The Greatest Ten Zillion Movies Ever Made

Keeping Composed

2007-11-24T07:14:00.000-05:00

Top Ten films from Hollywood’s Great Era of Musical Biography Schmaltz: 1938 – 1958

I was a bit of an odd duck, as a child. Although no one in my family could read music, play an instrument or even carry a tune, I was crazy about all of those highly-fictionalized biopics about songwriters and composers that Hollywood produced for a couple of decades, roughly 1938 to 1958.

I vividly remember the final scene of that totally bogus biography of Cole Porter, “Night and Day,” when Alexis Smith – shoulders padded half a mile wide – tearfully returned to the arms of Cary Grant as he plunked away the title tune in his lonely room. I could hardly keep my own composure as the music swelled and my mother, sitting beside me in the darkened Tiger Theater in Carthage, Missouri, broke into audible sobs. She loved ‘em too.

I was 12 years old. And although there is very little historical accuracy in the following list of tear-jerkers, they served a very real purpose: introducing wee nibbins such as I, at least the ones from culture-challenged families, to the enjoyment of music both popular and classical.

To attempt to list these mostly-splashy, mostly-technicolor old war horses in any manner except by pure personal preference is folly. And I only make the attempt because, well, it’s simply great fun to make lists – especially of movies – and in my wanderings through cyberspace I haven’t come across such a list before.

Note: There have been a few notable composer biopics released beyond the Ungilded Age of Musical Cinematic Schmaltz – most notably the classy “Amadaeus” in 1984 and “Topsy-Turvy” in 1999 along with the awful “De-Lovely” in 2004 – but they are few in number and sorely lacking in good old fashioned scenery-chewing melodrama.

1. Rhapsody in Blue (1945) Now, George Gershwin’s music, I could understand. Alan Alda reached his peak playing G.G., and I was so impressed I actually went out and bought my first record – a vinyl version of George playing his own Rhapsody. Alexis Smith, again with the padded shoulders, appears along with Joan Leslie (with whom I fell madly and boyishly in love). Making personal appearances are Oscar Levant, George White, and Al Jolson. Gershwin’s mother is played by Rosemary DeCamp. (Little was I to know that 8 years later I’d win the Rosemary DeCamp Playwriting Award.) So for all those logical and illogical reasons, I’ve got to rate R.I.B. as my very favorite musical biography.

2. Stars and Stripes Forever (1952) Clifton Webb is perfectly cast as John Philip Sousa in this big, bright cheerful musical that refrains from over-dramatizing his life. Just as stirring and watchable, with Ruth Hussey playing his wife, as it was 50 years ago.

3. Night and Day (1946) Except for his great, great music, this film has almost nothing to do with Cole Porter’s real life. But Cary Grant miraculously carries it off, with Monty Woolley aboard right from the first Boola-Boola. Michael Curtiz, who seems to have directed about half the movies on this list, directed. Who cares about all the tawdry little realities that clutter up a good story? I can watch this film again and again, knowing it’s purity bolognus, and enjoy it to the hilt. That’s what great music’ll do for ya.

4. Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942) Jimmy Cagney sings and dances so fantastically in this movie that you almost forget that George M. Cohan was a great and patriotic American composer. This iconic film is #100 on the AFI’s list of the 100 greatest movies of all time. Who can argue?

5. Words and Music (1948) Mickey Rooney and Tom Drake play Rodgers and Hart. Great music, great cast including Judy Garland (yes, of course she sings a duet with Mickey) Sinatra, Horne, Kelly, Torme, and on and on. Completely ignores Hart’s bisexuality – such things were verboten in movies back then – so Mick is portrayed to be mostly just manic. Some fiction, some fact, but some movie!

6. The Story of Gilbert and Sullivan (1953) Robert Morley and Maurice Evans are equally fantastic as the kings of operetta. Excerpts from a number of their classics fill the screen, so it’s enjoyable on every level.

7. St. Louis Blues (1958) Nat “King” Cole plays W.C. Handy in this elegantly restrained biography that includes performances by most of the popular African-American stars of the era. Seen are Eartha Kitt, Ruby Dee, Ella Fitzgerald, Cab Calloway, Mahilia Jackson and Pearl Bailey. Surprising performance by Cole who had always seemed, when he wasn’t singing, kind of stiff. Nice job here.

