Jeffrey Wells As reported on 11.16, Cameron Crowe‘s We Bought A Zoo will be sneaking nationwide on Saturday, 11.26, at 7 pm. The L.A. theatres showing it will include the Arclight, the Landmark, the Bridge and Universal Citywalk. You can’t buy Fandango tickets online so there will almost certainly be long lines and a big media pile-up so I guess I’m going to have to go early.
8:43 pm Update: I’ve bought an Arclight ticket through movietickets.com.
My theory about the New York Film Critics Circle vote, which will happen on Tuesday, 11.29 (or six days hence), is that the org as a whole is now emotionally insecure and off-balance, and may therefore vote erratically and curiously in at least a category or two. Not overtly but subconsciously, I mean. This would be due to the loss of face recently suffered by NYFCC honcho John Anderson, which reflects to some extent upon the organization itself.
The NYFCC membership, in short, is probably feeling angry and shaken and perhaps rebellious on some level, and will possibly make calls that will go against big-studio-contenders.
The unbalanced mood is a result of not one but two studios going eyeball-to-eyeball with Anderson over his decision (supported by allies like N.Y. Post critics Lou-Lou Lumenick and Kyle Smith) to push the voting day all the way back to 11.28, or three days before the National Board of Review voting day on 12.1. Anderson was then obliged to move the voting date to 11.29 due to Sony’s inability to screen David Fincher‘s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo before 11.28. And then Anderson & Co. appeared to lose out altogether when Warner Bros. announced it would be unable to meet an 11.27 deadline as far as Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close was concerned, and in fact wouldn’t begin showing it until around 12.2.
So the NYFCC may want to take a form of subconcious revenge upon the big studios as a face-saving or payback move. You guys made us look weak or inconsequential by delaying your screening dates and appearing to push us around? So we’re going to hit back by favoring indie contenders and not giving awards to your films if we can help it.
The NYFCC, in other words, may unconsciously or subconsciously decide to shaft or half-shaft all the big studios in a kind of sweepingly symbolic, fuck-you-and-the-horse-you-rode-in-on fashion. Not like children but within an honorable and conscientious critical prism, I mean. Which, if I’m half-right, would seem to work against The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and perhaps Moneyball and God knows who or what else.
Anderson and Lumenick and other NYFCC-ers will no doubt scoff at my theory, but organizations are just like people, and like people they do tend to act in unexpected or offbeat ways when their feelings have been hurt. I do know that the NYFCC’s self-image is at a low point right now as a result of the eyeball-to-eyeball stuff, and it wouldn’t be that weird if the voting somehow reflects this insecure, off-balance feeling in some way….that’s all. Talk to anyone who’s dealt professionally with people who’ve been through serious trauma.
Even if you think my theory is totally full of shit, it’s at least more realistic and sensible-sounding that the Gold Derby team trying to predict next Tuesday’s vote. My NYFCC trauma theory is at least based on something real that has definitely happened as opposed to the usual spitballing and poking holes in the air and pontificating…blah, blah.
I will be flabbergasted if The Artist‘s Jean Dujardin wins for Best Actor, as a majority of Derby “experts” is now predicting. The honorable and decent thing would be for the NYFCC to put poor faltering Moneyball back in the conversation by handing their Best Actor prize to Brad Pitt, or their Best Director trophy to the Manhattan-residing Bennett Miller, or their Best Picture honor to the film itself.
Martin Scorsese is dead serious about wanting Leonardo DiCaprio to play Frank Sinatra in a forthcoming biopic. This has always struck me as a ridiculous idea. The physical shorthand for Sinatra before he hit 50 and starting putting on weight was always “short and skinny” (he was about 5’7″), and Leo is about six feet tall with moderately broad shoulders. There’s not even a vague resemblance between them. Sinatra had a narrowish face with a longish nose, and DiCaprio has a wide Germanic face with a smallish nose.
DiCaprio as Sinatra is like casting Joseph Gordon Levitt to play Cary Grant or Jason Segel as Spencer Tracy or Seth Rogen as Henry Fonda. It’s one of those “what?” calls. Ludicrous.
Scorsese should be talking to Johnny Depp about this film. Depp isn’t perfect but he could be made to half-resemble Sinatra with blue contact lenses and nose putty, etc. I could buy him in the role, but DiCaprio is an even worse fit for Sinatra than he was for J. Edgar Hoover and Howard Hughes.
Doesn’t DiCaprio need to give his biopic thing a break? Doesn’t he need to give the Scorsese partnership a break also (and vice versa)? Doesn’t he need to play the lead in a shallow but charming romantic comedy like Working Girl or Legal Eagles…something like that?
If you were Fred Zinneman, director of From Here to Etermity, what would you say if someone pulled you aside as you were shooting the barroom knife-fight scene between Sinatra, Ernest Borgnine and Burt Lancaster (who was about 6’1″, or no more than an inch taller than DiCaprio) and said, “Sixty years from now a major director is going to shoot a Sinatra biopic with a guy who’s almost exactly Lancaster’s build and height to play Sinatra…whaddaya think about that?” Zinneman would probably laugh.
Note: I wrote not one but two longer versions of this story earlier, and both were lost because Safari froze twice due to a photo-saving attempt with Picnik. I should have made sure Picnik was on a different browser than Movable Type 4.0 (which I hate and want to get rid of). It was my stupid fault entirely. At least three hours worth of work was lost altogether, which required 10 or 15 minutes of of emotional recovery (i.e., loud swearing, punching the rerigerator door) both times or a total of 30 minutes.
