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Full disclosure: I'm a retired television critic, and a Baby Boomer. I grew up when the popular 1957-66 CBS TV "Perry Mason" series had its original run, but scrupulously avoided the show because I regarded it as starchy, predictable -- and boring. Mason won his case every time (except, I think, once, which caused a minor sensation trumpeted in TV Guide). But years later, as a critic, I had a chance to profile Barbara Hale, who played Mason's loyal secretary Della Street on that series, and she described a lot of behind-the-scenes pranks perpetrated by star Raymond Burr. It occurred to me, why couldn't they have brought some of that playfulness to what we saw on the screen, Bret Maverick or Jim Rockford as Mason, a man who was a crack attorney but had fun with it? It would have stood the genre on its head, much as "Maverick" had done to the staid Western back in the day of the old formulaic Warner Bros. Oaters. So it was with great expectation that I tuned in to this HBO miniseries iteration of "Perry Mason," hoping against hope (this is 2020, after all) that, yes, they get that, this should be fun! Well, it isn't. It's very bad. And what makes the whole thing so exasperating is that it could and should have been terrific. It's a lush, expensive production. And it has Matthew Rhys, a very fine actor, as Mason, and is directed by the talented Tim Van Patten, whose resume includes the likes of "The Sopranos" and "Game of Thrones," among other things. First, some background. The story is set in 1931 Los Angeles. That's good. You get Hollywood during its Golden Age, the upcoming Olympics, the Great Depression, the period between world wars. All sorts of things could happen. Well, it turns out Mason in this go-round isn't a lawyer, but a private investigator. (An aside. The creator of Perry Mason, Erle Stanley Gardner, was a lawyer who loved the law and its finer points. He hated the versions of Perry Mason in the old movies, and on radio, because he felt they strayed too much. He only agreed to do the 1950s and '60s series because the producer had a background in law and promised that it would meet his demands. As mentioned, I found the series boring, but many people loved it.) Back to this "Perry Mason." In this story, Mason is now a private investigator -- yes, not a lawyer -- and not an especially good one. He's a loser. A World War I vet veering toward alcoholism separated from his estranged wife and son. Running around in the obligatory fedora (which looks like it came right off a costume shelf -- "Yeah, take that one, it's brown and matches the jacket"), he continues to put himself in jeopardy and get the crap beat out of him. I confess. I'm no fan of violence, but it would be nice either to have him not do that, or hit back. So there's that. In the story, P. I. Mason is assigned by his friend and mentor, at the behest of a mogul, to the case of a baby boy who is kidnapped and has his eyes stitched open before his death under shady circumstances. If that sounds gross, yes it is. And that's another problem I have with this production. Whenever there's a chance to be gross, it is. In spades. Mason has a stain on his tie, so he goes to the morgue and gets one he likes from a dead guy. And of course there are the obligatory scenes urinating and having all sorts of sex. But the big enchilada is when Mason tries to blackmail Hollywood executives by photographing one or two of its big stars having in flagrante delicto -- yup, you guessed it, in a really gross way. (If your thing is seeing a full frontal of a 400 pound guy running down the street naked, this is the film for you.) Mason follows up by doing some really stupid things when surrounded by some guys right out of Dick Tracy. Who would do that? Well, an actor told to do it in the script. Speaking of the script, it is incredibly hackneyed, and one has the sense that the actors feel hemmed in, and thus have become caricatures. It's corny and off-putting. The cinematography, alas, is so dark it would put the legendary Gordon "Prince of Darkness" Willis to shame. With Willis, whose work included the likes of "The Godfather," the darkness was a metaphor, its shadows and nuances used brilliantly. Here, you'll find the darkness causing confusion because you can't tell one character from another. Not good. You'll also find yourself confronted by what Alfred Hitchcock called "refrigerator moments," moments when you stand around in the kitchen after watching the film realizing it's full of holes. Also not good. I'm really saddened because this production could have been so good. Maybe you like all the negatives I've listed here, maybe that's what you like. We reside in the apogee of grossness, after all, when too much is never enough. But for me, even during a time when we're in stay-at-home mode looking for some interesting and entertaining ways to pass the time, this is a real waste of that time.

"Rocketman," the musical biopic of Elton John, while far from a perfect film, is very enlightening and entertaining for both fans and those who might only be peripherally familiar with the singer's work and tumultuous life. Good music well integrated with plot and character, and impressive performances. Excellent production values and persuasively re-created performance scenes. Worth a look.

Some people have asked my opinion of Quentin Tarantino's latest film, "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood," since I resided there during the period in which the movie is set (the film spans February-August of 1969, and I moved into an apartment in the heart of downtown Hollywood, across from Grauman's Chinese Theatre, in June of 1970). I can't recall being as pleasantly surprised and so fully entertained by a film since 1973's "The Sting," with both films featuring two engaging, charismatic stars meshing so perfectly in an equally engrossing and lovingly escapist tale. It's fun, worth the time -- and the highest compliment of all -- makes you want to see it again. Serendipitously, "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood" touches upon some things that have very personal reference points for me. For instance, Leonardo DiCaprio's '50's Western star Rick Dalton trying to rebound in popularity and status reminds me of my first half-hour in Hollywood, when I met '50s Western star Hugh O'Brian ("The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp"), who was starring in a so-so TV movie in which a close friend of mine had a supporting role. O'Brian had been one of my idols growing up (his series, which debuted in 1955, was one of the first so-called "adult Westerns" and had been highly rated -- I had watched it since grade school). It was a rather sad moment. O'Brian couldn't have been kinder (I was a young actor, obviously green as grass), but the feeling of his trying to regain some sort of lost stature was palpable. For that reason I found DiCaprio's portrayal of Dalton dead-on. He was superb. When Dalton finds some degree of encouragement with a supporting role in the old cop show "The F.B.I.," I had to laugh. Two weeks before I moved into my little bachelor apartment, the series had actually shot an episode in my living room (the tenants were still abuzz about that). When Tarantino sweeps by the Cinerama Dome theater -- that was the first place I went to see a movie upon arriving in Hollywood. The historic Musso & Frank Grill was one of the first places old Hollywood hands insisted I go, and it became a kind of second home when I wanted to get out among "people." When Margot Robbie's Sharon Tate visits the venerable Larry Edmunds Bookshop, that was yet another frequent haunt that Hollywood veterans had introduced me too. Brad Pitt, who plays DiCaprio's close friend and stunt double Cliff Booth in perhaps his best performance yet (which is saying a lot), also resonated with me. One of my first acquaintances, whom I had met in a Steve McQueen-produced movie that brought me to Hollywood, was one of Hollywood's leading stunt men (think doubling for Clint Eastwood). Pitt absolutely nails the attitude and swagger of this important and all too often underappreciated class of performers. As for McQueen himself, Damian Lewis' brief turn as the superstar is chillingly accurate. You feel as if you're watching and listening to the real deal (even though McQueen has been gone since 1980, dying well before his time at the age of 50). Then there are the peripheral characters, like the late singer Mama Cass Elliot; I had literally run into her at a Hollywood premiere (and subsequently found myself with her and actress Angela Lansbury searching a parking garage for our cars after the screening). Most importantly, Tarantino captures exactly the look and feel of Hollywood at that time, without being musty, mocking or condescending. My only beef with the film, and it's a slight one, is that I thought Robbie's Sharon Tate came off a little featherbrained; I think the intent was to show her as an innocent, but in my mind the characterization didn't quite get there. And I'm not sure I was that taken with Al Pacino's portrayal of a sleazy casting agent, which seemed a bit too stagey and over the top. As for the story, which has Tarantino doing some revising of the Manson Family tragedy, it has an interesting twist regarding our heroes (to say much more would give away the plot). But all in all, I LOVED the film (I saw it on my birthday -- it was a gift from my family), and for me it was both an entertainment and a trip back to a special time. Those who have called this Tarantino's valentine to Hollywood -- and film -- have got it right. It's jammed with so much delicious Hollywood trivia of the day that only the most genuine lover of the industry could have put it all together in such a perfect, meaningful way. The movie is a keeper, and may come to be regarded as one of Tarantino's greatest cinematic legacies. It's that good -- and a Hollywood aficionado's delight.

Although the mention of Errol Flynn most often evokes images of his bravura Golden Age performance in "The Adventures of Robin Hood" (his portrayal of that character was ranked the 18th greatest American film hero by the American Film Institute), 1942's "Gentleman Jim," with Flynn as old-time boxer James J. Corbett waging his most famous fight against the great champion John L. Sullivan, is my favorite among Flynn's estimable body of work.

Flynn, considered the successor to Douglas Fairbanks as the screen's king of the swashbucklers, lived up to that promise with starring roles in films like "Captain Blood," "The Charge of the Light Brigade," "They Died with Their Boots On," "Dodge City," "Santa Fe Trail" and "San Antonio."

But "Gentleman Jim," based on Corbett's autobiography, "The Roar of the Crowd," and directed by the great Raoul Walsh, is quintessential Flynn, the sleek, daring young man on the rise and at the top of his game, here supported by a deep, perfectly cast group of actors that included frequent Flynn sidekick Alan Hale (this time as Flynn's father), Ward Bond (as a barrel-chested Sullivan), Alexis Smith (as his smitten but sassy love interest) and Jack Carson (as his well-meaning but gullible and socially awkward best bud).

And, yes, that's William Frawley a decade before "I Love Lucy" and Fred Mertz, stealing scenes in a pivotal role as a cigar-chomping, opportunistic but sometimes disbelieving little fight promoter.

Alas, the real-life Flynn, who had trained so hard to be in shape as Corbett, died at the young age of 50 in October 1959, his body aged well beyond its years, his personal life and film career in tatters, victims of a burn-the-candle-at-both-ends and all too often scandalous lifestyle (see his autobiography with ghostwriter Eric Conrad, "My Wicked, Wicked Ways," and David Niven's memoir, "Bring on the Empty Horses," for a glimpse of his complex and troubled life).

As for Corbett (1866-1933), who graduated from Sacred Heart High School in San Francisco and was "rumored" to have a college education, he's been called the "Father of Modern Boxing" for his athletic dodging, dancing and weaving technique in the ring, Muhammad Ali before there was a Muhammad Ali. That entertaining and often harrowing style against sometimes bigger and stronger opponents, plus being blessed with a natural sense of theatricality and movie-star good looks that led to a second career in stage acting, resulted in his being christened Gentleman Jim by an admiring press eager to capitalize on his charisma.

But this was Flynn at his best, as he should be remembered, a match with character made in cinematic heaven.

If you haven't seen "Gentleman Jim," or if it's been a while, have a look.

"The Boys: The Sherman Brothers Story" is a terrific documentary produced by the sons of the famous composing team of Robert and Richard Sherman ("Mary Poppins," "The Jungle Book," "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang") about their fathers and their complex relationship.

Robert, for example, the older brother and "poet," who wrote so beautifully of sweetness and optimism, was in the very first group of GIs to liberate the Dachau concentration camp, which had a profound impact on him and his relationships, especially with his brother.

And how do these famous songs come about? When one of the composers' sons came home and said he had some sort of anti-polio treatment at school, the father assumed it was a shot and said, "That must have hurt." The son replied, no it was medicine he swallowed after they gave him a lump of sugar to take beforehand. Voila! The birth of the famous "Mary Poppins" tune, "A Spoonful of Sugar (Helps the Medicine Go Down)."

Fascinating stuff on so many levels, it will interest music aficionados, Disney fans, students of Hollywood history and even those who really know very little of these particular gentlemen.

Well worth your time.

And, Hollywood, if you're listening -- how about a movie telling their story? Terrific stuff.

This six-part UK drama miniseries, starring Richard Madden ("Game of Thrones") and Keeley Hawes ("The Durells in Corfu"), is well worth a look. Accolades abounded after its release, including a well-deserved 2018 Golden Globe for Madden.

In a nutshell, Madden plays the main bodyguard assigned to look after the Home Secretary, played by Hawes.

Madden's bodyguard is an Afghanistan vet suffering from PTSD who is separated from his wife, whom he still loves, and both are dedicated to their two small children. He's good at his job -- some would say, too good.

Hawes' government official is sharp, driven and strong, up to the task of out-talking and out-maneuvering her peers.

To say much more would give away the story, which opens with a bang. Remarkably, the tension never slows as we wind our way through a labyrinthine maze of subplots that entangle terrorists, spies and government officials.

"Bodyguard" avoids trite story devices with very few exceptions, and Madden's psychologically troubled ex-vet is smart and asks the right questions, unlike lead characters in so many similar series who do dopey, illogical things for the express purpose of filling time in storylines being stretched way too far because of the need to pad multi-part productions.

The twists are surprising and believable, done with originality, and the action scenes go well beyond the usual, keeping us in suspense and never bored.

It's not too much to say this six-parter is addictive, and will keep you on edge right till the end.

Highly recommended.

"Fosse/Verdon," a miniseries on the FX cable network, is a well above-average show business biopic starring Sam Rockwell (Oscar winner, "Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri") as director-choreographer Bob Fosse, and Michelle Williams ("Manchester By the Sea," "My Week with Marilyn," four-time Oscar nominee) as actress and dancer Gwen Verdon.

Rockwell and Williams, actors who can each change their screen personas dramatically, bring an authenticity both ebullient and tormented to the story of the legendary couple's troubled personal and professional relationship.

Set against faithfully restaged moments from their stage and movie hits, productions ranging from "Damn Yankees" and "Sweet Charity" to "Cabaret," the miniseries does what show business has always done enthusiastically, and well -- turn inward, both celebrating and condemning itself in an almost voyeuristic way.

The show biz odds and ends presented here and there are accurate, but later generations who weren't around when Fosse and Verdon were in their prime producing these hits will unquestionably view the pair's work in an entirely different light after viewing this miniseries, which in some ways seems unfortunate. It could color and taint one's appreciation of their undeniable individual brilliance.

You'll have to decide whether that's something you want to do, but either way, there's no denying this is a top-notch effort in exploring who they were and what went on behind the scenes. It begs the question of how performers can so compartmentalize, performing at such a high level even as their personal lives are in tatters.

The 1979 theatrical release "All That Jazz," a popular and critically acclaimed semi-autobiographical musical drama directed by Fosse, inspired by his manic effort to edit his film "Lenny" while simultaneously staging the 1975 Broadway musical "Chicago," is bigger and splashier, but this production (based on Sam Wasson's much-praised biography, "Fosse") cuts closer to the bone, probably because both central characters are gone now (Fosse died in 1987, Verdon in 2000).

Expect to hear about "Fosse/Verdon" at awards time, and deservedly so.

