Sniffing The Rose

Though I’m a Baby Boomer in good standing, I was never much for rock concerts. I never saw Janis Joplin perform live, and I never (until last night) saw The Rose, the 1979 Joplin-inspired film that became the auspicious big-screen debut of Bette Midler. Yes, I knew the powerful title song, and I was certainly familiar with some of the big names in the cast, including Alan Bates as Rose’s hard-assed manager and Harry Dean Stanton as the surly singer-songwriter who puts her in her place. But I went into this film with a certain skepticism about watching yet another movie about a rocker coping with personal demons (see, for instance, the 2018 Freddy Mercury biopic starring an Oscar-winning Rami Malek). One big difference: the character of Rose is female, with all that implies about being a gifted but deeply impressionable woman in what is very much a man’s world.

 So what did I think of The Rose? I was dazzled, as almost everyone has been, by Midler’s powerfully unhinged lead performance. (She was Oscar-nominated, but lost to Sally Field as Norma Rae.) As directed by the talented Mark Rydell, himself a former Juilliard-trained jazz musician, the other actors were strong too. But I admit I was somewhat frustrated by Bo Goldman’s screenplay, which—though giving us an intimate look at the life of a touring rock star—never really explored the forces that had turned Mary Rose Foster into the talented but troubled rock star she was.

 For me perhaps the most gratifying viewing came courtesy of the second disc in my library copy of The Rose. In an interview filmed for the Criterion Collection release of The Rose in 2015, Bette Midler herself (looking none the worse for wear) candidly explained how she came to identify with a fierce on-stage performer who was not wholly unlike herself. She particularly praised costume designer Theoni V. Aldredge for providing her with floaty, sparkly garments—many of them rose-colored—that captured the character’s dynamic onstage aura. Director Mark Rydell  explained to an interviewer how his own musical background contributed to the making of this film. (Rydell, who died just a few weeks ago at the age of 97, was also responsible for directing such stellar flicks as Cinderella Liberty and On Golden Pond.) Wanting to truly capture what he called “the strain and pain of performing,” Rydell insisted to his studio bosses that his leading lady be an actual singer, not a great actress like Jane Fonda equipped with a dubbed singing voice.

 But my favorite interviewee was cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond, who talked at length about his stylized use of light and perspective. The several outdoor concert scenes in the film were shot with the help of some 6000 extras (who were instructed by Rydell not to clap wildly for Midler’s Rose unless she had truly won them over). To capture the onstage performances at one go, Zsigmond enlisted such ace cinematographers as Conrad Hall and Haskell Wexler to show up and help shoot the concert footage from their own chosen perspective, while cameraman David Myers, a veteran of rock ‘n’ roll documentaries, provided his own take on the onstage action.

 Though the film’s concert scenes are indeed spectacular,  Zsigmond and his interviewer (the cinematographer John Bailey) also pointed to a dynamic cinematographic moment in which Midler as Rose cruises through a gay men’s bathhouse. There’s also the essential twilight scene in which Rose—ensconced in a telephone booth at the edge of her hometown’s darkened football field—makes a fateful decision that will change her life.

 

 

Bob Mackie, Naked? (A farewell to a man of the cloth)

 

(On the occasion of Bob Mackie's passing, I can't resist re-posting this tribute to his talent and wit.) 

I met Bob Mackie circa 1981, on the fabled MGM studio lot. We were on the set for Herbert Ross’s ambitious musical, Pennies from Heaven, starring Steve Martin and Bernadette Peters. They played dreamers who (almost) survive the Great Depression by fantasizing about living lives filled with music, dance, and luxuries like spectacular clothing. Needless to say, this was a dream assignment for Mackie, whose chief claim to fame at the time was his flamboyant duds for TV divas like Carol Burnett and Cher.

 As a big fan of the Carol Burnett Show, I asked the amiable blond Mackie (wearing a polo shirt and looking like a kid) whether he was responsible solely for the lavish gowns in which Burnett greeted her weekly studio audiences. In fact, he explained, he did everything related to costuming for the long-running weekly variety show. This meant bunny suits for the dancers, when needed, and goofy garb for Burnett in her various skits. It turns out—as Burnett herself is quick to admit—that it was Mackie who came up with the crowning sight-gag in a movie parody of Gone With the Wind that got one of the show’s all-time biggest laughs. Burnett plays Scarlett O’Hara, forced to greet a post-war Rhett Butler in a dress hastily crafted from her plantation’s green velvet curtains. When she wafts down Tara’s majestic staircase, viewers can’t help guffawing: her home-made gown still retains its original curtain rod.

 Burnett is one of many celebs interviewed by Matthew Miele for his lively 2024 documentary, Bob Mackie: Naked Illusion. Its title refers to the tantalizingly sheer sheath gowns designed by Mackie first for Mitzi Gaynor and eventually for Cher, who—with her scintillatingly slender figure—has been perhaps his ultimate muse. His glittery gowns hint at nudity but leave the wearer’s private areas discreetly covered, though oh so sexy. For Mackie, all this now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t glitz is fun to design, and has led him to costume everyone from Vegas show girls to Barbie. Another of his more unusual clients in Elton John, who encouraged Mackie’s outrageous side, allowing him to come up with a Donald Duck ensemble and an Amadeus-style frock coat, as well as a sequined baseball uniform for a sold-out concert at Dodger Stadium.

 It's clear that Mackie adores pretty women (and pretty men like RuPaul), but in fact he seems to like pretty much everyone. The documentary carefully hints at his sexual orientation, but also shows homey scenes of the now-eighty-plus-year-old Mackie (grey-haired but still boyish) cozily hanging out with his recently-discovered granddaughter and her children on a sunny patio. (His son Robin, a Hollywood make-up artist, died in 1993 at age 33 after an apparently turbulent life.) Though he dresses top stars, Mackie seems wholly comfortable—even overjoyed—to be dressing conservatively and blending into family surroundings.

 Mackie’s talent for glamour has earned him fame and fortune, as well as many accolades from his peers. (The film opens with him modestly accepting myriad awards from fellow designers and critics.) But the top Hollywood honors have eluded him. He has three long-ago Oscar nominations—for Lady Sings the Blues, Funny Lady, and Pennies from Heaven. In the documentary, Carol Burnett expresses outrage that the 1982 Oscar for costume design went not to Pennies from Heaven but to the year’s big film, Chariots of Fire. In this well-crafted period Olympic Games drama, veteran designer Milena Canonero’s cast mostly wear track suits that look like long underwear. Ah well! I guess no one can win them all. 

Bloodfist: Remembering “Body and Soul”

It’s hard to believe how many Hollywood films (and international films, for that matter) have focused on prizefighting. Such ring-set films seem to have a built-in audience: Wikipedia lists 50 boxing movies that over the years have grossed between $3 million and $300 million at the worldwide box office. At the very top of the list are five Rocky movies, as well as three Creed films that can be considered Rocky spinoffs with an African-American twist. A number of highly successful boxing movies are biopics: see Ali (2001), with “The Greatest” played by Will Smith; The Hurricane (1999), about the ringside and legal woes of Rubin “The Hurricane” Carter; The Great White Hope (1970), the slightly fictionalizing story of early Black prizefighter Jack Johnson; and of course Martin Scorsese’s great Raging Bull (1980) in which Robert De Niro plays the deeply troubled Jake La Motta. (I could name a good many more boxing biopics, but enough is enough.)

