only 300 or so pages into the elephantine novel--it ranks up there with Pynchon's *Gravity's Rainbow* as books I am requiring myself to finish before I die. Maybe that's why I haven't completed my reading of them--I'm staving off the inevitable.) At the heart of that quote, as in the heart of the film, lies a strange and poignant nostalgia.

Written, starring, produced and directed by Josh Radnor (whom you may recall from nine seasons as Ted Moseby in *How I Met Your Mother*), *Liberal Arts* has just joined the ranks of my favorite Quiet Movies List. It's not splashy, hilarious, gut-wrenching or life changing, but I found it such a pleasant experience that I'm going to suggest it as a thoughtful, wistful and comfortable 97 minutes. Thirty-five year old college admissions representative Jesse Fisher is muddling through his New York routines and his recent romantic break-up when he receives an invitation to a testimonial dinner honoring his "second favorite" college professor Peter Hoberg (Richard Jenkins) who's retiring after thirty-seven years. Returning to his Ohio alma mater, Jesse re-experiences his halcyon years as he strolls through the campus, recalling the days when he was most at ease and peace.

He chances upon a philosophical drifter Nat (Zac Efron) whose Zen-like koan-laced eccentricities catch Jesse off guard but intrigue him as he reconnects with a sense of wonder. As the dinner approaches Jesse finds Peter curiously unmoored and somewhat ambivalent toward retirement, an observation lost on Peter's colleagues who introduce Jesse to their nineteen year old sophomore drama student daughter, Elizabeth "Zibby" (Elizabeth Olsen). Wandering campus one night Jesse reluctantly follows the free-wheeling Nat to crash a party, where he meets Zibby again, agreeing to meet the next day for coffee. While waiting at the coffee shop Jesse meets a depressed but highly intelligent student who shares Jesse's passion for literature, specifically *Infinite Jest* and disappears as soon as Zibby arrives. Sensing a strong connection and love of the arts, Jesse and Zibby become pen pals, sharing observations, music and philosophical meanderings, drawing them closer despite their obvious age difference.

*Liberal Arts* is equal parts romance, drama, comedy and meditation on connectivity. Josh Radnor's work here in many ways reminded me of Zach Braff's similar forays into film with *Garden State* (2004) and *Wish I Was Here* (2014)--both actors coming from successful TV runs, writing, directing, producing and starring in their own vehicles. But I found Radnor's vision less solemn, more moving and striking closer to home than either of Braff's films, even though all three of these films trod similar ground.

In Radnor's film all the central characters--Jesse, Peter, and Zibby--are aching with an individuated sense of nostalgia: they are people feeling out of their time, and this displacement enleagues them. Jesse yearns to escape his No Man's Land between collegiate joy and respectable "adulthood" and responsibility, struggling to maintain his slippery hold on a once glorious passion for life; he says, "I think one of the things I loved the most about being here [on campus] was the feeling that anything was possible. It's just infinite choices ahead of you. You'd get out of school, and anything could happen. And then you do get out, and... life happens, you know'? Decisions get made. And then all those many choices you had in front of you are no longer really there."

Peter second guesses his decision to give up a profession that has defined and rewarded him for so long, backtracking at one point to rescind his retirement to no avail--he confesses to Jesse, "Do you know how old I feel like I am? 19. Since I was 19, I have never felt not 19. But I shave my face, and I look in the mirror, and I'm forced to say, 'This is not a 19-year-old staring back at me.' Nobody feels like an adult. It's the world's dirty secret." In Jesse's "favorite" professor Judith Fairfield (Allison Janney), a stone hearted British Literature professor whose passion for the romantics never spills into her personal emptiness, we find cold resignation to life's insurmountable challenges, the one stoic example of someone who's surrendered to ennui and nihilism.

Zibby is everything fresh, a Manic Pixie Dream Girl (MPDG) with huge, innocent expressive eyes and such an easy grace that she typifies Jesse's idealism for the future; but she too is yearning for passage outside of her time. She says to Jesse after a time, "I sometimes feel like I'm looking down on myself. Like there's this older, wiser me watching over this 19-year-old rough draft, who's full of all this potential, but has to live more to catch up with that other self somehow. And, uh, I know I'll get there. It's just sometimes I think I want to rush the process, you know? And I don't know, maybe, um - maybe I thought you were some sort of shortcut. Does that make any sense?"

Mary Pols of *Time* magazine said of the casting, "Radnor made a genius move in casting Olsen. He plays the part of Jesse so straight (nicely subdued in fact) that he needs a serious spark to play off of. And he gets it. In addition to Olsen’s physical allure—she is more luscious peach than apple—a light shines from her Zibby that suggests intelligence, street smarts and kindness. She’s so captivating and seemingly mature that Jesse’s attraction to her doesn’t come across as creepy. . ." And it's Radnor's avoidance of the cliche that makes this work, paving the way for a satisfying character growth and denouement amid the sheltered hallways of books.

*Liberal Arts* is very much a bibliophile's and an academic's movie--literate, smart, warm and engaging. It's a cogent collection of character studies bound by similar sensibilities, both funny and sad in equal measure. It's not an action picture or Academy Award pandering pathos or drama, just a simple story populated with people I feel I know and like, and in the era of social distancing it's nice to feel connected to people I've never met but wouldn't mind spending time with among the trees, libraries and bookstores offering comfort and inclusion.
Enjoy.
Jeff

I like that description a bibliophiles movie. I like movies like that stop randomly so you can copy down the footnotes....

I shall check this out...

Post #459: Welcome to No Excuses Friday, a time of utterly abnormal circumstance when we run around the backyard bird bath screaming "Mayday! Mayday!" partially because of the date, partially because we Michiganians witness an alien phenomenon--a fiery ball in the sky burning away our customary clouds and emanating heat we're unaccustomed to feeling--and partially out of long-fermenting pent-up energy from self-imposed isolationism. First cited by clinical neurologist Dr. Sarah Bellum, senior fellow to the Flotsam and Jetson Institute of Cultural Anthropology and Microbrewery, and Munger Potato Festival Queen of 1963, No Excuses Friday is "a much anticipated respite from the rigors of intellectual acuity, contemplative introspection and carefully measured behavior cemented in logic with a trained eye on moral consequence; a symbolic 'letting loose' of the inhibited spirit in almost totally mindless pursuits of the pure joy of living." Simply stated, dearly beloved, as we gather together today to get through this thing called Life, if the elevator tries to bring you down, you adopt a philosophy of "Oh No Let's Go Crazy," a holiday celebrated by Princes, Presidents and common folk--just for a day. No Excuses.

And what better way to usher in these hours of spontaneous, mindless happiness than to--in the words of John Lennon--relax, turn off your mind and float downstream with today's feature, *Beach Party* (1963), the first of five official *Beach* movies from American International, Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello. And to be honest (because I usually lie like a rug) this is my own No Excuses Friday Guilty Pleasure, the equivalent of the junkiest comfort food any demented mind could concoct. It is irredeemably dumb, causing audiences today to lose IQ points with each viewing. But I don't care because it's so stupidly classic entertainment.

