Whoever approved the cover design for the forthcoming Criterion Bluray of Jack Arnold‘s The Incredible Shrinking Man (’57) was telling us in a plain, straightforward way (hello?) that the film is just as much of a penetrating look at the social and psychological issues afflicting mid ’50s suburbanites (mass man complex, creeping conformity, feelings of diminishment) as a sci-fi thriller and a landmark visual-effects film.
Speaking as the son of an advertising man who commuted to Manhattan every morning and often had a drink or two when he returned at 7 pm, Nunnally Johnson and Daryl F. Zanuck‘s The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (’56) is one of the finest dramas about ’50s suburbia and the pressures that came with that manner of life.
I don’t have narcolepsy, but I can drop off any time, anywhere. It happened yesterday in the midst of a short trip to visit my local mechanic. I was driving east on Melrose when I thought of a mistake I wanted to fix on a recently posted story. So I pulled over and stopped in a legal white parking zone, and started to edit. I felt a slight drooping urge and closed my eyes. 20 minutes later I came to; I was shocked to discover how long I’d been out. The car had been running the whole time with the a.c. on. Weird to wake from a nap you hadn’t really “planned” to take in the first place.
I’ve melted down over certain feelings…moments of vulnerability and regret. Pets who’ve died violently, tragically. The things that most often prompt leakage are usually connected to loss (i.e., cherished deepheart things you can never get back). And sometimes it happens over nothing. I once broke down because I was so physically exhausted.
I know that as far as watching actors succumb to big emotional moments in films is concerned, it’s almost always more affecting when the weeper doesn’t turn on the faucets…when he/she attempts to keep it buttoned and can’t quite manage that. Gladys George‘s big moment in The Best Years of Our Lives…that line of country. Or that feeling you get from certain film scores.
So there’s nothing wrong with weeping or even people who tear up at the slightest provocation. Some of us are built that way…no fault or foul.
But there is a little something “wrong”, due respect, with weeping over superhero and fantasy movies. Certainly from my crusty perspective. This is a generational thing, obviously, but I just can’t understand how anyone could succumb to deep quaking currents over the fate of Yoda or Han Solo (carbon-freeze scene) or Natasha Romanov in Avengers: Endgame. Or Robert Downey‘s big Tony Stark death scene…I was delighted when that smart-ass billionaire finally bought the farm.
A couple of days ago the Canadian government relaxed its tough Covid restrictions on public gatherings, and suddenly the Toronto Film Festival, which many some distributors had more or less relegated to the “forget it” pile over its (recently modified) mostly streaming policy, was back in the game. But how “back in the game” can an allegedly big-deal festival be with headliners like Clifford the Big Red Dog and Dear Evan Hansen?
For the last three or four years the sprawling, industrial-strength, woke-minded TIFF has occupied a third- or fourth-place standing among early fall festivals — the immaculate Venice and Telluride festivals tied for first, followed by the respected New York Film Festival with the frail or at least somewhat lessened TIFF bringing up the rear.
Nothing has really changed in that respect, even with the restrictions lifted and the belief (despite the spreading Delta variant) that the pandemic may be coming to an end. Toronto is an okay fest — it’s fine — but it ain’t what it used to be. It’s no longer a vital thing for people in the press as well many some distributors. Lively, perhaps even urgent but not vital. TIFF has become a “big”, semi-important, second-tier festival.
Is it safe to say that Clifford the Big Red Dog will win the TIFF People’s Choice Award?
So TIFF is Clifford the Red Dog, The Eyes of Tammy Faye, Phillip Noyce and Naomi Watts’ Canadian isolation film Lakewood, the North American premiere of Last Night in Soho plus Dear Evan Hansen, an IMAX presentation of Dune and not much else. More titles will be announced, but today was supposed to be a big hoo-hah day.
Clifford, the Big Red Hoo-Hah!
Here’s a partial copy of the Variety rundown (*previously announced) with HE reactions following some titles.
*Belfast, d: Kenneth Branagh | United Kingdom / World Premiere / HE: Directed and written by Branagh, who was raised in Belfast. Set in the ’60s, presumably focusing on “the troubles,” etc.
