Reeling Backward: "Goodbye, Mr. Chips" (1969)

I warmed to "Goodbye, Mr. Chips," but very slowly.

This was one of those situations where I went into a movie expecting something, and the film I saw delivered something very different. Shortly after Peter O'Toole's death I realized I had several notable omissions in my viewing of his filmography and decided to rectify that, starting with his Oscar-nominated performances. Only "The Ruling Class" remains unseen by me, and hopefully I'll get to it before long.

Anyway, James Hilton's novella has previously been adapted to film in 1939. The story of a meek, shy British schoolmaster who gradually comes out of his shell to become a beloved institution unto himself, it had notes similar to other teacher tales, like the underrated "Mr. Holland's Opus." To wit: the focus is on the relationship between the instructor and his pupils.

Alas, "Chips" is not overly concerned with life in the classroom, containing only two sections set there toward the beginning and the end, mostly to serve in juxtaposition as to how Arthur Chipping (O'Toole) is regarded by his young charges. Which is to say: unspeakably reviled in the former, and warmly embraced in the latter.

In truth, the 1969 film version is a romantic drama, and a musical one, at that. I confess I was not aware of the movie's tendency to break out into song until I started watching it and encountered O'Toole's low-key, amateurish warbling. It registers somewhere between Rex Harrison's talk-singing in "My Fair Lady" and Lee Marvin's deep-throated gurgling in "Paint Your Wagon" in terms of cadence.

Apparently, the 1960s was a time when filmmakers thought it was a great idea to cast actors who couldn't sing in musicals.

The songs in "Chips" are mostly forgettable, and mostly sung by Katherine Bridges (Petula Clark), the London stage soubrette -- in Broadway terms, the singing ingenue -- who becomes his unlikely wife. Clark was a famous recording artist at the time but not much of an actress; Richard Burton, who was originally to have played the role of Chipping, declined to appear with a "pop star," leaving the way open to O'Toole.

O'Toole's performance is a thing of wonderment. At first, his character is so off-putting and annoying, we can't stand watching him but for a short while. O'Toole affects an air of absolute mortification whenever he encounters behavior that is off-putting, which is essentially all the time. His first meeting with and courtship of Katherine is nearly grating, as we cannot possibly comprehend what she sees in this older, sad chap.

But she soon smooths out his rough edges, making him more passionate and agreeable. He stands up to his insular school's board of governors when he is passed over for promotion, something we cannot imagine the mouse-like Chipping doing beforehand. Katherine transforms him into a better man, and their relationship deepens with the passage of time, despite their lack of children.

(My understanding is she had a miscarriage in the film's original editing, but that was taken out. "Goodbye, Mr. Chips" exists in several iterations, from barely over two hours to nearly three hours running time. Many of the songs were removed during the various culling processes.)

Katherine dies during a WWII bombing while she's performing one of her old stage numbers for the troops, which leaves Chipping devastated, but in some ways still complete. He is able to engage with his boys in a manner that is instructive and clipped, yet nurturing rather than ostracizing.

One of the final scenes shows Chipping, now headmaster of the school, giving his farewell address to the boys in their massive meeting hall. He tries to be modest and downplay his tenure, but is swarmed with their support and adoration. It's practically a one-man masters class in acting, as O'Toole underplays beautifully.

I started out rather disliking this film, but near the end it almost had me in tears. This was director Herbert Ross' first effort in the chair, going on to make wonderful and/or famous pictures like "Steel Magnolias," "The Goodbye Girl," "Footloose" and  "Pennies From Heaven."

Video review: "Lawrence of Arabia: 50th Anniversary Edition"

“Nothing is written,” T.E. Lawrence famously says. But almost from the moment “Lawrence of Arabia” hit theaters in 1962, it seemed destined to become one of the most iconic films ever made.

It is by most reckonings the pinnacle of the epic movie-making impulse that surged in the 1950s and ‘60s – a grand, lush drama filled with exotic foreign trappings and a history-making tale to tell. It won a slew of awards, including the Best Picture Oscar, and deserved them all.

