1967: In the Heat of the Night.

A black northern detective (Sidney Poitier) reluctantly teams with
a bigoted Southern police chief (Rod Steiger) to solve a murder.

Release Date: Aug. 2, 1967. Running Time: 110 minutes. Screenplay: Stirling Silliphant. Based on the novel by: John Ball. Producer: Walter Mirisch. Director: Norman Jewison.


THE PLOT:

Bill Gillespie (Rod Steiger), the new police chief of Sparta, Mississippi, has a problem: Northern industrialist Philip Colbert has been murdered. Colbert came to Sparta with his wife (Lee Grant), intending to build a factory that would bring much needed jobs and businesses to the community. Now his wife is threatening to take all of her husband's machinery, jobs, and everything straight back to Illinois if the murder isn't solved.

For a moment, Gillespie believes this might actually be easy. A black man (Sidney Poitier) is found waiting at a train station, his wallet full of cash. This stranger is arrested on the spot and brought to the chief for questioning... only to reveal that he's a police officer from Philadelphia: Virgil Tibbs, described by his supervisor as a "homicide expert."

With pressure bearing down, Gillespie swallows his pride enough to ask Tibbs for help. But when the investigation brings them into the orbit of local plantation owner Eric Endicott (Larry Gates), who was bitterly opposed to the factory and the modernization it represented, Gillespie finds his position in danger - and for Tibbs, the danger is to his very life!

Tibbs shows his badge to a suspect.

SIDNEY POITIER AS VIRGIL TIBBS:

Sidney Poitier was the #1 box office star of 1967, headlining three hit movies: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, To Sir, with Love, and In the Heat of the Night. This is the best of that very good trio, and it may well be the finest performance of his career.

Poitier was conscious of his status as Hollywood's first mainstream black star, and he took care to take roles that would show African Americans in a dignified light. "If the fabric of the society were different, I would scream to high heaven to play villains and to deal with different images of Negro life that would be more dimensional... but I'll be damned if I do that at this stage of the game." This did impose limits, with many of his roles being idealized, "too perfect" people.

Tibbs is anything but perfect. He's not merely prideful but genuinely arrogant, clearly viewing himself as superior to the hick cops surrounding him. There's also a near-constant undercurrent of (entirely understandable) anger. He keeps it as buttoned down as his suit, but you can hear the strain in his voice. It simmers in the background throughout, until he finally loses his temper at the worst possible moment.

These were notes Poitier didn't often get to play - and because of them, Tibbs ends up feeling more complete as a person than many of his '50s and '60s characters. Tibbs has to overcome his own flaws as well as the prejudice of others, and that makes his victory in solving the crime more meaningful. Poitier's performance crackles with energy, and I think being freed to be just a bit angrier, a little more stubborn, and even a touch unlikable probably felt good after years of being "perfectly dignified."

Rod Steiger won the Best Actor Oscar that year. But I'm not 100% sure that the award shouldn't have gone to Poitier.

Gillespie is under pressure to solve the crime quickly.

ROD STEIGER AS CHIEF BILL GILLESPIE:

In fairness to Rod Steiger, though, I'm not 100% sure that he didn't deserve every bit of the award that he won.

At a glance, Gillespie is Tibbs's opposite. He has none of Tibbs's education or expertise. Everything he knows he learned by working as a cop, probably in towns not dissimilar to Sparta. That doesn't make him bad at his job. When a suspect attempts to flee, the other deputies chase him on foot, quickly losing ground. Gillespie just waits in his car near the bridge to Arkansas. When the young man attempts to run to the safety of another state, he puts the car in gear and drives calmly up behind him until the younger man gives in to the inevitable.

While Tibbs keeps his emotions in check, Gillespie has a hair-trigger temper that he lets loose at Tibbs and his deputies alike. This makes Steiger's performance seem broad on the surface, and it's also responsible for many of the film's funnier moments. Beneath the surface, though, there's a lot of subtlety.

Steiger uses his physicality in a way that reminds me a little of Broderick Crawford in All the King's Men. Like Crawford, he's not ashamed to push his stomach out, actually making that a part of Gillespie's physical presence. He keenly feels how tenuous his job is, observing in a rare contemplative moment that this town "don't want me." Also, if you watch his expressions when he's not speaking, he is constantly reacting, processing whatever he's seeing or hearing even when he says nothing.

Gillespie is bigoted, though probably more due to upbringing than any strong hatred within himself. He recognizes Tibbs's expertise and accepts his help, however much he'd rather not. But what finally pierces his bigotry has nothing to do with any of Tibbs's frequent displays of competence and intelligence. Instead, it's the moment that Tibbs finally lets go of the tight reign he keeps on his emotions.

After Tibbs loses his temper with plantation owner Endicott, he momentarily stops caring who killed Colbert. Tibbs decides that Endicott is guilty because he wants Endicott to be guilty: "I can pull that fat cat down, I can bring him down right off this hill!" Gillespie stares in wonder for a moment before responding: "Man, you're just like the rest of us."

Instead of gloating at Tibbs's loss of control, Steiger instead delivers the line with wonder. This isn't a "win" for Gillespie to crow about: It's a moment of realization that Tibbs is a full human being, with all the faults and pride and pettiness that entails.

Deputy Sam Wood (Warren Oates) makes a gruesome discovery.

OTHER CHARACTERS:

Officer Sam Wood: As the deputy who discovers the body, Warren Oates is as good as always as a seedy, slightly pathetic sort. Before he finds the body, Sam drives by a house where a young woman wanders around naked in her kitchen, and there's a clear sense that this peeping is a nightly ritual. He not only doesn't question Tibbs when he finds him at the train station; he specifically orders Tibbs not to speak, making the threat clear. Despite this, Sam shows no resistance to Tibbs's presence in the investigation. In many ways, he and the other deputies show more respect to him than they do to Gillespie. This may be because they can see Tibbs's obvious expertise; or it may be because they know he will soon be gone, making him easier to tolerate than the other outsider who's likely to be staying.

