From David Remnick’s “An American Tragedy, Act III,” posted in the New Yorker on 3.30.23:

In the wake of Gwyneth Paltrow’s Park City victory against Terry Sanderson, the usual pests and trolls tried to characterize my anti-Paltrow stance as deranged or jaundiced on some level. Here’s how I responded this morning:

Their stories wildly diverged, and I was fairly astonished by the apparent fact that either Gwyneth or Sanderson were flat–out lying. We all understand that ski slope accidents occasionally happen. I just couldn’t figure it. Why sue if you don’t firmly believe you’re in the right, and can present a strongly compelling case to that effect?

Sanderson waited three years to file the lawsuit, obviously having loads of time to ponder the situation and calculate the odds and cost. Why file if there was a reasonable chance that an impartial jury might hold with Paltrow? Why go through all of that time and effort and expense if there was any half-reasonable likelihood that the jury might decide that it was a toss-up about who slammed into whom?

Sanderson is allegedly wealthy — why would he go through all that? Because he was bored and needed a little drama in his life?

And what about that fat friend of his who was near the scene and testified that he was convinced that Sanderson was completely in the right?

It didn’t make basic sense to me that Sanderson would just file on a whim. He knew Paltow’s attorneys would point to all the travel and adventure that he’s enjoyed since the accident. Why file if he didn’t at least have a better-than-decent shot at winning? Why file what might be seen as a frivolous nuisance lawsuit? It didn’t make basic sense to me.

I’ve just re-watched Steven Soderbergh‘s Kafka (’91), a half-spooky, half-gloomy noir that looks and feels like early 1920s German expressionism. It’s mostly and appropriately shot in black-and-white, but it’s such a downer to sit through that it almost feels euphoric when the film suddenly shifts into color during the last 15 minutes or so.

Written by Lem Dobbs and handsomely shot by Walt Lloyd, the Prague-set period flick (1919) fictionalizes the adventures of the fearful and paranoid Franz Kafka (Jeremy Irons) as he attempts to uncover the dark plottings of a creepy cabal of ne’er-do-wells who operate out of “the castle” that overlooks the city.

Kafka didn’t go down too well when it opened 31 years ago, and I can’t say it works any better today.

Irons overdoes the anxious, often terrified, bug-eyed thing. After a while you’re saying “Jesus, will you stop twitching and glaring and play it cool for a change?…channel some Lee Marvin and at least pretend to be a man.”

Okay, it’s not that bad. I was bored, yes, but I didn’t hate sitting through it. It’s just that my heart rate went down.

It’s a serious shame that an HD version isn’t streamable. The 480P version that I watched today looks awful…so soft and bleary at times that it almost seems out of focus.

Sometime in ’21 Soderbergh created a new version of Kafka, titled Mr. Kneff. Re-cut, re-imagined and dialogue-free with subtitles. It screened at the Toronto Film Festival that year, and was supposed to be released as part of a Soderbergh box set sometime in late ’21 or maybe sometime in ’22. It never happened, but I’m told the box set will show its face sometime…aahh, who knows? But maybe later this year.

The climactic final act of Kafka abandons black-and-white for color (which my eyes rather enjoyed) and becomes a kind of Indiana Jones film. Briefly.

Irons enjoyed a great big-screen run of A-quality films between the early ’80s and mid ’90s — roughly 12 or 13 years. The French Lieutenant’s Woman, Moonlighting, Betrayal, Swann in Love, Dead Ringers, Reversal of Fortune, Kafka, Damage, M. Butterfly, The House of the Spirits. In ’84 I saw Irons opposite Glenn Close in the first Broadway version of The Real Thing. He was the absolute king of the world back then.

I’ve enjoyed re-reading my second-hand (i.e., possibly inaccurate to some extent) story about Irons and temporary Kafka costar Anne Parillaud. The piece was initially initially posted in 2009.

Jacob Fisher of Discussingfilm.net is reporting that Clint Eastwood is closing in on directing a thriller called Juror #2 for Warner Bros.

The plot “follows a juror on a murder trial who realizes he may have caused the victim’s death and must grapple with the dilemma of whether to manipulate the jury to save himself, or reveal the truth and turn himself in,” according to Fisher.

Dead-center horizon lines are banal, agreed, but the best outdoorsy photos, paintings and cinematic compositions are about whatever works, depending on the ingredients…the mystical altogether, balance and intrigue…God’s eye is God’s eye, and horizon lines be damned. I’ve been snapping photos since I was 12 or 13 so don’t tell me, John Martin Feeney.