8. Three Little Words (1950) An unlikely pairing of Fred Astaire and Red Skelton playing the Tin Pan Alley duet of Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby. These guys wrote a bundle of pop hits in the 20’s and 30’s, and the story is lots of fun. Vera-Ellen and Arlene Dahl are the wives, with appearances by Keenan Wynn, Gloria DeHaven and Debbie Reynolds, among others.

9. Deep in My Heart (1954) Ahh, the operettas of Sigmund Romberg – Student Price, Desert Song, all that good stuff! And with Jose Ferrer playing Siggy, everything stays on track.

10 Till the Clouds Roll By (1946) Admittedly an awful adaptation of Jerome Kern’s life, but he’s one of my favorite composers. Robert Walker does what he can with it; on the other hand it’s got a boffo cast and great songs from his Broadway shows. Cameos by a dozen MGM stars is enough to help one ignore the hammy acting.

The Ten Best Films of 2006

2007-02-22T09:43:00.000-05:00

The Top Ten Films of 2006

1. Little Miss Sunshine
2. Happy Feet
3. Sherrybaby
4. Half Nelson
5. An Inconvenient Truth
6. The Departed
7. Notes on a Scandal
8. Bobby
9. For Your Consideration
10. Bubble

Oscar Predictions: 2007

2007-02-22T09:39:00.000-05:00

Actor, Leading: Forest Whitaker, “Last King of Scotland”
Actor, Supporting: Eddie Murphy, “Dreamgirls”
Actress, Leading: Helen Mirren, “The Queen”
Actress, Supporting: Jennifer Hudson, “Dreamgirls”
Animated Feature: “Cars”
Art Direction: “Dreamgirls”
Cinematography: “Children of Men”
Costume Design: “Marie Antoinette”
Director: Martin Scorsese, “The Departed”
Documentary Feature: “An Inconvenient Truth”
Documentary Short: “Two Hands”
Film Editing: “The Departed”
Foreign Language Film: “Pan’s Labyrinth”
Makeup: “Pan’s Labyrinth”
Original Score: “The Queen”
Original Song: “Listen” from “Dreamgirls”
Best Picture: “The Departed”
Short Film, Animated: “The Little Matchgirl”
Short Film, Live Action: “West Bank Story”
Sound Editing: “Pirates of the Caribbean – Dead Mans Chest”
Sound Mixing: “Dreamgirls”
Visual Effects:“Pirates of the Caribbean – Dead Mans Chest”
Screenplay, Adapted: “The Departed”
Screenplay, Original: “Little Miss Sunshine”

Let's watch a war movie, Grandpa

2007-01-30T12:20:00.000-05:00

I was a wide-eyed seven year old when World War II broke out, and like most other American children, became a perfect candidate for Hollywood’s beginning flood of propaganda films. We couldn’t actually fight the enemies of our land, but we could help Mom hoe the Victory garden, collect scrap metal, buy War Stamps with our allowances, and vicariously join the war effort at the movies.

Before I turned eight, I had helped John Wayne rescue the friendly, valiant (and always polite) citizens of China from the evil clutches of Japan in “Flying Tigers,” had invaded the Pacific from “Bataan” and “Wake Island” to “Guadalcanal Diary,” tanked across North Africa beside Bogart himself in “Sahara,” and held my breath while Cary Grant cruised, unseen and underwater, into the very mouth of the enemy in “Destination Tokyo.”

The flood of propaganda slowed to a trickle after the war ended, and while a steadily growing doubt crept into my political consciousness, calming my boyish patriotic fervor over the years, my zest for films about warfare never abated.

No one could possibly have seen them all, but I tried, and have continued to reach that unreachable goal. Just last week, for instance, I saw a perfectly dreadful 1943 slapstick comedy starring Alan Mowbray entitled “The Devil with Hitler.” Only my dedication to the cause kept me tuned to Turner Classic Movies for all 53 minutes.

Luckily, the broad genre of warfare films has widened, and some true classics have been made over the years – some of them only peripherally about warfare, of course, and of course not all made by the American film industry.

Two of my grandsons, Jake (age 15) and Matty (10), have become enamored of cinematic warfare of late, and actually asked me for a list of good ones to see. And while I relished the request, the list I sent them was lengthy indeed. Moreover, it didn’t include the films I thought of as the “Best” war films – just those movies I felt would be most appropriate for sub-adult viewers: light on the harsh language and heavy on the action.

