Day: July 10, 2021

The Hollywood Reporter‘s Scott Feinberg “suspects” that Juho Kuosmanen‘s Compartment No.6, which screened on Saturday, may be “the first serious contender for the Palme d’Or.” Because of the alleged quality of it and the enthusiastic audience response.

Before you buy the hype, consider the trailer (top) and especially the bottom clip, in which the costars, Seidi Haarla (Finnish) and Yuriy Borisov (Russian), chat inside a small train compartment.

And ask yourself how many minutes you’d want to spend listening to the drunken Borisov boast and cackle as he blows his rancid smoke and drops ashes all over the place…I was feeling repulsed rather quickly. Imagine having to listen to this jerk for hours on end as he lights up cigarette after cigarette…dear God.

Boilerplate synopsis: “Compartment No. 6 is the story of a young Finnish woman who escapes an enigmatic love affair in Moscow by boarding a train to the Arctic port of Murmansk. Forced to share the long ride and a tiny sleeping car with a Russian miner, the unexpected encounter leads the occupants of compartment no. 6 to face the truth about their own yearning for human connection.”

Sean Penn‘s Flag Day (UA Releasing, 8.13) has opened in Cannes to pretty good reviews. These Cote d’Azur tributes led me to a realization that the 40th anniversary of Taps, in which Penn gave his first significant (if supporting) performance, isn’t far off. And so…

Am I a bigger fan of Penn’s acting than his efforts at directing? Yes. How many of his performances over the past 40 are serious keepers? By my count, 16. The stellar award-worthy perfs mixed with the likable, even-toned mezzo-mezzos. Here’s my list:

1. Jeff Spiccoli (stoner) in Fast Times at Ridgemont High (’82)…certainly.
2. Daulton Lee (drug dealer, seller of CIA intelligence reports to Russians in Mexico City) in The Falcon and the Snowman (’85)…no question.
3. Brad Whitewood, Jr. in At Close Range (’86)…Chris Walken owns this film, but Penn was a close second.
4. Officer Danny McGavin in Dennis Hopper‘s Colors (’88).
5. Sgt. Tony Meserve in Brian DePalma‘s Casualties of War (’89).
6. Terry Noonan in Phil Joanou‘s State of Grace (’90)…not a towering performance but an abovep-average one.
7. Frizzy-haired David Kleinfeld in Brian DePalma‘s Carlito’s Way (’93).
8. Death row prisoner Matthew Poncelet in Tim Robbins‘ Dead Man Walking (’95).
9. Eddie in Anthony Drazan‘s Hurlyburly (’98) — a better play than a film, but Penn was exceptional.
10. Sgt. Welsh in Terrence Malick’s The Thin Red Line (’98).
11. Emmet Ray in Woody Allen‘s Sweet and Lowdown (’99) — Django Reinhardt meets La Strada.
12. James “Jimmy” Markum in Clint Eastwood‘s Mystic River (’03).
13. Paul Rivers in Alejandro G. Inarritu‘s 21 Grams (’03).
14. Tobin Keller in Sydney Pollack‘s The Interpreter.
15. Harvey Milk in Gus Van Sant‘s Milk (’08).
16. Joseph Wilson in Doug Liman‘s Fair Game (’10).

What films, if any, have I unfairly omitted? I’ve tried to be tough here — strictly doubles, triples and homers…no singles or bunts.

In response to yesterday’s “Anderson Ducking Cannes Journos” story, a certain HE “friendo” asked, “Isn’t it obvious that Wes doesn’t want to be asked questions about Scott Rudin?”

To which I responded, “I guess so, now that you mention it.

“If I were Anderson and that were to come up. I would just say ‘sorry but I’m not going to comment about Scott. He’s always been a first-rate producer and a total professional with me. I’m very sorry about the reports of abusive behavior directed toward his staffers but that’s not my responsibility and I’m certainly not going to get into it here in Cannes.”

A journo pally has suggested HE readers might want to (a) name a critically-acclaimed director whose films they despise, and (b) explain why in 50 to 75 words.

The only director I can think of whose work I really, really don’t like is Todd Solondz (Happiness, Welcome to the Dollhouse, Palindromes, Life During Wartime, Dark Horse, Wiener-Dog). That’s not to say I don’t respect Solondz’s “brand”, or that I would argue with anyone who might insist that he’s one of the indie greats. He’s ballsy — I’ll give him that much. Courage of his convictions, unmistakable signature, etc. And I’m saying this as one who was raised in suburban New Jersey (i.e., not Essex County but Union).