Mrs. Colbert: The victim's widow, and Tibbs's champion in the investigation. She witnesses a disagreement between Tibbs and Gillespie, with Gillespie so desperately wanting the suspect in custody to be guilty that he argues with Tibbs over evidence that exonerates him. She is appalled, from that point on seeing Gillespie as someone who wants to make a "cover-up arrest" rather than genuinely solve the crime. She makes clear that the factory will only remain in Sparta if Tibbs is given a free hand. Lee Grant only has a few scenes, likely totaling less than ten minutes, but she registers strongly in that time.

Endicott: Actor Larry Gates registers even more strongly in a single scene. The owner of the cotton plantation that oversees the town, Endicott is an obvious suspect because Colbert's factory represented a threat to his power. He is genially patronizing to Tibbs, so cocooned in his own privilege that it takes most of the scene for him to realize that he's being questioned as a suspect. Then he becomes incensed at the temerity of a black man to question him, snapping: "There was a time when I could have had you shot!"

Mayor Schubert: Gillespie's main ally in the local government, though he's hardly a reliable one. The scenes between Gillespie and Schubert indicate that he was probably responsible for the new chief's hiring. Schubert encourages Gillespie to take advantage of Tibbs's experience, stressing how important it is that this crime be solved quickly. But after Endicott becomes upset, Schubert warns Gillespie that it will be hard to save his job in the wake of the wealthy man's displeasure.

Tibbs questions wealthy plantation owner Eric Endicott (Larry Gates). It does not go well.

THE SLAP HEARD 'ROUND THE WORLD:

Tibbs's encounter with Endicott may be the best scene in a movie filled with excellent scenes. Tibbs tries to build rapport with the old racist by admiring his flowers and listening while the man draws a clumsy analogy between them and black people. When Endicott finally realizes that the two officers must be here for a reason and asks why, Tibbs does not immediately jump in. He looks over at Gillespie a couple of times, obviously recognizing that it would be best if the local police chief took the lead instead of him. It's only when Gillespie remains silent that Tibbs moves forward with direct questioning.

All of this already terrific. Then Endicott abruptly slaps Tibbs - and Tibbs instantly returns the slap, to the shock of both Endicott and Gillespie.

This simply cannot carry the same weight today as in 1967. It's still a strong moment. We can appreciate the impact of Tibbs's retaliation on Endicott and Gillespie. We can understand that of course a prideful character like Tibbs would, upon being slapped, return the gesture. We can even intellectually see how unthinkable this moment would have been at the time.

But in 1967, it was shocking. Journalist Steve Ryfle notes in his article, Desegrating Hollywood: The Impact and Legacy of "In the Heat of the Night", that this was the first time a mainstream studio film showed such an act from an African American character without that defiance being punished. It was even more startling because of Poitier's screen persona. Up to this point, Tibbs mostly seems like a slightly angrier and less likable variant of Poitier's usual characters: intellectual and non-threatening. Then comes the slap, with all of Tibbs' simmering anger emerging in a single act of physical defiance.

The scene might have ended there, after Gillespie refuses to take the retribution that Endicott clearly expects him to. Instead, the script adds two fantastic additional moments. Endicott weeps after the detectives leave, mourning that the world he's cherished is dying if it isn't dead already. Then Tibbs, suddenly focused fully on Endicott to the point that he isn't even considering other possibilities, prompts Gillespie's realization of Tibbs's humanity.

Without these moments, it would still be a great scene. With them, the scene is an absolute masterpiece of both writing and acting.

The victim's widow (Lee Grant) doesn't trust Gillespie to investigate properly.

OTHER MUSINGS:

In the Heat of the Night is a classic example of how captivating it is when a "great" movie remembers to work first and foremost as good entertainment.

This is a movie that deals with Big, Important Themes (TM). The racism Tibbs faces is the strongest and most obvious, but the script touches on all sorts of divisions. There's the divide between rich and poor: Mrs. Colbert's position allows her to dictate aspects of the investigation; Endicott's makes him a headache for Gillespie even before Tibbs antagonizes him. There's the divide between north and south, represented not only by Gillespie and Tibbs but also by Endicott and Colbert. There's the divide of past vs. present, with Endicott wanting to stay in the past and resenting Colbert and Tibbs, both of whom represent a future that he wants no part of. The script keeps returning, over and over, to the ways in which we divide ourselves: insiders vs. outsiders, educated vs. not, rich vs. poor, and black vs. white.

But none of that ever comes at the expense of this being a thoroughly entertaining and well-told story.

For one thing, this movie is funny. The biggest laughs come from Rod Steiger, who perfectly plays Gillespie's reactions as his bad week keeps insisting on getting worse. He's all swagger when he thinks that Tibbs is his killer - only to deflate like a popped balloon when Tibbs produces his badge. He calls in Officer Wood to rub his mistake in his face. The reactions of both actors are comedy gold: Warren Oates boggles at the badge like it's an artifact from Mars, while Steiger invests hilarious levels of scorn into a cry of: "Yeah - Oh, yeah!" I was left stopping the movie for a moment so that I wouldn't miss dialogue around my laughter.

Stirling Silliphant's screenplay is meticulously structured, with practically every scene used to develop both story and characters. A frustrated Gillespie jails Tibbs, demonstrating all his worst aspects: bigotry (it's the only scene in which he drops the "n" word), a willingness to make an easy arrest and call the case closed, and even his short temper. But instead of some protracted racial abuse, Tibbs is just taken back to the holding cells... where he shows his own intelligence by using this opportunity to draw information from the suspect.

For the most part, this is how the script develops characters: through their interactions and their reactions to events. There's no specific dialogue drawing attention to Gillespie and his deputies coming to accept Tibbs. We just gradually see them stop resisting his presence, with some of the deputies extending respect surprisingly quickly while others take longer to do so. By the end, when Gillespie makes an arrest, the deputies actually stop to ask Tibbs if he thinks the person is guilty, something they wouldn't have done earlier in the story.

"I've got a town that don't want me." Gillespie, in a moment of contemplation.

REMAKES AND RETELLINGS:

Author John Ball wrote several additional Virgil Tibbs mysteries. Inexplicably, none of these books became the basis for the movie sequels, which I suspect were much the poorer for it.

