1978: The Deer Hunter.

Mike (Robert DeNiro) stalks a deer on his last hunting trip before shipping out to Vietnam.

The Deer Hunter

Release Date: Dec. 8, 1978. Running Time: 184 minutes. Screenplay: Deric Washburn. Story: Deric Washburn, Michael Cimino, Louis A. Garfinkle, Quinn K. Redeker. Producer: Barry Spikings, Michael Deeley, Michael Cimino, John Peverall. Director: Michael Cimino.


THE PLOT:

Clairton, Pennsylvania steel worker Steve (John Savage) is getting married just before he and buddies Mike (Robert DeNiro) and Nick (Christopher Walken) are due to ship out to Vietnam. While Steve spends the weekend with his new bride, Mike and Nick join their other friends on one last hunting trip into the mountains.

Mike returns from the war, physically whole but feeling distant from his old life. He learns that Steve is alive and at a nearby VA hospital, but when he starts to call, he ends up putting the phone down. Meanwhile, a psychologically scarred Nick goes AWOL the day before he's supposed to go back home, vanishing without a trace.

Or so Mike believes, until the day that he finally brings himself to visit Steve. He discovers that his injured friend has been receiving shipments of cash from Saigon. There's only one explanation: Nick is still alive and still in Saigon. With the US soon to withdraw, that leaves only a short window for Mike to go back to Vietnam, to find Nick and bring him home.

Mike, Nick (Christopher Walken), and Steve (John Savage) stage a desperate escape.

CHARACTERS:

Mike: The natural leader of the friend group, Mike takes charge both in the mountains when hunting and during the trio's escape from a Vietcong prison camp. DeNiro conveys the strength of a natural leader. Even more important to the film, he invests Mike with a certain soulfulness. DeNiro makes convincing a taciturn man who is awkward and uncertain in social situations, but absolutely in control in a crisis. He's also able to hint at Mike's psychological pain without a trace of histrionics. It's certainly no crime that Jon Voight won the Best Actor Oscar for his excellent work in Coming Home - but for my money, DeNiro's quiet, introspective performance here is even better.

Stan: In his final acting role, John Cazale is as excellent as ever, playing that member of the friend group who is more tolerated than actually liked. Stan is introduced preening into a mirror, much to his friends' amusement. During the hunting trip, he screams nasally at Mike for refusing to lend him hunting boots after forgetting his own. Despite his general obnoxiousness, there's always a sense of something more beneath the surface. After Mike's return, he seems more aware than some of the others that he isn't as "fine" as he pretends, something Cazale conveys entirely through glances and body language. Also, the night before his friends go off to war, Stan seems absolutely devastated, sitting at the piano of their favorite bar, staring into the distance with a truly stricken expression.

Nick: Mike's best friend and hunting partner. He's the most compassionate of the group, and it falls to him to make peace between Mike and Stan when they have their argument. In Vietnam, he refuses to let Mike abandon Steve when it looks like their friend might not make it. His empathic nature is probably what leads to him being so psychologically broken by their experiences. When a military doctor brusquely asks him to verify basic personal information, he freezes, unable to remember his parents' birthdates and seeming to struggle to even speak. It's a scene that Walken plays perfectly, with no trace of the overacting that he would later become known for.

Steven: The bridegroom is also the most vulnerable member of the group. At the wedding, he nervously confesses to the others that he and Angela have not yet consummated their relationship (though judging from the baby that we see after the return from war, that doesn't pose any problem after the ceremony). When the trio are captured, he fares the worst, literally crying out in terror while Mike and Nick do their best to remain calm. He attempts to hide from Angela after his return, apparently ashamed of his injuries, though he seems entirely mentally sound when Mike visits him.

Linda: Early scenes make it clear that, though she's in a relationship with Nick, there is a mutual if unspoken attraction between her and Mike. When Mike comes home without Nick, it doesn't take long before they are framed as a couple. She remains worried and anxious about Nick, but she does her best to behave normally. There's really only one scene in which she completely lets her guard down, when Mike drops by her work to find her sobbing uncontrollably in the back, even as she insists to him that she's fine. This and television miniseries Holocaust were Meryl Streep's breakthrough roles, and she is quietly excellent, earning emotion by convincingly playing someone who does as much as she can not to show what she's feeling.

John: George Dzundza is quietly excellent as one of the more peripheral members of the friend group. He runs the bar where they all hang out, and he comes across as a cheerful presence. He throws himself into dancing at Steve's wedding, and he's just as enthusiastic when bowling. There are two moments that show how affected he is by his friends' departure: the first, when he plays the piano beside Stan just before the trio ship out; and the second, when he's preparing breakfast for everyone and declines offers of help, only to go in the back and sob once he's completely alone.

Mike dances with Linda (Meryl Streep) at Steve's wedding.

THOUGHTS:

For most of the 1970s, American cinema tended to shy away from directly tackling the war in Vietnam. By 1978, filmmakers and studios apparently decided that it was time to pick at the scab. That year saw two major releases, both dealing heavily with the pyschological impact of the war. The first was Coming Home, an antiwar drama that won Oscars for stars Jane Fonda and Jon Voight. The second film, the one which won Best Picture, was The Deer Hunter.

The Deer Hunter isn't overt in its politics the way Coming Home is. Its characters aren't political people. They are working class, mostly second-generation immigrants, working hard and living their lives day by day. Mike, Nick, and Steve don't seem motivated by patriotic fervor. There's not much sense that they're motivated by much. The war is there, and they go because they can't come up with any reason not to.

One of the more interesting qualities in The Deer Hunter is its pacing. Scenes set in Vietnam dominate the middle. This section is tightly-scripted and edited. The trio's imprisonment and escape create roughly thirty minutes of sustained tension, and there's not one wasted second in that extended sequence. This efficiency extends to the immediate aftermath, notably a sequence that follows Nick through what's meant to be his last day before returning home. Particularly on rewatch, this sequence uses a lot of the language of a thriller, with Nick given multiple opportunities to avoid what ends up befalling him.

Both the first and last hour are set mostly in the characters' hometown, Clairton. These scenes are anything but tight. This is particularly true of the first hour, which co-writer/director Michael Cimino allows to meander through their normal lives. The characters enjoy each other's company at a bar, celebrate at Steve's wedding, and go on their last big hunting trip, and this takes more than an hour of screen time.

