I spent an hour this morning putting up a metal hanging bar between a living-room doorframe. Some call it a chinning bar, but it’s for my lower back. The idea is to hang from it for 45 or 60 seconds with no support from my legs. It’s a horizontal black cylinder thing encased in a rubber pad and held up by two round, hard-plastic anchor cups. The first thing was to make sure that I screwed in the cups in precisely the same spot on the opposite sides of the frame, and just getting that part right was a bitch, let me tell you. I drove nails into the spots where the Phillips-head screws would go to pave the way, but three of these little guys refused to screw all the way in. I tried and tried and started quietly swearing after a while. I finally took a chisel and tried to just hammer them in, which I sorta kinda succeeded at. I’m not too bad at carpentry but I’m impatient. I get mad at things. But it’s up now, thank God, and it really does make my lower back feel pretty great after hanging from it.
Daily
Don’t Belmont That Memo, My Friend
In my 8.21 riff about James DiEugenio‘s “Reclaiming Parkland,” I asked for “some decisive piece of smoking-gun evidence” that disproves the Warren Report. This morning Joe McBride, the longtime film writer and author of the recently released “Into The Nightmare,” sent me an image of an 11.22.63 internal FBI memo sent by Alan H. Belmont to Clyde Tolson, special assistant to J. Edgar Hoover.
“Okay, so Belmont is reporting that they found two bullets,” I replied to McBride. “The pristine magic bullet, presumably, and another lodged in Kennedy’s head ‘behind his ear,’ right? No conspiracy whacko or official agency has ever asserted or even denied to my knowledge that a bullet was found lodged in JFK’s head so this was…what? An indication of a conspiracy to keep the truth from coming out? Or a wrongo due to the heat of the moment and the human capacity to misread or mishear or otherwise screw up, right? Or am I missing something?”
Has Dylan Seen It Or What?
“Inside Llewyn Davis is a sardonically funny American art film about frustration and wintry despair and the Sisyphusian struggle of a folk singer who’s talented and cares about his art but isn’t good or lucky enough to make it to the next level, and the week-long journey he goes through that takes him from a kind of semi-resigned ‘fuck me’ slumber mentality to an ‘oh, to hell with it…this shit is infuriating…I hate folk music!’ feeling. Bob Dylan, trust me, is going to love this thing. He’s going to effing swear by it.” — posted from Cannes on Sunday, 5.19.
Save Ben Affleck From Batman Deal
I can only surmise that Ben Affleck has reportedly agreed to be the new Batman because (a) it’ll be a huge payday, (b) he’s figuring this might be his last shot at the Really Big Money as an actor, and (c) he’s thinking about taking care of his kids down the road. I can think of no other reason. On its own merits it’s a very, very odd career move. It’s like he’s reverted to the guy he was before be became a reputable director.
It’s not that big of a deal but last night a change.org petition protesting Afleck-as-Batman gathered 3,000 signatures.
The Bridge You Jump From
Gotta love that Llewyn Davis, man. I’m going to buy this movie on Bluray early next year and watch it another half-dozen times, at least. I know that. I’ve thought it over and decided that it’s probably better at this stage (three and a half months from the 12.5 commercial opening) not to show too much in these trailers and just…you know, supply little hors d’oeuvres. A taste here, a taste there.
Commendable But Worth A Cigar?
I’ve just sent the following to a few of my award-season columnist colleagues, to wit: “We all know that Oprah Winfrey‘s performance in The Butler (i.e., as Forrest Whitaker‘s loyal if occasionally frustrated wife) is on almost everyone’s preliminary short list for Best Supporting Actress right now. Two days ago The Daily Beast‘s Kevin Fallon wrote that “the media mogul is an early Oscar frontrunner…not only could she win, she really should.” Now, be honest. If Winfrey’s performance had been given by, say, Queen Latifah or Octavia Spencer — and I mean exactly the same performance with the same finessing, same quality, same dramatic impact — what are the odds that you guys would be jumping up and down and calling either performance an automatic Best Supporting Actress contender?
“Would You Like The Can, Sir?”
