“Two elderly women are at a Catskill Mountain resort. And one of ‘em says: ‘Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.’ The other one says: ‘Yeah, I know. And such small portions.’ Well, that’s essentially how I feel about life. Full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it’s all over much too quickly.”

Staring into the camera, Alvy Singer, the protagonist of Annie Hall, addresses his audience with this quote, setting both a comedic and rather depressing tone for this week’s BP-winning film. Alvy reveals to the film’s viewers that his year-long romantic relationship with a woman named Annie Hall has ended and he doesn’t know what went wrong—furthermore, he doesn’t know what’s so wrong with him that all of his relationships with women flounder. The rest of the film explores not only the relationship between Alvy and Annie but also some of Alvy’s childhood experiences as well as his involvement with other women.

Employing Freudian psychoanalysis on his own past self, Alvy notes his paranoia as a Jewish child growing up during World War II. Not only do his rather overbearing parents exacerbate his fears, but his teachers squelch his budding personality (as well as his developing sexuality, in his opinion). As an adult, Alvy ends up becoming a successful comedian; but he’s a disastrous husband in the two failed marriages he has before meeting Annie; and even with Annie, he’s an awkward, self-conscious lover. He is obsessed with death and, as the opening quote shows, believes that life is basically a depressing disappointment.

Annie and Alvy: relationship success.

Alvy’s relationship with Annie, who is also self-conscious and awkward, seems to introduce the idea to the now middle-aged funny man that there may very well be something good in the world. Perhaps his previous marriages failed because he was partnered up with the wrong women. With Annie he can be himself. She gets him. But then the relationship with Annie goes south as well. Poor Alvy.

What Alvy doesn’t seem to understand about Annie is that she is a dynamic character. Shy and lacking confidence at first, Annie blossoms into an individual willing to take risks in both her personal and professional lives. She makes a bold move from Alvy’s New York to California to pursue a music career, leaving Alvy behind to wonder what Annie’s relocation means with regard to their relationship and her beliefs about life and what it can offer. Alvy, on the other hand, is static. Whether the difference in the film’s two main characters is partly because of their age disparity or their life experiences (that would be a Freudian thought…) isn’t super clear, but what is clear is that Alvy is not willing to believe in the goodness and possibilities that Annie sees in the world.

For Me Then…

It could be argued that Alvy’s upbringing does limit his ability to relate to other people (especially women) and see hope for happiness in his life. His frequent remarks about his Jewishness and his fear that those around him are anti-Semites hint at a lingering terror of ostracism and mistreatment that originated with the Holocaust that occurred during Alvy’s childhood. It’s understandable that Alvy would exhibit a preoccupation with death and a tendency toward morbid thoughts, given what European Jews endured in the 1930s and 40s.

Annie and Alvy: relationship fail.

Yet, the film is named after Annie, not Alvy, which seems to imply that there is something about Annie that differentiates her from the other women with whom Alvy has been involved. Her zest for life and her embrace of her individuality seem to (at least somewhat) rub off on Alvy, who has a much different thought at the end of the film:

“And I thought of that old joke. You know, the, this, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, ‘Doc, uh, my brother’s crazy, he thinks he’s a chicken,’ and uh, the doctor says, ‘Well why don’t you turn him in?’ And the guy says, ‘I would, but I need the eggs.’ Well, I guess that’s pretty much now how I feel about relationships. You know, they’re totally irrational and crazy and absurd and – but uh, I guess we keep going through it because most of us need the eggs.”

What Alvy concludes at the end of Annie Hall is that everyone experiences the foolishness of love relationships as a fact of being part of humanity. His failure to persuade Annie to stay with him long-term doesn’t indicate a psychological failing on his part, but the opposite: despite his childhood upbringing and his adult struggles, Alvy is just as human as the next person. Life isn’t necessarily completely miserable, but just a series of ups and downs that we all must endure.

Arguably, 1977 marked the release of one of the greatest films of all time—certainly one of the most influential. But I don’t mean Annie Hall (1977, Jack Rollins and Charles H. Joffe Production; United Artists). No, I’m talking about George Lucas’s culture-altering masterpiece, Star Wars. The first installment of the Star Wars series cost Lucas and his team about $11 million to make. The Star Wars franchise is now estimated to be worth a cool $7.5 billion. Not only that, Star Wars entered the 1978 Academy Awards as one of the frontrunners with 11 nominations and emerged the night’s biggest winner with 6 competitive Oscars and 1 special achievement award for Benjamin Burtt, Jr. (“for the creation of the alien, creature and robot voices featured in Star Wars“), even though the film lost the highest prize to Annie Hall. However, most people could care less how many awards the Star Wars films have garnered over the years or how much money they’ve made. Whatever the accolades, there’s just something special about those films—from the iconic characters to the famous lines that we can’t forget, the epic struggle between good and evil portrayed in Star Wars strikes a chord with almost everyone. It says something about what it is to be human and to constantly face dilemmas in which you find yourself overlooked, outnumbered, and overwhelmed. And yet somehow…good always wins. That’s nice.

