Great Movie Endings - Part 5 - Cast Away

The deserted island is heaven to city dwellers. The rhythmic churning of tides, the vast expanse of stars at night, and the solitary splendor of one's thoughts: this is paradise. It is recreation in a seemingly perfect sense. The return to the warm oceans of our primordial selves represents a fertile fantasy for tourist brochures and private escape. For my grandparents' generation, the deserted island was the stuff of tiki phantasmagoria. My parents watched Gilligan's Island for glimmers of that place. I settled for reruns.

Warning: Spoilers

Along comes Cast Away (2000) and its promise of a more realistic portrayal of life alone on a tiny island in the South Pacific, where reefs tear the skin with razor cruelty, a diet of coconut milk reeks havoc on one's bowels, and there's nary a monkey-butler to be found. I have no expectation that the Robert Zemeckis-directed movie showed everything, but its story of harried FedEx manager Chuck Noland's transformation from a chunky, privileged synecdoche for modern American life into an emaciated, half-crazed islander rings true, at least to me.

Unfortunately, most folks I know who've seen Cast Away dismiss the movie as dull. No action, little dialogue, laden with existential angst. I love it though: the shameless triumph of Chuck's first bonfire, the quiet majesty of urinating into the ocean under the Milky Way, and the somber pointlessness of a funeral held with no attendees. And I dig the movie's harsh shifts in chronology, particularly Chuck's blink-of-an-eye transportation from battered raft to air-conditioned plane flying back home.

I imagine that solders returning from the battlefield know that feeling too, the whiplash speed at which the vivid present becomes the distant past, at least to outside observers. Those who survive those sickeningly fast transitions must carry the mental lag with them for a long, long time. Even their loved-ones rarely understand.

The movie begins on a dusty road in rural Texas, and it ends there too. Again, a number of people tell me that they can't stand Cast Away's conclusion. Chuck regains his fiancée whom he left at an airport with the promise, "I'll be right back" -- only to lose her again. This damned movie wasn't a love story at all! It is about loss: loss of dignity, loss of possessions, loss of faith in the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of modern life.

At the end of the movie, Chuck has lost everything, carrying his world in a rental car. Yet he is more fully human than he's ever before been. Thus the meaning of the last lines, when Chuck meets Bettina:

Bettina: You look lost.

Chuck: I do?

Bettina: Where ya headed?

Chuck: Well, I was just about to figure that out.

Bettina: Well, that's 83 South. And this road here'll hook you up with I-40 East. Um, if you turn right, that'll take you to Amarillo, Flagstaff, California. And if you head back that direction, you'll find a whole lot of nothing all the way up to Canada.

Chuck: I got it.

Bettina: Well, all right then. Good luck cowboy.

We spend our lives seeking escape from what we've sought. We build cities only to dream of the "Old West." We covet jobs only to romanticize retirement. And we make fetishes out of communication devices only to bemoan the obligations of our hyper-connected world.

But Chuck Noland has found a reprieve on that quiet crossroad amidst our empire of signs. Here, now, his freedom is most real. No one waits. No one trails. Every choice is new. For a moment at least, his life opens as an endless horizon.

Some people hated the ambiguity of his last stare into the camera, for Chuck is clearly not happy in the ways that magazines and television shows have trained us to interpret happiness. Yet he's not sad either. He will not follow Bettina down that dusty road, but he might. Some folks hate not knowing what happens next.

For Chuck, and for this movie, that's the whole point.

Visit IMDB's post on Cast Away.

Great Movie Endings - Part 4 - The Best Years of Our Lives

Growing up with a grandfather who served in World War II, I developed an early affection for films that depict everyday life from that era. "War movies" always interested me, but I'm drawn even more powerfully to films that show life on the home front. Sure, "weepies" such as Since You Went Away and The Clock were made to elicit the tears of sentimental moviegoers, but I also enjoy these films for their portrayals of otherwise forgotten details of 1940s-America: the economics, the prejudices, the fashions, the mores, all the tiny details of life that seem so alien to a twenty-first century viewer. Of all these movies, my favorite is The Best Years of Our Lives (1946).

Warning: Spoilers

I have seen this movie at least a dozen times, and I never tire of its unflinching account of the personal struggles faced by service-members and their families confronting the difficulties of life once the victory parades have concluded. A cursory view may lead a jaded viewer to reject this movie as a sappy melodrama. And it's true that some moments fail to resonate as they once did. But the film earned its many awards (including seven Oscars) for the honesty of its grand pleasures and small moments. I love a number of scenes. A sergeant holds his wife after spending years apart while his two children look on from a distance. A once-glamorous bombardier wanders among scrapped planes that resemble rows of tombstones. A disabled sailor who finally accepts the love of his hometown sweetheart looks up from his bed, a single tear falling down his cheek. But the movie's best scene is its finale.


