Charlotte’s Web (1973)

          Even cynics cry once in a while. For instance, one of my surefire triggers for waterworks is Charlotte’s Web, the miraculous children’s book by E.B. White that was originally published in 1952. A bittersweet story about friendship and mortality, Charlotte’s Web presents grown-up themes in a magical context, and the ending of the story slays me today as much as it did when I first read the book during childhood. I mention the power of White’s story to explain why I cut this animated adaptation a lot of slack, even though the film contains sentimental excesses that drift far afield from the melancholy textures of the source material. Speaking in the broadest terms, the filmmakers present White’s story intact—retaining even the most downbeat elements—so unnecessary filigrees such as boisterous musical numbers are merely interruptions. The basic narrative is so powerful that nothing can fully diminish its impact.

          For those unfamiliar with the tale, the hero of the story is a pig named Wilbur. He’s born on a farm, but because he’s a runt, he’s plucked from the litter for quick slaughter. The farmer’s daughter, a young girl named Fern, pleads for Wilbur’s life and is given responsibility for raising him. As a result, he grows to maturity with a gentle demeanor since all he’s ever known is TLC. Alas, Wilbur gets sold to a neighboring farm, where he’s again lined up for slaughter. Yet Wilbur’s sweet nature endears him to other animals on his new farm, including a sophisticated brown spider named Charlotte A. Cavatica. Eager to protect her new friend, Charlotte spins a web containing the words “some pig,” which transforms Wilbur into a small-town celebrity. This special relationship continues through to a heartbreaking finale that says volumes about the cyclical nature of life. I’m biased, of course, but I would go so far as to say that Charlotte’s Web is one of the loveliest stories created by an American author in the 20th century.

          Animation was definitely the right means for making a screen version of Charlotte’s Web, since it’s hard to imagine cozying up to a live-action arachnid. Alas, budget-conscious production company Hanna-Barbera never aimed for the same level of visual beauty as the folks at Disney, so this version of Charlotte’s Web is perfunctory in terms of images and motion. The character designs are fine, and the background settings get the job done, but the look of Charlotte’s Web is only slightly better than that of a standard Saturday-morning cartoon from the ’70s. Furthermore, the musical score is palatable at best. While songwriting brothers Richard B. Sherman and Robert M. Sherman (of Mary Poppins fame) fill their tunes with heart and playful language, their style doesn’t fit with the humble elegance of White’s storytelling. (Similarly, narrator Rex Allen’s aw-shucks line deliveries add a cornpone, Will Rogers-influenced flavor that lowers the intelligence level of the material.)

          Happily, the best elements of this movie are the most important—the vocal performances. Henry Gibson, of all people, finds a kindhearted but not sticky-sweet pocket for Wilbur’s speaking voice, capturing the character’s innocence. Paul Lynde channels his queeny bitchery into the comic-relief role of Templeton, a rat who serves as Charlotte’s de facto errand boy. And Debbie Reynolds is just about perfect as Charlotte—amiable, sad, and wise all at once. She also gets to sing the most delicate song the Shermans wrote for the peace, a philosophical number called “Mother Earth and Father Time.”

          Perhaps because this movie was the means by which many people first discovered White’s luminous story, the Hanna-Barbera version of Charlotte’s Web has enjoyed a long life in the marketplace, even earning a straight-to-video sequel, Charlotte’s Web 2: Wilbur’s Great Adventure, in 2003. (The sequel featured an all-new story, because White never wrote a follow-up book.) A live-action version of Charlotte’s Web was released in 2006, with an all-star cast including Julia Roberts and Robert Redford voicing animal characters rendered with CGI.

Charlotte’s Web: GROOVY

Nashville (1975)

          At the risk of losing my bona fides as an aficionado of ’70s cinema, I’m going to commit an act of heresy by saying that Nashvilleleaves me cold. I’ve sat through all 159 endless minutes of Robert Altman’s most celebrated movie twice, and both times Nashvillehas struck me as an overstuffed misfire that unsuccessfully tries to blend gentle observations about the country-music industry with bluntly satirical political content. Altman has said he was originally approached to make a straightforward film about country music, and that he said yes only on the condition he could spice up the storyline, but I can’t help feeling like the movie would have been better served by someone with a deeper interest in the principal subject matter.

          Obviously, the fact that Nashville is one of the most acclaimed films of its era indicates that I hold a minority opinion, and it must be said that even the film’s greatest champions single out its idiosyncrasy as a virtue. Furthermore, there’s no question that the way that Altman takes his previous experiments with roaming cameras and thickly layered soundtracks into a new realm by presenting Nashville as a mosaic of loosely connected narratives represents a cinematic breakthrough of sorts. Taken solely as a filmic experiment, the picture is bold and memorable. But for me, Nashville simply doesn’t work as a viewing experience, and I have to believe that Altman wanted his film to captivate as well as fascinate.

          I have no problem with the fact that many of Altman’s principal characters are freaks whom he presents somewhat condescendingly, including disturbed country singer Barbara Jean (Ronee Blakely); egotistical Grand Ole Opry star Haven Hamilton (Henry Gibson); heartless womanizer Tom Frank (Keith Carradine); irritating British journalist Opal (Geraldine Chaplin); pathetic would-be songstress Sueleen Gay (Gwen Welles); and so on. Altman and screenwriter Joan Tewkesbury balance the extreme characters with rational ones, such as cynical singer/adulteress Mary (Cristina Raines); long-suffering senior Mr. Green (Keenan Wynn); and sensitive singer/mom Linnea Reese (Lily Tomlin). Furthermore, Nashville is mostly a story about showbiz, a milieu to which odd people gravitate and in which odd people thrive.

          I also freely acknowledge that Nashville has many vivid scenes: the humiliating sequence in which Sueleen is forced to strip before a room of cat-calling men whom she thought wanted to hear her sing; the incisive vignette of Carradine performing his Oscar-nominated song “I’m Easy” to an audience including several of his lovers, each of whom believes the tune is about her; and so on. Plus, the acting is almost across-the-board great, with nearly every performer thriving in Altman’s liberating, naturalistic workflow. And, of course, the sheer ambition of Nashville is impressive, because it features nearly 30 major roles and a complicated, patchwork storytelling style held together by recurring tropes like a political-campaign van that rolls through Nasvhille broadcasting straight-talk stump speeches.

          My issue with the movie has less to do with the execution, which is skillful, than the intention, which seems willful. It’s as if Altman dares viewers to follow him down the rabbit hole of meandering narrative, and then flips off those same viewers by confounding them with elements that don’t belong. The ending, in particular, has always struck me as contrived and unsatisfying. Anyway, I’m just a lone voice in the wilderness, and I’m happy to accept the possibility that Nashvilleis simply one of those interesting films I’m doomed never to appreciate. Because, believe me, watching it a third time in order to penetrate its mysteries is not on my agenda. (Readers, feel free to tell me why you dig Nasvhille, if indeed you do, since I’d love to know what I’m apparently missing.)

Nashville: FUNKY