"Lost in Translation" (2003)

                                                                    

Bob, a well-known Hollywood star played by Bill Murray, is stuck in Tokyo to shoot a lucrative whiskey commercial. He is amusingly confused by the unfamiliarity around him, and depressed by his own mid-life crisis.  Staying at the same Tokyo hotel is Charlotte, played by Scarlett Johansson, a young woman searching for her identity. She is unhappily married to a neglectful, wannabe-hipster celebrity photographer, whom she has joined in Japan while he is on assignment.  After meeting by chance in the hotel bar, Bob and Charlotte develop a brief, affirming friendship that turns into platonic romance in “Lost in Translation”, director Sofia Coppola’s delicate tone-poem of a film.

“Lost in Translation” masterfully portrays the dilemma of strangers in a strange land, whether that strange land happens to be another country, or a life that suddenly makes no sense.  It’s a languid comedy about boredom and confusion, about finding fellowship and love amid the chaos.  Unfamiliar language is key to the charm and meaning of this movie.  (A significant portion of the dialogue is spoken in untranslated Japanese)

I watched this movie again as we are perplexed anew by the coronavirus, and how best to contain its spread. The world seems almost unrecognizable now, like being trapped in a Twilight Zone in which everyone has blank expressions.  Since masks are becoming mandatory in many areas, this is almost literally true; we are so used to reading faces to determine emotions, and to use our expressions to communicate, that we are suddenly unsure how to connect with anyone whose mouth is covered with a cloth mask. The language of our expressions has been taken away.

The movie has a dream-like quality that captures Bob and Charlotte’s disorientation in a landscape that is completely foreign to them, where the language is unintelligible to them, whose customs sometimes seem absurd and unintentionally funny.  

Their bewilderment and isolation is tangible, and mirrors ours.  Stay-at-home orders isolated us from each other physically.  Now we feel isolated in public, because our facemasks wipe out the meaning behind our human expressions. They appear as warning signals against human connection.

When Bob and Charlotte meet, their connection is one of immediate relief and comfort:  with their figurative “masks” removed, they have a common language with which they can share their fears, uncertainty, loneliness, and even some laughs.  

As their gentle relationship progresses, Coppola’s screenplay makes clear that these individuals still have lives that they must resolve; and while we in the audience might enjoy seeing these two people remain together, the film takes a more compassionate, more adult direction.  Coppola respects these characters as much as they respect each other, so it’s refreshing that the story, slight as it is, does not rely on the usual clichés of a doomed love affair.

“Lost in Translation” seems to float by in a gorgeous, colorful fog.  While the average movie can be compared to a painting, this film is a more like a sketch, with just enough lines and contours to allow our minds to fill in the spaces and complete the portrait. The new-age music sets a meditative tone, as the camera records bright colors in soft focus,  gliding through crowds and gardens, arcades and taxi rides, restaurants and skyscapes.

We are surprised by what our American protagonists see and experience, and we share their curiosity. The film’s clear-eyed honesty and quiet tone make these things surprisingly intriguing and, sometimes, even hilarious. 

Charlotte contemplates a huge electronic light-board, and the image of a dinosaur moving in slow motion across it is strange and beautiful.  We are absorbed as Charlotte observes the hip young men who play unusual video games in a bright, loud arcade.  We share Charlotte’s hushed mystery as she eavesdrops inside of a Buddhist temple, or comes upon a lovely wedding party, while the groom takes the bride’s hand in an exquisite closeup.

We laugh out loud at Bob’s struggle with a health-club treadmill, or at his automated hotel-room drapes opening in the morning like an alarm clock. We appreciate his incredulity at a movie director who shouts instructions, on and on, in Japanese, only to have it be translated in two words (“More intensity”).   

There is an uproarious scene in which a well-dressed lady of the evening is sent to Bob’s room, resulting in the movie’s grand moment of slapstick miscommunication.  Here, and in other sequences, “Lost in Translation” gets a lot of mileage from the American-Japanese language difference, especially the switching of the “l” and “r” sounds (“Lip my stocking”).  Today, this might seem borderline politically-incorrect; but it is handled in so straightforward, understated and non-threatening a manner, that it is hard to take offense.

(It would be interesting to know how people from Japan react to this movie.)

The two leads are excellent; the movie would not have worked without either of them.

Bill Murray is the master of deadpan comedy. His almost wordless monologue, as he postures with different expressions during the whiskey commercial, is priceless screen acting. Under his deadpan cynicism, Murray shows us Bill’s kind soul, and his pain. In his first parting with Charlotte during a vapid photo session with his crew, Charlotte retreats to the elevator, and Murray shows us Bob's forced happiness, along with the sadness that is buried in his eyes.  

Scarlett Johansson is a beautiful presence, with a welcoming smile, and her own reserves of insecurity and pain.  She has great chemistry with Murray, who is capable of dominating a scene, but not here. She  convincingly asserts herself with her flighty husband, if only to convince herself that she has a life of her own.  (Giovanni Ribisi is miscast as her husband, John; he seems less like a cool artist than an eager attendee at Comicon.)

The film uses surprisingly little dialogue, but what is there often provides moving insight. Bill’s long-distance phone calls with his abrupt wife are revealing.  Bill and Charlotte’s banter in a hospital waiting room, or a sushi restaurant, display the humor and joy of good improvisation.  Charlotte is heartbreaking as she reaches out to her mother on the phone, who clearly is not hearing between the lines.  

Some of the most eloquent moments are unspoken.  Bill’s reaching out to softly touch Charlotte’s foot, as they share an intimate, nonsexual conversation in bed, says more than any amount of dialogue could have.

The most famous example of this quiet eloquence occurs at a wonderful moment near the end.  This moment has prompted hours of analysis and discussion.  As Bill and Charlotte say goodbye on a crowded street, he leans in and whispers something in her ear.  We don’t hear it.  Coppola wisely writes no dialogue for this.  We know that Bill is taking advantage of a once-in-a lifetime moment, expressing something from his heart.  What he says makes them both happy. That feeling of satisfaction is what the movie is going for, and it’s what we are meant to take away.  In this moment, “Lost in Translation” achieves wordless poetry.

                                                              

"The Dallas Buyer's Club" (2013)

                                                                    

“The Dallas Buyer’s Club” is a marvel.  Made on a tiny budget with a shooting schedule of just 25 days, it is a movie that might alienate some with its stark images of destroyed lives.  Instead it is an unlikely crowd-pleaser, a rabble-rouser, and a valuable record of a not-long-ago public health crisis.

 This is a tough, unsparing movie of surprising depth and humor, a small indie film that unreels like an epic about homophobia, drugs, death, and redemption.

