Remembering Peter O'Toole, Part III: Elder Statesman

Recognition at last

Parts One and Two

The '90s found Peter O'Toole working apace. He played the snide secretary to John Goodman's King Ralph (1991), chased fairies as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in Fairy Tale: A True Story (1997) and battled demonic worms in Phantoms (1998). He continued dabbling in television, being one of about 100 stars in the 1996 Gulliver's Travels miniseries, and adapted his stage triumph Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell. O'Toole always gave value for money, even when the roles were forgettable.

O'Toole established himself as a lovable raconteur. His two-volume memoir, Loitering With Intent, was warmly received. Through the '90s and early 2000s he gave several thoughtful interviews with Charlie Rose, expounding on his life and career. He also became familiar on the late night talk show circuit, where his eccentricity and ever-so-slightly tipsy demeanor dimly recalled the hellraiser of decades past. Who can forget his 1995 entrance on David Letterman atop a beer-drinking camel?

O'Toole never patched things up with Sian Phillips - in fact, the two reportedly never spoke after their divorce - and his relationship with girlfriend Karen Brown (producing a son, Lorcan) dissolved in similar acrimony. But O'Toole remained close to his children; daughter Kate, who followed Peter into acting, called O'Toole "a great dad and the best friend I ever had."

In 2003, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences offered O'Toole a Lifetime Achievement Award. O'Toole, a seven-time nominee, was initially disinclined to accept, saying that he'd "like to win the lovely bugger outright" after so many failures. But his children persuaded him to do so would be ungraciously. O'Toole reconsidered, giving a gracious acceptance speech to the body that finally saw fit to honor him.

O'Toole's 0-8 record as a nominee has drawn much comment. In 1962 he lost to Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird. No shame in this: a newcomer against an established star in an iconic role. In Becket, he split the vote with Richard Burton, allowing Rex Harrison to win for My Fair Lady. Less excusably, O'Toole's losses for The Lion in Winter (to Cliff Robertson in Charley) and Goodbye Mr. Chips (to John Wayne for True Grit) come down to Hollywood's practice of awarding actors "make-up" Oscars for unrecognized past performances.

Later turns were bested by Marlon Brando in The Godfather, Robert De Niro in Raging Bull and Ben Kingsley in Gandhi - heavyweights in arguably their best roles. Besides the competition, consider the films. The Ruling Class and The Stunt Man are off-the-wall cult flicks - it's surprising O'Toole even earned nominations. By contrast, My Favorite Year was a light-hearted comedy, a genre the Academy typically scorns. A mixture of studio politics and bad luck prevented O'Toole's success.

Competitive Oscar or no, O'Toole plugged gamely along. Most of his pictures were undistinguished, like the insipid Troy (2004) and forgettable Stardust (2007). Few except critics saw his amiable performance in 2005's Lassie. In 2006 he reteamed with Omar Sharif in One Night With the King, in which he played the Prophet Samuel - for about 30 seconds. Television gave him meatier roles in Augustus and Casanova.

O'Toole earned his last Oscar nomination for Venus (2006), playing an aged actor obsessed with Jodie Whittaker's callow teenager. Venus earned good reviews, yet I find it dry and slightly perverse - though O'Toole gives provides enough charm to justify watching. "It is not easy to define that special, paradoxical glamor Mr. O’Toole wears like a well-worn, perfectly tailored jacket," wrote A.O. Scott, "but whatever it is, he still has it." Many observers considered O'Toole the sentimental favorite that year, but Forrest Whittaker won for The Last King of Scotland instead.

On another plane, there's Pixar's Ratatouille (2007). O'Toole voices the vulture-like Anton Ego, a snobbish food critic brought down to earth by a simple stew prepared by a rat. He delivers a beautiful monologue contemplating the place of criticism and its need to champion the original, the brave, the unexpected rather than mere snark (Groggy, take note). Many felt O'Toole deserved an Oscar nomination; if there was ever an argument for the Academy awarding voice actors, Anton Ego is it.

In 2008 O'Toole landed a plum role on Showtime's The Tudors, playing Pope Paul III. Larded with sex, violence and historical absurdity, but buttressed by (mostly) good acting and impressive pageantry, Michael Hirst's Henrican soap opera is a textbook guilty pleasure. But there's no guilt enjoying O'Toole's gleefully wicked turn as a Holy Mob boss. As a spidery hypocrite, winkingly aware of his own treachery, Paul makes a mark with little screen time.

O'Toole closed out the decade with Dean Spanley (2009). Based on Lord Dunsany's 1939 novel, it's the whimsical tale of a bored Edwardian Englishman (Jeremy Northam) who becomes enchanted by an eccentric priest (Sam Neill) who envisions his past life as a dog. O'Toole plays Northam's father, eccentric and emotionally constipated, unable to show affection towards. Yet his visits with the priest reawaken O'Toole's dormant emotions, especially towards his older son, lost in the Boer War. O'Toole handles this development with beautiful subtlety, leading to a heartrending denouement.

In 2012 O'Toole retired from acting, shortly after completing work on Katherine of Alexandria. "The heart for it has gone out of me: it won’t come back," he informed fans. "It’s my belief that one should decide for oneself when it is time to end one’s stay." Having suffered a long illness, O'Toole finally met his sad, though not entirely unexpected end last Saturday.
 

Lions in winter: O'Toole with Vanessa Redgrave in Venus

"The common denominator of all my friends is that they're dead," O'Toole once observed. Indeed, O'Toole outlasted most of his contemporaries. Richard Burton is long gone; Oliver Reed, Richard Harris and Alan Bates departed a decade ago. Of O'Toole's generation, only a handful still live, let alone work: Michael Caine, Albert Finney, Vanessa Redgrave, Maggie Smith.

Consider how O'Toole compares to these peers. Richard Burton is typically remembered for squandering his formidable talents on booze, bad movies and Elizabeth Taylor. Mention Oliver Reed and you conjure drunken TV appearances and public nudity, not the gifted star of The Three Musketeers and Women in Love. Bates, Caine, Finney, Harris and Redgrave retain respect, but few would name them all-time greats (Smith perhaps being an exception).

O'Toole, in contrast, receives reverential status. He's known for carousing yes, but it never eclipsed his work. "The remarkable thing," David Thomsen once wrote, "is [O'Toole] has outlived some in this group in ways no one would have predicted. He was picked early on as someone who would destroy himself, not just by drinking but because of his whole attitude and manner." Close as O'Toole came in the '70s, his subsequent recovery cemented his status as a legend.

 How many contemporary stars did O'Toole inspire to pursue acting? Tom Cruise once told USA Today that "I remember seeing Lawrence of Arabia... and I knew I wanted to be an actor." Keanu Reeves said that The Ruling Class and Becket "had a great impact on me...I love [O'Toole's] game and vitality." Tom Hiddleston developed Loki for Thor by watching The Lion in Winter. "What's beautiful about his performance is you see how damaged he is... It's almost as if he's living with a layer of skin peeled away," Hiddleston remarked.

More simply, O'Toole's body of work speaks for itself. "If you wanted to be a proper actor... you have to have versatility," he once observed. T.E. Lawrence, Lord Jim, Jack, Lord Gurney, Henry II, Alan Swann, Reginald Johnson, Eli Cross, Maurice and yes, Anton Ego could attest to that.

Rest in peace, Peter O'Toole. You are missed.

Remembering Peter O'Toole, Part II: Decline and Renewal

Mad, bad and dangerous to know

Part One

The 1970s saw Peter O'Toole's career unraveling. Now one of the world's biggest stars, O'Toole could choose his parts - yet his film roles, at least, were generally forgettable and unrewarding. During this time, he became better known as a raucous hell raiser than an actor.

The decade started, at least, on a high note with Peter Medak's The Ruling Class (1972). Peter Barnes' surreal play ruthlessly satirizes Britain's political establishment. O'Toole plays Jack, 14th Earl of Gurney, who succeeds after his father dies in an embarrassing accident. Jack is a schizophrenic who thinks he's Jesus Christ, and his relatives scheme to either cure or disinherit him. They succeed all too well: Jack goes from a loopy, loving Christ figure to a very proper English aristocrat indeed - Jack the Ripper.

