"The Russians Are Coming! The Russians Are Coming!" (1966)

 

“I thought all the nuts went home on Labor Day.”   Police Chief Mattocks (Brian Keith), assessing the madness, in “The Russians are Coming…”

“The Russians Are Coming, The Russian Are Coming” is a hilarious satire that pokes fun at American and Russian bluster and mistrust during the 1960s Cold War.  It boasts a large cast, and a script that intercuts many amusing subplots. It all happens on a chaotic Sunday in a small New England town. “The Russians are Coming…”  is a silly, witty, raucous, sentimental, ultimately pointed barb at American foibles. 

It is expertly directed and energetically performed, with sly commentary served up with every laugh.  The movie glides by, carrying us along on a madcap spree, reflecting with laugh-out-loud understanding (and gentle embarrassment) our national character.

Given the perspective of history, and a rising political intrigue between America and Russia that may be more dangerous than before, the film seems almost naïve, a period-piece, an easy, sitcom-like pipe-dream of peaceful coexistence. 

Ultimately, the film distills all of the wild misunderstandings into a cliffhanger of a climax, a scene that plays like a metaphor for the impossibility of finding agreement until the most vulnerable among us face a tragic outcome.

The film is like a Hit-Parade of great actors and comedians of the era:  Carl Reiner plays the hapless writer who almost starts World War 3; Eva Marie Saint is his practical wife who winds up saving the day; Brian Keith portrays the grumbly, no-nonsense Sheriff; Jonathan Winters is a disorganized deputy with a large family; and Paul Ford does his typical routine, playing a blowhard ex-military general with a pathetic memorial sword.

Alan Arkin, in his film debut, is the Russian soldier who is desperate to do what’s right, but panics with comic results.  Arkin is marvelous, speaking flawless Russian, and slowly coming undone under a deadpan façade. Theodore Bikel is convincing as the buffoonish submarine captain.

Director Norman Jewison handles the logistics of the complex plot with ease. It’s a conventional-looking comedy, but he and his editor, Hal Ashby, introduce some subversive, New Wave techniques (Russian dialog delivered without subtitles; scenes cut in mid-sentence; a contemporary, French-style soft-focus for a romantic interlude).  

Johnny Mandel’s score is fun, blending Russian themes and a satiric military march with fifes and whistles.

I won’t try to describe the entire plot, but here’s a summary:

A blustery Russian submarine captain brings his boat too close to the sleepy fishing village of Gloucester Island, and runs it aground.  A group of Russian sailors enters the town to find a motorboat to help move their sub back to sea. Then the mayhem begins.  

Arkin and his crew meet Reiner and his family, struggle to find car keys, and almost destroy the house. They encounter an old woman (who despite her age can deliver a fierce kick) and her oblivious husband;  tie up a gossipy telephone operator (who later gets tied up to the writer in the movies funniest scene); and evade the skeptical town sheriff and his motley crew of deputies; 

The town drunk scurries to mount his reluctant horse, Beatrice, so he can warn the  residents of an invasion a-la Paul Revere. 

The Russians borrow a station wagon that runs out of gas; rummage through a dry-cleaning shop for everyday American "disguises"; and conduct a quick English lesson to try to pass as locals. 

A young Russian sailor, ordered to guard the writer’s family, has his gun stolen in a melee, and later falls in love with the family’s babysitter.

Gossip, misinformation, and misguided fear escalate the situation out of control like the old game of “telephone”. What started as an accident has blown up into the takeover of the country by Russian parachutists, who have landed at the small airport.  The other residents of the island are driven into a panic of comic misunderstanding.

Armed with guns and weapons of all sorts, the villagers amass at the harbor to confront the self-important submarine commander, who orders the ship's big guns directed at the gathered crowd.  Two young boys climb up the church steeple to get a better look, and observe as the townspeople and the Russian sailors, all of them nervous and frightened, freeze in a standoff, ready but unwilling to face the carnage of a gunfight.  

This sudden life-or-death crisis makes us hold our breath; the camera slowly moves over the crowd with weapons drawn.  It is a protracted sequence that doesn’t seem to end.

And then, something happens that horrifies the townspeople and the Russians, creating a new, more urgent crisis: one of the boys up on the church steeple is in mortal danger.  To resolve it, both sides must forget their differences.

The scene’s most obvious parallel for today's audience is the standoff between Russian bureaucrats, who hope to misinform us and throw our election, and American voters.  

But the more intriguing parallel suggested by this standoff is the unfortunate stalemate between those Americans who accept mask-wearing and following safety protocols during the pandemic; and those who steadfastly align themselves against all of that, thinking that to do so makes them look weak (ironically, the law-and-order crowd.)

As characters from America and Russia came together in a human pyramid in this scene, I had an unfortunate thought about vulnerable people, especially children, who are suffering and dying because of stubbornness.  I wondered: if this scene took place during our current polarization over the politics of mask-wearing, would some people be so busy holding to their position that they wouldn't care what happened to that child?

“The Russians are Coming…”, reminds us of our ignorance, our lack of understanding, and our arrogance.  We seem to thrive on chaos, the movie says with a laugh, until chaos brings us to a deadly moment of truth.

Watching this movie today, where even solutions to ending a deadly pandemic are dividing us, “The Russians are Coming…” gives us reason to pause, and think about how maddening our divisiveness is, as well as the idiocy of equating safety with the loss of Liberty.  

There’s plenty of folly to go around, and we all can see ourselves in some of the characters in this movie.  I suspect that only those who share a certain political viewpoint could laugh at themselves here; others would take offense to the humor, or just won’t get the joke.

"On Golden Pond" (1981)

 

“Your fascination with dying is beginning to frazzle my good humor.”  Ethel Thayer (Katharine Hepburn) to husband Norman (Henry Fonda), “On Golden Pond”

The pandemic has robbed us of a year of our lives, maybe more. Young people and seniors, especially, have had so much important time ripped away from them.  The danger of contagion, the risk of serious complications and fatality, make it impossible to escape. 

The limitations placed upon us by the virus have delayed or destroyed common rites of passage for the young, like graduation, prom, athletic achievement, and dating, things that can never be recaptured in the same way later on.  For those in their mature years, the activities that were planned for retirement have been interrupted, maybe indefinitely, cheating seniors out of social connections, cultural experiences and travel, while their years of health and mobility pass quickly by.   The very old have it worst of all, being completely cut off from life in the little time that remains to live.

