There’s a difference between taking a hold-your-nose, straight-paycheck acting job in some deplorable mainstream monstrosity (i.e., Johnny Depp in the Pirate movies, John Cusack in 2012) and having a nice little gig going with the family trade. Nearly all CG-mounted family films are atrocious (i.e., Furry Vengeance), but I’m not feeling the revulsion over Owen Wilson‘s Marmaduke voicing, despite the 11% Rotten Tomatoes rating and the weak opening numbers.
The bottom line is that Marmaduke plus Marley and Me has made Wilson the go-to GenX guy for family dog movies. If he’s smart he’ll play this like Donald O’Connor did with the Francis the Talking Mule movies in the ’50s and dog it as long as he can. Dog movies could be Wilson’s retirement fund/nest egg. Nobody watches them anyway or pays them any mind so who cares? Suck it in, do the job, take a shower.
It was reported late last week that Anne Carradine, widow of the late David Carradine, has filed the most absurd wrongful-death lawsuit in world history. The filing essentially claims that MK2 S.A., the producer of Carradine’s last film Stretch, should have hired someone to keep him from accidentally strangling himself to death while jerking off in his Bangkok hotel room.
Which is why I found a 6.4 Huffington Post comment mildly amusing, or at least in keeping with the Anne Carradine spirit: “I’m suing 20th Century Fox [for having] suffered a broken ankle, bulging discs in my neck and lower back, a sprained knee, two chipped teeth, a gash on my forehead and five groin pulls. All of these injuries occurred as a result of fleeing the theater every time the Marmaduke trailer came on (except for the groin pulls — those details are unnecessary).”
Last July’s first-peek-at-Avatar presentation at ComicCon made it imperative to attend. This year the big draw is a Tron Legacy looksee, and I’m not too sure about it. I’m feeling 65% of last year’s juice, if that, and that’s not enough to make me part with the $1600 or $1700 it’ll cost to fly out to LA, rent a car, stay in some crappy-ass motel, cover food-and-drink tabs, etc.
I’m not trying to diminish Tron Legacy or suggest it might not be good. I loved that early trailer they put out, and I’m into the cult of Joseph Kosinski as much as the next guy. I have no reason to believe that he’s not “the next ‘real deal’ in that he’s got a Cameron-like technical knowledge, is responsible with budgets and operates on an even keel…overall a remarkably talented, well adjusted guy,” as a director-writer said a while back. I just don’t think a Tron Legacyproduct reel-and-pep rally is worth flying across the country for.
I’d shell out if ComicCon was happening in mid-to-late June, and I knew for certain that the very first screening of the fully finished Inception was on the schedule. That would be worth it, no question.
A friend says the only complete movie that he knows will be showing at ComicCon 2010 is Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. Bamboo shoots under my fingernails. The other big attractions are things like Green Lantern and Thor and what-have-you. I have a certain amount of geek fervor in my system, but to be into this year’s ComicCon you have to be 110% into geek theology. You have to be willing to go over the geek waterfalls in a barrel. You have to be Ed Douglas, Katey Rich, Devin Faraci, Drew McWeeny…one of those who exalt in the ComicCon atmosphere. “Whoo-whoo…we’re here! Among our own kind! Doesn’t get any better than this!”
Well, it does get better. A lot better. ComicCon can be (and was last year for me) a moderately bruising experience in terms of getting into the big panels and presentations. You have to call and beg and hustle your way into everything, and that means tons of pre-arrival calls and e-mails and cajolings. Unlike the major film festivals, you can’t just show up at ComicCon and pick up your pass and go to town. It’s much, much more difficult to finagle this San Diego soiree than Cannes, Toronto or Sundance. It’s hard enough to file six or seven or more stories per day under any festival circumstance, but to deal with what I’ve come to regard as ComicCon crap pushes it into the red zone.
Meet Marlon Brando is a 25-minute documentary by Alfred and David Maysles. All it is, basically, is footage of Brando schmoozing with journalists at a press junket for Code Name: Morituri, a World War II thriller that costarred Brando and Yul Brynner. And it’s a very cool thing to simply watch Brando as he sidesteps the usual protocol, dumps on the film and charms the shit out of everyone.