I just know that the films of Todd Solondz tend to make me feel soiled and icky and lethargic. Yeah, I know — that’s the point.

From “Hating Wiener-Dog,” posted on 1.22.16: “Todd Solondz‘s Weiner-Dog, a morose and depressive slog about a dachsund passing from owner to owner and bearing the sins of mankind, screened at the Eccles tonight. It’s about futility, fuck it, banality, depression, ennui, emptiness, death, random cruelty, Down Syndrome and cancer.

“Solondz reportedly told an interviewer today that he intended a blend of Au Hasard Balthasar and Benji. I’ve always hated Solondz and his dweeby, depressive attitude and particularly his attachment to depressive losers. I began hating this film early on, and it was agony sitting through to the end (which I was determined to do no matter what).

“Animal lovers…I was about to post a warning but they can fend for themselves. As Weiner-Dog began a woman sitting behind me was making that ‘awwuhhah’ sound as the camera regarded the lovable dachshund, and I was muttering to myself or more precisely to God “please don’t make me listen to this woman make ‘awwuhhah‘ sounds all through this thing.” Well, she stopped. (On this note Solondz was my ally.) At the very end an older woman sitting next to me was moaning ‘Why did he do that? Why did he do that?’ Go, Todd!”

Here’s another “trying to find good homes for the kittens” story. It just happened. Around 9 am a person asked (texted) whether any of the kittens were still available, and I answered “yes — three. But there’s a homing fee.” The person replied “great” and suggested a drop-by around 10 or 10:15 am. Before agreeing I asked for some basic info. It was a youngish woman who said she has a cat named Timmy who’s alone all day (she works on weekdays), and who could use some company. Okay, I said.

Right around 10:10 am the woman texted “here.” I stepped outside and walked over to the front stoop.
About 50 feet away was an older white convertible covered in garish, hand-painted graffiti (green, black, pink lettering). Right away I was thinking “the hell is this?” A large, sandy-haired beefalo male (mid 30s) was behind the wheel, and the woman I’d texted, a short blonde in sunglasses (also 30ish), was in the passenger seat. They were sipping take-out Starbucks and exchanging PDA — caressing each other’s hair, etc. They looked like they’d been partying all night and hadn’t been to bed.

Obviously they were highly questionable people. No way would I entrust the well-being of a young kitten to these mongrels. What kind of grunt drives a ride like this? What kind of woman says “hey, this big unshaven galumph with longish surfer hair is kinda cute, and I love all the graffiti on his car!” Nope.

I approached them as they exited the vehicle. The woman was holding a small blue cat carrier. I said “sorry but there’s no way I’m selling a kitten to a couple sitting in a car that looks like that.” The woman said “what?” The guy said, “It’s not her car.” I shook my head and said firmly, “I’m not doing it, man.” The woman was silent. The man said to the woman, “Okay, let’s roll.” They returned to the graffiti-mobile. I waved and said “Have a nice day.”

Hugs and condolences for those who cared for and worked with the late character actor William Smith (3.24.33 – 7.5.21). Smith served in the Air Force during the Korean War and flew “ferret” missions over Russia; he was also smart and enterprising enough to attain both CIA and NSA clearances, but he was soon after lured by an acting career that began in the early ’50s, when he was in his early 20s.

I’ve heard or read that Smith off-camera was an amiable, kind-hearted fellow with engaging social skills, but he was most often cast as a belligerent of one kind or another. Always with a certain glint of madness; always threatening the hero or protagonist with a bullet or a pounding; always an over-sized, out-for-blood sociopath of one kind or another.

I’m sorry but after a while that’s really not interesting. Once I’ve gotten to know a proverbial bad guy in a series of films or TV appearances, I want to see his gentler, kinder side. I want to feel his heart, know what he wants and cares for. Because constant psycho-seething is suffocating.

Smith played a few even-tempered lawmen on TV; the strongest impression he ever made as a non-villain was in Lamont Johnson‘s The Last American Hero (’73), in which he played a race-car driving competitor of Jeff Bridges‘ Junior Jackson; a non-threatening Smith also came across in a short introductory scene in John Milius‘s Conan the Barbarian (’82), in which he played the young Conan’s father.

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