The most obvious aspect to focus on from Driving Miss Daisy would be the racial one: With its portrayal of a congenial African-American man chauffeuring a crotchety, old white woman around town for several decades from 1948-1973, what is the film saying about race relations? In my opinion, though, this movie addresses much more than race. In fact, it contains a plethora of stereotypes and asks its characters–and its viewers–to navigate the murky waters of biases we often don’t even realize we possess.

The film begins with Miss Daisy attempting to back her car out of the garage. She ends up going through a hedge and into a neighbor’s yard, prompting her son Boolie to revoke her driving privileges and eventually hire her a driver, Hoke Colburn, a middle-aged African-American man who “needs a job.” That brief synopsis alone provides plenty of stereotypes to unpack. First, Daisy is supposed to be only 72 years old at the start of the movie. She’s in excellent health, and her mental acuity is higher than that of most of the other characters. Still, the film presents her as incapable of driving safely–whether that is because she lacks depth perception, needs new glasses, could use a crash course on how to drive the bulky car models of the late 1940s, or whatever. Common sense says, though, that with a little help she should be able to fix her hedge-crushing problem of backing down the driveway crookedly. But Boolie won’t hear of Daisy’s driving anymore; and with numerous protestations that he is a caring son, he makes other arrangements for her transportation–effectively limiting her freedom and placing her under his authority due to the stereotype of the aged. Certainly, as an “old” woman, Daisy is incapable of taking herself places and determining that she can safely do so.

Boolie himself, though, cannot escape the stereotypes of his economic/social/familial position. He loves his mother enough to visit her and care for her well-being, but he doesn’t often perform caring acts for her himself. He hires people to do them for him. In short, he uses his wealth as a substitute for his affections. Furthermore, his wife Florine seems to not be the sort of woman who would be attracted to Boolie. She appears much younger than he does, likes social soirees that it seems wouldn’t interest him, and might very well be Italian (more about ethnicity in a moment). Could Boolie perhaps have bought her love just as he buys his way out of actually helping his mother? Plus, Boolie and Florine have no children. When Hoke comes to Boolie’s office to interview for the position of being Daisy’s driver, he asks if Boolie has children. When Boolie answers in the negative, Hoke tries to casually ease any anxieties he may have caused in his potential boss by assuring him he is still young enough to remedy this omission. However, Boolie and Florine never have children, which is especially a bit odd in the 1950s.

Along with Daisy’s housekeeper/cook Idella, the other main character of color in the film, Hoke is clearly the premier object of the film’s preoccupation with racial inequality. Although Daisy is fond of Idella, the African-American woman is not portrayed as much more than the rich lady’s servant; and Idella’s round form, “yessums,” and sometimes sarcastic replies call up images of Gone with the Wind‘s Mammy–a beloved character who is nonetheless a product of racial stereotypes. The previously jobless Hoke also finds himself the victim of bias. Daisy accuses him of stealing from her pantry. Some white cops harass him about driving Daisy’s fancy car. Daisy assumes Hoke knows Martin Luther King, Jr. since they’re both black. Hoke purchases all of Daisy’s cast-off used cars when she buys new ones. And, of course, Hoke is Daisy’s driver, a position which places him at the whims of a white woman.

But here’s the big wrench in Driving Miss Daisy‘s racism dialogue: Daisy is Jewish. Keeping in mind that the movie opens in 1948, not too long after the close of World War II and the end of the Holocaust, the fact that the relationship between Daisy and Hoke doesn’t just revolve around her being white and him being black allows the film to again address a more complex issue than “just” race relations. Hoke has his own stereotypes of Jews: they’re rich and stingy. It’s true that Daisy is rich, and she definitely keeps tabs on her possessions, but both she and Hoke come to realize that her Jewishness and his blackness in the second half of the twentieth century actually bind them together more than pull them apart. On the way to her synagogue one morning, Hoke and Daisy find themselves in an annoying traffic jam. Daisy grows impatient as Hoke investigates the cause of the problem, which turns out to be that the synagogue has been bombed. The incident changes Daisy’s thinking about race and ethnicity a bit. Previously, she has insisted she is not prejudiced, even though she doesn’t seem to consider Hoke, Idella, and other African-Americans to be on the same level of humanity that she is on. But the bombing places her on their level. She now sees herself as a victim of hatred and prejudice and begins to sympathize with others who have experienced similar mistreatment.

The brief episode of the synagogue bombing changes Daisy–she’s still cantankerous, but she is more open to other people’s perspectives, as is evidenced by her attending a banquet at which Martin Luther King, Jr. is the featured speaker. The profundity of his message of unity and hope for a world in which people enjoy maiming and massacring those who are different from themselves strikes Daisy deeply; and while she doesn’t express her feelings openly to anyone for most of the film (spoiler alert!), her confession to Hoke that he is her best friend is pretty powerful. As dementia begins to encroach on Daisy’s mind, she starts becoming the old lady that Boolie has seen her as from the beginning. She can no longer consistently reason, cannot care for herself, and can certainly not drive. She reaches for and holds Hoke’s hand as she realizes two things: that she needs help and that she deeply cares for this man whose background and race are so different from her own.

