I, Claudius (1976) -- Herbert Wise

Depravity and debauchery in imperial Rome is wonderfully entertaining in the 1976 TV mini-series, I, Claudius. The critically and popularly acclaimed BBC production has it all: incest; adultery; orgies and sexual manipulation; political intrigue; insanity; murder--lots and lots of murder; and suicide as common as a morning cup of coffee. Poison is the method of choice but there are plenty of daggers at play too, and off-screen, hungry lions in the arena. Perhaps the most outlandish scene involves a sex competition in the palace between the emperor's wife and the city's leading prostitute to see who can bed the most men. 

The thirteen-hour saga tells the tale of the five Caesars, starting with Augustus in about 34 BC, through his first three successors: step-son Tiberius, great-grandson Caligula, and grand-nephew Claudius. It ends with the latter's' death in 54 AD as the infamous Nero waits in the wings. Whether it's blind lust for power or inbreeding that propels the drama is hard to say, but it's immediately apparent that being related to the extended Julian/Claudian families puts one at great risk. This is a blood-thirsty bunch. Anyone in the line of succession needs to watch their back.

Part of the title sequences for the series.

Based on Robert Graves' 1934 novel of the same name, the production features a remarkably witty script (by Jack Pulman) and terrific performances by all. While Derek Jacobi is the headliner--his Claudius relates the story in flashback and appears in every episode--it is Sian Phillips as Livia, Augustas' wife, who is most memorable. Her performance is brilliant, convincingly menacing and quietly evil. Devious, extraordinarily patient and determined, she'll stop at nothing to ensure that her son, Tiberius, becomes her husband's heir. Over the course of the first seven episodes, her victims include her own husband, a brother-in-law, and two grandsons. She removes Augustus with poisoned fruit, telling Tiberius, "By the way, don't touch the figs."

At one point or another, all the characters become targets of Livia's cold demeanor. Claudius is one of her great-grandsons. With club foot and a stammer, he is thought to be a fool. But his physical nature hides a rare intelligence, at least until the last episodes when he becomes blind to his scheming young wife, Messalina. Of Claudius, Livia says, "That child should have been exposed at birth," meaning he should have been abandoned on a hillside.

Though truly evil, she claims her behavior is noble. She sincerely fears a republic and the inevitable civil wars she believes it would spurn, hence her dogged drive to maintain the monarchial form of government. Germanicus, Claudius' brother, holds a more objective view of the old woman's ambition, pegging her correctly when he says, "Between reading so many letters and arranging so many rapes, when does she ever sleep?"

Sian Phillips as the dangerous and lethal Livia.

The script is filled with humor. Livia gives a pep talk to gladiators, ready to fight in the arena. She insults and threatens them, and tells them she wants no "kiss in the ring stuff," and no "tricks of the trade to stay alive." Here's the clip:

And it's not just the script that's funny, but the way the actors deliver the lines. A few other great ones:

• Caligula giggles with silly amusement when he instructs the guards what that evening's password will be: "Bottoms Up," "Give Us a Kiss," and "Touch me, Titus!"
• About a sick Augustus, someone says to Livia: "It seems that it doesn't matter to you whether he lives or dies!," to which she replies: "Oh no! It matters a great deal to me whether he lives or dies."
• Caligula to Claudius: "Do you think I'm mad?"
  Claudius to Caligula: "You set the standard for sanity for the whole world."
• After Livia murders Marcellus:
  Livia: We know what he died of.
  Doctor: Do we?
  Livia: FOOD POISONING! You said so yourself.
  Doctor: Yes, but I couldn't swear to it.
  Livia (to self): No, but I could.

Each episode has at least one terrific scene, which allows all the featured players the opportunity to shine. Among the best are Augustus (Brian Blessed) dressing down fifteen or so senators who have been with his promiscuous daughter, Julia. He incredulously asks each man in turn if the report is true, getting more appalled as he goes down the line, finally exploding, "Is there anyone in Rome who hasn't slept with my daughter?!?" He banishes the girl to a small island where she starves.

Derek Jacobi as a young Claudius.

Reflecting the age of myth, soothsayers, and multiple deities, Tiberius (George Baker) relies on an astrologer to predict the future. His best scene takes place on the island of Rhodes. Convinced that Augustus hates him, and sick of the machinations back in Rome, he has voluntarily retired. Though he still harbors aspirations to the throne--in large part driven by the dominating Livia--he has given way to Augustus' favorite, Marcellus. When he learns that Lucius has died (poisoned by Livia), he can't contain his laughter at the sudden turn of events. The character is one of the most fascinating of the series. He starts as a decent enough sort, unlikable surely, but an effective military leader who can't seem to get out from under his mother's thumb. By the end he has assumed most of her unsavory traits, and has added a fetid layer of sordidness to boot, reveling in pornography and unseen acts of depravity. The change in his makeup over episodes is wonderful. Beginning as a rugged, swarthy, young man, he finishes with bluish veins visible just beneath his skin and open red sores on the top of his balding head. He eventually gets smothered under a pillow.

By the time the story gets to Caligula (John Hurt), royal behavior delves into insanity. Caligula sleeps with and impregnates his sister. He hears voices. His best scene takes place with Claudius. Summoned to the emperor's room for what he suspects is his execution, Claudius instead learns that Caligula has undergone a metamorphosis. He now believes he is a living god and commences to act increasingly outlandish. He later guts his own sister to remove the unborn foetus. When a senate faction assassinates Caligula, Claudius inexplicably is tapped by the guards to be the next emperor. He'll eventually meets a similar fate.

Caligula (John Hurt) dances.

Near the end of the last episode, as Claudius makes his last speech to the Senate--he knows that his wife and Nero are plotting his death--his eyes glass over and he appears to go into a trance. You wonder if he hasn't had a stroke, but it's a nice device by director Wise to re-introduce some of the best characters from the series. Long dead cast members Livia, Augustus, Caligula, Tiberius and Claudius' mother, Antonia (Margaret Tysack), come to him in his imagination to offer comment. It's a touching moment, reminding the viewer how much you miss these great actors, and leaving you lamenting that the series is over, a feeling that is all too rare in film and books, but one that marks a special experience.

