Summer! Lazy, hazy...really hazy, actually. On days that are too hot to spend outside, what is there to do? Watch your favorite movie on cable. And chances are, it's on. We asked our writers about the movies they loved so much that they couldn't help watching them for the fourth, eighth, or fifteenth time -- even with all the swears and boobies edited out.
Trying to come up with a short list of cable movies I cannot resist tends to be difficult because there are just so many of them, and very few could be argued to be "good." Cleaning to do because the parents are in town? Sure, right after I catch my thirty-seventh viewing of Drive Me Crazy! Teen movies in general are a weakness; I've seen the entire Freddie Prinze Jr. oeuvre, despite the fact that I think he is possibly the worst actor in the world. Ever. Summer Catch? Check. She's All That? Check indeed. Those are the titles that embarrass me and yet I still watch, but then there's another class which are movies I unabashedly love, and can recite nearly line-for-line, and of which I own the DVDs yet cannot resist them, even when they are running edited and with commercials.
I've seen Overboard in German. And not just once in German, but probably three or four times. Granted, it's because it was one of the movies that my high-school German teacher had taped off the TV when he was living abroad and had on hand for days when we had substitutes. I feel Overboard contributed to the minuscule amount of German that I learned, because by eleventh grade I already had most of the English lines committed to memory, so it was fairly easy to translate.
...That's a complete lie. I didn't translate crap. I just imagined all of the lines where they were supposed to be. Eleventh grade was a long time ago, but I still consistently continue to watch the movie. I have the DVD, I could pop it in at any time, yet I watch it at least an average of once a month when it's reliably on one of the Turner networks. I could be doing more productive things; I've still never seen most of the AFI Top 100, or the Academy Award Best Pictures, but it's because I'm too busy watching Overboard and learning valuable tips for living from spectacularly bitchy Goldie Hawn, like the fact that all closets should be made of cedar. Or maybe I'm switching things up a bit and watching Soapdish. It's on less often, but because of that it's even more irresistible, if that's possible. My roommate and I were known to put off leaving the house for whatever reason because we decided we needed to see the end of the movie. Again. And oh yes, we had the DVD of that movie too. And Center Stage, I cannot leave you out. (Own the DVD? Check.) You get sucked in by Peter Gallagher choreographing the most dreary ballet ever conceived, and then you have to stay for the toe shoes that magically turn red and the bad-boy dancer who drives his motorcycle on stage (what a rebel!) and the simulated ballet sex all during the final performance. Suddenly it's an hour later and you're late to meet your parents.
Summer! Lazy, hazy...really hazy, actually. On days that are too hot to spend outside, what is there to do? Watch your favorite movie on cable. And chances are, it's on. We asked our writers about the movies they loved so much that they couldn't help watching them for the fourth, eighth, or fifteenth time -- even with all the swears and boobies edited out. Trying to come up with a short list of cable movies I cannot resist tends to be difficult because there are just so many of them, and very few could be argued to be "good." Cleaning to do because the parents are in town? Sure, right after I catch my thirty-seventh viewing of Drive Me Crazy! Teen movies in general are a weakness; I've seen the entire Freddie Prinze Jr. oeuvre, despite the fact that I think he is possibly the worst actor in the world. Ever. Summer Catch? Check. She's All That? Check indeed. Those are the titles that embarrass me and yet I still watch, but then there's another class which are movies I unabashedly love, and can recite nearly line-for-line, and of which I own the DVDs yet cannot resist them, even when they are running edited and with commercials. I've seen Overboard in German. And not just once in German, but probably three or four times. Granted, it's because it was one of the movies that my high-school German teacher had taped off the TV when he was living abroad and had on hand for days when we had substitutes. I feel Overboard contributed to the minuscule amount of German that I learned, because by eleventh grade I already had most of the English lines committed to memory, so it was fairly easy to translate. ...That's a complete lie. I didn't translate crap. I just imagined all of the lines where they were supposed to be. Eleventh grade was a long time ago, but I still consistently continue to watch the movie. I have the DVD, I could pop it in at any time, yet I watch it at least an average of once a month when it's reliably on one of the Turner networks. I could be doing more productive things; I've still never seen most of the AFI Top 100, or the Academy Award Best Pictures, but it's because I'm too busy watching Overboard and learning valuable tips for living from spectacularly bitchy Goldie Hawn, like the fact that all closets should be made of cedar. Or maybe I'm switching things up a bit and watching Soapdish. It's on less often, but because of that it's even more irresistible, if that's possible. My roommate and I were known to put off leaving the house for whatever reason because we decided we needed to see the end of the movie. Again. And oh yes, we had the DVD of that movie too. And Center Stage, I cannot leave you out. (Own the DVD? Check.) You get sucked in by Peter Gallagher choreographing the most dreary ballet ever conceived, and then you have to stay for the toe shoes that magically turn red and the bad-boy dancer who drives his motorcycle on stage (what a rebel!) and the simulated ballet sex all during the final performance. Suddenly it's an hour later and you're late to meet your parents.-- Lauren S
Way back when, in the 1980s, I was, as they say, a latchkey kid. While my parents were off earning a living so they could put pork chops and instant potatoes on the table, I had two to three hours of freedom each day after school ended. And so I watched TV. When the soaps and Donahue were dull, I tuned in to HBO. Then, as now, HBO's programming was contingent upon showing the same movie repeatedly. And there was no movie that transfixed my budding slapstick feminist consciousness more than Nine To Five.
If you're lucky enough to catch Nine To Five from the opening credits, there's no way to turn it off. The thumping theme song, mixed with shots of '80s pumps and shoulder pads and giant glasses, hooks you immediately. Once you're introduced to the three plucky protagonists of the film, it becomes even more impossible to change the channel or leave the house. We have Lily Tomlin as Violet Newstead, the über-competent widow and mother who's given twelve years of her life to her company, Consolidated, only to be passed over again and again for promotions because of her sex. Then there's Jane Fonda as Judy Bernly, a mousy soon-to-be divorcée slash housewife who's entering the work force for the first time after her husband ran off with his secretary. And of course there is the incomparable Miss Dolly Parton, in her film debut, as Doralee Rhodes, the pretty and busty secretary who's assumed to be having an affair with her boss, but in reality has to fend off his sexual advances on an almost constant basis because she needs the job. Dabney Coleman is the perfect villain as the scourge of middle management -- the sexist egotistical lying hypocritical bigot, Mr. Hart.
