Lady for a Day (1932-33)

Lady for a Day, an early Frank Capra film, was nominated for Best Picture of 1932-33 (the last year the Academy had a "split" year for eligibility). It has all the hallmarks of a Capra film, with its sentimental depictions of the lower classes and the struggles that they face. Some will perhaps think that I'm criticizing sentimentality here; nothing could be farther from the truth. Capra was one of the few and one of the best at showing the plight of those people who were not often the subject of movies. And, with its story of how a group of gangsters and thugs and the like try to help a poor apple seller pretend to be rich in order to impress her daughter's fiance, Lady for a Day is a movie that rightfully earns its emotional impact.

May Robson plays Apple Annie, who has come to America to make money but has wound up instead trying to eke out an existence by selling apples in Times Square. However, she has been writing letters to her daughter back in Europe making it appear that she is wealthy and attending lots of parties and balls with the rich society of New York. Dave the Dude, played by Warren William, is a gangster who considers buying an apple from Annie to be a good luck charm. Once he learns of her plight, he decides to help her pretend to be the society matron she has told her daughter that she is. What starts out as a simple "con" turns into a series of increasingly more difficult--and, therefore, more amusing--attempts to keep up the masquerade.

Dave's odd behavior can't help but attract the attention of the police, who suspect that he must be up to something big. He has, after all, gotten the assistance of almost every criminal under his control in New York to carry out this plan. Thanks to Dave's new activities, the police chief, the mayor, even the governor begin to question what his next action will be. In truth, he's just trying to help out a friend, and the movie's depiction of his gentleness with Annie is one of its most touching attributes. In fact, almost everyone tries to do her or his best to help Annie, making this one of the best films ever about the nature of true friendship.

One of my favorite scenes involves Dave trying to teach the thugs and molls in his gang how to behave like the upper class. Needless to say, they don't respond well to instruction. Several times during the movie, in fact, it appears that the entire scheme is going to implode. Yet each time it gets close to that moment of collapse, something happens to keep the fairy tale alive for just a bit longer. I won't spoil how they pull off the ending of the movie, but it's a marvel that will make you smile. Capra seems to be making a point here about the inherent goodness of people, and that's a message we could certainly do with hearing more often.

Robson is so charming as Apple Annie. She was already late in her acting career when she took on this role, and she manages to make viewers sympathetic to her plight with her portrayal. While another, less talented actress might have made you question why Annie keeps up this charade for so long, Robson instead makes you hopeful that she can continue to manage it. William makes for a very suave Dave the Dude (don't you just love the names that Damon Runyon came up with?), and he is surrounded by a first-rate cast of supporting players in his gang of criminals with hearts of gold.

I can't imagine how different this film might be if someone remade it today. (It was remade in 1961 as A Pocketful of Miracles with Bette Davis as Apple Annie, but I don't think the later version is quite as good.) It would be doubtful that anyone could capture the enormous warmth of the story that Capra's film depicts, and the rest of the vagabonds who share Annie's plight would likely be saddled with far more depressing characterizations. Thankfully, we still have the original available to us to remind us of our common ability to be good to each other, to help each other out, no matter how absurd or ridiculous the "project" might be.

Johnny Belinda (1948)

The heart of Johnny Belinda, nominated for Best Picture of 1948, is the performance of Jane Wyman. If you're only familiar with her work on TV's Falcon Crest, you will be astonished at the grace with which she portrays a deaf/mute girl who is raped and then tried for murder. Wyman, whom I've already discussed in the posting about The Yearling, was a contract player at the time and had already been in dozens of films playing small parts. Here she takes a leading role without dialogue, yet she manages to make the audience completely sympathetic to her character. That's no small feat to accomplish without uttering a word.

Belinda McDonald, Wyman's character, works for her father Blackie (Charles Bickford) on a farm just outside a fishing village in Nova Scotia. Having lost her hearing as a baby to scarlet fever, she has learned how to communicate through a series of facial expressions and marks on the pages of a ledger book, but both her father and her aunt (the great Agnes Moorehead) seem to think that her deafness means that she is also mentally deficient. A new doctor, played by Lew Ayres, moves into town and becomes interested in Belinda's almost immediately. He begins teaching her sign language, and she begins to fall in love with him. He, however, seems oblivious to her feelings. That's particularly odd given how expressive her face is whenever she's around him, but no matter. The plot must go on.

