On movies, trivia, "Lonesome Dove," "Slap Shot' & Paul Newman

Our 16-year-old had a friend over to watch movies. I asked what she had in mind. She said she hadn’t decided.

“May I make a suggestion?” I asked. “Watch ‘Lonesome Dove.’”

She’s too polite, for now, to swear at her old man, but her sarcastic response verged on spicy dialogue you’d hear in a Tarantino flick. I’m not sure what they watched, but it’s a safe bet the movie won’t be in heavy cable rotation 27 years after its release, as “Lonesome Dove” is and will remain in perpetuity. 

If I see it's on, I always click right to it and settle in for a scene or two. If it’s within 30 minutes of the scene where Gus and Call hang Jake Spoon, I sit and watch until the doomed rascal spurs his horse. It’s that good.

I’d intended to write about movies before the Oscars, but I either got busy or distracted watching “Lonesome Dove” for the 129th time. So here’s some thoughts on recent and otherwise relevant old movies, with most of it about the great Paul Newman.

• Last week was the 40th anniversary of the release of the movie “Slap Shot.” They had a cast reunion in nearby Johnstown where it was based. It is one of my favorite movies starring Newman, one of my favorite actors. The famous bus moon was filmed on the town square in nearby Ligonier, known for its presumptuous hoity-toityness. I almost showed the mooning scene to my daughters as a point of local interest, but was seized by a rare burst of parental propriety.

• “Hell or High Water” was maybe my favorite movie from the last year. It’s a modern Western, but the dialogue — real redneck Shakespeare — is crackling perfection. Impeccable soundtrack, too. I only know a handful of people who’ve seen the Jeff Bridges/Chris Pine/Ben Foster film. I think the title’s too cliche to snag interest.

• Recently watched “The Princess Bride” with the girls. Filled with charm and wit, it’s a family favorite. Many people know it’s a Rob Reiner film (FYI: Meathead turns 70 on Monday!) but fewer know the soundtrack was composed by none other than Mark Knopfler. He’d taken a Dire Straits sabbatical after being overwhelmed by the international success of  '85's “Brothers in Arms” and was looking for something quirky. This is one of those movies that makes me impatient to be a grandpa.

• “Lonesome Dove” stars Robert Duvall as “Augustus McCrae,” Tommy Lee Jones as “Woodrow Call” and Robert Urich as “Jake Spoon.” The mini-series is based on the 1985 Larry McMurtry novel, but started as a Hollywood screenplay pitched with Jimmy Stewart as McCrae, John Wayne as Call and Henry Ford as Spoon. It was nearly made but director John Ford advised Wayne to reject the script. Imagine “Lonesome Dove with Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne and Henry Fonda. Wow.

• While very few people saw “Hell or High Water,” mere handfuls have seen best actor nominee Viggo Mortensen in “Captain Fantastic.” I’d never even heard of it when Val brought it home and practically duct-taped me to a chair to watch it. I hated the first 10 minutes, but loved the last 90. Really fun, offbeat movie that jabs at many of our sacred cows.

• Interested in “Slap Shot” back story? My buddy Paul Peirce wrote this great story about Ligonier’s racy role in the classic. He says we need to see “Florence Foster Jenkins,” the film for which Meryl Streep was just nominated for best actress and we soon will. I do not disregard Paul’s recommendations when it comes to funny.

• My reverence for the McMurtry’s Gus McCrae character is such that I was insistent we name one of our children Augustus — and we have two females! I didn’t get my way with that, but he’s the reason the protagonist in my book, “The Last Baby Boomer,” is named McCrae. Why is he named Martin? It just seemed to fit.

• I was talking in the Tin Lizzy last night with a young couple who’d attended the “Slap Shot” festival in Johnstown. I mentioned how I believe Newman’s best movie is “Cool Hand Luke.” They’d never seen it. I told them, “Grab a 12-pack. You’re coming to my house right now.” I was kidding, but the day when I’m free to provide that kind of vital education to innocents the world will be a better place.

