I’d Love To Turn You On At The Movies #236 - In the Heat of the Night (1967, dir. Norman Jewison)

            I grew up watching the In the Heat of the Night television series all through the ‘80s with my parents. As police procedurals go, there wasn’t anything that particularly stood out about it (I’ve seen every episode multiple times and I couldn’t tell you the plot to any of them) other than it starred the genius Carroll O’Connor who we already knew and loved from playing Archie Bunker for all those years, so we just, as a family, liked it a lot. It would be years before I learned not only that there was a film version produced two decades earlier, but that said film version was, oh I dunno, a hundred million trillion times better than the show.

            For one thing the film, directed by Norman Jewison, is not just an effective whodunit, but it also acts as a lesson in civility. It was released in 1967, a time when the Civil Rights Movement was largely just starting to take shape with regards to actual effective legislation. Some sections of the United States, many in the South, were still rife with racial tension and uneasiness from all citizens. For Jewison, a Canadian, to come along and, in a way, hold a mirror up to those areas by portraying the small Mississippi town of Sparta as a cold, intolerant place was kind of a badass move. Sidney Poitier plays the well-read Philadelphia homicide detective Virgil Tibbs who, while visiting his mother in Sparta, is picked up by a small-time deputy (Warren Oates) as a suspect in the murder of a prominent industrialist. He isn’t doing anything suspicious mind you - other than being black - but again, this is the ‘60s in the deep South so that’s enough. He is taken back to the police headquarters where he meets the other officers and the surly chief of police, Bill Gillespie (Rod Steiger) who is only too eager to assume Tibbs’ guilt as well. Once Tibbs’s alibi is cleared up by his own superior officer, he is asked to assist the Sparta department in their murder investigation; a request he reluctantly agrees to. This is essentially the plot to the pilot episode of the series as well, as they are both based on a novel by John Ball. But that’s really where the similarities end. After the pilot, the series just becomes another yawner prime-time buddy cop drama. The film, a much darker affair, really showcases those racial tensions between the two lead characters, and thus, again, given the time period during which it was released, showcasing the racial tensions in the country at the time. While there is a mutual respect that builds between the two men over the course of the film, they are still not going to be friends. We, the viewers, don’t get the impression at the end that these two are going to even keep in touch, much less continue working together.

            I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the acting in In the Heat of the Night, which is also top notch. It presents a cast made up of both seasoned veterans and relative newcomers alike. Poitier breathes an ambitious and determined fire into his portrayal of Ball’s Tibbs character, prompting two lesser known but still kind of charming sequels. In some ways, we can see why Gillespie doesn’t like Tibbs. He is arrogant and stubborn, something Gillespie calls him out on almost immediately. Tibbs is supposedly a genius homicide detective, yet he is at first unwilling to help on a case he knows that he can solve. Gillespie only responds with racist remarks because it’s the only defense he knows. And can we just talk about Rod Steiger for a second? Holy shit, that guy, right? It takes a lot for me to prefer an actor over my beloved Carroll O’Connor, but Steiger’s Chief Gillespie is truly one of the greatest characters in film history, something his Best Actor Oscar that he received for it supports. He’s got such a seemingly despicable disposition at the beginning of the film, yet we still kind of root for him because we can tell that, deep down, he is a good law man, a fact that Tibbs also begrudgingly recognizes. By the end of the film, we witness a very real change in him as he becomes more empathetic and more tolerant.

Given that the country continues to struggle with issues of bigotry and racism, especially involving law enforcement, In the Heat of the Night remains an important film with an important message that still resonates in America today. Though some of the ways in which it delivers this message can be a bit dated and gratuitous, it’s still a message that bears repeating.

          
  - Jonathan Eagle

I'd Love to Turn You On #248: Bill Evans - Waltz For Debby (1962)

Waltz For Debby is an amazing live document of one of the best jazz trios in peak form. The trio, consisting of Bill Evans on piano, Scott LaFaro on bass, and Paul Motian on drums, was in the process of redefining and expanding the language and roles of the piano trio. Traditionally the drums and the bass would serve as a foundation for the piano to rest upon, but the trio had evolved to a band that functioned more as a musical equals than a band that allowed one player to monopolize the musical landscape. In a traditional piano trio the piano is featured very prominently with the drums and bass playing a supporting role. The drums may provide texture and comping, while the bass provides a steady pulse and harmony. This group would redefine the jazz trio for the genre, providing a new model of excellence and grace.