A few weeks ago, I took another look at the 1980 Oscar-winning “Ordinary People”, which dramatized the challenges of a depressed high school student after his straitlaced family suffers a terrible loss.  Recently, I re-visited “On Golden Pond”, the story of an elderly couple adjusting to life’s final chapter.  To my surprise, the two films are unlikely companion pieces.

Although not similar in style or plot, both films examine characters for whom death has become a constant presence. The connecting thread in both films is a sense of being cheated out of an important phase of living.  Young Conrad Jarrett in “Ordinary People” is unable to accept his brother’s death and contemplates suicide; old Norman Thayer in “On Golden Pond” obsesses about his encroaching departure from life.

While “Ordinary People” is an intense and cathartic look at depression and suicide among the young, “On Golden Pond” is a comic drama about aging and dying that approaches a number of difficult subjects, and then smooths them away.  It’s pure comfort food, an easygoing piece of pop entertainment that doesn’t want to devastate us.  To its great credit, it provides us with an experience that is rare in modern American film: it lets us identify with an elderly couple, approaching their last sunset together, played by two of cinema’s most enduring icons.

Ethel and Norman Thayer (Katharine Hepburn and Henry Fonda, both of them splendidly, unashamedly older) arrive at their cabin on Golden Pond, somewhere in New England, to spend another summer together while there is still time.   Norman, who is about to turn 80, has heart trouble and is starting to forget things.

They go about their daily routine, canoe on the lake, watch a pair of loons who symbolize their partnership, and enjoy some peaceful, good-natured sparring.  Ethel is energetic, outgoing, and fiercely protective of Norman.  Norman is dryly humorous, cynical, even bitter about the decline of his mind and body, and the inevitability of death.  Ethel is able to take Norman’s rants in stride, and tries her best to help instill in him a sense of confidence, and competence.  It is no easy task. 

In this particular summer, they are visited by their daughter Chelsea (Jane Fonda, Henry’s actual daughter), with whom Norman has had a troubled relationship.  Chelsea and her new fiancé, Bill (Dabney Coleman), are on their way to Europe, and ask Norman and Ethel to take care of Bill’s thirteen-year-old son, Billy (Doug McKeon), for the month that they are away.

The first third of “On Golden Pond” is the most effective.  It is leisurely paced, and filled with honest sentiment.  We get to know the two main characters, observe their relationship, and glean bits and pieces of their past.  This first section comes together with a mood of autumnal reverie, intimacy, and metaphoric farewell.  If the film ended there, or developed into a 2-character piece about Norman and Ethel's relationship, the movie might have been a true cinema classic.

The immediate conflict between 76-year-old Norman and 13-year-old Billy becomes the focus of the middle section of the film.  

When Bill and Chelsea return to see that Billy and Noman have become best buddies, the long-buried tensions between Chelsea and her father come to the fore, while Ethel plays referee, in the film’s final section.

The second two thirds attempt to add depth to the theme of aging.  We are introduced to relevant ideas: the clash of cultures across generations; the unresolved issues between parents and children; the swift passing of time, and the need for reconciliation; the terror of life-threatening illness, and of losing one’s memory; and the heroics of caregiving.  

Each one alone could make great drama; but after touching on them, the film doesn’t fully develop them. “On Golden Pond” prefers a feel-good approach, so its issues aren’t examined too deeply, and we want more.   

In several moments throughout the film, just as a point is about to be made, and a climactic resolution reached, the movie backs off to idyllic (and admittedly beautiful) images of nature, with Dave Grusin’s music playing on the soundtrack. 

Grusin has written a beautiful recurring theme.  It sets an emotional tone that honors the characters and tugs at the heart.  But Grusin overplays his hand, and overwrites his score.  In one glaring sequence, when Norman loses his way and panics, Grusin’s music pours on the dread, in case the audience won’t know how to react.  It would have been more effective to  play the scene without music, using only natural sounds, and allow us to feel Norman’s dilemma personally, making his terror more relatable. 

Some of the humor is badly dated (the word “lesbian” is used a couple times just for a laugh). The screenplay contains some landmines of stereotypically “cute” elderly behavior, for comic effect (like flipping a middle finger, or uttering the words “old poop”).  To the actors’ credit, especially Katharine Hepburn's, they mostly sidestep these hazards.

Hepburn consistently amazes in a breathtakingly physical performance. She is able to modulate her dialog around her pronounced tremor, so that the rhythms are natural, and we can understand every word.  Her exquisite skill in conveying feeling, her eyes and face registering every nuance, her tearful expression of heartbreak, her spontaneous and natural laughter, are the culmination of years of brilliance by this veteran performer.

Hepburn’s Ethel is like an elder version of the strong, supportive wife she played in “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner”; but here she pulls out all the stops.  She’s a marvel as she powers a motorboat, imitates the loons, delivers dramatic monologues, goes toe to toe with her co-stars, sings and dances an old campfire song, dives in the lake, swims to the rescue, and tearfully tends to Norman in a tense moment.

Henry Fonda is a treasure in this role, which was his swan song.  His Norman is every vulnerable, exasperating elderly relative or neighbor that most of us have ever known. Fonda plays the role gamely, handling his barbs and mind-games, drawling his dialogue in that familiar voice, but creating a unique character, even when the script forces Norman's more frustrating aspects.  

For this role, Fonda won his first, well-deserved Best Actor Oscar, for which he was also a sentimental favorite.  Hepburn nabbed a Best Actress Oscar as well, her fourth, a record that holds today.

Jane Fonda plays a supporting role as their misunderstood grown daughter, still trying to live up to her father’s impossible expectations.  She is wonderful in what is really a thankless job (more later).  Dabney Coleman has a terrific exchange with Norman, and stands up to him gently and firmly, in what may be the best monologue in the script.

13-year-old Doug McKeon, playing Billy, holds his own with the veteran actors, in an amusing display of toughness, while befuddled and mystified by the old man he is forced to spend time with.  His natural progression from resistance to respect, and finally love, holds the center of the film.  McKeon’s and Fonda’s scenes are filled with humorous suspense, surprise, and smiles.

As much as this film moves me, I have some unresolved feelings about “On Golden Pond”.  These feelings were unexpected, and ironic, since I am getting closer to Ethel and Norman’s age.  Criticizing this film feels as though I'm disrespecting my own departed grandparents; but as the script is written, I never really believe in the conflict between Norman and Chelsea.  

Had it not been for the casting of an actual father and daughter duo, I wouldn’t have cared at all.  Fortunately, Jane and Henry Fonda were cast, and are playing out a psychodrama of some kind between them, one that goes beyond the confines of the script.  That makes their relationship intriguing, and worth caring about. 