Phillips and Jacobi won BAFTAs for their work, and art director, Tim Harvey, an Emmy. That none of the actors were nominated for an Emmy is surely one of the most egregious omissions in the history of the award. The production was shown in the United States in 1977 on PBS' Masterpiece Theater.

The entire production takes place in the studio, though Harvey does a wonderful job depicting the gladiatorial arena, showing just the imperial box; the Senate chamber; and certain outdoor scenes, such as the palace gardens and Tiberius' retreat. Dick Bailey did the intriguing graphic design for the memorable opening, a large venomous black and purple snake, crawling across the title card, depicted on colorful ceramic tile.

As to how closely the novel and screen adaptation mirror history is up for debate. No doubt some events are suspect, but the consensus of modern historians is that it's a fairly reasonably accurate portrayal, though surely embellished. In any case, it captures the spirit of the day and continues to be one of the best productions ever made for television.

Great Television

I grew up with TV like most Americans born after World War II, and when I think of the hours and hours spent sitting in front of a tube in my life ..., well it's natural to regret the amount of time wasted. At its worse, television is pathetic and unproductive, particularly all the silly stuff you likely  watched as a kid. Take me for example. Gomer Pyle, Gilligan's Island, Laverne and Shirley, My Three Sons, Sanford and Son, The Partridge Family...  you get the picture. Not exactly mind-expanding stuff. Of course, at the time I thought they were terrifically funny, and for kids, maybe they were. At least it kept me out of trouble. But today, you'd have to strap me in a chair a la Alex in A Clockwork Orange to watch those shows.

I can't say that my television diet as an adult has been all that much better. Dallas, Cheers, St. Elsewhere, etc., did little more than pass the time when you think about it. Certainly not as life-enhancing as visiting a museum or historical site. I suppose I watch less than I did, but it's still too much.

Still, I'm not knocking the invention. Downtime is important. And every once in a while, television reveals itself as a medium that indeed can contribute something wonderful to your life. There were moments when it was and is terrific and there are a handful of programs over the last fifty years that seem eminently worthwhile. Watched even today, they still have to power to move me, to entertain me, and cause me to reflect. Here's a list of ten favorites, in no particular order. 1977 was a great year.

1. I Claudius

This 13-part series from the BBC first appeared on US television as part of Masterpiece Theater in 1977. Steeped in Roman history it's narrated by an elderly Claudius, and covers a good chunk of Augustus' rule up to the deformed Claudius' rise to power and death, about 80 years. Augustus' wife, Livia, is evil personified as she manipulates her husband and knocks off his heirs one-by-one to elevate her own son, Tiberius, for emperor. Double dealing, incest, murder, and brutal politics have never been as fun.


2. Eleanor and Franklin 

The story of the Roosevelt's as told through Eleanor's eyes appeared in two ABC mini-series in 1976 and 1977. Edmund Herrmann played the president, and Jane Alexander, his wife, Eleanor. Nominated for 17 Emmys, it won eleven and was also awarded a Golden Globe for best TV Motion Picture. The timing could not have been better, as the nation's bi-Centennial brought interest in American history to the forefront. The story follows their courtship, his paralysis, through his presidency and death. Terrifically acted with wonderful production values. Maybe not always historically accurate, and perhaps too slanted toward the wife, it is still one of the best programs the Big Three networks ever presented. Five-time Oscar winner John Barry wrote one of TV's best musical scores.  


3. Mad Men

Now in its fifth season, this drama debuted in 2007 and details the lives of Madison Avenue ad executives during the amazing and turbulent 1960s. Featuring terrific and amusing scripts, and superb acting, it's biggest appeal for those who lived through it may be the frequent cultural references to the decade and the spot-on set decorations and clothing. None of its principal characters are one-dimensional, but rather are complicated souls who struggle with the changing times as they wrestle with what they really want out of life. Three more seasons are planned. As currently set in 1966, Vietnam is about to ramp up, promising a crazy backdrop for the series.  

4. Lonesome Dove

 Robert Duvall as Gus McCrae

Easily the best Western ever shown on television. A great adaptation of Larry McMurtry's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel. First shown in 1989, the epic story of two Texas Rangers on a cattle drive from Texas to Montana soars on Robert Duvall's wonderful performance as Gus McCrae and McMurtry's magnificent screenplay.

Woodrow Call: You ever get tired o' loafin' I reckon you can get a job waitin' on tables.

Gus McCrae: Oh, I had a job waitin' tables once. S' on a riverboat. I wasn't no older than Newt, there, but I hadda give it up.
Newt: How come?
Gus McCrae: Well I was, too young and pretty and the whores wouldn't let me alone.

 5. The Civil War

Ken Burns magnificent documentary first aired in 1990 in nine episodes on PBS. Featuring period music, photography, the writings and speeches of historic figures, and commentary by contemporary historians like Shelby Foote, the epic story of America's greatest crisis unfolds in the best history lesson ever shown on television.

6. The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson

Hard to believe it's been two decades since Carson left late-night in 1992. He was an institution--the most comfortable personality on television. A welcome respite from your day. The topical monologue; Carnac the Magnificent with the sealed jar on Funk and Wagnal's porch; Art Fern and his buxom assistant; Floyd Turbo and his hunter's hat; Aunt Blabby; San Diego Zoo animals; and Ed McMahon's ridiculous laugh. He helped launch the careers of many comics, including Jerry Seinfeld and his eventually successor, Jay Leno; and brought movie stars and Hollywood royalty into our homes and made them real and human.

7.  The Olympics    

The thrill of victory -- 1980.
 "Do you believe in miracles?"

