The 100 Best Movies You've Never Seen

by Richard Crouse

  THE SEVEN FACES OF DR. LAO (1964)

  “The whole world is a circus if you know how to look at it.”

  — Dr. Lao

  March 1964 was a busy month in show business. The British tabloids reported that George Harrison had met model Patti Boyd on the set of A Hard Day's Night. Liz Taylor divorced her fourth husband, Eddie Fisher. Later that same month Taylor married Richard Burton, telling reporters at the wedding that “it will last forever.” Barbra Streisand became a sensation on Broadway, starting a three-year run at the Winter Garden Theatre as the star of Funny Girl. Dusty Springfield had a Top 40 hit with “Stay Awhile.” On television Honor Blackman's last episode of The Avengers aired in the U.K.

  There was a fair amount of action in the movie theaters too. The first installment of the Inspector Clouseau series, The Pink Panther, was released, becoming a big hit. Disney's The Misadventures of Merlin Jones with Tommy Kirk and Annette Funicello opened in U.S. theaters. Sophia Loren could be seen starring in The Fall of the Roman Empire. But the most engaging film to hit the screens that month was director George Pal's The 7 Faces of Dr. Lao, with Tony Randall and Barbara Eden.

  George Pal possessed one of Hollywood's greatest imaginations. As a director he made a string of films, sometimes with very low budgets, that helped define the science-fiction/fantasy genre. In Destination Moon he told the story of a group of businessmen who send the first spaceship to the lunar surface. Pal showed us how scientists saved mankind by building a giant ark in When Worlds Collide.

  Using a combination of live and stop-motion effects, he created worlds and creatures that hadn't been seen before, but his films were more than a series of special effects. He may have destroyed Los Angeles in The War of the Worlds, but he managed to weave a thread of humanity through the story. He always infused his fantastic stories with real people in unreal situations. It's a technique that makes his films special. In a George Pal film the viewer can look in wonder at the special effects but still enjoy a good story, populated by real, fully rounded characters. Often the lower budget science-fiction films of the '50s and '60s fell prey to the trap of supplying visual special effects with little or no believability character-wise. Pal never believed, as so many in Hollywood did, that sci-fi films were second-class citizens compared to Westerns or musicals. From the 1940s on George Pal raised the bar for all other fantasy filmmakers.

  The source material for The 7 Faces of Dr. Lao is an obscure novel by Charles Finney, a marine who wrote the book while stationed in China. Published in 1935 by Viking Press, The Circus of Dr. Lao featured illustrations by well-known Russian illustrator Boris Artzybasheff, and told the story of a mysterious Asian magician/ringleader and his menagerie of weird and wonderful creatures. Literally the greatest show on earth (or any other planet) with a supernatural twist.

  The book is at times funny and satirical, painting a vivid picture of small town Abalone, Arizona, the site of the traveling circus's latest show. Finney populates his book with a cast of colorful characters. The townspeople are described in succinct, but sparkling detail. In one of my favorite passages Agnes Birdsong is described as someone who “the boys said was damned good company after she learned to smoke and drink.”

  The star of the book, of course, is Dr. Lao, a mysterious impresario who oversees a sideshow that features such “unbiological creatures” as Apollonius, Satan, a satyr, Medusa, and the Great God Yottle. Finney is sketchy on the details of Dr. Lao's background. We never learn what kind of doctor he is, or the source of his magical powers.

  Seasoned wordsmith Charles Beaumont was hired to tailor the novel for the screen. As one of the main writers on the original Twilight Zone television series, Beaumont was skilled at fleshing out this type of magic realism story where ordinary people encounter metaphysical forces tinged with moral issues. He took liberties with the book, including subverting the ending.

  Beaumont starts the action with a ruthless businessman, Clint Stark (Arthur O'Connell) who secretly learns of a plan to build a railroad near the town of Abalone. Seeing dollar signs, he tries to buy up the town with the hope of turning a handsome profit. The shortsighted townspeople are more than happy to sell, with the exception of Ed Cunningham, a crusading newspaper reporter (John Ericson) who tries to fight Stark's plans. Along the way we meet the greedy inhabitants of Abalone, and a pre-I Dream of Jeanie Barbara Eden, who plays Cunningham's love interest. While Cunningham wages a war of words against Stark, a mysterious circusmaster arrives in town and takes out an ad in the newspaper.

