You wouldn’t know it to read me, but when it comes to my language regarding movies, I am careful. It’s not that I’m overly enthusiastic, it’s just that I really do believe that many films qualify as a classic, a masterpiece, or an epic. I’m more than willing to concede that my threshold might be lower than some others, and in that respect I may be a little too enthusiastic, but that doesn’t mean I throw those words around carelessly.

Something you almost never hear from me, though,  is “my top 5″  or “my top 10″ or “my top 25.” That description is used for all-time favorites, and represents a pool of about 50 steady titles that, over the years, have fallen in and out of one of those categories. So when I tell you that Alfred Hitchcock’s 1946 romantic-thriller “Notorious”  has been a perennial top 5 of mine for over two decades now, you understand what this film means to me.

There is no other movie that makes me feel as much as this one does. Thanks to the extraordinary performances of two of the most beautiful people ever to stand before a camera, Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergmann, “Notorious” throws me on an emotional roller coaster of suspense, exhilaration and, most of all, heartache, for the full 101 minutes. And the reasons are many.

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“Maybe I should be in a position where I don’t have to work; but I’m not.”  — 69 year-old-old John Wayne, three years before his death.

John Wayne, a.k.a Duke Morrison (he was nicknamed Duke after an Airedale dog that he owned during his youth) was arguably the most popular movie star that ever lived.  Yet when it came to personal wealth he trailed far behind some of his contemporaries such as Cary Grant and Fred MacMurray.  In addition to bad business management and three broken marriages, some of Wayne’s financial woes were brought on by his incredibly generous nature.  His goodness shone during the making of the1953 western Hondo when Wayne arranged for some private detectives, who were trailing him, to be freed from a prison in Camargo, Mexico.  Never mind that Wayne’s second wife Chata had enraged him by hiring the investigators to find incriminating information to use in their upcoming divorce proceedings. The local officials in Camargo were thrilled to have the revenue generated from a John Wayne picture being made in their town and were willing to use extreme measures to keep their top tourist attraction happy, but the Duke refused to let men rot in jail for simply doing their jobs.

Unlike most celebrities John Wayne didn’t immediately dispose of fan letters asking him for money.  He read each request carefully, sometimes agonizing over them, to discern their legitimacy.  Duke would send complete strangers cash so they could visit sick friends, or help finance a kid getting braces.  Once, while hospitalized, Wayne got to know a less-well-off fellow patient; after Duke was discharged his new friend was visited by one of Wayne’s representatives who told him his medical bills would be covered. 

In 1960 a burglar found Duke’s Encino, California address with a movie star map and broke into the home while its owner was watching TV. Reacting quickly, Wayne ran down to the basement and grabbed a shotgun.  He chased the crook into the backyard and said, “Hold it. I got you covered.”

He yelled to his wife Pilar to call the police, which she had already done. The robber was cuffed and about to be taken off to jail when he asked to speak to his intended victim. “Mr. Wayne?”

“What do you want, punk?”

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On September 5, 1949, a largely unknown forty-year-old writer named James Agee had an essay published in Life magazine. Titled “Comedy’s Greatest Era,” it was a paean to the silent screen comedians of yesteryear, and to the fine art of physical humor developed by their collective genius into an art form. The coming of sound to Hollywood in the late 1920s was a mass extinction event that swept a generation’s worth of talent from the cultural stage. Now, at the dawn of the 1950s, these pioneers and their herky-jerky films were all but forgotten. In a world before VCRs, late-night cable, Netflix, or the Internet, it was all but impossible to see them even if you wanted to.

Agee, afire with a sense of purpose and mission, sought to arrest that forgetfulness with his essay. An early film critic and soon-to-be screenwriter (his work in Hollywood would later include the scripts for The African Queen and The Night of the Hunter), he was, in the words of a friend, “a big, untidy man who frequently looked like a tramp and who cared not a bit for material things. . . Agee was extremely fastidious about many things — about people, about humanity, about music, movies and, above all, about writing. In his years as a critic, he anguished over books and films that less patient critics would write off as trash: somewhere, Agee felt, there had to be something worth praising.”

A thrice-married, hard-drinking insomniac with the tender heart of a poet, Agee began his now-classic treatise with a description of the type and quality of laughter that America had lost with the death of silent movies:

In the language of screen comedians four of the main grades of laugh are the titter, the yowl, the bellylaugh and the boffo. The titter is just a titter. The yowl is a runaway titter. Anyone who has ever had the pleasure knows all about a bellylaugh. The boffo is the laugh that kills. An ideally good gag, perfectly constructed and played, would bring the victim up this ladder of laughs by cruelly controlled degrees to the top rung, and would then proceed to wobble, shake, wave and brandish the ladder until he groaned for mercy. . .

