1966 wasn’t exactly a weak year for cinema, but except for three films the output was less than herculean. ’66 was a great year, however, for avant garde rock music (Revolver, Pet Sounds, Blonde on Blonde, Aftermath), psychedelics, Haight Ashbury and general hippiedom, and it witnessed the birth of the nonfiction novel (Truman Capote‘s “In Cold Blood“).
HE to commentariat: Which 1966 films play best by your standards? Which seem the most fleet of mind and self-aware…the most vibrant and socially avant garde…the least moribund or tedious? The most purely enjoyable by a 21st Century yardstick?
I would be lynched if I were to say that there are women who are in the 3 or 4 range. I would be beaten, shot, run over by cars. But I’m not saying that! HE is resolutely opposed to any such associations.
But #emilysavesamerica is allowed to say this. Because of her gender, age and attractiveness. The reason she radiates a certain authority is because she describes herself as a 6.5. Modesty is very attractive.
In my youthful heyday I was somewhere around…oh, let’s say an 8. maybe an 8.5. Age has lowered my current rating to somewhere between a 6 and a 6.5, at best. I’m saying this to demonstrate a willingness to be honest.
Not one shot of Duval Street? No shots of the marina or Ernest Hemingway‘s cats or Harry Truman‘s Florida White House? No shots of any classic Key West homes with those second-story porches?
I’m sorry but the Tony Awards mean nothing to me. I was a regular B’way theatregoer for decades, but starting in the mid to late aughts ticket prices (including those for rock concerts) became so costly they’re now absurd. They’re comical. For swells only. I wish I was loaded enough to afford them. It breaks my heart but that whole magnificent universe has a CLOSED sign on its Tin Pan Alley door.
“Glorious Theatre Years,” posted on 10.16.22: For decades I tried to catch the most highly-regarded Manhattan plays, and I’m very grateful that I made the effort. We all realize that the last Broadway era for great playwriting ended between 20 or 25 years ago. (It’s all musicals now, and damn the sappy tourists for making this happen.) For me the mid ’70s to mid ’80s was close to a golden stage era. Which isn’t to say it was the greatest by the measure of any Broadway-veteran perspective, but simply a time when I was living near or in Manhattan, or often flying there from Los Angeles. Things were happening and I knew I had to get what I could.
It was a time in which certain well-reviewed plays (and one glorious musical, Sunday in the Park With George) seemed to speak directly to me and my experience…written by the youngish lions of that era (David Mamet, Simon Gray, Harold Pinter, Tom Stoppard, Peter Shaffer) and focused on anxious, unsatisfied white guys whose situations seemed to echo my own…taunted by various urban anxieties, ambitions…by aloneness, sex/love, existential voids, “who am I?”, “what’s it all about?” and “will my life always seem this much of an uphill thing?”
It almost makes me weep to reflect on that period, which for me began in ’76 and started to wind down in ’85. (I lived in Manhattan for a bit more than five years — ‘early ’78 to ‘mid ’83.) Film-wise and quite sadly for many of us, the last third of the ’70s marked the beginning of the end of the “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls” period, and the early ’80s would became known as an era in which “the bottom [had] fallen out of badness in movies,” to borrow from Andrew Sarris.
But the quality of the plays seemed wonderful; ditto the culture (mostly pre-AIDS) itself. Life was hard, of course (my finances were mostly a shambles until ’87) and the wrong people were in power and writers were stuck with typewriters and white-out, but compared to today it almost seems as if I was living a kind of half-charmed life. I could live and work and run around (my batting average was around .400, give or take**) and write without fear of wokester death squads, for one thing.
I wouldn’t say that my future seemed especially rosey or brilliant back then, but it certainly lay ahead. You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.
The Reagan-era play that lifted me up and melted me down like none before or since was Tom Stoppard‘s The Real Thing (’84). Sappy as this sounds, it made me swoon. Okay, not “swoon” but it struck some kind of deep, profound chord. Partly because I saw it at a time when I believed that the right relationship with the right woman could really make a difference. That was then and this is now, but I was in the tank for this stuff in ’84. The play used the Monkees’ “I’m A Believer” as mood music, and I pretty much was one at the time.
I’m speaking of the original B’way production, of course, directed by Mike Nichols and costarring Jeremy Irons and Glenn Close. My admiration for Irons’ performance as Henry, a witty London playwright who resembled Stoppard in various ways, was boundless. Close, whom I was just getting to know back then, was truly magnificent as Annie. N.Y. Times critic Frank Rich called it “not only Mr. Stoppard’s most moving play, but also the most bracing play that anyone has written about love and marriage in years.”
(I went to see the 2000 B’way revival and was bitterly disappointed by Stephen Dillane‘s uncharismatic lead performance, which wasn’t even close to what Irons had brought.)