And so now, as more of an exercise in self-indulgence than an aid to youthful fans, I have put together my own list of the Best War Movies – ones that I feel convey a more thoughtful message, ones that will last, ones that I will watch again. In order of personal preference, they are:

1. A Walk in the Sun. This great little mostly-forgotten film starring Dana Andrews and a gaggle of character actors circa 1945 puts warfare into a nutshell. It’s carefully based on Harry Brown’s slim and powerful novel by the same name, and enhanced by Woodie Guthrie singing Millard Lampell’s rousing theme song.
2. Casablanca
3. Lawrence of Arabia
4. Band of Brothers
5. Gettysburg
6. Battleground
7. Glory
8. Saving Private Ryan
9. Das Boot
10. The Bridge on the River Kwai
11. Sahara (1943)
12. Apocalypse Now
13. From Here to Eternity
14. The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968 version)
15. Paths of Glory
16. Zulu
17. Fort Apache, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, and Rio Grande (Ford’s Indian Wars trilogy)
18. Patton
19. The Longest Day
20. Spartacus
21. The Deer Hunter
22. Memphis Belle
23. Gunga Din
24. Destination Tokyo
25. Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo

The Greatest Ten Zillion Movie (and TV) Lines Ever Written

2006-03-12T14:14:00.000-05:00

Yes, comedy is hard. Hard to write, hard to time, hard to act and almost impossible for a director. And what’s more, it’s fleeting. Most humorous scenes or lines have the lifespan of a gnat in the public memory.

Occasionally, however, comic lightning strikes, and a memorable line will push your buttons so squarely you’ll be able to recall it years later, and smile in remembrance of when and where you first encountered it.

I hereby submit a few of the funniest lines I’ve ever heard (along with a brief description of the setting – for the best humor arises from situation), and invite you to add your own favorites.

1. My absolute favorite line actually comes from television. It was in an old “Odd Couple” episode, when Felix had to come up with a substitute band for some gala affair. After searching frantically, he was talking on the phone with Oscar, and exclaimed, “Ma Gump won’t work on Gabby Hayes’ birthday!” I literally fell off my chair the first time I heard that line.
2. One could fill a whole article with the humorous lines from Mel Brooks’ classic “Young Frankenstein,” but the one I liked best was when Cloris Leachman, as Frau Bleucher, admitted her relationship with the old Dr. Frankenstein by shouting dramatically, “He vas my boyfriend!” Followed by a horse whinnying.
3. Who can forget the great line from “When Harry Meets Sally?” After Meg Ryan demonstrates her ability to fake an orgasm in a deli, a sweet little old lady (who was actually portrayed by director Ron Howard’s mom) tells her waiter, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
4. Remember the very last line of “Some Like it Hot?” When learning that his intended was a boy instead of a girl, he shrugged and said, “Well, nobody's perfect!”

Who would YOU cast in "Jaws"?

2006-03-07T12:56:00.000-05:00

After the release of Steven Spielberg’s masterwork “Jaws” in 1975, Hollywood made a gaggle of crappy sequels (each worse than the last) as it normally does for successful films. It’s time to go back to the beginning and do a remake of this great flick the right way – and win yourself a movie theater gift certificate along the way.

Actually, it’s been several years since we’ve come up with another entry in our popular film buff contest, so please sharpen your wit, wisdom, and movie imagination, and step into the leather boots of an all-powerful Hollywood Casting Director to enter:

The Fifth Annual Carly-at-the-Movies Recasting the Classics Contest

The prizes:
First prize: A $20 gift certificate to the movie theater of your choice (either ANY Regal cinema in America, the Dixie Theater, or the brand new Visulite in Staunton, VA.)
Second prize: A $10 gift certificate to one of the theaters
Third prize: A $5 gift certificate to one of the theaters
The Rules:
You are the Casting Director for a remake of the classic Steven Spielberg film, “Jaws.” For each of the 9 roles listed below, you have the power to cast ANY actor, living or dead, real or imaginary, human or animal.
Be sure to include your name and email address with each entry. And yes, you CAN enter more than once! Just make sure each entry contains nine cast members.
Deadline:
Email your cast list(s) to me at: carllarsen@alltel.net by midnight, April 14, 2006. Then you can just sit back and wait to rake in one of the semi-grand prizes, plus the adulation of all our readers. And even more thrilling, you’ll see your cast featured in our April 17th edition of “Carly at the Movies.”
Eligibility:
Everyone on planet earth is eligible to enter, with the obvious exception of our distinguished panel of judges which includes: Me, my wife, the ghost of Cecil B. DeMille, and Al, the guy across the street from me.
The Cast:
Here’s the list of characters you are to cast for the remake, along with a brief description and the actor who originally played the role.
1. Martin Brody, Police Chief. Played by lanky leading man Roy Scheider in the original.
2. Quint, the professional shark hunter. Robert Shaw was great in this role, especially his grim monologue about the sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis.
3. Matt Hooper, the cocky little marine biologist played by Richard Dreyfuss.
4. Ellen Brody, the wife of the police chief, played by Lorraine Gary.
5. Larry Vaughn, the slick and slimy Mayor of Amity Island, done to perfection by Murray Hamilton.
6. “Bruce,” the big mechanical shark himself.
For cast members 7., 8., and 9., we offer a special treat. Pick your three least-favorite (or most appropriate) actors for three of Bruce’s victims. 7. will of course be someone to play the pretty gal who takes a dip at the beginning of the film and gets et, 8. is a teenage or child actor to appear as the little kid who also shows up on the shark buffet (his mom slaps Sheriff Brody), and 9. would be one of the greedy fishermen trying to snag Bruce with a roast beef on a meat hook.

