SUPERMAN: THE MOVIE 1978

In writing about films, I'm afraid I'm guilty of coming down pretty hard on the recent spate of comic book movies. My usual gripes:

1. The cloak of self-seriousness they've shrouded themselves in of late.

2. The need for each successive film in a franchise to be busier, noisier, and more frenetically-plotted than the last.

3. The gradual usurpation of the kid-friendly genre by adult males (college-age to middle) willing to come to social media blows and death threats over plot points, casting, trivia, and fidelity to source material. Which, it bears repeating…is a Comic Book.

4. There just being so darn many of them.

Despite their obvious popularity and profitability, I still stand by my assertion that glutting the market with so much ideologically and stylistically similar "product" may be good business, but it's lousy art. But whenever I find myself being too much of a curmudgeon about the ceaseless hype surrounding the latest cookie-cutter entry in the DC or Marvel franchise, I only have to remind myself of what a flurry of hoopla and excitement I happily allowed myself to get swept up in way back in 1978. 

I don't think there was a soul on earth more charged-up about the release of Superman: The Movie. A film that was then, and remains today, my absolute favorite superhero movie of all time.

Christopher Reeve as Superman / Clark Kent

Margot Kidder as Lois Lane

Gene Hackman as Lex Luthor

Valerie Perrine as Eve Teschmacher

Like many people my age, Superman comic books and reruns of The Adventures of Superman TV series (1952-1958) were an inextricable part of my childhood. And, outside of a few Saturday morning cartoons, they were also the only Superman I knew. (The less said about the 1975 TV version of the 1966 Broadway musical, It's a Bird… It's a Plane… It's Superman the better). So while I dearly loved the TV series, when it was announced in 1976 that a mega-budget, all-star Superman film was going into production, I was overjoyed at the prospect of any form of updating of that program's '50s sensibilities (gangsters and crime lords), cheesy flying effects, and George Reeves' baggy-kneed Superman tights. 

Interest and excitement intensified as I opened myself up to being subjected to nearly two years of pre-production hype and advance publicity. I ate it up. By the time the film was set to open, I had whipped myself into a proper frenzy of anticipation.  

Marlon Brando and Susannah York as Jor-El & Lara

Glenn Ford and Phyllis Thaxter as Ma & Pa Kent

Superman: The Movie opened Friday, December 15th, 1978, at Grauman's Chinese Theater in LA, and, of course, I was in line opening night. The pre-release press reviews were near-unanimous raves. The film's marketing strategy—minimalist teaser ads dramatically highlighting the Superman insignia and little else—left everyone intrigued yet completely in the dark. In those pre-internet days, it was easier for movies to keep much of their content under wraps before release, so buzzing through the waiting crowd that night was the thrill of expectation, wonder, and the sense of being present for an "event." 

The first weekend of release saw the theater adding late-night screenings to accommodate the overflowing masses. The line I stood in (formed at 4pm to get into an 8pm show) wrapped almost around the block. Camaraderie born of the shared battle fatigue of waiting so long revealed that all any of us could talk about was how Superman: The Movie was going to stack up, special effects-wise, to the previous year's megahit, Star Wars. That, and speculating on how the film intended to make good on the promise of its tagline: "You'll Believe a Man Can Fly." 

The makers of Superman had a knack for setting up and meeting audience expectations.
The first time Reeve unveils the "new" Superman outfit (no baggy knees!)
 is also the first time the audience finds out how this particular Superman will fly.
The audience I saw it with started cheering the moment they saw that cape and blue tights. But when the Man of Steele took off in graceful flight, throwing us a literal curve by banking the wall of the fortress (no prior Superman had ever flown in any directions other than horizontal and vertical) ...the cheers and applause reached stadium levels. 

George Reeves, the Superman of childhood.
Christopher Reeve, my favorite Superman of all time.