We are asked to accept Chelsea as a frustrated adult who hasn’t moved on.   There is some business about her not visiting for long stretches, but almost nothing about what happened between her and Norman in her youth, or why they have become alienated from each other.  

In a heated exchange, she accuses him for his over-competitiveness, and his liking to “beat” people (the suggestion of abuse is unfortunate and probably unintended).  The disconnect between them is oversimplified:  Chelsea doesn’t know the model car she rented, which makes Norman grumble.

Later, she must prove herself to Norman by doing a backflip into the lake. That backflip, which she could never do before, is meant to represent all of the ways she disappointed Norman; when she finally does it, she earns Norman’s approval because now, I guess, she is one of the boys.

That Norman does not accept Chelsea on her own merits is never clearly explored. How exactly has she wronged him, besides rarely visiting?  Chelsea is set up to be some sort of a villain; even the loving, understanding Ethel berates her for complaining, slaps her in a sudden fit of anger, and advises her to get on with her life.  

But Norman demonstrates little tenderness for Chelsea, and we don’t get much background beyond the pallid hints that are dropped at intervals.  This is the fault of the writing, and of unimaginative direction.  While the film clearly sets up Norman and Ethel as the golden heroes of the piece, I found myself taking Chelsea’s side, and Ethel and Norman’s united front against her doesn't feel right.

This subplot is a flaw, in my opinion, but it doesn’t diminish the power of the central relationship.  Near the end, when it looks like Norman might be down for the count, Ethel’s outpouring of emotion, and her preparation for mourning, are so real, it is impossible not to feel the pain of a possible loss.  Hepburn utters the film’s most honest sentiment: “This is the first time that I really felt we were going to die…You’ve been talking about death since we met but this is the first time I really felt it.”

Over the last year, the pandemic has made death seem ever-present.  People in their later years are facing their mortality even more than they normally do.  The virus is all around us.  We are constantly reminded of the danger.  Time is slipping away as we isolate ourselves, and hope for a breakthrough. The politics surrounding the disease also add to already unbearable anxiety.

We do what we can to stay healthy, stay calm, stay alive.  Connecting in any way we can with people, keeping physically active, and seeking positive messages help relieve some stress. So do movies, especially when they give us characters who prevail over obstacles we all face.  In times like these, it's a comfort to keep company with characters like Norman and Ethel Thayer, flaws and all.

"The Wizard of Oz" (1939)

 

“Somewhere…the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.”  “Over the Rainbow”

“The Wizard of Oz” is not so much a movie as it is a ritual.  It is a cornerstone of the childhoods of millions. As such, it is nearly critic-proof, and almost impossible to look at it objectively today solely on its merits as a motion picture.

Having said that, when I am able to pull myself out of the spell it casts on me, I must say that “The Wizard of Oz” is a superior piece of movie craftsmanship.  It is beautifully photographed, terrifically designed, with sly humor and deep sentiment, awe-inspiring special effects, and such efficient storytelling  and direction that it goes by like a flash.  It is a rare cinematic classic: every single frame of this film is an iconic moment.

Made in 1939, which is considered to be the greatest year of the Hollywood renaissance, “The Wizard of Oz” was not an immediate success in theaters, competing with classics such as “Gone With the Wind”, “Stagecoach”, “Wuthering Heights” and “Goodbye, Mr. Chips” for the attention of moviegoers. 

It was not until the 1960s, when it began its annual broadcasts on network television, that it found a mass audience of kids of all ages, and became the beloved experience it is today, part of the fabric of American culture.

I remember “The Wizard of Oz” better than I do some parts of my childhood.  My earliest memories of it are all in black-and-white, when my sister and I sprawled on the floor in front of our family’s Zenith black-and-white console TV.  Once our family could afford to join the ranks of color-TV owners, I still recall my excitement, when I first discovered that the scenes in Kansas were the only ones in sepia tones, while the sequences in Oz were in gorgeous, fanciful hues!

Even though I have practically memorized the film, I still enjoy it, in the same way I enjoy a familiar meal, or a drive along a well-loved, well-traveled road.  I looked at the film again recently, in the spirit of nostalgia that brought me back to “Born Free” a couple of weeks ago.  It's filled with relevant messages, and  illustrates ways to live and stay true to our convictions in a world that the filmmakers could never have imagined in 1939.

I wanted to reconnect with that part of myself that has not completely disappeared, a product of a set of values and a point of view that the world once took for granted as right and good. Movies like “The Wizard of Oz” reinforced this world view in our young imaginations, during the powerful moment of childhood when we internalized things that became the code by which we lived our lives.

These things---virtues like kindness, caring, intellect, fair play, and conviction-- are now openly mocked in this time of pandemic uncertainty and political nightmare.  They seem to be in danger of disappearing altogether.

There may be those who are still unfamiliar with “The Wizard of Oz”, whose influence on our culture makes it the “Star Wars” of the pre-1970s era.  (The difference is that “Wizard of Oz” is respected as a work of popular cinematic art, without decades of “Oz” sequels, action figures or Fan Conventions, all the things spawned by "Star Wars", that make the Lucasfilm franchise  less like cinema, and more like an assembly line, or an amusement park.)

For those who are not familiar, “The Wizard of Oz” is the tale of Dorothy, a poor Kansas farmgirl who leads a seemingly dreary, neglected life with her Aunt Em and Uncle Henry.  Her only confidant is the feisty little terrier, Toto.  Dorothy dreams of escape to a beautiful, magical place over the rainbow, one that she heard of in a lullaby.  She sings of her yearning to Toto.  

When Toto is taken away by a cruel neighbor, Dorothy runs away after Toto escapes and comes back to her. She meets a kindly, absent-minded traveling showman who gently urges her not to leave home.  Just as she gets back, a tornado uproots Dorothy’s house, and before she can take shelter with her family, she and Toto are whisked away by the twister to that magical land over the rainbow. 

To get back home, Dorothy must follow the advice of a Good Witch, face her fear of the evil Wicked Witch, and travel to see the Great Wizard of Oz.  Along the way, she meets three amusing companions: a Scarecrow without a brain, a Tin Woodsman without a heart, and a Cowardly Lion. 

Together, with Toto always near, they make the dangerous adventure along the Yellow Brick Road to see the Wizard of Oz to ask him for the things they want most in the world.  On her journey, Dorothy learns some valuable lessons about her heart’s desire.

