Putting The Sound of Music on the top of my BP ranking list led me to ponder what exactly makes this movie so one-of-a-kind phenomenal—even when it was made during the “golden era” of movie musicals. Sure, the music is lovely and catchy, true to form for a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. Yes, the acting is solid—the film is perfectly cast, and Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer will forever be Captain and Maria von Trapp, regardless of anything else they have done/will do in their careers or lives. Certainly, the film brilliantly moves between vistas showcasing the majesty of the Austrian Alps and the closeness of such settings as a backyard gazebo. And really, this last factor, I think, demonstrates just what exactly it is that makes The Sound of Music so wonderful and relatable: the greatness and the smallness of the story—in other words, the way the story and its conflicts involve the vastness of the natural world and humanity’s relationship to it and to its Creator, combined with the intimacy and complexity of human relationships in both the best and worst times. The Sound of Music includes all of these three main types of conflicts: Man vs. Nature, Man vs. Man, and Man vs. God. How the film portrays and then resolves each conflict lends to its superiority within the realm of motion pictures.

Man vs. Nature

The Sound of Music famously opens with a shot of the lovely Alps upon which Maria marches and frolics while singing the film’s title song. Nature in The Sound of Music is not a threat, but a place full of wonder and beauty in which God reveals Himself to humanity. “The hills are alive with the sound of music,” and many—Maria included—“go there when [their] heart[s] are lonely.” So the conflict between people and nature in this film has to do more with boundaries and challenges each person faces in his or her life. In the inspiring “Climb Ev’ry Mountain,” which the Reverend Mother sings to Maria to encourage her to return to the von Trapps, elements of Nature represent difficulties Maria needs to face in order to discover and fulfill the true purpose God has for her life. (Spoiler alert!) The von Trapp family’s greatest trial, escaping from the Nazis, culminates in their journey over the Alps into Switzerland—again, the mountains standing in as the family’s final challenge (seen in the film, at least) before fulfilling their goal of upholding their integrity and rejecting the Nazi regime.

Maria and the von Trapp children in the Alps, drinking imaginary “ti, a drink with jam and bread.”

Man vs. Man

On the surface, at least, The Sound of Music seems to mostly focus on conflicts between people. We see Maria vs. the nuns, Maria vs. Captain von Trapp, Maria vs. the von Trapp children, Maria vs. the Baroness, Liesl vs. Rolfe, the Baroness vs. the Captain, Max vs. the Captain, and the Captain vs. the Nazis (briefly Rolfe in particular). (Spoiler alert!) While almost all of these conflicts are resolved in the final sequence of the singing competition and the von Trapps taking refuge in the abbey, perhaps the greatest man vs. man conflict is Maria vs. herself. There are hints throughout the film that Maria’s past has been rocky and painful. She tells the Reverend Mother that she knows the mountains so well because she grew up on them and used to look over into the abbey’s garden, hear the sisters singing, and think that the abbey must be the most wonderful place in the world. To me, this seems like Maria was looking to find a safe place—the walled abbey full of women and music appeals to her because outside those walls there was some kind of danger. Furthermore, in the song “Something Good,” she presents the Captain with a couple of thought-provoking hypotheticals: “Perhaps I had a wicked childhood, / Perhaps I had a miserable youth.” Personally, I would like more details about Maria’s past because I think that would make her character even richer; however, since the film is vague on this point, we can only guess that Maria—utterly alone in the world—originally comes to the abbey to find a new family of sorts, women who love her but don’t understand her free-spiritedness and lack of discipline. The Reverend Mother enables Maria to avoid compromising her passions when she arranges for her to become the von Trapps’ governess, and we see Maria continue to seek to know herself and find her God-given purpose while in the von Trapps’ home.

Pretty sure Friedrich just put a frog in Maria’s pocket…

Man vs. God

“When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window,” declares Maria more than once in the film. The main conflict between God and humanity in The Sound of Music is seen in Maria’s struggle to understand and follow God’s will for her life. For much of the film, Maria misunderstands that God can be served through an ordinary life involving marriage and children. She believes her role as governess to the von Trapp children to have come from God because the Reverend Mother assigned it to her; but she doubts that loving Captain von Trapp could have come from God because such a romantic love is something that stems from her own feelings and desires, which she doesn’t think can be involved in an “errand” for God. The Reverend Mother corrects Maria’s thinking, emphasizing that God uses human dreams and passions to help guide people to where He wants them to be and what He wants them to do. To truly follow God is to trust that He is able to use unconventional means in order to bring a person into the ministry which is intended for him or her, says this film.

For Me Then…

The Sound of Music is about a person’s journey to discover God’s plan for her life—the greatest conflict in the film. Sure, the music is lighthearted, and there are some awfully funny moments, but the depth of the film comes from Maria’s seeking to know God and obey Him, regardless of what her own self desires or what people think of the choices she makes. The fact that this conflict (and the others) plays out during World War II, probably the greatest crisis of modern times, only magnifies the personal dilemma Maria faces. Should she trust that God can care for her after her murky past and her current predicament of not really belonging with the family of nuns she chooses? Would God ask her to leave her comfort zone and embark on a life she knows nothing about—only to embrace that life and then have to flee from her beloved new home?

