“Oh, man. I’m gonna abstain. I mean, you never know, and it’s really nice when your number comes up. But the goal is for the film to land, to speak to someone, whether it’s now or a decade from now. I find chasing it actually a disservice to the purity of your telling a story, and a shackling thing to focus on.”
Translation: “If I campaign I’m gonna have to spend three to four months answering cloying questions about my contentious divorce from Angie and my relationship with Maddox and who I’m going out with and stuff like that, and life is short, you know? I don’t want to become a talking sock puppet, repeating the same answers to the same pain-in-the-ass, Access Hollywood questions.
“Roman Polanski didn’t compaign for The Pianist, but he won anyway, right? I’m gonna follow his lead. If I win, great. And if Tom Hanks takes it for playing Fred Rogers, fine.”
I wasn’t going to mention this, but The Hollywood Reporter‘s Stephen Gallowaydid this morning so the cat is out the bag.
Galloway drew an analogy between Todd Phillips and Joaquin Phoenix‘s forthcoming Joker (Warner Bros., 10.4) and Stanley Kubrick‘s A Clockwork Orange. And in so doing hinted that just as Kubrick’s film was withdrawn from British theaters because of a spate of disturbing copycat crimes, it’s at least conceivable, given the violent tinderbox current in American culture, that something similar could occur here.
From a producer friend: “Sam Mendes did not direct the plastic bag sequence in American Beauty. After the film had been nominated for Best Picture, we got a call from an Australian agent asking if we’d like to meet the young director of the plastic bag sequence. He was coming into town for meetings about representation.
“That afternoon I got a call from a prominent manager who had, like a lot of other people, also been called. He went on and on asking how do you represent someone who shot footage of a plastic bag? I said we’re meeting with him too. He was surprised. ‘Really?,’ he said. ‘”Yup,’ I said.’He’s meeting all over town.’ The manager hung up quickly.
Elbaum: “We were prepping by February, we [began shooting] the movie in March, we wrapped it in May, and the movie’s coming out in September, which is insane.” By which Elbaum presumably meant “this is way faster than the usual.” She’s not wrong.
Wikipedia saysHustlers began principal photography on 3.22.19 in New York City, with the shoot lasting 29 days. Final production wrapped on May 3. Hustlers premiered at the Toronto Film Festival almost exactly four months later — 9.7.19. It opened last Friday (9.13.19).
A four-month turnaround from the conclusion of lensing to a film festival opening is very fast work, but — I almost hate to point this out — it wasn’t totally insane. At least three films did it faster.
Oliver Stone‘s W. opened only three months and one week after the finish of principal photography, but of course it was shown to press at least a couple of weeks prior (I know because I attended the junket at the Four Seasons) so it was actually finished and screenable less than three months after shooting stopped. Filming began on 5.12.08, and completed on 7.11.08. It opened in theatres on 10.17.08.
I can’t remember or even discover the exact details, but Floyd Mutrux‘s American Hot Wax (’78), a biopic of rock ‘n’ roll disk jockey and promoter Alan Freed, managed an extremely quick turnaround. I interviewed Mutrux at a Manhattan junket a couple of weeks prior to the 3.17 opening, and as I recall the Paramount-produced film had wrapped as recently as the previous December or possibly even January. I wrote director Cameron Crowe, who performed a brief cameo, to see if he could recall any details — he hasn’t responded. I’m pretty sure the film wrapped less than 12 weeks before opening day, and possibly less than ten.
But the Big Daddy of fast Hollywood turnarounds is still Otto Preminger‘s Anatomy of a Murder (’59). Liner notes for a Columbia/TriStar DVD of the film claim that principal photography in Michigan began on 3.23.59 and ended on 5.15.59. The Anatomy Wiki page says it previewed on 6.18.59, or 33 days after wrapping. The first public screening happened at the Butler Theater in Ishpeming and the Nordic Theater in Marquette on 6.29.59. The world premiere for the 160-minute film was either held on 7.1.59 (according to Wikipedia) or 7.2.59 (according to the DVD), at the United Artists Theater in Detroit.
