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I'm beginning to think that the late Swedish director Ingmar Bergman gets a bad rap. Mention the idea of watching one of his films and many otherwise reasonable, intelligent people head for the hills. The presumption is that the experience will be slow, laborious, depressing. If there were such a thing as cinematic paint, you’d be watching it dry.

The old quip goes that we and our English cousins are separated by a common language, but there's little doubt that the movies have actually brought us together.

While her eighty-first birthday gives us ample reason to pay tribute to the ever-fabulous Julie Andrews, it’s fitting to celebrate her any old time. Consider first the joy and wonder she brought to millions of viewers, young and old, in her portrayals of Mary Poppins and Maria Von Trapp.

Henry Fonda once confided that the characters he played on-screen bore little resemblance to himself.  Rather, they were who he’d like to be, if he could.

The legendary Peter O'Toole's birthday is upon us, and thinking of him, part of me still can’t accept that he's really left us. The spirit of mischievous exuberance he brought to his life — and his work — somehow made me believe he could never die, even as years of carousing eroded his once startling good looks.

We’ve all done it, watched a movie and thought, “How do they think this stuff up?” and, “Do they expect us to believe this?” Yes, “they” do, because movies depend on the suspension of disbelief for their magic. Musicals, horror, and romantic comedies are all fueled by the high octane of fantasy.

Once famous, Bob Dylan didn’t wait long to put his poetic, socially rebellious, cage-rattling persona on film. In the words of former girlfriend Joan Baez, he “burst on the scene already a legend” in 1961, and had only been recording for three years when he became the subject of documentary filmmaker D.A. Pennebaker’s groundbreaking tour diary, “Don’t Look Back” (1965). 

Young adult used to be just another stage in personal development, starting somewhere around the end of Barbie dolls and army men, and cresting just after the discovery of beer and indie rock. Growing up seems to happen in that one, long, hot zone of emerging identities and burgeoning freedom.  These days, YA is an entire industry of books and movies, a full lifestyle in fact, and one that doesn’t end once the “adult” is no longer “young.” After all, growing up is never quite over, which explains why YA audiences are as likely to be “adult” as they are “young.” For instance, who is the prime audience for “The Hunger Games?” Not just kids.   One forgets that the term “teenager”  gained traction only in the 1940s, as the popularity of Frank Sinatra took hold with a multitude of teen girls. Suddenly, this overlooked group had the attention of radio programmers and audiences, and a demographic was born. 

Cities are like people, in that some periods represent career peaks, and there are plenty of examples of golden ages to go around: Paris in the 1920s, Los Angeles in the 1940s, and New York in the 1950s all brim with romance in the popular imagination. But no scene was quite as explosive in sheer energy and style as London was in the 1960s. A nation finally emerging from Blitz mentality and the rationing of World War II, England was primed for a major cultural earthquake, thanks to the crumbling of centuries-old social constriction, and the emergence of the Baby Boomers's youth culture. And when that earthquake, or “youthquake,” came, it was the movies that registered its shockwaves. “Swinging” London was its epicenter, as bands like The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who, and the Kinks created a danceable soundtrack for the era, and pioneering hair stylist Vidal Sassoon snipped girls’ hair into a bob, perfect for bouncing along to the beat (and of course, boys’ hair grew down past their collars).