Jeffrey Wells

Rick Rubin to Paul McCartney: “When could you look back and realize [that] what we did back then was really special?”

If I was interviewing McCartney I would never ask a question as moronic and simple-dick as that…ever. Creative people never look back and say “wow, I was really rumbling with high-test gas when I did this or that”…never! You never stand back and give yourself a review…ever. If you’re somehow possessed of something special and exceptional and God-sent, you just go with it. You go with it and hope that it takes you someplace worthy and nutritious. And that’s it. Nothing more or less than that.

The Stillwater praise out of Cannes is fairly strong but I’m a bit leery. Something feels wrong or the wrong people are cheering it on. Can’t put my finger on it, but for the time being I’m just gonna wait. Update: The more reviews I read, the more promising Stillwater sounds.

Indiewire‘s David Ehrlich: “A strained but strangely affecting turducken of a movie that bakes a dad-on-a-mission thriller together with a heartwarming fish-out-of-water story and then a brutal crime drama before glazing the whole thing with a marvelously goateed Matt Damon, Tom McCarthy’s Stillwater is the kind of original Hollywood production that would make you say “they don’t make them like that anymore” if only they had ever made them quite this way in the first place…equal parts Taken, Paddington and Prisoners, one after the other.”

Ultrasound images of unborn babies developing in their mothers’ warm amniotic fluid were fairly primitive in the late ‘80s. Things are much more advanced today. I would use the word “startling.” As would Rene Magritte if he was among us.

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Richard Donner‘s Radio Flyer was mostly dismissed when it opened 29 and 2/3 years ago (2.21.92). People of taste were appalled. And yet this dreadful little film, which lost a ton of money (made for $35M, earned a lousy $4.75 million) has a current RT audience score of 73% — three out of four Joe Popcorn types approve!

I’m presuming that no one in the HE commentariat will defend Radio Flyer, but maybe I’m wrong. Obviously something about it appealed to people during the final year of the George H.W. Bush administration, but what exactly? The initial word was that it was a Spielberg thing, but of course it wasn’t.

HE question: What kind of diseased, depraved mother (i.e., Lorraine Bracco‘s Mary) marries an abusive animal (Adam Baldwin‘s unseen “King”) and turns a blind eye to abuse of her own sons?

From Owen Gleiberman‘s EW review (dated 2.28.92): “It’s 1969, and Bobby (Joseph Mazzello) and Mike (Elijah Wood), two brothers with matching doleful expressions, have just traveled cross-country with their newly divorced mom (Lorraine Bracco). The three arrive in a beautiful, wide-open section of Northern California, where their cozy suburban street is nestled within a beckoning expanse of sun-dappled hills.

“As the boys roam their pastoral surroundings, each new encounter takes on the aura of a storybook adventure. They open the door to the toolshed, and a ‘monster’ pokes forth its bald, reptilian head; actually, it’s just the harmless old turtle who lives there. There are bullies to frighten them (and to frighten off with their trusty German shepherd). And there are wishful reveries inspired by their red Radio Flyer wagon — dreams of rolling off that big hill near the airport and flying, really flying, the way a boy named Fisher did years ago, when (according to legend) he powered his bicycle right up into the air.

“The music gushes, the late-afternoon sunlight glints, and one half expects to look up and see E.T. himself grinning from the nearest bush. Yet even as Radio Flyer seems a tribute to the magic of childhood, an undertow of darkness develops. The boys’ mother has quickly remarried; her husband (Adam Baldwin), a sadistic, beer-swilling roughneck, directs his rage toward quiet, defenseless little Bobby. We learn that he’s been beating the child, giving him huge brown welts all over his back. Bobby, though, is reluctant to tell his mother, and he makes Mike swear to keep his secret.

“For the entire movie, the stepfather’s face remains hidden in shadow. He appears, instead, as a malevolent specter: a hand reaching into the fridge for yet another six-pack, a voice barking out caustic threats. Radio Flyer wants to show us how a man this vicious could seem, in Bobby’s eyes, a kind of abstraction, less a human being than a monstrous force. At the same time, the movie suggests that children escape intolerable situations by withdrawing into a cocoon of streamlined fantasy.

“Donner keeps his camera at a serene distance, so that we seem to be eavesdropping on the two boys. Elijah Wood, in particular, holds the screen — he has a beautifully inquisitive face, with eyes like liquid marbles. Despite flashes of sensitivity, though, the movie is so rigid and programmatic about contrasting its light and dark sides — the horror and the dream-retreat — that it seems fundamentally schizoid.

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Earlier today THR‘s Scott Feinberg wrote that Leo Scott and Ting Poo‘s Val, a portrait of Val Kilmer, was “rapturously received” at the Salle Debussy (and by The Hollywood Reporter‘s Sheri Linden in her review).

Val will be released on Amazon Prime on 8.2.21.