One day, while almost everyone else is gone, one of the town's bad boys, Locky McCormick (Stephen McNalley), shows up at the grist mill on the farm where Belinda is working alone and assaults her. Belinda, not fully comprehending his actions, becomes very sullen and uncommunicative, even with Dr. Richardson. The good doctor, hoping that perhaps Belinda's hearing loss is reversible, takes her to a specialist, only to have that doctor reveal that Belinda is pregnant. The townspeople eventually learn of the pregnancy and, in true small-town fashion, begin blaming the doctor. He has, after all, been spending a great deal of time with Belinda. They shun Belinda and the doctor and even Belinda's family. When Locky shows up to take custody of his child, thanks to a town meeting rife with false accusations and misunderstandings, Belinda tries to defend her child and kills Locky in the process. Her trial ends the film, and as you might expect from a Hollywood movie at the time, there is a happy ending.

The rest of the cast is strong as well. How could you go wrong, really, with Bickford and Ayres and (especially) Moorehead? But the true joy of watching this film is in Wyman's performance. She was already 31 when she made this film, yet she portrays Belinda with the naivete and joy that a teenage girl has. I can't imagine a better performance that year, male or female, and it's one of my favorites that I have watched since starting this project. She manages to express love and confusion and anger and intense happiness without ever saying a word, and for that, she richly deserved her Oscar for Best Actress.

My Left Foot (1989)

How can anyone really talk about the achievement of My Left Foot without concentrating upon the performance of Daniel Day-Lewis? Although the film was nominated for Best Picture of 1989, the primary reason it got noticed was his lead performance as the artist Christy Brown. Without the work of Day-Lewis, this film might not have gotten as much attention.

Brown was born with cerebral palsy and only slowly learned the ability to draw and write and speak. The film shows the struggles that Brown faced, and the actor who plays him at a young age, Hugh O'Conor, is quite marvelous. He plays Brown before the artist learned to speak clearly enough to be understood, so this is mostly a silent performance. O'Conor's face is so expressive, though, that you're always able to understand his emotions.

However, when Day-Lewis begins his performance, that's when the real fireworks begin. Unlike Dustin Hoffman's performance in Rain Man, which I have always found to be rather one-note, Day-Lewis is totally committed to the full portrayal of a man with cerebral palsy. He distorts his body and his face. He demonstrates the struggle that Brown faced just to form words. He uses his left foot to draw and write, and Day-Lewis shows remarkable dexterity in these scenes. He also allows us to note his slow progress over time. It's the kind of acting that makes you forget that you're watching a performance. You do feel as though you're watching the person himself.

I also admired the performance of Brenda Fricker as his mom, and the supporting actors who play his siblings are good too. Fiona Shaw as the doctor who works with Christy to learn how to speak is luminous. You can see why Christy would fall in love with her. One of the most heartbreaking scenes is at the restaurant when he finds out that she is engaged to another man; his rage is uncomfortable to watch, yet it shows you the depth of Day-Lewis' commitment to the role.

I do have one major criticism of the film, and that's with the way that it was edited, with the flashbacks throughout the film. The "frame" for the movie is a presentation of Christy Brown at an event at a country estate and his flirtation with the nurse who looks after him while awaiting his moment on the stage. I do think My Left Foot would have worked just as well as a more straightforward narrative. Then it could have perhaps maintained a bit more of the intensity of feeling that certain scenes create. Still, overall, it is competently made and interesting to watch, but it's only Day-Lewis that elevates it to a film that could be considered Best Picture material.

Raging Bull (1980)

I think I finally understand why Raging Bull, nominated for Best Picture of 1980, lost the award to Ordinary People. As remarkable an achievement as it is, Raging Bull is almost too clinical in its depiction of the way that violence permeates one man's life. Ordinary People, on the other hand, is a very emotional film that strikes at the heart of the family. I think, given those choices in 1980, the Academy went with the one that had the most emotional resonance for them.

That's not to say that Raging Bull doesn't have quite a powerful impact on a viewer. This is a brilliantly filmed movie, one that uses its black-and-white cinematography to full effect. It allows Robert DeNiro, then at his acting peak, to burrow into the character of real-life boxer Jake La Motta. And the screenplay is a marvel of construction, allowing us to see the progression over time of La Motta's inability to restrain his violent urges.

