Month: February 2018

From HE’s own Jordan Ruimy: “I feel like we have to somehow reinvent the idea of art itself. I’d say more than half of criticism now rates movies, TV and books on whether they properly cheerlead for women, gays, blacks, etc. or whether they’re ‘problematic’ for failing to do so in some way. That is really all cultural criticism is now.”

He’s saying (and I agree with this) that film criticism has become a “pass or fail” decision about whether a film in question says the right thing or the wrong thing according to the comintern and the Twitter commentariat.

An example of a strong “pass” came nearly a year ago from Esquire critic Steven Thrasher, a reverent worshipper of Jordan Peele’s film if there ever was one.

Sample quote: “Peele doesn’t allow white liberals to view the theft of black bodies in a faraway frame of an Antebellum Southern plantation, nor to blame crude Trump supporters. Instead, Get Out blames the theft on contemporary, Northern white Obamaniacs. American liberalism, not just Trumpism, continues to make race by way of bodily theft.”

Really? This on top of “a film for the ages“? You have to hand it to Universal’s marketing team — they’re shameless, really going for broke.

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Obits for famous people are often written in advance, and you know that somewhere in the first two or three paragraphs of Warren Beatty‘s obit-in-waiting there’s a mention of The Great LaLa Land vs. Moonlight Oscar Envelope Screw-Up.

Nominated for 14 Academy Awards and winner of a Best Director Oscar for Reds. The co-auteur of Bonnie and Clyde and Bugsy, and the ruling creative force behind Shampoo, Bulworth, Dick Tracy and Heaven Can Wait. Teen heartthrob star of the early ’60s after his Splendor in the Grass debut. One of the greatest nookie kings in the history of Western Civilization. And — history will never forget — the guy who didn’t know quite what to do when he opened a Best Picture winner envelope that said “Emma Stone, LaLa Land,” and so he handed it to co-presenter Faye Dunaway.

The snafu wasn’t Beatty’s fault, of course, but in the hazy fog of public memory he’ll never be able to fully rid himself of this world-class embarassment. Fairly or unfairly he’s stuck with it. Ditto Dunaway, Oscar host Jimmy Kimmel and the infamous Brian Cullinan, the Price Waterhouse guy who gave Beatty the wrong envelope and will forever be wearing a scarlet tattoo (“T” for tweeter) on his forehead.

I’m recalling all this because of Scott Feinberg‘s “‘They Got the Wrong Envelope!’: The Oral History of Oscar’s Epic Best Picture Fiasco,” which appeared on the HollywoodReporter‘s site on 2.26 and is part of the 2.28 issue of The Hollywood Reporter magazine. Great reading, an epic saga, a “howtheydunnit” page-turner.

The piece represents only about 1/5 of what Feinberg gathered together with all the interviews and whatnot. It took him “months.” The initial draft was 31,000 words, and “a lot of juicy stuff” didn’t make the cut, I’m told. I see a book in this — maybe a 50,000 word coffee-table book with all kinds of great photos and sidebars and whatnot. Hell, it would make a great documentary — think of it!

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Out of 26 Gold Derby “experts”, eight (8) are betting on The Shape of Water winning the Best Picture Oscar — Deadline‘s Pete Hammond, Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson, EW‘s Sara Wilkommerson, Susan Wloszczyna, Jack Matthews, Andrea Mandell, Gold Derby‘s Joyce Eng, Variety‘s Tim Gray and Rotten Tomatoes‘ Grae Drake.

There are currently eleven (11) Three Billboards believers, which reflects the fact that Martin McDonagh‘s small-town drama has been gathering momentum over the past couple of weeks and especially since the BAFTAs — myself, Vulture‘s Kyle Buchanan, Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone, Michael Musto, GD honcho Tom O’Neill, Bonnie Fuller, Fox’s Tariq Kahn, ESPN’s Adnan Virk, Rolling Stone‘s Peter Travers, USA Today‘s Brian Truitt and GD’s Thelma Adams.

And there are five (5) Get Out die-hards — The Tracking Board‘s Ed Douglas, Vanity Fair‘s Michael Hogan, Yahoo‘s Kevin Polowy, Fandango‘s Erik Davis and HuffPo‘s Matthew Jacobs.

All hail the character, backbone and general indifference-to-consensus of EW‘s Christopher Rosen, who is standing by Lady Bird. Of the four leading GD contenders, Greta Gerwig‘s period drama is far and away my favorite as well as the best.

