My Gene Hackman Appreciation

 

I know I'm a little late posting my appreciation of Gene Hackman's film work, but I figured as long as so many people are still talking about the circumstances of his death, better late than never. 

I think Hackman's best work occurred during the early years of his career, the 1960s through the early 1980s, but he offered impressive performances, even when the productions didn't provide much to the cast.

 

Others have praised Hackman's skill at portraying the ordinary man, but I think his performances went well beyond that. I think it is better said that he was skilled at capturing the ordinary man who finds himself in extraordinary circumstances ("The Conversation," "The French Connection," and "Hoosiers").

Hackman is rightly praised for having been a solid leading man and reliable box-office star, but I think some of his best work was as a supporting actor ("Bonnie & Clyde," "Downhill Racer," and "Young Frankenstein"). 

With those points established, I submit my list of favorite Hackman performances.

1. "March or Die" (1977)

2. "The Conversation" (1974)

3. "Bonnie & Clyde" (1967)

4. "The French Connection" (1971)

5. "Under Fire" (1983) 

6. "Superman" (1978)

7. "Unforgiven" (1992) 

8. "Night Moves" (1975)

9. "Get Shorty" (1995)

10. "Downhill Racer" (1969)

11. "Hoosiers" (1986)

12. "Young Frankenstein" (1974)

That's my list.  I hope I offered something for you to think about. I welcome comments and questions. As always, thank you for reading. 

Stories that might be true: My post-operative nocturnal trolley rides through the hospital

 

My nightly post-operative activities in the hospital included late-night rides through the halls and departments, with my bed decked out as an old-time trolley car. I know it sounds unbelievable, but I think it happened.

I'm not sure how or when the staff managed to decorate and trick out my bed; I know for certain that they worked their magic some time after administering my evening medications. I recall that the travel and departure routines were nearly the same each night. 

It worked like this: Just as I was about to fall asleep, the room lights would flicker and go out. Then another set of lights would flash on. These were fixed to a framework fixed to my bed and resembled a trolley car, complete with window frames. I was propped up in the bed, which suddenly lurched forward, and we rolled toward the open door of the room and out onto the floor of the intensive care ward, where my hospital-wide journey would begin.

My bed moved at a steady pace, a train bell clang, lights flashed, and the O'Jays' "Love Train" blared from speakers as I rolled through the hall.

Nurses who cared for me and the doctors who had operated on me lined the hallways each night, cheering and waving to me. So did the women from the Physical Therapy Department, and the entire crew from the food service would turn out to wave and applaud. 

Why, even that tall, stunning blond in the knit dress from Radiology would stand provocatively in the doorway as I rolled passed her office. Each night she'd look at me and mouth the words, "Get on aboard the Love Train, the Love Train." 

Every night it was the same joyous ride. I would cruise Pediatrics, the Stroke Unit, Labor and Delivery, even the psych ward. Everyone was excited to see me, they gave me a warm reception, and it never got old for me. 

Then one day, my doctor told me he intended to discharge me that afternoon and send me home. My hospital stay was coming to an end. My wife provided wonderful care at home and I made steady progress in my recovery, but the nocturnal train rides ended with my hospital medication treatments. Imagine that.

-- Thank you for reading. Your comments and questions are always welcome. And feel free to email me at kbotterman@gmail.com.

A story that might be true: How I got old man hands

 I entered the hospital in late December for a quadruple-bypass following a heart attack. The seven-hour procedure went well, and I was sent home after nearly a week of post-operative hospital care. 

It was while recuperating at home one morning that I noticed I had old man hands. Just weeks before, prior to entering the hospital, my hands had been firm but warm. Now they were weathered, wrinkled, withered, even a bit shriveled, and cold, always cold; now that I thought about it. 

I held my hands up in front of my eyes and stared at them in disbelief. These are not my hands, I thought. These are not the hands I have carried with me through life thus far, I told myself. I was certain of it. The fingernails look familiar, and the knuckles, too. The skin, however, was definitely different. No question about that. 

These were not the same hands I had on hand when I entered the hospital, I declared. And that was when it occurred to me. The doctors. For some reason the doctors must have surgically removed my original hands during the heart procedure and replaced them with the old man's hands I now looked upon. 

Yes, that made complete sense. While they were harvesting arteries from legs to stitch around my heart they also took the time to remove my young and supple hands and replaced them with a pair of wrinkled and weathered hands, ones suited for a man well beyond my years. Why they would do this I could not explain, perhaps for their sick amusement, maybe to kill time in the operating room. A reasonable explanation escapes me to this time, but the fact remains that they clearly replaced my hands and managed to do so without leaving any sign of a surgical scar, none whatsoever. 