From a narrative standpoint, this could fairly easily be cut in half. However, I think doing so would reduce the movie. By allowing the day of Steve's wedding to play out organically, the viewer is given a strong sense of the characters' relationships within the group. Critically, this opening Act is all about the characters. Even during the big set piece of Steve's wedding, the camera keeps moving from the activity back to the main characters. There are moments of humor, moments that show Mike's leadership role in the group, moments that foreshadow what these friends will soon suffer... and because it's allowed space to just unfold, even bits such as a veteran giving a succinct, two word answer to questions of what it's like in Vietnam feel not like dramatic scenes, but instead like things that just happen during the day that we observe.

Mike returns to the mountains to hunt, allowing cinematographer
Vilmos Zsigmond to create a moment of ethereal beauty.

The entire film is wonderfully shot. Vilmos Zsigmond's BAFTA winning cinematography captures not only the settings, but their roles in the story. Mike's mountain refuge is beautiful, even ethereal. Clairton is naturalistic. The Vietnam scenes are harsher in their visual look, emphasized by lighting choices and a greater reliance on close-ups than in the rest of the film. When Mike returns to Vietnam to find Nick, that harshness is magnified. When he walks into the underground club that is Nick's refuge, there's a sense that Mike is making a journey into hell.

Given the cast, it's unsurprising that performances are superb from top to bottom. What is notable is how much both the actors and the movie resist any temptation toward histrionics. This extends to the ending, a ten minute epilogue that in some ways mirrors the expansive opening Act.

Like the rest of the film, there are no speeches made. The characters are striving for normality. They aren't indulging their emotions, they're trying to avoid them by focusing on mundane activity. Even the famous final moment, as the characters sing together, builds organically. They don't sing as a political statement. It's just a moment among people, one that's delivered haltingly and with a mix of emotions... which in itself is probably the most effective statement the movie could have chosen for its ending.

Mike and his friends gather at John (George Dzundza)'s bar.

OVERALL:

A nitpick I have is not with the movie itself, but with its Blu-ray presentation. The film looks gorgeous, but its audio is muddled. I was surprised, as I'd seen it before on both VHS and television. I was actually driven to dig out my old videotape, and I can verify that the VHS has much clearer audio than the Blu-ray. I'm guessing an attempt at a Dolby "up-mix" turned into a "down-mix."

That aside, The Deer Hunter holds up as an excellent motion picture. It is not a realistic account of the War in Vietnam, something many others have critiqued at length... but since I don't think it's striving to be one, I find that entirely forgivable. The Vietnam sequence is a superb suspense piece, and the characters' psychological reactions feel realistic, and that's enough for me to believe in the drama.

It falls just short of full marks, mainly because I don't think it's quite at the level of the Best Picture Winners to which I have given the top score. But I'd still rate this as a very fine motion picture.


Rating: 9/10.

Best Picture - 1977: Annie Hall
Best Picture - 1979: Kramer vs. Kramer (not yet reviewed)

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1977: Annie Hall.

Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) and Annie Hall (Diane Keaton)
"meet cute" and fall in love - for a little while...

Release Date: Mar. 27, 1977. Running Time: 93 minutes. Written by: Woody Allen, Marshall Brickman. Producer: Charles H. Joffe. Director: Woody Allen.


THE PLOT:

Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) is a successful comedian, but he lives his life like a failure. He is anxious and neurotic, and he's obsessed with death. He states that life is "full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly." His neuroses have plagued his relationships, resulting in failed marriages to two intelligent, accomplished young women.

Then Alvy meets Annie Hall (Diane Keaton). She's the polar opposite of his previous partners: an insecure, unsophisticated WASP from Wisconsin. They fall hopelessly in love, and they are very happy together... for a little while. But Alvy's paranoid and passive-aggressive tendencies just keep growing. As time passes, the once-insecure Annie begins to feel that the man she loves is suffocating her, and that it might just be time to move on...

Alvy shares an awkward meal with Annie's family.

CHARACTERS:

Alvy Singer: Like most of Woody Allen's roles, Alvy is a version of himself. Alvy is a comedian, and some of his jokes are funny - but those same jokes are his defense mechanism. When his relationship with Annie starts, he makes sure to use big words and make lots of intellectual references, reinforcing her worry that she's "not smart enough for him." He nudges her into college courses and therapy so that she can improve herself and communicate on his level. Then he becomes paranoid, likely realizing that a more confident Annie will be less inclined to put up with him.

Annie Hall: Diane Keaton, as the title character, actually has the more dynamic role. Annie is nervous and awkward when she first meets Alvy, certain that she's not smart enough to be with him, and she allows him to be the dominant figure in their early relationship. Unlike Alvy, she changes and grows. She takes the adult education courses he pushes on her, she sees a therapist recommended by his therapist, and she becomes self-assured. When we first see her singing in a club, she is practically wincing and cringing at every sound. Later on, she sings with confidence - and by this point, she's already noticing and kicking against Alvy's controlling tendencies.

Rob: Alvy's laid-back best friend, Rob (Tony Roberts) tries to persuade him to move to California, where there is more sun and less crime. Eventually, Rob makes that move, and he is happy in his superficial new life: shooting a low-effort sitcom that requires a laugh track because the jokes aren't funny and spending his considerable free time chasing much younger women... including 16-year-olds, something he loudly brags about at one point. Yeah, um, I could have lived without that mental image, Rob, thanks.

Allison Portchnik: Alvy's first wife, whom he meets when performing at a political function. It's a small role, with Allison glimpsed only in flashback, but Carol Kane is remarkably appealing. There's no question that she's "smart enough" to keep up with Alvy. When he tries to dominate their first conversation by making a series of assumptions, she drolly responds: "I love being reduced to a cultural stereotype." At which point Alvy comes as close as we ever see to... well, if not apologizing, then at least acknowledging bad behavior.