In Ramin Bahrani‘s 99 Homes, Michael Shannon played a foreclosure shark who was showing financially struggling Andrew Garfield the ropes of the Florida real-estate game. You knew Garfield would rebel against Shannon’s cynicism at the end because that’s what guys do in films like this — they stand up and cleanse their souls at the end of Act Three. Bahrani’s Fahrenheit 451, an adaptation of Ray Bradbury’s 1953 novel about a dystopian society that burns books, feels like the same basic dynamic — Shannon the hardened cynic explaining the logistics and necessity of book-burning to the naive Michael B. Jordan. Costarring Sofia Boutella, Martin Donovan, Laura Harrier, Keir Dullea. The HBO pic pops sometime in the spring.

I’m sorry to report that the great Cynthia Heimel, a wise and once-scalpel-wielding New York columnist (“Problem Lady”), satiric women’s-market author (“Sex Tips For Girls,” “If You Can’t Live Without Me, Why Aren’t You Dead Yet?,” “Advanced Sex Tips for Girls: This Time It’s Personal“) and legendary party girl, is gone. She died yesterday. Hugs and condolences to friends, family (i.e., her son Brodie), colleagues, fans.

Heimel and “Details” columnist Stephen Saban were major Manhattan scenesters and Soho Weekly News chroniclers in the late ’70s and ’80s. They visited every hot Manhattan club, knew everyone, partied’ till the wee hours. I knew Cynthia a bit starting in ’81 or thereabouts, although she was way above my journalistic station back then. We actually went out a couple of times, if you wanna know. She lived in the Chelsea district (18th or 19th near 8th) when I was living on West 4th and then 81 Bank Street. Then we went our separate ways.

Then we re-friended in ’15 and ’16 when she moved to a modest home in Inglewood. I can’t honestly describe Cynthia as a happy-camper type when we started to chat back then. We went to a screening of Spotlight in…I forget, November of ’15 or thereabouts. We went on a couple of shopping and medical-clinic errands. (She wasn’t radiantly healthy.) We watched a couple of films and had dinner at her place once. She had a friendly dog who was part husky. We kind of piddled along for a while, then we drifted apart again.

Cynthia and I had a mutual friend in legendary film critic Andy Klein. Andy, Cynthia and I chatted back and forth and hung a couple of times in ’16, I think. We definitely shared a dinner a couple of years ago (March or April of ’16) in Santa Monica. 6 pm update: I called Klein this morning after hearing of Cynthia’s demise — he called back around 20 minutes ago. I also wrote Saban, who lives in Echo Park and is doing okay, I’ve read. He hasn’t replied.

One time in the spring of ’16 Cynthia stopped responding to my messages. After a couple of days I asked Klein if she was alive and well. “I’ve spoken to her both last night and the night before, so I can attest that she’s okay,” he replied. “Depression has stifled her social interactions. I mean, I’m depressed but she’s DEPRESSED.”

“Very sorry, very sad,” I wrote on Facebook. “I was a huge fan of Cynthia’s back in the day. A sassy-sexy Dorothy Parker-level columnist and author, at least in my estimation. An excellent writer, quite the wit, didn’t miss a trick. She was very highly renowned in the late Carter, Reagan, Poppy and Clinton eras. Things started to downshift after she lost her monthly column for Playboy in ’00.”

On top of everything else Cynthia was a mensch. She was often gloomy but once you had her attention you could trust her judgment, and when she needed a favor I always came through.

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As a former employee of Kevin Smith (salaried columnist from ’02 to August ’04) and a longtime admirer of his films and his patter, I’m personally relieved and overjoyed that he escaped the Big Sleep last night after succumbing to a “massive” heart attack. That Instagram photo he released last night looks like a signature image from an alternate-universe version of Get Out — the only thing missing is a tear running down his cheek.

As a lifelong loather of almost all things Christian (mainly due to the rightwing political associations that have clung to this arrogant faith since the political takeover in the early ’80s), I naturally recoiled when I read those “praying for you, brah” tweets by Chris Pratt. The 38 year-old actor has acquired a rep as an allegedly conservative-minded fellow, so the shoe seemed to fit. I therefore understand or half-sympathize why Pratt was attacked for trying to go all Christian-smothery on Smith.

On the other hand the response from Guardians of the Galaxy director James Gunn struck me as sensible:

“So I just read Pratt’s tweet to Kevin Smith saying he would pray for him & made the mistake of reading the comments, many of which go off on Chris for saying he’d pray. If you’re offering Parkland shooting survivors prayers, but are unwilling to deal with the problems of gun violence in this country in a practical way, those prayers are empty. But no one expects Chris Pratt to shoulder doctors out of the way and perform heart surgery on Kevin Smith. Nor does Kevin need Chris to pay his medical bills. So I think his prayers are appreciated, and about all he can do.”

