The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008)

All of the elements are in place to make The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, one of the nominees for Best Picture of 2008, an outstanding movie. It has an intriguing story as its basis: a child is born as an old man and ages backwards. It has good actors as its leads, Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett, and a fine supporting cast. It has an impressive scope, pretty much the entire 20th century and some of the loveliest places in the U.S. and Europe. It has so many teams of special effects wizards to make what seems impossible--the grafting of Pitt's face onto various of Benjamin Button's bodies at different ages--into something believable. And, yet, watching this film left me feeling unsatisfied.

I think part of the problem is the framing device of the movie. Blanchett's Daisy is dying in a New Orleans hospital while Hurricane Katrina is gathering force outside. Her daughter Caroline (Julia Ormand) is reading to her from Benjamin's journal. What follows is a series of flashbacks to various moments in Benjamin's past. Just as a vignette begins to gather some emotional resonance, though, we are drawn back to the hospital room to hear Daisy and Caroline talking about the events that have just been depicted. I'm not really quibbling with the choices that the filmmakers have made in presenting the story, but the effect is one that doesn't allow for the building of tension on the part of the viewer. The reconciliation between Daisy and Caroline just isn't as intriguing as the one between Daisy and Benjamin that occurs in the flashbacks.

Benjamin was born on the day that World War I ended. His father, grieving over the death of his wife from childbirth, abandons his son at a stranger's house; he cannot face his child, who looks wrinkled and perhaps deformed. The house where he leaves the baby happens to be filled with elderly people who are looked after by Queenie (Taraji P. Henson) and Tizzy (Mahershalalhashbaz Ali). Queenie, being a goodhearted person, takes in Benjamin and raises him as her own child. Benjamin is not give much hope for living, but he defies the odds and starts to grow up...well, grow young...well, you know what I mean.

While he is still only about seven years old or so, Benjamin meets Daisy, the granddaughter of one of the other residents. The two begin a friendship that they sustain over a period of years as Daisy grows older and Benjamin grows physically younger. His life takes him sailing around the world, including an extended stay in Russia, where he meets and has an affair with Tilda Swinton's Elizabeth Abbott--a pretty emotionally satisfying vignette, by the way. Daisy's life as a dancer takes her primarily to New York and to the tutelage of George Balanchine. Daisy and Benjamin manage to meet several times over the years, but until both are in their 40s, they do not develop a relationship. When they do, though, the best part of the movie begins.

It's almost two-thirds of the way through the film before "Movie Star Brad Pitt" shows up looking like himself. When he does, the movie finally kicks into high gear. The love story between Pitt's Benjamin and Blanchett's Daisy is charming and emotional and sexy. It's the heart of the film, really, and it's all too brief. I do understand that given the nature of the story, it can't help but be brief, but for a film that clocks in at almost three hours long, I'd like to see a bit more of the Brad Pitt with which I'm familiar. Blanchett gets to look pretty much like herself for a substantial chunk of time, but not Pitt. And, really, it's the two of them we should be waiting for, not the next special effects gimmick to see how well they've managed to "age" or "youthen" Pitt.

The script is filled with homilies, most of which are rather pat and inconsequential. What does it mean to keep saying to people that you can't really know what to expect? How "deep" is it to suggest that nothing really beautiful can last? Who are the people who don't know these lessons already? I suppose we could "learn" from this film that we should just accept things as they happen and try to accept people as they are, but those seem like such insignificant statements to make in a film that has pretensions of being Great Art.

It's really not the fault of the director, David Fincher. I've liked much of his other work like Zodiac and Fight Club and even parts of Se7en, and he does solid work here too. It isn't the actors who are to blame, either. I don't think they are given a great deal to do. Much has been made of Pitt's underplaying of his role, but I don't know that he has a choice but to remain on the surface; his character isn't given a great deal of depth. Benjamin doesn't really change all that much, except in a physical sense. Blanchett is always reliable in her performances, and she manages to do her usual good work here with what little she really has to work with (but I had to keep looking at her face in the scenes set during Katrina just to reassure myself that it was Blanchett). I'm not as impressed with Henson's turn as Queenie as others seem to be. I thought she was spectacular a few years ago in Hustle & Flow, but here she is given so little to do except be the perfect surrogate mother that it wastes her considerable talents as an actress.