 Then there are boxing-related films that qualify as comedies. See for instance, Danny Kaye in a musical called The Kid from Brooklyn (1946), about a neighborhood milkman who accidentally becomes a boxing sensation. The high-grossing Any Which Way But Loose (1978) and its sequel, Any Which Way You Can (1980), both star no less than Clint Eastwood as a trucker who’s also a bare-knuckles brawler, and who roams the American West along with an orangutan named Clyde. In a more sentimental vein, a desperate Charlie Chaplin tries boxing in City Lights (1931), a film that many consider his masterpiece. Even more sentimental is another 1931 flick, The Champ, starring Wallace Beery as an over-the-hill prizefighter desperately trying to care for his young son. And let’s not forget Hilary Swank as a female boxer whose dreams are shattered, along with her body, in Clint Eastwood’s poignant Oscar-winning Million Dollar Baby (2004)

 My parents, who loathed John Wayne westerns as well as anything to do with boxing, made room in their hearts for John Ford’s The Quiet Man (1952). It’s the rollicking story of a former pro boxer with a guilty conscience who must reluctantly fight on behalf of the lass he loves. It’s a carefree Gaelic romp just right for St. Patrick’s Day.

 On the other hand, there’s 1947’s Body and Soul, which is a great deal more somber, but is often considered one of the best boxing films of all time. This designation is partly because it was shot by the great cinematographer James Wong Howe, who later won Oscars for both The Rose Tattoo and Hud. If part of the attraction of boxing on film is that it allows for intense close-ups of two human bodies in motion, Howe’s in-tight camerawork beautifully conveys the sport’s intensity. Meanwhile director Robert Rossen’s strong cast, led by John Garfield, punches home a powerful story about a young would-be boxer, his girl, his worried mother, and the dangerous men who control him. The film was a critical and commercial hit, accruing three Oscar nominations (it won a statuette for its editing). But its cast and crew paid a high price. The story, which specifically pointed to Jews and African Americans as victimized by powerful WASP interests, was not a safe one to be telling in an era when the House Un-American Activities Committee was on the rise. Star Garfield, screenwriter Abraham Polonsky, and director Robert Rossen all found themselves called to testify before HUAC, and only Rossen (who eventually agreed to name names) emerged unscathed. Garfield continued to make films, but was deeply scarred by the HUAC experience. He died in 1952 at age 39. 

 

Responding to an Invite

I am not the first commentator to compare The Invite to Edward Albee’s classic drama, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Actually, there’s a whole theatrical genre of what I call couch plays—stories that unfold almost entirely within a living-room set, featuring two married couples who meet, mingle, clash, and maybe flirt before ultimately going their separate ways. See, for example, the play and eventually the film God of Carnage, by Yasmina Reza. But that work focuses on the two couples’ status as the indignant parents of (unseen) brawling schoolboys. The Invite,  by contrast, hews much closer to Virginia Woolf territory by dedicating itself to the sexual side of marriage.

 This was originally a Spanish play and film, but it works perfectly well in its cinematic transfer to yuppie San Francisco. The first character we meet is Joe (Seth Rogen), a forty-something failed musician who now uncomfortably leads the jazz ensemble at a mediocre local music conservatory. He is, it turns out, uncomfortable about a lot of things, including a marriage that has over time become contentious. His wife Angela, played by Olivia Wilde (who also smartly directed this piece) is a stay-at-home hausfrau who has recently poured her artistic skills into an extensive renovation. She’s neurotic and controlling; he’s neurotic and wants nothing more than to be left alone. But tonight that won’t work, because she has unexpectedly invited over the rather glamorous couple upstairs, who have made a big impression at odd hours of the night with their wild sexual antics. So Angela is first seen obsessively fussing over a charcuterie arrangement and worrying about which wine to serve, while Joe bemoans his bad back and his disinclination to hobnob with strangers.

 The guests, when they arrive, seem determined to be charming. Basically, they want to charm the pants off their hosts.  Hawk and Piña (Edward Norton and a platinum-blonde Penelope Cruz) are about a decade older than their hosts, and have clearly had a more varied life experience. They apologize profusely for the noise that has disturbed their neighbors’ sleep, but explain that they might not have been the guilty parties. You see, they like to invite friendly folks over for an evening of group sex. And, hey, would Angela and Joe care to partake?

 What follows is a series of revelations in which we come to know all four of these neighbors better. Joe and Angela’s strained marriage comes in for scrutiny, but we gradually discover that Piña and Hawk—despite their freewheeling sexuality—have their own twisty past lives and are experiencing their own tensions.  

 Far be it from me to disclose how the film resolves itself. Suffice it to say that the mood keeps shifting—from distrust to fascination to hilarity to something far different—leading to a coda that leaves us at least a bit hopeful for the future of these complicated folks.

 If you’re tired of cast-of-thousands movies, and prefer those with stories that are intimate, psychologically acute, and occasionally very funny, The Invite has much to offer. All four actors are at the top of their game, and seem to be ready for anything. Seth Rogen, in particular, is both exasperating and hilarious, and I personally loved spending a fraught evening with him and the neuroses that just won’t quit. Then there is Olivia Wilde’s jittery eagerness to please, Edward Norton’s deceptively cheery bonhomie, and Penelope Cruz’s take-charge smarts. The ending of The Invite may contain a touch of Virginia Woolf, but these four are definitely not imitations of Edward Albee’s characters. Instead, they’re fully (and fascinatingly) themselves.  

 

Sybil: The Many Faces of Sally Field

It’s been a very long time since a barely twenty-one-year-old Sally Field soared as the Flying Nun. For years she was defined as a “cute” TV actress, a girl-next-door type, but her determination to be taken seriously sent her to the Actors Studio for intensive training with the noted drama coach, Lee Strasberg. Soon thereafter, she auditioned for a TV movie based on a true-life story that had mesmerized the American public. Sybil was the written account of a young teacher caught in the grip of what was then known as “multiple personality disorder.” (The condition, exceedingly rare, is now called dissociative identity disorder). Sybil, the product of a ghastly upbringing, was apt to morph without warning into one of thirteen alternate personalities. But a kindly therapist managed to help Sybil reintegrate herself into a functioning adult, so the story ultimately ended in triumph.

 Having admired Field’s work as a fairly young actress (1979’s Norma Rae).and a fairly old one (2026’s Remarkably Bright Creatures), I was curious to see her in the role that elevated her into Hollywood superstardom. The two-disc DVD edition of Sybil I got from my local library contains fascinating behind-the-scenes interviews with the film’s screenwriter and others. I was fascinated by the presence of Joanne Woodward, who had won an Oscar for starring as three distinct personalities in a 1957 film on a similar topic, The Three Faces of Eve. In Sybil, Woodward plays not the patient but the warm and nurturing psychiatrist who makes the young woman whole again. Woodward’s explanation of how she came to play this role is a fascinating example of the way Hollywood works. The TV network behind the project was apparently eager to attach a major star to it, maybe someone of the caliber of Audrey Hepburn or Natalie Wood. Woodward, as a close friend of the screenwriter, knew all about the project, and wanted to see it go forward. That’s why she proposed herself as someone with enough credentials to (perhaps) attract a viewing audience. It worked, and she gave a lovely performance.