This is certainly one of the greatest films ever made by Martin Scorsese, and it's widely considered his best. (I still think Taxi Driver might deserve that designation, but no matter.) As in others of his pictures, Scorsese is here examining the culture of violence and how it has permeated America. La Motta is but one example of a man whose life spirals out of control because of his inability to contain the brutal urges he feels. He cannot merely "keep it in the ring." He beats up his wife and his brother, and he seems incapable of stopping himself from always making the wrong decisions about his career and his future.

To me, one of the real strengths of the film is the series of boxing matches that are depicted. There's almost a poetic beauty to the beating that two men inflict upon each other in the ring. It's pretty tough to watch at times, certainly, but the use of slow motion and the sound effects editing provide a different context for viewing the pummeling. Maybe it's that dissection of the art of boxing (a metaphor for the violence of everyday life?) that proved too much for Academy members. As much as they admired the overall achievement of the film, they just didn't "feel" the depth of pain that a man like La Motta suffered. Perhaps he just seemed like a brute to them, and they chose instead to honor a movie that tugged at their hearts more directly and softly.

Mississippi Burning (1988)

Mississippi Burning, nominated for Best Picture of 1988, was filmed in part in Mississippi and fictionalizes a key historical moment in my home state's recent past. Ostensibly, it's about the investigations surrounding the disappearance of three civil rights workers in 1964. However, the filmmakers are not (apparently) attempting to represent what happened with historical accuracy. Instead, this film examines the culture of Mississippi that led to the three men being killed during Freedom Summer.

Can I admit to having never particularly liked this film? Of course, I can admire some aspects of it. The performances by Gene Hackman and Willem Defoe and Frances McDormand and even Brad Dourif are all strong. The visuals are pretty spectacular as well; it is a beautifully shot film, even when it depicts some of the uglier aspects of people's behavior at the time. Yet I still cannot watch the film without feeling as if the filmmakers are trying to ridicule all of the people of Mississippi, trying to depict everyone in the state (with one notable exception) as being racist and/or violent.

All you have to do is watch Defoe's character, a Northern FBI agent, tell Hackman's character about what is wrong with the people of the state to get a sense of what I mean. Hackman's Rupert Anderson is a native of the state, so he understands its people differently than Defoe's Alan Ward. This is a source of constant conflict between the two men, resulting at one point in Ward pointing a gun at Anderson's head in order to get him to submit to his more Northern way of thinking. (Apparently, there are no racists in the North or anywhere else but the South.) I suppose I could applaud the filmmakers for having these two men present a complex and varied understanding of what needs to be done in the state, but frankly, the story is too lopsided to support that sense of complexity.

The exception I mentioned above is, of course, McDormand's housewife. Married to the deputy sheriff who is involved in the murders of the three civil rights workers, her Mrs. Pell gets to deliver a speech about hatred of other races being a learned behavior rather than one that is genetic. She delivers it well, certainly, because McDormand is an enormously talented actor, but it is a rather condescending speech overall. And then she gets beaten up when it becomes clear that she has been helping the investigation. So in the state of Mississippi, any good white person, anyone who reaches out to support or help the black community, is going to be punished?

I particularly disliked the "interviews" with "real" residents that are used to simulate news broadcasts of the time. Almost everyone of the people who appears on camera during these moments says appalling things about blacks. And the director, Alan Parker, was rather infamous for having said that he wanted people who looked like "real Mississippians" for these moments. The fact that they all look like rednecks must have pleased him a great deal. And the words the screenplay puts in their mouths? Repulsive. (He did also say, upon leaving the state after filming, that he felt things hadn't really changed all that much in the intervening 24 years. Apparently, he left thinking that white Mississippi has not progressed much, and that attitude is rather evident in the final film.)