On the flip side of that mountain of morality, there’s Annie Hall, a film about a couple of pretty ordinary people who probably love each other. It’s an odd film—sometimes it’s funny, other times it’s dull or even annoying. The movie blends “interview scenes” with subtitled episodes, cartoon segments, and “normal” camera shots; and characters (namely Woody Allen’s Alvy Singer) frequently break the fourth wall and speak directly to the camera. Personally, I strongly dislike films that employ that technique…Yet Annie Hall both then and now frequently receives very positive reviews for portraying the reality of 1970s culture: “politics, drugs, East Coast/West Coast rivalry, narcissism, religion, [and] celebrity.”

Breaking the fourth wall in Annie Hall.

Although five other films at the Oscars in 1978 either tied or exceeded Annie Hall in nominations (Star Wars, Julia, and The Turning Point with 11; Close Encounters of the Third Kind with 9; and The Goodbye Girl with 5), Woody Allen’s film took home the highest prize and almost joined the ranks of It Happened One Night (1934) and One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) as a winner of the Big Five, falling just one Oscar short (when Woody Allen failed to win Best Actor). Out of its five nominations, Annie Hall took home statuettes for Best Picture, Writing (Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen—based on factual material or on story material not previously published or produced), Directing for Woody Allen, and Actress in a Leading Role for Diane Keaton as Annie Hall.

Diane Keaton, or Annie Hall…

Here are a couple of fun facts in closing today: Diane Keaton’s birth name is Diane Hall, and her nickname is Annie…and she had a brief romantic relationship with Woody Allen in 1970-71, so maybe Annie Hall is more than a bit autobiographical for Woody Allen. The couple/ex-couple have collaborated on eight films together to date: Play It Again, Sam (1972; an obvious nod to 1943’s Casablanca), Sleeper (1973), Love and Death (1975), Annie Hall (1977), Interiors (1978), Manhattan (1979), Radio Days (1987), and Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993). So it looks like Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper have some work to do if they want to collaborate as much as Keaton and Allen.

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

Good evening!

This week’s featured film, Annie Hall, was the 50th Best Picture winner, so that means it’s time to post my BP rankings again. No huge changes in the upper or lower echelons of the list–The Sound of Music still perches at the top, and Tom Jones wallows on the bottom. The Godfather (1972) and One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) broke into the top ten (for now…), but neither of those two films is as complete or as lovely as The Sound of Music–although both made significant contributions to the world of film in their time and still have relevance today, in my opinion. The newest additions to the bottom of the list are this week’s film Annie Hall (1977), which was funny at some parts and just really annoying at other parts, and Midnight Cowboy (1969), which would be dead last except that I think what it says about the impact of childhood abuse is worthwhile…”worthwhile” being perhaps too strong of a word for such a piece-of-trash film.

Before I get too grumpy about completely unnecessary raunchiness in films, here’s my rankings of the first 50 winners of the Academy Award for Best Picture:

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

Remember 1954’s Best Picture winner, On the Waterfront? You know, Marlon Brando as conflicted Terry Malloy with his famous “I coulda been a contender”? Someone could have plastered that quote on a t-shirt and sent it to Sylvester Stallone’s Rocky Balboa a couple of decades later, for these two characters share some pretty significant similarities. Both are talented boxers who miss out on reaching their potential when younger. Both live in poverty. Both work for violent criminals. Both woo women who are on the fringes of society—Terry’s Edie because of her insistence on bringing her brother’s killers to justice and Rocky’s Adrian because she refuses to leave her house or speak to anyone other than her brother.

The main difference between Terry and Rocky, though, is in how they react to the fact that they’ve wasted much of their younger years and have ended up as people that they didn’t originally intend to be. For Terry, his love for Edie motivates him to become an honest and courageous person. When he stands up to his corrupt union boss (the ironically named Johnny Friendly), Terry, although beaten physically, becomes an inspiring leader of men. It does not seem, though, that Terry ever returns to the pursuit of boxing glory he began in his youth.