The bombardier, a fellow named Fred Derry, has failed to make much of his life back in Boone City. While he once wore the uniform of an officer, Derry is forced to take his old job as a soda jerk, working for the sniveling kid who once served as his assistant. Fred's two-timing wife complains about his inability to provide the evenings of swanky nightclubs and fancy dresses to which she's become accustomed. She also can't understand why Fred won't just "snap out" of his combat-induced strain, those terrors that startle him awake night after night. He's fallen in love with Peggy Stephenson, a kind and patient young woman who sees beyond his current difficulties, but he convinces Peggy to abandon him, fearing the scandal that an affair would bring. Fred is surrounded by friends but feels hopeless. Eventually he returns home to find his wife with another man, a fellow veteran who seems to have had no difficulty adjusting to life after the war. Fred's marriage collapses and he decides to skip town and set off for new opportunities. Waiting for a flight out of Boone City, Fred climbs once more into one of the bombers he flew during the war, reliving terrifying moments that never seem to leave him. As he reels in despair, feeling like a ghost who belongs among the junked planes, a voice from the ground calls him back; the salvage crew has come to dismantle the plane. Fred talks with the boss, forgetting his self-pity and realizing that he might be able to land a job after all. The scene ends with Fred taking a job as a junkman. It's hardly a glamorous career, but it's an opportunity to dismantle his nightmares once and for all.



The movie has one last moment, though, a final scene that draws a tear every time. Fred has come back to town, employed and growing in confidence, and he's agreed to serve as best man for the sailor who's overcome his own demons and decided marry his high school sweetheart. Peggy has arrived as well, since her father and the sailor are friends. The wedding is simple but poignant. The sailor fumbles his vows in a manner that affirms the deep humanity and honesty of the movie. All the while, Fred and Peggy stare at each other, recognizing that they have never fallen out of love. As the wedding concludes, Peggy seems to glow with a radiance that only Fred can see. They draw toward each other and embrace. Fred warns her of difficult days ahead: "You know what it'll be, don't you, Peggy? It may take us years to get anywhere. We'll have no money, no decent place to live. We'll have to work, get kicked around…" But Peggy simply beams with that radiant smile. She knows, as does the audience, that the "best years" of their lives have only begun.



Visit IMDB's post on The Best Years of Our Lives

Great Movie Endings - Part 3 - The Fountainhead

Warning: Spoilers

One of my favorite movie endings comes from a genuine guilty pleasure: King Vidor's (1949) The Fountainhead. Written and adapted for the screen by Ayn Rand, the movie advanced her objectivist principle of hero worship, illustrated by an architect who would not yield to the standards of others. Naturally, the book is much more developed in its explication of Rand's philosophy and its depiction of her characters, but I still enjoy the film version more. I love this movie for its excesses: its bombastic music, its heavy-handed imagery, its wooden dialogue, and its utter lack of humor. Every scene in shouts "greatness!" even as the experience descends into camp. Like Dominique Francon, I love this movie "without dignity, without regret."

I use one scene from The Fountainhead in a course I teach, Visual Communication (COMM 171). It occurs early in the film when Howard Roark is offered a much needed commission, so long as he allows a modernist masterpiece he designed to be mutilated by a committee's vision of popular taste. There's a moment when he seems to consider the opportunity that is offered him, a chance to escape his debts and gain the acclaim he deserves. But Roark turns the committee down, announcing that he'd rather work as a day laborer than prostitute his talents for corporate parasites. When he does indeed go to work at a stone quarry, he meets Dominique, a woman who is nearly his moral counterpart. They fall in love, quickly recognizing their mutual idealism. Yet they must endure years of hardship and struggle before earning the right to each other.

I'll leave that drama to your own perusal and jump right to the film's best part. Dominique has proven herself to be Roark's equal at last. Only at the film's conclusion is she worthy to ascend to his lofty heights. Recalling that The Fountainhead is incapable of rendering an idea with any subtlety, she affirms their mutual triumph by literally rising to meet Roark in the clouds, taking an elevator to where he stands at the top of his new building (the world's largest, naturally). Out of respect for Ayn Rand, who would view any attempt of mine to summarize that scene as the act of a "second-hander," I will let the "architect" of The Fountainhead speak for herself:

"She rose above the broad panes of shop windows. The channels of streets grew deeper, sinking. She rose above the marquees of movie theaters, black mats held by spirals of color. Office windows streamed past her, long belts of glass running down . . . The city spread out, marching in angular rows to the rivers . . . There was nothing behind her now but steel ligaments and space . . . and the figure of Howard Roark."