Feinberg: “The film is comprised largely of footage shot by Kilmer, who broke through as a dashing 26-year-old in 1986’s Top Gun, over a span of several decades, intercut with footage of him in the present day as a 61-year-old navigating life with a breathing tube, the result of a tracheostomy that he underwent after receiving radiation to treat throat cancer. Needless to say, the contrast is striking.

“But the doc is not a pity party. In fact, it’s an often funny and brutally honest portrait of an artist — someone who early in his career was labeled a cocky, difficult pretty boy, but who was actually a grief-stricken (his younger brother drowned at 15), ambitious (the youngest student accepted at Juilliard at the time) and committed but frustrated artist (we see him tirelessly rehearsing Shakespeare), and remains one to this day, albeit in artistic endeavors that do not require the use of his voice.”

The Val footage was shot by Kilmer over decades, and the narration, voiced by son Jack Kilmer, was written by the actor. So the voice that narrates the trailer, obviously, is Jack’s. They definitely sound alike, or used to.

True stuff: I went to a party at Kilmer’s Hollywood Hills home sometime in early ’03. (Bill Maher was there also.) I never regarded Kilmer as anything more than just a name-brand actor I’d said hello to once or twice, but he was a friendly host that night. Cool to shoot the shit with. We talked about The Saint.

Three years later I did a fair amount of reporting on an Entertainment Weekly hit piece about the tumultuous shooting of The Island of Dr. Moreau. At one time or another the piece was called “Psycho Kilmer, Qu’est ca c’est?”

In 2011 I was interviewing Judy Greer at a West Hollywood La Pain Quotidien about her award-calibre supporting performance in Alexander Payne‘s The Descendants. Kilmer was there also, and we exchanged curt smiles and waves without speaking. We waved at each other again as he left 15 or 20 minutes later. When it came time to pay the bill for Judy and myself, I was told by the waitress that Kilmer had paid it.

I’ll bet that among connoisseurs of classic film scores, a fair-sized portion of the current membership has never heard of Raoul Kraushaar. Even during his peak period Kraushaar was regarded as a journeyman. If you scan his Hollywood scores from the 1940s and ’50s, you’ll notice that he composed almost exclusively for low-budget westerns with an occasional comedy or fright flick — In Old Monterey, Shed No Tears, Timber Fury, Stagecoach Driver, Bride of the Gorilla, Kansas Territory, The Flaming Urge, Mohawk, etc.

And yet Kraushaar’s score for William Cameron Menzies‘ Invaders From Mars (’53) is easily one of the spookiest and most haunting of that era, and indeed one of the most distinctive regardless of genre or budget or any other qualifier. Anyone who’s seen Invaders knows what I’m talking about. That eerie choir (mostly female sopranos) puts the chill in…the stuff of childhood nightmares and creep-outs.

How odd that Kraushaar — steadily employed in genre pictures, a respected composer as far as it went, born in Paris in ’08, died in Florida 93 years later — how odd that a fellow whom no one had ever pegged as equal in talent to Franz Waxman or Max Steiner or Bernard Herrmann — how odd that Kraushaar, no doubt hired by Menzies out of a certain respect but mostly, I’m guessing, because his quote was low enough to be accommodated by the meager Invaders From Mars budget…how odd that Kraushaar managed to crank out one of the greatest (or certainly among the most fascinating) scores for a scary popcorn movie ever written…and under rushed conditions, no doubt.

Byron Haskin and George Pal‘s The War of the Worlds, another 1953 space invader flick, was made for $2 million and used a much higher grade of talent all around. George Barnes‘ cinematography, for one example, was clearly a classier, more high-grade effort (more sharply focused, more richly colored) than John Seitz‘s respectable but unexceptional and rather “soft” capturings for Invaders From Mars.

And yet it could be argued that Kraushaar’s music is more emotionally affecting as well as oddly, strangely unsettling (one could use the term “inspired by goblins”) than Leith Stevens‘ War of the Worlds score. There’s nothing miscalculated or insufficient about Stevens’ score — it’s acceptably grabby as far as it goes — but it isn’t in the same spiritual league as the Krasuhaar. Just saying.

The best passage from Kraushaar’s Invaders music begins just after the 3:00 mark:

For mostly sentimental reasons, I can’t stop telling myself that the 1992 Cannes Film Festival (5.7 to 5.18) was my absolute personal best. Because it was my first time there and therefore it felt fresh and exotic and intimidating as fuck. I had to think on my feet and figure it out as I went along, and despite being told that I would never figure out all the angles, somehow I did. ‘

It also felt great to be there on behalf of Entertainment Weekly and do pretty well in that capacity. Plus it was the first and only Cannes that I brought a tuxedo to. I’d been told it was an absolute social necessity.

Here are some of the reasons why I’ve always thought ’92 was the shit.

The first time you visit any major city or participate in any big-time event things always seem special and extra-dimensional…bracing, fascinating, open your eyes…everything you see, taste, smell and hear is stamped onto your brain matter…aromas, sights, protocols, expectations, surprises.