I was also floored that same year by James Lapine and Stephen Sondheim‘s Sunday in the Park With George, which opened at the Booth theatre on 5.2.84. It was one of the few B’way musicals that really reached inside, and it still makes me choke up when I watch it on YouTube.
I’m just going to list some of the plays that really hit the sweet spot between ’76 and ’85…I’m bypassing a few but here we go regardless:
Peter Shaffer‘s Equus, which I saw in London in the early summer of ’76. The great Colin Blakely was magnificent in the lead role of psychiatrist Martin Dysart (and better, I have to say, than Richard Burton was in the Sidney Lumet film version). I saw Anthony Perkins play the role in a B’way production of Equus in ’77, and I’m sorry to say that he underwhelmed.
A Broadway production of David Mamet‘s American Buffalo in early ’77. Directed by Ulu Grosbard with Robert Duvall, Kenneth McMillan and John Savage costarring. Four years later I saw it again (twice) at the Circle in the Square with Al Pacino as Teach. Pacino wasn’t a robot — he played certain lines and scenes a bit differently at times…experimentally, if you will. I was in heaven.
My current plan is to avoid InsideOut2. I feel fully respectful of an allegedly well-made film that has obviously connected worldwide in a huge way…congrats to everyone involved. Good for the movie business, good for exhibition, etc. I’m just going to sidestep it for the foreseeable future. No harm, no foul.
Or they know all too well, and they don’t know what to do with it. Either way it’s never a good sign to show an allegedly important film to “critics” before Venice and Telluride. It basically means “uh-oh.”
Friendo: “Movies screen early all the time. But I seriously doubt that any critics were invited this early to a screening of a movie like Blitz. If they were and the names leaked, it would be a bit of a scandal because it would be obvious that their positive reaction was being bought.”
The couple that I most want to see go south is Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce. Please — I want their love affair to die of malnutrition by Labor Day if at all possible, or certainly before the end of ‘24.
Only a lunatic would marry Swift — even a lughead like Kelce surely understands this.
Ben and J.Lo divorcing is…okay, I’m sorry. Clearly she’s driven him to madness with hyper frustration and career anxiety and whatnot. Keyinsiderquote: “[Ben] wants a life with serenity and peace, and escapingthisrollercoaster will be a relief.”
A little more than eight years ago (4.14.16) casting maestro Juliet Taylor sat down with an AMPAS moderator to talk about her 50-year career and particularly the 42 films she cast for Woody Allen.
The session was entitled “Perfect Choice: The Art Of The Casting Director”. It happened at the Samuel Goldwyn Theater on Wilshire.
Sasha Stone earlier today: “Why would the Academy omit Woody Allen’s name from Juliet Taylor‘s bio? That would be like omitting Alfred Hitchcock’s name when honoring Grace Kelly. Or Frank Capra’s name when honoring Jimmy Stewart. You can’t do that and pretend any sort of validity in preserving, celebrating or honoring film history.
“Who made the call? Was it the Academy or was it Juliet Taylor’s people? We’ll never know because these are questions no one is allowed to ask. Partly they’re afraid to ask why. And they’re afraid of the shitstorm eruption soon to follow in its wake.
“The last thing they seemed to be concerned about is whether or not they look ridiculous. My dudes, here’s the answer to that question, YES. With all due respect, YES.”
Bill Maher had a girlfriend when he was 16? I didn’t do the deed until I was 18, and that was because a girl had put the moves on me, not vice versa. I was so beset by insecurity and low-self-esteem in my teen years I could barely function socially. Movies had been my only escape from the time I was eight or nine, and then I coupled that with serious weekend drinking (100 proof vodka!) when I turned 15 or thereabouts.
I didn’t feel even half-confident in a sexual sense until I was 22 or 23, but once I knew how to turn that key I became a shameless hound. (Not a predator but a hound — there’s a difference.) Before long I was batting .400 or better, and that streak lasted throughout the rest of my 20s and into my 30s, and then re-ignited in the ’90s after Maggie divorced me.
“Entirely Natural and Inevitable,” posted on 10.1.22: HE’s big office romance…I’m sorry, I meant to say the emotionally devastating extra-marital affair that I fell into during my time as an in-office freelancer at People magazine and which continued until her husband found out a couple of years later…it was almost the emotional death of me. (The actual span was between early ’98 and the early fall of ’00…call it 32 months.) No relationship had ever brought so much heartache, hurt or frustration. Graham Greene and Tom Stoppard had nothing on us. I was a man of almost constant sorrow. I was so upset by one of our arguments that one afternoon I made a reckless left turn on Pico Blvd. and got slammed by a speeding BMW, and for weeks I told myself it wasn’t really my fault — it was the married girlfriend’s. Definitely a form of insanity.