The Hall Family: Colleen Dewhurst and Donald Symington are Annie's parents, who look like the absolute stereotype of a middle American family. They assure Annie that they find Alvy to be "adorable," but they stare blankly at his jokes, while Grammy Hall (Helen Ludlam) glares at him with anti-Semitic hatred. A young Christopher Walken swipes the entire "family visit" sequence when he talks about his suicidal urges while driving, the night before he takes Alvy and Annie to the airport.

Christopher Walken as Annie's brother, Duane, sets up one of the film's best laughs.

MY COMPLICATED REACTION TO WOODY ALLEN:

I have never been a Woody Allen fan.

I tried to get into his work in the '90s, when the prevailing attitude was that you didn't love movies if you didn't love his movies. Even then, I struggled to connect with a lot of his output. Many of his films struck me as pretentious and self-impressed. I also felt that his comedy persona often crossed the line from self-deprecation to mere self-pity - never a good quality, and a particularly poor one for a successful, respected multi-millionaire.

This isn't me trying to stake out morally superior ground now that he's persona non grata ("I hated him before it was cool"). There are films of his that I really like. I think The Purple Rose of Cairo and Hannah and Her Sisters are terrific. I legitimately enjoyed Manhattan, even if the entire thread with Mariel Hemingway now plays uncomfortably like a confession. I'm also fond of Zelig, which pulled off the Forrest Gump feat of seamlessly inserting its title character into historical events before CGI was a thing, and without taking 2 1/2 hours to tell its story. A good film from a problematic filmmaker remains a good film, and Woody Allen has made some good films.

But I'm not a fan of his work overall - and though I respect its accomplishment as a movie, that extends to Annie Hall.

During their first meeting, Annie's and Alvy's secret thoughts are revealed through subtitles,
one of several clever moments in a clever and well-made movie.

IT'S A FINE MOVIE...:

Let me clear: Annie Hall is a very good movie. Star Wars was obviously the "big" film of 1977, and with benefit of hindsight should have won on the basis of cultural impact alone. Still, within the romantic comedy genre, Annie Hall is almost as influential, and its script is far more substantial.

Allen plays with a lot of different techniques. The movie opens with a fourth wall break, establishing that what we see isn't the actual relationship, but rather Alvy going through it in his mind. He admits that he probably didn't actually grow up in an apartment under an amusement park, but that is what we see every time the film returns to his childhood home. When he and Annie are bickering, Alvy envisions them as characters in the animated Snow White, with Annie as the wicked stepmother; when he tries to blame her bad mood on her period, she points out that she's a cartoon and therefore doesn't have periods. The movie continuously reminds us that what we're watching Alvy's memories, which may not perfectly match the events he's remembering.

There are plenty of clever touches. When Alvy and Annie first meet, they launch into a conversation about photography, each trying to come across as knowledgeable. Subtitles fill in their thoughts, with Annie worrying that she can't keep up with his intellect and Alvy fretting that he's coming across as shallow... right before Alvy begins to wonder what she looks like naked while she hopes that he doesn't turn out to be "a schmuck like the others." The scene is genuinely funny, and it demonstrates both characters: Annie wanting to grow, while Alvy frets about how he appears to other people.

On this viewing, I was particularly struck by how beautifully shot the film is. This was Woody Allen's first collaboration with Gordon Willis, the cinematographer best known for The Godfather. Annie Hall doesn't call attention to its photography - but every shot is perfectly framed and lit, not only for aesthetics but also for setting the mood of the scene. Characters are meticulously positioned within shots, ready not only for initial positions but to accommodate movements, while also - sometimes more critically - capturing reactions.

Alvy, alone. This movie's photography is stunning in a way that doesn't call attention to itself.

...BUT IT'S ONE THAT I DON'T ENJOY:

By any reasonable measure, this is a very good movie. I just don't particularly like it. I didn't enjoy it when I first saw it, back in the 1990s. I held out some hope that maybe, now that I'm a fair bit older than Allen was when he made it, that I'd get more out of it than I did in my twenties.

For what it's worth, I did in terms of appreciating its themes. Sure, there are references that flew over my head because: I'm not Jewish; I have never lived in New York; and in 1977, I was less concerned with art and culture than with which objects would fit in my nose and which would fit in my ears. But I recognize the artistry and sincerity in a way that I couldn't when I was younger.

But even on this viewing, curmudgeonly middle-aged me still doesn't actually enjoy it very much, and I'm not entirely sure why. Yes, I find Alvy to be borderline unbearable. But I think that's intentional. Woody Allen cranks up the dial on the most annoying tendencies of his comic persona, making himself more irritating than usual. Objectively, his character in Manhattan is more objectionable than Alvy (a lot more), but he doesn't annoy as much because in that movie, Allen is less fidgety and occasionally even shuts up.

"Shutting up" is something that Alvy Singer resolutely refuses to do. He is incessantly complaining about how things are affecting or inconveniencing him. Everything is selfish: Even when he congratulates Annie for singing well, he filters that through him having refused to allow her to quit - and he immediately becomes closed off when a record producer (Paul Simon) stops by to express his appreciation.

Basically, the script portrays a toxic relationship long before the term "toxic" was coined. It does so convincingly, not least because Alvy and Annie have clear chemistry together and are seen in genuinely happy moments, making it believable that they stick together for so long after they stop enjoying each other's company. The script even allows Alvy a smidgeon of growth, albeit only at the very end.

As I said, it's a good movie. I absolutely respect it as a work of art. And yet, save for individual scenes and moments, I feel at a distance while watching it.

Alvy and Annie share a miserable plane flight, to the point of not even looking at each other.

OVERALL:

Annie Hall tells a substantial story, and it utilizes a variety of techniques - nonlinear storytelling, an unreliable narrator, split screen, an animated sequence, bits of low-key surrealism - and it utilizes all of them well. The cinematography is gorgeous, and it's all the more impressive for being unostentatious. There is no artistic measure by which Annie Hall could be said to fail.

Historically, most viewers have enjoyed it a lot more than me. I will even admit that there are individual moments that I love: the conversation with subtitles revealing inner thoughts; the family dinner; a perfectly set-up visual gag involving cocaine.

Ultimately, however, it is not a movie that I enjoy. It's superbly realized; as art, it deserves at least a "9," with a "10" not being out of the question. But my score has to also reflect my own viewing experience, and as an entertainment for me, it comes in around a "4."