In development for many years and originally pitched by writer John Fusco as a possible vehicle for Paul Newman and Robert Redford, "The Highwaymen," just out with Kevin Costner and Woody Harrelson in the leads, was well worth the wait. Directed by John Lee Hancock with a sure hand, it tells the story of two ex-Texas Rangers who try to track down the notorious Bonnie and Clyde. Unlike the glammed-up, Technicolored 1967 theatrical release with Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway as two drop-dead gorgeous class clowns whose barbarism is wrapped in designer togs and hidden by BIG STAR TURNS, this is a tense, sparse, color-drained story with naturalistic, perfectly underplayed performances that captures the desperate chase to stop the rampage of two animalistic criminals at once feared and revered by the public in an America on the rebound in 1934. Frank Hamer (Costner) and Many Gault (Harrelson) are the former Texas Ranger partners who come out of retirement to attempt the nearly impossible, not only trying to anticipate the next moves of Bonnie and Clyde but having to overcome both federal and local authorities either overzealous or sympathetic to the criminals while working their way through dirt-poor towns who consider the killers heroes who are hitting back at the establishment. Sometimes the towns are peopled by Bonnie and Clyde's family, or close friends of the pair. The tension of whether Hamer and Gault will be done in before they get to the criminal couple is palpable. To complicate matters, Hamer and Gault, while they trust and respect each other, are opposites. Hamer has a kill or be killed attitude, while Gault, who once had a drinking problem, wonders if the haven't become as bad as the people they're chasing. A telling scene when the two old lawmen find Bonnie and Clyde's hideaway illustrates how different the two men feel about the task at hand -- Gault tenderly fingers a hair brush of Bonnie's as though she's a wayward teen, noting by her dress size how small she is, while Hamer just considers it all a clue to be tucked away should they confront her. Costner and Harrelson have never been better. Costner's Hamer is a tired, bitter lawmen who once led a near massacre of 54 bad guys, a man who once was close to becoming a pastor before fate viciously intervened, while Harrelson is his supportive if reluctant conscience, realizing what has to be done but hating every minute of it. Harrelson has established himself as the heir apparent to Jack Nicholson as an actor who can do just about anything, and Costner has sharpened his Gary Cooper-ish naturalism to a fine point that utterly convinces you you're watching the real thing, not acting. "The Highwaymen" is not what you would expect, in a good way. It's a superb character study, a chronicle of the times, and a cracking good police procedural all rolled into one. Not a bit of it seems trite or predictable, and the end when the credits roll masterfully puts the whole thing in perspective. It's easily a five-star out of five film. While I come down on Steven Spielberg's side in the Oscar controversy being waged against Netflix, credit where credit's due. This Netflix production is tops, and well worth your time, even and especially if you think you're not into this kind of movie. It's that good.

"The Old Man & the Gun" is a true anomaly: a crime comedy film -- that really works.

Based on a 2003 article by David Grann in The New Yorker, later appearing in his 2010 book "The Devil and Sherlock Holmes," the film focuses on the escapades -- and escapes -- of Forrest Silva "Woody" Tucker (1920-2004), whose lengthy string of bank heists and prison "walkways" at first irritated law authorities but ultimately won their grudging respect and charmed a disbelieving public.

A one-time inmate of Alcatraz whose most famous escape was from San Quentin, he never met a bank he didn't like. To rob. It's estimated his total take over the years amounted to $4 million.

In the words of one character in the film, "For him, robbing banks isn't a way of making a living -- it's his life."

In the film, directed by David Lowery from a screenplay he wrote, Robert Redford plays Tucker like a world-class musician stroking a Stradivarius violin, a master who knows exactly how to play a master instrument. The actor, who hints that this may be his last screen performance, packs all of the wares learned and honed in his 60-year career into the complicated tragicomic man that Tucker was.

As Tucker, Redford, one of the screen's great minimalists, deals in nuance where lesser actors might have used gaudy broad brushstrokes. He is sad, funny, endearing, maddening, strong, weak, restrained and driven.

He falls in love with, and is loved by, Jewel (Sissy Spacek), a winsome and trusting woman he stops to help on the freeway when her pickup truck breaks down. No screen female plays deep, inexplicable and true, dedicated love like Spacek, who is perfectly cast as the classy girlfriend who can't explain why she is drawn to a character like this, and doesn't really try.

Soon after meeting, Forrest and Jewel have coffee at a greasy spoon cafe, and she asks him what he does for a living. Tucker hesitates, remarking embarrassingly (sort of) that if she knew, she wouldn't like him. Of course, he's totally wrong: He scribbles his "occupation" on a slip of paper, slides it across the table, she giggles, straightens up -- and realizes it to be true but that it doesn't matter, somehow.

Redford's buddies, Teddy and Waller, played with delightful understated comic precision by Danny Glover and Tom Waits respectively, bring to mind what Butch and Sundance's gang might have looked like if transported to modern times -- supportive, sharp and sassy. And completely compelling and believable.

One of the best aspects of the film is the bond established between Forrest and the lawman who trails him, Detective John Hunt (Casey Affleck).

Hunt meets him twice "accidentally," and I won't give away the circumstances here, but both times are at once mythic and touching. Affleck's dedicated, exhausted cop is a man who believes in the law but understands the humanity of the people who break it. He's a devoted family man who genuinely cares about people, but is also determined to nab the bad guys even when he's out on his feet, which is most of the time. Affleck, with a subtle, sweet and understanding drawl, nails it. Tiki Sumpter as his wife, Maureen, is outstanding as the soulmate who both comforts and challenges him.

One of the many gems in the film is Elizabeth Moss' turn as Forrest's daughter, who really doesn't know him, but innately understands him. It's sensational casting -- she looks like she could be the daughter of Redford's screen character. Her explanation about Forrest's life to Affleck's detective is stunningly played, building with a quiet anger and an unmistakable love.

A strength of this film is the casting of the so-called minor characters involved in Forrest's robberies. They're uniformly terrific, not a clunker in the bunch, which gives the story depth and realism. We're watching people react we feel we know. One bank official, startled at Forrest's audacity, and scared, can't help but tell police how much of a real gentleman Forrest is. Later in the film, a young woman bank teller starts to cry, Forrest becomes alarmed and asks her why, and she manages a giggle while still crying. Try that!

Lowery's script avoids cliches and gets at the characters in a sure-handed way that respects both the actors and the audience, giving everybody credit for being able to connect the dots without forcing it.

The cinematography is darkly lush and appealing while being true to the spirit of this quirky tale.

The real Forrest Tucker (not to be confused with the actor of the same name) was first imprisoned when he was 15. He died in 2004 at the age of 83. In prison.

There are cop dramas, and there are cop dramas. Sometimes the cop dramas that don't want to be like other cop dramas try too hard. But "River" _ a six-part British TV series airing on Netflix _ tries very hard to be different _ and gets it spectacularly right.

The story focuses on DI John River (Stellan Skarsgard) who is grappling with the death of his partner, DS Jacqueline "Stevie" Stevenson (Nicola Walker), who is shot to death outside a pub where they had been having dinner.

So far, nothing new, right?

Think again.

It seems that since his youth, River has seen and communicated with dead people. They haunt him (no pun intended), while he's sitting at his desk, attending meetings, interviewing people, driving, riding the subway, sleeping, eating, you name it. And they're not always Casper the Friendly Ghost (like Thomas Neill Cream, "The Lambeth Poisoner," here played by Eddie Marsan, who attempts to goad River into losing his cool).

The series opens innocently enough with River and Stevie driving along chatting, laughing and even breaking into song. The first reaction is that this series is going to be slow, slow, slow and hackneyed. Then they stop at a drive-through to order a shake and burger. Something isn't quite right, the communication is off.

As they drive on, River thinks he sees a suspect, we don't know for what crime, he bails out of the car and gives chase. His prey, a frightened young man, leaps to his death as Stevie trails behind and radios for backup. Or does she? As she turns and walks away, we notice the back of her head has been blown away.

And we're off.

Swedish actor Skarsgard is excellent as the brooding lead detective who tries to piece together the murder of his partner, who is also, as we learn, his great love. The ubiquitous Walker ("Spooks," "Last Tango in Halifax," "Unforgotten") is perfect as the wide-eyed, offbeat counterpoint to the stoic River, the female, we can't help but imagine, who could have brought him out of his shell, which makes the whole thing that much more tragic and urgent (Stevie warns River that at some point she will just fade away).

The serpentine storyline never gets out of hand to the point of confusion, but challenges us to pay attention to every element, right up until the final denouement in the last part of the last episode. The conclusion is a shocker, but not so much that we think it could never happen in real life (minus the dead people chatting with the detective).