Rocky Balboa

Rocky Balboa, however, gets a chance that Terry would probably never dream of: a chance to fight for the World Heavyweight Title. At the already ripe old age of 30 (gasp!), Rocky gives himself the proverbial kick in the pants (with some help from his crusty coach Mickey) and works his body back into a fighting machine. What I find interesting is that Rocky’s goal isn’t to win the match. He has no illusions that he can defeat Apollo Creed. Instead, he just wants to endure 15 rounds with the reigning champ.

I find this goal pretty unique for a sports film. Usually, such movies follow an individual or team as they struggle and lose in the beginning, practice real hard in the middle of the film, and then win it all in the end. Don’t get me wrong—I love most of those types of films as well. But Rocky is unique in the protagonist’s aim to prove his toughness, not achieve a victory over an evil opponent (yet another difference between Rocky and On the Waterfront).

For Me Then…

I think it’s just fine and dandy that Rocky proves that he’s got moxie and can take a beating. However, more than just providing a doubting audience with a great show, I think that Rocky’s performance in the boxing match at the end of the film is really for self-identification. He might feel that he needs to prove something to all the people who know the match is set up as more of an exhibition than a real fight, but deep down inside he knows that he is proving something to himself.

Rocky vs. Creed

At one point in the film, Rocky comes across a young teenage girl named Marie who’s a family friend. She’s with a rough crowd, messing around with drugs and such. Rocky escorts her home, spending the entire walk trying to pass on some words of wisdom about hanging out with the wrong people: “But after a while, you get a reputation and that’s it. You get no respect. Ya understand? Ya get no respect…They don’t remember you, they remember the rep…You hang out with nice people, you get nice friends, ya understand? You hang out with smart people, you get smart friends. You hang out with yo-yo’s, you get yo-yo friends. You see, simple mathematics.”

What’s funny about Rocky’s speech is that he doesn’t follow this advice himself. He works for a criminal, and he has not done his best with boxing (as Mickey doesn’t mince words to tell him). So when he takes on Creed, he needs to show himself something: that he can be the good guy. The work might be tough, the outcome might not be a win in an official sports sense, but those 15 rounds allow Rocky to become the person he describes to Marie. He becomes his own hero, someone he can look at in his mirror and truly be proud of.

In the early 1970s, Sylvester Stallone was an impoverished, struggling actor—at one point, he even had to sell his dog in order to get money to feed himself and to avoid starving the dog! One night, Stallone went to see a boxing match. The great Muhammad Ali was fighting Chuck Wepner. Ali knocked Wepner out with only seconds left in the fifteenth round, but the match is still remembered for being one of only four fights in which Ali was officially knocked down. Stallone was instantly inspired: “What I saw was pretty extraordinary. I saw a man called ‘The Bayonne Bleeder’ fight the greatest fighter who ever lived. And for one brief moment, this supposed stumblebum turned out to be magnificent. And he lasted and knocked the champ down. I thought if this isn’t a metaphor for life.”

Three days later, Stallone had completed a 90-page script telling the story of a small-time boxer who gets the chance of a lifetime to meet the reigning world heavyweight champion in the ring. During a casting call for another film (a role Stallone realized didn’t suit him), Stallone mentioned his script to the producers, who asked to see it. This wasn’t the first script Stallone had attempted to sell; he was already the writer of 32 rejected scripts. This time, however, the producers were pretty excited. They offered Stallone $360,000 for the rights to it. But there was a catch: they didn’t want Stallone to play the lead character. Stallone (who had $106 in the bank at the time) wasn’t having any of that: “I thought, ‘You know what? You’ve got this poverty thing down. You really don’t need much to live on.’ I sort of figured it out. I was in no way used to the good life. So I knew in the back of my mind that if I sell this script and it does very, very well, I’m going to jump off a building if I’m not in it. There’s no doubt in my mind. I’m going to be very, very upset…So this is one of those things, when you just roll the dice and fly by the proverbial seat of your pants and you just say, ‘I’ve got to try it. I’ve just got to do it. I may be totally wrong, and I’m going to take a lot of people down with me, but I just believe in it.’”