I think that, minus the specificity of some of these questions, Maria’s situation is mirrored in all our lives. It can be so difficult to determine what it is that God would have each of us do—I am especially feeling this right now as the end of grad school is fast approaching! Sometimes all we can do is believe, like Maria, that when one pathway is closed, another will be opened up for us. This is just one way that God reveals His plan to us. In truth, I could hum “Do-Re-Mi” and “So Long, Farewell” all day, but I should listen more deeply to the film’s message of God’s enduring faithfulness to His children and His delight in bringing them each into the life He has purposed for them.

“My heart will be blessed with the sound of music.”

After a little more than half a year, it’s finally happened: Gone with the Wind has been bumped from its top spot in my BP rankings and replaced with this gem, The Sound of Music (1965, Argyle Enterprises Production; 20th Century-Fox). What a delight of a film! Typically, I’ve been projecting these films (hooked up with a nice little sound system) in order to get a better feel for their “theater quality,” but for The Sound of Music this week, my sister and I just snuggled down in our pajamas on the couch under a bunch of blankets and relished this film’s story while the Christmas tree lights sparkled inside and snow flew outside. I’ve seen this movie a million times. It never gets old. I always get something new out of it. And, it never fails to uplift my spirit and calm my soul—two effects we rarely see in today’s movies, it seems.

For me, The Sound of Music would be “Exhibit A” in an argument regarding Oscar wins not being the determining factor for which film is the greatest of all time. At the 1966 Academy Awards, The Sound of Music only took home five Oscars of its ten nominations, winning for Sound, Film Editing, Music (Scoring of Music—adaptation or treatment), Directing for Robert Wise (who had won previously for West Side Story), and Best Picture. The film failed to win in the following categories: Actress in a Supporting Role for Peggy Wood as the Mother Abbess, Actress for Julie Andrews (who had won the previous year for Mary Poppins), Cinematography (Color), Art Direction (Color), and Costume Design (Color)—losing these last three categories to its toughest competitor of the night, Doctor Zhivago.

Julie Andrews and much of the rest of the cast were virtual unknowns when The Sound of Music began filming; yet as demonstrated by the outpouring of condolences after the passing of Heather Menzies Urich (who plays Louisa) last weekend, the von Trapp film family has become family to all of us who cherish this movie. The film itself hasn’t fared too poorly either. Enthusiastically embraced at the time of its release, it continues to capture the hearts of new generations of fans both domestic and international. In a special feature for the fiftieth anniversary edition of The Sound of Music, Julie Andrews discusses why she thinks the film made the immediate and lasting impression that it did, noting how the film was released amidst the turmoil of the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights Movement. People just needed this movie, she concludes. It reminds me a tad of Going My Way, 1944’s Best Picture winner. When times are seemingly at their worst, people look for escape, humor, comfort, and hope. The Sound of Music offers all these—and more.

The real von Trapp family.

Based on the Broadway play of the same name, The Sound of Music tells the story of a young woman, Maria, who wants to serve God as a nun, but who discovers that God desires her to serve Him in a different way. Through music—and an almost unending capacity to care for others—Maria transforms the hurting and cold von Trapp household, finding love herself as well. The Sound of Music is the Broadway/Hollywood version of the true story of Maria Augusta Kutschera and is based on the book she published in 1949, The Story of the Trapp Family Singers. You can check out more details about the real von Trapp family (and view some interesting documents relating to their American immigration) here: https://www.archives.gov/publications/prologue/2005/winter/von-trapps.html. Suffice it to say, The Sound of Music really “dolls up” the true story! But that fact doesn’t detract from the beauty and depth of this glorious film.

I just had to include this picture! The film von Trapp family (minus Christopher Plummer), reunited in front of their famous puppet stage.

For more thoughts on The Sound of Music and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

Merry Christmas, Everyone! I hope to keep this post short and sweet so as to allow those dedicated readers (and myself) ample time to spend with family and friends in the next few days. Not that My Fair Lady is particularly Christmasy, but it does possess some interesting themes that we can easily apply to this special time of the year.

For me, the part of this film that has always bothered me the most is the ending (spoiler alert!). Many other critics and reviewers have discussed the sexism that is seen in the film, so I won’t go into that too much here. But I’ve always been most perplexed and uncomfortable with what exactly we are to take away from My Fair Lady’s final line, delivered by the misogynistic Henry Higgins to his love-struck pupil Eliza: “Eliza? Where the devil are my slippers?” The film ends with Higgins pulling his hat over his eyes and slouching down in his chair as Eliza takes a few steps toward him—conspicuously not fetching his slippers. But are we the audience supposed to assume this odd couple ends up married, or do they simply live out their days in companionship? I’ve always assumed the former, but I have to say the thought of the strong-willed Eliza tethering herself to the eccentric and rather heartless Higgins doesn’t really bring me a feeling of satisfaction at the end of the film. Plus, rather than dwelling on the masculine-feminine conflict of the film, what I noticed even more during this most recent viewing is the social discrepancy between Eliza and Higgins and how that difference is almost a bigger deal than that of their genders.