Nine To Five is full of a lot of silliness -- like the three women bonding over a joint and fantasizing about ways to off Mr. Hart; Violet accidentally pouring rat poison in his coffee because the box looks so conveniently similar to Skinny and Sweet; and Mr. Hart dangling from the ceiling by the harness when our triumvirate of heroines hold him hostage for several weeks. It also has some pretty implausible plot points. But at its core is the anxiety of a culture in transition, facing women in the workforce who are not merely grateful for their jobs, but deserving of and demanding equality. With the boss out of the way for a few weeks, Violet, Judy, and Doralee transform their floor of Consolidated into a humane and family-friendly operation featuring flex time, job sharing, part-time schedules, a day-care center, and equal pay, among other perks which, incidentally, women are still fighting for today. Funny, smart, and totally delightful, Nine To Five might not be the best way to make a living, but is a completely rewarding way to pass a few hours.
-- Lauren S Way back when, in the 1980s, I was, as they say, a latchkey kid. While my parents were off earning a living so they could put pork chops and instant potatoes on the table, I had two to three hours of freedom each day after school ended. And so I watched TV. When the soaps and Donahue were dull, I tuned in to HBO. Then, as now, HBO's programming was contingent upon showing the same movie repeatedly. And there was no movie that transfixed my budding slapstick feminist consciousness more than Nine To Five. If you're lucky enough to catch Nine To Five from the opening credits, there's no way to turn it off. The thumping theme song, mixed with shots of '80s pumps and shoulder pads and giant glasses, hooks you immediately. Once you're introduced to the three plucky protagonists of the film, it becomes even more impossible to change the channel or leave the house. We have Lily Tomlin as Violet Newstead, the über-competent widow and mother who's given twelve years of her life to her company, Consolidated, only to be passed over again and again for promotions because of her sex. Then there's Jane Fonda as Judy Bernly, a mousy soon-to-be divorcée slash housewife who's entering the work force for the first time after her husband ran off with his secretary. And of course there is the incomparable Miss Dolly Parton, in her film debut, as Doralee Rhodes, the pretty and busty secretary who's assumed to be having an affair with her boss, but in reality has to fend off his sexual advances on an almost constant basis because she needs the job. Dabney Coleman is the perfect villain as the scourge of middle management -- the sexist egotistical lying hypocritical bigot, Mr. Hart. Nine To Five is full of a lot of silliness -- like the three women bonding over a joint and fantasizing about ways to off Mr. Hart; Violet accidentally pouring rat poison in his coffee because the box looks so conveniently similar to Skinny and Sweet; and Mr. Hart dangling from the ceiling by the harness when our triumvirate of heroines hold him hostage for several weeks. It also has some pretty implausible plot points. But at its core is the anxiety of a culture in transition, facing women in the workforce who are not merely grateful for their jobs, but deserving of and demanding equality. With the boss out of the way for a few weeks, Violet, Judy, and Doralee transform their floor of Consolidated into a humane and family-friendly operation featuring flex time, job sharing, part-time schedules, a day-care center, and equal pay, among other perks which, incidentally, women are still fighting for today. Funny, smart, and totally delightful, Nine To Five might not be the best way to make a living, but is a completely rewarding way to pass a few hours.
--Potes
It doesn't matter if it's already twenty minutes or even an hour into The Birdcage, I will switch it on and I will watch it and I will recite every line. I even know the ABC Family dubs and the fact that a few of the networks paint full bathing suits on the thonged extras milling around in the street shots and remove -- in what I can only imagine was a painful procedure -- the prominently extended appendage of a statuette, changing him from a bass to a soprano in one click of a mouse.
When playing it as pink and green background noise to my day, I deliberately vacuum or take out the trash whenever the whiny, simpering children come on. Calista Flockhart isn't bad, really, but she isn't good, either. She's just there to be hetero, and even that isn't done with much more than a quiet grayness that matches her skin tone. Dan Futterman's pouting son to the happily gay Goldmans is much more annoying, with his demands and insults and disregard for the feelings of the men who raised him. His best moment might be when he smears evidence of his dad's foundation on the wall, and even then, he leaves me itching to smack him with a mildewed sponge until he cleans it up.
Robin Williams is his predictable manic self, and actually manages not to be quite as manic as I know he can be (see: nearly every late-night talk-show appearance). However, while I know it's hip to despise Williams for constantly pulling out the same voice-activated bag of tricks, I still love the "You do Fosse, Fosse, Fosse! You do Martha Graham, Martha Graham, Martha Graham! Or Twyla, Twyla, Twyla! Or Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd! Or Madonna, Madonna, Madonna! But you keep it all inside," done with all the appropriate dance movements.
--Potes It doesn't matter if it's already twenty minutes or even an hour into The Birdcage, I will switch it on and I will watch it and I will recite every line. I even know the ABC Family dubs and the fact that a few of the networks paint full bathing suits on the thonged extras milling around in the street shots and remove -- in what I can only imagine was a painful procedure -- the prominently extended appendage of a statuette, changing him from a bass to a soprano in one click of a mouse. When playing it as pink and green background noise to my day, I deliberately vacuum or take out the trash whenever the whiny, simpering children come on. Calista Flockhart isn't bad, really, but she isn't good, either. She's just there to be hetero, and even that isn't done with much more than a quiet grayness that matches her skin tone. Dan Futterman's pouting son to the happily gay Goldmans is much more annoying, with his demands and insults and disregard for the feelings of the men who raised him. His best moment might be when he smears evidence of his dad's foundation on the wall, and even then, he leaves me itching to smack him with a mildewed sponge until he cleans it up. Robin Williams is his predictable manic self, and actually manages not to be quite as manic as I know he can be (see: nearly every late-night talk-show appearance). However, while I know it's hip to despise Williams for constantly pulling out the same voice-activated bag of tricks, I still love the "You do Fosse, Fosse, Fosse! You do Martha Graham, Martha Graham, Martha Graham! Or Twyla, Twyla, Twyla! Or Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd! Or Madonna, Madonna, Madonna! But you keep it all inside," done with all the appropriate dance movements.
Better than Williams being manic, however, is Nathan Lane's Albert Goldman being delicate and high-pitched. The shrieks he emits as Albert attempting to drive home to South Beach "with the parking brake on" and the way he falls to pieces while trying to slather pate on toast points ("I pierced the toast!") are some of my all-time favorite cinematic moments.
However, as good as Nathan Lane is, Hank Azaria's thick-accented and half-dressed houseboy nearly steals the show. Not only does the dude rock the Daisy Dukes better than most women, but I say, always keep Azaria doing muddled Spanish accents where he talks about the "natural heat" of his "Whaht-emalaness" and breaks down when adding "treemps" to his sweet and sour soup. I mean, who hasn't dreamed of having their own dancing Guatemalan houseboy who caters to their moods by giving them calming "pirin" tablets?
Finally, I can't overlook the brilliance of Gene Hackman as the conservative, shell-shocked senator raspily responding to the fact that Albert is not really the Grover Corners hausfrau he's been salivating over: "You can't be Jewish!" Good stuff.
