Posted seven years ago (3.25.12): “I still have problems with the GrapesofWrathdiner scene, which, as mentioned a couple of times, is a near-perfect thing until the very end when John Ford‘s sentimentality ruins it. If he’d only ended the scene with the trucker telling the waitress, ‘What’s it to ya?’
“This has always been Ford’s problem, and why his films are best appreciated in limited doses. Not to mention his tendency to prod his supporting actors into over-acting and doing the ‘tedious eccentricity’ thing — Ford’s ultimate Achilles heel. The overacting of that waitress is especially painful.”
Warner Bros. honcho Kevin Tsujihara has resigned — killed by Kim Masters and Tatiana Siegel’s 3.6 Hollywood Reporter story about his having philandered with actress Charlotte Kirk and then dealt unsatisfactorily with her demands for casting opportunities. The man did nothing, relatively-speaking. He fucked a hungry would-be actress — something that heavy-hitter studio execs and hotshot producers have been doing in this town since the days of Jesse L. Lasky.
Excerpt from HE rewrite of Tsujihara statement: “I deeply regret having brought pain and embarrassment to the people I love the most, yes, but mostly I regret having been busted and publicly shamed by Masters and Siegel. What did I do, really, that was so terrible? I catted around with a pretty English actress, knowing full well I’d probably have to reciprocate with some casting favors. And so what? This kind of thing happens all the time.
“Okay, so the actress felt she didn’t get what she expected out of our arrangement, and yes, that was completely my fault. But I’m hardly Charlie Sheen or Brett Ratner or Leonardo DiCaprio back in the late ’90s. I’m a 50ish married guy with kids who got caught poking around…BIG DEAL.
Not being a regular junketeer on the take, I won’t be seeing Dumbo until next Monday evening, 3.25. Or whenever the Manhattan all-media is, which I’m presuming will be the same day as the LA all-media. (My NYC flight departs late Friday night, 3.22 — I’ll return on Friday, 3.29.)
Tuesday’s big L.A. screening is Jordan Peele‘s Us (Universal, 3.22).
The absolute finest 2019 film so far is Kent Jones‘ Diane (IFC films, 3.29). Definite Best Actress action (or at the very least strong Spirit/Gotham award respect) for Mary Kay Place.
HE’s second best of the year is Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre‘s The Mustang. Struggling with reviews for both as we speak.
NYC get-around guy: “I’ve seen Dumbo. You can take the ‘o’ out of the title.”
Even if endless post-production tweakings (i.e., CG de-aging refinements) hadn’t gotten in the way of a possible Cannes debut, Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman would have never been slotted to debut two months hence. The intimate, end-of-the-road, old-guy gangster flick screams Venice-Telluride-Toronto. Plus Netflix Oscar strategist Lisa Taback would’ve never approved. The basic drill is that Netflix won’t be Cote d’Azur-ing this year — forget Steven Soderbergh’s The Laundromat, the Safdie brothers‘ Uncut Gems, Noah Baumbach‘s untitled whatever and a little touch of The King‘s Timothee Chalamet in the night. So sayVariety‘s Elsa Keslassy and Matt Donnelly.
John Lee Hancock‘s The Highwaymen is a decent enough thing — a gruff, flavorful period procedural about how the notorious Bonnie and Clyde were ambushed and cut to pieces by ex-Texas Rangers Frank Hamer (Kevin Costner) and Maney Gault (Woody Harrelson)…oh, Maney! On a quiet woodsy Louisiana road on 5.23.34, way down in Bienville Parish.
Everyone thinks Randy Newman‘s “Short People” or “I Love L.A.” were his biggest hit singles. Maybe they were culturally or deep down in the common memory pool, but the self-loathing “It’s Money That Matters” (from 1988’s Land of Dreams album) was Newman’s only #1 hit on any U.S. chart.
Dear God, how I worshipped Mark Knopfler‘s guitar playing on this track — how I still love it. And his Local Hero soundtrack, which I recently re-purchased.
I also have a soft spot in my heart for “It’s Money That I Love,” and especially the line about the 16 year-old girl and the half pound of cocaine — “now, that may not be love, but it is alright.” Anyone writing or performing this song today would be skinned on Twitter and forced to leave the country.
The below frame capture is from a new trailer for Godzilla: King of the Monsters (Warner Bros., 5.3). I’ve posted two or three times previously about the fat Godzilla factor (the last one, “Reptilian Sumo Wrestler“, appeared on 12.10.18) but this is the first time I’ve seen a profile shot of the titular character in which you can literally spot a huge beer gut on the guy.
In the long history of monster movies, reaching all the way back to Harry Hoyt and Willis O’Brien‘s The Lost World, there’s never been a monster with a massive pot belly…never.
So I have to spell it out? On some level Godzilla: King of the Monsters is self-portraiture. Somebody on the team is projecting about contemporary American culture and how a significant portion of Millennials have become huge over the last 10, 15 years. Look at the original 1954 Godzilla — a monster who ate right and worked out.
John Ford‘s The Informer was my first wake-up film — the first adult drama that showed me movies could reach right inside and get you where it hurts or haunts, and could be about more, a lot more, than just laughs, excitement, color and spectacle.
It was my first heavy-duty, moral-undertow drama, all about grimness and guilt and poverty and downish atmospheres — the very first that presented a pathetic main character (Victor McLaglen‘s Gypo Nolan) and said, “Yes, obviously this guy’s a child, a drunk, a blunderer, not in the least bit clever…but can you find it in your heart to forgive him? Or are you the hard, judgmental type?”
I was nine or ten when I first saw The Informer, and my response was pretty much “well, yeah, I feel sorry for Gypo, I guess…but forgiveness is a bridge too far. How do you forgive a guy for betraying Frankie McPhillip, a friend, in exchange for a lousy 20 pounds?”
Even then I was having trouble with Gypo or more precisely drunks, and I barely knew anything. Well, my paternal grandfather had a mild drinking problem, but it wasn’t that noticable until his wife died.
I saw The Informer again sometime in the early aughts, and this time I felt even more annoyed by Gypo’s behavior. He doesn’t even have the discipline to hide his shame. Instead he goes straight into a pub and starts buying drinks for everyone, which immediately ignites the suspicions of the Irish Republican Army guys (Joe Sawyer, Preston Foster).
Eventually he’s found out, tried and marked for execution, and I’m telling you I agreed with the IRA. There’s no room for a big dumb oaf in an urban warfare situation. Gypo’s too much of a stumbling-around lush to be trusted. Kill him and be done with it.
But that final scene after he’s been shot in the gut, bleeding to death…that scene still gets me. When Gypo stumbles into a church and finds Frankie’s mother and says with that pleading, wounded-ox voice, “Twas I who informed on your son, Mrs. McPhillip…forgive me.” And the poor woman does for some reason, and then comforts him with “you didn’t know what you were doin’.” Gypo clutches his side, calls out to the dead Frankie, drops to the church floor and dies.
If I’d been Mrs. McPhillip I would have said, “You’ll get no forgiveness from me, Gypo. And from the looks of you, you won’t be needing any soon. Just let go…just let go. There’s nothin’ more for it, Gypo. Just go to sleep.”