Eliza and Higgins at their first meeting, the difference in their social classes well-defined.

Time and again in the film, both Higgins and Eliza comment on Eliza’s former squalor and ignorance. She supports herself (and often her alcoholic father) by selling flowers, a respectable but very tenuous profession. Higgins supports himself by having no formal occupation. He was born into money and moves rather easily in the social circles of the upper echelon (though his bookish peculiarities lead him to stand out from the general crowd of the elite). When Higgins takes Eliza in as his “project,” he lays out clear instructions for his household staff regarding Eliza’s treatment. She is not an equal—of Higgins or of the staff members. She is inferior in birth, dress, hygiene, employment—and most of all, in language. According to Higgins, Eliza’s dialect is a disgrace to the English language and must be changed in order for her to be accepted by people who matter, the upper class. Of course, high society’s acceptance of her is really a joke to Higgins—he plays a trick on his own class by making them think that Eliza is their equal when, in fact, she never can be. Additionally, Higgins risks Eliza’s well-being with his project, for strict consequences would be applied to any common person pretending to belong to the English upper class (and to the person who helped their pretense). One cannot doubt that Higgins’ punishment would be far less than what would be meted out to Eliza should they be discovered in their deception.

Eliza dislikes her training to become the “perfect woman.”

For Higgins, equality revolves around manners. He tells Eliza, “You see, the great secret, Eliza, is not a question of good manners or bad manners, or any particular sort of manners, but having the same manner for all human souls. The question is not whether I treat you rudely, but whether you’ve ever heard me treat anyone else better.” Somehow, in Higgins’ mind, speaking in the same way to everyone regardless of class promotes equality, yet he still clearly sees a gap between himself and the “deliciously low” Eliza that doesn’t depend entirely on gender or dialect. For Eliza, manners are also important, but in a different way. She tells Higgins’ mother toward the end of the film, “The difference between a lady and a flower girl is not how she behaves, but how she is treated.” For Eliza, class depends on people’s treatment of each other—regardless of physical appearances, speech, or class labels. All humans are basically the same, in Eliza’s mind. The only difference is how people respond to others’ monetary situations, birth statuses, and intellectual capabilities.

Eliza, the lady.

For Me Then…

So let’s make this discussion of social levels feel a bit more festive. A little over two millennia ago, a baby was born in what was probably a cave used for sheltering smelly animals. His parents were poor, and the ruling elite soon took a violent disliking to Him. When He grew up, he hung out with stinking, doubting fishermen, tax collectors, and prostitutes. Yet his birth was announced by angels who told some very lowly shepherds: “I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.” Not just for the rich and powerful, not only for the well-spoken and influential, not merely for men. All humanity has been blessed by the incarnation of Jesus Christ. And in this wonderful season of family and gift-giving, it is a privilege to know this humble baby who grew up to give Himself as a sacrifice for all humanity. Jesus’ life work demonstrates what Eliza says about class: social distinctions are a human invention, for we are all equally lost and in need of the gift of salvation offered to us by the baby whose first night was spent in a manger. May we acknowledge and praise Him who has given us the greatest gifts of hope, joy, and Himself this Christmas. And in the words of Charles Dickens, “God Bless Us, Every One!”

When I was young, my grandmother would have all of us cousins over to her house on Thanksgiving night for a weekend-long sleepover. Those weekends were some of the highlights of my childhood—putting up the Christmas tree and decorations, enjoying candlelit pizza parties, adventuring to the zoo and parks, and so on. But that very first night, Thanksgiving night, we always congregated in the living room, usually all laid out side-by-side on the floor, and watched whichever classic movie was the special presentation on one of the main networks. And every year it seemed like the feature film was one of three: The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins, or this week’s Best Picture winner, My Fair Lady (1964, Warner Bros.). I fell in love with all three. So for the next two weeks, I am in my glory with My Fair Lady and The Sound of Music, the only back-to-back musical winners of the Academy’s highest honor—and it’s pretty swell that these films happen to fall during these holiday weeks. It’s like coming home to my childhood.

At the 1965 Academy Awards, My Fair Lady and Mary Poppins dueled it out, with My Fair Lady coming out on top, for the most part (despite additional stiff competition from Zorba the Greek). Nominated for 12 Oscars, My Fair Lady took home 8: Music (Scoring of Music—adaptation or treatment), Art Direction (Color), Costume Design (Color), Cinematography (Color), Sound, Directing for George Cukor, Best Actor for Rex Harrison as Professor Henry Higgins, and Best Picture. Mary Poppins, although accomplishing the seemingly impossible feat of snagging nominations in both the Music (Music Score—substantially original) and Music (Scoring of Music—adaptation or treatment) categories (winning the former and losing the latter to My Fair Lady), was only awarded 5 Oscars for its 13 nominations.