Clifford the Big Red Dog, d: Walt Becker | USA/United Kingdom/Canada / World Premiere / HE: Forget it.
Dear Evan Hansen, d: Stephen Chbosky | USA / World Premiere / HE: “Is it me or does Dear Evan Hansen radiate an aura of extreme sensitivity and emotional vulnerability? It feels…what’s the term I’m searching for?…kinda snowflakey.”
The Electrical Life of Louis Wain, d: Will Sharpe | United Kingdom / Canadian Premiere / HE: British biographical twee, Benedict Cumberbatch, Claire Foy, Toby Jones…forget it.
Lakewood, d: Phillip Noyce / Synopsis: “A mother (Naomi Watts) desperately races against time to save her child as authorities place her small town on lockdown.” HE: Minimalist thriller, made by a master craftsman.
*Jagged, d: Alison Klayman| USA / World Premiere
*Last Night in Soho. d: Edgar Wright | United Kingdom / North American Premiere (i.e., debuting in Venice) / HE: Edgar Wright is a popcorn genre guy…he’ll never try to climb out of that box.
*The Mad Women’s Ball (Le Bal des folles). d: Mélanie Laurent | France / World Premiere
*Night Raiders, d: Danis Goulet | Canada/New Zealand / North American Premiere
One Second – Zhang Yimou | China / North American Premiere
The Survivor, d: Barry Levinson | USA/Canada/Hungary / World Premiere
Drive My Car, d: Ryusuke Hamaguchi | Japan / North American Premiere
The Eyes of Tammy Faye, d: Michael Showalter | USA / World Premiere (No Venice or Telluride)
*The Guilty, d: Antoine Fuqua | USA / World Premiere
Paris, 13th District (Les Olympiades), d: Jacques Audiard | France / North American Premiere
*Petite Maman, d: Céline Sciamma | France / Canadian Premiere
*The Starling, d: Theodore Melfi | USA / World Premiere
One, the first 25 to 30 seconds of this morning’s Blue Origin takeoff delivered first-rate, Ron Howard-level cinematography.
Two, that Blue Origin mission control narrator (a woman) sounded like a breathless cheerleader, the manager of the glee club…we’ve been accustomed to decades of listening to those low-key, just-the-facts NASA narrations from those conservative-sounding guys with Midwestern accents, and then this morning’s realization that Blue Origin isn’t about “facts” but the sell…the enthusiasm! Which was unattractive.
Three, the Blue Origin booster’s return to terra firma and a sound, safe landing is very impressive…for decades and decades NASA boosters have been falling back to earth and crashing into the ocean, but now they’re intact and re-usuable. Way to do it.
And four, it was over too quickly — 10 minutes and 10 seconds.
Presumably we’ll soon be seeing footage of Bezos and the other passengers — Mark Bezos (brother), Oliver Daemen and Mary Wallace Funk — weightlessly floating around the capsule for roughly four minutes.
Just a demo, an advertisement, a thrill ride. Fun and games for the wealthy. Most of us feel that billionaires are obliged to do altruistic things with their wealth. This morning’s flight was on the other end of that spectrum.
“Used to worry ’bout the starving children of India / You know what I say now about the starving children of India? / I say,’ohh mama.'”
I’ve been to invitational screenings of Nicolas Cage movies for many decades. My first freebie was a viewing of Valley Girl in the spring of ’83. But I’m hazy on whether or not I’ve actually paid to see a Cage film. I find the idea jarring on a certain level.
I may have shelled out to see Vampire’s Kiss sometime in June ’89. It was definitely the first Cage film that I laughed out loud at )or more precisely with), but it wasn’t a momentous enough viewing event to singe itself into my brain.
I’m mentioning this because I’ll probably pay to see Pig tomorrow afternoon at the AMC Century City plex. I recognize that the Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic cabals have given Michael Sarnoski‘s film high marks, but I don’t trust most critics. I smell a curio. Plus there are some films that seem born to stream and this is certainly one of them. Alas, there are no streaming options as we speak.
Plus I have to get up extra early tomorrow to watch the Jeff Bezos Blue Origin flight, which launches at 7 am Mountain time.