Last Monday I tapped out a piece called “Brand Name Preferences,” and the next day I wrote some of my journalist pallies looking for responses. The two best responses came from Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson and Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neil. But first a portion of my letter to these guys:
“What I wrote on Monday is a description of the essence of what’s wrong if not malignant concerning the Hollywood awards-following community — when faced with a choice between STANDING UP FOR THE REALLY WOWSER EXCEPTIONAL PERFORMANCE THAT DESERVES AWARDS ATTENTION (at least in the early stages between now and, say, late November or better yet December) and hanging back and going “YEAH, OKAY, BUT IT WON’T WIN OR EVEN GET NOMINATED BECAUSE A FEW BRAND-NAME ACTRESSES HAVE A BETTER SHOT”, too many of you guys almost ALWAYS choose the latter. You’re birds sitting on the fence going “caw! caw! caw!”
Transgender Double Back-Flip Cartwheels
So if the U.S. Army had adopted a more sympathetic or supportive attitude toward PFC Bradley Manning’s gender identity disorder he wouldn’t have passed along 700,000 secret files, videos and diplomatic cable to Wikileaks? This morning on the Today show Manning’s attorney announced that his client, recently sentenced to 35 years in Fort Leavenworth prison for the biggest breach of classified documents in U.S. history, said on Thursday he is “female” and wants to live as a woman named Chelsea. Before passing along the material did Manning tell Julian Assange, “Look, I need to be straight with you…I’m really not happy over being a man and I want to be a woman, and to be honest if this issue were resolved I probably wouldn’t be giving you this material.” And did Assange say, “I support you, Bradley, in your plan to eventually switch genders, but in all honesty…what the fuck does this have to do with you feeding me classified material? Actually, don’t answer that. Doesn’t matter. I just want the materials…whatever.”
Okay, Okay, This Might Be Funny
It’s already been determined who dies in Act Three, right? Wait…has it? I have this memory of Morgan Freeman being the most likely but maybe…my God, a thought just hit me. It couldn’t be Douglas, could it? The 60-something bridegroom with the the 32 year-old fiance, and he keels over? One thing’s for sure. A nicely trimmed white beard is cool if you’re Donald Sutherland or Victor Hugo, but scraggly white whiskers make you look like hell, like a derelict.
A Kind Of Thief
Last May I visited the Studio Babelsberg set of Brian Percival‘s The Book Thief (20th Century Fox, 11.15). Two sets actually — an outdoor set on the old European street set (which was scheduled to be torn down, I was told) and a sound-stage interior set of the little house that Geoffrey Rush, Emily Watson and Sophie Nelisse share. At the time producers Ken Blancato and Karen Rosenfelt told me the film would most likely be released in early 2014, but now it’s slated for November. Things must have turned out well in post, right?
Tough Sell
On 8.5 I ran a fast riff on James DiEugenio‘s “Reclaiming Parkland,” which questions the “Oswald did it alone” theology in Vincent Bugliosi‘s “Reclaiming History” and more particularly Parkland (Open Road, 9.20), which uses the Bugliosi book as a basis. It also goes after producers Tom Hanks and Gary Goetzman for being overly susceptible to Bugliosi’s research or whatever. I haven’t read “Reclaiming Parkland” but I’ve read a partial summary. DiEugenio is a good writer. He knows his JFK assassination data cold. And he’s tenacious. And convinced he knows what’s what.
$50 Bills Says It’s Hustle, Russell
Last night some snarky Twitter guy named “Baggy Moon Rock” asked for a Best Picture prediction and for whatever reason I blurted out what I’ve been holding in for fear of getting slapped around by Cynthia Swartz. Unless it sucks or under-performs on some level, American Hustle will take the Best Picture Oscar and David O. Russell will probably win Best Director. Because of the earned-credits payback factor. Academy members are going to say to themselves, “How many times can we turn this guy down? This is the third bulls-eye in a row — The Fighter, Silver Linings Playbook and now American Hustle. He’s alpha-vibed into this new guy and we can’t tell him ‘sorry’ for a third time straight.” Unless, of course, AH doesn’t quite cut the mustard. In which case all bets are off.