 But of course a project called Sybil must have a really strong actress in the title role. Screenwriter Stewart Stern remembers seeing a number of young hopefuls parade through the casting office. Eventually lunchtime came and went, and everyone was more than ready to take a break. That’s when Sally Field entered, and to everyone’s total surprise BECAME the character in all her complexity. From that point on, no one else was considered, and Field’s on-screen 1976 triumph won her both an Emmy and the industry’s full respect.  Within three years she won her first Oscar for Norma Rae, and the second one—for Places in the Heart—followed eight years later. Then Steven Spielberg eventually cast her opposite Daniel Day-Lewis as Mary Todd Lincoln, surely no one’s idea of a cute ingenue. (She’s said she DEFINITELY has no desire to play Mrs. Lincoln again via Cole Escola’s outrageous Broadway hit, Oh, Mary!)    

 In reading up, after the fact, on Sybil, I had a bit of a shock. It seems that in a 2011 book called Sybil Exposed, author Debbie Nathan uncovered the fact that the real Sybil—actually named Shirley Mason— later in life admitted to deliberately concocting the multiple  personalities she claimed were taking over her body. This was, apparently, her way of keeping her therapist, Dr. Connie Wilbur, deeply involved in her case. So in a sense, we’ve all been bamboozled, right? I’d love to see Sally Field  next play the real-life Dr. Wilbur, taken in by the masquerade concocted by her patient.

 

 

Remarkably Bright Actress: Sally Field

Not long ago, I read Sy Montgomery’s The Soul of an Octopus, a 2016 non-fiction study of one of the most fascinating of all sea creatures. Montgomery’s book, based on the author’s years of interaction with giant Pacific octopuses at the New England Aquarium, gave me a new respect for an undersea critter with eight limbs, several hearts, and a good deal of intelligence. One of Montgomery’s many fans is Shelby van Pelt, whose debut novel, Remarkably Bright Creatures, became a worldwide best-seller. One of its unusual features: an octopus named Marcellus serves as its narrator.

 Van Pelt’s novel has evolved into a new Amazon made-for-TV drama that’s now nominated for two Emmy awards, including Outstanding Movie. Moreover, star Sally Field is up for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Limited or Anthology Series or Movie. Despite her two Oscars and multiple other prizes, Field is by no means a shoo-in: also in the running are such bright—and much younger—Hollywood stars as Claire Danes (The Beast in Me) and Carey Mulligan (Beef).

 But for Emmy voters, Field will be hard to overlook. In a poignant tale that somehow avoids being cloying, she’s a widow living in a small costal town of what looks to be Washington State. Having survived her son’s death and other heartbreak, she has turned inward, taking an after-hours job as a cleaning lady at the local aquarium where she identifies with the frequently on-the-loose Marcellus. Though she resists most human relationships, she remains spunky (in that irresistible Sally Field way), even after she’s sprained her ankle and seen her janitorial job claimed by an unhappy young musician. Cameron, a drifter, is on the lookout for the father who’s missing from his life. Of course Field’s character, Tova Sullivan, ultimately gets involved with his quest; both eventually find rewards in unexpected places. At the end it all ties together, perhaps too neatly, but the sincerity of everyone involved comes through . Kudos to Alfred Molina who gives the octopus an acerbic, authoritative voice, and to all the technical wizards who make a sometimes puppet/sometimes CGI cephalopod seem to have a life of its own.  

Field’s career has been one of Hollywood’s longest, starting off when she was barely out of her teens with such lightweight TV fare as the title roles in Gidget and The Flying Nun. Trying to break away from these “cute” performances, she fought for the role of a young woman with multiple-personality disorder in the acclaimed TV film, Sybil (1976), winning her first Emmy. She went on to win two Best Actress Oscars, one for her role as a spunky union organizer in Norma Rae (1979)) and a second for her portrayal of a (yes) spunky Texas widow in Places in the Heart (1984). Always tiny and youthful-seeming, she gradually evolved into a mature on-screen wife and mother, notably as Mary Todd Lincoln opposite Daniel Day-Lewis in Spielberg’s 2012 Lincoln. For this highly dramatic performance she was yet again Oscar-nominated, but lost out to Anne Hathaway for Les Misérables.

Now almost 80, Field seems in interviews both as sweet and as spunky as ever.  Which doesn’t stop her for being convincingly crochety as Tova Sullivan. There’s an ornery side to this character that stops her from appearing overly twee, and we’re meant to recognize that at times she can be totally exasperating. No wonder that the hyper-sensitive Cameron, well-played by Bill Pullman’s son Lewis, at first considers her merely a pain in the neck. Marcellus the Octopus, though, is smart enough to see Tova as the caring friend she is.

 

“The Accused”: Alumni from the Roger Corman School of Directing

One of the late Roger Corman’s many claims to fame is his knack for sniffing out talented future directors. Some of his most notable discoveries—Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, Peter Bogdanovich—entered Cormanville long before I did. But when I joined the staff of Corman’s New World Pictures in 1973 I met some eager young chaps who’d do just about anything for a chance to direct a low-budget genre flick. In those days Joe Dante (who’d go on to make such pop culture landmarks as Gremlins) was Roger’s trailer cutter, a quiet fellow who hardly seemed capable of commandeering a film set. And wandering the corridors of New World Pictures you’d find many a scruffy wannabe, each of them hoping for his big break.

 I especially remember Jonathan Demme, a shaggy-haired writer-type who favored brown-and-white saddle oxfords and would cruise the halls with his very tall wife in tow. (In later years he’d shed the wife and adopt a more blow-dried look.) When I first met him, he was just back from the Philippines, where he’d directed for Roger a classic women-in-prison opus, Caged Heat. Later he moved on to much better opportunities at much bigger companies, eventually winning an Oscar for directing a 1991 blockbuster, The Silence of the Lambs. I also fondly remember Paul Bartel, a wildly eccentric sometimes-actor whose 1975 directing debut for Roger, Death Race 2000, led to such indie triumphs as the hilariously gruesome Eating Raoul (1982). And then there was Jonathan Kaplan, who graduated from sexy Corman nurse movies (Night Call Nurses) to action flicks (White Line Fever, 1975).

 Kaplan’s career hit the skids after years of being offered only the same kind of projects he’d already mastered, what he described as "boy meets truck, boy gets truck, boy loses truck and boy gets truck again." But in 1988 he bounced back with a powerful drama that helped Jodie Foster win her first Oscar. The movie was The Accused, a moderately-budgeted legal thriller. The top-billed star was Kelly McGillis, who had recently grabbed attention as the beautiful Amish widow in Witness, and followed that up by  playing Tom Cruise’s girlfriend in Top Gun. In The Accused, McGillis  was a hard-driving district attorney determined to prosecute the young men who joined in the gang assault on her client, a small-town waitress. It was by no means a given that Foster would take on the role of the rape victim. Due to the film’s graphic nature, the part of Sarah Tobias was turned down by a number of rising actresses. Foster at this point had largely backed away from acting, focusing on her studies at Yale, and there were some who felt she lacked the blatant sexuality the role demanded.

 When I watched The Accused, I didn’t know quite what to expect. The film starts just after the hideous doings in the back room of a scruffy bar. Foster’s Sarah escapes from her tormentors and ends up at a local clinic, shell-shocked. It’s the opposite of the spunky performances we usually associate with Foster. But gradually, as the legal proceedings move forward, we watch her character regain her sense of self—her cockiness, her anger. The rape sequence itself is held until near the end –-as a flashback mirroring goings-on in the courtroom—and it’s clear to see what’s triggered it: Sarah boldly flaunts her sexuality, until the moment when she discovers it’s too late to say “No.” The whole grotesque business, with looky-loos egging on the perpetrators, is hard to forget. Score another triumph for a Roger Corman director-in-the-making.  

 

Pretty in Black and White

I’ve been thinking a lot lately, after viewing several vintage Anne Hathaway films, about how often Hollywood has focused on stories of young women emerging to take over their lives. Obviously, such plot lines are meant to appeal to youthful female audiences, who hope that they too will burst like butterflies from the drab cocoons that have long been holding them in. Think Cinderella turning from a scullery maid to a princess. Think Eliza Doolittle casting aside her Cockney upbringing and her native speech patterns to go to the Embassy Ball and be mistaken for royalty. Think, more recently, of Pretty in Pink (representing other Eighties films of John Hughes) in which Molly Ringwald crosses from the wrong side of the tracks to wow her classmates at her high school prom.

 In many of these films, the focus is on the young protagonist discovering her physical beauty, or maybe demonstrating that she has learned the social skills that will help her navigate the adult world. But there’s a classic 1950 black-&-white comedy (somehow characterized by the often obtuse Golden Globes folks as a drama) in which the female protagonist blossoms, but not because of her improved looks or social manners. Instead, Born Yesterday is a comic paean to the way that political education can change a gal’s life.

 Born Yesterday, based on Garson Kanin’s hit Broadway play, stars the inimitable Judy Holliday as a former nightclub cutie with a New Yawk accent that won’t quit. Though basically a chorine with pretensions—she once spoke three lines on stage—she has long been the sidepiece of Harry Brock, a crude and very rich junkman with his eye on a shady deal involving a U.S. Congressman. (He’s played in the film by Broderick Crawford, who’d just nabbed an Oscar for his lead role as a Huey Long-type in All the King’s Men.) Harry loves Billie Dawn, when he isn’t busy abusing her, because she accepts her own ignorance and never pries into his sordid business affairs. But now that he’s arrived in Washington DC, he figures her uncouth social behavior may become a liability. So he recruits a straight-arrow local reporter named Paul (William Holden) to give Billie a smattering of education.

 Squiring Billie around the nation’s capital, Paul gives her some serious tutelage about American ideals and principles (something we could surely all use today). Though her vocabulary is limited and her shrill voice seems capable of shattering glass, she discovers in herself a thirst for knowledge, as well as a firm determination to no longer be anyone’s patsy. Needless to say, this change in attitude makes an ongoing relationship with Harry Brock untenable. And the smart, well-educated Paul (perhaps savoring his role as her Pygmalion) comes to love Billie’s oddball combination of budding idealism and street smarts.

 George Cukor was known, perhaps unfairly, as a women’s director. He certainly knew how to transfer Holliday’s acclaimed stage performance as Billie Dawn to the silver screen. The voice, the dimples, and the would-be haughty walk are all captured for moviegoers to enjoy. Holliday’s characterization is both funny and lovable, which is perhaps how she remarkably beat out Gloria Swanson (Sunset Boulevard) and both Bette Davis and Anne Baxter (All About Eve) for the Best Actress Oscar of 1951. It was the great triumph of a brilliant but sadly short career. Born in 1921, she died of breast cancer in 1960, just a decade after her greatest triumph. Her last role was a musical performance in another Broadway transfer, Bells are Ringing, in which she was once again irresistibly adorable.

 Dedicated to the memory of Dolly Parton, another adorable blonde who was smarter than she sometimes let on.

 

 

Hayden Panettiere: Showbiz Kid

I’m not exactly a Hayden Panettiere groupie. Truth be told, I never saw the TV series for which she was best known: Nashville and Heroes. Yes, I watched her childhood performance in Remember the Titans, but couldn’t tell you anything about it. So I was surprised by the outpouring of public grief that has followed Panettiere’s sudden death this past week at the sadly early age of 36. I read with great interest that—following a broken engagement, severe post-partum depression, and a long sad history of substance abuse—Hayden had published in May of this year a memoir titled This Is Me: A Reckoning. In it she owned up to a difficult coming-of-age and an ongoing struggle with mental health issues.

 All this meant something to me because, while writing for the Hollywood Reporter, I had interviewed a newly eleven-year-old Hayden (and her mom) for a special “showbiz kids” issue that featured the young actress as “one to watch.” We spoke on the telephone, and both mother and daughter sounded intelligent and serious about the complexities of a life lived on soundstages. Mom Lesley, once an actress herself, talked knowingly about casting sessions and about gauging her daughter’s comfort level when she was introduced to challenging material. Lesley clearly saw herself as a serious protector of Hayden’s physical and mental well-being.

 Hayden, who began her career doing commercials when she was a mere 8 months old, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her on-set adventures. She proved herself a trouper, even when expected to perform difficult stunts like (in an historical drama called The Affair of the Necklace) jumping out of a moving carriage while carrying a heavy pretend-baby on her back. When we spoke, she seemed well aware that as she matured there would be new expectations to manage. Said she, “I’m sure when the kissing scenes come along, I’ll be very uncomfortable.” Giggling, she speculated on what it must be like to smooch in front of the cameras, with a director on hand to call the shots.

 I asked how well she fit into her home environment when she was not busy filming. She admitted that having friends was a bit complicated: “They judge me by my acting and not by me.”  Nonetheless, “I don’t think of myself as anybody special. I think of myself as just another kid.” 

 When writing my article about showbiz kids like Hayden, I consulted with Dr. Charles Portney, a psychiatrist who focused on adolescents. In his SoCal practice he treated many former young actors who were now finally able to speak for themselves. In some cases, patients who had played the role of crime victims suffered years later from “delayed onset” trauma. Another danger, he told me, was that kids might come out of their Hollywood experience “precocious and cynical. It’s too big a dose of reality at too young an age.” In the long term, they “can have problems, because your childhood is supposed to prepare you for adulthood.”

 Dr. Portney made clear that “there are many [showbiz] parents who try very hard to do a good job.” Still, you can only protect  your child up to a point. In the long run, showbiz kids are “oriented toward giving a performance, not preparing for adulthood.” When kids are too precocious, it’s at the expense of normal childhood experiences. This can affect future romantic and intimate relationships.  

 Some young actors, whether through good parenting or good luck, survive beautifully: look at Jodie Foster or Ron Howard. For Hayden Panettiere and others, though, truly adult coping skills are delayed until too late.

 

 

 

 

Anne Hathaway: Once Upon a Princess

A long airline flight always gives me a great excuse to check out movies old and new on my seat-back screen. Sometimes there are surprises: flying over the Atlantic in a plane full of sleeping passengers, I decided to watch an oldie: Astaire and Rogers in 1939’s The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle. It’s the true tale of a famous dance duo hugely popular just before World War I.  I hadn’t realized, until I saw the film, that the historical Vernon, who had patriotically joined the Royal Flying Corps, died in a plane crash. Uh oh—not a nice thing to think about while aloft in the middle of the night.

 A recent cross-country trip allowed me to watch the new sequel to a comedy favorite of mine, The Devil Wears Prada (2006). Now, twenty years later, filmmakers have gathered the original cast—Anne Hathaway, Meryl Streep, Emily Blunt, Stanley Tucci—to update the story of an ambitious young journalist who finds herself taking orders from the imperious editor of Runway magazine, played by Streep with memorable sangfroid. In the original film, Hathaway’s Andy Sachs was a smart but naïve young college grad who thought she could handle the complexities of a job in the fashion industry while dealing with the demands of the capricious editor-in-chief, Miranda Priestly. Ultimately Andy learned . . . and triumphed (mostly) on her own terms. I had heard that the 2026 sequel would take an updated look at the waning role of the print medium within today’s fashion industry, and so it does. Andy is now an award-winning journalist with a new, and much more impressive, job at Runway, and Miranda is now threatened by unexpected forces that want to push her out of her top-dog position. That being said, not a lot has changed in terms of the film’s central relationship. Miranda is still icy; Andy is still puppy-dog eager. (Actually, it’s supporting player Blunt who makes the most striking evolution in the course of the story.) 

Having mildly (but no more) enjoyed this return to the ladies of Runway, I decided to check out the film that first put Hathaway on the map. She was not yet 20 when she starred for director Garry Marshall in Disney’s The Princess Diaries (2001), a family-friendly tale of a girl who makes the most romantic of transformations. Mia, played by Hathaway, is a San Francisco kid with a bohemian mom and very few friends at her trendy prep school. When she first appears on screen she’s almost unrecognizable in her requisite uniform: her hair is a frizzy mop and she wears thick spectacles. Beyond this, she’s gangly and awkward, and  clearly not the greatest of students. But life has a surprise for her, which comes in the form of a soignée Julie Andrews, who turns out to be Mia’s long-absent paternal grandmother—and the reigning monarch of the tiny European kingdom of Genovia. Now Mia, because of her father’s recent death, is next in line for the throne . . . and therefore must learn to conform to royal standards of looks and behavior. Hilarity ensues, as the ugly duckling is (with her grandmother’s loving help) transformed into a swan. It’s the Disney Princess version of Andy Sacks discovering how to dress, how to behave, and how to thrive in the fashion industry.

 Come to think of it, movies are full of these Cinderella stories, in which the drab or gawky young girl metamorphoses into some sort of princess.  I’m thinking, for instance, of Gigi, but YOU may have other examples in mind.

 

 

Sharks, Sirens, and Other Hollywood Icons

 

I’m lucky indeed to live in a place where movies are part of the landscape. And I’m doubly lucky because I’m a member of the Motion Picture Academy’s new museum, which takes pride in investigating the culture of movies from every angle. Since its opening in 2021, I’ve been to the Academy Museum multiple times, exploring movies in terms of their artistry, their technological mastery, and their impact upon world culture.

 The Academy Museum hardly ignores the motion pictures that represent foreign lands. I remember an exhibit vividly showing off key clips from the audacious Spanish writer/director Pedro Almodóvar. Currently, there’s a lovely tribute to Hayao Miyazaki’s charming animated Ponyo, as well as an in-depth look at the career of Korean auteur Bong Joon Ho, the brilliant satirist behind Okja and the Oscar-winning Parasite.   

 Still, the museum is fundamentally in and of Hollywood, and so you can rightly expect that many exhibits will focus on the men and women of the Hollywood studio system. (A newish permanent exhibit highlights the building of studio lots in the still-wide-open Southern California landscape, as well as the background of the men—several of them immigrants—who arrived in town with a gleam in their eyes and began to create an industry.) And some of the museum’s most lavish exhibits delve into the making of Hollywood’s greatest hits as well as the careers of Hollywood’s most indelible stars.

 Set to close soon is an appropriately massive  exhibit on the making and marketing of Jaws. (No surprise that this blockbuster is given star treatment, given that its director—Steven Spielberg—has been a generous supporter of the museum since its inception. And the surviving 25-foot fiberglass model of the film’s arch-villain, Bruce the Shark, permanently hangs over the museum’s escalator to give visitors a quick thrill.)  It was fascinating to discover how the timely improvisation of the three central actors helped bring to life Peter Benchley’s novel, but I equally enjoyed my glimpses of the film’s global marketing campaign. It featured  Jaws foreign language posters (the one from Japan, riffing on a hugely famous Hokusai woodblock print, is particularly clever) as well as zany collectors’ items like a shark-shaped souvenir cup with a straw that looks like a hapless swimmer.

 Though Jaws is going bye-bye, there’s a new and extensive salute to Marilyn Monroe, Hollywood Icon. For those who associate Monroe solely with her sexy role in Some Like It Hot or with the gossip surrounding her connection with President John F. Kennedy, it’s refreshing to focus in on other aspects of her talents. Though she certainly nourished her siren image, the off-screen Monroe was a serious reader who worked hard to polish her dramatic skills. The exhibit includes, along with some fabulous spangled gowns, the casual streetwear she preferred when she was not in front of the cameras. By happenstance, I’d just re-watched The Seven Year Itch, the (slightly toned-down) film version of a naughty Broadway hit about a middle-aged husband—home alone for the summer—who fantasizes abut the sexy young woman living upstairs. Tom Ewell, a terrifically average-looking comic actor, was the male lead on both stage and screen. In the film version, the dream girl was played by Monroe, as a charming though slightly dizzy blonde languishing in the heat of her top-floor digs. This is the film in which her flouncy white dress billows up when she stands over a subway grate. But the museum also displays the modest pink pjs she wears when invited downstairs for a nightcap, thus crushing Ewell’s erotic expectations.

 

Japanese "woodblock" ad for "Jaws"

Marilyn's PJs in "The Seven Year Itch"  

 

Hitchcock: Man and Myth

Alfred Hitchcock is hardly filmdom’s forgotten man. Although Hitchcock passed from the scene in 1980, every year seems to bring forth another few books about his films and his life. One of the latest, from University Press of Kentucky, is A Century of Hitchcock: The Man, The Myths, The Legacy by British filmmaker Tony Lee Moral. Moral, who poses in his book jacket author-photo with a vicious-looking crow on his arm, has previously published studies of both Hitchcock’s Marnie and The Birds. This new Moral work goes back to the beginning, showing Hitchcock developing his filmmaking talents among the German Expressionist. Still, Moral spends the bulk of his time on the late Hollywood Hitchcock, especially on his fraught relationship with anointed star-in-the-making Tippi Hedren.

 The interaction between Hitchcock and Hedren was clearly complex. Once the exquisite Grace Kelly had departed for Monaco, there to take the throne as Princess Grace, Hitchcock was casting around for a new leading lady. There’s not much discussion of why such later Hitchcock blondes as Doris Day (The Man Who Knew Too Much), Kim Novak (Vertigo), and Eva Marie Saint (North by Northwest) didn’t entirely fill the bill. But Hickock was apparently after a Hollywood newcomer whom he could mold to his own aesthetic specifications. He found Hedren, a successful New York cover-girl model, while watching a TV commercial for a diet drink. Their first project together, The Birds (1963), proved to be a physical and emotional challenge for the newcomer. But the film’s massive box-office success led to Hedren being given another opportunity, this time for the title role in Hitchcock’s Marnie. This 1964 film, with its lurid sexual subtext, earned mixed reviews and box-office earnings (though it has been rediscovered by critics since). But ultimately tension between director and star led to a break in their relationship, and Hedren never acted for Hitchcock again. In fact, she was later to claim that he actively worked to sabotage her future film career.

 Enter Donald Spoto, a young scholar and film critic who began by idolizing Hitchcock. (His first book, The Art of Alfred Hitchcock, was published in 1976).) Though, while teaching in Los Angeles,  he got to meet his idol, Moral posits that Spoto was disappointed not to be able to establish a closer connection. Ultimately, after meeting Tippi Hedren, Spoto published a sensational second book, 1983’s The Dark Side of Genius, which explores what he sees as Hitchcock’s bad behavior toward Hedren and other actresses. He was to expand on this theme once again in 2008’s Spellbound by Beauty: Alfred Hitchcock and His Leading Ladies, a study even more lurid than the previous one. Moral, after doggedly questioning Hedren and other Hitchcock cast and crew members, is deeply skeptical about what Spoto sees as Hitchcock’s warped psyche and possessive attitude toward women. (For the record, Hitchcock had a long and apparently successful marriage to screenwriter and film editor Alma Reville, who was his frequent collaborator and sounding-board on his films. He had as well as a solid relationship with daughter Pat, who plays a key role in her father’s Strangers on a Train and continues to defend him today.)

