cinema history class: man of a thousand faces (1957)

The session: Happy (Belated) 100th Birthday to the Phantom of the Opera
Keith shows us three classic Lon Chaney silent films and a documentary about his career

As always, there may be spoilers here. And the trailer may be NSFW and/or NSFL.

Week 4: Man of a Thousand Faces (1957)
Directed by Joseph Pevney

My Level of Prior Knowledge:
I'd never heard of it.

Plot Synopsis:
A gifted vaudeville performer rises to silent-film stardom by transforming himself into unforgettable screen monsters and outcasts, earning a reputation as Hollywood’s “Man of a Thousand Faces.” Behind the makeup and acclaim, however, he struggles to hold together a complicated family life shaped by sacrifice, secrecy, and personal heartbreak.

Reaction and Other Folderol:
Man of a Thousand Faces is a biopic of Lon Chaney, one of the first true superstars of the movie industry and the man whose elaborate makeup transformations earned him the nickname “The Man of a Thousand Faces.” Long before modern prosthetics and CGI, Chaney built unforgettable characters through sheer physical performance and painstaking makeup work, becoming famous for films like The Hunchback of Notre Dame and The Phantom of the Opera. The movie leans heavily into both the tragedy and mythology surrounding Chaney, and it works remarkably well.

I went into this with fairly low expectations, partly because I somehow expected more of a dry documentary than a full-fledged Hollywood drama. Instead, this turned out to be an extremely entertaining and well-crafted biopic, with a lot more emotional weight and energy than I anticipated. It moves quickly, covers a lot of ground, and never really drags.

One of the most interesting aspects of the movie is the strange double-layered performance at its center. Chaney himself was legendary for disappearing into grotesque and emotionally tortured characters, and James Cagney somehow manages the difficult task of playing Chaney while also recreating Chaney’s famous performances. Watching Cagney reproduce moments from Hunchback and Phantom could have come across as gimmicky, but instead it becomes one of the movie’s biggest strengths. He’s excellent throughout, and there are moments where you almost forget you’re watching an actor portray another actor.

Keith filled us in afterward on some of the behind-the-scenes reactions to the film, which added an interesting layer. Apparently, Lon Chaney Jr. felt the movie heavily whitewashed his father’s flaws, and honestly, I can believe that. The elder Chaney is portrayed in overwhelmingly sympathetic terms for most of the running time. Still, I can forgive a certain amount of mythmaking here because I was watching this primarily as entertainment rather than as a strict historical document.

Keith also mentioned that Chaney’s first wife, Cleva, reportedly walked out of a screening because she was upset with how she was portrayed. Early in the movie, it’s easy to see why. The film initially presents her in fairly harsh terms, starting with the scenes involving Chaney’s deaf parents, and extending into her growing emotional separation from both her husband and her son. It's particularly noteworthy that she is shown as not feeling any maternal love for her son until she is sure that he is not deaf. Ironically, by leaving early, Cleva missed the part where the movie eventually softens and rehabilitates the character considerably.

Actually, even while watching it, I found myself somewhat conflicted about Cleva — meaning the character in the movie, not necessarily the real person. Her angry reaction upon discovering that Lon’s parents were deaf comes across badly at first. But at the same time, Lon really should have prepared her before suddenly introducing her to them. From her perspective, she was blindsided and embarrassed in a very uncomfortable situation. Of course, as Keith explained afterward, that entire episode was apparently fabricated for dramatic purposes anyway.

In fact, Keith pointed out that a number of scenes in the movie were either exaggerated or completely invented. That’s hardly unusual for Hollywood biopics, especially from that era. Still, one shocking moment that was apparently real was Cleva’s onstage suicide attempt by drinking acid, which remains one of the film’s most startling scenes. Knowing afterward that this part actually happened made it land even harder in retrospect.

And Joe rated it a 10. Of course, I also rated it a 10 so I am hardly in a position to criticize. This time.

still the place to be

I joined a Zoom meeting at work a few minutes early last week, which is always a dangerous time. There’s just enough silence for small talk, and just enough audience for someone (me) to say something.

Someone noted the size of the meeting. “It’s the place to be,” he said.

And before I could stop myself, I chirped in: “Like Green Acres!”

Among people of a certain vintage, this is a layup. The phrase practically demands the response. A few people chuckled immediately.

The younger employees? Blank stares. One of them actually asked what I meant.

Someone else (thank God it wasn't me) helpfully explained the premise of Green Acres—big city lawyer moves to a farm, chaos ensues. He even quoted the opening line of the theme: “Green Acres is the place to be…”

By then, more people had joined, the moment had passed, and we got down to business. But it stuck with me.