I think the fault has to lie with the screenplay in this case. It's written by Eric Roth, who based it on a story by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I've not yet read the story, but I'm familiar enough with Fitzgerald's work to know that there would be more substance than this film offers. Roth also wrote the screenplay for Forrest Gump, and I will readily admit that I was not looking forward to watching that movie again for this project. I hated it the first time I saw it in the theater, and my distaste for it has changed little over the years. I didn't particularly dislike The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, but its emotional impact is just too stunted for it to truly be considered one of the best pictures of the year.

Oscar Wins: Art Direction, Makeup, and Visual Effects

Other Oscar Nominations: Picture, Director, Actor (Pitt), Supporting Actress (Henson), Adapted Screenplay, Cinematography, Costume Design, Film Editing, Original Score, and Sound Mixing

Terms of Endearment (1983)

True confession time: When I finally got around to purchasing a videocassette play back in the mid-1980s--I was never an Early Adopter, I guess--one of the first movies I purchased (on VHS, remember that?) was Terms of Endearment, winner for Best Picture of 1983. My other purchase was Charlie Chaplin's The Gold Rush. Don't ask me what they have in common other than being classic movies. And I got them both at the Wal-Mart in Starkville, Mississippi, so I guess it wasn't quite the cultural wasteland people might think.

Terms of Endearment starts with Aurora Greenway (a fantastic Shirley MacLaine) coming into her baby daughter Emma's room, fearful that the child has succumbed to crib death. Aurora tries to climb into the crib with her daughter, but failing that, she pinches Emma until the baby begins to cry. Satisfied that Emma is okay, Aurora leaves the room while the baby is still crying. With an opening like that, how can you resist watching to see how this relationship will unfold?

There are actually two main plotlines in Terms of Endearment--at least, until the final half hour--and they intersect briefly at various moments. One is the story of Emma, who grows up to be Debra Winger, a somewhat free spirit compared to the no-nonsense Aurora. Emma marries Flap Horton (Jeff Daniels) over her mother's objections and proceeds to have three children while following her husband first to Iowa and then to Nebraska for teaching jobs. Along the way, she also starts up an affair with a married banker (John Lithgow) who is so very appreciative of the attention that Emma gives him.

The other story is, of course, what happens to Aurora after Emma leaves. She still calls her daughter every day, sometimes several times a day, just so they can gossip, but Aurora begins to fancy the former astronaut who lives next door, Garrett Breedlove (Jack Nicholson, far less annoying to me than he usually is). Theirs is a complicated romance, given his penchant for chasing younger women and drinking. Aurora considers herself to be a refined woman of the world, but she too begins to enjoy the burgeoning sexual relationship between them. Their first "date," a lunch followed by a drive along the beach, is hilarious.

Much of the film is comedic in tone, actually, which might surprise those who have only heard of Terms of Endearment as being a tearjerker. MacLaine, however, is a fine comedic actress, and she knows how to deliver a line for maximum effect. Even Winger's storyline as Emma is filled with lighthearted moments. Only the last half hour, once Emma has been diagnosed with a terminal case of cancer, is downbeat without much levity. It's a powerful half hour, though, highlighted by Winger's speech to her two sons. She's called them into her room to say her final goodbyes, and if you can keep from tearing up when she tells them how much and why she loves them, you're a stronger person than I am.

MacLaine was the sentimental favorite to win Best Actress that year (and did), but Winger is her equal here. They do have very different acting styles, but perhaps because their characters are so different from each other, it works here. Whatever might have happened off-camera during the shooting of this film (and the rumors have been rampant for decades now), it all seems to come together on the screen itself in a way that enhances their interaction.

I know a lot of people will avoid this film because it's too sentimental or too focused on the mother-daughter dynamic--they'll tag it a "chick flick," that demeaning term meant to suggest that only women would like it--but to do so cheats you out of watching some fine acting and some sharp dialogue (written by director James L. Brooks and based upon the book by Larry McMurtry). Terms of Endearment earns all of the laughs and tears honestly, and it features great supporting turns by Lithgow, Daniels, the child actors, even Nicholson. Perhaps that's why it was one of my first videotape purchases a couple of decades ago.

