dimmed "star"

Turner Classic Movies will screen George Cukor's terrific - but also terrifically overrated - "A Star Is Born" at 5 p.m. on Oscar night, Sunday, February 26th, as part of its ongoing "31 Days of Oscar" calvacade.

The print runs 176 minutes - which is basically the truncated 154-minute version of the film pieced together with stills and audio of lost footage.

This apparently is as close to the 182-minute roadshow version that the restoration team could get. But wait! The fact is, "A Star Is Born" actually - originally - ran longer than 182 minutes. When it opened at at Hollywood's Pantages Theatre on September 24, 1954, the movie clocked in at 196 minutes - that's 3 hours and 16 minutes. This was the first - and also the last - time that this version of "A Star Is Born" was seen.

When it opened subsequently in its initial roadshow engagements about a month later, 14 minutes had already been taken out (apparently with Cukor's involvement), bringing the film to its 182-minute running time.

Back in those days, it was not uncommon for a roadshow film to be shortened for general release and so, "A Star Is Born" was cut again - by another 28 minutes (this time, without Cukor's involvement or approval) - leaving the film at 154 minutes, the version of record for the last 58 years.

Those excised 28 minutes would guarantee exhibitors another show per day - and Warner Bros. with a bigger box-office take.

This is nothing new. This is Hollywood. It was routine. It was also routine - and rather stupid - not to save the discarded elements from excised films.

And now, the few people at the Pantages who saw the original Original Version of "A Star Is Born" back in 1954 are probably all gone. Dead.

Along with all the precious missing footage.

trouble right here!

Channel-surfing last night, I couldn't get away from the recurring image of GOP contender Rick Santorum whipping his devoted followers into a frenzy over something called "the war on religion."

Then I came to the Turner channel, where Morton DaCosta's "The Music Man" was in progress and Robert Preston, as con man Professor Harold Hill, was whipping the townspeople of River City, Iowa, into a frenzy over the presence of a pool table in their hamlet.

The juxtapostion was uncanny.

"Now, Marcellus, I need some ideas if I’m gonna get your town out of the serious trouble it’s in," Prof. Hill says to an old friend (Buddy Hackett).

"River City ain't in any trouble," Marcellus responds.

"Then, I'm gonna have to create some," Hill informs. "Must create a desperate need in your town for a boy’s band."

This dialogue, about trumping up an emergency, is the set-up for Meredith Willson's classic, "Ya Got Trouble," during which Hill successfully instills fear in the denizens of River City, a song which ends rousingly with:

Harold: "Oh, ya got trouble! Ya got lots & lots 'a trouble! That game with the 15 numbered balls is the devil's tool!"

Townspeople: "Devil's tool!"

Harold: "Oh yes, we've got trouble, trouble!"

Townspeople: "Oh yes, we've got trouble here, we've got big, big trouble!"

Harold: "With a "T"!"

Townspeople: "With a capital T!"

Harold: "That rhymes with P!"

Townspeople: "That rhymes with P!"

Harold: "That stands for pool!"

Townspeople: "That stands for po-o-ol!"

I've been amused for years now by the constant state of (feigned?) outrage of the GOP, which always seem to be shocked and appalled.

Last night, Robert Preston added a melody to the aggrievement.

oy!

Where to start. There is so much annoying with the latest TV curiosity, "Smash," that it became immediately overwhelming and tiresome. An episodic soap opera about the mounting of a Broadway musical about Marilyn Monroe, the series wallows in the usual show-biz clichés - self-glorification, self-pity and self-indulgence.

Drama-queen stuff.

But what's really endemic here - and what undermines the series - is an illogical quality that strips the project of any authenticity and charm. Case in point: A singer/dancer (Megan Hilty), hoping to play Marilyn in the show, and a troupe of chorus boys perform a number titled "The National Pastime" (one of several original songs written for the series by Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman) in an empty, sprawling rehearsal hall.

The number should be as spartan as the setting, accompanied perhaps by only a tinkling piano. But instead, when the performers open their mouths to sing, out come pre-recorded voices, replete with full orchestral backing.

