On top of which the once young and matinee-idol handsome Brendan Fraser turns 58 on 12.3.25. Costar Rachel Weisz celebrated her 55th last March.
No one’s advocating for size or age discrimination here, but traditions are traditions.
The only girthy-protagonist-vs.-monster precedent is LouCostello in those goofball Abbott-and-Costello horror japes. HE’s favorites are (a) Hold That Ghost! (‘41) and (b) Abbott and Costello Meet The Mummy (‘55). But Mummy Costello was ten years younger (48) than Fraser.
Vice-President Dick Cheney having shot a guy he was hunting with isn’t funny. The victim, a 78 year-old lawyer named Harry Whittington, could have been seriously hurt and thank fortune he’s in stable condition, etc.
What is funny to me is that New York Times report that said Cheney “fired his shotgun without realizing that Mr. Whittington had approached him from behind, spraying his fellow hunter on his right side, on his cheek, neck and chest.”
Fulldisclosure: I once mistakenly shot one of my own guys with a paintball during a war game I took part in north of Los Angeles, so I know how Cheney might feel. But at least I didn’t tag the guy in the neck and face.
Posted on 10.3.18:
Christian Bale‘s Dick Cheney voice is very close to the Real McCoy‘s. Not to mention that unhurried way of speaking and that look of settled, laid-back corruption in his eyes. Plus the bulky appearance (bloated bod, basketball-shaped head) and hairline. And of course the aging as the film moves along. That’s it — I’m a convert. The downside is that Adam McKay‘s Vice doesn’t open until Christmas, which probably means no press screenings until mid-November.
Director-screenwriter friend: “I know a couple people who’ve seen Vice, and they’re calling it the movie that Oliver Stone‘s W wanted to be. The only weak link is Steve Carell, who isn’t convincing as Donald Rumsfeld.” I told him I’d heard that Sam Rockwell‘s Dubya is more or less a cameo, two or three scenes. His reply: “Just like in the actual administration, Bush plays a small supporting role. While Bale fully inhabits Cheney like DeNiro did LaMotta in Raging Bull, Carell merely does an impression and shtick under conspicuous makeup.”
Jeff Goldblum is the only Wicked: ForGood cast member I personally relate to, and his character (the Wizard of Oz) is fairly villainous for the most part.
You can’t say Goldblum didn’t have the bestline in the original Wicked: “I think it’s a bit much.”
But never let it be said this is not a “safe”, positive-minded, wholesomely diverse cast. They cover the wokewaterfront.
What kind of 21st Century ensemble cast do I relate to? Dozens upon dozens. How about the Spotlight guys?The SentimentalValue family? Or the ZeroDarkThirty-ers? Or the ManchesterByThe Sea pain-bearers? Or the Weapons community? Or Team Irishman? I could go on and on.
What if you have issues with diverse identity brandishing but you don’t consider yourself a MAGA mouth-breather? What if you’re more of a sensible centrist?
From Politico’s Elena Schneider, dated 11.2…as if everyone didn’t already know that Democrats have all but slit their own throats over woke issues and trans stuff in particular.
Proles to Dems, Part 2: “Sorry to break it to ya, ayeholes, but J.K. Rowling had it right all along.”
The storied AsburyParkcarousel is seared into my emotional history…my DNA even. Because it marked me…an innocent renegade incident that branded my childhood and teen years.
It was a late summer evening, and my now-departed mom (her name was Nancy) and I were roaming up and down the more-than-a-century-old boardwalk in Asbury Park, New Jersey. One of the evening’s highlights (in my mind at least) was the famous Asbury Park merry-go-round.
After going on a ride and eating some cotton candy we made our way south (or was it north?). At least a mile, maybe two. Then I somehow slipped my mother’s grasp and disappeared. Gone.
For the first time in my life I had decided that it would be more exciting and fulfilling to go on a solo boardwalk adventure rather than stay with mom.
Nancy freaked, of course. She found a couple of uniformed cops and asked for their help. They all looked, searched, asked all the merchants…no luck. The trio finally made their way back to the merry-go-round and there I was — staring, bedazzled.
This incident put the fear of God into both my parents. From then on they decided I had to be kept on a short leash and monitored extra carefully. The result is that I began to feel that my life was being lived in a gulag, a police state. Rules, repression, “no”, time to go to bed at dusk, “because I said so,” “you’re too young,” etc.
And that unalterable fact means that I’ll be obliged — okay, forced — again and again to sit through high-aspiring films that Variety ‘s GuyLodge will praise to the heavens but which will also try my patience, at the very least, and may, in all probability, compel me to endure serious anguish and perhaps even misery.
The next film by Mascha Schilinski, director of the agonizing SoundofFalling, will probably subject me to great viewing difficulty. The next ParkChan–wook film will almost certainly cause some degree of suffering. Ditto the next cinematically ambitious smarthouse film from Brutalist helmer Brady Corbet, and definitely the next equally ambitious effort from Mona Fastvold, whose TheTestamentofAnn Lee put me through the ringer a couple of months ago at the Venice Film Festival.
Who are the other guaranteed pain-giving directors? All I know for sure is that they’re out there, waiting to lower the boom. And as William Holden’s Pike Bishop said in TheWild Bunch, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because grade-A film festivals, of course, are generally dependable forums for the richest, most far-reaching and most delightful films emerging at a given moment. You can’t have one without the other. Suffering and deliverance go hand in hand.
In his Bugonia review, NewYorker critic Justin Chang offhandedly admits that Luca Guadagnino’s After The Hunt wasn’t critically trashed by for its cinematic shortcomings but for political-cultural reasons — for being “noxiouslyreactionary.”
OneBattleAfterAnother has a certain “not quite rooted upon planet earth” attitude, okay, but at least a couple of hundred miles away from comedic. It sure as hell isn’t musical.
In my head the planned Trump ballroom, to be built where the now-eradicated East Wing of the White House recently stood, is an architectural hall of pus and fascisthubris.
DonaldTrump is a temporary resident of a grand historical home that is owned by taxpayers. He didn’t have the right to mangle the traditional look of the place. He was obliged to respect the historical continuity aspect, and instead he said “fuck it, I’m going to Mar a Lago this place.”
In my mind the Trump ballroom is a spiritual kin of the giant Stay–PuftMarshmallowMan, whom we all remember from the totally unfunny third act of Ivan Reitman’s Ghostbusters.
Until the sudden bulldozing of the East Wing and the revealing of the ballroom’s architectural scheme, I had taken vague comfort in the notion of the Trump presidency being theoreticallyfinite and, you know, at least potentially a done deal (i.e., history) as of 1.20.29.
But the Stay-Puft ballroom will probably endure, and that likely fact has deeply enraged me. My blood is boiling.
If Gavin Newsom wins in ‘28, it must be torn the fuck down. I’m serious. Bulldoze the damn thing and rebuild a new East Wing, one that will presumably exude a semblance of taste, restraint and proper decorum.
And if Newsom won’t destroy it, the French75 should figure some way to dynamite it. This sounds crazy, I realize, but I would honestly not have a huge problem with LeonardoDiCaprio‘s Bob Ferguson using a drone to…I don’t know, drop a firebomb or something at 3:30 am.
The drawings/models of the older, classic White House vs. the Trump remodelling were copied from a 10.22.25 N.Y. Times story.