"My Foolish Heart" opens the record with Evans’ trademark gentle touch. LaFaro plays clear and uncluttered harmony while Motian fills the space on the cymbals and prods with gentle brush work. Part of the magic in this recording is the stereo mix, with the piano in the right channel and the bass and drums mostly cut to the left. When I listen in headphones it gives the music life. There is a tiny portion of ambient club sound but just enough to add sonic depth. The sound is immaculate and any time LaFaro adds multiple notes to flesh out harmony the recording captures it precisely. The clarity of interpretation that comes across in this take speaks to the high level of mastery by the musicians. It also communicates the intent of the ballad, which is intimacy, longing, and a warning to a foolish heart that has been fooled before.

"Waltz For Debby," the song, is a great illustration of the kind of innovation that the trio was enacting. In the left speaker you can hear Scott LaFaro playing in the high register to complement Evans' piano playing. It is not until the after the one minute mark that he moves down to play a more traditional bass role. He is using notes that are harmony and color tones, tones that are not the standard designated function of bass players. Because of the range he is playing them in they are functioning as melodic tones rather than bass fundamentals, giving a new advanced melodic freedom and expressiveness to the bass that the instrument had been lacking before. On Evans' part he is as ever is treating us to the smooth voice leading that is one of the hallmarks of his style. This is to say that within the harmony between two chords he either kept common tones or found the shortest distances between notes so that the transition was not jarring, and that the overall effect sounded smooth and effortless. This is especially evident in a song like "Waltz For Debby" where the overall harmony is quite complex but the effort that it takes to play it seems minimal and graceful. One of the features of the song is a series of cascading chords which descends down and then circles quickly back up to repeat the cycle. Paul Motian drops in around 1:20 and the group starts to play more like a traditional trio. LaFaro is still hitting all kinds of upper color notes fleshing out the harmony during Evans' piano solo. Motian is laying down solid brushwork, and doing occasional cymbal splashes. He switches to a light cymbal ride pattern under LaFaro’s acrobatic solo. Evans returns to play the melody before the brief coda of the tune. "Detour Ahead" is a ballad-ish tune. Evans and LaFaro demonstrate how familiar they are with the song by playing spaciously around each other. LaFaro will cover the bass harmony and dart into the high register to add some melodic interjection over Evans’ chordal approach. Motian backs them up with stellar brush work. Evans takes the first solo, although LaFaro is so active it might be considered a duet. LaFaro takes the next solo, and then they return to the melody. I think what you can glean from an interpretation of a song as rhythmically interactive as this is how much synergy the trio was working with. Something with as many layers as this has to be developed by working on group interplay and communication, and this group was an amazing example of that kind of work.

"My Romance" features a lovely Bill Evans solo introduction. It is a simple run through the melody but it once again gives us insight into his voice leading approach. Evans has an economical approach that results in a gentle sound, one that utilizes common tones and close neighboring tones to minimize unnecessary movement. Once Motian and LaFaro enter, the song becomes a more swinging number rather than another ballad. The group interplay displayed during Evans’ solo is hard to match, and furthermore the bass solo might be the most virtuosic on the record, with LaFaro dazzling and flashing unbelievable technique. Listening to the way this trio treats time - stretching it, leaving empty spaces for other members to occupy - it is evident just how much of the ground work they have laid for modern groups' rhythmic concepts. Listeners can see the influence of this trio all around the jazz genre, but you really see the influence in groups like the Keith Jarrett Standards Trio with Jack DeJohnette and Gary Peacock, or Brad Mehldau’s trio.

"Some Other Time" is a beautiful ballad with a minimal approach that lets the melodic content do the work. Evans’ classic voicings really shine in this song. The harmony in the first part of the tune allows LaFaro to back up Evans with harmonics, an effect that produces a higher pitched portion of a note by partially applying pressure on a specific part of the string. Jaco Pastorius would later become famous for using harmonics extensively on the electric fretless bass. Scott LaFaro can be heard using harmonics to accompany Evans all throughout the song, providing a shimmering, high-pitched accompaniment on the double bass.