Adeel Akhtar is terrific as DS Ira King, River's new sidekick, an innocent tough whose alarm at his detective partner's unconventional ways evolves into true friendship, even if we're never sure whether he thinks River is actually talking to dead people or is merely unbalanced.

Sorcha Cusack of the great Cusack family of Irish actors, recently seen as the straight-laced Catholic housekeeper on "Father Brown," polishes off her acting chops as Stevie's angry mother.

The rest of the cast is uniformly brilliant, from Marsan's wailing Lambeth Poisoner Cream to Rosa Fellows as the understanding police psychologist and Lesley Manville as the beleaguered head of the homicide unit. Not a weak link in the bunch.

"River," beautifully photographed in a cool, shadowy style to match its mysterious aura, is worth every moment of its six episodes. But you'll have to pay attention _ and you'll be glad you did.

In the early 1990s, I gathered in Los Angeles with 100 or so other television critics from across North America for the usual biannual pitch from networks and cable channels promoting their upcoming shows. The TV industry people are all too often shameless shills, bombarding critics with an overload of glitz and bags of "gifts" ranging from clocks to tea kettles in an effort to earn favorable reviews. These twice-yearly rituals last two weeks and are round-the-clock, with previews continuously piped into critics' hotel rooms and publicity materials slipped under their doors even as they sleep (if they can).

Understandably, the cumulative effect of all of this frequently results in just the opposite of what the TV folk seek, with the critics disliking (hating) much if not most of what is put in front of them as they become progressively more and more exhausted, crabby and jaded.

At least this was the predictable cycle until one Saturday morning in a Beverly Hills hotel ballroom when Fred McFeely Rogers _ the public television host and children's advocate known as "Mr. Rogers" _ stepped up to address this beleaguered and suspicious throng of critics, who by now were ready to start throwing their plates of salmon at anyone who took to the podium.

Rogers calmly took their measure, and instead of immediately diving in and beginning to talk, stood there silently and motionless until not a sound could be heard in the cavernous room. Then, with all eyes on him, he began to talk in a whisper.

He told a story about how during the Great Depression, his mother would bake pies and leave them on the window sill of their home for passing hobos. The pies would consistently disappear, and sometimes, rarely, the hobos would leave a penny or two, at most a nickel, as payment. Rogers explained that his mother didn't want anything in return, but accepted the money because it helped the hobos retain their dignity.

By the time Rogers finished his talk, the critics were completely won over. More than a few coughs could be heard reverberating around the hall, masking the embarrassed sobs of critics who were being paid to be above it all.

It was with this memory in mind that I went with my family to see Morgan Neville's new documentary "Won't You Be My Neighbor?", which tells the story of Rogers and his iconic children's show, which ran on PBS from 1968 to 2001.

An ordained Presbyterian minister, Rogers, who passed away 15 years ago, had a simple mantra: "Love is at the root of everything."

That certainly sounds good on paper and when addressing children, you think, but how does it play in the real world? As it turns out, pretty damned good.

In an early appearance before Congress as he helps seek funding for the newly created Public Broadcasting System, Rogers faces a steely and adversarial U.S. Sen. John Orlando Pastore (D-R.I.), who had already made up his mind to pan PBS. Pastore stares. And stares. Rogers explains, in a shaky voice that would make Jimmy Stewart blush, that the best way to illustrate the value of PBS would be to recite the words to a song he had written for his show. As he does, Pastore's eyes become moist. He blinks. "You've just earned your $20 million!" he blurts abruptly, and the room erupts in applause.

Rogers, upset with breakneck cartoon violence and frantic children's fare designed to sell products rather than to educate, made his half-hour show completely different, singing, offering gentle advice (often delivered by a cat puppet on his hand delivered in a falsetto voice), and having thought-provoking conversations with series regulars like David "Mr. McFeely" Newell, Francois "Officer Clemmons" Clemmons and Joe "Handyman" Negri, as well as occasional celebrity guests like cellist Yo-Yo Ma (who admitted that meeting the TV icon "scared the hell out of me").

In one segment, Rogers, visibly angry that children were injuring themselves by trying to emulate superheroes like Superman, carefully explains the difference between pretending and real life.

Rogers refused to duck tough subjects like death (of humans and pets), assassinations (in this instance, of Robert Kennedy), divorce, physical handicaps _ and even racism. Clemmons, an African-American, confides that he was reluctant to play a cop on the show. Not only did Rogers convince him, he took a shot at racists by staging a routine in which he invites Clemmons to soak his feet alongside his own in a small wading pool, and even shares a towel with him. (To illustrate just how risky this was for the time, director Neville intercuts footage of white lifeguards pouring bleach into a pool where black youngsters are swimming.)

We also learn of Rogers' own biases. Clemmons tells of how Rogers reacted when someone from the show discovered that the then-closeted Clemmons had been to a gay bar. "I had a good time!" says Clemmons, who was then told that any future bar visits would result in his termination from the show. Clemmons says that Mr. Rogers "eventually came around" to acceptance.

In a straightforward yet somehow understated way just like you-know-who, "Won't You Be My Neighbor?" effectively spikes a lot of ridiculous rumors that sprang up about Rogers, like the one that he had a "torso full of tattoos" _ in this instance, we see Mr. Rogers swimming his daily mile in the local pool. So there.

Alas, we also are shown "parodies" of Rogers performed by the likes of Johnny Carson and Jim Carrey, which, especially now, come across as clumsy, mean-spirited and unfunny, bits that clearly hurt Rogers, whose only response to them was that "some" were humorous. Some things never change.

I find it remarkable that a documentary like this can be found in theaters also screening slam-bang, big-budget fare. But it is, and drawing a surprisingly tidy number of viewers at that.

I recommend this for everyone, not only those who remember watching Mr. Rogers' show, but young people who probably don't realize what all the fuss is about. It's an important reminder that goodness rises to the top even in the worst of times.

After missing this 2017 film, I agreed with my family: Considering the hot summer months and the rising political and social temperatures as well, an early visit to Christmas and the man who helped remind us what the holiday is all about was a pretty good idea (as in, why can't we think like this all year-round?).

"The Man Who Invented Christmas" revolves around Charles Dickens (played by Dan Stevens of "Downton Abbey" fame) and the personal and creative journey he took in writing his beloved novel, "A Christmas Carol."

Dickens, who wrote the book in 1843, intended it to "strike a sledge hammer blow" for the poor, an idea that sprang from a trek to Manchester, where he observed the plight of manufacturing workers, and from what he had seen at the Field Lane Ragged School.

History tells us that his characters leapt to life in his consciousness and that he became so engrossed he "wept and laughed, and wept again," and that he "walked about the black streets of London fifteen or twenty miles a night when all sober folks had gone to bed."

The film is sumptuous, the production values and photography lush and appealing and, when appropriately necessary, cautionary and convincing.

Stevens is excellent as the driven author, moving from warmth to near creative madness without overdoing either, but Christopher Plummer as the imaginary Scrooge he conjures in his mind nearly steals the show, trading barbs and supplying the logic of someone who has forgotten the meaning of love and life.

It's a special fascination to see how artists think and work, borrowing bits and pieces from the people and happenings around them to knit a separate entity that then stands alone by itself.

I didn't find the film preachy or message-driven, though it's impossible in the current climate not to think that some of what's going on here and across Europe may not have seeped into the production. Art usually reflects the fervor of its time.

Still in all, viewers across the political spectrum will find the film more than enjoyable and a welcome reminder that we should _ and can _ celebrate each other all the time, not just in advance of exchanging Christmas presents and knocking back a cold one.

Adding some spice to the film is some clever humor delivered by actors top to bottom who clearly have the training and experience to bring a funny line into the winner's circle.

It's said that "A Christmas Carol" reawakened the spirit of Christmas in both Britain and America.

I think watching this movie does the same thing for viewers too no matter the time of year, and considering what we're experiencing now, that ain't a bad thing.