Most of all, the movie boasts two of the best, Oscar-winning performances in contemporary American cinema.

“The Dallas Buyers Club” tells the story of a gravely ill, straight homophobe who discovers, at the start of the AIDS crisis, that he is HIV positive. Among other things, the film is an odyssey of one man’s difficult self-evaluation.  It also dramatizes the financial and human costs of obtaining life-saving medications, and the red tape involved in approving and making those drugs available, especially for a new, mysterious and deadly illness.

The film also rails against the corruption within the American pharmaceutical establishment.  It’s a film whose subjects are as relevant as ever.  

Matthew McConoughey portrays the real-life Ron Woodruff, a violent, sexually self-indulgent drug addict who nearly dies of AIDS.  He is already emaciated when we first meet him, riding a rodeo, and working as an electrician with a blue-collar crew.  His desolate, empty existence is filled with indiscriminate, unprotected sex with prostitutes, fueled by alcohol and hard drugs, and oppressed by ignorance. 

Woodruff belongs to a part of American culture that rejects homosexuality or anyone who associates with gay people.  In Woodruff’s world, “fag” is the ultimate insult.

He is given thirty days to live, and dismissed  by a healthcare system that is flummoxed and overwhelmed by the disease.  Woodruff refuses to accept the diagnosis, at first because he doesn’t believe that a straight guy can get AIDS.  As his health deteriorates, he does some reading and discovers the truth.  

He learns about AZT, the only drug on a fast-track for approval in the U.S., and finds that it costs ten thousand dollars a year, the most expensive of all medications  He learns that the proper dosage for AZT is still trial-and-error, and that it has toxic side effects.  He also discovers that treatments that have found some success  in countries like Germany, Israel and France, have not been approved in the U.S. 

Desperate, deteriorating, and hitting an emotional rock-bottom, he travels to Mexico, and meets a doctor who prescribes a cocktail of herbal treatments and vitamins.  His condition improves.  

Selfishly, he discovers a way to make a profit out of his own treatment, and in the process becomes a hero to dozens of other AIDS patients:  He disguises himself as a priest, smuggles these treatments back across the border, and makes them available to others free of charge by selling monthly memberships to the Dallas Buyers Club.

McConoughey inhabits Woodruff and his life to an exquisite degree.  He lost forty pounds to play the role, but that was just the beginning.  McConoughey bravely plays Woodruff as an unlikeable hero, carefully avoiding any false sentimentality.  As a result, we are deeply sympathetic to his character, while recognizing that he is often reprehensible.  His cry of despair when he realizes his fatal dilemma is truly moving.  It is a tremendous feat of acting. McConoughey is the foundation on which the film rises or falls; it holds up all the way.

Good as McConoughey is, there is another actor whose portrayal is one of the most effortless and affecting I’ve seen.  That is Jared Leto, in the role of drug-addicted trans woman Rayon. 

While Woodruff is in the hospital after a rough episode, he is approached by the quick-witted, wonderfully bitchy Rayon, who wins Woodruff over in a most unlikely and tentative manner.  Woodruff hates Rayon at first for being gay, but soon realizes that she can be a good business partner for him.  Eventually Woodruff comes to respect Rayon, and even embraces her as a friend, defending her against the ignorant attitudes of his old friends.

Leto is a true revelation.  To create the  appearance of a woman wasting away, Leto shed thirty pounds. His face, with its soft features and easy movement from confrontation to comfort; his voice, and the way he carries his body; the authenticity of his expression; and the intensity of his emotion; all make Rayon an unusual audience surrogate and the true hero of “The Dallas Buyer’s Club”. 

Leto treats the character with respect, and infuses Rayon with dignity and a deep capacity for love and generosity, even in the most difficult scenes, showing the ravages of Rayon’s drug addiction and the sorrows of family rejection.  Rayon provides most of the welcome comic relief with his witty one-liners, delivered with intelligence and glee.

Late in the film, when Rayon must ask her own father, a homophobe, for help, she dresses once again as a man so as not to alienate him.  It is a wrenching sequence that calls to mind the paradox of gender identity in “The Crying Game”.  Leto brings so much welcome energy to every scene, that when his role ends, it is as though a light goes off in the film.

Jennifer Garner is the third member of the cast whose accurate performance adds genuine warmth to a secondary role.  Garner is Dr. Eve Saks, Woodruff’s first doctor in the hospital, torn between the medical establishment’s protocols, and her growing realization that Woodruff’s Buyers Clubs and others like his are actually helping patients.  

Dr. Saks and Woodruff bond as friends after she stands up to the Hospital Board.  Woodruff so appreciates her that he gives her one of his only treasures: a picture painted by his own mother.  Garner is focused and true; we like her character and we’re glad she turns into an advocate for Woodruff.

The filmmakers, especially director Jean-Marc Vallee, do a miraculous job, considering the lack of resources, and a schedule that did not allow for rehearsals.  They artfully use one hand-held camera, two lenses, and no lights, a lively score and creative editing, to craft this eye-opening story that doesn’t call attention to its low budget.  The movie compels us to a point where we forget that we’re watching a movie. 

The script, by Craig Borten and Melisa Warrack, deftly handles a controversial subject, and combines a study of three fascinating characters with a medical suspense story. The writing is anything but maudlin. There’s plenty at first to make us uncomfortable, but we wind up feeling true sympathy and even something like exhilaration for the characters and their heroic efforts to create a better system.  

Special mention must be made to members of the makeup department, who helped transform the actors with startling realism, did so with less than $250 to spend, and won an Oscar for their work.

Watching “The Dallas Buyer’s Club” today raises all sorts of questions about the extreme speed in which various labs are trying to get a vaccine available for the coronavirus.  While the rapid availability of an effective vaccine will bring us back to a semblance of normal life (just like the flu vaccine did after the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic), one hopes that we avoid the mistakes made with AZT when that was first available.  

A movie like “The Dallas Buyer’s Club” can give the average person, who is concerned about the state of our health and who is eager to learn about current medical developments, a look at a recent precedent, and even a small red flag as the news of new vaccines, approval methods, and even infighting within the drug industry, emerges each day.

In all, this rough-around-the edges film, with its disturbing portrayal of a flawed culture, its indictment of corruption in our healthcare system, and its portraits of strong-willed, broken people who inspire each other, is worth seeing on many levels.

"The Strawberry Statement" (1970) / "Hair" (1979)

                                                                   

The coronavirus pandemic is no longer front-page news, for now.  National outrage over the arrest and death of a black man at the hands of white police has dominated the media for more than a week. There are images of massive protests on the streets of cities big and small, most of them peaceful but with several disturbing episodes of violence and destruction.

