Magic

The American Film Institute aired another of its absorbing 100-best surveys last night, this one honoring the greatest lines of dialogue in film history (actually American film history; nothing French or Japanese here, and only a few British entries made it, mostly from Bond flicks). This program was not as splendid as the previous entry, which honored the best film songs and was superbly entertaining. But it did at last honor the contributions of the writer, and without screenplays, what would we have? "Winged Migration" and "Star Wars."

It might have been more felicitous to include more screenwriters in the commentary that accompanied each selection. The only notable ones were Cameron Crowe and William Goldman ("Show me the money!" and "Is it safe?"). The presence of such contributors as Robert Towne, Oliver Stone, or Woody Allen may have helped, and so much admiration was lavished on the brilliant script of "Casablanca" that one wished host Pierce Brosnan could have channeled the Epstein Brothers. Or at least brought on their grand nephew Theo, who otherwise is busy trying to patch up the Red Sox rellief corps. But I quibble. It was still the kind of evocative program that made one consider the wealth of cinematic lore and one's own favorites. Great water cooler material, but since I'm not in an office, I'll open up a Crystal Geyser and proceed.

No criteria was given for what made a line "great," except that it has been etched in our common lexicon. If cleverness in context were the prime factor, Estelle Reiner's line "I'll have what she's having" from the "When Harry Met Sally" deli orgasm scene would win. The top ten as determined by AFI's experts were, in descending order, "You talkin' to me?", "Fasten your seatbelts, we're in for a bumpy ride," "May the Force be with you," "Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up," "Make my day," "Here's lookin at you, kid," "Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," "I coulda been a contender," "I'll make him an offer he can't refuse," and "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." [Anyone who cannot identify the movies from which these originate, had better go to the Interguild Movie Data Base or Netflix and update your film exposure].

I can't argue strongly with these choices. I'd have selected "Frankly my dear" because it broke a language barrier, thumbing its nose at Will Hays and his cretinous censors. I was surprised "Play it (again) Sam," was relegated to the 20s, but that's probably because it has been so oft-misquoted, like "Beam me up Scottie." I didn't get that high from when an unexpected arcane personal favorite emerged; the selections were all so mainstream. But of course the underlying aim of the show's creators was to evoke our private memories of the emotional buttons pushed by that particular line.

Many of my favorite quotes come from comedies. Some are not especially distinguished but tickled the hell out of me when I was young. It's hard to forget Melvin Frank's couplet from "The Court Jester"--"The vestle with the pestle has the pellet with the poison but the flagon with the dragon has the brew that is true." Woody Allen provided a cornucopia of great one-liners, expecially from his early funny ones. "Love and Death," for instance, gave us "I goosed that lady," "He left us his letters; you take the vowels, I'll take the consonants," "That is so jejune!" And from "Sleeper" there's "What about deep fat?" and "It's better than Cugat--it's Keene!" Allen's only quote cited by the AFI is from "Annie Hall" ("La-di-dah, lah-di-dah"). Yet to me his best line ever is Mariel Hemingway's final remark in "Manhattan," "You have to have a little faith in people". Simple, elegant, appallingly moving (especially with the welling Gershwin music and Woody's pained smile), it capped the best final five minutes of any movie I've seen.

But if asked about my favorite movie line ever I'll always default to the finale of Arthur Penn's "Little Big Man," when Chief Dan George, as the Sioux leader and spiritual guide to Dustin Hoffman, determines he is going to die, and compels the grieving Hoffman to observe the sacred ritual. He lies down in the rain, intones a few words, and closes his eyes. Raindrops splatter across his lifeless face. After a few unbearable seconds, as the audience absorbs and mourns his demise, his eyes suddenly open. He rises, shakes off some of the rain and shrugs. "Sometimes the magic works," he says, "and sometimes it doesn't." And he and Dustin march off into the rain and my private film archive. I'm not sure why this line so tugged at me, but in context it was profoundly wise, sentimental and emotionally satisfying.

Maybe it reflects the kind of randomness that I believe so totally pervades our existence, and our limited powers to change our fate. I do know that I will never stop quoting it.