They Call Me Mister Tibbs! (1970) is a competent but forgettable programmer that plays more like a TV pilot than a theatrical film. It's serviceable enough on its own terms, particularly if you fast-forward through the godawful boring scenes involving Tibbs's wife and kids, but it's all as predictable as could be. The Organization (1971) at least feels like a movie, opening with a wonderfully directed, dialogue-free break-in. It also features a good early role for future star Raul Julia. Sadly, it gets progressively sillier as it goes along, and not even in a fun way.

Both films suffer from a severely watered down Virgil Tibbs. Poitier's still good, but the character isn't. All that simmering anger and arrogance that make him so memorable? Those are stripped away, leaving behind a generic detective who feels like "Virgil Tibbs in name only." If you told me the studio just dusted off a couple of "cop thriller" scripts in a slush pile and renamed the hero as "Virgil Tibbs," I would fully believe you.

A more worthy successor was the 1988 - 1995 TV series, In the Heat of the Night, starring Carroll O'Connor as Gillespie and Howard E. Rollins as Tibbs. It's certainly not the equal of the movie, but that would be an unreasonable expectation. It's a good show of its era, with solid performances by its two stars, and it features several fine individual episodes... though the two main characters have had their edges sanded down significantly for television, and the show frequently lapses into the exact kind of heavy-handedness that the 1967 film avoided.

Tibbs is torn between investigating and leaving Sparta to its own devices and returning home.

OVERALL:

Flaws in this movie are minor. There's a brief scene that I think should have been removed, in which the mayor and Gillespie talk with the city council about the investigation. The scene adds no new information, and it features what may be the only really heavy-handed moment as a city councilman grins while predicting that Tibbs will be dead by Saturday (using the "n" word, of course). This is made worse by the overacting of the councilman.

There's also a bizarre change from the novel. The book doesn't telegraph the murderer, but it does clearly connect that character to the crime. The movie doesn't. As a viewer, you can guess the killer by applying the "economy of characters" rule - but in story terms, the movie gives no clue that this person even could be involved.

Neither of these keep In the Heat of the Night from being an excellent motion picture. It's superbly paced and wonderfully entertaining even as it grapples with significant themes. Still, taken together, these faults are just enough to keep me from awarding full marks.

Leaving the film still at a very strong rating of...


Rating: 9/10.

Best Picture - 1966: A Man for All Seasons
Best Picture - 1968: Oliver! (not yet reviewed)


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1966: A Man for All Seasons.

Sir Thomas More (Paul Scofield) is named Lord Chancellor
 - a promotion that will put him into conflict with his king!

Release Date: Dec. 12, 1966. Running Time: 120 minutes. Screenplay: Robert Bolt. Based on the stage play by: Robert Bolt. Producer: Fred Zinnemann. Director: Fred Zinnemann.


THE PLOT:

King Henry VIII (Robert Shaw) has a problem. He has failed to produce an heir with his wife, Catherine of Aragon. Henry is petitioning the Catholic Church to annul his marriage so that he may instead wed his mistress, young and fertile Anne Boleyn (Vanessa Redgrave).

Sir Thomas More (Paul Scofield), Henry's Lord Chancellor, is a great legal mind who is absolutely loyal to his king. He is also a deeply and sincerely religious man, however, and he cannot offer his support for the requested annulment. Henry reluctantly agrees that so long as More does not oppose him, he will leave him out of it. It's a promise he won't be able to keep.

When the Church refuses Henry's request, the king declares independence from Rome. Fearing for their own heads, the various cardinals and bishops swear an oath that renounces Rome and instead recognizes the king as Supreme Head of the Church.

More cannot do the same. He hopes to navigate his dilemma by relying on silence: "Silence is my safety, under the law... The maxim of the law is, 'Silence gives consent.'" But Chief Minister Thomas Cromwell (Leo McKern) sees his silence as a condemnation, "bellowing up and down Europe!"

With the king paranoid about possible treachery, his officials become resolved: Thomas More must be made to swear the oath - or, failing that, be made into an example!

More with his plainspoken wife, Alice (Wendy Hiller).

PAUL SCOFIELD AS SIR THOMAS MORE:

Paul Scofield's More is no willing martyr. He's a man of great wit, and there's a certain self-satisfaction that we glimpse when he turns a phrase just right. A lawyer as much by temperament as by training, words are important to him. He chooses his own with care and, when told of Henry's oath, immediately wants to know what the exact words are. If there's any vagueness, then he may be able to take the oath in good conscience: "An oath is made of words... If I can take this oath, I will!"

When he finds no such escape, he still clings to the law as his protection, trusting in its precedents to protect his silence. He breaks that silence only when the last crumb of hope has gone. Then Scofield gets a chance to briefly but memorably unleash all the anger and frustration that has been building in More.

It's a great performance that not only anchors the story, but that also makes human someone who, in other hands, might have seemed too perfect and thus too remote.

Robert Shaw as King Henry VIII: unpredictable and dangerous.

OTHER CHARACTERS:

Alice More: Wendy Hiller, as More's plainspoken wife, is less showy but just as critical to the movie's success. Uneducated and illiterate, she nevertheless understands what More does not. "You think they'll leave you here to think?" she scoffs, knowing full well what he does not: that the powerful will have what they want. Hiller is superb, particularly in her final scene, when she clings to her husband and shouts out her defiance of the king and his council.

Thomas Cromwell: The ever-reliable Leo McKern plays the most visible villain, the Chief Minister tasked with obtaining More's consent to the king's annulment and new marriage. Cromwell is introduced as a rival to More: another lawyer, well-versed in the law and cunning. But unlike More, he has no scruples. He attempts to twist past events. When that fails, he doesn't hesitate to suborn perjury. He uses his position to bully, first intimidating Robert Rich into telling him one of More's secrets and finally intimidating the jury into rendering a verdict without any pause for deliberations.