The movie is filled with color, energy, and magic, and creative creatures like munchkins, talking apple trees and flying monkeys. There are some truly terrifying moments, and lots of music and songs.  One of the songs, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", is an American standard.  It is impossible to believe that “Over the Rainbow”, one of the most beautiful songs ever written for a movie, was almost cut out of the film, because the studio felt it slowed it down.

This is Judy Garland’s best-loved role, the one for which she will always be remembered.  Her wistful rendition of “Over the Rainbow” hit me deeply, as I listened to it during the most uncertain and anxiety-producing time in my life.  Its beautiful melody and simple tone of longing help us to release our pent-up emotions, and give us a way to imagine our escape from an as-yet inescapable situation.

The song’s image of a trouble-free world of acceptance made it an anthem of gay men, who wanted a place to be themselves without fear.  Now, instead of feeding my sense of gay martyrdom, the number shakes me to my foundation, makes me sad for where we are now, and fuels my hope for a healthier, kinder future.

I don’t really need a place where troubles melt like lemon drops: I would be satisfied to return to that idyllic week four years ago, after the Chicago Cubs won the World Series, and before the last Presidential Election.  As crazy as the world might have seemed then, it was nothing compared to today.

(If only we had paid no attention to the man behind the curtain.  Maybe we can take that to heart this time.)

No movie has ever created a more intense and authentic-looking tornado sequence than “The Wizard of Oz”, even with Hollywood’s primitive tools for special effects in 1939.  The funnel cloud, the billowing dust, the creeping movement toward the house, the objects buffeted and flying up into the vortex, the freight-train like din of the howling wind, the suspense as Dorothy and Toto are in danger for their lives: this sequence has never been matched for its physical spectacle as well as its power to propel the narrative.   

It also feels like a metaphor for the unpredictable health danger now in the world's midst.

Was there ever a more frightening villain in American movies than the Wicked Witch of the West?  Actress Margaret Hamilton’s already unusual, sharp features are made up in a hellish green-and-red mask of pure malevolence, her bony fingers constantly probing as if toying with a victim like a spider. 

It is a physically and vocally demanding performance by Hamilton, in which she creates a character totally devoid of sentiment and empathy.  Like a virus.  Or a political figure gone haywire. She not only has a supreme power to destroy, but has no feeling other than shrill anger and contempt. She exists only to instill fear. 

It makes sense that such a strong presence in the film has to be destroyed at the climax.  My sister and I watched the movie as kids especially to see the famous scene where the Wicked Witch is doused with water and melts away.  As she cries in shock, sinking into the floor, she laments the end of her “beautiful wickedness”.  Today, those very words carry a lot of ironic weight.

I often say that animals, particularly dogs, will save our humanity.  Toto, who is ever-present and usually in the background, comes to the fore when Dorothy is imprisoned in the Witch’s castle, and becomes a hero.  The fact that Toto saves the day never surprised me, even as a child, and I reacted then (and now) with a silent cheer.  

Today, Toto seems to stand in for all of the dogs who have been companions during the virus, a presence in the background of the crisis who have extended themselves in friendship, who help us forget the trouble around the corner, and force us back in the moment.

What was once a society on the move, has been stopped in its tracks for months.  Dorothy has the ultimate travel experience to the most exotic of destinations.  Once she is safe back in Kansas, she realizes that everything she loves is right in her backyard, and that she would never need to look for happiness anywhere else.

“The Wizard of Oz” is like a cautionary tale for the travel industry.  Will we accept that we won’t travel again like before? Will we discover that we can’t be happier than we are at home?

We all sentimentalize our childhoods.  We romanticize our families and homes of origin, choosing to downplay the drudgery and even the pain of our earlier days.  Maybe that’s why I get so emotional at the end of “The Wizard of Oz”.  Just as Dorothy proclaims “there’s no place like home”, forgetting that she WAS ignored and her dog was imperiled before her long journey, I tend to remember the best parts of my growing up, and the things that I miss.

As a culture, trying to survive a pandemic with very little information, and having to let go of things we loved, before the disease made them unsafe or disappear altogether, we probably have a sentimental, romanticized image of what life was like before all of this happened, and we all yearn in our own way to escape to a place where we can all relax again.

"Born Free" (1966)

 

Recently, the Phoenix Zoo closed, another victim of the pandemic.  My husband and I are members of the zoo, and live close enough to walk, if we choose to make the thirty-minute hike.  Although we visit there maybe only four times a year, we love all of our visits.  Especially enjoyable are the early morning hours, when many of the animals are out and active; and the night strolls of the colorful Zoo Lights event, during the winter months around the holiday season.

Before it reopened  with the typical list of (barely enforced) safety measures in place, the closing of the Phoenix zoo made me sad, and fittingly nostalgic.  Yet another one of my favorite getaway places was off-limits, further limiting those unique opportunities for enriching the mind and the senses, enrichment that makes life more meaningful.

To deal with these feelings, I regressed to memories of childhood zoo visits.  The Chicago area, where I was raised, has two world-famous zoos:  Lincoln Park Zoo, located near Lake Michigan in the same-named neighborhood; and the sprawling Brookfield Zoo, situated in a working-class western suburb about a mile from where I grew up.

Between grade-school field trips and family outings, I might have visited the zoo seven or eight times a year, during the fleeting Spring and Summer months (we never went in the winter).  Each time, I felt a giddy sense of awe,  a renewed thrill of seeing exotic animals from around the world, which I had only seen from pictures in books and on television, and that I would never find roaming the parks and forest preserves of Chicago.  

No matter how many times I saw a lion or a giraffe, a flock of flamingos or a plodding bear, I was filled with respect and affection for them, and I never grew tired of them.  I still don’t.

While the zoo was still a Covid-memory and off-limits, I decided to have another look at a movie I had not seen in many years, one that seemed appropriate to this precise circumstance: “Born Free”.

“Born Free” was a rite-of-passage for most middle-class suburban kids during the 1960s.  Parents everywhere took their children to packed theaters to see this wondrous, true story about George and Joy Adamson, a husband-and-wife team of British naturalists working in Kenya. George is a senior game warden and conservationist, and Joy is a naturalist and artist.

When a notorious man-eating lion and his mate are killed by humans in self-defense against an attack, George and Joy rescue and raise one of the three orphaned lion cubs. They name her Elsa.

The film is a simple chronicle of the adventures they share with Elsa, in scenes filled with laughter and danger, as Elsa grows into a beautiful lioness who is nevertheless attached to,  and dependent on, her human companions. As Elsa matures, and starts to display some of her natural instincts, George and Joy make the heartbreaking decision to prepare Elsa to return to the wild, where she can live free, rather than in captivity in a zoo.

