Jonathan Goldstein and John Francis Daley‘s Dungeons & Dragons is instantly boring and a waste of time. I was rolling my eyes after ten minutes’ worth, and I bailed altogether after a half-hour or so. The writing is trite and formulaic. The mood is spritzy and light-hearted, yes, but in a strange way exhausting. It’s the kind of material that we’ve seen over and over, and if you’re happy with this kind of shite I don’t know what to tell you. Chris Pine, Michelle Rodriguez, Regé-Jean Page, Justice Smith, Sophia Lillis and Hugh Grant sleep-walk through it.
Jeff Wells
No Thanks
Yesterday afternoon I hate-watched Zach Braff and Florence Pugh‘s A Good Person (MGM, 3.24). It’s basically a Lifetime movie about (a) slow grief recovery, (b) Oxycontin addiction and (c) the patient counsel of Morgan Freeman.
After 15 or 20 minutes I wanted to pop an Oxy myself, and maybe another half for good measure.
It’s arduous to sit through — instructive, over-acted, schmaltzy, precious, on the nose, emotionally insistent, socially curious and fortified with phony writing.
I hate addiction, AA and grief-recovery movies, and I really hated the acting in this film in particular. Bored shitless, I mean.
Pugh will always be a grounded, real-deal actress, but the screenplay’s flat treatment of Oxy addiction is “okay, okay, I’ve had enough, what else can you show me?” Freeman has always been excellent in whatever role, but you can tell he’s struggling or, you know, doing the best he can under duress. His vibe feels saggy, weary. Plus Freeman is around 85 now and seems too old to be the dad of Chinaza Uchi, who plays Pugh’s 30ish ex-fiance. He’s more like a grandfather type.
The only reason A Good Person managed a 55% Rotten Tomatoes and a 50% Metacitic grade is because a good portion of the ensemble cast is Black. If the cast had been all-Anglo, it would have fared much worse.
There’s a scene in which Freeman, the father of Pugh’s ex-fiance, shows Pugh an elaborate train set within a model of a miniature town in his basement, and I was saying to myself “this is half-working, this scene…they’ve finally found a groove.” And then Pugh’s character starts singing “Last Train to Clarksville” and Freeman joins in…the fucking Monkees!
I’m sorry but I have to say this: What extended family or close-knit social circle (i.e., people who routinely get together for holidays and birthdays) is composed of 55% POCs and 45% Anglos? Or vice versa? Even in super-artsy or super-wealthy X-factor circles, this kind of social bonding is…well, I’m not aware that it’s common. A Good Person is set in northern New Jersey near West Orange (i.e., Jett and Cait’s neighborhood) and I know how things look and feel in that neck of the woods. Good people and middle-class vibes, but not as woke as Braff and Pugh (who co-produced and collaborated on the script) are imagining.
I hated Mauro Fiore‘s muted, blue-ish cinematography.
Six Decades Apart
Obviously the 11.22.23 theatrical debut of Ridley Scott‘s Napoleon (Apple/Sony) and the 11.22.63 assassination of John F. Kennedy haven’t the slightest echo element, and yet 11.22.23 will mark that 60th anniversary. No biggie, just saying.
When Fassler Was A Proverbial Knee-High
It was roughly a month ago that former HE commenter Jeremy Fassler, one of the most belligerent and condemning one-note wokesters to ever leave his mark on Hollywood Elsewhere, was given his walking papers.
And yet he used to be a much different person. 18 years ago, I mean, when Fassler was in ninth or tenth grade. I came across a 2.23.15 post about Sideways, written by a 15 year-old Fassler.
“I’m 15, and I saw Sideways before it opened and loved it every bit as much as you did,” he wrote. “But I only have two friends who are around my age who liked it as much as I did.
“Everyone else I’ve talked to has not had a positive reaction to the movie. ‘I didn’t understand why [Paul Giamatti and Thomas Hayden Church] were friends,’ one said. I told another to watch it again in a few years and he said, ‘If I don’t like it now why would I ever like it?’ Even some adults, like my substitute teacher in English, thought that it was so unlikable and couldn’t muster up any sympathy for Giamatti’s character.
“I figured you’d be the best guy to ask. Why don’t more people of my age understand Sideways?” — Jeremy Fassler.
Wells to Fassler [also written in early ’05]: “I haven’t a clue as to why your English teacher found it unlikable, but he probably needs to get out more. That or Giamatti’s character reminded him of something in himself on some level, and he didn’t like thinking about that. Your friends not liking it is probably about life-experience issues. My 16 year-old son Jett says ‘several’ of his friends liked it fine.”
Reactions to Recent “Air” Sneak?
Presumably a sizable portion of the HE community caught those ticket-buyer sneaks of Ben Affleck‘s Air last…what was it, Friday?
The non-pro consensus seems to be that (a) early-bird critics have over-sold it (but not me — I gave it a solid 8.5 grade while adding “just don’t go expecting the world”), (b) it was a bit of an odd strategy for Michael Jordan to technically be “present” for the third-act presentation scene at Nike’s Beaverton headquarters without actually being seen or heard and letting Viola Davis do all the talking, (c) the decision not to try and inflate or amplify the story into something bigger than it is was a wise one.
So what did everyone think? Is it modestly excellent or what? Is it basically a “dad” film or will Millennials and Zoomers be able to roll with it?
Posted from Metro North train after seeing Air, 3.22, 10:30 pm:
Ben Affleck’s Air is a solid 8.5 or even a 9 —- just don’t go expecting the world. It’s a modest, well-crafted film about vision and risk and soul and salesmanship, and the best aspect, I feel, is that it doesn’t swing for the fences.
It’s an unpretentious, steady-as-she-goes sports saga that frets about stress and failure and at the same time insists over and over that “if you don’t take a risk you can’t make a gain,” which is precisely what Walter Huston’s chuckling, goat-like prospector said in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.
In a way Air is just as much of a pikers-strike-it-rich story as John Huston’s 1948 classic was and is, and the stakes are just as life-and-death when you consider what might’ve happened if Nike hadn’t signed Michael Jordan and if Matt Damon’s Sonny Vaccaro and Affleck’s Phil Knight had taken a gut punch instead.
Their down-to-business story is about marketing and branding that wound up on a super-scale, but told with a modest brush. Nothing goofy or slick or wild-ass. It starts out ordinarily or even ho-hummishly, but then it picks up a little steam and then a little more, and then little dabs of feeling are sprinkled into the second act and then spoonfuls of the stuff into the third as it gets better and better and better.
And then the big payoff moment comes, which isn’t as emotional as Jerry Maguire but then how could it be? Air isn’t about wives or girlfriends or kids or dogs…it’s strictly about business and that’s a good enough thing, trust me.
Here’s the thing: Damon’s Vaccaro is a beefalo bordering on a lardbucket, and I was bothered by this at first. But guess what? I stopped thinking about the paunch around the 30-minute mark. By the one-hour mark I’d forgotten about it entirely. This in itself says a lot.
7:55 am update: It’s being said that Viola Davis’s grounded performance as Michael Jordan’s tough negotiating mom, Deloris, is the keeper. She’ll probably be Oscar-nominated, but Damon’s Vaccaro shoulders the weight. He’s playing the poet and the singer and the believer of the piece, and it’s his best performance since…what, the second Bourne film? Or The Informant? And I love how he’s never cowed by Affleck’s Knight, calmly standing his ground, and in fact plays him at the very end. It’s brilliant. And I love Chris Messina’s tough-shithead agent who reps the Jordans and is content to eat alone.
Dead Men Don’t Return As A Rule [SPOILER]
HE to Stahelski: If you were even half-thinking about making a fifth Wick film, why the hell did you kill him at the close of the present installment? He’s dead and buried, man. If you bring finality, you need to respect finality. Simple.
There’s one way I’ll accept a fifth. Make it a stripped-down, bare-bones, less-is-more prequel. Reverse the engine and renounce the ridiculous over-the-topness of the current model. True, a certain percentage of the style junkies who love John Wick 4 will feel betrayed — “hey, where’s the absurdity?” To which I say, “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
Over In 14 Seconds
One of my all-time favorite guitar solos is from Robby Krieger on “You’re Lost, Little Girl,” and so what…right? I love the simplicity of it. Clean tones, nothing flashy, nice finish. 1:42 to 1:56. The shorter, the better.