So splitting the difference, and with a giant asterisk next to this score, I'm going to award it...


Rating: 6/10. The emperor isn't naked, and his clothes are in fact beautifully tailored - I'm just not a fan of the resulting outfit.

Best Picture - 1976: Rocky
Best Picture - 1978: The Deer Hunter

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1976: Rocky.

Rocky Balboa (Sylvester Stallone) trains for an unlikely fight.

Release Date: Nov. 20, 1976. Running Time: 119 minutes. Written by: Sylvester Stallone. Producer: Irwin Winkler, Robert Chartoff. Director: John G. Avildsen.


THE PLOT:

Rocky Balboa (Sylvester Stallone) is, in a word, a loser. Though he has some talent as a boxer, he's remained small-time, in part because he's left-handed and other boxers don't want to fight a "southpaw." He earns a meager living working as a collector for loan shark Gazzo (Joe Spinell). His only noticeable ambition is to successfully woo shy pet shop worker Adrian (Talia Shire), sister of his rough-hewn friend Paulie (Burt Young), and he has no real prospects to look forward to.

Fate intervenes when a boxer pulls out of a scheduled bicentennial fight against Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers), the undefeated heavyweight champion. With the bicentennial a mere five weeks off, there's no time to find a name contender. So Apollo hits upon a gimmick: He will grant an unknown a chance at the title. He notices Rocky's nickname, "The Italian Stallion," and he instantly loves the style: "Apollo Creed meets the Italian Stallion. Sounds like a damn monster movie!"

Rocky knows that he's being set up for humiliation... but both the payday and the opportunity are too good to pass up, so he goes along, insisting that the mockery in the press doesn't bother him. Knowing that he realistically cannot win the fight, he sets his mind to do the next best thing: Go the distance and still be standing when the final bell sounds.

Rocky awkwardly flirts with Adrian (Talia Shire).

CHARACTERS:

Rocky Balboa: In contrast to most of writer/star Sylvester Stallone's later roles, Rocky is very much an everyman. He spends much of the movie taking disrespect from others, and it's apparent from his extreme self-deprecation that he's internalized it. When Paulie remarks that Creed and the boxing officials are "taking cheap shots" at him on television, he insists that it "don't bother me none" - though he admits to Adrian that it does bother him. Stallone is excellent in his starmaking role, using his physicality to emphasize Rocky's awkwardness in his early scenes, then showing the character's growing confidence as his movements become more controlled and precise.

Adrian: The object of Rocky's affections, she's been similarly wounded by a lifetime of insults and humiliation. On their date, Rocky's remark about how he needs to develop his body because he hasn't got much of a brain prompts her first real response: "My mother, she said the opposite thing... She said you weren't born with much of a body, so you better develop your brain." Rocky talks to Paulie about how he and Adrian fill "gaps" in each other, and the second half of the movie sees both becoming more relaxed thanks to the genuine affection and appreciation of the other.

Paulie: The sequels would reinvent him as comic relief, but he's an unlikable, borderline abusive figure here. He describes his sister, Adrian, as a "loser" and blames her for his life not turning out better, though it's obvious that he's the architect of his own problems. He hates his job, and he constantly pesters Rocky to help him get something else, first asking him to talk to Gazzo and later trying to get Rocky to employ him for the coming fight. He has a hair-trigger temper, and in one outburst seems an inch away from erupting into violence. Burt Young manages to make the character relatable despite his faults, and his whimpering during his outburst sounds almost like something from a wounded animal.

Apollo Creed: Carl Weathers sparkles as the charismatic, Muhammed Ali-like champ. Creed is as much businessman as boxer. Most of his scenes take place in fight promoter Jergens (Thayer David)'s office, and Apollo seems absolutely at home in a suit planning publicity and tax issues. He considers the outcome of the fight to be a given, dismissing concerns about Rocky being left-handed: "I'll drop him in three" - while probably thinking that he'll have to hold back until then just so that there's something approximating a show.

Duke: I don't think the character actually gets a name until the 1979 sequel, but Tony Burton already stands out in this first film as Apollo's trainer. He is the one person on Apollo's staff who takes the fight seriously. He's hesitant about the match, wanting Apollo to pick a different challenger because "southpaws, they do everything backwards." When he sees Rocky training in an interview, he realizes that the upcoming fight isn't going to be as one-sided as everyone assumes, though Apollo is too distracted planning his show to pay any heed to the warning: "He doesn't know it's a damn show, he thinks it's a damn fight!"

Mickey: The crusty owner of the gym where Rocky trains, Mickey (Burgess Meredith) is downright hostile to Rocky, taking his locker away even after he wins a fight. When Rocky demands to know the reason for this treatment, Mickey condemns him for trading away his talent to work for a loan shark, calling it "a waste of life." His attitude shifts quickly when Rocky lands the fight with Apollo, approaching him to act as his manager, but he has enough self-awareness to walk away when Rocky throws years of mistreatment back in his face. Rocky actually has to run after him once he's gotten the anger out of his system in order to accept the offer... a good decision, as Mickey's expertise is something he genuinely does need.

Mickey (Burgess Meredith) persuades Rocky to hire him as his manager.

ROCKY, THE '70s, AND THE AMERICAN DREAM:

I'll be up front and state that I don't consider it the best of the nominees for 1976's Best Picture. I haven't seen Bound for Glory - but I would rate All the President's Men, Taxi Driver, and Network all as comfortably better movies than Rocky.

That said, Rocky had an almost immediate cultural impact on release, to such an extent that I still can't fully argue against its selection.

This is unmistakably a '70s film. For the first 90 minutes, the tone is surprisingly downbeat. Rocky, Paulie, Adrian, and even Mickey are damaged people, each dealing with their own variety of desperation. Each has at least one moment of anger (viewers of the sequels may be surprised at just how angry a man the Paulie of the original film is). Rocky is treated with dismissive condescension by both Apollo and the press. The night before the fight, he points out an error in promotional posters to the fight's promoter, only to be told that it doesn't matter - the implication being that Rocky doesn't particularly matter beyond his presence being needed for the show.