Whenever I rewatch Superman, I can still remember, clear as a bell, what it was like seeing it that first time. First, there was that familiar rumble of excitement that passed through the packed theater as the lights dimmed and everyone sat higher in their seats and got in their last-minute shushes. Then, that moment when the square aspect ratio of the B&W prologue is literally pushed into 70mm widescreen color (and MAJOR amplified Dobly sound) by those laser-like "flying credits" whooshing towards us. The loudest boom (which sounded like a jet plane taking off) was reserved for the appearance of the Superman insignia, which seemed to zoom in over our heads onto the screen from somewhere at the back of the theater. 

Next came the first trumpeting of horns of composer John Williams' majestically heroic score, and with this, absolute pandemonium in the auditorium. The biggest collective gasp I've ever heard in my life filled the Chinese Theater, followed by applause and thrilled exclamations all around. 

Superman wasn't even two minutes old and already had the audience eating out of its hand.

Otis (Ned Beatty) and Miss Teschmacher read about the Man of  Steel. I think Otis moves his lips.

Although production on Superman had begun before Star Wars was released, Superman: The Movie arose from the same cultural zeitgeist. In concept and execution, it was another affectionate update and tribute to the kinds of films that kids of my generation grew up seeing at Saturday matinees. The cynical and disillusioned '70s—whose attitudes echoed the Great Depression of the 1930s—were searching for hope and heroes. (That other Depression Era optimist, Annie, had opened on Broadway just a year before in early 1977.) The simplicity of Superman's motto: a belief in "truth, justice, and the American way," struck a social chord.

Superman: The Movie accomplished the miracle of being something totally new, yet comfortingly nostalgic. Something sophisticated, yet charmingly corny. Something spoofishly fun, yet respectful of both the Superman legend and its legions of fans. And, for once, a film had lived up to its massive hype. 

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM:

When action films and summer blockbusters come under critical fire for being moronic, shoddily written, or just a series of explosions and car chases strung haphazardly together (directors Michael Bay and Roland Emmerich come to mind), I always take umbrage when their lazy defense is: "It's not supposed to be taken seriously," "It's pure escapism!", or "It's intended for kids!"

As children's book authors Dr. Seuss and Roald Dahl could tell you, kids aren't stupid, and escapist fare doesn't mean mindless.  

Jackie Cooper as Perry White

What I love about Superman: The Movie is how smart it is. Correction: make that ingenious. It's the canniest transfer of a comic book character to the movie screen I've ever seen. The script is witty and sharp, the tone is winkingly arch, and there are many thrills to be had in the film's masterfully-handled action sequences. But best of all, the film never plays down to the audience. 

Expertly balancing ever-shifting tones of adventure, romance, drama, and comedy, Superman: The Movie employs a classic, three-act story structure and finds ways to lend dimension to its comic-book-originated characters. 

Jeff East as Young Clark Kent

Though the budget for Superman: The Movie tipped at $55 million, an element that plays out nicely over time is the human-sized scale of the film's narrative. Hewing closely to the simplicity of the original comic books and TV series, the villainous stakes of Lex Luthor and his henchmen may come across as modest compared to the overcrowded, overplotted, mass-mayhem destruction noise fests of today. But for me, the film's accessible scale is a significant part of its charm.
I like a Superman who has time to rescue cats from trees and apprehend common thieves. I find the whole "global destruction" angle of contemporary superhero films just too emotionally distancing.

Jor-El sentences Ursa, Non, and General Zod to the Phantom Zone
Villains Sarah Douglas, Jack O'Halloran, & Terence Stamp
don't really make their presence felt until Superman II (1980)

PERFORMANCES

During the entirety of my childhood George Reeves and Noel Neill were the only Superman and Lois Lane I knew. Now, rather spontaneously, when I think of Superman and Lois Lane, I can only see Christopher Reeve and Margot Kidder. Their performances have blotted out all prior and subsequent incarnations of the characters. Both actors are such spot-on, visually witty, temperamentally ideal incarnations of the characters that they have become Superman and Lois for me. 

