Conservative hinterland types (including Trump loyalists) ignored Michael Showalter‘s The Eyes of Tammy Faye because they figured it would just trash rightwing American Christians — i.e., too predictable. And blue urban regions didn’t pay much attention either because they already knew that hinterland Christian yahoos are myopic and gullible and deluded — why pay to be reminded of that fact?
Nonetheless Searchlight marketers are trying to re-ignite interest in the film for the sake of Jessica Chastain‘s Best Actress campaign. I believe she deserves to be one of the five nominees, and that she’ll probably make the cut.
The new one-sheet for Adam McKay's Don't Look Up (Netflix, 12.10) is satirical, of course. It's making a dry joke about the cavalcade-of-stars posters that promoted Irwin Allen's disaster films of the '70s and early '80s. But of course, it's a joke that only cinephiles of a certain age will get. So Millennials and Zoomers will shrug and take it at face value.
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Why not just buy the damn thing, watch it and sort out the issues as I go along? Because I’m torn about it.
On one hand Ragtime, mainly set in the New York City area between 1905 and 1910, is a generally respected effort. Plus it seems all the more noteworthy now considering that a film of this type (released in the fall of ’81) would never be made for theatrical today.
Nobody has ever called it great or mindblowing, but some admire the devotional labor-of-love thing — the wonderful yesteryear detail, the ambitious scope, the old Model-T cars and horse-drawn wagons, the period-perfect clothing.
Plus a fair amount of work went into making Ragtime look as good as it possibly can. Plus the package includes a “directors cut workprint” that runs 174 minutes — 19 minutes longer than the original 1981 theatrical release version (i.e., 155 minutes). For me this is the biggest attraction.
Plus it offers some deleted and extended scenes. Plus a presumably engaging discussion between screenwriter Michael Weller and the esteemed screenwriter and man-about-town Larry Karaszewski, who worked with Forman on The People vs. Larry Flint. So it sounds like a decent package.
But on the other hand I know that Ragtime is an underwhelming, at times mildly irritating film. It certainly seemed that way when I caught a press screening sometime in the early fall of ’81, inside the Gulf & Western building on Columbus Circle. And no, I haven’t seen it since. I felt that as engrossing as some portions were, it didn’t feel right. It felt spotty. And it certainly didn’t catch the sweep, texture and wonderful authenticity of E.L. Doctorow’s 1975 book, the reading of which I adored.
It was great to see the 80-year-old James Cagney back in action, but I really didn’t care for some of the casting choices (especially Elizabeth McGovern as Evelyn Nesbit and the way-too-young Robert Joy as Harry K. Thaw).
And I never understood why so much attention was paid to the tragedy of CoalhouseWalker (Howard Rollins, Jr.), whose racially-provoked standoff was just one of many sagas that Doctorow passed along. Ragtime is so intently focused on this one character and his injured sense of honor that it could have been titled Ragtime: The Saga of Coalhouse Walker.
I realize that in accepting the challenge of compressing Doctorow’s fascinating cultural tapestry into a two and a-half-hour film, the efforts of Forman, Weller and the uncredited Bo Goldman were all but doomed from the start. In a perfect world Ragtime would have been produced as an eight- or ten-hour miniseries. Then it might have had a chance.
The daughter of Jett Wells and Caitlin Bennett arrived just after 11 am New Jersey time —11.17.21. Saint Barnabas Medical Center in Livingston. 8 lbs., 2 ounces. Labor began last night around 9 pm — 14 hours start to finish. Epidural administered around 3 am. Everyone is fine, all is well, morning has broken, all choked up.
Speaking as a leather-jacketed samurai poet clear light rumblehogger, I’m not that down with being called “grandpa”. It’s not what anyone would call a difficult hurdle, but the “g” word always makes me think of The Band’s “RockingChair.”
I know that Diet Coke isn’t especially healthy, and that it’s almost synonymous with Trumpism. But I’m a junkie all the same — my brain associates the taste of it with feelings of normality and assurance — and right now the shortage…hell, the absence of silver Diet Coke cartons on supermarket shelves is causing a certain distress. All the other soft drinks are there in abundance — Diet Coke is the only one that’s AWOL.