Stallone in the iconic “Rocky” victory pose after conquering the stairs outside the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Well, the producers eventually let Stallone make Rocky (1976, Robert Chartoff-Irwin Winkler Production; United Artists)—with a super small budget of about $1 million. The film experienced both critical and popular success, garnering over $100 million and spawning four direct sequels (Rocky II-V), 2006’s Rocky Balboa, 2015’s Creed, and the upcoming Creed II (set to be released November 2018). The original Rocky film beat out big contenders for Best Picture in All the President’s Men, Bound for Glory, Network, and Taxi Driver. With ten nominations total, Rocky took home only two other Oscars: Film Editing and Directing for John G. Avildsen. It did not win in the following categories: Sound, Writing (Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen—based on factual material or on story material not previously published or produced), Music (Original Song) for “Gonna Fly Now” by Bill Conti, Actor in a Supporting Role for Burgess Meredith as Mickey, Actor in a Supporting Role for Burt Young as Paulie, Actress in a Leading Role for Talia Shire as Adrian, and Actor in a Leading Role for Sylvester Stallone as Rocky Balboa himself, the “Italian Stallion.”

This is probably putting it mildly, but Rocky has become an American cultural icon. It’s not really possible to hear either “Gonna Fly Now” or “Eye of the Tiger” (the theme song from Rocky III) without conjuring up images of Sylvester Stallone and flying fists. That being said, it’s even more interesting to me that such an “All-American” film was released during one of the most “American” years ever: 1976, America’s Bicentennial. (There were some pretty big parties that year to celebrate America’s birthday, the footage of which is worth checking out on YouTube!). Stallone, the son of an immigrant, set his 1976 rags-to-riches story in Philadelphia, the same city in which the Declaration of Independence had been signed 200 years earlier—by some other sons of immigrants (as well as a few actual immigrants). Random connection? Maybe so. But I like to think that Rocky’s theme and setting and date of release–as well as Stallone’s own personal journey–all contribute to the film’s attempting to capture an image of the American Dream, and it’s nice to believe that such a thing still existed not that long ago.

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

“We all go a little mad sometimes,” declares one of the creepiest villains in cinema history. No one debates the mental illness of Psycho’s Norman Bates, but R. P. McMurphy in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest is almost reminiscent of Shakespeare’s Hamlet in that while pretending to be insane he actually exhibits characteristics of madness. McMurphy’s deceitfulness in order to get out of jail work and into the asylum exposes the atrocities of the hospital for the mentally ill both to him and to us viewers. But even beyond this social commentary on the treatment of those considered insane is the dominant question of whether or not the supporting characters who live in the asylum are actually mad. McMurphy would say no.

Upon learning that he must remain in the hospital until the evil Nurse Ratched and the other staff members decide to release him, McMurphy is even more shocked to learn this is not the case for most of the other patients. Rather, the other men are “voluntary,” meaning they have committed themselves to the asylum; and honestly, many of their struggles don’t seem significant enough to warrant their continuing presence in the ward for the mentally ill. Harding, for instance, can hardly (excuse the pun) discuss anything other than his jealousy for his wife’s attention, repeatedly harping on his paranoia that other men are looking at her. Young Billy has difficulty interacting normally with women due to his skewed relationship with his mother. McMurphy recognizes that these problems do not automatically qualify these men as insane. Instead, McMurphy tries to encourage the other men to get out of the hospital and indulge in the freedom they deserve: “What are ya doin’ here?…I mean, you guys do nothin’ but complain about how you can’t stand it in this place here and then you haven’t got the guts to just walk out!…What do you think you are…crazy or something? Well, you’re not! You’re not!” One of the most memorable scenes in the film lends support to McMurphy’s claim that the other hospital residents do not belong there. Stealing a bus—and a bunch of patients—from the asylum, McMurphy commandeers a fishing boat by claiming that he and the other men are really doctors, hinting at the possibility that even people struggling with psychological and emotional issues can live in the world and be whomever they want to be.

McMurphy and the other “doctors” on their deep-sea fishing expedition.

Another interesting note regarding the fishing scene is the significance of water—its fluidity, flexibility, unpredictability—in this film. Water is freedom. We see this in the fishing scene when the patients get a taste of what their lives could be like if lived outside the asylum. Water is also important in McMurphy’s escape plan with the wash station (spoiler alert!). By using the water station as his instrument in breaking out to freedom, Chief demonstrates how in this film something fluid trumps something fixed—and this is the reality of the conflict between McMurphy and Nurse Ratched as well.

The sinister Nurse Ratched.