It should have been performed "live" and with the all usual rough edges. Rather, what could have been natural and organic - and even original - is presented as a foregone "showstopper," calculated to knock us out.

True, this sequence subsequently morphs into a full-dress, dramatically-lit performance on a stage, but the moments in the studio, with the dancers only in tights, would have been so much more refreshing done "live."

What we get instead is ... "fake."

small movie

It's not exactly surprising that "Big Miracle," saddled with an arch, generic title and directed by a filmmaker who gets no respect from the critics, was virtually invisible the day it opened. No one seemed to care.

But wait! This is a solid little movie - defiantly old-fashioned in a 1950s way and impressively untrendy - and it boasts an ace case which seems committed to the film's very transparent appreciation of animal activism.

The aforementioned filmmaker is Ken Kwapis, who made his "mark" (well, sort of) with the lost 1988 Cindi Lauper-Jeff Goldblum vehicle, "Vibes," co-directed the clever (and popular) "He Said, She Said" (1991) with Marisa Silver and has pretty much operated for the last decade or so as a house director without a house (read: a studio). Kwapis seems to operate under the radar, despite his handling of the 'tween hit, "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" (2005), and "He's Just Not That Into You" (2009).

With the latter and "Big Miracle," Kwapis has worked Robert Altman conventions (huge casts, multiple storylines) into mall movies and, frankly, I've found his efforts both effective and rather appealing.

"Big Miracle" is inspired by the real-life 1988 situation that found a family of gray whales (mother, father and baby boy) stranded and trapped under the thick ice in the Arctic Circle and by the efforts of the several diverse groups who worked selflessly in tandem to free them.

It's material that Disney normally would have tackled in '88 but, for some inexplicable reason, didn't.

I'm a sucker for such stories and making this one even more irresistible and companionable is the attractive cast: A warm John Krasinski as a struggling TV journalist stationed in Alaska and an impressively authentic Drew Barrymore as a driven Greenpeacer (and Krasinski's former main squeeze), plus Kristin Bell (as another journalist), Ted Danson, Tim Blake Nelson, Vinessa Shaw, Dermot Mulroney, Kathy Baker, Stephen Root, John Michael Higgins, Gregory Jbara, James LeGross, Rob Riggle, Bruce Altman, Quinn Redeker and (in archival footage) someone named Sarah Heath. Also the film casts several Inupiat natives, most notably John Pingayak and the gifted child actor, Ahmaogak Sweeney, in central roles.

Everyone is credible, which I think says a lot about Kwapis as a director of actors. And I suppose that the fact that he was able to attract impressive casts for both "Big Miracle" and "He's Just Not That Into You" says a lot about him as a human being. Actors obviously like him.

It shows.

brief encounter: Ben Gazarra

The passing of Ben Gazzara (1930–2012) - whose rich career is thoroughly covered in The New York Times by Neil Genzlinger. - brought back a memory of my interview with him in 1970 when he came to Philadelphia to promote John Cassavetes'
"Husbands" for Columbia on "The Mike Douglas Show."

In those days, the show was housed in a cramped space on Walnut Street, and its make-up room was a nook in the building's revamped basement. When I encountered Gazarra, he was sitting in one of the vintage barber chairs that the Douglas staff used to primp the guests.

Frankly, I can't remember any of the interview that followed but the image of Gazarra - sitting in that chair, chomping on a cigar and gesturing with flailing arms to a Philly friend who stopped by to say hello - remains burned in my brain: The actor was dressed in a white tuxedo shirt (collar rakishly open, natch) and black trousers (that could have been half of a black-tie suit). He looked like Cosmo Vittelli, the character he would create six years later for Cassavetes in "The Killing of a Chinese Bookie."

I remember Gazarra as both gragarious and imposing (he looked very much like a virile, impeccably-groomed, disarmingly polite mobster), with a gutteral voice and a quick, hearty laugh. Francis Ford Coppola really should have found a place for him in one of "The Godfather" films.

A missed opportunity.

That's about all I remember, that once-vivid, now shadowy image. Our ensuing conversation is lost somewhere deep in my tearsheet archives.