O'Toole had seen Barnes' play during its 1968 stage run and quickly bought the film rights. Director Peter Medak badly wanted to adapt it, but O'Toole needed some persuading. By Medak's account, he won the star over by joining him on an epic pub crawl through London. O'Toole showed his devotion to the project by forfeiting his entire salary, choosing instead an oversized paycheck for Man of La Mancha.

The Ruling Class rivals Lawrence as O'Toole's best performance. Barnes' surreal set pieces force O'Toole to give an exceedingly physical performance: belting out Verdi, dancing a cakewalk, hopping on and off a makeshift crucifix, "levitating" a bench. O'Toole does even better burbling absurd aphorisms, as when he declares his love for Grace Shelley "from the bottom of my soul to the tip of my penis." There's no room for subtlety here; O'Toole devours scenery in a hammy, outsized, almost operatic performance. And it's utterly glorious.

O'Toole flawlessly transitions to psychotic killer in the second half. Defeated by the "Electric Christ" and browbeaten by his peers, he takes their perorations about greed, hunting and sexual licentiousness to their illogical conclusion. Jack's rants about capital punishment and fornication strike listeners as very sound indeed - though to us, he's ranting just as he'd done before, psychoses welling up from an inner pool of madness. O'Toole walks a careful tightrope in these scenes between absurd caricature and bone-chilling psychopath. And sometimes he's both at once.

Sadly, The Ruling Class marks a bright spot in a dismal period. Murphy's War (1971) is another trip to the Lawrence/Lord Jim obsessed hero well, and not a particularly rewarding one. Man of La Mancha (1972) was a colossal flop, proving O'Toole out of his depth in musicals. Even diehard fans are better off forgetting Rosebud (1975) and the notorious Caligula (1979). ("What is a knight of the realm doing in a porno movie?" he asked John Gielgud.) Even a rare worthwhile role, like his fine Lord Chelmsford in Zulu Dawn (1979), drew little attention.

Besides The Ruling Class, O'Toole's best role from this period is Clive Donner's made-for-TV Rogue Male (1976). Based on Geoffrey Householder's 1939 novel (which earlier inspired Fritz Lang's Man Hunt), O'Toole plays an English aristocrat obsessed with assassinating Adolf Hitler - dovetailing nicely with O'Toole's own fascination with the Nazi dictator. Not that many have seen it: Rogue Male spent years languishing in obscurity, remaining hard to see even today.

O'Toole gained more notoriety for uncouth off-screen behavior: marathon benders, showing up drunk on sets, sniping at costars and directors. One notorious incident occurred during the filming of Rosebud. As a prank, Kenneth Tynan sent O'Toole a letter claiming the IRA planned to blow up his hotel. Tynan's joke was in decidedly bad taste, which doesn't excuse his victim's reaction. O'Toole tracked Tynan down and, along with two toughs, beat the critic within an inch of his life.

Such antics brought more than bad publicity. O'Toole discovered that he suffered from diabetes and stomach cancer, losing his pancreas and part of his stomach. In 1979, his marriage to Sian Phillips dissolved in considerable acrimony and mutual infidelity. And an increasing number of producers, viewing O'Toole as an unstable drunk and "box office poison," refused to employ him. Robert Sellers notes that by the late '70s "O'Toole was fast becoming a parody of himself: a caricature faded film star."

Nadir: O'Toole in Caligula

At this point, O'Toole could have followed peers Richard Burton and Oliver Reed into ignominy, accepting roles in awful films for money. But O'Toole successfully reinvented himself. Restricted by health if nothing else, he restricted his drinking to discreet tippling rather than roaring benders. His booze-ravaged voice, once a melodic lilt, settled into a sumptuous velvet growl. Best of all, O'Toole again started receiving roles worthy of his talent.

Richard Rush gave O'Toole his fifth Oscar nomination with the The Stunt Man (1980). Rush lobbied for O'Toole to play director Eli Ross, even when the studio insisted on a more bankable star. "The character of the director was of course one that I immediately projected onto...and I desperately wanted O'Toole to play it," Rush said later. O'Toole needed little convincing; he'd enjoyed Rush's Freebie and the Bean (1974) and was eager to work with him. After reading the script, O'Toole reportedly told Rush "Unless you let me do your film, I will kill you."

O'Toole's Eli Cross amalgamates every obsessed director O'Toole ever worked with, David Lean particularly. He torments Steve Railsback's fugitive-turned-stuntman with megalomaniac rants ("If God could do the things we do, he'd be a happy man!") and murderous stunts. Completely obsessed by his work, Cross views harboring a fugitive as a minor inconvenience if it helps finish his film. He surveys the set from a camera crane, an enigmatic creator comfortable in his absolute power of imagination. And pity the lowly assistant who tampers in his domain...

My Favorite Year (1982) proves an even better showcase. Compared to Stunt Man's acid satire it's a gentle, bathetic work, longing for the magic that only movies can bring. Richard Benjamin's film focuses on a '50s TV show modeled on Sid Caesar's Your Show of Shows. O'Toole plays washed-up matinee idol Alan Swann, ostensibly based on Errol Flynn, but drawing heavily on O'Toole himself. It's hard to avoid autobiographical assumptions when Benjamin uses clips from Lord Jim and The Great Catherine as Swann's own vehicles.

Alan Swann became O'Toole's signature role as much as Lawrence or Henry II. Compared to Jack and Eli Cross he's more straightforwardly comic. O'Toole has great fun whether boozing in a hotel room, lashing out at producers or ferrying Mark Linn-Baker's frazzled young producer around New York. He gets big laughs showing off something that's "for ladies only" and his frantic breakdown before the final show. "I'm not an actor - I'm a movie star!" he bellows in the movie's most famous scene.

As in Lawrence, O'Toole matches flamboyance with measured gestures. One beautiful scene has Swann mournfully watching his daughter play; his wordless stare speaks volumes. Regret and self-loathing underpin the silly hijinks. Swann's screen image is a lie he can't escape - he's trapped by an idea of being a hero, even as he makes no pretense as such. Hence his pained reaction to Linn-Baker's last act scorn, or his gallant dance with an aged fan. Hence, also, his decision to go on with the show, routing the goons menacing Joseph Bologna's show boss. Year closes on the perfect image of Swann celebrating his victory: fantasy made flesh, if only for one glorious moment.

O'Toole complemented these cinematic triumphs with stage and small screen roles. He won accolades as a Roman General in ABC's miniseries Masada and voiced Sherlock Holmes in a popular animated series. While his 1980 Macbeth earned negative notices (one critic sniffed "he delivers every line...as if addressing an audience of deaf Eskimos"), O'Toole successfully reprised his role as Tanner in Man and Superman and made a superb Henry Higgins in a 1987 Pygmalion. In 1989 he starred in Keith Waterhouse's Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell, playing a famous Spectator columnist. It became O'Toole's best stage role since Shylock: he'd reprise it in 1999 and star in a made-for-TV version.

Another standout role from this period is Bernardo Bertolucci's The Last Emperor (1987). O'Toole's role is relatively minor: as Pu Yi's tutor Reginald Johnson, he tries to inject perspective and sanity into the monarch's sheltered life. It marks a graceful transition from star to character actor, able to contribute to films without dominating it. This quiet but powerful performance helped establish O'Toole as an elder statesman of cinema.

O'Toole, once a tyro who often feuded incessantly with fellow actors, had evidently mellowed with age. Richard Rush declared O'Toole "an absolute dream to work with. You couldn't ask for a more perfect working companion." Young actors especially warmed to O'Toole. Vincent Spano, O'Toole's costar in Creator (1985), recounts that O'Toole would spend hours tell[ing him] all these great stories about his childhood, growing up in Ireland."

By the end of the '80s, O'Toole recouped his reputation as one of the greatest working actors. Lawrence of Arabia's 1989 restoration and re-release further cemented his critical standing. Now O'Toole could look forward to his autumn years with hope rather than trepidation.

Continue to Part Three

Remembering Peter O'Toole

"He was the most extraordinary man I ever knew."

