Month: June 2023

I don’t know if Alberto Barbera will invite Woody Allen‘s Coup de Chance to the 2023 Venice Film Festival or if Woody will choose to premiere it at the San Sebastian gathering…

But given an apparent consensus that Allen’s latest is a respectable, noteworthy film and possibly his best since Match Point, and possibly his last film (who knows?), I’m very sorry for the domestic political quagmire in this country…a political reality that will most likely prevent Coup de Chance from playing the domestic early fall film festivals (Telluride, Toronto, New York).

The Cannes board allegedly said no to Thierry Fremaux about potentially debuting Coup de Chance in Cannes for the same reason…no berth for a filmmaker whom the #MeToo scolds have been labelling as persona non grata for several years now.

Even the most enlightened film programmers — those who believe in simply screening the best available choices of the moment, and who aren’t beholden to woke Stalinism — have no realistic choice in the matter, politically speaking. I feel for their situation as it’s a very difficult call all around. I feel very badly for everyone caught in this mishegoss.

The recently unveiled French-language trailer announces that Coup de Chance is opening in French-language territories on 9.27.23. As we speak no U.S. distributor has found the balls to release the film stateside. It goes without saying I would love to see Coup de Chance play Telluride ’23, but of course it won’t.

Finessed synopsis: “Fanny (Lou de Laage) and Jean (Melvil Poupaud) are an ideal couple: financially flush and professionally fulfilled, they live in a magnificent apartment in [one of] the high-end districts of Paris and seem to be as in love as [they were on] the first day they met.

”But when Fanny crosses, by chance, Alain (Niels Schneider), a former high school friend, she is immediately hooked. They see each other again, and, very quickly, get closer and closer…”

A couple of months ago I reported about an early April screening of Coup de Chance in Manhattan. Resturateur Keith McNally and columnist Roger Friedman raved.

Coup de Chance dp Vittorio Storaro quoted by Jordan Ruimy’s World of Reel by way of Italy’s quotidiano.net:

“I am scandalized and indignant that Cannes has chosen not to present [Woody’s] latest film, all because of the accusations made by his wife Mia Farrow and her daughter Dylan. Need I remind everyone that Woody has already been acquitted of these charges twice? This #MeToo obsession continues [to our general misfortune]. Yes, it is bringing real systemic issues to light, but it’s also doing a lot of unjust damage. It’s a witch hunt that goes beyond the bounds of common sense.”

Big 6.12 announcement: The Golden Globe awards will continue, but no longer under the aegis of the long-belittled, self-satirizing, now-disbanded Hollywood Foreign Press Association.

The Golden Globes brand has been bought by Todd Boehly‘s Eldridge Industries and Penske Media’s Dick Clark Productions. The slip-slidey HFPA no-accounts will continue to collect salaries for the next two or three years, but have essentially been shown the door.

And yet, from the perspective of Joe and Jane Popcorn, nothing will really change. The Globes will continue to serve as a warm-up awards show for the Oscars, and the award recipients will continue to enjoy a certain award-season heat. The only difference is that the show will henceforth be produced by a fresh gang of hustlers.

From a 5.10.21 HE piece called “Golden Globes Castle Is Collapsing“: “Nobody loved the HFPA dilletantes before — they were ‘tolerated’ in a shoulder-shrugging, eye-rolling sense of that term, and now distributors and talent are saying ‘okay, fuck these guys…even with the announced reforms they aren’t woke enough, not by 2021 standards, and now, trust us, they’re about to understand the cost of their terrible folly.’”

I love Brooks Barnes‘ opening paragraph from his 6.12 N.Y. Times article about same:

More from the 5.10.21 piece:

From a 1.8.23 HE piece about the ongoing Golden Globe collapse:

For their latest Oscar Poker chit-chat, Jeff and Sasha wade in the waters of The Idol, Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed, Woody Allen’s Coup de Chance and its almost certain exclusion from domestic film festivals, Sasha’s late reaction to Air, the still unexplained French Connection / William Friedkin censorship thing, the Kate Hepburn and Arnold Schwarzenegger docs, etc. We recorded a few hours before the announcement of the tragic motorcycle death of Treat Williams…condolences.

Again, the link.

Poor Treat Willams was killed earlier today in Dorset, Vermont. A motorcycle accident did him in, or more precisely a careless driver. He was 71.

Born and raised in Rowayton, Connecticut, Williams worked steadily as an actor and sometime director from the mid ’70s onward — 75 films in all.

His biggest, most acclaimed performance was as Det. Danny Ciello in Sidney Lumet‘s Prince of the City (’81). Alas, it didn’t launch him. Williams’ second biggest role was George Berger in Milos Forman‘s Hair (’79), and his third biggest was Xander Drax in Paramount’s The Phantom (’96).

Other noteworthy Williams performances happened in 1941 (’79), Once Upon A Time In America (’84), Dead Heat (’88), Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead (’95) and Deep Rising (’98).

What was Everwood again?

“Drunken Journalist Sullies Reputation“, posted on 3.30.20:

I was sharing a boozy thought with Treat Williams around 1 am. It was the fall of ’82 or thereabouts, and we were sitting at a table of rowdy actors at Cafe Central, which was the hip bar at the time. John Heard and Cher were also at the table, and I heard the next day that they went home together.

The problem was that I’d had one or two too many and was slurring my words. Not making much sense. “What?” Williams asked, a bit irritated. I blurted it out again, whatever my Jack Daniels-soaked brain had managed to formulate and discharge. “I don’t getcha,” he said, and that was it.

Detective Stern: What did you say your name was?
Daniel Ciello: Ciello.
Detective Stern: Are you the Detective Ciello?
Daniel Ciello: I’m Detective Ciello.
Detective Stern: I don’t think I have anything to learn from you.

For no reason pic.twitter.com/BR1E7Hvwsh

— Treat Williams (@Rtreatwilliams) March 30, 2020

I regard Prince of the City more affectionately than all the other sublime New York Sidney Lumet films (including Dog Day Afternoon and Find Me Guilty) because it titanically reeks of coarse and odorous five-borough atmosphere in each and every frame. On top of which it may be the most deeply conflicted “moral drama” ever made — it doesn’t finally know what it’s trying to say exactly, but oh the damnable guilt! Guilt so mucky and tortured and ambiguous mixed with loyalty among corrupt and criminal friends, and lathered with lies and confessions and magnificent New York cop-and-mafioso patter….layer upon layer of brag, bullshit, innuendo and terrible truth.

It’s also a movie that taught me one of the most valuable life lessons I’ve ever taken to heart: choose your friends carefully but once you’ve done that, stick by them forever — never rat, never flip, and never trust a prosecutor.

Based on a true story and set in the ’70s, it’s about a narcotics cop (Williams’Ciello) who wants to unburden himself of guilt about his reckless dishonest ways, so he decides to go undercover for the feds to uncover police corruption. At first the danger of the job excites him and he gets away with it, but eventually the feds squeeze him into ratting out his partners and friends, and before you know it the guy’s freaking and then imploding, and then on the brink of suicide.

The blue-chip cast includes Jerry Orbach (his “Gus Levy” is flat-out the best performance he’s ever given), Lindsay Crouse, Bob Balaban, Richard Foronjy, Don Billett, Kenny Marino, Carmine Caridi, Tony Page, Norman Parker, Paul Roebling, James Tolkan, Steve Inwood, Ron Maccone, Ron Karabatsos, Tony DiBenedetto, Robert Christian, Cosmo Allegretti, Michael Beckett — every character and performance is absolutely and thoroughly “New York authentic.”

It runs 167 minutes and 80% of it is about prosecutors and cops and mafiosos, sitting and pacing inside government offices talking about evidence and guilt and indictments. All wearing white shirts and ties, toughing it out and stating their cases, sipping coffee out of cheap styrofoam cups as they try to out-bluster and out-truth-talk each other.

Roger Ebert wrote nearly 26 years ago that “this is a movie that literally hinges on the issue of perjury. And Sidney Lumet and his co-writer, Jay Presson Allen, have a great deal of respect for the legal questions involved. There is a sustained scene in this movie that is one of the most spellbinding I can imagine, and it consists entirely of government lawyers debating whether a given situation justifies a charge of perjury. Rarely are ethical issues discussed in such detail in a movie, and hardly ever so effectively.”

Prince of the City acquainted me with a Thomas de Quincy passage that I’ve never forgotten: “If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination.”

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I finally caught up with Lorna Tucker‘s Call Me Kate (Netflix, 5.12), a 96-minute doc about Katharine Hepburn, the raven-haired, freckle-faced powerhouse actress who defied everyone and every expectation to become her own persona and “brand”, way before the concept of independent, big-studio-defying actresses had really taken root.

We all know the basics — a 62-year career, 40-plus films (The Philadelphia Story, The Lion in Winter, Bringing Up Baby, The African Queen, Summertime), brilliant performer, four Oscars, etc. A very tough and willful lady, a flinty Connecticut attitude, deeply passionate, family advantages from the get-go, very exacting and particular, certainly no pushover.

“I would have been a terrible mother because I’m basically a very selfish human being,” etc.

The film is basically about previously unseen home movies, first-hand recollections from family members, random footage, audio tapes, letters, etc.

Hepburn was almost certainly bisexual or primarily gay and who cares? Was the decades-long “romance” with Spencer Tracy even physical? I found it odd that her mid 1930s “affair” with John Ford (which probably wasn’t sexual) isn’t mentioned at all. No mention of a lot of things. No Love Affair, Grace Quiqley., etc.

Tucker could have easily made a six-part miniseries out of all the available material. But by the conclusion a strong affinity and affection for Hepburn has been instilled. Highly recommended.

LETTER FROM HE to WES ANDERSON, SENT AT 4:55 PM EASTERN:

Wes,

When filmmakers and actors have lately (i.e., since 2017) been accused of unsavory off-screen behaviors, it’s become the fashion for colleagues to throw them under the bus and run for tall grass.  Sadly, deplorably.