And then there's Something To Talk About. "Oh, God, not this movie AGAIN!" my husband moans half a second after I've switched it on. It's true. I'll scroll through the guide and bypass unseen reruns of That 70s Show, new episodes of Man vs. Wild, and worthy movies like The Matrix or Schindler's List to watch Julia Roberts as the cuckolded wife who finally takes control of her disappointing, horse-based life.
I often attribute my shameful Julia Roberts obsession to how much I love her hair. I can't think of a style or color or movie where I didn't stare at her hair, completely transfixed by its unreal perfection. I think her best 'do is the silky chestnut pageboy she sports in I Love Trouble, and I can't even find fault with her frizzy Mystic Pizza mop. Hey, it was the '80s -- frizzy was the shizzy! (Or something.)
Honestly, though, it's not just Roberts's hair that has me punching in this sappy, Southern dramedy time after time. Maybe it's watching the quickly unraveling Grace hijacks a Junior League meeting to ask if anyone else there has had "any kind of sex with [her] husband," which then turns into a public airing of dirty lingerie among all the bed-bouncing Junior Leaguers. The abashed "oops" look on Roberts's face as she gets buffeted by the speedily departing pearl necklaces goes a long way to me forgiving her for Mary Reilly.
Better than Williams being manic, however, is Nathan Lane's Albert Goldman being delicate and high-pitched. The shrieks he emits as Albert attempting to drive home to South Beach "with the parking brake on" and the way he falls to pieces while trying to slather pate on toast points ("I pierced the toast!") are some of my all-time favorite cinematic moments. However, as good as Nathan Lane is, Hank Azaria's thick-accented and half-dressed houseboy nearly steals the show. Not only does the dude rock the Daisy Dukes better than most women, but I say, always keep Azaria doing muddled Spanish accents where he talks about the "natural heat" of his "Whaht-emalaness" and breaks down when adding "treemps" to his sweet and sour soup. I mean, who hasn't dreamed of having their own dancing Guatemalan houseboy who caters to their moods by giving them calming "pirin" tablets? Finally, I can't overlook the brilliance of Gene Hackman as the conservative, shell-shocked senator raspily responding to the fact that Albert is not really the Grover Corners hausfrau he's been salivating over: "You can't be Jewish!" Good stuff. And then there's Something To Talk About. "Oh, God, not this movie AGAIN!" my husband moans half a second after I've switched it on. It's true. I'll scroll through the guide and bypass unseen reruns of That 70s Show, new episodes of Man vs. Wild, and worthy movies like The Matrix or Schindler's List to watch Julia Roberts as the cuckolded wife who finally takes control of her disappointing, horse-based life. I often attribute my shameful Julia Roberts obsession to how much I love her hair. I can't think of a style or color or movie where I didn't stare at her hair, completely transfixed by its unreal perfection. I think her best 'do is the silky chestnut pageboy she sports in I Love Trouble, and I can't even find fault with her frizzy Mystic Pizza mop. Hey, it was the '80s -- frizzy was the shizzy! (Or something.) Honestly, though, it's not just Roberts's hair that has me punching in this sappy, Southern dramedy time after time. Maybe it's watching the quickly unraveling Grace hijacks a Junior League meeting to ask if anyone else there has had "any kind of sex with [her] husband," which then turns into a public airing of dirty lingerie among all the bed-bouncing Junior Leaguers. The abashed "oops" look on Roberts's face as she gets buffeted by the speedily departing pearl necklaces goes a long way to me forgiving her for Mary Reilly.
Maybe it's when Grace's mother -- played by the amazing and luminous Gena Rowlands -- nurses a bottle of wine and locks her husband and Grace's father Wyly Bichon (Robert Duvall) out of the house to punish him. And then, after Wyly defends his own past indiscretions with the Yogi Berra-esque: "I may have fooled around but I never cheated," the drunk and drawling Gena Rowlands decides to tell him a few hard truths about himself, one of which is: "You fahht in bed," punctuated by righteous nodding. Hee -- Southerners saying "fart" is funny when you're twelve.
Maybe it's all about watching tiny Kyra Sedgewick working her pre-Brenda Johnson accent as Grace's avenging sister who knees Grace's philandering husband (Dennis Quaid) in the crotch and talks about their father marking his territory by peeing on the bushes.
Yeah, they're all great moments, but I think I watch this movie more for the scene where a dottie old auntie gives Grace her recipe for salmon with mint-mustard sauce that she's kicked up with the husband-punishing ingredient of some unnamed poison than anything else. Sigh. It always comes down to the food with me, doesn't it?
--Keckler
As a snotty film major, I've seen and studied a lot of so-called great films. But when it comes to a Sunday afternoon in front of the TV, Hitchcock and Welles can't compare to these funny (sometimes intentional, sometimes not) mid-'80s classics:
Clue: No matter what part of this movie you come in on, you're hooked immediately until the end. A few years ago, when Comedy Central played this movie twice a day, many of my college papers went unwritten, causing me so much stress that I could feel flames on the side of my face. Breathing, heaving breaths. And now that I have Tivo, I can rewatch the scene where the singing telegram girl (played by Go-Go Jane Wiedlin!) sings her little heart out until a hole shot is through it. This movie also features a lot of confused shouting in unison, which I love. Clue is truly the king of the sorely neglected movies-based-on-board-games genre, even if no one ever comments on how the "lead pipe" and "wrench" were truly scraping the bottom of the deadly weapons barrel.
Adventures in Babysitting: Elisabeth Shue had to wait until Leaving Las Vegas to be recognized as the incredible talent she is, if only (and I've seen Molly, so it probably is only) in this movie. Watch as she attempts to navigate the mean streets of Chicago with a trio of babysitting charges, dodging carjackers, mobsters, and the kids' parents. The action never stops, and it never gets boring. I own this movie and I'll still watch it when it comes on TV. Apparently, they're going to remake this classic with Raven-Symoné, since no one learned from Gus Van Sant's attempt to do Psycho.
