If you have three reliable sources providing the same or corresponding information, you’re almost certainly on solid footing with your story. Then again if you’re writing about the private voting process for the 2021 New York Film Critics Circle awards, your story is automatically suspect because there’s an ironclad, “if you talk you die” rule among NYFCC members not to discuss the voting.
So in the matter of Jordan Ruimy’s World of Reel story about this subject, it apparently became obligatory among certain NYFCC members (Jason Bailey, Sam Adams, Allison Wilmore, Kate Erbland) to try and discredit the story and trash Ruimy, etc. Full court press.
My limited understanding is that Ruimy’s story is either (a) highly accurate as far as his sources relayed or (b) a mostly accurate summary of what happened, regardless of who said what and who disagreed and/or disputed.
Two or three years ago I was lamenting the overload of "product" pouring out of the pipeline -- theatrical features, major-app originals, limited series. Now it seems even worse. So much that a part of me almost crumples when I peruse the weekly rundown. My routine is to basically say "no, no, no, maybe, no, no, no, YES, no, no, possibly, no, no, no way, maybe," etc.
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World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy is reporting — no surprise — that Jane Campion‘s The Power of the Dog almost won the NYFCC Best Picture prize. And that the winner, Ryusuke Hamaguchi‘s 179-minute Drive My Car, “barely edged” the Campion.
Paul Thomas Anderson’s respectable, moderately pleasing Licorice Pizza “finished a distant third.” And Hamaguchi “came very close” to winning the Best Director trophy.
Lady Gaga‘s Best Actress win “wasn’t a unanimous decision”, but she had more supporters than the far more deserving Renate Reinsve (The Worst Person in the World) and Parallel Mothers‘ Penelope Cruz (my personal choice). The Lost Daughter‘s Olivia Colman finished fourth.
The Power of the Dog‘s Benedict Cumberbatch, the NYFCC’s Best Actor champ, will not overtake King Richard‘s Will Smith when it comes to the Oscars — trust me.
When they voted to hand Lady Gaga their 2021 Best Actress award, the New York Film Critics Circle knew they were smirking, half-kidding, succumbing…they’re supposed to be the fickle hardcore weirdos who always vote political-progressive…the austere, top-of-the-line, above-the-fray guys. And when push came to shove, they tumbled for a performance that they knew was mainly a populist sop…push came to shove and a majority decided “shit, how cool would it be for Lady Gaga, a major tabloid glamour-puss, to attend our awards ceremony?” They know Penelope Cruz‘s performance in Parallel Mothers is way, way above Gaga’s, and they voted for Gaga anyway. Giving it to Jessica Chastain for The Eyes of Tammy Faye would have been a more honorable choice. Or Being The Ricardos‘ Nicole Kidman. Or Alana Haim even.
…with two beggars staring holes at you. Give us a piece of your croissant, please. or half a spoonful of that chicken salad you bought last night. Feel our longing…please.
11:55 am: As we speak the New York Film Critics Circle has decided upon four awards: The Power of the Dog‘s Kodi Smit-McPhee for Best Supporting Actor (I don’t get it), The Tragedy of Macbeth‘s Kathryn Hunter for Best Supporting Actress (haven’t seen it), Joachim Trier‘s The Worst Person in the World for Best Foreign-Language Film (excellent choice!) and Flee for Best Non-Fiction film.
No updates until the mid-afternoon — Variety‘s Clayton Davis is keeping tabs.
11:30 am: Hollywood Elsewhere will finally shake hands with Sutton Wells early this afternoon. I’ll be leaving Manhattan within the hour, taking the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey and over to West Orange. Staying the weekend, etc.
Ebenezer Scrooge to daughter-in-law: “Can you forgive a pig-headed old fool for having no eyes to see with nor ears to hear with all these years?”
John Huston‘s Noah Cross to Belinda Palmer‘s Katherine Mulwray in Chinatown: “Katherine, I’m…I’m…I’m your grandfather.”
[Originally posted on 10.5.08] Sometimes car accidents can be...well, not too bad. Sometimes they can be shrugged off with no cops, no insurance, no injuries, no nothin’. I learned this when I was 18 or 19, and I’ve never forgotten the lesson. Not everything that goes badly needs to be catastrophic.
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The title of Paul Verhoeven‘s upcoming Washington, D.C.-based thriller implies that most sinners aren’t “young” — they tend to come into their best sinning in their mid 30s, 40s and 50s. The title also reminds me of The Young and the Restless. It also reminds me of Young Frankenstein.
HE’s #1 mantra: If a movie ends well, that’s half the ballgame. Let no one ever argue that Guillermo del Toro‘s Nightmare Alley (Searchlight, 12.17) doesn’t end well. It ends perfectly, in fact. It reiterates the basic film noir theme, which boils down to the main character fatalistically admitting that he’s doomed, and in fact has been doomed all along. He never had a chance, and his dark fate is so irrefutable that it’s funny.
Film noir basically says that none of us have a chance. Which we don’t if your definition of having a chance means escaping death. We’re all going to die. But if I had accepted this fatalistic, fuck-me doctrine when I was in my teens or 20s my life wouldn’t have worked out. So noirs are basically films with a bad attitude. They all say that noir protagonists are fucked and can’t “win” because they’re essentially self-destructive by way of some basic flaw or weakness, and that most of our dreams and schemes will never pan out.
Let no one say that Nightmare Alley hasn’t been masterfully composed — it’s all visually harmonized (the dp is Dan Laustsen) and exquisitely designed. Half of it radiates a rural travelling carnival vibe, the other half a snow-blanketed, pre-war urban (deco-moderne) gloom. And yet all of a piece…persistent and narcotizing and finally overwhelming.
HE to friend outside multiplex: “Yo…what are you seeing?” Friend to HE: “Nightmare Alley. I’m a Guillermo fan, and I don’t care if it has no monsters.” HE to friend: “I just saw it.” Friend to HE: “And…?” HE to friend: “Great cinematography and production design, lotsa gloom, good performances.” Friend to HE: “But how is it?” HE to friend: “You’re on your own, man. I’ll tell you this much — Bradley Cooper smokes 50 or 60 unfiltered cigarettes. Every damn scene he lights up, and it’s infuriating.”
When and if you watch Nightmare Alley (and I am recommending that you do) you need to accept from the get-go that Cooper’s Stan Carlisle is fucked — an asshole and a cruel hustler who’s determined to downswirl and self-destruct, and that how he manages to ruin his life as well as kill or maim those around him is just a matter of time, circumstance and opportunity.
Four kids get their groove on under the influence of Henri Rousseau. Except it's not Rousseau's brushstrokes as much as the jungle boogie percussion score. Basic idea: "Great post-impressionist art is a trip if...you know, you can also hear drums that make you want to dance."
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