Back In The Saddle
A couple of days ago I was a bit startled by a Variety headline for a Chris Willman interview with Marcus Mumford. It was about the recently-premiered PBS Joni Mitchell tribute concert (Gershwin Prize) that happened in February, and more particularly Mumford’s belief that Mitchell is “singing better than ever in 2023.”
It’s great that Mitchell is singing and playing guitar and sounding pretty good, particularly in the wake of having suffered a brain aneurysm in late March of 2015. She was in fairly bad shape after that tragedy, but she’s recovered (or at least is recovering) to a significant degree, and praise be to God for this.
In a 2013 interview with the National Post‘s Jian Ghomeshi Mitchell said that her soprano singing voice was pretty much kaput, and that she’s now an alto.
The key question to me is “is Joni still smoking?” Because that’s almost certainly what helped to bring about her aneurysm. She initially lost her ability to speak and walk, and still needs a little help getting around as we speak.
I was so concerned about Mitchell’s well-being in the wake of the aneurysm that I once hand-delivered an admonishing fan letter to her Spanish home in Bel Air. I insisted I was one of her biggest fans and begged her to think about vaping instead of sticking with tobacco.
Mitchell may have decided that life isn’t worth living without the pleasure of unfiltered cigarettes, but maybe not. She once said in an interview that she began smoking at age 9 or 10 or something. At a certain point the body just can’t take the nicotine and the toxins and complications will manifest.
It’s wonderful, in any event, that Mitchell has regained (or is in the process of regaining) her singing and guitar-playing abilities. She’ll turn 80 on 11.7.23.
Posted on 3.31.15: I attended a short, smallish concert that Mitchell gave at Studio 54 in October ’82 to promote “Wild Things Run Fast.” The crowd was not huge, maybe 150 or so, and I was standing fairly close and pretty much dead center. No female artist has ever touched me like Mitchell**, and I was quite excited about being this close to her.
I was beaming, starry-eyed and staring at her like the most self-abasing suck-up fan you could imagine, and during the first song her eyes locked onto mine and I swear to God we began to kind of half-stare at each other. (Some performers do this, deciding to sing for this or that special person in the crowd.) Her eyes danced around from time to time but she kept coming back to me, and I remember thinking, “Okay, she senses that I love her and she probably likes my looks so I guess I’m her special fanboy or something for the next few minutes.”
Mitchell was dressed in a white pants suit and some kind of colorful scarf, and she sang and played really well, and I remember she had a little bit of a sexy tummy thing going on. Sorry but that had a portion of my attention along with the songs and “being there” and a feeling that I’d remember this moment for decades to come.
** My beloved Patti Smith ranks a close second.
“Clown Cried” In A Cosmic Blink Of An Eyelash
On 8.5.15 L.A. Times staffer Noah Bierman reported that Jerry Lewis had donated a copy of The Day The Clown Cried, an unfinished 1972 holocaust drama that Lewis had directed, written and starred in, to the Library of Congress.
It was stipulated, however, that the film couldn’t be screened “for at least ten years,” and only then with the permission of the Lewis estate. (Lewis passed on 8.20.17 at age 91.)
On 10.14.15 (or two months after the Bierman piece) I was informed by Mike Mashon, head of the Moving Image section on the LoC campus, that the embargo on TDTCC would be in place “for ten years,” and would therefore extend until 2025.
Although the LoC apparently intends to eventually screen The Day The Clown Cried at its Audio Visual Conservation campus in Culpeper, Virginia, curator Rob Stone has stated the LoC does not have a complete print of the film.
Posted on 6.15.16: I’m hardly an authority when it comes to Jerry Lewis‘s never-seen The Day The Clown Cried (’72), but to my knowledge an assembly of scenes from the finished film has never been shown to anyone.
I’ve read all the articles, I’ve read the script, I’ve seen that BBC documentary that popped last January, and I’d love to view it when the embargo is lifted nine years hence (i.e., in 2024). But I’ve never watched actual scenes.
This morning a friend passed along a 31-minute Vimeo file (posted two months ago but yanked on Thursday morning…sorry) that provides the first real taste of Clown, or at least the first I’ve ever sat through.
It’s basically a compressed, German-dubbed version of Lewis’s film that’s intercut with acted-out portions of the script by a troupe of 70somethings. It’s taken from Eric Friedler‘s 2016 documentary called Der Clown.