Because if a perfectly good Green Acres reference now requires a footnote, maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s time for a reboot.

The Premise Aged Into Relevance

In the 1960s Green Acres was a fish-out-of-water comedy. Oliver Douglas leaves his Manhattan law practice to live his dream on a farm, while his glamorous wife wonders what on earth he’s thinking.

In 2026, that’s not a joke. That’s a lifestyle pivot.

The modern twist practically writes itself: Oliver doesn’t give up his law practice. He just relocates it.

He’s now a remote worker. A Zoom lawyer. A man with three monitors, a hotspot, and a deep belief that he can have it all—peaceful rural life and high-powered professional relevance.

But the farm disagrees.

The Zoom Problem

This is where the show lives now.

Oliver is presenting to clients while:

• a chicken walks across his keyboard
• another one pecks directly at the camera lens
• a goat quietly chews its way through his Ethernet cable mid-sentence
• a rooster times its crowing to land exactly on his most important point

He tries to maintain composure.

“If you look at page—no, sorry, that’s…that’s not a slide.”

He thinks he’s handled it. He never has. The animals don’t respect the meeting. The meeting doesn’t respect the animals. And Oliver is stuck in the middle, insisting that everything is “under control” while the screen share drops and something feathers its way across the desk again.

The joke isn’t that he left the city. It’s that he didn’t. He brought it with him—and the farm refuses to cooperate.

Life Off the Call

And it doesn’t get better when the laptop closes.

Oliver expects:

• restaurants that answer the phone
• stores within walking distance
• cell service that exists

Instead, he gets:

• limited hours that seem more like suggestions
• One restaurant called the Wagon Wheel, with fifteen items on the menu
• a general store that may or may not have what he needs
• a drive that is longer than he thinks it should be, every time
• a signal that drops the moment he needs it most

He sounds, frankly, like an entitled snob.

“There has to be somewhere that delivers.”
“There isn’t.”
“Within…what, ten miles?”
“Within…reality.”

Meanwhile, the locals:

• plan ahead
• fix things themselves
• understand that some problems don’t have immediate solutions

They’re not struggling. He is.

And they’re amused.

Who’s Actually the Joke?

It’s easy to remember Green Acres as a show that made fun of the locals.

That’s not quite right.

Yes, the townspeople were eccentric. Surreal, even. But they weren’t simply the butt of the joke. More often than not, they understood how their world worked far better than Oliver did.

The real joke was Oliver:

• convinced he knew better
• armed with logic, law, and confidence
• and consistently out of his depth

He tried to impose order on a place that ran on its own rules—and lost that battle over and over again.

In other words, the show wasn’t “city vs. country.”

It was certainty vs. reality

The Reboot Gets to Lean Into That

A modern version doesn’t need to flip the premise—it just needs to sharpen it.

The locals aren’t fools. They’re competent in ways Oliver isn’t.

• They understand land, systems, and consequences
• They navigate rules Oliver doesn’t even know exist
• They don’t explain themselves unless necessary

Oliver, meanwhile, still thinks he’s the smartest person in the room.

He knows contracts. They know what happens when contracts meet weather, animals, and time.

And every version of this town needs someone who operates by a completely different set of rules. In this one, she’s less a stereotype and more a force of nature—and Oliver, naturally, has no idea how to handle it.

The Cast (Because This Is Where It Gets Fun)

You don’t reboot something like this halfway.

Oliver: Jason Bateman

A man who insists everything is under control while nothing is under control.

Lisa: Jennifer Aniston

Not the fish out of water this time. She adapts faster than Oliver—and may quietly thrive.

The HOA President: beloved character actress, Margo Martindale

Runs everything. Never says she does. Never needs to.

If you’ve seen her in The Americans, you know the energy: calm voice, measured delivery, and just enough steel underneath that you don’t even consider pushing back.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t threaten. She just states things.

“Your grass is out of compliance.”

And that’s it. No explanation, no escalation. You don’t laugh. You don’t argue. You go get the mower.

She represents the rules—not the written ones, necessarily, but the ones that actually matter. The ones everyone else already understands.

With Oliver, she’s patient, but not indulgent:

“That’s not how this works.”
“Legally, I—”
“This isn’t legal.”

With the rest of the town, she barely needs to speak. Things get done.

And when she and Aubrey Plaza share a scene, there’s a sense that they both understand something Oliver never will—and have no particular interest in explaining it.

