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In a variety of interesting ways, mustaches make the man in movies. At the dawn of film, it was usually the villain wearing the ‘stache. In silents and old-time serials, they would twirl them to signify a dastardly deed was being contemplated. These “types” would go on to inspire the indelible character of Snidely Whiplash in the “Dudley Do-Right” segment on “The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.” I loved that guy. In the realm of silent comedy, the sight of well-placed follicles on the kisser also could elicit laughter from audiences, as evidenced by Charlie Chaplin, Ben Turpin, Andy Clyde, Oliver Hardy and others.

Bill Murray has been doing things his own way since the beginning of his career. Not only does he operate without an agent or manager, but he seems to make it virtually impossible to contact him. He has a P.O. box somewhere in America, and if you're lucky enough to figure out where it is, you can mail your scripts to him. If you’re extra lucky, and we mean lottery winning lucky, he may actually check his mail that year. It's a small miracle that he learns about any offers at all. It's not that Murray doesn't want to work. It's just that his way of playing the Hollywood game is distinctly different from the way everyone else plays it. This isn't necessarily a star trip, either, for he liked to keep people guessing long before he was scoring at the box office with hits like "Ghostbusters" (1984).  For instance, Murray was so uncommunicative with the production crew of "Caddyshack" (1980) that they had no idea if he was going to show for his first day of shooting. Finally, just moments before his first scene was to begin, he arrived ready to bring the memorable Carl Spackler to life.

Turning leaves, the appearance of tweed, and the visceral thrill of a cool nip in the air all evoke a seasonal tide turning. Autumn on film is one of the medium’s richest commodities, and a visual feast to mirror the one that rolls around every November.  Filmmakers can’t resist all that color or the movement of falling leaves, with deep nostalgia swiftly evoked in a few frames of swirling red and gold. Regardless of plot, cast or dialogue, the unsung hero of the autumnal movie is the cinematographer.  Fall on film seems to break into two categories: city and country; and that city is most often New York. It not only dresses the part, but the energy that arrives in town after Labor Day belongs to a law of physics. 

Everyone knows Welles, Huston, Kubrick, Spielberg, Scorsese and Nolan. But what about Leisen, Hill, Hiller, Boorman, Mann and Sayles?  For every “name” director, there are several others we feel deserve more recognition. They may have had successes—critical and/or financial—but for some reason they’ve tended to fly under the radar. Here are six filmmakers whose legacies deserve our respect and appreciation. Even though their names may have faded from memory, their finest work lives on, as you’ll soon discover.

Keep all those “Zoolander” jokes to yourself, because being a model in a movie doesn’t necessarily mean a pretty face (or body) catwalking across the screen for mere amusement or titillation, or because the director needed a hot date for the Screen Actors Guild awards. Underneath the high cheekbones and sculpted abs often lie the makings of a great actor. Here are some of the folks who made astonishingly smooth moves from still photography to motion pictures.

An actor doesn’t need to be arrested on marijuana charges to become a star, but it sure didn't hurt Robert Mitchum. Of course, by the time of his 1948 pot bust, Mitchum had already received an Oscar nod for Best Supporting Actor for his role in "The Story of GI Joe" (1945), and in 1947 he'd appeared in two noir classics, "Out of the Past" and "Crossfire." But after a week in the county jail and 43 days at a Castaic, California prison farm turned Mitchum into a certified Hollywood bad boy. He fit the part well. It was Mitchum's casual reaction to the arrest that endeared him to the public. He treated the incident as a lark, amusing the press with jokes about prison life. “It's like Palm Springs,” he said. “But without the riffraff.” It's no surprise that Mitchum breezed through a short jail sentence, since tough times were nothing new to him. After spending part of his childhood in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, he dropped out of school to ride the rails with his brother. As he crossed the country at the height of the Depression, Mitchum earned money with odd jobs like digging ditches — even boxing. This rough and tumble kid even did some time on a chain gang in Savannah, Georgia after being popped for vagrancy at age 14.

Lauren Bacall will be remembered as a larger than life Hollywood figure, but film lovers might be surprised to learn that she appeared in less than 50 features. In a business where one dreads being forgotten, Bacall took her time when it came to taking roles, confident that the public would still be there when she returned. During her heyday, Bacall rarely worked more than once a year. Later, she was known to take long breaks in between projects, something few actresses did in those days. The result is a filmography that is more tastefully cultivated than most, with very few bombs or stinkers. Even a movie like “The Fan” (1981), a gaudy thriller which some felt was beneath her, has endured as a kind of cult object. When that one wrapped, Bacall did another of her disappearing acts, this time for seven years. Of course, the dismantling of the old studio system may have had something to do with her dwindling appearances; she always preferred that more orderly way of making pictures.

Lauren Bacall, one of the most alluring leading ladies ever to come out of Hollywood, passed away Tuesday at the age of 89. Though she was best known for playing opposite husband Humphrey Bogart in such classics as “The Big Sleep” (1946) and “Key Largo” (1948), her film career sustained itself long after Bogart was gone. “Written on The Wind” (1956), “Harper” (1966), “Murder on the Orient Express” (1974), and dozens of other films benefited from her uniquely feline presence and husky voice. She was class, sass, humor, and chutzpah all rolled up into one glamorous package. Bacall, a New Yorker born Betty Joan Perske on September 16, 1924, was only nineteen when she made her screen debut opposite Bogie in “To Have and Have Not.” Despite her youth, she held her own opposite an established star more than twice her age. Still, during her first few days on-set, she was so nervous she prayed the camera wouldn't pick up her hands shaking. It didn't.  And of course, she created that film’s most indelible moment when she purred to Bogart, “You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and... blow.” Audiences indeed were blown away. So was Bogie; he and Bacall were married within a year. Their relationship was one of the more storied romances in Hollywood, lasting until Bogart’s death from cancer in 1957.

Lord Richard Attenborough, the architect of a monumental screen career that began in 1942, passed away Sunday at the age of 90. Had he only been known as an actor, we'd be marveling at the way he played everything from serial killers to Kris Kringle. But he also enjoyed a successful career as a director, culminating in 1982 when he picked up Best Director and Best Picture Oscars for "Gandhi." His passion for history led to his directing biopics of such diverse characters as Charlie Chaplin, Winston Churchill, and Apartheid activist Steve Biko. But Attenborough was hardly a drab old historian; he also lent his distinctive flair to comedies, thrillers, and war dramas. He even helmed the romantic tearjerker "Shadowlands" (1993), which happened to hit screens the same year as "Jurassic Park," the blockbuster film that introduced Attenborough to a new generation of moviegoers.   Attenborough's role as the kindly theme park owner in Steven Spielberg's blockbuster was a rarity for him. He wasn’t acting anymore at that stage, preferring to work behind the camera, but the mutual admiration between Spielberg and Attenborough brought them together for this colorful story of dinosaur cloning. Spielberg's hunch that Attenborough would be "the perfect ring master" was spot-on. How could anyone not love this bearded little man with the bright eyes, who smiled so warmly at the sight of a dinosaur egg hatching?