Audrey Hepburn and Julie Andrews at the 1965 Academy Awards. Image by © Bettmann/CORBIS

Ironically, what was arguably Mary Poppins’ biggest win—Julie Andrews’ victory in the Best Actress category—might never had happened without some good old Hollywood off-screen drama. Impossible as it is now to fathom Andrews being passed over for anyone, back in the early 1960s, Audrey Hepburn possessed the more recognizable name of the two actresses. So, although Andrews had played Eliza Doolittle to perfection in the Broadway production of My Fair Lady, Jack Warner, the head of Warner Bros., went with Hepburn for the motion picture. He later explained his decision in his autobiography, saying, “With all her charm and ability, Julie Andrews was just a Broadway name known primarily to those who saw the play…I knew Audrey Hepburn had never made a financial flop.” Money, money, money. Well, I hope Warner got a good seat at the Oscars to see Andrews win for Mary Poppins—oh, and I also hope he was able to catch The Sound of Music the following year!

Audrey Hepburn herself is said to have thought that Andrews should have had the lead in the film version of My Fair Lady. Hepburn even considered walking away from the film, but was told that Andrews would not be asked to replace her if she did. Apparently, Elizabeth Taylor was next in line to play Eliza if Hepburn declined. I just can’t picture that at all! But that Taylor-as-Eliza scenario almost became a reality because when Hepburn was told she wouldn’t be doing the singing in the film, she walked off the set. Of course, she returned the following day and gave a very suave apology to everyone about her prior behavior.

Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady

Hepburn seems to have always been polished and sophisticated. Born in Belgium to an English banker father and a Dutch baroness mother, Hepburn appeared to be on the path to a career as a dancer. She was in school in England at the outset of World War II when her mother decided to take her to the Netherlands, believing (wrongly) that they would be safer there with relatives. After the German take-over of neutral Holland, several members of the family were imprisoned or executed, and Hepburn and her mother nearly starved to death, subsisting at times on tulip bulbs. Many accounts claim that Hepburn still danced to raise money for the Dutch resistance despite her poor health. After the war, Hepburn returned to England to pursue dancing, dabbling in acting as well. While in Monaco, she was discovered by Colette, the French novelist, who determined that Hepburn would be the star of her play Gigi on Broadway. Hollywood soon came calling; and with her Oscar-winning role in Roman Holiday (1953), Hepburn had arrived at stardom. She became one of only a handful of people to have won the “grand slam” of American show business: an Oscar, an Emmy, a Tony, and a Grammy (albeit, she completed this feat posthumously).

And I am just fine with her playing Eliza; for every time she swallows that marble during her “speech therapy” or tells Dover to “move his bloomin’…,” I’m back in Grandma’s living room, dying of laughter with all my siblings and cousins. Happy Holidays, Everyone! May you as well enjoy rehashing former family memories and making new ones this year!

For more thoughts on My Fair Lady and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

The classical tale of Oedipus goes a bit like this. The king and queen of Thebes in Greece (Laius and Jocasta, if we’re getting particular) receive a prophecy that, if they have a son, he will kill his father and sleep with his mother. Disturbing. So they have a son. Laius, not wanting to die, leaves the infant exposed on a mountain and thinks he’s dodged his fate. However, as in every good Greek myth, a wandering shepherd stumbles upon the struggling infant and rescues him. The shepherd delivers the baby to King Polybus and Queen Merope of Corinth, who have no children of their own. They name their adopted son Oedipus and never tell him that he’s adopted. One day, though, Oedipus, suspecting something’s amiss, visits the Delphic Oracle and is told the same prophecy: he will kill his father and sleep with his mother. In an effort to avoid this horror, Oedipus vows to never return to Corinth and sets out to seek a different fate. At a crossroads, he runs into a group of cranky, uncooperative men. Both parties demand the other move out of the way, and in the ensuing scuffle Oedipus kills Laius. Yup, his real father.

Oedipus and the Sphinx

Oedipus, feeling rather smug about his small victory on the road, heads towards Thebes, where the populace is being menaced by a Sphinx who kills people when they can’t solve her riddle. Oedipus, though, easily answers the Sphinx’s question and enters Thebes victorious after the Sphinx has killed herself in rage. As reward for saving the city, Oedipus is given the crown of Thebes—and the hand of its widowed queen in marriage. Yup, his real mother, Jocasta. It gets worse. Oedipus and Jocasta experience many wonderful years of marriage and have four children together. But then things in Thebes start to not go so well. As a plague ravages the city, Oedipus appeals to the Oracle for guidance as to how to save his people. After interrogating several individuals who should know who really killed the former king Laius, Oedipus and Jocasta learn the truth about their relationship. Jocasta kills herself, and Oedipus blinds himself. And nobody really feels good about anything at the end of that tale.

Whew. The reason for this summary of the tragedy of Oedipus is that our film this week, Tom Jones, bears an uncanny resemblance to the classical Greek story, one of the few aspects of the film that I found truly compelling. Like Oedipus, Tom is born to someone who doesn’t want him and is cast upon another individual, Squire Allworthy, a prestigious and well-to-do man who resolves to raise Tom as his own son. The reasons for Tom’s seeking his own fortune differ from those of Oedipus, but both heroes set off on their own believing they can never return home or see their families again.

Is Mrs. Waters Tom’s mother?

