Tail Pop

by Mary Woods

Starring Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise, Rain Man opened 21 years ago this December. It made a lot of money and won a lot of awards, including the Academy Award for Best Picture. Dustin Hoffman also won Best Actor for his role as Raymond Babbitt, the autistic savant. Accolades and box office success notwithstanding, Rain Man is one of those movies that has seeped into my consciousness and sits in the back of my brain.

Rain Man was the first time I had seen a character with autism on film. I’d never seen one in person, either. In 1988, autism wasn’t on the cover of magazines or part of a national debate about the safety of vaccines. I didn’t know any families who struggled with it. Raymond’s quirks and rituals were foreign to me, and fascinating. I recall that zing of amazement when he counted the toothpicks on the café floor. Little did I know how intimately immersed I would become with the confounding mystery of autism, and how Charlie Babbitt’s journey would reflect my own.

This is initially a movie about limitations. Raymond’s limitations are obvious. His dis- order is evident in every ritual, every movement, every stilted interaction. His limitations land him in a mental institution at an early age and will keep him there. Even though typical film narratives are built on an arc of transformation, Raymond is doggedly consistent from the first frame to the last. The arc of change in this story belongs to Charlie, Tom Cruise’s character. Charlie’s limitations are just as crippling as his disabled brother’s. Charlie has a limited ability to love the people in his life, or to feel empathy. He is a miserable, driven workaholic whose business is imploding. His wealthy father dies, but leaves him nothing; Charlie’s anger and hurt simmer just below the surface. Charlie has no qualms about taking his newly discovered brother out of the mental institution and exploiting him for the money that he thinks he deserves, but that Raymond will never need or appreciate.

Charlie meets an immovable object in Raymond. The arrogant Trump-wannabe has to learn to listen and pay attention to the needs of others, no matter how irrational. He can’t fight Raymond’s intractable demand to watch People’s Court at 3:00 p.m. or have the maple syrup on the table before the pancakes arrive. Nor can he cure it. He just has to accept it. So ultimately, the movie is about acceptance. There are some things over which we are powerless––as Charlie learns––so we can just relax. The anger, frustration and that “less than” feeling diminish as Charlie lets Raymond just be…Raymond. I know the feeling.

Of course, I’ve buried the lead. In 2000, my third child, my beautiful two-year-old son Woody, was diagnosed with autism. Woody is not as high-functioning as Raymond; his speech is almost entirely echolalic, meaning that he repeats words and phrases he has heard elsewhere. The puzzle of Woody’s mind is even more labyrinthine because I have to piece together his ritualistic needs from observation and trial-and-error, not verbal cues. They have points of comparison, however. Raymond recited lines from Abbott & Costello’s “Who’s on First “ routine ad nauseum; Woody utters snippets from Ice Age. For Raymond, the repetition of his “Script” was a calming strategy. Woody has typed for us that he says things over and over to “practice talking.” Woody has no savant skills, like Raymond’s math wizardry, but he can use assistive technology to communicate by typing and is able to function at grade level in school. Raymond never had the advantage of an education, and was probably considered retarded. I now know that persons with autism have average or above-average intelligence, and I will never underestimate Woody’s cognitive abilities. His communication glitches and odd behaviors don’t mean there’s nothing going on upstairs.

When my husband and I first received Woody’s diagnosis, we were devastated. We sat down to watch Rain Man again, in a misguided effort to find out more about what we were dealing with. I soon started sobbing and couldn’t get through it. I wasn’t watching the story of two unlikely brothers, or the transformation of an arrogant, angry young man. All I saw was an actor pretending to have the devastating physical qualities I had tried to deny seeing in my little boy. I saw that society considered the institutionalization of a person with autism as a logical, even inevitable, outcome. All I saw was a bleak and hopeless future; I wasn’t seeing the movie at all.