The terrific character actor Stanley Tucci is also a terrific director, and for evidence of that look no further than his latest directorial effort, "The Final Portrait."

The film is fact-based, about sculptor and painter Alberto Giacometti (played by Geoffrey Rush), in 1964, toward the end of his career.

The plot revolves around Giacometti inviting author and arts aficionado James Lord (Arnie Hammer) to sit for one of his final portraits _ considered by many to be his last great picture _ at the Paris studio that Giocometti operates with his brother, Diego (Tony Shalhoub).

The result is a finely chiseled character study of the artist and an immensely fascinating depiction of the creative process.

Perfectly understated in every way, from performance to photography, the film is a gently, lilting valentine to all who share in the creative process, in any discipline.

False starts, self-doubt, depression, euphoria _ It's all there.

Rush believably and movingly captures a genius at the end of his days, right down to his shuffling gait and hunched carriage, without overdoing, while Shalhoub, a vastly under appreciated actor, makes every subtle expression and movement poignant and meaningful.

Hammer's young author Lord offers perfect counterpoint, posing questions with a look or gesture, serving as a wide-eyed link between the audience and the man he struggles to understand.

Sylvie Testud as the artist's wife, Annette, brings all the deep love and pain of a complicated relationship in each and every scene, while Clemence Poesy _ recently seen as the icy French detective in the TV series "The Tunnel" _ here shows a distant warmth and complexity as the prostitute who has become the artist's mistress.

The creative process is not a linear or always pretty one, but, as demonstrated here, it is invariably intriguing and can also inspire.

This 90-minute film comes highly recommended.

Amazon's American crime drama "Sneaky Pete" _ created by David Shore and Bryan Cranston, and starring Giovanni Ribisi ("Avatar," "My Name Is Earl") _ is in a league of its own. There's really nothing quite like it.

Edgy, gritty, shocking, ironic, poignant, hilarious _ and ultimately, completely satisfying _ the series, whose second season premiered last month, is binge-worthy in the extreme. In fact, try not to, I dare you.

The second season is even better than the first, which, if you saw the first, seems impossible.

Think "The Sting" meets "The Wire," with a smidgeon of "Pulp Fiction" and "Get Shorty." For those of a certain age, throw in "Maverick" and Jim Rockford, and let it come to a boil. Sprinkle lightly with pixie dust, garlic and a dash of arsenic. There now.

The story revolves around freshly released convict Marius Josipovic (Ribisi), who adopts the identity _ and family _ of his cell mate, Pete Murphy.

Oh, boy, what a family. And what an ex-con. Maybe they deserve each other. And maybe it's a match made in ... no, not up there ... well, anyway, you get the drift.

What a cast: in addition to the incredible Mr. Ribisi, it includes Marin Ireland, Shane McRae, Libe Barer, Michael Drayer, Peter Gerety and Margo Martindale.

Not a weak link in the bunch, or in any of the supporting characters.

A "family" dinner in one of the second season's final installments is so wonderfully bizarre and riveting, with each actor brilliantly reflecting the individual backstories, as conflicting as they are, that it's impossible not to be sucked in and left almost breathless.

I wholeheartedly recommend this. To more fully appreciate it, I suggest watching the first season (you'll binge that too) before getting into the second.

And did I mention that the audience sometimes gets conned, too?

Part of the fun.

In "Roman J. Israel, Esq.," a drama written and directed by Dan Gilroy with Denzel Washington in the title role, the American legal system and the people who must somehow operate within its confines are exposed for what they are: an uneven mix of good and bad, with the tilt toward one or the other dependent as much or more so on the moral compass and grit of the individual as on circumstance, no matter how imposing or seemingly impossible they might be.

When someone asks criminal defense lawyer Roman what the "esq." on his business card is for, he replies _ proudly, with a wry grin: "A little above gentlemen and a little below knight." He might have added, a little below knight in white shining armor and a lot above an uncaring, fee-collecting robot.

Roman has spent his life fighting small injustices on behalf of the disenfranchised, a fight for which he has never been given credit while giving it everything he has, including sacrificing any kind of personal life to do it. He's been the real brains behind a small two-partner law firm he's formed with his former professor, and while tackling unglamorous cases he also has been assembling a brief that will change the class action portions of the justice system forever.

When his partner, in no small way the front man, has a heart attack and is incapacitated, Roman learns that the firm is in fact broke and has been much less altruistic than he was aware, something his former professor kept secret from him.

Roman subsequently applies for a job with slick young attorney George Pierce (Colin Farrell), whom his partner put in charge if something were to happen to him. it's an uneasy fit from the beginning, and Roman finds himself almost immediately morally and ethically challenged, not only in his interpersonal approach to clients and cases but in who he can defend and why.

When he tackles the case of a young African-American man arrested and charged with murder during a convenience store holdup, he begins to question everything he is and has done.

What Roman decides to do, and the consequences of his actions, are the core of a story that reflects scores of small real-life dramas playing out across the country well off the front pages, but significant in how they shape our beliefs and culture.

This may be Washington's finest work yet, a quiet if somewhat klutzy Everyman whose legal genius has both separated him from the norm while thrusting him into its very heart and soul.

This also may be Farrell's best film turn to date, an understated performance that stabs at the soft underbelly of our legal system.

The rest of the supporting cast _ including Carmen Ejogo, Amari Cheatom, DeRon Horton, Amanda Warren, Nazneen Contractor, Shelly Hennig, Joseph David-Jones and Andre T. Lee _ are uniformly excellent in their restrained intensity.

At once uplifting and disturbing, "Roman J. Israel, Esq." is outstanding on all counts.

"Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri" is promoted as a "black comedy crime film," but the truth is that it's a modern parable about revenge and the only thing funny about it is the sad irony of what can happen by giving in to this most basic of human inclinations, no matter how apparently justified.

Martin McDonagh, who wrote, produced and directed the film, reportedly was inspired after seeing billboards about an unsolved crime while traveling "somewhere down in the Georgia, Florida, Alabama corner."

The film is fictional, but the script and the performances ring as true and as realistic as something that might happen in today's world in any town in America.

Frances McDormand plays Mildred Hayes, a bitterly divorced mother still aching over the unsolved rape and murder of her teenage daughter, Angela, seven months before.

Furious over what she perceives as foot-dragging on the case, she empties her bank account to pay for three billboards just outside of town. They read, successively: "RAPED WHILE DYING," "AND STILL NO ARRESTS?", and "HOW COME, CHIEF WILLOUGHBY?"

Townspeople are upset over the billboards, but none as much as Sheriff Bill Willoughby (Woody Harrelson), whose profane good-old-boy manner belies a complex human being, a doting husband and father at home who is a savvy, tough-as-nails peace officer on the job. He's also dying of pancreatic cancer.

Willoughby is sympathetic to Mildred's plight, explaining the legal constraints he is under, but she will have none of it and refuses to remove the signs. As a result, she and her son, Robbie (Lucas Hedges, so effective in "Manchester By the Sea") face all sorts of harassment by the townspeople, including that by Mildred's abusive ex-husband, Charlie (John Hawkes), an ex-cop living with a dim but well-meaning 19-year-old Penelope (Samara Weaving), who offers perhaps the most accurate summation of the story with a phrase that she said she read on a bookmark.

In the midst of all of this is Deputy Sheriff Jason Dixon (Sam Rockwell), an ignorant racist who never seems to understand exactly what is happening but overreacts in very much the wrong way to that which he does.

To reveal any more would give away the many surprising twists both in plot and character development.

The film is meticulously thought out and though timeless in its point, is particularly applicable to today's society in which all too many people act out their emotions in a violent way, horrible consequences notwithstanding.

The casting and performances are nigh-on perfect, top to bottom, with McDormand, Harrelson and Rockwell especially stunning.

"Three Billboards" is Oscar-worthy across the board, and would stack up against any best picture nominee, past or present.