The Olympics consistently provide unparalleled sports excitement; and over one's lifetime, produce the most memorable snapshots of athletic competition, often amidst political and cultural backdrops that enhance the experience. The national fervor, grand opening ceremonies, Munich, Johnson vs Lewis, Usain Bolt, American over Russia, the Black Power Salute, Nadia Comaneci's perfect 10s. Scintillating moments all. The first I recall viewing was the Winter 1968 Games, with American skater Peggy Fleming and French skier Jean Claude Kiley becoming international stars. Better before professionalism infiltrated the competition, it's still some of the most inspirational and magnificent television you're likely to see.    

8. CBS coverage of the Space Program

The greatest adventure. Walter Cronkite's infectious enthusiasm over the space program during the 1960s made the station's nightly news must-see viewing, as thrilling as real life could get on television. He covered Mercury, Gemini, and most famously, the Apollo launches, culminating magnificently with the Moon landing in June, 1969. "Go, baby, go" he shouted as that ship rocketed off Cape Kennedy. Cronkite would stay live on the air for 27 of the next 30 hours. At Neil Armstrong's first footstep, Cronkite acted like a kid; breathing a sigh of relief, he rubbed his hands together in awe and said simply, "Boy!" Other memorable moments of coverage included Ed White's historic 1965 space walk and the 1967 tragedy of Apollo 1, when three astronauts were lost in a fire.  

9. Roots

In 1977 ABC aired a twelve-part series that became a cultural phenomenon. Roots tells the story of Kunta Kinte, a slave captured in Africa and brought to America prior to the Revolution, and follows his descendants until they are liberated after the Civil War. Based on Alex Haley's best-seller, it featured a big cast of television stars of the day. The show pulled no punches when it came to displaying the horrors of slavery, and for its day didn't just push the envelope, it ripped it wide open. Production values sometimes are lacking but this was an important moment in American television that helped broaden the national conversation about race relations. It won nine Emmys and was nominated for another 28.      

10. The West Wing

The best TV has ever done in showing the inner workings of Washington politics, the way power gets wielded and compromises made. It debuted in 1999 and ran for seven seasons. The first four were easily the best, when it won the Emmy for Best Drama series. Martin Sheen was terrific as president Jed Bartlett, but the entire cast was excellent. It often mirrored the events of the day, such as North Korean shenanigans and political scandals. If it had too much of a liberal slant for some viewers, it at least portrayed good people on both sides of the political aisle, as well as plenty of dirty rotten scoundrels.    

Alfie (1966) -- Gilbert Lewis

The life of a 1960's playboy in London is on full display in Alfie. Michael Caine is the title character who thinks he has a good thing going, stringing along several women at the same time, making sure to break it off at the first sign a girl is beginning to get serious. A devout hedonist, Alfie's cares are simple: have a good time and avoid responsibility. Were it not for Caine's terrific cajoling performance and his character's brilliant use of breaking the fourth wall to speak directly to the audience, we wouldn't like Alfie much. In fact, he's about as callous as it gets when it comes to the feelings of his companions, and rather despicable when you think about it. But somehow we can't quite hate the man. Despite his self-centered nature, we suspect that deep down there's some good that will eventually reveal itself. The film shows him take the first steps to self-awareness, though by the end we aren't really sure how far along that road he has come.  

Michael Caine as Alfie. "What's it all about?"

Director Gilbert Lewis wastes no time cuing us in on Alfie. The film opens with a shot of dogs prowling the night streets, a subtle commentary on Alfie's character. A terrific jazz score featuring tenor sax by Sonny Rollins connotes Alfie's devil-may-care attitude. The camera pans to a parked car. We hear a couple inside, obviously going at it. The tryst is interrupted and Alfie emerges. He spots the camera and begins to talk, making a joke. The well-designed sequence lets you know the story will be told from Alfie's perspective, and you are in on his take.

Women are merely objects. He calls them "birds," even using a dehumanizing "it," when referring to them. This first conquest is Siddie, a married woman who he soon drops because as he explains, she's getting too hot. He tells Siddie to treat her husband well; there's no reason to make anyone unhappy if you can avoid it.

Alfie's next stop is to see Gilda, who he tells us will never be a number 1. She's a sweet girl, but when he learns she's pregnant, he never thinks of marrying her. She gives birth, and perhaps a little surprisingly, Alfie doesn't abandoned the child but begins to display real affection for the first time. It's clear he likes being a dad--at least on the weekend. He walks the baby in the park, brings presents to comfort him when he cries, and later plays with him on the beach. If it could end with this, he'd be happy. However, it's not enough for Gilda. Desperate to give the child a proper, every-day father, she eventually turns to Humphrey, a boring bus conductor. Humphrey loves her and is willing to serve as the child's father. They will eventually have their own baby, and in the most poignant moment of the film, Alfie watches its baptism in secret, wondering if that is the picture of true happiness. 

Throughout, the script is quite funny, especially for American viewers not used to Cockney slang. Of Gilda, Alfie says she's "lookin' mumsie."

A health scare sends Alfie for some rest at a sanitarium. But even here he can't change his behavior, connecting with a nurse while his roommate, another patient named Harry, and Harry's wife, Lily (Vivien Merchant), sit embarrassed in the next bed. Harry scolds him, "You beast." Later, Alfie shows how rotten he is by seducing Lily. Looking innocently at the camera he says, "Well, what harm can it do? Old Harry will never know. And even if he did, he shouldn't begrudge me - or her, come to that. And it'll round off the tea nicely."

Lily will become pregnant and Alfie pays for an illegal abortion. It's a life-altering event, though Alfie doesn't immediately realize it. In a harrowing sequence Merchant does a great job conveying the pain and humiliation of it all. Alfie justifies his actions: "My understanding of women only goes as far as the pleasure. When it comes to the pain I'm like any other bloke - I don't want to know." But he finally conveys some honest human emotion, crying when he sees the unborn foetus and later lamenting his part in it, confessing to a friend he committed murder.

Alfie in action at the sanitarium.

