Hollywood Elsewhere salutes the brave woman who flashed the truth on Russian TV earlier today. Her name is Marina Ovsyannikova. Stiff salute, hats off, balls of steel.
Ovsyannikova also appears to have recorded a video beforehand in which she blames Putin for the war and apologizes for her work on Russian state TV news. pic.twitter.com/VuoqtJWcIY
“The Hispanic voter is starting to look a lot like what happened with the Italian voter. Didn’t the Italian voter become much more of a Republican block? And that could happen with Latinos. If the Democrats lose [the changing Hispanic voter], they’re in a lot of trouble.” — Bill Maher to Ben Shapiro.
“Babybubdo,” a YouTube watcher: “My husband and I watched this Ben Shapiro-Bill Maher discussion yesterday and I have to say, it was so wonderful to see two people, with totally different views, actually talk to each other and not at each other. This is the epitome of respect, no matter what your viewpoint is, and is a great example of how things or situations get worked out. I wish this was a weekly show.”
Michael Mann‘s Tokyo Vice, a limited HBO Max miniseries, begins on April 7. Somewhere around six or seven episodes, I’m guessing. (Does anyone actually know?) It’s great to have one of the greatest filmmakers of the ’80s, ’90s and aughts back in the saddle.
Oh, and if I read one more numbskulled, lame-ass reference to Ansel Elgort having been through a controversialpassage in his career due to Gabby’shurtfeelings (sorry, girl, but love affairs can sometimes leave bruises), I’m going to get angry. Move on, let it go, life is rarely a bowl of cherries, etc.
“Although an expansive cast of guys and dolls headed by Biff Elliot snarls through Victor Saville‘s handsomely mounted production with pontifical adherence to Spillane protocol, this United Artists release is erratic, flaccid entertainment, and a lukewarm tribute to a trademark.
“For Mr. Spillane, as everybody knows, writes hot stuff. And his sleuth spokesman, Mike Hammer, is a ruthless bedroom-bar commuter, wreaking terrible vengeance on his foes and pacifying a succession of sizzling beauties along the way, often to a pulp. Not here, however.
“Denied a harvest of sadism and sex by the screen’s censorship code, Mike Hammer emerges as a pretty dull operator. While Harry Essex‘ scenario and direction net our hero some random bashings, dalliances with a quartet of cooperative peaches and seven fresh corpses, the tale remains, as it originated, mere standard, bottom-drawer whodunit. Nor are the participants any less stereotyped in their barrage of inane, bitten-off smart talk: a phoney art collector, a testy police captain, the small and big-time underworldlings and, of course, the undulating ladies.
“A frenzied, rather sturdy attempt at camouflaging never quite comes off. But Mr. Essex does manage to keep these synthetic people generally on the hop, slink or prowl. And the photography is excellent, heightened throughout by the endeavor’s sole surprise — a sensible, unobtrusive use of three dimensions as an angular canvas that rarely nudges the text out of focus.
“Franz Waxman‘s moody, atonal jazz background also rates a nod. These technicalities, however, are squandered.
“Exactly why the producer chose Mr. Elliot, an open-faced youth whose demeanor suggests a college sophomore, to play the toughest private eye in fictional history is a real mystery. Among the others, Preston Foster, Peggie Castle, Margaret Sheridan, Alan Reed and John Qualen try just as hard. But minus the mustard, I, the Jury tastes more than ever like pure baloney.
I was neutral about either CODA’s Troy Kotsur or ThePoweroftheDog’s Kodi Smit-McPhee possibly winning the Best Supporting Actor Oscar. I was okay, I mean, with either one prevailing.
But after examining the cloudy Alexander McQueen tux that KSM wore to last week’s Oscar luncheon, I’ve become a committed Kotsur guy.
It appears that within a few days time Ukraine President Volodymyr_Zelenskyy will face an agonizing, high-pressure choice.
When Russian troops are outside his rubble-strewn, bullet-ridden compound and demanding his surrender, should he do so or should he go down like William Holden and Ernest Borgnine at the end of TheWild Bunch?
