There are the rote facts of life, the plain material truth of things, and then there are the currents within. The singing angels, the demons, the fireflies, the banshees, the echoes, the dreams, the fleeting recollections of childhood and even pre-birth consciousness…the vague sense of a continuing infinite scheme and how we fit into that.
We all define our lives as a constant mixing of these two aspects, but the charm and final value of a person, for me, is about how much he/she seems to be dealing with the interior world, and how much he/she refers to those currents and laughs about them, and basically lives on the flow of that realm.
Some go there more frequently or deeply than others, and some are just matter-of-fact functionaries who let their spiritual side (what little there is of that) leak out in small little droplets from time to time. Like it or lump it, but Hollywood Elsewhere is almost entirely about that moisture…not droplets or puddles or tide pools in my case, but trickling streams and maybe even ponds. The past never evaporates. Or at least, it doesn’t for me.
“There’s a theory that we [all] should be born with a small amount of alcohol in our blood, and that modest inebriation opens our minds to the world around us, diminishing our problems and increasing our creativity.” — opening line of an official boilerplate synopsis for Thomas Vinterberg‘s Another Round (Samuel Goldwyn Films, 12.4)
Speaking as one who happily sipped wine for decades before realizing it was no longer an option, I can say without question that alcohol really did seem to bring a certain glow and ebullience to my life. I used to think that civilized drinking was essential to a certain kind of joie de vivre. My European visits in the late ’90s and aughts were, I sincerely believed, immeasurably enhanced by the right kind of vino, especially when the bar or restaurant was lighted with candles.
I was never a pathetic, falling-down drunk, although I experienced some truly insane and hilarious episodes when I was buzzed. Especially in my 20s and early 30s. (Like falling asleep at a party in Marin County, and waking up in a sitting position in a large high-back chair with a half-full glass of Jack Daniels and ginger ale in my right hand.) I was almost never shit-faced (or at least not after high school), but at the same time my motto was “life would be unbearable without alcohol.” I was just having a good time. Breaking no laws, spilling nothing, getting away with it.
I’m especially glad that I got to carouse around Italy three or four times before I renounced. Drinking good wine in a sensible way can be wonderful.
My first cold-turkey renunciation happened in ’96 (I was mainly determined to quit vodka), but after two or three years I gradually started to sip wine from time to time, and it felt pretty cool for the most part. My last and final quit (no wine, no beer, no nothing) happened because nightly Pinot Grigio sippings had began to play hell with my looks, and because it gradually over-heated my personality and made me behave in an intemperate manner from time to time.
Sobriety isn’t easy at first, granted, but the morning wake-ups are wonderful, and you gradually learn how to smile and even laugh again. And that feeling of a terrible 700-pound wet gorilla no longer clinging to your back is heavenly.
A swindler professor (Tom Hanks) assembles a gang (Marlon Wayans, J.K. Simmons, Tzi Ma, Ryan Hurst) to rob a casino. The only way to enter the casino with money is through the basement of the house of a religious old woman named Marva Munson (Irma P. Hall). To implement his plan, the pseudo professor rents a room and a cellar from her for fake rehearsals of his musical ensemble.
The unsuspecting Marva, fascinated by the poetry professor, agrees and the gang secretly gets down to business. But very soon it becomes clear that the observational abilities of a religious elderly woman were clearly underestimated.
The word “fuck” is heard 89 times in the film. But of course, that’s not the subject of my story.
The Ladykillers includes a couple of musical gospel scenes, and these took me back to my distant childhood.
I just watched the below out of respect for the recently departed Sean Connery and Alex Trebek. They left our earthly realm only nine days apart (10.31 and 11.8). I laughed out loud five or six times, which is more than I’ve laughed out loud at anything on SNL over the last two or three years.
“In a time where the world is as polarized as ever, there seems to be a yearning to show oppression in all cultures. With Black Lives Matter gaining significant traction, a film about a Caucasian venture capitalist’s upbringing doesn’t feel exactly well-timed in our climate.”
HE translation: “At a time of peak wokeness in Hollywood — a time in which we’re all trying to rejuvenate if not overturn the old order and introduce a new political and social heirarchy that celebrates diversity and strong women and LGBTQs — forward-thinking Hollywood professionals would be wise to think twice about liking this film, mainly because it focuses on scurvy low-rent rurals in overalls, and nobody wants to celebrate this kind of thing at this point in time…right?”
