"Norma Rae" (1979)

“Bless the child of the workin’ man

She knows too soon who she is…”

“It Goes Like it Goes”, David Shire and Norman Gimbel

In the summer of 1978, in a small Alabama town, a feisty young textile-mill worker stands up to her oppressive bosses and, with the aid of an intelligent and equally brash young activist from New York, helps unionize her fellow employees.  That young woman is Norma Rae Webster, and her story is based on Crystal Lee Miller, a textile worker who fought to unionize her mill in North Carolina.

 

Norma Rae is a single mother of two youngsters (of different fathers) who lives with her parents, and suffers abuse from (mostly) married men she has flings with at a local hotel.  She has the careworn air of a woman resigned to a life of drudgery at the mill, enduring unhealthy conditions, grueling hours of physical labor, and uncaring owners.  What saves her is a gutsy spirit, an earthy sense of humor, an openness, and a sense of justice boiling under the surface.  When Ruben Warchowski (a fine portrayal by the late Ron Liebman), a union organizer,  comes to town, she is fascinated by him, and she decides to help him.

Ruben sees something in Norma Rae that she doesn’t yet recognize.  He tells her that she is “too intelligent for what’s happening" to her.  

She is outspoken.  She is fiercely devoted to her cause.  At first, she suffers the ostracism of friends, and later, the humiliation of arrest.  She marries a gentle young man who truly loves her, but who doesn’t understand her commitment.  She blossoms, transforming into a leader trusted by her peers, male and female, black and white. With a commonsense attitude, and a marvelous inner strength, she becomes an inspiration to the mill, an advocate who understands and truly cares, and a leader, not because it will make her look good, but because it is right.

 

The film is powerful, rousing, funny, and allows time to revel in quiet, character-revealing moments.  “Norma Rae” is a great, rabble-rousing piece of work that has endured, and even more so now that we are faced with a leadership void, and a hunger for inspiration. 

Sally Field gives a remarkable, committed and beautifully nuanced portrayal of an American worker, one of millions of poor, nameless, faceless individuals who struggle to make the lives of other Americans more comfortable, while emerging to do her part to ensure fair treatment in her workplace.  Field originally was not considered for the role, but convinced director Martin Ritt she could learn the part after many A-list actresses turned it down (Jill Clayburgh, Jane Fonda, Diane Keaton). 

I can’t imagine anyone else but Sally Field as Norma Rae.  It is her iconic role, proof that she was a serious performer, in a role for which she will be best remembered. Among dozens of accolades, it won her an Academy Award for Best Actress.

Director Martin Ritt worked closely with Field as she became Norma Rae.  Ritt, a former victim of the Hollywood blacklist, is known for his stories of working class people, mostly from the south, and his films are a tribute to their tenacity and hard work, and their capacity for love amid hardship: “Hud”, “Sounder”, and “Cross Creek”, are among his best.

 Along with his cinematographer John Alonzo, Ritt found the right look for “Norma Rae” using a handheld camera.  This gives the viewer a feeling of immediacy, of being there, experiencing the story firsthand.  It was an effective use of handheld camera, imitating the way our eyes actually see things around us, and not the nausea-inducing shaky-cam that “cool indie” filmmakers lazily use to lend “realism” to a tired story.

The 1970s were a time of great liberal causes showcased in mainstream movies.  Some of the best films of the decade, in addition to “Norma Rae”. were about the working class and unions, stories about the heartland and especially the South, stories about factories and farmers, about human emotion and injustice, about hard work and community, films which were politically-minded but not polarizing: “Sounder”, “Bound for Glory”, “Breaking Away”,” “The Deer Hunter”,  “Coal Miner’s Daughter”, sections of “Nashville”, even “The Emigrants”. In these and other films from that remarkable era in cinema, working people were the focus.  I have missed stories about these Americans in cinema today.

These are the people hit hardest by the economic hardships of the coronavirus, of social distancing and stay-at-home orders.  “Norma Rae” is a subtle but potent reminder.  As she enlists door-to-door support for the union, she encounters a man angry about an increased workload with reduced pay. Holding a saucepan containing six turnips and two quarts of water, he tells Norma Rae that it is “dinner for seven people”. 

Loss of income, desperation, uncertainty of how to get basic needs like food, is real right now, in many parts of America; a movie like “Norma Rae” shows us this in a personal way.

Recently, as my mind raced to sort out my confusion of our current, and hopefully temporary, situation, a song came to mind, which stirred me with its simplicity, and provided a sense of calm, of life going on even as I couldn’t change anything.

 

That song, “It Goes Like It Goes”, is the original tune written for “Norma Rae”, and performed over the opening and closing credits. Its lyrics are simple and practical, just the way Norma Rae herself would see life and the world.  Hearing the song as I watched the film recently, and hearing it in terms of what’s good and bad during our current crisis, I was moved to tears. This gentle, poignant song of accepting what is and hoping for better, won “Norma Rae” its second Oscar.

So it goes like it goes and the river flows
And time it rolls right on
And maybe what's good gets a little bit better
And maybe what's bad gets gone…

"The Haircut" (1957)

“Will you give me a haircut for a glass doorknob?”

-- Jerry Mathers as Beaver Cleaver in “Leave It to Beaver—The Haircut” Season 1, Episode 4, October 25, 1957

Two things many of us are doing during the pandemic are binge-watching our favorite TV shows and watching our hair grow.

Social distancing forced many businesses to temporarily close, like barber shops and hair salons. We don’t know when our next professional haircut will be.  We have reached that alarming stage in our hair growth when we would normally run to our stylists.  Our hair is now just long enough to be annoying, and is about to grow unendurable for the coming summer heat, unless we take drastic measures.

Not even a large hat or a handful of hair gel will disguise the fact that if I don’t do something soon, I will become Cousin Itt from the Addams Family.

When I considered the frightening idea of cutting it myself (or asking my husband if we could cut each other’s hair, quid-pro-coif), I remembered, with a shudder and a laugh, a classic episode from one of my all-time favorite sitcoms.

“I can’t give anybody a haircut.”

“Did you ever give anybody one?”

“No”

“Then how do you KNOW?”

“Leave it to Beaver” premiered in the Fall of 1957, just two months after the world premieres of yours truly and my husband (both born on July 6^th of that year).  It’s a show that I’ve watched repeatedly since childhood, laughing and learning life-lessons well into my adult years.  I can watch for hours and still never tire of it.

Like many series of that era, “Leave it to Beaver” is a family comedy.  This one, about the Cleavers, is especially funny and heartfelt.   Sure, it’s a little dated now: gender-roles are old-fashioned almost to the point of misogyny; and it lacks diversity only to the extent that it reflects a typical American suburb of that time. 

  

But the situations, the relationships between parents and little boys, the peer pressure from schoolmates, and the carefree moments and fears of childhood, are universal.  The humor arises naturally from the behavior of the kids, and from the efforts of their parents to understand and guide them…often with hilarious results.

