One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is the second film in history (after It Happened One Night) to win “the grand slam” at the Oscars—all five top awards: Best Picture, Director, Actor, Actress, and Screenplay. It’s based on a 1962 novel as well as an adapted play that starred Kirk Douglas on Broadway in 1964. Despite the fame of its leading man and legendary impresario David Merrick as producer, it ran a disappointing 82 performances without a single Tony nomination. The supporting cast featured William Daniels as Harding, Ed Ames as Chief Bromden, Arlene Galonka as Candy, and Gene Wilder as Billy Bibbit, with Broadway stalwart Joan Tetzel as Nurse Ratched. Douglas retained the film rights when it closed but was unable to find a studio willing to make it. After a decade, he offered it to his son Michael, who brought in Saul Zaentz as co-producer and Milos Forman as director. By that point, Kirk was too old to play the lead, but he still received a percentage of the box office, and when the movie was released it became the most profitable venture of his entire career.

Michael Douglas approached several directors before selecting Forman, who was Czechoslovakian under communist rule prior to his 1968 emigration to the United States. Forman understood the broader symbolism of this story and envisioned Nurse Ratched as the embodiment of Communist Party oppression, telling everyone else what they could or couldn’t do, what to say and what not to say, all under the guise of self-governance.

The film is still powerful today because of this metaphorical clash and despite the occasional racist, sexist, and homophobic gags that haven’t aged well. It was seen as a comedy-drama initially, but perceptions have shifted in 45 years, thankfully. We’ve learned more about mental illness as well, and it’s no longer fashionable fodder for cheap laughs. I’m not saying there’s no humor here, but if the story relied solely on its comedic payoffs, these jabs would relegate it to an antiquated curiosity instead of a classic. Fortunately, the drama still packs a wallop.

A group-therapy session with William Redfield, Sydney Lassick, Jack Nicholson, Christopher Lloyd, Vincent Schiavelli, and William Duell.

Jack Nicholson is Randle P. McMurphy, a prisoner serving a short sentence for assault and statutory rape who is prone to outbreaks of rage and violence. The year is 1963, and in the opening scene, McMurphy has been moved to an Oregon mental institution for psychiatric evaluation. The decrepit hospital ward that serves as his new home is run by Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher), an icy woman sporting an old-fashioned hairdo who rules over her domain with puritanical conviction. She intimidates and often humiliates her patients, and right away she locks horns with McMurphy.

The brilliance of Fletcher’s performance is that she is not overtly evil. On the surface she appears to be helpful with a tough-love approach. Her villainy is revealed in gradual layers, through a series of passive-aggressive remarks and actions that accumulate over time and cause irreparable harm. Even when she feigns praise, she seems to suck all the joy out of life. Her regular group-therapy sessions include a paranoid-schizophrenic named Harding (William Redfield), sweet but delusional Martini (Danny DeVito), emotionally immature Cheswick (Sydney Lassick), combative Taber (Christopher Lloyd), Sefelt and Frederickson (William Duell and Vincent Schiavelli), who are a pair of epileptics, and a hyper-anxious young man with a debilitating stutter called Billy Bibbit (Brad Dourif in his stunning screen debut). All give memorable performances, and these inmates often feed off of each other and sting one another like a swarm of electric eels. Their paths shift from humorous to toxic in a matter of seconds. It’s first-rate writing, direction, and acting.

Louise Fletcher as Nurse Ratched.

Early on, McMurphy focuses his attention on an imposing Native American known as “Chief” Bromden, who is a deaf mute but also a giant, towering over his fellow inmates. Chief is played by Will Sampson, who had never acted before but gives a moving and nuanced performance. When McMurphy learns his remaining 63-day prison sentence isn’t applicable to his time spent in the asylum, he plots with Chief to escape.

Nicholson comes into his own as McMurphy, tapping into an eccentric, onscreen persona that he would “dial up or down” for the remainder of his career—a slightly dangerous, playful, semi-revolting but humorous rogue who messes with audiences’ minds while endearing himself just the same. After One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, he connected with film fans on a level that few actors can achieve.

Ultimately, this story is an allegory, just as Forman envisioned—a war between intolerance and empathy, suppression and expression, control and freedom. The stakes grow higher as the plot progresses until it evolves into an outright matter of life and death. I have watched this movie often over the past four-plus decades, and it has earned its place in history as a film that challenges the perceptions of good, evil, institutionalized laws, and mental illness. That alone will keep it timeless.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest