Jeff Wells I’ve no sympathy or empathy for a rock musician who wrote, sang, played and struggled his way up the ladder and into a hallowed realm of fame, acclaim and considerable wealth, and then turned around and said time and again that he was “uncomfortable” with fame. Poor baby. Life is so hard.
In the wake of Bo Goldman‘s passing I’m fully aware of what I’m supposed to say, which is that his screenplays were wonderful.
Well, I’m sorry but over the decades I never regarded Goldman as much more than a good, respected, dependable craftsman.
That’s not a putdown as very few screenwriters have made their way into that kind of pantheon, but I never thought of Goldman as one of the pip-pip-pips. I’ve understood for decades that everyone thought he was great, and I never offered an argument.
I’ve never mentioned that 34 or 35 years ago I was assigned to write coverage of Goldman’s screen adaptation of Susan Minot‘s “Monkeys“, and I honestly didn’t think it was all that rich or profound or even, to be perfectly frank, good.
Tonally Goldman’s Monkeys reminded me of the fractured and despairing family weltschmerz that Goldman’s Shoot The Moon was consumed by.
The best line in that 1982 Alan Parker film, which I never liked all that much, was when Albert Finney said that “San Francisco could die of quaint.” I also got a huge kick out of Finney destroying Peter Weller‘s backyard landscaping with his station wagon…crazy nuts.
But I loved Goldman’s script of Melvin and Howard, for the most part. And I admire his screenplays for Scent of a Woman and The Flamingo Kid (uncredited).
I never loved anything about Milos Forman‘s One Flew over The Cuckoo’s Nest (’75), Goldman’s adapted screenplay included, and I’m saying this as a guy who once played Dr. Spivey in a Stamford, Connecticut stage production of the 1962 play, written by Dale Wasserman and based on Ken Kesey’s 1962 novel.
Not coming to a theatre near you. Not even playing at a North American film festival (including Telluride!). Because the monsters are calling the shots on Maple Street, and that means Polanski’s The Palace has also been kibboshed.
You can immediately feel confidence and stylistic swagger in this scene from Roman Polanski‘s The Palace. The lighting and staging and whipsmart dialogue and generally disciplined atmosphere are aces…anything but rote. It’s obvious that a major-league director shot and blocked this scene out to the last precise detail.
If it wasn’t Polanski at the helm of this dark period comedy (shot in Gstaad), it could be early ’70s Bernardo Bertolucci or Luchino Visconti.
The cinematographer is Pawel Edelman (The Pianist, An Officer and a Spy, The Ghost Writer).
So that’s not Mads Mikkelsen as the top hotel guy? MM isn’t listed in the IMDB or Wikipedia credits, but it sure looks like him (or his twin brother).
I would much rather see The Palace than sit through Kate Winslet‘s Lee, which will debut in Toronto. Winslet trashed Polanski and Woody Allen three years ago, and I’m not about to forgive her any time soon.
With due respect and fond affection, I don’t find the prospect of watching The Great Escaper enticing.
Hanging with the seriously withered Michael Caine and Glenda Jackson, I mean. For reasons that need no explanation or elaboration. Very sorry. Give me Get Carter and Sunday Bloody Sunday, thanks.
From a recent Standard piece by Elizabeth Gregory:
“There was never any question that 89-year-old Bernard Jordan would take part in the 70th anniversary D-Day commemorations in June 2014. The British veteran, who had been a navy officer during the Second World War, had lost many of his friends in its bloody battles, and he planned to pay his respects.
“What was more unexpected, was that Jordan decided to attend the D-Day celebrations in France. And given that he lived in a nursing home in England, which he had to cunningly break out of to make the trip, it made his ambitions all the more surprising. But of course the ex-Mayor and town councillor succeeded, popping up in Normandy a couple of days after disappearing from his Hove care home.
“The film runs along two timelines. In the present day, octogenarians Bernard and Rene Jordan live together in a home and sometimes find themselves feeling disjointed from modern society. And the film flashes back to when they were young: it depicts their love story, as well as Jordan’s memories — or perhaps imagined memories — of his friends in peril on the beaches during the Normandy landings.”