King Henry VIII: Though he only has two scenes of substance, Robert Shaw makes such an indelible impression that his Henry looms over the rest of the story. His introduction emphasizes him as unpredictable and dangerous. Making an impromptu visit to the More estate, he hops off his boat into mud - whereupon all of his retainers freeze in terror, relaxing only when he finally laughs. He is friendly toward More; but when More doesn't voice support for the annulment, he switches on a dime to paranoid ranting about "treachery" with a rage as unrestrained as it is unhinged. He calms just as quickly, promising to leave More out of it; but we already understand that this promise is meaningless, and that the threats and anger were a truer reflection of the man.

Cardinal Wolsey: Orson Welles is superb as Wolsey, Henry's right hand, right up until he fails him. Welles uses his girth and his prematurely aged visage to show Wolsey as corruption personified. He isn't merely corrupt, though. He's a man of intellect, possibly the only character who seems to be More's intellectual equal. He fears for the country if Henry has no heir, speaking of the relatively recent dynastic wars with "blood-witted barons ramping the country from end to end." This isn't baseless fearmongering, as that very spectacle was still something in living memory, and this early conversation establishes the stakes for both sides. We later learn that More was recommended as the next Lord Chancellor by Wolsey himself, and we're left to wonder: Was this an act of repentance by Wolsey; or was it one of revenge, thrusting a political foe into a position that he knew was impossible? 

Robert Rich: "Why Richard, it profits a man nothing to give his soul for the whole world. But for Wales?" If More is this story's martyr, then John Hurt's weaselly Robert Rich is its Judas. He's introduced as a hanger-on, clinging to More in hopes of securing a position. More offers him one: schoolteacher. But Rich wants the money, power, and influence attached to the court. When More tries to instruct him by gifting him with a goblet that was intended as a bribe, Rich focuses only on how much he can sell the cup for. Inevitably, he goes to Cromwell. He's initially unhappy about doing so, and Cromwell has to browbeat him into talking about the goblet. "You'll find it easier next time," the prosecutor promises - words that prove prophetic.

Cardinal Wolsey (Orson Welles) tries
to convince More to compromise.

A STORY OF OPPOSITION:

"When statesmen forsake their own private conscience for the sake of their public duties, they lead their country by a short route to chaos."
-Thomas More explains the reason for his inflexibility.

A Man for All Seasons is structured around opposition. From the first, we see Thomas More in verbal conflict with more powerful figures. Interestingly, though his peril grows throughout, his opponents become steadily less formidable.

The first man he faces is Cardinal Wolsey. As Robert Bolt writes him and Orson Welles plays him, he's every bit More's intellectual equal. Their conversation does critical expositional work, laying out the basic conflict and the stakes for viewers not familiar with the full historical context.

More interesting is the sense of two opposites: More, the man of conscience, and Wolsey, the man of politics. Wolsey, the pragmatist, is frustrated by More's inability to "come down to Earth," sneering that the other man would like "to govern the country with prayers." More believes that sacrificing conscience for pragmatism inevitably will end badly. Neither man can sway the other, but both speak persuasively in a way that invites audience respect.

The next is King Henry VIII. Robert Shaw plays him as pure predator, switching between charm and rage - with the rage coming across as the more authentic. When More's answers displease Henry, the king leaves his estate without taking his meal, and there's a sense that More has already crossed a perilous line.

The main antagonists of the second half are Leo McKern's blustery Cromwell and John Hurt's twitchy Robert Rich. Cromwell is a man of law, like More, and a capable one; but he's introduced as a lackey to Wolsey, and he is portrayed as slime throughout. John Hurt's Robert Rich is constantly nervous, a small man intimidated by the larger men surrounding him. Early in the movie, More enjoys more power and influence than either of them. They are not inherently fearsome figures.

Unless you're powerless, that is - and by the end of the movie, More is. The brilliant paragon of integrity is undone not by titans like Wolsey and Henry. He's undone by the selfish actions of petty men who are looking out for themselves.

Or, as More puts it:

"If we lived in a state where virtue was profitable, common sense would make us saintly. But since we see that avarice, anger, pride, and stupidity commonly profit far beyond charity, modesty, justice, and thought, perhaps we must stand fast a little."

Alice's farewell to her husband - The only scene
that managed to engage my emotions.

A GOOD FILM, BUT NOT A GREAT ONE:

I can't particularly argue with A Man for All Seasons' Best Picture win. It is a very good movie. Its stage origins show, in that it's very much a film of people talking in rooms... but in the hands of writer Robert Bolt, adapting his own play, it's a succession of scenes of wonderful dialogue delivered by superb actors.

There are fantastic speeches here: More's "devil" speech, in which he states that he would extend benefit of law even to the devil himself, because otherwise the law would protect no one; Cromwell's speech to Robert Rich, in which he observes that administrators like them are unpopular but important because they minimize "inconvenience"; More's urging Rich to forget about the corrupt court and instead become a schoolteacher, an area where he believes the other man would excel. More is a character who values words, and the words of A Man for All Seasons are its greatest asset.

And yet... I'm not particularly moved. I'm entertained. I enjoy the wordplay and the performances, and I love the way the film tells its story. But the only time I actually feel is in the final scene between More and his wife. The rest of the time, I'm appreciating the craft but I'm not particularly caught up in the drama.

More tries to teach Robert Rich (John Hurt) by showing
an attempted bribe. Rich learns the wrong lesson. 

REMAKES AND RETELLINGS:

Before it became a movie, A Man for All Seasons was adapted twice as a television play: once in 1957, with Bernard Hepton as Thomas More; and again in 1963, with Wyn Roberts.

In 1998, Charlton Heston, who had wanted the role in 1966, directed and starred in a cable television production. He surrounds himself with a fine supporting cast: Vanessa Redgrave, who had a cameo as Anne Boleyn in the 1966 film, plays More's wife in this version, while John Gielgud appears as Cardinal Wolsey. Roy Kinnear, in his last film role, plays "The Common Man," a sort of Greek chorus character from the play whose part was distributed to multiple bit parts in the 1966 film. It's more faithful to the original play than the 1966 film, but it also drags a bit, indicating that Bolt and Zinnemann were right to trim it in the first place. Also, while I usually enjoy Heston's acting, I don't think he's a good fit for More. He plays the speeches well - but while Scofield found the relatable human being underneath, Heston mainly just plays the Icon.