Nearly every night I enjoyed some late-night drinking and fraternizing at Le Petit Carlton, a popular street bar. (Or was it Le Petit Majestic?) If you can do the job and get moderately tipsy and schmoozy every night, so much the better. (Or so I thought at the time.) A year earlier I read a quote from P.J. O’Rourke — “Life would be unbearable without alcohol”. I remember chuckling and saying to myself, “Yeah, that’s how I feel also.” Jack Daniels and ginger ale mood-elevators were fun! Loved it!

But not altogether. Four years later I stopped drinking hard stuff; 20 years later (3.20.12) I embraced total sobriety.

I stayed in a gloriously small room (big enough for a queen-sized bed and a dresser) inside the storied, exquisitely comforting, whistle-clean Hotel Moliere (5 rue Moliere 06400 Cannes), and for only $90 or $100 per night. (Something like that.)

I attended the int’l world premieres of the following films: Quentin Tarantino‘s Reservoir Dogs, James Ivory‘s Howard’s End, Robert Altman‘s The Player (I;d already seen it twice in Los Angeles but still), Abel Ferrara‘s Bad Lieutenant, Tim Robbins‘ Bob Roberts, Paul Verhoeven‘s Basic Instinct, Hal Hartley‘s Simple Men, Abbas Kiarostami‘s Life, and Nothing More…, Baz Luhrman‘s Strictly Ballroom, Vincent Ward‘s Map of the Human Heart…perhaps not the greatest all-time lineup but each viewing felt like a big deal.

I ignored Far and Away — I’d seen Ron Howard‘s period film in Los Angeles a bit earlier, and that was enough.

I met and briefly schmoozed with Tarantino, Verhoeven, Altman, et. al. And attended six or seven cool black-tie parties.

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Honestly? I’d much rather see a smart, sexy, well-layered, in-depth documentary about the late Lou Reed than a doc about the Velvet Underground. Because all my life I’ve had to deal with John Cale‘s jagged, screechy-ass electric violin, and while I know (and respect the fact) that Cale’s tonally abrasive playing was an essential component in the Velvet Underground sound, it always bothered me regardless.

Telepathic HE to Cale while listening to “Venus in Furs”: “Yeah, I get it, man…you’re a brilliant string-saw, an avant garde musician who’s moved past the tired milquetoast game of trying to comfort or ear-massage your listeners…but every now and then I wish I could shut you up, no offense.”

I loved the Velvets because of Reed and Nico and most of the songs, but I liked Reed a lot more when he was free of Cale–screech and began cutting his own albums with David Bowie, Mick Ronson and his own musicians — Transformer, Berlin, Sally Can’t Dance, Rock ‘n’ Roll Animal, Coney Island Baby, Street Hassle, Magic and Loss.

I’m therefore a little bit sorry that Todd Haynes‘ The Velvet Underground doc, which premiered Wednesday night in Cannes, allegedly focuses a bit more on Cale than on Reed. Or at least, it does according to Variety‘s Owen Gleiberman. That’s unfortunate, if true.

Gleiberman: “Lou the subversive guitar bad boy and Cale the debonair experimentalist came together like an acid and a base. The drone that Cale would listen to became part of the DNA of the Velvets — you can hear it in the ominous sawing viola of ‘Venus in Furs,’ the majestic cacophony of ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties.’

“Yet as great and defining as those songs are, it’s hard to shake the feeling that The Velvet Underground overstates the John Cale side of the equation. The film spends close to an hour reveling in the New York bohemian soil out of which the Velvets sprung. If this were a four-hour, long-form doc (which the subject deserves), I could see that, but Haynes, I think, also views John Cale as a metaphor for the band’s ‘purity.’ Their transcendent first album, The Velvet Underground & Nico, is unthinkable without him, yet he’s the one whose story the documentary feels organized around.

“And that’s not just because Cale (now 79, with floppy silver hair) is interviewed at length while Reed, who died in 2013, couldn’t be. No, it’s as if Haynes wanted the Velvets to be an art band even more than he wanted them to be a rock ‘n’ roll band.”

A prequel to the deeply loathed Kingsman: The Secret Service (’14) and Kingsman: The Golden Circle (’17), The King’s Man is a fresh serving of bored derring do, bland British attitude and bullshit CG swill from director-cowriter Matthew Vaughan and screenwriter Karl Gajdusek. The costars are Harris Dickinson (the new guy), Ralph Fiennes, Gemma Arterton, Rhys Ifans, Matthew Goode, Tom Hollander, Daniel Brühl, Djimon Hounsou and Charles Dance — each one bending over for the money and nothing else.

Originally slated to open on 11.15.19, or roughly a year before the 2020 election, The King’s Man (20th Century Studios) will open on 12.22.21. HE suggestion: What about December ’22?

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