The three-part Depp v. Heard pops on Netflix on 8.16. Part testimony, part background and a shitload of social media. The big question about this Emma Cooper doc: a fair, thorough, even-steven recap or an Allen v. Farrow hit job?
This is only a working theory or, if you will, an undeveloped premise, but the theory is that Greta Gerwig‘s Barbie and Chantal Akerman‘s Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles drink from the same well water. Simmering frustration and anger at men, resulting in a sense of feeling trapped or stuck and needing to redefine or break through.
I won’t be burrowing into this idea any further (or at least not today), but the analogy hit me early this morning and I’m convinced that despite Barbie and Jeanne Dielman being hugely dissimilar in many ways, there’s a certain validity to saying “they aren’t that far apart.”
Posted on 12.2.22: In the wake of Chantal Akerman‘s Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (’75) topping the BFI Sight & Sound poll, I had to give it another shot. So I watched it on the Criterion Channel, on my Macbook Air. Most of it, I should say. I made it through the first 90 minutes the hard way (i.e., without cheating), but then something inside me began to wither and crumple, and I began to watch ten-minute portions. But I missed nothing.
Jeannie Diulman is a statement, all right. Three hours and 21 minutes of torpor, tedium and depression. Such a sad, suffocating and listless film. (Yes, that’s the point but c’mon.) It’s about a life of a prim and proper sex worker (Day of the Jackal’s Delphine Seyrig) that’s mainly about servitude and the renunciation of joy and the suppression of the spirit. A film about regimented motherhood and the raising of a dull, homely, tragically obedient son whose life is doomed to the same kind of repetition, the same dutiful stiflings and silences and submissions.
Seyrig is Spartacus in the kitchen — a sex-hating sex gladiator without a sword. A slave who endlessly prepares meals and adheres to regularity, regularity and more regularity. She never breaks out of Capua, so to speak, and we never see her having sex except at the very end, and in an odd, ugly and curious way at that. But we do see her prepare many dinners.
“The WGA and SAG/AFTRA strike is about more than the particulars of how the so-called creative class gets paid. It’s really about whether or not there can be a creative class at all.
“My working assumption is that within 20 years, if not much sooner, A.I. will be able to write, direct and act (via computer-generated images that are indistinguishable from real people) movies and TV shows. It will write credible novels and news stories and opinion columns and compose film scores and pop music. It will mean a growing number of creative endeavors will no longer easily find meaningful vocational outlets. It will amount to a kind of material degradation of human civilization that may prove irreversible.” — N.Y. Times columnist Bret Stephens, posted on 7.24.23.
Posted a little more than 15 years ago (i.e., 6.19.07):
Jett and I were at a Carl’s, Jr. around 1:15 pm today, and there were about 25 or more Latino kids there, and every last one was either bulky, chunky, over-fed or fat.
I was watching a Braves-Red Sox game yesterday on ESPN, and I was struck by two Atlanta pitchers — one who was relieved in the ninth inning, and the guy who relieved him — who were both pretty big…barrel-chested, round faces, Babe Ruth-ish.
Earlier this month Jett and I stayed for two nights at a youth hostel in Positano, Italy, and I noticed several zaftig American college-age girls…female Seth Rogens with surprisingly large girths.
“What’s with all the pot bellies on the girls?” I asked Jett. “If you’re going to be in great shape, there’s no better time than your early 20s.” Jett, about to start his sophomore year at Syracuse University, laughed and said, “All college girls look like that…well, almost all of them. It’s college and all those fatty foods.”
I don’t think it’s college as much as good old American sloth. This is not my usual-usual — this country is getting fatter and fatter. I know, I know…who cares? Order another whopper, have some more fries, turn on the tube.
Were the Greeks fat? Were the Romans waddling around like Jabbas in togas? What great civilizations have had populations who were this roley-poley? It’s another sign of the wind-down of the American empire.
If the ghost of Julius Caesar were to visit this country, he would take one look and sneer, “These people aren’t warriors or conquerors…look at them! They’re cattle!”