I remember as a youngster being absorbed by the film. I loved watching the antics of Elsa and the other animals, and fascinated by their natural behaviors.  I was also moved deeply by the film's bittersweet resolution, and the way the film tugged at the heartstrings, even though I knew even then that boys were not supposed to cry at movies. 

But there are two components of “Born Free” that are especially memorable from my first viewing as a nine-year-old.

First is the opening scene, which traumatized me, before the lion cubs appeared in their playful frolicking.  A group of Kenyan women, gathered at the local brook to wash their clothes, are stalked by the killer lion who, it turns out, is Elsa’s sire.  One woman looks up and screams, as the lion lunges toward her.  

We do not see the woman attacked.  Instead, we see the rapidly moving water, as a pile of clothing floats by; and then the water flows red.  This was terrifying for me as a child and a testament to the power of suggestion in films, especially those meant for young viewers.

The second most memorable component of “Born Free”, which still resonates, is its score.  The title song, and the heart-rending music by the great John Barry, were everywhere on radio and TV, and were covered by many popular singers and orchestras of the day.  The song from “Born Free” was an indelible part of my life's soundtrack.  It stirs up my memory of this tale of human-animal friendship and survival.  The song and the score were tremendous smash hits, and won the film its two Oscars.

The film played in theaters when audiences were more open to stories about wild creatures.  Animals appeared more frequently in movies than they do now, and stories about nature were regularly on TV, especially live-action shows like Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, Jacques Cousteau ‘s oceanography specials, and fictional series like “Daktari”, inspired by another big zoo-hunter movie, Howard Hawks’ “Hatari”, from 1962.  Movie screens also featured a steady diet of Disney nature documentaries for years, which always brought crowds of families.

“Born Free” was, and still is, the most powerful, entertaining and popular of its kind.  I still lose myself in Elsa’s story today, but I also have more perspective on it as a piece of filmmaking.  The film was based on Joy Adamson’s international best-selling book, a narrative with photographs about her odyssey with Elsa the lion. As simple and compelling as the story is, this film must have been a really complicated shoot.  

Credit is due to director James Hill for solving what must have been a series of logistical nightmares, working on a remote location, battling heat and insects, wrangling the animals to get the behaviors necessary to tell the story, and deliver a family-friendly yet powerful finished work.  George Adamson himself acted as advisor to the project.

Playing George and Joy Adamson, Virginia McKenna and Bill Travers were themselves a married couple who appeared in a few films together. Their portrayals were so natural and heartfelt (especially McKenna) that they nearly stole the show from the fictional Elsa!  It’s not easy to incorporate so much of one’s self into a dramatized character based on an actual person.  Both McKenna and Travers triumphed with strong performances, and their characterizations introduced generations to the Adamsons and their important work for wildlife.

These two actors would forever be associated with “Born Free”, and in turn the experience changed their lives.  After “Born Free”, McKenna and Travers became avid animal activists, and eventually created the Born Free Foundation, which sought to advocate for wild creatures and prevent their captivity.  They also created the Zoo Watch, in which they would visit zoos to check on conditions in which wild animals were kept captive.

Although I didn’t know it then, “Born Free” helped change me, too.  Identifying so closely with a cuddly creature who evolved into a magnificent animal, and who would never again be happy with human companionship—in fact, whose instincts might make her dangerous to humans—planted in me the seeds of affection respect for animals  If it worked on me in sentimental ways, it was all for good.

“Born Free” was such a milestone in my early moviegoing life, that today I choose to overlook my feelings of ambiguity about the film’s message of freedom balanced against my love of visiting the zoo.  It’s ironic that a zoo was considered too confining for a creature like Elsa who was more or less domesticated, but “Born Free” had the best intentions at heart, so irony has no place as I watch it today.  

And today especially, zoos like the Phoenix zoo are painstaking in creating the most spacious, natural-feeling environments for the animals in their care.  Captivity, yes.  Confinement, no.

Watching “Born Free” today in a less innocent time (for me anyway), and in a world that is more divided and complicated partly due to the pandemic, I have to consider the very idea of freedom, and of what it means to live free.  Elsa, even when she adjusted to a free life in the wild, had to observe hierarchies and certain rules of behavior just to stay alive.  Whether you abide by the rules of the jungle or, in a modern society, the Rules of the Road, ignoring them could be deadly.

Living with this virus, too, requires adherence to a certain set of rules, whether it be distancing or mask-wearing, or whatever is recommended to avoid catching it. So many have misconstrued these rules as a threat to one’s personal freedom.  But not observing them, like not stopping for a red light, might have lethal consequences.

Animals have more common sense, I think.

 

"The Incredible Shrinking Man" (1957)

 

“I had presumed upon nature. That existence begins and ends is man’s conception, not nature’s... All this vast majesty of creation, it had to mean something.  And then I meant something too.” -- Grant Williams as Scott Carey, in the final moments of "The Incredible Shrinking Man"

As the pandemic drags into the middle of September, a sense of numbness has set in. Call it Covid-fatigue.  I can see it in the diminished frequency of my writing.  

Re-visiting old movies, and writing about their renewed relevance for our situation, started out as an exciting idea. It provided me with a way to parlay my inarticulate thoughts and feelings into a sort of coherent diary of the months during the pandemic, and to chronicle my state of mind during this health nightmare. 

Anxiety over the unknown dangers of the coronavirus, and uncertainty about the duration of lockdowns and social distancing, fueled my initial, nervous energy to find new relevance in these films, and to keep writing about them to maintain a sense of purpose and stay sane.

In writing about movies, the subject I loved best, I might encourage a brand-new audience to discover films that do not deserve to be forgotten.   I wanted to make a case that these earlier films, which were important in their day, matter as much today as when they were popular, some maybe more.

Lately, Covid-fatigue, like a new, free-form anxiety, has had a paralyzing effect.   I was afraid that my pipeline was running dry, that I had run out of movies to write about in this way, that the project was coming to an end.   

Not only that, but the health crisis, which has its own set of obstacles and dangers to overcome, has become entwined with politics, so that it is becoming more difficult to deal with Covid-19 by itself without dragging in our depressing, political national drama. 

It is bad enough to be in a state of mourning for the death of a familiar way of life, which I now see is like the depression stage of mourning.  Add to it the barrage of petty, angry, irrational politics which have co-opted the pandemic, and turned it into a weapon to divide us, and it requires an impossible amount of energy to navigate it all.

It sometimes helps me to regress a little bit, and remember the things I enjoyed as a child, to bring me back to myself.