It's been five days since my favorite actor died. I'm still speechless, really. How can you measure a man who achieved so much, left such a lasting impression?

What follows is my stab at appreciating Peter O'Toole's life and work - detailed but not comprehensive, admiring but not uncritical. Ordinarily I'd try a more creative or succinct approach, but such thoughts desert me. At any rate, an actor with such a rich and varied career deserves it more than most.

* * *

Peter O'Toole was born in 1932 to an Irish bookmaker and nurse mother. Surviving youthful poverty, Catholic school and Royal Navy service, he dabbled in journalism before drifting into theater. In 1953 he graduated from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, Albert Finney and Alan Bates among his classmates. It was "the most remarkable class the academy ever had, though... we were all considered dotty," O'Toole said. Another peer was Welsh actress Sian Phillips, whom O'Toole married in 1959.

In early roles, O'Toole mixed Shakespeare and Shaw with modern characters like Jimmy Porter in John Osborne's Look Back in Anger (1957) and Bammo in Willis Hall's The Long, the Short and the Tall (1959). Kenneth Tynan, arbiter of English theater, proclaimed O'Toole a budding star: "To convey violence beneath banter, and a soured, embarrassed goodness beneath both, is not the simplest task for a young player, yet Mr. O’Toole achieved it without sweating a drop.” Others compared to him to Laurence Olivier. Playing Hamlet at the Old Vic in 1958, aged just 26, reinforced the comparison.

O'Toole reached an early pinnacle in 1960 when Peter Hall invited him to the Royal Shakespeare Company. During that time, O'Toole played Pertruchio in The Taming of the Shrew opposite Peggy Ashcroft, Thersites in Troilus and Cressida and Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. O'Toole won rave notices for the last role, making Shylock not a monstrous caricature but “a human being of stature driven to breaking point by the inhumanity of others." Perhaps inevitably, O'Toole became drawn to the cinema.

O'Toole with Peggy Ashcroft in The Taming of the Shrew.

O'Toole's film career began, abortively, with a screen test for Suddenly Last Summer. O'Toole engaged in insouciant improvisation throughout, infuriating producer Sam Spiegel. He started with minor roles in unremarkable films like Kidnapped and The Savage Innocents. In 1960 he appeared in John Guillermin's The Day They Robbed the Bank of England, playing an affable English soldier opposite Aldo Ray's Irish bank robber. O'Toole's easy, off-hand charm caught David Lean's attention.

Then preparing Lawrence of Arabia, Lean needed an actor to play T.E. Lawrence after Marlon Brando and Albert Finney declined the role. Lean saw Robbed and, after speaking with Katharine Hepburn, approached O'Toole. After a hastily-arranged screen test, Lean reportedly exclaimed "The boy is Lawrence!" Sam Spiegel, remembering his past encounter with O'Toole, told Lean "he's no good." But lacking alternatives, Spiegel bought O'Toole out of his RSC contract and a film star was born.

O'Toole spent two nightmarish years filming Lawrence. O'Toole had to film in the deserts of Jordan, Spain and Morocco, learn to ride a camel and tolerate Lean's demanding direction.  He struggled to control his drinking: Alec Guinness recounted that O'Toole became drunk in Seville and threw a drink in the face of a local dignitary. Filming a battle scene, he fell off his camel and was nearly trampled to death. "By the time Lawrence wrapped," Robert Sellers writes, O'Toole "received third degree burns, sprained both ankles, torn ligaments... dislocated his spine, broken his thumb, sprained his neck and been concussed twice."

O'Toole was also daunted working opposite so many seasoned actors. Years later, he likened the experience to "a bull fight...every few minutes they opened the trap and out popped another bull: [Jack] Hawkins...[Claude] Rains...[Alec] Guinness...[Jose] Ferrer...[Anthony] Quinn...[Arthur] Kennedy...[Anthony] Quayle." He nonetheless bonded with Omar Sharif, whom he nicknamed "Fred" on the grounds that "no one in the world is called Omar Sharif." The two spent off-hours partying in Beirut, forging a lifelong friendship.

By any measure, O'Toole's is a remarkable performance - especially for a young, relatively untried actor. As conceived by Robert Bolt and Michael Wilson, Lawrence is a multifaceted character mixing contradictory images and impulses: boyish insouciance and cynicism, megalomania and tortured introspection, wild flamboyance and insular brooding. One slight misstep could render him schizophrenic or incomprehensible. O'Toole shows an uncanny mastery of the part, hitting all the right notes.

For Lawrence's first scene in Arab costume, Lean advised O'Toole to improvise his reaction. O'Toole drew his dagger, pondering his reflection in its blade. This small moment reveals so much about Lawrence's character: his vanity, conscious role-playing, childish disbelief that he's become a real-life G.A. Henty hero. Lean echoed this moment in the final massacre scene, as Lawrence ponders the now-blood-soaked blade, horrified at what he's become. It's a small but telling moment that registers almost subliminally. 

O'Toole's genius registers in a hundred similar moments. His boyish glee as the Arabs depart for Aqaba. The quavering tone of voice as he describes how he "enjoyed" executing Gassim. His mincing, effeminate walk when approaching British officers in Jerusalem. His orgasmic trembling as Lawrence ponders unleashing the final massacre. His vacant glare through the final scenes, watching his allies dissolve into chaos. True, Bolt wrote great dialogue, Lean and his technicians crafted visual cues of Lawrence's dissolution. But all that would make no difference if O'Toole was less than perfect.

O'Toole won critical acclaim, his first Oscar nomination (losing to Gregory Peck for To Kill a Mockingbird) and became an overnight superstar. He also gained his reputation as an intellectual hellraiser, witty, sexy, smart as a whip but rowdy and uncontrollable. He turned up drunk for television interviews, and was arrested in New York with Sharif and comedian Lenny Bruce. This proved a curtain raiser for a career of hell-raising, O'Toole matching drinks with Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Oliver Reed and others.

Becket (1963) showed Lawrence wasn't a fluke. O'Toole had originally been asked to star in Jean Anouilh's play onstage, but backed out due to Lawrence. Peter Glenville gave the newly minted a star chance to play Henry II onscreen. O'Toole admitted he was much more comfortable here, acting alongside his friend Richard Burton, wife Sian Phillips and mentors Donald Wolfit and Felix Aylmer. Easy work compared to Lawrence's endurance test, and more fun too.

Becket is not only a "stagier" movie (as a play adaptation, how could it not be?) but a stagier performance by O'Toole. He indulges in rampant scenery-chewing, with little of Lawrence's tortured introspection. This isn't a criticism, as Henry is an outsized character requiring a theatrical performance. O'Toole's fun to watch as a childish king giddy in his absolute power, but Burton gets the more complex part - and gives the more satisfying performance.

If Lawrence and Becket established O'Toole as a formidable actor, What's New Pussycat (1965) and How to Steal a Million (1966) gave him a more audience-friendly pop image. He's no longer a distant historical personage but a hip, swinging sex symbol. I'm especially fond of Million, a cheerful, witty caper pairing O'Toole with the adorable Audrey Hepburn. Neither marks O'Toole's best work, but as breezy star vehicles they hold up well.

O'Toole returned regularly to the stage. In 1963 he played Hamlet again, directed by Laurence Olivier at the National Theatre. O'Toole found the part overwhelming: "If you want to know what it's like to be lonely... try playing Hamlet." Reviews were split between critics who found him brilliant ("A magnificent prince." - R.B. Marriott) and execrable ("The Prince's blondness and his curiously comic trousers are disconcerting." - The Times). A production of Bertolt Brecht's Baal proved an unmitigated disaster. O'Toole had a happier experience in Irish theater, performing successfully in Man and Superman, Juno and the Paycock and Waiting for Godot.

Not every O'Toole role from this period is a gem. Lord Jim (1965) is an unfocused mess, with O'Toole's intense but rudderless performance playing a major role in its dissolution. (It doesn't help that, as Pauline Kael observed, "he already played Lord Jim when he did Lawrence of Arabia.") He fares better in the bloated The Night of the Generals (1967), investing a murderous SS General with palpable menace. His cameos in The Bible (1966) and Casino Royale (1967) accrue him little credit. And The Great Catherine (1968) is known, if at all, for turning up in My Favorite Year.

