I want to encourage film buffs who are looking to broaden their horizons, and to have a good time while doing so, to check out the Turner Classic Movies (TCM) channel this month. Each day, the network will showcase the most significant films of a different major classic stars as part of their annual "Summer Under the Stars" series—check out its great web page for a full schedule. This year's installment offers an eclectic group of 31 stars, some of whom should be immediately familiar (Gregory Peck on the 3rd, Greta Garbo on the 7th, Marlon Brando on the 29th) and others that you would do yourself a service to get to know (Claude Rains on the 5th, Jack Palance on the 18th, Trevor Howard on the 22nd).

The majority of TCM viewers are surely older, but the people who may enjoy these offerings most of all are younger. Today, for instance, is Michael Caine Day, and young people who tune in this evening for Alfie (1966), as I plan to, will be surprised to discover that Batman's dutiful butler was actually once quite the ladies' man. Tomorrow, meanwhile, is Charlie Chaplin Day, and young people who have some sort of preconceived notion that silent oldies like The Gold Rush (1925) are staid and boring, but are willing to test their hypothesis, are likely to get a jolt when they discover the buoyant physicality and stirring poignancy of his work.

As an aside, here is an abbreviated introduction to Chaplin that I recently encountered and find pretty hilarious—it features a scene of Charlie in Modern Times (1936) laid over Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" (1982). Who knew that he invented "The Moonwalk"?!

Heath Ledger gives a haunting performance in The Dark Knight (Warner Bros., 7/18)

I was initially one of the big doubters, but having now seen The Dark Knight (Warner Brothers, 7/18, trailer) along with millions of other Americans last weekend, I am mostly convinced: when the 2009 Academy Award nominees are announced early on the morning of January 22, 2009, the late Heath Ledger will be among them; further, if his competition is what I think it will be, then he will have an excellent chance of riding a wave of admiration and sentimentality to only the second posthumous win in Oscars history, following Peter Finch for Network (1976).

At the present moment, it's hard to imagine that there will be five actors who will give better performances and will also have more compelling personal narratives (which often fuel awards campaigns) than Heath. With regard to the former consideration, Heath Ledger has given us an indelible screen villain: a colorful, three-dimensional character with ticks and tricks who steals every scene in which he appears and is so effective that audience members must be vigilant, lest they find themselves rooting for the always-charismatic Clown Prince of Crime over the often-bland Caped Crusader. As for the latter consideration, Hollywood has witnessed—and, in some cases, helped to cause—many premature deaths over the years, but few have befallen a talent as young, attractive, and promising as Heath, who in just a few short years shot to the heights of the profession, and whose final work may be his finest of all.

But, as uncouth and politically-incorrect as it may feel to do so at this time, we should consider the other side of the equation, as well—the reasons why things might not work out for Heath's last shot at Oscar. Here are three questions that I think will come into play:

