Month: December 2010

Say Again

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Typepad log-in problems have blocked would-be commenters over the last two or three days, but I think things are okay now. It had something to do (idiotically) with the server clock being off due to the time change. In any case, Film Society of Lincoln Center associate program director Scott Foundas tried to respond two days ago to blogger reactions to the LAFCA voting, but was blocked by the malfunction. Here’s what he wrote:

“[LAFCA Best Supporting Actor winner] Niels Arestrup did not ‘exhaust’ his Oscar eligibility last year. In fact, he was never — and never will be — eligible for an Oscar because of the current Academy rule (much revised over the years) stating that any film nominated for Best Foreign Language Film can not be nominated in a subsequent year in any other categories, regardless of when it actually opens in the U.S. Had A Prophet been released for a qualifying run in 2009, then Arestrup would have been eligible at the 2010 Oscars. Had the film not been nominated for Foreign Film at the 2010 Oscars, then Arestrup would have a shot in the spring.

“This is the sort of thing one would assume would be common knowledge amongst such an august group of awards-season ‘experts,’ but then we all know the old adage about making assumptions…

“As for the suggestion that neither Arestrup nor Kim Hye-Ja will surface again during the remaining awards season, ‘just as it was the first and last we heard of LAFCA’s 2009 best actress Yolande Moreau,’ I suppose that was true of Moreau if one discounts Moreau’s similar wins at the National Society of Film Critics, the Cesar Awards [French Oscars], and even that hotbed of obscurantist cinephilia, the Newport Beach Film Festival.

“At the very least, you can expect to see Arestrup (who also already won a Cesar for his performance) and Kim’s names in the mix in the annual nationwide polls of film critics conducted by The Village Voice, Film Comment and Indiewire. Look back to the reviews these films received at the time of their release, and you will find that the performances in question — and the movies that contain them — were among the best received of the year.

“Sorry that the companies responsible for releasing the films in question didn’t paper the pages of Variety with ‘For Your Consideration’ ads or organize any cocktail soirees to parade their talent before the Oscar-blogging cognoscenti, thereby instantly ruling them out as contenders in the minds of some. (Hey, they’re no Frankie and Alice.) The job of film critics, however, remains to review movies, and not just the hype surrounding them.”

Mediocre Poets

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I’ll post my review of Tron: Legacy (Disney, 12.17) in a day or two, but let’s say for now it’s somewhere between an “okay, shrug, whatever” and not very good. If you’re an easy-lay geekboy you might tell your pallies it’s a stimulating fantasy by way of above-average eye candy. The first thing I said to Jett when it ended was “it was okay…meh.” But the more we talked about it the worse it seemed. Other guys were griping about it out in the lobby and on the sidewalk.

The script by Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis (i.e., the principle bad guys) is second-tier. The dialogue is somewhere between passable and lumpy, and some plot elements don’t hold up when you give them cursory think-throughs. Garret Hedlund‘s son-of-Jeff Bridges character (i.e., Sam Flynn) lacks the necessary panache — they’ve got him saying the same blah machismo lines that Bruce Willis used to mutter 15 or 20 years ago. To me, director Joseph Kosinki looks more like the new Peter Hyams than the new Jimbo.

Here’s one specific example of how it doesn’t work. Explaining involves revealing a minor spoiler. Ready…?

I’m speaking of a bit in which Bridges’ Kevin Flynn, the video-game maestro who disappeared into his own self-created realm (i.e., the “grid”) in 1989, overpowers a droid robot who’s telling him he can’t do something. So he bashes the top of the robot’s helmet with his fist and bingo — the robot reverses and retreats. This, of course, is a mixture of two bits from the original Star Wars. One, Alec Guiness‘s Obi-Wan using the Force to hoodwink two guard-droids into allowing his group to pass (“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for”) and two, Harrison Ford‘s Han Solo slamming the wall of the Millenium Falcon in order to get it to start. Both are classics, but the Bridges helmet-bash falls flat. This is what not-very-good movies do — they imitate good stuff but they can’t quite make their own versions “work.”

Tourist Bites It

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Florian von Henckel Donnersmarck‘s The Tourist earned a piddly $17 million domestic this weekend. To project a semi-healthy appearance it would have had to bring in at least $20 if not $25 million. But that was impossible, I guess, given what most ticket buyers were smelling. If it manages to triple that figure by the end of the run…but why even consider this as a hypothetical? It’s not going to happen. The guess is that most HE readers took a pass, but if there are any reactions (to the content, I mean), please share.