Chastened, Alfie goes to Ruby, another woman with whom he is carrying on. He tells us she "is in lovely condition." Played wonderfully by Shelley Winters, she knows how to play the game as well as her confident paramour. In the film's best scene, she gives Alfie a taste of his own medicine. Shocked to find another man in her bed, Alfie asks what the man has that he doesn't. "He's younger," she explains simply. A cold slap in the face. 

Caine and Winters.

The film ends where it began, at night along the river. Alfie runs into Siddie, whom he hasn't seen in ages. She rejects his advances, and he gives another soliloquy before walking off with the same dog that appeared at the beginning. Maybe he's learned something after all.

You know what? When I look back on my little life and the birds I've known, and think of all the things they've done for me and the little I've done for them, you'd think I've had the best of it along the line. But what have I got out of it? I've got a bob or two, some decent clothes, a car, I've got me health back and I ain't attached. But I ain't got me peace of mind - and if you ain't got that, you ain't got nothing. I dunno. It seems to me if they ain't got you one way they've got you another. So what's the answer? That's what I keep asking myself - what's it all about? Know what I mean? 

This is a unique film and Caine gives the best performance of his career, snagging an Oscar nomination for Best Actor. It's a shame, but his timing stunk. He had no chance given that year's competition, including Paul Scofield, who won for A Man for All Seasons, and Richard Burton for Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Overall the film earned five Oscar nominations, including Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Supporting Actress (Merchant), Best Music, and Best Writing. Merchant's other memorable film role came in Hitchcock's Frenzy (1973), where she played a police detective's wife, dispensing unsolicited advice while serving godawful dinners.

The familiar title song is by Burt Bacharach and Hal David. In the American release Cher sang, and in the original English release, it was just instrumental. Dionne Warwick scored the big pop hit version. (In the inferior 2004 remake, Mick Jagger performs a terrific closing song, Old Habits Die Hard).

The Invisible Man (1933) -- James Whale

In the 1930s Universal Studios hit upon a terrifically popular genre of film which featured distinctive monsters and spooky creatures that thrilled and excited movie audiences with suspense and danger. Because the genre was so commercially successful, the studio often developed horror series that showcased the characters and their offspring over the next ten to twenty years. The characters helped defined the legacy of the featured actors, and the films remain some of the most enjoyable classics, in large part for the obvious creativity of the directors and technicians employed to bring the stories to the screen.

The studio started it all with Dracula (Bela Lugosi) in 1931, and quickly followed with Frankenstein (Boris Karloff) later that same year. Today, most movie-lovers would consider these first two, Dracula and Frankenstein, as the dual kings of the creature features. But other scary characters came quickly on their heels, including The Mummy (Karloff again) in 1932; The Invisible Man (Claude Rains) in 1933; and The Wolf Man ( Lon Chaney Jr.) in 1941.

While you wouldn't want to meet any of these fellows on a dark night, if asked to choose, you might feel safest with The Invisible Man. However, in that you would be mistaken. The gauze-wrapped one was the most dangerous, racking up a staggering body count of at least 122.

One of author H.G. Wells best creations, the Invisible Man was published as a science fiction novella in 1897.  The story concerns a scientist who learns too late that there are some things that man must not meddle in. Director James Whale's cinematic take on the novella retains the basic elements, though the script adds a love interest, deletes a key character who briefly is coerced into helping The Invisible Man, makes the relationship between the Invisible Man and a former colleague much more familiar and recent, and alters the capture sequence.

Whale introduces the main character in a wonderfully atmospheric scene. A heavily garbed figure trudges through the swirling snow to the Lion's Head inn in search of a private room. His face is obscured behind dark glasses, a low-brimmed hat, and gauze wrapped tightly about the head.

The Invisible Man makes an ominous entrance.

The reaction of the inn's patrons to this strange apparition is fun to see. You can't blame them for wondering what type of man dresses so. The inn is run by horror film staple Una O'Conner, who will soon unleash her signature screaming, and is occupied by fellows who look like they spend a good amount of time in saloons. Familiar faces pop up throughout the film, including Henry Travers (Clarence the angel in It's a Wonderful Life); Walter Brennen; and Dwight Fry (Renfield in Dracula and Fritz in Frankenstein).

The strange boarder just wants to be left alone to conduct his mysterious experiments. He soon fills his room with test tubes, percolating beakers of liquid, and other scientific equipment. When O'Conner makes too much of a nuisance of herself, The Invisible Man loses his temper and knocks the woman's hen-pecked husband down a flight of stairs, prompting a call to the police. The Invisible Man disrobes and soon, police and patrons are wrestling with an unseen figure. This incident seems to push the man over the edge psychologically. He goes from being a desperate scientist to a mad fiend intent on world domination.

Whale infuses the film with several moments of intended humor: an unseen force knocks off a man's hat and throws out a quip; an empty shirt appears to dance in the air; and most outrageously, pants with nobody inside them cavort down the street as The Invisible Man sings "Here we go gathering nuts in May." The character occasionally unleashes a maniacal laugh. None of these are particularly funny today, but may have been to audiences eighty years ago.

Una O'Conner.

The special effects, however, are still remarkable, an aspect of the film that makes it memorable. Audiences of the 1930s must have been amazed, and it's easy to imagine youngsters leaving the theater and playing "invisible man" for weeks afterwards. My favorite are the footprints that magically appear in the snow near the end, as police smoke the trapped villain out of a barn. You'd think Whales would have been more careful--the prints show a man in shoes rather than bare-feet. Another is a spectacular train wreck caused by the Invisible Man. We later learn that this accident resulted in the death of 100 passengers. 

Jack Fulton did the special effects. He'd win two Oscars during his career, one for The Ten Commandments. Nominations for best effects came with three of the The Invisible Man sequels. Fulton wasn't the only crew member that helped director Whales produce a top-notch thriller. Pioneering cameraman Arthur Edeson gave the film a sharp look with technically ground-breaking shots, including two overhead crane shots used to show police closing in on the murderer. Edeson was one of the best in the business. He'd worked with Whale on Frankenstein. Among his other credits are the spectacular All Quiet on the Western Front, Mutiny on the Bounty, and The Maltese Falcon.