O'Toole capped a busy decade with two further Oscar nominations. Goodbye Mr. Chips (1969) is his least deserving nomination: O'Toole does well in an uncharacteristically reserved performance, but the movie itself is overlong and dull. That leaves Anthony Harvey's The Lion in Winter (1968).

O'Toole often cited Lion as his favorite film. It gave him a chance to work opposite Katharine Hepburn, a friend since his theater days. The chance to reprise Henry II, older and wearier if not necessarily wiser, was an added incentive. Even if he hadn't played Henry previously, it's a role that unquestionably plays to his strengths. He's larger-than-life yet thoughtful, a great man forced to confront his unglamorous legacy.

I don't share the general enthusiasm for Lion, despite several viewings and reading the play. James Goldman's overripe dialogue eventually overwhelms the story. For every clever witticism, there's a gilded clunker of a line ("You're a stinker and you stink!") or annoying anachronism ("It's 1183 and we're barbarians!") After a well-crafted first hour, the show descends into convoluted chaos, events piling up rather than building on each other, characters losing drive or motivation.

O'Toole is unquestionably the best thing about Lion. He retains a pretense of virility with swordplay and womanizing, but it's evident that Henry's running on will and reputation. O'Toole excels showing the King's haughty exterior; he's grown smart (or cynical) enough to outwit most everybody, intimidating through reputation alone. But Henry deflates over the story, increasingly feeble in his denunciations, tormented by Eleanor's proclamations of infidelity and constant filial backstabbing. His ultimate failure is that, for all he's achieved, England will either fall to an unfit ruler or dissolve into chaos at his death. No wonder he and Eleanor want to live forever.

And so we leave Peter O'Toole at the pinnacle of his career: four Oscar nominations in eight years, an impressive filmography and respectable body of stage work. Parts Two and Three are already mostly written, for those with the patience to endure a series of posts.

Continue to Parts Two and Three

Joseph Stalin on Film: Red Monarch and Stalin (1992)

Hollywood releases seemingly hundreds of Nazi-themed dramas annually, yet serious treatments of the USSR remain scarce. During Hollywood's Red-baiting heyday, most anti-Communist films focused on espionage (The Kremlin Letter) or internal subversion (Big Jim McLain). Reagan-era flicks like Red Dawn and Firefox reduce Russians to shooting gallery targets. Even historical dramas marginalize the Bolsheviks: Nicholas and Alexandra makes Lenin a bit player in the Romanov tragedy, while Reds focuses mainly on American leftists caught in the Revolution.

Consider Joseph Stalin. Few leaders aside from Adolf Hitler inspire such universal hatred, yet outside of Russia he's received little cinematic attention. This may come from the lingering perception, perpetrated by rivals Trotsky and Bukharin, that he was an uncouth dimwit who achieved power through animal cunning. This characterization is unfair: an evil visionary is still a visionary. Stalin catapulted Russia from feudal state to modern superpower, while causing anywhere from 10-20 million deaths.

Undoubtedly so long as the USSR existed, key historical records remained unavailable to Western filmmakers. Yet the Cold War's end hasn't significantly increased the output of Soviet dramas. There's no Bolshevik Downfall dissecting Stalin's leadership, no Schindler's List treatment of the Holdomor. One exception is the Polish film Katyn (2007), depicting a wartime atrocity covered up by Stalin's Western allies. Peter Weir's The Way Back (2010) starts in a Siberian gulag but focuses on its protagonists' escape across Asia.

Alternately, some blame this on Hollywood's supposed affinity for Communism, as if the Hollywood Ten remains on the loose. Inasmuch as even the Politburo disowned Stalin 57 years ago, it's an unconvincing argument. More likely, Stalin films are a hard sell to audiences apathetic towards foreign history and radical politics. It's easy to label Marxism evil, harder to examine how a Communist state actually functions. After all, few Nazi films espouse a message deeper than "genocide is bad."

Aside from Manart Kippen's laughably benevolent Stalin in Mission to Moscow (1943) and the Russo-American The Inner Circle (1991), the most notable Western depictions of Stalin are made-for-television efforts. Neither Red Monarch or Stalin flatters its subject, but their approaches differ drastically.

Red Monarch (1983, Jack Gold)

"Why is the sky blue and what are lesbians for?"

Britain's Film4 produced our first picture, a scabrous satire of state socialism. Drawing on KGB defector Yuri Krotkov's novel, Red Monarch takes the bold step of making an historical monster monstrously funny.  

Focusing on Stalin's final years, Red Monarch becomes a portrait in absolute power. Stalin (Colin Blakely) micromanages the USSR down to miniscule details. At one point, he ponders executing Minister Molotov (Nigel Stock) after the Soviet basketball team loses to France! He releases rival Sergo (David Kelly) from a gulag, seemingly just to confide in him horrible secrets. When Sergo refuses to believe Stalin's confession, the dictator threatens to imprison him again! Like a feudal monarch, Stalin treats mass murder as a lark.

Faced with such a capricious leader, only the slimiest survive. Lavrenity Beria (David Suchet) alternates between groveling toady ("Do what you like me with me, I know nothing!"), backstabbing plotter and ceaseless skirt chaser. (Since the real Beria was a serial rapist, this last seems polite.) He grows unnerved when Stalin forces him to play an honest game of billiards. A Soviet general (Ian Hogg) spells out his code of "M for Marx, E for Engels, L for Lenin..." "Where is the 'S' for Stalin?" the dictator demands. Only Stalin's wastrel son (David Threlfall) challenges Stalin's self-image, with little success.

Director Jack Gold and writer Charles Wood excel in surreal gags. Stalin grants an interview to an American journalist (Carroll Baker) while screening propaganda films. His flunkies fumble desperately with film reels to illustrate Stalin's answers; the dictator reaches a fever pitch while My Darling Clementine plays. Later he challenges Mao Zedong (Fred Lee Own) to an arm-wrestling contest! Stalin's inner circle becomes as buffoonish as the English gentry in Wood's Charge of the Light Brigade, inflated appearances belying interior absurdity.

Colin Blakely (A Man for All Seasons) gives a superlative turn. His casting allows Gold to play up Stalin's outsider origins, albeit as an Ulsterman rather than Georgian. Blakely becomes a man relishing his arbitrary power, evincing wicked delight in his actions: he hits the right note of restrained hysteria and focused psychosis. The supporting cast does fine work, with David Suchet and David Kelly especially good, but it's Blakely's show all the way.

Good satire can illuminate truths missed by serious drama. Whether Stalin was a raving madman or a calculating monster, he dangled the fate of millions on a string. Red Monarch's bloody climax registers like a kick in the stomach: suddenly Stalin's buffoonery doesn't seem funny at all. This coda reminds us that while irrational dictators often become punchlines (Idi Amin, the Kims), they remain a national tragedy.

Stalin (1992, Ivan Passer)

An HBO production, Stalin is much more conventional. Long, solemn and portentous, it's an earnest rendering of Soviet history with famous actors impersonating the Bolshevik inner circle. Stalin's commendable in its scope and detail even if it offers little insight into its protagonist.

Stalin covers the Man of Steel's life from the Revolution through his death. Stalin (Robert Duvall) starts as a minor functionary, trusted by Lenin (Maximilian Schell) but scorned by intellectuals like Leon Trotsky (Daniel Massey) and Nikolai Bukharin (Jerone Krabbe). He's appointed General Secretary of the Politburo, allowing him to accumulate power even before Lenin's death. Stalin bests Trotsky and plunges the USSR into brutal dictatorship, mixing rapid modernization with mass repression. He also suffers strained relations with wife Nadya (Julia Ormond) and son Yakov (Ravil Isyanov).

Stalin remains an impressive production. Shortly after the USSR's dissolution, director Ivan Passer shot key scenes on authentic Russian locations: Stalin's dacha, Lenin's private apartment and the prison. The credits boast an impressive coterie of historical advisers, including biographer Robert Conquest. Passer's direction is assured and occasionally impressive, aided by Vilmos Zsigmond's expressive photography. On these levels, Stalin's hard to fault.