Here’s where it gets really interesting, I think. In a rather bizarre scene, Tom stumbles upon a woman who is being abused by a disgraceful deserter of the British army. Tom saves the woman, whom the narrator calls “Mrs. Waters.” After the film’s famous (and quite disgusting) scene in which Tom and Mrs. Waters eat an enormous meal in a pretty sensual manner, Tom (of course) sleeps with the woman whose title indicates that she is either married or widowed (or pretending to be one of these). Mrs. Waters then takes up with a perpetually angry man named Mr. Fitzpatrick. We’ll come back to both of them in a bit.

Later as he walks along a road dreaming of his lost love Sophie, Tom is brought up short by a highwayman who attempts to rob him. Younger and craftier, Tom manages to wrest the gun out of the would-be robber’s hand and points it in the prone man’s face, threatening to kill the person he believes would have killed him. Protesting that he is only a poor, desperate man, the stranger tells his life story and reveals his identity to Tom. He is Partridge, Squire Allworthy’s old barber who was named as Tom’s father when Tom was discovered as a baby. Tom joyously embraces the man he has been told is his father. Tom Jones, though, now throws its viewers a curve. Partridge quickly tells Tom that he is not really his father and that no one ever found out who Tom’s dad actually was. Partridge makes no mention of Tom’s mother and begs that Tom take him on as his servant, which Tom happily does.

Is Partridge Tom’s father?

(Spoiler alert!) Tom’s adventure continues in London (where he has an affair with a wealthy courtesan), and he eventually runs into Mr. Fitzpatrick again. The men duel (Mr. F. is always so testy), and Tom wounds Mr. Fitzpatrick. Upon the false testimony of a couple of goons hired by Tom’s evil cousin, Tom is set to hang for “armed robbery.” His loyal now-servant Partridge goes to petition Mr. Fitzpatrick to withdraw his charge against Tom and runs into—who else—Mrs. Waters. Except Partridge calls her “Jenny Jones,” the woman who is supposed to be Tom’s mother! In this scene, Jenny does not deny that she is Tom’s mother, and the viewer is led to believe that Tom has had an affair with his mom! How very Oedipus-like of him! Yet the film soon throws another curve at its audience, for Jenny knows the real truth of Tom’s parentage. “Breaking the fourth wall” (the one between the actor and the audience), Jenny explains to the camera and to the viewers that she is not Tom’s mom, but that she is the one who put Baby Tom in the squire’s bed all those years ago. Tom’s real mother was the squire’s sister, which makes Tom Squire Allworthy’s heir, so he can marry Sophie, and yada yada. Everyone’s supposed to feel good about everything at the end because this film is a comedy.

However, I do not feel good about it. Why does Tom Jones lead us in the first place to think that we are watching something incestuous? Does that make the movie funny? I certainly don’t think so. Furthermore, I don’t find it amusing in the least that Tom continually succumbs to the sexual allures of basically every female who crosses his path (regardless of age, marital status, reputation, etc.), yet still claims to only love Sophie. This disgusts me. Sophie, meanwhile, though a bit atypical for the time period in her bravery and determination to find Tom in his banishment, appears weak to me as she remains loyal to Tom (and notably chaste), loving him despite his “youthful follies.” If he is so apt to cheat on her before their marriage, I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for his devotion after their marriage. And that thought pretty much eliminates for me any effort the film makes at comedy in its final scenes.

Sophie and Tom–just how long will their love actually last?

For Me Then…

So, in summary, Oedipus meets his real dad on the road, his dad fails to identify himself, and Oedipus kills him because he doesn’t know his real dad. Tom Jones meets the man he thinks is his real dad on a road and almost kills him before he finds out that the man is not his dad. Oedipus saves his mom, then marries her before discovering she is in fact his mom. Tom also saves the woman whom he knows to be his mom; except because she goes by another name, he has no qualms about sleeping with her. Once the film’s viewers find out who she is, we only have to wait for a couple of revolting minutes before we learn Tom has not involved himself in incest because she is not really his mother. A very twisted Oedipus story, but one with clear parallels.

My question then is what’s the big deal that Tom Jones resembles Oedipus? What might this movie be offering us depth-wise in its use and modification of such a famous motif? The one conclusion I came to is that, in a movie in which Tom is blamed for much mischief and mayhem (most of it involving escapades of a sexual nature), it would seem that the Oedipus connection perhaps is intended to remove some of the responsibility he would otherwise carry for what happens in the plot. In other words, fate plays a huge role in both Tom’s indiscretions and in his restoration to Squire Allworthy’s good graces and fortune. It’s not completely Tom’s fault that he can’t commit to Sophie and stay out of other women’s beds. What is he really to do? Boys will be boys. And I think the film’s premise that this idiotic statement is true is meant to be the basis for all the film’s supposedly comic situations. But, personally, I don’t think it’s funny at all.

Bawdy. I think every source I read for this film called it “bawdy.” And it is. Tom Jones (1963, Woodfall Production; United Artists-Lopert Pictures) is by far the raunchiest Best Picture winner we’ve looked at yet. Forget the innuendo of Gone with the Wind, Casablanca, and The Apartment—not to mention, the seaside make-out scene in From Here to Eternity doesn’t seem quite so scandalous now. Even despite the, um, gratuitous displays of bosoms and the sex-obsessed male characters, I still found Tom Jones to be pretty much the worst BP winner so far. It was just quite stupid, to put it bluntly.