Maybe it's when Grace's mother -- played by the amazing and luminous Gena Rowlands -- nurses a bottle of wine and locks her husband and Grace's father Wyly Bichon (Robert Duvall) out of the house to punish him. And then, after Wyly defends his own past indiscretions with the Yogi Berra-esque: "I may have fooled around but I never cheated," the drunk and drawling Gena Rowlands decides to tell him a few hard truths about himself, one of which is: "You fahht in bed," punctuated by righteous nodding. Hee -- Southerners saying "fart" is funny when you're twelve. Maybe it's all about watching tiny Kyra Sedgewick working her pre-Brenda Johnson accent as Grace's avenging sister who knees Grace's philandering husband (Dennis Quaid) in the crotch and talks about their father marking his territory by peeing on the bushes. Yeah, they're all great moments, but I think I watch this movie more for the scene where a dottie old auntie gives Grace her recipe for salmon with mint-mustard sauce that she's kicked up with the husband-punishing ingredient of some unnamed poison than anything else. Sigh. It always comes down to the food with me, doesn't it? --Keckler As a snotty film major, I've seen and studied a lot of so-called great films. But when it comes to a Sunday afternoon in front of the TV, Hitchcock and Welles can't compare to these funny (sometimes intentional, sometimes not) mid-'80s classics: Clue: No matter what part of this movie you come in on, you're hooked immediately until the end. A few years ago, when Comedy Central played this movie twice a day, many of my college papers went unwritten, causing me so much stress that I could feel flames on the side of my face. Breathing, heaving breaths. And now that I have Tivo, I can rewatch the scene where the singing telegram girl (played by Go-Go Jane Wiedlin!) sings her little heart out until a hole shot is through it. This movie also features a lot of confused shouting in unison, which I love. Clue is truly the king of the sorely neglected movies-based-on-board-games genre, even if no one ever comments on how the "lead pipe" and "wrench" were truly scraping the bottom of the deadly weapons barrel. Adventures in Babysitting: Elisabeth Shue had to wait until Leaving Las Vegas to be recognized as the incredible talent she is, if only (and I've seen Molly, so it probably is only) in this movie. Watch as she attempts to navigate the mean streets of Chicago with a trio of babysitting charges, dodging carjackers, mobsters, and the kids' parents. The action never stops, and it never gets boring. I own this movie and I'll still watch it when it comes on TV. Apparently, they're going to remake this classic with Raven-Symoné, since no one learned from Gus Van Sant's attempt to do Psycho.
The Principal: Jim (not John) Belushi stars as a teacher who thinks he's a bad-ass because he drinks beer and chocolate milk at the same time and rides a motorcycle. His wild-man ways earn him a promotion to principal of a school filled with the worst students in the district (all of whom except for "White Zac" are minorities. Of course). Unlike Michelle Pfieffer, who tried to shape her students up with encouragement and support in Dangerous Minds, Jim (not John) Belushi shouts silly catchphrases and cowers behind Louis Gossett Jr. And then, when you think the movie can't get any worse (by which I of course mean better) Jim (not John) Belushi breaks the rules of physics by riding his motorcycle (now Christened "El Principal" by the friendly Hispanic gang that takes auto shop class all day, every day) up TWO flight of stairs and through a classroom full of desks to save Rae Dawn Chong from getting raped. Even less believable is the end, where we're supposed to believe that a doughy, middle-aged Jim (not John) Belushi can win a fistfight against a strapping young gang leader villain. Even the end credits are awesome, as something named "Jellybean" is credited for the "music."
--Sara M
If you look up the IMDb entry for 1985's Just One Of The Guys, you will find, among other things, the words, "This plot synopsis is empty." And you will say, if you have seen it, "You're not kidding."
It is my firm belief that almost no one saw this movie when it was originally released in theaters, but at some point, Comedy Central wound up with the rights to it and began showing it with the same regularity with which it now shows Scrubs reruns. In it, young Terry (Joyce Hyser, then twenty-eight years old, incidentally, and looking every day of it), frustrated by the lack of opportunities available at her high-school newspaper, decides to shake things up by coming to school as a boy and seeing how the other half lives -- for a story, of course. She befriends a dork named Rick (Clayton Rohner), who inexplicably becomes the love interest she is afraid to tell that she's a girl.
Terry must also contend with her idiotic brother Buddy (played by Billy Jacoby, who defined 1980s television ubiquity) as well as a female suitor in the form of Sherilyn Fenn, making this just about the only teen movie to get its kicks from hilarious lesbian-panic jokes. Add the typical menacing performance by one William "You're All Right, LaRusso" Zabka as the bully, and you have a compulsively watchable -- because: utterly ignorable -- piece of Saturday-afternoon fare. I have certainly not seen this as many times as The Sure Thing, which came out the same year and which I actually like, but I have seen it many, many more times than I care to recall.
The Principal: Jim (not John) Belushi stars as a teacher who thinks he's a bad-ass because he drinks beer and chocolate milk at the same time and rides a motorcycle. His wild-man ways earn him a promotion to principal of a school filled with the worst students in the district (all of whom except for "White Zac" are minorities. Of course). Unlike Michelle Pfieffer, who tried to shape her students up with encouragement and support in Dangerous Minds, Jim (not John) Belushi shouts silly catchphrases and cowers behind Louis Gossett Jr. And then, when you think the movie can't get any worse (by which I of course mean better) Jim (not John) Belushi breaks the rules of physics by riding his motorcycle (now Christened "El Principal" by the friendly Hispanic gang that takes auto shop class all day, every day) up TWO flight of stairs and through a classroom full of desks to save Rae Dawn Chong from getting raped. Even less believable is the end, where we're supposed to believe that a doughy, middle-aged Jim (not John) Belushi can win a fistfight against a strapping young gang leader villain. Even the end credits are awesome, as something named "Jellybean" is credited for the "music." --Sara M If you look up the IMDb entry for 1985's Just One Of The Guys, you will find, among other things, the words, "This plot synopsis is empty." And you will say, if you have seen it, "You're not kidding." It is my firm belief that almost no one saw this movie when it was originally released in theaters, but at some point, Comedy Central wound up with the rights to it and began showing it with the same regularity with which it now shows Scrubs reruns. In it, young Terry (Joyce Hyser, then twenty-eight years old, incidentally, and looking every day of it), frustrated by the lack of opportunities available at her high-school newspaper, decides to shake things up by coming to school as a boy and seeing how the other half lives -- for a story, of course. She befriends a dork named Rick (Clayton Rohner), who inexplicably becomes the love interest she is afraid to tell that she's a girl. Terry must also contend with her idiotic brother Buddy (played by Billy Jacoby, who defined 1980s television ubiquity) as well as a female suitor in the form of Sherilyn Fenn, making this just about the only teen movie to get its kicks from hilarious lesbian-panic jokes. Add the typical menacing performance by one William "You're All Right, LaRusso" Zabka as the bully, and you have a compulsively watchable -- because: utterly ignorable -- piece of Saturday-afternoon fare. I have certainly not seen this as many times as The Sure Thing, which came out the same year and which I actually like, but I have seen it many, many more times than I care to recall.
--Miss Alli
I guess I could excuse the fact that I've probably seen Contact seventeen times on the fact that William Fichtner, the most cheekbonily intense of my TV boyfriends, is in it, but even I have to admit that Fichtie barely justifies even a single viewing. His hair is frizzy and dyed a dowdy brown, and when I tell you that he's playing a blind scientist named Kent, I mean to tell you, he is playing the hell out of that guy; he's cocking his head and staring all Miracle Worker into the middle distance, he's bonking into stuff with merry unseeing abandon...one of the movie's keywords on IMDb is "ham radio," and with good reason.