Nurse Ratched is so enamored with her schedule that she views it as the patients’ salvation. The schedule trumps the spontaneous joy of bonding over a World Series game and is proposed as the coping mechanism to lean on in the bloody aftermath of Billy’s suicide. Nurse Ratched refuses to recognize the waste of human life for which she is responsible. Rather than focusing on healing and rehabilitating her patients so they can reenter society, she revels in her position of authority and keeps the male patients under her thumb. McMurphy’s attempt to strangle her after Billy’s death confirms that her threats to tell Billy’s mother about his one-night stand with Candy are to blame for the tragic loss of McMurphy’s protégé. The nurse’s rigidity eliminates her heart. Her control is more important to her than Billy’s life. In this way, she is the exact foil of McMurphy to whom Billy’s life is more important than freedom.

For Me Then…

Just like we can debate the presence of mental illness in the patients of the hospital in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, we can also wonder just who exactly ends up gaining the freedom McMurphy so values. Is death really the same as freedom in this film? I’m going to say no, and I think the key is in the movie’s title. While Billy’s death delivers him from the domain of Nurse Ratched as well as the threat of his domineering mother, the viewer of this film does not feel at the end that Billy has attained the peace and security that he seems to be craving. In the case of McMurphy (spoiler alert!), the victim of a frontal lobotomy, Chief’s “mercy killing” is also disturbing. While McMurphy’s death, like Billy’s, delivers him from the pain and suffering he would otherwise endure if he had lived out his days in the asylum, this viewer believes that the release McMurphy receives is sub-par to the freedom he had envisioned throughout the film. Only one man “flies over the cuckoo’s nest,” after all.

McMurphy unknowingly walks away from freedom as he enters the ward for the mentally ill.

The film’s title comes from a nursery rhyme called “Vintery, Mintery, Cutery, Corn” about three geese: one flies east, one flies west, and “one [flies] over the cuckoo’s nest.” McMurphy and Nurse Ratched are probably the two geese that fly in completely different directions, which makes Chief the one who “flies over the cuckoo’s nest,” the one who escapes. And yet, what hope rests out on the mountains Chief traverses as the credits begin to roll? He no longer needs to pretend that he is deaf and dumb. He now can hear, and he now has a voice. But as Chief treks off apparently to Canada to start over, the film closes without offering any hope to its viewers. In fact, it seems that it is lack of hope (not fatigue or drunkenness) that hijacks McMurphy’s escape out the window during the “party” he throws one night in the ward. McMurphy fails to complete his sentence declaring what he will do once he is out of the hospital. He cannot find a purpose for his life, and this lack of meaning pulls with it a deep hopelessness—something that undoubtedly led to the self-committal of many of the patients in the first place. In the end, then, one might escape the “cuckoo’s nest” and find before him a world of possible freedom, but what he does with that liberty is never revealed to the film’s viewer, who wonders if even the world outside the hospital can offer any hope.

This film keeps rare company. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975, Fantasy Films Production; United Artists) is one of only three winners of the “Big Five,” the quintet of top Academy Awards (Best Picture, Director, Actor, Actress, and Screenplay). Out of nine total nominations, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest only won those five most coveted awards: Best Picture, Director for Milos Forman, Actor for Jack Nicholson as R. P. McMurphy, Actress for Louise Fletcher as Nurse Ratched, and Writing [Screenplay Adapted from Other Material]). It did not take home trophies in the following categories for which it was nominated: Film Editing, Cinematography, Music (Original Score), and Actor in a Supporting Role for Brad Dourif as Billy Bibbit. The only previous Big Five winner was 1934’s hilarious It Happened One Night. It took a mere 41 years to duplicate that romantic comedy’s feat. But One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest could not be more different from It Happened One Night. Granted, there are more than a few comical parts, but this film is pretty deeply disturbing. And it very much means to be so.

Ken Kesey, author and early proponent of LSD

Based on the 1962 novel of the same name by Ken Kesey, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest is the story of R. P. McMurphy, a criminal of sorts, who pleads insanity in the belief that the asylum will be more comfortable than the prison where he has work duty. How very mistaken McMurphy is. Through McMurphy’s experiences in the ward for the mentally ill (and in his epic conflict with Nurse Ratched), viewers of the film also become privy to the horrendous conditions and treatments such patients endured. Kesey came to his novel in a very interesting (and rather illegal) way. While in college at Stanford and working at the Veterans’ Administration Hospital, he volunteered to participate in a study that was funded by the CIA. The study, a top-secret military experiment, was dubbed Project MKULTRA; and it involved analyzing the effects of psychoactive drugs (LSD, mescaline, cocaine, etc.)—on human subjects. Kesey was convinced that LSD “was a tool useful for transcending rational consciousness and attaining a higher level of consciousness,” and he continued to experiment with the drug even after his participation in the government study.