Lke Jeremy Irons in David Cronenberg's Dead Ringers, Reeve's dual performance
 involves subtle shifts in body language that transform his features right before my eyes

I've loved movies all my life, but I've never fully understood that imperceptible, interdependent alchemy the camera captures that accounts for screen chemistry and star quality. It strikes me as a most elusive, ethereal factor, yet the fates of multimillion-dollar movie projects are tethered to it. Both Christopher Reeve and Margot Kidder are fine actors in their own right, but for me, they've never registered as effectively in any other film or with any other co-star. They are magic together, and I treasure every scene they share. 

The casting of Marlon Brando was a central thrust of Superman's early publicity, but time has revealed his contribution to have been simultaneously significant (the Brando persona adds gravitas to the whole "Father of Superman" thing) and negligible (any number of competent actors could have done as well).

However, I've nothing but unqualified praise for the rest of the marvelous cast assembled.  

I sense a great deal of the credit is owed to director Richard Donner (The Omen), who, after setting the right tone and creating a kind of cartoon reality, then has his actors pitch their performances to just the right level of believable and comic. Glenn Ford and Phyllis Thaxter play their scenes with a beautiful, relaxed naturalness that perfectly sets up the "comic book" style acting that takes over when Clark moves to Metropolis. Jackie Cooper's excitable Perry White is one of my favorite performances, and I am particularly delighted by Gene Hackman and his barely-up-to-the-task minions Valerie Perrine and Ned Beatty.

Marc McClure as Jimmy Olsen

THE STUFF OF FANTASY
Swoon alert. One of the top reasons Superman: The Movie is my fave rave superhero movie is because I am absolutely enchanted by the Superman/Lois Lane romance. And as embodied by Reeve and Kidder, they make for one of cinema's most charismatic and charming screen couples. I'm a sucker for corny romance anyway, but in taking the time to create a Lois and Clark that are quirky, imperfect, and endearing, Superman made the pair so likable that you're practically rooting for them to fall in love. 
*Spoiler Ahead*
I'm well past middle age, I've seen this movie dozens of times, and it's a movie adapted from a comic book for Chrissakes; but when Lois dies at the end, I get waterworks each and every time. Christopher Reeve's performance is just remarkable (I love that bit when he tenderly places her body on the ground and winces, as if afraid to hurt her even in death). The entire sequence is a tribute to what writers can achieve in a big-budget genre film if they remember a film's audience comprises human beings, not market analysts. Superman made me believe in these fictional characters by getting me to identify with them and care about what happens to them. Today, I think superhero films are out to get their audiences to have a relationship with the stunts, gadgetry, and special effects. .

The Effects Are Fake, The Characters Are Real
Since the relationship between Lois and Clark looms so large in my fondness for the film,  it never bothers me that the special effects in Superman look so dated. In an ironic twist, today's superhero films have special effects that are eye-poppingly real; only the characters are cardboard.

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

I'd be remiss in praising Superman without making special mention of the indispensable contributions of famed cinematographer Geoffrey Unsworth (Murder on the Orient Express, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and Cabaret) and composer John Williams (Jaws, Star Wars, Close Encounters of the Third Kind). A master of light with an eloquent eye for composition, Unsworth gives Superman a distinctive sheen (evident in the screencaps used here), its degree of impact made all the more conspicuous by how significantly subsequent Superman films suffered due to their lack of visual distinction.  

And what can I say about John William's epic Superman theme? Absolute perfection! It deftly strikes the right chord of nostalgia by recalling the classic TV show theme, yet feels like a wholly new take on those soaring themes from serials and adventure films of yesteryear. Williams' score is one of those real goosebump-inducing anthems that absolutely MAKES the film. As far as I'm concerned, John Williams is as responsible for Superman's success as Richard Donner.

Past Meets Present
The best joke in the film, and the one that got the absolute biggest, loudest laugh of the evening, was the sight gag featuring Clark Kent, in full retro "This looks like a job for Superman!" mode, encountering his first modern phone booth.

After 1980's Superman II (which I very much enjoyed), it's fair to say I haven't liked a single Superman incarnation—film or TV—since. I do intend seeing Man of Steel (2013) when it comes out on DVD*, although I admit, my expectations aren't very high. 