An Example of the special effects -- The Invisible Man in a chair.

Having escaped the melee at the inn, and later mortally wounding a skeptical police officer with a bench to his head--his first murder--The Invisible Man makes his way to Dr. Kemp, a colleague he hopes to convince to partner with in a Reign of Terror. We learn that The Invisible Man's name is Jack Griffin. In an explanatory sequence, we are presented with the back story: Griffin has been fixated on secret research into optics. The novella goes into more detail than the film, but in essence it involves how objects absorb and reflect light. Griffin has learned to make himself invisible, but can't figure how to reverse the procedure.

Kemp, who'd like to get Griffin out of the way so he can pursue Griffin's fiance, Flora (Gloria Stuart of Titanic), calls in the police. Enraged, Griffin vows revenge, a promise he manages to achieve in what must be one of film's first "car over the cliff " sequences. Bound in the back seat, Kemp can only watch in terror as Griffin sends the car over the edge to a satisfying fiery explosion at the bottom.

The police eventually track the prey thanks to snow on the ground and Claude Rains finally gets revealed as The Invisible Man. Classic film-lovers, of course, recognize the distinctive voice from the first scene, but in 1931, American audiences got their first look at a man who would become one of our favourite character actors, securimg four Oscar nominations during the 1940s in the process.

Author H.G. Wells.

Author H.G. Wells was a prolific writer of science fiction and other genres. The Invisible Man was not the first film based on his work. French director George Melies found inspiration for his A Trip to the Moon (1902), featured in the recent film Hugo, from the works of Wells and Jules Verne. And Island of Lost Souls (1932) was based on the Wells novel, The Island of  Dr. Moreau. Wells continues to be a source for film-makers, one of the most famous being the 1960 feature, The Time Machine. Wells died in 1946.

Papillon (1973) -- Frank Schaffner

Convicted of murdering a pimp, in 1931 Frenchman Henri Charrieri is sent to the infamous prison in French Guiana. Amidst the jungle with its disease and dangerous predators, and surrounded by shark-infested ocean, escape is thought impossible, but Henri spends the next fourteen years plotting and executing several attempts at freedom.

Based on a 1969 bestseller, initially marketed as non-fiction but since considered more accurately a novel based on Charrieri's prison experiences, Papillon tells a story of perseverance. Even if events are embellished, it is a remarkable tale. The film joined perhaps the two biggest Hollywood stars of the day. Steve McQueen plays the title role, which in French means "butterfly," a tattoo of which adorns his chest. Dustin Hoffman plays Louis Dega, a fellow convict and notorious counterfeiter who befriends Papillon on the steamer from France. In exchange for protection against other convicts, Dega promises to finance Papillon's escape attempts.

Papillon and Dega witness a prisoner shot by guards.

I remember reading the novel upon its initial release, and its surprising revelation that prisoners hid money, drugs, or other small valuables in small canisters that they shoved up their rectum. Thankfully the film doesn't depict any insertions but the dialog makes its clear that that practice was a routine one. Authenticity was an aim of director Schaffner, who does a marvelous job depicting the miserable conditions under the brutal French penal system of the day. In one memorable moment the convicts get to witness an execution by guillotine, likely the most realistic sequence of its type ever put on screen. Guards lead a frantic prisoner to the mechanism, push him onto an inclined board that positions his head in the device (lunette) directly beneath the blade. He strains to turn his head upward, the blade comes down with a whomp, the head drops, and the camera is splashed with blood.

Losing one's head in French Guiana. 

Some of the best scenes, and McQueen's best acting, occur with Papillon in solitary confinement. It's an awful place, entered with this advice from the warden: "Put all hope out of your mind. And masturbate as little as possible, it drains the strength!" Absolute silence was the rule amongst prisoners, a circumstance that fits perfectly with McQueen's acting style. Throughout his career he favored as scant a script as possible, relying on expressions and body language to do the work of the character.

In Charrieri's book and the film, Papillon serves two such sentences for failed escapes, the first for two years, and the second for five (in the book, the term is shortened). It's a small cell, just five steps across. Food--an exaggerated characterization to be sure--and water are passed through a small door in pails and a bucket, and periodically the prisoners are inspected for head lice and receive a hair cut by sticking their head out a small trap in the wall. The warden explains that they aren't interested in rehabilitation, just punishment. How any man could withstand such isolation is amazing.

When Dega sneaks Papillon some coconuts to supplement his meager food, the warden puts the prisoner on half-rations for six months because he refuses to disclose who sent them. Papillon never breaks, though it is difficult. He resorts to eating vermin that crawls across his floor. One shot shows him dropping three bugs into his weak soup to give it some substance, including a disgusting looking centipede he cuts in half. The film's best moment occurs as McQueen almost rats out Dega. At the last moment he changes his mind, feigning dementia. McQueen then turns to the camera and eats the message with Dega's name on it.

Though they do a wonderful job on the actor's face to convey the deprivations--dark circles under the eyes, greying hair, teeth ravaged by scurvy--McQueen looks too robust and healthy under his ragged uniform.

A fine example of the actor's accomplished use of non-verbal acting comes as Papillon is released the last time from solitary confinement, his debt to France paid. His shuffled stiff walk across the yard seems perfect for a man made old before his time.

Solitary confinement.

There is some terrific camera work in the film, some high crane shots of the execution and earlier as the prisoners stand in the yard, and of the beautiful blue of the ocean (actually either Jamaica or Hawaii). And the action sequences are well done, particularly one escape attempt with McQueen running through the jungle, pursued by natives with blowguns and darts.  He and Hoffman wrestle with a crocodile in another good scene, arguing over which is the head and which the tail in the muddy water. (Look closely and you might notice the reptile's mouth is tied shut).

