And now a look back at a time when Hollywood fought for America and liberty, not against it. There are notable exceptions today, but sadly the word “exception” does apply.

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Much more below the fold…

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Lee Marvin was wounded in Saipan.

Charles Bronson was a tailgunner.

Julie Child was a spy.

Charles Durning was a U.S. Army Ranger at Normandy

One-eyed peter Falk memorized the eye chart so he could become a Marine.

Carroll O’Connor was in the Merchant Marines.

Jack Palance was in the U.S. Army Air Corps.

Walter Matthau, Robert Stack, Rock Hudson, Jeff Chandler, David Niven, Steve McQueen, Tyrone Power, George Kennedy, Rod Serling, Eddie Albert, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., William Holden, Paul Newman, Ernest Borgnine, Brian Keith, and so many more…

“The Bad News Bears” is subversive from the start, its characters realistic and flawed. Of course, the engine driving this train is the late Walter Matthau, whose  Buttermaker was hired to coach a team of misfits who are so bad at baseball they’re only in the elite league because one the parents sued the league. Most of the Bears’ parents are conspicuously absent at practices and are rarely heard or seen at games. Leaving them out of the movie is a stroke of genius – we’re constantly wondering why one of them didn’t step up to coach the team.

The subversive nature of the movie is exemplified in a performance from the late Vic Morrow. As Roy Turner, the coach of the Yankees, he is openly hostile toward Buttermaker and the Bears in general. While his hostility is certainly not commendable, it comes from an honest source: the Bears have no business in this top-notch league, and there are plenty of leagues where the Bears could have played. “Why did Whitewood [the lawyer who sued to get the Bears (read: his son) into the league] choose my league?” Turner seems to be asking throughout the movie. Cementing the Bears’ outcast status is the fact that every other team in the league is named for a Major League one. I love the moment in the first game when one of the Yankee players hits a home run off of the perpetually wild Rudy Stein. Coach Turner applauds, takes off his cap, wipes his brow, and most tellingly, breathes a sigh of relief. Without a single word, we realize how important the league is to him. Over the course of the movie, we learn of course that it’s too important.

After a humiliating season-opening 26 to zip loss at the hands of the Yankees,  most of the team wants to quit. And so does Whitewood. But Buttermaker, for some reason, sees this gig as a potentially redemptive moment for him, and unlike a million times in the past, he decides to stick it out.

As for the other characters, the movie is a demonstration in how to craft three-dimensional personalities regardless of screen time. Director Michael Ritchie, working from a dynamite script by Bill Lancaster (Burt’s son), crafts an economical, fast-moving story where each character has a big moment. There’s the Muslim Ahmad, desperate to equal his brothers’ athletic feats; there’s the fat kid Engelberg (this movie INVENTED that cliché), who turns out to be a pretty good hitter; there’s the little hot-head, Tanner, unafraid of anything; there’s Jackie Earle Haley’s Kelly Leak, the smoking, cussing, motorcycle riding bad boy ringer who really just needs a hug – which is not cheesy at all because not once does another warm and fuzzy character say he only needs a hug.

A clever subplot is that Amanda Whurlitzer (dude, the characters’ names are even awesome) is actually the daughter of Buttermaker’s ex-girlfriend and the all-around symbol of his failures as a human being. Besides the Ted Williams strikeout, Buttermaker’s other claim to fame is teaching Amanda how to throw a wicked curveball, of which he says, “It’s like a scoop of ice cream, it comes up to the plate and just disappears.”

Of course, the movie comes down to the big game, and Buttermaker’s been bitten by the win-at-any-cost bug.  He finds out that he’s no better than Roy Turner, who  commits a shocking and inexcusable act in the finale (though, as it turns out, Turner really ain’t that bad of a guy). This moment aside, Roy Turner is right, at least at the beginning of the movie – why should the league lower their standards to satisfy a do-gooder City Councilman? He never meddles or cheats, he just coaches his boys.  And in Coach Buttermaker, the Bears learn that their standards should be raised, that they shouldn’t accept losing, and that winning only comes when you do your best.