No one ever thought the show was a perfectly realistic reflection of American family life.  It simply allowed us to exist vicariously in an ideal household, identify with the foibles and uncomfortable situations we all have encountered, and take away something nice.  

The series was one of the first from the point of view of the kids, and the writing was unusually insightful and true.  Wally (Tony Dow) is the no-nonsense, athletic big brother, who can mix it up with his young sibling, but is his staunchest ally.  And little Theodore, the star of the show, (Jerry Mathers), known as Beaver, is a good-hearted little guy who is always a comedic victim of circumstance. I identified with him as a child, and still do.  The mischief of Wally and Beaver is never malicious, their dialog never smart-alecky. They’re always natural and funny, and sometimes disarmingly moving.

There’s Ward, the Dad, mostly in a suit and tie, often bemused, but always trustworthy and wise. Actor Hugh Beaumont exudes fatherly kindness even when he erupts in exasperation.  There’s June, the practical, loving Mom, cleaning an immaculate house in a dress and pearls. Barbara Billingsley is the heart of the show, not always understanding her male brood, but knowing when to take charge with love.  Ward and June are not perfect, but they are not portrayed as buffoons, either. They are always the adults in the room.  Sometimes, when they are not providing lessons for the boys, they are learning some of their own.

“The Haircut” episode is one of the best from the series’ first two seasons, where the writing and observations about the behavior of small boys were the sharpest.

7-year-old Theodore keeps losing his lunch money, to Ward’s chagrin.  Ward, nevertheless, trusts Beaver with enough money to go get a haircut on his own at the barber shop, and warns him not to lose his money again.

You guessed it: Little Theodore loses his haircut money. To avoid his parents' disappointment, he sneaks home, swipes June’s sewing scissors, and snips his own hair.  Botching it badly, he enlists 12-year-old Wally to fix it for him.

“What’s that?”

“A haircut, I think.”

“Wow…you look like the Wilson’s Airedale when he had the mange.”

The result, and the fallout, produced one of the most sustained belly-laughs I ever had watching TV.  Against his better judgment, Wally starts cutting…and cutting…as what appears to be a bushel of beaver’s hair falls down on the floor around their sneakers.

“Are you finished?”

“I don’t know...but I think I’d better stop.”

How they try to get away with it, and how Ward (and ESPECIALLY June) react to Beaver’s follicle fiasco features some of the best dialog written for, and performed by, kids that I have ever seen.

“Leave it to Beaver” is, finally, about doing the right thing, and being decent.   When I see what our public discourse has become, I wonder: when, and why, did the notion of simple decency toward one another go out of fashion? 

Speaking of fashion… I guess we will give it a try, and give each other haircuts, as the memory of Beaver Cleaver’s disaster looms in the back of my head…and on top and on the sides as well.  Chances are we might both have a flair for hair, and  we will look fine. If they turn out badly, then we will clip our hair in the crewcut-style we wore when we were Beaver’s age, let it grow back, and give it a fresh start when the barbershop reopens.

"It's only your first haircut. You'll get better as you go along."

"The Shawshank Redemption" (1994)

Frank Darabont’s great, engrossing prison drama “The Shawshank Redemption” is one of Hollywood’s unlikeliest success stories. 

On its initial release, it bombed at the box office.  Moviegoers were put off by the film’s title, described as “enigmatic” by one critic: many could not remember the title, or couldn’t pronounce it.  Even Stephen King, on whose novella “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption” the film was based, did not think his story was especially cinematic when he granted Darabont permission to write the screenplay. Viewers had the impression that the movie, starring Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman, might be heavy on suffering, and too depressing.  And “Shawshank…” had the misfortune to be released at the same time that another film garnered much media attention and audience enthusiasm: “Pulp Fiction”. 

When “The Shawshank Redemption” earned seven Oscar nominations, including for Best Picture and for Freeman as Best Actor, home viewers started to take notice.  Although it won no Oscars, it was re-released to theaters, to moderate success.  Soon it became a popular home video rental (then on VHS tape). The new Ted Turner cable network, TNT, aired the film regularly, allowing viewers to check it out and give it a chance.  It developed a reputation as an exciting and moving film, a “tear-jerker for men”, and is now well-liked by contemporary audiences and critics.

The film is made in a classic Hollywood style, without cutting-edge camerawork or technique. It has a solid (if rambling) script, filmed with the utmost care and craftsmanship, an example of old-fashioned “invisible” cinema, where plot and character are most important, and with a moral to boot.

The story develops slowly, but becomes more gripping and involving as it moves along.  In 1947, Andy (Tim Robbins), a brainy and well-to-do bank president, is falsely accused of murdering his cheating wife and her lover.  He is sentenced to two consecutive life terms at Shawshank Prison, headed by a corrupt Warden and a cruel master of the guards.  

Andy befriends Red (Morgan Freeman), a petty thief who can get anything through the black market.  Over a span of almost twenty years, Red (who in the original book was actually a red-headed Irishman) helps Andy get things he needs, like large posters of Rita Hayworth and Raquel Welch, and a small hammer for his “rock-collecting” hobby.  In return, Andy gives the cynical Red, who is repeatedly rejected at his parole hearings, a reason for hope.

Subplots abound, enriching the story here, slowing it down there.  The best one has the Warden remove Andy from the drudgery of laundry duty, and reassigning him to assist an aging lifer named Brooks in the prison library. While there, Andy helps the guards with finances and tax shelters, and reluctantly assists the Warden with illegal money-laundering (setting up a nifty turnabout). 

Andy also relentlessly lobbies the state for funds and donations for the library; books and records pour in. He soon becomes well-liked by many of the inmates, while he (in a secret kept even from us) plans his escape.

Words are very important to this film. The movie relies heavily on spoken narration to disclose what characters are thinking and feeling.  Watching “The Shawshank Redemption” is like hunkering down with an illustrated novel: the pleasures one gets from it are similar to those we get from reading.  There’s even that plot thread about the prison library, where books are used for entertainment, education, and delivery of contraband.  In a time when more people have more time to read, this movie might find a new wave of popularity.

It is Red who narrates the movie.  After the opening, where the film seems like it will, in fact, be brutal and depressing, Freeman’s voice gives us a feeling of safety, of calm, of reason.  When the intensity threatens to alienate us, Freeman’s voice soothes us into the next scene, or breaks the tension with a quip.  Doesn’t our collective psyche need this kind of calm reassurance now?

Freeman gives a natural, convincing performance as Red.  It is fun to see the progression of his character, punctuated by his parole hearings.  Freeman is believable, and we trust him. Robbins, as Andy, is physically right as the tall, soft-spoken mystery-man, who earns the respect of his fellow prisoners. 

The first act of kindness in “The Shawshank Redemption” happens about 20 minutes in, during the first scene in the mess hall.  Veteran actor James Whitmore, as Brooks, takes a maggot from Andy’s rancid food and feeds it to a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. 

