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Donald “Lonesome Rhoades” Trump

Donald “Lonesome Rhoades” Trump

April 9, 2025 | 802 words | Politics, Vintage Movies

Last month Donald Trump was seen reprimanding the President of Ukraine in a televised sit-own at The White House that was positively cringe-worthy to watch.  He berated the beleaguered foreign leader with remarks such as “you have no cards” and “you should have taken the deal,” as if talking to a recalcitrant child.

This month President Trump is busy trying to re-engineer world trade by way of “shock and awe,” without consulting any of our trading partners.

Say what you will about his second presidential incarnation, but there is certainly no grass growing under Mr. Trump’s feet.

It has been a roller-coaster first three months, providing plentiful grist for the mill of many an esteemed political and social commentator. Amateur and professional observers alike are struggling to understand how things got to this point, how such an individual could have gotten elected not once, but twice, to the highest office in the land.

Allow me to turn your attention to an old movie from the 1950s about the meteoric rise of a crude populist through the power of first radio and then television, and suggest how it might offer up a little window into the bizarre Trump phenomenon we are living through right now.

My local independently-owned film emporium recently featured a showing of A Face in the Crowd, the award-winning 1957 movie written by Budd Schulberg, directed by Elia Kazan, and starring Patricia Neal, Andy Griffith, Walter Matthau, and Tony Franciosa.

At first glance the disheveled two-bit drifter by the name of Larry Rhoads we meet in a backwater jail cell bears no resemblance to the handsome young on-the-rise real estate mogul Donald Trump who first burst onto the society pages in the 1980s.

The movie’s small Southern town boasts a little radio station, and that station has a cub reporter whose job is to uncover local color.  She discovers a drunk Larry Rhoads sleeping it off in a jail cell, shoves a microphone in his face and gives him a chance to sing a song, and maybe spout off a little.  Our down-on-his-luck protagonist comes to life and we are introduced to a natural born story teller full of folk wisdom that goes down easy with the listening audience.

Patricia Neal’s cub reporter christens Andy Griffiths’ character “Lonesome Rhoads,” and the branding begins.  He is a ratings star, and it’s not long before an advertiser wants to move the radio program to a larger market (nearby Memphis) and sponsor Mr. Rhoads folksy diatribes.

Lonesome has an uncanny ability to read any room and knows where his bread is buttered.  His relationships are all strictly transactional, as we say today.  When a hot shot young ad man (Tony Franciosa) offers to bring the Lonesome Rhoads act to New York City and to television, our small-town hero is able to adapt, and he soon extends his appeal to a national audience.

Before long captains of industry are seeking his sage advice on how to appeal to the common man and increase their market share in the process.  A veteran politician who eyes a presidential run is introduced to Mr. Rhoads by a wealthy doner, and Lonesome schools this man on how elections are now going to be won or lost on television, and how he – the veteran politician – needs to loosen up and let his hair down, so as to broaden his appeal among the common folk.

Mind you this script was written a few years before the infamous Nixon-Kenndey televised debates, where Nixon went on to lose a close race after coming off as uptight and extremely uncomfortable in front of the camera.

The script is prescient on a number of fronts, not least of which is how unreliable and unstable our political life has become in an age when public opinion is so easily manipulated.

In the movie, the hero we initially root for as he rises through the ranks through endearing blend of charm, native intelligence, and force of will eventually falls from grace and loses his mass appeal.  And he loses our sympathy, too, as the story reveals him to be someone with no moral core, who doesn’t believe in anything beyond ratings.  

Lonesome Rhoads is eventually overwhelmed by fame and it corrupts him.  He turns into a megalomanic and becomes cynical.  He takes the little people who gave him his popularity for granted.  Once that cynicism is exposed, his time at the top is over.  

The movie ends in the middle of the night, with our hero screaming his slogans from a balcony to an empty room below, with an applause machine going off on cue.  The proto-typical echo chamber.  It remains to be seen how the Donald Trump story will end, but the vintage film A Face in the Crowd may have pointed the way.

Robert J. Cavanaugh, Jr.

www.robertjcavanaughjr.com

bobcavjr@gmail.com

Use the contact form below to email me.

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The Room Next Door

The Room Next Door

March 29, 2025 | 63 words | Films

Are you in the mood for a well-crafted meditation on terminal illness, abiding friendship, the restorative beauty of nature, and the highly controversial subject of how to live and die with dignity?  Well, then, The Room Next Door, written and directed by Pedro Almodovar, starring Tilda Swindon and Julianne Moore, is a quiet, little fable of a film that might resonate with you.