*Update 2014: Watched Man of Steel and my jaw never left the floor, stunned as I was for how epic a miscalculation the whole costly enterprise was.

So, the point of this post is that, despite my grousing, I really do "get it" when it comes to the public's fascination with comic book movies today. Even without needing to call them 'graphic novels." I appreciate that illustration is a valid narrative medium and doesn't instantly brand a work as lightweight or intended only for children. 

It's natural to want to recapture the sense of wonder movies had for us as kids. And I can't think of a better reminder of that fact than Superman: The Movie. 

Copyright © Ken Anderson  2009 - 2013

MYRA BRECKINRIDGE 1970

Although Myra Breckinridge was a movie that thoroughly captured my adolescent imagination and attention in 1970, it was also one of the few films my parents absolutely forbade me to see. My folks were usually obligingly (and conveniently) in the dark about the many age-inappropriate matinees I traipsed off to on Saturday afternoons, but Myra Breckinridge proved an inopportune exception. Behind it all was the fact that my parents owned a hardback copy of Gore Vidal's satirical novel (which my sisters and I snuck clandestinely, barely comprehending, peeks at). Thus, they weren't about to let their Catholic School-attending, 12-year-old son see a movie whose much-touted set-piece and raison d’être was the strap-on rape of a young man by a transgender woman in a star-spangled bikini. Good parenting will out!

Needless to say, all of this failed to quell my fascination with the film. On the contrary, it fueled it. The hype surrounding Myra Breckinridge (the words"disgusting" and "obscene" almost always in attendance) set my hormonal teenage mind racing at the thought of Hollywood making the first big-budget, all-star, dirty movie. And here I was, a young man fancying himself a mature-beyond-his-years cineaste, present at what looked to be a seminal moment in the cultural shift in American motion pictures...and I wasn't allowed to participate in it. Life can be so unfair.

"It's going to be treated importantly. It's not going to be dismissed."
A sweetly delusional Welch speaking about Myra Breckinridge on The Dick Cavett Show

Well, as we all know, once Myra Breckinridge hit the theaters, that anticipated cultural shift turned out instead to be but a brief detour into a blind alley. Myra Breckinridge tanked stupendously at the boxoffice, taking with it, Mae West's unasked-for comeback, Raquel Welch's already tenuous legitimacy, and director Michael Sarne's entire career (every cloud has a silver lining). Following months and months of pre-release hoopla, Myra Breckinridge swiftly dropped out of sight, and by the time I finally got around to seeing it, I was 21 years old. It was showing on a double bill with Beyond the Valley of the Dolls at the Tiffany Theater in Los Angeles (a Sunset Strip revival house just blocks away from the site of that iconic rotating cowgirl billboard).

The Sahara Hotel billboard on Sunset Blvd with the iconic rotating showgirl atop a silver dollar.
 The billboard was erected (if I can use that word in a Myra Breckinridge post) in 1957 and, at one time, included a pool and bathing beauties. It remained in that spot until 1966. 

The billboard became a landmark, showing up in films like William Castle's The Night Walker - 1964 (bottom) and the Joanne Woodward movie The Stripper - 1963 (top) as a kind of visual shorthand for Hollywood's artifice and merchandising of sex.

The billboard was recreated for the film. Myra, the symbol of the new woman.

Obscene and disgusting are certainly in the eye of the beholder, but it's my guess that this sexual revolution comedy was a good deal more shocking at the start of the sexual revolution than during its last gasps. I saw Myra Breckinridge in 1978, and by then, the New Hollywood was on the verge of obsolescence, the underground films of John Waters and Andy Warhol had practically gone mainstream, disco was on the wane, Linda Lovelace had found religion, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show was the latest word in gender-bending camp. In this atmosphere, Myra Breckinridge's legendary irreverence seemed almost quaint. With nothing to be shocked about in its content, all that was left to respond to was the freakshow spectacle of movie stars--who should have known better---making absolute fools of themselves. This may not sound like much, but in the days before reality television, celebrities humiliating themselves was a rarity, not a nightly prime-time attraction.