But underneath the grittiness, the anger, and the cynicism lurks a story about a decent man getting an unlikely shot at the American Dream - a dream that most films of the era portrayed as battered, corrupted, or downright unachievable. The public, like Network's Howard Beale, may have been "mad as hell" - but seeing the classic American mythology delivered so earnestly filled a hunger in a way that darker fare like Network and Taxi Driver, for all their quality, couldn't match.

Also, Rocky has something that can't be faked, not even by very talented filmmakers. You can feel it while watching: This movie is genuinely heartfelt.

Sylvester Stallone famously wrote the script during a time when his career wasn't even properly getting started. He had spent years knocking about in minor supporting roles, and the biggest break he had managed to get was as one of four leads in low-budget indie film The Lords of Flatbush. When Rocky vents to Mickey about how he's gone nowhere and how "everything's going... nobody's getting nothing," there's a sense that Stallone is expressing his own frustration at working hard and being given almost no opportunities in return.

Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers) puts on a show by showing up to the fight dressed as George Washington.

OTHER MUSINGS:

There is startlingly little actual boxing in this "boxing movie." In between a short, awkward opening match and the championship fight, most of the scenes are devoted to building the characters, the setting, and the relationships. Rocky isn't even offered the fight until the halfway mark!

The emotion centers mainly around Rocky's romance with Adrian, with their relationship making both of them more confident. In the first half, Rocky is so self-deprecating that at one point he all but calls himself a "creep," while Adrian speaks rarely and hesitantly, seemingly believing that her voice isn't worth hearing. After they become a couple, Rocky is more willing to stand up to himself, calling out Mickey for years of scornful treatment and making it clear to Paulie that he isn't interested in hearing him denigrate Adrian. She becomes considerably more relaxed, particularly in Rocky's company, and begins to dress in a way that makes her look attractive rather than dowdy.

The ending firmly demonstrates that these two are the true focus. I won't spoil the excellent final scene, but it absolutely foregrounds Rocky and Adrian. The camera is tight on them, and they are at the center of the ending minutes. The actual boxing results are announced in the background, rendered into noise that no longer really matters.

Though the script is focused on the characters, it does an excellent job of setting up plot elements. Everyone knows about the famous montage that ends with Rocky's triumphant run up the steps leading to Philadelphia's Art Museum. A smaller moment earlier in the film gives that meaning, however. When Rocky begins training, we see him ending a run by going up the steps. By the time he reaches the top, he's winded and exhausted. Because we've been shown how difficult the run is, when he makes it at full speed, this small victory has significance to the viewer as well as the character.

Another example is the short fight at the movie's start. It's awkward and sloppy, with Rocky mostly looking like the "bum" one spectator calls him. Then his opponent head-butts him, giving him an eye injury that persists for the entire movie (and affects the next one). Rocky responds immediately - with a succession of hard punches that foreshadow his later attacks on Apollo during the championship event.

Rocky and Apollo fight for the heavyweight championship.

OVERALL:

There isn't much about the film to criticize. The first date between Rocky and Adrian ends with a scene in his apartment that has aged a bit poorly, thanks to changing standards, but that's more or less something that has to be accepted when watching a 50 year old movie (see also: Randle McMurphy's "minor crime" in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, which plays as anything but minor today). Also, the sound quality is a bit uneven, and there are scenes that on every viewing have me switching on the subtitles.

The low budget mostly plays in Rocky's favor. The lack of polish and the use of real locations greatly elevate the atmosphere, making the story feel a lot more authentic. Sylvester Stallone's screenplay is well put-together, and it ranks among the best use of the sports movie formula I've seen, the formula granting structure even as the film's real concern is its characters.

It would not have been my choice as 1976's Best Picture - but it was a movie that had enormous impact, and it stands up as a fine film in its own right.


Rating: 8/10.

Best Picture - 1975: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Best Picture - 1977: Annie Hall

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At the Midpoint: A Backward Glance at Best Pictures from 1927 to 1975.

A scene from 1927's Wings, which won the award
for Outstanding Picture at the first Academy Awards.

With my review of One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, I have now reviewed 49 Best Picture Winners (with an asterisk for Sunrise) out of a total of 98, putting me at the midpoint of this project. So this seems like a good moment to take a look back before moving forward.

One thing that this tour of (English language) film history has brought home to me is what a young medium motion pictures are. There are people who are alive now who had already been born when Wings and Sunrise were released. I'm only about halfway through, and this point will be a fair bit short of the midpoint by the time I fully catch up. Even so, I have already reached movies released within my lifetime, some of them ones that I wouldn't have considered "old" when I first viewed them.


EARLY FILM HISTORY AND PRE-HISTORY:

Film itself far predates the Academy Awards. Inventors experimented with creating moving images from mulitple static ones from the first half of the 19th century through devices such as the phenokistascope, later improved into the zoetrope. Thomas Edison (more accurately, his employee William Dickson)'s kinetoscope, invented in 1893, allowed exhibition of a film reel to a single viewer via a "peep box." But it was only with the creation of the Lumière Brothers' cinématographe in 1895 that mass exhibition became possible.

To all intents, motion pictures began with that invention, with the rest basically being prehistory. Now, 1895 is outside of living memory... but not by all that much, and it wasn't until after the turn of the 20th century that filmmakers started to deliver more complex narrative films, such as Edwin S. Porter's The Great Train Robbery and Georges Méliès's Le Voyage dans la Lune. The latter of which saw Thomas Edison become the first significant movie pirate by selling his own prints of Méliès's film under the English title, A Trip to the Moon, without permission, payment, or credit.

The Kelly Gang performs a robbery in one of
the few surviving scenes from this 1906 feature.

The first recorded feature-length film was Australia's The Story of the Kelly Gang (1906), a 70 minute narrative film of which roughly 17 minutes still survive; a restoration was released by Australia's National Film and Sound Archive in 2006, combining the existing clips with still photos to recreate the original movie as closely as possible (National Film and Sound Archive of Australia, https://www.nfsa.gov.au/latest/story-kelly-gang).

It was D. W. Griffith's 1915 epic, The Birth of a Nation, that revolutionized film technique... sadly, in the service of what amounts to a 3-hour recruitment film for the Ku Klux Klan. I've already written about its content (link). The film was simultaneously a product of, and a fuel for, the period of history that historians have dubbed the nadir of American race relations.