The Real Estate Agent / Something Else Entirely: Aubrey Plaza

She starts out as the real estate agent who sells Oliver the dream—“charming,” “rustic,” “full of potential”—and then never quite leaves.

After that, she’s just…around.

Sometimes she’s handling paperwork. Sometimes she’s enforcing something. Sometimes she’s advising Lisa. Sometimes she’s just standing there, observing.

Oliver, increasingly unsettled, eventually asks:

“What do you do?”

Her answer never changes:

“I’m involved.”

No one else finds this strange. The town accepts it completely. Only Oliver needs an explanation—and he’s the only one who never gets one.

The Neighboring Farmer: Keith Crocker

The kind of guy Oliver thinks he understands immediately—and completely doesn’t.

He looks like exactly what Oliver expects: pitchfork, overalls, the whole thing. But unlike Oliver, he actually knows what he’s doing.

He doesn’t explain much. He doesn’t need to.

“You’re gonna want to fix that.”
“Fix what?”
“…that.”

He shows up, gives just enough guidance to keep things from collapsing, and then moves on. The rest of the town treats him as entirely normal—which, in this town, tells you everything.

The Local Who Shouldn’t Be Underestimated: Brent Spiner

Seems like the most stereotypical country oddball—until he casually proves he understands everything better than Oliver does.

The Free-Spirit Neighbor: Paz de la Huerta

That “different set of rules” character. Always just around, always slightly disarming, and always treating Oliver’s sense of order as optional.

She flirts with him—casually, persistently, without much effort. Oliver has absolutely no idea how to handle it. He overcorrects into politeness, then into formality, then into mild panic.

Nothing ever comes of it. That’s not the point.

Lisa, importantly, is not threatened in the slightest. She understands exactly what’s going on and treats it as just another part of the landscape. If anything, she enjoys watching Oliver squirm.

“She likes you.”
“I wish she didn’t.”
“Why? You need the attention.”

Which, of course, only makes it worse for him.

The New York Paralegal (The True Power): Kate Micucci

Never leaves the office. Keeps the entire legal operation functioning. Solves problems before Oliver knows they exist.

The Agricultural Inspector: Christina Zuber Crocker

Shows up when things go wrong. Which is always. Takes everything completely seriously.

For those who remember her from The Bloody Ape—where she memorably played “Lady Who Has Her Car Stolen by Ape”—this would be a chance to show off her full comedic abilities. We got a glimpse there. Here, she gets the runway.

She doesn’t joke. She doesn’t react. She just documents, inspects, and enforces—no matter how absurd the situation.

“I’m going to need you to account for the poultry.”
“Don’t take the whole cake. That’s for everybody.”

It doesn’t matter what the situation is. The tone never changes.

And the Theme Song…

You don’t mess with it. Update it, remix it, rearrange it however you like—but there are two lines that are non-negotiable.

It has to begin with “Green Acres is the place to be…”

And it has to end with “Green Acres, we are there.”

Everything in between is up for grabs. Those bookends are not.

Because if you’re going to bring it back, you might as well get the part right that everyone remembers—well, everyone of a certain age.

Final Thought

The original Green Acres didn’t just laugh at the locals. It laughed at the guy who thought he had everything figured out.

A reboot doesn’t need to change that. If anything, it needs to make it clearer.

Because in 2026, we have a lot of Olivers—confident, connected, convinced we can drop into a new world and master it immediately.

And if someone makes that show?

I’ll be there.

a small plunger for a long night

At some point in the late 1990s—back when I was in Midtown five days a week and “busy season” meant we all just silently agreed we lived at the office—I found myself in possession of (OK, I went to a hardware store and bought) a small plunger. Not the industrial-strength bathroom kind. This was a modest, kitchen-sink model. Discreet. Almost polite.

That evening, while working late at my desk, I discovered that it adhered quite nicely to my forehead.

Now, a normal person might remove it at that point. But it was a long day, the numbers weren’t getting any friendlier, and for reasons that made perfect sense at the time, I decided to leave it there and continue working. I imagine I looked like a unicorn, if unicorns specialized in spreadsheets.

A few colleagues walked by, took it in, and reacted the way New Yorkers tend to react to anything slightly unusual: they shrugged and kept going.

But then one of the secretaries passed my cubicle, saw me, said something in Greek (to be clear, she was an immigrant from Greece, so it's not as if the shock suddenly taught her a new language). It did not sound encouraging, and the fact that she fled immediately afterwards didn't help.

About a minute later, my boss came over. He looked at me—plunger still firmly attached—paused just long enough to process it, chuckled, and walked away. I could hear him explaining it to someone: “He’s just having fun.”