Bad Thing #1: Early this evening a young Latino couple was looking at the digital lobby board inside Hollywood’s Arclight plex. The guy walked forward, got into line and turned to the girl. “You wanna comedy? Or…what, action? A comedy?” The girl half-shrugged, seemed a bit bored. “I dunno…whatever,” she said. He shrugged also, turned back to the board. Those clayheads, I thought to myself. Forget glancing at Rotten Tomatoes. Forget wanting to see The Immortals or Breaking Dawn. They hadn’t even talked about the kind of film they might want to see. Empty Coke bottles.
Bad Thing #2: I couldn’t resist slipping into theatre #10 to see what was up with the projection of The Descendants. There’s always something a little bit wrong with the light levels or the sound at a commercial plex. (Moneyball looked like hell when I caught it at Manhattan’s Lincoln Square last September.) Sure enough, the center-channel sound was weak and the dialogue was soft and thin, almost whispery. The Hawaiian music from the right and left channel was louder.
I went out to the lobby and told the manager that I’d seen The Descendants three times before — in Telluride, Toronto and at the Academy theatre on Wilshire — and that the sound was perfect each time. The manager tried the old “tilting the head slightly to the left or right” routine but otherwise he listened and nodded. “And I’m going to tell Fox Searchlight and Alexander Payne about this,” I said. “You have to take responsibility for what you do or don’t do. People aren’t really hearing the film that Payne made.”
I had a brief sitdown last Friday afternoon with A Dangerous Method director David Cronenberg. We had about twelve minutes, if that. Our last interview was, I think, 29 or 30 years ago to talk about Scanners. I still remember the intensity of that discussion and saying to myself as Cronenberg delivered his points, “Whoa, this guy doesn’t fool around…no digressions, no bullshit.” Here‘s the mp3.
A Dangerous Method opens tomorrow (Wednesday, 11.23).
There’s always some kind of twisted perversity in Cronenberg’s films. Which is what most of us, I gather, look forward to when a new one is about to be shown. It’s there in A Dangerous Method, for sure, but in a spotty, paint-dabby fashion. Keira Knightley brings it in those shrieking, belt-whipping scenes with Michael Fassbender, but the film, it must be said, is somewhat dryer and more cerebral than anything Cronenberg had made before, and this requires, I feel, an adjustment of expectations.
A Dangerous Method is “well-acted but extremely cool, aloof, studied and intellectually driven to a fare-thee-well,” as I noted in early September. You just have to be ready for that, and saying this is not a criticism. As I wrote on 10.20, “the talkiness plays better the second time. You go in knowing what it is and accepting that, and you settle into Christopher Hampton‘s script like an easy chair.”
My strongest feelings are still about about Knightley’s “highly agitated, face-twitching performance. “It’s fascinating but hard to roll with at times,” I wrote from the Telluride Film Festival, “particularly during the first 20 minutes to half-hour. Cronenberg told her to go for it in terms of facial tics and flaring nostrils and body spasms, etc. She does a jaw-jutting thing that hasn’t been seen since John Barrymore played Dr. Jekyll in the 1920 version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. At the same time Knightley brings a thrilling sexual intensity to the all-too-brief fucking and belt-whipping scenes with Fassbender.
“All in all Knightley is quite a handful — she throws you and pulls you in at the same time. It’s a high-wire, risk-taking thing, and Method really needs to be seen for this alone.”
A guy stood through most of a nearly seven-hour Anchorage-to-Philadelphia flight last July because he couldn’t stand sitting next to a 400-pound sea lion whose massive girth took up half of the standing-guy’s seat. The solution is simple, obvious and considerate to all parties. People who are absurdly obese (and there’s a very simple way of determining who’s excessive in this regard) have to pay for two seats. If they don’t like it, tough.
I don’t know what happened but I thought I’d posted this last night. There are several Drive parodies out there but this might be the cleverest. But only if Albert Brooks thinks so. Albert? You look at the column every so often (or so you indicated when we last spoke) so what’s the verdict? Good, decent, disposable…? At least it has a theme.
I’m also a fan of this one.
I’ve always loathed end-of-the-year holidays because of that awful flatline feeling . Every city becomes a version of San Francisco as seen by Gregory Peck though his submarine periscope in On The Beach. Everyone stops creating and endeavoring and running around and settles into eating and drinking and zoning out in front of LCDs and LEDs. There’s no joy in lying around like lazy seals. I remember feeling this way when I was eight.
But there’s nothing to be done about it. Every time a four-day Thanksgiving is about to begin I say to myself, “Okay, here it comes…the world is going to slip into downshift and nod-off mode, but the holiday is not going to get me. I’m going to live through it and when it’s all over and I’ve capitulated and done the lazy sit-down thing, I’ll never stuff myself with heaping portions of heavy food again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill…as God is my witness, I’ll never eat anything but fruit again.”
Having sat down only a few days ago with actress Olivia Colman (Tyrannosaur), I was a bit surprised by her heavily altered prosthetic and be-wigged appearance as Carol Thatcher, daughter of former Priem Minister Margaret Thatcher, in Phyllida Lloyd‘s The Iron Lady. A columnist friend didn’t even recognize her, he told me this morning.