A restoration of director David Lean’s masterpiece was released in theaters in 1989 – one of the last films distributed in a 70mm print. Now, a new digital remastering from the original film negative has been completed for the movie’s 50th anniversary. After a brief theatrical run, it debuts in two Blu-ray collections.

The story is familiar to any serious film-lover: an oddball British lieutenant (Peter O’Toole) is plucked from obscurity during World War I to act as liaison to the disparate Arabic desert tribes, and ends up forging them into a united army that helps take down the Turkish Empire. As he becomes a famous and charismatic figure, Lawrence finds his sanity crumbling as his lust for power grows.

“Lawrence” has seen a number of video editions, but this represents its first time on Blu-ray. For comparison, I popped in my copy of the film from its 2001 DVD edition and then watched the same scenes on the new Blu-ray. The gap between the two was simply astonishing.

Of course, the image was much crisper and cleaner in the higher-resolution Blu-ray based on Sony’s 4K remastering. But what really struck me were the colors, which were dazzlingly vibrant in the new edition.
If you thought the golden sands and aching blue skies of the desert looked good before, you won’t believe how much they leap off the screen of the Blu-ray. When Lawrence first dons his white Arabic robes, it seemed like O’Toole was standing right before me.

Of course, it comes with a host of extra features – some seen before in previous editions, and some all-new. The highlight is a new graphic-in-picture track that allows the viewer to learn about the customs and rituals of the desert tribes. There is also a featurette featuring O’Toole looking back on the film, newsreel footage of its New York premiere, and more.

The 50th Anniversary Edition is available as either a two-disc version or the four-disc Gift Set. Opt for the latter, and you’ll receive several more featurettes, a never-before-seen deleted scene and conversations with Steven Spielberg and Martin Scorsese.

The Gift Set also comes with a handsome 88-page coffee table book, a CD of Maurice Jarre’s unforgettable musical score (including previously unreleased tracks) and an authentic 70mm film frame (newly printed and numbered).

“Lawrence of Arabia” has never looked so good.

Movie: 4 stars out of four
Extras: 4 stars

Reeling Backward: "The Stunt Man" (1980)

"The Stunt Man" was nominated for three Academy Awards, and deserved none of them.

Well, I will concede that Peter O'Toole has a memorable presence as an egomaniacal film director, who rides around in helicopters or on crane booms and appears, like a fourth-rate deity, to be everywhere at once. If he isn't exactly all-knowing about every move made by his cast and crew, he seems to have guessed at most of it.

But is this worthy of a Best Actor nod? I would conclude not, since it's not a particularly meaty role. O'Toole's Eli Cross shows up for a moment or two, speaks a few cryptic lines of dialogue, and then disappears. We never really learn much about him or what motivates him. He's not so much a character as a plot device. Not to mention, his role is really a supporting one.

Director Richard Rush and screenwriter Lawrence B. Marcus (who worked with Rush to adapt the script from Paul Brodeur's novel) also received Oscar nominations, the only ones of their otherwise un-noteworthy careers. (Rush would not make another movie for 14 years, and when he did it was the laughably bad sexual thriller "Color of Night," known universally as The Flick That Features Bruce Willis' Dick.)

It's pretty obvious that with "The Stunt Man" Rush and Marcus were trying to make some grand statement about ... well, that's where it gets a little fuzzy. About the emotionally traumatized veterans returning from Vietnam, certainly. About the vicissitudes and vagaries of movie-making in Hollywood, probably.

The plot is straightforward, but nonsensical. Cameron (Steve Railsback), a Vietnam vet on the run from the law, stumbles into a movie set where Eli Cross is shooting a war extravaganza that is supposed to be anti-war, but keeps missing expectations and is looking more like an action/adventure.

Cameron was involved in a car accident with a vintage Duesenberg careening off a bridge into the river, killing the production's head stuntman in the process. Eli realizes the fix Cameron is in, and also needing to conceal the death from the local head of police (Alex Rocco), who is constantly threatening to shut them down, casts Cameron to stand in for the stunt man.