  Flip-flopping between pidgin English and eloquence, Dr. Lao (Tony Randall) changes his demeanor to suit whatever situation he is in. Using his mysterious powers, he morphs into Merlin the Magician, Pan, Medusa, The Abominable Snowman, Apollonius of Tyana, and a Talking Serpent to teach the townspeople about themselves and how they can solve their problems.

  Beaumont's treatment of the story played fast and loose with Finney's original text, particularly in Dr. Lao's interactions with the people of Abalone. In the book he has no appreciable effect on the people who come to see his show. For the film, however, it was decided that he should transform the townsfolk with his magic, teaching them the folly of their ways.

  There is a lot to like about The 7 Faces of Dr. Lao. In the truest practice of satire Beaumont and Pal hold a mirror to society. The people of Abalone are stock characters who represent various types of human nature and learn about life and morality from the strange displays of Dr. Lao. Beaumont's script is never heavy-handed; he uses humor to examine the human condition. The use of Dr. Lao's sideshow attractions blurs the line between fact and illusion, questioning the very nature of human spirit.

  Also featured are some great (for 1964) special effects, designed by Academy Award-winner William J. Tuttle. To modern eyes accustomed to Jurassic Park-style cgi, Dr. Lao's Loch Ness Monster and other creatures may look quaint, but are a wonder of stop-motion puppetry.

  Tony Randall's portrayal of Dr. Lao and six of his seven alter egos (John Ericson doubled as the horned god Pan in an odd dance sequence) is a marvelous bit of work. Usually I would have trouble with a Caucasian actor playing an Asian character, particularly when that character is central to the story, but Randall treats Dr. Lao with respect. His character believes in the good of his patrons, and is truly perceptive. In addition to using a stereotypical Hollywood Chinese accent, Randall also peppers the film with English, Southern, and French accents, thereby obscuring the doctor's mysterious past, adding intrigue to his portrayal.

  It is unusual for a film made at this time to promote racial tolerance, but Pal subtly does so by having the people of small town Abalone ultimately embrace the unusual Dr. Lao.

  The 7 Faces of Dr. Lao is appropriate for kids and adults alike.

  SIMONE (2002)

  “Our ability to manufacture fraud now exceeds our ability to detect it.”

  — Viktor Taranski (Al Pacino)

  Simone is a wickedly funny satire on the movie business and the nature of celebrity. Al Pacino is Viktor Taranski, a middling filmmaker who has never had a hit. When his star walks out on him in mid-production on his latest film he must find a replacement or the movie will never be released. A chance meeting with an eccentric computer programmer with terminal cancer leads Viktor to his new leading lady, a synthespian named Simone (a shortened version of Simulation One). The blonde, blue-eyed vision of beauty doesn't actually exist except on a floppy disc, but becomes an overnight sensation after the release of the picture.

  Taranski must resort to trickery to keep his secret and her identity under wraps. As she becomes more and more popular — at one point being nominated for two Best Actress Academy awards in the same year, and winning both of them — Taranski realizes that his personal success is completely linked to her existence, and it eats away at him. The movie skewers the Hollywood star system and gently pokes fun at Simone's fans, who completely accept her as a real, breathing superstar.

  “We, the audience, worship these celebriti
es and in this case the ultimate joke is that we are worshiping a celebrity that is thin air,” director and screenwriter Andrew Niccol told Reel to Real in 2002. “Then you have to ask yourself how real are the so-called real celebrities. Even they are artificial to some degree. We have digital newscasters. We have actors acting from the grave. Oliver Reed died during the making of Gladiator, and they finished the film with a digital Oliver Reed. Even the so-called real actors have digital work done to them. I've stretched actors to make them look slimmer and I've fixed their complexions. You can now do face replacements. You have a stuntman do a stunt and then you'll insert the actor's face. So it is being done now, and it is most successful when you don't know it's a digital effect.”

  Pacino shines as Taranski. Gone are the dark days when he simply yelled his way through a role. The histrionics have disappeared and he has started acting again. His Taranski is an interesting character, a man who cares only about art, but finds himself tangled up in the most artificial business in the world. Pacino plays him with humor and restraint. “I thought it was so subversive after it was done to have Al Pacino, one of the world's great actors say, ‘Who needs actors?'” says Niccol.