Even the creators of the series acknowledge that, as *Variety* said at the time of release, the film was "a bouncy bit of lightweight fluff" with "the kind of direct, simple-minded cheeriness which should prove well nigh irresistible to those teenagers who have no desire to escape the emptiness of their lives." Of all the Beach movies, Annette said this was her favorite. Looking for plot? Don't. But the scant narrative thread follows anthropology Professor Robert Orville Sutwell (Bob Cummings, fresh from *Love That Bob*) and his assistant Marianne (Dorothy Malone) as he researches the habits, habitats and mating rituals of the beach-bound Southern California teenager, typified by Frankie (Frankie Avalon) and Delores (Annette Funicello) and their wacky brainless friends.

But they're a frolicksome lot, eager to shoot the curl, ride the glass and shake an as-inine tail feather to Dick Dale, the surf guitar king, and the Deltones to bubbly little tunes with rhyme schemes invented by third graders: We're out in the sun, Boy we're havin' some fun, Got my girl by the hand, and we're kickin' up sand, Nuthin' better on earth, Than ridin' out on the surf, And if things get too dull, we'll punch out a sea gull, 'Cuz we're out in the sun, Boy we're havin' some fun. (That's right, Katz and Kittenz, that's "Havin' Some Fun" by Nick Gillette and the Blades comin' at you all summer long on WTAC!)

Naturally waters run a little rough between Frankie and Delores when Jealousy rears its uncomely visage, and while Delores sports beachware that was designed by Nanook of Hollywood (covering a modest 94% of her shapely figure), every other girl on the beach puts her heaving decolletage and bubblegum butt in full aerobic motion. Each deciding to make the other pant over lost opportunities, Frankie takes up with Hungarian waitress Ava (Eva Six, a busty sexpot who says things like "What is going on which I am included out?") and Delores flirts with Professor Sutwell. Kids surf, Frankie and Annette glower at each other, and Brando wannabe Eric Von Zipper (Harvey Lembeck) and his Rat Pack try their best to wreak havoc, you stupids. Oh, and kids surf too.

Teenage heartthrob (and real box office pull among the young after *The Dick Van Dyke Show*) Morey Amsterdam is on hand as proprietor of Big Daddy's hangout, and if you're REALLY sharp eyed you'll find among the beach bums the Beach Boys' Brian Wilson, who would co-write songs with the composers of some these songs, Gary Usher and Roger Christian (both who also play beach bums) in the next cranked out beach installment *Muscle Beach Party* (1964). Be on the lookout also for a special guest star playing Big Daddy, ready to hawk his next movie released by American International in mere weeks. As a side note, Miki "Mickey" Dora, Frankie's stunt surfer stand-in, according to the *LA Times*, left for France in 1971 after writing a bad check for ski equipment; when he returned ten years later the FBI arrested him to serve six months in a federal prison after a Denver grand jury indicted him for credit card fraud. At least he didn't hang ten.

This pastel-colored cavalcade of comedy and harmless libido blasters was directed by William Asher. Asher directed 110 of *I Love Lucy*'s 179 episodes, frequently directed his wife Elizabeth Montgomery in her hit TV series *Bewitched* and produced that show for its entire eight-year run. He also directed five of the *Beach* movies and reflected on his career: "When I look back at my own work, Bewitched stays with me the most, and Lucy, and the Beach Party pictures. The scripts of the Beach Party films were sheer nonsense, but they were fun and positive. ... When kids see the films now, they can get some idea of what the '60s were like. The whole thing was a dream, of course. But it was a nice dream." He added, "The key to these pictures is lots of flesh but no sex. It's all good clean fun. No hearts are broken and virginity prevails." From a super-trivial standpoint, according to IMDB, the Average Shot Length of *Beach Party* is ~7.1 seconds while the Median Shot Length is ~6.4 seconds, so we can see the historical beginnings of MTV's scattershot editing practices, contributing to the short attention span engendering an entire generation of Boomers and X'ers.

For me the introduction of Eric Von Zipper and "The Finger" is classic Americana. I can still laugh every time the Professor's time suspension tool snaps actors into stasis. And these simpler times when "Giving someone The Finger" was considered a pretty bawdy double entrendre are worth revisiting, just as controversy surrounded Annette not being allowed to show her navel, much like Barbara Eden in *I Dream Of Jeannie*. For the record the covering of the navel was not just mandated by Walt Disney, to whom Annette was under contract but who truly liked the innocence of the Beach pictures, but Annette, under terrific pressure to reveal her midriff still staunchly refused in this feature, determining the audience would respond positively to her image. (She would, however, unveil the revered navel in the next film, *Muscle Beach Party*, even though it's the only Beach film not featuring Eric Von Zipper. Bummer. The Good Lord giveth and taketh away)

So throw all caution to the surf, wax down your board and buy yourself or your significant other one of those trashy shimmy dresses popularized by Candy Johnson in this film and several other Beach features. Known as "the perpetual motion dancer," Candy was in fact the inspiration for the Billboard #11 hit "I Want Candy" by The Strangeloves. If that knowledge, the film debut of Frankie and Annette as a team, and the goofy earrings of Dick Dale swinging with his surf guitar don't make you want to yelp on this hootin' day, nothing will. Hey, kids, surf's up, and let's head out to my secret surfin' spot where only I know, The gremmies and the hodads never go... No excuses.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #370: THUD! Stupid word, really, especially the more you stare at it or repeat it. But it's also the reaction that immediately came to mind when we finished watching today's feature, *Whistling In Dixie* (1942), the sequel to last Sunday's film, *Whistling In The Dark* (1941). Red Skelton reprises his role as Wally "The Fox" Benton, the radio mystery star who perpetually finds himself in real murder plots in his down time. This time he's drawn into deadly shenanigans in Georgia in the dingy dungeons of a decrepit and decaying Civil War fort replete with priceless treasures, air-tight rooms cascading with water, and more atrocious affectations of "southern" accents, I say SUTHurn accents, I say, boy, than the graduatin' class from the Foghorn Leghorn School of Articulation, Son, way down upon the Swannee Ribbah!