OVERALL:

A Man for All Seasons is a very good movie, and it's an entertaining one. It's well paced, and I was never bored across its two hours. Still, I can't make myself rate it as the equal of movies that have transported me into their worlds, involved me, or moved me.

This film provokes thought as it entertains, and I admire it for that. Even so, I find it doesn't engage my emotions as strongly it does my intellect. As a result, while I would definitely recommend watching this film, I can't make myself consider it a great one.


Rating: 7/10.

Best Picture - 1965: The Sound of Music
Best Picture - 1967: In the Heat of the Night

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1965: The Sound of Music.

Maria (Julie Andrews) is introduced singing against the Austrian Alps.

Release Date: Mar. 2, 1965. Running Time: 174 minutes. Screenplay: Ernest Lehman. Based on the stage musical by Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse, based on the book, The Story of the Trapp Family Singers, by Maria von Trapp. Producer: Robert Wise. Director: Robert Wise.


THE PLOT:

It has become clear to the Sisters at Nonnberg Abbey in Salzburg, Austria that Maria (Julie Andrews) is not suited to the life of a nun. Though she's well-liked, she has difficulty following the many strict rules - even such basic ones as punctuality.

The Mother Abbess (Peggy Wood) decides to give the young woman a chance to reflect by assigning her as governess to the seven children of Georg Von Trapp (Christopher Plummer), a widowed former sea captain who was highly decorated during the First World War. It's a rocky adjustment for Maria. Georg is a stern man who runs his household as if he's still in the military, and the children misbehave to try to get his attention.

With perseverance, kindness, and a talent for singing, Maria wins over first the children and, eventually, Georg as well. The house becomes a happy place for the first time since his wife died, with Maria leading the children in putting on musical shows for first their father and then his guests, eventually drawing the eye of Georg's friend, promoter Max Detweiler (Richard Haydn), who believes such a family music group would be a huge draw.

But this is all occuring in 1938, just before the Anschluss, the annexation of Austria by Hitler's Germany. The Nazis are coming - and Georg's disdain for them may make himself and his family into targets!

Maria wins over Georg's children with enthusiasm and kindness.

CHARACTERS:

Maria: Julie Andrews plays yet another singing governess who changes the lives of a stern father and his children... but her Maria is not just a retread of Mary Poppins. Andrews injects a tentative quality into the early scenes, moments of hesitation that make it clear that she doesn't actually feel the self-confidence that she tries to project. This matches several story beats. Notably, when Maria is confronted with her feelings for Georg, her reaction is to retreat, in part to avoid conflict with Georg's fiancée (Eleanor Parker) and in part out of fear of her own feelings. This keeps her feeling like a fully rounded human being rather than a "Too Good to Be True" Hollywood creation.

Georg von Trapp: His initial sternness seems to be an emotional defense after the death of his wife. Once he reconnects with his children, he immediately becomes a warmer figure, though actor Christopher Plummer's innate reserve holds back an arguably too-quick transformation from seeming like a complete thaw. He again smiles and laughs with his children, but he remains icy with outsiders - particularly the Nazi supporters who prevail on him to accept that "the Anschluss is coming."

His role made him into an international star. Even so, Plummer never liked the film, dubbing it, "The Sound of Mucus." Director Robert Wise would state that Plummer's attitude actually was an asset, the actor's cynicism keeping the story from descending too far into sentimentality. It is worth noting, though, that his best acting comes in the final Act, which has a much darker tone than the rest of the film.

Baroness Elsa von Schraeder: Eleanor Parker fills the antagonist role for much of the movie as Georg's fiancée. To the film's credit, she never comes across as a villain. She's calculating in her pursuit of Georg, and she acts to protect her interest when she perceives Maria as a threat to the relationship. But even this manipulation amounts to simply telling the right person the truth at the right moment. Parker plays the character as self-interested, but she never shows any active malice. This helps to maintain the light tone of the first two hours - which, in turn, increases the contrast when the final Act arrives.

Max Detweiler: A mutual friend of Georg and the Baronness, Max freely describes himself as a sponge. He's come to Salzburg looking for a music group to promote, but he stays to enjoy the good life as Georg's houseguest. Not for free, mind you - He trades his charming, witty company for the privileges of enjoying the other man's wealth. Georg even at one point tells him that he's "expensive, but very funny." He is also a genuine friend, aiding the Von Trapps in their escape even when it means putting himself in danger. Even before that, it's clear enough that Georg trusts him. Otherwise, there's no chance he would leave his children in his care when he goes on his honeymoon.

Mother Abbess: Though she knows Maria shouldn't become a nun, she never tries to force the course of the younger woman's life. Instead, she gently steers her into making the right decisions for herself, first by assigning her to the Von Trapp family and later through a simple conversation after Maria returns. When Maria reveals her feelings for Georg, the Abbess is the picture of patience as she tells her: "If you love this man, it doesn't mean you love God less." The only time she directly refuses Maria is when she begs to stay in the abbey: "These walls were not built to shut out problems. You have to face them." Peggy Wood is only in a few scenes, but she makes a strong impression every time she appears.

Rolfe: Another small part, but a critical one. Rolfe (Daniel Truhitte) is the love interest of Liesl (Charmian Carr), the oldest of Georg's children. He's an entirely innocent young man, and he and Liesl make an attractive young couple... until the final Act, when he joins the Nazis and becomes haughty and cold. The final scene between him and Georg is a particularly strong moment, well-written and wonderfully played by both Christopher Plummer and Daniel Truhitte.

The musical numbers are made to be cinematic rather than stage-like.

A CINEMATIC MUSICAL, NOT A STAGE ONE:

The Sound of Music was developed as a project for William Wyler, director of past Best Picture winners Mrs. Miniver, The Best Years of Our Lives, and Ben-Hur. Wyler was no fan of the stage musical, wanting to focus less on the singing and more on the Anschluss. To be honest, I think that would also have made for a good film, but it's safe to say that it would have been a very different one. Eventually, there was a parting of the ways, and West Side Story's Robert Wise was brought in to make a faithful adaptation of the stage play.