  Catherine Keener is here playing an entertainment executive for the third time in the same year — Death to Smoochy and Full Frontal were the other two — and hands in the kind of solid, funny, sexy performance she is known for. Winona Ryder has a small role as a fiercely difficult actress named Nicola Anders. I remember thinking that after her dreadful performance in Mr. Deeds it seemed like Ryder had forgotten how to act. Well, she's back in my good books after seeing her in Simone. While she doesn't exactly steal the movie, she is very good.

  STAGE DOOR (1937)

  “The calla lilies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower,

  suitable to any occasion. I carried them on my wedding day and

  now I place them here in memory of something that has died.”

  — Terry Randall (Katherine Hepburn)

  Catchphrases can be a blessing and a curse. For instance, Arnold Schwarzenegger's reading of the Terminator's most famous line “I'll be back,” struck a chord with audiences, and became a favorite punch line of every hack comedian hoping to get a cheap laugh at Arnold's expense. On the one hand it helped embed the image of the muscleman in popular culture; on the other it forever labeled Arnold as the brunt of jokes.

  It's not a new phenomenon. Way back in 1937 Katherine Hepburn uttered a line that would plague her for the rest of her career. In Stage Door she plays a wealthy, headstrong amateur actress who delivers the line, “The calla lilies are in bloom again,” in a monotone voice as she makes her stage debut. Lines like that make guys like Rich Little rich. It transcended the popularity of the movie, becoming the quote that everyone used when poking fun at Ms Hepburn and her distinctive voice. The movie, of course, has much more to offer than just that one famous line.

  Based on a stage play by Edna Ferber and George S. Kaufman, Stage Door sees Hepburn and Ginger Rogers (in her first major role sans Fred Astaire) leading a large ensemble cast (including future stars Lucille Ball, Ann Miller, and Eve Arden) as residents of the Footlights Club, a seedy boarding house for wannabe actresses. Terry Randall (Hepburn) is a prim-and-proper rich kid with stars in her eyes. She doesn't fit in with the rest of the women, who respond to her well-bred ways with wisecracks. “How many doors are there to this place?” asks Terry. “Well, there's the trap door, the humidor, and the cuspidor. How many doors would you like?” replies Jean (Rogers).

  Eventually the inexperienced Terry is given the chance to act, and during rehearsals delivers the classic interpretation of the calla lilies line. Although she's thrilled to be a working actress, her big break comes with a heavy price. Kaye (Andrea Leeds), another roomer at the hostel, had her heart set on the part that Terry won and kills herself on opening night. With just minutes before the curtain rises Jean tells Terry the tragic news, blaming her for Kaye's death. Distraught, Terry refuses to go on, but is talked into performing as a tribute to Kaye. The tragedy stirs something in her, pushing her acting to new levels.

  Stage Door sparkles with good dialogue. Shooting started without a finished script, so director Gregory LaCava relied on improvisation between the actresses for much of the back and forth in the boardinghouse. This lends a spur-of-the-moment, natural feeling to the movie and adds to the chemistry among the cast members.

  On the strength of these strong performances, Stage Door was a breakthrough for two cast members. Ginger Rogers was already an established song-and-dance star with three dozens films to her credit, but this was her first dramatic role. No longer typecast as a hoofer, she used Stage Door as a springboard, as she went on to make many dramas, including 1940's critically acclaimed Kitty Foyle. Lucille Ball had appeared in 40 movies, although mostly in non-speaking parts with names like “Davy's Girlfriend at Racetrack,” or “blonde telephone operator.” Her small but effervescent role in Stage Door gave her a chance to share her comic gift. It was just the kind of role she needed to graduate from uncredited parts to starring in low-budget comedies.

  Although the film was nominated for four Academy Awards, Katherine Hepburn wasn't honored. Her famous line, however, lived on, which may have been a delicious irony for Hepburn. She borrowed the line from her failed 1933 Broadway vehicle The Lake, which was met with critical indifference. The quote from the unsuccessful play that she believed in so much had finally achieved immortality.