For Me Then…

In her seemingly stereotypical old age at the end of the film, Daisy still doesn’t fit the mold. Neither do Boolie or Hoke, for that matter. Boolie drives Hoke, who is losing his eyesight, to visit Daisy in her retirement home in the movie’s final scene–a precursor of Green Book in which a white man chauffeurs a black man. At the end of their dinner, Daisy dismisses her son so she and her “best friend” Hoke can talk together. Hoke feeds her pie spoonful by spoonful. It is a sweet, tender image with which to close the film, and one that smashes stereotypes. Here are two people, white and black, Jew and Christian finding common ground in their shared humanity. Very quietly, Driving Miss Daisy tells its viewers that stereotypes–of the elderly, of different races, of social/economic classes–don’t matter. What does matter is how we treat each other and that we realize that each person has a role to play in and a contribution to make to this life. All people are valuable. And as Daisy and Hoke demonstrate, if we look past stereotypes, we can learn something from people who are different from us–and perhaps even form long-lasting friendships.

“Every time somebody’s driving somebody, I lose. But they…changed the seating arrangement,” said Spike Lee after this year’s Academy Awards at which his film BlackkKlansman lost Best Picture to Green Book. Of course, in his clever soundbite, Spike is referencing his 1989 movie Do the Right Thing and the fact that the Academy chose not to nominate it for BP–while the same year saw another racially focused film, Driving Miss Daisy (1989; Zanuck Company Productions, Warner Bros.) take home the industry’s highest honor. Final score at the 1990 Oscars: Driving Miss Daisy 4; Spike 0. Poor, poor Spike. Driving Miss Daisy won Makeup, Writing (Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium), Actress in a Leading Role for Jessica Tandy as Miss Daisy Werthan, and Best Picture (it failed to take home Oscars for Art Direction, Costume Design, Film Editing, Actor in a Supporting Role for Dan Aykroyd as Boolie Werthan, and Actor in a Leading Role for Morgan Freeman as Hoke Colburn).

In the months leading up to the 2019 Oscar ceremony, a lot of people remarked upon the similarities of Driving Miss Daisy and Green Book and also noted a correlation between Do the Right Thing and BlackkKlansman. Although all four films deal with racial tensions and stereotypes, Driving Miss Daisy and Green Book are both tamer than their respective Spike Lee counterparts; and the most obvious similarity between the two BP winners is that large portions of both Driving Miss Daisy and Green Book take place in cars–except an African-American man drives a white woman in 1989’s BP, and a white man drives a black man in 2018’s winner. Hence, Spike’s comment about the change in seating arrangement.

The commonalities between Do the Right Thing and BlackkKlansman stem more from how they present and address racial tensions and violence, opposed to any similarities in their storylines. Spike’s films generally are pretty raw and in-one’s-face. He likes to shock his audience into thinking about an issue (usually a racial one). Do the Right Thing and BlackkKlansman bring up the question of if/when violence is an appropriate response to racism, and both films end with that question not having been completely (and satisfactorily) resolved.

What I find especially interesting about all four of these films is that the years prior to and of their releases saw significant amounts of racial unrest. Like the 2010s, the 1980s featured several high-profile incidences of police violence against minorities (such as the death of New York graffiti artist Michael Stewart while in police custody and the police shooting of Eleanor Bumpurs, a mentally ill senior citizen facing eviction), which only served to fuel the racial tensions that were already simmering. Spike’s films feed off of the hatred and fear inherent in these real-life events without really offering a hopeful solution to bias and bigotry. Green Book and Driving Miss Daisy, despite what some critics insist about their still having toned-down racist agendas, both attempt to offer meaning and positivity with regard to a hot-button issue that is so enwrapped in emotion and history that it’s often difficult to talk through practical solutions. Personally, I’ll opt for the films that offer some kind of hope that we can one day work through past/present racial issues and learn to love everyone regardless of skin color. Not sorry, Spike.

For more thoughts on Driving Miss Daisy, please check out this weekend’s post!

Happy (very slightly belated) Easter, Everyone! Hope you have all enjoyed wonderful and meaningful celebrations of a holiday that centers around the redeeming sacrifice and love of Jesus Christ. Although Rain Man doesn’t offer us gospel truth about resurrection and salvation, it does present a story about a man who (re-)meets someone who changes his life forever–for the better.

All arrogant and cocky Charlie Babbitt cares about at the beginning of the film is money and sex. When his father (from whom he is estranged due to a disagreement they’d had regarding his dad’s classic car) passes away, Charlie is outraged to learn that the family fortune has been given to a mental institution. Upon visiting the institution, Charlie discovers that he has an older brother, Raymond, who is autistic. Charlie is shocked, to be sure, but he quickly gets over his surprise and formulates a plan to kidnap Raymond and hold him ransom for half of their father’s estate–an arrangement which only seems fair to the entitled Charlie.