Faithful in content, I should say, because Wise made sure that the movie was its own experience. The previous Best Picture winning musicals that I've reviewed deliberately evoked the experience of watching them on stage. Wise's own West Side Story had musical numbers, directed (mostly) by Jerome Robbins, that mingled purely cinematic techniques with decidedly stage-like ones.

The Sound of Music's numbers are purely cinematic. This starts from the very beginning, as a series of gorgeous introductory shots of the Alps lead to the iconic helicopter shot that moves in on Julie Andrews singing the title song. When the abbey nuns sing Maria, there's a sustained shot of the nuns moving down a long abbey hallway toward the camera - a visual effect that could not be as effectively replicated on stage. Later, Maria teaches the children Do-Re-Mi against a series of location shots spanning the countryside and Salzburg.

In short, it's explicitly a movie - and the absence of any moments that break that internal reality brings the viewer that much more completely into the world of the story. This, in turn, enhances the effectiveness when the tone changes near the end, because even the musical numbers do not create any deliberate artificiality.

Maria and Georg (Christopher Plummer) fall in love.
Key to the film's success, the romance actually works.

OTHER MUSINGS:

Somehow or other, I had managed to never see The Sound of Music prior to this set of reviews. I'm now uncertain whether I should be sorry I had never watched it before, or whether I should be glad to have gotten to view it with fresh eyes. I had my doubts as to whether I'd like this. In the end, I loved it.

It's a thoroughly charming movie. All the individual elements come together just right. The characters are likable; the locations are gorgeous; the musical numbers are mostly very good and are well-integrated into the story; most of the comedy is funny; and the tone is engagingly light and bouncy right up to the point when things suddenly become tense and dangerous. Everything fits together, with the end result being greater than the sum of its (very good) individual parts.

For all that he didn't much like the project, Christopher Plummer ends up being the perfect foil for Julie Andrews, his reserve grounding her buoyancy. Andrews, in turn, brings the enthusiasm needed for us to believe that Maria's able to push past his defenses. The early scenes in the abbey plant the idea of her as a disruptive force. She brings that disruption to his well-ordered household, pushing back against his rules and procedures almost as soon as she arrives.

Their budding attraction is sold visually even before it becomes a plot point. They're frequently framed together, and scenes repeatedly show her battering against his comfortable withdrawal. When she bickers with him over his distance from his children, he paces anxiously back and forth while she stands firmly in place, giving her the power in the argument.

Even when their relationship thaws, she prods him to join the children in singing, holding his guitar out to him to play until he reluctantly accepts it. They exchange frequent glances, which are observed by the Baronness. By the time they share the dance that marks the moment that the romance becomes a point in the script, the movie has already made them a couple visually, leaving the script to catch up.

Maria ends up being a support to Georg in the final Act in a way that the Baronness simply couldn't have been. She supports Georg's dangerous resistance to the Nazis, telling Max: "I can't ask him to be less than he is." During the performance near the end, Georg sings Edelweiss to the crowd, sharing his own Austrian patriotism with them even as his country loses its independence. Midway through the song, he is overcome with emotion - and Maria steps forward to help him finish.

Georg angrily tears a Nazi flag.

A CHANGE IN TONE:

The movie seamlessly handles the switch in tone in the final Act. That the Anschluss is coming is established earlier, when Nazi sympathizers approach Georg at a dinner party. He responds with perfectly polite and pleasant acid, the perfect host even as he insults them to their faces. Moments like these allow us to sense the storm clouds before they finally roll in.

The final Act doesn't introduce any new musical numbers. Instead, it offers altered reprises of earlier songs. "Nothing in Austria has changed," the Nazis insist, practically as a catchphrase, but everything is different. The nice boy the eldest daughter had a crush on? He's now a strutting, Swastika-wearing martinet. Earlier in the film, Sixteen Going on Seventeen established Liesl's attraction to him; a much sadder version is sung between Maria and Liesl to show the death of that crush. Edelweiss goes from whimsy performed by Georg for his family to a gesture of defiance, sung to stir the Austrian patriotism of the crowd. Even the silly So Long, Farewell gets a reprise in a more dramatic context. All of this keeps it feeling like the same movie, but the changed context shows that the previous sense of joy has been replaced with sadness and fear.

The story culminates in the family's dramatic escape... which is entirely fictional. In reality, when Georg realized that he and his family would not be safe under the Nazis, he purchased tickets and they got on a train out of the country (in reality, unlike in the film, the border was still open). But that would make for a dull story.

The movie's escape gives the hint of jeopardy that this needs as a work of drama. The scene of them hiding from their pursuers in a crypt, ducking behind gravestones to avoid the beams of the Nazis' flashlights, is a moment of tension that wouldn't be out of place in a Hitchcock thriller, while their final journey over the mountains makes for a wonderful final visual that ties right back to the introductory shots.

The family escapes over the Alps. In reality, they just boarded a train.

REMAKES AND RETELLINGS:

The Trapp Family (1956): This West German film was the first one made about the family. Its script directly influenced the story and structure of the stage musical, though it spends considerably more time focusing on the family's many performances for charity, which The Sound of Music almost entirely omits. It was extremely successful in its home country, leading to...

The Trapp Family in America (1958): A direct sequel, adapted from the back half of Maria von Trapp's book, this follows the family as they establish themselves as singers in America, eventually settling in Vermont.

Trapp Family Story (1991): This Japanese animated series retells the story across forty episodes. This was part of Japan's long-running World Masterpiece Theater, which was behind such series as Isaio Takahata's Heidi, Girl of the Alps and Yoshio Kuroda's Swiss Family Robinson, among many other titles.

The Sound of Music Live! (2013): A television special that aired live on NBC, with country singer Carrie Underwood as Maria. This drew mixed reviews; Underwood's singing was generally praised, but her acting left reviewers underwhelmed. Still, it proved a significant ratings success for the network.

The family performs.

OVERALL:

Until the release of Grease more than a decade later, The Sound of Music was the most financially successful movie musical of all time. Beyond that - as with Gone with the Wind for movies in general, it remains the musical box office champion if you adjust for inflation.

It's easy enough to see why it's such an enduring success. The movie is wonderfully cinematic entertainment that doesn't put a foot wrong, its three-hour running time passes in an eyeblink, while the tonal shift of the final Act makes it substantial enough to stick in the memory.

