The new Bond just has to be British…that’s the main thing. I’m okay with Aaron Pierre, 31, filling the slot. He’s an above-average actor (admired him in RebelRidge) with great eyes and a buff bod.
But nobody cares about the Bond franchise, do they? The concept of a stand-alone Bond film has been all but terminated with Amazon intending to strip-mine 007 for all he’s worth.
I think the current was destroyed when (a) Daniel Craig was killed for absolutely no reason, and then (b) the toxic, deeply loathed Jennifer Salkestalled the development process interminably.
I’m not saying we need incontrovertible proof that IndieWire’s cinematic soothsayers are living on a separate rarified planet…I think most of us have absorbed this repeatedly over the years, particularly since Team IndieWire went wacko wokey starting in the late teens….
But if you want proof of this, read no further than their “100BestMoviesofthe2020s” rundown, which posted yesterday (6.16).
I’m not going to nitpick the entirelist, and yes, I’m either agreeing or am largely commecicommeca with a fair amount of their selections. These guys are nutty but not completely untethered
But at the same time they’re saying with a straight face that Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun (which plague-dogged us wih the insufferably sensitive weepy-ass PaulMescal) and RyusukeHamaguchi‘s Drive My Red Saab (primarily an ode to Parliament cigarettes)…they’re saying these films deserve third- and ninth-place rankings. C’mon!
They’re also declaring that Jordan Peele’s Nope (#12), Jane Campion’s stifled, soul-draining (if visually handsome) ThePoweroftheDog (#14) , Martin Scorsese’s colossally miscalculated KillersoftheFlowerMoon (#29), TheDaniels’ mostly infuriating Everything Everywhere All At Once (#36), David Lowery’s all-but-unwatchable TheGreenKnight (#45) and the Wachowski’s 100% unbearable TheMatrix Resurrections (#49) deserve special consideration among the top 50 films…lunacy!
They’re also saying that these eight migraine-inducers are better than five incontestably superior releases from the same era…Janicza Bravo’s Zola (#59), Joachim Trier’s TheWorstPersonintheWorld (#62). Mike Leigh’s HardTruths, Eva Victor’s SorryBaby (#77) and Yorgos Lanthimos’ PoorThings (‘88)..
I’m going to slap together HE’s own roster of the best films from the first half of the ‘20s. Give me a couple of hours.
If nothing else the below image welcomely reminds that the William Bradley Pitt who stars in F1 bears no resemblance whatsoever to the “fatPitt” guy who appeared on a flush Manhattan sidewalk a couple of days ago….thank God!!
Here’s Paul McCartney’s son, James McCartney. The 47-year-old James is a serious musician (but man, what a generational burden) as well as a vegetarian; his mom is the late Linda McCartney. Hail fellow well met.
Dennis Hopper took this famous photo, titled “Standard Standard”, sometime in the early 1960s. He was driving south on Doheny Blvd. and making a left turn onto Santa Monica Blvd just before the Melrose Blvd. right-leaning juncture.
Look at this photo — it’s nothing. I know, that’s the point — flatness, gas station, billboards, parked cars, and those stark, scarecrow-like telephone poles and streetlamps — but there’s “nothing, really nothing to turn on”…nothing to contemplate or meditate upon except the general blandness of West Hollywood before it turned gay.
Okay, the large, bulky phantom car in the rearview mirror adds a certain intrigue. Peter Sellers’ Clare Quilty could be behind the wheel.
Posthumously cancel VanJohnson (who stood 6’2″ in his prime) for hanging with Roman Polanski? JoanCrawford is already a villainous figure. Mia Farrow has been a steadfast Polanski friend all along.
Even AI bullshit should have higher standards than this.
If there’s one genuinely funny gag in this whole film, I’ll eat my gray, Chinese-made cowboy hat. Because it’s understood that this reboot will lean heavily on the same kind of gags that defined the old Leslie Neilsen versions. We know the newbie won’t even flirt with being truly subversive.