It is a real pleasure to see Whitmore again, giving a great performance in a tragic role.  Whitmore, a character actor in many films through the 1940s and beyond, brought the same kind of calm, self-confident presence to the big screen that Freeman does today.  It’s a fitting pass of the baton.

The movie is sincere and entertaining, and it is refreshing to see some old-style filmmaking in this era of tent-pole, attention-deficit moviemaking.

I still might have changed a few things:  the script needs tightening; we need to know the details of Andy’s innocence sooner; the crash of thunder while Andy is in the sewers is a bit coincidental; and his arms outstretched in the rain is obviously symbolic (although the rest of of this sequence is taut and thrilling).

I would also dispense with the subplot involving a gang called The Sisters, who are intent on raping attractive new prisoners like Andy.   When Andy states that he is “not a homosexual”, Red wisely replies that neither are the Sisters: “you have to be human first” (and although unlikely coming from an inmate in a 1940s prison, it is a welcome sentiment, and believable coming from Freeman).

Comparing a movie about prison incarceration to our pandemic situation is almost too easy.  For many, the stay-at-home orders feel like an indefinite imprisonment.  But “The Shawshank Redemption”, from its premise to its dialog, provides an uncanny parallel to this period of crisis, and a reasonable expectation of hope on the other side of it.

--When Andy first enters his cell, Red comments that his “old life is blown away in the blink of an eye.”  I have felt like this sometimes, wishing I could go back to the old routine. It’s not just the changes, which I think I’m reasonably accepting.  It’s the suddenness, and the uncertainty. It’s a prolonged, low-grade feeling of loss, like discovering that someone close to you has just died, and the shock lingers.

--Andy spends a week in solitary confinement after playing an opera recording over the prison loudspeakers.  He emerges a week later, explaining that the music got him through the ordeal, that the music in his head could not be taken away.   Red dismisses this, saying that “hope is a dangerous thing”.  I’ve gone back and forth on this too, and finally remind myself that there are some things that get us through, that cannot change or be taken away, like solid relationships, and nature around us. 

--In his narration, Red says that “prison time is slow time. You do what you can to keep going.”  That struck a nerve, too.  Prolonged confinement close to home can be slow, unless you can fill it with things to keep going.  Or, in the film’s most quoted line: “Get busy living, or get busy dying.”

--Andy reveals his dreams about reaching the Pacific Ocean, living there, and putting the rest behind him. He describes the ocean as “a place with no memory”.  If only I could completely forget this whole ordeal, too.

--Later on, when Red’s life changes dramatically, he says something that maybe articulates something for a lot of us: “It’s a terrible thing to live in fear. All I want is to be back where things make sense, so that I won’t have to be afraid all the time.”  Monotony mixed with anxiety must be the norm of imprisonment.  It’s a new norm for a lot of folks today, too. 

As the film wraps up, and Red wonders whether he will meet Andy again, he utters a line that struck a personal nerve:

“I hope to see my friend, and shake his hand”.

Although it has been said that the handshake is dead, I do believe we can return to a day when we are no longer afraid to clasp the hands of our friends, old and new. 

“I hope”.

"Beasts of the Southern Wild" (2012)

“When I die, the scientists of the future, they’re gonna find it all.  They’re gonna know, once there was a Hushpuppy, and she live with her daddy in the Bathtub.”

      Voice-over by Hushpuppy, “Beasts of the Southern Wild”

The gritty, moving “Beasts of the Southern Wild” is a small movie of mythic proportions, just like Hushpuppy, the remarkable character played by 6-year-old Quvenzhane Wallis.  It’s a slice-of-life about a corner of American culture that is rarely seen and often ignored, told from the eyes of this feisty and reflective little girl in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.  It’s both rousing and gentle, startlingly brutal and then warmly inclusive, funny and melancholy, a realistic portrait of extreme American poverty and a fantasy that ponders the very universe. It observes the resilience of a tight-knit, rowdy group of people who can roll with any disaster (if it doesn’t kill them first).

Hushpuppy is an old soul in a child’s body.  She sees the discord in the world around her and accepts it as normal. She is as mischievous as a typical six-year-old, cooking cat food for dinner, for example, and setting her trailer on fire.  But her eyes reflect such wisdom that at times, in closeup, you might believe she is decades older. Her philosophy is as deep as the waters of The Bathtub, the isolated bayou community in which she lives with her quick-tempered, ailing father.

This movie grabs you as soon as Hushpuppy begins to narrate her impressions of the world, listening to the heartbeats of birds and other creatures she finds, looking with trepidation at the gathering clouds that portend survival beyond that which a hurricane will require. We see the squalor as well as the natural beauty of her world, meet a group of motley friends and neighbors (most played by non-actors recruited from the community), and experience moments of dreamlike emotion that are touching and awe-inspiring.

Letting her mind run on a flight of fancy, after a lesson from her caring and profane schoolteacher, Hushpuppy imagines the polar ice caps melting, unleashing fierce beasts called Aurochs (from images tattooed on her teacher’s thigh).

The Aurochs might represent Hushpuppy’s fears, and her belief that everyone is a small piece in a big universe; if even one of those pieces gets broken, everything goes wrong.  She knows that her daddy is broken, and thinks that she is the cause.  His unidentified malady (probably leukemia) cannot be cured with local folk remedies.  This unleashes the beasts’ fury on the world.

 The Aurochs are a terrific, fantastical achievement by the filmmakers. In spite of the low budget, the special effects are amazing, revealing the beasts’ savagery and even their tenderness.  We wait for an eventual confrontation; will Hushpuppy be overcome by the Beasts? Or will she face them? The outcome, which I won’t spoil, is breathtaking.

Hushpuppy’s relationship with her father is as unruly as the community around her.  Wink knows that life will be tough for his daughter.  

In the only way he knows how, he helps her to grow up fast: teaching her to catch fish bare-handed; helping her to survive a storm in a floating trunk that will lift her as the floods come: instructing her in the proper manner to eat crabs and crawfish; engaging in shouting matches and even physical confrontations; and ordering her never to cry.

The story blends realism with regional mythology, and as it nears its climax, it takes a turn into a dreamlike state. That risk pays off in a deeply emotional way.

Hushpuppy has heard Wink tell legendary stories about her mama, who "swam away" after Hushpuppy was born. Her mama was so beautiful that water boiled on the stove when she merely entered the kitchen.  She proved deadly with a shotgun on an intruding alligator one day, and fried it into something “juicy and delicious”.  Hushpuppy sometimes has imaginary talks with her mama, or calls out to her at a lighthouse beacon on the horizon.

In a sequence shot with amorphous beauty, Hushpuppy and some other young girls from The Bathbub escape a medical shelter, where they were sequestered after Katrina. They swim out to a fishing boat bound for a legendary floating tavern called Elysian Fields.  Hushpuppy believes that she might find her mama there.