From the Nation’s capital come counterimages of an impotent, divisive administration, invoking law and order in a desperate attempt to appear in control, hiding behind the bible and military protection, and providing no comfort. Instead, sadly and deliberately, they are taunting an anguished populace.

An unusual element of the current protests is the sight of cloth face masks, worn by many of the demonstrators marching in the streets, to provide whatever protection is possible from a dangerous contagion while in close proximity to hundreds of others.

It’s too early to know if the weekslong nationwide demonstrations, involving mostly young people who are forgoing  social distancing after months of isolation, will develop into a new Covid-19 crisis.

What is certain is that people of color have been disproportionately affected and killed by the virus.   

While the pandemic remains unprecedented in modern culture, the images of large, sustained, often violent demonstrations on American streets are not.  Today’s protests and riots look familiar to those who experienced the turmoil of Civil Rights and anti-Vietnam protests of the 1960s and 70s.

As yet, our culture hasn’t had sufficient time to deal artistically with these events through music, theater, or film; but we do have popular artifacts that depict those earlier conflicts, precedents for the massive demonstrations taking place now, fifty years later. 

Two interesting movies from the Hollywood archives are worth looking at today.  Although they vary in quality, and are dated by their styles and language, they are both valuable records of the mood of the times, and may give new audiences something to relate to, and maybe even a path toward healing.

“THE STRAWBERRY STATEMENT”

“The Strawberry Statement”, released in 1970, was made during the height of American unrest.  It is a product of, and a reflection of, the growing disillusionment on college campuses, increasing anti-war sentiment, and heightened enlightenment and sensitivity about mistreatment of minorities like Blacks and Native Americans. 

It is a flawed film, and is hardly mentioned today, even though it won a Jury Prize at Cannes.  But out of the many movies that depicted campus unrest and social protest, this one offers flashes of euphoric and creative filmmaking, interesting supporting characters, great music, and a flavor of a kind of rebellion that is just now beginning to resurface.

Based on the popular memoir of the same name by Ron Kunen, and subtitled “Notes of a College Revolutionary”, the film is a fictionalized account of Kunen’s transformation, from apolitical student to  campus radical, during the rebellions at Columbia College from 1966-68.  

The title refers to an offhand quote by one of the Vice Presidents of the college, in which he angered and alienated students.  He said, in effect, that  “student or faculty opinions have no place in  University policy; … and are no more meaningful than if they were to tell me that they liked strawberries.”

The film moves the location from New York to a Berkeley-inspired college in San Francisco.  The protagonist, named Simon, is an athlete on the rowing team who is happy just to earn passable grades, and graduate into well-paying job.  He has little interest in campus involvement, beyond immersing himself in pop culture and getting laid.  

A young Bruce Davison is appealing as Simon, who roams aimlessly between class and rowing practice, using a super-8 camera to film the scene around him.  He doesn’t care about the campus protests, street theater, and calls for a student strike; they only give him nightmares.

On a lark, he joins his roommate in a student takeover of a college President’s office.  The students are protesting the acquisition of land that belonged to a Black neighborhood for the purpose of building a college gymnasium.

There, Simon meets Linda (Kim Darby, fresh from “True Grit”), and they fall in love.  They are assigned together to be the food committee for the entrenched student strikers, leaving the sit-in for trips around  San Francisco for grocery donations, filmed in flashy montages scored to popular tunes of the era.  

Slowly, Simon observes the corruption and injustice around him, expressing confusion and disillusionment at his wanting to be a member of a college that is against everything he believes in.  He even falls victim to violence from members of the very community the protesters want to help, leading him to question his involvement in the entire movement.  Later, his own unjust arrest, and encouragement from Linda, help to clarify his attitudes in favor of the strike.

After the arrest, Simon leads a mass occupation inside a University hall.  There, in the film’s protracted conclusion, riot police with tear-gas and batons violently clash with the students, who are unarmed and chanting for peace.  The scene is loud, horrifying and heartbreaking.   Even if it runs a tad too long, you can’t help being swept up in the shock and emotion of it.  

“The Strawberry Statement” suffers from a lack of a strong narrative line.  The movie ambles, keeping the tone druggy and mellow, with sharp bursts of drama or violence, sprinkling plot points, slogans and oddball characters throughout, up until its shocking conclusion.  

Viewers with no prior knowledge of Vietnam atrocities, political assassinations of the 1960s, civil rights abuses, and campus unrest (the Kent State massacre happened that year) may not always understand the motivation for what’s happening on screen. 

The movie assumes we know why the student strike is a big deal.  Even so, plot is less important than mood here,  stirring up feelings of righteous indignation and cumulative anger.  (A young viewer today might be inflamed to actively protest,  after seeing the film’s images of police brutality against youth who believe in a cause.)

Also, the film’s poor sound recording, especially in dialog sequences, obscures some clarifying information. A few times, the actor’s voices seem to be coming from off-screen.

On the plus side, the cast of up-and coming actors is spirited, energetic, and understand both the drama and the humor of their situation.  Today it is fun to see people like Bud Cort (“Harold and Maude”), Bob Balaban (“Midnight Cowboy”), and Jeannie Berlin (“The Heartbreak Kid”) in their formative acting years, as they sink their teeth into quirky supporting roles. 

The director, Stuart Hagmann, also took some chances by using an array of trendy cinematic devices (jump-cuts, soft-focus, flash-forwards, kaleidoscopic camera) to effectively depict the look of a psychedelic era.  

Hagmann’s choice of music also a evokes the clarion calls that inspired youthful activism, with artists like Buffy Sainte-Marie, Crosby Stills and Nash, Neil Young, and Thunderclap Newman.  Joni Mitchell’s “Circle Game” is used particularly well, suggesting hope and promise at the opening, and expressing outrage and regret at the fadeout.

“HAIR”

The rock-musical film “Hair” is based on the controversial 1967 stage production that scandalized Broadway and shocked America.  This film adaptation of the iconic work about drugs, love and freedom, "Hair" is overall a better work of cinema than “The Strawberry Statement”.  Both films deal with youth in protest,  but "Hair" differs in interesting ways.  

First,  “The Strawberry Statement”, set in the late 1960s,  is a product of its era.  “Hair” while it is set in Hippie-era 1967,  was made in 1979, over 5 years after the Vietnam war ended, over a decade after the Summer of Love. This gives it the perspective of time, even a hint of nostalgia, that keeps it from becoming dated. 