So, there was something reassuring about watching “The Incredible Shrinking Man” a giddy-scary, slightly silly yet surprisingly profound black-and-white science fiction melodrama from 1957. As a child in grade school, I loved these atomic-age thrillers, mostly set in the desert southwest, featuring gigantic lizards, enormous spiders and prehistoric creatures wreaking havoc on crowds of regular people. (My husband would say that I have never completely outgrown my love for them).

The simple premise of “The Incredible Shrinking Man” has main character Scott Carey (Grant Williams) being covered by a mysterious mist while out on a boating excursion with his wife, Louise (Randy Stewart).  Suddenly, he begins to shrink to nothingness, confounding the medical community, and creating a media frenzy.  As he shrinks, his heartbroken and understanding wife pledges to help him recover. Carey, dwindling ever faster, tries to befriend a circus midget, before needing to be housed inside a child’s playhouse. 

After a terrifying encounter with the family cat, that Louise thinks has killed him, Scott is lost in the basement, struggling to survive, trying to find shelter in a matchbox, and competing for scraps of food with a hair-raising black spider that is already three times his size.

It’s comforting to watch this for nostalgia, to recapture the thrills I used to have in the safety of my parents living room, where I tuned in after school on the old Zenith black-and-white console television.  It was enough back then to wait with dizzy anticipation for the scary moments, the special effects (which I prayed were actually real somehow), and for the creatures that had me staring wide-eyed, until the inevitable letdown of their destruction before the films ended.

A second reason I find “The Incredible Shrinking Man” comforting is that It goes beyond the simple surface adventure.  With the second half of the film virtually a one-man show, we hear Scott Carey’s thoughts as he narrates for us, inviting us into his feelings of terror and determination to survive.  He also considers what it all means: what it means to be human as he disappears, and whether he matters in the vast universe, even as he shrinks so small that he can fit through the tiny holes of a window screen.

Along with the unusual intelligence of the script, and the moving (if occasionally overwritten) reflections on the meaning of life, “The Incredible Shrinking Man” allows me to observe a character in the midst of surreal, extreme circumstances, who uses his wiles and his strength to keep on living, even as the odds of survival turn more and more against him.

There’s an apt metaphor here. I myself don’t feel like I’m shrinking, but rather that my options in life are dwindling because of the necessary mitigation of the virus.  And while I can hope for a return to normal life someday, with better leadership and a good vaccine, Scott Carey doesn’t have that hope.  

More than that, as Scott shrinks, the everyday surroundings and items of his life actually grow to dangerous proportions: a benign storm drain in the basement floor can be a deadly whirlpool; a wooden paint-stirrer might give way to his plunge into an abyss; and tiny critters we barely notice, even a family pet, become mortal enemies.

For me, it’s the metaphor of a world becoming too overwhelming, and feeling helpless to make a difference, that works in this film. The virus, the political instability, and the creeping incivility around us today is captured in images Scott Carey’s world as it grows too big and dangerous around him. 

But just as Scott does in the film, I find ways to adjust, to survive, to avoid danger, and to make my life matter.  Unlike him, I have the support of special loved ones, and good friends, to help me through, which he loses as the film goes on.

The movie is extremely well-made for a picture of this genre and lower budget.  The special effects are quite good.  By today’s standards, some of the photographic effects are weak, and some of the music cues are laughably over the top; but other effects, like Scott’s encounters with the cat and the spider, are shockingly good (and gory). The sets are top-notch, clever and very plausible, recreating mundane objects of his home in gigantic replicas, of furniture, pencils, mousetraps, and spiderwebs.

Best of all are the performers.  Grant Williams is somewhat limited as an actor, but is so watchable that we don't really care.  Here, he finds the right character for his capabilities.  He is appropriately athletic and moves well.  His narration is even more heartfelt than his delivery of dialogue on screen. It’s enthralling to watch him fashion a weapon out of a needle and thread, cut his clothing to fit his smaller body, and convey in his eyes the quick thinking as he makes life-or-death decisions.

Even better is Randy Stewart as Louise.  Her complete commitment to the role, her playing it completely straight as a woman slowly losing the love of her life, is so convincing, that it lifts the entire film into a higher level of believability.  I think it’s the purest, best piece of acting I have ever seen in a film of this type.

After finding comfort in watching “The Incredible Shrinking Man”. I have also found new energy to keep my writing going.  New classic movies are emerging for me that reveal new light on various facets of our pandemic.  A few will provide apt comparisons not only to our dealing with Covid, but to the political circus we are trapped in.

And once I write what will eventually be my last piece for this blog, I may finally pass into the final stage of mourning the old life, just as Scott Carey did: acceptance.

"Ordinary People" (1980)

 

“Isn’t it time we got back to normal?”  Beth Jarrett (Mary Tyler Moore), a cold, grieving mother denying the turmoil around her, in ‘Ordinary People’

How many of us have desperately uttered the above quote lately, months after Covid-19 has upended almost everything?   And how many, in positions of power, have said it prematurely in the midst of the chaos of the pandemic, which is not yet ready to let that inevitable normalcy return.

Back in April of this year, I read accounts about how the pandemic took its toll on healthcare professionals.  The war-zone atmosphere, and the overwhelming illness and death around them, with little personal protection for themselves or their families, produced intense feelings of anxiety, guilt, and loss of control.  Some workers took their own lives in despair.

There was even a brief story about a hospital that was so short on rooms, that patients who were admitted for suicidal depression were kept for observation in the corridors.

I just happened to re-visit “Ordinary People”, the hit 1980 film based on Judith Guest’s best-selling novel, during Suicide Awareness Month.  Today, especially during the health crisis, depression and suicide are increasing, especially among young people.

There are many possible reasons for this: fear of the virus and its effects, including death of family and friends; disruption to a period of significant growth and development; a sense of hopelessness about the future; and the anxiety and loneliness of forced isolation, during a time in their lives when social interactions are crucial.

“Ordinary People” was a critical and popular success at the time, and was unusual in its depiction of the effect of attempted suicide on an American family.  It also stood out for its sensitive, positive portrayal of psychiatry, addressing the stigma around it while demonstrating, in a concentrated fashion, its potential to heal.  

The film has fallen out of favor in some circles, I assume by those who are uncomfortable with any film that has the power to honestly touch one’s deepest emotions.  Because of that power, and because it provides a way to identify with a young person struggling with feelings of guilt and hopelessness, “Ordinary People” might be more important today than ever.

The directorial debut of actor Robert Redford, “Ordinary People” is a compelling story and an actor’s showcase.  Its tone of somber control, and its explosive emotional release, moved audiences and members of the Motion Picture Academy alike.  The film won four Oscars, including Best Picture and Director. 

