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

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. 

RIP Hal Needham and Marcia Wallace

A few days late with this... stuntman-turned-director Hal Needham passed away Friday at age 82. After serving in the Korean War as a paratrooper, Needham became one of Hollywood's premiere stuntmen. A close friend of Burt Reynolds, Needham graduated to directing with Smokey and the Bandit, also penning its screenplay. That movie's success led to a prolific, if not especially distinguished career: Hooper, The Cannonball Run, Stroker Ace.

Few of Needham's films are good, and some absolutely terrible. But he'll always get a pass for Smokey and the Bandit, a big part of my childhood, and a not-quite-guilty pleasure even today.

We also lost Marcia Wallace to breast cancer at age 70. Well-known for The Bob Newhart Show and a regular on game shows like Hollywood Squares, for my generation she'll always be the bitter, sarcastic yet strangely likeable Mrs. Krabappel from The Simpsons.

Rest in peace to both.

RIP Carlo Lizzani

Another major figure in Italian cinema passed away Saturday. Carlo Lizzani, director, screenwriter, and documentary filmmaker, died at age 91. He evidently committed suicide by jumping out a window.

As a screenwriter, Lizzani worked on key titles in the neorealist movement, including Germany: Year Zero and Bitter Rice. He generated a formidable directorial resume, producing historical dramas (The Last Days of Mussolini), Spaghetti Westerns (The Hills Run Red), crime films (Bandits in Milan) and comedies (Roma Bene). He also made several well-regarded documentaries, and in 1996 fictionalized the production of Rossellini's Rome: Open City with his film Celluloide.

Lost Stooges short film!

Any fans of The Three Stooges out there? If so, you may take heart at this bit of news from Australia:

The only missing short film by The Three Stooges has been found in a Manly shed. Film collector Malcolm Smith, 78, was clearing out his old films when he came across Hello, Pop!, an 18-minute backstage musical from 1933 that he bought from another collector in the 1950s.

Read more: http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/movies/three-stooges-film-found-in-australian-garden-shed-20130928-2ukw2.html#ixzz2goJEsmgY

On a sadder note, we'll note the passing of novelist Tom Clancy. I've always been more of a Frederick Forsyth fan, but there's no denying he created an impressive body of work.

RIP Giuliano Gemma

Italian actor Giuliano Gemma passed away today at age 75, killed in a car accident in Rome.

The boyish Gemma starred in a slew of Spaghetti Westerns, most notably A Pistol for Ringo (1964) and its sequel, Ringo Rides Again (1965). He also starred opposite Lee Van Cleef in the popular Day of Anger (1967), and also appeared in Arizona Colt (1966), A Sky Full of Stars for a Roof (1968) and The Price of Power (1969). He presented a more clean-cut, traditional hero than Spaghetti stars like Van Cleef, Clint Eastwood and Franco Nero.

Other notable films include Luchino Visconti's The Leopard (1963), Valerio Zurlini's The Desert of the Tartars (1976), Dario Argento's Tenebrae (1982) and Woody Allen's To Rome With Love (2012). In recent years he'd focused mainly on television.

RIP Luciano Vincenzoni

Italian screenwriter Luciano Vincenzoni passed away Sunday at age 87. He's best-remembered for his contentious collaboration with Sergio Leone, writing or co-writing the scripts for For a Few Dollars More, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and Duck, You Sucker! He also penned the scripts for A Professional Gun and Death Rides a Horse, the Oscar-nominated The Great War (1959) and a variety of other films - including that timeless masterpiece Orca.

Leone fans are keenly encouraged to check out Cenk Kiral's old interview with Vincenzoni here. He's very frank about his relationship with Sergio, and just a bit arrogant. Of course, if you co-wrote The Good, the Bad and the Ugly you're entitled to a slight ego.

RIP Karen Black

Actress Karen Black passed away today after a long bout with ampulary cancer. She was 74.

The Chicago-born Black racked up an incredible resume. She made her breakthrough role in Easy Rider (1969) opposite Dennis Hopper, but it was her impressive turn as Jack Nicholson's long-suffering girlfriend in Five Easy Pieces (1970) that assured her stardom. Black subsequently appeared in a slew of successful films: The Great Gatsby (1974), The Day of the Locust, Nashville (both 1975), Family Plot (1976) and Capricorn One (1978). In later years her stardom faded a bit, appearing mostly in horror flicks like The Devil's Rejects, and like many celebrities dabbled in Scientology.

