AT THE MOVIES . . .

Well, now that all of the hullabaloo of the Oscars is behind us, I can admit that the only Oscar-nominated film I managed to see in 2008 was The Dark Knight. We went to it as a family, my daughters—who had seen it previously (several times)—twisting my arm with the promise that it was “the best movie ever.” I don’t think so: I reserve that honor for The Sons of Katie Elder, starring John Wayne and Dean Martin, which I saw in an after-school weekday matinee—a real novelty—more than 40 years ago. I haven’t seen it since . . . but that’s how I remember it. (Actually, I mostly remember Dean Martin having buckshot tweezered out of his buttocks . . .) Anyway, I’ll admit that Heath Ledger’s performance as The Joker was truly a tour de force; but the rest of that Batman installment didn’t do a lot for me. Frankly, I still prefer the original TV-spin-off feature film of Batman starring Adam West and Burt Ward; in fact, I gave it to my daughters for Christmas on DVD . . . an act which only confirmed for them my utter lack of movie-viewing sophistication.

Well, in the meantime, I finally learned how to operate the DVR function on our cable box, and in the past few weeks I’ve been recording and re-viewing a number of classics—all of them from the 1970s—that my daughters may some day come to appreciate. First up was The French Connection—a genre-defining film, it seems to me. (I have to admit, though, that I borrow some of my authority on this matter from a chapter, tellingly titled “Grittiness,” in Good With Their Hands, a fine book written by my cross-town friend and former UMass Boston colleague, current Boston College professor Carlo Rotella.) From there it seemed natural to watch Shaft, the classic “blaxploitation” film—I loved it when I first saw it back in the 1970s, and I loved it again this time: it is what it is! Ditto for The Friends of Eddie Coyle: back when I was teenager, never imagining that I would live in the south-of-Boston world in which much of the action is set, I read the George V. Higgins novel that inspired the film. (Shortly before Higgins died in 1999, I met him and had him autograph my well-worn paperback copy of the novel.) As a former Assistant U.S. Attorney in Massachusetts, Higgins knew up-close-and-personal the Boston-area "criminal element" that he focuses on in Eddie Coyle: viewing the film after all these years (I first saw it on my little b/w TV when I first moved to Boston in 1984), I felt that it was truly a window onto that very local and very real underworld. Scary . . .

After those three “gritty” features, I took a break and watched Slap Shot, starring Paul Newman. I had tried to watch this film a few times previously, but had never quite gotten into it. This time I finally understood why, on surveys, a large majority of pro athletes—across the spectrum of sports—name Slap Shot as one of their all-time favorite films: it is highly entertaining . . . and it is physical, coarse, bawdy. Essentially, it captures “locker room mentality”—nothing wrong with that, is there? I have to admit that I really enjoyed it this time . . .

I also enjoyed Annie Hall, and I have Woody Allen and Diane Keaton cued up again, in Manhattan this time, in the queue of films I’ve recorded for viewing in the next little while. But I needed more grit in my diet, so after that diversion I made my day by tuning in to Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry. (Okay—“Make my day” is from Sudden Impact, the sequel-to-the-sequel [Magnum Force]-to-the sequel [The Enforcer] . . . which I will eventually add to the queue. . . .) I love Clint Eastwood films—including (or especially?) his early “spaghetti westerns.” I don’t love his conservative politics, though. Give me Paul Newman’s politics instead . . .

To be continued . . .