His fascination with the idea of altered consciousness led him to interview residents at the hospital where he worked, many of whom were considered mentally ill. To the contrary, Kesey refused to categorize his interviewees as “insane,” but rather believed that “society had pushed them out because they did not fit the conventional ideas of how people were supposed to act and behave.” Several of these patients gave Kesey inspiration for the characters in his famous novel—much of which he wrote while under the influence of mind-altering drugs.

McMurphy enthusiastically participates in a group therapy session at the asylum.

Kesey’s “Acid Tests,” elaborate parties that included drugs, strobe lights, fluorescent paint, and his favorite band (the Grateful Dead), epitomized the 1960s to the extreme. After his drug-abuse struggles eventually led him to prison, Kesey’s life changed; and he mostly spent the 1970s to the time of his death as a family man on a farm in Oregon. But R. P. McMurphy, the protagonist of Kesey’s most famous novel, himself a wild man not averse to partying, bridges the psychedelic 60s and our current blog decade of the 1970s, revealing a society beset with continuing drug use, free sex, and unhesitating violence–along with the insecurity, despair, and desperation that accompany them. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest certainly provides its viewers with insight into 1960s/70s perceptions of the mentally ill and a flawed health care system, but it also speaks loudly about the human condition in general, which makes it–Big Five or not–pretty fascinating, in my opinion.

For more thoughts on One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

Really big spoiler alert right off the bat. Fredo dies. Okay, so that might not seem like a big deal in a film in which there are fifteen other fatalities, but Fredo’s death is particularly shocking. Sure, he isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed; and as far as mobsters go in this film, he has got to be one of the mildest. And, yes, Michael did warn him toward the end of The Godfather not to ever go against the family again. But Fredo just wants to be his own man. He wants to be valued and not overlooked. He wants to matter. So, he (incompetently) takes up scheming and plotting—against Michael. Well, of course, it’s no surprise then that Fredo bites the bullet. Cross the Godfather and deal with his wrath—we’ve seen that a billion times in the first and second installments of this franchise. But Fredo is different because he’s a Corleone. Fredo is family.

“I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart. You broke my heart.”

The Godfather, Part II opens with a portrayal of Michael in his position of power as the head of the Corleone family: one of the Family’s hitmen kisses Michael’s hand, indicating his submission to Michael’s rule as Godfather. But from this height of authority, the Corleone family under Michael’s leadership begins to struggle and then to sink. It seems to Michael that everything starts going wrong. For one, there’s an attempt on Michael’s life while he is in his bedroom at home, an act that endangers his pregnant wife Kay as well. Then comes the realization that someone very close to him must have been involved in planning the hit—there is a traitor in the midst. Next, the big deal Michael wants to close with Hyman Roth goes up in smoke as Michael realizes that Roth is out to get him and that Cuba (the site of the proposed deal) is about to explode into revolution—oh yeah, and he discovers the inside man is his older brother Fredo. When Michael’s own ordered hit on Roth fails and Cuba descends into chaos, the Godfather returns home to discover Kay has lost the baby and seems estranged from him. Then there is a Senate committee hearing that requires Michael to testify about his mob activities…it gets bad fast for the Corleones in this film.

Michael protects Kay during the attempt on his life.

As Michael becomes more cold and ruthless, The Godfather, Part II makes it clear that his “professional” struggles cannot be extricated from his personal ones. He separates from Kay and refuses to let her see their children, which is an awful scene; but the Godfather is most cruel with his misled and traitorous brother Fredo. Although he permits Fredo to return to the family compound on Lake Tahoe, Michael can never bring himself to forgive Fredo for his betrayal. He determines that Fredo can live as long as their mother is alive; but when Mama Corleone passes away, not even Connie Corleone’s pleas can save Fredo. Michael’s paranoia, pride, and need for vengeance trump his love for his own blood. His emphasis that the family comes before all ironically persuades him to take his brother’s life. The emptiness that results from this decision is magnified in a flashback that shows Fredo as the lone supporter of Michael’s choice to join the Marines after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. At the close of the film, the Godfather is alone—no worshiping cronies or fawning family. He is thinking, thinking. He is not relieved; he is not happy. His actions have sunk the family. His family’s war has cost him his family.

Michael, all alone with his thoughts and his sins.