Robert J. Cavanaugh, Jr.

www.robertjcavanaughjr.com

bobcavjr@gmail.com

Use the contact form below to email me.

5 + 10 =

Oh, Mary

Oh, Mary

Jan 5, 2025 | 113 words | Theater 

This alternate-universe take on Mary Todd Lincoln has conquered Broadway and received rave reviews.  We attended just the other night, as part of a sold-out house.  The energy and intelligence of the production are undeniable.  The individual who wrote and stars in this show is a marvel, and goes all out in bringing the unconventional (to say the least) title character to life.  

While I usually enjoy farce and am a big fan of sarcasm, somehow much of this show’s humor came off as a bit too mean-spirited to be funny.  And yes, I admit it, the coarseness and frequency of the sexual references are just not my cup of tea.

Robert J. Cavanaugh, Jr.

www.robertjcavanaughjr.com

bobcavjr@gmail.com

Use the contact form below to email me.

13 + 6 =

Suffs

Suffs

Jan 2, 2025 | 617 words | Shows

Let me start by saying there are not a lot of current Broadway musicals I am dying to see.  Maybe this is a shortcoming of mine, but the music, lyrics and ‘book’ (story line) of many popular musicals often strike me as a little cheesy and a bit thin.  So, when my wife and I visited the Big Apple this week and took in the musical Suffs right before it’s nearly year-long run came to an end, I was approaching the show with a sense of obligation.

I knew the subject matter of voting rights for women was serious and worthy, and I had a reasonable knowledge of the struggles’ history.  I guess I just didn’t think it would make for a particularly enjoyable night out.  

Since this big, expensive Broadway production is closing after less than a year, probably before it could turn much of a profit for its investors, or maybe even earn back their initial investment, the critical mass of theater-goers who can keep successful shows running for years chose not to embrace Suffs, much like I hadn’t.

Given my lack of enthusiasm going in, it was a big surprise to find myself utterly smitten from the opening cords of the overture.  And I must say the entire show start-to-finish is a nothing short of a complete triumph.  The music has that special something, that bounce.  As do the lyrics.  The plot – the ‘book’ – does an excellent job of condensing what could have been a meandering story while doing justice to the major points and the overarching theme.

One of the shows many charms is that every part is played by a woman, and each of the handful of male characters are brought off very well.  The actress who plays Woodrow Wilson over the course of a decade is especially effective.  That role as written manages to be comical and satirical and even farcical at times, making a serious point while avoiding bitter resentment at President Wilson’s ultimate failure to come through for the cause.

Credit the author of the ‘book’ for this and every other deft characterization that gets presented over the course of the evening, and credit all the actresses for bringing this wonderful writing to life.

At dinner before the show, my wife and I were comparing notes on what we knew of the suffragette movement.  (Spoiler Alert:  She knew more than me.)    We were wondering at what point in history the show would start, and what characters from that history would be featured.  At one point my wife referenced Swarthmore College graduate Alice Paul (1885-1977), but that name was completely unfamiliar to me.

Once in the theater, as I was reading the program while waiting for the lights to dim, I noticed the very last character listed in the program, at the bottom of a long list of maybe twenty other characters, was the aforementioned Alice Paul.  Well, I thought to myself, at least the show would make some small reference to this person with a local-to-us, Philadelphia connection.

Here is another spoiler alert:  It turns out Alice Paul is the star of the show, and her character is the through-line of the entire story.  Shaina Taub is the actress who plays Paul so endearingly.  And hold onto to your hat – she also is responsible for show’s book, music, and lyrics!  I’m not the only one who thinks highly of her work, as Taub took home a Tony Award for Best Book and Best Score, and a Drama Desk Award for Outstanding Music.

This is a really moving piece of theatrical entertainment.  Run, don’t walk, if a production of Suffs ever comes to a city near you.

Robert J. Cavanaugh, Jr.

www.robertjcavanaughjr.com

bobcavjr@gmail.com

Use the contact form below to email me.

14 + 2 =

Anora

Anora

Dec 20, 2024  |  705 words  |  Movies 

The trials and tribulations of a 23-year-old exotic dancer from Coney Island are not the kind of thing that usually prompts me to buy a movie ticket.  But the new film Anora is a 2024 Palme d’Or winner that my wife and a close friend of hers decided we should go see, so off we went.  