Now I find that I have gone on a kind of wacky road trip with autism, just like Charlie Babbitt did. It’s often frustrating, annoying and difficult, but I’ve reached the level of acceptance that allows me to enjoy the ride. I love my boy for exactly who he is, with no limitations. Definitely.

by Giles Gordon

Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”  “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”  “Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me.”  “Get in the back of the van!”

The first three quotations above will be familiar to any movie fan.  The films they come from are a part of our collective consciousness.  The last quote may be less recognizable to many, but to a small and fiercely loyal fan base, it has equal power.  The line comes from the film Withnail and I, and is one of dozens joyfully burned into the memory of each and every one of its rabid devotees, of which I proudly count myself a member.

I first saw Withnail and I in my teens, at school in England in the middle of a roaring, rebellious adolescence.  A fan of such books as Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I immediately embraced this film’s seedy hedonism, as did my fellow schoolmates.  Withnail and Marwood’s marginal existence and wild behavior appealed to the rebel in me.  My friends and I would quote the film’s lunatic dialogue back and forth joyfully.  These lads were living on the edge, in that quintessential counter-establishment decade, the 1960s.  Everything about them––their boozing and chain smoking, Marwood’s dilapidated Jaguar MK2, even their suffering––struck a chord with me.

As time has passed, what now resonates with me is this film’s beautifully observed depiction of a friendship… They have lived with the carefree élan of youth, before jobs and wives and responsibility.  But as the film opens, it is clear that the party is over. The film examines how two men react to this sobering reality. 

So taken with these men was I that I scoured London’s flea markets and boot sales for a beat-up leather trench coat just like Marwood’s.  But as I have grown older, the film’s appeal has become more complex.   No doubt about it, this is a very funny film––and its comedy is what first drew me to it.  But it is more than just the string of lunatic comedic moments; it also examines themes of friendship and growing up that have appealed to me more and more as I have grown older myself.

Withnail and I opens in London in 1969.  It follows the lives of two unemployed young actors over a couple of weeks: Withnail, played by Richard E. Grant in a role that brought him early acclaim, and “I” (Marwood in the screenplay but not the credits), a pitch-perfect performance by Paul McGann.  The film was written and directed by Bruce Robinson, and the story was based to a large extent on an amalgam of experiences he had as a struggling actor in the late ‘60s.

Withnail and Marwood are living in the ruins of what once must have been a perfectly nice apartment, without heat to fend off the brutal cold of a London spring.  The neglected kitchen sink may or may not contain a malignant life form.  Various lowlifes drift in and out of the flat.  At this point, the boys are strung out on a combination of chemicals, and the physical and mental strain is beginning to take its toll.  As Marwood so eloquently puts it, “We are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell.”  They long for the opportunity to straighten themselves out but, unemployed and flat broke, they seem to be out of options.  Salvation comes in the form of a country cottage owned by Withnail’s rich and wildly eccentric Uncle Monty (played brilliantly by Richard Griffiths).  The two men flee London, and what follows is one of the great road movies in history.

As time has passed, what now resonates with me is this film’s beautifully observed depiction of a friendship.  Withnail and Marwood have clearly shared a great deal together, and undoubtedly the past times have been very good.  They have lived with the carefree élan of youth, before jobs and wives and responsibility.  But as Withnail and I opens, it is clear that the party is over.  The film examines how two men react to this sobering reality.  Marwood clearly loves Withnail, but he sees that things must change, and that he is growing apart from his old friend.  In spite of this devotion, he is determined to move forward.  Withnail, on the other hand, seems desperately to be holding on to the last scraps of the good old days.

For all the film’s depravity and abuse, and for all the misery that Withnail and Marwood endure, this film has the remarkable feeling of a cherished memoir.  Clearly, this is a time that Robinson looks back on fondly.  In reality, the man on whom Withnail is based never was able to move forward, and he died too young.  He was a man with a potential never realized.  But from a distance, Robinson has been able to distill his experiences into moments of pure comedy, tempered with a sweet melancholy.  The result is that rarest of films; it continues to surprise and delight me each time I see it.

by Sean William Menzies

Fantasy has had a rather schizophrenic time in Hollywood––one year being the worst possible genre to pour money into unless it’s going straight to video, the next year sweeping the Academy Awards with 11 Oscars. But one thing is certain: It will always find an audience.