The hostesses of Elysian Fields comfort the other girls and dance with them, in lovely images of maternal tenderness. Hushpuppy encounters a beautiful woman, cooking in the kitchen. She gives Hushpuppy some life lessons, and fries up a tasty treat that Hushpuppy brings to Wink, who is fading at the shelter.

"Beasts of the Southern Wild" is the feature-film debut of director Benh Zeitlin, as well as the acting debuts of Wallis as Hushpuppy and Dwight Henry as Wink. This film is a true original in look, style, and story.

Ben Richardson’s cinematography, cutting-edge and off-the-cuff, captures the precise, poignant details that enrich each scene.  The music, co-written by Zeitlin and Dan Romer, soars with the right mix of heart and mystery.  The story, adapted by Zeitlin and Lucy Alibar from her one-act play “Juicy and Delicious”, is thin on plot but rich with atmosphere and character. The narration alone elevates the movie from a beautiful, low-budget allegory into something more enduring.

The Bathtub is a community that is especially vulnerable to the ravages of a pandemic: extreme poverty, poor hygiene, insufficient diet, lack of education and medical care, few resources for news and community guidance.  In such a close-knit group that is always close together for drinking, eating crawfish, and celebrating with parades and fireworks, a fast-moving contagion could wipe out their whole community.

We hear that life will forever change after this pandemic.  It's an easy thing to say, and easier to adjust to  from a place of comfort; but for some communities and many individuals, the changes could be impossible to overcome.  True as they might be, the glib pronouncements about life changing forever do little to give hope to those people.

Worst of all, there is no technology in a place like The Bathtub. There are no virtual chats, no virtual parties, no virtual doctor visits, no virtual anything.  We hear through the media that we’re all in it together.  So true.  But the phrase is becoming a cliché, like “Have a Nice Day.” Residents in The Bathtub truly WOULD be in this together, but not with everyone else.

There are many other communities and individuals that, due to poverty, culture or location, have no way to connect via internet, to feel like they are not alone  during this crisis: the elderly, the impoverished, the geographically isolated, to name a few. There must be a better way to reach out, to let them know that they, too, are in this together with everyone else, a way to provide encouragement and guidance on how to ride it out safely.

This virus is a beast, and would be especially so for Hushpuppy and the Bathtub. We may not hear much about the people on culture's fringes,  like those depicted in "Beasts of the Southern Wild", nor appreciate their way of life.  But they, too, must have their visionaries, like Hushpuppy.  They also deserve a chance to survive, as they subdue the Aurochs of Covid-19.

"The Odd Couple" (1968)

A classic movie comedy, adapted from Neil Simon’s smash Tony-winning Broadway play, “The Odd Couple” is cinematic comfort food.  We might need some laughs and comfort now, and this is one of Hollywood’s most enjoyable films. 

“The Odd Couple” is a story that is familiar to generations, from its 1965 Broadway run, to the 1968 movie release, and from a 5-season TV sitcom to numerous regional productions and spinoffs.  I loved the film from the time I was an 11-year-old, enjoying it with my family at the Randhurst Theater in Mount Prospect, Illinois.  It’s still a go-to movie for me, to relax with and enjoy its many amusing moments.

There is some attempt at character development; but the point of the film is to milk the situation for laughs, which it does very well.  As I watched it again in the era of residing-in-place, it resonated in a different way.

Oscar Madison, a divorced baseball fan and sportswriter, offers to take in his friend, Felix Unger, as a roommate after Felix’ marriage ends. Oscar is a boisterous slob; Felix is a neat-freak hypochondriac.

That’s the simple framework for an escalating series of gags, where the humor arises naturally from the two characters at the opposite ends of, shall we say, good manners. The fun is in watching their relationship slowly fall apart in a comedic way.

Oscar’s apartment is like a third character in the film.  The sprawling, 8-room flat is a triumph of set decoration, especially in the untidy, disheveled opening scenes.

There’s the smoke-filled poker game featuring unidentifiable sandwiches and warm soda from a broken refrigerator.  There’s the fully decorated, sadly neglected Christmas tree (it’s summer, and the room is sweltering).  There’s the dart board on the far wall, with errant darts stuck in a nearby lampshade.  There are other small details that tell us about Oscar, and they’re fun to discover with each viewing.

When Felix turns up, despondent from the end of his marriage, Oscar and his poker pals rally around him, and Oscar extends his hospitality. That’s when Felix’ true colors emerge with a vengeance, cleaning the place beyond recognition, obsessing about menus and cooking utensils, and disinfecting everything; while Oscar tries to accommodate Felix, and nearly loses his mind.

Walter Matthau originated the role of Oscar on Broadway.  I still think it’s his best performance, in a part that is perfectly suited to his brand of brassy, unconventional New York-style humor.   Oscar would be a nightmare as a roommate to be sure, with his feet on the coffee table, a mess in the kitchen, and the odors and the clutter everywhere.  But Matthau (with help from screenwriter Neil Simon) infuses Oscar with a “boys will be boys” quality that was (and still is) culturally acceptable.  Oscar’s idea of social distancing would be to take a good lead off of first base.

Jack Lemmon had been a skilled film comedian for over a decade when he landed the role of Felix. Here he successfully balances Felix’ irritating traits with perfect comic timing.  Simon created Felix as less of a character than a collection of quirks and annoying behavior.  Lemmon overcomes this with a watchable performance filled with comic moments:  clearing his sinuses in a hilarious explosion of “moose calls”;  calling Oscar at Shea Stadium while Oscar misses a Mets triple play; and ruining a date with the Pigeon sisters, two lively neighbors from their building, over a burnt meatloaf.  If Felix were an actual person living in New York today, he would not wear a mask; he would wear a Hazmat suit.

Many of the gags are the result of expert direction (Gene Saks) and editing (Frank Bracht).  My favorite is a bit involving a vacuum cleaner cord. It is so good that we laugh at the sound of the aftermath, without even seeing it.

Even though Felix makes the apartment look fabulous, and helps Oscar save money by cooking meals at home, Oscar is like a caged animal.  Eventually, the arrangement comes to a boiling point.

While Lemmon skillfully makes us appreciate Felix, a character that becomes funnier while less likeable as the film progresses, Matthau’s Oscar emerges as more sympathetic.  Or maybe that’s just an intrusion from the 60s, in which nagging housewives were, for better or worse, targets of scornful laughter in comedies. Felix is the ultimate nagging housewife, and Oscar is the henpecked but lovable slob. 

Maybe we laugh at Oscar and Felix and their predicament because we recognize little bits of each of them within ourselves—or at least in some of our friends!  Mismatched couples and roommates are a good source of comedy.  If Felix and Oscar were forced to live together under these circumstances, their apartment would probably have spotless floors and linguine-encrusted walls.