Called alternately Burt (after the dead stunt man) or Lucky (for his death-defying antics), he falls for the leading lady, Nina Franklin (Barbara Hershey), and becomes increasingly convinced that the director is trying to kill him.

Eli's motivations for making Lucky his thrall are entirely unclear. Why would he cast a total novice in such an important role, knowing he could screw up at any time and lead to another accident? Eli delights in demonstrating to Lucky that his crew will do anything he tells them to, including pretending that he's the dead stunt man. If that's the case, then why wouldn't he just choose another one of his real stunt men to impersonate the fallen one?

The sequences where the movie-within-the-movie are being shot are massive action set-pieces that last up to 10 minutes, as Lucky falls through roofs, climbs towers, is shot at with (he hopes) blanks and other astonishing feats.

Rush makes the choice to present the film shoot as if it would actually play out this way, with one long continuous take. If one were to try to do that, it would involve hundreds of crew members and extras, dozens of cameras and a logistical challenge that would make the planning of D-Day look like roshambo.

In reality, Rush must've used dozens of set-ups to achieve this bit of fakery. Nowadays, when knowledge about filmmaking techniques is pretty common, this would seem ridiculous. I wonder if back in 1980 audiences were really ignorant enough to swallow this hoo-hah.

Railsback strains mightily to bring some semblance of continuity to his character, but he's fighting the script. One moment Lucky/Cameron is serene and charming, and the next he's angrily relating his brutal attack on a police officer, spitting out the words like they're poisonous to his mouth. A little later, he's laughing and canoodling with Nina.

Some critics, notably Pauline Kael, hailed "The Stunt Man" as a brilliant bit of subversive filmmaking. That's quite a leap without a net.

2 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "Murphy's War" (1971)

"Murphy's War" has the bones of a great movie, but forgot to add the flesh.

In general, I appreciate films that are understated and minimalist, especially when tackling big subjects like war and revenge. It makes the message more powerful when the filmmakers aren't underlining and highlighting it for the audience. But director Peter Yates and screenwriter Stirling Silliphant, working from the novel by Max Catto, construct a story so lacking in relatable characters that the movie seems to exist as pure allegory.

The film is most remembered now for being the most significant of only two onscreen pairings between Peter O'Toole and his then-wife, Siân Phillips (the other being "Goodbye, Mr. Chips"). Phillips is best known to my generation as the evil Reverend Mother in "Dune" and the TV miniseries "I, Claudius." She has a wonderful, sharp-featured face with large, expressive eyes and a slightly otherworldly quality -- think Angelina Jolie without the menace.

She plays Dr. Hayden, a Quaker doctor living in a remote Venezuelan coastal village in the waning days of World War II. O'Toole plays Murphy, an Irish merchant seaman whose ship was destroyed by a German submarine. After being rescued and patched up by Hayden, he vows revenge despite the fact he is only a mechanic, and armistice could be declared any minute.

It's a treatise about one man's obsession, and yet we never really feel like we get into Murphy's head. Why exactly does Murphy feel compelled to throw away his life trying to kill the Germans? The submariners machine-gunned his crew mates to death in the water in order that no signal about their location could be given, but this is hardly the worst war crime committed by the Nazi regime.

There's a suggestion that Murphy was something of an outcast on his ship, the Mount Kyle, evidenced by the fact that when a lieutenant washes ashore badly injured, he's distressed that the only other survivor is Murphy. Later, having heard the doctor broadcast about a survivor claiming to have seen a submarine, the Germans arrive at the village and shoot the lieutenant in his hospital bed, not realizing Hayden was talking about Murphy.

This is the point at which Murphy, who had seemed content to ride out the war in exile, determines to take out the submarine. He fixes up the lieutenant's crashed seaplane with the help of Louis (Philippe Noiret), the French custodian for a distant oil company. The last half of the film is taken up with Murphy's fixing the airplane, learning to fly it through trial and error, and a bombing run on the sub using some improvised Molotov cocktails. When this fails, he commanders Louis' barge and attempts to ram the U-boat.