You Can't Take It with You (1938)

You Can't Take It with You was directed by Frank Capra, perhaps the most famous director of the decade of the 1930s. It deals with some typical Capra themes: the class struggle in America during the Depression, gender politics, our connections to our fellow human beings, all very much a part of the FDR era in the United States. Yet, at its heart, it's a bit of a farce, a story of how confusion can lead to the most intriguing of outcomes. The title of the film is, as you probably already know, about the value of money. You can’t take it (money) with you when you pass away, but the relationships between you and other people is something that you’ll always treasure, maybe (?) even more than the money you have.

Anthony P. Kirby (the solid Edward Arnold) is trying to obtain a monopoly over the munitions industry in America. To do so, he needs to buy up all of the property in a 12-block area, but he faces one holdout: an elderly gentleman named Martin Vanderhof (Lionel Barrymore), who lives in a home full of eccentrics. What Kirby doesn't know is that his son Tony (a young and smoothly handsome Jimmy Stewart) is in love with Vanderhof's granddaughter Alice (Jean Arthur), who works as Tony's secretary. Tony and Alice are unaware of the machinations of the elder Kirby, and even Grandpa Vanderhof doesn't make the connection to Kirby upon first sight because the businessman has been using a go-between for the negotiations. Tony meets Alice's family and still wants to marry her. Alice then tries to set up a dinner with Tony's parents where the Vanderhofs will allegedly all be on their best behavior. When the Kirbys arrive a day early for dinner, though, all hell breaks loose.

You may be wondering what is so eccentric about the Vanderhof family. Well, Grandpa quit work one day and hasn't earned a living in almost thirty years; he's also refused to pay his income taxes. His daughter, played by Spring Byington, has taken up playwriting because a typewriter was delivered by accident to their home; she keeps getting stuck, however, because she puts her characters into situations (like being in a monastery) about which she has no knowledge. Her husband makes illegal fireworks in the basement. Alice's sister Essie (Ann Miller in one of her earliest movie roles) has taken up dance lessons with an exiled Russian who likes to wrestle—that is, when she's not busy making candy named "Love Dreams" in the family's kitchen. Miller is almost always on her toes when she’s on the screen, and it’s an odd affection that turned out to be a precursor for her long career. Her screen husband (played by Dub Taylor, who has apparently always sounded that way) plays the vibraphone for her and likes to put cards in the candy with sayings like "The Revolution Is Coming." And those are just the family members. Anyone who wants to live in the house is welcome so long as they continue to have fun.

The dinner involving the two families, the Vanderhofs and the Kirbys, is meant to be an example of the divide in America at the time. The Vanderhofs seem to be at their weirdest on that particular day. They’re just being themselves really, but one of them is dancing around and another one has taken up painting with a model who’s wearing just a toga and a pet crow that keeps flying around the house. The Russian dance teacher decides to throw Mr. Kirby to the ground in a strange wrestling maneuver. All Mrs. Kirby (the stalwart Mary Forbes) seems to be able to do is look shocked or exasperated; she comes across as quite the snob regardless of the situation she’s in. The dinner party eventually breaks up—before a meal of frankfurters can actually be served—due to a police raid that results in everyone’s arrest. Why everyone has to be arrested is a subject for a much longer discussion elsewhere.

Frankly, I'm not sure that this family would be considered all that odd these days. More restrictive times might have called for them to be more isolated, yet they are friends with everyone in the neighborhood. In fact, when everyone in the house is arrested—oh, it's really just too complicated to explain it all here—the courtroom is filled with their friends, all of whom take up a collection to pay for the bail money as soon as the judge passes sentence. The judge (played by reliable character actor Henry Davenport) looks on with bemusement as the collecting of the money renders his courtroom too chaotic to control with his gavel. It's actually one of the funniest courtroom scenes I've watched since What's Up, Doc?

There are some serious issues at work here as well. The elder Kirby begins to develop a conscience after spending time in jail with some of the poorer classes of people. And Grandpa Vanderhof spouts some pretty Socialist-sounding ideas at times. Not that those ideas would have been uncommon in 1938 anyway, given the Roosevelt Administration's New Deal and all. This movie is quite obviously on the side of the downtrodden and tends to showcase their humanity and friendliness. Those who make money are all portrayed as greedy and unconcerned with the fate of other people. They're also friendless, perhaps the greatest indignity of all in the context of this film. All of it is pretty typical of a Capra movie from this time period.

