Come in With the Milk, Come in With the Milk

February 13, 2005

This might only happen in a small theater in Harmony, Minnesota. Before the feature film began, the manager announced that the movie was rather long, continued on with the observation that there were some children present in the audience that might become restless, and finished with an offer to supervise youngsters in the lobby so that the adults in their party didn’t have to miss any of the show. It made me uneasy; I wondered just how long it was going to be. Long could indicate slow-moving. My expectations were set pretty high, since “The Aviator” had received eleven Academy Award Nominations and won three Golden Globe Awards for best picture of the year. I was pretty sure I’d set myself up for major disappointment, but since we had already purchased tickets, selected choice seats for viewing, and had our greasy fingers in a tub of warm buttered popcorn, we stayed.

My recollection of Howard Hughes was vague. I could only remember that he was rich and eccentric. As the story began to reveal details of the billionaire’s life, I wondered how much of it was true. Finding out that Katherine Hepburn was one of the many temporary companions of the psychotic Mr. Hughes was a crushing blow. My image of the raspy-throated actress was that of a distinguished and sophisticated lady.

It wasn’t too hard to believe that he designed and built streamlined airplanes that broke the speed records, but I did question his practice of test-flying them personally. A fiery crash scene had to have been a stretch of the truth, for it would be miraculous to live through such an accident and recover in an era deplete of modern medical advances.

I don’t know how a man with those grave physical injuries could pull himself out of a severe obsessive compulsive germ phobia episode to testify articulately at a Congressional hearing that exposed corrupt assignment of government contracts. That seemed a little far-fetched to me.

It was a long show, and even though it was late when I got home, I couldn’t wait to read about the real Howard Hughes. Surprisingly, the almost unbelievable tale was quite accurate. Small details about his preoccupation with milk and the glass bottles it came in were not overlooked. Though historically correct, the portrayal was far from a documentary. With such a spectacular and traumatic true life story, very little exaggeration is necessary. I agree with Ebert and Roeper on this one. Two thumbs up.

By Patsy Bronner