Thus, the brothers begin an epic road trip from Ohio to California, during which Charlie begins to see that Raymond possesses amazing skills with memory and numbers and that his long-lost brother is most certainly not just crazy. Charlie starts to value and love his brother–especially when he realizes that Raymond is actually “Rain Man,” the best friend he had thought he had only imagined in his early childhood. Charlie tells his girlfriend Susanna, “When I was a little kid and I got scared, the Rain Man would come and sing to me.” Charlie’s memories of his older brother are full of comfort and closeness. When Susanna asks what happened to this Rain Man friend, Charlie replies “Nothing, I just grew up.” In his mind, Charlie no longer needs Rain Man because he thinks he has it all together. He can talk his way out of anything. He can talk others into anything. He will shortly be set for life once he gets his sketchy car importing business running smoothly. But Charlie is wrong to think he is fine being so “self-sufficient.”

When Charlie is reunited with “Rain Man” and realizes he is real and he is Raymond, his autistic brother, Charlie begins to change for the better. He becomes a listener, instead of always the dominant speaker. He starts anticipating Raymond’s needs and wants, going along with the quirks of Raymond’s disorder and accepting his brother as he is. Charlie learns patience, that the fastest and easiest way to do something isn’t always the right or best way. And he learns to love again. He decides he wants a relationship with his brother because he truly cares about him. Furthermore, through loving Raymond, Charlie starts loving his father again, expressing understanding of how his dad must have felt when Charlie blew him off time and time again. At the close of the film (spoiler alert!), even though Raymond goes back to the mental institution in Ohio, Charlie remains changed. His thoughts at the end of Rain Man don’t revolve around the physical gratifications of wealth or romance. Instead, he focuses on making sure that Raymond understands his desire to continue their relationship, to maintain their renewed family bond, and to feel his brotherly love.

For Me Then…

Earlier this weekend/today, I was feeling a bit bummed that we didn’t have a more “holiday appropriate” film to talk about this week. But in thinking further about Rain Man and the end of the film when we see a changed Charlie standing on the train platform as Raymond rides off to Ohio, I’m thinking that we’re okay here with talking about this film on Easter. Charlie at the movie’s close seems a bit at a loss as to what to do with himself 1.) now that Raymond is leaving, and 2.) now that being with Raymond has changed him. We don’t see Charlie long enough without Raymond to see what he is like without him: Does he continue to deceive his auto customers? Does he still take advantage of and undervalue Susanna? But regardless of how the new Charlie applies the lessons he learned from his drive with Raymond, we can certainly be sure that those lessons will linger with Charlie. In just a few days, he has been “touched” by Raymond in a way that will affect him for his entire life.

Each time I hear the Easter story, this line of thinking pops up in my brain as well. In the Gospels we see countless people–named and unnamed–encountering Jesus during his early years, his ministry, and his death, and after his resurrection. Each of those people experiences the Savior in one way or another, those people usually end up a bit shell-shocked at what has just happened to them, and each person’s life is never the same afterward. Hence, what we see on a much smaller scale in Rain Man is writ large throughout the pages of the biblical text: One person’s life can change that of another. Sure, Raymond makes Charlie a better person from the jerk he is at the film’s beginning. But Jesus can transform your soul, not just your outlook on life or your perception of particular human disorders.

Rain Man (1988; Guber-Peters Company Production, United Artists) helped to launch the career of one of Hollywood’s most prestigious film composers (and, incidentally, my absolute favorite), Hans Zimmer. While Zimmer didn’t win an Oscar for his score for Rain Man, the film’s Best Picture victory put Zimmer on the musical map, so to speak. When he followed Rain Man‘s success with that of next week’s BP Driving Miss Daisy, Zimmer was well on his way and only had to wait a couple more years before he was awarded a shiny golden man for his work on the iconic score of The Lion King (1995). Since then, Zimmer has racked up tons of awards and nominations for his brilliant scores for films such as Gladiator (2000), Pearl Harbor (2001), The Last Samurai (2003), The Da Vinci Code (2006), Inception (2010), Interstellar (2014), and Dunkirk (2017). And who can’t hum along with his instantly recognizable themes from the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise? If you can’t do this yet, you must obtain these soundtracks ASAP. Particularly, “I Don’t Think Now is the Best Time” (slightly cheesy name for one of the best pieces of film music ever written, in my opinion) from Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End is simply a stunner.

While I could go on all day about Hans Zimmer and his contributions to the film world, I’ll try to rein in my gushing enthusiasm and turn back to Rain Man, which received eight Academy Award nominations. The film won four Oscars: Writing (Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen), Directing for Barry Levinson, Actor in a Leading Role for Dustin Hoffman for his unforgettable performance as Raymond Babbitt, and Best Picture. The film failed to score wins for Art Direction, Cinematography, Film Editing, and Music (Original Score)–but no worries there; Zimmer had better material coming later (tried to steer away from him, but there he is again…).

One particularly noteworthy contribution to culture and society that Rain Man made was to raise awareness for autism. As an “autistic savant,” Hoffman’s Raymond Babbitt is both alarmingly brilliant and endlessly frustrating to his brother Charlie. We’ll look at that relationship more this weekend, but for now it’s important to note just how groundbreaking it was for a mainstream, award-winning film to revolve around an autistic character. In 1988, most people didn’t know what it meant to be autistic–and perhaps had not even heard the term before. Children with autism often went misdiagnosed or undiagnosed, experiencing difficulties in school and struggling with peer relationships. In some circles, these children are referred to as “the lost generation,” sufferers from autism prior to it becoming a common diagnosis. For some first-hand experiences of a few of these children, check out this article from the Interactive Autism Network: https://iancommunity.org/lost-generation-growing-up-autism-before-epidemic.

On a positive note, then, the popularity of Rain Man led to increased diagnoses of autism and opened the door for more (and deeper) conversations about this disorder. On the other hand, though, Rain Man also created an autism stereotype. Karl Knights explains, “As a beginning for autism on screen, Rain Man deserves applause. It gave autistic people a visibility that had previously been denied them. In one fell swoop Rain Man achieved almost overnight the kind of representation that parent advocacy groups had been working towards for decades. But as the dominant depiction of autism on screen, it also deserves derision. The autistic community is more than Raymond Babbitt.” If you want to read more of Knights’ thoughts on this film and autism, check out this article: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2018/dec/17/rain-man-myth-autistic-people-dustin-hoffman-savant.

And, if you want to read more of my thoughts on Rain Man and its significance, please check out this weekend’s post!

Two aspects of this film really stuck out to me this past week: the repeated images of the women in Pu Yi’s life abandoning him and the emphasis on the value of freedom. Not only are these two motifs interesting in their own rights, it is also worth considering how they work together in The Last Emperor.

Only a few minutes into the movie, viewers are presented with the heartbreaking scene in which Pu Yi is taken from his biological mother and spirited away to the Forbidden City to become the next emperor. While his mother doesn’t remove herself from her royal son by choice, years later when they are reunited, Pu Yi demonstrates an antagonistic attitude toward his mother as if he believes she could have done something to prevent their long separation. Similarly, Pu Yi is barely at the Forbidden City when the Empress, a creepy, grandmotherly figure, dies in front of him. Again, a woman with the potential to care for Pu Yi leaves him in a state where he feels confused, alone, and vulnerable. The young Pu Yi replaces his absent mother with his wet nurse (with whom he has a rather twisted relationship…); but when she is secretly and forcibly banished from the Forbidden City when Pu Yi grows older, the young emperor is devastated and runs after her with all his might, only to find the massive gate to the Forbidden City barring him from his female comforter forever.

As an adult, Pu Yi is still not immune to the women in his life leaving him. Although his relationships with his empress Wan Jung and his secondary consort Wen Hsiu thrive at first, after several years, it becomes clear that Wen Hsiu is the third wheel in the trio. On a rainy day after the emperor and his household have been evicted from the Forbidden City, an enraged and heartbroken Wen Hsiu just walks away from the ex-emperor’s mansion and from Pu Yi. She even refuses an umbrella(!), which maybe shows how desperate she is to become her own person and find someone who values only her in a romantic relationship.

Pu Yi’s relationship with Wan Jung doesn’t end up faring much better (spoiler alert!), though they are together longer. After Pu Yi has become the puppet emperor of Manchukuo, Wan Jung falls under the influence of the mysterious and stereotype-shattering Eastern Jewel, who persuades Wan Jung to try opium (to which she becomes addicted). Furthermore, the empress’s suspicions that the Japanese are merely using her husband lead her to begin an affair with Pu Yi’s driver in order to produce a “royal” heir for Pu Yi (this thought-process is messed up, yes), hence abandoning Pu Yi in a different way. After the birth (and death) of the baby, Wan Jung is also taken away from Pu Yi (supposedly to receive needed treatment, but actually because she has become an embarrassment, in the opinion of the Japanese). When Wan Jung returns to the emperor’s palace in Manchukuo at the end of World War II as Pu Yi is preparing to flee, she presents a terrifying figure: Her opium addiction has rendered her unrecognizable, and she looks like a monster. This time, Pu Yi leaves her (although it can be argued that Wan Jung’s addiction has already made her absent from her husband).