This year marks the 70th anniversary of one of the greatest fantasy films, if not the greatest, ever made: MGM’s The Wizard of Oz. Based on L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1901), this musical film adaptation hardly needs any introduction––unless of course you’ve just landed here from some distant galaxy far beyond any reception of CBS’ perennial springtime broadcasts of the classic. With ruddy sepia tone, blazing Technicolor, outstanding music and songs, and a cast as legendary as the Roman names for the constellations, the film has somehow worked its way into American culture and affixed itself firmly as a cornerstone in the unbelievably odd temple of Hollywood.

There are reasons for this, I believe, other than that it is one of those perfect creations that emerged from the Dream Factory just before World War II altered our view of the world and ourselves. Baum wrote the single most important American mythology with his little book, and he knew it. The novel is a deliberate reflection of America at the turn of the 20th century––socially, economically and politically––and the interesting and possibly disturbing thing is, it’s still relevant.

Dorothy, of course, represents the children (the future). Her sense of Home has been violently displaced by a natural disaster, or the winds of change, and she just wants to get back to the security she once knew. Along the way she meets a Scarecrow (the so-called brainless farmer), a Tin Man (the heartless Industrial Revolution) and a Cowardly Lion (the pusillanimous judicial system–– although it could also mean the craven educational system, since stone lions are usually out- side of libraries––that was at the time too afraid to move towards advanced thinking rather than lag 1,300 years behind; only Baum knows for certain and he ain’t telling!).

Dorothy leads her new friends to the Emerald City, the center of government, for help. The city being green, like money, should be self-explanatory. Upon arrival, they are turned away and told it would take an Act of Congress to see the Wizard (we all know who that’s supposed to be). An act of compassion from a sensitive guard gets these four friends in to see the All-Powerful Oz (see, even then it was all about who you know). But they soon dis- cover that, rather than the amazing head of state he has been made out to be, he is merely a quivering entrepreneur from Omaha. Nice guy, but ultimately useless.

In the end, the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion all learn that what they sought was what they actually possessed all along: Brains, Heart and Courage, respectively. And even Dorothy realizes that Home is where you make it. In the book, it is her Silver Shoes (hard cash) that buy her a ticket back to Kansas. In the film, Dorothy’s shoes have been changed to Ruby Slippers, while her gingham dress is blue and white; she is literally wearing the colors of the American flag.

And what of the Wicked Witch of the West? Perhaps that unhappy creature represents the failure of parenthood or something. The poppies she conjures to drug Dorothy and her friends are clearly a reference to the opium problem at the time. Yes, she’s a pusher and in the book enslaves children to clean her castle (itself an ancient device in mythology going back to Hansel und Gretel, and beyond).

The Wizard of Oz proves that motion pictures are indeed the New Mythology and have been for a hundred years or so. Films do everything that prehistoric cave paintings did, only they move and have 5.1 Surround Sound. The audience members sit in their pews, all looking in the same direction, waiting for the wall before them to open up and to please, please tell them something about the human condition, something that will make them for- get, but remember; laugh, but cry; dream but not have nightmares; and feel as if we’ve always been here and always will.

Oz speaks across generations and, because the filmmakers understood and were respectful of their source, its meaning still resonates today, despite how much our world has changed in the past 70 years.

Then again, maybe it’s just the bright colors and catchy tunes.

By Bill Elias

In June 1948, I was ten years old, living in the then-small town of North Hollywood, California.  Summer vacation was just beginning and I was excited to escape from the confinement of school.  I loved my school-free summers.  I would go to the movies, play at the park, go swimming, collect soda pop bottles and pick apricots from trees on empty lots to sell for extra money.  Watching wrestling matches on our new 10-inch black-and-white television topped it all.  My summer was going great––and it was about to get better.