I’ve mentioned performers like Mary Forbes and Henry Davenport, but You Can’t Take It with You is filled with lots of great character actors. Donald Meek, for example, plays an accountant who really wants to make toys, such as a mechanical rabbit that rises up out of a cabbage. He moves into the Vanderhof home and starts participating in such activities as making explosives. Eddie Anderson, who would later play the character of Rochester on the Jack Benny television series, plays one of the Vanderhof servants. Even the visitors to the home are played by actors with long careers. Charles Lane plays the IRS agent who tries to get back taxes from Grandpa, and Ward Bond, of all people, shows up as a police detective. Even Kolenkhov, the Russian dance teacher who really just wants dinner with the Vanderhofs when he visits, is played by Mischa Auer, who would have a long career in the movies and on television.

Jean Arthur is actually the top-billed actor for the film, and while she’s very good here, almost everyone else in the movie outshines her in terms of getting laughs. She’s almost the calm in the center of a storm of strangeness. Jimmy Stewart is very sweet and rather subtle as Tony Kirby, the wealthy son who is questioning his father’s principles. Stewart has a sly grin on his face most of the time, and his look of amusement is rather consistent, particularly in his encounters with the Vanderhof family. Even Lionel Barrymore, who is not my favorite actor from this time period even though he seems to be in almost every movie that was nominated for an Academy Award, is rather funny.

This movie is, overall, somewhat amusing, but I’m not certain that it breaks any new ground stylistically or thematically. The film’s origins as a stage play are somewhat obvious, given how much of the plot takes place in the central room of the Vanderhof family, but the filmmakers have opened the narrative a bit to allow for other locations. The film is sort of charming in its depiction of the kind of people who aren't often the subject of movies, but even they are given a pretty glossy shine. There's no "real" poverty on display here; all of the members of the family are perfectly content with their lives and none of them are struggling to find food to eat or shelter or any other of life's necessities. You Can't Take It with You has a message at its heart, but I doubt it's a message that was "radical" when the film was released. I'm pretty certain almost everyone would have been against corporate greed in the midst of the recovery from the Great Depression. Perhaps it was just the timing of its release that worked in its favor, what with its message that everyone wanted to see being reinforced, but I suspect it might have just been the hard-to-resist thought of living with such a band of people who live how they want to live, no questions asked. It’s not truly a slapstick comedy or a screwball comedy in the classic sense, I suppose, since it’s not quite as hilarious as the filmmakers think it is, but it’s an entertaining enough couple of hours.

Oscar Wins: Outstanding Production and Best Director (Frank Capra)

Other Oscar Nominations: Best Supporting Actress (Spring Byington), Best Screenplay, Best Cinematography, Best Sound Recording, and Best Film Editing

The Broadway Melody (1928-1929)

The first sound film to be awarded Outstanding Picture, The Broadway Melody is a backstage musical about two sisters who have been performing the vaudeville circuit and have now come to New York to become successful on Broadway. One of the sisters, Harriet “Hank” Mahoney (Bessie Love), has a boyfriend waiting for her there, the song-and-dance man Eddie Kearns (Charles King). Her younger sister, Queenie (Anita Page), starts to get all of the attention, leaving Hank to make a few difficult choices about her future. The plot isn’t really the most important or even the most outstanding element of the film, though. This film is really more about showing off the new sound technology.

The plot offers a bit of a new wrinkle on the old love triangle storyline. You see, Eddie falls in love with Queenie almost immediately after seeing how much she's grown into a beautiful woman. And the producer of the show in which they perform picks Queenie to be a featured player after the accidental fall of another girl from a high perch on a boat that's part of a set. Everyone talks about how talented Queenie is, but really all she does in the number is stand and point. Well, I guess some people have it and some don't. Queenie also catches the eye of one of the show's financial backers, Jacques/Jock Warriner (Kenneth Thompson), who begins showering her with diamonds and promises of even greater riches. It takes Hank to realize that she must give up Eddie so that Queenie can be "saved" from the clutches of the unscrupulous Warriner.