In 1964, though, the Academy disagreed big time, handing Tom Jones ten nominations, of which it won four: Music (Music Score—substantially original), Writing (Screenplay—based on material from another medium), Directing for Tony Richardson, and Best Picture. The film was denied the Oscar for Art Direction (Color) and failed to win any acting awards, though it had captured five acting nominations: Actor in a Supporting Role for Hugh Griffith as Squire Western; Actress in a Supporting Role for Dame Edith Evans as Miss Western, Diane Cilento as Molly Seagrim, and Joyce Redman as Jenny Jones/Mrs. Waters; and Actor for Albert Finney as the title character. I discovered randomly yesterday that Albert Finney played Daddy Warbucks in my favorite film version of Annie (1982)—all the times I’ve watched that movie, I never realized I was watching “Tom Jones” sing and dance!

Albert Finney as a charming Daddy Warbucks in 1982’s Annie.

One last issue I have with the Academy in regard to Tom Jones. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how this dumb film beat out Cleopatra—yes, the one with Elizabeth Taylor—for the Academy’s highest honor. I had the privilege of viewing Cleopatra in the theater a few years back when it was briefly re-released in tribute to Elizabeth Taylor after her recent death. It was overwhelmingly gaudy and really long (and not a little bawdy too); but I think as a whole, it certainly (and very easily) dwarfs Tom Jones.

Elizabeth Taylor in one of her most iconic roles–as Cleopatra.

Maybe the novel Tom Jones is better? As an English person, I should really read it, I guess. Then again, the Penguin Classics edition is over 1,000 pages long, and this person still has a few more months of thesis writing before summer break…Well, in case you’re considering going for the read, here’s a bit of info on Henry Fielding and his classic novel, The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling. Fielding was born into the British aristocracy at the beginning of the eighteenth century. His social life seems to have mirrored that of his Tom Jones character. He didn’t know how to exercise tact in his satirical writing; so during his early (and prolific) career as a playwright, he got himself out of favor a bit with the powers that be—in fact, the Theatrical Licensing Act of 1737 can mostly be blamed on him, and the censorship it enacted ran him out of the theater and into a career as a journalist and novelist. After publishing the novel Joseph Andrews to a lukewarm reception in 1742, Fielding dropped Tom Jones on the world in 1749. It quickly became a best-seller. It is supposed to wrestle with issues such as: “class, marriage for love vs. marriage for money, greed, jealousy, revenge, forgiveness, reconciliation, and the search for wisdom.” While some of these elements are present in the film version, they are not dealt with very deeply; nor can they rise above the morass of promiscuity enough to be taken seriously, in my opinion.

The utterly ridiculous (but famous) eating scene from Tom Jones.

One reviewer of Tom Jones, the film, proposed that the movie was so successful because 1963 was the same year that the Beatles released their first album in America. The so-called British Invasion was certainly underway when the 1964 Academy Awards ceremony was held on April 13 (the Beatles had been on The Ed Sullivan Show a couple months earlier on February 9), though Tom Jones was probably in post-production in July when Introducing the Beatles hit American record shelves (the film premiered in the U.S. in October 1963). It is an interesting theory, however, that Anglophilia led to the popularity and achievements of Tom Jones. One random (but interesting to me!) fact about the film in connection to bands of the 1960s is the comparison that can be made between the odd scene in the inn (during which the characters run up and down stairs and through different doors while the film moves in fast forward) and the typical “Monkee romps” that were featured in pretty much every episode of The Monkees only a few years later in the decade. I’m a HUGE Monkees fan, and it so delights me to include them in a BP post (especially as I slog my way through a film I detest!).

1963 was a year that saw more than the advent of the Fab Four. There was a new pope, nationwide U.S. zip codes, and a shiny new Pro Football Hall of Fame. More importantly, Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his incomparable “I Have a Dream” speech while standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Sidney Poitier became the first African American to win Best Actor (for Lilies of the Field). Lee Harvey Oswald ascended six flights of stairs in the Texas School Book Depository to assassinate President John F. Kennedy. And film-wise, all we have to show for a year like that is Tom Jones. Pathetic.

For more thoughts on Tom Jones and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

I’m addicted to history. I can’t get enough of it. In my studies of the past, one thing that I find endlessly fascinating is the effect individuals have on the course of history. Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King. What would our world (and even our individual lives) be like today had these men not lived and/or had not done what they did?

I’m not sure that I can put T. E. Lawrence on the same scale as a Caesar or Lincoln, but nevertheless his life is one of those that just erupts into history and achieves what would seem to be the impossible, leaving an earthquake of an impact on the past, the aftershocks of which still reverberate in the present. The film Lawrence Of Arabia emphasizes this power of the individual; but while extolling Lawrence’s amazing achievements, the movie also stresses the vulnerability and pain that an individual faces—especially an individual whose talents and successes have elevated him to the realm of mythology where his slightest mistakes and weaknesses are magnified ten-fold.