To hear it from Variety‘s Owen Gleiberman, Barbie director Greta Gerwig managed to transform the material “into an exuberant jokey carnival of fourth-wall-breaking doll’s-house-as-rabbit-hole feminist surrealism — a candy-colored Dreamhouse burlesque that adores Barbie and resents her at the same time.”
He also notes that Barbie “tweaks the patriarchy even as it treats Ken as the film’s most complicated character, and that has the wit to recognize that Barbie isn’t just a plaything [but] a metaphysical projection of feminine ideals who also has the effect of undermining who women are.”
Having seen Barbie last Thursday and having immediately tapped out my reactions (“Undisciplined Barbie Gush“), I was naturally expecting to see something more plain-spoken than “tweaks the patriarchy.” I was actually hoping to see words that actually apply. Words like “misandrist” or “misandry”, I mean.
Gleiberman does have a tendency to lay it on the line, after all. He’ll use diplomatic phrasing, of course, but if an apple tree is full of ripe green (as opposed to red) apples, he’ll say that for the most part.
Well, not this time as neither term was used. “There must be some mistake,” I told myself. Then I realized there was no percentage in being overly candid about Barbie. It had become too big of a hit, too much of an earthquake. I get it — it’s celebration time. If I was a hotshot critic for a major publication I’d probably play my cards this way also.
Telluride ‘23 certainly has the gay pathfinder biopic genre covered.
We’re talking two films about older gay people accomplishing something exceptional in the face of great difficulty or adversity — Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin‘s Nyad, a “you go, girl!” drama about 60ish long-distance swimmer Diana Nyad, and George Wolfe‘s Rustin, about gay civil rights activist Bayard Rustin (1912-1987).
The latter film is produced by Michelle and Barack Obama‘s Higher Ground Productions.
Because Rustin is (a) about a Black gay activist and (b) emanating from the Obamas (will they attend Telluride’s opening-day brunch?) it will be hailed in progressive showbiz circles as close to the Second Coming, plus star Colman Domingo (whom I’ve always liked) will be pushed as a Best Actor contender, and who will argue against this?
Being gay isn’t a political ideology, although it’s certainly a “yay-yay” thing in progressive circles. Highlighting and promoting gay bravery and assertiveness as the absolutely glorious and wonderful things they are because we all need make a really big positive deal out of gay characters whenever and however they appear, especially at Telluride with the Obamas present…that’s the political side of things.
All I know is that apart from Alexander Payne‘s The Holdovers, the two films I was really excited about catching at Telluride are (or were, I should say) Woody Allen‘s Coup de Chance, which of course won’t play there because of the Stalinist refusenik Woody haters, and Tran Anh Hung’s The Pot au Feu, which I praised during the 2023 Cannes Film Festival and would absolutely love to re-watch in the Rockies.
I wept when I learned that IFC Films and Sapan Studios have acquired Tran Anh Hung’s foodie masterpiece. I don’t know for a fact that The Pot au Feu will be absent from Telluride, but IFC Films distribution deals have always been tantamount to a kiss of death. It’s certainly a guarantee that a first-rate, ecstatically reviewed European film will not be vigorously publicized and hooplah-ed.
What IFC Films seems to do, in fact, is acquire exciting, critically hailed titles only to suffocate and bury them. The Pot au Feu hasn’t been announced as a Toronto Film Festival title either. Things could always turn for the better but right now IFC Film’s Scott Shooman is the apparent villain in this scenario.
Between the certain absence of Coup de Chance, the feared absence of The Pot au Feu and the SAF/AFTRA strike restrictions, my expectations for Telluride ’23 are dimming by the moment.
I was hoping that Bradley Cooper‘s Maestro (Netflix) might appear at Telluride….nope! The word on the street is that it will debut at the New York Film Festival.
I was hoping that Ridley Scott‘s Napoleon (Apple/Sony, 11.22) might debut at Telluride….nope!
I would also love to see Roman Polanski‘s The Palace….nope! Bad person, suppress his film (a black comedy) at all costs, etc.
I’m despairing and downhearted. My spirit is leaking out of me like sand. Whatta bummer, man.