Category: Found-Again

This week I didn’t finish reading that book I take a look at 1983’s The Big Chill, a movie I’ve sarcastically described as “Costner’s finest,” because his character is dead when the movie starts. It’s a sentiment that downplays my love of Bull Durham, Tin Cup and Silverado, but nonetheless has a bit of truth to it: 20+ years after I saw Dances With Wolves*, it’s starting to look like I’ll never forgive.

Why Found-Again? I’ve seen this movie many times: I’d love to tell you that it’s because even as a youngster I was interested in relationship dynamics, but no, it’s because I thought Jeff Goldblum was hot a good 7 years before most of the American public did. I do think it’s interesting that when I see him in interviews now,  he seems to most strongly resemble his character in The Big Chill, though.

The Premise: Following the suicide of their troubled friend, a group of college pals spends a few days together wondering what the hell happened to him—and to them—in the years since graduation.

Then they all have sex, more or less.

There are still lots of reasons to like this movie other than  Goldblum as the avatar of—well, of later, more universally beloved Goldblum: the soundtrack is amazing, it’s a really strong cast, and the Sam character’s TV-show opening credits are an excellent parody of the ’80s detective shows that haunt this Friday feature of mine. And I wasn’t kidding about the relationship dynamics: I remember having to watch this four or five times to really grasp who’d been feuding with whom, who’d hooked up with whom, and how it all led them to where they were as fully fledged adults.

The Verdict: Mixed. It’s definitely not a rewatch-till-you-drop movie, but watching it now I feel more sympathy for the characters and more admiration for the way the movie flows in general.

Might go well with: Cleaning up after dinner, wine, an identity crisis.

Here’s the trailer for the DVD edition I have:

And here’s one of the older ones, in case you thought I was exaggerating about the later Goldblum emphasis:

*The pathetic thing is that I didn’t even pay to see it: my friend and I sneaked into the theater when Warlock proved too intense for me, the Squeam Queen. The nicest thing I can say about Dances With Wolves is that no one gets their eyes ripped out by Julian Sands, but make no mistake, that is a nice thing.

Next time: Thank god someone in Highlander knows how to investigate—no, of course it’s not Moran. Also, how to catch a movie character up on the plot in 15 seconds (approx.).

Why Found-Again? I recently visited home, and this is my mother’s favorite Hitchcock film, so it seemed like a natural choice. (It was also, according to the DVD’s special features, Alfred Hitchcock’s favorite.) After being unexpectedly bored stiff by Vertigo, I wondered if I should even bother revisiting this one, but I’m glad I did.

The Premise: A little tired of her suburban family, late-adolescent eldest daughter Charlie is thrilled to discover that her namesake uncle (played by Joseph Cotten) will be paying them a visit. But as you might expect, Uncle Charlie has one heck of a dark secret: he’s also known as the Merry-Widow Murderer. When Little Charlie begins to smell a rat, it’s a tense contest of wills.

It’s a good thing Mom likes this film, since I immediately recognized myself in the movie family’s middle child, the never-silent bookworm Ann. Everything about this movie is close to perfect, in fact: the characters are multifaceted, there’s plenty of humor and pathos along with the suspense, and it’s a great portrayal of relationships…of people with the world at large, within families, within towns.

The Verdict: Very good, and thank heavens: hating on a legend always makes me feel terrible.

Might go well with: Charade remake The Truth About Charlie. Also, it looked like they were having crème brûlée in one of the scenes; on the other hand, is there anything that doesn’t go well with?

(Warning: trailer telegraphs most of ending and is wildly spoiler-y with regard to Uncle Charlie. I almost recommend against watching it.)

Sorry for missing last week: I guess I’m about as good at keeping to my writing schedule while distracted as you people are at voting in blog polls.

Here we are, at the third of perhaps six live-action Disney movies that occupied my youth (I’m trying to decide whether to buy the fifth, and the sixth is The Misadventures of Merlin Jones, to which I am declaring the less well-known eternal No).

Why Found-Again? It’s probably hard to find an adult audience for this: Unlike The Moon-Spinners with its intrigue or Darby O’Gill with its grown-up problems, this is pretty definitely a child-focused movie. Thanks to my natural immaturity, however, I persevered.

The Premise: What if James Herriot had been a widower with no bedside manner whatsoever?

Widower/veterinarian/emotionally crippled person Andrew MacDhui * (the Secret Agent Man himself, Patrick McGoohan) has an already strained relationship with his young daughter when he kind of kills her cat. Fortunately, the titular feline Thomasina is more resilient than she looks, and she’s taken in by a woman rumored to be a witch (Susan Hampshire:  if you told me she was the prettiest woman on earth when this was filmed, I’d believe you).

I think the ideal audience for this movie was probably kids exactly like me: raised on James Herriot stories and not allowed to have a cat. (Fans of Egyptian myth will also enjoy Thomasina’s brief trip to kitty heaven.)

The Verdict: Can you doubt it? Right back down the rabbit hole for me. Sure, it’s Disney, but beneath that is a story about the problems we have relating to each other as humans and the role our relationships with animals can play in solving those. And if that’s too sappy for you, there’s a snooty cat in a bonnet.

On the other hand, I’m still not sure what to make of the plot point where it’s essential to save the life of a guide dog who wandered into traffic. I hope that village also has a good doctor.

Might go well with: Fish, the All Creatures Great and Small TV series.

*When I saw this movie at age 8, I loved learning how to spell this. It’s still fun to type, in fact. MacDhui MacDhui MacDhui.

Next time: Connor MacLeod + fun. Weird.

Why Found-Again? An usually good question! When I told my mother I’d added some Hitchcock to the ol’ Netflix queue, she said, “Ooooh. Vertigo. Have you seen it before?” and I had to admit I was stumped: the end of Mel Brooks’s Hitchcock parody High Anxiety borrows heavily from Vertigo, and so I wasn’t sure whether I’d seen the real deal or a cunning imitation that would fool a five-year-old. I’m still not, either.

The Premise: Ex-cop with a well-founded fear of heights Scottie Ferguson (James Stewart) is asked by an old friend to do a spot of surveillance. The subject? The friend’s wife, who is feared to be having a breakdown.

Is our hero being played as a pawn in a web of psychologically complex intrigue that will eventually involve tall buildings? Is this Hitchcock?

First, the good parts: Vertigo is a beautiful, beautiful movie, with gorgeous San Francisco scenery and costumes by Edith Head. It stars Kim Novak, the archetypical Hitchcock blonde, and features Barbara bel Geddes as an adorable artist who’s still sort of in love with Scottie. As someone whose youthful fear of heights once led to hyperventilating in a lighthouse, I expected to be sympathetic to the protagonist, if nothing else.

What I didn’t expect was to be slightly bored as our hero spends an awful lot of time 1) driving around while wearing a hat and 2) professing deep, passionate love for a woman he’s barely met. There are ways to pull this off—I may have mentioned I’m a fan of old-time radio, where plot contrivances aren’t exactly unfamiliar territory—but I don’t think it worked this time.

The Verdict: …Maybe? As someone whose favorite Hitchcock will probably always be an eternal tie between Charade and Rebecca, it’s possible I’m just not the audience for this one.

Might go well with: After the Thin Man, a good stiff drink like the ones all the characters have in abundance—even the artist with the tiny, crappy kitchen.

Next time: I’m so glad I’m not a relationship counselor. Related: is a book ever a bad gift?