  THE STRAIGHT STORY (1999)

  “I'd give each one of ‘em a stick and, one for each one of 'em,

  then I'd say, ‘You break that.' Course they could real easy. Then

  I'd say, ‘Tie them sticks in a bundle and try to break that.'

  Course they couldn't. Then I'd say, ‘That bundle . . . that's family.'”

  — Alvin Straight (Richard Farnsworth)

  Edgy, weird, and dangerous are several words commonly used to describe director David Lynch's work. Eraserhead, Blue Velvet, Wild At Heart, and Mulholland Drive are noted for their dark view of America's soft underbelly, earning Lynch the nickname “Jimmy Stewart from Mars.” “Disney,” “gentle,” and “heart-warming” are some words I never thought I'd hear connected to a David Lynch movie, but that was before I saw The Straight Story.

  Written by Lynch's live-in companion and long-time editor Mary Sweeney, this is the most linear, and well, straight-ahead story Lynch has ever committed to film. Alvin Straight (Richard Farnsworth) is a true-to-life character who embarks on a long journey to visit his estranged brother Henry (Harry Dean Stanton) who has recently suffered a stroke. It's a road picture with a twist. You see, Alvin is up there in years, walks with a cane, has a host of medical problems, and doesn't have a driver's license. To make the trip he rides a second-hand John Deere lawn tractor 240 miles from his home in Iowa to Wisconsin. “I call it the four-mile-an-hour road picture,” says Sissy Spacek, who plays Alvin's daughter Rose. Along the journey, which Lynch wisely takes his time with, we learn much about the plainspoken Alvin. He speaks of the relationship with his wife that produced 14 children, his years as an Army sniper, and his predilection for drink. The dialogue is simple and straightforward, but packs an emotional wallop as we get inside Alvin's skin.

  For Farnsworth The Straight Story was the role of a lifetime. The Los Angeles-born Farnsworth was 79 and in ill health when he began shooting the film. He began his career in motion pictures as a teenaged stuntman, driving a chariot for Cecil B. DeMille. For the next 40 years he worked anonymously, doing stunt riding and tricks in 300 films and television shows, even co-founding the Stuntman's Association in 1961, before director Alan J. Pakula cast him in a meaty supporting role as an aging ranch hand in 1978's Comes a Horseman. His work on that film garnered him an Academy Award nomination, and led to many other roles, including his much celebrated portrayal of Bill Miner in the Canadian film The Grey Fox.

  Alvin Straight was Farnsworth's last role, and a fitting capper to his long and interesting ca
reer. His graceful performance is deceptively simple, presented with the kind of ease that can only come with years of experience. It's the kind of dignified, natural performance that runs the risk of seeming too real, like he's not acting at all. That's because he is so deep into the character that he seems to transcend the story, almost as if you're watching a documentary. His eyes have seen it all and betray the wisdom of human experience. He wears the wrinkles on his craggy face like a badge of honor, the result of a life well lived. Much like Farnsworth himself. “He's got a quality that's so strong, and he makes every word and glance seem real,” says Lynch. “He has innocence, and that's a gift.”

  The Straight Story is a beautiful piece of work, a movie that takes its time to unfold, but delivers rewards to those willing to wait for the payoff. It is the first film of Lynch's that he did not write, his first G-rating, and the first made in collaboration with Disney. He cites a good working relationship with the studio, but doesn't concern himself with the business of making movies. “Business is so far down the ladder of importance when it comes to the film that it shouldn't even be discussed,” he told The Guardian. “It's sick how much attention it gets, but then, the world is ass backwards. It would be fantastic to be able to make movies and never put them out. I love getting them to where they're really right for me — that part is beautiful. When it's time to release them, the heartache begins.”

  SUGAR TOWN (1999)

  “Fame is the one addiction that you can never overcome. You can kick heroin, but you can never beat the fame high.”

  — Allison Anders, director of Sugar Town

  Writer /director Allison Anders has specialized in making deeply personal, quirky films about the music business. Her first film, 1987's Border Radio, followed three musicians on the lam after stealing money from a club owner. Ten years later she made Grace of My Heart, an underrated little jewel about a songwriter who sets aside her dreams of being a star to write hit songs for other artists. Rounding off her music biz trilogy is 1999's Sugar Town, a look at the jaded L.A. scene, written with collaborator Kurt Voss in just eight days.