"Milestones" is a fast uptempo tune and a real showcase for Evans and LaFaro. Although I haven’t mentioned his name tons in this review let me take a moment to celebrate Paul Motian. As a player, he is what the music calls for, which is the kind of egoless playing that makes these records so great. It prevents it from being excessively technical. Scott LaFaro was a technical master and this was balanced by Motian whose technique was present but understated. Motian prods uptempo swing numbers like this with crisp, light, cymbal work that keeps the song buoyant. It is light and delicate so you can still hear the details of LaFaro's playing which is also light. It is the opposite of a heavy thunderous drummer like Elvin Jones.

So many things about this group are amazing. Tragically, Scott LaFaro died in a car accident in 1961 bringing this group’s growth to an abrupt halt, and stopping Bill Evans from even playing for a period of time. I always wonder what the group concept would have evolved into if Scott LaFaro had not passed away. Bill Evans went on to work with a number of great bass players that played amazing music, not confined to the rigid structures of bebop or traditional jazz. I just happen to think that this particular group was the pinnacle. I hope you enjoy Waltz For Debby!

            

- Doug Anderson

I’d Love To Turn You On At The Movies #233 - Candy (1968, dir. Christian Marquand)

            French actor Christian Marquand’s 1968 directorial debut Candy is a film that could only have been made in the late 1960s. It’s one hundred percent a product of its time. It’s a largely plotless, psychedelic hullabaloo with enough gratuitous sexual misadventures to satisfy even the cultiest of cult movie fans or the perviest of sexploitation fans. It’s the type of hippie counter-culture film that seemingly oversaturated this era in cinema but has almost completely disappeared as a style in subsequent decades. It’s been a favorite film of mine ever since I first saw it as a very young man and I’m confident it will soon be one of yours too.

What I love about Candy is not necessarily that it’s such a great film. In fact, the screenplay, written by The Graduate screenwriter Buck Henry, and adapted from the Terry Southern novel of the same name, is for the most part meandering and lackluster. And it’s not even the fact that a strangely large number of amazing, high-profile actors threw caution to the wind and decided that the script wasn’t total schmaltz either (more on this later). No, for me, this film’s role and influence on my life has everything to do with being in the right place at the right time. In fact, if there was ever a moment that I could pinpoint in my life that was my absolute coaxing, albeit perhaps too early, into manhood, I may cite the time that I inadvertently (but intently) watched Candy for the first time. I must have been ten or eleven years old. I don’t really even remember how I stumbled across it. It could’ve been one of those deals where Cinemax was offering a promotional free weekend, or maybe just a routine viewing of USA Up All Nite (for you younger readers, that was a delightful late night trashfest that aired on the USA cable network, hosted by either Elvira or Gilbert Gottfried depending on the night, in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, which played wonderfully horrible B-movies and exploitation films). All I remember is that I happened upon it quite by accident and even now, in my 40s, I still feel like maybe I’m doing something wrong when I watch it.

            Of course, I, like every male character in the film, was immediately transfixed by the film’s lead, the mesmerizingly beautiful Swedish actress and model Ewa Aulin. Aulin, just 18 years old at the time Candy was filmed, was not very adept at acting in general yet, let alone portraying an American girl, so her acting seems a bit flat. Ultimately though, this doesn’t matter. Contrary to the rest of the cast, this isn’t a film to be watched for its brilliant thespianism. Candy should be watched because it is incredibly sexy, totally weird and beautifully shot by famed Italian cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno.

As I mentioned, there isn’t much to sift through plot-wise. Candy is a young ingénue who materializes from space (because: drugs). She then sets off on a series of bizarre adventures where she encounters a range of different men, each weirdly needy and pervy in their own way. Her first encounter is with a drunk, lecherous celebrity poet named McPhisto (Richard Burton) who, after a speaking engagement at her school, coerces Candy to get into his car where he proceeds to make grabby sexual advances at her. This sets off a string of similar confrontations. Among Candy’s conquests are a depraved army general (Walter Matthau), a depraved hunchback (Charles Aznavour), a depraved surgeon (James Coburn), a depraved bullshit-artist calling himself an Indian mystic (Marlon Brando) and a (you guessed it: depraved) Mexican gardener played by the decidedly non-Mexican Ringo Starr at his most delightfully (and not-so-subtly) racist best. Candy struggles her way through all these encounters in an almost dreamlike - or, more accurately, drug-induced - state, evidently learning more and more about the nature of life and love as she goes along. Candy seems blissfully unaware of the power she has over these men, which to the chagrin of her parents (John Astin and Elsa Martinelli), leads her into increasingly more troublesome situations the more men she meets. Her sojourn concludes in a large field populated by the entire cast, (which looks remarkably like the last Pitchfork Festival I went to, but I digress), Candy makes her way through everyone and on to the desert where she eventually dissolves, presumably back into space.