There is a certain quaint novelty to the film even today, despite movie musicals having grown considerably in quality since its initial release. Certainly, the backstage romantic triangle (well, quadrangle) is no longer a new plot device, but it might have been unique at the time to involve such close siblings in the mix. The incorporation of musical numbers into off-stage moments was also a very recent development in film. You can tell that the studio hasn't quite gotten the hang of making a sound film yet. The ability to hear the dialogue is wildly uneven at times, and during one of the tap dance numbers, the camera doesn't even show the feet of the dancers. Given that the camera had to be stationary in order to keep from making too much noise on the soundtrack, it's also disconcerting when characters sometimes just walk out of the frame or out of focus. And, to add to the overall effect of the newness of this medium, the film still uses intertitles to announce shifts in time and place. The Broadway Melody is obviously a transitional film from silents to sound, and all of the details that would need to be worked out are clearly in evidence here.

The song that provides the movie's title appears several times. My very unofficial count was five times. There are other songs, including a couple of renditions of the lovely "You Were Meant for Me," but "The Broadway Melody" is the star, and from the opening sequence to the end of the film, you'll never too far away from hearing some version of it. Interestingly, the lyrics for the songs in the movie were written by Arthur Freed. Perhaps only lovers of MGM musicals will recognize the name, but later in his career, Freed would be in charge of the musicals that came out of this greatest of all movie studios. How intriguing to see his name in the credits at the start of his career in "talkies."

Interesting, in the film’s plot, Eddie writes “You Were Meant for Me” for Queenie, not his fiancée. He clearly has already fallen in love with the younger sister, but he’s noble enough (?) to stay with Hank until, well, she dumps him so that he can actually be with her younger sister. We’re, of course, meant to see that the two sisters are very different from each other. Queenie is meant to be the beautiful one. She’s very sweet and rather naïve. She also has blonde hair, but her sister Hank has darker hair. Even in the late 1920s, Hollywood was setting up that dichotomy. Hank is also the more sensible one. She is smart and hardworking, and she tries to protect her younger sister. Hank also has quite a temper and is often ready to fight. For example, because this film is set in New York, there’s a bit of snobbery about vaudeville performers coming to Broadway. Hank and Queenie’s audition is sabotaged by a jealous chorus girl, and Hank wants to punch the girl.

The film actually begins with an attempt by Eddie to sing his new song “The Broadway Melody.” However, there's so much noise at the music publishing company—what with different songs in different styles being performed at the same time—he has to quieten them all down so that he can be heard. Everyone loves the song and wants to sing it, but he has plans to save it for the Zanfield Revue. If there's anyone who can't figure out that the film is playing off the Ziegfeld Follies, perhaps you should go back and study your musical history before giving this film a viewing. In fact, the musical numbers in The Broadway Melody could almost be considered a spoof of some of those ostentatious productions that Ziegfeld presented in his shows.

All that cacophony at the beginning of the film was certainly intentional. It was a clear way to tell the audience that “sound is here!” so you’d need to get used to lots of noise. Having the first big scene involve the musical theater industry and lots of people singing over each other is a rather smart way of letting everyone know that movies will not just be talking; they’ll also be singing (and dancing and…). The Broadway Melody was reportedly the first musical that fully used sound, and it was also the first musical produced by MGM (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer), starting a tradition that lasted for many glorious years at that studio. Of course, that means that in order to get even more musical moments into the film, the plot has to grind to a complete halt at times. That way we can see a full performance of “Truthful Parson Brown” by a quartet and a fully-staged production number in the Zanfield Revue called “The Wedding of the Painted Doll.” Neither of those numbers adds anything to the plot, but they do serve as showcases for what movies could potentially accomplish in terms of spectacle. Oddly enough, the Mahoney sisters have a number that we watch briefly before it’s cut from the show, only to have it followed by a very long solo by another dancer!

I can't end this posting without mentioning the homophobia that is evident in the film. The costume designer for the Zanfield show is portrayed as very effeminate, and he's the subject of ridicule each time he appears on the screen. He giggles over an ermine coat, and he’s subjected to a lot of teasing (bullying, really) by Zanfield’s “yes men” and investors. After complaining about how the chorus girls are not careful with his costumes, especially the enormous hats, he explains that he designed the clothes, not the doors to the theater. The response from the matron who oversees the chorus is that if he had, they'd all be lavender. Unfortunately, that must have been riotously funny to the movie audiences of 1929. It's sad to see an early stage in the genesis of such a stereotype, one that is unfortunately still too often evident in the movies.