Let’s also consider the presentation of freedom in The Last Emperor, especially in light of all the “leaving” female characters. We’ve seen already how Pu Yi is separated from his mother at the beginning of the film, but this scene also marks the end of Pu Yi’s freedom. He becomes a virtual prisoner in the Forbidden City. When the empress dies and Pu Yi becomes ruler, he also is forced to bind himself by all the rules and customs the emperor must follow. Granted, there are a lot of perks, and he can mostly do whatever he wants to whomever he wants whenever he wants. Yet, he cannot go out and play with children his own age; and (rather hilariously) there are a couple of big to-do’s when Pu Yi is given a bicycle by his Scottish tutor and when Pu Yi discovers he needs glasses (emperors don’t wear glasses, say the former emperor’s concubines). Perhaps these “freedoms” that Pu Yi has to boss everyone around and wallow in his extreme luxury are not true freedoms at all. Two of the most enduring (and disturbing) images in the film are when Pu Yi tries to reach his wet nurse before she is taken from him and when he throws his pet mouse against the gate of the Forbidden City, smashing the poor little guy, when he is barred from exiting into the outer world after he is told the news about his mother’s death. Throughout the rest of his life, Pu Yi is still basically a prisoner of his position.

Even outside the Forbidden City when he experiences his “playboy” years, Pu Yi cannot go wherever he wishes. It is interesting that it is during this phase of his life when Wen Hsiu, the secondary consort, leaves him. Her departure mimics what Pu Yi wishes for: an escape from the dictated and constrained life into which he was born. And while Pu Yi is the one who leaves Wan Jung near the end of the film, his doing so only leads to his capture by Soviet troops and eventual, literal imprisonment in a Chinese work camp. The singular time we really see Pu Yi as a free man (if he is indeed ever truly liberated) is after his release from the camp when he becomes a humble gardener and revisits the Forbidden City as an early morning tourist. Still, it cannot be ignored that this older version of the spoiled brat child from the first half of the film has admitted while in prison that everything that happened was his fault. Pu Yi’s acceptance of responsibility is refreshing, but it is unclear what things he considers to be his fault. Furthermore, his placing blame on himself puts him into another prison of sorts–the prison of guilt. So at the close of The Last Emperor, we viewers find the new Pu Yi more likeable, but there is still a big question about the extent of his true liberation (from his past, from his position, from the control of the Communists, from his own guilt).

For Me Then…

Dialogue about freedom will be a frequent occurrence with many of our upcoming films. Just as The Last Emperor presents different types of freedom and different types of imprisonment, so also will films like Schindler’s List, Braveheart, Titanic, Gladiator, and The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, to name a few. While the freedoms and prisons vary in how each film presents them, one common idea that they share about freedom is how much it costs. If we go back to the incident with Pu Yi and the smashed mouse on the gate of the Forbidden City, we can draw a couple of conclusions about freedom and the price that is often demanded for it. First, it is frequently the case that one must take action to achieve one’s own freedom. Although Pu Yi’s mouse-slaughtering action does not win him freedom, this instance of his rebellion against his helpless state of confinement sets the stage for his later realization while in prison that he had a responsibility to his people and his family to make their lives better (and not just please himself). Second, freedom is often closely linked with death. For Pu Yi, his actually being the one who kills the mouse in his rage over being confined may indicate his feeling that death is preferable to a life without true freedom. Then again, The Last Emperor may be telling us in this scene that Pu Yi, because of his inherited position (and thus his destiny), can only find freedom in death. Morbid.

I find films that attempt to deal with the concept of freedom (how it is attained/retained, what it costs, what it means, etc.) highly compelling. They tap into an issue that all of humanity faces–and wrestles with. Freedom, whether it be political, physical, emotional, spiritual, etc. is so closely tied to identity and life purpose. It plays into the ultimate questions about who I am and why I am here. Plus, if we as humans admit that our greatest issues are our imprisonment to sin and death, freedom–of our souls–becomes the paramount issue of life. Any film, then, that attempts to show us that we are unable to save ourselves and need a higher Power to give us true freedom is well worth the viewing. The Last Emperor isn’t quite there, but it sure makes an effort.

Pu Yi, the last emperor of the Manchu Dynasty (and of China in general) and the man whose autobiography served as the basis for this week’s BP, lived an unbelievably crazy life–one that in reality was even more wild than what is depicted in The Last Emperor (1987, Hemdale Film Production; Columbia). He really did become emperor of all of China when a mere toddler, “ruling” for a couple of years until a revolution turned the country into a republic and forced him to abdicate. He actually was shown photographs of several girls before marrying one and picking another to be his imperial concubine. He truly loved the West and became a sort of Western-inspired playboy after being evicted from the Forbidden City. Eastern Jewel (whose real name was Yoshiko Kawashima–well, that’s just one of her real names…) was also a historical woman of Manchu descent who spied for the Japanese, while Pu Yi’s empress really did become an opium addict. Japan set Pu Yi up as puppet emperor of the shortly lived Japanese puppet state of Manchukuo until the end of World War II, when he was captured by Soviet troops, who later turned him over to the Chinese government. Pu Yi (the real one) was surprised when the Chinese didn’t execute him as a traitor–rather, they went for the “reform through labor” option in his case, considering Pu Yi rehabilitated after nine years. The former emperor spent the last few years of his life as a part-time gardener at the Beijing botanical gardens. He died of kidney cancer in 1967. He was only 61 years old.