Look, I'm not defending white people or Mississippians. They don't need it and they don't really deserve it. This film covers an awful period in the state's past, and it's certainly accurate in many ways about the racism that was so widespread at the time. Evil things were done at the time, and those who committed these kinds of crimes deserved more severe punishment than they usually received. It just makes me cringe when the only good white people in the film seem to be from the North, except for one woman in an entire town and she has to be brutalized to show just how deep the racism is. Only the outsiders seem to know how to behave properly. Isn't that a bit heavy-handed? I know some will point to the portrayal of Hackman's Anderson as proof that someone from the state has a better understanding of the situation and is, therefore, more effective, but he only seems to be successful when he too uses brutality to achieve his goals. That's hardly a ringing endorsement for his approach.

I could also fault the film for its cowardice in not being more historically accurate. The true story of what happened to Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner, the three young men whose bodies were found in an earthen dam, is still worthy of being told. However, this film does an injustice to them and their colleagues in the struggle for civil rights by exaggerating events surrounding the investigation and concentrating much of the time on the struggles between various white characters. As another blogger, also from Mississippi, put it, the real story is both far worse and far better than this movie attempts to show. I've actually never quite understood the admiration that people hold for this film, and after watching it again recently, my previous assessment of it was only reinforced. Someday, perhaps, these three young men will have the movie about them that both they and we deserve.

Network (1976)

Nominated for Best Picture of 1976, Network is perhaps most famous now for Howard Beale's cry, "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore." But this film is better described as a pretty scathing indictment of the mentality of network television executives, particularly those with some influence over the news departments. There's sharp dialogue in the screenplay by Paddy Chayevsky (who was always known for his dialogue) and exceptional performances from all of the cast. I hadn't seen this film in at least two decades, but it seems just as fresh and insightful now as it did then. Actually, it's perhaps even more insightful now. Then, with only three major television networks, Network would have been seen as a satire on how television news might change. Now it's pretty accurate as to how the news has changed.

The great Peter Finch plays Howard Beale, the anchor for the UBS network, which is stuck in fourth place. He has what amounts to a nervous breakdown and announces on air that he will commit suicide in two weeks. Naturally, given the nature of the viewing public, that only increases his ratings. Suddenly, his show becomes the most talked-about newscast, and the network executives try their best to capitalize on his newfound popularity. They even change the name of the newscast to The Howard Beale Show and hire co-stars, including a psychic, to up the entertainment value. Faye Dunaway and William Holden, heads of the entertainment and news divisions, respectively, simultaneously begin an affair and an argument over the direction of the news programming. Their decisions have some severe repercussions for Howard, now tagged the "mad prophet of the airwaves," complete with blackouts after he delivers his prophecies each night. (Oddly enough, his most famous line doesn't even appear until almost halfway through the film, but it's the one everyone remembers.)

Finch and Dunaway both won Oscars for their performances, and it is Finch's Beale that you remember the most from the movie. He's amazing in the role, able to demonstrate quite the range of emotions for a man who has been a success for many years as a "serious journalist" but is now forced to become an object of public interest and/or ridicule. Holden is also stellar in his role as Max Schumacher, who tries valiantly to maintain some integrity in the news division and then decides to let go and allow whatever happens to occur. The opening scene with the two of them having a drunken conversation is hilarious. Dunaway is also fantastic here, all repressed emotions and obvious ambition; she fairly shakes with the prospect of her success at boosting ratings. In fact, she only seems to be able to achieve an orgasm when she is simultaneously talking about the amount of money that the network could make from her ideas. In a smaller role, Robert Duvall is mighty slick as the "new guy" at the network who has the weight of the company's success on his shoulders.

I'd like to mention two other performances, those by Beatrice Straight and Ned Beatty. Straight won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress, even though she's only in the movie for two scenes, mere minutes really. The second scene is her showpiece. She gets to demonstrate the fury of the jilted wife to Holden's Max, and the depth of her anger is on full display here. She's really quite spectacular. Beatty was also nominated, and his part is, if you can believe it, even briefer than Straight's. He only speaks a few lines in the film, but they are certainly memorable. I only mention these performances because they do seem truly to demonstrate "supporting" parts, not key or main roles in the film which have been relegated to supporting status in order to win an award.

What is most remarkable about this film now is how much foresight the creators had. As just one example, I'd give Dunaway's staff meetings, where she wants shows created around the subject of terrorism or other "hot button" issues. She even has meetings with the Ecumenical Liberation Army, a proto-communist rebel organization, with the hopes of creating a weekly series around their exploits. (The scenes where the members of the Army and the network representatives and the attorneys for both sides try to iron out a contract are hilarious, by the way.) Is it really that much of a stretch to imagine someone at the networks making a similar pitch today? Look at the proliferation of so-called reality shows, and you'll have the answer.