Oscar Win: Outstanding Picture

Other Oscar Nominations: Best Actress (Bessie Love) and Best Director (Hugh Beaumont)

In the Heat of the Night (1967)

Winner of the Best Picture for 1967, In the Heat of the Night is the story of two men: a racist small-town police chief and an African-American police detective from Philadelphia with the misfortune to be stopped in Sparta, Mississippi, on the night a murder is committed. After being hauled to the police station and having his identity revealed, the detective reluctantly agrees to help the chief in the investigation. He is, after all, a homicide expert back in Pennsylvania--quite convenient for the movie's plot, isn't it? As the movie unfolds, the two men have to learn to work together despite their dislike for and mistrust of one another.

Rod Steiger won the Oscar for Best Actor for his portrayal of Chief Gillespie, but I don't really see that he's doing anything particularly noteworthy in this performance. Any number of actors could have played this part just as well. His most distinguishing characteristic, in fact, seems to be his ability always to have gum to chew. He exercises his jaw muscles quite vigorously throughout this film. I suppose he does come to appreciate the talents of his fellow policeman by the end of the movie, but I suspect that as complicated as his reaction to a successful black detective might be, it would be overly simplistic to assume that he is no longer a racist after his encounter with this one man. The fact that he saves the detective from being attacked or that he forces some of the whites in town to cooperate with a black man in this investigation is less a sign of a growing sense of enlightenment on his part than a desperate need to solve the case so that he can go back to running the police department (and the town) in his own way.

Sidney Poitier is, of course, the detective from the North who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's not a very showy part for Poitier overall; he really just has to be methodical in his investigation of the murder, demonstrating to the white police force and the racist townspeople that he is indeed smarter than they are. Given how quickly the chief jumps to conclusions each time he arrests another suspect in the case, it's not that difficult for Poitier's Virgil Tibbs to outshine Gillespie and the other officers. And, naturally, he must continue to elude the attempts by the racist townsfolk to harm him, no small feat given how outnumbered he is.

Poitier really only gets two spectacular moments in the movie, and both have been thoroughly analyzed over the years. When the chief asks, using racist language, what Virgil is called up North, Poitier replies, "They call me Mr. Tibbs." There is a fury in that line that no doubt inspired many people back when the film was released; it's still a great comeback on his part. The other moment, in my opinion, is even better, though. After the richest man in town, the orchid-growing Endicott, slaps Tibbs for implying that he was involved in the murder, Poitier slaps him right back, stunning Endicott and the police chief and a servant. That must have been a revelatory moment in 1967, akin to the appearance of Shaft just a few years later. Black characters just didn't do those kinds of things in the movies then, at least not without some retaliation, which is just what Endicott tells Tibbs after being slapped (although not in the context of it happening in a movie, of course).

The supporting cast includes the fantastic Lee Grant as the wife of the slain man. It's her insistence that keeps Tibbs on the case; she threatens to take away her husband's money that has been promised to bring new industry to the town. Warren Oates is also good as one of the police officers. He actually is key to several plot points: he finds the dead man's body, he arrests Tibbs, he is linked to a young girl who likes to walk around her house naked (and who later is relevant to the movie's outcome), he even gets accused of the murder himself at one point--all moments that allow Oates to showcase his talents for underplaying.

In his book Pictures at a Revolution, Mark Harris asserts that the selection of In the Heat of the Night was a middle-of-the-road option for the Academy that year. On the one hand, there were nominees like The Graduate and Bonnie and Clyde that were forging a new type of Hollywood film, and on the other side, there were nominees like Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (which also features a performance by Poitier) and Doctor Doolittle that represented a more old-fashioned Hollywood ethos. I'm inclined to accept Harris' premise because In the Heat of the Night does represent an opportunity for its filmmakers to show the intelligence and calm thoughtfulness of a character like Virgil Tibbs, and that was particularly rare in the 1960s. Poitier's Tibbs is really the focus of the film, and the fact that he comes across as more adept at police work than a man who thinks he is Tibbs' superior is all the more admirable.

Certainly, the deck is rather stacked in the portrayal of the whites in this small town. (Isn't that always the case in movies that deal with race relations in the South?) All of the whites are insufferably racist, except (of course) for the white woman from the North whose husband has been murdered. A gang of whites tries to attack and kill Tibbs for no apparent reason other than his skin color. He's refused service at the diner where Oates' Officer Wood likes to stop for a Coke and a slice of pie. Even when he tries to inspect the body of the dead man, he gets no assistance from the funeral director, who just seems puzzled by the arrival of this black man with the police chief. He has to share a cell for a time with a man who, at least initially, spouts racist comments. To be morally and intellectually superior to people such as this is no great challenge, it seems to me. That Tibbs manages to maintain an air of dignity in the company of such people is a testament to Poitier's talents as an actor more than to the script and its use of what were tired stereotypes even then.