While many of the events in the film are basically historically correct, what we get in Bernardo Bertolucci’s movie is a very sanitized portrayal of Chinese history–sanctioned by the Communist Chinese government. Although gaining the government’s approval allowed Bertolucci access to film in the famed and spectacular Forbidden City, it also meant that historical accuracy had to be sacrificed to make the Chinese government look good. Specifically, scenes in which Pu Yi and other “war criminals” are “re-educated” while imprisoned in a Chinese work camp (with a wise, compassionate overseer) drastically downplay the deplorable conditions and hidden horrors the prisoners were forced to endure.

Despite its lukewarm embrace of historicity, The Last Emperor achieved the stunning and rare feat of sweeping all the Oscar categories for which it was nominated (only 1927/28’s Wings, 1931/32’s Grand Hotel, 1934’s It Happened One Night, 1958’s Gigi, and 2003’s The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King share this accomplishment so far). The Last Emperor took home nine Academy Awards for the following nine categories: Art Direction, Sound, Film Editing, Costume Design, Cinematography, Music (Original Score), Writing (Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium), Directing for Bernardo Bertolucci, and Best Picture.

So why this film in 1987? From Emperor to Citizen: The Autobiography of Aisin-Gioro Pu Yi was originally published in 1964, so the story had been out there for a while. I have a couple of thoughts on this. First, Mao Zedong, the “founding father” of the People’s Republic of China had passed away in 1976, and China was in the midst of some changes in the 1980s: economically, socially, internationally (as in China’s increasing openness to the outside world). It is also interesting to note that in the very year The Last Emperor was released, 1987, U.S. President Ronald Reagan urged Mikhail Gorbachev, leader of Soviet Russia, to tear down the Berlin Wall, perhaps the most famous physical symbol of Communist oppression. Hence, during a pretty high-profile time for Communists, we get a film that prominently features this group of people–yet the movie is much more tame than something we would see today due to: 1.) the fact that the fall of Communism in much of the world was still a couple of years away, and 2.) the Chinese government, while reinventing itself without Mao, was still Communist, after all. Participation in world cinema was becoming more of an option for the Chinese, but the government still wanted to control all the dialogue (especially when what was being said–or shown–had to do with their political party and their rivals, like the former emperor).

For more thoughts on The Last Emperor and its significance, please check out this weekend’s post!

Unbelievably, this week’s film The Last Emperor is the 60th BP winner to be featured on FlicksChick.com! Crazy! Although this movie didn’t crack the top 20+ films in my personal rankings of Best Pictures, it’s still worth seeing and will be the focus of a couple more posts in the next few days; so please make sure to check back in for those!

Today I’m posting an updated list of my BP rankings–no major changes, though I did go through the list with a fine-toothed comb this time since I took such a long sabbatical from blogging this past fall. The Sound of Music still reigns as the best BP in my book–really, really special film there–followed closely by the stunning Gone with the Wind. At the bottom of the heap, Annie Hall and Tom Jones keep each other company and don’t need to ever take up any of my time again.

Some really big films are coming up in the next decade of BP winners (Schindler’s List, Braveheart, and Titanic, to name a few I’m highly anticipating), so you can definitely expect some changes toward the top of the following list. But for now, here’s how I rank the first 60 winners of the Academy’s highest prize.

1. The Sound of Music (1965)
2. Gone with the Wind (1939)
3. Ben-Hur (1959)
4. All Quiet on the Western Front (1929/30)
5. Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
6. The Godfather (1972)
7. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975)
8. The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)
9. West Side Story (1961)
10. You Can’t Take It with You (1938)
11. Amadeus (1984)
12. Chariots of Fire (1981)
13. Out of Africa (1985)
14. All About Eve (1950)
15. Gandhi (1982)
16. Casablanca (1943)
17. My Fair Lady (1964)
18. It Happened One Night (1934)
19. Rebecca (1940)
20. The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)
21. In the Heat of the Night (1967)
22. The Godfather, Part II (1974)
23. Kramer vs. Kramer (1979)
24. The Deer Hunter (1978)
25. On the Waterfront (1954)
26. Oliver! (1968)
27. The French Connection (1971)
28. Ordinary People (1980)
29. The Last Emperor (1987)
30. All the King’s Men (1949)
31. The Lost Weekend (1945)
32. Mutiny on the Bounty (1935)
33. The Great Ziegfeld (1936)
34. Hamlet (1948)
35. How Green Was My Valley (1941)
36. Patton (1970)
37. Mrs. Miniver (1942)
38. Rocky (1976)
39. A Man for All Seasons (1966)
40. Gigi (1958)
41. The Sting (1973)
42. Around the World in 80 Days (1956)
43. The Greatest Show on Earth (1952)
44. Platoon (1986)
45. Wings (1927/28)
46. The Life of Emile Zola (1937)
47. Marty (1955)
48. Going My Way (1944)
49. Cavalcade (1932/33)
50. Gentlemen’s Agreement (1947)
51. Grand Hotel (1931/32)
52. Cimarron (1930/31)
53. Terms of Endearment (1983)
54. Midnight Cowboy (1969)
55. The Apartment (1960)
56. From Here to Eternity (1953)
57. An American in Paris (1951)
58. The Broadway Melody (1928/29)
59. Annie Hall (1977)
60. Tom Jones (1963)