Black did her best work playing put-upon women eager to break into big things. Rayette in Five Easy Pieces, whose pathetic dreams contrast with the smug sophistication of Bobby Dupea's family, endures her man's condescension and philandering almost beyond belief. I'm extremely fond of her Myrtle Wilson in Gatsby: very little about that film works, but Black plays the character with the perfect mixture of desperation and cunning. Myrtle is Rayette with a spine, a social climber ruthlessly ambitious yet unable to escape intoTom Buchanan's world.

For those interested in learning more about Ms. Black, I commend you to my friend James Tate's interviews here and here. Rest in peace to a remarkable, under-appreciated talent.

Catching up

A few things to catch up on...

Most recent is the passing of Richard Matheson. One of the doyens of late 20th Century science fiction, Matheson amassed an extraordinary body of work. His post-apocalyptic novel I Am Legend (1954) has been filmed three times (none an all-time classic, but it's the thought that counts). He also contributed several memorable scripts to The Twilight Zone (most notably Terror at 20,000 Feet), and wrote screenplays for movies The Incredible Shrinking Man (1957), The Raven (1963), The Devil Rides Out (1968) and Duel (1971), among others. 

This comes just a few days after James Gandolfini's shocking passing. Gandolfini was just 51 when he died of a heart attack last Wednesday. This remarkable actor will always be associated with Tony Soprano - not unjustly, as most consider The Sopranos one of television's greatest achievements. Lest we forget, Gandolfini had a memorable film career: True Romance, Get Shorty, The Mexican, Zero Dark Thirty. Notably, Gandolfini cited his portrayal of Al Love in A Civil Action (1998) as a personal favorite, and helped spread awareness of PTSD through the documentary Wartorn. Off-screen he always gave the impression of a friendly, humble guy a world removed from his gruff screen persona.

It's not all doom and gloom, though. Groggy's friends at Moviepilot accepted his pitch to write a column on classic movies. That won't effect this blog much, though - my schedule remains as erratic and eclectic as ever!

RIP Ray Harryhausen

RIP Roger Ebert

America's most famous film critic, Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times, passed away today of cancer. He's battled the disease and related complications for over a decade. Just two days ago, he blogged about taking "a leave of presence," promising he'd be back. In retrospect it's a heartbreaking farewell.

I'm too young to have watched much of Siskel & Ebert's TV series, but Ebert was a major inspiration. Buying his bad review compilation I Hated, Hated, Hated This Movie around 2000 and reading it until the cover rotted off and the pages warped is a cherished childhood memory. How many vacations did I undertake with my family armed with his book? I remember one trip to Hershey Park, when I woke up at 5:00 a.m. and sat in the hotel bathroom reading reviews of Armageddon and I Spit On Your Grave. Along with Mike Sauter's The Worst Movies of All Time it was a formative work, which convinced me to take movies (and writing about movies) seriously.

Ebert's main virtue, of course, is accessibility. He's rarely the intellectual critic like Andrew Sarris or Jacques Rivette, wrapping his analysis in academic theory. He writes for the mass reader and lay movie buff, laying out his like or dislike in straightforward fashion, providing direct analysis. That certainly doesn't preclude intelligence or thoughtful reflection; Ebert's best reviews are as smart and insightful as any Cahiers du Cinema think piece. Both methods have their place, of course, but I'd rather read Ebert than Rivette any day. There's nothing disdainful or plebeian in extending cinematic appreciation to the layman. 

Ebert is loved and hated for his idiosyncratic writing style, combining anecdote, personal reflection, humor and often informal structure. His often dislikes movies for strange reasons. Notably, he gives Die Hard a two star reviews solely for Paul Gleason's bumbling FBI agent. His vitriolic reaction to David Lynch's Blue Velvet earned him much opprobrium from the hoi polloi. But I allow Ebert his eccentricities. You're reading a guy who's seen Leprechaun in the Hood five times, after all.

The main takeaway from Roger Ebert is that he loved movies, loved writing about movies and conveying this love to an audience. Anyone reading his Great Movies essays, his memoirs or any random review can't deny this man had his dream job. That's really all anyone can ask for. From the bottom of my heart, Roger, thank you for everything. Rest in peace with Gene.

RIP Jon Finch

Actor Jon Finch passed away on 28 December 2012 at 71. News of his death wasn't publicly disclosed until last Friday.