Divorced of that content, however, The Birth of a Nation was a technical marvel. A lot of film language we take for granted can be traced to this motion picture: intercutting close-ups and long shots within a scene; fade-outs to show transitions in time and place; and large-scale battle scenes using a variety of methods to convey carnage, including the use of still frames to make living actors seem like lifeless corpses. Its content is odious - but its technical achievement is indisputable, and it fully merits its place in the Library of Congress's National Film Registry.

The Broadway Melody is an "all-talking" film... meaning
the camera doesn't move and the actors barely do.

FROM SILENT TO SOUND:

All of this history is a prelude to the very first thing I noticed in this review series - namely, the way film technique actually moved backward with the introduction of sound.

Silent film was already on its way out by the time of the first Academy Awards ceremony. Wings and its twin "Best Unique and Artistic Motion Picture," Sunrise, would be the only silent films to win Best Picture until 2011's The Artist. The contrast in filmmaking sophistication between these two silent films and the early talkies that followed is jaw-dropping. Save for featuring synchronized sound, the Best Picture recipients from The Broadway Melody to Cavalcade seem far older and creakier than the two silent winners.

The reasons for this have to do with early sound recording technology, which Fiveable's article, Technological and Artistic Challenges of Early Talkies, observes was as cumbersome as it was expensive. Cameras had to be encased in soundproof booths to avoid recording the sound of the camera itself, which limited camera movement, while actors had to remain close to microphones to capture clear audio. The resulting films feel almost painfully primitive and static.

Filmmakers did their best to push against these limitations. The Broadway Melody cuts regularly between different camera setups to try to keep some sense of visual motion, and it pioneered the technique of dubbing singing over musical numbers rather than recording the songs live. Cimarron and All Quiet on the Western Front feature set pieces that were "shot silent," with sound later dubbed over, allowing individual sequences to draw on the wealth of tools that had been perfected before the introduction of sound. All Quiet was one of several early talkies that simultaneously shot a silent version. The silent version still exists, and it's often regarded as the better one, not having to contend with the limited camerawork and the sometimes stilted line deliveries.

I also couldn't help but notice how many early talkies feature elements of silent film, from exaggerated, overly emotive acting (Cimarron is very guilty of this) to intertitles. In hindsight, the run of Best Picture Winners up to 1934 plays like a transitional period, with filmmakers gradually learning how to best use the new sound technology, as well as how to minimize the limitations imposed by it.

The motion picture as an artform seems to regain its confidence in the mid-1930s. Frank Capra's It Happened One Night uses the advantages of synchronized sound to smoothly cut into action while it's in progress and cut out at high points, creating a faster pace than many of its contemporaries. The Great Ziegfeld, for all of its self-indulgence, features a then-extraordinary $250,000 set piece, a mid-film performance of A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody on a giant revolving set, that remains eye-popping.

1939's Gone with the Wind sees the movies finally catch
back up with the technical mastery of the silent era.

CATCHING UP WITH THE PAST - GONE WITH THE WIND:

1939's Gone with the Wind saw the motion picture industry finally "catching up" with the technical mastery of its silent era.

There is a certain irony to this. Silent film's revolutionary leap forward came with Birth of a Nation, a Civil War/Reconstruction epic that is deeply, blatantly racist. Sound film's revolutionary release that saw a full return to technical mastery came with Gone with the Wind, a Civil War/Reconstruction epic based on a novel by Margaret Mitchell - whose own favorite novel, The Clansman, formed the basis for Birth of a Nation.

It should be noted that, unlike its pro-KKK predecessor, Gone with the Wind avoided any deliberate racism on the insistence of David O. Selznick. The novel's references to the Klan were removed entirely from the movie, along with racial slurs. The film's most prominent black character, Mammy (Hattie McDaniel), is a fully-realized character who is arguably one of the best-written characters in the movie.

Gone with the Wind is a better movie than Birth of a Nation on a basic story and character level. It also offers several indelible moments: The shot that begins close on Scarlet; then, still moving to follow her, gradually pulls back to reveal a sea of wounded soldiers. The set piece that is the burning of Atlanta. The intimate and perfectly-edited moment in which Scarlet shoots a deserter, then rifles through his pockets for anything that can help her and her people survive.

As I noted in my review, for its first three hours, I was positive I would be awarding full marks. I ended up giving it an "8," mainly because its final hour suffered from a narrowing of scope and direction by Sam Wood that simply was not the equal of the scenes helmed by Victor Fleming or George Cukor. The movie as a whole, however, fully lives up to its reputation as a technical and artistic achievement, and it represents the point at which the visual art of motion pictures caught up with its own past and began to once again move forward.

1922's The Toll of the Sea was made using
Technicolor's early two-strip color process.

FROM BLACK & WHITE TO COLOR:

After silent-to-sound, the next major transition was from black & white to color. From 1927 to 1950, the only color movie to win Best Picture winner was Gone with the Wind.

Now, color was not remotely new, not even in the 1930s. Many early silent films had sequences that were colored by hand, frame-by-frame; some restorations replicate the process, including Wings with its colored flames during the aerial dogfights. Meanwhile, Technicolor utilized a two-strip color recording process, which was used for the entirety of 1922's The Toll of the Sea. This process was also used for individual sequences, big set pieces in movies such as the 1923 version of The Ten Commandments and the 1925 Ben-Hur.

The early Technicolor processes were cumbersome, though, as well as expensive. Also, like early sound, early color introduced limitations. The Artifice notes in its article, A History of Colour: The Difficult Transition from Black and White Cinematography, that cameras were so heavy that outdoor shooting was impossible. The article also notes the need for extremely bright lighting, limiting the use of shadows and restricting complex camera work.

Talkies imposed even greater restrictions, of course... but audiences quickly demanded talking films. The same audiences were perfectly satisfied with black & white, however, and so the expensive and cumbersome color process was saved for a few, lavish exceptions.

As the technology improved, color became more affordable, more effective, and less restrictive. The 1950s saw a steady increase in color motion pictures, and this was reflected in the Oscar winners. 1951's An American in Paris was only the second color movie to win Best Picture. After 1956's Around the World in 80 Days, however, 1960's The Apartment was the only black & white film to win the award until Schindler's List in 1993.