Another notable difference is Czech director Milos Forman (“One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest”), who lends the movie a more objective, less knee-jerk-American point of view.  There’s an almost low-key tone to Forman’s treatment of the anti-Vietnam, pro-Hippie subject matter which is often manic and psychedelic.

“Hair” in its original form was a subversive musical revue.  A naïve young Englishman named Claude falls in with a group of free-spirited, draft-card-burning, drug-taking, sexually liberated Hippies.  With a threadbare plot involving the Vietnam draft and an undercurrent of satire, the characters sing about the concerns of the day,  from air pollution to revisionist history, from the sexually uptight to a new age of peace and freedom.  A turning point comes when Claude is drafted into the Army.

The film changes Claude's character into a naïve Oklahoman on his way to New York for his Army draft physical. (John Savage, who portrayed a Vietnam POW the year before in “The Deer Hunter”, is an interesting bit of casting as Claude).  He meets and befriends Berger (Treat Williams) and his colorful Hippie friends in Central Park, and spends a night of drug-fueled musical revelry. 

Along the way he meets Sheila (Beverly D’Angelo), the woman of his dreams, who comes from an upper-crust family but who longs for the free-spirited life of the Hippie community.  What ensues is a road trip to Nevada, where Claude is eventually stationed for training before being deployed to Vietnam, setting up yet another stunning and emotional finale.

The film retains the youthful vigor and aura of protest, but creates a stronger plot structure for its ideas and its music, and gives the characters a more realistic New York setting.  By focusing on the anti-war movement and dropping some of the sundry issues of the stage version, the film emphasizes the racial and socioeconomic origins of unrest. 

It’s a visually dazzling, energetic and exquisitely made film.

One of the similarities between “Hair” and “The Strawberry Statement” is their portrayal of the lack of communication between young people and the Establishment.  In “Strawberry Statement”, the over-30 crowd is the understood to be the enemy.  In “Hair”, both sides are equally guilty of not listening, or not being able to talk to each other.  

The Hippies in “Hair” are not cute and cuddly heroes at first, and are almost  annoying toward those who disagree with their vision.  (Their wealthy elders fare no better, and are depicted as inflexible and closed off.)

In “Hair”, this idea evolves in an intriguing manner.  Berger, by literally walking in the shoes of the Establishment, redeems himself in a startling and tragic act of self-sacrifice.

Both films are also willing to deal with the concerns of the Black community, which gives each film a renewed relevance for today’s audience.   

The students’ strike in “Strawberry Statement” may be about ending the draft and about providing input into campus policy; but the action is sparked by the protesters’ desire to protect land in a Black neighborhood.  "Hair”, in its use of language and a subplot about parenthood, creates an intriguing look at being Black in America amid a national crisis.

“Hair” confronts racism through a character named Lafayette, or as he calls himself, Hud (Dorsey Wright).   He sings “Colored Spade”, a song in which the entire lyrics are derogatory words and phrases used to describe black people in American culture.  It’s funny, and it wants to make us uncomfortable.

“Hair” is not afraid to tackle discord within the Black community, either.  The mother of Hud’s young son, both of whom he abandoned to join the movement, finds Hud, and confronts him. This strong black woman, played by Cheryl Barnes, sums up the paradox of the free-love movement: its generosity to the cause, and its neglect of its responsibilities to loved ones. She goes straight to our soul, in a searing rendition of “Easy to Be Hard”.

The music of “Hair” is justifiably famous.  Many of the songs have become standards.  They are creative, electric, romantic, funny, and pointed.  They are beautifully staged and choreographed, and there is not one number that won’t excite or move you.

Among them:

“Aquarius”, the signature theme, is done in a slower, jazzier tempo than its original versions. Performed to the unusual, clipped choreography of Twyla Tharp, we get a fresh angle on the Hippie manifesto, that Claude finds completely alien in his first encounter.  

“Ain’t Got No” and “I Got Life” are lively and humorous companion pieces that speak to the dilemma of poverty and of knowing what’s really important.  “Black Boys/ White Boys” extends the racial motif in a sly way, that also pokes fun at latent homosexuality in a military that forbade gays from serving.  

“Good Morning Starshine” is a goofy and upbeat tune that comes at a climactic point in the film, with the cast speeding in a convertible down a vast desert road.  The sheer carefree happiness of the song brings the characters together.  I have rarely experienced such joy in a movie as I did during this musical interlude.

“Let the Sunshine In”, perhaps the most well-known number, takes us from shocking personal tragedy to a massive anti-Vietnam peace protest outside the White House. The scene calls to mind today’s demonstrations against police brutality and racism.  It makes your heart soar and ache at the same time.

Both films remain as potent reminders of an era of activism, violence, and hope for a better world.  There's still much to do. 

The tide is now turning, and the sustained demonstrations we see today are bringing to the forefront issues that have been simmering for decades.  Now, instead of the threat of dying in Vietnam through a military draft, protesters, in their effort to fight to make the world more fair, are facing the immediate threat of dying from this disease.

"The Best Years of Our Lives" (1946)

Released in 1946 to massive popularity and critical acclaim, “The Best Years of Our Lives” is an enduring classic, still one of the finest, most entertaining films in American cinema.  The story of three World War II veterans, who return home to face the challenges of readjustment to civilian life, was highly topical and specific to its era.  Decades later, this monumental portrait of genuinely human characters, their fears and hopes, loves and dreams, is universal, and still resonates.

Today, it is a poignant time capsule of a bygone America that seems almost impossible to imagine.  It is also a tribute to those average, quietly heroic postwar Americans, most of whom are gone now, who shared common goals, and who observed an unwritten code of dignity and civility even in the aftermath of war. 

In a time of struggle that is specific to our own era, “The Best Years of Our Lives” still has plenty to say to us.   It’s like a balm to our anxious souls, showing good, imperfect people pulling together and enduring the problems of a changed world with love and strength.

On a personal note, whenever I am asked to name my all-time favorite film, I start to answer that impossible question by naming “The Best Years of Our Lives”.  I first saw it at age 10, on a Saturday television matinee with commercials (and likely some edits for length.)  My early fascination with the characters and their situations has grown into a true affection for the movie.  As I matured, so did my appreciation for it as a truly great piece of filmmaking. 

Perhaps because the film depicts the values and the culture that shaped my parents, I associate the movie strongly with them, and with a kind of life they tried to give me which has all but disappeared.  It’s more than a movie to me; it’s like a companion that I can visit for three hours, whose stories are as fresh, inspiring, and moving as the first time I encountered them.  After dozens of viewings, I have never grown tired of “The Best Years of Our Lives”, and I am moved even more each time.

The film tells parallel stories of the three soldiers who return together on a plane, strangers at first, to a fictional Everytown called Boone City.  They become fast friends, and their lives intersect and affect each other in surprising dramatic ways. 