1. Heath's performance is great, but is it really the stuff Oscars are made of? Heath plays a callous killer... with relatively short screen time... in an action-thriller... with a summer release date. Usually, any one of those facts eliminates a performance from contention—not substantive enough... not meaty enough... not serious enough... too early in the year to be remembered, respectively. I'm not here to argue whether or not this is fair or right, but only that it is the reality of what Academy members tend to embrace when they privately fill out their ballots. Sure, there have been exceptions—Anthony Hopkins won an Oscar for playing ruthless serial killer Hannibal Lecter for just sixteen minutes in the psychological thriller The Silence of the Lambs, which was released in February—but they have historically been few and far between. Heath backers can take some comfort in the fact that Academy members' attitudes and values may be changing, based on their recent celebration of several bad guys: Denzel Washington in Training Day (2001), Forest Whitaker in The Last King of Scotland (2005), and Daniel Day-Lewis in There Will Blood and Javier Bardem in No Country for Old Men (both 2007). Aside from that, though, there remains still another major glass ceiling blocking Heath's way: no actor or actress has ever won an Oscar for a performance in a comic book adaptation—not from any version of Superman, Spider-Man, or any of the others—regardless of whether they were the hero or the villain; in fact, as best I can tell, the only one to ever earn so much as a nomination was nine-year-old Jackie Cooper for Skippy (1931) more than 75 years ago. All of this begs the question: had Heath lived, would we even be having this conversation?
2. Heath's acting won him respect, but did his personality win him affection? The last time Heath gave a great performance, as Ennis Del Mar in Brokeback Mountain (2005), his peers from SAG and the Academy rewarded him with nominations for Best Actor. In both instances, he lost to Philip Seymour Hoffman in Capote (2005), but there can be no denying that he won the respect of his peers, both at the time and forever after. (If you need proof, just listen to the off-the-cuff tribute paid to him at this year's SAG Awards by the most respected working actor, Day-Lewis.) What is up for debate, though, is the degree to which that respect (which can be fleeting and impersonal) was or was not coupled with affection (which is usually enduring and very personal). The potential "problem," I gather, is that Heath didn't really care what people thought about him. He was an intensely shy, private, and guarded person who hated and, therefore, shunned the Hollywood social scene whenever possible. He wasn't from the L.A. area and had little interest in being there; he preferred Brooklyn and, subsequently, SoHo, presumably because they offer a simpler, more anonymous way of life. Can he be faulted for not playing the game? Of course not. But could he have been a bigger star, with better roles, and more fans, and more industry friends/supporters if he had? Of course. My point is that nearly half a year from now, when his peers are asked to decide whether or not to include him among their five nominees, the difference-maker will be not the number of people who think he deserves a nod, but rather the number of people who want one for him enough to vote for him themselves. Are there enough of them out there who do? I'm not certain one way or the other, but I do know that it's not nearly a sure-thing. I got the news of Heath's death from my father, an average follower of today's movies, who heard the breaking news on the radio and texted me: "KEITH LEDGER DIED." That pretty much sums it up... in his lifetime, Heath allowed himself to become "big" enough to matter, but not big enough to be nearly as widely known or cared about as he could have been. Since his death, of course, he has been a ubiquitous presence in the news, and consequently is now regarded by the public as a far bigger star than he ever allowed himself to be in his lifetime. All of this leaves me rather suspicious: has the apparent widespread societal mourning of and outpouring of affection for Heath been real, or is it merely the latest creation of a media desperate to fill a few more news cycles until the next big story (see Chandra Levy before 9/11, Anna Nicole Smith before the 2008 primaries, etc.)? It must be real, you might say, based on the massive box-office success of The Dark Knight, but I think you might be making a false association: (1) Batman Begins (2005), the first installment, also was a huge blockbuster without Heath, and so increased profits on the second were always expected, which is also why the budget for the second was $30 million more than the first; and (2) for every person who paid to see The Dark Knight because they were a fan of Heath's during his life, there were almost certainly more who did so because he provoked their curiosity in death... the impulse is not unlike that which spurred people to make the National Enquirer issue featuring an unauthorized photo of Elvis Presley in his open casket that magazine's all-time best-seller, and which every day spurs drivers on highways to slow down and hold up traffic for miles in order to try to rubberneck a peak at a car accident... we just can't turn away... we take a look... and then we move on and forget.
3. The most sensitive—but inevitable—question of all: Heath's death was tragic... but who/what caused it? According to the New York City Medical Examiner, Heath died of an accidental drug overdose or, more specifically, "acute intoxication by the combined effects of oxycodone, hydrocodone, diazepam, temazepam, alprazolam, and doxylamine." The ME indicated that Heath did have prescriptions for each of these drugs, but declined to specify the amounts of them found in his system. The fact that he ruled the death an accidental drug overdose rather than a suicide would seem to indicate that the meds simply did not mix well... but the fact that quantities and details have been hush-hushed has—along with Heath's deeply troubling comments and behavior shortly before his death—left many with reason to believe that Heath's death was actually brought about by his own reckless behavior (brought about by addiction?) and the failure of those around him to intervene (despite obvious warning signs). I understand that it's easy to be a Monday-morning quarterback and that it's largely unfair to point fingers, which is why I'm not trying to indict anyone... I'm just publicly airing sentiments that have been shared with me because I suspect they are not uncommon, especially among older and more conservative people, who still compose a large segment of the Academy's voting block, and who are least inclined to be feel sympathetic about a young actor's drug-related death.

Until we know what Heath's competition is, nobody can really know what his awards prospects look like, and so it will be interesting to see if/what other supporting performances stand out over the coming months. In the meantime, those interested in learning more about Ledger and his Oscar prospects can find a number of supplemental reading materials below:

• Christian Bale, Ledger's friend and co-star in I'm Not There (2007) and The Dark Knight, rejects the notion that the role of The Joker drove Heath to such a dark place that it drove him to drugs and to his death. (I hope and believe he's correct, because any actor who could be so adversely impacted by a role shouldn't be an actor.)
• Michael Caine, Heath's Oscar-winning co-star in The Dark Knight and an Academy member himself, predicts that the late actor will receive a posthumous Oscar nomination.
  