So here I sit, recuperating at home with a newly rewired heart, so to speak, and a set of old man hands. And I give thanks for both.

-- Thank you for reading. Your comments and questions are always welcome.

A story that might be true: My hospital visitors

 

This might have happened during my post-operative hours, but probably not. 

I woke up on a bed in a dimly lit room. There was much movement all around me. Voices spoke in hushed tones. I recognized that one or two of the individuals were medical staff, probably nurses. I couldn't identify the others in the room, but I understood that their voices sounded faintly familiar.

I could hear only pieces of the conversation. It seemed lighthearted, humorous, and even engaging. Suddenly, I recognized one of the voices. It belonged to Gomez Addams, a character portrayed by actor John Astin in the 1960s TV comedy "The Addams Family."  

Why was Gomez Addams in my hospital room? 

I had little time to ponder the question. I was due in the operating room for a procedure that was scheduled to take hours to complete. While prone on my back and with a limited field of vision, I searched for a nurse. I needed to remind her of my procedure.

My surroundings changed. The spacious room shifted and narrowed. It now resembled the interior of an airplane, with a narrow aisle to one side and a line of hospital beds on another. I could see a bed at the foot of my bed, but not the patient in it. The aisle was empty, but I could hear people moving around behind the head of my bed. I could now hear them talking in clear, distinct voices. A few even stood over me and looked down at me.

I saw Robert Conrad, the TV actor known for "The Wild, Wild West." And the character actors Paul Gleason and William Atherton, both of whom were popular in the 1980s (Paul was the school principal in "The Breakfast Club" and William played the EPA inspector in 1984's "Ghostbusters"). Each smiled at me as they passed, but none spoke directly to me. 

I noticed it was growing dark in my room. The sunlight was fading. The hour was growing late. How could the medical team possibly perform my procedure so late in the day, I thought? Would the doctors perform the surgery at night? Oh, where were the nurses, I wondered. 

Still, a parade of chatty character actors passed by bed, making eye contact with me, but offering nothing directly, not even a, "Good day to you, sir." 

I saw Dean Stockwell, Miguel Ferrer, and Judd Nelson. And the line of actors continued. It included both the living and those who are no longer with us.  

In frustration and desperation, I shouted out that someone needed to help me. Someone needed to move me to the operating room so that my doctor could perform my procedure. 

Abruptly it was quiet in the room. A figure pulled a chair up in the aisle near my head and sat down. It was Bradford Dillman, the award-winning character actor whose career spanned more than three decades and included work on Broadway, movies and TV.

"What's on your mind, old man?" Dillman asked in a voice long familiar to me. 

I explained I was scheduled for a surgical procedure, and I needed to get to the operating room as soon as possible, before the operating team went home for the day. 

"You must help me," I said.

"Relax. That procedure was completed hours ago. It was a success and you're now in a recovery room. You're doing fine," Dillman said.

I looked about me and realized I was in fact in my room in the intensive care unit. The door to my room was open and I could see nurses and other medical staff busy at work stations just outside my room. I turned to my visitor.

"So the operation is done, and I'm going to be OK, Bradford Dillman?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "They wouldn't allow me and my friends in here with you otherwise," he said, flashing a warm smile.

I looked again at the busy nurses outside my room, and then turned to thank Bradford Dillman, but he was gone, leaving only an empty chair near my bed. 

-- Thank you for reading. Please feel free to leave a question or comment.

The steam from my coffee reminded me of the theme from a classic Western movie

 

Here's the nifty theme music to Ralph Nelson's underappreciated Western, "Duel at Diablo," (1966), starring James Garner, Sidney Portier, Dennis Weaver, Bibi Anderson, and Bill Travers, a British actor known to American audiences for his work in "Born Free," but in this movie he delivers an exceptional performance as the commander of a cavalry unit. 

An interesting piece of side trivia is that Neal Hefti, composer of "Diablo's theme, also penned the theme to TV's "Batman." I bet you didn't know that. 

"Diablo" is as gritty as it gets and I've never met a viewer that came away disappointed with it.  Director Nelson cut his teeth in the early days of American television and it shows in this production.  The story moves at a quick pace and there's plenty of action.  Nelson's movies frequently dealt with contemporary topics such as prejudice and bigotry and "Diablo" is no exception.  The themes surface throughout the story, particularly between the characters portrayed by Portier, Garner and Weaver. 