But Stalin still falls victim to the usual biopic hurdles. Despite a three hour length, Passer provides only terse sketches of key historical moments. Stalin's feud with Trotsky, the Five Year Plan and resultant turmoil, even the entire Second World War are treated almost parenthetically. When Stalin slows down to breathe it's compelling: the extended segment on Stalin's Great Purge is power stuff, as are scenes where Stalin humiliates his Politburo colleagues. But these moments are few and far betwen.

Hoping to explain Stalin's monstrous temperament, Passer and writer Paul Monash probe the dictator's personal life: his fractious marriages and background as a Georgian outsider. Arguably, this marks Stalin's weakest point. The domestic squabbling plays out like any "Great Man" biopic, no more enlightening with an Evil Man. These scenes do little to leaven a stiff historical pageant. It's telling how Stalin plays certain scenes almost identically to Red Monarch (say, Beria's reaction to Stalin's imminent death) with far less impact.

Robert Duvall, an extremely gifted actor, faces an unenviable task. Besides bearing little resemblance to Stalin, Duvall brings inevitable baggage: persuading a rival to kill himself to spare his family, he inevitably recalls Tom Hagen. Duvall fares better in later scenes; as Stalin settles into power, Duvall seems more comfortable inhabiting the character, overcoming his heavy makeup and dodgy accent. Still, it's a performance that's competent but unsatisfying.

The large supporting cast reduced to making impressions. Maximilian Schell and Daniel Massey (Mary Queen of Scots) provide vivid impressions but bow out early. Julia Ormond (My Week With Marilyn) brings tragic gravitas to another short-lived character. Roshan Seth (Gandhi) makes Beria memorably cruel, mocking his victims for Stalin's amusement. Frank Finlay, Jim Carter, Miriam Margoyles and Kevin McNally flesh out supporting roles.

* * *

Needless to say, neither Red Monarch or Stalin provides the definitive portrait of the Red Tsar. I admire the former's audacity and respect the latter's intentions, yet both feel inadequate. Here's hoping some filmmaker - American, British, Russian or Martian - soon gets a chance to fill the void.

Note: I will resume my tributes to certain recently-deceased stars soon. Somehow I've felt it easier to ponder genocidal Bolsheviks than the death of my favorite actor over the past two days.

Remembering Tom Laughlin

Today I returned from my Sunday chores to learn that Peter O'Toole had died. Taken aback, I demurred on an instant reaction, unsure how to address his passing. By the time I put some thoughts together, I learned two others had joined him: Joan Fontaine and Tom Laughlin.

I'll put my usual blogging on hold to profile these recently passed stars. They deserve more than cursory notice, for all made a considerable cultural impact. Even if, in the case of our first subject, a somewhat absurd one.

It's somehow appropriate that on the same day my favorite actor passed away, this blog's bete noir joined him. Tom Laughlin, actor-writer-director behind the Billy Jack films, died Thursday at age 82. An all-star overachiever, Laughlin willed his creation into an improbable success. Unfortunately Laughlin's ambitions greatly exceeded his talent, producing a filmography more laughable than laudable.

A Minneapolis, Minnesota native, Laughlin played football at Wisconsin and Marquette before drifting into acting. After some stage work, he won bit parts in Tea and Sympathy, South Pacific and Gidget. Laughlin scored a starring role in The Delinquents (1957), notable as Robert Altman's directorial debut. But his Method acting style infuriated Altman, who dubbed Laughlin a "pain in the ass." Laughlin directed a few minor films around this time, but his career failed to catch on.

Frustrated by his cinematic failure, Laughlin set up a Montessori school in Santa Monica, California with his wife Dolores Taylor. Their school took in disadvantaged children, orphans and runaways, providing only general guidance while allowing the children to learn at their own pace. Laughlin and Taylor's experiences in this field informed Billy Jack's Freedom School, a pseudo-hippie commune where Taylor's Jean encourages children to explore their creativity.

Laughlin conceived Billy Jack as far back as 1954. His lifelong passion for Indian rights informed the script which he tried and failed to sell to several studios. The character, re-envisioned as an ex-Green Beret hapkido expert, first surfaced in Born Losers (1967). There's little to recommend this show, a chintzy biker film co-starring Jane Russell and Jeremy Slade. But its success enabled Laughlin to make Billy Jack (1971), and the rest was history.

Initially Warner Brothers fumbled the release, editing out controversial content and dumping it on the grindhouse circuit. Laughlin sued the studio before finding a more creative approach. He bought back copies of the film, angling to re-release it himself, and painstakingly negotiated with theaters for screenings. He spent $300,000 on a TV ad campaign, cutting TV spots and buying airtime on networks across the nation. Laughlin's efforts paid off handsomely: Billy Jack went from B-movie flop to massive hit.

Billy Jack played perfectly to the era's burgeoning counterculture. Its most obnoxious features - endless musical numbers at the Freedom School, lengthy guerrilla theater segments - mark it as an artifact of its time, as does the New Age obsession with Indian rituals. But Billy himself remains its most enduring legacy. A prototype for Chuck Norris, Steven Seagal and other action stars, he spouts semi-profound koans while righteously kicking redneck ass. Billy Jack's most famous scene carefully treads the line between ludicrous and awesome:

One respects Laughlin's tenacity, business savvy and defense of principle. His personality, less so. Laughlin boasted that "The youth of this country have only two heroes: Ralph Nader and Billy Jack." He soon claimed that the CIA was working to suppress his films. Hyper-sensitive to criticism, he sponsored an essay contest to rebut critics of The Trial of Billy Jack. "The student should be free to enjoy the inner experience... without the imposition of someone else's opinion," he commented.

Laughlin's thin skin extended to his professional relationships. A Time profile ascribed to Laughlin "a temper... as infamous as Mussolini's." Billy Jack actor David Roya describes Laughlin forcing him to perform dangerous stunts, bilking him out of pay and an acrimonious lawsuit over billing. He frittered his newfound clout by loudly inveighing against Hollywood's studio system. He demanded complete control over his next feature, pushing for a nationwide release rather than a gradual roll out.

The Trial of Billy Jack (1974) ably documents Laughlin's descent into megalomania. It retains the original's enthusiasm for Indian rights, martial arts, spiritualism and unconventional education. But Laughlin insists on dragging in "big issues" like Vietnam and Watergate, putting the System on trial alongside Billy Jack. Laughlin posits himself a debating partner of the establishment: the FBI monitors the Freedom School's "scorching exposes" on local business leaders, before dispatching the National Guard to massacre everyone.

Laughlin's 15 minutes of fame soon ebbed. Trial proved another hit, but garnered toxic critical reviews. Even fans avoided his next film, The Master Gunfighter (1975). The final nail was Billy Jack Goes to Washington (1977), so bad it never saw release. Predictably, Laughlin ascribed its failure to a government conspiracy; it's more likely his exorbitant ego caught up with him. After bit parts in The Big Sleep (1978) and The Legend of the Lone Ranger (1981), Laughlin's movie career died.

Banished from Hollywood, Laughlin nonetheless retained delusions of grandeur. He regularly ran for President, using his website to promote a bizarre political-psychological-spiritual philosophy. Laughlin constantly promised a fifth Billy Jack movie that never materialized: he shot only a few scenes of The Return of Billy Jack in the '80s, while another film where he "debated" George W. Bush never got past the idea stage. Laughlin's later activities were curtailed by ill health, suffering several strokes in 2007.

The Billy Jack movies retain a fervent cult following. And to Laughlin's credit, his innovative promotional antics made a genuine impact on the industry. For Groggy's money however, The Trial of Billy Jack is the worst movie ever made. For that achievement, if nothing else, Laughlin earns our recognition. 

The Sabata Trilogy

Director Giancarlo Parolini scored a huge hit with If You Meet Sartana, Pray for Your Death (1968). But Parolini fell out with producer Aldo Addobbati, who replaced Parolini with Giuliano Carnimeo on four Sartana sequels. Parolini joined Sergio Leone's producer Alberto Grimaldi, eager to launch Lee Van Cleef in a franchise of his own. Thus, Sabata ("the Man With the Gun-sight Eyes") was born.