Back with Red are Ann Rutherford (her hair now much darker than the previous entry) as Wally's fiancee Carol Lambert, and "Rags" Ragland playing twins Sylvester and Chester Conway (but you can call them Lester). Summoned to a gloomy Southern mansion by her sorority sister Emmamae Downs' (Diana Lewis) urgent plea for help, Carol drags Wally into the tangled affairs of Judge George Lee (Guy Kibbee) and Sheriff Claude Stagg (George Bancroft) as they investigate the apparent murder of Emmamae's boyfriend (Thud Number One). We've also got the obligatory grizzled Civil War uniform-wearing war vet Corporal Lucken (Lucien Littlefield) thrown in to hike the stereotype quota, with William "Buckwheat" Thomas in a cameo to date the film even more (Double Thud!). But let's test your cringe meter with your reaction to this "topical" joke: Carol receives a scarab in the mail from Emmamae as a distress signal, and Wally calls it a Japanese beetle. Carol asks, "What makes you think it’s a Japanese beetle?" to which Wally responds, "It's got a yellow belly." (And it's a triple play Thud to right field)

Divorced from the confines of the radio program structure, *Whistling in Dixie* turns out to be just another bid for the Bob Hope/Abbott and Costello mystery comedy market, with Red aping the wise cracking rapid-fire joke lobbing we've seen in countless other films of the time. Except here the jokes are pretty lame and tame without the wit, and for me it's an uncomfortable situation when a good comedian leaves space for the [insert audience laugh here] which doesn't come. Now bear in mind, I really wanted to like this film, and it does offer a couple small laughs toward the end as "Rags" Ragland turns out to be funnier than 90% of the cast and Red offers some nice pratfalls. But his howl of the Fox becomes more annoying than funny, and his apoplexy is just a rerun of the last film. And for me it doesn't help that Ann Rutherford and Diana Lewis are basically given nothing to do but react to soggy, sagging jokes against really noticeable rear-projection screens.

But again, it must be me, because the film was a smash in 1942, surpassing its $388,000 budget and raking in $1,345,000, $1,066,000 of that domestically. And on balance, I did enjoy several set pieces in today's feature: The confusion over Rags Ragland's dueling brothers is well done, the sequence in the hermetically sealed dungeon room as it fills with water is a little suspenseful, and Red Skelton seems a little more at ease with his character with his rubber face and falls. So *Whistling In Dixie* is fine for folks--and kids--who have not seen this variation on a theme several times over, even though I could see my wife's attention walking out of the room several times as the "mystery" and exposition took on plodding significance. Admittedly it's difficult to make a crime caper fit seamlessly with screwball comedy, but it can be done without a thud signalling what's being attempted.

I guess for me that's the bottom line: Does the film take me out of the awareness that I'm watching convolutions of plot because I'm laughing at the characters' diverting performances? In this case, nope. The "suspense" is painted on in a thin wash rather than organically growing from characters and situations, and situations are manufactured so the jokes can be wedged in like extruded plastic. What, finally, is the purpose of Wally almost being beheaded by an ancient guillotine when we know he's not in ANY form of danger or harm? Why is a guillotine there at all, except to exist as a trope in rival Universal films at the time? I know, I've overthinking a gag, but in some ways that underscores the point I'm arguing: If the scene engaged me, I wouldn't have even pondered those questions. It's a weak exercise in building tension where there is none to be had, a neon laugh track sign instructing us to emote.

One thing is sure: This doesn't make me wish I were in the land of cotton where old times there are not forgotten. Look away, look away, look away, if you can find something more fun to do with 74 minutes. I'll bet you can, or I'll jess shut mah mouth with a thud, head out under the magnolia trees, corn mah pone, and think about it ta-marrah, 'cause ta-marrah is anutha day!
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #371: Fulfilling the prophecy I made yesterday, today is another day. Usually I am loathe to take a bow for my sharp witted powers of observation, but it's comforting to join Rare Earth in singing, "I just want to celebrate/Another day of living." And since it's the third day in a row when temperatures have hovered around seventy with no rain, and since this was the month--foretold many moons ago--when the new James Bond film was supposed to hit theaters--we should raise a toast (or eat raisin toast) to the blessings promising better days ahead. As the Bond film says, this is "No Time To Die."

Of course we'll have to cool our jets a bit as Bond is following governmental orders, now opening his twenty-fifth film on November 25 due to the global threat that is real. But in honor of 007's longest running English film series measured in years, today's feature comes from the longest running English film series measured in *number*, the *Carry On* franchise. The ninth of 31 films, *Carry On Spying* (1964) goes on record as being the very first James Bond parody--ever, even though it borrows just as heavily from Graham Greene's *The Third Man* (1949). It is also the last *Carry On* feature to be filmed in black and white, a plus in my book.

If, like me, your exposure to the *Carry On* series has been limited (in my case, nill, as this was the first one I've seen), perhaps a little background might be helpful in your appreciation of this comedy. The franchise ran from 1958 to 1978, briefly surfacing again in 1992 with the critical disaster *Carry On Columbus*, arguably the worst in the series. The entire run of goofy, patently silly films often parodying English culture and conventions was prodigiously written by Norman Hudis (1958–1962) and Talbot Rothwell (1963–1974), produced by Peter Rogers and directed by Gerald Thomas. Adhering to very tight budgets and schedules, *Carry On* films were made at Pinewood Studios, becoming an English tradition with a revolving cast of actors and actresses who were roundly paid a paltry five thousand pounds per picture.

Structurally, *Carry On Spying* reminded me of an extended Benny Hill skit, loaded with snickering innuendo and broad slapstick that frequently made my eyes roll back in my head, even while the entirety of its 87 minutes was good natured albeit low-brow comedy. According to Sussex University media and cultural studies professor Andy Medhurst, "They weren't films that set out to have an explicit social message but in a paradoxical kind of way that gives them more meaning. They capture the way people living humdrum lives with limited horizons found a release in comedy. They seem to encapsulate an everyday life in Britain of that time."

Tony Nichols of Swindon also reacted to the films: "The thing about the *Carry On* genre is that they are an explicitly British style of film making. They were made by an British cast with British money and for an British audience, with no thought that they might have an appeal beyond these shores. That is quite refreshing in this day and age when every British director has an eye on Hollywood, when even nominally British films have yanks in them to appeal to the international market, when remakes are unceremoniously (and often clumsily) transplanted to American locations and any Brit employed in an American film is guaranteed to be the bad guy. *Carry On*s were simple, silly and fun. They have not presumptions to art, no expectation of longevity and no claim to be important. They were simply what they were, an affectionate sideways look at Britain, and all the eccentricities and quirks that make us who we are."

That said, the plot, such that it is, of *Carry On Spying* involves the retrieval of a top-secret chemical formula stolen by the eponymous evil empire of STENCH (Society for the Total Extinction of Non-Conforming Humans) headed by the insidious Dr. Crow (whose identity will be withheld here to extend suspense and surprise). Unfortunately, the British Secret Service is running low on qualified agents and thus must dispatch their lowest recruits--Agent Desmond Simpkins (Kenneth Williams), and his three trainees—Agent Harold Crump (Bernard Cribbins), Agent Daphne Honeybutt (Barbara Windsor), and Agent Charlie Bind (Charles Hawtrey). They are an earnest though sorry lot, with Simpkins mastering all the charm of a snide Pee-Wee Herman, Harold sporting the resolve and mammoth chin of Jay Leno, Daphne filling out her role and blouse splendidly with a photographic memory, and Charlie wears bottle-bottom glasses and would be memorialized by John Lennon in the "Let It Be" concert, ad libbing, "I dig a pygmy by Charles Hawtry and the Deaf Aids. Phase One in which Doris gets her oats." (Sorry. Trivia rules my life)

To dispel suspicion they all travel to Vienna separately, each contacted by Agent Carstairs (Jim Dale) in elaborate disguises, leading them to the Cafe Mozart where the inept Simpkins totally blows their covers before STENCH agents the Fat Man (Eric Pohlmann in shades of J. Scott Smart and Sydney Greenstreet) and Milchmann (Victor Maddern) who had broken into the governmental laboratories to steal the formula dressed as a milkman. Their trail takes everyone to Algiers, and specifically Hakim's Fun House where Daphne and Harold, dressed as harem girls, attempt to regain the formula from The Fat Man. But what good would a spy film be if our heroes were not captured by the monolithic criminal organization, leaving their lives hanging in the balance of the film?