Among other things he (a) studies his questioners like a bank officer, squinting his eyes and picking up everything they’re thinking but not saying while interviewing them about their quirks and backgrounds, (b) does whatever he can to avoid discussing the film, (c) jokes around a lot, (d) discusses the plight of American Indians, (e) flirts with each and every female, (f) speaks French and so on.
Pretty Female Journalist: “Just tell us about your new movie.” Brando: “Well….why?”
Morituri opened in the U.S. on 8.25.65 so this junket probably happened two or three weeks before. Here’s part 2 and 3.
The generic impression of Brando is that of a guy who gave up, got fat, stopped caring, blew it big-time as a dad, hated acting and so on. But here, at least, all that self-hating stuff hasn’t taken him yet, and in fact doesn’t seem to have established a foothold. He seems like somebody you’d really like to hang and drink with. Sharp, self-deprecating, perceptive, whimsical.
“The idea was to let scores of television reporters meet the star in order to sell Morituri,” an IMDB poster writes. “Brando, however, had other plans. Declaring that he hates being ‘a hawker’ he turns the situation upside down, interviewing the interviewers, mocking the vacuousness of the set-up and flat-out refusing to promote Morituri.
“Don’t you have anything to say about the film?’ asks an exasperated journalist. Brando replies, ‘Bernie Wicky smokes the worst cigars I’ve ever known!’
“With a lesser personality, this might be perceived as the arrogant posturing of a spoiled movie star, but the mischievous twinkle in Brando’s eyes, combined with the fierce intelligence and wit of his answers, make it a joy to behold. The documentary does not get us any closer to Brando the actor, but it does offer an insightful glimpse into the mind of a man who was too smart to go with the flow, too independent to compromise and who, throughout his life, refused to play by the rules.”
Kristen Stewart‘s apology for her “being paparazzi’ed is like being raped” remark in a new British Elle interview is, for me, a matter of some disappointment.
By caving in to pressure and throwing herself upon the mercy of the court Stewart has indicated that for all her slouchy rebel posing in public, she’s no Sean Penn where it counts — i.e., in the backbone.
Instead of explaining to the idiots out there that the term “rape” doesn’t strictly refer to sexual violation — that it means being “invaded and occupied and suffering a kind of brutal violation or wounding or theft, be it physical or emotional,” as I explained last Wednesday — she did exactly what her publicist told her to do and kowtowed to the simple-minded.
“I really made an enormous mistake — clearly and obviously,” Stewart told People two days ago. “And I’m really sorry about my choice of words. ‘Violated’ definitely would have been a better way of expressing the thought [than rape].”
In other words, if you’re a certified, card-carrying moron the word “violated” can allude to sexual assault or being brutalized by paparazzi, but the word “rape” cannot and must not refer to anything other than the former. Hooray for Stewart and her publicist for doing their part to approve and ratify American stupidity.
Somebody get in touch with Roberto Paglia and explain that his “Best of Sicily” article called “The Rape of Palermo” constitutes a woefully insensitive use of the term, and that he needs to take out ads in newspapers and on websites worldwide and apologize to all the women who’ve been offended.
I didn’t comment on the 5.28 theatrical debut of Alejandro Amenabar‘s Agora because I was in Europe, but now that I’m back and domesticated I may as well re-run my 5.18.09 Cannes Film Festival review, which began with my calling it “a visually ravishing, intelligently scripted historical parable about the evils of religious extremism.
“And I don’t mean the kind that existed in 4th century Alexandria, which is when and where this $65 million dollar epic is set. I mean the evils of the present-day Taliban and the Neocon-aligned Christian right, and the way Agora metaphorically exposes these movements for what they are.
“As Adam Curtis‘s The Power of Nightmares sagely explained, these two extremist faiths are similar in their loathing for liberalism and militant yearning to turn back the clock and to above all hold high the flag of religious purity. The 9/11 attacks kicked off their holy war against each other — a war that fortified their positions in their respective cultures during the Bush years.
