For me, President Obama‘s off-the-cuff, highly personal remarks about the Trayvon Martin-George Zimmerman case were close to spellbinding. I watched his 18-minute talk twice last night, and again this morning. It reminded me of listening to Howard Zinn riff during a Boston University lecture. No more teleprompter jokes for the rest of Obama’s term.
Destin Daniel Cretton‘s Short Term 12 (Cinedigm, 8.23) is the kind of little, hand-made film that I, a grumpy, CG-hating, Ryan Reynolds-averse seeker of au natural, character-driven dramas, hope and live for. It’s gotten a lot of hype from others who cherish indie-level films of this sort, and deservedly so. Special HE salutations for Brie Larson‘s lead performance as Grace, a low-key, secretly damaged, straight-talking supervisor at a facility for hostile, anti-social, self-destructive teens who’ve had scrapes with the law. The film plays out patiently and openly and yet efficiently, and without any attempts at forced manipulation. It’s a respectably solid piece and well worth a look-see.
What are the great Las Vegas films (i.e., ones shot there and having to do with some aspect of the industry and culture of L.V.)? For me the top four are Mike Figgis‘s Leaving Las Vegas, the 1960 Ocean’s 11 (not a great or even an especially high-calibre caper film but a timepiece that lets you savor what Las Vegas looked and felt like back in the good old Rat Pack days), Barry Levinson‘s Bugsy and Albert Brooks‘ Lost In America. Sidenote: Of all the places in the world to enjoy your last spiritual and sensual hurrah before dying, could there be an uglier setting than this plastic palatial hell-hole?
Even five-year-olds know that RIPD is a pre-ordained dead duck, or at least that it will be beaten handily by The Conjuring, which I saw a couple of nights ago and is “scary” but not that great, let me tell you, and which certainly ends on a phony upbeat note. But in the view of Variety‘s Scott Foundas RIPD can at least boast of a noteworthy fuck-all performance from Jeff Bridges. “Like Johnny Depp’s work in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, it’s a performance that seems to say, ‘Look, I’m here for the payday. You know it. I know it. But as long as I’m here, I’m going to make things interesting for myself.’
Over the last dozen or so years I’ve gone from being disinterested in ComicCon to being somewhat intrigued to being an occasionally pleased and amused observer and a Hall H marathon seat-holder to being disdainful and then really disdainful and finally to where and what I am today — an outright hater. The tastes and appetites of the ComicCon faithful have always been valid in and of themselves, and I love guys like Ed Douglas, Devin Faraci and Peter Sciretta, etc. Plus I’ve repeatedly recognized and stated that when any kind of mythical-fantasy film works, it pays off in ways that reality-driven films can’t spiritually touch. But as a voting bloc or commercial force Comicconers have encouraged if not directly brought about the inane “ooh wow cool!” dumbing-down of mainstream megaplex cinema and turned a once-majestic art form into a form of low-rent amusement park jizz-whiz.
1976 was a great year to be alive in many respects. I’ll just leave it at that. On top of which there are few things hotter than getting lucky with a nurse when you’ve been admitted to a hospital for some ailment. Those white stockings and white hospital shoes. That aside…done this before but can’t hurt to reiterate…Ron Howard and Peter Morgan‘s Rush (Universal, 9.27) is about the rivalry between drivers James Hunt (Chris Hemsworth) and Niki Lauda (Daniel Brühl).
There are at least two versions of Dick Powell‘s response upon being told that Alan Ladd had fallen in love with June Allyson, Powell’s wife, during the filming of The McConnell Story (’55). The story is that Ladd and Allyson fell hard but they never “did it,” which sounds like Allyson’s bullshit story to Powell. It seems inconceivable that Ladd would leave his wife, Sue Carol, over his Allyson entanglement without dipping his wick. Version #1 has Ladd calling Powell and saying “I’m in love with your wife,” and Powell replies “everyone is in love with my wife.” Version #2 (which comes from Allyson’s autobiography) has Carol calling Powell and asking “do you know Alan is in love with your wife, June?,” and Powell replies “isn’t everyone?”
I spoke to Indiewire‘s Eric Kohn at last night’s The Entrepeneur screening, and we agreed…okay, I said and Kohn went “yeah, I suppose”…that it’s highly likely that J.C. Chandor‘s All Is Lost, which I fell 100% in love with at the Cannes Film Festival, will be one of the U.S. premieres at this year’s Telluride Film Festival (which begins on 8.29). An absolute natural for that gathering. Kohn also believes/suspects (as do I) that Joel and Ethan Coen‘s Inside Llewyn Davis and Abdellatif Kechiche‘s Blue Is The Warmest Color will be shown. But what major fall-holiday films? Paul Greengrass‘s Captain Phillips? My brain won’t function.
Last night at Spin I attended a special, Snagfilms-sponsored screening of Jonathan Bricklin‘s The Entrepeneur, a cerebral procedural doc about his celebrated dad, automotive innovator and wheeler-dealer Malcolm Bricklin, trying to put together a U.S. distribution deal with Chery, the Chinese auto maker. It’s a tribute to the old fire-in-the-belly tenacity that propels all movers and shakers. The elder Bricklin (who was there last night with Jonathan and the latter’s partner-girlfriend Susan Sarandon) is a trip-and-a-half. The film also reminds (as if we needed reminding) that big business realms are sometimes colored by the perverse ethical behavior of some real world-class motherfuckers.
I generally steer clear of Broadway musicals — “fun” and relentlessly “spirited,” of course, but way too expensive and attended by far too many madras-shirt-wearing 60ish tourists. But a couple of weeks ago my significant other nudged me into getting tickets to Harvey Fierstein and Cindy Lauper‘s Kinky Boots, and we caught the matinee show yesterday afternoon at the Al Hirschfeld theatre. It’s a jolt and a hoot and a glittery wow — a 100% delightful adrenalizer and lifter-upper. For two hours-plus I surrendered to the whole emotional Fierstein-Lauper drag-queen fantasia, and I mean the whole swoony magilla of it. I clapped and laughed and cheered and tapped my feet and went out on a high that, some 18 hours later, has only slightly subsided.