Tom Jones (1963)

Tom Jones, winner of the award for Best Picture of 1963, begins with the discovery of an illegitimate child in one of the beds of a country estate. The supposed mother and father, both servants, are kicked out of the house, and the country squire "adopts" the baby and raises it as his own. The baby, if you haven't already figured out, is Tom Jones himself, the hero of the Henry Fielding novel that bears the same name. After the baby grows up and becomes Albert Finney, the movie becomes a series of sexual encounters between Jones and various women, save for the one woman he truly loves, the beautiful Sophie Western (played by Susannah York). It's supposed to be a representation of the bawdiness of the early 18th century as depicted in the Fielding book, and the filmmakers have done a good job of keeping the tone lighthearted and fun throughout the movie.

At the time of its production, Tom Jones would likely have been quite a standout film. It was made during the waning days of the Production Code, after all, so the topics of promiscuity and illegitimacy and adultery would have been "hot stuff" to handle. However, given the sexual liberation in the decade that followed, much of the film's "outrageous" scenes no longer shock, and most of them no longer seem all that funny or even amusing. We never see any direct nudity, after all, just Finney's bare legs and chest at times and the naked back of a couple of the women, but that's it. This is hardly scandalous material nowadays, even if it is played for laughs here, particularly in the "mistaken identity" incident at the Upton Inn.

Finney is quite charming in the title role, but as cute as he might have been in 1963, it is difficult to imagine every woman in England being immediately smitten with him upon first sight. Hardly a female in the country seems able to resist him, and frankly, I just don't get it. Perhaps it truly was Tom's reputation for being a womanizer that made him such an object of interest to the various females, but in truth, other than a rather extended "relationship" with a poor girl named Molly Seagrim, he devotes much of his energy to his beloved Sophie.

The women of the film are actually more interesting to watch. Diane Cilento brings a particular atavistic charm to the role of Molly. Even when we discover that Tom has not been her only lover, you can still understand why he finds her attractive. York is charming as Sophie, and her attempts to resist all suitors but Tom provide some of the funniest moments of the film. Her aunt is played by that force of nature, Dame Edith Evans. I always thought Evans had a flair for comedic roles, and she proves that true in this case. My favorite performance in the film, though, is given by Joan Greenwood as Lady Bellaston. Greenwood, who was so good as a golddigger in Kind Hearts & Coronets with Alec Guinness, here plays a lady who toys with other people's lives for her own amusement. Underneath that placid surface of hers, you can see just how much she relishes the prospect of ruining someone else's happiness.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the "style" of this movie. Every imaginable kind of wipe and dissolve is used to full effect and to gain attention. There are even wipes that are shaped like pinwheels or fans or spirals or clocks. The characters, at times, directly address the audience, calling attention to the artificiality of the movie itself, and at other times, just a knowing look or wink to the audience lets us "know" that the characters are in on the joke as well. Even the voice-over narration plays a part in calling attention to the fact that you are watching a movie; the narrator repeatedly says that the film must cut away from scenes that might go "too far" in depicting sexual activity on the screen. Again, I suspect that this would have been innovative stuff back in 1963 when the film first appeared, but it's been imitated so many times since then that it fails to have much impact on a modern audience's response.

I did enjoy watching Tom Jones. Don't misunderstand. It is a fun movie, but it seems like such a trifle to have been awarded the Oscar for Best Picture. Looking at the other nominees--America, America (haven't seen it yet), Cleopatra (are you kidding?), How the West Was Won (a hoot and a favorite of mine, but hardly Best Picture material either), and Lilies of the Field (a bit small in scope for the Academy's taste back then)--perhaps Tom Jones was the one that just seemed new and different. That we've grown past its innovations is perhaps a (small) testament to its influence.