This was released during a period in which musicals were regularly winning Best Picture. Of the musicals that I've reviewed to date (and I think Oliver! is the only one now left), this is easily my favorite.

I can't imagine it having been particularly better than it is. As such...


Rating: 10/10.

Best Picture - 1964: My Fair Lady
Best Picture - 1966: A Man for All Seasons

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1964: My Fair Lady.

Professor Henry Higgins (Rex Harrison) wagers that he can make a lady out of
lowborn Eliza Doolittle (Audrey Hepburn)... and gets more than he bargained for.

Release Date: Oct. 21, 1964. Running Time: 173 minutes. Screenplay: Alan Jay Lerner. Based on the musical by Alan Jay Lerner, based on the play, Pygmalion, by George Bernard Shaw. Producer: Jack L. Warner. Director: George Cukor.


THE PLOT:

Eliza Doolittle (Audrey Hepburn) is a poor flower girl subsisting day to day in class conscious early 20th century London. She has a chance encounter with Professor Henry Higgins (Rex Harrison), a famed expert in phonetics. Higgins, a borderline misanthrope who prizes proper speech but thinks nothing of human feelings, reacts to Eliza's Cockney dialect with disgust. But before their conversation ends, he vows that given six months, he could pass her off as "a duchess at an embassy ball."

That statement lingers in Eliza's mind. The next day, she goes to the Professor's estate to receive lessons, for which she's prepared to pay as much as a shilling. Amused and intrigued by the prospect of a challenge, Higgins agrees to teach her with an end goal of taking her to a ball at Buckingham Palace.

The lessons commence, with Higgins pushing his new pupil/project hard enough to make a drill sergeant blanche. Gradually, Eliza starts making progress. At the same time, however, unexpected feelings develop - which may be the only thing that the eloquent but frosty Henry Higgins is totally unprepared for!

Eliza's first public appearance, at the Ascot Racecourse. It doesn't go well.

AUDREY HEPBURN AS ELIZA DOOLITTE:

Hepburn was cast because producer Jack L. Warner didn't consider stage star Julie Andrews to be a big enough name to carry a movie. That same year saw Andrews become a bona fide film star with The Americanization of Emily and, most particularly, Mary Poppins - for which Andrews ended up winning a BAFTA, an Oscar, and a Golden Globe, caustically "thanking" Jack Warner in her acceptance speech.

Warner was dead wrong not to cast Andrews (though given Mary Poppins, it's hard to regret that). He was right, however, to cast Audrey Hepburn, who gives a fine performance in a difficult role. We see multiple versions of Eliza across the movie: the boisterous flower girl of the first Act; the lady of the Third Act; and the "not-quite-there" Eliza presented to the public at the Ascot Racecourse; in contrast to her final appearance, the Eliza at Ascot is stiff and mannered as she tries to retain the upper-class speech patterns that don't yet come naturally to her.

I think Hepburn overdoes the Cockney at the beginning, but I was impressed with her scenes later in the film. She does especially well with the last third, not only navigating some fine emotional scenes but also varying the accent, with Eliza switching (sometimes deliberately and sometimes not) between the upper-class speech Higgins has ingrained in her into moments of Cockney and back again.

Professor Higgins attempts to teach proper diction.

REX HARRISON AS PROFESSOR HENRY HIGGINS:

Though Higgins is certainly a member of the upper class, he doesn't remotely fit in. He seems almost proud of this, showing up at Ascot in his usual tweed rather than a proper suit. He revels in offending people, and his mother laments that she immediately loses any friends who have the misfortune to meet him.

Higgins sneers at class distinctions in general. When Eliza accuses him of thinking of her as nothing but a poor flower girl, he is indignant. He insists that she's focusing on his brusqueness with her, rather than noticing that he treats everyone equally poorly. The only exception is Pickering, his friend and fellow language enthusiast.

Rex Harrison is splendid in the role, prickly enough to convey Higgins's lack of interest in social niceties, but with enough of a twinkle to keep the audience on his side even when he's being rude or selfish. He's brusque and self-absorbed, but he never actually comes across as ill-intentioned, and there's something admirable in his disdain for the very notion of "class." Harrison's comic timing is particularly good, throwing out disparaging quips in such an off-handed way that we gather that he's just saying whatever is in his mind - a delivery that remains consistent during both dialogue and musical sequences.

Higgins is first repelled, then fascinated, by Eliza's ne'er-do-well father (Stanley Holloway).

OTHER CHARACTERS:

Alfred P. Doolittle: Stanley Holloway makes Eliza's ne'er-do-well father into the personification of affable self-gratification. When he learns of Eliza's new situation, he goes to Higgins to get a payoff. He wants five pounds to leave his daughter with the professor. Higgins is initially repelled. However, the more Alfred speaks, the more the professor is drawn in by his particular sort of eloquence. In the end, Higgins is so entranced that he offers ten... which Alfred refuses, on the grounds that five pounds is enough to enjoy, but ten pounds might tempt him to start saving. An amused Higgins writes to an acquaintance to declare Alfred as "one of the most original moralists in England."

Col. Pickering: In contrast to Higgins, Pickering (Wilfrid Hyde-White)'s default manner is entirely genial. Eliza compares their ways of interacting with her, noting that Pickering treated her "like a lady" even before her lessons began, while Higgins treats her "like a flower girl" even after she's mastered them. Pickering tries to restrain Higgins's worst instincts, and "Do be reasonable" almost becomes his catchphrase.

Mrs. Higgins: Gladys Cooper is extremely entertaining as Higgins's eternally exasperated mother. She makes a show of disdaining him, but when he announces that he's brought a girl with him to Ascot, she's momentarily elated... though only until he fills her in on his wager. She assists her son in his deception, but her sympathies are with Eliza. Even after their first meeting, she chides him and Pickering for treating her like an object, calling them out as "a pretty pair of babies playing with your live doll."