Since *Carry On Spying* was the first in an effusive flood of Bond parodies muddying the waters, "Bond producers Albert R. Broccoli and Harry Saltzman threatened legal action over a plan to name a character 'James Bind' [so] producer Rogers changed the name to 'Charlie Bind, Double-Oh Oh'," according to the TCMDb. Coincidentally, however, cinematographer Alan Hume would go on to shoot three "legitimate" Bond films with Roger Moore--*For Your Eyes Only* (1981), *Octopussy* (1983) and *A View to a Kill* (1985). But shooting the *Carry On* pictures was a decidedly different enterprise, according to Hume: "The preparation was about two days, during which time you had to get all the equipment ready and pre-light the first set. We then had six weeks, which included the end-of-picture party."

This was the first of nine *Carry On* films for Dame Barbara Windsor, whose character name Daphne Honeybutt was itself a parody of the Ursula Andress role of Honey Rider in *Dr. No* (1962). At first taking an instant dislike to co-star Kennth Williams, she later became one of his best friends, and in 2000 she was awarded an MBE (Member of the Order of the British Empire) in the Queen's New Year's Honours List for her services to entertainment. Her portrayal of Daphne is a high point in the film, with a coy innocence and a wonderfully animated set of facial contortions that immediately endear her to audiences. Kenneth Williams is at his obsequious best, and Charles Hawtry is a gangly fool though in the midst of the STENCH conveyor belt sequence, during filming he fainted dead away; the staff feared he was ill, but really was merely drunk.

There are some good lines and scenes here, but I think it will primarily appeal to those who have followed the crew's hijinks in more than just this entry; the *Carry On* series may well be best enjoyed as part of momentum, rather like a Wile E. Coyote/Road Runner cartoon that gathers steam the more you watch it. You know it's going to be idiotic, fairly predictable and foolhearty, but you don't care because it's so comfortable and the particulars seem to be enjoying themselves as members of a filmed vaudeville or burlesque show.

I've got a couple more *Carry On* films in the coffer, so I'll post them along the way, but in the meantime since the sky is still cloudless (unheard of in these here parts) I think I'll switch out Rare Earth for The Rascals' *Groovin'* on a Sunday afternoon. Feel free to sing along.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Allow me to offer up an alternate soundtrack.

Help, the memories are flowing so fast I can't handle it. . . . great stuff, Space. Yeah, baby.
Jeff

Post #372: I had a rather fitful night's sleep last night. Perhaps it was due to the Stay Indoors Wrapped In A Hazmat Suit For Another Month mandate our governor implemented, or maybe it was the product of too much television. But I dreamt it was three o'clock in the morning, and Jake from State Farm was calling Jan from Toyota, hissing, "What are you wearing?" Or maybe it was a subliminally placed autosuggestion due to the movie I watched before retiring, *Bikini Beach* (1964). Claiming that today's feature *Bikini Beach* (1964) is one of the best *Beach* movies among the seven released is a little like discerning which ranks higher--chewing vermiculite or gargling with Pine Sol. Both leave kind of a funny taste in your mouth, and it's one of the dumbest choices around, but there are worse options to entertain.

*Bikini Beach* is nothing more than what its title advertises--more mindless frolicking in the sun with a nonsensical narrative, surfing, singing and skimpy coverings of where the sun don't shine, even though the camera lingers over those posterior assets in moderately lascivious innocence, giving them more screen time and close ups than Frankie and Annette put together. As Dashiell Hammett said, "It's the stuff dreams are made of."

*Bikini Beach* is the third film in the series, and for me it is as "good" as, if not better than, *Beach Party* (1963). Oh, don't get me wrong--there are still some really annoying moments in this one, but it also holds some comic timings that suggest the series has hit its stride. The whole gang are back--Frankie (Frankie Avalon) and DeeDee (Annette Funicello) who still moon over each other and fall prey to jealousies, Eric Von Zipper (Harvey Lembeck) and his "stupids" the Rats and Mice, Deadhead (Jody McCrea, who reportedly may show up in the news any day now under charges of sexual harassment during filming; he was admonished repeatedly for thinking the women on the set were there for his amusement), Candy (Candy Johnson who actually to speak in this installment in addition to knocking people out with her hips), and Johnny (John Ashley).

As an added incentive to draw people into the theaters, we also have Don Rickles as Big Drag, who owns the gang's hangout The Pit Stop and the local drag strip; Keenan Wynn as curmudgeonly millionaire newspaper publisher Harvey Huntington Honeywagon III, who equates the gang with primates; Martha Hyer as Vivian Clements, Harvey's love interest who's aghast at Harvey's misanthropy; Janos Prohaska as Clyde, Harvey's pet chimp, always a huge comic magnet since someone believes monkeys are inherently funny; "Little" Stevie Wonder and that new singing sensation Donna Loren, who each sing one song alongside The Pyramids, a long-faded-into-oblivion surf-rock band. Oh yes, how could I forget (even though I really tried) Frankie Avalon playing a dual role as Annette's love and The Potato Bug, an aggressively annoying gap-toothed British heartthrob (cast in the satirical mold of The Beatles) who makes all the girls swoon and the guys gag in disgust. But in typical *Beach* fashion, be on the lookout for a special guest cameo as The Art Collector.

It's basically *Beach Party* rewarmed, with a retreading of Establishment figures "studying" the primitive rituals of the young whose interests are merely "sand, surf and sex." But this time around--Spoiler Alert and Monumental Box Office Draw--Annette does prove to the camera that she has a belly button! And there's even a coy suggestion that she might be interested in the last of the three "S's" listed above. Hokey smoke, Bullwinkle.

Eric Von Zipper is hitting full stride in this entry, now fully aware, but no wiser, of the power of The Finger, and in a change of pace, he actually admires Honeywagon in his disdain for the rest of the gang. Von Zipper's righthand stupid JD (short for Juvenile Delinquent played by Andy Romano) is also back with his boss's back, just as Yvonne, the Lady Bug (Danielle Aubry but voiced by director William Asher's wife Elizabeth Montgomery) treats aggressors to The Potato Bug to a lesson in French kickboxing. Replacing the relatively tame pie-throwing climax of *Beach Party* is a great chase scene involving everyone in the cast after Eric Von Zipper in a go-kart (actually manned by West Coast Go-Kart Champion Von Deming).

