I wanted to acknowledge, today, the passing of two terrific comedic actors: Kenneth Mars and Len Lesser.

Kenneth Mars was a mainstay of Mel Brooks’ early films, most notably The Producers (in which he played Franz Liebkind, a Nazi whose love for the fallen Reich spurred him to write the play “Springtime for Hitler”), and Young Frankenstein (in which he played another comedic German, the one-wooden-armed Inspector Kemp).  Mr. Mars absolutely owns both of those films.  I’m particularly fond of Inspector Kemp.  I could listen to his mangled English all day.  (“Ah rrriot ees un ugly sink!”)

For more on Mr. Mars’ life and career, click here.  (And props to the New York Times for even making note of Mr. Mars’ one-time guest appearance on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine!)

Len Lesser is best known to me — and probably most American TV-watchers! — as Uncle Leo from Seinfeld.  It’s tough to overstate just how perfect his performance as Leo was — there’s a reason the Seinfeld writers kept bringing back that character!  (“They said they were sending an Asian woman!”)  But Mr. Lesser also had a long and varied career in TV and film.  His credits include The Outlaw Josey Wales and Birdman of Alcatraz.  For more on Mr. Lesser, click here.

Both men will be missed.

I was extremely saddened to learn, right after the new year, of the death at age 92 of Richard Winters.

Anyone who has read Stephen Ambrose’s book Band of Brothers, or watched the riveting 2001 HBO mini-series of the same name, produced by Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks, certainly recognizes this name.  Major Winters was the commander of Easy Company, a Parachute Infantry Regiment that was involved in a stunning number of key engagements in World War II, from the landing at Normandy to the Battle of the Bulge to the capturing of Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest at Berchtesgaden.

I’ve watched Band of Brothers many times — it’s truly one of the greatest TV epics ever produced, powerful and emotionally shattering every time I see it — and I’ve always felt that Richard Winters was one of the most striking real-life characters presented in the series.  I’m not talking about Damien Lewis’ portrayal of him — though it’s a phenomenal performance, and one worthy of great praise — but of the glimpses we get of the real Richard Winters in the opening segments of each episode (and in the documentary We Stand Alone Together that aired after the mini-series was completed).  The man’s dignity and courage and heroism are astounding.  This was a true American hero, and I wonder when we’ll see his like again.

Some sad news these past few days.  On Sunday, Leslie Nielsen passed away at the age of 84.

Here’s a nice tribute to Mr. Nielsen, written by Drew over at Hitfix.  Months ago I had decided to include Airplane! as the final film in the movie marathon I’m holding with my friends next week (I’ll be writing more about this on the site next week), and that choice now has an unexpected poignancy.  But I’m looking forward to revisiting one of his greatest roles.  I’ll need to find some time to re-watch The Naked Gun some-time soon…

Then, on Monday, the news broke that Irvin Kershner had passed away at the age of 87.

Among his many other achievements, Mr. Kershner directed The Empire Strikes Back, which just might be my favorite film of all time, and certainly ranks among the movies I’ve seen the most often.  I give Mr. Kershner enormous credit, along with screenwriter Lawrence Kasdan, with crafting the dark, mature epic that we know Empire to be.  There’s a wonderful tribute to him over at aintitcoolnews, and I also suggest you check out this installment of Quint’s series of Behind the Scenes Pics in honor of the great Kersh.

Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.

We lost two titans this past week:  

Patrick McGoohan is best known as “Number 6″ in the bizarre 1960′s British TV show The Prisoner.  McGoohan plays a British agent who, after resigning from his position, is captured and held in a bizarre village from which he cannot escape.  Much surrealism follows.  We never find out McGoohan’s character’s name — he is referred to as “Number 6″ by his captors.  (Some have viewed the show to be a sort-of continuation of another TV show, Danger Man, in which McGoohan portrayed a British secret agent named John Drake.)  Although short-lived, The Prisoner has proved to be an enormous inspiration for much of the sci-fi/fantasy programming that we’ve seen on TV over the past several decades.  The New York Times obituary for Mr. McGoohan contains a nice look back at his career.

Ricardo Montalban is probably best known to the world as enigmatic Mr. Roarke from Fantasy Island.  But to me he will always be William Shatner’s greatest nemesis — the brutal, Melville-quoting Khan.  Montalban appeared as Khan in only one episode of the original Star Trek series (“Space Seed”), but he memorably returned to wreak furious vengeance on Kirk and co. almost 20 years later in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.  Trek has never had a better villain.  Here’s a nice look back at the life and work of Mr. Montalban.

Finally, here’s an interesting piece about both men that contains a terrific excerpt from an article by legendary film critic Pauline Kael about Montalban’s iconic performance in Star Trek II.

I remember the first time I heard a George Carlin album. It was when I was 13, spending my summers (as I always did, and still do!) at Camp Ramah in New England. Someone in my bunk had a cassette tape with a short routine: Carlin’s classic “seven words you can’t say on television.”

I laughed, and thought the bit was clever. But it was the next summer, back at camp, when I really became a Carlin devotee. Someone (was it the same kid? Or someone else? This I cannot recall) had brought another George Carlin routine on tape. This wasn’t just a bit, this was an entire hour-long album. (Years later I found out that this was the album entitled “What Am I Doing in New Jersey?”)

Something about that recording grabbed fiercly ahold of my 14-year-old mind. And I wasn’t the only one, because my entire bunk spent that whole summer listening to that album over and over again. There’s a bit in there about ways to respond to a cop if you’re pulled over for a speeding ticket that turned into a catch phrase for the bunch of us. (Carlin to the imaginary cop: “Say…aren’t you a public servant? Get me a glass of water!”) To this day I can recite fairly substantial bits of that album verbatim.

I made a copy of that tape that summer (it was probably already a copy of a copy), that I took home with me. (I remember begging my parents to play it in the car on the drive home, and then being embarassed by how raunchy it was!) I still have that tape, and every now and again I bust it out and give it a listen. I still laugh at the things I laughed at when I was 14 (“The Civil War. How can you have a Civil War? ‘Say, pardon me — BAMBAMBAMBAM!”) and also at a lot of things that I know went way over my head back then (like the lengthy bit about the Reagan Administration that kicks off the album).

Over the years I have voraciously devoured all the Carlin material I could get my hands on. I’ve got a ton of his comedy specials taped off of TV…a number of CDs, even a couple of his books. They way he could mix astounding vulgarity with brilliant insights on language and the ridiculous human capacity for bullshit always kept me coming back (even as his routines seemed to get more and more angry and less and less funny over the past ten years). He was a genius. And he was damned funny.

That cop routine from “What Am I… [continued]