Marty

Marty sure is a movie. It stars Ernest Borgnine as the titular character. He's 34, a butcher, a bit overweight, average in looks, and unmarried. His family and even his customers are on his case to get married already. He is lonely, lives with his mother, and feels like he is destined to be alone Betsy Blair co-stars as Clara, a plain, quiet, simple teacher. She is 29. She is also unmarried, lives with her parents, is lonely, and feels destined to be alone. They meet. They have a nice date. The next night, he almost blows her off because of self-confidence issues, but eventually snaps out of it and calls her. That's it. That's Marty. That's all there is to its barely 90 minutes of movie. Almost 30 minutes of it are dedicated to that one date. It's neither funny nor dramatic. Borgnine does a respectable job as a schlubby average guy, ditto Blair as a quiet average woman. It's not particularly charming, but it's not particularly off-putting either. Marty the movie is a lot like Marty the character: a soft, non-descript, unmemorable thing, not dynamic enough either to the positive or negative to be noteworthy or provoke feelings. It is an unsalted rice cake, a beige Ford Escort, and the hold music for your doctor's office. How this thing won not only Best Picture but the Palme d'Or -- and is one of only four films to do that -- is beyond me.