Example:  Timothee Chalamet‘s chickenshit response following accusations of Woody Allen‘s long-refuted issues with Mia and Dylan after starring in Allen’s A Rainy Day in New York.

I therefore genuinely admire your reply to questions about allegations of questionable behavior on the part of Bill Murray during the filming of Aziz Ansari‘s Being Mortal. Hats off, crisp salute.

Jeff

Excerpt from 6.12 IndieWire piece by Samantha Bergeson, titled “Wes Anderson Is Standing by Bill Murray Amid Sexual Misconduct Claims Against The Actor“:

“Asteroid City filmmaker and frequent Murray collaborator Anderson told IndieWire’s Eric Kohn that the allegations against Murray will in no way impact their working relationship:

“My experience with Bill is so extensive. Bill was such a great supporter of me from the very beginning. I don’t want to speak about somebody else’s experience, but he’s really part of my family. You know, he’s my daughter’s godfather. In fact, he actually baptized her. He’s the one who splashed the water.”

From Peter Debruge’s 6.11 Variety review of Steven Kijak’s Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed: “During his lifetime, Rock Hudson was a model for American masculinity. That changed after his death, when the strapping, straight-acting (but occasionally sensitive) hunk from Winnetka became the poster boy for Hollywood homophobia: a closeted star who’d been forced to play a role his entire career that wasn’t true to himself, on screen and off.

“Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed treats that compromise as a tragedy, leaning on the fact Hudson died of AIDS to underscore the injustice, but Stephen Kijak’s documentary does him a disservice, reducing Hudson’s career — in exactly the way he went so far out of his way to avoid — to the dimension of his sexuality.

“Built around interviews with a handful of former lovers and friends, Kijak spills private details from Hudson’s personal life, ranging from whom he shagged to how he arranged such trysts in the first place.

“A secretly recorded phone call reveals Hudson to be a ‘size queen,’ audibly excited by the prospect of meeting a tall, well-endowed stranger. The whopper — which underscores the kind of salacious gossip Kijak gravitates toward in the film — comes from Joe Carberry, who recalls, ‘Rock had a sizable dick, but he tried to put that thing up my ass, and I couldn’t do it.'”

For the first time, you might want to listen to a drag queen. pic.twitter.com/o2r9jbbUak

— Dr. Anastasia Maria Loupis (@DrLoupis) June 12, 2023

…are not, I would say, “impressive” in their appearance. Not by any conventional standard.

The percentage of serious standouts by average go-getter criteria —- people who seemed unusually attractive or were exceptionally cool dressers or possessed of a certain X-factor special-tude — seemed miniscule. Most of them looked like Ukrainians who’d been living through bombings. Plain, drained, unexceptional, stressed, diminished, haggard…in some instances like the ragged end of nowhere.

Very few looked like Tom Verlaine, Patti Smith, Darren Aronofsky, Lady Gaga, young James Cagney, young Walter Matthau, Harvey Keitel’s “Sport” in Taxi Driver, Lou Reed, Rosario Dawson, Jim Carroll, Ben Gazzara, Sidney Lumet, Luís Guzman, Alan King, young Joe Dallesandro, Hilly Kristal, Liev Schreiber, etc.

I spent most of Sunday afternoon eyeballing people on First, Second and Third Avenues, mostly south of 12th Street and north of 4th Street, and mostly I was muttering to myself “these people don’t look like finalists or dynamic achievers or upper-echelon types…the older ones look like stooped-over schlubs and the 20somethings seem older than their (apparent) years.”

And fairly horribly dressed for the most part — dreary shorts, nothing T-shirts, sandals and slip-ons…an absence of style, normcore drab. And relatively few looked like workout Nazis…bulky, scrawny, pudgy, drinker bods.

Okay, it was warm and humid and, Sunday being Sunday, nobody was trying to look their best but still…

Mick Jagger ‘78:”To live in this town, you must be tough tough tough tough tough tough tough.” Jeffrey Wells ‘23: “Lower East Siders look creased and worn to the nub nub nub nub nub nub nuhb.”

I’m comparing Lower East Siders to rank-and-file residents of West Hollywood, where I lived for nearly 40 years, and Venice, where I lived for three years, and Westfield, where I grew up, and Wilton, where I went to high school and where I currently live. I’m sorry but the people of these towns all looked (or currently look) better — healthier, less hassled, good genes, a certain spiritual buoyancy, etc.

Sorry but these were my impressions.

I was so full of despair this afternoon, I decided to really sink into the swamp by visiting Spicy Moon, the vegetarian Asian food cafe on East 6th between 1st and 2nd Avenues.

The owner, June Kwan, is the mother of EEAAO’s co-director and co-writer Daniel Kwan.

Few films have made me feel more sick in the soul…a deeply loathed Oscar-winner that truly heralded the apocalypse. If and when the waiter hands me a paper check, I’m going to write “good food but no fan of the film!”…something like that.

Honestly? I didn’t much care for the vegetable dumplings. They tasted like hot mashed-up Brussels sprouts and were filled with a kind of seaweed green gloop. Did I leave a nice tip anyway? Yes, but…