Yes the visual effects necessary to place Gary Cooper on top of the tallest skyscraper in New York City look pretty silly by today's standards. But I still love the confidence, the audacity, the brute arrogance of that last scene. It's definitely worth a rental on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Visit IMDB's post on The Fountainhead

Great Movie Endings - Part 2 - The Accidental Tourist

Warning: Spoilers

This is the second in an occasional series of blog posts about my favorite movie endings. This time I'd like to talk about The Accidental Tourist (1988). The movie begins with the collapse of a marriage between Macon and Sarah Leary (played by William Hurt and Kathleen Turner), following the tragic death of their child. Crushed by her son's passing, Sarah leaves Macon to confront an empty house (with the exception of his troubled dog) and the ghosts of the past. Strangely enough, this lonely life of quiet solitude and joyless routine suits Macon perfectly. After all, he is a travel writer who caters to people just like him, those who want to pass through places with a minimum of friction. Macon tells his readers where they can find Americanized lodging and cuisine anywhere in the world; he helps these solitary travelers maintain perceptual bubbles filled only with safe places and scripted encounters. In one flashback scene, his editor summarizes the concept: "While armchair travelers dream of going places, traveling armchairs dream of staying put" (a quote that illustrates a key aspect of omnitopia, a concept I'm developing into a book). Even when Macon spends time with his brothers and sister, he experiences the same kind of cocoon, for they too are frightened of the outside world and have locked themselves into a regimented (but delightfully quirky) enclave. Macon plans to live this way without any thought of an alternative, never quite smiling, never quite crying, never quite experiencing anything at all.

This plan, domestic anesthesia punctuated by travels to nodes of the same continuum, works well enough -- until he meets Muriel Pritchett (played by Geena Davis). Macon hires Muriel to train his dog who has become neurotic since the collapse of the family. Macon expects a professional exchange of fees for services and desires no other interaction. While his life is clean, ordered, and friction-free, hers is a mess. Any connection with her would therefore demand a commitment to all the complexities of her life: her sickly child, her wreck of a car, her financial strains. Such an excursion away from his itinerary is unacceptable. And yet Muriel attracts Macon with her warmth, her humor, and her persistence. Despite his reserve and despite the risks, Macon enters a romantic relationship with Muriel. It's not quite love, but it is commitment. At first, their affair seems to add something to Macon's life. He even smiles now and again, but only in an ironic or bemused way. He is still a detached traveler through life, picking up a souvenir now and again but never allowing a meaningful connection to the places and people he visits.

The final third of the movie brings one new surprise: Sarah returns. She has regained her equilibrium and now promises a renewal of the couple's old habits: continuity, stability, dependability. Macon does not love Sarah, but he does miss what she represents. So he abandons Muriel and returns to his marriage. Soon enough they succeed in their plan, recreating their old lives. Macon takes on a new commission, revising a travel guide for people who want to pass through Paris without getting stuck in "foreign entanglements." But Muriel will not let go easily. She borrows some money and flies to Paris in search of Macon, hoping to rekindle their romance. The Accidental Tourist's conclusion is best discovered (or watched again) by you. Suffice it to say that both women want Macon, and both offer him something important. Sarah promises the continuation of old and comforting habits. Muriel represents the unknown life of awkward encounters and odd surprises. At the very end of the film, Macon spots one of his two lovers on a street in Paris. He is taking a cab to the airport, but he sees the woman hailing a cab also, and he tells his driver to stop. She doesn't see him at first, but soon their eyes meet. Her expression is a rapid transformation from shock to joy. But his transformation is even more vivid. For, at last, Macon smiles, an honest and loving smile that seems to surprise him as much as it delights her. As the scene fades, you cannot help but imagine: He's never smiled like that before.

Visit IMDB's post on The Accidental Tourist

Great Movie Endings - Part 1

I'm writing this in homage to Roger Ebert, who is recovering from a lengthy illness, and has still managed to inspire film lovers at his ninth annual Overlooked Film Festival.

I want to talk about some of my favorite films. Some stick with me for particular lines or scenes or characters. Dustin Hoffman breaking his Ratzo Rizzo character to shout "I'm walking here. I'm walking here!" when a taxi nearly hits him in Midnight Cowboy. Harrison Ford ad-libbing "I know" when Princess Leia admits her love for Han Solo in The Empire Strikes Back. Richard Dreyfuss's Roy Neary enduring an interrogation in Close Encounters of the Third Kind that is frustrating and frightening until being asked whether he's experienced a "close encounter with something very unusual." At once he recognizes that no one is running this show, no one on Earth at least, and he screws up enough courage to appear suave and conspiratorial, asking with a crooked smile, "Who are you people?" I love these movies.