Witness testimony from a guy who’s seen it: “The O.J. Simpson gag is ostensibly the biggest laugh in the film, but I will give credit to a protracted sequence centering around Liam Neeson and Pam Anderson innocently making dinner in a kitchen while being observed through infrared surveillance equipment that makes it look like they’re having wild, savage sex. When they bend over an oven, the device translates it into something really funny visually. That bit felt fresh while the majority of the jokes are Antediluvian Marx Bros. one liners like ‘Would you like a chair?’ and ‘No, I have one at home’, and set within uninspired, rote situations.
“And there’s really no social commentary on law enforcement, save for one passing gag in a bar that hints of race relations. This entire film smacks of Seth MacFarlane’s patented derivativeness. He was obviously brought aboard to imitate instead of create. The studio wanted a redo of the first film and got that.
“Neeson< seems too old to start lampooning his serious action career, so there’s a sadness in watching him in this, but Anderson does really well. Her character isn’t a dimbulb like Priscilla Presley since she possesses a personal vendetta against the villain, a tech giant, and wants payback. THAT felt like an update.
“What I groaned at most were some puerile toilet jokes, something the original films never reveled in, as well as misplaced attempts at ‘warmth’ as Neeson pines for his lost ‘old man’ meant to dovetail affection for the late Leslie Nielsen. At least Neeson doesn’t mug as much as Nielsen increasingly did. Oh, there’s a touch of topicality from a driverless car and AI references. The bag guy invokes Elon Musk, and not just his technology but personal life.
“At one point, they were going to call this NAKED GUN: DREBIN’S INFERNO, which hints of where the finale goes. This is a cheapjack ‘in name only’ sequel. There’s some breaking of the fourth wall in the third act that aficionados will recognize as lifted from a few Monty Python episodes. This film looks so cheaply made that they’ll probably eke out enough money the first weekend, especially if there are review embargos, but this feels very much like the sort of sequel that normally Netflix would debut since a living room couch is more forgiving than a theater seat. Consider this a warning shot for the 2nd SPACEBALLS as well.”
F1Friendo: “In your 6.12F1riff you didn’t include my one reservation about the surprising over-reliance upon live voiceover race commentary…
“While F1 tells an affecting story, it would be impossible to follow were it not for the wall-to-wall, supposedly live stadium commentary during the multiple FI races…this is the only way for the audience to fully participate in 90% of it.
“It feels like they shot what they could of each race, edited the footage and then added race commentary to bridge the gaps and heighten involvement. All very effective, but F1 is obviously the first over-$200M film to rely on (at times) almost continuous voice over to explain key plot and action.”
HEtoF1Friendo: “Well, I didn’t want to pass along a quibbling comment. That sounds like a bit of a negative viewpoint.”
F1Friendo: “Your regulars are complaining that your piece was too positive…that it was a puff piece.”
HEtoF1Friendo: “Well, it was a puff piece. But if I’m going to post something contrary, it’s going to be based on my own viewing. And I don’t think that wall-to-wall narration….well, maybe that IS a problem. I just want to see it myself and go from there.”
F1Friendo: “I’m not saying the loudspeaker narration is a problem. The film obviouslyworks. It’s just that relying on wall-to-wall narration is a huge surprise for such a massive enterprise.”
HE pisshounds called me a slut for postingafewenthusedparagraphs about F1, so in their eyes Griffin Schiller is presumed to be just another roadside prostitute…right?
Elite industry-ites were treated yesterday to a pair of F1 looksees (mid-afternoon and early evening) — Joseph Kosinski, Brad Pitt, Jerry Bruckheimer and Han Zimmer’s high-throttle gutslammer played at IMAX corporate headquarters in Playa Vista, and apparently in whoa-mama full IMAX (1.43:1) from start to finish.
Notevenacapsulereview, justnotes: As you might expect and will be glad to hear confirmed, F1 delivers vise-like dramatic engagement with fully deployed, grade-A acting chops from consummate superstar Brad Pitt, Damson Idris (33 year-old Brit, excellent in the late John Singleton’s Snowfall series), the great Kerry Condon and the always on-target Javier Bardem …
All hail the great, still-youngish Kosinski, who has certainly matched and arguably topped his work on TopGun: Maverick (‘22).