There are also a few awkward moments in the film that feel out of place or disrupt the pace. Schaffner inserts two short dreams or hallucinations in the solitary confinement sequences that are jarring, and a longer piece where Papillon spends an unspecified time with a native tribe during one breakout. Totally tangential to the main story line, it emphasizes McQueen's true physical condition as he appears shirtless. Apparently the studio commissary was well-equipped.

Here he takes a lover and inks a tattoo on the chief (played by Victor Joey of all people, who has nary a line of dialog). This excursion ends with the tribe disappearing during the night with no explanation, Papillon seeking sanctuary with some nuns, who promptly turn him over to the authorities for re-incarceration. One wonders if author Charrieri had something against religion.
   

Prisoners stand naked receiving instruction.

 
In any case, by the end, the film makes a magnificent recovery as Papillon finally is released from jail. But having completed his sentence, he is still not allowed to return to France. Instead, he gets the choice of working at the prison or spending the rest of his days on Devil's Island in a simple cottage. He opts for Devil's Island, where we are re-introduced to Dega, who now tends a garden and looks after his hogs. The old friends have not seen one another for at least five years. By now, each actor looks to have aged considerably more than would be expected under a civilized fourteen-year period. The makeup and physical movements are outstanding.

Papillon has not given up his quest for freedom and builds a small raft of coconuts, which he throws off a cliff into the sea, timing the perfect wave to pull him free of the coast. In an overhead shot from a helicopter, we see McQueen lying on his back, a big grin on his face. He calls out triumphantly in a perfect Hollywood ending: "Hey you bastards. I'm still here!"  

A commercial success, the film made the year's top five in gross receipts, it was largely ignored by the Academy, with only one Oscar nomination coming its way, that for Jerry Goldsmith's score. McQueen at least earned a Golden Globe nomination for Best Actor. It's arguably his second best career performance, after Jake Holman in The Sand Pebbles.  In a baffling move, Academy members thought more highly of Robert Redford's pedestrian work in The Sting  than McQueen's performance. 

Charrieri served as a consultant on the film, but died five months before its release. He was 67.

The Fallen Idol (1948) -- Carol Reed

The Fallen Idol is a film about secrets, and lies and their consequences, and people hiding behind curtains eavesdropping. Baines (Ralph Richardson) is the efficient butler at a foreign embassy in London. His is a loveless marriage. The ambassador's son, six-year old Phillipe (Bobby Henrey), adores the man, staring in wonder at his tall tales of his time in Africa where he supposedly killed a black man who charged him with a spear. When Phillipe asks if it was murder, Baines explains it was an act of self-defense.

Baines feels a kinship with the boy; like himself, Phillipe is lonely. At one point he shares some advice, telling Phillipe "it's a great life if you don't weaken."

The boy's mother has been away sick, and the father is undoubtedly too busy to give his son much attention. As the film opens the ambassador leaves for a few days to retrieve his wife, apparently from a hospital or a sanitarium. In the giant diplomatic mansion, Baines is the boy's only friend, and hence his idol.

Mrs. Baines (Sonia Bresdel) is an unhappy woman. We don't know why, but she and her husband have lost any feeling they had for one another somewhere along the way. She is mean to both Baines and Phillipe, chiding her husband for spoiling the boy. A strict disciplinarian, she allows Phillipe no fun.

The first secret is revealed to us as from his balcony high above the street, Phillipe spies Baines leaving the embassy. Mrs. Baines has previously refused to allow Phillipe out of the house for a walk in the park. Phillipe sneaks out, using the outside fire-escape and races after Baines, who has a head-start. The boy finally spots his friend in a small cafe, sitting with a pretty woman. This is Julie (Michele Morgan), who serves a clerical function at the embassy.

In a beautifully acted and subtle scene, Baines and Julie are in hushed conversation. Phillipe has startled them. Baines tries to divert the boy's attention by giving him a pastry. They pretend they are talking about a "friend" of Julie's who is about to make a decision--she is leaving tomorrow on a boat, convinced that there is no hope for happiness with the man she loves, who is married. They are of course, talking about themselves.

Julie and Baines are startled in the cafe.

The dialog here is terrific, and the awkward glances and frustration of Richardson and Morgan perfect. It's clear the two lovers are feeling great sadness. Baines borrows Phillipe's handkerchief to dry Julie's eyes. The acclaimed novelist Graham Greene wrote the screenplay, based on his short story, The Basement Room. Lesley Storm and William Templeton are credited with additional dialog.

The two adults part, with Julie promising to meet Baines again tomorrow. He tells her that he will talk to his wife that night. Baines tells Phillipe that Julie is his niece, and asks him to keep the meeting a secret from Mrs. Baines.

The relationship between butler and the boy is a touching one, best shown in a simple but important gesture by Baines. Phillipe has come to the basement, the butler's quarters where Baines and Mrs. Baines will soon share breakfast. His pet garden snake is safely in hand. Phillipe normally keeps the reptile behind a loose brick on his balcony, knowing Mrs. Baines would not allow such a dirty creature about. He asks Baines for a box to keep it in. When Mrs. Baines arrives she rebuffs the boy's desire to go outside for a walk in the park. Angry, Phillipe tells her he hates her and she banishes him to his room. As he goes to leave, Baines discretely pushes the box with the snake across the table so the boy can take it without his wife seeing what he's doing. 

Later, the snake comes into play again to acutely contrast the character of man and wife. Mrs. Baines finds it behind the brick. Disgusted, she wraps it in a towel, and passing Phillipe on the stairs, she ignores his apology for his earlier hard language before she stuffs the towel into the fiery stove.

Director Reed and the writers include an earlier scene that reveals how different these two adults are when it comes to their feelings for the boy. Mrs. Baines can't abide his lying. Baines is untroubled, saying:

Baines: There's lies and lies.
Mrs. Baines: What do you mean by that?
Baines: Some lies are just kindness.

Philippe hides his snake.