“Charlie Varrick” opens in front of the small town bank Charley, Nadine and their two partners plan to rob. This isn’t their first heist. They know the routine and plan on another uneventful in-and-out job with an unambitious take of no more than a couple thousand dollars – enough to get by for a while and not bring too much heat. In a thrilling sequence, reminiscent of the opening bank robbery in “The Wild Bunch,” things go very wrong very quickly. Gunfire’s exchanged, cops are killed, and so is Nadine. Charley and Harman (“Dirty Harry’s” Scorpio Killer Andy Robinson) escape but once they reach safety find their troubles have just begun.

After making four of his last five films with Clint Eastwood, director Don Siegel made the genius decision to cast Matthau as Varrick, a stooped everyman who, after discovering he’s accidentally stolen $750,000 from the mob, has nothing to rely on other than wily intelligence. The pleasure of this under-rated classic – what Eastwood’s physical competence would’ve drained from it – is wondering how or if a seemingly unexceptional middle-aged crop duster who’s out-gunned, out-manned and stuck with the alcoholic, unstable Harman can outsmart a single-minded, well-heeled mafia enterprise determined to recoup their money and make an example out of whoever stole it.

Matthau’s Charlie Varrick in disguise.

Joe Don Baker is all bearish menace as Molly, the southern-dripped hitman given carte blanche to recover the loot and make the example. He also bears, both physically and in the ruthless-determination department, more than a passing resemblance to Anton Chigurh. The wonderfully oily John Vernon plays the mobbed-up bank president and Sheree North brings her unequaled earthy sexiness to the small but memorable role of a document forger without a loyal bone in her curvaceous body.

“Charley Varrick” is one of Siegel’s best films; one of the best noirs of its kind from this era or any other. The economy of plot, the cast of exceptional character actors (Baker, North, Vernon, Robinson, Norman Fell, William Schallert, Benson Fong, Woodrow Parfey) and a perfect capturing of the small pre-Applebee’d, strip-malled New Mexico towns of the early seventies make for 111 completely immersive minutes.  

The twice Emmy-nominated Sheree North who in the mid-fifties started out as “The Next Marilyn,” but hit her sexual peak in her forties and is probably most famous for playing John Wayne’s lost love in “The Shootist” (1976). 

The real pleasure, however, comes from watching Matthau’s Varrick in over his head but still calmly, methodically and with his life on the line, moving chess pieces as he tries to stay a step ahead of the resourceful and violently unpredictable Molly. As the narrative moves on you slowly come to the unsettling realization that while Varrick may not share Molly’s flair for violence, he is every inch the sociopath as his counterpart. At first, Matthau’s wry demeanor helps you forget his character’s willingness to rob banks, leave his dead wife in a car rigged to explode and kill whoever gets in the way of what he wants

The script, based on “The Looters” by John Reese, is a gem. You can’t afford to miss a thing. Big or small, each plot point eventually pays off in some surprisingly satisfying way, especially when it comes to Varrick’s actions, which are rarely as counter-intuitive as they first appear. There’s also a superb scene, mostly done in a single take, between Vernon and the mousey Parfey, who plays the bank manager. “Pulp Fiction” fans will recognize an iconic bit of dialogue.

After a depressing slate of summer films that numbed us with disappointment, the thoroughly engrossing “Charlie Varrick” is available on DVD and a reminder that smart, simple plots are much harder to pull off than sound, fury, bombast and shaky-cammed excess.

Denzel Washington is Walter Garber, a longtime civil servant in the New York City MTA who started at the bottom and worked his way into an administrative position until a scandal hit. An investigation’s underway, and until Garber’s name is cleared (or not), he’s demoted back to dispatcher. His skill and knowledge of how New York’s intricate subway system operates is obvious and impressive, but nothing in his career or life prepares him for the call he receives from the manic, ruthless Ryder (John Travolta), the leader of a small team who have just hijacked a subway car loaded with innocent passengers.