• The usually sedate Associated Press seems to enthusiastically agree, and solicits quotes from Heath's The Dark Knight co-stars Christian Bale and Gary Oldman to support the theory.
• Industry observers Leonard Maltin and Tom O'Neil attempt to pour cold water on the idea, which Maltin calls "a wish-fulfillment rumor."
• Critic Lou Lumenick calls Heath's performance "astonishing and memorable," but says his "gut feeling" is that it "isn't going to pay off with a nomination in the end."
• John Foote thinks Hath was great but doesn't expect him to be nominated, and is pleased that he's at least getting some well-earned attention.
  
• Terry Gilliam, who directed Heath's one yet-to-be-released film, finds it necessary to ridicule the whole idea of a nomination, which he dismisses as a "publicity stunt."
• Eric Kohn says voters should only nominate or award Heath if they feel his performance merits it, not because of any concerted effort to do unto him what was done unto James Dean, with whom he has often been compared.
  
• Ty Burr calls the box-office phenomenon a "cultural mass wake," and doubts the movie or Heath would be celebrated nearly as much had Heath not died.
  
• Adam West, who starred in the 1960s TV series Batman as the eponymous character (but is best-known these days as the inspiration for and voice of Mayor Adam West on Family Guy), feels the whole franchise is getting too damn loud!
• And, finally, a May 2001 New Yorker article touches upon Columbia's early efforts to turn Heath into a star with A Knight's Tale (2001), only to see Miramax and Paramount reap the benefits on his next film, The Four Feathers (2002).

Burt Lancaster (right) plots an escape with his prison cell mates in Brute Force (1947)

Things may be slow on the Oscar front at this time of year, but that does not mean that I stop watching movies. I attend press or theatrical screenings of highly buzzed about new releases (Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Sex and the City, Iron Man, WALL-E, etc.); I check out soon-to-be-released DVDs (including 21 just last week); and, most enjoyably, I catch up on my classics, some of which I have seen years before and others of which I have been hoping to see for just as long. Over the past two months or so, I've checked off a number of these, and so I thought I'd recap some of them:

• Advise and Consent (1962), one of the great (but dated) political procedurals, adapted from Allen Drury's soap-operatic novel about the behind-the-scenes workings of the American government by the great director Otto Preminger and featuring outstanding performances by Franchot Tone as the dying President, Lew Ayres as his reluctant successor, and Walter Pidgeon, Don Murray, and especially Charles Laughton as United States Senators; frequent invocations of the film during the presidential primary season by MSNBC's Chris Matthews spurred me to finally check it out.
• Bright Victory (1951) comes from director Mark Robson, who is probably best known for helming the dark melodramas Champion (1949) and Peyton Place (1957). In-between those two films, he made two other films that are much lesser known but probably of greater significance: Home of the Brave (1949) and Bright Victory, both studies of race that were way ahead of their time. In this film, Arthur Kennedy stars as an all-American G.I. blinded by a sniper's bullet while fighting in North Africa during World War II. While recuperating at an Army medical facility, he befriends another soldier facing the same predicament, played by James Edwards. The two get along winningly until—in a scene that still packs a wallop—Kennedy makes a bigoted statement that leads him to learn that Edwards is, in fact, black. The metaphors are obvious and yet perfect: when you can't see, you can no longer judge a man based on the way he looks, and then you realize we are all the same. The film can get slightly preachy, at times, and the romantic subplot with beautiful Peggy Dow (Harvey) seems somewhat unnecessary, but the film overall is an important one. And, incidentally, Edwards is owed some of the credit for breaking down film's racial barriers that is usually afforded exclusively to Sidney Poitier; Edwards was playing leading roles year's before Poitier broke through in Blackboard Jungle (1955).
• The Parallax View (1974) is the archetypal 1970s political-thriller, but is really about obsession, a theme that producer-director Alan J. Pakula explored previously in Klute (1971) and subsequently in All the President's Men (1976). The film, which was clearly inspired by the JFK assassination and its subsequent investigations, centers around a shameless reporter (Warren Beatty, preening at the height of his sex appeal) as he pursues the facts behind a political assassination that he believes are being covered up. (The extended brainwashing sequence took guts!) More than anything else, what sets apart post-JFK films about obsession from those that came before them is the utter exasperation that colors their endings—the truth is rarely exposed and the little guy rarely emerges mentally and/or physically intact, having been crushed by the very people he previously thought were on his side. This post-JFK rule seems to apply not only to political films—Seven Days in May (1964), Dr. Strangelove (1964), Three Days of the Condor (1975)—but to all films about obsession, including most notably Antonioni's Blow Up (1966) and The Conversation (1974).
  