 Frankly, I was surprised by how much of this book focuses on Spoto (including an exploration of his personal sexuality and his rather arcane  religious views). But Moral does make the valid point that, in a “Me Too” era, movie fans are less forgiving of behavior that once might have seemed quite normal on a film set. Did Hitchcock really demand sexual favors of Tippi Hedren? I guess we’ll never know.

 

 

 

 

Filmmakers Living Dangerously

Three years before he came to the U.S. to shoot Witness, Australian director Peter Weir took cast and crew to Asia on behalf of a highly ambitious project, The Year of Living Dangerously. Based on a novel of intrigue and romance by Australian author Christopher Koch, it brought together an international band of players to present a story full of real-world tensions. Weir had previously directed a fascinating tale of mysterious disappearance (1975’s Picnic at Hanging Rock) and a tragic World War I epic (1981’s Gallipoli). Both stories, deriving from actual historical incidents, saw the world from an Australian perspective. By the time he shot The Year of Living Dangerously, Weir had widened his focus to include citizens of many nations. Building on a turbulent era in the modern history of Indonesia, he used the overthrow of despotic President Sukarno by local Communist forces as the backdrop for a story about love, loyalty, and journalism as a profession. (To be entirely accurate, though the film’s vivid street scenes were filmed in Manila, standing in for Jakarta, social unrest in the Philippines caused cast and crew to head back to Australia to complete the shoot.)

 At the center of the drama is Australia’s Mel Gibson, known at the time for his Mad Max films and for his starring role in Weir’s Gallipoli. No surprise—in his role as an Aussie radio journalist on his first overseas assignment, Gibson’s Guy Hamilton proves to be handsome, cocky, and more than a bit naïve. He wants to become an overnight ;journalistic superstar, but is taken down a peg or two by fellow foreign correspondents, including a particularly crass American (Michael Murphy) and some stuffy Brits. And the environment he’s in is not at all pleasant: poverty is rampant; political dissidents are everywhere; daily life is mostly chaos.

 One major compensation arrives when he is taken to an unexpectedly ritzy country club where British expats congregate. There he meets a woman who works at the British embassy. She’s played by Sigourney Weaver who—three years after Alien—has paused her fight against  extraterrestrials in order to take on a romantic role. Her Jill Bryant is smart, convincingly British, and sexy as all get-out. She’s leaving Jakarta soon to return to her homeland, and part of Guy would enjoy going with her.

 Still, there’s his broadcasting career to consider. And there’s also an off-beat relationship he quickly comes to value. Billy Kwan is a pint-sized photographer, apparently half Australian and half Chinese, who frequently works with Australian journalist to cover the local news. Puckish, but with a strong moral code, he claims no loyalty to any particular national ideology. Instead, he cares deeply for his friends and for the underprivileged: out of sheer generosity of spirit he’s quietly supporting a local woman and her seriously ailing child. Billy, who also serves at times as the film’s voiceover narrator, is the emotional heartbeat of the story. And the casting of this role took observers by surprise.  From what I’ve read, Weir considered tiny American actors like Bob Balaban (5’5”) and Wallace Shawn (5’2”), but neither seemed right. Then through happenstance he saw a photo of an American actress named Linda Hunt. Afflicted with hypopituitary dwarfism, Hunt stood a mere 4’9” tall, and had an androgynous look. There’s nothing kitschy about her portrayal of an adult male, though her character is endowed with an otherworldliness that lingers in the memory. That’s doubtless why she beat out some of Hollywood’s finest (Glenn Close, for one) to win the Best Supporting Actress Oscar in 1982.

 

 

Treasure Island in Topanga

Recently I wrote about Hollywood’s Blacklist era, as chronicled in a special exhibit at DC’s Capital Jewish Museum.  This past weekend saw me at a place deeply steeped in memories of that difficult time. Actor Will Geer (born in 1902) is best remembered as TV’s folksy Grandpa Walton from 1972 until his death in 1978. (His passing was ultimately written into the plot of The Waltons, allowing him to be publicly mourned.) Though a lifelong actor on both stage and screen, one who was nominated for multiple prestigious awards, Geer had many other passions. Politically he was a deeply committed activist with long ties to the American Communist Party, During the Great Depression he spent much of his free time touring labor camps with close friends like folksingers Burl Ives and Woody Guthrie. He also had a great love for  botany, and earned a master’s degree in that field at the prestigious University of Chicago.

 Geer’s refusal in the 1950s to “name names” of Communist sympathizers at the behest of the House Un-American Activities Committee naturally led to his being shut out of the Hollywood movie community for a number of years. Though he starred in Salt of the Earth, a 1954 independent film about a New Mexico’s miners’ strike, he was long barred from more mainstream productions. That’s why he and wife Herta Ware built a simple performance space on their rustic property in SoCal’s folksy Topanga Canyon, which became a popular gathering spot for fellow blacklisted performers. At the same time, they began growing fruits, vegetables, and herbs as a way of feeding their growing family. Eventually, following Geer’s financial success from The Waltons, they launched a nonprofit corporation known as the Will Geer Theatricum Botanicum. The many offspring of the Geer family, by then launched on their own theatrical careers, joined together to stage works by Shakespeare and others in a rustic outdoor environment. Today the troupe is still going strong, mixing seasoned professionals with newcomers just learning to tread the boards.

 I try to visit the Will Geer at least once a year. The troupe is most active in summers, and its signature production is A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare’s romantic fable for which this is the perfect sylvan setting. Other offerings for 2026 include Romeo and Juliet, along with an obscure Noel Coward farce (I hardly think of Coward as suited to a rustic backdrop, but never mind) and an inventive dramatization of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. The script for this adaptation was prepared by Will Geeer’s daughter, longtime co-producing artistic director Ellen Geer, and her own daughter Willow (also an artistic director) here plays one of the drama’s most colorful roles. As always the troupe finds creative ways to use its permanent stage area, which consists of rough-hewn wooden building facades and beautiful old-growth trees. I’m happy to say that seating has improved a great deal over the years. The audience is shielded from the summer sun by a large canopy, but those concrete benches really cry out for cushions shlepped from home. 

 If you’re planning a day or evening trip to the Theatricum Botanicum, do save time to explore the premises. There is, for instance, a small wooden shack called The Shelter. Once a hang-out spot for the visiting Woody Guthrie, it now houses a collection of historic memorabilia from the 1950s onward. There are also places to buy food and souvenirs, and some gorgeous flowering plants to admire. For the full experience, make dinner reservations at Topanga’s mostly-outdoor Inn of the Seventh Ray, a magical venue full of other-worldly vibes. 

 

L.A. as the Emerald City: “Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass”

Sometimes, especially in the dog days of summer, you just want to watch something carefree and a little bit silly. That’s why I opted for a small indie called Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass. Believe it or not, it sorta-kinda marries The Wizard of Oz to a modern-day sex comedy. Somehow it pulls off the trick of combining wide-eyed innocence with today’s wide-open sexual mores. Is it raunchy? Well, call it fairy-tale raunch.