But sometimes the differences, even little habits and foibles, can loom large as a barrier to getting along with someone we live with.  In so many places with stay-at-home orders, people are obliged to coexist in their living space.  Most don’t even have nearly the amount of space that Oscar’s 8-room apartment provides.  I thought of the difficulty of that situation, and the amount of effort it would take to survive it, as I watched “The Odd Couple” this week.  For some, the inability to go anywhere for a needed escape and reboot from their loved ones can strain even strong relationships.

Perhaps getting lost in “The Odd Couple” can help provide a needed release, by laughing at an extreme case of roommate incompatibility!

"The Song of Bernadette" (1943)

The 1943 film “The Song of Bernadette” is a pious, epic treatment of an incredible incident that occurred in Lourdes, France in 1858.  The effects of that occurrence still resonate for millions today. And like much of the world as we know it, the significance of Lourdes is in danger of tragically disappearing.

Bernadette Soubirous (Jennifer Jones in her film debut), a shy and fragile young woman living in poverty with her family, has an apparition of  The Virgin Mary in a trash-laden grotto. Bernadette, who claims only to have seen a beautiful lady, not the Blessed Virgin, returns to the grotto repeatedly, against the protests of her mother (Anne Revere) and the authorities.  After Bernadette, at the behest of the lady who by now has announced herself as The Immaculate Conception, digs and eats the plants and bathes her face in the mud at the grotto, a spring gushes from the ground, with water that miraculously cures the sick.

The remainder of the story cuts between Bernadette’s growing notoriety, the growth of Lourdes into a place of both healing and exploitation, and Bernadette’s final years of suffering in the convent of the Sisters of Nevers.

The movie was nominated for 12 Academy Awards, winning four, including a Best Actress statue for Jennifer Jones. “The Song of Bernadette” was also the first movie to win at the inaugural Golden Globe Best Picture Award in 1944.

Jones carries Bernadette’s story with quiet strength.  It is a passive performance, but appropriately modulated; she registers so much calm and sadness that we feel protective of her.  Her performance gets better as the film progresses, and she delivers her saintly dialog straightforwardly, like a true innocent, without phony sanctity.

You don’t need to be a Catholic to appreciate the film on its cinematic merits: the stunning, documentary quality of its cinematography, the committed performances, and its complex screenplay, adapted from Franz Werfel’s novel, which examines the personal and political angles of the alleged miracle, along with its religious implications.

But if you are Catholic, or even a former Catholic of a certain age, who watched this movie on television annually, “The Song of Bernadette” is almost impossible to see as a mere film. It is so realistically portrayed and so convincing (aided by a musical score which drips with reverence), I find watching it now to be a complicated emotional, personal, almost spiritual experience in spite of myself.

As millions worldwide await in impatient hope for some sign of a cure for Covid-19, and as churches close everywhere, especially on this Easter Sunday, the film’s message of hope during this uncertain time, whether or not you believe in Bernadette’s story, makes “The Song of Bernadette” compelling, inwardly reflective viewing.  

The movie was released ten years after Bernadette was canonized as a saint, and was a very popular success.  The film’s point of view is on the side of Bernadette.  Hollywood in those days was influenced by the Catholic Church and the Legion of Decency; any stories about the Church were treated with utmost deference.  Also, the fact that a large moviegoing audience was Catholic made for good box office.

I can’t quite imagine how the film plays to those of another (or no history of) faith, so ingrained is the film in my own personal experience.  But the movie successfully explores the occasions of doubt, and the greed of those who might profit from using the waters to attract tourism or bottling and selling the water.

Most effective is the recurrence of the character of Sister Vouzou, a severe and envious nun, Bernadette’s teacher and later the leader of postulants in the convent of the Sisters of Nevers.  Played by the great Gladys Cooper in almost complete stillness, she conveys the character entirely in vocal inflections and facial expressions that register everything from doubt and displeasure to horror and contrition. Cooper’s presence is so strong, that she could make nonbelievers at least question their doubts.

Vincent Price, before he became known as a staple of lurid horror films, is perfect as the Imperial Prosecutor.  Afflicted with a nagging cold throughout, Price is also persuasive as a man of facts and science who nevertheless manipulates them for political reasons.  A flaw that badly dates the film, and stacks the deck in favor of the Church, is the belief that science is, at best, an impediment to faith.  It is troubling that when Price’s true affliction is revealed, his character admits that he is a stranger among the faithful; it is implied that that there are no heroes among nonbelievers.  Even so, Price is sympathetic as a man who wishes he could believe in a miracle that might save him. 

  

I especially liked the subplots involving the authorities’ futile attempts to declare Bernadette a fraud, or insane; or later, these same authorities plotting ways to capitalize on the crowds who come to be cured, to set up souvenir shops and hotels, and to design labels for bottles to be sold. This lends the film an unusual depth and keeps it from being just a recruitment poster for the Church.

Lourdes’ exploitation for profit, with merchandise and more hotels than anywhere in France except Paris, is an unfortunate legacy of Bernadette’s story.  What drew me to watch the film again was an article I read recently, that the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes closed its doors on March 17, for the first time in its history, because of fears of the Coronavirus.  A scene in the film in which the grotto is closed, not for health but for political reasons, and then reopened again due to imperial intervention, reminded me of the stark fact of the Shrine’s indefinite closing.

To me it’s sadly ironic that the Sanctuary of Lourdes, known for miraculous healing, overcrowded now due to the exploitation of hope and faith, is now closed so that even those who fervently believe can no longer place their hopes in this cure.

It made me sad, too, watching “The Song of Bernadette” and realizing that the boy I was, who so completely believed in Bernadette’s miracle, is gone. 

Still, I want to have hope for a miracle against this pandemic, so that we might live our lives again.

"Manhattan" (1979)

Some movies draw symbolic parallels to today’s troubling situation. Others, with their imagery and ideas about universal human themes, can provoke nostalgic appreciation for the places that are so prominent in today’s news, and for ways of life that we took for granted in the years BC (Before Coronavirus). 

Woody Allen’s “Manhattan” is a valentine to New York City, especially to that fabled, affluent borough of writers, artists, professors, and intellectuals whose life-dramas take place above the fray, in the exclusive hangouts of fashionable people who function at the highest levels, and whose pursuits of self-actualization often lead to complications of their own creation.  Nobody knew that these life-dramas would be put on hold some forty years later.

Allen’s paean to New York City is an occasion to meditate on the vibrancy of New York as he knew it; to lament how its dense population has today become a powder-keg of contagion; and to wonder whether the city can ever regain its vitality and its comfort level with the crowds that energized it.  Most important, near the film’s conclusion, “Manhattan” announces its theme explicitly, in a way that made me ponder the things that are important, and why I’m here.