Truman-Eisenhower Factor

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I was discussing The Social Network this morning with a very bright, plugged-in, boomer-aged lady. Good job, motivated, sharp, no simpleton. And until I pointed it out, she didn’t get what Jesse Eisenberg‘s Mark Zuckerberg was doing at the very end of the film — i.e., refreshing Erica Albright’s Facebook page in hopes of discovering that she’d accepted his friend request. TSN‘s finale is merely one component, of course, but it follows that if my smart friend didn’t quite get it (i.e., she’s new to Facebook) there are probably dozens if not hundreds of Academy and guild members who also didn’t understand at first. These guys may even resent TSN on some level, ironically, for having made them feel a little bit out of it. People are funny that way.

Way To Go

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It’s always tragic when a person of any age decides to pull the plug, for whatever reason. Lord knows poor Mark Madoff, who took his life yesterday, coped with terrible goblins swirling over, under and around for the last two years. I could only begin to imagine what it must have felt like to be seen as a pariah by everyone on the planet earth, if only because of the sins of the father and the adage about “the acorn never falls from the tree.” My sympathies to all concerned. I understand about coming to a point when you’re “tired of yourself and all of your creations,” but — here it comes — if you’re going to fold your hand shouldn’t it be because of your own cards (i.e., character, history, prospects)?

Black Spot

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Whatever the actual financial realities, you have to hand it to Janice Min ‘s Hollywood Reporter for at least projecting a feistier, more enterprising image than poor, beleagured Variety. If you have any sporting blood, I mean. Variety has lost so many good people in recent months (critic Todd McCarthy, reporters Michael Fleming. Dana Harris and Pamela McLintock) that further downward spiraling seems inevitable. Who would have projected two years ago that THR would soon emerge as a healthier, more forward-moving enterprise than Variety? Avis has finally overtaken Hertz.

Post-LAFCA

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Oscar Poker took a hiatus last weekend due to the all-but-nonexistent wifi at the Palace Es Saadi, but we’re back on today. The plan is to wait until the recipients of the Los Angeles Film Critics Association awards are announced, or until 1 pm Pacific/4 pm Eastern. The edited program will most likely be up later tonight. Breaking: Sasha Stone has finally seen The Fighter.


French Street, Fairfield, Connecticut — Sunday, 12.12, 9:25 am.

I’m typing this from the home of an old friend in Fairfield, Connecticut. Sunday morning rainstorm outside — cold, soaked, mushy, etc. Warm and toasty inside (as you might expect), two 3G bars, strong black coffee.

Personal Best

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I’ve now seen almost every worthwhile 2010 film except Country Strong. (That was a joke.) So here’s my pure and un-politicized distillation of the finest 2010 films, without regard to any notions of any of them winning anything. Just quality and enjoyment and the stuff that plucks my deep-down chord…however you want to put it.

My favorite film of the year, hands down, is David Fincher‘s The Social Network, in part because it’s so perfectly made and clearly focused, and so primal in its portrayal and understanding of human nature, and partly because it isn’t the least bit interested in trying to emotionally touch the viewer. It’s far too good for that.

Except I was touched by Jesse Eisenberg‘s Mark Zuckerberg. He’s a brave little shit with a genius intellect — duplicitous, disloyal, covert, under-handed. Not so hot with the humanity friendo stuff. Genius is as genius does. And yet you can feel the emotion churning under Eisenberg’s steel-rivet glare in each and every scene. The sadness and solitude that fills him at the finale is a dramatic construct (i.e., the real Zuckerberg has had the same girlfriend since Harvard), but it’s one of the best endings ever, not just on the level of Citizen Kane‘s sled-in-the-furnace finale but Some Like It Hot‘s.

I can’t riff on the others (mainly because I have a train to catch) but Darren Aronofsky‘s Black Swan is #2 and David O. Russell‘s The Fighter is third. And then comes Noah Baumbach‘s Greenberg (#4), Roman Polanski’s The Ghost Writer (#5), Matt Reeves‘ Let Me In (#6), John Cameron Mitchell‘s Rabbit Hole (#7), Chris Nolan‘s Inception (#8), Lee Unkrich‘s Toy Story 3 (#9), and Tom Hooper‘s The King’s Speech (#10).

