Daily

“Every Frame Feels Like A Prison”

by

It is Louis CK‘s opinion that Stanley Kubrick‘s Eyes Wide Shut “doesn’t touch earth…it takes place in an incredibly high-up, thin-oxygen world…it’s not about anyone that anyone [in the audience] knows,,,the movie has this plodding tone and plodding pace, which is what [Kubrick] does here.,..if he was a comic book artist, people would say ‘this is how the guy draws.’ Kubrick was a masterful filmmaker, and [when I watch Eyes Wide Shut] I just say ‘this is where he was at, and what his fucked-up brain was making.'”

I remember writing two or three pieces in ’99 and ’00 about how Eyes Wide Shut was a fascinating stiff that essentially portrayed Kubrick’s decline. I remember bully-boy David Poland unloading ridicule in my direction because of this.

All to say that it gave me comfort to come upon a similar judgment in David Thomson‘s re-review of Kubrick’s final film, which is found on page 273 of Have You Seen…?.

Here’s the first paragraph and two sentences at the article’s end:

“This is the last film of Stanley Kubrick — indeed, he died so soon after delivery of his cut that the legend quickly grew that he intended doing more things to his movie. But it’s hard at the end not to see the substantial gulf between the man who knew ‘everything’ about filmmaking but not nearly enough about life or love or sex (somehow, over the years those subjects did get left out).

“Not that the film lacks intrigue or suggestiveness. Mastery can be felt. It is just that the master seems to have forgotten, or given up on figuring out, why mastery should be any more valuable than supremacy at chess or French polishing.”

The last two lines of Thomson’s review: “It is a shock to find that the film is only 159 minutes…every frame feels like a prison.”

Read more

Agonizing Failures Happen In Your 80s

by

What if, God forbid, President Joe Biden experiences a Mitch McConnell freeze-up this year or next? Or, God forbid, falls off a bandstand like Bob Dole did at the relatively young age of 73? You think something in this realm won’t happen? If Biden wins re-election he’ll finish his second term at age 86. He’s a good capable man in relatively good shape for an 80-year-old, but we know what’s almost certainly coming.

Biden can barely handle himself now in interviews, and a day-old Axios piece reported that amid concerns about his age, Biden’s team is on a “don’t-let-him-trip mission.” And his second term, if he wins, won’t even begin for another 16 months, and it will end on 1.20.29. You think Joe’s going to…what, reverse the natural process and be in better shape when he takes the oath of office on 1.20.25?

Many of us with older parents know what coping with final-stage aging entails. At age 82 or 83 my father (who died in ’08) fell in his living room, hit his head on a coffee table and cut his upper lip all to hell. I visited a couple of days later and he was scowling and infuriated. Coping with body failure (primarily balance, not to mention Depends) is brutal.

It would be one thing if Biden was 65…fine. Or even Dole’s age during the ’96 campaign, but he’s seven years beyond that. Reality is knocking on everyone’s door right now, and most Democrats are going “oh, he’s fine and if he dies Kamala Harris will be a great president.” Good God!

Read more

Rumored Chris Nolan Period Reboot of 007 Franchise Is An Impossible Dream

by

A 9.26 post on a British 007 fan site (www.ajb007.co.uk), written by a Minnesota-based fanatic named “Gymkata”, has passed along allegedly knowledgeable intel about negotiations between Chris Nolan, EON and Amazon that would involve restarting the Bond franchise as a stripped-down, back-to-raw-elements ‘60s period fantasy a la Dr. No and From Russia With Love.

World of Reel’s Jordan Ruimy yesterday passed along the second–hand “Gymkata” dish, chapter and verse.

Nolan’s alleged idea would theoretically mean a complete time-travel return to the Eisenhower-and-Kennedy eras, and particularly a refined and gentlemanly James Bond (possibly to be played by Aaron Taylor Johnson) with a vague undercurrent of casually cruel, sexist-pig entitlement…a perverse restoration of that (heh-heh, just kidding) good old “run along like a good girl, time for man talk” Sean Connery attitude…a rabbit hole immersion in a dusty, possibly pre-Beatles, low-tech realm of typewriters, newspapers, black-and-white TVs, phone booths, early ‘60s muscle cars, narrow-lapel Saville Row suits, unfiltered Turkish cigarettes, shaken-not-stirred Martinis and worldly but compliant sex bunnies who…Jesus H. Christ, who the hell are we kidding here? Ourselves?

You can’t go home again, bruh. Delicious as it may seem from a hazy distance, the pre-Goldfinger era couldn’t be fully, organically reconstructed unless the commitment to go back there is 100% total and absolute, and that would require a director with a brutally demanding Kubrickian mindset.

Plus the #MeToo brigade would shriek and howl. The deadweight EON caretakers (i.e., Barbara Broccoli and Michael G. Wilson) haven’t the courage for such a radical venture. And Nolan, a chilly control freak who’s shown time and again that he’s fundamentally unable to even flirt with the sensual, much less connect with pulp-erotic yesteryear dreamscapes…even Nolan would lack the necessary cojones to reinvest in a politically intolerable, dead-and-gone realm. And adhering slavishly to the original Ian Fleming stories…again, you can’t go home again.