Sabata shifts the Spaghetti Western away from its gritty roots towards live action cartoon. It's tempting to see Sabata as a riff on Van Cleef's Colonel Mortimer from For a Few Dollars More, with an even snazzier arsenal and higher body count. Parolini matches this fantasy gun play with bizarre style choices and outlandish characters (circus performers, booby traps, burlesque humor) like a B-movie Fellini. The trilogy plays like a mix of Wild, Wild West and Roger Moore's James Bond flicks.

Like all Spaghettis, Sabata is an acquired taste. Those attuned to this quirky sub-genre should find plenty to enjoy.

Sabata (1969)

Sabata was my first non-Leone Spaghetti Western. Inured to that director's operatic, sprawling style, I wasn't prepared for Sabata's offbeat goofiness. Ten years and dozens of Spaghettis later, I'm better placed to judge. In many ways it's an essential genre work: violent, overwrought, tongue-in-cheek - and deliriously entertaining.

One night in Daugherty City, several criminals rob an Army payroll. Black-clad gunslinger Sabata (Lee Van Cleef) kills the robbers and returns the loot, but discovers there's more to the robbery. Turns out local businessman Stengel (Franco Ressel) arranged the robbery as part of a complicated land-grabbing scheme. Sabata defeats a seemingly endless parade of henchmen, forcing Stengel to turn to Banjo (William Berger). Banjo's an old friend of Sabata, but his motives are in doubt until the last reel.

Parolini (credited as "Frank Kramer") adopts the same approach as Sartana: a gunfight every five minutes, a thin plot full of treachery and backstabbing, eccentric villains and a black clad hero sporting a deadly arsenal. One character even calls Sabata a pallbearer, presumably a dig at Addobbati and Co. Besides the catchy title tune, Marcello Gambioni's music evinces an improbable meld of styles: bluegrass, fuzz guitar, harpsichords, even calypso! It's ridiculous yet endearing.

Sabata's twisty plot is predictable enough, but Parolini delights in unconventional touches. The protagonist wields a four-barreled derringer concealing additional rounds in its stock - and a specially-made Winchester that shoots over a mile. Stengel engages rivals in a bizarre pin-hole shooting game, carrying a dart-firing cane in reserve. Banjo conceals a rifle in his instrument of choice. Numerous booby traps, acrobatic tricks and explosives contribute to the mayhem.

Banjo... You can try to talk, but he don't give a pluck!

Parolini burns through creative gadgets, but doesn't know when to stop. He replays Rio Bravo's dynamite shooting gag about a dozen times, a convenient way to up the body count. The nonsense with acrobat sidekick Alley Cat (Neil Jordan) gets old fast. He also dallies on inconsequential asides. Assassin Sharkey (Marco Zuanelli) gets an extended introductory vignette, yet he's dead within 20 seconds of meeting Sabata. Banjo has his own vendetta which becomes an inconsequential subplot. These episodes merely pad out the run time. 

Lee Van Cleef makes an iconic Western hero. He's an intense but likeable antihero, with enough piercing glares, fancy gun-slinging and off-hand sarcasm to disarm opponents and viewers alike. It's not as meaty as his Leone characters or The Big Gundown, but perfect match for his persona.

William Berger essentially reprises his Sartana character, a trickster playing both sides. Dressed and coiffed like a hippie, he nonetheless proves a formidable rival. Less endearing is the obnoxious Ignazio Spalla, who'd play similar characters in the sequels. Franco Ressell makes an unremarkable antagonist, and the assorted minor villains die before making an impression. Some feminine allure is provided by Linda Veras, wife of director Sergio Sollima. Portly Gianni Rizzo, previously one of Sartana's foes, appeared in all three Sabata flicks.

Sabata doesn't try for the grandeur of Leone or Sollima's Westerns. It's content being an agreeably silly shoot-'em-up. The approach eventually wears thin, but Sabata's good-natured anarchy mostly works.

Adios Sabata (1970)

Adios Sabata (alias Indio Black) is the trilogy's black sheep - really, not a Sabata movie at all. In time-honored Italian tradition, producers re-branded a generic Western to capitalize on Sabata's success. Yul Brynner replaces Lee Van Cleef, supposedly unavailable because he'd replaced Brynner in The Magnificent Seven Ride. Hard to say who got the better of that exchange.

Parolini and Renato Izzi's story resembles the "Zapata Westerns" prevalent around that time. Sabata is a gun-for-hire dabbling in the Franco-Mexican War. He teams with Juarista leader Escudo (Ignazio Spalla) to steal a gold cache from Emperor Maximilian's troops. This brings Sabata into conflict with Austrian Colonel Skimmel (Gerard Herter), a monocled psychopath who enjoys target shooting prisoners Amon Goeth-style. The wild card is Ballatine (Dean Reed), an artist-gunslinger on Skimmel's payroll.

Adios Sabata is more serious and slow-moving than its predecessor. Parolini incorporates a few picaresque elements, like a shootout timed by a spinning weather vein and another mute acrobatic sidekick (Sal Borgese). The gadgets are relatively tame: Sabata has a clip-loaded rifle, while the mute kicks metal balls at enemy's throats! Skimmel gets the neatest one, a model ship rigged to fire live rounds. Adios at least allows for breathing room between action scenes, but the shootouts and battle scenes are rote genre stuff.

Indeed, there's little to distinguish Adios from dozens of other Spaghettis. Parolini cribs wholesale from earlier Westerns: the setting and character interplay comes from Vera Cruz; Ballatine recalls A Bullet for the General's treacherous Nino; the finale apes The Wild Bunch. The historical context doesn't amount to much: Parolini inexplicably shows Austria instead of France as Maximilian's benefactors, while Escudo's revolutionaries behave like generic banditos. It's not good when plot twists and Gatling gun massacres invite yawns.

Yul Brynner seems profoundly bored, rarely raising his voice above a mumble. He's not helped by a ludicrous fringed outfit (insert Village People joke here). Dean Reed makes a bland sidekick, a runty Robert Redford with none of the charisma. Ignazio Spalla's role is more serious, and effective, than his other Sabata pictures. Gerard Herter does an effective retread of his Teutonic sociopath from The Big Gundown. Nieves Navarro (A Pistol for Ringo) has a minor role.

As you've likely gathered, Adios Sabata shares nothing with the original film besides the title, director and a few actors. Sabata's next adventure returned the franchise to its roots, but not to its benefit.

The Return of Sabata (1971)

Lee Van Cleef returns for the lackluster third entry. The Return of Sabata (1971) follows the standard lazy sequel blueprint: recycle the original's formula, notched up to ridiculous levels. Only die-hard Spaghetti fans and bad movie buffs should bother.

Sabata's now working as a marksman for a traveling circus. He drifts into another Texas town, running afoul of Joe McIntock (Giampero Albertini). McIntock and his family run the town, charging exorbitant taxes and generally pissing Sabata. Sabata also hopes to settle an old grudge with Clyde (Reiner Schoener), who runs a crooked craps game at the town casino. Inevitably the plot turns on a hidden cache of gold, which becomes a point of contention between the three antagonists.

The Return of Sabata starts with a striking set piece. Sabata stalks six gunslingers through a mist-blown funeral parlor, with several stern officials keeping score. It's a delightfully surreal sequence in its own right, cleverly sending up audience expectations and even setting up the finale. The movie ends on a high note, with a huge gun battle that entertains through sheer absurdity.

Between these scenes, however, is a dull and stupid film. The story's even thinner than the original: Sabata's rivalry/friendship with Clyde lacks the effectiveness of his interplay with Banjo. Nor is there much reason for him to fall out with McLintocks, except they're bad guys and Sabata needs bullet fodder. Anyone who's seen even one Spaghetti won't be shocked by Sabata and Clyde's tricks and betrayals. That leaves style, never wise for a movie featuring circus clowns.