The name and cast list of the winning entries will appear in this column on April 17, and the winners will be notified. Nothing to buy, no gimmicks. The whole thing is just a low-key fun contest for movie fans.

Enter as many cast lists as you please – we hope to get so many entries that, well, we’ll need a bigger boat.

The Day My Wife Became a Football Fan

2006-02-26T08:47:00.000-05:00

Don’t believe in payback, eh?

Well, my darlings, like they say: be careful what you wish for, because there’s a price tag on everything.

Like every other virile young married man, my fondest wish was always that my wife enjoy the same things I enjoyed. You know, the Togetherness Syndrome. She loved movies, which was great, but didn’t much care about either beer or football. So, through the first couple of decades of our marriage, I followed football accompanied only by my growing tribe of ugly little children, while my wife occasionally wandered through the living room when an exciting game was on the tube, only to shake her head in sadness over our moronic devotion to a bunch of big apes running around knocking each other down.

But, as the Fundamentalist Rightwing Conservative Republican Religious Fanatics constantly assure us, miracles do happen. Indeed, they do. Because sometime between the day we moved to Pittsburgh in 2003 and the dawning of 2006, my wife became a football fan.

Like all well-bred, reasonable, highly-intelligent humans, she fell in love with the Pittsburgh Steelers. (I will not belabor the reasons for this. They are self-evident.)

My wife began to recognize which player was which from their photos. She began asking questions about the game itself. Like all women with so much as a beating pulse, she lusted after Troy Polamalu. And when the 2005 season began, she started actually cheering for the team and talking about them and most-importantly watching the games with me.

She was succumbing to a general malaise that runs rampant amongst the surrounding hills, one known as Steeleritis. She began to wear Steeler paraphernalia and came to the realization (as did all of America, after the Football Writers Association voted him Mr. Nice Guy) that, along with Mother Theresa and the Social Security Administration, Jerome Bettis is on the brink of canonization.

“The man is a God,” she solemnly intoned, “and Hines Ward is his Moses, leading his Chosen People to the Promised Land, across the desert, to the shores of the Red Zone.” Her words seem to have been somewhat prophetic, considering the outcome of the apocalyptic Super Bowl XL, known hereabouts as “The Rapture.”

Could I possibly ask for a wife more wonderful?

Here it comes, dear reader, the other shoe dropeth.

When the Winter Olympics came along, my wife casually mentioned that it might be fun to “watch some of it.” Such nonsense generally leaves me cold, but I nodded in pleasant agreement. After all, this most perfect of all women, sent down to me as a reward for an exemplary life, had become the girl that all male football fans (and probably some female ones as well) dream of marrying. For her wholehearted embrace of my own passion, I owed her big time. No big deal.

And. Then. For. Seventeen. Agonizing. Days. We. Watched. The. Winter. Olympics.

Poor idiot-boy that I am, I thought perhaps I could live with it for four hours a night, during prime time.

But it was being telecast a lot more than that. On NBC. And CNBC. And USA. And some other toady little network, obviously also owned by Satan himself.

So we did nothing else. We neither ate nor slept. We sat, fixated, while princesses (some actually wearing tiaras!) and princes as well, pranced about on ice and snow like a demon pack of precious little Tinkerbell fairies.

In my dreams, during those few scattered moments that I dozed off in front of the relentless tube, grown men rode sleds down mountains pretending it was serious stuff – sometimes even on top of one another – and warlocks with brooms swept frantically at perfectly-clean ice while huge rocks drifted willy-nilly. Curling, they called it. It curled my toes.

