Just another reminder that Elvis Presley was 6’0″, give or take, or significantly shorter than the six-foot, five-inch Jacob Elordi, who will play Presley in Sofia Coppola‘s Priscilla (A24, October).
When you’re watching Coppola’s film, just keep saying to yourself “fine, whatever but Elvis wasn’t Paul Bunyan…fine, whatever but Elvis wasn’t Paul Bunyan…fine, whatever but Elvis wasn’t Paul Bunyan,” etc.
No mystery why Universal has released a five-minute trailer for Chris Nolan‘s Oppenheimer — it opens only a week hence. But why oh why is it shown in a 2.39:1 aspect ratio when 70mm IMAX viewers will see a major portion of the film within (a) a standard IMAX 1.43:1 a.r. while non-IMAX viewers will view an image within (b) a 1.9:1 a.r., or one that’s fairly close to the Vittorio Storaro 2:1 standard.
So why are Uni marketers telling viewers they’ll be seeing a 2.39:1 experience?
@umamialex make sure you don't pick the wrong theater for #oppenheimer if you have the right kind of #imax nearby! #film #movies #cinematography ♬ original sound – Umami Alex 🎬 ♥️ 🎥
Imagine Gavin Newsom challenging President Joe Biden. Or, better yet, Biden deciding that American voters would almost certainly feel better about putting a younger, seasoned, much more lucid moderate Democrat than himself into the White House, and gracefully and honorably bowing out.
Forget righties or independents — very few Democrats are enthusiastic about a second Biden administration. We all know this. He’s obviously too old for the job (81 at the start of his second term, 85 at its conclusion) and can barely converse with interviewers…he gurgles and mutters and can’t even remember “LGBTQ”.
It would be different if he was the Joe Biden of 2008 or even ’12. But he’s not. And who wants Kamala Harris stepping in if, God forbid, something bad were to happen?
I respect and admire many things about Biden except for his blind, blanket approval of trans stuff and other woke initiatives. But I would feel much, MUCH better about Newsom running against Trump than Trump vs. Biden. Who wouldn’t?
I realize that very few will actually watch this interview, by which I mean actually listen to Newsom’s mannner and verbal agility and debating skills.
He’s obviously not that different than Biden politically and philosophically. Biden is as spry and disciplined and mentally focused as his 80-year-old constitution allows, but I really think it’s time for him to accept or at least acknowledge biological reality and admit that he’s past the point of true vigor and mental acuity and all-around effectiveness.
It’s not a felony to be too old for a very demanding job —- just a fact
Initially posted on 7.5.15: My young life was shaped or defined by three events or more precisely adventures. They happened when I was two, eight and sixteen years old.
Event #1: It was a late summer evening, and my now-departed mother (her name was Nancy) and I were roaming up and down the more-than-a-century-old boardwalk in Asbury Park, New Jersey. One of the evening’s highlights (in my mind at least) was the famous Asbury Park merry-go-round.
After going on a ride and eating some cotton candy we made our way south (or was it north?). At least a mile, maybe two. Then I somehow slipped my mother’s grasp and disappeared. Gone.
For the first time in my life I had decided that it would be more exciting and fulfilling to go on a solo boardwalk adventure rather than stay with mom.
Nancy freaked, of course. She found a couple of uniformed cops and asked for their help. They all looked, searched, asked all the merchants…no luck. The trio finally made their way back to the merry-go-round and there I was — staring, bedazzled.
This incident put the fear of God into both my parents. From then on they decided I had to be kept on a short leash and monitored extra carefully. The result is that I began to feel that my life was being lived in a gulag, a police state. Rules, repression, “no”, time to go to bed at dusk, “because I said so,” “you’re too young,” etc.
Event #2: A vaguely similar incident happened six years later. In no way traumatic but it confirmed a pattern.
It was a hot Saturday morning when I convinced my seven year-old girlfriend, also named Nancy, to go on a little adventure. The idea was to stroll from Harrison Avenue in Westfield, New Jersey (our homes were 100 feet apart) to my paternal grandparents’ home in Rahway — a distance of roughly six miles. I’d never walked it before but had a rough idea of how to get there.
We arrived at my grandparents’ home on West Meadow Avenue three or four hours later. My surprised grandmother made us a sandwich and called my parents; my mom or dad (I forget which) drove over, took us back.
If I’d been the parent I would have said to myself, “Well, my son is obviously fearless or at least not intimidated by the unknown, and doesn’t lack for initiative or a sense of adventure…qualities that will almost certainly serve him well later in life. I’ll have to tell him to be more careful, of course, but he mainly needs to be hugged and approved of and encouraged to climb new mountains.”
Instead…gulag!
Event #3: In eleventh grade I began tapping out a one-page, two-sided satirical news sheet and passing it around among my friends. Silly, sophomoric, sometimes off-color stuff about school episodes, relationships and sexual stirrings. Definitely juvenile but enterprising. One of the news sheets was snagged by a vice-principal at the school, and a day or two my father and I were hauled into his office and warned about the horrors of my having passed around pornographic material.