 We begin (of course) in Kansas, where the wide-eyed Gail (once a prom queen, now a hairdresser) is on the brink of marrying her long-time sweetheart, Tom. First they’re joking about the right—should the occasion arise—to skirt their marriage vows if there’s a chance of shagging the celebrity of their dreams. Then, suddenly, Gail catches Tom in flagrante with Jennifer Aniston, who just happens to be passing through town. Despite this fling, Tom remains determined to marry Gail; understandably, she’s not so sure. At this moment of indecision, she’s invited by her best friend, a gay (of course!) African-American named Otto, to fly out to the coast, where a major hairdresser convention is going to take place. Gail’s personal goal: to even the score with her fiancé by bedding her own celebrity crush, Jon Hamm.

 Quicker than you can say “We’re off to see the Wizard,” they land in SoCal, an Emerald City chock full of crooks and rascals. After a celebrity sighting at the airport (Henry Winkler!) Gail discovers her suitcase has accidentally been switched with one containing secret government documents. Of course there are some bad guys (and one VERY bad gal) determined to get these papers back. If blood is to be shed, so be it.

 We follow Gail and Otto through Hollywood, where the not-too-bright crooks seem unable to find them even when they’re spotted on a surveillance video directly in front of the world-famous Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Eventually Gail’s merry crew expands to include an eager-beaver actors’ agent in training and a would-be paparazzo desperate to capture Hamm’s image with his lens. These new additions don’t exactly replicate L. Frank Baum’s friends-of-Dorothy, but they’re almost equally goofy. This goes especially for a late addition to the group: none other than snowy-haired John Slattery, who of course once co-starred with Jon Hamm on Mad Men, and who in this film turns out to be an aspiring martial artist. (Alas, the film misses out on the presence of Toto . . . but Gail DOES sport snazzy red shoes.)

 After much searching, and a near-disastrous encounter with an unhinged celebrity whose name I won’t reveal,  Jon Hamm’s current address is finally tracked down. But that’s not the end of the road for Gail and her pals. They face down a difficult challenge, and are nearly vanquished by—shall we say?—non-flying monkeys. Ultimately, though, the new pals prove their merit, and Gail gets . . . well, I don’t think I should spill any more beans. Except to say that the end of the film is silly and charming and entirely appropriate.

 None of this would be worth watching if there weren’t an absolutely delightful “Dorothy” at the center of things. Zoe Deutsch (who made a winsome Jean Seberg jabbering in French in last year’s Nouvelle Vague) is now a charmingly innocent brunette for whom we can’t help rooting, no matter the oddity of her quest. I enjoyed her companions too, though they lack the indelible presence of Dorothy’s eecentric band. But be assured we make it back to Kansas. After all, there’s no place like home.

 

 

 

 

Bearing Witness

 A culture clash is always a great subject for a movie. Many screen adaptations of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet raise the barriers separating the two lovers by showing that they come from very different ethnicities: see, of course, the (Anglo) Jets and the (Puerto Rican) Sharks of West Side Story. And the suspense element in international thrillers like The Third Man or The Da Vinci Code is heightened when the participants in the drama do not share a common background. Many police dramas set the values of the law-enforcement community against those of the general public. But 1985’s Witness is perhaps unique in bringing together a Philadelphia homicide detective and devout members of Pennsylvania’s rural Amish population, which shuns technology while cleaving to religious and social values that are centuries old.

 The story of Witness is a complex one. An eight-year-old Amish boy, on a rare trip out of town with his recently widowed mother, goes into a train-station men’s room and is horrified to see a brutal murder. He’s the “witness” of the story’s title, and soon Philadelphia police detective John Book (Harrison Ford) is on the case, which becomes far more complicated once it’s known that the victim is an undercover cop, and that corrupt members of his own department are responsible for the death. Through a thorny set of circumstances, Book seeks refuge with the boy's pretty mother, Rachel (Kelly McGillis), and her family. To save himself from detection, he must learn to blend in with the rural, peaceable Amish way of life. This means suppressing his own basic urge to fight back against adversaries, and also fending off the growing attraction he feels toward Rachel. (In perhaps the film’s most quietly complex role, Rachel is attracted to him as well.)

 When spotting this film on a shelf in my local library, I was looking for Places in the Heart, I wanted to re-watch that 1984 drama in tribute to Danny Glover, who had named this as his favorite performance. To my surprise, Glover is also a featured player in Witness, released just one year later, and a comparison of the two roles verifies the breadth of his talent. As Moze Hadner, he’s a down-home drifter, not entirely honest, by no means educated, but filled with a generosity of spirit that ultimately makes him lovable. One year later, as police lieutenant James McFee, he’s a decorated cop who has chosen to put his talents to nefarious ends.

 I’m no expert on the so-called “plain” lifestyle of the Amish, but cast and crew seem to have worked hard to set these characters apart from our “English” world. In the course of the film we get a good look at Amish ways, particularly in a spectacular barn-raising scene, and come to respect their values. There’s also one particularly grotesque moment when we see how stoically the Amish separate themselves from local hooligans who delight in tormenting them. In the leading role, Ford achieves an effective balance between his familiar machismo and respect for a culture totally alien to his own way of life. There are strong supporting performances by young Lukas Haas, ballet star Alexander Godunov (as a would-be suitor for Rachel), and others, all under the effective direction of Australian Peter Weir, making his first American feature. I was especially taken by the cinematography by John Seale, which owes much to the tender light so evident in the 17^th century Dutch paintings of Johannes Vermeer. This was one of the film’s eight Oscar nominations: it won statuettes for its screenplay and editing, and a lot of love from audiences.

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Home is Where the Heart Is: Places in the Heart

Sadly, actor and activist Danny Glover, perhaps best known for his cop role opposite Mel Gibson in the Lethal Weapon series, has acknowledged he’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Always a straightforward guy, he’d previously been frank about his youthful struggles with epilepsy. Now, close to 80, he’s looking back at a career that has given him a wide range of character roles in both wacky comedies and somber dramas. His favorite? He acknowledges that he’s most proud of a 1984 slice of Americana called Places in the Heart.

  As a tribute to Glover, and as a salute to the growing-pains of the USA in its semiquincentennial year, I recently caught up with Places in the Heart. It’s definitely a small film worth knowing, and not just because her leading role in it won Sally Field her second Oscar, and the opportunity to gush to the Academy that "I can't deny the fact that you like me—right now, you like me!" (Personally, I can’t deny the fact that most people misquote her words as “You like me—you really like me!”)

  Places in the Heart was written and directed by the late Robert Benton, who in 1967 came out of New York to co-write (along with fellow Esquire journalist David Newman) an historically -based screenplay they called Bonnie and Clyde. Their script—about a pair of attractive young bank robbers gallivanting through the Southwest during the Great Depression—eventually led to a production deal. After some serious interest from François Truffaut, Arthur Penn ultimately shot Bonnie and Clyde, with  Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway in the leading roles. It became a national sensation and scored 10 Oscar noms in a highly competitive year.   