And you know what? I don’t see what’s so godawful about it.
Okay, the scheme is manipulative bordering on the grotesque — Lewis as a German-Jewish clown in a Nazi concentration camp who’s ordered in the final act to amuse a group of children being sent to the “showers” — but that elephant aside it didn’t strike me as all that agonizing or offensive. Really. Lewis’s performance seems more or less restrained as far as the writing allows, and the story unfolds in a series of steps that seem reasonably logical. The supporting perfs and period milieu seem decent enough.
When everyone finally sees The Day The Clown Cried in 2024 (or ’25) the verdict may be that it’s not a mediocre, miscalculated effort (or that it is…who knows?), but I didn’t smell a catastrophe as I watched this whatever-you-want-to-call-it. Plus it costars HE’s own Harriet Andersson.
To Those Who Loved His Music
Please accept my deepest, saddest and most heartfelt condolence over the passing of Ryuichi Sakamoto, with whom I had the honor of briefly speaking at a Golden Globes party eight or nine years ago.
Sakamoto’s musical compositions for Merry Christmas, Mr, Lawrence, The Revenant, The Last Emperor, High Heels, Little Buddha, Love Is the Devil and Babel are now and forever truly wonderful.
Sakamoto played the sexually conflicted Captain Yonoi in Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence (’83), as well as a supporting role in The Last Emperor (’87).
Classic Final Shots
It needs to be said that a film that ends with a great final shot does not necessarily deliver a big twist or surprise (Planet of the Apes) or provide a satisfying, soothing feeling of emotional closure (i.e., Wes Anderson‘s Rushmore).
Truly great endings, rather, are ones that hold and fascinate because of an unexpected (and yet perfectly on-target) feeling of irony. Anything with a certain focus or visual strategy that takes you a little bit by surprise. Content, of course, but primarily style, panache, decisiveness.
The very last shot of The Godfather (i.e., the door closing upon Diane Keaton as she contemplates her future with Al Pacino) is one of the greatest of all time.
Keir Dullea‘s star child gazing down at the earth at the close of 2001: A Space Odyssey, for sure.** The closing shot of Carol Reed‘s The Third Man is a deservedly admired classic. The final image in North by Northwest (i.e., Cary Grant‘s penis train roaring into Eva Marie Saint‘s vagina tunnel) is brilliant. In Kubrick’s The Killing, that shot of the cops approaching a distraught Sterling Hayden as they emerge from an airline terminal is a knockout.
The last shot of Brokeback Mountain (“Jack, I swear”) is excellent. Ditto Fight Club (i.e., collapsing buildings), Cabaret (i.e., a Nazi armband spotted in the crowd), and that lingering closeup of Timothee Chalamet at the end of Call Me By Your Name. The final shot of Michelangelo Antonioni‘s Blow-Up (David Hemmings vaporizes) is a keeper; ditto the bravura ending of The Passenger.
Which others?
** The exploding nuclear weapons at the end of Dr. Strangelove don’t count because they’re a montage, not a single shot.
Really Old Directors Who Still Have (or Had) That Snappity-Snap-Snap
Quentin Tarantino, 60, has said that The Movie Critic will be his last directing effort because he doesn’t want to succumb to a gradual decline period, which tends to happen, he believes, when directors get into their 60s. Yes, Alfred Hitchcock went into a slow decline after The Birds (Marnie is abundant proof of that) and Stanley Kubrick had arguably begun to lose his edge (certainly compared to the filmmaker he was in the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s) when he made Eyes Wide Shut. But otherwise there are several holes in QT’s analysis.
Clint Eastwood was still cooking with good gas when he made 2008’s Gran Torino at age 77 or thereabouts. John Huston was the same age (77 or thereabouts) when he hit a grand slam with Prizzi’s Honor (’85). There’s no indication that 80-year-old Martin Scorsese is currently off his game, or that he was slippin’ when he made The Irishman (’19). In his early 80s Sidney Lumet delivered a career-crowning one-two punch with Find Me Guilty (’06) and Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead (’07). Woody Allen‘s last three exceptional films — Match Point (’05), Vicky Cristina Barcelona (’08) and Midnight in Paris (’11) — were made when he was 69, 72 and 75.
Other exceptions are…?