The three plotlines are woven into a final wedding sequence, bringing all of the characters together. I consider it one of cinema’s most skillful and breathtaking wedding scenes.  It’s a remarkable finale that both ties up loose ends and leaves us with a satisfying ambiguity, as though the characters have real lives after the final credits.

Each of the soldiers represents one of three branches of the military.

Al Stevenson (Fredric March), an Army Sergeant, is the elder of the three.  He is well established back home as a banker, married for twenty years to a lovely, amiable, understanding wife Millie (Myrna Loy), and has two grown children.  Al seems to have it made upon his return, but has feelings of discomfort and alienation, and laments that everyone will try to “rehabilitate” him.   Al’s daughter Peggy (Teresa Wright), a nurse, is mature, good-natured, and lonely.  She plays a big part in two of the intersecting stories.

Fred Derry (Dana Andrews) a Captain in the Air Force, flew bomber planes over enemy targets. He excelled at his job in the air, but did not pick up many skills to re-enter the workforce, aside from his previous dead-end job at a drugstore soda fountain.   Only twenty days before going to war, he made a hasty marriage with Marie (Virginia Mayo), a carefree, immature girl he hardly knew, who fell in love with Fred’s uniform instead of the man wearing it.  Fred meets Peggy (Al’s daughter) after a welcome-home revelry at a neighborhood bar, and a clandestine affair begins, causing dismay for both families, and unhappiness for the otherwise decent and considerate pair.

The final plotline is the most heartbreaking, and maybe the most compelling.  Homer Parrish, a young sailor, loses both of his hands when his ship was bombed and caught fire.  Now he must use metal prosthetic hooks, and worries about the reaction of his family and friends.  Homer is engaged to Wilma (Cathy O'Donnell), his childhood sweetheart who lives next door.  He doesn’t want to burden her with his disability, but Wilma loves him and keeps asking him to give her a chance.  To escape the pitying looks and concern at home, Homer frequents a bar owned by his Uncle Butch (the legendary pianist Hoagy Carmichael), who is the only one he can talk to.  Butch’s Bar will be an important meeting place throughout the movie.

There is a renewed relevance to “The Best Years of Our Lives” as we try to figure out life after coronavirus.  This film about soldiers readjusting to a world that is different from the one they left behind is similar to our own readjustment to a world “opening up”.  Just as Al, Fred and Homer encounter social, economic, and physical aftereffects of the war, we have to consider the virus’ social, economic and physical effects as it moves through the population.

Many people will not be directly affected by the virus, but will choose ways to help and protect others.  Al’s world seems unchanged except to him, and so he uses his position at the bank to assist other veterans desperate for a new beginning.  Fred suffers the shame of underemployment and poverty, risking his marriage and sense of self-worth.  After the War, most viewers identified with Fred’s challenges; maybe those who have lost their jobs due to the virus, and face few prospects, still identify with Fred.  Homer can never recover from his injuries, just like many people will be permanently scarred from side effects of the virus.  Like Homer, they need special people to love them and not give up on them.

“The Best Years of Our Lives” is the product of some of Hollywood’s most respected artists and craftsmen, working at the peak of their talents.  The film is so involving that the artistry is almost invisible, but it has a definite strong effect on the viewer.

Director William Wyler, who continued a string of popular, timely films that struck a nerve with audiences (see “Mrs. Miniver” and “Roman Holiday”, both reviewed in this blog), made this his masterpiece.  He perfected his signature long takes, arranging the actors and their movements in the frame, eloquently expressing multiple bits of information and emotion in each shot.  For a film with a 170-minute running time, it has fewer edits than most.  Wyler’s ability and willingness to let his scenes breathe, and unfold naturally, achieves a quietly powerful effect without forcing that response.  It feels honest.

Cinematographer Gregg Toland perfected his deep-focus technique which he started with “Citizen Kane”. Toland lights his sets and performers with precision to strengthen Wyler’s intricate mise-en-scene. The wedding scene alone is worth high praise.

Hugo Friedhofer’s elegiac, soaring music is a character all its own.  Sometimes romantic, sometimes sly and humorous, and often with a subtle military crescendo, the score is like a tribute to the characters, many of whom have their own themes.  Friedhofer tells us more in his music than pages of written description could achieve.

Robert E. Sherwood’s complex and human screenplay, based on a prose poem by MacKinlay Kantor called “Glory for Me,” deftly leads the viewers through myriad complications in the character’s lives, and it never bogs down.   The dialog is scaled to the cadences and manner of speech of regular people.  There are few lines that draw attention to themselves; but there are many exchanges and monologues that will leave you spellbound, thoughtful, even moved to tears.

Finally, the actors all give the performances of their lives. 

Fredric March has a good time playing Al, providing most of the film’s comic relief.  He comfortably occupies the character and dominates many scenes with his intense gaze, though sometimes playing scenes of merry drunkenness broadly, which at the time was considered acceptably funny. 

The wonderful Myrna Loy plays Al’s wife Millie with grace and wisdom.  Loy communicates so much with a mere nod of her head, or a wistful smile, that we completely believe whatever she has to say.   

Teresa Wright plays Peggy with the right amount of thoughtfulness, accurately portraying a young woman who is confused by forbidden longing. 

Dana Andrews is appropriately handsome and jaunty as Fred, playing a character who undergoes the most change.  Without begging for our sympathy, Andrews earns it, as well as our respect for his character.

Finally, the performer who has the greatest impact in the film is the only non-professional in the cast. Harold Russell, who plays Homer, was a soldier who actually lost his hands in a military accident.  Director Wyler saw him in a training film and cast him for his natural presence on screen. (He objected to Russell taking acting lessons to prepare.)  Audiences were unaccustomed to seeing realistic depictions of amputees, and there was a high level of curiosity. 

Russell essentially plays a version of himself, but Wyler directed him to a performance of great depth. He is so likeable and natural, and elicits such sympathy, that he captured the collective heart of the nation.  The character of Homer remains one of the most memorable aspects of “Best Years of Our Lives.”  

Russell received a Supporting Actor Oscar nomination, but the Academy, feeling he would not win, presented him with an honorary Oscar for “bringing hope and courage to his fellow veterans…”.  Russell went on to win the Supporting Oscar anyway, and remains the only actor to earn two Oscars for the same portrayal.

“The Best Years of Our Lives” swept the Oscars, earning in addition to Russell’s Best Picture and Director, Actor for March, Screenplay, Score, and Film Editing.   It continues to be an important film,  a true classic of Hollywood’s golden age, and will reward the time and attention of viewers for generations to come.