• Coincidentally, I cooked spaghetti dinner last night with “Newman’s Own” Sockarooni Sauce. It was delicious. His namesake charity also makes salad dressing, salsa, barbecue sauce, licorice, mints, mayo and nearly a two dozen other food stuffs. Founded in 1982 with the motto’d intention that “100 percent of profits” go to charity, the company has given $485 million to needy causes. “I’ve always been lucky in life,” Newman said. “Sharing one’s good fortune with others is just the right thing to do.”

• Before entering the World War II as a turret gunner above the Pacific, Newman briefly attended Ohio University. I write about my experiences there in the “party boy” link below.

• He won an 1986 Oscar for “The Color Money,” but Newman was much better in “The Hustler,” “The Sting,” “Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid,” and, oh, my, “The Verdict.” His worst movie? “Quintet” from 1979, one of the few movies I ever walked out on. Boring as hell.

• Paul Newman was on Richard Nixon’s 1971 “enemies list,” but Charles Manson wasn’t. Know who else was on it? Tony Randall! I promise to dig into this one day.

• And, finally, here’s a song in search of a soundtrack. It’s Tom Russell’s “Ash Wednesday.”

Related …

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No. 1 Party Boy from the No. 1 party school

My strange date to the whale movie

Shout outs to three (sorta) silent films

America’s greatest actor is … John Goodman?

1993, Hollywood’s best year

Re-run Sunday! Ohio U. No. 1 party school again!

Now, how did you expect I'd react to the news that Ohio University was once again the No. 1 Party School in America? Write something scholarly?

Heck no. I'll, of course, re-post this boozy love letter to the place where I became, for better or worse, who I am.

It’s probably because of my years at Ohio University I drink responsibly whenever I should and irresponsibly whenever I can.

It’s a vast over-simplification to say, but the only thing I can recall learning with any clarity there from 1981-1985 was never mix Ouzo and beer. In the same glass.

We used to do that all the time and, guaranteed, whenever we did someone was bound to lose their pants.

You can’t spell bourbon or ouzo without OU.

It was a fountain of knowledge where I went to drink.

Those were some of the T-shirts they sold on campus when I was there. I still see variations of them when I go back once every year or so to see the old gang.

We fly or drive in from all over the country and get two or three rooms at the diviest hotel down near the Hocking River. In a town where big guys are called “Tiny,” the hotel on the lowest point in southeastern Ohio is called The Highlander.

Tell someone who attended most any other college a group of 40 somethings are going to go back to the university they all attended in the 1980s and many assume lecherous activities will ensue.

They think the guys will slip off their wedding rings and spend their nights chasing around the comely innocents.

This is wrong on multiple levels. First: I never met an innocent at OU, not to be confused, please, with Ohio State University in Columbus.

Second: most of us are too fatigued and too wise to chase anything anymore.

Third -- and this is key: there’s not a soul within a 50-mile radius more important to us than the dozen or so people clustered around those tables tilting from too many pitchers of beer.

It was after leaving Athens I began to understand games were for people who were inept at the art of conversation.

Why would you engage in any distraction that kept you from learning more about the people sitting right next to you?

Those were some of the things that crossed my mind when I learned Ohio University was named by the Princeton Review as the No. 1 Party School in America.

It’s a chicken and egg sort of question, but I didn’t go to Athens because it was a party school. But I did go there because at the time the Ohio drinking age was 18.

I learned later on -- surprise! -- it had a great school for journalism. Hey, I liked to journalize!

If anything exceeds its reputation for being a party school, it is its reputation for grooming dynamic journalists.

Media big shots Roger Ailes and Matt Lauer graduated from there. Legendary actor Paul Newman dropped out of there.

My academic achievements fall somewhere deep in the middle of that spectrum.

I remember when I went for one of my first post-graduate interviews. It was at the Nashville Banner. The managing editor, a fine southern gentleman, saw Ohio University on my resume and asked if that’s where Woody Hayes coached.

No, sir, that was Zero State in Columbus.