If you don’t count a thoroughly delightful episode of Mr. Ed (!) in 1965, Myra Breckinridge was Mae West’s first time in front of the cameras since 1943’s The Heat’s On. Top-billed and paid more than twice Raquel Welch's salary, West insisted on singing several songs in the film, although it really made no logical sense for her character, who was a talent agent, of all things. But nobody went to Myra Breckinridge looking for sense.

Observant fans recognize Mae's nightclub as the surgical arena used for Myron's operation at the film's opening. Whether this was a budgetary compromise or an early, intentional indication that the movie we're watching is playing out as a hospital fever dream cooked up in Myron's head, scarcely matters. Since the movie as a whole makes almost no sense.

Much like when a little kid learns his first words of profanity and proudly struts about shouting "Fuck...fuck...fuck...," with no comprehension of what he is really saying; Myra Breckinridge's so-called sexual effrontery is peculiarly naive, and thus, uproariously funny...but in almost none of the ways intended.

Behind Myra Breckinridge's convoluted fantasy about a homosexual movie buff (a typecast Rex Reed) transitioning to become the Amazonian Myra Breckinridge (Welch) in order to destroy masculinity and thus realign the sexes (!?!), there lurks a rather cynical and misanthropic film devoid of subversive convictions, sexual or otherwise, beyond doing anything it can to attract a young audience. At this time 20th Century Fox was so keenly feeling the sting of mega-flops Star!, Doctor Dolittle, and Hello Dolly!, they would have released a widescreen epic about aluminum siding installation techniques if they thought it would be a hit.
Myra Breckinridge is beautifully shot, and splendidly costumed, and I really thought the use of old movie clips was quite inspired; but the casting, script, and performances are downright surreal. I couldn't wrap my mind around this being a film a major studio actually thought audiences would turn out to see. Even by the screwy standards of '70s gonzo cinema (see: Angel, Angel Down We Go) Myra Breckinridge is bizarre beyond belief.

Raquel Welch as Myra Breckinridge

Mae West as Leticia Van Allen

John Huston as Buck Loner

Roger Herren as Rusty Godowski

Farrah Fawcett as Mary Ann Pringle

Introducing Rex Reed as Myron Breckinridge

Although Myra Breckinridge ranks rather high on my roster of favorite cult films, I've put off writing about it until now because, unlike flawed films which actually work for me on some level (like Xanadu or Valley of the Dolls), Myra Breckinridge is a rarity in that it is one of the few films I take pleasure in precisely because it doesn't really work at all. I know that sounds odd, but Myra Breckinridge is such a misguided oddity—from concept to execution—that it commands a kind of respect. You marvel at how anyone involved in getting it to the screen ever thought there was any hope for the film at all. It's not a film I laugh with (outside of John Huston's note-perfect performance, this is one of the least funny comedies I've ever seen); it's a film I gleefully laugh at.

I'm reminded of the 1955 Frank Tashlin comedy, The Girl Can't Help It, a movie that appears on the surface to be a celebration of rock & roll but is actually a scathingly satiric, anti-rock & roll diatribe. Myra Breckinridge sets itself up as a contemporary sex comedy out to skewer America's sexual hypocrisy and lampoon Hollywood's repressed gender images; but at its core, it's a staunchly anti-sex film, borderline homophobic, and deeply embarrassed by itself. A sexual fake-out promising a more progressive experience than it's capable of delivering.

Something is definitely wrong with an X-rated film that puts Raquel Welch and Farrah Fawcett together in the same bed and doesn't know what to do with them.

Starting with the bait-and-switch casting of Ms.Welch herself (what else but a perverse sadistic streak would inspire the casting of '60s sex symbol Raquel Welch in an X-rated movie, only to have her be one of the most overdressed members of the cast?), the people behind Myra Breckinridge not only appear to have had little to no understanding of the book, but seem to have harbored an outright contempt both for its subject matter and the young audience whose favor it hoped to curry. Every frame has the feel of 20^th Century Fox communicating its resentful vexation at having to stoop so low in order to appeal to the base sensibilities of the suddenly indispensable youth market that kept American movie box offices in a stranglehold during the '60s and '70s.