All along I’d been nursing similar thoughts about Hillbilly Elegy. How could I sympathize with people whose views and politics I consider to be totally vile if not anti-Democratic, considering their unwavering support for an authoritarian Mussolini?
But the strangest thing happened when I finally saw Ron Howard‘s film. I stopped thinking of it as a journey into a nightmare filled with no-good polecat varmint Trump supporters, and instead as a portrait of stressed-out, hardscrabble, low-income types who feel stuck and unable to escape their lives. In short I felt twinges of sympathy and even compassion from time to time.
“I just think it’s an embarrassment, quite frankly. How can I say this tactfully? I think it will not help the president’s legacy.”– Joe Biden speaking earlier today about Trump’s refusal to concede or approve the traditional transition process.
“”There will be a smooth transition to a second Trump administration.” — Secretary of State Mike Pompeo, earlier today.
There’s no disputing that Glenn Close‘s snippy and snarly performance as “Mamaw” in Ron Howard‘s Hillbilly Elegy (Netflix, 11.11) will snag a Best Supporting Actress Oscar nomination. It’ll happen. Definitely. And for three reasons.
One, because the conviction she brings to her character, the brillo-haired grandmother of main protagonist J.D. Vance — the real-life author of the 2016 book that the film is based upon, and who’s played as a young adult by Gabriel Basso and as a pudgy teenager by Owen Asztalos — feels raw and real.
Two, because “Mamaw” is pretty much the hero of the film — the blunt-spoken, tough-love butch boss who saves Vance from the horrific influence of his angry, drug-dependent mom (Amy Adams).
And three, because Close is now oh-for-seven in terms of Oscar wins (her first nomination happened 37 years ago for her Jenny performance in The World According to Garp), and everyone knows this narrative can’t be left hanging in the air.
As for the film itself, well…it’s well-crafted. And earnest. It has some good portions, some decent currents. If you’re fair-minded enough to ease up and cut it a little slack, you could give Hillbilly Elegy a passing grade. I certainly didn’t come away from it saying, “well, that stunk!” I came away saying “okay, it may not be a personal top-tenner, but it is what it is and does what it sets out to do.”
Several weeks ago I began hearing that Hillbilly Elegy was a problem, but when I finally saw it I couldn’t help but say “okay, it has issues and Adams’ downswirling mom is a terrible person to hang with, but the story is the story — how J.D. escaped from Southern Ohio and learned to walk his own path despite a dysfunctional family upbringing and dispiriting cultural influences…so at the end of the day it’s not that bad, or not by my standards.”
The other day I called it a “familiar-feeling people movie” — a personal-struggle thing that lets the audience know right away that things will work out for poor J.D. How do we know this? Because of Hans Zimmer and David Fleming‘s score. It tells you “this movie is going to behave in a certain way…it’s going to observe certain boundaries and deliver certain emotional satisfactions.” And that it does.
Said satisfactions are also rooted in the mellowish story-telling instincts of director Ron Howard. His films have always had a considerate, carefully measured quality. Despite the Hammer horror current generated by Adams’ Beverly Vance character (which drives and occupies most of the narrative) Hillbilly Elegy ends up in a place of assurance and stability.
I can’t think of anything more to say, to be honest. I’ll add to this if something comes to mind.
If there’s been one steady-drumbeat message that has thundered across the Twitterverse for several weeks now, it’s that Pete Docter‘s Soul (Disney, 12.25) is a truly exceptional animated feature…a half-emotional, half-philosophical, jazz-embroidered film so rich and resonant and full-hearted that it deserves to be in Best Picture contention. (Which of course will never happen as far as the Academy is concerned because, being animated, it belongs in Best Animated Feature contention.)
And then along comes Variety‘s award-season handicapper, a guy more or less required to not dwell on negative currents (that’s Owen Gleiberman or Peter Debruge‘s job, if and when the situation warrants) and to celebrate the celebrational and be as turn-the-other-cheeky as possible…along comes Clayton Davis with the first significant anti-Soul opinion to come down the pike.
Davis tweeted this morning that as much as he “wanted to love it”, he was unable to. Because “there’s a disconnect between story and character“, and because it feels like an Inside Out ripoff that doesn’t quite land where it’s supposed to.”