"Hachi: A Dog's Tale" (2009)

“Never forget anyone that you’ve loved.”  Ronnie, telling his classmates what he learned about loyalty from his grandfather’s dog.

Dogs will save the world.

I frequently make this statement to my husband and my friends.  I have loved dogs since childhood, and my appreciation for dogs has grown as I’ve matured.  If dogs were allowed to run things, the result would be a calmer, fairer, more loving and playful world. 

As we endured months worrying about coronavirus, compounded by rampant loss of income, political outrage, and now violent protest, one thing that has remained pure and constant is the presence of our canine companions.  

Some remarkable stories about dogs have emerged during this time, in print and on social media. They have amused us, surprised us, encouraged us, and moved us.

One story, about a dog in Wuhan, China who waited patiently in the hospital while his elderly owner was treated for severe Covid-19 complications, bears an uncanny similarity to a much earlier story, that was adapted into a film in 2009 called “Hachi: A Dog’s Tale”.

“Hachi: A Dog’s Tale” is based on a true story in 1930s Tokyo, about an Akita dog named Hachiko, the companion dog of Ueno Hidesaburo, a professor of Agriculture.  Hachiko followed Ueno to the Shibuya train station every morning to see him off to work; and every afternoon, he was back at the station to greet Ueno.  

After Ueno died suddenly at work, Hachiko appeared at that train station every afternoon for nine years , hoping Ueno would return.  

Hachiko became renowned for his devotion.  Soon after he passed away, a bronze statue of him was erected, and still stands at the Shibuya station in his honor.

The film is an updated and Americanized version of Hachiko’s story.  It is a movie for kids that doesn’t pander to them.  Perhaps it is better described as a kid’s movie for adults.  There is no phony cuteness, no forced humor.  It is slowly paced, beautifully photographed, and mixes a serious tone with gentle humor that arises naturally from the dog’s behavior.  

Nothing is hyped; it has a low-key style that runs counter to the usual, predictable, hyperkinetic children’s film. It is reflective, almost Zen-like.  And it will bring you to tears.

The film’s location has been moved to Rhode Island, with its autumnal, small-town warmth.  Hachi, an Akita puppy, is en route from Japan to a new home in America; but his crate is destroyed in a freak accident, the shipping label is torn and illegible, and he is stranded at the train station.

Parker Wilson, a music professor at a local college, finds Hachi, brings him home, and attempts to return him to his owner.  When no owner turns up, Hachi remains at the Wilson home, against the initial protests of Parker’s wife, Cate.  Soon, her heart is warmed, too. 

Seasons pass quickly, Hachi grows up, and daughter Andy gets married and has a son called  Ronnie.  Parker and Cate settle into a comfortable routine.  Hachi bonds with his beloved Parker, and waits for him every day at the train station.  Even Parker’s untimely death doesn't keep him from waiting, every day for many years, to the amazement of the townspeople.

The story is an extended flashback, told by Ronnie years later at school, while giving a presentation about Hachi titled “My Personal Hero”.

The film is shot in a straightforward manner, with frequent shifts to Hachi’s point of view, filmed in a low-to-the-ground, desaturated style. The dog is so attention-grabbing, that it is easy to ignore how beautifully cinematic the movie is, and how much of it is told visually.

I find it incredible that Sony Pictures chose not to release this film into American theaters, even after making a hefty profit overseas; instead, its American premiere was on the Hallmark Channel.  This was a major film, with big-name stars like Richard Gere and Joan Allen.  It was directed by the well-established Lasse Hallstrom (“Whats Eating Gilbert Grape?”, “My Life as a Dog”, “Chocolat”), with a score by Oscar-winner Jan A. P. Kaczmarek ("Finding Neverland").

Sony felt the film was “too small” for American theatrical distribution.  (It’s doubly perplexing, considering that Sony had more faith in titles like “Underworld: Rise of the Lycans” and “The Pink Panther 2”.)

The movie boasts solid performances, especially by its two leads.  Richard Gere is somewhat unconvincing as a professor of music, but he is absolutely right as a man who develops a deep bond with this dog.  Gere is wonderful with Hachi.  He also has great chemistry with Joan Allen, who plays his wfe Cate.  

Joan Allen might be our generation’s Myrna Loy: she’s versatile, believable, and terribly underrated.  Her strong acting anchors the film, and takes “Hachi: A Dog’s Tale” into a higher level of drama.

Anyone who has ever had a dog has known the profound sadness of its passing.  That sadness permeates the film, which is deepened by Kaczmarek’s mysterious, touching score.  Hallstrom is aware of this, and rightly refuses to manipulate our emotions.  His camera chronicles this amazing tale, and visually takes us right into the dog’s soul, especially in the final, almost wordless winter passages late in the movie.

During the pandemic, dogs have been right there, in the background, reminding us of their love and their importance to us.  Along with the funny and heartwarming on-line videos that gave us respite from the concerns of the day, dogs have been helping us through this crisis in lots of small ways.

Shelters saw a surge in dog adoptions, even as social distancing forced many of them to close.  Unable to visit our local adoption center, we bought a box of small dog biscuits instead, to feed our dog friends we encountered on our exercise walks through the park. It made us feel good.  The dogs loved it too.

Some scientists are training dogs to sniff out the coronavirus in the same way as they are able to detect diseases like cancer, or tumors.  During a dramatic sequence in “Hachi: A Dog’s Tale”, Hachi mysteriously distracts Parker before he leaves for work, desperate to keep him from leaving.  We don’t understand this at the time, but Hachi probably sensed that Parker was gravely ill. Perhaps virus-detecting dogs will help identify infected people in public places as we return to a more normal life.

And in Wuhan, a little 7-year-old mutt named Xiao Bao came to the hospital with his elderly owner who was gravely ill with the virus.  The man passed away in five days.  But the dog refused to leave.  Hospital workers took pity on the unfortunate animal, feeding and sheltering him while he kept hoping to see his master again.  Staff members tried to remove the dog, and take him away from the hospital, but Xiao Bao kept returning. 

Xiao Bao remained at the hospital for three months.  Like Hachi, it was a display of extraordinary loyalty.  It’s a level of devotion that I, a mere human, can only aspire to.

"The Miracle Worker" (1962)

James Keller (Helen’s father): “Sooner or later we all give up, don’t we?”

Annie Sullivan (Helen’s teacher): “Maybe you all do, but it’s my idea of the original sin.”