“I think now, looking back, we did not fight the enemy; we fought ourselves. And the enemy was in us. The war is over for me now, but it will always be there, the rest of my days as I’m sure Elias will be, fighting with Barnes for what Rhah called possession of my soul. There are times since, I’ve felt like the child born of those two fathers. But, be that as it may, those of us who did make it have an obligation to build again, to teach to others what we know, and to try with what’s left of our lives to find a goodness and a meaning to this life,” protagonist Chris Taylor soberly remarks as Platoon closes. Pretty thoughtful words for a rather graphic and disturbing film–and sentiments that sum up brilliantly the significance of this BP winner.

In his final words to Platoon‘s viewers, Chris identifies his main conflict as with his fellow American soldiers and within himself, opposed to with the soldiers of the Viet Cong whom he actually physically fights. While much of the film deals with the military altercations between American and North Vietnamese forces, there is also an obvious divide between the American soldiers, with half following the heartless and cruel Sgt. Barnes and the other half admiring the more honorable leadership of Sgt. Elias. Just like with Americans at home during the war, for Chris and his comrades Vietnam and the U.S. troops’ purpose in being there is a hot-button topic about which no one can agree. Rather than come together to solve a problem, the Americans, home and abroad, bicker and antagonize each other, leading to the troops’ vulnerability and unpreparedness to appropriately respond (physically, mentally, and emotionally) to their surroundings and attackers.

Furthermore, Chris tells viewers that the enemy is within the American soldiers. He explains this idea further when he equates his two commanders, Elias and Barnes and their hatred for each other with the war for his soul that is waged between good and evil–Elias representing good and Barnes evil. Elias and Barnes (spoiler alert) don’t make it to the end of Platoon. In a shocking act of betrayal, Barnes murders (or facilitates the murder of) Elias, leading to the famous scene in which Elias gives up his life with his arms reaching toward the helicopters in the sky while the Viet Cong shoot him from behind. Toward the end of the film, Chris, convinced of Barnes’s guilt in Elias’s death, kills a wounded Barnes after he asks for a medic. In effect, then, evil kills good, and a man torn apart by the conflict of good and evil within himself eliminates evil. But Elias and Barnes (and thus, good and evil) live on within Chris, so he says, warring over his soul.

What Chris realizes is that Vietnam and his experiences there have changed him. Good and evil have become blurred, and it is as if those two opposites have become his “fathers.” He is the child of goodness and evil, and the deeds he is asked (and at times required) to do are both good and bad. He can’t always clearly determine what is right and wrong anymore, but he recognizes that they exist and that both affect him deeply–just like Elias and Barnes did.

For Me Then…

Chris’s last lines reminded me a lot of Marlow’s thoughts in Joseph Conrad’s classic Heart of Darkness. As Marlow journeys up the Congo River in search of his fellow countryman Kurtz, he recognizes an evil lurking within the surrounding jungle and is shocked and horrified when he realizes later that the same evil is within him as well. He is not immune to the draw of the wildness of the jungle, and there is a twisted joy in the darkness he finds in his soul.

Likewise, Chris comes to Vietnam–as a volunteer infantryman–with a naïve mindset and the hope that he can make a difference there. What he discovers is that he is a nobody, a cog in a broken machine. He intends to do what is right and serve his country, but what is right becomes murky in the Vietnamese jungles where his own commanders fight each other. Evil isn’t just present with the Viet Cong, but is also within Chris’s comrades–and himself–too. Chris confronts the evil of Barnes, but he isn’t any better than Barnes when he chooses to administer justice himself by executing his wounded superior officer. In the end, Chris, like Marlow, must come to terms with the evil within himself and the realization that he will spend the rest of his life trying to hold that evil at bay while he seeks some sort–any sort–of goodness and meaning in this world. The meaning that Chris seems to find (also expressed by director Oliver Stone in his Oscar acceptance speech) is that by telling his story to others at home perhaps another such disaster like the Vietnam War can be avoided. This is the hope that Chris wants to cling to as Platoon closes. Still, I can’t stop thinking about Marlow at the end of Heart of Darkness as he drifts into the cloudy and hopeless future of his life, confused and disillusioned by his past experiences. Chris might realize the struggle of choosing right in a world full of wrong, but telling stories of past mistakes isn’t a guarantee those wrongs won’t be repeated.

