Month: November 2017

Tapping this out from a Miami Beach Starbucks, NE corner of Washington Ave. and 12th Street. American flight 1147 to Los Angeles leaves around 9 pm this evening, arrives at midnight. Drove out of Key West this morning at 10:30 am, two pit stops (one for coffee, another to visit the original African Queen scow, which is moored in Key Largo), arrived in Miami Beach around 3 pm. We parked near 728 Ocean Blvd. to visit the remnants of the Tony Montana chainsaw motel, just south of 17th Street — it’s been converted into a CVS.

Stiles Hotel, Collins Ave., South Beach.

Kent Hotel, 1131 Collins, Ave., South Beach.

Carniverous tarpon and a grouper waiting for scraps of butchered fish to be tossed into the harbor water.

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The first N.Y. and L.A. screenings of Steven Spielberg‘s The Post happened yesterday. Press viewers are embargoed on all platforms until further notice, but the second-hand buzz is encouraging.

“We’re not allowed to say it’s good,” quipped a New York guy. “Perfect Spielberg in top form,” said another, “and Meryl [Streep] dazzles. Spielberg will definitely be back in the running for Best Director.” A person who attended the NYC screening said it’s “no Spotlight” although he thinks it will receive a Best Picture nom regardless. “Spotlight was an All the President’s Men imprint — this isn’t,” says another.

I personally admire the speed with which The Post was put together. Spielberg joined the project last March, and filming began on 5.30.17. Not that The Post needs any slack or leeway, but it’s almost as if it needs to be graded differently than a normal Spielberg flick as he was following a Clint Eastwood timetable. HE is looking forward to seeing it very soon.

No columnist is obliged to riff on the death of Charles Manson, surely the most despised and deplored murderer and arch-criminal of the last 50 years, and probably the last century. An instinct is telling me that the less said, the better.

Manson’s brief destructive spree in 1969 made his last name into a kind of demonic brand, which in successive decades was used partly for ironic comedy. Manson Family Vacation, which I quite liked by the way. “Manson!”, the Lassie-like skit from the early ’90s Ben Stiller Show. Marilyn Manson.

No one’s forgetting, of course, that Quentin Tarantino‘s “Manson in the backdrop” movie will begin shooting in June.

Nobody has to ruminate on this monster or ponder his legend. Or poke a stick at it like a burnt-out fire. The best way to absorb the reality is via Karina Longworth‘s “You Must Remember This” podcast, which goes on for twelve episodes. For me the definitive Manson read is still Ed Sanders‘ “The Family,” with Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry‘s “Helter Skelter” running a close second.

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Two days ago Vanity Fair‘s Rebecca Keegan reported two interesting tidbits about Quentin Tarantino‘s 1969 “not Manson” film, which will be produced and distributed by Sony Pictures.

First, a thumbnail synopsis according to somebody who’s read the script: “Set in Los Angeles in the summer of 1969, Tarantino’s upcoming movie…focuses on a male TV actor who’s had one hit series and his looking for a way to get into the film business. His sidekick — who’s also his stunt double — is looking for the same thing. The horrific murder of Sharon Tate and four of her friends by Charles Manson’s cult of followers serves as a backdrop to the main story.”

Second, a rumor that Tarantino wants Sony to give him “a production budget of close to $100 million, first-dollar gross and final cut on the film…it’s not yet clear if Sony has agreed to all these terms.”

If I was in Rothman’s shoes, I would tell Tarantino to take his “close to $100 million” budget demand and shoveituphisass.

I would say that as much as I like the idea of Quentin Tarantino time-tripping back to the late ’60s, the truth is that I stopped really liking his scripts 20 years ago. I would tell him that whatever kind of golden touch he had during the making of Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown left him a long time ago, and that he’s been more or less coasting on the fumes of those films all through the aughts. And I’d tell him I hated The Hateful Eight.