Sometimes we just need to be inspired by something outside of our daily experience, to be moved by a story about someone who had no chance in life, yet prevailed.  The life of Helen Keller is the unlikeliest of success stories.  “The Miracle Worker”, director Arthur Penn’s film about Keller and the woman who was the most important influence in her life, is a timely demonstration of hope and perseverance, which still resonates in these days of uncertainty.

Born in Alabama in 1880, Helen suffered a mysterious illness (possibly meningitis) before the age of two. The disease left her blind and deaf, in the most extreme state of isolation, no longer able to communicate or express herself effectively.  She lived in a fog, unruly as an animal, indulged by her family who loved and pitied her, but felt that she was beyond hope.

When Helen was seven years old, Anne Sullivan, a young teacher, arrived at the Keller household to instruct Helen in the skills of language and of life.  Almost blind herself, and raised in terrible conditions in a squalid orphanage, Sullivan emerged from the experience strong-willed, and fought to have a school education, from which she graduated at the top of her class.  

Her quest to teach Helen how to understand words, and to help Helen to communicate using a manual alphabet (and eventually her own voice), was a trying and painstaking challenge. 

As an infant, Helen was so exceptionally intelligent that she could say the word “water”, showing promise and potential until her tragic illness. Under the unrelenting, patient guidance that drove Sullivan to exhaustion, Helen grew to have a life of enormous and enviable achievements. 

In spite of her blindness and deafness, Helen Keller was able to: read people’s lips using her hands; earn a Bachelor’s degree from Radcliffe; write twelve published books and many articles; travel the world to give inspiring lectures about her life; advocate for the disabled, for women’s suffrage and birth control, and for pacifist causes; and help found the ACLU.  In 1964, President Lyndon Johnson awarded Helen the Medal of Freedom.

“The Miracle Worker” recounts the details of that first grueling month in which Anne Sullivan worked with Helen, battling wits with both Helen and her family, subduing her wild behavior, gaining her trust, and finally breaking through and reaching her.

 Adding emotional depth and texture, the film reveals Sullivan’s painful childhood through the creative use of brief, barely-focused flashbacks.

Based on the 1959 Tony Award-winning play by William Gibson that was directed by Arthur Penn (both of whom reteamed for the film as screenwriter and director), “The Miracle Worker” featured acclaimed portrayals by relative unknowns Anne Bancroft, as Ann Sullivan, and young Patty Duke, as Helen Keller.  

In spite of United Artists seeking big-name stars for the film, fortunately Bancroft and Duke were cast to reprise their classic performances.  They both won Oscars for their astonishing work.

Anne Bancroft draws on profound reserves of energy as Anne, and her portrayal is a triumph of strength and the will to keep trying.  Anne Sullivan may have been driven to atone for the death of her little brother in the orphanage, a death that still haunts her dreams, and Bancroft captures that layer of regret beneath the growing love—often the tough love—that she develops for Helen.

Bancroft is heroic in how she portrays Sullivan’s fight to help this unfortunate girl out of darkness, to persistently train Helen out of her unrestrained behavior, and to open up the world to her.  In short, to teach her just one word: “Everything”. 

Patty Duke made her film debut as Helen Keller. Although she was fifteen at the time of the filming, Patty Duke was convincing as a younger Helen, and made this role completely her own.  

It is impossible to fathom the skill with which Duke uses every aspect of her physical presence—her face, her vocal sounds, her blank expression belying her intelligent eyes, her probing hands, her intense and impassioned body movements—to illustrate Helen’s dark inner world of frustration and need.  It is an impossibly physical performance. 

The famous centerpiece, in which Sullivan trains an obstinate Helen to eat properly at the table and fold her napkin, is a violent dance of wills. It is a protracted, knock-down-drag-out scene in which Anne insists that Helen sit in a chair and feed herself with a spoon.  The thrashing and shouting, grabbing and screaming, crashing glass and relentless repetition, are photographed with a hand-held intimacy, making it as strong and compelling a sequence that has ever been filmed. (Both actresses suffered minor injuries over the five days of filming, even though they wore padding under their costumes.)

Arthur Penn’s direction is strong with Bancroft onscreen alone, as she expresses Anne’s desire to help, and doubt about her ability to influence, Helen.  Penn is even more powerful in his scenes with Helen and Anne together, as they test and respond to each other, at first as adversaries, and then slowly as they reach a bond of affection together, all with little spoken dialog. 

Penn wisely treats this film as a chamber piece, in which we are focused intensely on the central characters, to the exclusion of most everything else, opening up the play only enough to make sense of the transitions between scenes. Penn’s use of camera, and his guiding of the two main actors, is superb.  The chiaroscuro lighting gives the film a look and an unforgettable mood that is helped by Laurence Rosenthal’s sparse but moving musical score.

The film’s writing and direction are weakest in sequences involving Helen’s family members.  Important as these scenes are, they are more melodramatic than the film deserves.  Victor Jory and Inga Swenson, as Helen’s caring but overwrought parents, needed a firmer hand to provide some restraint.  Only Andrew Prine, as Helen’s older stepbrother James, brings a cheeky energy and watchability to his scenes with Bancroft.

The film is intense.  You are likely to feel emotionally and physically exhausted at the end.  But the final breakthrough, as a light turns on in Helen’s mind with her utterance of the word “water”, is deeply moving.

Anne Sullivan never gave up hope. The education that she provided Helen Keller did not restore Helen’s sight or hearing, but it gave Helen the opportunity to lead a richer life.  There’s hope for our situation as well.  When a vaccine or treatment for this insidious virus is available to the world, it may not obliterate the virus; but it may allow us to live, once again, fuller, and maybe better, lives.

"A Thousand Clowns" (1965)

“You are about to see a horrible, horrible thing…People going to work.”  Murray the free spirit, to his young nephew Nick, in “A Thousand Clowns”

“A Thousand Clowns”, an amiable adaptation of Herb Gardner’s popular play, is small and charming, and unfortunately has been largely forgotten.  Although it was embraced by those who would go on to create the 1960s counterculture, its ideas about freedom vs. conformity seem almost elementary today.  It is hard to imagine that this was considered subversive in the early 1960s. 

Watching it now during the pandemic, with massive unemployment, fears over re-starting the economy, and a workplace that is suddenly risky and uncertain, “A Thousand Clowns” is like an invitation to step back and re-evaluate the idea of working.  

It also asks us to think about the difference between unlimited self-expression and selfishness. The on-screen antics give us a chance to reflect on our own love-hate relationship with work, and whether our culture makes it possible to earn a living by following our passions, and still meet our responsibilities.

The movie is cleverly written and bitingly funny.  Its romantic notions about following your heart and unleashing the real you—like a clown-car bursting forth with all your many facets, “whooping and hollering and raising hell”—appeal to the dreamer in most of us.  

