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THE PRESIDENT: (confused) Spring and summer?

CHANCE: (flatly) Yes.

THE PRESIDENT: (as if speaking to a cretin) And fall and winter?

CHANCE: (delighted to be understood) Yes!

Rand, the cadaverous multibillionaire, is truly overjoyed with Chance’s pointless words. “I think what our young friend is saying is that we welcome the inevitable seasons of nature, but we’re upset by the seasons of our economy!” “Yes!” Chance cries. “There will be growth in the spring!” The president is duly convinced. “Well, Mr. Gardiner, I must admit that is one of the most refreshing and optimistic statements I’ve heard in a very very long time.” Rand applauds. “I admire your good, solid sense,” the president continues, obviously pleased to be receiving a cretin’s wisdom. “That’s precisely what we like on Capitol Hill.”

Later, a book publisher responds to Chance with a similar sense of spiritual kindredness by greeting him warmly and offering him a book contract with a six-figure advance. “I can’t write,” says Chance. “Well, of course not!” the publisher replies with a hearty laugh. “Who can nowadays?”

The president mentions the sage advice of Mr. Chauncey Gardiner at a televised speech at the Financial Institute, whereupon Chance is hurried onto a talk show. His dopey remarks, delivered with a sort of puckish grin, begin as standard, late-night, getting-to-know-you comedy banter. Chance clearly knows the drill, having spent his life watching television. Ashby cuts to Ben and Eve Rand watching proudly from Ben’s bed and the president and first lady watching nervously from the White House. Things turn more sober on television when Chance opines that “it is possible for, uh, everything to grow stronger. And there is plenty of room for new trees and new flowers of all kinds.” The audience applauds enthusiastically.

“It’s for sure a white man’s world in America,” Louise snaps, watching him from the lobby of her apartment building.

As the president, the CIA, the FBI, and countless newspaper reporters attempt to find any information whatsoever on the nonexistent Chauncey Gardiner, Chance lies in his lavish bed eating breakfast from a tray and watching the happy, happy opening number of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. With Fred Rogers singing a song about his special friend, Eve arrives and climbs into bed with Chance. He continues to watch Mister Rogers as Mister Rogers sings the spelling of the word friend, whereupon Eve misinterprets Chance’s babylike indifference to sex by attributing it to gallantry. “A long time ago, people didn’t have television,” Mister Rogers tells his little viewers. “But they still liked to look at interesting pictures.” Eve departs.

Fortunately for Eve, Chance happens to be viewing a steamy romantic scene on TV when she returns to his room late at night. He grabs her and begins kissing her passionately in direct imitation of the images he is watching at the time. When the onscreen kissing stops, so does Chance.

EVE: Chauncey! What’s wrong? What’s the matter, Chauncey? I don’t know what you like!

CHANCE: I like to watch, Eve.

And so she performs for him on a bearskin rug. Switching channels to a yoga program, he does a handstand on the bed while Eve moans and comes to her own relaxed and delighted laughter.

Throughout Being There, but here in particular, Shirley MacLaine’s performance is as exceptional as Peter’s. A scene that could have turned farcical, grotesque, or pathetic—the vivacious wife of a decrepit old man masturbating before a brainless cipher—becomes instead distinguished, compassionate. MacLaine invests Eve with a mix of sophistication and innocence, delicacy and fresh sexual passion. Though it might seem to have been Peter’s due to play opposite great actresses throughout his career, the fact was that he rarely did; Peter was lucky to have one more chance to act alongside a bona-fide star.

• • •

The film ends with Ben Rand’s burial. The president delivers a platitudinous eulogy (the selected quotations of Ben) as Chance wanders