            What Candy lacks in narrative structure it more than makes up for in charm and aesthetic feel. The film was undoubtedly made for a ‘60s audience, but if you’re a fan of the look and feel of that decade, or the sound for that matter (among the contributors to the killer soundtrack are The Byrds and Steppenwolf), or if you’re familiar with the films of, say, Roger Corman or Russ Meyer, then Candy might be right up your alley. It’s an incredible piece of ‘60s exploitation celluloid that fits totally at home alongside any of those cult classics.

            - Jonathan Eagle

I’d Love To Turn You On At The Movies #213 - American Graffiti (1973, dir. George Lucas)

          Nostalgia is a funny thing. It’s like fashion in general. One never knows exactly what will become an object of the public’s past-looking obsession, but the when is a little more predictable. People often idolize their childhoods, and 15-30 years later will look to their own past for comfort. This happens right about the time adulthood starts slapping them down. It is natural that our own history might offer us solutions to new and uncomfortable situations. A decent set of parents or a good teacher can make a young person feel like the world is less confusing. Dealing with marriage, career and children can make anyone yearn for the simplicity of childhood. Thus it is not surprising that popular art attempts to capitalize on this phenomenon. It rarely works. More often than not, nostalgic songs or movies feel hokey and predictable. Indeed, they tend to sully our memories, or confuse with cheap anachronistic jokes, the very real yearning we have for a time when our lives made sense. George Lucas’ second movie, 1973’s American Graffiti rises above nostalgia, and uses the building blocks of his own youth to create a universal tribute to coming of age in small-town America at the birth of the 1960’s.

Set in Modesto, California, it is the final night of summer vacation and four friends (Ron Howard, Richard Dreyfuss, Charles Martin Smith and Paul Lemat) are going to spend one last night cruising the strip of their hometown before heading off to…adulthood? Ron Howard’s Steve and Dreyfuss’ Kurt are both ostensibly heading off to college, while Smith’s Terry and Lemat’s John are staying put, as Steve says early on, “ to be a teenager for the rest of your life.” The film busies itself with a series of widely-drawn pranks and romantic sub-plots, but as it unwinds, it becomes clear that there is a much more serious and poignant subtext to everything that is happening. The four main characters start to become Jungian archetypes, each representing a potential outcome for a prototypical American youth at the end of the 1950’s. The film is critically set in 1962, just on the precipice of all the changes the 1960’s would bring, and George Lucas succeeds in capturing a last fleeting look at a more innocent time, while acknowledging that something big is stirring just over the horizon.

American Graffiti succeeds so wildly for three different reasons. First and foremost: ROCK AND ROLL! When Lucas started making this picture, the first thing he did was get his older sister’s collection of 45 records and a portable record player, and he used the music of his own memories to help him map out the action of his movie. In today’s world it is hard to imagine a time when this was such a revelation, but it is true, that Lucas was really the first director to use wall-to-wall songs to punctuate, and sometimes even explicate the story he is telling. The soundtrack to this movie actually is a character, and the way the sound of the songs are manipulated, modulated and magnified makes them behave more like dialogue than incidental noise. Songs get louder and softer as people enter rooms or cars drive by with open windows. The audio realism of this movie adds to an already documentary-like feel. Cinematographer Haskell Wexler does an amazing job of making everything feel spontaneous, as though scenes are being caught on the fly and lit by streetlights and dashboards. The film truly has a breathless, you-are-there feeling of immediacy.

The second factor that makes this film so successful is the casting of a group of largely unknown (except Ron Howard) young actors who turn out to be almost miraculous in their depictions of American stereotypes familiar to many. The four male leads are paired with four tremendous female leads whose performances outshine the men in many ways. Cindy Williams is heartbreakingly believable as a sixteen-year old cheerleader-type experiencing her first breakup as she navigates her relationship with the sweet but dull Ron Howard. Candy Clark mesmerizes as the girl from just the other side of the tracks, who takes Charlie Martin Smith on an adult ride to first experiences with sex and alcohol. Suzanne Sommers is alluring as the mysterious blonde in the white T-Bird who beguiles Dreyfuss’ character, but stays maddeningly out of reach, and most touching of all is a teenage Mackenzie Phillips who walks the perilous line between innocence and womanhood with such sweet grace that the wreckage of the actress’ later life is made especially painful. Her evolving relationship with Paul Lemat’s tough greaser character - from babysitting to crush to mutual respect - is one of the sweetest parts of the film.

