I have no rational explanation why I never got around to installing a system-flushing program like CCleaner (there are many that offer the same basic service), but for whatever idiotic reason I never did. But recently all three units (2 Macbook Pros with solid-state drives, a Macbook Air) began acting all slow and gummy and covered in maple syrup, and I was getting really sick of this. So I complained to Stan’s Tech Garage, and they installed CCleaner on all three, and now things are much faster. I’ll be running the system check every two weeks — easy.
It took some doing but I’ve finally scored a draft of Taylor Allen and Andrew Logan‘s Chappaquiddick (dated 5.11.16, 131 pages), the Ted Kennedy implosion melodrama that will begin filming just after Labor Day. The script is blistering, damning. A nightmarish atmosphere prevails. I was shaking my head as I read it last night, going “Jesus” and “Jesus H. Christ” over and over.
In the somewhat similar manner of Oliver Stone‘s Nixon or W., the script doesn’t strictly adhere to 100% verified fact (certain behaviors may have been exaggerated or invented and surely some of the dialogue has been imagined to varying degrees) but it does seem to follow the generally understood history of this wretched affair.
Chappaquiddick pulls no punches and hits hard. Just about every page exudes the stench of an extremely odious situation being suppressed and re-narrated by professional fixers, some of whom are appalled at Ted’s behavior and character but who do what’s necessary all the same. Protect and maintain the family’s power and mythology at all costs, by any means.
Kennedy and Mary Jo Kopechne smooch (on-camera) and actually do the deed (off-camera). And I’m not exaggerating when I emphasize that the depiction of Kopechne’s slow, agonizing death from suffocation inside Kennedy’s submerged, upside-down 1967 Oldsmobile is agonizing to read. I don’t want to imagine what it’ll be like to watch.
The reputation of the late Massachusetts Senator (1932-2009) was sullied, to say the least, by this horrific 1969 episode, but he quickly recovered, of course, and the honor and the lustre were gradually restored. For nearly four decades after the tragedy Ted was a fully respected and renowned legislator, an ally of President Barack Obama and vice versa, a health care advocate, a godfather, a diplomat and an operator who knew how to play the game and get things done.
But after Chappaquiddick is seen a year from now (starting, I’m guessing, with the early fall festivals) his name will be sullied again, trust me.
Robert Redford was born 80 years ago in Santa Monica. Today is his birthday.
He graduated from Van Nuys high school in ’54. Alienated, unsettled. Booted out of the University of Colorado in Boulder after a year and a half. Travelled to Europe in ’56, drinking and painting and kicking around. Down and out and despairing at 20. But a year or two later Redford knew he wanted to act, and by ’59 he was out of the woods and into the groove. And he was getting a lot of TV-series work by ’60. So he’d found himself by age 23 and was a semi-success by age 24.
But he had at least tasted a bit of that lonely-guy, who-am-I?, “where the fuck am I going and how will I pay for it?” angst, and he drew upon that creepy feeling time and again, of course, when he became a big-name actor in the late ’60s.
Hitting 80 is not that big of a deal these days (80 being the new 70), but it still feels a bit strange to think of Redford — the smiling, well-built, good-looking towhead — being paired with that number.
Speaking of which, Redford bailed on the blonde-hair thing when…? The early to mid ’90s? I know that ever since I started going to Sundance in ’93 his hair was mostly copper-colored. Back in the early ’80s I interviewed an old high-school friend of his, some drawling dude, who said that Redford’s Van Nuys nickname was “Red.”
The Broadcast Film Awards guys have announced their intention to totally ace the influence of the Golden Globe Awards by holding the Critic Choice Awards on Sunday, December 11th. The Golden Globe Awards will be held roughly than a month later, on Sunday, January 8th. The GG date had been regarded (and still is regarded, albeit to a lesser degree now) as a serious Oscar-nomination influencer by award strategists. Oscar nømination balloting kicks off on Thursday, 1.5.17 and closing on Friday, 1.13.17. But the new Critics Choice Awards date all but blows that scheme out of the water.
Initial BFCA balloting (i.e., suggested you-tell-us nominations) will begin on the morning of 11.28.16 and end on 11.29.16, late in the day or early evening. The BFCA noms will be announced on 12.1.16. The final ballots will go out on 12.8.16 with return ballots required by 12.9.16, again late in the day or early evening.
The vast majority of the award-quality heavy hitters will have opened by late November. The new BFCA deal brings a certain pressure factor to the post-production skeds of five presumed award-calibre December releases — Denzel Washington‘s Fences, Martin Scorsese‘s Silence, Peter Berg‘s Patriot’s Day, David Frankel‘s Collateral Beauty and Morten Tyldum‘s Passengers. But nothing they won’t be able to handle, I would imagine. The BFCA guys have totally vetted the schedule with distributors and award strategists, I’m told, and the new plan is good to go. (Full disclosure: I am a voting member of the BFCA.)
As we all know, many people out there like to vote for people they think are likely to win. The dumbshits, I mean. They believe that voting for a winner will upgrade their stock or something. Forget principle, voting for someone they believe in…they just want to be “on” the winning side. This is why Trump is really dead now, because the “possible loser by a landslide” thing has totally spread its seed and begun to sink into public consciousness. Even the slowest, dumbest people out there are starting to sense this.