Allen, starring in and directing his own screenplay like he did two years before with “Annie Hall”, plays Isaac, a divorced 42-year-old author in a romantic relationship with Tracy, a 17-year-old high school student.    Isaac’s ex-wife (Meryl Streep), now involved with another woman (Anne Byrne), is about to publish an embarrassing memoir about her marriage to Isaac.  Isaac’s best friend Yale (Michael Murphy) is having an affair with Mary (Diane Keaton), a pretentious writer divorced from the “devastatingly sexual” Jeremiah (the elflike Wallace Shawn).  When Yale and Mary call it off, Isaac and Mary get involved, while Isaac tries to find a way out of his fling with Tracy, who has fallen in love with him.

Neuroses clash and hearts are broken, while most of the characters are too self-involved to consider whether these busy relationships are empty or meaningful.

“Manhattan” is a more dramatic companion-piece to “Annie Hall”, and slightly less satisfying.  Allen tries to re-work much of “Annie Hall”s comic bits, which sometimes fall flat here.  “Manhattan” is a colder, cerebral, at times static comedy, without the variety of humor that made “Annie Hall” as fun as it was thoughtful. 

Artistically, “Manhattan” has two things going for it.  One is the gorgeous black-and-white cinematography of Gordon Willis. The lighting, the contrasts, the portraits of the characters’ faces, the startlingly beautiful images of well-known landmarks, make “Manhattan” one of the best-looking movies made in the 70s.

The other big plus is the jazzy, sophisticated music of George Gershwin, especially “Rhapsody in Blue”, which Allen used to score the entire picture.  Gershwin supplies what heart the film has; and when the pace flags, the music gets the pulse going again.  If you imagine “Manhattan” without Gershwin, it’s clear that Allen let Gershwin do a lot of his work for him.

What ultimately redeems “Manhattan” for me, and what made me return to it especially now, is a scene near the end,  just as we are asking ourselves why these annoying people can't get their relationships in order, and why we should care.  Isaac dictates his idea for a short story into a tape recorder: about how “people in Manhattan constantly create…unnecessary neurotic problems for themselves, that keep them from dealing with the more unsolvable, terrifying problems about the universe.”  How indeed would characters like Isaac and Mary and Yale maintain their sense of identity, if not their sanity, during a quarantine?  The lack of outside activity and distraction gives one time to reflect, and that can be terrifying.

With nothing but free time during the stay-at-home order, and few places to go, I fill my day with activity: walking, running, yoga, reading, cooking, eating, watching movies. I occasionally ask myself if this is not all just empty activity, as I wait for the return of the things I used to enjoy; and whether even those things are meaningful?

Isaac then goes on to make a list of things that “make life worth living”.  His list is filled with famous artists (Groucho Marx, Cezanne, Brando, Sinatra, Louis Armstrong), titles of books and music (Flaubert’s “Sentimental Education”, “The Jupiter Symphony”) and the like.  But out of his complex network of social contacts, he names only one person who gives his life meaning: Tracy, the one whose heart he has broken.

I am fortunate to go through the coronavirus ordeal with a husband that I love.  I can reach out to friends electronically, even personally at a distance.  Many things that I truly enjoy, like movies and writing, are accessible to me at home.  Forced down-time makes me more apt to question why I was born, what my being alive means, and what good my life is going forward.   It is worth taking regular inventory of those things that make life worth living.  Always I return to the fact that, aside from movies, writing, and other activities that define my personal identity, it is the people around me, especially those I love, that give it meaning.

A final note about the elephant in the room:  Audiences at the time of “Manhattan” were ready to accept younger actresses in roles with notoriously mature subject matter. For instance, in 1976, 14-year-old Jodie Foster had portrayed a prostitute who danced with her sleazy pimp in “Taxi Driver”. 12-year-old Linda Blair, in “The Exorcist”, had said and done things that would have been unspeakable even if performed by an adult.  

Even though the age of consent in New York is 17, and Hemingway (and her character) are nearly 18 in the film, “Manhattan” is difficult today due to the the casual acceptance of a sexual relationship between Isaac and Tracy.  A few scenes between Allen and Hemingway made me uncomfortable because of the nonchalance with which he jokes about their age difference (and her barely minor status).  The sense of exploitation is greater today, and it hits too close to home after years of media and tabloid reports about Allen since “Manhattan” was released.  I’m not here to pass judgement against Allen personally, but the baggage of the reports is hard to ignore.

Also, mature as her character is, it seems unlikely that Tracy and Isaac’s worlds would have intersected at all; how did they ever get involved?  Tracy appears more like an idea of innocence in Allen’s scheme, an ideal of uncorrupted love, rather than a fully realized human being.  It is to Hemingway’s credit that she gives the role such humanity, and the film’s only real display of emotional pain.  It is a role that seems to be unacted, so natural are her reactions and genuine precocious sweetness.  Her performance earned Hemingway an Oscar nomination.

"The Birds" (1963)

“I don’t want to be an alarmist…I think we’re in real trouble…I don’t know how this started or when, but I know it’s here, and we’d be crazy to ignore it.”

--Rod Taylor as Mitch Brenner, warning a skeptical community in “The Birds”

The above quote is timely, especially in the midst of our global health crisis.  Too bad we didn’t hear it from our leaders in December of 2019.

The quote comes at a turning point in the 1963 movie “The Birds”, Alfred Hitchcock’s psychological-suspense-horror masterpiece.  In the quiet California fishing town of Bodega Bay, while socialite Melanie Daniels (Tippi Hedren) begins a tentative romance with San Francisco attorney Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor), the town is assaulted in random, deadly attacks by a plague of birds, with no apparent reason and no way to stop them.  Hitchcock described this terrifying film as his “vision of Judgment Day”.

In Hitchcock’s follow-up to his horror classic, “Psycho”, “The Birds” ups the ante on the psychology and the horror.  

The first half builds to a mysterious love triangle with Oedipal overtones.  Melanie tells of a troubled relationship with her own mother.  Lydia, Mitch’s aging mother (Jessica Tandy), is suspicious of Melanie, and is terrified of being abandoned by her son.  Annie Hayworth, a schoolteacher and Mitch’s former lover (Susanne Pleshette) might become an obstacle to Mitch and Melanie’s relationship. Only Cathy, Mitch’s 12-year-old sister (Veronica Cartwright) truly accepts Melanie, and the birthday gift Melanie gave her: a pair of lovebirds.

Large flocks of birds hover strangely over Bodega Bay.  No one pays much attention. A gull mysteriously attacks Melanie on a boat. It’s seen as a freak accident.  Another bird dives into Annie’s front door. There are reports that chickens refuse to eat, which raise some concern; but little attention is paid to the impending, unimaginable onslaught.

Suddenly, the film’s slow, intricate psychological drama is overtaken by a baffling fight for survival. The suddenness and severity of violent strikes by birds, with no explanation, is shocking.  After Cathy’s birthday party is targeted by flocks of gulls and crows, intent on harming everyone including the children, Mitch still must convince skeptical people, gathered at the local restaurant in town, that “we’re in real trouble”.