A 156-minute, 21st Century big-boy compadre to John Frankenheimer’s GrandPrix (‘66) and Steve McQueen’s Le Mans (‘71), F1 revs and rouses and vibrates your rib/soul cage, leaving you buzzed, breathless and all the rest of that classic race-car-movie stuff….you know the drill.
Does anyone wipe out a la crash-boom-bang? You don’t want me to answer this so let’s drop it. Okay, someone does but I’m sworn to secrecy, etc.
We all think of howling, high-speed track racing as an individual sport, but the high-torque F1 game can involve a one-team, two-car strategy with one driver running interference for another, depending on the situation. Plus it’s important to know the difference between hotandcoldtires, and of course the drivers and pit crew are constantly jabbering while the loudspeaker guy narrates what’s happening…whew.
Pitt’s 50something Sonny Hayes is great company, a great hang. His dominance blends his cocksure Once UponaTimeinHollywood stunt guy Cliff with, shall we say, a note of approaching-the-big-upward-slope anxiety…fear of not cutting it like he used to.
As hotshot British driver Joshua Pearce, Idris holds his lane and then some, becoming a no-fucking-around foil for Pitt’s old-school Sonny.
And Condon, a deliciously charismatic IRA psychopath in 2023’s InTheLand of Saints and Sinners, is the sexy, brainy love interest for Braddy-waddy…a heart-of-gold gal who’s run a few laps around the track herself.
The HansZimmer score is said to be double-triple exceptional, especially during the final race when it all happens within a completely visceral, all-alone, immersive, this-is-it, you-are-there fashion without the element of loudspeaker narration or cheering crowds or anything peripheral.…
That’s enough for now. There’s a big all-media IMAX screening on Tuesday, 6.24, as well as a smattering of early-bird AMC fan screenings on Monday, 6.23, not to mention more nationwide advance showings on Wednesday, 6.25
It was obviously unwise of ABC News on-air correspondent Terry Moran to have tweeted a widely shared observation about chief White House rattlesnake Stephen Miller. Alas, cowardly ABC execs, fearful of being on the bad side of the Trump administration, have zotzedhisass. They could have suspended him for a month without pay…something like that. But that would’ve required balls.
For five and a half years U.S. distributors have been terrified of the mere thought of releasing (even on a streaming-only basis) Roman Polanski’s utterly brilliant AnOfficerandaSpy (aka J’Accuse), his Grand Prix-winning Belle Epoque drama about the heinous Alfred Dreyfus case.
Distribs feared running afoul of #MeToo activists who might have made a lot of noise about Polanski’s sullied reputation due to two or three allegations of sexual assault in the ‘70s and ‘80s.
On 4.2.20, a rep from Playtime, the film’s Frenchdistributor and rights holder, explained the OfficerandaSpy situation as follows (his English being a bit lumpy):
Although I’ve seen AnOfficerandaSpy three times (I own an English-subtitled Russian Bluray version), I will nonetheless proudly and excitedly attend one of the Film Forum showings, and perhaps even a second. This is a very big deal for me.
And what about select smarthouse bookings in other major cities? And a down-the-road streaming release? And a Bluray?
AnOfficerandaSpy is gloriously assembled and altogether glowing with genius — a perfectly realized, sharply written capturing of institutional, anti-Semitic Belle Epoque mobthink, not to mention an exquisitely composed timepiece revisiting of a bygone era, and a film that wholly respects the intelligence of (some) viewers. It is easily amongthefinestfilmsofthe21stCentury.
And the subtly shaded, steady-at-the-helm lead performance by Jean Dujardin is masterful — perhaps his all-time finest.
People of some experience with a semblance of wisdom understand that artists (yes, Polanski was apparently or at least to some minor extent a selfish sexual beast in the ‘70s and ‘80s) and the art they produce belong in twoseparateboxes. In the realm of cinema you can’t throw out the baby with the bath water. Great cinematic art is too rare of a commodity to be treated politically, carelessly or callously.