The reader can get a fair enough idea of the current state of screen comedy by asking himself how long it has been since he has had that treatment. . . The laughs today are pitifully few, far between, shallow, quiet and short. They almost never build, as they used to, into something combining the jabbering frequency of a machine gun with the delirious momentum of a roller coaster.

In Agee’s view, those meticulously crafted and constructed laugh fests of yore — inspiring in audiences what he described as the “laughter of unrespectable people having a hell of a fine time, laughter as violent and steady and deafening as standing under a waterfall” — had given way to cheap isolated one-liners strung together with little thought to momentum, timing, and nuance. As a reminder of what he was describing, he profiled a rich selection of the era’s shining lights, from Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd and Harry Langdon to Mack Sennett and his Keystone Cops. (more…)

A Los Angeles Times article I read recently made me chuckle. It began by wearily tossing an exhausted barb at the 3-D phenomenon sweeping Hollywood: “With sighs of relief, critics last week took off their Polaroid glasses and looked at a couple of old-fashioned, two-dimensional films.” The big-screen photography of one of those pictures drew particular attention, with one critic noting that “It gives reality a true third dimension. . . the kind of 3-D you cannot get with mechanical tricks or by any other means except a rich comprehension and ingenious mastery of the visual storyteller’s art.”

Well, let me fess up. I read the article recently, yes — but in a fifty-year-old copy of the Los Angeles Times. The paper was dated May 6, 1953, and the two-dimensional film being praised for bucking Hollywood’s push towards 3-D was Shane.

It was a time when TV was cutting deeply into movie profits, and studios were scrambling to win back the wandering eyeballs of America. Cinerama, an ambitious, three-projector widescreen extravaganza, debuted in New York in the fall of 1952, with its test film This Is Cinerama garnering front-page fanfare and great acclaim. Bosley Crowther, the Roger Ebert of his time, gasped that it gave the audience “the same sensations. . . felt on that night, years ago, when motion pictures were first publicly flashed on a large screen. . . People sat back in spellbound wonder. . . as though most of them were seeing motion pictures for the first time.” In a single evening, the development of all-new expansive formats had become a fait accompli, and studios immediately began looking for ways to capitalize on the buzz. (more…)

By Christmas of 1964, nowhere was safe for thirty-four-year-old Sean Connery.

It started with the fan letters — fifteen hundred per week. Then came the mobs rushing gates at movie premieres and personal appearances — screaming, fainting, tearing at his clothes, all demanding time, autographs, kisses, and more. Soon, even walking down the street incognito or taking his family out to dinner became perilous endeavors.

“The whole damn thing took over,” said his then-wife, the Academy-Award nominated actress Diane Cilento. “He really didn’t know who he was. People would call over to him things like, ‘Hey, Bondy, where’re you off to next?’ or ‘See any Soviet agents lately?’ It became impossible to have any sort of life. . . .It got madder and madder with each film.”

Every time it looked as if matters couldn’t get any worse, they did. In Tokyo (where they greeted him with screams of  “Bondo!”) Connery was using a bathroom urinal when he heard a quiet click. Startled, he glanced up to see a Japanese photographer peeking around his shoulder with a Nikon. On another occasion, after graciously signing his name for an elderly lady at the airport, she reacted with a look of horror. “No, no!” she said, “I wanted James Bond.” Director Terence Young, who was with Connery, remembers that “Sean sort of crumpled. It suddenly occurred to him that he was no longer a human being, he was a symbol.” (more…)

As Dudley the Angel, Cary Grant is remarkable in “The Bishop’s Wife.” In lesser hands, what could’ve been a fairly bland do-gooder role, is turned into a complex character with a real emotional life thanks to Grant’s extraordinary ability to plumb the depths of his well-known persona (watch Grant react, it’s the best part of his performance here). Think about it: He’s an angel sent from God to help Bishop Henry Brougham (David Niven) find his way, and what does Dudley go and do? He falls in love with the  bishop’s wife, Julia (Loretta Young).

That’s pretty complicated stuff, especially in 1947 before blasphemy and defiling God became a Hollywood resume enhancer. But nothing about this lovely Christmas film with a great big spiritual heart seems complicated at all thanks to a deft script that gives each of its characters a simple dignity, and Grant, who effectively adds a subtle layer of darkness to Dudley that works almost on a subconscious level. 

And what a wonderful film to spend a couple of hours with. Photographed by the legendary Gregg Toland, the holiday spirit leaps from the screen in every snow-covered scene.  Christmas shopping, ice skating, choirs, churches, decorations, and the time-honored tradition of buying a tree. You don’t watch “The Bishops Wife,” you visit for a couple hours as you’re transported — not to the way life is or was — but somewhere better: the way life ought to be. (more…)

A young scout yearns to help an elderly widower in order to earn a merit badge.  A senior citizen unfurls hard-learned life lessons for the world.  Disney/Pixar’s Up is a lofty film that thrives off old fashioned values, and it is your new number-one 2009 summer blockbuster.  Complete with newsreel footage only a great grand-dad could recall, Up is a film which cherishes that very dated, old fashioned concept – great storytelling.  