I could not get away from it. People with unpronounceable names, each following the last, skied and tumbled and snowboarded and jumped in identical patterns like a pointless short film on a loop playing over and over and being carefully timed down to the zillisecond.

The only fun was on those rare occasions when someone either crashed through a fence or plopped unceremoniously on their butt. I always woke up for the instant replay.

You may be suspecting that I am not a big fan of outdoor winter sports. Anyone with more than a dozen brain cells is indoors watching television while snow snows, temperatures drop, icebergs form, winds whistle, and blizzards bliz. There are only two legitimate reasons for being out of doors during the winter: either you do not have indoor plumbing, or you are delivering pizza.

The Winter Olympics went on and on and on, my wife’s enthusiasm and love for the most ghastly events of all – the figure skating crap – never flagging. Through endless hours of triumph and heartbreak, of women wearing dinky little dresses (but also clad in little-girl bodies that would quicken the pulse of pedophiles only), we sat while they swished and twirled and spun without end, interrupted only by flouncy pair-skating couples reenacting vague mini-dramas about as subtle as characters in a Japanese Kabuki play.

My wife loved every moment of it.

While I, as puzzled and woozy as a White House Reporter after a Bush press conference, longed only for the final Gold Donut to be awarded to the final foreigner-with-an-unpronounceable-name. And when that came, the God of Revenge had one more cruel trick to play on me.

All the ice skating was done.

Except, of course, for the Figure Skating Champions GALA. (Which must stand for Gawd-Awful-Long Act)

I felt like the guy who had rowed a paper raft across Hell, only to hear someone yell, “One more time!”

In this world, some people win the lottery and some people get runned over by a beer truck. There’s no logic, there’s no justice, there’s no rules – except for payback.

For seventeen days, I staggered across a Sahara of Hurt, all because of my love for my darling wife, and in appreciation for her devotion to football.

Clearly, a man such as I should ascend directly into Heaven without having to go through the inconvenience of dying.

My only regret is that, alas, I can never reclaim those seventeen days.

24,480 endless minutes.

Enough time to watch, from opening kickoff to final whistle, the next 136 Steeler victories.

Hollywood Obits

2005-12-03T08:42:00.000-05:00

On June 10, 1971, I realized I was going to die.

We all make that realization eventually, of course, but I had managed to live into my mid-thirties without really thinking much about it; embracing that often-cited childhood conceit that I was immortal. But that day it all changed, and I remember it quite clearly.

I was living in Manhattan and on my way to work when I saw the article in the New York Post. Michael Rennie, one of my favorite actors had passed away. I had followed his career casually for twenty years, dating back to The Day the Earth Stood Still, a film I still count among the very best science fiction flicks ever made.

And although I never knew him personally, I felt a sudden sense of shock, of loss – a feeling that, somehow, the world had diminished in a way I’d never expected it to. His films remained, and in that way he was frozen in time and I could enjoy his work again and again.

Since then I’ve relived that experience with other actors quite a few times, and always, as with the passing of my close friends and relatives, comes the sense of loss, of a whole world slipping farther and farther into the hands of the bland and talent-challenged. Gradually, bit by bit, little pieces of my own past seemed to be chipping off. Jack Soo died in 1979. William Holden in 1981. This list goes on.

I am adding this to my blog simply because that old feeling came home to roost once again recently, with the death of Pat Morita, and I am sure other film aficionados must have had a similar experience.

I want you to know you are not alone.

21st Annual West Virginia International Film Festival

2005-11-16T08:32:00.000-05:00

You would think that native West Virginians would be angry about the stupid stereotypes that most of us associate with their state. But most of the people I met at the recent International Film Festival held in Charleston just laughed about the hillbilly image and assured me that, yup, the official state flower really is a satellite dish, and right up there on the flag is the state motto: Eat More Possum.

But there was not a possum in sight in early November when my wife and I attended an Elderhostel that was linked to the 21st West Virginia International Film Festival. It was sophisticated, urbane, and it was just about as much fun as a film fan could possibly cram into one week. We saw 10 movies in five days and attended special film production classes given by faculty members from the Communications Department at West Virginia State College.

The festival films were uneven, of course. Some were interesting (“The Edukators”), some bizarre (“The Perfect Crime”) some incomprehensible (“2046”) and Ingmar Bergman’s most recent film (“Saraband”) was, of course, unrelentingly sorrowful. (I realize that such conjecture is blasphemy to Bergmanites, but could jolly old Ingmar’s films be the cause of Scandinavia’s astronomical suicide rate?)