But I watch it every time it comes on. And I watch the entire godforsaken bloated thing, which, with commercials, clocks a running time of approximately eight hours. True, it includes such ridonkulous delights as: Matthew McConaughey as a governmental spiritual advisor; Jodie Foster attempting to convince the audience that she is attracted to men, much less to that doofy hippie of the cloth, while clenching her jaw a lot; Angela Bassett looking like she's going dig Carl Sagan up and kick his ass for involving her in this bombastic mess; and Tooooom Skerriiiiiiiiitt iiiin spaaaaaaaaaaaaace, because when you, in your capacity as NASA, receive a set of mysterious spacecraft plans on a transmission from outer freakin' space, and you actually build the thing with the blank check Reverend McConaughey evidently convinced the government to write you, the logical person to send up in the giant-executive-desk-toy orb you've cobbled together is obviously an old dude with a mustache that is going to throw off the launch sequence.
But as much as I enjoy RevMac's hilarious intonations about the meeting of God and science (not to mention the gi-GAN-tic cross he is sporting OVER HIS BLACK TURTLENECK), the reason I watch it -- the reason I watch the whole thing, every time -- is the reunion between Jodie Foster and her alien non-dad dad at the end. She's so happy to see him, and David Morse is great at playing quietly menacing bad guys but he's even better at playing gentle dads, and it's cute, and I always cry. ...What? I've been watching TV for eight hours by that time! My eyes are irritated -- it's a physiological response! ...Shut up.
--Miss Alli I guess I could excuse the fact that I've probably seen Contact seventeen times on the fact that William Fichtner, the most cheekbonily intense of my TV boyfriends, is in it, but even I have to admit that Fichtie barely justifies even a single viewing. His hair is frizzy and dyed a dowdy brown, and when I tell you that he's playing a blind scientist named Kent, I mean to tell you, he is playing the hell out of that guy; he's cocking his head and staring all Miracle Worker into the middle distance, he's bonking into stuff with merry unseeing abandon...one of the movie's keywords on IMDb is "ham radio," and with good reason. But I watch it every time it comes on. And I watch the entire godforsaken bloated thing, which, with commercials, clocks a running time of approximately eight hours. True, it includes such ridonkulous delights as: Matthew McConaughey as a governmental spiritual advisor; Jodie Foster attempting to convince the audience that she is attracted to men, much less to that doofy hippie of the cloth, while clenching her jaw a lot; Angela Bassett looking like she's going dig Carl Sagan up and kick his ass for involving her in this bombastic mess; and Tooooom Skerriiiiiiiiitt iiiin spaaaaaaaaaaaaace, because when you, in your capacity as NASA, receive a set of mysterious spacecraft plans on a transmission from outer freakin' space, and you actually build the thing with the blank check Reverend McConaughey evidently convinced the government to write you, the logical person to send up in the giant-executive-desk-toy orb you've cobbled together is obviously an old dude with a mustache that is going to throw off the launch sequence. But as much as I enjoy RevMac's hilarious intonations about the meeting of God and science (not to mention the gi-GAN-tic cross he is sporting OVER HIS BLACK TURTLENECK), the reason I watch it -- the reason I watch the whole thing, every time -- is the reunion between Jodie Foster and her alien non-dad dad at the end. She's so happy to see him, and David Morse is great at playing quietly menacing bad guys but he's even better at playing gentle dads, and it's cute, and I always cry. ...What? I've been watching TV for eight hours by that time! My eyes are irritated -- it's a physiological response! ...Shut up.
Quiz Show is another long one that I can never tear myself away from once I've started watching it, despite Rob Morrow's problematic interpretation of "a Boston accent." It isn't like most of the movies I get quicksanded by, in that it's actually good -- Ralph Fiennes is fantastic -- but I really watch for John Turturro and Johann Carlo as Herbie and Toby Stempel. Their constant bickering is hilarious.
I ordinarily avoid romantic comedies like the plague, so God knows why I watched While You Were Sleeping initially, but I love it -- the big family with all their rough teasing, Bill Pullman looking his very cutest with floppy '90s hair, Monica "The Late Abby Morgan" Keena before she over-dieted, and of course Joe Junior, whose dreamy line about seeing your first Trans-Am is an all-time classic.
It's implausible from soup to nuts, of course -- no way does Lucy save Peter, no way does she not just admit that she's not his fiancée, no way does she not get busted until she busts herself, no way does Peter go through with the impromptu hospital wedding, no way does Jack not think she's a freak and no way does he ask her to marry him like two days after that. The whole thing's absurd, but the movie's charm lies in the fact that it seems to know that, and because it gets the little things right -- high-strung Ashley and her long-haired cat and foobs, the way families talk to each other -- it can get away with turning the big things into a fairy tale.
I still don't have to watch it every time, though. It's not like I don't remember what crazy high-waisted jeans we all wore back then.
--Sars
Say you're lollygagging around on a Sunday afternoon thinking how sweet it would be if you could spend your day at the ballpark. And then say it's November. Is there anything sadder than the unbalanced ratio of free time in the off season? "Why can't there be baseball year-round?" you ask yourself. "What the hell is wrong with this country? I don't care if there are ice crystals forming on the top, I am having a BEER right now." Inconsolable, you flip on the tube, mentally steeling yourself to sit through another round of circular Baltimore Ravens analysis or, heaven forbid, a fight-free hockey game. "My GOD, what has happened to sports?" you cry, shaking your fist at the screen. "Where is the blood? The sweat? The TEARS?" Abandoning all hope, you flip around the channels, cursing Lee Corso and all he stands for, when...there it is! The sound of cracking wood; the roar of a tiny, faithful crowd; Kevin Costner saying something awesome for once...
