So is it fair to infer that Universal and John Chu‘s Wicked (11.22) is a some kind of family-friendly delivery device for queer theology?
Cynthia Erivo‘s real-life sexuality and the metaphor of Elphaba Thopp’s frowned-upon outsider identity aside, Wicked has no openly queer characters, but “this hasn’t stopped fans from exploring several queer-coded elements and metaphors,” says one of the queer-authored essays I’ve been reading.
Elphaba has a thing early on for Jonathan Bailey‘s Fiyero Tigelaar, a “Winkie prince”, but the deeper, more profound friendship is between Elphaba (destined to become tHe Wicked Witch of the West) and Ariana Grande‘s Galinda Upland, who becomes Glinda the Good Witch (played by BillieBurke in The Wizard of Oz).
I’m presuming that square, middle-American moms and dads are most likely overjoyed that yet another family-angled entertainment from Hollywood wokesters will be selling queer theology to their kids. I for one am delighted on Sutton’s behalf.
Bill McCuddy: “Uhm…stick around until Episode 3 and thank me later.
“Leila George is Greta Scacchi‘s daughter, of course. Playing young Cate Blanchett. Thankfully Vincent D’Onofrio‘s genes were recessive.
“As a bonus she has Blanchett’s mannerisms down pat.
“How the episode 3 sex scenes got made in an era of on-set intimacy police, I have no clue.
“Do you know the old Orson Welles story? He’s lunching late in his life at his daily LA haunt (Ma Maison, I think) when an older lady from Kansas comes to the table. Wants to know about Citizen Kane. Orson had heard every question about Citizen Kane except this one, it turned out.
“’Mr. Welles, do you realize when Kane says rosebud there’s no one in the room to hear it? So how do we know he said it?”
“Welles allegedly turned ashen and said something like “No, I did not realize it, and don’t you ever tell another living soul.”
“The same thing is true about the damning book that Lesley Manville, playing Kevin Kline‘s late wife, has written in Disclaimer. One person is dead and the other person never told anyone. So how’d Manville know any of this? She didn’t.
I saw September 5 (Paramount, 11.29) at the Chuck Jones theatre in Telluride, and my immediate reacion was “a very decent portrayal of a grim, sobering tragedy…it holds you in as it recreates the 1972 details and atmosphere and whatnot.
“Does it get into the whys and wherefores on the part of Black September’s terrorism or any of the general political particulars? Nope — it focuses solely on the strategic calls behind the reporting by ABC’s Munich-based news team, who were stationed only about 100 feet from the Israeli Olympic team’s condo.
“I didn’t feel under-fed or cheated, but I wanted to feel more of the totality of the tragedy.”
From Peter Debruge’s 8.29.24 review: “The Steven Spielberg film that September 5 most resembles is The Post, in its flurry of trying to act responsibly amid the incredible pressures of a breaking-news environment.
“September 5 takes us behind the scenes of the 17-hour Munich ordeal, beginning shortly before the attack and cataloging key decisions until just after the tragic finale, when World of Sports host Jim McKay famously confirmed the chilling news, ‘They’re all gone,’ on air.
“[And yet] as an in-the-trenches account of how ABC Sports approached the story, the film focuses primarily on a young, ambitious producer (played by a period-appropriate-looking John Magaro), based on veteran sports broadcaster Geoffrey Mason’s memory of events.
“ABC Sports may have gotten the story, but it also got it wrong, prematurely repeating an unconfirmed report that the hostages were recovered safely.
“Moritz and Fehlbaum’s matter-of-fact script lacks the punchy pressure-cooker sparring quality of inside-baseball series such as The Morning Show or Aaron Sorkin’s Sports Night, which can leave one feeling like the real story is happening elsewhere — and it is, since there’s only so much that news crews can extrapolate from telephoto lenses trained on a faraway balcony.
“When shocking incidents happen live, our imaginations tend to fill in what can’t be seen with the worst. In this case, revisiting it half a century later, knowing what happened doesn’t preclude us from wanting to get a better understanding of the specifics. But this movie’s insights are limited to the newsroom, focusing on such minutiae as TV hosts using the words ‘as we’re hearing,’ versus the reality of what transpired during the climactic disaster at Fürstenfeldbruck Air Base.”
Is Kamala Harris charismatic and razzle-dazzly enough to serve as the nation’s 47th president? She doesn’t need to be. What matters is that she’s a decent, ethically grounded, steady-as-she-goes and obviously intelligent politician.
Harris can memorize and repeat the necessary talking points and can project sincerity and conviction as far as it goes, but she isn’t much for thinking on her feet and verbally tap-dancing like some wowser wordsmith…she’s no Bill Clinton, no improvisational dynamo…generating occasional breakthrough moments and special political poetry seems to elude her for the most part.