Which, in fairness, I was.

cinema history class: the hunchback of notre dame (1923)

The session: Happy (Belated) 100th Birthday to the Phantom of the Opera
Keith shows us three classic Lon Chaney silent films and a documentary about his career

As always, there may be spoilers here. And the trailer may be NSFW and/or NSFL.

Week 3: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923)
Directed by Wallace Worsley

My Level of Prior Knowledge:
I'd seen a few versions of Hunchback, and I knew of this version. But I had never seen it before.

Plot Synopsis:
In medieval Paris, the deformed bell-ringer Quasimodo becomes entangled with a kind gypsy dancer and his cruel master, leading to betrayal, persecution, and a desperate attempt to protect her within Notre Dame.

Reaction and Other Folderol:
I keep running into the same issue with these Lon Chaney films: I don’t quite know how to place them within my own movie-watching framework. I’m a product of later decades, with different pacing, different storytelling rhythms, and a whole different visual vocabulary. So when it comes time to “grade” something like this, I’m always a little unsure whether I’m judging the movie…or my own expectations.

That said—Chaney is just phenomenal. The makeup alone is astonishing; not just technically impressive, but expressive. He doesn’t just look like Quasimodo—he moves like him, hunching, climbing, contorting, until he really does seem like some living gargoyle perched on the cathedral. And the spectacle around him is just as striking. The massive sets, the crowds, the sheer number of extras (apparently thousands were used for some sequences) give the whole thing a scale that’s hard not to admire. The acrobatics, especially in and around Notre Dame, are genuinely thrilling to watch.

Oddly, though, for all that, Chaney doesn’t always feel like the central figure. The story sprawls a bit, shifting attention around enough that Quasimodo sometimes feels like part of the tapestry rather than its clear focal point. Maybe that’s intentional, maybe that’s just how storytelling worked then—but it stood out to me.

The bigger issue is the length. It just goes on. And because of that, there are stretches where it drags, and I found my attention wandering more than I’d like to admit. Maybe that’s on me; maybe audiences at the time were more attuned to this style. Either way, it’s there.

Still, I’m inclined to give it the benefit of the doubt. The ambition, the visuals, and especially Chaney’s performance carry a lot of weight. Even if it doesn’t fully land for me as a complete experience, there’s enough here that feels groundbreaking—and still impressive a century later—that I’m comfortable giving it a strong grade.

And Joe rated it a 10.

cinema history class: phantom of the opera (1925)

The session: Happy (Belated) 100th Birthday to the Phantom of the Opera
Keith shows us three classic Lon Chaney silent films and a documentary about his career

As always, there may be spoilers here. And the trailer may be NSFW and/or NSFL.

Week 2: Phantom of the Opera (1925)
Directed by Rupert Julian

My Level of Prior Knowledge:
I'd seen a few versions of Phantom, and I knew of this version. But I had never seen it before.

Plot Synopsis:
A mysterious, disfigured man secretly living beneath the Paris Opera House becomes obsessed with a young soprano and manipulates events to make her a star. He haunts the opera with threats and sabotage while demanding her devotion.

Reaction and Other Folderol:
I’m very aware, watching something like this, that I’m bringing a 1970s–1980s movie brain to a 1925 film. I’m used to decades of technical advancement—better cameras, better editing, better everything. But that’s kind of the point: those later filmmakers got to stand on the shoulders of giants. Lon Chaney didn’t have that luxury. And yet, the visuals here are striking in ways that still land. The sets feel expansive, the compositions are deliberate, and the famous moments don’t feel like museum pieces—they feel like someone figuring out, in real time, how to make cinema unsettling.

And then there’s Chaney himself. The performance is great, but it’s the makeup—and how it’s used—that really sticks. The design is grotesque, but it’s the interplay with shadow that elevates it. The face isn’t just revealed; it’s unleashed. Even now, you can see how carefully it’s staged for maximum impact. It’s not just “good for its time.” It’s good, period.

There’s also a rough edge here that I kind of appreciate—something that later, code-era movies tended to sand down. This version feels a little more jagged, a little less concerned with smoothing everything into something polite or morally tidy. The tone can lurch, the emotions can spike, and the whole thing has a slightly unhinged quality that works in its favor. It feels closer to something raw and theatrical, rather than something carefully regulated.

All of which makes it hard for me to “grade” in the usual sense. I’m not really comparing it to its contemporaries—I’m comparing it to everything that came after it, which isn’t exactly fair. But given how much of this feels foundational—how much of it is first draft of the language of horror filmmaking—I’m comfortable just going with a 10. Just like Joe!