It's not for lack of bread, like The Grateful Dead
Michael Sarne (l.) played a director on the set of Myra Breckinridge. Donald Sutherland (r.) who had a small role in Sarne's first film, Joanna, played a Michael Sarne-esque director in 1970s Alex in Wonderland. 
Listen to Michael Sarne's 1964 pop hit, "Come Outside" HERE  

Alfred Hitchcock and Cecil B. DeMille may have worn a suit and tie while directing, but by 1970, long hair and a beard were considered standard equipment if you wanted to be taken seriously in Hollywood. Michael Sarne was a former British pop star with only one other film to his credit (Joanna, a film I actually liked) before being handed the $5 million reins to a movie at one time pitched to talents as diverse as Bud Yorkin (Start the Revolution Without Me) and George Cukor. Michael Sarne has continued to work as an actor, appearing in a small role in 2012's Les Miserables, but the debacle of Myra Breckinridge effectively ended his career as a director of any note.

In spite of  (or perhaps because of) the high-profile nature of his role in Myra Breckinridge, actor Roger Herren virtually disappeared from film and television work within ten years of the film's release. He passed away in 2014 at the age of 68.

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM

The only people I know disappointed in seeing Myra Breckinridge for the first time are those expecting it to live up to its notorious reputation. Always a very tame “X”, Myra Breckinridge is nowhere near as explicit as its rating would suggest, ideologically dated, more asexual than sexy, narratively jumbled, not particularly funny, and arrives at its cult appeal mostly by way of having its laid-on-with-a-trowel attempts at intentional camp land with a resounding thud.

Calvin Lockhart, the handsome star of Michael Sarne's Joanna, portrays the flamingly effeminate Irving Amedeus, a perennial acting student at Buck Loner's Academy. In a film with so many people to offend in a mere 94 minutes, Lockhart's overbroad caricature saves time by being simultaneously offensive to both Blacks and gays.

So what does work about the film? To enjoy Myra Breckinridge, one has to accept that its greatest value is as sociological artifact. In the staunchly conventional world of moviemaking, Myra Breckinridge is an oddity that could not have been made at any other time in the history of motion pictures...not even today. Its weirdness is almost exhilarating. You may not get it, hell, you may not even enjoy it that much, but to watch this film is to gaze into the very heart of the panic, chaos, and desperation that was Hollywood in the transitional sixties and seventies. With cinema icons John Huston and Mae West relegated to the roles of dirty-old man / dirty old woman; sexpot Raquel Welch used as the uncomprehending butt of the film’s sole sex joke; and a glossy, $5 million production built around pissing on the entirety of motion picture history, Myra Breckinridge is a big monster truck rally face-off between Old Hollywood and New Hollywood.

In a role originally intended for Mickey Rooney (I shudder at the thought) John Huston gets into the absurdist spirit of things and is terrific. Mae West (here looking more than a little like Nancy Sinatra) is, unfortunately, more crass than sass when her legendary talent for comic innuendo is replaced by blunt coarseness.

PERFORMANCES

No actor gets to choose the role for which they will always be associated and remembered. Sometimes, as in the case of Mia Farrow and Rosemary’s Baby, it occurs at the start of a career and establishes a difficult-to-live-up-to standard. When the fates are not kind, it can happen mid-career with the taking on of an embarrassing role that unjustly overshadows all the quality work that came before (think Faye Dunaway and Mommie Dearest). Raquel Welch, a breathtakingly beautiful actress whose career...if one were to base such speculations on talent alone...could well have gone the way of Edy Williams, has in Myra Breckinridge—for better or worse—one of the best roles of her career. Certainly, it's a role that offered something of a challenge for the actress after a long string of "decorative starlet" leads and walk-ons. 