Denis Villeneuve‘s Dune (Warner Bros., 10.22 stateside) will have its world premiere at the 2021 Venice Film Festival, and not, significantly, as the opening-night attraction (which usually indicates that a film in question is not triple-A quality). The 155-minute Dune will screen on Friday, 9.3, or two days after the festival begins on Wednesday, 9.1.
Dune is playing out of competition, true, but Warner Bros. honchos wouldn’t have submitted it to Venice if they didn’t know for sure that it’s a cut or two above decent. They’re obviously confident that a sizable portion…okay, a majority of Venice critics will approve.
Jesus, I’ve almost talked myself in believing that Dune might turn out well. I might actually like it. Yeah, right.
Around 3 pm I was talking to my local mechanic at his service station (NE corner Fairfax and Melrose), and then suddenly he had to take care of something so I was just standing near one of the pump stations, and these kids pulled up in a fairly small and dirty car, slightly bigger than a Fiat but only by a bit. Fairfax High School kids, I figured. Five or six got out and the driver/owner, some geeky-ass Latin kid with bad skin and a mullet, turned up the volume.
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In actuality the percentage of Trump supporters who identify with or support the idea of Capitol stormers, Oath Keepers, Proud Boys and general bumblefuckery is only a small sliver of the “base”, and the percentage of the progressive left who identify as BLM, small-business-trashing, statue-toppling woke shitheads is also fairly microscopic.
World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy has posted a fairly persuasive projection of the 2021 Venice Film Festival, as well as a scoop about Paul Thomas Anderson‘s Soggy Bottom (UA Releasing, 11.21) probably aiming to debut at the ’21 New York Film Festival. A source has told him that NYFF director Eugene Hernandez is close to locking down the world premiere of PTA’s Los Angeles-set period film.
Just to be thorough I checked with Hernandez myself this morning…crickets.
Ruimy is calling Soggy Bottom, which has something to do with a San Fernando Valley high-school student becoming an actor in the early ’70s, “the most anticipated movie of the year, without a doubt.”
Maybe, but I don’t think PTA is cooking with the old high-test these days. To me the PTA show peaked somewhere between Punch-Drunk Love and There Will Be Blood and started to gradually lose the mojo with The Master (’12), Inherent Vice (’14) and Phantom Thread (’17).
I’m sorry but we all experience peaks and valleys. Sometimes we bounce back — it happens in rare cases.
The only other things that people know about Soggy Bottom is that (a) Bradley Cooper plays a Jon Peters-resembling hotshot (and possibly Peters himself), and that (b) Benny Safdie will portray real-life politician Joel Wachs.
Dune, d: Denis Villenueve Blonde, d: Andrew Dominik Madres Paralelas, d: Pedro Almodovar The Power of the Dog, d: Jane Campion The Card Counter, d: Paul Schrader The Hand of God, d: Paolo Sorrentino Spencer, d: Pablo Larrain Decision to Leave, d: Park Chan-wook The Eternal Daughter, d: Joanna Hogg Driftwood, d: Michel Franco Il buco, d: Michelangelo Frammartino Mona Lisa and the Blood Moon, d: Ana Lily Amirpour Official Competition, d: Gaston Duprat, Mariano Cohn Freaks Out, d: Gabrielle Mainetti
If it was my call, Capitol rioter Paul Allard Hodgkins would serve a minimum of two years behind bars, and I mean two years of breaking rocks with sledge hammers in the hot sun and getting sent to the hole if he starts any trouble. Or working on a Southern chain gang in the sweltering heat, next to Paul Newman and George Kennedy. And no parole.
Instead US District Judge Randolph Moss gave Hodgkins eight lousy months — a wrist-slap sentence.
Before sentencing, the Tampa-residing Hodgkins said he got carried away by the January 6th hysteria. “If I had any idea that the protest would escalate (the way) it did, I would never have ventured farther than the sidewalk of Pennsylvania Avenue,” Hodgkins told Moss.
Bullshit — that’s what his defense attorney told him to say! Prosecutors had asked for an 18-month sentence…also too light!
Moss: “The court has to consider both what I think are the extremely damaging events that occurred that day but also who Mr. Hodgkins is as an individual. And as I think is reflected by the sentencing I imposed, I tried to strike that balance.”