At the 1987 Academy Awards, Steven Spielberg was given the Irving G. Thalberg Memorial Award, an honor handed out periodically by the Academy to “creative producers, whose bodies of work reflect a consistently high quality of motion picture production.” This is the same Steven Spielberg whom we can partly blame/thank for the current Netflix-and-the-Oscars controversy, which the Department of Justice now feels warrants their attention and possible intervention (what is this world coming to?).

Anyhow, the great Spielberg isn’t the only link between the present time and the year that gave us this week’s Best Picture winner Platoon (1986, Hemdale Film Production; Orion). In fact, Platoon pulls together a whole bunch of issues that frequent current news headlines: U.S. troops fighting in foreign countries for reasons unknown to them, PTSD and other mental illnesses, and racial and social inequalities. Oliver Stone, director of Platoon, is certainly not one to shy away from hot-button topics in his films. Just take a look at some of his notable directorial efforts: Wall Street (1987), Talk Radio (1988), JFK (1991), Natural Born Killers (1994), Nixon (1995), and W. (2008).

Interestingly for this week’s focus on Platoon, Stone’s very first film (a short called Last Year in Viet Nam) also chronicles some of his experiences as a U.S. Army soldier in the Vietnam War, for which he was awarded the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart. Stone had written Platoon in the 1970s, fairly soon after his return home from military duty overseas; and he later went on to make two more films about the war: Born on the Fourth of July (1989) and Heaven & Earth (1993). All three of Stone’s Vietnam films draw upon the confused and tormented emotions of the people who participated in and/or were affected by the Vietnam conflict and who struggled (and still do) with feelings of disillusionment, abandonment, and loss.

Platoon has often been called one of the most realistic war movies of all time, and it certainly reflects a, for lack of a better word, nausea toward the war, rather than the glorification of battle that is often seen in film. The movie won four Oscars out of eight nominations, taking home statuettes for Film Editing, Sound, Directing for Stone, and Best Picture (it failed to win Cinematography, Writing [Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen], Actor in a Supporting Role for Tom Berenger as the diabolical Sgt. Barnes, and Actor in a Supporting Role for Willem Dafoe as the more honorable Sgt. Elias).

What is also of note regarding Platoon and its 1987 win is the plethora of Vietnam films that were also released around the same time. Although the topic of the war had been included in film earlier, no one had really used Vietnam geographically in a movie or explored the psyches of the men who had been involved in the war there until the mid-to-late 1970s when that trend began to turn. Films such as 1976’s Taxi Driver, 1978’s BP The Deer Hunter, and the critically acclaimed Apocalypse Now (1979) launched a new era of exploration into one of America’s most hated historical events. Platoon was joined by 1987’s Full Metal Jacket; Good Morning, Vietnam; and Hamburger Hill, as well as 1989’s Born on the Fourth of July and Casualties of War, among a few others.

Several experts have explored the portrayal of the Vietnam War in film and have made some very interesting observations and conclusions. First, while there was an enormous amount of World War II movies made immediately after the close of that conflict (and even during the war), this was not the case with the Vietnam War. Vietnam had divided Americans and spawned countless protests across the country involving hundreds of thousands (and probably millions) of people. Returning veterans were not hailed as heroes as were the soldiers of the previous World Wars. Instead, they were often seen as murderers of the innocent. But as the 1970s grew older, films began to look at those who had fought in Vietnam–from the perspective of how those veterans were adjusting to life back at home (this was usually negative). When the 80s arrived and action movies were all the rage, the “tortured Vietnam vet” motif morphed into the conflicted soldier in the midst of graphic violence–thanks to the popularity of and demand for action movies, as well as action heroes like Rambo. With this background of tormented soldiers and high-paced (though brutal) adventure, film slowly began to confront the politics of the Vietnam War until the narrative became one of regret, the “we-shouldn’t-have-gone-there” storyline in which the soldier becomes a tragic hero led to the slaughter by his own disconnected and misguided government.

What Platoon does, then, as one of the most popular films of the 80s, is draw upon the tortured vet and thrilling action ideas–and combine them with an exploration of good and evil within men pushed to their physical, mental, and emotional limits. In the face of constant fear and commonplace death, the film asks what actions are acceptable and what deeds are reprehensible. Though certainly not an enjoyable movie, Platoon does present a glimpse into the minds and hearts of those who were in Vietnam and perhaps even helps those of us who came afterwards to understand them and their experiences a bit more. As Oliver Stone said as he accepted his Oscar for directing Platoon, “I think that through this award you’re really acknowledging the Vietnam veteran. And I think what you’re saying is that for the first time, you really understand what happened over there. And I think what you’re saying is that it should never, ever in our lifetimes happen again. And if it does, then those American boys died over there for nothing, because America learned nothing from the Vietnam War.”

For more thoughts on Platoon and its significance, please check out this weekend’s post!