No more Santa Barbara Film Festival tributes — last night’s Jeff Bridges celebration was the last. Today and tomorrow are for screenings, walk-arounds, bike rides, naps, a dinner or two and the usual daily column filings. I’ll be driving back to Los Angeles late Sunday morning, but with no particular haste or aggression.
Some may not immediately recognize that Walter Sobchak is doing the admonishing here — just saying. I’d have posted the name of the artist but I just happened to see this last night on Twitter sans credit — please advise.
Let me explain something to The Hollywood Reporter‘s Scott Feinberg, who moderated last night’s Santa Barbara Film Festival tribute to Hell or High Water‘s Jeff Bridges, as well as the person who edited the Bridges film-clip montage that started the evening off. Feinberg knows film history better than most and can rattle off statistics like a machine, but surely he’s modest enough to appreciate that he doesn’t know everything and that lessons and reminders are good things to absorb.
Bridges’ most robust career phase was a 13-year stretch between Peter Bogdanovich‘s The Last Picture Show (’71) and Hal Ashby‘s 8 Million Ways To Die (’84). These were the super-quality years — the rest of his career enjoyed an occasional highlight (’98’s The Big Lewbowski, ’09’s Crazy Heart, etc.) but yard by yard and dollars to donuts, the ’70s and early ’80s delivered the most bountiful hey-hey.
The Bogdanovich and Ashby aside, the best of Bridges’ 13-year run included John Huston‘s Fat City (’72), Lamont Johnson‘s The Last American Hero (’73), John Frankenheimer‘s The Iceman Cometh (’73), Frank Perry‘s Rancho Deluxe (’75), Bob Rafelson‘s Stay Hungry (’76), Ivan Passer‘s Cutter’s Way (’81) and Taylor Hackford‘s Against All Odds (’84).
If you ask me Hero and Hungry are the most exciting and infectious, and that means you don’t omit them from any Bridges career montage or from any Bridges interview. I don’t care how many fans would rather hear about fucking King Kong or the eternally leaden and indulgent Heaven’s Gate — you DON’T blow off The Last American Hero (which Bridges himself mentioned but which Feinberg apparently hasn’t seen), Rancho Deluxe (ditto) or Stay Hungry.
To the doghouse with both of them (i.e., Feinberg and the editor)! A 24-hour diet of dog biscuits and tap water.
Thanks again to Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neil for asking me to participate in an Oscar Prediction Throwdown taping two days ago (i.e., this one), but I just couldn’t see driving all the way down from Santa Barbara and then back just to do this one thing. The round trip would have taken at least four hours plus pit stops and whatever unforeseen traffic obstructions and slowdowns. I don’t need to add I would have grumped and grouched my way all through the discussion. I’m not much for home-stretch predictions anyway — I’m more of an early fall-to-late December “this or that it what ought to be nominated” kind of guy. Congrats to O’Neil, Yahoo Movies senior editor Kevin Polowy and Access Hollywood‘s Scott Mantz for keeping the ball in the air without my brilliant backhands and slam shots.
If you visit Rodney’s Grill inside the Fess Parker Doubletree, you’ll notice that during the evening hours they’re constantly projecting episodes from the Davy Crockett saga on the wall above the bar. Parker, a hotshot actor during the era of Dwight D. Eisenhower, starred as Crockett on the Disney hour in 1955 and ’56, and for a while was almost as big as the Beatles or Elvis. But every damn night must get old if you’re a Rodney’s regular. If I was running the show I would also screen clips from some of Parker’s other films including The Great Locomotive Chase (my personal favorite in which Parker played a Union spy and saboteur), Hell Is For Heroes, Battle Cry, Old Yeller and Them!
I don’t relate to “Orwellian invasion of privacy by way of mobile technology and social media” stories because my life is devoted to self-exposure by way of same (except when it comes to girlfriends — that stuff is off-limits unless I decide otherwise). Emma Watson, Tom Hanks, Patton Oswalt, John Boyega, Ellar Coltrane, Nate Corddry and Glenne Headly. Based on a book by Dave Eggers, adapted and directed by James Ponsoldt (The End of the Tour, The Spectacular Now). When a distributor decides to open a movie in April, there’s always a reason.
While visiting Los Olivos yesterday afternoon I figured a quick visit to the gates of what was once called Neverland (and is now called Sycamore Valley Ranch) might be interesting. I read not long ago that Michael Jackson‘s former estate had been sold, but for some reason I can’t find the latest link. Jackson abandoned the place in June 2005 in the wake of his acquittal on pedophile molestation and conspiracy. The love notes scrawled on the Spanish-styled wall outside the main gate reminded me of the sentiments written on the grave of Oscar Wilde in Pere Lachaise. The green hills and pastures as you approach the estate are almost blinding, like the greens of southern Ireland.
“Any veneer of plausible deniability about the Trump family’s greed and their transactional view of the most powerful job in the world was shattered this week by a defamation lawsuit the first lady, Melania Trump, filed. Mrs. Trump is suing The Daily Mail’s website in New York State court over a story published last year that included a baseless claim that the former model once worked as an escort. Mrs. Trump is certainly entitled to challenge the accuracy of that allegation and to argue that it was defamatory, but her assessment of the damage the claim has done to her earning potential is galling, and revelatory. As a result of the report published in August, Mrs. Trump contends in the suit, her ‘brand has lost significant value, and major business opportunities that were otherwise available to her have been lost and/or substantially impacted.’ The suit offers no specific examples of lost business opportunities [but] President Trump and his family have done little to assuage concerns that they see the White House as a cash cow.” — From a N.Y. Times editorial, posted on 2.7.
I’ve watched several video essays about Manchester By The Sea, but I hadn’t seen this one until early this morning. It has an extra quality so I thought I’d post it…that’s all.
A few days ago I succumbed to an unwise impulse and tossed a few crackers to this guy. He’s been dropping by ever since, of course. I will always feed animals — birds, squirrels, dogs, feral cats. I have a generous nature (or at least I do when I’ve got enough to spread around), and because feeding these guys generates a special feeling — a bond with nature, the universe and God herself.
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.
Elle‘s Isabelle Huppert charmed the pants off Santa Barbara last night during an Arlington theatre tribute. Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson handled the interview with polish and aplomb, and the great William Hurt, who had just driven himself up from Los Angeles, presented Huppert’s trophy. During the after-party I asked Huppert about Happy End, the Michael Haneke film costarring herself and Jean-Louis Trintignant that will almost certainly debut in Cannes three months hence. I’ve read that the film, shot in northern France, deals with the European immigrant crisis, but Huppert said not really — the crisis is more of a backdrop element than anything else. Huppert’s green-and-coral gown was the subject of muted conversation during the after-event; the general opinion was that the Best Actress nominee should probably wear a darker, more conservative gown on Oscar night.
