Day: January 24, 2023

It goes without saying that Sea of Love (’89), a sexually charged Manhattan noir + Al Pacino‘s comeback film after the colossal misfortune of Hugh Hudson‘s Revolution, would never be made today.

Richard Price‘s screenplay is too male, too sexualized, too inauthentic as far as Ellen Barkin‘s character was concerned. But it had some really great scenes, and this was one of them.

Pacino was 48 at the time; Barkin was 34. The beefy John Goodman was perfect as Pacino’s temporary partner in a hunt for a serial killer. William Hickey, who had played Don Corrado in Prizzi’s Honor four years earlier, was perfect as Pacino’s widowed dad.

The late, great Warren Zevon was born exactly 76 years ago today (1.24.47). Like everyone else I’ve adored his third album, Excitable Boy, since it first came out on 1.18.78, when he was about to turn 31. Of all the great songs on that magnificent and pungent album, I’ve always found “When Johnny Strikes Up The Band” the richest and friendliest…the most inviting, the most melodic and complex…a lifelong keeper. I also thought back then that “Lawyers, Guns & Money” was my personal theme song, particularly “dad, get me outta this.”

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Two days ago I caught The Son (Sony Pictures Classics, 1.20), which I found well-written, well-acted and somewhat arduous to watch. Which doesn’t mean it’s a bad film — it’s just a bit of a thing to get through. Not a slog, which has negative connotations, but somewhat burdensome.

Directed by Florian Zeller (The Father) and cowritten by Zeller and Christopher Hampton, it’s about five characters — a 50ish, high-powered Manhattan businessman (Hugh Jackman), his anguished and estranged teenage son (Zen McGrath), the son’s divorced, worry-fraught mother and Jackman’s ex (Laura Dern), Jackman’s second, 20-years-younger wife (Vanessa Kirby) and Jackman’s crusty, tough-as-nails father (Anthony Hopkins) who’s in his late 70s or early 80s.

My mp3 review lasta around 12 minutes.

I’ve just verbalized some reactions to this morning’s Oscar nominations. Click the arrow below — 20 minutes, give or take.

Suddenly and very much out of the blue, Edward Berger‘s All Quiet on the Western Front is the Best Picture frontrunner. Or so it seems to me. There’s no possible basis for a broad-based consensus on Everything Everywhere All At Once (it’s too hated), and The Banshees of Inisherin is respected but not loved…not with those finger stumps and that dead donkey. If I could wave a magic wand I would give the Best Picture Oscar to Top Gun:Maverick, but that’s me.

Friendo to HE: “All Quiet has a lot of noms but zero for acting, and actors are the largest branch of the Academy. Same thing as 1917, which also couldn’t go the distance. In fact, Parasite is the only recent Best Picture winner that didn’t have at least one nominated actor. Before that you have to go all the way back to Braveheart, which isn’t a bad comparison for All Quiet, except it at least had its director [Mel Gibson] nominated, which All Quiet doesn’t have either. Perhaps all meaningless, but I still smell an EEAAO win in the making.”

HE to friendo: “No!”

Hollywood Elsewhere is extremely bummed that Everything Everywhere All at Once nabbed 11 Oscar nominations this morning. Congrats, however, to Martin McDonagh‘s The Banshees of Inisherin and Edward Berger‘s All Quiet on the Western Front, which took nine noms each.

Given that All Quiet landed so many noms without much promotional help from Netflix, it seems to be the Best Picture frontrunner. Will Netflix finally start promoting it? Or will they continue to sit on their hands?

Especially given the negative responses to EEAAO from the over-45 crowd, and given the bloody finger stump residue from Banshees.

All Quiet is not an easy sit, but it’s obviously a compassionate, humanistic film at the end of the day.

9:17 am tally: Best Picture — All Quiet on the Western Front, Avatar: The Way of Water, The Banshees of Inisherin, Elvis, Everything Everywhere All at Once, The Fabelmans, Tar, Top Gun: Maverick, Triangle of Sadness, Women Talking.

8:32 am: Wait…Best Supporting Actress nominees include Jamie Lee Curtis and Stephanie Hsu, both from Everything Everywhere All At Once? Bad sign. Very bad sign.