But the most interesting and exciting work was engendered by the WVSC faculty members themselves. Dr. Marc Porter, Daniel Boyd, Dave Brock and Steve Gilliland all not only presented an introduction to various aspects of film production but are involved in ongoing film projects of their own.

From a new and chilling Stephen King adaptation to filming on the peaks of Mt. Kilimanjaro, these bright and energetic filmmakers shared the excitement and magic that makes world-wide cinema so fascinating. Perhaps the most interesting project was presented by Richard Ndunguru, a graduate student at WVSC. It’s called African Community-Based Film Making, whereby a film production team lives with a village in Africa for an extended period and creates a film using the villagers themselves enacting a story that deals directly with a local problem, be it social, political or economic.

There is much more to learn and much more to be said about both the West Virginia International Film Festival and the Communications Department at West Virginia State College. The websites are: www.wviff.org and www.wvsctc.edu.

Broken Dreams, Lost Palaces

2005-10-15T14:15:00.000-04:00

Perhaps a zillion popular songs have been written about love lost and love lamented. Because, I assume, we all have faded memories of ancient relationships that have sparked, flared, burned and then were snuffed out by fate or circumstance or our own stupidity, leaving naught but a twinge of nostalgic heartburn. And while I’ve had my share of trampled hearts and regretful moments, the ancient loves that I cherish most are the movie theaters, those lost palaces of my broken dreams, that frame my memories.

My grandfather, Ed Porter, was the Stage Manager at the Opera House in Carthage, Missouri, early in the last century. As time passed and opera houses gave way to movie palaces, he stage managed the Tiger Theater before his eventual retirement. Throughout my childhood, during the summers that I visited our family home in Carthage, my mother and I diligently attended the movies there twice a week (as almost everyone in America did during World War II).

By modern standards it was no great shakes, but the Tiger was the ritziest theater in Carthage, quite nicely decked out and kept clean (by Grandpa, of course), and I can remember Dish Nights and Lotto Nights and the theater crowded with breathless neighbors watching the big wheel go round and round, hoping for the fabled prize of $25.00.

Across the square in Carthage there was another theater, known by all and wide as The Bloody Bucket. Each Saturday just before noon I’d line up there with my friends to spend most of the day gorging on candy and popcorn and watching a triple-feature, complete with coming attractions, a couple of serials, several cartoons, and at least one short subject. The films were always B-pictures; westerns, cheapo mysteries, jungle pictures and entries from the endless Bowery Boys/Dead End Kids franchises. The seats were crappy; the floors incredibly sticky, the narrow threadbare theater itself reeking of unwashed feet and dirty children, but our parents adored it. It got us off their hands from lunchtime until nearly sundown, when we returned to our separate neighborhoods eager to gulp down dinner and rush out to reenact the marvelous tales we’d seen on that great silver screen.

I spent most of my childhood in Seal Beach, California, and can still remember the thrill of watching the Bay Theater go up, cinder block by cinder block, just a half a block from our house. It was there – and in the far more opulent theaters in Long Beach – that I saw most of the films made during the war. And although it was undoubtedly the slushpot wherein the stew of many a young patriot’s fervor was cooked, I have fonder memories of the Torrance Theater (although I’m no longer sure that was the correct name of it) where I got my first job as an usher and marquee boy. It was there that I, by the very nature of my work, got to see films over and over again, and began to recognize and wonder about the finer shades of plotting, lighting, music, cinematography along with the vast range of acting talent displayed before me – both in the balcony (by teenage smoochers) and on the screen.

Much later in live I came across the Dixie Theater in downtown Staunton, Virginia. I was often there in the 1980’s and 90’s when I wrote film reviews for what was then the Staunton Daily News-Leader. It was small, shabby and uncomfortable at the time, but is now going over a complete renovation and will become a cushy film and performance
venue for the Staunton Performing Arts Center. It’s already been turned into an oasis for independent and art film fans in the Shenandoah Valley.

Which brings us to: my current love. Lowes Waterfront Theatre in Pittsburgh, built on the site of a long-gone steel mill (where nothing remains save the 12 enormous smokestacks) is a true cinema palace in the old-fashioned mold. It is mammoth, with 22 screens and vanilla-scented bathrooms, with red and purple and yellow minarets twisting into the slate blue western Pennsylvania sky, with huge concession islands (not “stands” by any stretch of the imagination) and a staff so polite they often ask you, as you’re leaving, “Did you enjoy the film?”