Early this morning THR‘s Scott Feinberg posted his first comprehensive spitball assessment of the leading Oscar contenders. He breaks up the Best Picture wannabes into five categories — frontrunners (some of which aren’t), major threats (not a chance), possibilities (cat’s in the bag, bag’s in the river), long shots (buried 50 feet under rock, soil and shale) and still to see. Here’s a quick HE assessment of Feinberg’s assessments. Boldface italic = likely finalists.
For the record, HE’s current Best Picture preferences (in this order): The Irishman, Marriage Story, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, 1917, Joker, The Lighthouse, Little Women, Just Mercy, Jojo Rabbit.
FRONTRUNNERS:
Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (Sony) — definitely. The Two Popes (Netflix) — enjoyably mild tea. Marriage Story (Netflix) — definitely. Parasite (Neon) — It’s a foreign language film…why do handicappers persist in suggesting Best Picture contention? The Farewell (A24) — excellent film, Spirit Awards. Joker (Warner Bros.) — Joaquin Phoenix is the headliner. The film itself might qualify, might not. A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (Sony) — Tom Hanks is the headliner, not the film itself. Ford v. Ferrari (Fox) — Golden Globes. Just Mercy (Warner Bros.) — Nobody did handstands in Toronto, but the Academy will probably want to factor in identity politics. Jojo Rabbit (Fox Searchlight) — HE is woke again…haven’t seen the film but I’ve seen the light!…a woke masterpiece!…best movie of the first two decades of the 21st Century!…down with hate! Richard Jewell (Warner Bros.) — Not mentioned by Feinberg! Never dismiss a Clint Eastwood film.
MAJOR THREATS:
Booksmart (Annapurna) — didn’t make enough money. Waves (A24) — excellent film, Spirit Awards Rocketman (Paramount) — nope. Hustlers (STX) — JLo has the heat. Honey Boy (Amazon) — haven’t seen it. Uncut Gems (A24) — Adam Sandler has the heat, not the film
POSSIBILITIES:
The Lion King (Disney) — Sure thing! Avengers: Endgame (Disney) — HE competely approves of this very well-made film, seriously, but c’mon… Toy Story 4 (Disney) — Get outta here! Judy (Roadside Attractions) — Renee Zellweger has the heat.
Most of my responses to Josh and Benny Safdie‘s Uncut Gems were about irritation and frustration. Because, in my judgment, Sandler’s Howard Ratner, a total gambling junkie, isn’t interesting. Not because Sandler isn’t good in the role — he’s actually brilliant — but because the film has no interest in looking or reaching beyond the hustling mood-rush aspects of his wildly self-destructive addiction.
That’s not a putdown of Sandler’s performance. Within the realm that the Safdies have created, he’s completely authentic. We all know what Sandler’s screen persona has been for the last 25 years — droll, laid-back, quippy, sarcastic smart-ass. Howard Ratner is different. Sandler has never given himself to a character like this before. I just want to make that clear. You could say that Sandler is better than the film. I completely respect what he’s done here. In fact, I’ve just visited Gold Derby and upped his standing to fourth place (right behind Adam Driver, Joaquin Phoenix and Robert De Niro).
Ford v. Ferrari director James Mangold may not want to admit this but his film, which roars into highly pleasurable third-act overdrive during its depiction of the 1966 Le Mans race, owes a huge nostalgic debt to Steve McQueen‘s Le Mans (’71).
Shot in the summer and early fall of ’70, Le Mans was an all-around calamity — box-office failure, critically drubbed (the atmosphere and versimilitude are top-notch but it’s a frustrating film in other respects) and a kind of spiritual end-of-the-road experience for McQueen himself.
Nonetheless the annual Le Mans races during that era (mid ’60s to early ’70s) are owned and imprinted by the McQueen legend, and if I’d been in Mangold’s shoes I would have inserted a very quick, very fleeting glimpse of McQueen’s Michael Delaney character…maybe driving, maybe hanging around, maybe watching from the stands. Just a little tap-on-the-shoulder acknowledgment.