Like any child, Philippe is easily confused; and when Mrs. Baines finds crumbs on his shirt, she scolds him about eating between meals. When questioned, he says "they" instead of "he" gave it to me. Now suspicious about what her husband has been up to, and with whom, she concocts a scheme to catch him in the act. She pretends to visit a relative the next day, and Baines takes the opportunity make a day of it with Julie and Phillipe. They go to the zoo. Some nice editing takes place here as the camera cuts back in forth between Phillipe looking at the animals and calling for Baines to join him, and the two lovers, off to the side in whispered conversation. They all  return to the embassy for a picnic on the patio and a game of hide and seek, unaware that Mrs. Baines is hiding in the house. And she has set Baines' mind at ease by leaving a false telegram, supposedly sent from out of town indicating she won't be home for a few more days.

When all is later quiet, she slips out of her hiding place to confront Phillipe, asleep in his bed. When he is unable to tell her, she gets angry and slaps him. Baines hears the ruckus and comes out of a bedroom to intervene. Shocked to find his wife, who's now hysterical, he must forcefully stop her from confronting Julie. For a few moments they wrestle at the top of a long winding marble staircase. She calms down a little and he asks her to go downstairs where he will meet her shortly.

Phillipe's viewpoint through the window.

All the while Phillipe has seen the struggle through a window, standing on the fire-escape outside. He climbs down to the next level to what will happen next, momentarily losing sight of the action. As Baines disappears back into the bedroom, apparently to explain the situation to Julie, Mrs. Baines walks out on a narrow ledge with potted plants to see if she can enter the bedroom from another direction. When she opens a window she loses her balance and falls to her death at the bottom of the staircase just as Phillipe has re-positioned himself below. To his eyes, it seems as if Baines has knocked her down the staircase.

The best part of the film follows the arrival of police and their investigation. They are quietly efficient, yet disquietly menacing. Richardson is terrific here. Baines is in shock, and we can easily imagine his mixed emotions. On the one hand he feels guilt at his wife's death.

Baines: There are faults on both sides, Phile. We don't have any call to judge. Perhaps she was what she was because I am what I am. We ought to be very careful, Phile. 'Cause we make one another.
Phillipe: I thought God made us.
Baines: Trouble is, we take a hand in the game.

A chalk outline at the bottom of the stairs. 

On the other hand he must feel elation that he is now free to pursue life with Julie. But he foolishly tries to keep her out of it, rushing her away before the police arrive, and lies about his wife--lies he retracts under questioning. All in all, to the police, he paints the picture of a confused murderer. The position of the body and nature of injuries are evidence that she did not slip on her own. Complicating matters further is Phillipe. The police overhear him asking Baines "if like Africa, this was self-defense?" And he lies too, even convinced his idol did kill the woman. He tells Baines: "We've got to think of lies and tell them all the time. And then they won't find out the truth."

The story and Richardson make it easy to sympathize with Baines. We can see the panic slowly build in his face. Caught in his own deception, it looks bleak indeed. The end comes far too quickly, prompted by a tell-tale footprint.

The film's title, of course, refers to Baines. But the "fallen idol" is not so much from Phillipe's point of view--he still loves his friend. Rather it refers to Baines' opinion of himself. He must see himself as something of a lesser man, no longer the hero he likely thought himself to be for the boy. If so, it is too harsh. After all, he is merely human, not above a little lie for kindness. 

Richardson's next role would be his best film appearance: as the hard father to Olivia de Havilland in the remarkable The Heiress (1949). For his work there he'd receive an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actor.

The Fallen Idol was sandwiched between two other memorable Carol Reed films: the stylistic Odd Man Out (1947) with James Mason, and the great The Third Man (1949). He was a three-time Oscar nominee for Best Director: The Fallen Idol, The Third Man, and the 1968 musical, Oliver, for which he won. His collaborator here, Graham Greene, would also receive a nomination for Best Writing.

Director Carol Reed.

.  .

Deborah Kerr

Deborah Kerr is my favorite actress. Extremely talented and stunningly beautiful, she appeared in some of my favorite films. Of course, they may be favorites because she was in them. A six-time Best Actress nominee, she never won a competitive Oscar. That's the record for women, surpassed on the men's side by only Peter O'Toole with eight unsuccessful nominations, and Richard Burton with seven.

Kerr was much sought after. She always added prestige to a film, appearing in 7 over the course of her career that were nominated for Best Picture, and several others that could have been. She worked with the best directors and most of the best actors--the lucky ones at least. She never had to rely on just her beauty to get through a performance and could show great expression and emotion with her eyes. Best of all, she just seemed nice. You always left a film of hers with the thought that there is a person I wouldn't mind knowing in real life. And there's that gorgeous red hair.

Deborah Kerr 

I've never paid much attention to Oscars. At the core, the awards are out of the actor's control; and how do you really compare performances across different genres anyway? They're subject to all kinds of influences that shouldn't play in the vote at all, but do. Too political, often reliant on timing or the issue of the day, and maybe most egregiously, too dependent on how the studios try to manipulate the outcome with publicity campaigns and such. That last factor seems especially prevalent during the Classic Film era. Still, you'd like your favorites to get the recognition.

Anyway, here's a review of each of Deborah Kerr's nominated roles.

Already a rising star thanks to terrific work in Black Narcissus (1947), Kerr secured her first nomination in 1949 as Evelyn Voult, the mother of an irresponsible son in George Cukor's Edward, My Son. Her husband is played by Spencer Tracy, an unlikable scoundrel, an adulterer who too easily engages in insurance fraud to finance an operation for their spoiled son. Evelyn soon is unhappy, unloved, and eventually struggles with alcohol as her husband's behaviour grows more nasty.

Of her six nominations, this is easily my least favorite film of the bunch. Her performance seems over-wrought at times, especially when slurring words as a sloppy drunk at the end. She had plenty of far better work in films that were not nominated. Tracy gets the lion's share of screen time here. Overall, the whole thing is too melodramatic and unsatisfying.   