For Me Then…

What I found most disturbing about Fredo’s death (and this movie in general) is that shortly before he dies, Fredo renews an old love for fishing. He shares this passion with Michael’s young son Anthony, revealing his secret to catching fish: reciting a Hail Mary as he casts his line. Fredo’s bonding with Anthony supplies a father figure to the boy whose real father Michael is preoccupied with money, power, and retribution. It also gives Fredo a pseudo-son, someone to whom he can pass along something he enjoys. Plus, the introduction of the Catholic prayers to a very dark part of an already morbid film adds a level of otherworldliness to the scenes of the two Corleones sitting on the end of the dock and later getting into a small boat.

The death of Fredo Corleone.

Fredo tells Anthony that he utters the prayers in order to catch fish; but if we think back to the first Godfather film, Vito tells Michael that he didn’t want to be a “fool dancing on a string” and that he intended for Michael to “hold the strings.” The first time I heard these lines I thought of puppets (and the film’s artwork reinforces this interpretation), but they could also connect with fishing. Fish are duped into grabbing the worm on the end of the string. Fredo might be the fish, for he isn’t capable of holding the strings like Michael is because Fredo prays, perhaps for forgiveness, as he casts. With Michael there is no forgiveness. Undeniably, Michael is still holding the strings at the close of The Godfather, Part II, but the cost to his “business,” to his family, to his soul is abundantly clear. Fredo dies in this film, but Michael dies in a way as well.

The Godfather, Part II (Coppola Company Production; Paramount) is one of only two sequels to ever win the Academy Award for Best Picture—the other being The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003). Both franchises exclusively share the honor of having all three of their films earn nominations for Best Picture. However, only the third and final film in The Lord of the Rings trilogy took home the Academy’s highest prize; while in the case of The Godfather franchise, both the original film and its immediate sequel took home top honors. Therefore, while The Godfather, Part II is not the lone sequel to win BP, The Godfather is the only film to have a sequel that also won BP—seemingly, a nearly impossible feat in the world of cinema. I dare say that, had The Godfather, Part III not been barred from BP glory by Dances with Wolves in 1990, it might have been easy to make the argument that The Godfather is the greatest film trilogy of all time. As it is, I think there’s room to consider some other franchises, The Lord of the Rings and Stars Wars (the original trilogy) being the most likely candidates.

Al Pacino is “the Godfather” in The Godfather, Part II.

Oscar competition, of course, varies from year to year; but the fact is that with 11 nominations and 6 wins, The Godfather, Part II surpassed its predecessor’s 10 nominations and 3 wins, which bolsters the argument of some (maybe not necessarily this blogger, though) that the sequel is actually superior to the original. Whereas The Godfather won for BP, Adapted Screenplay, and Best Actor (Marlon Brando), The Godfather, Part II took home Oscars in the following categories: Art Direction, Writing (Screenplay Adapted from Other Material), Music (Original Dramatic Score), Actor in a Supporting Role for Robert De Niro as young Vito Corleone, Directing for Francis Ford Coppola, and Best Picture. It did not capture Oscars for Costume Design and for four other acting nominations: Al Pacino as Michael Corleone, Actor in a Supporting Role for Lee Strasberg as Hyman Roth, Actor in a Supporting Role for Michael V. Gazzo as Frankie Pentangeli, and Actress in a Supporting Role for Talia Shire as Connie Corleone. Robert De Niro’s win put him and Marlon Brando in a category yet to be duplicated (if ever): both actors won Oscars for playing the same character (Vito Corleone) in separate films.

Robert De Niro as Vito Corleone.

With all its praise over the years, the funny thing is that The Godfather, Part II almost never happened. Coppola himself had reservations about directing the sequel since his experience with the original film was rather rocky, to put it mildly. At first, he suggested that Martin Scorsese direct The Godfather, Part II; but Paramount wouldn’t go for that. Coppola rather reluctantly came on board the project (after certain demands of his were met) and was given pretty much free reign over it. But that didn’t stop Al Pacino from threatening to withdraw from the film when he didn’t like the script. Coppola spent an entire night rewriting the script, then sent it to Pacino, who agreed to continue with the production. Richard S. Castellano, the highest paid actor in The Godfather, demanded a huge salary increase and the freedom to write his own lines before he would be willing to reprise his role as Clemenza. Rumor has it that Castellano also refused to regain the 50 extra pounds to match Clemenza’s previous weight. Coppola responded by replacing the character of Clemenza with Frankie Pentangeli. James Caan, who played Sonny Corleone in The Godfather, agreed to return for the brief reunion scene at the end of the film—only if he was paid the same amount as he had received for his entire performance in the first film. Unbelievably, he got his wish. Marlon Brando was also supposed to make an appearance in the reunion scene, but he was so put off by what he perceived as mistreatment by Paramount during filming of The Godfather that he didn’t show up on the day the reunion scene was shot. Coppola had to rewrite the scene without Brando’s character. So much drama. Here’s a fun fact, though: Both James Caan and Robert Duvall (who plays Tom Hagen) have both been film “dad” to Will Ferrell characters (Caan in Elf and Duvall in Kicking and Screaming). I find that quite amusing.