Myra: A Simple Girl With a Dream
I can't imagine a major actress taking on this role today. Had the film been successful, what kind of "better" parts did Ms. Welch hope would come her way? As for the vulnerable Mr. Herren, he wisely dropped off the face of the earth after this.

And that is by no means a put-down. While I think the filmmakers cruelly exploit Ms.Welch’s limited range and artificial appeal to create a campy portrait of an affected woman whose image, behavior, and speech patterns are inspired by old movies, Welch is nonetheless surprisingly good. In fact, she’s rather winningly committed to the silliness of it all and shows more life and spirit in the role than she usually does onscreen. She is the only reason the film remains so watchable for me after all these years. Displaying a kind of amateurish aplomb in the face of truly cringe-inducing scenes, Welch is both vivacious and engaging while never coming across as quite human...which, oddly enough, works perfectly for this movie. I still think she gives her best screen performance in The Wild Party (1975), but much in the way I could never envision anyone but Jane Fonda as Barbarella, Raquel IS, and always will be Myra Breckinridge for me, and I applaud her in the role.

Rex Reed: Man of Many Talents 
Homophobic but desperate-for-work British director Michael Sarne (who, in the documentary about the making of the film, actually says "Ick!" when describing the book) complained to producers about Rex Reed using the words "faggy" and "prissy." 

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

Two things: Myra's wardrobe, and Raquel Welch's looks. The late, great costume designer Theadora Van Runkle (Bonnie & Clyde, New York, New York) channels her inner drag queen and comes up with some outrageously outré '40s-inspired fashions for America's most famous trans woman. Welch, who has gone on record as saying that her costumes are the only happy memories she takes from the making of the film, is a solid knockout in the looks department, and for all the weirdness she's engaged in, she's probably never been photographed more flatteringly.

THE STUFF OF DREAMS:

Raquel Welch was 28 when she starred in Myra Breckinridge, and in 2016, she'll be exactly the same as co-star Mae West's age when they clashed so famously during the film's production (West was 76). With those kinds of statistics, small wonder that I find subjective nostalgia subtly influencing my feelings about Myra Breckinridge each time I revisit it.
It's hard not to sigh at the lost opportunities (for Vidal's novel is quite funny), but when I watch the film now it is with a lighter spirit and a forgiving perspective born of having lived long enough to see what has become of the reckless instincts that spawned Hollywood's interest in Myra Breckinridge in the first place. In light of today's Hollywood of market research, endless franchises, and bottomless remakes, the foolhardiness which prompted the greenlighting of Gore Vidal's arguably unfilmable novel looks positively courageous by comparison.

BONUS MATERIAL
Not to be missed: A YouTube clip of Raquel Welch on The Dick Cavett Show in 1970. Welch (who has since lightened up quite a bit) is heavily into her "I'm a serious actress!" phase, thus, watching her espousing at pretentious length Myra Breckinridge's merits makes for riotously fun rear-view TV viewing. Bonus laughs materialize when Welch finds her self-serious pomposity continuously deflated by the gentle directness of Janis Joplin. (See it HERE)

You know you've found true love when your partner supports  (if not exactly encourages) your obsessions. There are Tippi Hedren Barbies, Audrey Hepburn Barbies, and Marilyn Monroe Barbies. But my talented partner decided what the world lacked was a "Raquel Welch as Myra Breckinridge" Barbie and came up with this remarkable creation.

Also, the DVD release of Myra Breckinridge has just about the best bonus feature commentaries I've ever heard. Director Michael Sarne talks on one side of the disc (pretty much absolving himself of all blame and settling a few scores), but the best is Raquel Welch talking about the film on the flip side. Gone is the 1970s pretentiousness, and in its place, a hilariously straightforward incredulity at what she got herself into so many years ago. She's self-effacing, truthful, and very, very funny. It redeems the film's sins tenfold just to hear Raquel exclaim, "What was I thinking?"

Myra- "God bless America!"              Leticia- "God help America!"

Copyright © Ken Anderson   2009 - 2013