Christian Bale‘s Ken Miles, the late British race-car driver, is not doing anything especially new or head-turning here. He’s playing yet another variation of the same asocial skeezy guy that he played in The Fighter and The Big Short. Bale is constitutionally incapable of playing smooth, measured, steady-as-they-go guys who don’t glare or twitch or scrunch their face up or bulge their neck veins…okay, maybe this isn’t fair as Bale does turn it down here and there in Mangold’s film. But Bale will always exude a kind of curious, facial-flicky weirdness, and I’m saying this as a hyuuuge admirer of his Dick Cheney.
I believe that Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh lied his ass off during the Senate confirmation last fall. I believe that he’s a smug rightwing shithead who comes from an entitled preppy background. On top of which I knew he would lie before he opened his mouth. Because one look at his ugly pig eyes told me everything. Plus that awful, inelegant, frat-house voice of his. Plus the fact that his right hand was open-fingered when he swore to tell the truth.
Posted on 10.10.18: “Formal oath-swearings are always accompanied by an open right hand. (And sometimes with the left hand on a Bible.) But you always swear with your fingers closed, not open. Open fingers are symbolic of insincerity or a lack of solemnity. Sir Thomas More: “When a man makes an oath, Meg, he’s holding himself in his own hands, like water. And if he opens his fingers then he needn’t hope to find himself again.”
The Times story initially failed to note that “the female student [in question] declined to be interviewed and friends say that she does not recall the incident”. Translation: If (I say “if”) the woman was in fact involved in the incident, she’s almost certainly declining to confirm out of a fear of suffering attacks upon her credibility and character by right-wing media.
Some parts of the final released version don’t work so well by today’s standards, but you know what still works perfectly? Kevin Spacey‘s performance. A current of trepidation just went through me after writing that, but you know what? One should really be allowed to say this, despite what’s happened since. Spacey was also great in Swimming With Sharks, The Usual Suspects and Glengarry Glen Ross. He was great all through the ’90s.
Another thing that made American Beauty really come together, I felt from the get-go, is Thomas Newman’s score.
American Beauty isn’t as good as Michael Mann‘s The Insider, which was also nominated for 1999’s Best Picture Oscar, but American Beauty‘s values were deemed richer and more resonant than The Insider‘s, which not only wasn’t emotional enough for most voters — it wasn’t emotional at all.
I remember when DreamWorks publicity was just beginning to allow journalists to see American Beauty, which later won the Best Picture Oscar. It was in the late summer of ’99, and I was detecting feelings of caution if not concern, or at least a form of uncertainty. I had to beg and beg to persuade the Dreamworks guys to let me see it. Their reluctance was such that it was hard not to suspect that something about Sam Mendes‘ film might be problematic.
After I finally saw American Beauty at Skywalker Sound on Olympic Blvd., After it ended I immediately phoned Mitch Kreindel, who worked right under Dreamworks marketing/publicity honcho Terry Press, and said, “Are you kidding me? This film is extra. It got right inside me. The plastic paper bag and the ending melted me down. It could go all the way.”
But until that consensus began to build up and sink in, some people in upper DreamWorks management (and I’m not saying Press was necessarily one of them) didn’t know what they had. Or at least they weren’t sure. If they did know what they had, they sure gave a good impression to the contrary.
“I popped in American Beauty recently to find it oddly, sinuously bewitching. Dated, yes, but that’s a double-edged sword: it turns out to be an exquisitely presented time capsule, a snapshot of middle-class, notionally liberal white society entering a spasm of panic at the turn of both the century and the Clinton era. Its satire isn’t sophisticated, but it’s pointed, identifiable, and still often cuttingly funny, emblematic of a tone of withering pre-millennial snark that has since been earnestly outmoded, and not for the wittier.
“It was never intended as straightforward drama, but as garish suburban burlesque: a distorted funhouse mirror reflection of America already at its ugliest, with its performances and petal-strewn visuals expertly heightened to match.