Don’t get me wrong. I would love to surrender to a convincing reboot of those old From Russia With Love ingredients. I just don’t think it’s politically or psychologically or even physically (i.e., financially) possible.

Would I love to be proved wrong? Most certainly. Not so much for the inevitable resuscitation of Connery-recalling, Hugh Hefner-ish sexism (which a time travel Bond film would have to accommodate for honesty’s sake) as a revisiting of old-fashioned, bare-bones plotting and atmosphere.

So What? Who Cares?

by

Taylor Swift is riding the hormones, buzzing along, giddy, giggling…another meaningless, thoroughly disposable new relationship once it runs outta gas.

Sooner or later she’s gonna dump him, and soooo what? Nobody ever lasts with her, man. Everything winds down, and it’s all stinking bullshit. Plus all football players get fat.

Thank God Kelce isn’t a freckly redhead…at least there’s that.

Read more

“Life Is Wasted On…People”

by

Remember mumblecore? I’m kidding — of course we remember. But there’s an entire generation out there (Zoomers) that has never heard of it and certainly isn’t interested in knowing or asking questions or anything, and are content to just sit on their couches and inhale streaming content. I can’t believe the world has turned out as it has.

Does anyone remember Noah Baumbach‘s Greenberg, which is now 13 and 1/3 years old? Six years ago in Cannes I asked Baumbach about Greenberg and even he barely remembered it. Well, he remembered it but he didn’t really want to talk much about it because it was a huge bomb and because it pissed some people off.

I watched it again, and it’s still one of most daring, balls-to-the-wall, character-driven films I’ve ever seen or laughed with.

On 4.3.10 I posted a piece called “Big Greenberg Divide.” Key passage: “Greenberg is about what a lot of 30ish and 40ish X-factor people who wanted to achieve fame and fortune but didn’t quite make it or dropped the ball after a short burst…it’s about what these people are going through, or will go through. It’s dryly amusing at times, but it’s not kidding around.”

The second half of the article was a Greenberg defense written by HE correspondent “Famous Mortimer”:

“I think it is provoking such strong levels of resentment from viewers because it is a movie very much of these times but not made in the style of these times. It exposes the toxic levels of conceitedness and alienation today with the sincerity and empathy of ’70’s films by Ashby, Altman and Allen.

“First off, it’s a story about people. There is no high concept or shoehorned stake-raising set piece. Viewers either have the patience to connect with the human pain on display or they are lost. Unlike Sideways, there is no charming countryside setting or buddy comedy hijinks to punch up the mood.

“Second, the dialogue is the action. Only when the viewer is willing to think over the dialogue will characters’ seemingly ambiguous motivations and back-stories become clear. There’s no juicy monologue or nauseating flashback to convey these points. Instead, the viewer comes upon them over the course of the film in the form of passing references made by various characters. It is up to us to take these bits and pieces together and unlock the character revelations for ourselves. No more spoon-feeding cinema.

“Third, this film is a labor of love. That means idiosyncratic details are to be found at every level of its making. Only by thinking these details over and feeling the connections between them do we appreciate what the movie is trying to do. It’s a really thoughtful and heartfelt experience.”

Read more

“Great Escape” Guy Over Illya Kuryakin

by

HE regrets the passing of David McCallum. Then again the Scottish-born actor lived a rich and mostly robust 90 years, which puts him in a kind of creme de la creme realm. Plus we all have to go sometime.

I never felt much enthusiasm for his Illya Kuryakin character in The Man from U.N.C.L.E, but what could my personal interest in or enthusiasm for a rotely-written exotic second banana in a plastic James Bond ripoff…who cares about any of that stuff?

I was slightly more intrigued by McCallum’s portrayal of Lt. Cmdr. Eric Ashley-Pitt in The Great Escape (’63). Pitt was the guy who created that long-shoulder-sock-with-a-string device that enabled the prisoners of Stalag Luft III to camouflage the dirt that had come from the digging of the three tunnels, Tom, Dick and Harry.

On the other hand I was infuriated when Ashley-Pitt intentionally attracted attention and drew fire from German security forces at that train station so as to protect Richard Attenborough‘s Squadron Leader Roger Bartlett (aka “Big X”) and Gordon Jackson‘s Flight Lieutenant Alexander MacDonald.

Where is it written in the annals of honorable war behavior that sometimes a lower-ranked guy needs to sacrifice himself so that two higher-ranked guys can get away?

If I’d been in Ashley-Pitt’s shoes and saw that Bartlett and MacDonald were about to be captured, I would have kept my head down and said to myself “tough break for those guys…I’m very sorry but this is war and them’s the breaks…I’m sure as shit am not going to commit suicide so they can get away…fuck that noise.”

Necessary Reminder About “Fingernails”

by

Posted from Telluride on 9.1.23: The last time I bolted out of a theatre because a character had yanked or otherwise torn off a fingernail was during a January 1993 screening of Lodge Kerrigan‘s Clean, Shaven.

For the following 30-plus years I enjoyed a moviegoing experience that was free of fingernail trauma, but then along came Christos Nikou‘s Fingernails, which I saw last night.