“And now comes Agora, dramatizing how purist zealotry among 4th Century Christians led to the persecuting of Jew and pagans, to the sacking and burning of the great library of Alexandria, and to the murder of Hypatia (Rachel Weisz), the first widely-noted female scholar who taught philosophy, astronomy and mathematics. (Note to whiners: Noting a well documented event that happened 1600 years ago can’t be called a spoiler.)
“Amenabar’s film, an English-language Spanish production that was shot in and around Malta, seems to me like the most thoughtful and intellectually-talky big-screen epic ever made, although there’s a fair amount of strife and sword-stabbing and mob violence all through it.
“The intense conflicts, exacting and cultured dialogue, dashing visual energy and top-notch performances from Weisz, Max Minghella, Oscar Isaac, Rupert Evans, Ashraf Barhom, Rupert Evans and Michael Lonsdale make Agora more than gripping for its entire 141 minutes. I was surprised, really, that it moved as fast as it did.
“Some are calling it too talky or insufficiently emotional, which translates into the imprecise term known as ‘boring.’ It isn’t that, trust me, although I admit it’s hard to imagine the U.S. fans of sludge entertainment being keen to see it. You need to be keyed into what it’s saying about our world and to be rooting against the bad guys (i.e., old-time Christians) to really get into it, I suppose, although the high-quality sheen is unmistakable in every department. It’s well worth it for the CG alone.”
Leon Gast‘s Smash His Camera, the HBO doc about the legendary, fearless, pain-in-the-ass paparazzo Ron Galella, does a solid, professional job with the usual portraiture. Who he is and was, career recap, what his friends and detractors think and remember, etc. It’s smart, tight, well assembled.
Describing some thorny-tough Vietcong he’d fought in Vietnam, Kurtz said “you have to have men who are moral, and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling, without passion, without judgment…without judgment! Because it’s judgment that defeats us.”
Replace “kill” with “take pictures of celebrities” and that’s a pretty good summary of Galella’s approach to his rather sleazy profession. He doesn’t judge himself — can’t, won’t, doesn’t know how. And for what it’s worth, he seems like a relatively happy guy. Partly because he does what he does with real feeling and passion. He loves his work.
For decades Galella’s rep among celebrities — including, in their day, Jackie Kennedy and Marlon Brando — has been (a) he is/was New York’s most famous and notorious celebrity photographer, and (b) is/was some kind of Ultimate Insect — an obnoxious thief, invader, stalker, mosquito.
But their scorn doesn’t get through to him. You can see that in his manner and words. Either he’s incapable of understanding what people find infuriating about a paparazzi pest, or he’s shut down that part of him that could understand it.
For the last 40-plus years Galella has presented himself as just a regular New Jersey guy (cannoli-eater, a bit of a primitive, lacking sophistication, not well-educated) who does what he does and gets paid for it, period. He could be a brick-layer or a cab driver, except he lives in an ornate Tony Soprano house and has questionable taste in furnishings and God knows what else.
But he’s a king in his world — renowned, successful — with his photographs published in books and shown in galleries woldwide. And all due (or at least partly due) to the fact that he’s never undermined himself with doubts or concerns. A lesson in this?
In an age in which every paparazzo shoots digitally, Galella — 79 years old — appears to still be shooting on film. Strange. He has a darkroom in his New Jersey home, just like the one that David Hemmings‘ character has in Blow-Up. Quaint.
With the story of Bill Clinton, Hillary Clinton and Tony Blair back in the cultural soup via HBO’s The Special Relationship (which I still haven’t seen), it seems allowable to re-state HE’s longstanding opinion of President Clinton’s fibbing about the Monica Lewsinky mess.
My view is this (and I’m not just saying this to drive up page views): Clinton’s refusal to talk plainly or honestly to Ken Starr‘s inquisitors was one of the moral high points of his administration.
I’ve always thought it slimey and wrong to dredge up the private lives of political candidates. The press corps was right not to pester JFK for his randiness. Jimmy Carter shouldn’t have taken heat for admitting to “lust in his heart.” And beating up on Clinton for Lewinsky was wretched and absurd.
The real issue in ’98 and ’99, of course, wasn’t oral sex, but whether or not an American President should be impeached for lying about having received same, or having otherwise fudged certain particulars under oath. Clinton was not only entitled to lie about this matter; by any standard of dignity he was absolutely honor-bound to do so, given the absolute inappropriateness of such a matter being investigated by lawmakers and given the gutter-grovelling character of many of Clinton’s opportunistic pursuers.
