France’s decision to submit Paul Verhoeven’s Elle as their official contender for the Foreign Language Oscar offers a tantalizing possibility — a notorious Dutch-born, bad-boy provocateur primarily known for unsubtle, big-budget envelope pushers in the late ’80s and ’90s (RoboCop, Total Recall, Basic Instinct, Showgirls, Starship Troopers) snagging an Oscar at age 78 and revitalizing his career in one fell swoop. The comeback kid!
People vote for this or that film, yes, but they also vote for the best narratives, and in this year’s foreign film realm you really can’t beat Verhoeven’s…c’mon.
Not that Elle won’t be up against some tough competition. My presumptive spitballs include Asghar Farhadi‘s The Salesman (Iran), Kleber Mendonça Filho‘s Aquarius (Brazil), Pablo Larrain‘s Neruda (Chile), Christi Puiu‘s Sieranevada, Maren Ade‘s Toni Erdmann (Germany) and Martin Zandvliet‘s Land of Mine.
From my 9.8 TIFF review: “Elle is one wickedly perverse, end-of-the-world, ice-cold erotic whodunit. It’s not really a thriller as much as a fascinating character study of Isabelle Huppert‘s Michele, a 50something owner of a Parisian videogame company that creates violent rape fantasies, and how a series of assaults and shocks that befall her are reflective of Michele’s pathology and that of the general drift of social mores these days.
Hillary can’t be Bruce Willis as that would mean she’ll destroy the Trump asteroid tonight at the cost of her own life…doesn’t work. And she can’t be Ben Affleck or Steve Buscemi…forget the casting. On top of which Armageddon seems like an unsavory analogy considering that a Republican (Jerry Bruckheimer) produced it. Face it — this one of those tweets that doesn’t expand or hold up to scrutiny.
I’m figuring a lot of under-40s out there have never heard of this famous Noxzema shaving cream commercial, much less seen it. Lewd and sexist but great stuff. Gunilla Knutsson, who was crowned Miss Sweden in 1961, starred in a few such commercials, but the most famous (this one) aired in 1967. There was also a Joe Namath commercial in the early ’70s that costarred Farrah Fawcett — more sexist than the Knutsson! I’m guessing the idea of equating soapy shaving cream with hot sex came from that car-wash scene in Cool Hand Luke (’67).
If I was to say I followed the career of legendary golf pro Arnold Palmer all my life, I’d be a liar. He was a world-renowned athlete with a smooth manner and the vibe of a winner, but I never cared. I admire any athlete who can bring glory to himself like Palmer did from the late’ 50s to early ’70s, but I fucking hate golf — there’s no sport on the planet that I feel less enthusiasm for. I kinda hate guys who play golf — I’ve known a few and they all seem to have this smug aura of entitlement, this clubby yaw-haw attitude. Not to mention those atrociously designed golf shirts. The only time I felt a scintilla of interest in the sport was when I saw Kevin Costner‘s Tin Cup 20 years ago. But here’s to a great, good-looking, widely-loved golf champion who died today at age 87. Heads down, golf caps off.
Everyone reflexively smiles when they meet people socially. Some smile slightly, some a little too much but always with the same glazed eyes. No sincerity offered or expected. But handshakes are a different deal when you’re saying hello to a powerful Hollywood player. Their teeth are gleaming but their eyes are scanning you like a Manhattan detective, trying to assess your nature or strengths or potential threat levels in the space of two or three seconds. I felt this when I met CAA honcho Mike Ovitz in ’88 — he had the eyes of a timber wolf. The eyes of MPAA president Jack Valenti, whom I met in ’84 at the Sportsmen’s Lodge, weren’t as feral but he was definitely sizing me up. Do I scan people like Arnold Schwarzenegger‘s cyborg when I meet them? Frankly, yes…but I try to mask it. Maybe that’s what a lot of people do.
“A formally and thematically ambitious documentary that revisits the 1966 sniper shootings at the U. of Texas at Austin, Tower powerfully channels the terror and confusion of that terrible August day while also achieving the weight and authority that can only come with time and distance. A gripping dramatic reconstruction, a tribute to the heroes and the fallen, and inevitably an expression of nostalgia for the days when a mass shooting still had the power to shock, Keith Maitland’s film weaves rotoscopic animation, archival footage and present-day interviews into a uniquely cinematic memorial that will be in demand from programmers and buyers as the 50th anniversary of the shootings approaches.” — from Justin Chang’s 3.15 SXSW review.
Press to Hillary Clinton about Monday night’s debate: “There are 50 ways you can fuck this up, and if you can think of 35 of them you’re a genius. Trump will frequently lie his ass off, of course, and it’s entirely possible that moderator Lester Holt will indeed sit there like a potted plant and let many of his falsehoods slide. So it’s on you to correct him. Which, if you do with any thoroughness, will leave you almost no time to deliver your own points. Just remember that when you correct Trump, don’t sound like a braying scold. As FakeEmily65 tweeted this morning, ‘Be smart but not a know-it-all. Be human but not phony. Smile but not too much. Be tough but not a bully.’ You need to do all these things and be likable. It’s unfair, of course, but all Trump has to do is turn down the crazy and pretend to be semi-reasonable with a smile, and he’s got it half won.”
I noted in the headline for my 10.22.14 review of John Wick that Keanu Reeves looked “beefy.” He had definitely waded into Chris Pratt territory, but he looks somewhat more chiselled (i.e., 10 or 15 pounds lighter?) in John Wick: Chapter Two (Summit, 2.10.17). Just saying.
“Wick director Chad Stahelski (along with Zack Snyder, David Leitch and others of their tribe) represents everything about the action-fantasy-superhero franchise business that is rancid, robotic and devoid of a soul. I’ve also noted that Stahelski is the last name of an electrician, a surfer, pool-maintenance guy, a hot-dog chef at Pinks, a garbage man or a guy whose grandfather worked in the same New Orleans factory as Stanley Kowalski.” — from 1.29.15 posting titled “Disembowel This Movie With A Viking Sword.”
Until about 45 minutes ago, I honestly and truly thought today was Friday. I’m used to living in a kind of writing cave but I’ve never “lost” an entire day before. One third of the weekend is suddenly gone. An odd, slightly unpleasant feeling.
Today a guy on Twitter called me “insufferable” for asserting that my Cape Fear Bluray on my 65-inch Sony will look better than the 35mm print that the New Beverly will be playing this evening, or roughly 55 minutes from now. The Bluray will be sharper, crisper, cleaner, better sounding and will offer a much richer, more glistening monochrome palette. Just a perfect experience as opposed to sitting in the tunnel-like New Beverly and watching a decent but probably far from perfect print on a smallish screen with a bunch of film bums.