Parolini's goofy self-awareness becomes a bad joke. Here Sabata gets not one but two silent acrobat sidekicks, sporting pork pie hats and long hair like Droogs out West. Among the weapons here are a crotch-fired slingshot (?), Sabata's magnetic shoe and a barrel with revolvers nailed inside. Marcello Gambioni's music seems more appropriate for a low-end Hanna Barbera cartoon (Speed Buggy perhaps?). At least the idiotic theme song provides a laugh:


"If you wanna get money, if you wanna get rich. If you want a good life, you gotta be a son of a… Pom pom pom, pom pom"
It's easy to see why Parolini opted for absurdity. Between Sabata and this sequel, Enzo Barboni's parodic They Call Me Trinity (1970) became a huge hit. Now Spaghettis that weren't dabbling in revolutionary politics evinced a comic tilt. It's possible, indeed, that Return was intended as an outright comedy. Too bad it isn't funny. Everything's a matter of degree: what works in Sabata gets agonizingly overdone by Return.

Van Cleef emerges unscathed, remaining stoic and snarky amidst the silliness. Sadly, his supporting cast is pathetic. Reiner Schoener makes a poor substitute for William Berger, lacking a personality or discernible motive. Ignazio Spalla plays another obnoxious sidekick with an irritating drum-beating schtick. Jacqueline Alexandre makes a decent femme fatale, but the villains are unmemorable pushovers.

In 1979, Harry and Michael Medved named Return of Sabata one of their Fifty Worst Films of All Time. This is hyperbole; Return isn't among the fifty worst Spaghetti Westerns of all time. But if the original Sabata is a quintessential Spaghetti, Return showcases the genre's most obnoxious excesses.

* * *

Three more Spaghetti Westerns down. Will Groggy ditch this genre and return to more "respectable" cinema soon? Time will tell.

Cracker: White Ghost and A New Terror

For completeness's sake I'll briefly recap Cracker's post mortem specials. Cracker fans tend to ignore them, and with good reason: neither is very good. Years-after specials rarely work, relying more on nostalgia and perverse curiosity than solid storytelling. That's true of our first entry, White Ghost, but A New Terror has much deeper flaws.  

White Ghost
Air date: 10/28/1996
Written: Paul Abbott
Directed: Richard Standeven

Less than a year after True Romance, Fitz returns for White Ghost. Everyone's favorite porcine psychologist visits Hong Kong to solve a routine mystery. This special fits Paul Abbott's evident view of Cracker: an uncomplicated, self-contained police drama unfettered by ties to previous episodes. There's nothing really wrong with it except a distinct lack of effort.

Fitz ends up in Hong Kong on a lecture tour. He's tapped by DCI Cheung (Freda Foh Shen) to help investigate the murder of a wealth businessman. The killer is Dennis Philby (Barnaby Kay), an English entrepreneur bankrupted by bad investments - and enraged that his pregnant Chinese girlfriend Su Lin Tang (Rene Liu) wants an abortion. Philby kidnaps Su and kills others. Cheung finds Fitz useful, even if her stuffy boss (Michael Pennington) harbors doubts.

White Ghost seems content to be a field trip episode, with Fitz taking in the sights of exotic Hong Kong. There's talk about the impending handover from Britain to China and the contrast between Fitz's off-beat style and the Hong Kong police's methodical approach. The show moves quickly enough, but the setting isn't utilized to any particular effect. Robbie Coltrane's as snappy as ever and the show has some fun moments, but there's an air of why bother about it.

Conspicuously absent is Fitz's family, who've apparently grown tired of the old sod. Penhaligon's studying for a promotion, so she's out. Only Ricky Tomlinson's Wise returns, mostly as the butt of jokes (he spends the show's first hour jet lagged). Luckily there's Freda Foh Shen as the coolly professional DCI Cheung. Her interaction with Fitz follows a familiar arc, from bemused tolerance to grudging respect, but Shen's smart performance makes it work.

What doesn't work is the story. Neither Abbott nor actor Barnaby Kay make Philby credible in his actions or motives; he kills because the plot requires him too. The show works up a serviceable manhunt tension but little more, the hallmark of Paul Abbott's Cracker. White Ghost is passable entertainment, even if there's no reason for it to exist.

A New Terror (aka Nine-Eleven)
Air date: 10/30/2006 
Written: Jimmy McGovern 
Directed: Antonia Bird

After White Ghost, Cracker fans waited a decade for new adventures. Jimmy McGovern earned more laurels with The Lakes and The Streets, couching his preoccupations in more mundane formats. Robbie Coltrane became an international star through the James Bond and Harry Potter franchises. In 2006 they reunited for A New Terror, which garnered heavy anticipation (even American media hyped it a bit) but met with a tepid response.

It would be one thing if A New Terror were simply a lark like White Ghost. But it's actively, infuriatingly bad. Evidently, this show was crafted by a Bizarro Jimmy McGovern: the eloquent anguish that make his original Cracker scripts unforgettable, channeled differently, ruins Terror.

After ten years abroad in Australia, Fitz and family return to Manchester. Much to Judith's chagrin, Fitz finds himself drawn into a new case. An American comedian (Matt Rippy) turns up dead, evidently killed by an ex-soldier. It turns out the murderer is Kenny Archer (Anthony Flannagan), a veteran of Northern Ireland suffering from PTSD. Conveniently, he's also a policeman himself. Despite the reluctance of the Manchester police to bring him on board, Fitz inevitably assumes a central role in the investigation.

A New Terror works for about 15 minutes. All these years and Fitz proves the same old sod, ruining daughter Katy's wedding with a crude toast. Having Fitz revisit the New Manchester, no longer a post-industrial wasteland but a thriving metropolis, provides a tinge of amusement. It's nice to probe his relationships with Judith, who seems more tolerant towards Fitz's vices, and Mark, now a surprisingly well-adjusted adult. McGovern successfully whets our appetite with this early character development. Then the plot starts.

A New Terror isn't a Cracker episode so much as a violent diatribe against George Bush, Tony Blair and the Iraq War. This topicality proves immediately off-putting. Cracker explored relatively universal themes: male insecurity, sexism, class tension and racial disquiet. Only To Be a Somebody, with its evocation of Hillsborough, tied itself to real-world events. That episode's deft treatment of an authentic tragedy stands in stark contrast to A New Terror's crass ranting. Just seven years on, Terror feels incredibly dated.

McGovern channels his outrage into overwrought America bashing. Kenny kills exclusively boorish stereotypes: his second victim especially (Demetri Goritsas), a racist, wealthy businessman screwing a married Englishwoman, is less subtle than The Simpsons' Rich Texan. This taps into British anti-Americanism of Second World War vintage ("overpaid, oversexed, over here"), if not much older. Then we get Chomsky-lite diatribes about 9/11 as foreign policy blow back and American support of Sinn Fein. Even Fitz's interrogations degenerate to ranting about Bush. Isn't this a crime drama?

Friends traveling abroad during the Bush years assure me such resentment was commonplace. And on one level, associating a nation with its government is an easy judgment. Americans certainly don't distinguish between, say, Mahmoud Ahmedinijad and the average Iranian. But it takes a special kind of nerve for McGovern to call killing Americans solely for being American "understandable, but not excusable." Forgive this Yank for taking offense.

McGovern's so firmly planted on his soapbox that he barely bothers with a story. Wise and Penhaligon go unmentioned; Judith and Mark get hustled off at earliest convenience. Fitz deals with three cops (Richard Coyle, Nisha Nayar and Rafe Spall) who register zero personality between them. Kenny being a detective himself doesn't amount to much; he spends much of the show browbeating a petty crook who witnessed his first murder. That's not to mention Antonia Bird's obnoxious direction, splicing in news footage and jerky flashbacks like a distaff Oliver Stone.

Any redeeming features? Anthony Flanagan deserves praise for making Kenny sympathetic in his anguish if not his actions. With a little sharper writing, he could have made a genuinely tragic villain. Better still, Robbie Coltrane is in top form, a little grayer and paunchier but as vulgar, sly and brilliant as ever. At least we know if there are future Cracker revivals, Fitz remains up for the task. The same may not be true for Jimmy McGovern, however.