Quiz Show is another long one that I can never tear myself away from once I've started watching it, despite Rob Morrow's problematic interpretation of "a Boston accent." It isn't like most of the movies I get quicksanded by, in that it's actually good -- Ralph Fiennes is fantastic -- but I really watch for John Turturro and Johann Carlo as Herbie and Toby Stempel. Their constant bickering is hilarious. I ordinarily avoid romantic comedies like the plague, so God knows why I watched While You Were Sleeping initially, but I love it -- the big family with all their rough teasing, Bill Pullman looking his very cutest with floppy '90s hair, Monica "The Late Abby Morgan" Keena before she over-dieted, and of course Joe Junior, whose dreamy line about seeing your first Trans-Am is an all-time classic. It's implausible from soup to nuts, of course -- no way does Lucy save Peter, no way does she not just admit that she's not his fiancée, no way does she not get busted until she busts herself, no way does Peter go through with the impromptu hospital wedding, no way does Jack not think she's a freak and no way does he ask her to marry him like two days after that. The whole thing's absurd, but the movie's charm lies in the fact that it seems to know that, and because it gets the little things right -- high-strung Ashley and her long-haired cat and foobs, the way families talk to each other -- it can get away with turning the big things into a fairy tale. I still don't have to watch it every time, though. It's not like I don't remember what crazy high-waisted jeans we all wore back then. --Sars Say you're lollygagging around on a Sunday afternoon thinking how sweet it would be if you could spend your day at the ballpark. And then say it's November. Is there anything sadder than the unbalanced ratio of free time in the off season? "Why can't there be baseball year-round?" you ask yourself. "What the hell is wrong with this country? I don't care if there are ice crystals forming on the top, I am having a BEER right now." Inconsolable, you flip on the tube, mentally steeling yourself to sit through another round of circular Baltimore Ravens analysis or, heaven forbid, a fight-free hockey game. "My GOD, what has happened to sports?" you cry, shaking your fist at the screen. "Where is the blood? The sweat? The TEARS?" Abandoning all hope, you flip around the channels, cursing Lee Corso and all he stands for, when...there it is! The sound of cracking wood; the roar of a tiny, faithful crowd; Kevin Costner saying something awesome for once...
It's Bull Durham. And, praise the Lord, it is on every weekend. Someone at your local cable company loves you. You settle in, not just for Susan Sarandon's nip slip in the last thirty minutes; not just to see Meat bring the Heat; not just to bone up on the use of your "pridal eye;" but to remind yourself that this game? This game is fun goddammit. It's fun. It's full of the ontological truths of our time, and so is this film. Like baseball, it teaches us important lessons: Stand up for your beliefs. Soft-core porn is okay. Strikeouts are fascist. A live rooster can get you out of a lot of jams. And a film as good as this one comes along about as often as the Cubs win a pennant.
--Al Lowe
When Lane Meyer (John Cusack) is dumped by his girlfriend, Beth, for the Sun-In blond, guitar-playing, turtleneck-wearing Ken Doll of a ski team captain, he decides that he would be Better Off Dead than try and get through high school without her. However when the extension-cord noose is around his neck, he changes his mind, because, heck!, he hasn't even seen New York City! Unfortunately, his mother inadvertently vacuums him off the ledge he's perched on and he almost hangs himself. When he gets untangled, he decides to try to get over Beth and get off the suicide kick, but it is hard when he is plagued by requests from everyone from his Geometry teacher to the mailman to Barney from the Flintstones asking him if they can take out his ex! Not even the forced drag racing with the Japanese brothers (one who speaks no English, the other who learned English from watching Howard Cosell on Wide World Of Sports), the homicidal paperboy desperately seeking his two dollars, his mother's cuisine of mystery, a Christmas highlighted by a huge stack of TV Dinners and a coat made of Real Aardvark Fur!, and his father's attempts at cheering him up (dates with his partner's head-gear sporting, calculator-wielding daughter and a job that requires him to wear a pig hat) can distract him from the pain of seeing Beth with her new boyfriend.
Lane decides he must win her back, so when his inventively drug-addled best friend (who has been attending high school for seven years and is no dummy) recommends skiing the famed K12 mountain to impress her, Lane decides to do it. While his first attempt is a raucous failure, his friend is thrilled by the discovery that the entire mountain is made of snow! Unfortunately, between that fiasco, a hilariously efficient thwarted forced date, and a high-school dance so bad that a Samantha Fox performance is the high point, Lane's thoughts return to suicide. He is swigging a jar of paint primer when he accidentally blows up his neighbor's mom during a French-themed dinner party (French fries, French dressing, Perrier, what else do you need?). While she is recuperating, Lane must ferry her tubby, ungainly, mixed plaid-wearing son Ricky and the French exchange student to school. During yet another disastrous drag race on the way to school, the exchange student, Monique, and Lane strike up a friendship. In her eagerness to get out of the clutches of the lovestruck Ricky, Monique becomes the catalyst Lane needs to get back on his skis, get his bitchin' Camaro running, make it down K12 (on one ski!), and banish all thoughts of Beth and suicide.
It's Bull Durham. And, praise the Lord, it is on every weekend. Someone at your local cable company loves you. You settle in, not just for Susan Sarandon's nip slip in the last thirty minutes; not just to see Meat bring the Heat; not just to bone up on the use of your "pridal eye;" but to remind yourself that this game? This game is fun goddammit. It's fun. It's full of the ontological truths of our time, and so is this film. Like baseball, it teaches us important lessons: Stand up for your beliefs. Soft-core porn is okay. Strikeouts are fascist. A live rooster can get you out of a lot of jams. And a film as good as this one comes along about as often as the Cubs win a pennant. --Al Lowe When Lane Meyer (John Cusack) is dumped by his girlfriend, Beth, for the Sun-In blond, guitar-playing, turtleneck-wearing Ken Doll of a ski team captain, he decides that he would be Better Off Dead than try and get through high school without her. However when the extension-cord noose is around his neck, he changes his mind, because, heck!, he hasn't even seen New York City! Unfortunately, his mother inadvertently vacuums him off the ledge he's perched on and he almost hangs himself. When he gets untangled, he decides to try to get over Beth and get off the suicide kick, but it is hard when he is plagued by requests from everyone from his Geometry teacher to the mailman to Barney from the Flintstones asking him if they can take out his ex! Not even the forced drag racing with the Japanese brothers (one who speaks no English, the other who learned English from watching Howard Cosell on Wide World Of Sports), the homicidal paperboy desperately seeking his two dollars, his mother's cuisine of mystery, a Christmas highlighted by a huge stack of TV Dinners and a coat made of Real Aardvark Fur!, and his father's attempts at cheering him up (dates with his partner's head-gear sporting, calculator-wielding daughter and a job that requires him to wear a pig hat) can distract him from the pain of seeing Beth with her new boyfriend. Lane decides he must win her back, so when his inventively drug-addled best friend (who has been attending high school for seven years and is no dummy) recommends skiing the famed K12 mountain to impress her, Lane decides to do it. While his first attempt is a raucous failure, his friend is thrilled by the discovery that the entire mountain is made of snow! Unfortunately, between that fiasco, a hilariously efficient thwarted forced date, and a high-school dance so bad that a Samantha Fox performance is the high point, Lane's thoughts return to suicide. He is swigging a jar of paint primer when he accidentally blows up his neighbor's mom during a French-themed dinner party (French fries, French dressing, Perrier, what else do you need?). While she is recuperating, Lane must ferry her tubby, ungainly, mixed plaid-wearing son Ricky and the French exchange student to school. During yet another disastrous drag race on the way to school, the exchange student, Monique, and Lane strike up a friendship. In her eagerness to get out of the clutches of the lovestruck Ricky, Monique becomes the catalyst Lane needs to get back on his skis, get his bitchin' Camaro running, make it down K12 (on one ski!), and banish all thoughts of Beth and suicide.