 After that triumph, Benton pursued his interest in directing as well as writing, winning Oscars in both categories for the 1979 divorce drama, Kramer vs. Kramer. But he was a native Texan, and perhaps that dry, dusty landscape continued to call to him. In 1984, he returned to his roots, crafting a Depression-era story set in Waxahachie, Texas, with nary a bank robber in sight. Life is not easy in Waxahachie: Edna Spalding (Sally Field) has been left a widow after the accidental killing of her husband, the local sheriff. Desperate to support herself and her young children, she takes in a boarder, a bitter ex-soldier (John Malkovich) who lost his sight during the Great War. She also takes pity on the African-American drifter (Glover) who shows up to do chores, even though he’s been caught trying to steal her silverware. Edna’s basic good-heartedness proves contagious, and a viable new household forms. But there are also many external challenges: the bank is eager to foreclose on Edna’s acreage; her sister’s marriage is threatened by a philandering spouse; a powerful tornado (dramatically filmed) flattens the town’s center; the Ku Klux Klan violently turns on Glover’s character. Somehow Edna holds on, leading to a remarkable final scene in which love and redemption surface in a way that can only be called mystical. 

 1985 was a year of BIG movies, led by Amadeus, A Passage to India, and a powerful drama about journalists covering the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, The Killing Fields. Folksy Americana hardly seemed like one of the film-year’s major areas of interest.  But Places in the Heart, a loving, inspiring, and yet down-to-earth portrait of small-town life, holds its own among the costume epics.

 I wish Danny Glover well, and hope he’ll be able to cling onto his memories of being a central figure in this tender film.  

 

I Still Love You, Alice B. Toklas

 

I’ve recently finished reading a colleague’s new, and award-winning, biography of Gertrude Stein. (The author is Francesca Wade, and her impressively researched book is called Gertrude Stein: An Afterlife.) When I was an artsy college student in the Sixties, I’m guessing that few of my classmates had actually dipped into Stein’s artistically challenging writings. I myself certainly hadn’t. But we all knew “rose is a rose is a rose,” and that Stein—an American in Paris—had published in 1933 a faux biographical work of her longtime companion. The Autobiography of Alice B Toklas. So the title of a 1968 romantic comedy, I Love You, Alice B. Toklas, would have been enticing to us—especially since its cast and crew included some of the hippest people in Hollywood.

 One of the creators of the original script was Paul Mazursky, who would go on to both write and direct such comedy hits as Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice (1969), Harry and Tonto (1974), and Moscow on the Hudson (1984). I Love You, Alice B. Toklas was his very first produced film project, and he badly wanted to direct it.  But when Peter Sellers came aboard as the film’s star Mazursky was removed from contention. (Instead, the movie was directed by TV veteran Hy Averback.)

 Aside from Sellers, prominent cast members included Leigh Taylor-Young as a sexy Flower Child with a butterfly tattoo on her thigh. (She was barely twenty-one and making her first film.). The plot focused on Sellers as Harold Fine, a stereotypical (Jewish, natch!) buttoned-down lawyer who’s being pushed toward the chuppah by his girlfriend, played by Joyce Van Patten. Just as matrimony seems inevitable, he meets a free-spirited hippie chick, Nancy. After they’ve hopped into the sack, she whips up a batch of Alice B. Toklas brownies, and he finds himself thoroughly hooked on his new lifestyle. Soon he’s growing out his crewcut, and dressing in caftans and love beads.

 It was quite clear, back in 1968, that an Alice B. Toklas brownie was some kind of psychedelic treat. (The comic spectacle of a middle-aged square suddenly tuning in and turning on was almost unavoidable in movie houses of the late Sixties.) But I didn’t fully grasp the implications of those brownies until I read Francesca Wade’s book. It seems that Toklas, who had no part in the writing of her famous “autobiography” (other than efficiently typing up the manuscript) ultimately chose, following Stein’s 1946 death, to fill her empty days by putting forth a cookbook. Toklas was a whiz in the kitchen, specializing in French cuisine, but she chose to fill out her book with recipes received from friends. One of them, a Morocco-based artist named Brion Gysin, contributed instructions for making a dessert item he called "Haschich Fudge," a heady combo of fruit, nuts, spices, and what he referred to as “Cannibis sativa.” Though the cookbook’s American edition, fearing legal consequences, decided to axe this particular recipe, it was included in the volume published in Britain. Once Time magazine had spilled the beans (so to speak), the rather prim and naïve Toklas discovered she’d published a best-seller.

 The Hollywood film is scored with a perky tune sung by a rock group known as Harpers Bizarre:. It begins “I love you, Alice B. Toklas/ and so does Gertrude Stein/ I love you, Alice B. Toklas/ I’m gonna change your name to mine.” The lyrics then go off on a psychedelic trip—”Green wooly golden gardens, Marvin Gardens”—of which the very avant-garde Gertrude Stein might possibly have approved.  (Though, I suspect, probably not.)

 

 

“The Bear”: What’s a Sitcom Anyway?

Having just binge-watched the fifth and final season of The Bear, I have some strong thoughts on how TV has changed over time. From 1972 to 1983 I was devoted to M*A*S*H, a sort-of sitcom set during the Korean War. Lasting eleven years, the show—about a military surgical unit a stone’s throw from the front lines—focused on the hijinks of young surgeons, nurses, and other American military personnel far from home. So this series (with Alan Alda as “Hawkeye” Pierce, its central figure) blended outrageous comedy with a deep awareness of the tragedies of war and the challenges faced by healers in times of crisis.

 My friend Elias Davis, who co-wrote the famous final episode of M*A*S*H , implies that the show’s outcome was by no means fully planned from the start. But it’s clear that The Bear—officially labeled a comedy, though much of the family backstory is dead serious—was building throughout most of its five-year run toward a very specific conclusion. In the past, American TV didn’t work that way. In long-running comic shows there would be changes over the years as key actors came and went. See, for instance, how the M*A*S*H dynamic evolved when the obtuse Major Frank Burns, as played by Larry Linville, was replaced by the know-it-all snob Charles Emerson Winchester III (David Ogden-Stiers) as Hawkeye’s tent mate.

 Today, of  course, TV series tend to have much shorter seasons: each of the past five years has seen the arrival of only eight episodes of The Bear. (Compare M*A*S*H , which typically had more than 20.) The Bear’s  tight timetable makes it much easier for the writing team to control the show’s narrative, and to plan out in advance where it is going, with some interesting detours along the way. Curiously, although there’s a good-sized cast portraying those who work in and around the Chicago restaurant known as The Bear, not much always happens from episode to episode. Some focus almost entirely on a single character, and it’s not necessarily star Carmy (Jeremy Allen White), a talented chef who agonizes over his decision to convert his dead brother’s sandwich shop into a fine-dining establishment. Each of the central characters has a complicated backstory, and the show sometimes pulls away from the restaurant setting to explore cousin Richie working on his people skills, line cook Tina discovering her professional abilities, pastry chef Marcus coping with the loss of his mother, or Somali kitchen helper Ebraheim shyly struggling to get the restaurant on a stronger financial footing. (His mentor is played by the late Rob Reiner, and there’s a subtle, touching tribute to Reiner in Ebraheim’s last-episode final line, “As you wish.” Jamie Lee Curtis as Carmy’s addled, sometimes alcoholic, mother does not enter the restaurant until the show’s very last episode, but she’s impossible to forget.  Because we come to know these people so well, we care about what they ultimately accomplish.

 One of my favorite things about The Bear is how it rewards viewers paying close attention. Early in season 4 there’s an episode in which maître d’ Richie, aiming to heighten the celebration of  a family whose daughter has just been declared cancer-free, mesmerizes them all by creating a magical summer snowfall. In passing, some attention is paid to the solo diner at the next table who sees and delights in the family’s joy. Who is this man? We don’t find out until the very last show of season 5, when his appreciation for his dining experience bears important fruit. It’s yet another tasty surprise for a very special show.