In recent months The Cove, winner of the Best Feature Doc Oscar, has reportedly been a victim of organized agitation in Japan, mostly likely due to fishing-industry interests paying goons to stir up trouble. With “two more movie theatres having cancelled screenings,” director Louie Psihoyos has recorded an explanation/response:
“In recent months, protesters with loudspeakers have been shouting slogans at the Tokyo office of Unplugged, the distributor of The Cove, criticizing the film as a betrayal of Japanese pride,” the story says.
“Unplugged said Friday the cancellations at Cinemart theaters in Tokyo and Osaka were triggered by worries about safety of moviegoers and businesses nearby. The Tokyo cinema where the movie was to open changed its mind Thursday after getting angry phone calls and warnings of protests.
“Most Japanese have never eaten dolphin meat. But some believe killing dolphins and whales is part of traditional culinary culture and resent the interference of outsiders focused on species protection.
“The Cove screened at the Tokyo International Film Festival in October and at smaller events in Japan but has not opened to the Japanese public. The Japanese version blurs the faces of some people on screen to lessen the possibility of trouble.
“Unplugged said talks were under way with other theaters to show the film, although details weren’t released.”
Enough with the Inception-is-coming clatter. We’ve all been sold on the idea that it’s the only decent summer flick on the horizon, and now it’s time, dammit…time to quit farting around and show it to somebody somewhere. Warner Bros. has to be extremely careful about early look-sees because they don’t want reports about the big third-act surprise getting out. But they need to start having little peek-ins — i.e., not “screenings” per se but carefully controlled, outside-the-box witnessings.
Show it to some boomer-aged Swiss scientists in Geneva who can be trusted not to blab online. Take a print (or a hard drive) to Beijing and show it to some Kentucky Fried Chicken employees after closing. Have a surprise outdoor screening in some small Montana town — show to some grizzled old guys with calloused hands who won’t be able to comprehend most of it. Show it to some big-name directors and producers on the Warner Bros. lot — Steven Spielberg, Bryan Singer, etc. — and then have an after-party and allow some media people to mingle and report what they’re saying.
I’m just feeling a little snippy about reading yet another here-it-comes piece. “Give us some more hints, Chris,” whoa-hoa!, “It’s actually a love story…going soft in my old age…On Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” blah, blah.
They really should have shown a 25-minute Inception product reel at Cannes. That would have sated the troops, and people like me wouldn’t be snorting and grumbling as we speak.
“Here’s our latest take on what [the story] could mean,” writesThe Playlist‘s Rodrigo Perez. Oh, God…exactly what I’m talking about!
“Dom Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) specializes in the secretive art of constructing and entering dreams in order to extract information. He is given an intriguing proposition: take a job where he won’t extract anything, but rather, insert an idea.
“Then things become complicated. DiCaprio’s character presents himself to Cillian Murphy‘s business magnate character as an expert in ‘subconscious security — the ultimate in corporate espionage'” In truth, Cobb has been hired by rival of Murphy’s character (Ken Watanabe) to insert an idea. That job also somehow offers DiCaprio’s dream thief character some kind of personal redemption connected to the fate of his wife (Marion Cotillard).
“And it’s pretty clear that while DiCaprio and Watanabe are allies at first, somewhere along the lines, they become foes.
“Another potential hint lies in Ellen Page‘s architecture character, and ‘assistant’ to Cobb, the aptly named Ariadne, who was you might remember from your school days, is the girl in Greek mythology who aids Theseus’ escape from the Minotaur’s labyrinth. We think her ‘assistant’ role will be more than she bargained for and more than what we have been led to believe thus far.” Wait…secretly in the employ of one of Cobb’s rivals or adversaries?
DiCaprio has the best line: “[The script] reminded me of Insomnia and Memento, but on steroids.”
Posted on 6.3 and tagged as “Trailer #2,” this is the kind of teaser that you throw together before you start shooting, not after. The Expendables will be out nine weeks hence and they’re selling reputational pomp and circumstance?