The movie opens in a strip club, and I readily admit to enjoying the sight of nearly-naked women sauntering around as much as the next fellow.  It satisfies my prurient interest.  And it reminds me of the deep and abiding admiration I have for the wonderful job God did in creating the female form.

But instead of offering us a scene or two with a few provocative close-ups before moving on, the director leans in with an extended sequence of interaction between the attractive dancers and their average-Joe clientele, and between the individual working-girl, just-scraping-by dancers.  There doesn’t seem to be anything particularly revelatory in these encounters.  After about twenty minutes of this I found myself wondering out loud, “Is there a story here?”

Things only marginally improve once our heroine, Ani, settles on a young Russian with plenty of cash to burn.  He is smitten because she is of Russian descent herself and speaks a little of the language.  After a few nights as a run-of-the-mill regular customer, he asks Ani if she works “outside,” and she obliges him by starting to make house calls.  We get to watch Ani execute her standard strip-tease rituals by daylight, in the young man’s palatial and seemingly abandoned home.

Boredom was getting the better of me and I was on the verge of getting up and leaving, prepared to check out the feature playing in the theater next to ours.  Then things took a turn, as this scrawny lad surprises Ani (and us) by asking her to marry him.  

The pair continue their free-wheeling debauchery and along with a group of his friends take their non-stop partying to Vegas, where Ani and this goofy kid tie the knot.  He is so incredibly immature and she is so worldly in that gritty exotic dancer sort of way, we can’t wait to find out what comes next.

This loppy, 21-year-old is the spoiled son of a wealthy Russin oligarch and once news of the Las Vegas nuptials leak, the oligarch’s state-side henchmen/babysitters are deployed to talk some sense into their wayward young charge, and see to it this quickie marriage is just as quickly annulled.

Ani spends the rest of the movie vigorously rejecting the notion her marriage is not real, and her protestations are simultaneously entertaining, endearing and a bit delusional, since her newly-minted spouse suffers from a bad case of arrested development.  Maybe Ani can see this, too, but she can’t quite bring herself to admit it.

The movie is utterly believable, respects its characters, and avoids cliché.  For instance, once the henchmen come into the picture things do not take a violent turn, at least not in the conventionally ominous way.  Ani is actually the one who perpetrates what little violence there is, and in a comic twist the Russian henchmen/babysitters prove to be her victims.

The film also avoids sentimentality.  Towards the end, when Mr. and Mrs. Russian oligarch finally make an appearance, having rushed to the States in their private jet, there is a brief moment when I thought the high-class no-nonsense mother might take a shine to our scrappy little blue-collar exotic dancer, seeing in her a kindred spirit.  But the screenwriter had other, far more interesting ideas of how to bring this story home.

The final scene is quiet and unexpected and speaks volumes.  I don’t want to ruin it for you by giving my interpretation.  But if you want to drop me a line, I will be happy to share my thoughts.

As the screen went dark and the credits rolled to the sound of windshield wipers in the background, the same sound that served as the backdrop to that unique, wordless final scene, I was reminded of my one-line review of Saturday Night Fever from 1977.  To paraphrase that review, Anora may start out in the strip club, but it doesn’t end up there.

Robert J. Cavanaugh, Jr.

www.robertjcavanaughjr.com

bobcavjr@gmail.com

Use the contact form below to email me.

6 + 14 =

Tuesday (The Movie)

Tuesday (The Movie)

June 27, 2024  |  214 words  |  Movies  

It is the small quiet films where nothing much happens that seem to make the biggest impression on me.  These little projects earn next-to-nothing at the box office, so among other things I come away grateful that such trifles can still find a way to be financed and produced.

Tuesday is the latest such movie to land on my list of all-time favorites.  It is advertised as a meditation on mortality, so right away you know this is not going to be a summer blockbuster.

It is an intimate two-character chamber piece focusing on a daughter who is placid about her impending death due to a debilitating disease, and her mother who is not so placid about the coming loss.

Death is also physically represented in the form of a colorful macaw that can morph from very small to quite large, and is given to the occasional laconic remark.

The talking bird takes a little getting used to at first, but by the final act the viewer understands what the screenwriter is up to, and the parable-like device is employed to great effect in bringing this moving story to a satisfying conclusion.

Lola Petticrew plays the daughter, Julia Louis-Dreyfus plays the mother, and Diana Pusic wrote and directed, in her feature film debut.

Robert J. Cavanaugh, Jr.

www.robertjcavanaughjr.com

bobcavjr@gmail.com

Use the contact form below to email me.

6 + 14 =