The latter is the more romantic choice but not the most constructive. I hope he chooses the path of survival — of continuing the fight even under the conditions of capture and possible humiliation. As difficult as it might seem within the mindset of a strong and defiant leader, living to fight another day is the only sensible, practical choice.
…that her Best Director Oscar is the only lock, and for social-political reasons at that. To me it seemed obvious weeks ago that no one really loves or has been profoundly touched by ThePoweroftheDog, and that the Best Picture Oscar has to be given to…well, CODA probably, despite its average-ness.
But yesterday Campion erred. Film Twitter has taken offense because she dared to compare her plight to that of saintly POCs (as represented by Venus and Serena Williams).
Early this afternoon I was in Le Petit Four, the longstanding Sunset Strip eatery. I was meeting with a couple of guys about a restoration of a classic ’50s film (can’t divulge specifics until next month), and about halfway through our chat Bill Maher, accompanied by a youngish Snow White-resembling brunette, walked in from the rear entrance. I caught his eye or he caught mine, and we exchanged a hint of alpha. He and Snow White sat in the inside rear area, maybe 15 or 20 feet from our table.
I’m not the hyperventilating sort who reflexively greets a celebrity if we happen to find ourselves in the same space. But I am quite the fan of Real Time with Bill Maher and yesterday I had seriously enjoyed listening to Maher’s “Sunday special” chat with The Wire‘s Ben Shapiro, and we did have a semblance of an email relationship about 20 years ago (just after Politically Incorrect was yanked over Bill’s “9/11 wackos were not cowards” line), and I was invited to fly to Las Vegas around the same time to catch his show, etc. And we did chat at a private party or two around that time.
So I felt there was an ever-so-slight basis to maybe walk over and offer a quick “yo” and duck out.
But as I was mulling this over, I was contemplating Bill’s “normcore” outfit — dark green-plaid shirt, black baseball cap, dark jeans, black athletic shoes. And I have to say that as one New Jersey guy contemplating another (Bill grew up in River Vale, and I was mostly raised in Westfield), I was vaguely….uhm, taken aback?
Anyone can wear anything they damn well please on a Sunday afternoon, of course, and it’s none of my damn business to criticize someone who happens to be in a normcore mood…please. The polite thing to do right now, I realize, is to sidestep the issue and move the fuck on. I was just a wee bit surprised, is all. I’ve always thought of Maher as an East Coast uptown guy with sartorial inclinations not that different than my own.
Anyway I decided to throw caution to the wind and walk over for a quick hello. Right away I sensed this was a bad idea. I mentioned that I’d listened to the Shapiro chat while driving home from Santa Barbara yesterday, but for some reason I couldn’t remember Shapiro’s name (weird). I was nervous and choking. I knew right away that I had erred because Bill didn’t say a word — he just gazed at me like I was a tree or a gas pump. I thought for a split second that he might be ripped or even tripping on something — his facial expression reminded me of that red-haired kid (Aaron Wolf) who was stoned during his Bar Mitzvah in Joel and Ethan Coen‘s A Serious Man. The same message was flashing over and over…”get outta there, get outta there, get outta there.”
This is why it’s better to just stay in your own corner. I guess this is a kind of follow-up to the “not talking with David O. Russell in Santa Barbara” story from a couple of nights ago.
I’m watching the Critics Choice Awards right now and thinking, “This is a nightmare…we’re all immersed in a benign, thumbs-up, positive-energy horror film…the seed pod wokey-wokes are everywhere and too terrified to think, comment or behave otherwise, and only a few of us have escaped the takeover syndrome — playing it cautiously out of fear of being called out, and yet thinking and assessing like semi-free human beings and secretly sharing un-woke thoughts.
We’re in the middle of a cultural-racialist-genderist revolution and a general consensus that bad white guys need to sit in the back of the bus for a few years, and as long as the revolutionary wheels are churning and crunching and filling the air with aspirational social fables, Hollywood will continue to grapple with the fact that for many in the industry, streaming and theatrical movies will serve the cause of enlightened social propaganda.