Apocalypse Now (1979)

Apocalypse Now, nominated for Best Picture of 1979, is a fever dream of a movie. For me, it's always been all about the imagery. I know that some people come away from this film confused about its plot; I don't have that particular problem, but I can see how it would be easy to be lured away from the details by the stunning visuals that float throughout this movie. From the images of palm trees being napalmed to the strains of The Doors' "The End" that open the film to the intercutting of the ritualistic slaughter of an ox and the death by machete of Col. Kurtz near the end of the film, the filmmakers have made a stunning visual masterpiece about the war in Vietnam and our role in it.

Directed by Francis Ford Coppola, best known for the Godfather movies, Apocalypse Now is the story of Capt. Willard (played by a young Martin Sheen), who is sent to "terminate" the command of Col. Kurtz (played by Marlon Brando) after the colonel has abandoned army protocol and gone into the jungles of Cambodia to carry out his own version of the war. Much of the film follows the travels that Willard and the four men assigned to help him on the mission as they slowly navigate a river through Vietnam into Cambodia, where the United States was not "officially" supposed to be. It's the trip itself that provides much of the visual splendor of the movie.

By the way, I don't think it's truly a spoiler to tell you that Willard succeeds in killing Kurtz at the end of the movie. That's his sole purpose in the mission anyway, and I think it's far more interesting and suspenseful to see how much he learns about Kurtz as he's reading the documents provided to him about the colonel's history. Knowing that Kurtz dies doesn't detract from the way the film ends in any way. I've seen this film several times now--including its longer incarnation as Apocalypse Now Redux--and knowing how it ends has never left me feeling dissatisfied during the rest of the movie.

Here are just a few examples of the kinds of images I'm talking about: Robert Duvall as Lt. Col. Kilgore has his men play Wagner's "The Ride of the Valkries" as they descend upon a village; he claims playing opera from the helicopters scares the native people. A crowd of GIs swarms the stage as three Playboy Playmates try to dance to the song "Suzie Q," so overcome by lust are these men who have been trapped fighting in Vietnam. Boatloads of Cambodians with their bodies painted white greet Willard and his remaining men when they reach Kurtz's camp, and all around the camp are the heads and bodies of those Kurtz has ordered slaughtered. And everywhere in this movie there is smoke and mist, some of it from the weapons the men are using. I'm assuming that Coppola is making a point here about the "fog of war," but he never has any character comment upon it (thankfully). It's a beautifully rendered metaphor, though, and we as viewers are constantly struggling to see a clear path just as the characters in the film are.

Apocalypse Now is, certainly, a comment upon the insanity and ineptitude of the military leadership during the Vietnam War, and there are examples beyond the obvious one of Col. Kurtz (of course, his "insanity"--so described by the military brass--is also questionable). I'll just point out one: Duvall's Lt. Col. Kilgore. Duvall actually gives my favorite performance in this film and was deservedly nominated for Best Supporting Actor. He never flinches when shells land near him. No amount of gunfire can rattle him, it seems, and that's a rather scary trait in a man who should be somewhat more concerned about the safety of his men. It's as if the prospect of death holds no power over him any longer. He's also obsessed with surfing, paying more attention to the ways that the waves break than to the helicopter maneuvers he is supposed to be guiding during the attack on the Vietnamese village. I don't even think I need to comment on his most famous line, "I love the smell of napalm in the morning." Everyone at the top, it seems, is crazy, or perhaps the war makes everyone at the top crazy. Either explanation is, I think, appropriate.

Sheen is very good here, but I'm still on the fence about his voice-over narration. I know we can't be privy to his thoughts in any other way at times; he is, after all, reading classified information. And the film is consistent in its application of this conceit, moreso than a lot of other films using the same device. I just wanted, at times, for there to be more direct interaction between Willard and some of the other characters. Yes, I do know that's not the point of the film, particularly on that long, rather silent journey up the river. I understand that it isolates us the same way that Willard isolates himself.

If you've read Joseph Conrad's The Heart of Darkness, you might understand the film in a different way. If you've read T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men" or some of his other poetry, you might understand the film in a different way too. (I suppose if you've read both, you might understand it in a third way.) However, if you pay close attention to the plot, you won't get lost. It's a bit of a jungle, sure, just as you would expect a movie that trafficks in metaphors to be. But I'm not sure that you aren't just supposed to sit back and be dazzled by the way the story unfolds on a visual level anyway.

Oscar Wins: Cinematography and Sound

Other Nominations: Picture, Director, Supporting Actor (Robert Duvall), Adapted Screenplay, Art Direction, and Film Editing