As I wend my way through a plethora of films up for various SAG Awards _ an unusually diverse group including the likes of "The Shape of Water," "Darkest Hour," "Downsizing," "Lady Bird," "Get Out," "The Big Sick," "Call Me By Your Name" and "The Disaster Artist," among others _ I find, much to my surprise, that the one I like the most is the one I thought I would like the least: "I, Tonya."

"I, Tonya," directed by Craig Gillespie from a script by Steven Rogers, is a biographical film about the disgraced figure skater Tonya Harding leading up to and including her involvement (or not) in the 1994 attack on her American Olympic teammate Nancy Kerrigan.

The film is a deeply moving study not only of a troubled young athlete and her dysfunctional family, but a convincing treatise about class distinction in the United States and how it can manifest itself in complex, easily dismissed and misunderstood ways.

For example, when the movie-Harding confronts a skating judge after losing a competition she justifiably thought she had clearly won, the judge says the jury's vote was not about skating but about not wanting to be represented by someone from the wrong side of the tracks. Among other things, she makes her own skating costumes, which are clearly not in the class of those worn by the more well-fixed competition.

The movie begins in the 1970s with Tonya, then 4, being shoved down the throat of a local skating instructor by Tonya's mother, LaVona Fay Golden, played by veteran Allison Janney ("The West Wing") as a kind of more obvious and profane Nurse Ratched, the ultimate rotten stage mother incapable of love and caring even when it comes to her own child at her most needy and vulnerable.

When the instructor balks, the mother levels the other skating tots with a coarse putdown usually not reserved for children (strong language permeates this script, another not-so-subtle reminder, and not an unbiased one, of the class distinction motif).

Tonya is played with breathtaking _ and there's no other word for it _ effectiveness by Margot Robbie (who also produced). Robbie, a real beauty, makes herself much less so without the theatricality so often displayed by actresses when they are called upon to play more threadbare characters. Robbie is Harding right down to her toenails, whether providing commentary about her life as she smokes a cigarette at her kitchen table, or skimming along the ice with honest-to-goodness athletic virtuosity.

Sebastian Stan as her boyfriend-turned-husband, Jeff Gillooly, whom Harding marries as much to claim independence from her mother as because of true love, is excellent as he walks the fine line between being physically and emotionally abusive even as he fights to defend her honor.

The attack on Kerrigan is re-created in a chilling, violent street-crime-meets-the-Keystone Kops way that works in showing both its grotesque and tragic possibilities while exposing the ridiculousness of the misguided logic behind it.

Julianne Nicholson, Caitlin Carver and Bobby Cannavale are completely believable and moving in supporting roles.

The film is described as a black comedy that uses occasional mockumentary techniques (like having characters break the fourth wall and speak right into the camera), but I would beg to differ.

This is an American tragedy _ a tragedy in which America itself was complicit.

"Wind River" is a gripping murder mystery-thriller written and directed by Taylor Sheridan (Best Original Screenplay Oscar nominee for "Hell or High Water") starring Jeremy Renner, Elizabeth Olsen and Graham Greene, featuring an unusually strong supporting cast that includes many fine Native American actors.

Renner and Olsen play a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service tracker and an FBI agent, respectively, attempting to solve the murder of a young woman whose body is discovered by Renner under mysterious circumstances as he patrols the Wind River Indian Reservation in Wyoming.

The film scrupulously avoids clichés and is tightly edited with nary a wasted moment, yet never feels rushed or artificial in performance or plot. Everyone and everything is there for a reason, and best of all, the audience is given credit for being able to keep up and connect the dots.

The violence, which is absolutely necessary, is kept at a bare minimum as a narrative device, explaining and clarifying rather than assaulting the senses.

Every character, even the most heinous, is portrayed as a fully developed human being rather than as stereotype.

We learn how the Native American culture is victimized in a way that takes us inside their world and their souls, but the journey is skillfully handled and never heavy handed.

The photography is perfectly rendered, celebrating the icy Wyoming scenery in a muted style consistent with the mood of the story.

Renner, Olsen and Greene are excellent and believable, but in no small way this is an ensemble piece whose potency and effectiveness derive from the palpable passion and belief of everyone in front of and behind the camera.

This is an engrossing story well worth your time and money, and kudos to everyone involved for having faith that a discerning audience will find and appreciate it.

"Sully" is a very fine if not quite great film "for grownups" about Capt. Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger (Tom Hanks), who, on Jan. 15, 2009, attempted an emergency landing on New York's Hudson River after the US Airways Flight 1549 he was commanding struck a flock of geese.

Miraculously _ too miraculously, some FAA investigators believe _ all of the 155 passengers and crew survive the harrowing ordeal, and Sullenberger becomes a national hero in the eyes of the public and the media.

However, despite the accolades, and away from the adoring public, the pilot faces a wrenching investigation that threatens to destroy his career and reputation.

Director Clint Eastwood demands, and gets, natural, realistic performances from his actors, top to bottom, in a film shot in an almost-throwback semi-documentary fashion.

In his typical understated, signature master-storytelling style, Eastwood successfully explores a sobering backstory about the rigors and costs of sudden-found fame, with a subtle indictment of the media and its rush-to-judgment approach that too often becomes a catalyst of the story it's covering.

One of Hanks' best, and Aaron Eckhart, in a welcome relief from menacing villains he plays so well, is excellent as his supportive co-pilot. Laura Linney is her usual superb self as Sully's wife, who tries to manage the ups and downs of the family crisis on the home front while her husband is away.

Enlightening and entertaining, with no dead spots. Well worth your time.

When I was in the fourth grade, all the girls loved Elvis, the boys hated him and the nuns told us anybody who bought his records would most likely go to hell.

By the time I got to high school, also a Catholic undertaking, and just a mile or two away, I wound up sitting next to a boy who would go on, years later, to become the CEO of Elvis Presley Enterprises, hired by Priscilla Presley to dig the late singer's estate out of debt.

Who knew?

Elvis died in 1977, one of a slew of famous people who passed that year, including Bing Crosby, Groucho Marx, Maria Callas, Ethel Waters and Freddie Prinze, to name but a few.

At the large Southern California newspaper where I worked as a writer at the time, Presley's death seemed to shake people the most. He wasn't supposed to die. Ever. Especially not the way he did.

And maybe, in a sense, more than any of the other celebrities who died that year, Elvis has had the greatest staying power. In a way, one might surmise he is still with us.

For that reason, Hollywood, which seldom throws around money strictly on the basis of sentimentality, has invested _ and it turns out, surprisingly enough, wisely _ on a new movie called "Elvis and Nixon," pegged around a famous, or infamous depending on your politics and point of view, meeting between the singer and President Nixon at the White House on Dec. 21, 1970.

I had been avoiding this movie like the plague, partly because the trailer made it look goofy, inflated with unfunny, hackneyed bits that would probably convince me that those nuns back in the fourth grade were right, people who bought Elvis records would eventually shake hands with the devil.

Thus I let out a deep sigh when my wife and daughters convinced me to sit for a viewing of the film (I considered it a bit like a wake, truth to tell). I expected to start reading the newspaper about five minutes into the thing, looking up now and again to say, "Wow, you really picked a good one," as a matter of self preservation.

How wrong I was.

For starters, Kevin Spacey gives the most dead-on depiction of Nixon I have ever seen anywhere, any time, with every understated (and overstated) mannerism absolutely perfect. But don't go thinking this is about mimicry and impersonation.

Both Spacey as Nixon and Michael Shannon as Elvis bring an unexpected level of poignancy and irony to their roles that provide fresh insight, if that's possible, into what made the two men tick, and why they may have bonded, even briefly. Spacey bears a striking resemblance to Nixon in many respects, while Shannon looks nothing like Elvis, really, but convinces us he is him in a beautifully paced characterization.