Eventually, both Murphy and the submariners die when the hot-headed Irishman uses the barge's hoist to pick up a live torpedo the sub shot at him from where it beached itself, and drops it on top of the submerged vessel, which had run aground. The crane crashes onto Murphy, pinning him as both barge and sub sink into the waves.

Illogic reigns throughout this scenario. Let's start with the Germans. Why in the world would the Nazis order a submarine to Venezuelan waters as their regime crumbled, under orders of strict secrecy? And then have them hide out in a river? There's no possible strategic assets in that area requiring such measures, and the U-boat skipper (Horst Janson) carries out his orders reluctantly, as if he knows they are inhumane.

And even if it were somehow necessary, having the submarine appear off the coast of the village and the men coming ashore with machine guns is surely not the way to ensure such secrecy. Hayden had already broadcast Murphy's warning, so the cat was already out of the bag, so to speak. The doctor had scoffed at Murphy's claims of a submarine, so their appearance simply turned rumor into hard fact, with hundreds of witnesses.

The flying scenes are the highlight of the film, wonderfully shot and daringly maneuvered by the stunt pilots, though they too don't really stand up to scrutiny. The idea that a shot-up airplane could be restored to flight in  a couple of days strains credulity, but not nearly as much as the notion of a man who's never been a cockpit before being to able to a get plane into the air, let alone learn to maneuver it without instruction.

Beyond these logistical matters, though, is the pervasive sense that I never felt connected to any of the characters. They seem to exist with no backstory, no motivation or inner presence. Why would the murder of an officer he hated compel Murphy to take up his fanatical revenge? Why has the beautiful Hayden chosen a life of solitary celibacy? Why is Louis so malleable and passive?

"Murphy's War" not only never answers these questions, it never even asks them.

2 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "Zulu Dawn" (1979)

About a year and a half ago I wrote about "Zulu," a 1964 movie that marked Michael Caine's film debut, while noting that it wasn't the one I remembered seeing as a child. That was "Zulu," a 1979 film about a different battle in the same Anglo-Zulu War, so I thought it was about time I caught up with it to see how it jibed with my memory.

"Zulu Dawn" is in essence a prequel, portraying the historic Battle of Isandlwana in 1879, while "Zulu" is about the smaller Battle of Rorke's Drift, which took place a few hours later on the same day. If "Zulu" is a heroic tale about a small band of British soldiers repelling a horde of Zulus, then "Zulu Dawn" is a cautionary tale about a modern army being routed by a "primitive" army.

I was surprised by how much I remembered about the later film, and how much I didn't. The key sequence that stayed with my young mind was the unctuous quartermaster (Peter Vaughan) refusing to dole out ammunition without proper procedure, making the men stand in line for bullets even as the battle lines have exhausted their supply and are being massacred by the Zulu impis, or warriors.

For me it encapsulated everything about the downside of the military mindset, which often puts rules and regulations above the very lives of the soldiers.

I'd also had a pretty clear memory for the battle scenes, with a lot of running to and fro and impaling with spears. The violence is a lot more graphic than "Zulu," but still subdued enough to earn a PG rating from the MPAA.

The Zulus take heavy losses, but ultimately break the British lines and handed the English their first major defeat at the hands of a native army. The idea of warriors so freely sacrificing themselves to achieve victory seemed alien to me when I first saw it. In Western cinema and schools of thought, we are taught that the culture that embraces suicidal attacks is the inferior one, since they place less value on human life.

Many other things about the movie had escaped my recollection. I didn't remember that Burt Lancaster starred in the picture, playing the one-armed Col. Durnford -- well, he still had his left arm, but it was paralyzed and useless to him) -- a veteran cavalryman whose advice to the supremely confident commander, Lord Chelmsford (Peter O'Toole, whom I also didn't remember), is ignored, leading to catastrophe.