Ryder wants money. $10 million (and one cent), to be exact, and wants it in cash in 60 minutes or he’ll kill a passenger for each minute it’s late. Unfortunately for Garber, Ryder takes a shine to him, forcing the civil servant into the unenviable position as the only person the hijacker will talk to or deal with. Aiding him is NYPD hostage negotiator Camonetti (John Turturro), who helps Garber through the tense moments but also has to worry if this man, who’s facing an investigation where a prison term could be the outcome, isn’t the inside man.

The “retelling” works as far as keeping those of us familiar with what came before from knowing what will happen next, but even so there’s not much suspense. What made the original so riveting was the believability of it all. Robert Shaw’s quiet, shark-like efficiency and Walter Matthau’s clever but cynical civil servant were characteristics we recognized from our everyday lives; these people seemed to inhabit a real world that, thanks to a remarkable cinematography, was perfectly captured in a familiar time and place.

Tony Scott’s signature kinetic editing and an actual ticking clock which dramatically freezes the action every few minutes, feels surreal not real — and intrudes upon, rather than increases — what little tension there is. Hyper-visuals makes the familiar unfamiliar and never allows you to ”feel” the City. It’s hard to relate to what’s happening because it’s set in a strange land called Planet Scott. Travolta also drains the suspense playing the exact same villain he did in “Swordfish” and “Broken Arrow.” Obviously, Ryder is written to be off-balance and unpredictable, but Travolta’s portrayal is so familiar, he’s anything but.

Oscar-winning screenwriter Brian Helgeland’s idea of an “update” is only an update as far as what the latest Screenwriting 101 courses are offering. Garber’s now saddled with a backstory, and an ever so convenient one that allows Ryder to get under his skin, and naturally the story beats must be found that allow for Denzel to run around Manhattan wielding a gun for a little man-to-man.

The story’s also “updated” to include a nod to the Internet and Rudy Giuliani, but what’s completely stripped away is what might have been the most interesting part of an update — a look into the municipal guts of a big city political machine. This is one of the more fascinating elements in both the novel and the 1973 film, the thing that lifted both just above pulp, but to its detriment, Helgeland limits his narrative scope only to the hostage situation. Even the Mayor (James Gandolfini) spends most of his time in the MTA dispatch center. The whole of New York City gave the original tremendous flavor and a real personality. Without this, other than the budget and stars, the update gives off a television-movie vibe.

Also hurting the story is a lack of emphasis on questions that would draw us in — like just how in the hell these guys plan to escape a subway tunnel surrounded by the entire NYPD — and an unnecessary emphasis on what doesn’t matter. An awful lot of dialogue is chewed up piecing together who Ryder really is and one of the Mayor’s better moments comes when he puts a final piece into place. But in the end, knowing who Ryder is adds nothing to the plot and has nothing to do with the climax. It’s just filler that serves as distracting misdirection because you keep waiting for a payoff.

The biggest misfire, however, is the score, a mix of techno, thundering effects and heavy metal that never creates an emotion, unless “garbled” and “jarring” qualify as emotions. Had director Scott borrowed heavily from David Shire’s driving, diamond-hard original, his movie would’ve improved by at least 20% without changing anything else. 

That’s not to say “Pelham” is in any way a failure. What it is, though, is nothing special. Even though the climax is more sound and fury than excitement, what’s going on does hold your interest thanks mainly to Denzel who’s always watchable doing what he does better than anyone: portraying an everyday competence that doesn’t strain credibility as his character finds himself deeper and deeper in a world he knows nothing about.

So take it in, you won’t be bored, but in five years you’ll go back to watching the timeless original as though no retelling ever happened.