Freddy: I'm so accustomed to Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes that I about did a double-take when he showed up in a role that is Holmes' polar opposite. Freddy is instantly lovestruck by Eliza, to the point that he spends (too) much of the movie basically stalking her on the street outside Higgins's home. His most memorable bit isn't his big song, but rather his reactions when Eliza sings, Show Me, to him, demanding that he stop wooing her with flowery words and actually prove his feelings through action. Outside of that, through no fault of Brett's, the character is too bland to make any significant impression.

Zoltan: Theodore Bikel only appears briefly, but he's memorably (and amusingly) seedy as Higgins's former student turned unwitting adversary. Zoltan is the one major obstacle Higgins and Eliza must overcome in their effort to pass her off as royalty. He's Higgins's former student, and - much to Higgins's disgust - he has used the skills he learned to effectively blackmail the wealthy and titled into keeping secret the undesirable parts of their backgrounds. While Higgins sneers at class distinctions, Zoltan maintains his lifestyle by exploiting the hypocrisy of them.

Higgins' rival linguist and former student, Zoltan (Theodore
Bikel), tries to discover Eliza's origins.

THOUGHTS:

"What could possibly matter more than to take a human being and change her into a different human being by creating a new speech for her? It's filling up the deepest gap that separates class from class and soul from soul!"
-Professor Henry Higgins (Rex Harrison) explains the deeper importance of his experiment.

My Fair Lady is based on George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion. More specifically, it's a direct musical adaptation of the 1938 motion picture, Pygmalion. My Fair Lady's dialogue is, in places, word-for-word with the earlier film. It even retains the ending of that movie - an ending that Shaw himself disliked, as he did not want Higgins and Eliza to end up as a couple.

For the record, I think he was wrong. By the end, Eliza is too strong a personality for wet Freddy. Now a "tower of strength," in Higgins's words, she's a much better fit for the prickly professor. As a result, I find the ending created for the 1938 movie and retained for the musical version to be more satisfying than Shaw's own.

My Fair Lady is one of the more purely entertaining Best Picture winners. The observations about class differences lend a hint of substance; but for the most part, this is just a great entertainment. Good actors are cast as enjoyably quirky characters, and they are given plenty of witty dialogue to both speak and sing. The production is intimate enough for the viewer to feel close to the characters, but also features enough large-scale moments to provide the spectacle contemporary audiences would have expected.

It's also very funny, with some of the best barbs slipped right into the musical numbers. I think I laughed almost as many times during Higgins's opening number, Why Can't the English Learn to Speak?, as I did during the entirety of Tom Jones. Still more laughs come during Eliza's light-heartedly vengeful, Just You Wait - and the comic nature of the song's initial performance boosts the emotional impact of her later, more subdued version near the end.

In addition to the humor, there are some strong emotional beats, particularly in the final Act. After her transformation, Eliza returns to the street where she formerly sold flowers, only to find that she no longer belongs. The locals don't recognize her, and a flower seller not dissimilar to early Eliza sells her one of her wares, while everyone she runs into tells her that this is no place for someone like her. Lowborn and yet too "proper" for her former life, Eliza - much like Higgins himself - is left with nowhere that she truly fits.

The Ascot Gavotte: The upper class are introduced still, like
mannequins, before beginning their carefully controlled movements.

Director George Cukor makes flowers into a recurring visual. Eliza is introduced selling flowers, while the much later sale of that flower to Eliza signifies the permanence of her change in status. Just before she decides to ask for lessons from Higgins to change her life, we're given an extended cinematic moment showing flowers being unpacked to fill the stalls. Flowers adorn Ascot when Eliza makes her first (unsuccessful) public appearance. When a more resolved Eliza visits Higgins's mother near the end, the older woman is cutting flowers. Each major turn in her journey - from beginning it, to realizing that she's past the point of no return, to determining to stake out a future for herself - is literally adorned with flowers.

Cukor also uses a stagey conceit when introducing first the lower class that sell items on the street, then later the upper class at Ascot. In both instances, the members of these disparate classes freeze in place for a moment before going into motion. It's visually effective in both instances, with the street peddlers going from freeze frame to suddenly calling out their wares, and the upper-class idlers going from frozen mannequins to movements so controlled as to still seem artificial as they sing The Ascot Gavotte while watching a race.

I've previously noted my resistance to the musical genre. That barely applies here. The songs are catchy, often witty, and placed so that they advance plot and character without interfering with the pacing. I could nitpick that Alfred Doolittle's Get Me to the Church on Time is narratively unnecessary and briefly takes focus away from the Higgins/Eliza dynamic... but the performance is so enjoyable that it would be churlish to complain about it.

The Rain in Spain: Higgins, Eliza, and Pickering celebrate when she finally makes progress.

REMAKES & RETELLINGS:

There have been many film and television versions of Pygmalion, too many to list comprehensively. Some of the major ones include:

Pygmalion (1935): The first film adaptation is not the better-known Leslie Howard version, but rather this German film adaptation from director Erich Engel.

Pygmalion (1938): The best-known non-musical adaptation of George Bernard Shaw's play, with Leslie Howard as Higgins and Wendy Hiller as Eliza. A massive success, this version formed the basis for both stage and film versions of My Fair Lady. It was nominated for several 1938 Oscars and won for Best Adapted Screenplay. Shaw sneered at his Oscar publicly, but he was said to later display the award in his home.

Pygmalion (1983): Made for cable television network Showtime, this version starred Peter O'Toole as Higgins and Margot Kidder as Eliza. I haven't seen this version, but it's supposedly much truer to Shaw's play than the earlier film versions were.

That's not even mentioning the many movies that have drawn direct inspiration from the story, ranging from the Oscar-nominated Educating Rita, to a Three Stooges short, to teen comedies such as Can't Buy Me Love and She's All That. It's fair to say that Pygmalion and My Fair Lady have had just a bit of an influence on generations of filmmakers.


OVERALL:

My Fair Lady is grand Hollywood entertainment. A musical version of a story that was already a classic at the time, it benefits from outstanding production values, a fine and witty script, and an excellent cast. There are Best Picture winners that I think are better - but at the same time, there are very few that I think are as much fun to watch.


Rating: 8/10.

Best Picture - 1963: Tom Jones
Best Picture - 1965: The Sound of Music

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