To pull even more of America's youth into the drive-ins, a subplot involving Frankie proving his manly worth by challenging The Potato Bug to a drag race in excess of 200 miles per hour takes special prominence. According to IMDb, hipsters of the drag race community served the film also: Dean Jeffries' "Manta Ray," Larry Stellings' "Britannica," the Greer, Black and Prudhomme fuel dragster "Freida" driven by Don Prudhomme, and 'TV' Tommy Ivo's fuel dragster and four-Buick-engined "Showboat" dragster powered by four 454 c.d.i. Hilborn injected Nailhead Buick engines, combined to make 1700 horsepower. Cinematically these racers offer some great footage, but narratively there's a huge attitudinal shift that comes almost out of the ether and gaseous fumes that is totally unexplained: Honeywagon experiences a change of heart, Potato Bug and Frankie become friends, and Annette does a turnabout from anger to undying love for Frankie. It all felt like the chute had halted my 203 mph run down the track and pulled me back into a spin. . . if I had cared that much about the plot.

But Frankie's interactions with The Potato Bug are so cleanly matted that for a time I actually thought his rival was played by Robert Morse; kudos to Asher for seamlessly integrating the split screen antics before the intervention of CGI. And the final dance-off between Candy and "Old Lady" Mary Kovacs is worth sitting through as the credits roll, so stick around for them. On the slightly minus side, the songs are largely forgettable, the rear projection process insert shots are howlingly bad, and director Asher seems to have put a muzzle on Don Rickles, for whom I kept waiting to cut loose with his trademark sarcasm, which would have really enlivened his character and pushed the overall film higher in my estimation.

All seriousness aside, this is a perfect compliment to *Beach Party*. Both films subscribe to the Popeye School of Cinematic Splashiness--they am what they am, and that's all that they am. And they provide the dumbest escape you can find from the tensions of the modern world. Just don't watch them back to back before bed, or you'll probably dream of Mike Lindell trying to fluff the pillows of Flo from Progressive.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #373: Don't you just hate it when you fall for a beautiful murder suspect, move her in with you, then have second thoughts when she starts throwing Ginsu knives around the kitchen, nearly running you over with your car, shooting you in the butt with an arrow from one hundred yards away, and then watch your house blow up while you're inside following up with a heaping dish of poisoned goulash? Yes, it happens all the time, but in the end don't we always laugh together and shake our heads at the nutty misunderstandings that brought us here? Ho ho, brother, we're a resilient bunch, aren't we?

Well, some people just have no sense of humor. People like Roger Ebert, who included his assessment of today's feature, *Her Alibi* (1989) in his anthology of 200 scathing commentaries, *I Hated, Hated, HATED This Movie* under the heading "Alleged Comedies." Now I know I'm going out on a limb here, but I have inferred he did not have a rollicking good time watching co-stars Tom Selleck and Paulina Porizkova do a duty dance with death in this romantic fluff. Well, if my powers of deduction are working at all, I can also surmise that Roger, in his prime, never spent an afternoon in the company of Hallmark Movies And Mysteries with such luminaries as Aurora Teagarden, Ruby Herring and Angie Dove, the titular spunky sleuths who giggle and stare wide-eyed over corpses as if they're inconvenient stains on the carpet awaiting a bucketful of Resolve--because *Her Alibi* is the 1980s theatrical equivalent of those cute-crime confections.

Fresh from the success of *Three Men And A Baby* (1987), Tom Selleck tries his luck as Phil Blackwood, a best selling crime novelist with writer's block, but This Man Is A Booby, composing some of the worst, most sophomoric purple prose imaginable. As an English professor I would seriously advise him to pursuing another career, perhaps moving to Hawaii and buying a Detroit Tigers cap, or moving to New York and try courting Courtney Cox for a couple years. So for me, his voice-over narration of his new novel is just so BAD, some of the film's attempts at humor evaded me. Since there is no freaking way in this or any other universe he's a best selling author, the premise falters before it's out of the gate.

But let's remain positive. When Phil and Sam his publishing agent (William Daniels) stumble upon a court case in which Nina Ionescu, a Romanian beauty (Paulina Porizkova, actually a Czech model), is being charged with murder by scissors to the chest of a fellow Romanian, Phil determines she's innocent because someone so dazzling couldn't commit such an atrocity. (Has this famous mystery writer never read ANYTHING by Chandler or James M. Cain or seen a noir film?) Enamored of her striking stature and penetrating blue eyes, he and Sam fabricate an alibi for her and move her into his modest mansion of many windows . . . under the watchful gaze of evil Communist government agents and the dogged determination of police detective Frank Polito (James Farentino) who, like *The Fugitive*'s Lieutenant Gerard, is obsessed with her capture.

Though this may sound morbidly serious (and illogical, which it is), it's just the mystery platform on which rests romantic comedy and, I guess, some suspense. Director Bruce Beresford clearly wants to keep things helium-light, allowing the two attractive stars to spar and parry with balloons rather than sharp rapiers. So, sure, in any relationship a little rain, like murder and a constant threat of violence, must fall. Nina is suspicious of Phil's motives, as befitting someone from a Communist rule, and Phil is suspicious of Nina's predilection for razor sharp things lying around the house, like carving knives, steel grills of RVs, metal tipped archery shafts and combustible microwaves. It's all fertile ground for slapstick albeit painful confrontations that would test the fire of most men's affection. But no lasting harm befalls either of them, because they are falling in love. . .

Critics lambasted this rom-com when it was released, and accompanying press did little to sell the audiences on the "chemistry" between Selleck and Porizkova. Ever the gentleman, Selleck went to diplomatic extremes to refute claims of tension between him and his co-star, stating, ''There were a lot of stories in the tabloids saying that Paulina and I didn`t get along, that she stormed off the set and caused a lot of problems, but they`re absolutely untrue. We never had any disagreements, and in fact, she gave us a lot of extra time, which, by contract, she didn`t have to do. She reminds me of a young Audrey Hepburn, with that same radiance. She`s new, but she`s got great acting instincts, and she`s also enigmatic, like Nina Ionescu, her character. I think she`ll go far. . . . Paulina and I never had a shouting match, never had a disagreement. We had creative discussions on the set, and, if you don't disagree, you're not going to make a very good movie.''

Still, according to IMDb, "by the time filming ended, they refused to be in the same room with each other. To make the ad poster for the film, director Bruce Beresford had to photo shoot them both separately, and digitally combine the two photos using Paintbox software, so that it looked like Selleck was standing behind Porizkova with his arms around her." Similarly, Porizkova admitted, “I’m not exactly Dustin Hoffman. I have no technical training in acting.” She said of co-star Selleck: “He’s a nice guy, nothing too dramatic about his presentation. I met him for five minutes in Los Angeles, where I was a major embarrassment to myself when I read my lines,” while she had little good to say about Hollywood itself: “Basically it’s as rotten and corrupt as modeling.” As if the industry were responding to her charge, Porizkova was nominated for a Tenth Golden Raspberry Award for Worst Actress for her work in *Her Alibi*, (un)fortunately losing to Heather Locklear for her part in *The Return Of The Swamp Thing* (1989). And these days she is nursing her wounds of betrayal after being neglected in the will of her deceased husband Ric Ocasek (The Cars) of thirty years.