Ignoring any pretense to wrap my tastes in Great Cinema, I love these movies because of their ability to reveal some insight into the human condition that I'd never before encountered before taking my seat. And I watch these movies year after year. But lately I've been thinking about movies that are powerful for something special and difficult to pull off: their endings. These movies send us from the theater babbling with shock, smiling with deep appreciation, or feeling simply amazed that the director pulled off some impossible feat. To celebrate these achievements, I am developing a list of classic films that manage (in gymnastics parlance) to "stick the landing." I will add to this list as time allows, emphasizing that my collection is idiosyncratic and always incomplete. Naturally I'd love to hear your suggestions for movies that ought to appear here. But I should start somewhere, so I'll start in Texas.

Warning: Spoilers



Dazed and Confused (1993) follows the meandering course of a rowdy Texas town of teenagers on the last day before summer, 1976. More than a dozen plot-lines converge and fragment as characters hook up, get high, raise havoc, ask questions, and wonder if the "best years of [our lives]" are worth all the trouble. By the end of a long night, Randall "Pink" Floyd has decided that he'd rather hang out with his stoner pals than sign his football coach's no-drugs pledge. So he hops into a 1970 Chevy Chevelle Super Sport with his friends to score Aerosmith tickets in Houston. The image is perfect: a car filled with kids who try to look mellow and cool, ignoring the anxiety of diminishing choices and inevitable compromise. They cruise away on a road that climbs upward and promises no horizon. Foghat's "Slow Ride" cranks through the speakers, and the scene fades slowly to black.

Visit IMDB's post on Dazed and Confused




American Graffiti (1973) takes the cruising movie one step further than Dazed and Confused, telling the audience what happened to its southern California teens facing graduation and the real world beyond in 1962. While George Lucas is rightly castigated for many of his excesses in the Star Wars prequels, his over-emphasis on sets and props to the detriment of characters and plots, the director gets so much right in his homage to the hot rod fantasies of his youth. His movie is disarmingly simple: cars and tunes, disappointments and realizations. By night's end, all the threads seem fairly well woven together; Toad has even managed to impress a girl that is hopelessly out of his league. The film concludes, we presume, when one character flies away on a plane, looking down upon his town and seeing its small horizons for the first time. Great ending, right? But then Lucas adds something new, a wrinkle that some film historians consider to be revolutionary: He uses captions over the characters' high school pictures to tell what happens to them over the next few years. One character will die soon in a car wreck. Another will settle for a boring job in the insurance agency. And Toad, gentle, clueless Toad, will head for Vietnam. At once American Graffiti earns an entirely new resonance; its teenagers become the short-lived innocence of the nation.

Visit IMDB's post on American Graffiti



Finally, let me tell you how much I love The Last Picture Show (1971), a black and white film set in the fictional north Texas town of Anarene. The Last Picture Show portrays the lonely lives of a small town facing slow but inevitable extinction. The traditional roots of the community, an aging fellow named Sam the Lion and the movie house he owns, die in rapid succession. And those who remain look to an empty landscape of scrub and mesquite and know that their best times have come and gone. The oil fields are drying up and most of the kids are leaving. And yet Anarene folks still manage to have some fun, generally through a rotation of sexual indiscretions. There's so little else to do but screw. Though, as one character explains, "everything gets old if you do it often enough."


(Photo by Andrew Wood)

Ever since I saw the movie years ago, I have felt a close connection to those living ghosts of Anarene, so much so that I even made a pilgrimage to Archer City and visited the actual last picture show, the Royal Theater, where some scenes were shot. One of its walls has already crumbled, but folks still turn on the sign at night. The theater's website advertises performances that attract visitors from all over Texas. It's such a nice place to stop on a twilight evening that I almost forget the film's sublime ending: Sonny has returned to Ruth, an older woman whom he'd abandoned for a young fantasy of batting eyelashes and parted lips. Ruth initially rebuffs Sonny, but eventually realizes that the two need each other despite their sins. The old woman whispers softly, "Never you mind, honey. Never you mind." The image then fades to the dusty streets of Anarene, a panning shot along its empty main street, before settling on the Royal Theater. Closed and abandoned, the last picture show reflects mortality on a much larger scale than can be found on a movie screen. The winds of change will sweep everything away.

Visit IMDB's post on The Last Picture Show

I'll add to my list of Great Movie Endings over the next few months. Some potential inclusions:

The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)
The Godfather (1972)
The Usual Suspects (1995)
The Matrix (1999)

Oh, and I know that eventually this list must include Citizen Cane (1941) and Casablanca (1942). But I may take a while to get to these classics.