After dinner, one evening, Mom and Dad asked if I would like to work as a child extra in the new Bud Abbott and Lou Costello movie, Mexican Hayride, along with my 14-year-old brother, Bob.

My dad owned a magazine, candy and cigar store at Universal and I knew that he was a close friend of Costello’s.  In 1942, my dad’s stiff hip had become increasingly complicated by arthritis.  An operation was needed in order to save his leg, but the cost was $5,000––more than the cost of a three-bedroom house at the time.  Lou called the doctor and arranged the operation.  Not only did he pay for the operation and hospitalization, he shamed the studio into giving my mom a weekly check for ten weeks.

After each take, we were getting sicker and sicker-looking.  The crew, led by Lou Costello and the director, Charlie Barton, would laugh harder and harder each time he yelled, “Cut!” and “Run, kids!”  I think they did seven takes just for laughs.

So, even though I was around the studio, went to the studio picnics, attended the unforgettable children’s Christmas parties and, from time to time visited Costello’s home with my dad, I never thought that I would ever actually work in a movie and get paid $15.56 a day.  That was equal to collecting 778 soda pop bottles or selling 103 bags of apricots.  They made me an offer I could not refuse.

Mexican Hayride was adapted from the musical play by Herbert and Dorothy Fields and Cole Porter.  It played in New York City for 16 months from 1944 to 1945.  This was Abbott & Costello’s 23rd movie since 1940.  Costello plays Joe Bascom, aka Humphrey Fish.  Harry Lambert (Abbott) cons Joe into cheating friends in Iowa, and Joe follows him into Mexico to retrieve the money.

With two detectives on their trail, Joe enters the bullfight stadium and sits between our on-screen Mexican father and my brother Bob and me.  We are eating garlic and salami.  When we passed the salami and garlic by Joe to our father, Joe would get a whiff and look sick.  The salami was the worst and the garlic was in cloves.  Bob and I would have to run outside after every take to spit out what we didn’t swallow.  After each take, we were getting sicker and sicker-looking.  The crew, led by Costello and the director, Charlie Barton, would laugh harder and harder each time he yelled, “Cut!” and “Run, kids!”  I think they did seven takes just for laughs.

As the story progresses, Joe accidentally becomes the amigo Americano, a good will ambassador, and Harry, who is trying to hatch an elaborate silver mine scam, has Dagmar, a beautiful Mexican singer (Luba Malina, who was also in the play) slip Joe a special speech extolling Mexico’s abundant mineral resources.  Eventually, Dagmar and Harry relinquish the conned money and all is forgiven.  Joe and Harry, along with Dagmar, happily return to the States in a donkey cart.

On December 4, 1948, my brother and I went to Hollywood to see Mexican Hayride at the Pantages Theatre.  We were in the balcony, and as our scene was coming up, we couldn’t help but notice a heavyset lady wobbling down the aisle.  Just as our on-screen characters were passing the salami, she sat down, and at that precise second, the theatre shook––due to a 6.0 earthquake in Desert Hot Springs!  We laughed so hard I couldn’t finish my popcorn.  The mood was set for us to laugh throughout the entire movie.

My brother Bob quit working as a child extra after one movie because he was too big to pass as a child.  I continued to work in 24 Universal movies until I was 14.  I was an Arab, an Italian, a Mexican, an Indian and a Jewish refugee.  When I wasn’t working on a movie, I was at the studio every day after school and during summer vacations, working with my dad in his store and catering truck.  I loved every minute of it and I will always cherish the memories.
Mexican Hayride changed my life and introduced me to the movie business.  I was honored to work with a man I will always remember and love, and to whom I’ll always be grateful––my dad’s best friend and our family angel, Lou Costello.

by Stephen Semel, A.C.E.