I had a vague notion of a gruff sergeant who commands his soldiers with an iron fist but also harbors deep affection for them, but back then had no idea who Bob Hoskins was. It was one of his early film roles, and I can't believe he didn't make a deeper impression. Perhaps it's because this sort of character seems to exist in virtually every war movie.

Likewise I didn't recognize Ronald Lacey as Norris Newman, a prominent British journalist who shadows Chelmsford and offers barely-concealed criticism of him, his motivations for starting this war and the way he is conducting it. Of course, it would be two more years before Lacey became cult-famous for playing the piggish Nazi villain Toht in "Raiders of the Lost Ark."

Like "Zulu," I was again impressed that the Zulu were not portrayed as savage brutes, but clever warriors. Indeed, it is the overriding historical opinion that Chelmsford and his commanders were completely out-strategized by their Zulu counterparts. Chelmsford even refused to entrench his camps by laagering his wagons, or encircling them into a defensive unit.

The two "Zulu" movies are tied together by the contributions of Cy Endfield, who co-wrote both movies and directed the first one. Alas, Douglas Hickox doesn't prove as skilled behind the camera in "Zulu Dawn," which comes across as a simple two-act play: Prelude to war, and the war. The former is concerned with a lot of British derring-do and priggish behavior. The latter is the real movie, battle scenes with a lot of kinetic energy but not as much emotional punch as they should have.

2.5 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "Becket" (1964)

"Becket" is a terrific example of the historical play or novel turned into a cinematic drama crackling with whip-smart dialogue. I imagine actors must go mad with delight when they read a script that has page after page of dialogue this good. This sort of film was very popular mid-century, though it's fallen out of favor with studios and audiences over the last 40 years.

Peter O'Toole is King Henry II of England, and Richard Burton is Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. It's based on a French play by Jean Anouilh, adapted for the screen in an Oscar-winning screenplay by Edward Anhalt, and directed by Peter Glenville, who also helmed the original stage version.

Despite a nearly three-hour run time, the plot is extraordinarily straightforward and simple. Henry is the power-mad king who wants to subjugate the mighty Church of England to his will. His greatest ally in this is his friend Thomas Becket, whom he appoints Chancellor to enforce the king's will in wresting property taxes from the church.

When one of the bishops points out that this has never been done before, Henry bellows, "I've never been this poor before!!"

This exchange is typical of O'Toole's performance, whose Henry has a slithery charm that can suddenly erupt into volcanic expulsions of blind fury. Henry is a boor who loves drinking, hunting and wenching more than ruling. But he's smart enough to recognize that Becket is smarter than himself, and all of his enemies.

In one scene Henry muses that Becket, if he were on the side of his opponents, would be just as ruthless and efficient in his political maneuvering. Becket concedes the point, saying that he takes pride in performing his duties, whatever they may, to the best of his capabilities.

This proves Henry's undoing, when the Archbishop dies and he picks Becket to be his successor -- despite not even being an ordained priest. As soon as the miter is upon his head and the silver cross in his hand, Becket becomes a thorn in the king's side, opposing him on a point of principle that will lead to the verge of the entire country of England being excommunicated.

Henry loves Becket, as perhaps he adores no other human being in his life, and it hurts him to the core that Becket chooses honor over their friendship.

As played by Burton, Becket is a self-aware man who is cognizant of his own limitations. As a Saxon who serves and befriends a Norman monarch, he is man apart with no home of his own. Henry's barons dismiss him as a "Saxon dog," and a young Saxon monk tries to assassinate him for betraying his people.

He believes himself incapable of loving or being loved, which is why he throws himself with such zeal into whatever endeavors are placed before him. When Henry takes Becket's mistress, Gwendolen, as his sexual plaything, the rift between them takes root. She stabs herself through the heart rather than be separated from Becket.

Glenville directs with an ostentatious hand, and his scenes inside the grand churches and castles occasionally drag on as he lingers too much over processions in ornate costumes passing before stunning sets. But mostly he lets these two amazing actors have free rein, and the results are often glorious.

The only downside of watching "Becket" is realizing how impossible it would be to get such a movie made today.