--Lula Bean
Watching a movie with a twisty, complicated plot is fun the first time because you get to be surprised. Watching it the second time is fun because you get to see how it all works. Watching it the third time, you get to take an even closer look under the plot's hood and marvel at the fact that it works at all.
Steven Soderbergh's remake of Ocean's Eleven isn't just a heist movie, but a con movie as well. On first viewing, George Clooney's elaborate plan to steal from Andy Garcia not only $165 million, but also Julia Roberts, seems like a terrifyingly complex Rube Goldberg contraption with a truly ridiculous number of moving parts, the failure of any one of which would have gotten him and all his friends killed. But then on second (and third through fifteenth) viewing, you realize that there is absolutely no way it should have succeeded.
Yes, there are minor setbacks. Livingston gets lost planting a surveillance device in the forbidden bowels of the Bellagio. Saul gets recognized on the casino floor while undercover. Yen has to exit a casino lockbox without dropping the briefcase that's been placed on top of its lid. Don Cheadle has to lead a star-crossed expedition into California to steal a portable EMP device that hasn't even been invented yet. Somehow the heist gets pulled off anyway.
But all that's nothing compared to the stuff that could have -- and should have -- gone wrong. What if Julia Roberts hadn't heard the planted cell phone in her pocket that rang just as she was leaving a riot? What if Andy Garcia had just decided to have George Clooney killed the minute he first spotted him on the casino floor? What if he had noticed earlier that the compromised vault appearing on his security video monitors was an inexact replica? What if that non-existent portable EMP device had been stashed at MIT or Oxford instead of just one state away? There wouldn't have been an Ocean's Twelve or Thirteen, that's for damn sure.
Still, it's impossible to tear oneself away from the screen once the plan is in motion. Especially in the scene where Matt Damon and Bernie Mac conspire to lift Garcia's access card, Garcia seems more gullible every time. Which, given what an asshole Garcia is in this movie, is quite satisfying to watch.
But the main thing is that one is compelled to watch until one has figured out exactly why Brad Pitt and George Clooney pretend to have that big falling-out at the end of the second act, for the benefit of nobody but their accomplices. And when you've watched it that many times, let me know the number so I can know how many viewings I have left before I can stop.
--Lula Bean Watching a movie with a twisty, complicated plot is fun the first time because you get to be surprised. Watching it the second time is fun because you get to see how it all works. Watching it the third time, you get to take an even closer look under the plot's hood and marvel at the fact that it works at all. Steven Soderbergh's remake of Ocean's Eleven isn't just a heist movie, but a con movie as well. On first viewing, George Clooney's elaborate plan to steal from Andy Garcia not only $165 million, but also Julia Roberts, seems like a terrifyingly complex Rube Goldberg contraption with a truly ridiculous number of moving parts, the failure of any one of which would have gotten him and all his friends killed. But then on second (and third through fifteenth) viewing, you realize that there is absolutely no way it should have succeeded. Yes, there are minor setbacks. Livingston gets lost planting a surveillance device in the forbidden bowels of the Bellagio. Saul gets recognized on the casino floor while undercover. Yen has to exit a casino lockbox without dropping the briefcase that's been placed on top of its lid. Don Cheadle has to lead a star-crossed expedition into California to steal a portable EMP device that hasn't even been invented yet. Somehow the heist gets pulled off anyway. But all that's nothing compared to the stuff that could have -- and should have -- gone wrong. What if Julia Roberts hadn't heard the planted cell phone in her pocket that rang just as she was leaving a riot? What if Andy Garcia had just decided to have George Clooney killed the minute he first spotted him on the casino floor? What if he had noticed earlier that the compromised vault appearing on his security video monitors was an inexact replica? What if that non-existent portable EMP device had been stashed at MIT or Oxford instead of just one state away? There wouldn't have been an Ocean's Twelve or Thirteen, that's for damn sure. Still, it's impossible to tear oneself away from the screen once the plan is in motion. Especially in the scene where Matt Damon and Bernie Mac conspire to lift Garcia's access card, Garcia seems more gullible every time. Which, given what an asshole Garcia is in this movie, is quite satisfying to watch. But the main thing is that one is compelled to watch until one has figured out exactly why Brad Pitt and George Clooney pretend to have that big falling-out at the end of the second act, for the benefit of nobody but their accomplices. And when you've watched it that many times, let me know the number so I can know how many viewings I have left before I can stop.
And if this seems like too much of a time commitment, you can always just tell yourself that you'll shut it off as soon as you get to a scene where Brad Pitt isn't eating something.
--M. Giant
I didn't see Broadcast News until long after it was already an Oscar nominee (and Oscar loser). I was in high school, a know-it-all asshole brat (a phase some would say I never quite outgrew), and identified so strongly with Holly Hunter's Jane Craig that I was actually a tiny bit creeped out that James L. Brooks had crafted the character after reading my diary. When I watch it again now -- and I do, often; whichever channel in your market always shows Terms Of Endearment is probably showing News this weekend -- I can, under duress, tear myself away before the end, but not before the brunch-party exchange when Jane's boss balefully snarks at her, "It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you're the smartest person in the room," and Jane soulfully replies, "No, it's awful."
The movie is also to be commended for creating crackling banter for Jane and her colleague Aaron Altman (Albert Brooks! Scorpio!), so rare in movies these days. That these characters can be so intellectually in sync, and not get together because she has a crush on Tom Grunick (William Hurt), a fatuous hairdo of an anchorman...the script is so good that every plot twist really is earned, which is what makes it all the more painful when Aaron predicts that he'll see Jane, years in the future, and have to tell his son not to stare at the fat lady, and to see the way this remark catches Jane so much by surprised that she physically flinches at it, seemingly involuntarily.
My one note on the movie: I know it was the '80s, and stuff, but if the point of the story is that Jane has to choose between the witty, slightly lumpy genius reporter (Aaron) and the dunderhead with nothing really going for him but his looks (Tom)...William Hurt? As the dreamboat? Really? Albert Brooks is cuter than Hurt any day of the week, and not just because he played the guy who was singing and reading both.
--Wing Chun
Whenever anyone wants to talk smack about misguided Academy voter, the 1952 Best Picture winner The Greatest Show On Earth gets dragged into the fray. Cecil B. DeMille's circus flick catches flack for being the weak sister in a year that produced Singing In The Rain, Sudden Fear, High Noon, and The Quiet Man. Yet I contend it has timeless, compelling qualities, chief among them epic fatuity.