   

The remainder of “The Birds” is a mounting series of attacks, most memorably on the school playground, and even inside Mitch and Lydia’s home.  The threat is everywhere. No one seems immune.  The appearance of the lovebirds provides no comfort, even symbolically.  Even being indoors is dangerous, without the abundance of caution that boarded-up windows, barricaded doors, and blocked fireplaces might provide.

After a deadly explosion brought on by scores of birds outside of the restaurant, the community realizes that it is in grave danger. Even an elderly ornithologist, a scientific expert on bird species and behavior, is rattled.  Fingers are pointed.  Frightened townspeople looking for a scapegoat think that Melanie is to blame; the birds began their strange behavior after she arrived.

The crisis brings to the surface old resentments and new fears for the characters.  A few earlier, petty conflicts are forgotten, while others are resolved, some tragically.  Lydia explodes in fear and anger. Cathy is anguished as she flees her school under Annie’s protection. Melanie tries to overcome her carousing past, and fit in to the new household.  Mitch, out of frustration, tries to take matters into his own hands, thinking that a rock hurled at the birds will provide a solution.  Still, the birds gather by the thousands, making it impossible to move or touch anything without risk of being bitten, or provoking another attack.

Hitchcock’s hallmark methods of suspense are in full display: the long tracking shots, closeups of characters in wordless suspicion, the use of silences to build tension.  Almost in reaction against “Psycho” and its effective use of music to ratchet up the anxiety, Hitchcock uses no musical score in “The Birds”, opting instead for electronically manipulated bird sounds.   The silence where music might have been is more unnerving.  In the film’s most horrific scene, as Lydia runs toward us from where she has just witnessed the aftermath of an attack on her neighbor, the lack of sound, and Jessica Tandy’s silent scream, are worthy of an Edvard Munch painting.

Also, in an apparent attempt to outdo to the shock of Janet Leigh’s fate in “Psycho”, Hitchcock stages an attack on Melanie, trapped in a compromised attic bedroom, with scores of vicious beaks hurling towards her in a tightly edited sequence that is more than twice as long as the shower scene in the previous film. Mitch and Lydia bravely try to fend off the creatures to save her battered body, in images reminiscent of our first-responders at a disaster.

The sudden and mysterious rampages depicted in “The Birds”, their human effect and their aftermath, are an appropriate metaphor for our fear and panic as we fight against a mysterious global illness. We can immerse ourselves in this strange movie, channel our fears and draw our own parallels, while ultimately feeling some ray of hope amid the terror. When it’s over, and we are allowed to emerge from our homes, like our protagonists during the slow, breathtaking finale, let’s hope we can proceed with caution, and escape unharmed from the danger that might still be out there.

"Roman Holiday" (1953)

A fun and bittersweet love story, set in the euphoric post-War boom of 1950s Italy, “Roman Holiday” continues the streak of classic, character-driven cinema by the great director William Wyler.  After the success of 1940s dramas like “Mrs. Miniver” and “The Best Years of Our Lives” (multiple Oscar-winners),  Wyler turned his hand to romantic comedy. The result, “Roman Holiday”, boasts the same superb craftsmanship, great storytelling, and enduring characters we’ve come to expect from a Wyler movie.

What’s unexpected is the expert location photography in Rome, rare for the time, filmed in splendidly fluid camera movement, grand detail, and rich black-and-white contrast. You can sit back and simply enjoy the travelogue that forms the backdrop. But the laughs have an emotional edge, rare for comedies at the time, enhanced by a spry and heart-grabbing score by Georges Auric. “Roman Holiday” is authentic and believable, even suspenseful, an intelligent Cinderella story that may have you choking back tears even as you’re laughing out loud.

   

Along with the honest emotion of the movie, there is the subtext of today’s Rome, as Italy suffers a devastating disaster, which adds to the film’s poignancy.

“Roman Holiday” is leisurely paced and consistently entertaining. The young English Princess Anne (the 24-year-old Audrey Hepburn in her starring debut) sneaks away late one night, escaping her royal duties, to explore the excitement and mystery of Rome on her own.  Nearly unconscious from a prescribed sleeping pill, she is taken in by the jaunty, dashing American reporter Joe Bradley (a perfect Gregory Peck).

Each of them has a secret: she conceals her royal heritage by posing as a runaway schoolgirl; he is aware of her true identity, but pretends ignorance in order to write an exclusive story about her adventures in Rome. 

Together, Joe and Princess Anne (disguised as “Anya”) fulfill her dream to see Rome however she pleases.  They are joined by Joe’s scruffy, fun-loving partner Irving (Eddie Albert, never better), who is promised a cut from the story, and who takes undercover photographs of the crazy goings-on.  When an impossible romance develops, threatening to destroy the Princess’ stature and blow Joe’s cover, we wonder how the inevitable unveiling of their secrets will be resolved.

Hepburn deservedly became a popular sensation from this film.  She is charming and believable, both as a demanding young monarch, and as a wonderstruck and confused young woman first experiencing life as a commoner. No one who sees “Roman Holiday” will ever forget her strong, multi-layered performance, which earned her an Oscar. 

The story, by then-blacklisted Hollywood Ten screenwriter Dalton Trumbo, also earned an Oscar (presented to Ian McLellan Hunter who was a front for Trumbo).  It would be many years before Trumbo’s name would be added to the screen credit for this film.

There is a natural chemistry between  Hepburn and Gregory Peck, with marvelous support from Eddie Albert.  Wyler worked closely with each actor to elicit their best work, and aided them with his own little flourishes.   For instance, there is the famous scene by the Mouth of Truth, a carved face with an open mouth; if you stick your hand in the mouth, and are not truthful, your hand might come off!  After this raucous scene, Wyler holds for a few seconds on the carved face, to remind us of the untruths that continue to move the plot.

Roman Holiday has an underlying melancholy now which deepens the story when seen from a fresh, modern-day sensibility.  That melancholy comes from the fact that, today, Italy is suffering one of the most tragic effects of our era’s health crisis. The film’s locations generate a breezy atmosphere and admiration for their beauty. The ancient landmarks on display in the film, the abundant artistry, and the crowds of people as lively and carefree as their culture, remind us of Italy’s currently empty streets, of a music-loving people trying to preserve their musical heritage by singing to each other from their balconies, and of a civilization on the verge of disappearing.

The fact that some of my own ancestors were Italian makes the melancholy for me grow deeper. The movie perfectly captures the excitement of a foreigner seeing Rome for the first time.  My husband and I made our first European visit to Rome in 2011.  Like a tourist, I pointed at scenes in “Roman Holiday” in recognition of the marvelous places the two of us had seen: The Coliseum, the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Tiber River, the street markets and the gelato stands.  The excitement of recognizing them also made a catch in my throat.

My late mother would have turned 19 years old when “Roman Holiday” played at her local theater.  Early in the film, when Princess Anne visits an admiring barber, Hepburn’s resulting hairstyle looks like photos of my young mother, smiling in impish innocence, dressed in clothes that resemble Edith Head’s designs for the film.  I can imagine her and her friends asking to have their hair styled like Audrey Hepburn’s.  This was my mother’s era: more innocent, concerned with things other than pandemic illness and enforced isolation.  In mourning the passing of that era, which is so aptly depicted in the film, I also mourn her passing once again.