William Daniels is at his dry, droll best, and James Farentino gets plenty of opportunities to froth at the mouth. Tom Selleck is an easy sell, though Phil is completely out of his *Magnum* self-assuredness, performing most of his own stunts, the most perilous being able to sit still while Paulina straddles him while cutting his hair. (Selleck, ever politic, said, "Chemistry is a result on an audience, and I can't tell whether it's there. Love scenes and romantic scenes... lust scenes... you have to do them with an element of truth. I don't think you can lie on film. And I'm really happy with the work. The ultimate chemistry, how strong it is, is really up to the audience.") And while Porizkova proves her status as an Estee Lauder $6 million spokesperson and *Sports Illustrated* model, she seriously generates some fun with her cryptic character, even if Meryl Streep, Jodi Foster, Sigourney Weaver, Melanie Griffith and Glenn Close did not have to worry that their Best Actress nominations that year were in jeopardy.

*Her Alibi* is, for all its faults, still a silly little charmer that will never be accused of changing your perception of romantic comedies. It's airy, provoking easy laughs if you disengage your logic detector and just go with the possibilities. Professional critics be damned--Amazon viewers rank it 88% four- and five-star ratings, so you might find it a pleasant enough diversion, and honestly it offers more fun than Hallmark's *Angie O'Plasty and the Killers of Cholesterol Cove* or whatever new harmless mystery it's got cooked up for their annual Spring Forward, Fall Back Marathon in the upcoming weeks.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #374: DURING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless night in the spring that held us captivated indoors, when the clouds clung oppressively as a cold shower curtain misted with steam, I had been passing time alone, on digital platforms, through a singularly dreary tract of cinema; and at length found myself, as the flickering shadows of the decadent drew on, within view of the melancholy triathlon of the Poe House, ushering in a schizophrenic feature known alternately in 1968 as *Spirits Of The Dead*, *Histoires Extraordinaires*, *Tales Of Mystery and Imagination* and *Ed Was One Effed Up Dude*.

Egged on by the enticing reputations of three famous international directors--Roger Vadim, Louis Malle, and Federico Fellini--a couple years ago I hunted down a subtitled DVD of *Spirits Of The Dead*, an anthology of three short films dramatizing or suggested by the dark stories of Edgar Allan Poe. And since I felt I owed it to anyone who read my commentaries to take a short dog-leg of a trip away from comedy, I took the road less traveled, finding myself seriously creeped out by the change of scenery. The first two stories--"Metzengerstein" directed by Roger Vadim, and "William Wilson" directed by Louis Malle--forced me to reassess and update my acquaintance with Poe, quickly withdrawing my hand from his grasp and emptying an entire bottle of hand sanitizer on it, hoping to wash away any trace he might have left.

But Fellini's entry, *Toby Dammit*, was a glorious joy, classic Fellini full of robust energy, humor and bizarre cast of characters sublimely drifting in and out of his surreal scenes. Thank God his was the last entry in the anthology, lest I would have started running through the house looking for signs of encompassing evil emanating from Care Bears and Precious Moments figurines. Even though *Toby Dammit* held some menace, it was on balance a spirited 37 minutes in an otherwise lugubrious 121 minute excursion into depravity. Here's how the whole enchilada slips off the plate. . . .

1. "Metzengerstein" follows Countess Frederique (Jane Fonda) and her unbridled debauchery at age 22 when she inherits the Metzengerstein estate. Cruel, promiscuous and unyielding in her passions, she takes time out from her lurid pursuits to ride into the woods of the estate and find herself caught in an animal trap, which to me seems fitting. Seeing her estranged cousin Baron Wilhelm (Peter Fonda) at the limits of his land, she commands he set her free. A solemn loner, he complies and promptly disappears, stirring the libidinous fire for him within Frederique. Unable to wrench him from her thoughts, she dispatches her minions to set fire to his stables, inadvertently trapping Wilhelm and his prize mare in the conflagration, killing everything and everyone on his property. Wracked with guilt for the first time in her life, she is confronted by a wild black stallion, who consumes all her attention and energy. 'Nuff said.

Director Roger Vadim, fresh from his work on *Barbarella* (1968), drapes his wife Jane Fonda in diaphanous gowns and weirdly anachronistic futurist cutaway clothing left over from the space opera, even though the story is set in medieval days. Accompanying the libertine philandering on the screen is the lush photography from Claude Renoir and a stealthily unsettling score by Jean Prodromidès. While not basking in nudity, the short film nonetheless was found controversial also in casting Jane and brother Peter as objects of mutual desire though no physical connection is made. At the time of filming Peter Fonda was quietly working up to four hours per day on his script for *Easy Rider* (1969). Basically it tested my patience, but I held out hope for the remaining two installments.

2. "William Wilson" (Alain Delon) plunges us deeper into despair as a nineteenth century sociopathic Austrian army officer who wishes to confess to a priest his sin of murder. Throughout his life Wilson has engaged in various feats of dispassionate evil--as a boy lowering depantsed school mates into barrels of rats, destroying school property, and in medical school securing innocent young women on whom he'd perform live autopsies before his fellow students. Yet often his exploits have been interrupted by another student also named William Wilson, his doppleganger who rights the impending crimes against nature. Then one night, after cheating and manipulating the courtesan Giuseppina (Brigitte Bardot) out of all her winnings and whipping her viciously as part of his payment, Wilson is again confronted by his double, who intervenes before Wilson can secure the ultimate indignity from her. In a duel the double taunts Wilson, suggesting if he kills his double, he will be killing himself. As in the first installment, I will leave you to discover the denouement with no spoilers.

Director Louis Malle allegedly took this assignment to help fund his next picture, *Murmur of the Heart* (1971), and its relentless melancholic savagery will surely make audiences squirm, as the misogyny and easy violence sell Poe's vision of horror. Like "Metzengerstein" "William Wilson" explores the excesses and casual hedonism of the upper class, resulting in an ironic comeuppance while eliciting almost fetishistic exploitation along the way. Bridgette Bardot, decked in a raven-haired wig and a sardonic eroticism in her taunts, transforms her controlled gambler into an icy fatalism unnerved by the depth of her opponent's sadistic intent. More distressing to me is the apparent readiness of Wilson's onlookers to simply sit back and allow his excesses to progress unabated. Tough stuff, Maynard, and not easy to watch though the *Twilight Zone* ending leaves you to wonder.