In November of 1963 I was a 12-year-old, New York Times-reading, politically aware, four-eyed, chubby bookworm. I was in my seventh grade art class, my last class of the day, when the news came over the school’s PA that President Kennedy had been shot. As I rode home on the school bus, I remember my fear that Kennedy’s death would increase the election chances of Senator Barry Goldwater, the Republican front-runner for president, who had stated his willingness to use nuclear weapons pre-emptively against our Communist enemies.

I watched a whole lot of TV when I was a kid. In January of ‘64, in the midst of the gloom cast by Kennedy’s assassination, That Was the Week That Was, the first televised American half-hour political satire, premiered on NBC. Some of the great comic minds of the time were on TW3 every week, ridiculing our national political leaders. There was certainly plenty to satirize: the unbending militarism of the Right, the pro-segregation political establishments of the South and the North, the Johnson Administration’s specious logic behind our undeclared and widening war in Vietnam. Thus began my education in distrust and contempt for authority––an education deepened by Stanley Kubrick’s brilliant take on the men responsible for the defense of the United States.

In the spring of ’64 I had seen Pablo Ferro’s TV spots for Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. The ads featured flashed images from the film inter-cut to a countdown from ten to zero, simulating the effect of the countdown preceding a military test explosion. At zero, the ad cut to stock footage of a hydrogen bomb’s mushroom cloud. The film was promoted as a comedy about nuclear annihilation, an absolutely singular proposition at the height of the Cold War. I was fresh from my “duck and cover” drills in school, in which we were told that we’d be safe from the effects of a nuclear explosion if we hid under our school desks (we knew it was nonsense).

The War Room, the fictitious set in the basement of the White House, with its enormous circular table for generals and politicians, and its projected world map of the locations of the US Nuclear Force, was mesmerizing at that size.

Dr. Strangelove’s appeal to me was the prospect of laughing at all of the shrill militaristic nutjobs that I feared would come to power if Goldwater were elected president. They believed that deposing the governments of the Soviet Union and Communist China, by any means, including nuclear weapons, was a holy calling. They would start a nuclear war, and then the world would end. Or so I feared.

One Saturday, my dad and I saw Dr. Strangelove at our local drive-in. Usually packed on the weekend, it was nearly empty that evening. I guess a black comedy about nuclear war wasn’t a big draw for your average suburban drive-in patron.

Dr. Strangelove was a confirmation of my growing belief about adults in positions of authority. Many of the central characters in the film are ruled by their own unchecked and unexamined lust for power, to the detriment of everyone else on the planet.

The B-52 Squadron sent to nuke the USSR is commanded by General Jack D. Ripper (a chilling performance by Sterling Hayden), who believes that his sexual impotence has been caused by a Soviet plot to fluoridate our drinking water, and who is willing to launch a nuclear war as an act of vengeance.

Dr. Strangelove’s appeal to me was the prospect of laughing at all of the shrill militaristic nutjobs that I feared would come to power if Goldwater were elected president.

The Air Force General responsible for reporting Ripper’s scheme to the president, General Buck Turgidsen (George C. Scott), proposes a full-scale surprise nuclear assault on the USSR, in order to catch them with their pants down. The US casualties, according to Turgidsen? Twenty million, tops.

Dr. Strangelove, one of three characters played by Peter Sellers, had been recruited as a weapons advisor from the defeated Nazis. Strangelove shrugs off the impending nuclear winter. His proposal to preserve the human species is to populate a deep mineshaft with a small selection of powerful men and a large assortment of comely young women. After a century-long orgy, the descendants of the survivors would then re-emerge to the Earth’s surface, when the nuclear fallout reached its half-life.

The screen at the drive-in was huge. The War Room, the fictitious set in the basement of the White House, with its enormous circular table for generals and politicians, and its projected world map of the locations of the US Nuclear Force, was mesmerizing at that size. What a contrast between the power of that set and the foolish little bureaucrats who bickered with each other while the planet was destroyed!

The image still serves me well when I listen to the self-congratulatory speeches of public officials, given in inspirational settings––like on aircraft carrier decks. Mission accomplished? Just wait, there’ll be plenty more where that came from.