On a not-so-amusing note, 1974 was unprecedented for more than just a BP-winning film’s sequel winning BP. Richard Nixon became the first and only U.S. President to resign from office in the wake of the Watergate Scandal. Gerald R. Ford, a man who had not been elected to either the vice presidency or the presidency, took over leadership of the country. It was a rough time for the United States. America’s military involvement in the lengthy Vietnam War was over, but the homeland environment was one of suspicion, corruption, and regret—similar to the overall feel of The Godfather, Part II.

For more thoughts on The Godfather, Part II and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

I’m fairly certain that I’ve mentioned before that one of my favorite TV shows ever is Lost. Fans of that unequaled drama know that the character of Sawyer is portrayed as the ultimate con man—at least that’s who he is when he lands on the island. In one particular episode in Season 2, Sawyer clues in his then-girlfriend and partner in petty scams, Cassidy (yup, like Butch Cassidy—incidentally, the focus of another Robert Redford/Paul Newman film), about how to run a “long con.” Sawyer gives Cassidy step-by-step instructions as the purported long con progresses—except (spoiler alert!) there’s a twist (of course): Cassidy is the long con. I could not get this Lost episode out of my head when watching The Sting this past week, for this is pretty much what The Sting is about: deception.

Now granted, there is also a lot of deceitfulness in last week’s BP, The Godfather; but within the first few minutes of The Sting, it becomes very clear that we are dealing with a much lighter film…at least on the surface. Where The Godfather appeals to the vulnerability of family ties and maybe even to the sympathies of people with complicated family issues, The Sting eliminates family all together. In place of the familial unit is comradeship, a bond formed by the interdependence that comes from one guy partnering up with another guy in order to cheat yet another guy out of his money so that the first guys can survive. Ah, the need to survive—that common human goal should permit us some leeway as far as our approval of people ripping other people off. However, other than Henry Gondorff’s job (if we can call it that) as a carousel operator, there isn’t really any mention or attempt by the characters to seek out lawful employment. Of course, The Sting is set during the Depression, which greatly limits the occupational opportunities of the characters, but are lying and stealing their only real options?

Setting up the long con in The Sting.

Let’s bring in the premise of another popular film, Ocean’s Eleven (1960/2001), and the idea of stealing from those who deserve to be stolen from. In The Sting, when Johnny Hooker’s partner Luther is killed by mob boss Lonnegan’s hitmen after Luther and Johnny unknowingly con a man delivering money to the mobster, Hooker enlists Gondorff’s (and others’) aid in his quest for revenge. But since Hooker admittedly “don’t know enough about killin’ to kill him,” the group settles on pulling off a long con with Lonnegan as the victim. This scheme to con another con man (of sorts) has its funny moments and is presented in a way that leads the viewer to root for Hooker, Gondorff, and company; but at the end of the film (spoiler alert!), there are still bodies to be accounted for, and more than a little blame can be placed on the film’s two “heroes,” Hooker and Gondorff. Like Ocean’s Eleven, therefore, The Sting comes off as a bit of a moral conundrum.

Executing the long con in formal wear.

For Me Then…

I think Ocean’s Eleven is extremely entertaining; and each time I see the film, I do find myself hoping that George Clooney—I mean, Danny Ocean—and his cohorts make the heartless Terry Benedict look ridiculous and leave him penniless. I was kind of feeling the same way with The Sting, except I couldn’t get those bodies off my mind. We viewers are supposed to feel that Hooker and Gondorff are morally superior to Lonnegan because they don’t resort to murder like he does to get what they want, but they still seem unfazed by the collateral damage that results from their scheming—scheming whose cause is just a good old thirst for revenge. Maybe running to the cops  for justice for Luther (which would also expose their own crimes) is hopeless since the police (namely, Lt. Snyder) are shown to be corrupt in this film. But essentially, corruption of authority or not, at the end of the film deceit is successful, revenge is glorious, and the fraternal goodwill that abounds among the conspirators doesn’t negate the fact that they will still be con men tomorrow and display no regrets about that. I mean, even Lost’s Sawyer, that ultimate con man, feels remorse when his cons succeed. So, lighthearted or not, what are we to take away from The Sting when its characters do not?