Two moments in this film will always stand out for me. One is, of course, the scene of all of those people opening their windows and walking out onto their fire escapes in New York City to yell along with Beale: "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore." The sequence of images is breathtaking as the camera continues to pile on more and more people joining in the chorus. It makes a powerful statement on the influence of the media. The other is the beginning of the film (which is echoed at the end) of the four network news anchors side-by-side giving the evening's events. I used to watch John Chancellor on NBC, and no one was perhaps more famous that Walter Cronkite on CBS. I believe the ABC anchor at the time was Harry Reasoner. Beale joins them onscreen, and you are (or should be) quite astonished at how a few people (all men, all white) were the sole conduits for information on television then. It was, after all, B.C. (before cable) for most of us. How far we've come, indeed, and yet one must wonder if we've made all that much progress.

The Silence of the Lambs (1991)

Winner of the Oscar for Best Picture of 1991, The Silence of the Lambs is one of the few movies to sweep the major awards. It also won that year for Best Director, Actress, Actor, and Adapted Screenplay, and it arguably deserved them all. I can't say that I particularly enjoyed watching this film again because it always gives me the creeps. However, I do admire the skill with which it is made.

Jodie Foster plays Clarice Starling, an FBI agent-in-training, who is recruited to talk to convicted killer Hannibal Lecter, played by Anthony Hopkins. Lecter, infamous for cannibalizing his victims, may be able to provide assistance in the case of a serial killer who has been kidnapping women and removing their skin. Starling and Lector have a series of encounters, culminating in her deducing the location of Buffalo Bill, who (it turns out) has been attempting to make himself over as a woman by creating a "body suit" out of the skins of the women he has kidnapped.

I realize that some will think that I have just revealed a key plot point. However, knowing the motive behind what Bill is doing in no ways lessens the suspense of the film. And I need to talk about the way that Bill is represented in the film. To do that, you have to address whether or not the film is homophobic (or, perhaps, more accurately, transphobic) in its depictions of him. There were many protests at the time of this film's release about that very issue. It isn't difficult to see where such ideas arise. Bill is certainly meant to be "diseased" or "ill" or "dangerous." Yet I think the film's story is a bit more complex than that. Bill is obviously unhappy with himself, unable to accept himself as he is. His actions, gruesome as they are, reveal some sort of mental illness, certainly. Whether or not it is a result of repressed homosexuality, as some felt the film suggests, I cannot definitively say.

Speaking of repressed homosexuality... is there a more gay-identified character than Hannibal Lecter? What with his fastidiousness and his love of gossip and his affection for classical music and art, Hannibal seems almost as repressed as Bill. And then there's the whole cannibal thing, which I will try not to make into too much of a metaphor. I would only point out that most of his victims seem to be men; at least, the ones shown in the movie are all men. He even quotes show tunes to Clarice upon one of her arrivals: "People will say we're in love." And notice that he keeps a copy of Bon Appetit magazine in one of his cells--that's a rather perverse touch. Perhaps it's this equation of homosexuality or gay-identified behavior with serial killers that set off the protests?

Hopkins gets the flashier role here, and he certainly seems to relish playing it. He's quite the object of fascination for a moviegoer. Foster is almost his equal, what with her tightly coiled personality and flashes of emotion. Her eyes reveal a great deal of what's going on inside Clarice's head. It's a remarkably mature performance from Foster, a clear sign that she had the talent to make the transition from child star to adult actress and sure evidence that The Accused, which had won her an Oscar only a few years earlier, was no fluke.

The suspenseful nature of the film is enhanced not only by the performances but by the use of close-ups throughout the story. I remember watching The Silence of the Lambs for the first time and feeling very uneasy. It later dawned on me that it was, at least in part, because of the intensity of Hopkins' stare during the interrogation scenes. Both he and Foster are often shown in close-up during those scenes, and Hopkins continues to be seen in close-up all the way through his portions of the film. It's a pretty intense way to keep an audience riveted, and it is used quite effectively here.