It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Being a first-time nominee is always difficult, but more importantly, Kerr was up against one of the greatest performances in American film history, that year's winner, Olivia de Havilland from The Heiress.

Kerr's second chance for an Oscar--and maybe her best--came in 1953 with one of her signature roles. As Karen Holmes, she is the unloved and ignored wife of a philandering Army officer in Fred Zinnemann's From Here to Eternity. Her scenes with co-star Burt Lancaster are the best in the film. Achingly lonely, beset by nasty rumors, she's suspicious of his motives when he makes a pass in that terrific scene in her kitchen with the rain pelting down outside. She tries to maintain a hard exterior but you know it's a defense mechanism because she's been hurt too much in the past. Yet she admits she isn't sure if she wants him to leave. It's a remarkable display of vulnerability.

And watch her eyes when the couple first dine clandestinely at the restaurant. Captivated by the handsome sergeant, a good man who finally loves her, she's unaware of what he's saying as she stares in wonder. Later, on the boat with Donna Reed's character, she knows the girl is lying about Private Prewitt's death. You can see the sympathy in her face, knowing here's another woman who's been hurt in love.

The male subject matter, reinforced by strong work of Montgomery Cliff and Lancaster, likely lessened appreciation for Kerr's performance. Audrey Hepburn won that year for Roman Holiday. She's delightful, but it hardly requires the subtle acting Kerr displays. Maybe Hepburn was helped by her association with director William Wyler, an Academy favorite. And there's always the chance that voters wanted to spread the love: Kerr's film won 8 Oscars, including Best Picture, Best Director and both supporting awards. None of the three major actors won (Lancaster, Clift, and Kerr).

Next came a three-year run starting with the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical The King and I in 1956. Kerr looks lovely in Irene Sharaff's stunning gowns and gives a nice performance as Anna Owens, a widowed English school teacher who comes to Siam to teach the King's children. They capture her heart, and so does the King. It was Yul Brenner's film all the way. He'd already won a Tony for the Broadway smash. Kerr had replaced Gertrude Lawrence, Brenner's Broadway co-star, who'd also won a Tony. Besides, Kerr's singing was dubbed.    

Ingrid Berman won her second Oscar that year for Anastasia. Hollywood was ready to forgive her for ditching her husband for the Italian director, Roberto Rossellini. In any case, it was a strange year in retrospect. The bloated Around the World in Eighty Days took Best Film.

The next year Kerr appeared as Sister Angela, a Catholic nun, in John Huston's Heaven Knows, Mr. Alison. Shipwrecked with an American soldier, Robert Mitchum, the two must elude the Japanese and resist succumbing to their mutual attraction. The rough and ready Marine soon falls in love and thinks because Sister Angela has not yet taken her final vows, he may have a chance to change her mind. It's fun watching these two interact--they have wonderful chemistry, but the story is a simple one that doesn't require either actor to stretch themselves.
 

Kerr lost to Joanne Woodward that year for her fine work in The Three Faces of Eve, that film's only nomination. It's one of those ground-breaking performances that Academy voters tend to admire, one that features a person with a disability.

Delbert Mann's adaptation of the play Separate Tables came in 1958. Kerr is the repressed and mousy Sibyl Railton-Bell, a naive young woman whose dominating mother (Gladys Cooper) is a pain in the butt. Along with several other vacationers they are on holiday at a seaside hotel in Bournemouth, England. Sibyl is attracted to a dashing retired army officer, Major Angus Pollock (David Niven). But he's a phony whose nasty secret proves to be a crushing embarrassment for the poor girl. An ensemble piece to be sure, Kerr is magnificent. Her near breakdown is painful to watch. Perhaps voters didn't think Kerr had enough screen time on her own. But her co-star, Niven, took home the award for Best Actor, and Wendy Hiller won for Best Supporting Actress. In another year, the beautiful actress might have earned votes for bravely taking on a role that showed her as unattractive. 

She lost to Susan Hayworth that year for I Want to Live. A good performance for a long-time Hollywood actress who had paid her dues. The film was based on a true story, though took some liberties. It shows her character, Barbara Graham, a convicted killer, in a sympathetic light, suggesting perhaps she was even rail-roaded. No doubt seen by many voters as an "important" film, it's clearly a strong statement against capital punishment. The execution scene was shockingly realistic for its day, and likely cinched the award for the actress. I'd of given the award that year to Liz Taylor for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Taylor's omission would come back to haunt Kerr and Shirley MacLaine two years later.

Kerr's final chance came in 1960, again working with Zinnemann and Mitchum; this time in the The Sundowners, the story of a nomadic Australian family. Ida Commody is tired of the constant traveling that comes with her sheep-herding husband. She dreams of settling down and owning a farm. She and Mitchum have great chemistry again, conveying their love for one another through hard times with simple gestures and looks. There's a wonderful shot of Kerr, watching a train pull out of a station. She sees a woman through a window. The camera lingers on her face and you can feel the character's desperate envy.

She lost that year to Elizabeth Taylor for Butterfield 8. Consensus at the time was that Taylor won because she had just survived a life-threatening illness. It was her fourth nomination in successive years. While a better performance than given credit for, she surely captured the sympathy vote. Moreover, some voters likely cast a make-up vote for her loss the three previous seasons. Shirley MacLaine should have won for The Apartment.

I'm surprised that Kerr didn't get a 7th nomination the next year for her highly effective performance in The Innocents, a tense horror classic in which she dominates the screen and captures a woman becoming unhinged wonderfully well. Sophia Loren took the award for Two Women, but Audrey Hepburn was among the less deserving nominees for Breakfast at Tiffany's, an undemanding role in a light comedy, and Piper Laurie, for The Hustler.

The Academy finally made amends to Kerr in 1984 with an Honorary Oscar. The citation read: An artist of impeccable grace and beauty, a dedicated actress whose motion picture career has always stood for perfection, discipline and elegance. Apt words to be sure.