Conrad Jarrett is a quiet, anxious, good-natured high-school student, a singer in the school choir and member of the swim team. He lives with his parents, Calvin and Beth, in an affluent North Shore Chicago suburb, with all of the comforts that one might expect, even take for granted.  Bad things don’t seem possible here, or at least they should be easy to overcome by people who have it all.

Conrad’s life seems quiet and normal, almost excessively ordered and polite.  The film opens with typical domestic scenes and school activities.  Still, something is just a bit off; even the most commonplace dialogue seems fraught with subtext.

When it is finally revealed that Conrad has recently spent four months in a psychiatric hospital for a suicide attempt, the calmness and forced normalcy of the opening scenes seem almost grotesque.  Right away, we discover that Conrad is troubled by nightmares of a boating accident which he survived, and which his charismatic older brother, Buck, did not.    

His parents try in completely different ways to move on from the tragedy, or, more accurately, they devise ways to ignore their pain; and they have opposing strategies to deal with Conrad’s presence.  Theirs is a life of stock markets and golf games, Christmas spent in Europe and cocktail parties with show tunes around a piano.  Conrad is a constant reminder that the easy routine of their life cannot be recaptured. 

His father, Calvin, is openly loving, and tries hard to encourage Conrad, but his enthusiasm is almost naïve, and he can barely hide his worry and inability to truly connect.  

Conrad’s mother, Beth, is in a private hell of loss and an inability to feel.  She keeps Buck’s room intact, almost as a shrine; there are hints at an unhealthy closeness with Buck, and her deep pain over his death can’t disguise her resentment for Conrad having survived.  She is perfunctory, even cold, with Conrad, and he correctly reads it as hostility. 

When Conrad sees a psychiatrist at Calvin’s urging, to help deal with his unresolved anxiety and sorrow, the resentment between Beth and Calvin comes to a head.  She is ashamed of the idea of her well-bred, Protestant, keep-up-with-the-Jones’s family needing a psychiatrist---especially Dr. Berger, a Jewish psychiatrist—while Calvin himself visits Dr. Berger, at first to check on Conrad’s progress, but really to discuss deeper issues he must face with his marriage.

Robert Redford is not a flashy director.  He wisely pays attention to his characters, places them front and center, and closely observes the nuances of their expressions and body language to reveal truths about them that are otherwise difficult to portray on screen.  His filmmaking style is clean and professional, at times somber and controlled to reflect this material. 

But Redford is anything but bland.  Aside from his work with the actors, each one of whom gives a career-best performance, Redford pays attention to small details that give scenes and characters a surprising depth, for those who look closely. 

The casual, lived-in feel of the 1980s hairstyles, clothing, and beat-up cars of the high school students is very authentic; and some of the thick Chicago accents are surprisingly right.  Conrad’s nervous tics, captured almost accidentally without drawing attention to them—like his knee bouncing under the dining room table, or his fingers flicking during a quiet conversation with his doctor—tell more truth about him than any dialog. 

In a brief but meaningful shot, with the camera directly above a kitchen table, two orange juice glasses are placed in unison, followed by a third glass almost as an afterthought, a perfect symbol of the complicated feelings of a broken family.  Ditto the three napkins in their napkin rings, in a drawer as Beth lingers over them. And Beth constantly climbs the stairs of her desperately well-ordered home; the muffled sound of her footsteps on the carpet is like her repressed rage.

Redford’s laser focus on his characters, with help from a no-frills screenplay by Alvin Sargent, gives “Ordinary People” an unusual dual distinction: it has an undercurrent of melancholy, and also a sense of things about to explode from under the surface.  The almost suffocating atmosphere of home and family, and the heartrending missed opportunities for honest feeling and communication, is like a silent cry.  

One moment, when Beth and Conrad almost connect before the phone interrupts them, is filled with regret. As the film progresses, the intensity of the exchanges between characters is riveting, and both tragic and cleansing.

The score, based on themes adapted by Marvin Hamlisch from Pachelbel’s “Canon in D Major”, works by drawing out feelings of sorrow, and then absolving us from them.  It is used sparingly, and given a high dramatic charge when Conrad has a breakthrough.

Timothy Hutton, who won a Supporting Actor Oscar in his film debut (even though he is basically the lead character), is refreshingly natural and open on-screen.  We can’t help but like him and suffer with him, as he tries to re-enter a life whose tragedy he feels responsible for.  Hutton’s smile reveals Conrad’s pure joy, and his moments of confusion and heartbreak are real.  Hutton’s father, actor Jim Hutton, died before the filming began, which might have given Timothy a reserve of emotion to draw upon.  

In the climactic scene with Dr. Berger, Hutton escalates the intensity, and the scene is almost too painful to watch, but you can’t look away.  The final effect on the audience is like a catharsis of therapeutic psychodrama.

As Dr. Berger, Judd Hirsch, known best as a comic actor on TV sitcoms, gives the film a jolt of subversive energy.  When he comforts Conrad after the difficult breakthrough, it is real and stirring.  In just a few crucial scenes, Hirsch creates a great character, played with sensitivity and devil-may-care directness.

Donald Sutherland shows his versatility in the more low-key role of Calvin.  I loved his vocal inflections as he labels Conrad’s most mundane achievements as “great”.  During his slow self-discovery with Dr. Berger, his sense of nervousness almost parallels that of Conrad's. 

In a small but important role, Elizabeth McGovern (“Downton Abbey”) is a charming breath of fresh air as Conrad’s school friend and fellow choir member at school.  She is completely awkward and believable as she helps Conrad back on the road to finding love.

The most difficult role, that of Beth, was cast against type with famous sitcom star Mary Tyler Moore.  It is a remarkable portrait of a woman in denial who cannot let herself feel any more pain, with a level of mourning and self-loathing in her portrayal.  

We may dislike Beth for her coldness toward Conrad, but we understand her, too, her losses and her desire to maintain whatever semblance of a life she can, shallow as it may be.  Moore has a stunning moment near the end, silently gasping and struggling to say something she is physically unable to say: maybe “I love you.”  Moore was deservedly nominated for Best Actress.

There’s a scene where Conrad meets up with Karen, a girl who he befriended in the hospital.  She tells him “let’s have the best year ever”.  His smile hides his trepidation.  It is a line that we might all wish for in the coming year, even if it feels hard to believe.  Karen’s eventual suicide precipitates Conrad’s difficult self-revelation and healing.  