8:47 am: To Leslie‘s Andrea Riseborough got nominated for Best Actress! Her seat-of-the-pants campaign worked! And Ana de Armas overcame the Blonde negativity to land a nomination also. Till‘s Danielle Deadwyler snubbed though…sorry, raw deal, tough darts.

Against all odds, Women Talking managed to get nominated for Best Picture. Not a prayer of winning, of course. But at least saved from being snubbed.

Decision to Leave snubbed in Best Int’l Feature category…admired the chops, didn’t like the film, fine with me.

Allison Williams speaks with one of those mincing Millennial beep-beep “sexy baby” voices. Lauren Bacall she’s not.

Director friendo: Netflix totally blew it with All Quiet on the Western Front. No campaign. I know many directors who were unaware that the film even existed.
HE: But it was nominated for Best Picture and five or six other Oscars….right?
Director friendo: Yes. Nine. But no Best Director nomination for Edward Berger. It can still win Best Picture if only Netflix would mount a campaign.
HE: Netflix was strangely reticent with this film. Odd.
Director friendo: More than reticent. Neglectful. It scored 9 noms with no Netflix suppoprt. What does that tell you?

The 95th Oscars will happen at the Dolby Theatre on Sunday, March 12. Jimmy Kimmel will host.

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It’s been an HE cliche for several years that I will never accept, much less forgive, older dudes shuffling around in mandals or even, God forbid, barefoot. In the old days men wore lace-up tennis shoes or slip-ons. There are very few things in the public arena that are more odious than man toes, and yet millions of older American males are staunchly defiant in this regard, sometimes to the extent of wearing mandals in hotel breakfast rooms.

With the 2023 Santa Barbara Film Festival only a couple of weeks away, it is time once again to recount an HE incident that happened during the 2016 festival, at Santa Barbara’s Cabrillo Inn at the Beach. But first a re-posting of two comments, from Gigi Pinimba and Mr. Sunset Terras Cotta:

Posted on 2.14.16: I don’t like mingling with hotel guests as a rule. If I run into one I’ll turn on the pleasant smile and say “good morning!” but if I can avoid them I will. Partly because I prefer morning solitude, and partly because the folks who stay at midrange hotels and motels tend to be the kind of people who go on Caribbean cruises and vacation in Cancun and Las Vegas. Middle-aged marrieds, overweight types, elderly folk, tourists with kids…later.

All to say that when I want a cup of Starbucks Instant I’d rather fill the cup with hot water from the bathroom tap than hit the breakfast lounge. It’s not the staff (they’re all gracious and obliging) as much as the riff-raff.

In any event I was up early this morning and not, for a reason I won’t go into, at the Fess Parker but at the Cabrillo Inn. Around 6:45 am I turned on the bathroom tap and waited for the hot water. And waited. It didn’t happen, never even turned warm. So I went downstairs with my day-old paper cup and my Starbucks Instant and strolled into the complimentary-breakfast room. Some 50ish guy (a tourist from Chicago, he later explained) was standing inside and giving me the once-over.

Two women were preparing things; they weren’t quite ready to serve. But all I wanted was some hot water so I asked if I could get some. In a minute or two, they said. So I nodded and waited. It wasn’t worth explaining that steaming hot tap water would suffice.

The guy from Chicago thought I had overstepped. Chicago guy: “Why don’t you ask the hotel manager?” Me: “What’s he gonna do?” Chicago guy: “That’s what he’s here for.” Me: “What’s he gonna do, push the emergency hot-water button?” Chicago guy: “He could get an engineer to fix the pipes.” Me: “At ten minutes to seven on a Sunday morning? Yeah, that’s a possibility.”

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In a 1.23 World of Reel post that riffs on a 1.13.22 Daily Mail interview, Empire of Light director-writer Sam Mendes laments the bombing or under-performing of not only his own film** but other auteur-stamped features that opened during 2022’s award season.

The comment thread that follows is fascinating, but I was particularly stirred by a post from “Andrew”, who compares the Miramax-dominated realm of 1998 (when well-educated boomers and GenXers were avid followers of critically-approved award-season flicks) to the coarse downmarket reality of today.

Mendes:

Andrew:

** Empire of Light is HE’s choice for the best film of 2022. And I’m far from alone in my admiration.