The darkly-handsome, gravel-voiced Finch was an unorthodox leading man. He gained notoriety for his powerful turn in Roman Polanski's Macbeth (1971), but is probably best-remembered as the anti-hero Richard Blaney in Alfred Hitchcock's Frenzy (1972). Around that time he also appeared in Sunday Bloody Sunday (1971), Robert Bolt's Lady Caroline Lamb (1972) and The Final Programme (1973); later he co-starred in Death on the Nile (1978) with Peter Ustinov. After that, however, Finch mostly worked in stage and TV, notably in the BBC Television Shakespeare's Richard II and Henry IV. His last high-profile role was Ridley Scott's Kingdom of Heaven (2005).

Finch missed out on being a much bigger star. He was reportedly considered as James Bond for Live and Let Die. He also turned down an unspecified part in Richard Lester's Three Musketeers films, the TV series The Professionals and John Hurt's role in Alien. He's the rare actor whose career of missed roles is more interesting than those he accepted.

Finch indicated in a 2005 interview that he disliked the idea of super-stardom, a view shared with contemporaries like Paul Scofield, Tom Courtenay and Albert Finney. However, Finch was also diabetic, and his condition likely prevented him from taking more demanding roles. All the same, he starred in two bona fide classics and appeared in a third, which is more than most actors can say.

RIP to this unsung, talented actor.

RIP Harry Carey Jr.

Last Thursday, legendary Western actor Harry Carey Jr. passed away at 91.

Son of silent movie star Harry Carey and actress Olive Carey, "Dobe" Carey was a featured member of the John Ford Stock Company. He appeared in a great many Ford movies, including Three Godfathers, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, The Searchers and Cheyenne Autumn. His largest and best role came in 1950's Wagon Master with Ben Johnson. Carey was also a regular fixture in television and Westerns generally.

In later years Carey remained active in film, appearing in small roles in Gremlins, Back to the Future III and Tombstone. Always amiable and pleasant, Carey left behind many interviews and commentaries for fans of his work. While many of John Ford's proteges found him a hateful bastard, Carey always revered Pappy's memory. 

RIP Dobe, you will be missed.

RIP Dave Brubeck

Legendary jazz musician Dave Brubeck passed away at the age of 91. He's best remembered for his classic track Take Five, but cinephiles may recall his appearance in Basil Dearden's All Night Long (1962):

RIP Herbert Lom

Herbert Lom passed away yesterday at age 95. The Czech-born British actor, an expert in caddish suavity, is best-remembered for his role as the unhinged Chief Inspector Dreyfus in the Pink Panther films. That's not to mention his innumerable villain roles: the title character in The Phantom of the Opera (1962), and assorted baddies in Groggy favorites The Ladykillers, North West Frontier, El Cid and Spartacus.

RIP to this marvelous character actor.

A priest legend goes to his reward

Thanks to Fr Tim Finigan for posting on the death of Fr Hugh Thwaites SJ.

I never met Fr Thwaites but our paths crossed closely several times. From all accounts he was a giant of a priest in the spiritual sense and one who never ceased to fearlessly offer up the sacrifice of the Latin Mass and to spread the word of Christ's teachings wherever he found himself.


This is from a talk he gave on the demonic.....may Almighty God have mercy on his soul and may he rest in peace, Amen.

RIP Tony Scott

I'm sure you're already aware, but yesterday director Tony Scott committed suicide in rather dramatic fashion. Jumping off a bridge would not be my way to go, whether or not I had cancer.

I can't claim to be a big fan of his flashy-but-empty star vehicles, though he made some genuinely good movies early in his career (The Hunger, Crimson Tide). Still, this is a fate you wouldn't wish on Joel Schumacker. And by most accounts he was a fairly nice guy by Hollywood standards. Here's hoping Tony is at peace, wherever he now is. My condolences to his family, including of course brother Ridley.

Happy anniversary!

It's been four years since starting this blog and it's still going strong! Stronger than ever in fact, since my readership has substantially increased. I appreciate your comments and discussions, keep them coming.

Two small links to celebrate:

Reader Keir brought this excellent article on Warner Bros.' history of violence to my attention. Thanks, Keir.

On a sadder note, the great character actor R.G. Armstrong passed away. He'll always be associated with his religious psycho roles for Sam Peckinpah, especially Ride the High Country and Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. He did have some sympathetic roles on his CV, including a short stint on The Rifleman and a friendly rancher in El Dorado with John Wayne. I recently disocevered he was  lifelong friends with Andy Griffith, a classmate at the University of North Carolina. RIP.

I will probably see the goddamned Batman movie tonight with friends. We tried last Thursday only to have a thunderstorm knock the theater's power! Here's hoping I can wrange a free ticket out of the theaters, or else I may have to deal out some bat-justice of my own.