What’s more, they play both first-run blockbusters and selected independent films, and to boot, they actually publish the real starting time of each movie in the newspapers – not the beginning time of all those annoying ads and dozens of Coming Attractions. And as you stroll through the avenue-wide lobbies on the way to your stadium seat, you can glance skyward and read famous movie quotes painted elegantly on the walls near the ceiling. “I’m the king of the world!” is there, along with “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy ride,” “Phone home, E.T.” and the legend-shattering (but accurate) “Play it, Sam.”

There they are, the lost palaces of my life, all but one slipping away into memory’s dusty cavern. And so pass, as the oft-quoted Romans found, the glories of the world.

Forgotten But Not Gone

2005-10-07T10:52:00.000-04:00

Some fans of classic films – me, for instance – seem to have a chip on their shoulder whenever they talk to one of the Who Brigade. That’s the young people claiming to be film fans who stare at you blankly and ask, “Who?” when you mention Charles Laughton.

And it gets worse when you mention one of those faded stars who are Forgotten But Not Gone. Some of these actors are, indeed, gone in a physical sense; doubtless to that big red carpet in the sky. But their work is with us, and in that sense they will never be gone. Except…they’re mostly forgotten.

So here is just the beginning of a list. Please feel free to remind me of your own favorites for inclusion via the “comment” button.

Jean Arthur
Freddie Bartholomew
Paul Comi
Elisha Cook, Jr.
Laird Cregar
Robert Donat
Jeff Donnell
Deanna Durbin
Bonita Granville
Sonja Henie
Trevor Howard
Sam Jaffe
Marsha Hunt
Paul Lukas
Luise Rainier
George Sanders
Kent Smith
Roland Young

Hollywood's Most Exciting Job

2005-08-09T13:00:00.000-04:00

Most of us -- fleetingly, perhaps -- have dreamed of "getting into the movies." Then reality usually steps in, gives us a Jimmy Cagney grapefruit in the face, and sends us back to our economic cubbyhole where we finish our coffee and the day's dull work. Being an actor seems like the most glamorous job in the film industry. You can find fame, riches, degredation, heartbreak, high times, and the chance to stomp on everyone you hate.

If you're a control freak, of course, being a director must have a certain allure. So does screenwriting. And even at the bottom of the pay scale (i.e. a film critic) there's a certain charm in sharing your crackbrained opinions with lots of people who are still going to see The Dukes of Hazzard no matter how outraged you are.

(By the way, why are we so amazed that so many people are going to see The Dukes of Hazzard, anyway? What, are we suddenly fresh out of morons?)

Acting, directing, writing all have their rush, but I was startled to learn, just a few years ago, that the most exciting job in Hollywood is film editing.

I had just a few days experience editing film, but the thrill of putting it all together seems to linger on. I was living in Staunton, VA at the time, and got to work on an amateur travelogue with a dear (and since departed) friend of mine, Bob Everidge. It was just a little outing by the Shenandoah Valley Kiwanis Club, but we shot the footage on VHS, added voiceover and musical background and pirated in some clips from old movies -- and it was probably the most fun I've ever had fully clothed.

He had a good computer and mid-priced software, and the thrill of actually editing a film was astonishing. We pulled the background sound tracks from Mel Brooks' hilarious Silent Movie for the traveling music, cut in a prehistoric picnic from One Million B.C., and managed to amuse ourselves and the clubmembers for about 20 minutes.

It was just a taste of Hollywood's most exciting job. But it was enough to convince me that, had I another lifetime to mess around with, film editing would be my career of choice.

List #1: The Greatest Ten Zillion Non-Musical Musical Scores Ever Made

2005-08-07T09:53:00.000-04:00

1. Captain From Castile (1947)
Alfred Newman
2. Jaws (1975)
John Williams
3. Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
Maurice Jarre
4. The Big Chill (1983)
1960's hits
5. The Godfather (1972)
Nino Rota
6. Laura (1944)
David Raskin
7. Silent Movie (1976)
John Morris
8. A Walk in the Sun (1945)
Earl Robinson
9. Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977)
John Williams
10. American Graffiti (1973)
1960's hits
11. The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)
Malcolm Arnold
12. Casablanca (1942)
Max Steiner
13. Breakfast at Tiffanys (1961)
Henry Mancini
14. The Way We Were (1973)
Marvin Hamlisch
15. The Sting (1973)
Scott Joplin
16. The Third Man (1949)
Anton Karas
17. Doctor Zhivago (1965)
Maurice Jarre

Spawn of the Dead

2005-07-30T06:10:00.000-04:00

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray The Lord no monsters creep
Into my bedroom ‘til the dawn,
When all the zombies will be gone.