The Apartment (1960) was the last black & white film
to win Best Picture until Schindler's List in 1993.

REFLECTING THE TIMES:

The one constant, throughout this series (and, really, any other decades-spanning look at artworks) is one that I've circled back to in multiple reviews and assorted musings: that the films in this series very much reflect the times in which they were made.

This is visibly true throughout the span of this review series. I've written about how portrayals of African-Americans on film reflected racial attitudes between 1915 and 1939; how views toward sexuality led to the fall of the Hays Code and the rise of the MPAA ratings; and how a turbulent social period overlaps a time in which the musical suddenly dominated the Academy Awards. The movies that are the most popular and/or honored often don't hold up as the actual best of their respective years - but movies, good and bad alike, always reflect something of the times that created them.


CONCLUSION:

I think it's appropriate that my look back comes here, not only because it's the current midpoint of this series, but also because the next Best Picture winner will be 1976's Rocky. If my memory holds true (and it hasn't been all that long since my last viewing), the first Rocky is very much a '70s film, but it also signals a shift in the overall tone of major motion pictures that would carry through into the following decade.

Past that, I have no particular conclusion here. I really did just want to blow off the cobwebs a bit by looking back at the first half of this review series before starting to move forward again.


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1975: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Randle McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) feigns insanity to avoid prison.

Release Date: Nov. 19, 1975. Running Time: 135 minutes. Screenplay by: Lawrence Hauben, Bo Goldman. Based on the Novel by: Ken Kesey. Producer: Saul Zaentz, Michael Douglas. Director: Miloš Forman.


THE PLOT:

Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher) has absolute control over her ward at a mental institution. Everything goes according to her schedule, with even the moments of chaos among the patients being carefully constrained. This is noticed by doctors and staff, with Dr. Spivey (Dean Brooks) referring to her as "one of the finest nurses we've got."

Into this palace of order comes an agent of chaos: Randle P. McMurphy (Jack Nicholson). An inmate sentenced to a brief stint on a prison work farm, McMurphy has come up with the perfect way to get out of his work detail: by faking insanity. No one is fooled, least of all Dr. Spivey, but he's just convincing enough to be referred for a period of observation.

McMurphy and Ratched despise each other on sight. The charismatic McMurphy is a threat to her dominance; Ratched's inflexible adherence to schedules and procedures ticks off every one of his anti-authoritarian instincts. Their mutual hatred quickly turns into a battle of wills - but what McMurphy doesn't realize is that the terms of his referral leave him in a position to potentially lose his freedom forever!

McMurphy rallies the other patients by faking a World Series broadcast.

JACK NICHOLSON AS RANDLE McMURTRY:

He first knocks heads with Nurse Ratched over personal annoyances, from music that he finds too loud to a World Series game that he desperately wants to watch. He practically sneers at the patients who just go along with Ratched's bullying. He may have been denied seeing his game, he observes - "But I tried, didn't I? ...At least I did that."

He maintains a carefree front, and he seems to legitimately enjoy the awe with which the others look upon his acts of rebellion. Still, he notices the injustices on the ward. Even at the beginning, when he's at his most selfish, he watches with visible disgust as Ratched wields her power, and that only grows as their conflict continues. He rallies the other patients with his boisterousness... but as the camera lingers on his face, it catches micro-expressions that show a steadily building anger. This finally gets released in a moment that is simultaneously shocking and inevitable.

If Al Pacino's Dog Day Afternoon had fallen in any other year, I would have said he was robbed of the Oscar... but Jack Nicholson is completely, utterly magnetic, and his performance is startlingly layered; this was one of the roles that created his star persona, but he isn't relying on it here. I'd rate this as a strong candidate for Nicholson's best work, and I would have to agree with his Best Actor Oscar.

Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher) watches the patients on the exercise yard.

LOUISE FLETCHER AS NURSE RATCHED:

The American Film Institute ranked Nurse Ratched #5 on their list of the greatest movie villains. She presents herself as a kindly figure, phrasing her edicts as if they are for the good of patients or the group, but she cares nothing about her charges as people. They aren't even numbers and statistics - They are her subjects, and what matters is her total control of them.

Louise Fletcher makes this character into McMurphy's opposite. He is loud, rakishly unkempt, and proudly lewd and angry; she is perfectly composed, soft-spoken, and proper. He is open, loud in displaying his emotions and appearing to have no filter; she reveals nothing, with the only indication of a life outside the ward being her (unreliable) statement that she's an old friend of patient Billy Bibbit (Brad Dourif)'s mother. McMurphy makes a spectacle of himself often just by being in the room; she is often shown silently watching.

It's a perfectly judged performance. By making Ratched so utterly poised, it shows her stress when she finally begins snapping and even shouting in the latter part of the film, when she senses her control starting to slip.

McMurphy with Chief (Will Sampson), who isn't as catatonic as he pretends.

OTHER CHARACTERS:

Chief: The large-statured Native American patient has perfected what McMurphy merely feigns, convincing everyone on the ward that he is catatonic. We're tipped off otherwise courtesy of quick reaction shots, but it's more than halfway through the film before McMurphy learns the truth, with Chief revealing himself in secret because the other man has earned his respect. He attempts to warn McMurphy about the trouble he's inviting with his rebelliousness, comparing him to his late father: "My poppa's real big, he did like he pleased. That's why everybody worked on him... I'm not saying they killed him. They just worked on him, the way they're working on you."

Dale Harding: The most verbose of the ward's patients, Harding (William Redfield) has the look and manner of a middle-class accountant. He's more than a little full of himself, which makes him a target of mockery by other patients - particularly the belligerent Taber (Christopher Lloyd). Early on, he snaps at Taber verbally when the other man insinuates that he's a closeted homosexual, but that's all he does. Later, seemingly as a result of McMurphy's influence, he gets back at Taber by giving him a hotfoot in group, and he seems giddy at getting away with it.