As soon as the film starts, it is clear that Lawrence is unique. He rides his motorcycle with surety and abandon (to his unfortunate demise). He possesses skills that others in the British Army lack, namely an understanding of Middle Eastern culture and military strategy. He is a misfit—not truly at home with his British comrades, but clearly not Middle Eastern with his fair skin and piercing blue eyes. Yet Lawrence himself seems aware of his calling in life. He knows where he needs to be: in the desert, inspiring the Arab tribes to unite to defeat their Turkish oppressors. Nothing can hinder him from achieving his dream for the Arabs.

Much of the first half of the film lauds Lawrence’s success in the desert. He earns the trust of Prince Feisal and elevates himself in the eyes of the Arab warriors whose company he keeps through learning to dress like them, ride camels like they do, and endure the trials of the scorching desert with them. He even risks his life to return to the most merciless part of the desert, the “Sun’s Anvil,” to rescue Gasim who is left behind when he succumbs to the heat. Lawrence also masterfully persuades the fickle and violent Auda and his forces to join him and Sherif Ali in their surprise attack on the Turkish-held port of Aqaba. The film shows how this Englishman has pretty much singlehandedly inspired and organized a seemingly unstoppable Arab army.

The defeat of Aqaba is perhaps Lawrence’s greatest triumph, having survived the desert and begun to unify the bickering Arab tribes. However, just before this great victory, Lawrence executes Gasim, the very man he had risked his life to save, after Gasim murders one of Auda’s men as part of a blood feud. Lawrence’s inserting himself into Arab issues isn’t new, but his propping himself up as executor of justice and executioner is. Additionally, Lawrence shoots Gasim multiple times, certainly more than is necessary to achieve his death. Later in Cairo, Lawrence confesses that a part of him enjoyed the killing. At this point in the film, the emphasis on the power of the individual is disturbing, to say the least. Lawrence takes life as easily as he saves it, and both enemies and friends fall under his command.

Lawrence executes his own justice.

Though it can be argued that Gasim, a murderer, deserved to die, several other deaths in the film are just as or even more disturbing since Lawrence is either responsible for them or is their initiator. (Spoiler alert!) When one of his young servants, Daud, falls into a sinkhole while crossing the Sinai Peninsula with Lawrence and the other servant boy, Ferraj, Lawrence’s effort to save Daud seems weak and halfhearted. Likewise, when Ferraj is wounded in a botched detonation to destroy a Turkish train, Lawrence shoots him in the head supposedly to prevent his being captured and tortured by the Turks, a fate which the Arabs say is worse than death.

However, Lawrence himself is captured and tortured by the Turks later in the film, and he survives. Although he is changed by the horrifying ordeal, I wonder if he would have preferred for someone to have shot him in the head to prevent his pain. In other words, is Lawrence inconsistent in his administration of justice and mercy? He definitely allows his personal pain to influence his decision-making. When he and his Arab fighters come across bedraggled and fleeing Turkish troops, Lawrence deliberates briefly but then orders their annihilation in a bloodbath in which he gleefully (and somewhat insanely) participates.

Lawrence leading his troops into battle.

In each of these instances, we see the influence of the individual in history—the power of one man to change minds, inspire action, and accomplish the seemingly impossible. At the same time, the film shows how the inner conflict of one person can also affect history. Lawrence, unsure how to deal with the discomfort of being an outsider and scarred by his treatment at the hands of his enemies, lashes out against both those for whom he cares and those whom he despises, leaving a trail of death and destruction behind him even as he tramples the enemies who block his path to Damascus and a united Arab Middle East.

What happens when Lawrence and his Arab cohorts occupy Damascus really sums up what we often see with great individuals whose actions help shape the course of history. Although his achievements draw the world’s awe and admiration, Lawrence ultimately fails in what he wants to do. Unable to set aside their petty differences and age-old rivalries, the leaders of the Arab tribes nearly come to arms in the very venue in which Lawrence intends for them to declare their freedom and begin their new world. Lawrence might be a great leader of men, but he is flawed—just as are his Arab friends. His own personal conflict is magnified due to his Cyclopean image. Small errors become large ones, and Lawrence finds himself alone in the hall and without his dream.

For Me Then…

“The trick…is not minding that it hurts.”

At the beginning of the film, Lawrence shows off to some fellow British soldiers as he puts out a burning match with his fingers. In response to one of his fellow’s protests that such an action is painful, Lawrence replies, “The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.” To the contrary, though, the film clearly shows that Lawrence is frequently hurt and does “mind it.” While performing his nearly immortal tasks, Lawrence suffers physical pain and discomfort, along with the mental anguish of regret, the memories of trauma, and the unending search for who he is. In large part, this quest for identity inspires Lawrence’s actions and, thus, also his greatness; but in the end it leaves him lonely and reckless. Those at his grand funeral sing his praises, but obviously know nothing about the man behind the legend. History places Lawrence of Arabia on a pedestal; but as the film shows us, sometimes an individual who seems the least affected by the world’s madness could actually be simply trying to escape his/her own world of hurt.