If they have their feng shui on straight, fans of zombie movies kneel to pray each night facing Pittsburgh. There, at the Monroeville Mall (just a few miles from my own humble upwardly-mobile home) stands a giant mural depicting the history of the proud, now-yuppified, Iron City -- where blue collars are only seen adorned by paisley ties.

There are, of course, depictions of Franco Harris on the mural, along with Andrew Carnegie, Heinz catsup bottles and other historically-significant icons (there are no images of Pinkertons assassinating steel workers, however) including zombies. For it was in Pittsburgh that George A. Romero spawned that first great zombie epic, Night of the Living Dead back in 1968.

His low budget epic brought those fun-loving flesh-feasters a flagon of film fame (if not fortune). Always struggling, over the years, George has managed to dig up (ahem) enough of a budget to continue his series of genre movies. Dawn of the Dead followed in 1978 and the sun also rose on Day of the Dead in 1985. All were shot in Pittsburgh, the Bronx-born Romero’s adopted hometown.

Last month, his biggest (and self-proclaimed bestest) zombie movie appeared, this time with a recognizable cast. John Leguizamo and Dennis Hopper starred in the film shot in Canada this time for budgetary reasons. It was Land of the Dead, and will be headed to a video store near you before you can exhume the rental price.

While justly proud to be living near the Mecca of Zombie movies, I must admit that most of them leave me, well, luke-warm. Not enough humor, too slow moving, too much entrails-eating, and generally poor acting of B-movie grade scripts are my only reasons.

But on a cable channel yesterday, I watched that spawn of the dawn of the dead, Shaun of the Dead (2004). And while there are several obligatory Technicolor scenes of z-boys gnawing on the bloody steaming guts of their victims, the emphasis of the film was on humor. It’s an English film starring Simon Pegg (perhaps you’ll remember him from Band of Brothers) that’s taglined: “Bought coffee. Called Mom. Dodged zombies.”

Spoofing the self-involvment that most thirtysomethings are famous for, the camera follows our wimpy anti-hero and his slobbish flat-mate through the worst day of their lives. The streets of London teem with zombies, and it takes the dim-bulbed duo ages to catch on. Shaun eventually discovers his gumption, and sets off to rescue his ex-sweetie and his mom. There’s a cameo by Bill Nighy that’s quite nice. The survivors hole up in their favorite pub, of course, as the plot and plasma thicken.

Cute film, lots of deadpan fun, definitely one of the Best Ten Zillion Movies Ever Made.

I dreamed I went to Movie Hell

2005-07-29T09:17:00.000-04:00

After getting the sad news from the powers-that-be (it was a Republican administration in Heaven, the day I died) I stepped from the elevator and realized it was uncomfortably warm.

When given my choice, I had stupidly requested Movie Hell as opposed to, say, Knitting Hell, Golfers Inferno, or the ever-popular Place Where Bad Boys Who Fall Asleep at the Opera Go. But, still being in a state of trauma due to having been run over by a beer truck, I was too buzzed to realize the use of reverse psychology works great at the Golden Gates. I should have said, "Gee Whiz, Dick," (Dick Cheney was filling in for St. Peter that day) "I'm a big fan of Elvis Presley Movies! Can you send me to Elvis Presley Movie Fan Oven?"

Instead, I got exactly what I requested. Movie Hell.

It was a gigantic picture palace foyer, all glitzy and golden and wonderful, full of ushers decked out in pillbox hats and snappy uniforms and the seductive smell of freshly-popped popcorn filling the air, just like movie houses were back in the 1930's. I walked in. Tickets were free, of course. I approached the candy counter. Nothing but Good 'n Plenty and Jujubees. My two least-favorite movie candies.

Sensing a trend here, I leaned over the counter and scooped a handful of popcorn out of the bin. Although it smelled great, it was ghastly. Stale. Popcorn that had been popped weeks ago, then left to dry out. Then set out in the rain. Then redried. Then put up for sale. I noticed it was free, of course. But no one else was around to eat it.

Sensing the worst, I turned to look at the lobby cards to see what was playing at each of the several-dozen venues.

They were all the same. Running forever and ever. On a loop. A Jerry Lewis Film Festival.