An enlightened, forward-thinking reaction from my father would have been something along the lines of “well, that newsletter was pretty crude and immature, but my son’s urge to publish a newsletter and be heard is obviously strong. I just need to encourage him to channel this in a legit way. Maybe urge him to try for a journalism degree.”
Instead…shame, anger, storm clouds.
HE: “I haven’t seen Barbie, of course, but I can sense where it’s coming from and what it is. It’s very much a feminist film, obviously. That said I should just keep my mouth shut until the moment of truth. All I know for sure is that the Barbie toy line is first and foremost a metaphor about a kind of idealized (or suppressed) way of living and thinking for pretty little girly girls of a bygone era.”
Friendo: “I’m sure it will be clever and funny in a lot of ways, but whatever the message may be the film’s whole reason for being is to sell toys that have been rebranded as identity-focused. Woke capitalism is when large corporations like Nestle or Taco Bell or whatever use wokeness as a virtue signal — a way to make GenZ see them as ‘good’ and socially responsible without actually doing anything.”
“Barbie is almost certainly not an important movie, so talking about it as important is absurd. When they say ‘representation matters’ it only matters if it is part of the story. Gerwig sounds to me like someone selling jewelry on the Shopping Network…trying to make it mean more than it does to justify her involvement in it. Ultimately this movie exists to sell toys.
HE: “Check.”
Friendo: “They argue or negotiate about whether it is a ‘feminist film’ or not. [Starting at the 11:45 mark.] Gerwig is fairly emphatic about that, but it seems like there’s a fear there of alienating audiences. It’s also interesting when she says Ken has no status in the new world — I wonder what she means by that. Surely she doesn’t mean white men have no status.”
HE: “It’s all tied into visions of an increasingly matriarchal culture, which we’re all moving toward or swimming in as we speak. White men today obviously have diminished status in progressive circles.”
Friendo: “The first half [of the discussion] is just puff and bullshit but when they try to talk about the social justice aspect it’s fascinating. They also go through the conversation about the 13 year-old and no one mentions the social contagion that they’re all fleeing their gender.”
Friendo: “I too have now seen MI:7 twice. One of the things that jumped out at me was that maybe, just maybe the AI ‘Entity’ had evolved to the point where it surmised that war is unnecessary (like the computer in John Badham‘s War Games) and therefore in the beginning sequence in the Russian submarine it’s trying to kill itself and bury the sub.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if that’s the payoff in the sequel.
“I also enjoyed the nod to Silence of the Lambs when Tom Cruise calls out Haley Atwell‘s “Grace” for trying to compensate for her “orphaned background with fine clothes and blah blah”, sort of like Anthony Hopkins‘ Hannibal Lecter chiding Clarice Starling about ‘your good bag and your cheap shoes…you look like a rube…a well-scrubbed, hustling rube with a little taste.’
“And I know you loved that moment when Cruise and his motorcycle leapt over a wall in a field, just like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape.
“After it ended I polled a few audience members and they were mostly happy, although some said they weren’t sure they needed to see the sequel. ‘That’s a lot of hoo-hah for a key’, one guy told me. ‘They got it. Now what…they’ll have to go and find the lock?”
The great Milan Kundera (“The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” “The Book of Laughter and Forgetting“, “Immortality”) died yesterday at age 94.
As a highly influential, world-renowned, Czech-born writer who moved to Paris in ’75, Kundera’s peak influence years were in the ’70s and especially the ’80s, which is when Philip Kaufman‘s The Unbearable Lightness of Being (’88) was released.
Having read and adored Kundera’s 1984 novel I was vaguely…actually more than vaguely disappointed with Kaufman’s film. There was so much more to the book than what Kaufman and co-scenarist Jean-Claude Carrière chose to focus upon. (I felt the same way about Kaufman’s The Right Stuff (’83) — Tom Wolfe’s 1979 book was ten times more interesting and engaging.)
The only thing I liked about Kaufman’s Unbearable Lightness were the performances by Daniel Day Lewis and the newly arrived Juliette Binoche, who was only 23 or 24 during filming.
I’ve always regarded Kundera’s prose style as immaculate and elegant. Pared to the bone, nothing extraneous or superfluous but with a certain oxygenated quality…a feeling of aliveness. In my estimation his writing has always existed in the same realm as Joseph Conrad‘s.
Along with Tom Wolfe, Hunter S. Thompson, Jerzy Kosinski, Jim Harrison**, William Faulkner, Norman Mailer, William Safire and Russell Baker, Kundera has long been a major influence upon my own meager scrawlings.
Kundera was apparently a hound in his actual life (and so his semi-fictional characters followed suit), and I’m sorry but I really worshipped that special erotic current that sometimes permeated.
Kundera was something of a chauvinist, okay, but those sensual and sexual atmospheres were…I don’t know what to call them except cultured and tingly and fascinating on several levels. But it was all subordinate to those wonderfully honed sentences and that curiously magnetic sense of impermanence and vague anxiety and unsuppressible delight in the here-and-now.
