Last night I finally watched episode #1 of Feud: Bette and Joan, and I was suddenly transformed into an old-school gay guy…laughing and chuckling and revelling in the tempest and the claws…the flamboyant bitchiness of two proud but faded Hollywood snapdragons (Bette Davis, Joan Crawford) and their intense loathing (and suppressed mutual pity) for each other during the making of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?…flared nostrils, arched eyebrows, daggers, saber teeth…a series about the fear of oblivion, a fear that begins to haunt everyone at a certain age. Each and every performance is just right and spot on…Jessica Lange and Susan Sarandon flick their tongues as Crawford and Davis (who were 58 and 54, respectively, when Baby Jane was shot in mid ’62) and hold back just enough to keep the tone from tipping into camp…Alfred Molina is perfect as Robert Aldrich (whom I met during the ’82 press junket for All The Marbles), portraying a guy who’s genuinely scared about career slippage but nonetheless able to get down and sharpen his game…Stanley Tucci‘s Jack L. Warner is a hoot and a howl (the Baby Jane deal-negotiation scene with Molina is an instant classic)…the under-used Judy Davis is hilarious as Hedda Hopper…the only not-quite-right note is an all-but-unrecognizable Catherine Zeta Jones as Olivia De Havilland.
L.A. Times guy Daniel Miller caught a mini-“joke” teaser for The Last Jedi earlier today at a Disney shareholders meeting in Denver. It begins where The Force Awakens ended, on that rocky green island off the coast of Ireland with Rey (Daisy Ridley) handing the burly, bearded Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) his light saber.
Luke: “Who the fuck are you?” Rey: “I’m you, more or less, before you got old and fat and dessicated. The force is within me as it was once with you. Do you want to live again or do you want to take a nap?” Luke: “Leave me alone. I’m too old for this shit. My joints are aching, I have plantar fasciitis. Plus I like living here like a monk…fires in huts, herbs and mushrooms, brown hoodie robes, staring at the sea.” Rey: “But your destiny…” Luke: “Fuck that! Did you see Logan? Hugh Jackman scowling and snarling, ‘leave me alone, get away’? I saw it last weekend, and that’s me…okay?” Rey: “Logan is streaming? It just opened.”
Incidentally: The same trailer, trust me, will be screened for exhibitors at Cinemacon later this month, and perhaps something more. Hollywood Elsewhere will be attending that four-day powwow. I’ll be staying at Bally’s hotel & casino, just around the corner from Ceasar’s.
Zak, my three-year-old rag doll, has developed three tiny tumor-like growths — on his back, head and rear leg. A couple of hours ago I took him to Laurel Pet Hospital. The vet said he’d cut the mini-tumors off next week and do a biopsy, but the bottom line is that Zak may have skin cancer. A 50% chance, the vet said. Which would mean curtains in a year or less, God forbid. Then again it might be something less malicious. The biopsy will tell the tale. A bad break and obviously a lot of heartache if it goes wrong. Fingers crossed.
You Must Remember This chronicler Karina Longworth has chosen to re-remember Marilyn Monroe on International Women’s Day…a sad way to go but I get it. Here’s the mp3 — it was first posted in 2015.
I distinctly remember my father, who was never emotional about anything except when angry, being noticably saddened when Marilyn Monroe‘s death was announced. His father (who lived in nearby Rahway, New Jersey, when we were residents of Westfield) also wore a long face. The idea of my father and grandfather having been on the same emotional page as Elton John and Bernie Taupin still blows my mind to this day.
In a 2006 American Masters doc called “Marilyn: Still Life,” Gloria Steinem talked about how the doomed Monroe might have been saved by the women’s movement if she’d somehow lasted until the late ’60s or better yet the early ’70s. I wrote something similar a few years ago, about how Monroe might have felt less trapped or certainly more understood if she’d managed to stay afloat until the arrival of ’60s freak culture and everything that followed.
The all-new Kong in Jordan Vogt-Roberts‘ Kong: Skull Island (Warner Bros., 3.10) is big and loud and a serious brawler, and he beats his chest and roars like a sonuvabitch. But apart from instinctually defending his turf and fighting off Army choppers and bad-attitude lizards, he’s temperamentally closer to the lovable, human-friendly Son of Kong ape than any of the other manifestations.
Remember the “poor Kong, we love you!” declarations by Jessica Lange and Jeff Bridges in the catastrophic ’76 version? Similar sentiments are heard from Brie Larson and Tom Hiddleston here, only with the acting more toned down and the dialogue less on-the-nose.
On top of which the new Kong is Skull Island’s Marshall Dillon — he’s more into keeping order than domination, beats the shit out of needlessly aggressive beasts, helps a trapped super buffalo and is fundamentally a decent, compassionate simian when it comes to humans.
Unless, that is, the human in question is Samuel L. Jackson‘s gung-ho, itchin-for-a-fight military commander — the all-time King of Idiotic Assholes in Hollywood monster movies. In which case the vibes are not good.
On top of which JVR’s beast looks like a short-legged guy in a bearskin ape suit blown up to a height of 120 feet or so. He more or less resembles Yogi Berra, certainly in terms of his head-shape and facial features, only with longer arms and bigger shoulders.
Above triptych caption (l. to r.): the all-new, kind-hearted King Kong (ferocious roar notwithstanding) in Kong: Skull Island; Kong’s 15-foot-tall, chimp-like son in Son of Kong (’33); legendary N.Y. Yankees catcher and Yoohoo pitchman Yogi Berra.