“How long were you on the school paper?” he asked.

One year, I told him.

“What’d you do the other three years, drink beer?”

Yes, sir.

“Good. I did it for four.”

In a world where crabby tight asses seem to make all the rules and then more rules regarding the original rules, convivial folk will always have a way of finding one another.

I got that job and it was instrumental in launching a career that has led me to friendships with some of the world’s most fascinating individuals.

Athens was where I became who I am.

So cheers, Ohio University. I’ve been under your influence for 30 years now.

And gloriously under the influence for many of those years.

And it’s all just been one hell of a good time.

No. 1 party boy from America's No. 1 party school

It’s probably because of my years at Ohio University I drink responsibly whenever I should and irresponsibly whenever I can.

It’s a vast over-simplification to say, but the only thing I can recall learning with any clarity there from 1981-1985 was never mix Ouzo and beer. In the same glass.

We used to do that all the time and, guaranteed, whenever we did someone was bound to lose their pants.

You can’t spell bourbon or ouzo without OU.

It was a fountain of knowledge where I went to drink.

Those were some of the T-shirts they sold on campus when I was there. I still see variations of them when I go back once every year or so to see the old gang.

We fly or drive in from all over the country and get two or three rooms at the diviest hotel down near the Hocking River. In a town where big guys are called “Tiny,” the hotel on the lowest point in southeastern Ohio is called The Highlander.

Tell someone who attended most any other college a group of 40 somethings are going to go back to the university they all attended in the 1980s and many assume lecherous activities will ensue.

They think the guys will slip off their wedding rings and spend their nights chasing around the comely innocents.

This is wrong on multiple levels. First: I never met an innocent at OU, not to be confused, please, with Ohio State University in Columbus.

Second: most of us are too fatigued and too wise to chase anything anymore.

Third -- and this is key: there’s not a soul within a 50-mile radius more important to us than the dozen or so people clustered around those tables tilting from too many pitchers of beer.

It was after leaving Athens I began to understand games were for people who were inept at the art of conversation.

Why would you engage in any distraction that kept you from learning more about the people sitting right next to you?

Those were some of the things that crossed my mind when I learned Ohio University was named by the Princeton Review as the No. 1 Party School in America.

It’s a chicken and egg sort of question, but I didn’t go to Athens because it was a party school. But I did go there because at the time the Ohio drinking age was 18.

I learned later on -- surprise! -- it had a great school for journalism. Hey, I liked to journalize!

If anything exceeds its reputation for being a party school, it is its reputation for grooming dynamic journalists.

Media big shots Roger Ailes and Matt Lauer graduated from there. Legendary actor Paul Newman dropped out of there.

My academic achievements fall somewhere deep in the middle of that spectrum.

I remember when I went for one of my first post-graduate interviews. It was at the Nashville Banner. The managing editor, a fine southern gentleman, saw Ohio University on my resume and asked if that’s where Woody Hayes coached.

No, sir, that was Zero State in Columbus.

“How long were you on the school paper?” he asked.

One year, I told him.

“What’d you do the other three years, drink beer?”

Yes, sir.

“Good. I did it for four.”

In a world where crabby tight asses seem to make all the rules and then more rules regarding the original rules, convivial folk will always have a way of finding one another.

I got that job and it was instrumental in launching a career that has led me to friendships with some of the world’s most fascinating individuals.

Athens was where I became who I am.

So cheers, Ohio University. I’ve been under your influence for 30 years now.

And gloriously under the influence for many of those years.

And it’s all just been one hell of a good time.

True Grit and no-grit De Niro: A Hollywood two-fer

I just saw one of the most talked about and critically praised movies of the year this week, and am mystified that one of the year’s most critically panned movies did smashing box office business.

Each is worthy of thoughtful commentary.

If that’s what you’re after, please look elsewhere.

This is a holiday week, a time when people with paychecks relax.

But that has nothing to do with blogging, which is sort of like a hobby in that it earns no money and distracts from actual wage-earning endeavors. Combine those factors with someone like me, a blogger who cherishes laziness, and you’re not  going to get something thoughtful or structured.