So all of a sudden and “out of the fucking blue,” as Chris Penn said in Reservoir Dogs, Paul Kersey (Bruce Willis) is suddenly a rightwing, pistol-brandishing Trump and NRA guy? We all understood the motive for Charles Bronson‘s Kersey becoming an urban vigilante who drilled bad guys because the cops wouldn’t do their jobs, but when did this activity become quote-unquote patriotic? Or is there something about the plot of Eli Roth’s soon-to-open film (MGM, 3.2) that I haven’t gotten wind of?

I’m presuming for now this is strictly an MGM marketing pitch, and that it has nothing to do with Willis going after ISIS or something in that vein. Could this poster be a lightning-fast exploiting of the widespread outrage when everyone learned that local Broward County cops and the FBI did nothing when told that Parkland massacre fiend Nikolas Cruz was well armed and ready to explode?

Yesterday I marathoned through all four hour-long episodes of David Hare and S.J. Clarkson‘s Collateral, which will begin streaming on Netflix on March 9th.

I can’t review it until this Wednesday (2.28), but I can at least call it a brilliantly written, exquisitely acted British conspiracy thriller of the highest order. Which is more or less what all the British critics have been saying.

It’s about a murder, but is not so much a “whodunit” but a “whydunit,” as Hare has said. I’ll leave it there for now.

Carey Mulligan, as Detective Inspector Kip Glaspie, owns this series with quiet, exacting authority. You can read her every thought and current in each and every moment. She’s just a genius at guiding you along and making you root for Kip every step of the way.

Remember how everyone loved Helen Mirren as Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison in Prime Suspect, the British cop series? Mulligan matches Mirren line for dry line, inflection for inflection, slightly raised eyebrow for slightly raised eyebrow. She’s at the absolute top of her game here.

A BBC Two series, Collateral began airing in England on a sequential episode basis on Monday, 2.12. The fourth episode will air on Monday, 3.5. Netflix will stream all four episodes simultaneously four days later.

HE to Journo Pals, sent this morning: “Has anyone received an invite to Eli Roth and Joe Carnahan‘s Death Wish (MGM/Annapurna, 3.2)? It opens in four days and I haven’t received jack squat.” Journo #1: “Nope.” Journo #2: “Uhhm, no.” Journo #3: “No, but I’m not exactly eager to see it either.”

Word around the campfire says that Carnahan’s 2015 script is better than the rewritten hodgepodge that the film is based upon.

Posted a few weeks ago: I’m not saying the home-invader murderers in Eli Roth and Joe Carnahan‘s remake of Death Wish should be from this or that tribe, but the U.S. is a multicultural society, after all, and it does seem a tiny bit chickenshit that the bad guys are generic white scumbags, or cut from the same cloth as the three invaders (Jeff Goldblum played one of them) in Michael Winner’s 1974 original.

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The last four or five minutes of Joel and Ethan Coen‘s A Serious Man is one of the all-time greatest finales of 21st Century cinema, hands down. Because it summarizes the basic ethos of the film — “If God doesn’t like you, you’re fucked and that’s that” — and because the approaching tornado storm is so perfectly ominous. The visual effects maestros were Oliver Arnold, Andy Burmeister and Alexandre Cancado of Luma Pictures.

Here’s a brief chat I had with the Coens on 9.13.08, during the Toronto Film Festival.

“Slow Death by Jewish Kiki,” posted on 9.11.09: “Joel and Ethan Coen‘s A Serious Man is a brilliant LQTM black comedy that out-misanthropes Woody Allen by a country mile and positively seethes with contempt for complacent religious culture (in this case ’60s era Minnesota Judaism). I was knocked flat in the best way imaginable and have put it right at the top of my Coen-best list. God, it’s such a pleasure to take in something this acidic and well-scalpeled. The Coens are fearless at this kind of artful diamond-cutting.

“The wickedly funereal tone and lack of stars means it isn’t going to make a dime, but it’s a high-calibre achievement by the most gifted filmmaking brothers of our time, and it absolutely must rank as one of the year’s ten Best Picture nominees when all is said and done. The Academy fudgies will not be permitted to brush this one aside, and if they do there will be torches and pitchforks such as James Whale never imagined at the corner of Wilshire and La Peer.

“The worldview of this maliciously wicked film (which isn’t “no-laugh funny” as much as wicked-bitter-toxic funny, which I personally prize above all other kinds) is black as night, black as a damp and sealed-off cellar. Scene after scene tells us that life is drip-drip torture, betrayal and muted hostility are constants, all manner of bad things (including tornadoes) are just around the corner, your family and neighbors will cluck-cluck as you sink into quicksand, etc.

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