“I was visited by The Power and The Glory / I was visited by a majestic hymn / Great bolts of lightning lighting up the sky / Electricity flowing through my veins / I was captured by a larger moment / I was seized by divinity’s hot breath / Gorged like a lion on experience / Powerful from life.
Same thing I posted two months ago: Andrea Arnold‘s American Honey is a kind of Millenial Oliver Twist road flick with Fagin played by both Shia Labeouf and Riley Keogh (Elvis’s granddaughter) and Oliver played by Sasha Lane…but with some good earthy sex thrown in. There’s no question that Honey stakes out its own turf and whips up a tribal lather that feels exuberant and feral and non-deodorized. It doesn’t have anything resembling a plot but it doesn’t let that deficiency get in the way. Honey throbs, sweats, shouts, jumps around and pushes the nervy. (Somebody wrote that it’s Arnold channelling Larry Clark.) It’s a wild-ass celebration of a gamey, hand-to-mouth mobile way of life. And every frame of Robbie Ryan‘s lensing (at 1.37:1, no less!) is urgent and vital.” — from my 5.14.16 mini-review. A24 will presumably open Honey sometime in the fall.
A Charlie Rose Show-type setting. A large, round, polished oak table. Bottles of Fiji water, the usual dark background. The host is myself, and the guests are the late William Wyler, Jack Hawkins and Gore Vidal, all of whom helped create the 1959 version of Ben-Hur, along with original Ben-Hur author General Lew Wallace, still bearded and uniformed.
jack Hawkins as Quintus Arrius in the 1959 version of Ben-Hur, directed by William Wyler.
Jeffrey Wells: First of all, thank you all for coming. None of you are living, of course, but we appreciate your time nonetheless. Today’s topic, somewhat painful or at least uncomfortable to discuss, I realize, is the decision by the remakers of Ben-Hur — director Timur Bekmambetov, screenwriters Keith Clarke and John Ridley — to jettison the character of Quintus Arrius, the Roman general and nobleman who rescues Judah Ben-Hur from living death as an oar slave.
Wyler: For the sake of running time.
Vidal: The Arrius portions added up to roughly 30, 35 minutes. Which is one reason why our version, Willy, ran 212 minutes. The 1925 version ran…what was it, two and a half hours?
Every so often a headline gets it just right. Irreverence, bluntness, mockery, contempt. One of my all-time favorites is BRIDE OF JACKOSTEIN — the 1996 N.Y. Post (or was N.Y. Daily News?) headline about Michael Jackson‘s breeder wife Debbie Rowe. Ditto the N.Y. Post‘s August 2009 headline about Jackson’s final resting place — STACKO!
A full life on this planet has to include visiting places like the Milan Cathedral, which I saw and explored for about 30 minutes in May of ’92, right after my first Cannes Film Festival and on my way to Prague. I stopped in Milan for…oh, maybe three or four hours.
Jonah Hill‘s rascally, conniving performance as 20something arms dealer Efrain Diveroli (a real-life guy who is not and never was a fat-ass) is the big reason to see War Dogs this weekend. Jonah, Jonah, Jonah…back in Superbad territory but with less schtick and colder blood. The highs, lows and demonic detours of a sociopathic, three-card-monte hustler! I just wish the film was more about crazy-fuck Jonah and less about Miles “don’t be a pervert” Teller, who’s playing the straight man, another real-life arms dealer named David Packouz.
Not that the film dies or slows down when it’s focusing on Teller — he’s fine, holds up his end. But Jonah is in charge of the surge moments. Half the time you’re thinking “okay, this is good, moving along but where’s Jonah” or, you know, “what’s Jonah’s next big bullshit play gonna be”?
Jonah’s Efraim is the kind of guy who’s always performing, selling and scheming. The kind who never deals straight cards but who can usually con-talk almost anyone into saying “yes” or at least “okay, maybe.” Or weasel his way out of a jam. I hate guys like this in real life, but I love watching them operate from a theatre seat.
Since the mid ’80s or thereabouts director Arthur Hiller, who has died at the age of 92, had been derided or dismissed as a mild-mannered, milquetoasty, go-along technician who never pushed for the exceptional because he never had it in him. Well, from 1964 to ’79 that was simply not true. His two finest efforts — the brilliant, bitterly comedic The Americanization of Emily (’64) and The Hospital (’71) — were creme de la creme collaborations with the great Paddy Chayefsky. I don’t care what anybody says about Hiller today, next week or 50 years on — his critics can never take those films away from him.
Yes, the voice was all Chayefsky, but Hiller made those films snap, crackle and dance. He shot and cut them with smooth economy and efficiency and coaxed superb performances out of each and every actor high and low (George C. Scott, Diana Rigg, James Garner, Julie Andrews, James Coburn, et. al.). Hiller and Chayefsky were as one.
And there was also Hiller’s Love Story (deplored by the cognoscenti but a major, culture-quake hit of its time), The Man in the Glass Booth (’75), Silver Streak (’76 — a lightly agreeable comedy-thriller aboard an LA-to-Chicago train which introduced the pairing of Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor) and The In-Laws (’79 — just released last month as a Criterion Bluray).