Although its roots are firmly in a 1960s New York bohemian-coffeehouse-and-psychology mindset, “A Thousand Clowns” translates well to anyone who has longed to walk away from the 9-to-5 routine. It's easy to lose yourself in this film, and to identify with it.   It inspires us to consider abandoning the expectations that our culture places on us, to live spontaneous and free.  

I have grown to love “A Thousand Clowns”, flaws and all.  It is a film whose attitudes foreshadow the hippie movement, which I was too young to be a part of except vicariously; it’s like “Easy Rider” for the suit-and-tie crowd, but humorous, and bittersweet.

The great Jason Robards plays Murray, the ultimate nonconformist.  Murray is a comedy writer who has quit a stultifying job creating scripts for a dreary children’s television show called Chuckles the Chipmunk.  Murray would rather spend his time living an unconventional life: adding to his collection of marvelous junk that decorates his one-room apartment; visiting the Statue of Liberty; and proclaiming holidays to celebrate his self-appointed heroes, like the owner of the local deli.  

The movie is filled with images that symbolize Murray’s free, American soul: soaring seagulls, floating kites, departing cruise ships; and magnificent eagles, Murray’s most prized collector’s item.

Murray is annoying and irresponsible, with a quick mind whose distractions border on attention deficit disorder.  He is also lovable and persuasive, as he decries the idiocy around him and justifies the pursuit of his own heart’s desire.  Robards is sly and loud and endearing, a cheerleader for self-expression, like a favorite high school drama coach. It is the role he was born to play, and he gives a beautiful performance.

Murray takes care of his twelve-year-old nephew Nick (Barry Gordon), who was abandoned by Murray’s sister years ago.  A precocious kid, mature beyond his years, Nick is truly a father to the man. Nick loves Murray, looks up to him, and enjoys his playfulness, adopting behaviors that naturally appeal to a twelve-year-old (like singing duets with a ukulele, and admiring a silly hula-girl doll with boobs that light up). 

But Nick also looks after Murray, keeps him grounded, and reads to him from the Help Wanted ads to recapture the appearance of household stability.  Nick is desperate, because Murray has been ignoring calls and letters from the Child Welfare department.  If Murray doesn’t find steady employment, Nick could be removed from their home.

Right on cue, Albert and Sondra, investigators from the Child Welfare office, arrive to evaluate Murray and Nick’s home life.  In a long and very funny scene, Murray hilariously deflects their psychobabble, but in the end, he cannot buck the establishment.  He must find work in two days, before a custody hearing. 

Sondra, a recent PhD graduate in social work, is hesitant to live fully and lacks a sense of identity. She gets so invested in Murray and Nick's case that she loses her job and her fiancée (who happens to be Albert) and falls in love with Murray.  

Barbara Harris, as Sondra, is the warm heart of the film.  She can suffuse even the most mundane line of dialogue with surprisingly fresh readings.  She brings a welcome softness to the rollicking energy of the film; it’s easy to believe that she might be Murray’s calming salvation.

Can Murray reign in his ‘clowns”, let Sondra rearrange his apartment (which represents his beloved chaos), and accept a conventional workaday life for the sake of those he loves?  This is the big question of “A Thousand Clowns”, and one that remains, to its credit, somewhat ambiguous to the end.

Murray encounters people in his circle who he cannot stand, but who might help him preserve his life with Nick.  Least objectionable is his brother and agent Arnold, played by Oscar-winner Martin Balsam.  Arnold settles for an unexciting life, plays by the rules, accepts the glad-handing, and embraces his mediocrity.  In Arnold’s words, he has “a talent for surrender”.  

In a terrific monolog delivered without irony by Balsam, Arnold champions the average guy, finally proclaiming himself “the best possible Arnold”.  It is a good performance by Balsam, in a role that is unusually low-key for Oscar attention.

Arnold tries to fix up Murray with new writing gigs, but Murray has alienated almost everyone in town, and those that WILL meet with him are total no-nothings.  The most intolerable is Leo (Gene Saks), who plays Chuckles the Chipmunk on TV, and who has been floundering with unfunny routines since Murray quit on him. 

Leo hates kids, knows he is a phony, and relies on marketing analyses to prove to himself that he is funny. Murray recoils at the thought of having to work for Leo again, and Nick is adamant against it; but Murray knows he might have to buckle down and accept his old job back for Nick’s sake.  

Leo's’ scene near the end of the film becomes tiresome, until Nick triumphantly tells him off.    If “A Thousand Clowns” would have benefitted from a shorter running time, this scene would be my first to tighten.

I wonder what Murray would do in today’s situation.  Might working at home be a better fit for him, to avoid what he sees as the stupidity rampant in his profession?  Would Murray rejoice if his job was deemed non-essential?  Or would Murray go crazy in a reside-in-place order, without the ability to move freely? Murray seems to have enough to live on for the time being; but would his quest for individual expression be as strong if his money ran out after a prolonged period of unemployment?  Would he hold out, or take whatever work was available?  (The child welfare hearing forces this issue.)

Admittedly, “A Thousand Clowns” stacks the deck in Murray’s favor to make its point:  the “horrible thing” Murray mentions, the sight of people going to work, is filled with images of blank-faced crowds, moving like lemmings, running anxiously for buses, racing through unhealthy lunches, moving in all directions with no apparent direction or enthusiasm.  (There must be some who love their jobs, and who haven’t sold out?)  These scenes are done in effective, quick and often amusing montages edited by the great Ralph Rosenblum.  

The movie relies on music to keep a frolicsome tone, especially during the montages. Sounding like some demented marching band, the music emphasizes the notion that the American Dream has gone haywire.  The manic arrangements of Sousa marches and other patriotic songs run counterpoint to the miserable and frantic activity of the crowds.   The score is what used to be called whimsical, although occasionally the forced musical irony is a tad too loud. 

Quibbles aside, I was struck by how much I was absorbed by “A Thousand Clowns” in a recent viewing. I bought into Murray’s philosophy, and rooted for him.   I enjoyed Murray’s romance with Sondra, and how it softened the serious, buttoned-down material near the end.  The memorable dialog and monologues inspired me with their originality and good sense.  I loved the infrequent but stunning use of closeups on the actors’ faces, which conveyed surprising depth of emotion and meaning.   

The film also made me think hard about the future of the workplace, from the perspective of a character who had an unusual way of looking at life.  Considering today’s career challenges, I found Murray’s philosophy refreshing, a reminder of the faded idealism of the 1960s.  I wondered whether the moment is right for our culture to incorporate some of Murray’s views, about individuality and loving life, into a new paradigm of working.