I saw Run Lola Run twice a quarter-century ago. Throttled. Last night I re-watched a 4K restored version at a Danbury plex, and loved it just as much. Smart, fleet. metaphysical, and funnier than I remembered.
Plus what an unusual thing to catch a fast-moving flick that lasts only 80 minutes when the average feature running time these days is over two hours.
MinorAnne Thompsoncorrection: FrankaPotente, who will turn 50 in July, was born on 7.22.74. Run Lola Run was initially released in Germany on 8.20.98, and, being a warm-weather film, was most likely shot in Berlin the previous summer, when Potente was 23. If she was 21 when she ran through Tom Tykwer’s film, principal photography would have happened in ‘95. I don’t know for a fact when Lola lensed, but a three-year post-production period sounds unlikely.
Lola’s 19th Century apartment building is located at Albrechtstraße13–14, at the intersection of Schiffbauerdamm — right alongside Berlin’s Spree River, and roughly a five-minute walk from the area of the old Reichstag building and the Brandenburg gate.
My aching left leg joint no longer aches. Cordless Robocop massage pistol arrived a day ago. It makes me feel like a gunslinger. I decided against ordering an optional black leather holster…kidding.
I’m okay with Harris Dickinson playing John Lennon in Sam Mendes’ forthcoming quartet of Beatles films (due in ‘27), and I don’t know enough about Charlie Rowe to squawk about Mendes having cast him as George Harrison.
But a rumoreddecision to cast HE’s two all-time biggest pet-peeve actors — Paul Mescal and Barry beestung-nose Keoghan — as Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr is giving me heart palpitations.
I can only hope and pray that Jeff Sneider’sreporting is somehow mistaken or, if correct, is up in the air as far as Mescal-Keoghan are concerned. Please God, I’m begging you…
Brad Pitt has been sober for nearly eight years, but because he lost his alcoholic temper during that infamouscharteredflight (on 9.14.16) and was physically abusive to Maddox, one of the six Jolie-Pitt kids…because he was a belligerent drunken dick that one time, at least two of his daughters, Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, 18, and Vivienne Jolie-Pitt, 15, are convinced that he’s a living embodiment of Satan and want the Pitt struck from their last names.
Shiloh has in fact filedlegalpapers to change her name to a Pitt-less Shiloh Jolie. Perhaps Vivienne will follow suit when she turns 18.
We all understand teens who feel estranged from their parents (I was one), but who goes into court and says in effect “strike my father’s last name from my legal history!…he doesn’t exist, his name is anathema!…I judge him damned with the devil and condemn him to molten-lava hell with all the other fallen angels, where he will writhe in terrible pain for all eternity.”
What kind of nutbag daughter thinks this way?
Why is the divorce initiated by Angelina Jolie againstWilliam Bradley Pitt still ongoing and unresolved eightyearslater? Sane exes don’t behave this way as a rule.
Trust me — I’m not the first person on planet earth to rhetorically ask “what exactly is Angelina’s basic psychological malfunction?”
Then again I may be thinking too narrowly. Perhaps Pitt is the devil incarnate, and therefore deserves to be hunted down with clubs and spears and burned like Joan of Arc or Oliver Reed’s Father Grandier from Ken Russell’s TheDevils?
I wasn’t going to say anything about Sasha Stone’s Manhattan mishap, which happened two days ago (Thursday, 5.30) in the early morning while walking on those mean, pushy, move-it-or-lose-it concrete streets with her two dogs, who travel with her everywhere.
Sasha and her daughter Emma, bunked in a NYC rental somewhere in the mid 30s, had agreed to meet me and Jody Jasser and a mutual friend for dinner at Novita (102 E. 22nd Street) at 7 pm that evening. We’d arranged things a week or so earlier, when I was still in Cannes.
Sasha had in fact asked if Jody could join us, as they’d never met and this was a rare opportunity, etc. Plus she would feel socially safer with a non-pro at the table. Sasha is a “just folks” kinda gal — she gets nervous if there any too many wise guys and hot shots (i.e., people like me) in the room.
But sometime around breakfast hour and while basking in the glow of midtown sunlight, Sasha was presumably walking her mutts and then suddenly, to borrow a colorful expression from Daniel Day Lewis’s “Bill the Butcher” in GangsofNew York…whoopsy daisy!…she tripped over a curb or the dogs lurched and caused her to somehow lose her balance or whatever…Sasha “face-planted” (her term) on the sidewalk, and in so doing busted her right arm.
She texted the bad news from an emergency room, including a photo of her somewhat swollen features with a bloody upper lip. I responded with “holy shit!” surprise and friendo concern. Traumatized or at least shook up with an achey-breaky limb, Sasha didn’t formally withdraw from the Novita dinner, which of course was unnecessary. I’ve beenthere.
I advised recuperation and caution. I told Sasha she was risking possible trouble by driving her rental car back to Ohio to drop Emma off and then pushing on to Los Angeles, and doing it all with one arm and one hand (her left).
She’s doing it anyway as we speak. I admire her bravery. She’s a good driver. I just hope nothing dicey happens, forcing Sasha to react quickly and decisively without both hands on the wheel.
Everyone needs to wish her well and urge her to drive extra-carefully.
HEtofriendo: “I want to enjoy this moment. I want to revel in it! So no sneering or pooh-pooling from the likes of Taibbi or anyone else in his fucking smart-ass realm.”