An important subtext of the film is how Elvis deals with celebrity, how his buddies and handlers deal with him, and how both Elvis and Nixon deal with their public (and private) personas. Neither man seems to realize how bare they leave themselves in making demands and utterances to their underlings. In both instances, that means everybody _ they each had immense egos. And immense hangups. Absolutely fascinating stuff.

If you're looking for an absorbing film experience that will not only entertain you at the moment but give you something to ponder and discuss later on, this is the movie for you.

It may even send you scurrying to read about Nixon _ and Elvis. Can't ask for any more than that.

The new BBC-Starz production of Ronald Harwood's 'The Dresser' is a riveting play-within-a-play and then some that throws its arms around the subjects of life, lessened dreams and simply getting on with it.

Directed and adapted by Richard Eyre with a cast headed by Ian McKellen, Anthony Hopkins and Emily Watson, the work focuses on a Shakespearean troupe that tours the outskirts of England (very pointedly, not London) during the bombing, quite literally, of that country during World War II.

Each night the troupe performs a different Shakespearean play, come hell or high water. Tonight, it's "King Lear," with Hopkins's character, who is called Sir (for the outside hope that he will one day be knighted by the Queen), in the lead.

Attending him backstage is his loyal dresser _ his costume man _ Norman, played by Ian McKellen.

What transpires is a nigh-on perfect production (Rotten Tomatoes gave it a perfect 100%) that sails along all too quickly with no down spots, not only giving us a dead-on accurate view of the theatrical world and those who dedicate their lives to it if even in the shadows, but as fine a treatise on life and love as you've experienced in any medium anywhere, at any time.

The story opens as we await the arrival of Sir from the hospital, with a conversation between the long-suffering dresser Norman and Her Ladyship (Emily Watson, in another terrific turn), an aging actress pressed into playing one of Lear's daughters, Cordelia, who knows she's too old for the role _ slashing reviews never let her forget it _ but who stays with it because of her love for Sir and the hope he will leave the business and settle down with her.

Ah, but Her Ladyship isn't the only woman in love with Sir. There's also Madge, the tough stage manager. As played by the wildly versatile Sarah Lancashire, whom we've seen portray everything from hard-bitten cops to frazzled shopkeepers, it's a character with more layers than the proverbial onion.

What's wrong with Sir, is it a physical problem or mental? Will he survive? Will he show up?

When the old actor finally does arrive backstage spouting a riff of quotations, his own mixed with Shakespeare's, we worry that he might expire before he can be carted before the footlights.

Watching McKellen and Hopkins in apparently their first performance together is like watching two world-class surgeons at the top of their games doing open-heart surgery on the same patient at the same time. It's overwhelming. But the good news is that the two great actors don't compete for attention and become show-boats. Instead they have a mutual trust and respect for each other that is palpable. The characters benefit greatly from this, and so do we.

One of the production's most effective, poignant and revealing moments is provided by the veteran actor Edward Fox, who portrays a supporting performer trapped in a "play-as-cast" cycle, lesser parts falling somewhere between cameos and spear carriers. His final speech to Sir not only encapsulates the lot of actors universally, but the needs and longings of people outside the business as well.

"The Dresser" has been previously presented in the U.K. and on Broadway, as well as in a 1983 film, but this version takes a back seat to none other and may well be the best offering yet. It comes with the highest recommendation.

I know it's trite, but I'll go to my grave believing it's absolutely true: Comedy and the people who do it come from pain. The more, as the say, apparently the merrier.

After hanging around comedians during my early days in Hollywood, including "the Carson people" and various hangers-on on "The Tonight Show," after writing a package of newspaper stories on what makes comedians comedians, after sitting across from comedians ranging from Bob Hope to Jerry Seinfeld, I'm as sure of it as I can be. (My ultimate assurance on this score came after profiling a psychologist who owned a comedy club _ a working psychologist, not just a guy with a degree or two, who also did stand-up; I'm assuming there was a spillover effect into his therapy sessions.)

So, along comes "Very Semi-Serious: A Partially Thorough Portrait of New Yorker Cartoonists," an offbeat documentary now airing on HBO, to totally convince me.

Cartoons that run in The New Yorker magazine are, at least in my opinion, really funny. And really what good, effective humor is all about _ registering with people because of a shared understanding, told almost in kind of a code, giving credit to the reader as intelligent beings who can fill in the blanks, which they usually do.

This documentary directed by Leah Wolchok, which opened recently in New for an Oscar-nomination qualifying run before airing on HBO, is at once hilarious and sobering, even sad. In a word, exactly like the people who bring us these wonderfully crazy cartoons.

Sealing the relationship between humor and pain is the character at the center of this documentary, the magazine's cartoon editor, Bob Mankoff. He leads us through the process, including interviews with wannabe New Yorker cartoonists, getting in some brilliant zingers under his breath (his humor, he acknowledges, like a professional boxer's fists, are a kind of lethal weapon), and only deep into the film do we learn that a year and a half before his son died.

We even are allowed to sit in on a cartoon-selection meeting with the magazine's editor-in- chief, David Remnick, sessions which show _ and I speak here as a former journalist _ of how seat-of-the-pants the entire publication process is at root, and what the long odds are of getting cartoons into this iconic magazine.

Throughout the documentary, we meet an incredible range of personalities whose cartoons have graced the New Yorker pages. Most must have separate careers to sustain them, thanks in large part to the demise of so many magazines, and most seem to draw their humor from pain and occasionally anger. One woman cartoonist, who hates going outdoors for almost every reason imaginable, recalls that as a child she dealt with her abusive mother by agreeing with her person-to-person but withdrawing to her bedroom to draw sharp (and wicked) responses.

Mankoff and Remnick fall head-over-heels in love with the art work of one young cartoonist, who is jarringly revealed as a feather of a man, a whispering blond willow whose favorite color is gray and apparently discovered the magazine while traveling in Vietnam a very few years before, deciding, bang, that's what he wanted to do with his life.

Through it all, the laughs, strangely, oddly _ and thankfully _ never subside. It's enough to make you cry. And laugh. A lot.

The film, which runs 1 hour and 21 minutes, goes fast, even when it stops to be sad. Great comedy does that.

EVERYONE has films that for some strange reason, seemingly completely out of sync with one's age and place and station in life at the time, resonate and then some, impacting that person for years to come.

For me, the two that stand out in that regard are 1968's "The Swimmer" and 1973's "Save the Tiger," both dark character studies dealing with morality, amorality and the twists and turns of complex lives not always so well lived by their middle-aged characters.

Why I identified with these characters at such an early age myself I have no idea, only that their serpentine screen dilemmas provided a kind of moral road map in the real world, at least for me, and did their jobs as cinematic storytellers in staying with me all these years, still.

"The Swimmer," taken from a short story by John Cheever, stars Burt Lancaster as Neddy, an upper-class Connecticut man whom we find lounging poolside with friends in an affluent suburb.

It occurs to him that he can "swim home" by visiting pools of friends and acquaintances, a route that he sees as a kind of "river."

As the man swims, we begin to understand more and more about his life, or think we do, and he evolves through conversations, confrontations and offhand comments, until he winds up ingloriously at a public pool and, finally, standing shivering in the pouring rain before the gates of his mansion in one of filmdom's most surprising endings.

Many fascinating characters people the film, played by many a recognizable face, including Joan Rivers (yes, that Joan Rivers), John Garfield Jr. (son of the great noir star), Janice Rule, Marge Champion (dancer-choreographer Gower Champion's better half), Kim Hunter and Janet Landgard.

The film was directed by Frank Perry (with some scenes overseen by Robert Redford's frequent collaborator, Sydney Pollack, who is uncredited), with a screenplay by Perry's wife, Eleanor.

"Save the Tiger" stars Jack Lemmon as Harry Stoner, a clothing manufacturer who is undergoing the loss of youthful idealism as he weighs whether or not to pay an arsonist to torch his factory so he can survive financially through the insurance settlement. His friend and business partner is played by an extraordinarily effective Jack Gilford, a rubber-faced actor with the saddest eyes you'll ever see best known to a generation as the Cracker Jack man.