The final aspect of American Graffiti which sets it apart from other nostalgia films is Lucas’ masterful editing job. It is now hard to remember a time when dramas were not told by introducing several plots and winding them together over the course of a story. It is the way virtually all modern cable TV dramas and films unfold. It was unheard of in 1973 and a controversial move by Lucas. I remember seeing this film for the first time in the theatre and being exhilarated by the seemingly disorienting quick cuts in action. It was like watching four movies at once. The emotional impact was breathless excitement that felt like real life.

The sun must rise, childhood must end, and time moves on in our home towns. The last scenes of American Graffiti bring these themes home in stark fashion. The four young men meet at the airport to say goodbye. Who leaves and who stays and what happens to them in the rest of their lives is revealed and leaves us with bittersweet feelings, because their fates are so similar to any four guys from any small town in 1962 America. We are brought in by both the familiarity of their lives and simultaneously at the extraordinary nature of the times we have lived through this century.

-         Paul Epstein

I'd Love to Turn You On #220 - The Abyssinians - Satta Massagana

For me, studying reggae has been similar to studying the classic R&B recordings of Atlantic or Stax, the legendary blues sessions on Chess or the wide-ranging recordings on Sun Records. The label exists as a framework for all the great music that was released under its imprimatur. The various studio players that orbited the studio became part of the sound, the specific engineers and producers, even the tape-op guys associated with that particular label would come to define the artistic and commercial decisions made in the production of their albums. The classic era of reggae (from approximately 1960 until the mid to late 70’s) was produced in the relatively homogeneous environments of Jamaica and England. The communities of musicians and engineers who were responsible for the classic sound were relatively few in number and thus, as one studies this great music, it becomes clear that many of the same people played on many of the best records and that they were produced by only a handful of technicians in just a few studios. This is why, to the uninitiated, much reggae sounds confoundingly similar. Like the R&B on Atlantic, the deep pleasure and understanding of this music comes from an overarching appreciation of the traditions and techniques used and then an understanding of the individual strengths of each singer. With reggae, there is a deep history of beats, riddims and lyrical insights which can be followed and understood as the foundation, and then there is unlimited joy to be found in the varying vocal deliveries of each individual or group. The Abyssinians were in the tradition of other Jamaican vocal groups like The Paragons, The Heptones, The Mighty Diamonds and Culture who twisted the vocal harmony styles of Doo-Wop and early R&B into the hypnotic vocal attack of conscious roots reggae.

Satta Massagana - both the song and the album - are at the very pinnacle of reggae. The song has become recognized as the national anthem of reggae, and the album embodies everything one could wish for in reggae - it is inspirational, deep and danceable. All the elements are here: the lyrics are serious, political, spiritual and poetic, the band is filled with the absolute cream of Jamaica’s best (Sly & Robbie, Chinna Smith, Tyrone Downie, Mikey Chung et al.) and the three-part vocals by principles Donald and Lynford Manning and lead vocalist Bernard Collins are heavenly. If the band had only recorded "Satta Massagana" and no other song, their reputation would still be as solid. It is one of the most recognizable and wholly satisfying songs of its era; not just reggae - all songs. Everything from its righteous lyric filled with equal parts supplication and inspiration so beautifully sung and harmonized by the vocalists, to the tough, punchy horns, the perfect guitar riddim, and burbling keyboard - it all works wonderfully. In addition, there is the use of words and phrases from the Amharic language adding an even greater air of philosophical mystery. In the age of the internet it is easy to find out what these words mean, but when the album was first released in 1976 (the single was recorded in 1969) hearing these words so lovingly integrated into the song filled the listener with many questions and hinted at deeper meanings than those we were used to in top 40 rock music. These guys were tapping in to something ancient and profound while creating music that seemed unmoored from any specific time period. Listening to it in 2018 has changed nothing at all - this album still sounds fresh. And "Satta Massagana" is not the only masterpiece. The entire album is filled with miraculous songs. Each one a perfectly crafted piece of golden-era reggae, as well a lyrical triumph, nourishing spirit and intellect. "Declaration Of Rights," "Know Jah Today," "Abendigo," "African Race" or "Leggo Beast" are all equal to the title track, and the entire album rewards endless listening.