In some odd way, “Ordinary People” may represent a wish fulfillment for us all.  In spite of the global tragedy of this year, along with the other disasters, conflicts and indignities, and against all indications to the contrary, we all hope to heal, get our lives back, have the best year ever.  

Or, at least, a more normal one.

"The Tree of Life" (2011)

 

Memories and Change: Part 2.  A look now at a wholly original, contemporary movie, which attempts to replicate how we see our memories from childhood and beyond.  Its very style suggests the constancy of change.

THE TREE OF LIFE

“Tell us a story from before we can remember.”  A young boy’s request to his mother, in “The Tree of Life”

The endless uncertainty about returning to life as we remember it, before the pandemic canceled, postponed, or changed things beyond recognition, has sent many of us into various stages of confusion and depression.   

As I struggled to remember the things and places I loved, that are so far unavailable or are considered unsafe: a conversation at home with a group of friends; a table in a pleasantly crowded coffee shop; a new film or play in a theater; dinner at a favorite spot with my husband; daily trips to the gym; I rediscovered a favorite film from 2011 that provided some lofty perspective.

“The Tree of Life” remains one of the most unconventional and beautifully thoughtful pieces of mainstream cinema I have ever encountered.

While a movie like “How Green Was My Valley” is a classic use of narrative to portray memory, “The Tree of Life” treats memory as a rapid series of disjointed, short-lived moments.  It is a poetic mosaic of images and music that replicates the way our brains work to create memory. 

I’ve never seen a more accurate and effective depiction of the way our minds recall minute impressions of concrete events and fleeting fantasy, while leaving us to reflect, to ponder and to feel, rather than to focus exclusively on a narrative.

More than that, “The Tree of Life” reaches profound levels of beauty and even exaltation, a rare film that uses its minimal plot and gorgeous imagery to speculate on the meaning of the universe and our place within it.  

Terence Malick, a famously private film director who earned a degree in philosophy from Harvard before turning to filmmaking, made his directing debut in 1973 with the elegiac crime-romance “Badlands”.  Painstaking in his development of projects, “The Tree of Life”, released in 2011, was only his fifth film in 38 years.

The movie functions on a higher plane, focusing on spiritual matters and abstract ideas.  Not surprisingly, mainstream audiences were strongly polarized by it.   A Best Picture Oscar, for which it was nominated and lost, would have seemed inadequate for this ambitious accomplishment, like awarding Saint Peter’s Basilica the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

The only indication that the film sought popular appeal was the inclusion of two A-list stars: Brad Pitt (also a co-producer) as the demanding, 50’s-era Father, Mr. O’Brien, and Jessica Chastain as the soft, giving, and grieving Mother, Mrs. O’Brien.

The plot is more like a premise, in the way that rhythm is to a piece of music, in this case a way to support the weight of the film’s ideas.  Mother, in a hushed monolog, explains the difference between Nature and Grace.  After her voice-over meditation, she receives a tragic telegram that J. L., one of her three sons, only 19 years old, has been killed.

The eldest son, Jack, played as an adult by Sean Penn, is an architect. Years later, he sullenly meditates on life, and on his deceased brother, whom he saw as a pure soul. 

As Mother cries out to a higher power, to make sense of the loss, the film moves into an extraordinary sequence lasting 17 minutes, with no dialog, comprised of powerful sounds, images and music.  Malick ambitiously recreates the origins of the universe, from the Big Bang to the dinosaur era, culminating in a symbolic birth, as Jack arrives as Mother and Father’s first child.

The sequence is reminiscent of the light-show in “2001: A Space Odyssey”. Douglas Trumbull, who designed the “2001” sequence, was called out of retirement to create the Origin of the Universe here, using no CGI effects, but the kind of physical and in-camera effects used in the earlier film.  The scene is confounding and awe-inspiring.

The body of the film is a rapid chronicle of Jack and his two brothers growing up in a their late-1950s small town outside of Waco Texas.

Infancy, first steps, siblings, play, rebellion, anger, confusion, death, disaster, mystery, parental love and disappointment, brotherly love, sexual yearning, all of the touchstones of a human life are depicted quickly and then the film moves on.

The final sequence is Jack’s fantasy of reunion with his loved ones, at the world’s end.  In less than two hours and 30 minutes, we are witness to Malick’s personal vision of the history of the universe, with the lives of these boys as the centerpiece. 

Malick’s editing and photographic style, as well as the epic nature of what he attempts here, provide a couple of interesting messages to ponder.  On one hand, our lives are as fleeting as each individual shot in the picture, each beautiful in itself, but needing the other pieces to give it full meaning.

On the other hand, and even more profound, Malick demonstrates that the birth of one person is as momentous as the creation of an entire universe. And death is just another destination on an ever-moving voyage.  The film’s tone of beauty and reverence may be a comfort for anyone coming to terms with the death of a loved one.

“The Tree of Life” is not really a linear film; it is more like a piece of music, or a painting.  The camera is always moving, in a constant forward motion.  The sun is visible in almost every scene, a symbol of a higher power, or the origin of life, and one of many visual motifs that tie the film together. 

The film moves like a constantly running river.  To get the most from it, it is best to step in, and allow it to carry you along, letting the marriage of images and music leave an impression as the ideas widen and make sense in an intangible, poetic sense.  The accumulation of shots and brief sequences reveals a whole picture of sorts, like a true mosaic. 

The film’s disjointed and constantly shifting narrative intersperses fantasy and subtle connections of time within its family story.  An unexpected shot of Mother levitating is the obvious musing of a young son who sees her as a saintly figure.  A river, where a dinosaur drinks early in the film, appears much changed later, as one of the boys casually finds a dinosaur bone in the tall grass where the brothers play.

The film is breathtaking to look at.  Most of the credit goes to Emmanuel Lubezki for his consistently mellow lighting and color, recreating a plausible 1950s suburb, while using the unusual angles and movement to give the film a feeling of something imponderable, mysterious.

Malick’s film, which borrows heavily from his own family and boyhood, has selected unforgettable pieces of music.  These mostly classical pieces enhance the photographic effects and fix each sequence forever in our subconscious, even if they pass by too quickly to grasp them all at first viewing.  A second viewing, at least, is a must.

After Jack returns from his reverie about the afterlife, there is a cut to a field of sunflowers, before we follow him silently through his office complex, the windows of the stupendous glass buildings around him reflecting the trees.  The final shot is held for several seconds on a vast bridge.  I wonder if Malick is inviting us to see life, death, spirituality, or whatever we took with us from the film, as a bridge between Nature and Grace?