I’m not going to labor to form tedious transitions, mine wit or seek deeper meaning from popcorn matinees.

Instead, I’m going to take the lazy way out and write about them in two distinct sections.

I don’t think anyone’s going to mind. I apologize if you feel cheated and promise to come back next week with more cerebral stuff and maybe with a new blog motto for 2011:

“Now nearly three years without a price increase!”

• “True Grit” is more dud than Dude. The Coen Brothers have done so much marvelous work that herd critics are reluctant to say when they miss the mark, which is becoming more common.

I was disappointed. Worse, I was bored.

As I mentioned, I saw this with five buddies earlier this week. We sat in three different rows, two to a row, spread out with buffer seats between each of us. We were so intent on ensuring no one in the theater mistook us for the chipper gang from the Bravo show “Queer Eye for that Straight Guy” that Ronnie kept saying very loudly, “Gee, when do you think the girls will get here?”

I was really looking forward to this and, as with the last three or four Coen brother movies, I felt let down. It was a decent western and that’s something I always appreciate, but I expected more.

It must be nice making a movie about an obscure book and remaining faithful to its intent. That lets viewers and critics say of flaws, well, it’s just like that in the flawed book. 

C’mon. “True Grit” isn’t heirloom Americana. This isn’t grandpa’s old fire house chili recipe. If the book needs spice, throw in some cumin, dice up a pepper, add some Tabasco. Breath some fire into the old beast.

That’s what they did with the John Wayne version and it was great campy fun.

I just kept waiting for “True Grit” to kick into a higher gear that was never engaged. Jeff Bridges is becoming one of our best actors, and he was as  entertaining as expected. But the role wasn’t broad enough.

Much is being made of the sassy and opinionated 14-year-old star, Hailee Steinfeld, and her mouthy composure.

From what I understand, mouthy sass is something every 14 year-old girl who’s ever tuned into Disney shows like “iCarly” can instinctually summon.

The movie could have used a little literary license from the Coens who made things like “Fargo,” a movie that begins with an on-screen deception proclaiming what viewers are about to see really happened.

Why the lie? Here’s what Joel said.

"We weren't interested in that kind of storytelling fidelity,” he said. “If an audience believes that something's based on a real event, it gives you permission to do things they might otherwise not accept.”

Well, nothing in “True Grit” ever really happened.

And that’s how I felt about the afternoon walking out of the theater.

• What on earth can we as a concerned nation do about Robert De Niro? With the release of “Little Fockers,” I think we’ve reached a crisis situation.

He’s become on of those rarest of actors whose career trajectory has reversed. His best work was 30 years ago and he’s becoming increasingly unwatchable.

How the man who played Jake LaMotta in “Raging Bull,” Travis Bickle in “Taxi Driver,” Michael Vronksy in “The Deer Hunter” and Vito Corleone in two monumental Godfather epics could allow his prestige to be diminished in not one but two Focker sequels is appalling.

It’s as if Paul Newman starred as Butch Cassidy and Cool Hand Luke in his 20s and concluded his career flirting on the Lido Deck with cruise director Julie McCoy on the “Love Boat.”

De Niro, 67, hasn’t made an important movie since “Casino” in 1995. He turned down great roles opposite Clint Eastwood in “In the Line of Fire” (the John Malkovich role) and again in “The Departed” (the role that went to splendid Martin Sheen).

Critics panned the fock out of this version and some even took unkind shots at the original “Meet The Parents,” a movie I find hilarious.

But everyone involved in these sequels has disgraced themselves, none worse than the once-great De Niro.

He’s capable of great comedy, as he’s shown in the uproarious 1988 film “Midnight Run.”

Tom Hanks understands his popularity is based more on his likeability than his acting ability. He’s very wise and selective in the roles he plays and he stays below the radar.

De Niro is ubiquitous for all the wrong reasons. He’s in too many bad movies and seems intent on ridiculing all that made him great (“Analyze This/That,” “Shark Tale” and the “GodFocker” bits in the current nonsense).