Officially described as a “science fiction romantic psychological drama“, Fingernails is also a kind of dry absurdist comedy. I would also call it an odd form of psychological stress. It’s basically saying that aggressive technology and innovation are preying upon romantic couples, and that this situation is basically fucked up.

It’s about a cohabiting couple, Jessie Buckley‘s Anna and Jeremy Allen White‘s Ryan, and how their relatively healthy relationship runs aground when Anna lands a job at an institute that helps romantic couples determine if their relationship is on solid footing and fated to last. The institute’s clients are asked to submit to eccentric and occasionally bizarre exercises that will presumably reveal true emotional leanings or priorities.

Anna is assigned to work with Amir (Riz Ahmed), a soft-spoken, senior-level trainer. You know from the get-go that Ann and Amir (who has a steady girlfriend) will hook up and that the usual turbulence will result. But that’s nothing compared to the turbulence I went through last night during not one but two fingernail-yanking scenes. I made it through the first but freaked out during the second. I grabbed my computer bag and escaped.

It’s also worth nothing that during my 70 minutes of viewing my attention was constantly divided between (a) the usual elements (plot, dialogue, milieu, vibes) and (b) Buckley’s intensely annoying chopped-off hipster haircut. I’m sorry but it bothered the shit out of me.

Official synopsis: “Anna and Ryan have found true love, [and] it’s been proven by a controversial new technology. There’s just one problem: Anna still isn’t sure. Then she takes a position at a love testing institute, and meets Amir.”

Fingernails is produced by Cate Blanchett, Andrew Upton and Coco Francini for Dirty Films and Lucas Wiesendanger for FilmNation Entertainment. Executive producers are FilmNation Entertainment’s Glen Basner, Milan Popelka and Alison Cohen, alongside Ashley Fox, Kevin Lafferty and Jerome Duboz.

Supporting cast members include Annie Murphy, Luke Wilson and Nina Kiri.

Fingernails will enjoy a limited theatrical release on 10.27. Apple TV will begin streaming it on 11.3.

Things We’re Not Allowed To Say

by

Imagine if a straight white male had directed May December (Netflix, 11.17), a movie about a Savannah-residing, May-December couple (Julianne Moore, Charles Melton) and the arrival of a famous actress (Natalie Portman) who will soon be portraying Moore in a film about the couple’s scandalous history.

The couple is based, of course, upon the notorious Mary Kay Letourneau and Vili Fualaau, who began a sexual relationship in 1996 when Letourneau, a grade-school teacher, was 34, and Fualaau, one of her sixth-grade students, was 12. Letourneau did a seven-year stretch for the rape of a minor (1998 to 2004).

They were married in May 2005 when Letourneau was 43 and Fualaau was 22. The marriage lasted 14 years until their separation in 2019. Letourneau died of cancer the following year, at age 58.

May December concerns the long-term outcome of a relationship that began under diseased circumstances — i.e., the sexual grooming of a lad by a woman 22 years his senior. Has anyone said boo about the icky aspects since the film premiered in Cannes last May? They have not.

Imagine if May December was about a gray-haired actor paying an extended visit with a Woody Allen-ish director in his mid 80s along with the director’s wife, a 50ish Asian woman. As with May December, the actor would have been signed to portray this Allen-like director in a film, and his goal would be to learn as much as he can about the beginnings of their relationship in the early ’90s and how they’ve dealt with the public condemnation that resulted from some quarters.

Do you think if Manohla Dargis were to review such a film that she would cream in her slacks like she did when she saw May December four months ago?

Once More With “Johnny Concho”

by

[Initially posted on 7.16.15] This may not pass muster with traditional Western devotees (i.e, readers of Cowboys & Indians) but arguably one of the most influential westerns ever made is Johnny Concho (’56), a stagey, all-but-forgotten little film that Frank Sinatra starred in and co-produced. For this modest black-and-white enterprise was the first morally revisionist western in which a big star played an ethically challenged lead character — i.e., a cowardly bad guy.

The conventional line is that Marlon Brando‘s One-Eyed Jacks was the first western in which a major star played a gunslinging outlaw that the audience was invited to identify or sympathize with — a revenge-driven bank robber looking to even the score with an ex-partner (Karl Malden‘s “Dad” Longworth) who ran away and left Brando’s “Rio” to be arrested and sent to prison.

This opened the door, many have noted, to Paul Newman‘s rakishly charming but reprehensible Hud Bannon in Martin Ritt‘s Hud two years later, and then the Spaghetti westerns of Sergio Leone (beginning with ’64’s A Fistful of Dollars) and particularly Clint Eastwood‘s “Man With No Name.”

But before One-Eyed Jacks audiences were presented with at least three morally flawed western leads portrayed by name-brand actors. First out of the gate was Sinatra’s’s arrogant younger brother of a notorious gunslinger in Concho. This was followed in ’57 by Glenn Ford‘s Ben Wade, a charmingly sociopathic gang-leader and thief, in Delmer Daves‘ 3:10 to Yuma. And then Paul Newman‘s Billy the Kid in Arthur Penn‘s The Left-Handed Gun (’58).

Read more