Followed by Derek Cianfrance‘s Blue Valentine (#11), Danny Boyle‘s 127 Hours (#12), Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu‘s Biutiful (#13), Jean-Francois Richet‘s Mesrine: Killer Instinct and Mesrine: Public Enemy #1 (#14), Olivier Assayas‘ Carlos (#15), Lisa Cholodenko‘s The Kids Are All Right (#16) Mike Leigh‘s Another Year (#17), Doug Liman‘s Fair Game (#18), Aaron Schneider ‘s Get Low (#19), Sofia Coppola‘s Somewhere (#20), Roger Michell‘s Morning Glory (#21); and Anton Corbijn‘s The American (#22).

True Grit gets an A for execution and a D-minus for content and theme, and that’s as far as I’m willing to go

I’ll finish this (including the best docs) when I get on the 11:06 pm train to Connecticut. I have to shut down and run.

Delayed Tribute

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No excuse for failing to acknowledge the triumph of Roman Polanski‘s The Ghost Writer at the European Film Awards last weekend — Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor (Ewan McGregor), Best Screenplay and two other awards that news accounts haven’t described. It was announced during the nadir of my wifi agony at the Marrakech Film Festival, so that’s a bit of an excuse…no? I guess not.


Roman Poalanski, Ewan McGregor during last year’s filming of The Ghost Writer

The Ghost Writer was and is a deliciously well-made thing — easily one of my top 2010 favorites. Here, in honor of it and to make up for last weekend’s dereliction, is a re-posting of my original 2.17.10 review:

Roman Polanski‘s The Ghost Writer (Summit, 2.19) is a brilliant and masterful adult thriller. I just saw it this evening, and less than ten minutes after it began I knew I was once again in the hands of perhaps the most exacting filmmaker alive today, and as sharp as he’s ever been. This film is so gloriously not run-of-the-mill-Hollywood I can barely stand it.

Anyone who says “very well made but not enough action, not emotional enough and not a big enough payoff” is asking for commonality from the wrong guy. Polanski has never been one to massage and titillate the Eloi. He makes films for people who get what he’s up to. The Ghost Writer knows exactly what it’s doing and how to play cerebral thriller chess. It really is a masterpiece of its type.

It’s now a settled issue in my head that Variety‘s Derek Elley is a highly unreliable reviewer. I’m basing my judgment on the fact that Elley wrote that Polanski “brings not a jot of his own directorial personality or quirks” to The Ghostwriter. That is a complete flabbergast. The film throbs with Polanski’s personality and mentality. The same calmly intelligent approach to story — the sharp dialogue, subtle hints and clues, exacting narrative tissue, patient accumulation of facts and intuitions — that characterized Repulsion, Rosemary’s Baby and Chinatown are here in abundance.

I’m in an Upper West Side cafe that’s closing down but I’ll write more about this tomorrow. I haven’t had such a complaint-free time with a thriller of this type in ages. The crowd I caught it with was totally enraptured — I could feel the concentration in the room — although I suspect that the Eloi will sidestep it for the most part. (Isn’t that what they generally do? Avoid intelligent adult fare?)

So often the protagonist in this type of thriller will be slow on the uptake or speak clumsily or be tongue-tied in some way when the occasion calls for the opposite, but Ewan McGregor‘s lead character — a bright and astute Brit hired to ghostwrite a political memoir for an ex-Prime Minister in the Tony Blair mold (Pierce Brosnan) — is wonderfully alert and articulate all the way through, even when he’s scared or uncertain or conflicted.

And the story never loses or confuses you. It moves along step by intelligent step. I can’t for the life of me figure why Marshall Fine called the middle sections “frustrating.” The film is never that. As long as you’re not looking for a Michael Bay or Martin Campbell-esque experience, The Ghost Writer delivers a kind of heaven that smart moviegoers will flutter over.

The only bad element during the screening was a 60ish asshole with swept-back gray hair who kept going “uhm-hmm” out loud whenever a significant detail or direction was revealed. He was sitting on the other side of my aisle — seven or eight feet away — and he really wanted everyone in his vicinity to know that he was getting all the twists and turns. I hate guys like this. Every so often I would look over and burn death-ray beams into the left side of his head.

Just Recently

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Last night I attended a promo party at Soho House for two outrageously expensive but undeniably cool coffee-table books — Bill Gold: PosterWorks (with commentary by Christopher Frayling, the guy who invented the term “spaghetti western”) and The Rat Pack, commentary by Shawn Levy. I flipped through both and snapped away. Any and all photos not featuring Frank Sinatra are from the Gold book.

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