Like Lancaster's Neddy in "The Swimmer," Lemmon's Stoner in "Tiger" is undergoing more than an evolution, but a breakdown, not only emotionally, but spiritually as well. Each story is a type of first-person morality play as seen through the eyes of these central characters.

Lemmon won the best actor Oscar for his performance (beating out, among others, Redford, for his turn in "The Sting"), and the film was voted best drama by the Writers Guild of America.

Both films seem to have evaporated into the mists of time, little remembered or considered by generations that came after. But they've stayed with me, I like to think because they were both beautifully rendered and had something worthwhile to say, expressing it uniquely and well. If you're in the mood for thought-provoking character studies that will stay with you long after viewing, and for all the right reasons, I recommend giving them a look.

EVERYONE has films that for some strange reason, seemingly completely out of sync with one's age and place and station in life at the time, resonate and then some, impacting that person for years to come.

For me, the two that stand out in that regard are 1968's "The Swimmer" and 1973's "Save the Tiger," both dark character studies dealing with morality, amorality and the twists and turns of complex lives not always so well lived by their middle-aged characters.

Why I identified with these characters at such an early age myself I have no idea, only that their serpentine screen dilemmas provided a kind of moral road map in the real world, at least for me, and did their jobs as cinematic storytellers in staying with me all these years, still.

"The Swimmer," taken from a short story by John Cheever, stars Burt Lancaster as Neddy, an upper-class Connecticut man whom we find lounging poolside with friends in an affluent suburb.

It occurs to him that he can "swim home" by visiting pools of friends and acquaintances, a route that he sees as a kind of "river."

As the man swims, we begin to understand more and more about his life, or think we do, and he evolves through conversations, confrontations and offhand comments, until he winds up ingloriously at a public pool and, finally, standing shivering in the pouring rain before the gates of his mansion in one of filmdom's most surprising endings.

Many fascinating characters people the film, played by many a recognizable face, including Joan Rivers (yes, that Joan Rivers), John Garfield Jr. (son of the great noir star), Janice Rule, Marge Champion (dancer-choreographer Gower Champion's better half), Kim Hunter and Janet Landgard.

The film was directed by Frank Perry (with some scenes overseen by Robert Redford's frequent collaborator, Sydney Pollack, who is uncredited), with a screenplay by Perry's wife, Eleanor.

"Save the Tiger" stars Jack Lemmon as Harry Stoner, a clothing manufacturer who is undergoing the loss of youthful idealism as he weighs whether or not to pay an arsonist to torch his factory so he can survive financially through the insurance settlement. His friend and business partner is played by an extraordinarily effective Jack Gilford, a rubber-faced actor with the saddest eyes you'll ever see best known to a generation as the Cracker Jack man.

Like Lancaster's Neddy in "The Swimmer," Lemmon's Stoner in "Tiger" is undergoing more than an evolution, but a breakdown, not only emotionally, but spiritually as well. Each story is a type of first-person morality play as seen through the eyes of these central characters.

Lemmon won the best actor Oscar for his performance (beating out, among others, Redford, for his turn in "The Sting"), and the film was voted best drama by the Writers Guild of America.

Both films seem to have evaporated into the mists of time, little remembered or considered by generations that came after.

But they've stayed with me, I like to think because they were both beautifully rendered and had something worthwhile to say, expressing it uniquely and well.

If you're in the mood for thought-provoking character studies that will stay with you long after viewing, and for all the right reasons, I recommend giving them a look.

Steven Spielberg's "Bridge of Spies" is great entertainment, especially for those who like their stories painted in deep dark colors, cooled by moody late-night drizzle and starring an enormously appealing and empathetic leading man (in this case, the redoubtable Tom Hanks). It's not bad as history, either. Overall, on a scale of 10, I'd give it an eight _ but advise you to read up on the facts before taking in the film.

To understand the story completely, it's important to know what the United States and the Soviets were up to in the late 1950s and early 1960s, and what they were thinking.

In a nutshell, it was the height of the Cold War and the so-called atomic age, a time when both nations worried about being blown out of existence, when the Soviets scored a public relations coup _ and more _ in launching the Sputnik, the first artificial Earth satellite, on Oct. 4, 1957. Now, the Americans figured, their sworn enemy could really do them damage, perhaps sending a bomb into outer space.

Indeed, with this in mind, the U.S. had been sending up its super sophisticated spy plane, the U-2, having it fly over adversaries real and imagined, including the Soviet Union. One of these flights over the Soviet Union commenced on May 1, 1960, with Francis Gary Powers at the controls, and was shot down.

It came at an awkward and embarrassing time for the U.S.

President Eisenhower had met with Soviet leader Nikita Khruschev the previous September in America, and they were so optimistic about their talks that they planned to meet again later in 1960, this time in Moscow.

Eisenhower, still worried over Soviet armaments, had nonetheless okayed the U-2 flights, even at risk of jeopardizing the upcoming talks. When the shoot down occurred, Ike at first denied the flights. But when plane debris _ and Powers himself, very much alive _ were produced, the jig was up, and Khrushchev angrily canceled the summit (perhaps something he had wanted all along anyway).

On August 17, 1960, Powers was convicted of espionage against the Soviet Union and sentenced to 10 years. On February 10, 1962, he was exchanged, along with American student Frederic Pryor, in a spy swap at the Glienicke Bridge in Berlin, for Soviet KGB Colonel Vilyam Fisher, known as "Rudolf Abel," who had been caught by the FBI and tried and jailed for espionage.

OK, that's the story.

'Bridge of Spies' focuses on the spy exchange on that bridge and how the negotiations came about, with Hanks playing New York lawyer James Donovan, who is first pressed into defending Abel (played with exquisite understated menace _ and appeal _ by Mark Rylance of "Wolf Hall" fame), then in fashioning a deal to have him swapped for Powers (a rather bland and somewhat miscast Austin Stowell). Thrown into the mix is American exchange student Pryor (believably if briefly played by Will Rogers), held by the East Germans, who, according to the film, are eager to establish their own independence from the Soviets while at the same time defying the Americans.

The old-fashioned script (and I mean this in the best sense) _ rewritten, oddly enough, by the usually eccentric Ethan and Joel Coen, from Matt Charman's original script _ gives Spielberg the chance to do what he does best, especially when given actors like Hanks (who by the way is superb) and Rylance, which is to weave a story that engrosses and involves, which this film certainly does.

The movie's spy games seem to tear a page out of Carol Reed's "Third Man" playbook, but instead of shadowy black and white scenes shot at askew angles in post World War II Vienna we have rainy, color-drained nights in early-1960s, newly walled Berlin. It works.

If I have a problem with the film, it would probably be with the depiction of Donovan's home life, obviously intended as counterpoint to the shadowy dealings he apparently was involved in, sometimes at the exclusion of his wife and children (to make matters worse, Amy Ryan as the missus just doesn't seem like his kind of gal). I never quite buy into the family as being real, but rather as a rather heavy-handed attempt to present them as a kind of Ozzie and Harriet content with having the kids watch "77 Sunset Strip" as their father's clandestine life begins to enshroud them and their idyllic existence.

I'm also not sure if I quite believe how Hanks' Donovan and Rylance's Abel bond into frankly inexplicable Cold War buddyism, but the technique sets up an interesting dynamic that helps flesh out the period's blurry political and nationalistic borders that often saw friends and enemies switch places at an alarming rate (just as now _ and perhaps that's the point).

Powers' life, ironically, would be cut short a decade and a half later as the news helicopter he was flying over Los Angeles crashed and killed him instantly. But maybe that's yet another point, intended or not. In the kind of backstreet war _ and world _ this film depicts, the greatest threat to our existence sometimes begins at home.