Billy Bibbit: Brad Dourif's first screen role (at least, the first one that didn't end up on the cutting room floor), and it's a memorable debut. Billy is the youngest patient on the ward, a shy stutterer who has attempted suicide multiple times. He's sexually frustrated, and he is enchanted when McMurphy brings a prostitute (Marya Small) on the mid-film fishing trip. Nurse Ratched makes him into a particular target, deliberately quashing any sign of self-confidence. He tells a harmless lie in group therapy, detailing an encounter with a young woman the way he wished it had happened, and smiles for a moment to enjoy the group's approval - only for Ratched to call him out on the lie to reduce him to a stammering nonentity.

Other Patients: Sydney Lassick has some amusing scenes as the comically anxious Cheswick, while a startlingly young Danny DeVito steals several bits with (probably improvised) physical comedy as Martini. Christopher Lloyd stands out as the angry Max Taber, one of the few patients on the ward who isn't there by choice. Vincent Schiavelli lends strong physical presence to the hulking, silent Frederickson, though we never actually learn anything about him. All of the supporting actors do their jobs well, never intruding on the central conflict between McMurphy and Ratched while still getting the most of small moments and making it believable that McMurphy would feel a growing protectiveness toward them.

Billy Bibbit (Brad Dourif), the youngest of the patients on Nurse Ratched's ward.

THOUGHTS:

"You guys do nothing but complain about how you can't stand it in this place here, and you don't have the guts just to walk out? What do you think you are... crazy or something? Well, you're not! You're not! You're no crazier than the average **** out walkin' around on the streets!"
-Randle P. McMurphy is appalled by the passiveness of his fellow patients.

What is there to say about One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? It's a fixture on all lists of "great movies." It works on multiple levels: as a story about a contest of wills between two equally stubborn polar opposites; as an allegory about the cost of individuality in a cold, unfeeling system; as a look at abuses within the mental health industry (I'd wager one scene represented most contemporary viewers' first exposure to electroshock therapy). It's even a pretty good character comedy that seamlessly mutates into a searing drama.

Performances are superb, with Jack Nicholson and Louise Fletcher portraying vivid characters who instantly became iconic. Just as important to the film's success is Miloš Forman's directorial style. There are many scenes composed of characters talking, and Forman uses his camera to move slowly in on key characters across these scenes.

This is particularly effective when he's moving in on reaction shots. During an early group therapy scene, the camera closes on McMurphy from one angle and Ratched from another - not on them talking, but instead picking up their reactions. Ratched ignores the other patients as they argue amongst themselves, instead glaring at this new threat to her control. McMurphy, in turn, recognizes her for the domineering figure that she is, and tries to throw off her concentration by noisily shuffling his deck of cards. He barely speaks during the scene, but he makes absolutely clear his disdain for this authority figure whom he's already decided "ain't honest."

This scene is mirrored by a later group therapy session. This occurs after McMurphy learns that Ratched has the power to keep him in the ward indefinitely, and he's now endeavoring to behave. She is smug as he carefully asks why no one warned him of his situation. Once again, chaos breaks out, not because of anything McMurphy is doing, but because of the rebellion he's stoked across weeks of individual incidents. The usually meek Cheswick decides he wants access to his cigarettes, which Nurse Ratched has confiscated and is keeping at the nurse's station, and he ignores all instructions to sit down.

Less than five minutes of screen time earlier, McMurphy would have basked in this as a triumph. Now the stakes have changed, with his fate now entirely in the hands of his worst enemy. What would have been more comedy antics are now a source of tension, with both McMurphy and the viewers seeing that every bit of pushback from the other patients is one more nail locking him in his cage for good.

McMurphy's greatest act of rebellion: Taking the patients out for a fishing trip.
Inevitably, this high is swiftly answered with a fall.

A SHIFT IN TONE:

The shift in tone is beautifully executed. Though the first half is mostly light-hearted, there are enough edges to keep it from ever feeling completely like a comedy. Nurse Ratched's baleful glares promise retribution, and her soft-spoken bullying of Billy is an early tipoff of her malevolence. McMurphy's doomed attempt to lift a water fixture to escape is almost disturbing as his face literally turns red from the effort before he finally gives up.

Throughout the first half, McMurphy seems to "win" the contest of wills. After Ratched refuses his request to watch the World Series, he glares balefully for a second - then, refusing to allow her the victory, he fakes the game, staring at the blank screen of the television and reading off plays with a sports announcer's patter. The result is that the other patients flock to him even more than if Ratched had allowed them to watch the actual game.

Little incidents and episodes build to the mid-film set piece: McMurphy "borrowing" the bus to take the other patients on an impromptu fishing trip. This is the only sequence in the film that takes place outside the confines of the institution, and it's like a weight is lifted as they steal a boat and go out onto the water, all of them enjoying a moment of pure freedom.

Even the color palette brightens; in contrast to the institution, where everything is white or light blue and antiseptic, on the fishing trip there are bright colors, with each patient granted a red life vest. The editing is faster, and there is more motion, all conveying a sense of freedom that contrasts with the rest of the movie.

Nurse Ratched enforces her will on her suddenly unruly ward.

The tone changes immediately after. There's an ominously quiet scene as Ratched, Dr. Spivey, and Spivey's colleagues debate McMurphy's fate. Spivey is on the cusp of sending him back to prison (where, in fairness, he belongs), when Ratched interferes, insisting that sending him away would be dereliction of their duties. It's then that McMurphy learns the reality of his situation, that he is now serving an indefinite sentence with Nurse Ratched as both judge and jailer.

The movie's final sequence is haunting and beautiful, a succession of wonderful visual shots that are perfectly accompanied by Jack Nitzsche's score. I won't give anything away - but I will say that on rewatch, it is remarkable just how many small moments earlier in the film foreshadow each and every piece of this ending.


OVERALL:

There are plenty of aspects to this movie that I'm not touching on. In the interest of avoiding spoilers, I'm not touching on anything from the movie's final third, but the way the film moves between different styles is beautiful to behold, elements of French farce giving way to moments of great suspense.

This is, simply put, a great motion picture, one that fully lives up to its towering reputation - and lest that put you off, it's also compulsively watchable.


Rating: 10/10.

Related Post: At the Midpoint: A Backward Glance at Best Pictures from 1927 to 1975.

Best Picture - 1974: The Godfather, Part II
Best Picture - 1976: Rocky

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