Prior to directing "Diablo," Nelson directed Portier in his Oscar-winning performance in "Lilies of the Field," (1963), for which Nelson was nominated for "Best Picture.  Nelson later went on to direct Cliff Robertson in his Oscar-winning performance in "Charly" (1968).  "Lilies" is a wonderful story and stands the test of time.  I'm not sure the same can be said about "Charly," although Robertson's performance remains Oscar-worthy, in my opinion.

Listen to Hefti's theme music and you'll get an idea of both Nelson's style and pacing for the movie.  "Diablo" is truly a rare movie, and sadly, it's largely unknown by most audiences today. 

--Thanks for reading. Comments and questions are always welcome. Post them here or send an email to kbotterman@gmail.com. 

Coffee and Conversation: Taco Bell looks to expand use of AI

 

The Taco Bell chain is known for being nimble in its marketing and innovations so its plans to expand its use of AI at its drive-thru operations seems to be a good fit. However, I admit to being skeptical about the reasons the company offers for the move.

I don't frequent fast food outlets much anymore, but I had an interesting experience during my last visit to Taco Bell, about a year and half ago. I was attending a workshop and stopped at Taco Bell, the nearest outlet, during the lunch break. It was a short distance from the meeting location, so I opted to walk rather than drive.

Inside I discovered there was no counter help, no one to greet me or take my order. Instead, there was a kiosk with a display screen, smudged with greasy fingerprints. I used one of the few remaining sanitary wipes to clean the screen and then fumbled my way through placing what I considered to be a simple order.

It took longer than probably necessary. A younger customer could have completed the transaction faster, I thought, but a younger customer probably would have used the drive-thru option. As simple as my order was, I was proud to have successfully placed it, but was annoyed when the device asked me if I wished to add a gratuity to my total purchase. I had yet to see a single employee and couldn't imagine who would have received my tip.

So anyway, I placed my order, the device printed out a receipt that included an order number and instructions to wait for the number to be called. Although I had seen several cars lined up in the drive-thru lane, I was the only customer inside the store. I distracted myself with my smart phone, and a couple of minutes later heard a voice call out the number that was on my receipt.

I looked up and a tray of food was sitting on the counter. I didn't know how it got there. I hadn't seen an employee. No employee stood behind the counter to thank me for selecting Taco Bell for my mid-day meal. I heard what I assumed were people moving around behind a closed door, which I assumed concealed the kitchen area and access to the drive-thru window, but I never actually saw these things.

The food was OK, as fast food goes. I recalled that experience as I read that Taco Bell plans to expand its use of AI. We might be living in the "Brave New World" Aldous Huxley warned us about, but I'm beginning to suspect it's not all that new. 

-- Thank you for reading. Feel free to leave a comment or question here, or send an email to kbotterman@gmail.com. 

 

A long drive out on Burlington Road

                                                             Kevin Botterman photo

I'm at an age when simple tasks spark memories of past experiences and events, some important, others routine, some that were painful, but many more that were pleasant, and well, memorable to me. 

I recently enjoyed one of those moments, while driving out on Burlington Road, a county highway that I once frequently traveled nearly a decade ago, but seldom have reason to use in recent years. On this occasion, I was driving to meet friends from my days at college, including one I had not seen in nearly 40 years. 

The view from the driver's seat on this outing was much the same as he had been years ago. Farms still dominated the countryside, along with a few private residences, and a county highway garage. Much of what I could see was exactly what was in place years before, back when I drove Burlington Road twice a week, on Wednesdays, and twice a weekend, two weekends each month. 

That was the visitation schedule I followed for more than 14 years in order to spend time with my daughter. Burlington Road was the main county highway connecting my home in Batavia to her's in Hampshire, and I drove that road year-round, in all types of weather conditions, frequently alone, but sometimes with my daughter. It was, on average, a 40-minute drive, one-way. 

I thought about those drives as I drove to meet my college friends. And memories of my college days mingled with memories of many car rides with my daughter and the conversations I shared with her. 

I was reminded that I am blessed with a happy and positive relationship with my daughter, who is now an adult, well along in her career, satisfied in her chosen profession. I remembered that nearly all of our time together was pleasant and enjoyable, minus some exchanges during her early teen years. 

And I was overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude that during all of the miles traveled, during all the hours in our car, my daughter and I never experienced a serious accident or mishap. That alone was a great blessing, and I offer thanks for that.

During those years, I was often sad and reflective while making the return drive home alone, partly because I was already missing my daughter, but mostly because I knew it would be days, perhaps a week before I would see her again. 

Still, I recall always feeling grateful for the time I had shared with my daughter as we drove back and forth from her home to mine, out on Burlington Road.  

- Thank you for reading. Your comments and questions are always welcome. You may post them here, or send an email to kbotterman@gmail.com