I’ve just read a brief obit by The Hollywood Reporter‘s Scott Roxborough, an apparently obedient wokester who ends his article by noting that “Kundera’s depiction of personal, amoral behavior and sexual politics as a metaphor for the inherent absurdities of life in Czechoslovakia under communism drew widespread praise but also criticism, particularly from feminists who detected an inherent misogyny in his work.
“Kundera himself rarely gave interviews, and none of his books after ‘Unbearable Lightness’ achieved similar international success or acclaim.” Here’s the kicker: “[Kundera’s] final novel, perhaps fittingly titled ‘The Festival of Insignificance’, was published in 2015.”
As an occasional writer of none-too-flattering or too-honest obits, I was immediately disgusted by Roxborough’s final sentence.
Imagine Roxborough writing something similar if, God forbid, the great Clint Eastwood were to pass tomorrow — “None of Eastwood’s films over the last 15 years achieved the success or acclaim that he managed during the ’90s and early aughts — Unforgiven, A Perfect World, The Bridges of Madison County, Million Dollar Baby, Gran Torino. He hasn’t been a director of serious consequence since the beginning of the Obama administration, and perhaps it’s fitting to acknowledge that.”
Did Roxborough skim Daniel Lewis’s N.Y. Times obit before writing his own?
I don’t want to sound rash or overly condemning, but it seems to me that Roxborough is some kind of grovelling woke toady….”do you see who I am, #MeToo vanguard feminists? Do you see how I diminished Kundera-the-chauvinist in my final sentence? Do you guys approve of this? Do I get a gold star?”
And right in the middle of the Austrian dangling train car scene, arguably the biggest wowser super-climax in the whole damn 27-year-old franchise, a 40something beefalo who’d almost certainly been gulping a 36-ounce soft drink, bolted out of his seat to run to the bathroom. He ran back in just when the last car has fallen and everyone was safe. Brilliant timing!
The 2023 New York Film Festival will kick things off with Todd Haynes’ May December, which costars Natalie Portman and Julianne Moore. The opening night selection will screen on 9.29 at Alice Tully Hall.
“May December Feels Strained, Clumsy,” posted from Cannes on 5.21:
“May December struck me as awkward and even silly at times. Haynes tries for a tone that mixes satiric whimsy and overheated emotional spillage while channeling Bergman’s Persona, but scene after scene and line after line hit me the wrong way.
“It’s about a famous actress, Elizabeth Berry (Portman), paying a visit to the pricey Savannah home of Gracie Atherton (Moore), a somewhat neurotic and brittle 60something who runs a dessert-cooking business. Elizabeth’s plan is to study Gracie as preparation for a soon-to-shoot film about her once-turbulent life, which involved a scandalous sexual affair with a minor and a subsequent prison term. Elizabeth naturally wants her forthcoming portrayal to deliver something truthful, etc.
“For her part Gracie is cool with the arrangement but at the same time a wee bit conflicted and anxious. She’s calculated that she’ll come off better in the film if she invites the pissing camel into the tent**.
“Seemingly modelled on the late Mary Kay Letourneau, a former school teacher who was prosecuted and jailed for seduced a 13 year-old boy named Vili Fualaau, Gracie is married to Joe Yoo (Charles Melton), a 36 year-old half-Korean dude who was also 13 when Gracie technically “raped” him while they were working together at a pet store, and with whom they now have two or three kids. (This is one of those films in which the exact number of kids in a given family is of no interest to anyone…zip.)
“If I didn’t have a Salle Debussy screening of Karim Ainouz‘s Firebrand breathing down my neck, I would list the eight or nine things that especially bothered me last night. Suffice that my basic reaction was one of exasperation. I literally threw up my hands and loudly exhaled three or four times. I groaned at least twice. I’m pretty sure I muttered “Jesus!” a couple of times. I also recall slapping my thigh.
“For what it’s worth Letourneau and Fualaau insisted from the get-go that their relationship was consensual; ditto Gracie and Jo in May December‘s backstory. After serving her prison term Letourneau married Fualaau and soon after had kids with him; same deal with Moore and Melton’s pretend couple.
** Exact Lyndon Johnson quote: ‘It’s better to have your enemies inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in.'”
Even if, you know, it doesn’t quite manage to do the thing that you might want it to do.
See how this works? In the space of a single day Oppenheimer has suddenly become a more sympathetic contender in the Barbenheimer equation because everyone knows it won’t perform as well. It’s now The Little IMAX Engine That Could.
“Barbenheimer Is Not A Contest,” posted today by Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone:
Some 14 years ago I was part of a Fantastic Mr. Fox press junket in England. It allowed me to visit the Great Missenden home (a.k.a. “Gipsy House“) of the late Roald Dahl (9.13.16 – 11.23.90). I was further allowed to visit the backyard studio where Dahl wrote his many books. I sat, in fact, in the upholstered, mustard-colored armchair that he sat in while writing in longhand.