As is often the case with historical fiction, much of the actual record is muddied or altered.

For example, the central conceit of the film -- that Becket was a Saxon who became the king's confidante -- is false. All historical evidence indicates he was a Norman. Playwright Jean Anouilh were supposedly told of his massive inaccuracy before the play opened, but essentially shrugged his shoulders and decided he liked the story the way it was.

Also, the movie portrays the previous Archbishop, Theobald, as being appalled at Becket's appointment as chancellor. In point of fact, he was Becket's mentor and the one who recommended him to the king.

Interestingly, the roles of Becket and Henry were originally played by Laurence Olivier and Anthony Quinn onstage. But when it came time for the film, the producers decided they were too old. The younger, more handsome pair of Burton and O'Toole were brought in to pretty things up. In actuality, Olivier and Quinn were much closer to the actual ages of the real men in question.

O'Toole would go on to play Henry II again in 1968's "The Lion in Winter," set years later in his life when the aging king is beset by his ambitious sons. (Anthony Hopkins and Timothy Dalton, then whippersnappers, portrayed Richard the Lionheart and King Philip, respectively.) O'Toole received Oscar nominations for both turns as Henry -- part of his pool of eight nods without ever winning (though he did receive an honorary statuette).

3.5 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "My Favorite Year"

I'd somehow missed this sentimental 1982 comedy starring Peter O'Toole as a washed-up movie star trying to stay sober long enough to appear on a 1954 television show. It's nothing spectacular, but I'm still glad I caught up with it.

"My Favorite Year" was directed by Richard Benjamin (a well-known actor marking his first stint behind the camera) from a screenplay by Dennis Palumbo. But the real inspiration was the life of executive producer Mel Brooks, who got his break as a young writer on Sid Caeser's "Your Show of Shows." The film is a much-fictionalized version of an appearance by Errol Flynn on the show.

O'Toole plays Alan Swann, a swashbuckling star of the 1930s and '40s whose career is in the toilet. A drunkard with many ex-wives and a reputation for carousing, Swann doesn't take anything seriously.

But Benjy Stone (Mark Linn-Baker, best known as one-half of "Perfect Strangers"), the stand-in for Brooks, wants to see his idol appear on the variety comedy show of King Kaiser (Joseph Bologna). So he promises to keep Swann sober long enough for rehearsals and the show itself.

Back then, of course, shows were broadcast live, unbeknownst to Swann. Minutes before he's to appear, he learns this fact and has a nervous breakdown. In perhaps the movie's most memorable line, he roars at Benjy, "I'm not an actor, I'm a movie star!"

As written it's not that great a part, but O'Toole fleshes out the in-between spots, showing us the inner decay behind the physical one Swann so revels in. He has a 12-year-old daughter whom he rarely sees, and on a whim orders his limo driver to take her to her house in Connecticut. But he's too scared to even get out of the car, watching her riding her bicycle with longing. O'Toole earned an Oscar nomination for his turn.

There are a few other subplots and backstories going on. Benjy is infatuated with a young producer on his show, who seems very determined not to indulge him. But with a little Cyrano-like tutoring from Swann, he eventually wins her over.

Meanwhile, King Kaiser is facing threats from a mob boss who doesn't like a thinly-veiled caricature they've been doing on the show. Sets start getting held up for delivery, a heavy studio light nearly drops on King's head, and eventually some toughs arrive to beat some sense into him.

A completely unnecessary but thoroughly delightful detour occurs when Benjy takes Swann to his mother's apartment building in Brooklyn, which brings out a small army of colorful characters who want a glimpse at the big star. I liked the bit where Uncle Morty (the wonderful Lou Jacobi, who recently passed), after having just promised not to ask any personal questions, grills Swann about a recent paternity suit. "Did you shtupp her?"

"My Favorite Year" is not great movie-making. The characters are mostly caricatures, the humor is broad, and the set-ups seem very unlikely. But it's a sweet, amusing little film that's in love with old movies and old television.

2.5 stars