Harris was pretty good during tonight’s CNN Town Hall but she’ll never be gifted at this stuff. We all understand this, I think. But you know what else?
Within the personality and basic approach of a hard-working, carefully constructed operator, she comes off as a serious, sensible, focused, practical–minded and fundamentallymoral person who isn’t into fooling around or playing games or lowering the colloquial so the rubes can have a little fun…she is who she is, and Lord knows she’s a much better human being than Donald Trump, who is clearly dangerous and insane.
I’m going to repeat this: Harris is a much better person than Trump — more sensible, more mature, a believer in regulated thought. The woke thing burns within her and that’s unfortunate, but at heart she sees life in steady, practical terms. She’s no Gavin Newsom-level orator, but she won’t generate storms of madness and chaos.
“It doesn’t cost $60,000 to bury a fucking Mexican…don’t pay it!”
In the wake of news about Harvey Weinstein facing eradication by cancer, Paul Schrader was recently admonished for posting that given the fact that the upper reaches of the film industry was a poon paradise when Harvey was young and trying to hustle his way in…perhaps a little context is in order, Schrader said.
It wasn’t a club atmosphere that necessarily looked the other way at rape and sexual assault (although sexual criminality no doubt infected the quiet corridors of power back then) but an atmospehere in which wealthy, over-40 industry dudes had the license and wherewithal to dip their wicks without fear of being sentenced to a career gallows…a long-ago time in which picking flowers in the garden of eros wasn’t necessarily regarded as evil and assaultive and deserving of severe punishment.
You had to be there, I guess, but the late ’60s, ’70s and early ’80s constituted the greatest era for nookie since the heyday of the Roman empire.
Harvey’s problem was that he wasn’t at all attractive and knew it, and that he was fairly enraged that life and circumstance had dealt him such shitty sexual cards. This made him very angry, and somehow that anger made him go a bit nuts in a certain way. He got it into his head that women he was helping career-wise owed him a boink or two — obviously a crude, gangsterish attitude. Harvey tried to finagle and muscle and bully his way into their pants, and now he’s paid the price.
I’ve posted this Times Square photo before. Snapped sometime prior to the 6.3.55 opening date of The Seven Year Itch, it’s about old, working-class, overall-wearing guys regarding a super-powerful, unreachable, untouchable sexual icon…zero opportunity…their youth and vitality gone with the wind.
Itch was the second of five ’50s films directed by the once-great Billy Wilder during his house-director phase, so-called because these films represented a creative hibernation for Wilder…a retreat from his usual cynical characters and stories, acid-tinged dialogue, third-act emotional turnarounds, etc.
The house phase also included Sabrina (’54), The Spirit of St. Louis (’57), Love in the Afternoon (’57) and Witness for the Prosecution (’57). Wilder finally returned to form in ’59 with Some Like It Hot.
The house phase began in the wake of the success of Wilder’s Stalag 17 (’53). It’s been speculated it may have partly been prompted by the failure of Wilder’s bitterly caustic Ace in the Hole (’51).
Wilder calledThe Seven Year Itch “a nothing picture because the picture should be done today without censorship…unless Tom Ewell, left alone in New York while the wife and kid are away for the summer, has an affair with Marilyn Monroe there’s nothing. But you couldn’t do that in those days, so I was just straitjacketed. It just didn’t come off one bit, and there’s nothing I can say about it except I wish I hadn’t made it. I wish I had the property now.”
I’m somewhat interested in catching My Name is Alfred Hitchcock (Cohen Media Group, 10.25), a two-hour “virtual essay” fom director-writer Mark Cousins.
The reason for the “somewhat” is that I’ve been spooked by a portion of the trailer, specifically Cousins’ decision to use an image of a young, pale, rather plain-looking Asian woman early on. The instant she appeared I muttered to myself “who the hell is this, and what could she possibly have to do with the late Alfred or anything Hitchcockian or whatever?” Right away I sensed something was off, some kind of loose screw.
“Any new film from the whispering cineaste and critical savant Mark Cousins is worth celebrating,” Maher wrote. “And this deep dive into the complete 52-title oeuvre of Alfred Hitchcock is worth it alone for Cousins’s analysis of the first cut in Rope, the opening doors of Spellbound and Hitch’s penchant for omniscient overhead shots.
“The central storytelling device, however, is that it’s narrated by Hitchcock (actually the impressionist Alistair McGowan) from beyond the grave. This is amusing for at least five minutes, until McGowan’s impersonation slips into a phlegmy Admiral Ackbar from Return of the Jedi and you start to crave the comforting tones that Cousins normally brings to his material.
“He has one of the most singular, soothing and mellifluous voices in non-fiction filmmaking today; that he would sacrifice that for a cheap one-note gag from Saturday night telly, beaten to death over two hours, is baffling.”