Isn’t anybody offering Robert De Niro good roles?

Unless he does something good -- and it better be good and bloody -- he might as well go off and toil in unpaid obscurity doing something he enjoys doing for free.

I’d urge him to consider blogging.

• Happy New Year! Resolve in 2011 to overcome your fear of being lazy.

Keep me safe! Touch my junk!

In “The Sting,” the outstanding Paul Newman/Robert Redford 1973 film, Redford and a crafty old con man target a mob numbers runner for larcenous deception.

The old man and another insider stage a knife fight to lure the eager mark into taking the loot.

During a clever swap, Redford’s Johnny Hooker tells the mark to put the money way down the front of his pants to avoid detection.

“The toughest guy in the world won’t frisk you there,” Hooker says.

I was thinking of that scene the other day as I stood, legs spread, in the security vortex at Greater Pittsburgh Airport.

The TSA agent didn’t look like the toughest guy in the world. In fact, I figured I could have kicked his butt had I been indifferent to spending the next five to 10 years in a federal penitentiary.

He had a job to do. I doubt he sprung of bed each day all chipper and thinking, “Man! I’m the luckiest guy in the world! Today I get to run my hands all over nearly 300 sullen strangers! Yippee!”

He sure didn’t look happy about getting what I guess you can call “frisky” with me.

My arms were spread and I’m sure to the lady operating the full body scanner I resembled the Leonardo da Vinci sketch of the naked Renaissance man, only one with a modern middle age paunch.

He did the arms, the chest, then knelt down to my ankles and started working his way north with a series of squeezes what in other circumstances could have been called affectionate.

 “Okay, now I’m going to come clear up to the bottom of the torso.”

I’d never heard it called that before. It’s a perfectly bureaucratic phrase. I’m sure the rest of us civilians can instinctively come up with one or two mono-syllabic words to describe the region he was duty bound to secure.

Did I feel violated? No.

Did I want express outrage? No, but I did make a mental note to place an industrial-sized whoopee cushion near the bottom of my torso next time I fly.

And the worst way to travel somehow manages to make itself even more irksome and degrading.

Few people remember but one of the biggest stories of the summer of 2001 was the push to pass an airline passenger bill of rights.

Why, passengers were tired of being treated so rudely. We’d had it up to the tops of our torsos with such shabby treatment.

Remember what bumped that story off the front pages?

Sure you do. After the terrors of 9/11 we were all willing to submit to any indignity that would ensure our planes were safe.

I guess the hyperbolic outrage over these invasive pat downs is a sign of how complacent we’ve become.

What’s amazing to me is there has been actual attempted bombings that involve every invasive security measure that have us literally so up in arms.

We had a shoe bomber so we all had to shuck their shoes.

We had a bomber with explosives in his underwear -- and you’d think there’s a dandy pick-up line in there somewhere -- so now we’re getting grabbed in places once reserved for intimates.

No one can argue the whole system isn’t utterly insane and wasteful. In 10 years, we’ve had fewer than a dozen young men of Middle Eastern descent try to board planes with bombs, yet every single passenger from toddlers to grannies is suspect.

I take a back seat to know one in regard to civil liberties, but the current system makes no sense. Yet, who’s to argue it’s not working?

For me an even more egregious incident than the invasive pat down happened on the way home.

I was given bottle of fine cabernet and thought it would be safer if I returned it home in my carryon, rather than risk getting it smashed by the gorillas in baggage handling.

It was corked and waxed. I would need banned weapons and a good reason to celebrate to open the thing in flight.

Never occurred to me it was a liquid and thus eligible for confiscation. They told me I could go back and check it, but I didn’t need add yet another layer of hassle to my trip.

I said cheers, boys. This one’s on me.

So you know what I’m going to do?

I think I’m going to spend the day searching the internet for a Patrick or a Patricia Downs to ask them if they’re invasive by nature or upset that people are hating all these pat downs.

I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.