3. "Toby Dammit" (Terence Stamp) is an alcoholic lout, a boorish narcissist, and a relatively anti-social Shakespearean actor revered by a fawning audience as he travels to Rome to make a "Christian Western" in exchange for a new Ferrari. Perpetually drunk he is nonetheless celebrated as a genius, even as he treats his every interviewer with disdain and churlish indifference. Crippled with doubt and self-loathing, he is buffeted by a profusion of dream-like illusions, foremost among them The Devil Incarnate as a little girl with luminous white ball. Called upon to give a speech in the media-rich swirling madness of the media at the Italian Oscars, Toby stumbles his way through his barely restrained condescension and escapes to the comfort of his waiting Ferrari, which he pilots with alarming recklessness through the town. The rest I leave to you to experience in giddy enjoyment in the hands of a master director.

Based on the suggestion of Poe's story "Don't Wager Your Head To The Devil," Fellini's short film is by far the highlight of the omnibus feature. Bursting with his characteristic wit, flamboyance and surreal pacing, *Toby Dammit* can easily be viewed in isolation as classic Italian absurdity, personal fantasy and symbolism; if you've not experienced Fellini, this would be a textbook introduction to his craft as well as his themes of self-absorption, hellish demands of celebrity, artifice and reality, and the refuge of dreams which can become nightmares in a wink--this one is like a mini postlude to my favorite Fellini film *8 1/2* (1963). With a sparkling soundtrack by Nino Rota with a solo on "Ruby" by Ray Charles, *Toby Dammit* is a delirious excursion into in/sanity that is worth the price of sitting through the other two Poe excuses for horror.

Now, my DVD set was segmented--one disc for each film, frantionating the flow of one continuous experience, and maybe that is a disadvantage, maybe a plus, because it gave me the change to view each alone. If I were still teaching *Toby Dammit* could easily be examined by itself in a nice 37-minute viewing with lots of time left over to discuss its layers without trudging through the moral morass of the other two entries. But at some point I may opt to search for one complete disc, perhaps the dubbed version so I can study the mise-en-scene for each film a bit more. But even then, I will probably fast forward through the first story as I'm not Fonda it, though Jane is surely embraced by her husband's camera. I understand the film is available on Blu-Ray, so if it's not too expensive I may opt for it for comparison purposes.

So if your tastes run toward arty, itchy, uneven film experiences, try the whole thing and don't tell me I never warned you. But if you enjoy the occasional offbeat, classic Italian gremlin, opt for the last film and wait for the payoff. And if you see any little blonde girls dribbling pearlescent bouncy balls down your street, just turn your back, keep your head and go watch a Three Stooges marathon.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #375: Schmaltz Alert: Skip this first paragraph if you're not into displays of public affection. Today's feature, *Happythankyoumoreplease* (2011), for me is another hidden gem, pulling me out of the pit (and the pendulum) of yesterday's Poe-Boy Special. Somehow, even though it underscored how ultimately unsatisfying a social distance hug is, it filled me with a grateful heart that I can miss so many good people in my life, people who are separated by space but not affection. It's prompted me to pass along this set of wishes written by Bob Perkins, first shared with me by a dear friend whom I miss dramatically, even though she lives less than a mile away. But now, it's for you, because I don't say it out loud enough: "I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright no matter how grey the day may appear. I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun even more. I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive and everlasting. I wish you enough pain so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear bigger. I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting. I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess. I wish you enough hellos to get you through the final good-bye."

Flip this commentary over to see the price tag and the little crown logo indicating that the sender cares enough to send the very best. Then get on with it.

After relishing the experience of Josh Radnor's *Liberal Arts* a few days ago, I hunted down his debut as film writer, director and star, a Sundance Film Festival winner of the Audience Award, *Happythankyoumoreplease* with a great ensemble cast including Malin Akerman, Kate Mara, Tony Hale, Zoe Kazan and newcomer Michael Algieri. Once again I found myself totally immersed in the character struggles of six New Yorkers as they weave in and out of one another's lives seeking connectivity and meaningful insight into themselves. I know, that sounds like another routine, by-the-numbers Etch-A-Sketch postcard of good looking self-absorbed people reciting lines of dialogue so smartly fashioned that no one would ever be that wry in real life. But you'd be wrong in thinking that--For one thing I am absolutely sparkling in my repartee around the house, even though you don't need to remind me I am less than stunning in appearance. And secondly, the movie is not all that predictable while it is touching.

In one of three narrative threads our linchpin character, novelist Sam Wexler (Josh Radnor), befriends a young introspective boy Rasheen (Michael Algieri) left alone on a subway by his indifferent foster family, taking him in until he can locate his kin. The film explores their unique bond as Sam courts an aspiring cabaret singer Mississippi (Kate Mara) while facing down his own failures. His best friend Annie (Malin Akerman) similarly seeks solace with herself and her search for acceptance in a relationship as she learns to cope openly with alopecia. And our third thread follows Sam's cousin Mary Catherine (Zoe Kazan) wrestling with her boyfriend Charlie's (Pablo Schreiber) decision to leave New York for a life in Los Angeles, an environment she abhors.

Beneath all our principals' challenges lies their confrontation with personal truths, each given a chance to determine how they all might be able to live comfortably with their life choices. Radnor signals the audience early on that, like his character Sam, he nails the short story approach yet faces some resistance when it comes to writing a novel; for the film for a time seems to be a collection of vignettes rather than one cohesive narrative. But after watching yesterday's Poe-Pourri, this structure didn't bother me, especially since its conclusion very nicely brought all the strands together as the characters individually learn the value and power of compromise and gratitude.

*Happythankyoumoreplease* critics and cynics will find the independent spirit of the film, as well as its allusions to the early Woody Allen comedies like *Annie Hall* (1977) and *Hannah And Her Sisters* (1986), a little precious, but since I'm not really a jaded "realist" or New York "intellectual," I enjoyed the easy parting and joining as our characters learned how to accommodate the delicate dance moves of their partners. There is soft comfort to be found in the actors' performances: Josh Radnor began writing the script during the first and second seasons of *How I Met Your Mother*, taking another couple years to scrape up funding, and his co-stars *know* their characters well.

Malin Akerman glows as Annie, developing an empathetic slow growth and vulnerability especially in her scenes with "Sam No. 2" Tony Hale; I was actually surprised at *Arrested Development*'s Buster being so sweet tempered. Kate Mara as the quirky but beautiful Mississippi offers moments of joy and a transcendent shyness in her singing and her understandable reticence in committing to Sam; their tossing of apartment keys back and forth for me was one of the sweetest, most true and revealing scenes in the film. Zoe Kazan reprises her large-eyed waif with a backbone role with complete believability as a young woman at her crossroads. But if none of these folks with their eccentricities and insecurities give you reason to like them, stick around for Michael Algieri's Rasheem. He doesn't have a page of dialogue, but his unaffected expressiveness and genial manner can steal some attention away from more seasoned actors. His quiet declaration halfway through the film--"Sam, you're my best friend"--can genuinely poke your heart.