Wokeness might be good or (sadly) necessary for social change, but it’s not much of a propellant for the creation of knockout award-season flicks that really reach out and touch Joe & Jane Popcorn.
The bottom line is that the erratic pursuit of sweeping, penetrating, soul-touching art (a rare achievement but one that has occasionally manifested over the decades) has been more or less called off, it seems, because such films or aspirations, in the view of certain #MeToo and POC progressives, don’t serve the current woke-political narrative.
Friendo who’s also watching: “Ugh…Ariana DeBose says ‘no matter how you identify you are unique you are smart you are talented just as you are.’ Isn’t that the problem? This is what we have done to an entire generation — this is how they see the world…that they are special and each of them must be recognized.”
Now it’s time for a fifth involving the installation of seed-pod mindsets, with the change agents being the Millennial and Generation Z sons and daughters of today.
I’m talking about a scenario in which the Anglo Saxon whitebread gene is regarded as inherently arrogant, criminal and bad for the planet — flawed, cruel, heartless, exploitive. A consensus emerges that the only way to correct this abhorrent culture is to fully indict the historical criminality of whiteness over several decades and in fact back to the beginnings of this nation — what it’s been, what it is now and where it’ll lead if things aren’t turned around.
Alien spores float down from space, affecting only the children and grandchildren of boomers and GenXers. Once turned, the awoken are free to call Anglo-Saxon culture by it’s true name — oppressor, a cancer, a scourge upon humanity. Within days the idea is spread that it’s time for enlightened non-whites to marginalize or dilute or even overthrow white culture so that POC culture can re-shape things and bring in a little fresh air and more fairness, freedom and opportunity.
Gradually seed-pod consciousness spreads to members of the liberal intelligentsia, and more and more of them are suddenly embracing the program. The general idea is “let those shitty old crusty white guys eat some of the shit that POCs have been eating for the last couple of centuries,” etc.
Gradually it becomes accepted that if you’re white and straight you’re kind of a bad person, or at the very least suspect. And that you probably need to re-educate yourself and embrace the new reality…or else.
A clever horror-comedy satire that ten years ago would have come and gone and been forgotten by awards season is transformed by seed-podders into a Best Picture contender, and those who question the validity of this are regarded as cranks or closet racists.
Friends and family members of seed-pod film critics begin to notice a certain robotic manner and a glassy, out-to-lunch look in their eyes.
Liberal-minded film critics Anne Thompson and Eric Kohn declare that they’ve been making sure that POCs are ranked prominently in their year-end awards ballot, partly because they admire their films but also because they’re about or were made by POCs.
Broadcast News opened in December 1987 — call it 35 years ago. Back when William Hurt…the masterful Hurt!…was nearing the end of his glorious groove phase.
Holly Hunter‘s “Jane Craig”: “So…you like me, huh?” Hurt‘s “Tom Grunick”: “I like you as much as I can like anyone who thinks I’m an asshole.”
Posted by “YCo” on 2.8.17: “Hurt was the shit from ’81 through ’88…I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited about an Oscar upset than Hurt’s win for Kiss Of the Spider Woman…plus he made me root for Tom Grunick to get the girl in Broadcast News even though I know James L. Brooks didn’t want me to…he was the cerebral actor’s actor, and his seeming disappearance by the 90s and loss of esteem due to personal demons/issues is one of the more sad trajectories in Hollywood. Still, he is the shit.”
William Hurt‘s short speech last night in Santa Barbara on behalf of Isabelle Huppert was a quiet corker. His remarks were clearly directed at the horrific political climate being generated out of the White House these days; more than a few came up to Hurt later and said “great speech!” Hurt costarred with Huppert in Ned Benson‘s The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby (’12). Plus he’s fluent in French and owns (or at least owned the last time I checked) a residence not far from Paris.
During the after-party we spoke about LSD, Altered States (i.e., Paddy Chayefsky vs. Ken Russell), Buddhism (a few years ago Hurt took a Columbia course in Indo-Tibetan Buddhism and computer science), Hank Paulson (whom Hurt played in 2011’s Too Big To Fail), etc.
