The Great Movies III

There are tragedies in conflict here: (a) a frog who is a song-anddance star, who has been locked in the dark for decades but cannot perform in public; and (b) a worker who dreams of wealth and is considered a fool and a liar. The story of "One Froggy Evening" involves an endless loop of frustration. Jones bent the rules to sneak it around Schlesinger, and it was hailed as a masterpiece-so popular that although the frog appeared in only one cartoon, he was later given a name (Michigan J. Frog, the middle initial in honor of Time magazine film critic Jay Cocks) and became a logo for the WB Network.

Cartoons were limited not only in length but in detail; they were made at a time when every frame had to be drawn by hand, and implacable producers like Schlesinger kept an eye on the time clock. Backgrounds tended to be static unless motion was essential; the animators focused on the characters, and it is remarkable what precision of behavior and personality they achieved. In body language, as much as in the voices supplied by such gifted artists as Mel Blanc, the characters expressed themselves, and to look at the elegant nonchalance of Bugs or the frenzied determination of Daffy is to see a universe of emotion conveyed in animation where economy met style.

These cartoons, and all the cartoons from the same tradition, seemed doomed to play for a week and then disappear (although sometimes there would be a collection of "Five Color Cartoons"before a kiddie matinee, and London's Piccadilly Circus had a theater that played only cartoons). Then, just as the studios pulled the plug on cartoon shorts, color TV came along to give them a new life, and now on cable and DVD they seem immortal. There are two ways to regard them: as silly little entertainments, or as an art form that in its own small way, its limitations permitting an infinity of imagination, approaches perfection.

Thanks to reader Mark Kitchen, who suggested cartoons as GreatMovies, and credit to the commentary tracks and supplementary material on the Warner Bros. Looney Tunes Golden Collection volumes i and 2.

11 these years after the release of Cool Hand Luke in 1967, all you have to do is say, "What we have here is-failure to communicate." Everyone knows the line, and everyone can identify the film, even those who may not have seen it. And here's the curious part. As they make the connection, they'll invariably smile, as if recalling a pleasant experience, a good time at the movies. Have you seen Cool Hand Luke lately? I have. Rarely has an important movie star suffered more, in a film wall-to-wall with physical punishment, psychological cruelty, hopelessness, and equal parts of sadism and masochism.

It is a great film. On that most of us can agree. But such a film could not possibly be made in more recent decades, not one starring Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise or other actors comparable to Paul Newman's stature. It is simply too painful. I can imagine a voice at a studio pitch meeting: "Nobody wants to see that." Much was made by many critics, myself included, of Newman's "anti-hero" stature in Luke and other films he made around the same time: The Hustler, Hud, even Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I'm no longer sure he's an anti-hero in Cool Hand Luke. I think he's more of a willing martyr, a man so obsessed with the wrongness of the world that he invites death to prove himself correct. Louis Armstrong once said, "There are some folks that, if they don't know, you can't tell'em."The brutal guards who rule the work camp where Luke is a prisoner demonstrate time and again that if he escapes, he will be captured and punished to within an inch of his life. Since he knows that, is he seeking punishment?

The film is an effective physical production, set in the South but filmed around Stockton, California, in a bleak rural landscape. Fifty prisoners, counted daily, are assigned to a work gang under the fierce eyes of the Captain (Strother Martin) and the never-seen eyes of Boss Godfrey (Morgan Woodward), whose reflecting sunglasses get him described as "the man with no eyes." (That he does not speak adds to his stature as a fearsome icon.) The gang is ruled by its top dog, a prisoner named Dragline (George Kennedy). The newcomer Luke loses little time in challenging Dragline's authority, and they have a boxing match during which Dragline beats him almost to death. It is a point of pride to Luke that he hauls himself to his feet and refuses to admit defeat, and this, we discover, will be his method throughout the movie: he can't win, but he can continue to absorb punishment indefinitely.