I’d tell Tarantino that I’ll go $50 or $60 million, tops, and that a profit participation deal needs to be agreed to. No humungous upfront checks for anyone — just decent-sized ones. If anybody wants a super payday, they’re going to have to risk it along with me. If the ’60s film is a big hit, we’ll all profit handsomely. If it’s not a big success, which is what I suspect will happen, then I won’t take such a big bath.

Tarantino will reportedly begin shooting “not Manson” in June. All Los Angeles locations.

Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio, ages 55, 53 and 43 respectively, are being considered for the role of the TV actor who’s trying to break into films. Question for HE readers: If you were looking to cast the role of a TV actor looking to break into films, which would almost certainly be someone in his late 20s or 30s, would you cast a 55 year-old like Cruise or a 53 year-old like Pitt?

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I was at my lowest ebb last night. The walls were closing in. Anxiety meter in the red zone. And then, like the best elder brother I never had, a fellow New Jerseyan sauntered into the room and said “get hold of yourself, paisan…never let ’em see you sweat.” Then he said, “Here, have a drink.” My reply was on the sheepish side: “Uhm, I don’t drink…five years plus.” Mr. New Jersey gave me a disapproving look. “Maybe you should,” he said. “Naah…I’m good,” I replied. He shook his head. “Pretty much,” I added. Suddenly I felt better. I had stood my ground.

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Dylan Baker, 58, is in the prime of his life, but when he passes, God forbid, the friend or family member who plants his tombstone needs to attach a durable, all-weather video screen playing this clip on a 24-hour loop. It’s hard to accept, but six days hence (11.25.17) John Hughes‘ Planes, Trains and Automobiles will celebrate its 30th birthday.

I’ve never paid the slightest heed to Michael Curtiz‘s Dr. X (’32), a pre-code horror film that was shot in two-strip Technicolor. It costarred Lionel Atwill, Fay Wray, Lee Tracy and Preston Foster. The pre-code conditions allowed for murder, rape, cannibalism and prostitution to be threaded into the script. A 1932 film with a cannibalism subplot? That in itself prompts…uhm, curiosity

But even if I wanted to pay attention I’d be stopped in my tracks by a lack of availability. As far as I can tell Dr. X is only watchable via an old Warner Home Video twin DVD that also includes The Return of Doctor X, which costarred Humphrey Bogart. (Bogart considered the latter, his only foray into horror, one of his all-time worst.)

I don’t think I’ve ever watched a two-strip Technicolor film ever, and Dr. X seems at least moderately attractive and reasonably well-hued. The trailer indicates an unfortunate adherence to the stiff, theatrical tone of early ’30s films, but you have to take the good with the bad. Somebody should pop out a remastered Bluray.

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The annual film panel at the Key West Film Festival happened yesterday afternoon (11.17, 3 pm) at The Porch. With Indiewire‘s Eric Kohn moderating, the panelists included L.A. Times critic Kenneth Turan, Josh Rothkopf of TimeOut New York, Buzzfeed‘s Alison Willmore, Rolling Stone‘s David Fear, Shirrel Rhodes of the Key West Citizen, Miami New Times, Hans Morgenstern of Miami New Times and freelance critics Steve Dollar and Juan Barguin. I was invited to attend but couldn’t make it — earnest apologies.

If I had been Kohn, I would’ve asked the panelists the following: (1) “What’s going to win Best Picture Oscar this year, and why?” (2) “When’s the last time you paid to see a film at a regular theatrical showing at a megaplex, and what were your impressions after doing so?” (3) “So why are there so few really exceptional films this year, and why are the less-than-complete-knockouts getting all the Best Picture attention?” (4) “Without regard to the Oscar race, what has been your personal favorite Best Picture fave, and why?”

(l.) Juan Bargin, (middle) L.A. Times critic Kenneth Turan; (r.) Rolling Stone critic David Fear.

(l. to r.) Dollar, Willmore, Rothkopf, Barguin, Turan, Fear, Kohn.

Steve Dollar, Alison Wilmore, Josh Rothkopf