• David Copperfield (1935), the David O. Selznick prestige-project in which Charles Dickens' title character is played by young Freddie Bartholomew in his first featured role (he's a little too green and grating), surrounded by an all-star team including Lionel Barrymore, Elsa Lanchester, Jessie Ralph, Edna Mae Oliver, and standouts Basil Rathbone (effectively detestable as David's step-father) and W.C. Fields (effectively, and surprisingly, charming—opposite a child, no less!—as the infinitely-quotable man David wishes were his step-father, possessing an oddly American accent in the film); something, however, is missing from the film, and it is far from "Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer's Greatest Motion Picture," as advertised.
  
• my new Criterion Collection special edition of The Third Man (1949), which merits—and will receive—its own post shortly
  
• The Greatest Show on Earth (1952), a Cecil B. DeMille chronicle of a Barnum-like circus that is as far from meriting that title as possible thanks to a bloated runtime of 152 minutes, stiff performances (most of all by Charlton Heston, least of all by Betty Hutton), and no real point... the fact that it won Best Picture over High Noon (1952) and The Quiet Man (1952) is one of the greatest injustices of Oscar history.
• In Cold Blood (1967), the powerful big-screen adaptation of Truman Capote's groundbreaking non-fiction novel, in which a remorseful murderer is ironically portrayed by future unremorseful murderer Robert Blake in an equally good performance; the film's violence and language hammered some of the final nails in the coffin of movie censors
  
• Dressed to Kill (1980), an early example of director Brian Da Palma's obsession with flesh and blood (venereal horror), featuring a Psycho-like disposal of the female lead (Angie Dickinson, in a good performance) and resolution (with Michael Caine as you've never seen him before).
  
• Charly (1968), in which Cliff Robertson gives a career-defining, Oscar-winning performance as the eponymous mentally retarded character who cannot even outsmart a mouse (wonderful Algernon) until a medical procedure abruptly makes him even smarter than his devoted teacher, played by a somewhat stiff Claire Bloom, if only for a time—a clear inspiration for the similarly powerful Awakenings (1990).
  
• American History X (1998), featuring a haunting but great performance by Edward Norton as a neo-Nazi skinhead that earned him a Best Actor nomination (and, as an aside, a surprisingly touching supporting turn by Beverly D'Angelo... yes, the same Beverly D'Angelo who was married to Chevy Chase's Clark W. Griswold in all the National Lampoon's Vacation movies and Al Pacino is real-life).
• Brute Force (1947), the Jules Dassin-directed film noir in which Hume Cronyn, as a sadistic prison guard, almost—almost—steals the show from Burt Lancaster, as a prisoner with brains, a heart, and the gentlest eyes in the world.
• Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949), a dark-comedy that is often ranked among the best British films of all-time, in which Dennis Price stars as a conniving social climber and Alec Guinness portrays eight of his different victims (long before Peter Sellers, Mike Myers, or Eddie Murphy did the same).

On the docket for the coming days:

• The Gunfighter (1950), a western that stars Gregory Peck, of all people; earned a rare Best Picture nomination for a film of that genre; and paved the way for other adult westerns like High Noon (1952).
• Refusenik (2008), an acclaimed documentary that chronicles the thirty-year international movement to free Jews in the Soviet Union and features interviews with key players like Natan Sharansky.
• Air Force (1943), released during the heart of World War II, follows the crew of an Air Force bomber as it is dispatched to the Philippines in the wake of Pearl Harbor; the focus on the interpersonal relations of the men on board (including John Garfield, Arthur Kennedy, and Gig Young) comes to illustrate the group-mentality that won the War, and also illustrates director Howard Hawks career-long obsessisions with aviation and professionals performing their duties.

Feel free to share your thoughts on any of these films in the "Comments" section below.