Between this film and *Liberal Arts* (2012) I've found myself looking for more endeavors from Josh Radnor. As he matures as a filmmaker I hope he'll continue to hone his craft and provide more of his signature honesty for audiences. Some folks may have trouble with the F-bombing in this picture, a couple times used for comic effect as Sam forgets himself and utters it in front of Rasheem, quickly followed up with the admonition, "Don't swear," but it's not excessive or gratuitous; the screenplay for *Liberal Arts* diminished this aspect dramatically.

So take away from the film Annie's lesson from the cab driver, which gives the film its title. Okay, it's a mite romantic and oversimplified, but it's also a truth we can stand to hear every so often. It's like the story of the married couple who argue over dinner one night: The wife says, "You never tell me that you love me," and the husband responds, "I told you twenty-five years ago, how often do you have to hear it?"

Not enough, I guess, though I wish you enough.
Enjoy.
Jeff

Post #376: Today's feature comedy, Neil Simon's *Murder By Death* (1976), is like a chocolate malted falcon served in a martini glass in a Chinese restaurant in Belgium with a scone. Throw in some cutlery forged by the Bates Family Collective, and you've got a very comfortable fare for a rainy evening, if you have reservations in a massive Gothic mansion with secret rooms. And you should have reservations because murder is in the offing . . . or offing is in the house. In any event there's no need to fear because the underdogs and the overlords of mystery are here.

Gathered for your approval: Twisted visions of classic sleuths Dashiell Hammett's Sam Spade and Nick and Nora Charles, Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, and Earl Derr Biggers' Charlie Chan--all brought to life and death as Sam Diamond (Peter Falk) and his breathless secretary Tess Skeffington (Eileen Brennan), Dick and Dora Charleston (David Niven and Maggie Smith), Milo Perrier (James Coco) and his faithful valet Marcel Cassette (James Cromwell in his film debut), Miss Jessica Marbles (Elsa Lanchester) accompanied by her senile, wheelchair-bound nurse Miss Withers (Estelle Winwood), and Sidney Wang (Peter Sellers, with a nod to Sidney Toler) with Number Three adopted Japanese son Willie (Richard Narita). Presiding over the collected brain trust is their host Lionel Twain (Truman Capote), attended by his steadfast blind butler Jamessir Bensonmum (Alec Guinness) who just can't seem to get along with the hired cook Yetta (Nancy Walker in her final film) who also happens to be deaf and dumb.

All have been offered the chance for one million dollars if she or he can solve the murder yet to be committed: One of the assembled will die at midnight, and it will be up to the deductive powers of the survivors to unveil the killer. Phone lines have been cut, the night is shrouded with mist and torrential thunderstorms, and all motives will be revealed as death lurks around every mahogany paneled wall.

That's all you really need to know, as Neil Simon cuts loose from his usually urbane comedy into free-wheeling, all-out spoofing that is as broad as it is funny. Made in the pre-PC code days, *Murder By Death* can prove to be either a frantic, loving farce filled with hilarious gags or a shocking collection of jokes that today would never pass the Snowflake Test, casting overly sensitive viewers into wails of despair. Harmless fun is made of disabilities (the blind, the mute, the deaf, the senile), cultural differences (Asiatic and French [Belgian, actually] stereotypes and broken English jokes abound, with a 1940s pre-racist sensibility on full display by hardboiled Sam Diamond), and slightly homophobic overtones all surfacing smoothly. But even so, it's all done so off-handedly that new initiates watching for the first time should be reminded this was the time of *Blazing Saddles* (1974) and the full-on assault on overt cultural bigotry was enlisted with satirical intent, not malice.

This film, and others like it at the time, set the stage for the frenetic comedies that would become *Airplane* in another four years. It's fast, sly, at times slapstick but always clever; if one joke doesn't catch you snickering, wait a moment and the next will. Naturally a good part of the foolishness banks on the audience's awareness of every mystery trope since the time of Sherlock Holmes and Poe's purloined letter. Oh, you can try to outguess the detectives, but it's easier just to go with the flow like a dead fish. There *is* a story at work here, but the real joy comes from watching these classic pulp heroes trading quips, insults and powers of observation in a royal show of one-upmanship.

Neil Simon admitted that he was shocked when this A-list cast agreed to come aboard, and somewhat starstruck he went out of his way to assure Sir Alec Guinness (who was between scenes reading the script for an upcoming role in an upcoming 1977 George Lucas space opera) he'd be happy to rewrite any lines of which Sir Alec did not approve. As it turned out, the knight assured Simon that he enjoyed the script and found it great fun. Peter Sellers, on the other hand, was so convinced the film was a bomb, he convinced the producers to buy back his percentage share in the movie immediately after finishing it (Such a shame as it was a certifiable hit).

Behind the scenes a few notable casting choices met with some small resistance. Myrna Loy was initially approached to reprise her role as Nora/Dora, but she declined believing she would be playing herself, which made no sense to her, and she admitted she "didn't want her ass pinched by David Niven." Similarly, Katherine Hepburn was slated to play Dame Abigail Christian in the first draft, but she also turned down the role when she found Myrna Loy had passed on a role as well. Orson Welles was considered for the role of Sidney Wang, but could not accommodate the shooting schedule with his work in Italy, and was surprised to hear Truman Capote was onboard, skeptical of his ability. Both Simon and director Robert Moore (in his directorial debut) considered replacing Capote with a more seasoned actor, though they stayed with the author in the final cut. According to *The Hollywood Reporter*, one critic thought Capote came off "looking like an actor doing an imitation of Truman Capote," but he did receive a Golden Globe nomination for best male acting debut.

Amazon audiences rate *Murder By Death* at a whopping 85% four- or five star rating, with a box office gross of $32.5 million, or $150 million today with its breezy 94 minute running time. Simon and the studio were so pleased with the success of the film that Simon, Moore and Peter Falk teamed up again in a sequel *The Cheap Detective* (1978) which I'll be commenting on soon. *Murder By Death* satisfied my craving for good comedy, noir, and silly wordplay, capped with opening titles by one of my favorite cartoonists Chas. Addams, inspiration for *The Addams Family* in its TV and film incarnations from his macabre *New Yorker* work.

If you have enjoyed the recent throw-back pleasures of murder in the mansion films like *Knives Out* (2019), you will be in your glory with this feature. Director Robert Moore said, "At times we had to stop shooting, because there wasn't a dry eye in the house. If the film audiences have half as many laughs as we have shared in making 'Murder By Death', Columbia Pictures will have a smash hit in the theaters." And Neil Simon, who was on the set every day of shooting, echoed that sentiment: "The first reading is where I see what works and what doesn't. It was the best one I've ever witnessed for any of my plays or films." Borrowing and applying the immortal words of Dashiell Hammett in *Red Harvest*, “I haven't laughed so much over anything since the hogs ate my kid brother.”
Enjoy.
Jeff

I love this movie. I like to imagine the heads around me exploding, if it were released in theaters today.