They call me MISTER Ed!From
BitterAndrew's Comprehensive Guide to Films That Don't Exist, But Should:
Equestrophobic southern sherriff Bill Gillespie (Steiger) is forced to team up with Ed (Harvester), a visiting police horse from the big city, in order to solve a mysterious murder in this unusual blending of low comedy and socially aware drama.
Though the film unwisely goes a tail-lifting joke (of five) too far, both leads turn in exceptional performances. Steiger adds an astonishing degree of depth to his character, which a lesser talent might have simply portrayed as a broad redneck caricature. Gillespie's attempts to come to grips with the fact that Ed will only speak in his presence reflect a greater internal transformation where the scales of anti-equine bigotry fall away to reveal genuine feelings of respect and friendship toward his four-legged partner.
As good as Steiger's performance was, Harvester's was even better, being able to convey a wealth of nuanced emotion though such simple gestures as the stomp of a hoof or the flick of a tail. His comedic timing, too, was absolutely flawless (although I'm still perplexed over what appeared to be a length of nylon fishing line dangling from his mouth during the scenes where he speaks).
Harvester would ultimately win the Academy Award for Best Actor for his role in the film, but chose to boycott the award ceremony, instead sending playwright Peter Shaffer to deliver a speech about the unfair portrayals of Equine-Americans in the mass media.
Three stars.
Jay Livingston - The Theme from Mr. Ed (from
Television's Greatest Hits, Vol. 1: From the 50's and 60's, 1990) - There was a time when "domestic fantasy" sitcoms were considered to be the bottom of the televisual barrel, and the most frequently cited example of the mediums will toward banality. This was, of course, before
Dance War and
Celebrity Rehab hit the small screen and made
My Mother, The Car look like high fucking art in comparion. Watching the bitter residue of Jeff Conaway get ointment rubbed on his lower back or watching Jerry Van Dyke get poked in the ass (complete with cartoon sound effect) by a spring directed by a sentient automobile -- I know what I'd choose.
Echo & The Bunnymen - Bring on the Dancing Horses (from the
Pretty in Pink OST, 1986) -
Albums That Meant Something, Mini-Version: Back in the early months of Maura's and my relationship, we and my ever-present punk rock pal used to head over to Maura's house after classes to hang out in her den and engage in some basic cable channelsurfing -- poking fun at the Club MTV audience, getting a whiff of uncured nostalgia from USA's Cartoon Express, and so forth.
Shortly before the end of the Spring 1992 semester, the three of us sat through a TBS showing of
Pretty in Pink, and we had a blast enjoying the retro vibe while bitching about the film's pro-yuppification message.
The next day was one of Maura's work days, which meant that it was up to my friend and me to entertain ourselves, which usually meant walking up Mass Ave from Central to Harvard, checking out the used vinyl stores along the way, and grabbing some Cafe Aventura pizza at the end of the trip. This time, though, my friend had unspecified "plans" to attend to and left me to fly solo.
I did, though in a more purpose-driven fashion than usual, figuring that I'd pick up a used copy of the
Pretty in Pink soundtrack (the songs and good memories were still fresh in my head) then try and meet Maura at Alewife Station, as it was where I caught the bus back to Woburn anyway and a stone's throw from the hotel where she was working at the time. Imagine my surprise when I stepped onto the Alewife concorse and discovered my punk rock pal already waiting there.
It was nothing compared to his surprise as his stammered out some excuses about medical appointments and hoping to run into me and so forth. As much as I hate rushing to judge, something about his language and mannerisms stunk worse than Alewife Brook's shopping carriage-filled waters in late August. After a few minutes of stilted conversation, Maura arrived, though circumstances prevented me from directly asking her if she had any knowledge about what the hell was going on.
It turned out that she didn't, and it wouldn't be revealed to her until the following Sunday evening. That was when my so-called pal, high on John Hughes's brand of sentimental melodrama and unrealistic expecations, showed up on Maura's parents' doorstep to profess his love for her (and be shot down in the brutally blunt manner for which my other half is reknowned for).
So, yeah. "Bring on the Dancing Horses" is a lovely bit of alternapop, and perhaps the finest track Mr. Echo and Friends ever recorded. It also induces an almost inperceptable reflexive grimace whenever I listen to it. This is why I've strenuously lobbied to have all teen romantic comedies labeled with a "MCABIDF" warning -- "May Cause Absurd Behavior In Deluded Fools."
(
One final note: If you happen to live in a Super Tuesday state and are disgusted as much as I am by the slate of candidates, "Bamboo Harvest" would make a perfect choice for a spite-in -- I mean "write in" -- candidate. The poor palamino has been dead for thirty-eight years, but I still have more confidence in his leadership skills than in any of the current roster of clowns.)
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