“There are, of course, false notes aplenty, ones more critics ought to have spotted even then: Annette Bening’s unhinged virtuosity only goes so far towards concealing what an ungenerous, ill-thought con the character of Carolyn Burnham is, not so much an empty woman as an empty construct. The teenage characters are all emo and no real emotion, vessels for the film’s sweetest but thinnest stabs at profundity. And that script I loved so much, for all its smart, savory dialogue, is built on diagrammatic ironies — the homophobic military man’s a closet case, the self-styled slutty girl’s a virgin — that all ring a bit screenwriting 101, whatever truths are embedded within.
“And yet, and yet. I remain deeply, melancholically affected by American Beauty — partly, of course, because it reflects gently back to me the unformed, uncertain child I was when I first saw it. But it also moves me on its own terms and merits, its own sly critique of a fragile milieu, its own pristinely art-directed yin-yang of sadness and sarcasm, its own vulnerable but defensively lacquered performances. Hell, I still think all the rose petal business is woozily beautiful.
“Twenty years on, American Beauty isn’t as clever as we thought it was, though it’s inadvertently aged into a kind of wounded, embattled wisdom. Perhaps it’s worth looking closer.”
Originally posted on 3.7.17: The TV was on while I was writing the column in our miserable Palm Springs hotel room last weekend. I wasn’t paying much attention to the shows but they weren’t from my usual white-noise feed (i.e., MSNBC, CNN, BBC, CSPAN, National Geographic or TCM). They were the usual lower-depths pollution feed of ugly reality series (Kardashian lap-of-luxury lifestyle stuff), Access Hollywood-type crap, glamour kiss-ass shows, sports crap, home-shopping crap, beauty consultation, weight-loss crap, fashion discussion, kiddie fantasy, more ugly reality, etc.
At some point something snapped in my mind. I literally flinched and shook my head when I suddenly realized a kind of poison had been streaming into my system for hours and that I had to turn it off if I didn’t want to get sick or go crazy.
General-access cable and broadcast is aimed at the American mouth-breathing mongrel class, and you can see how it inspires people to lead lives that are devoid of spiritual content…lives that are almost certainly dulled-down, compromised and shortened as a result. The only civilized way to watch anything these days is via apps (Amazon, Netflix, Vudu) and elite cable. What a cultural cesspool regular-ass TV has become. It attains such levels of toxicity that it seems natural and inevitable that regular watchers would turn into slow boats and cretins. The influence of mongrel TV is almost certainly one reason why Trump caught on.
Seven years ago Buzzfeed posted an inflation-adjusted chart that compared the earnings of James Bond films. Thunderball (’65) was the easy winner with a grand tally of $620 million.
But according to my current calculations with 2019 inflation factored in, Thunderball is the second highest grossing Bond after Skyfall (’12), the all-time king, with Goldfinger (’64) and Spectre (’15) coming in third and fourth.
I realize that math has never been HE’s strong suit, but Thunderball‘s original 1965 gross of $141.2 million translates into $1.13 billion in 2019 dollars. The inflation multiplication factor between ’65 and ’19 is 8.052.
In 2012 Skyfall earned $1.109 billion worldwide. Apply an inflation rate of 1.113 (the difference between 2012 and 2019), and Skyfall‘s 2019 tally is $1,234,317,000.
Spectre earned $880 million in 2015, but in 2019 dollars that translates into $941,468,300.
Skyfall / $1.109 billion in 2012, $1,234,317,000 in 2019, Thunderball / $141.2 million in ’65, $1.13 billion in 2019. Goldfinger / $125 million in ’64, $1.034 billion in 2019. Spectre / $880 million in ’15, $941,468,300 in 2019.
Will No Time To Die beat Skyfall? Can it it beat Thunderball or Goldfinger? Or Spectre?
By the way: the 2019 earnings of Dr. No, which made $59.5 million in 1962, comes to $505,155,000 if you apply an inflation factor of 8.49.