* * *

Rather than dwell on these unsatisfactory postscripts, let's wrap things up with a brief, personal retrospective on writing these articles.

I've shied away from writing about television shows, for the problems evident here: lots of surface and subtextual content, ongoing plot lines, many characters and diffuse subplots. Most movies, even installments in franchises, can be reviewed as an individual work. But you have to consider a TV episode both as a self-contained entity and part of a larger whole. Also, you can't include every little detail from an episode, however significant. It took me twice as long to write even the most perfunctory Cracker review than my average film review.

This was a burden for Cracker, a series with just 11 episodes. I can't imagine doing a long-running show like The Sopranos or The Wire, or even King of the Hill, without going insane. While I'm satisfied with most of these reviews, and glad I at least tried something different, Groggy's not likely to revisit television any time soon. Hopefully my readers feel I did Fitz and Co. justice.

Cracker: Best Boys and True Romance

"Paul Abbott's writing this one, Mark. Get out while you still have dignity..."

When we last left Cracker, Fitz had reconciled with Judith after the birth of a new son - though Fitz reneged on his promise to stop gambling. Penhaligon spurned any chance of reconciling with Fitz as her post-rape trauma grew knotted with guilt. This because Jimmy Beck went bungee jumping without a chord, ending a remarkably powerful story arc. It's not a neat and tidy resolution, but Cracker was never a neat and tidy show. (Just ask Nigel Cassidy.) With the series nearing its end, how could the show runners possibly match that?

Well, they couldn't, at least without Jimmy McGovern. Paul Abbott helmed the last two installments and they suck. Abbott offers characterizations either broad or perfunctory, treating lingering plot threads almost carelessly. Worse, his crime stories are uninvolving. None of the cutting sociological assessments or rounded characterizations of the best installments. Cracker goes from something unique to a banal cop show.

Maybe that was the intent. In his three scripts for the show, Abbott evinces little handle on the complexities of Fitz's world. Compared to McGovern's intricate web of social commentary, psychological complexity and ensemble melodrama, Abbott preferred "killer of the week" procedural dramas. Thus the "crime writers' greatest hits" feel to these stories (and his subsequent special, White Ghost); thus the decreased emphasis on Fitz's personal travails. It's like The West Wing post-Aaron Sorkin: the characters, setting and subject are the same, but the show becomes a formula drama without its original creator.

However flawed, the last five Cracker serials warranted in-depth dissections. These do not. Let's plow through and return to movies, shall we?

Best Boys 
Air dates: 11/6 and 11/13/95
Written: Paul Abbott
Directed: Charles MacDougall

Recycling may be good for the environment, but it's a death sentence for television shows. Best Boys is a thorough retread of Season 1's To Say I Love You, with a twist that the central couple's gay. This one almost gets by on good acting alone, but never proves engaging. Frankly it feels like a rush job, Abbott wanting to abruptly tie up some loose ends within a bland, familiar pallet.

Stuart Grady (Liam Cunningham) finds teenager Bill Preece (John Simm) sleeping in his factory. The two strike up a friendship which turns romantic, as Stuart finds Bill triggering his repressed sexuality. When the two kill Stuart's landlady they go on the lam, Bill determined to get revenge on his old foster family. Meanwhile, Fitz and Judith find that their new son hasn't resolved all their problems, Penhaligon struggles to cope with Beck's death and Wise, erm, scowls gruffly.

Best Boys does little that To Say I Love You didn't handle much better. By making his protagonists homosexual, Abbott provides two half-interesting characterizations: Bill a vengeful foundling, Stuart an aggressively closeted man. But we've already seen this story played straight (pun intended) and there's nothing fresh or inventive here. The characters retain interest thanks to guest actors Liam Cunningham and John Simm; Cunningham proves particularly effective in the hostage-taking climax. That the show even took that route is unfortunate, given that To Say I Love You ended with the exact same scene.

Even when Jimmy McGovern bungled his mystery plots, his character conflicts proved compelling. Best Boys treats them as almost a nuisance. Fitz and Judith are back to squabbling, with snotty brother Danny returning to insult Fitz some more. Danny served his purpose in Brotherly Love; now he's a bore. Why bring him back? Beck's sister (Aisling O'Sullivan) turns up for his funeral and gets one scene with Fitz, then bows out. Why bother? These vignettes don't help flesh out the characters or drive the story. They just mark time between killings.

Worst off is Penhaligon. We'd expect Panhandle to be traumatized by Beck's death and the resulting fallout. Her early scenes indeed show a potent mixture of grief and relief, as when she aggressively challenges Fitz to sleep with her. But then Penhaligion is forced to cover for dumbass DC Temple (Robert Cavanah) in exchange for a peak at Beck's diary. This subplot is handled so perfunctorily, one senses Abbott merely wished to rid himself of Brotherly Love associations. On such a continuity-heavy show, distancing from previous story lines isn't a good idea unless you're taking an interesting new direction. Abbott is not.

True Romance
Air dates: 11/20 and 11/27/95
Written: Paul Abbott
Directed: Tim Fywell

True Romance manages to be even worse. I don't know what bugs me more: the facile Fatal Attraction plot? The ham-fisted character development? The absent tension or plausibility? Cracker isn't just some programmer that burns willy-nilly through hoary potboiler plots, Mr. Abbott.

Fitz returns to his old university teaching job. One of his more attentive students is Janice (Emily Joyce), a lab assistant with an intense crush on Fitz. So intense, indeed, that she begins luring college boys to her flat for sex and death, just to get his attention. After the cops pull Fitz off the case, Janice kidnaps Mark. This time it's personal, with Fitz and Judith reconciling (again) as Janice debates her next move.

If there's one crime storyline more cliched than lover-killers, it's an obsessive stalker. True Romance really goes to town on this: Janice is the nebbish bookworm who resents shallow preppies so much she kills them in baroque fashion. That Emily Joyce has trouble getting guys is the first suspension of disbelief True Romance requires. For a show whose raison d'etre has been male insecurity, it's bizarre that Abbott employs a deranged misandrist villain, even if she has a twisted backstory. This episode would barely pass muster for Criminal Minds, let alone Cracker.

I've sounded like a broken record complaining about Cracker's protagonists being placed in danger. Yet here it is again, and done worse than ever. One could accept someone obsessively stalking Fitz: Robbie Coltrane may not be a looker but his charm's undeniable. But how, one wonders, does Janice know what fast food dive Mark's working at? (At least Albie saw Bilborough on TV.) Why kill everyone else but leave Mark alive? It's too obviously a screenwriters' ploy to drag Fitz into the mystery; thus, zero tension.

Fitz predictably goes through the emotional wringer, and Robbie Coltrane's very good trying to maintain a balance between professional and paternal concerns. Yet this doesn't register as strongly as it should. Cracker always got away with a basic credibility lapse: police, let alone psychologists, can't browbeat confessions out of suspects without a lawyer. That Fitz would be allowed to interrogate the woman who kidnapped his son places True Romance in the realm of pure fantasy.

If there were anything outside nuts-and-bolts storytelling True Romance might be passable. Even more than in Best Boys, however, ongoing concerns are treated cheaply. Danny Fitzgerald's back, this time to hit on Judith. Mark drops a bombshell that barely registers. DCI Wise becomes a full-on clown: his marriage unravels after his wife sees Fitz as a client, then he's stuck babysitting Fitz's son. (Cue laugh track!) Fitz tries once more to reconcile with Penhaligon, who instead shacks up with DC Temple. At show's end she resigns, a twist retconned by Abbott in a later special.

By the time True Romance lurches to its climax, our goodwill is gone. Better Cracker end here than continue its execrable decline.

* * *

Thus endeth Cracker. It lasted only three years but garnered a lot of awards and popularity, at least in the UK. Presumably because it doesn't match the American fantasy of Brits as posh aristocrats (Downton Abbey) or wacky toss pots (Monty Python), it found only a limited US following, despite syndication on BBC America. Regardless, it had a remarkable run, with three brilliant episodes that I'd place against anything television has to offer.

Oh, wait. We're not finished.