If you would like to wear (or even simply possess) a pair of sandals that the real Lawrence of Arabia wore during his legendary quest to defeat the Turks and form a united Arab state in the Middle East, you can do so if you are the highest bidder at the December 19 auction in Derbyshire, UK. You could literally walk in the shoes of the man who inspired this week’s BP, Lawrence Of Arabia (1962; Horizon Pictures, Ltd., Columbia). Pretty neato.

Lawrence and Sherif Ali

It’s difficult to determine which has made a greater impact on modern society, the real T.E. Lawrence or the film version of his life. Here we have another motion picture whose title gets tossed around in conversations that start with “Name the greatest movie of all time.” Personally, I found Lawrence of Arabia to be a compilation of stunning shots of desert vistas set to a glorious score amid the exaltation of the often questionable exploits of a psychologically damaged human being—not to say that Lawrence didn’t have more guts than the average person. Numerous times in the film Lawrence himself insists that he is above ordinary, and perhaps that was true.

Just a taste of this epic film’s stunning visuals!

The striking motion picture made about his extraordinary life captured seven Oscars out of ten nominations: Film Editing, Art Direction (Color), Cinematography (Color), Music (Music Score—substantially original), Sound, Directing for David Lean (he had previously won for The Bridge on the River Kwai), and Best Picture. The film failed to take home trophies for Writing (Screenplay—based on material from another medium), Actor in a Supporting Role for Omar Sharif as Sherif Ali, and (perhaps most surprising) Best Actor for Peter O’Toole as T.E. Lawrence. Lawrence of Arabia’s biggest competition at the 1963 Academy Awards came from the lovely black-and-white classic adaptation of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird—thus the reason for Lawrence of Arabia’s lack of success in the Writing category. Plus, my heart rests a little easier in knowing that O’Toole’s denial of Oscar glory was due to Gregory Peck’s fabulous portrayal of Atticus Finch—what could be one of the most memorable performances by a lead male actor in the history of film. But as an English person, I’m a little biased toward literary masterpieces…

The real Lawrence of Arabia

Lawrence’s real life, while indeed outrageous, was also beset with pain and difficulties. His legend paints him as both warrior and cultural phenomenon—able to insinuate himself into the Arab world like he was born there, masterminding ingenious attacks on Turkish bases of power, and even trying his hand at the diplomacy and political maneuvering it would take to establish a unified Arab Middle East. He wasn’t always successful in his endeavors during World War I. He was once taken captive by the Turks and subjected to torture that left him struggling from PTSD and which moved him to commit what could be termed war atrocities against his enemies.

Lawrence, his composition somehow lending itself to greatness, nonetheless seemed to struggle with his own identity and purpose. After his goal of a self-governed Arab state failed to be realized, he attempted to escape from his larger-than-life self, living under an alias; serving in menial roles in the British Army; and residing in a small, isolated cottage in England. Though Winston Churchill (as British Colonial Secretary) would persuade Lawrence to briefly help him try to resolve the crisis that occurred in the Middle East after World War I, Lawrence’s death in a motorcycle accident in 1935 eliminated any possibility of his return to aid his country in what would become an even more dire situation in World War II. Churchill mourned him, saying, “I deem him one of the greatest beings alive in our time. I do not see his like elsewhere. I fear whatever our need we shall never see his like again.”

Newspaper announcement of Lawrence’s death

Somehow, though, Lawrence transcends time. Even in the Middle East today, his legend survives, though his motives are perhaps less trusted than they were during the Great War. The film’s reputation likewise continues to thrive, consistently holding its ranking on top film lists and continuing to wow its viewers with its scale and beauty. I think the story of a relatively ordinary person thrust into extraordinary times and presented with rare opportunities appeals to all of us who want to leave an imprint on the world, to achieve something that really matters and will last.

The release of the film version of Lawrence’s story–regardless of the extent of its historical accuracy–came at a time when the United States and other parts of the world were again facing the dilemma of a prolonged war against an unfamiliar foe: Vietnam. But while the Vietnam War devoured young Americans abroad, the homefront was the stage of massive demonstrations–both of the anti-war type and the civil rights variety. In the waves of history, conflict just never dies. Like Lawrence earlier in the century, individuals were emerging in the 1960s to lead the way through the conflicts–men whose media-created images overshadowed lives filled with difficult choices and private tragedy. I think the epic sweep of Lawrence of Arabia is just as much about that inner struggle as it is about the more public adventures of one unique man.

If anyone is interested in some further reading on Lawrence of Arabia, here are a couple of sources I found interesting. The Smithsonian’s more comprehensive article about Lawrence’s life and lingering Arab reputation can be found here: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/true-story-lawrence-arabia-180951857/?spMailingID=21097645&spJobID=360468626&page=1&spReportId=MzYwNDY4NjI2S0&spUserID=NzQwNDYxMjA0NDkS1. An article explaining how Lawrence’s death eventually helped to decrease the number of motorcycle fatalities in Britain can be found here: http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-32622465. And if you are interested in bidding for those sandals, go here first: http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-derbyshire-42236618.

For more thoughts on Lawrence of Arabia and its significance, please check out the full post (also this weekend)!