…but they’re always swamped with so many expressions of rapt adoration and slavish praise, like water gushing out of a firehouse, drenching everyone in attendance…a feeling of drowning, of not being able to breathe…give it a rest! It’s left to the recipients to turn it down and somehow make it feel real, but by the time they’re before a mike and sharing whatever you’re too drained and exhausted to care. The only tribute events that I can stand are roasts, except they’re exhausting and draining in different ways.
The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts has announced its 44th lifetime achievement award winners, to be handed out on 12.5.21: Motown founder Berry Gordy, opera star Justino Díaz (who?), singer-songwriter Joni Mitchell, entertainer Bette Midler and Saturday Night Live producer Lorne Michaels.
Gordy, Midler and Michaels are legendary, of course, but Mitchell is the only kissed-by-genius, Pablo Picasso– or Frank Sinatra– or Billie Holiday- or Isodora Duncan-level artist among them.
Sometime around ’82 or ’83 legendary film critic Andrew Sarris shared a classic line of despair — “the bottom has fallen out of badness in movies.” And within that particular pocket of time with the wrong people starting to exert more and more influence in Hollywood, that was a fair (if profoundly depressing) thing to say.
In a 4.3.07 review of an Ice Cube comedy called Are We Done Yet?, I mentioned the ’80s Sarris quote and said that “now the roof is gone also and the walls have collapsed, and makers of mainstream family comedies have throwninthetowel and said ‘if it makes money, we don’t care!…the family audience loved AreWeThereYet? so what do you want us to do, not make more money?’
“And so the movies they’re making radiate a terrible odiousness,” I wrote. “Or a kind of soul-rupturing stupidity…not just unfunny but suffocating in ways you wouldn’t think possible. You sit there staring at the screen and you feel dead inside, and then you feel poisoned and you realize you’ve been reborn except you’re losing your mind. Ice Cube got paid a lot of money for doing this thing, you’re telling yourself, but you’re just sitting there.”
Now it’s 14 years later (39 years after the Sarris quote) and earlier today I wrote the following to a friend:
“You know something? A certain percentage of movies…not a high percentage but maybe 5% or 7% or somewhere in there, used to deliver certain emotional nutrients. Those nutrients today are in shorter and shorter supply. I feel as if my personal spiritual garden is wilting from the lack of these nutrients, and the shitty movie virus is spreading like Covid and that movies have turned rotten in more ways than I could have possibly imagined back in the day.
“The cinematic preferences of Millennials and Zoomers are horrific, not to mention the GenX gamers and their longstanding comic-book appetites…don’t get me started. This is a ruined, jaundiced industry…a racket that has poisoned itself.”
I wish I could think of something more to say at this point. Maybe it’ll come to me later tonight.
Two Sarris anecdotes that have nothing to do with the depression: In the fall of ’77 Sarris agreed to talk about movies in front of a crowd at the Westport Country Playhouse Cinema, where I was working at the time. I was told to pick him up at his Upper East Side apartment and drive him up to Westport, and then drive him back a couple of hours later. We obviously enjoyed some chat time, but what I primarily remember was his energy and spirit — a genuine inspiration for me. He seemed indefatigable.
A year or two later I was a struggling New York freelancer, doubtful of my talent and unsure of my footing. I was at a black-tie New York Film Festival party, and I remember suddenly putting on a pair of jet-black Ray-Bans as I joined a group of five or six that included Sarris. He made me feel very much part-of-the-gang when he remarked a few seconds later that I looked “like a Roman pimp in a Fellini film.”
The coupling of Aaron Sorkin and Paulina Porizkova has gone south, and “why” is none of my damn business. But I can’t help myself. My guess is that Sorkin, like most writers, needs to live and work in a certain regulated hardcore way, and he’s not the type to drop to his knees and slavishly worship his wife or girlfriend on a daily basis. That or he simply didn’t spend enough money on Porizkova, who almost certainly demands, being an ex-supermodel, a triple-A, bucks-up, nothing-but-the-best lifestyle.
The thing I noticed about the new trailer for Ridley Scott‘s The Last Duel, which is set in 14th Century France, is that Matt Damon is wearing his hair in a rural-Pennsylvania ’80s mullet style. (I know this suggests that I’m not an especially deep or thoughtful person, but that’s the first thing that hit me.)
The second thing is the subdued color scheme used by dp Dariusz Wolski — grayish and almost monochrome except for evening scenes set near a fireplace, in which case the tones are primarily amber.
The third thing that came to mind is that the “accused rapist who insists he’s innocent” plotline, which is based on historical fact, delivers an echo of sexual harassment and assault in the #MeToo era.
There were some recent reports on Reddit about one and possibly two sexual assault scenes that were allegedly difficult for some viewers to sit through, but I don’t want to get into it.
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.
It was a hip-hop track that seemed to really matter to these guys ’cause they were all half-ass dancing and slinking around — two girls, three or four guys, a performance. Except it was the worst hip-hop track anyone’s ever heard in their life and certainly the most irksome I’ve ever suffered through, and it was turned up so loud that the sound was fuzzy and distorted and punishing.
The older service-station customers were sneaking looks at the kids and rolling their eyes and presumably muttering “okay, now I have to listen to this ugly-ass shit on that crap-level radio or whatever…feral anti-social whatevers.”
I was just standing there and checking it all out but at the same time careful not to stare at anyone…no provoking, no eye contact. So I mostly just looked at the car and stared as the asphalt, but in their general direction. Inwardly I was muttering “you guys are untamed…plus your taste in music is shit and nobody wants to listen to whatever you’re dancing to” but one of the kids, a string bean with big eyes and grown-out hair, sensed or smelled something, and so just as they were getting into the car he stopped and looked (not glared but looked) as if to say, “Uh-huh…you thinkin’ somethin’…it’s in your eyes, man…I can see you won’t be startin’ nothin but I’m looking right back so you know that I know.”
So he knew and I knew but I decided “fuck this guy…no challenge or aggression but I’m not turnin’ away either…in fact I’m gonna eyeball him without getting too thorny about it.” He knew and I knew…go on, man…have a good day…the moment’s over.