I can only feel puzzlement about all the love for Richard Linklater‘s Hit Man. Strange love = Strangelove. I didn’t hate it or anything, but I was certainly underwhelmed. Part of my problem was that Glenn Powell didn’t seem to radiate a lot of charisma. His eyes are too small and his voice is too reedy. I decided that the similarities to Stakeout were fairly significant, and that Richard Dreyfuss‘s cop character “Chris” was more likable that Powell’s “Gary Johnson”.
HE commenter “Adam L”: “I genuinely think Dreyfuss deserved a Best Actor nomination for Stakeout. There’s significant range in what he’s asked to do and he nails absolutely every single aspect of that character. I can’t imagine anyone else doing it as well.”
I’m presuming HE regulars have seen Hit Man by now (it’s been streaming on Netflix since June 7) so I’m asking two questions. One, what is the big likable deal with this film? I wasn’t glaring daggers but I was mainly going “this is just okay…people have been overpraising it.” And two, when’s the last time a Powell-like guy — a dude with tiny beady eyes and kind of a shallow vibe or mentality — became a big movie star?
Plus I hate it when anyone says to anyone else, “I guess I’m just your fantasy.” I hate that fucking line!
From my 5.31.24 post: In general terms, Richard Linklater‘s Hit Man (Netflix, 6.7) is about Gary (Glenn Powell), a 30something guy who works for a big-city police department (New Orleans) in an undercover capacity.
The story kicks in when Gary falls in love with Maddy (Adria Arjona), a beautiful Latina woman who’s been involved with a not-so-nice guy named Ray (Evan Holtzman), and who is also kind of a target of the police. Except Gary can’t tell Maddy for procedural and security reasons that he’s with the fuzz.
The story tension is about when and how Gary will come clean with Maddy, and how her troubled relationship with Ray will be resolved (i.e., come to an end) so that she and Gary will have some kind of chance together.
Without divulging what I felt about Hit Man, I need to mention how much it reminded me, in certain ways, of John Badham‘s Stakeout (’87), which was a kind of cop sitcom thriller with a strong emotional pull.
The lead character was Chris (Richard Dreyfuss), a 30something detective who works for a big city police department (Seattle). He and partner Bill (Emilio Estevez) are assigned to spy on Maria (Madeleine Stowe), a beautiful Latina woman who’s been involved with a not-so-nice guy named Stick (Aidan Quinn). Stick has recently escaped from prison and, cops suspect, may be visiting Maria soon.
The story kicks in when Chris falls in love with Maria, but can’t tell her for procedural and security reasons that he’s with the cops. Plus he’s doubly deceived her by pretending to be a phone company technician so he can plant a bug in her phone.
The story tension is about when and how Chris will come clean with Maria, and how her troubled relationship with Stick will be resolved (i.e., come to an end) so that she and Chris will have some kind of chance together.
The storylines of Hit Man and Stakeout don’t line up precisely and diverge in significant ways, but the above described similarities are legit.
Bill Forsyth‘s Local Hero opened on 2.17.83. I caught a long-lead screening (early or mid December ’82) at the old Warner Bros. screening room at 75 Rockefeller Plaza. I was beaming when it ended around 9 pm or thereabouts. The final scene got me deep down; I was half teary-eyed and so jazzed I walked straight up to Cafe Central (75th and Amsterdam), the actors’ hangout bar. I felt too good to submit to an IRT local — I walked the 26 or 27 blocks in a half hour.
Believe it or not Peter Riegert, 35 at the time, was standing at the bar. I knew him slightly from previous Cafe Central inebriations, and was overjoyed to see him. I told him what a great film LH was and what a high I was on, etc. “And that pay phone ringing at the very end…that’s Macintosh calling!”,” I said after my second Jack Daniels and ginger ale. Riegert, perhaps wondering if I was a little drunk or just a bit slow, smiled and nodded “yeah.”
“Bill [Forsyth] understood that moviegoers are not interested in what the actors are feeling. They’re interested in what they’re feeling.”
Precisely! This is a perfect distillation of the entire Hollywood Elsewhere approach to reviewing movies and performances. This is the sine qua non, the emerald, the whole magillah…words in passing that give the game away.
I’m always perfectly aware of the feelings that an actor is attempting to generate with his or her personality or application of technique or whatever, but all I care about is what I’m feeling as I sit slumped in my seat, tripping happily on the film or the performance or trying to make heads or tails of either one. I might “respect” what a filmmaker has tried to accomplish with this or that approach, but all I care about and all I’m going to write about at the end of the day is if this approach works for me.
For I am King Solomon…the ultimate arbiter, the one-man jury, inspector of the final product, giver or denier of the HE seal of approval.
A performance or a movie, in other words, is not about the idea or theme or cultural undercurrent propelling the filmmakers, but about how I fucking feel as I contemplate the finality of it.