In the film’s bittersweet finale, which manages to produce some laughs even as we hold our breath, so much is expressed between the characters, even though they are unable to directly say what they are thinking or feeling.  What few words there are, and the meaningful looks between them, say more than any amount of dialogue could have provided.

True to the ordeal we are now facing, neither of the characters are allowed to embrace. The social distancing in the film is mandated by social status and protocol, but we completely identify with their dilemma like never before.  And while “Roman Holiday” is a comedy, and not a tragedy, one can’t help but feel some desolation for these people, kept apart through no fault of their own, and hope that, someday, the rules that prevent these characters (and us) from embracing loved ones will be a thing of the past.

"Life is Beautiful" (1998)

“To laugh and to cry comes from the same point of the soul, no? I’m a storyteller: the crux of the matter is to reach beauty, poetry. It doesn’t matter if it’s comedy or tragedy. They’re the same if you reach the beauty.”

--Roberto Benigni, Director, Screenwriter and Star of “Life is Beautiful”

The situation in which we find ourselves sometimes makes me sad and angry. 

My life’s meaning has been through human interaction.  To be cut off from neighbors, friends, and good people I encounter every day saddens me.  I’m grateful for my smart-phone and laptop, which give me opportunities to reach out, make contact, and receive encouragement and support in return.  Yet, in spite of the benefits of digital everything, nothing can replace the reassuring warmth, the stress-coping human bond, of a handshake or a hug. 

  

There are “experts” everywhere, but no one is sure about anything.  We are scolded into staying in our homes and keeping our distance, and driven to constant, low-grade anxiety by individuals who appear daily on TV, standing inches from many others around them, oblivious to social distancing.   These doomsayers who don’t follow their own advice cause me anger and frustration.  I stopped watching all but the local the news.

I understand the need to distance ourselves, to protect ourselves and others.  I try to keep hopeful and upbeat, in spite of the pundits who pick at our fear, like a wound that won’t heal, with worst-case scenarios.  Although I get how precarious this is, the forced separations, the loss of income, the constant rebukes from the news, and the sacrifices made by innocent people who suffer because our leaders and experts dropped the ball, stirs up those moments of sadness and anger.

It’s not all terrible, however.  I am lucky to have a loving husband, who I can talk to, hold on to, and vent to, even argue with. We look after each other. We make each other laugh in goofy ways. We take walks on the desert trails near our home (as long as they remain open).  Yoga in front of the TV helps.  So do movies. And meal times. And more long walks.  Jogging.  Reading.  Scrabble.  Puzzles.  It takes a little effort to remain calm and hopeful, to keep my perspective that this, too, will pass. 

Laughter and whimsy can also help, as demonstrated in the next film.

The lengths to which we go to protect each other in times of crisis, especially our children, and how we cope when we are unable to be near our loved ones, is the theme of the 1998 Italian film “Life is Beautiful”.  Roberto Benigni stars as Guido, the remarkable central character who uses humor, imagination, and the sheer will of his mind, to endure one of the worst experiences imaginable, and keep his loved ones safe and hopeful. 

A big-hearted Italian-Jewish bookstore owner in pre-WWII Italy, with an ebullient, fairy tale spirit, Guido is not too concerned with the signs of danger around him.  He woos his “principessa”, Dora, in a series of amusing, slapstick coincidences (with help from his half-baked idea of Schopenhauer’s philosophy), and wins her hand.

In one of the film’s brilliant transitions, suggesting the passage of time, Guido and Dora have a son, Giosue, a playful and precious little boy who Guido adores.  The war, now gripping Italy, proves treacherous to this small family.

In the second half of “Life is Beautiful”, Guido and Giosue are rounded up and shipped to a concentration camp, while Dora, who is not Jewish, insists on boarding their train.  Guido faces an impossibly tragic task: helping his 5-year-old son survive their captivity, while suffering unbearable separation from Dora, who is imprisoned on the other side of the same camp.

Guido convinces Giosue that their confinement is all a game, concocting a wild and ever-escalating scenario for his small son: play by the rules, don’t cry, don’t ask for a snack, and hide from the people who yell a lot, and earn enough points to win the Grand Prize, a real tank.  Guido, the loving father and clown, creates a story that his son can believe in, and he forces his own merriment, to preserve the illusion for Giosue, and protect him from fear and despair. 

The depiction of the camp is not extreme.  Nevertheless, brief images are loaded with significance: a chimney spewing black smoke; the sight of the elderly getting undressed for the showers; a fog-enshrouded image of a mound of human skeletons.

The forced separation between Guido and Dora is heart-wrenching.  Guido’s ability to communicate with Dora on the camp loudspeaker, just as she fears that all of the children in the camp have been killed, is a creative form of our modern electronic communication.  Guido and Giosue call out to her, so she knows they are still alive.  He plays a record the Offenbach aria, one that first drew them together, and her expression of anguish and relief is one of the film’s moments of real beauty.  Speaking of music, Nicola Piovani’s lush, sentimental Oscar-winning score is one of the reasons  “Life is Beautiful” is such a deeply emotional experience.

Begnini’s screenplay was inspired by Auschwitz survivor Rubino Salmoni, whose book, “In the End, I Beat Hitler”,  used humor to tell his story; and by Begnini’s father Luigi, who was interred in a Nazi labor camp for two years, and who found comfort in humorously relating his fearful experiences to young Roberto. The film is Benigni’s tribute to both men. 

Begnini, who also directed and co-wrote the screenplay, took an incredible risk with this film.  There is a fragile balance between the Chaplinesque, romantic slapstick of the first half, and the pointed, understated images of the labor camp the second half. 

Many viewers feel that the film pushes too hard for comic effect. True, the humor is very broad, especially at first.  Guido is, shall we say, generous and boisterous, maybe a tad too loud.  This is perhaps more acceptable in the Italian culture (my mother was Italian).  To the film’s credit, its slow introduction of its theme, with effective foreshadowing in the first half, keep the comedy from becoming too grating.

I think the complaints leveled at the film, that its comedy and wild mix of tones is inappropriate for the material, have missed the point.  “Life is Beautiful”, as described at the start by an unseen narrator, is “a fable...like a fable, it is filled with sorrow…and wonder and happiness”   The narrator returns at the end, and when we realize from whose point of view this story is actually told, it makes perfect, poignant sense.  Keep some Kleenex handy. 

“Life is Beautiful” opened to critical acclaim and enormous popularity, winning three Oscars, including Best Foreign Language Film and Best Actor for Benigni.  It’s an old-fashioned comedy about a grim subject. Maybe it will provide some comfort, some small strategy for coping.  Maybe this time will prove to be an ultimate fable.