There’s nothing terribly special about the life of the Mr. and Mrs. Fredricksen.  They shared no slow motion runs on the beach or proposals of marriage atop the Eiffel Tower. There’s was an ordinary existence built on abiding love and the moments of the everyday. But it’s from the familiar that the power of this unforgettable sequence comes from. We relate to the decades that pass between them, recognizing them as our own. And when Ellie dies, leaving Carl without his soul mate, we also recognize that they pass much too quickly.  

Carl and Ellie had dreamed of an extraordinary life. One filled with travel and adventure. But reality always intruded, eating their savings and worst of all, the years. Today, at 78, Carl seems content to bide his time alone until he can rejoin Ellie, but reality intrudes once again when Carl’s faced with life in a nursing home. His decision to inflate thousands of helium balloons and float his house to South America has little to do with a desire for adventure. He’s hanging on to Ellie in the last way he knows how – by finally living out their dream.

Along for the ride is Russell (Jordan Nagai), an 8-year-old Junior Wilderness Explorer and accidental stowaway. Filled with hyper-enthusiasm and a fearlessness borne of his ability to see the “cool!” in every situation – no matter how dangerous, he drives poor, grumpy Carl — who wants only to peacefully and in solitude live out his days on a cliff next to a waterfall — nuts.

Through years of delivering top-notch entertainment, Pixar stands in an enviable situation no one else in the picture-making business enjoys anymore. Once upon a time audiences went to see movie stars. Movie stars were enough. But with few exceptions that era’s come to an end and today audiences can only be lured to the box office with the promise of a retread, sequel, franchise or some high concept that allows you to see the movie in a single sentence (three men hunt a shark and discover the shark’s bigger than the boat). This severely limits what stories can and cannot be told, hurts the quality of the storytelling and the art form in general. “Up” makes you wonder what else we’re not seeing.

An old widower riding a floating house is not high concept, but it does make for one the five best films I’ve seen in as many years. The story is a complete original, and every twist and turn of its simple plot a delightful one loaded with creative surprise, unique characters, a ton of laughs and just as much heart.

The performances are impeccable. As Carl, Ed Asner gives the finest voice performance I’ve ever seen in an animated film. Director Pete Doctor says he was going for the type of gruff, lovable old men Walter Matthau and Spencer Tracy played so memorably. That may be, but directors will now say they’re going for an Asner type. He’s that good. Every emotion that courses through Carl, the grief of losing his Ellie and finally being brought back to life by Russell, is never once mawkish or played for sentiment. Depth is found in a rich understatement worthy of Academy recognition.  Jordan Nagan’s work as Russell is just as impressive. Gone is the precocious, too-cutesy Disney kid. Russell is very real and very, very funny.

“Up” ingeniously contains its story both in scope and with the number supporting players, but you don’t ever feel anything’s missing because the imagination at work here is larger than any frantic, over-stuffed assault on your senses desperate to distract you from the truth of its own hollowness. To go into more detail would be to take away from the delightful surprises that await, but the characters Carl and Russell run into are unforgettable, the adventure exciting, and the laughs bigger than any I can remember in a long, long time.

The 3D effects are superb, never gimmicky, only contributing to the richness of the story and animation. Michael Giacchino’s score is absolutely gorgeous, lush when it should be, subtle when it needs to be, and as an important to the story as Carl and Russell. The pacing’s perfect and the script (written by the director) even more so.

“Up” is what people mean when they say, “You know, they just don’t make ‘em like they used to.” That lament isn’t about a particular genre or even nostalgia for a simpler time. It’s about when a visit to the local theatre came with the promise of a sense of wonder and satisfying emotional journey; about being transported to exotic places with characters you feel something for, be it love or hate; about not having the spell broken by ham-handed filmmakers adding things that don’t belong.

Pixar’s finest is perfect for the whole family and deserves to finally transcend the animated category and compete for a Best Picture Oscar.