In an age where Dreamworks’ feeds us a steady diet of kung-fu pandas and boogie-in-your-butt lemurs voiced by the guy that gave us Borat, three-to-thirteen year olds have a place to fill up on some traditional values – Disney/Pixar.  

My wife and I took our 6-year old boy to see Up on Saturday to a packed movie theater in Washington, DC’s Georgetown neighborhood.  All we heard in the theater was laughing, deep emotion and applause. And why not?  Up is film that, had it been produced with live actors decades ago, may have starred Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant.  It is classic American storytelling – true love, big dreams, self-reliance and fierce determination. It doesn’t need gimmicks, politically correct characters or audience focus-group testing to determine its destination.  It relies on Russell, who misses his Dad, and Carl Fredricksen, a lost old curmudgeon grieving over the death of his wife – they get us where we’re going.  You know them – they’re the sort of folks we see and meet most everyday.   (more…)

I have always thought that men and women are different. 

No kidding, professor.

No, really, they are. I don’t mean in all the right places, of course, but somewhere else, with movies, in enjoying the things we see in the movies. 

I remember seeing Gunga Din (1939) for the first time and knowing from the opening shot that this was my kind of film. This was a guy film. Not a wishy-washy movie filled up with dance numbers and kissing scenes, but a guy flick. Great guy stuff was in this movie, and I was sold on it from the first pounding of that thunderous mighty gong. When Alfred Newman’s score turned from playful to ominous faster than you can say, ‘trouble in Tantrapur’, I knew I was in for a good one. This was the kind of movie you watched on a Saturday afternoon with your dad or with your pals. This was adventure!  (more…)

The sun is sinking in the west
The cattle go down to the stream
The redwing settles in her nest
It’s time for a cowboy to dream….

Exquisitely crafted, but never ostentatious. Pleasantly mellow, but never lazy. Thematically rich, but never preachy. Respectful of tradition, but never stolid. Deeply compassionate, but never descending into schmaltz. Five decades ago, a group of men now long-dead (and, it must be said, one smokin’-hot woman, still-living) followed an aged veteran director into the Arizona desert to make a humble, heartfelt western based firmly on quintessentially American notions of courage, decency, and good humor. The result of their collaboration, Rio Bravo (1959), remains one of the great visceral pleasures of cinema.

Howard Hawks’ masterpiece stemmed from his disgust with the joyless anti-heroics of uptight, melodramatic westerns like Fred Zinnemann’s High Noon (1952) and Delmer Daves’ 3:10 to Yuma (1957) — dark “message movies” that seemed to revel in smugly depicting small-town Americans as cynics and cowards. The man behind such classics as Scarface (1932), Only Angels Have Wings (1939), To Have and Have Not (1944), Red River (1948), and Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953) was in his early sixties in 1958, his career winding down after decades of constant production. He had interned for Famous Players-Lasky way back in 1916, and directed his first features in the mid-1920s. Thirty years later he was old and tired, and his last film, Land of the Pharaohs (1955), had been a disheartening flop. Since then, the previously prolific director hadn’t helmed a picture in three years, an unheard-of period of self-exile for a man who had cranked out movies regularly for decades. But the brazen slap across the face that High Noon had given America’s western mythology had bothered him. “I made Rio Bravo,” he later told an interviewer, “because I didn’t like High Noon. Neither did Duke. I didn’t think a good town marshal was going to run around town like a chicken with his head cut off asking everyone to help. And who saves him? His Quaker wife. That isn’t my idea of a good western.” (more…)

In the Sunday L.A. Times, Reed Johnson examines the evolution of the portrayal of gay characters on film from 1941’s “The Maltese Falcon” to last year’s “Milk.” In his paragraph covering the gap between “Falcon” and 1980’s “Cruising,” Reed lets this drop:

…Hollywood went back into the closet during the Eisenhower presidency and more or less stayed there until the late 1960s … Coyness and euphemism were the order of the day, with the likes of Rock Hudson and Randolph Scott impersonating big-screen macho men. (more…)

After a month of celebrity videos ranging from creepy to disturbing, maybe this will help to take the edge off:

2am PST – Hollywood Without Make-Up (1966) – In this special, Ken Murray hosts his own behind-the-scenes home movies of some of Hollywood’s greatest stars. Cast: Ken Murray BW-50 mins, TV-G

Not a movie this time, but a delightful 1966 television special hosted by Ken Murray and starring his own home movies that date back to Hollywood’s silent-era when the likes of Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks wiled away their weekends at San Simeon, the estate owned by William Randolph Hearst and his wife mistress Marion Davies. The same estate Orson Welles somewhat recreated for his character in “Citizen Kane” who was modeled after Hearst. (more…)