And if this seems like too much of a time commitment, you can always just tell yourself that you'll shut it off as soon as you get to a scene where Brad Pitt isn't eating something. --M. Giant I didn't see Broadcast News until long after it was already an Oscar nominee (and Oscar loser). I was in high school, a know-it-all asshole brat (a phase some would say I never quite outgrew), and identified so strongly with Holly Hunter's Jane Craig that I was actually a tiny bit creeped out that James L. Brooks had crafted the character after reading my diary. When I watch it again now -- and I do, often; whichever channel in your market always shows Terms Of Endearment is probably showing News this weekend -- I can, under duress, tear myself away before the end, but not before the brunch-party exchange when Jane's boss balefully snarks at her, "It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you're the smartest person in the room," and Jane soulfully replies, "No, it's awful." The movie is also to be commended for creating crackling banter for Jane and her colleague Aaron Altman (Albert Brooks! Scorpio!), so rare in movies these days. That these characters can be so intellectually in sync, and not get together because she has a crush on Tom Grunick (William Hurt), a fatuous hairdo of an anchorman...the script is so good that every plot twist really is earned, which is what makes it all the more painful when Aaron predicts that he'll see Jane, years in the future, and have to tell his son not to stare at the fat lady, and to see the way this remark catches Jane so much by surprised that she physically flinches at it, seemingly involuntarily. My one note on the movie: I know it was the '80s, and stuff, but if the point of the story is that Jane has to choose between the witty, slightly lumpy genius reporter (Aaron) and the dunderhead with nothing really going for him but his looks (Tom)...William Hurt? As the dreamboat? Really? Albert Brooks is cuter than Hurt any day of the week, and not just because he played the guy who was singing and reading both. --Wing Chun Whenever anyone wants to talk smack about misguided Academy voter, the 1952 Best Picture winner The Greatest Show On Earth gets dragged into the fray. Cecil B. DeMille's circus flick catches flack for being the weak sister in a year that produced Singing In The Rain, Sudden Fear, High Noon, and The Quiet Man. Yet I contend it has timeless, compelling qualities, chief among them epic fatuity.
High Noon has your McCarthy-era allegories. But does it have Jimmy Stewart playing Dr. Kevorkian in greasepaint? Gary Cooper gives a compelling performance in High Noon, but at no point does he dolefully gaze at the camera and say over a red rubber nose, "Sometimes you've got to kill the thing you love." Advantage: The Greatest Show On Earth.
Singing In The Rain has romance, but it hardly compares to elephant-tamer Klaus's (Lyle Bettger) attempts to woo his assistant Angel (Gloria Grahame). Since The Greatest Show On Earth was made before sexual harassment was invented, the sparring between these two is supposed to be comedic. Klaus buys Angel a hat reading "Du Bist Mein"; she throws it at him. Klaus asks Angel to stop ogling another man; she steam-presses his fingers. Klaus tries to get an elephant to stomp Angel's face; she quits his act. Klaus tries to impress Angel by derailing a circus train; Angel boards the train. Klaus flings himself on the tracks; Angel uses his elephants to haul wreckage off her boyfriend. Do the lovebirds in Singing In The Rain generate an inappropriately hilarious cycle of escalating abuse? Nein!
While I'm on the subject of romantic contrivances and The Greatest Show On Earth, apparently Cecil B. DeMille was into partner-swapping. At first, there is one acknowledged couple -- high-flyer Holly (Betty Hutton) and circus manager Brad (Charlton Heston). However, Brad's first love is the big tent. Holly spends a lot of time saying petulantly, "Brad, you have sawdust in your veins." Then The Great Sebastian (Cornel Wilde) shows up, trailing clouds of testosterone and debauchery. What follows comes off like a CDC brainteaser, with Brad, Holly, Angel, Klaus, The Great Sebastian and the circus in a six-way tie for Patient Zero. Does 1952's A Member Of The Wedding testify to this resilience of the human libido? Hardly.
Finally, while John Ford coaxed his actors to once-in-a-lifetime performances in The Quiet Man, that hardly compares to DeMille's evident decision not to talk to any of the actors he hired. He certainly didn't tell Heston he wouldn't be playing Moses until 1956. Did any other movie made in 1952 have a ringmaster who could also part seas with a glare? No.
The Academy knew what it was doing when it handed that Best Picture statuette to The Greatest Show On Earth. The brainless lunacy pervading every aspect of this film is both compelling and timeless. The minute the flick hits TCM, I hit the couch. Like Brad, I have sawdust in my veins. And, quite possibly, my head.
High Noon has your McCarthy-era allegories. But does it have Jimmy Stewart playing Dr. Kevorkian in greasepaint? Gary Cooper gives a compelling performance in High Noon, but at no point does he dolefully gaze at the camera and say over a red rubber nose, "Sometimes you've got to kill the thing you love." Advantage: The Greatest Show On Earth. Singing In The Rain has romance, but it hardly compares to elephant-tamer Klaus's (Lyle Bettger) attempts to woo his assistant Angel (Gloria Grahame). Since The Greatest Show On Earth was made before sexual harassment was invented, the sparring between these two is supposed to be comedic. Klaus buys Angel a hat reading "Du Bist Mein"; she throws it at him. Klaus asks Angel to stop ogling another man; she steam-presses his fingers. Klaus tries to get an elephant to stomp Angel's face; she quits his act. Klaus tries to impress Angel by derailing a circus train; Angel boards the train. Klaus flings himself on the tracks; Angel uses his elephants to haul wreckage off her boyfriend. Do the lovebirds in Singing In The Rain generate an inappropriately hilarious cycle of escalating abuse? Nein! While I'm on the subject of romantic contrivances and The Greatest Show On Earth, apparently Cecil B. DeMille was into partner-swapping. At first, there is one acknowledged couple -- high-flyer Holly (Betty Hutton) and circus manager Brad (Charlton Heston). However, Brad's first love is the big tent. Holly spends a lot of time saying petulantly, "Brad, you have sawdust in your veins." Then The Great Sebastian (Cornel Wilde) shows up, trailing clouds of testosterone and debauchery. What follows comes off like a CDC brainteaser, with Brad, Holly, Angel, Klaus, The Great Sebastian and the circus in a six-way tie for Patient Zero. Does 1952's A Member Of The Wedding testify to this resilience of the human libido? Hardly. Finally, while John Ford coaxed his actors to once-in-a-lifetime performances in The Quiet Man, that hardly compares to DeMille's evident decision not to talk to any of the actors he hired. He certainly didn't tell Heston he wouldn't be playing Moses until 1956. Did any other movie made in 1952 have a ringmaster who could also part seas with a glare? No. The Academy knew what it was doing when it handed that Best Picture statuette to The Greatest Show On Earth. The brainless lunacy pervading every aspect of this film is both compelling and timeless. The minute the flick hits TCM, I hit the couch. Like Brad, I have sawdust in my veins. And, quite possibly, my head.
--Sobell
--Sobell
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