If diving into reggae seems daunting to you and you have no idea where to start, Satta Massagana is the perfect entry point. It is fantastic music that transcends any genre, yet it is also a perfect exemplar of what reggae can and should be. The world is filled with great music, but music that rises above fashion to “life-changing” - now that is worth pursuing.

-         Paul Epstein

I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #98 - To Sir, With Love. (1967, dir. James Clavell)

I saw To Sir, With Love the year it came out in 1967. I was almost 10 and it had a profound effect on me. In fact it altered the course of my life. After I walked out of the movie I remember telling my brother “I’m going to be a teacher.” I did. I taught for about 10 years in public high school, and from the day I saw the film until the day I went into the music business, my entire mindset was that of “Sir.” I wanted to make a difference, and it was the influence of a film that caused this desire within me. How many movies can one say that about?

It is almost impossible to discuss To Sir, With Love without talking about the illusion and the reality of the 1960’s. The illusion was the myth of youth, the power of idealism, and the belief that the future was wide open. The reality of the 1960’s was that the decade essentially served as the adolescence of the American 20^th century. If adolescence is the period where a young person finds their sense of morality and builds the foundation of the person they will become, often through a series of innocent idealistic and possibly foolish experiences, then that fateful decade was this country’s teenage years. Benjamin Button-like, we were adults in the 1940’s and then after World War II the soldiers came home, had historic numbers of babies and those babies collectively threw our country into a prolonged period of childish and exhilarating social experimentation that we are still reeling from.

Like no other movie, To Sir, With Love captures the giddy idealism and the cultural feel of the times while proving itself to be painfully difficult to rectify with the way things actually turned out. Sidney Poitier, impossibly handsome, impossibly cultured, everything a young liberal audience wants to believe in, is young teacher Mark Thackery, just given the unenviable job of teaching a bunch of low-class high school seniors in a tough North London neighborhood. In one minute of this black man being in front of a white classroom all issues of class, race, youth and revolt are on the table. Poitier simultaneously represents the new idealism and the old guard. The kids see him as a square adult, the other teachers see him as a young upstart, and he finds himself at the crossroads of his own belief system and his need to make a living. Throughout the movie we are made aware that Mr. Thackery is also seeking a career in engineering, and that the lure of the paycheck may overtake his sense of societal obligation. The main thrust of the movie however, is the struggle Poitier faces with the students. This was an era when bad kids wore their hair long and played juvenile pranks. It is an eye-opening comparison to Sandy Hook or Columbine. Our schools are a much more lethal place than they used to be.

 

The real pleasure in To Sir, With Love comes from the nostalgia it evokes. This nostalgia is not the depiction of an era for the sake of fooling the audience, it is the actual item we are seeing. The young actors depicting the schoolkids, particularly Judy Geeson and Lulu, are actually young people in the 1960’s, looking and acting the way young people did. The dress, styles and depiction of a mid-60’s London are spot-on. The movie also contains what has to be one of the first rock videos as the title song (sung by Lulu) is set to a montage of still images of the kids on a field trip to the Victoria and Albert Museum. All this cultural window dressing frames the action of the story nicely as Poitier slowly wins the students over by treating them as adults instead of children and his character slowly comes to the realization that his path lies in service to others. It is beautifully calculated to make the impressionable young mind swoon with the possibilities of doing the right thing with his/her life. It certainly had that effect on me.

Ultimately, this is what the 1960’s were about for so many people. It was the naïve, mistaken impression that changing the world was a simple a matter as wanting to do so. It ignored all the bothersome adult realities that come with a more mature understanding of the ways of the world. I hate to recognize this fact and ultimately hate that I’ve had to toe the line, but a two-hour trip to a more idealistic me is always available in To Sir, With Love. It takes me to a place when art had the ability to make me strive to do more with my life. At the end of the film, as the kids acknowledge Mr. Thackery and Mr. Thackery comes to peace with his future, it is impossible to not be struck by an uncomfortable twinge. One chuckles at Thackery’s optimism for a better future, then one looks in the mirror and feels ashamed.

- Paul Epstein