Every couple of years Hollywood Elsewhere devolves into a vein of sentimental appreciation for Howard Hawks‘ Only Angels Have Wings (’39). There’s also a theory going ’round that not every HE loyalist has read and memorized each and every post. So on that basis…
The realm of Only Angels Have Wings is all male, all the time. Feelings run fairly strong (the pilots who are “good enough” love each other like brothers) but nobody lays their emotional cards on the table face-up. Particularly Cary Grant‘s Geoff, a brusque, hard-headed type who never has a match on him. He gradually falls in love with Jean Arthur but refuses to say so or even indicate much. But he does subtly reveal his feelings at the end with the help of a two-headed coin.
It’s not what any woman or poet would call a profound declaration of love, but it’s as close to profound as it’s going to get in this 1939 Howard Hawks film. If Angels were remade today with Jennifer Lawrence in the Arthur role she’d probably say “to hell with it” and catch the boat, but in ’39 the coin was enough. Easily one of the greatest finales in Hollywood history.
I’m not a big pie guy as a rule. I’ll have an occasional slice of pumpkin pie around the holidays, but that’s about it. I nonetheless ordered apple pie a la mode last night at Barney’s Beanery…an idea that hit me out of the blue. The vanilla ice cream was perfect, but I went into…well, you’d have to call it shock when I saw that the pie was covered with melted cheese.
Call me ignorant and naive, but until last night I’d never even heard of cheese-melt apple pie. I knew right away that I couldn’t even think about eating it. Or sampling it. I was gradually persuaded to take a single bite, and I couldn’t really taste the cheese. The sugared apple stuffing was overpowering.
Our waitress informed us that cheese-melt apple pie has been served by Barney’s Beanery since it opened 101 years ago.
Research: “In 1998, a reader of the Los Angeles Times complained that ‘[a column] about cheese and apple pie left me feeling like I live in the twilight zone… I have so far never encountered American friends or acquaintances who even want to try this.” When asked whether he ate pie with cheese in his home state of Mississippi, one chef said: “Oh, God no! They’d put you away in a home.”
“The idea appears to have originated in England, where all sorts of fillings were added to pies. At some point, the 17th-century trend of adding dairy-based sauces to pies morphed into a tradition of topping them with cheese. For instance, in Yorkshire, apple pie was served with Wensleydale, which is likely how the phrase ‘an apple pie without the cheese is like a kiss without the squeeze’ began.
“According to The Mystic Seaport Cookbook: 350 Years of New England Cooking, New England settlers brought the idea behind these Yorkshire pies with them, but instead of Wensleydale, they began using cheddar.”
I have this notion that Jennifer Lawrence has been half-flatlining over over the last seven or eight years. She’s been in some popular films (Hunger Games, X-Men franchise installments), a couple of well-reviewed David O. Russell films (American Hustle, Joy), a morally repulsive stinker (Passengers), a brilliant Darren Aronofsky smarthouse horror classic (mother!) and a weird disappointment (Red Sparrow).
Alas, none of these have really throbbed and zapped like her early-Obama-era success d’estime Winter’s Bone, and certainly never matched her career-peak performance in Silver Linings Playbook, for which she won a Best Actress Oscar. Eight, nine years ago.
My general feeling is that she needs to get back on it, strike sparks, generate currents, go for the gusto.
Lawrence has two films coming out later this year, but only one she’s starring in — Lila Neugebauer and Elizabeth Sanders‘ Red White and Water (A24), a war-wound recovery drama which shot during the summer of ’19 in the New Orleans area.
The other is Adam McKay‘s Don’t Look Up, a star-studded sci-fi ensemble piece in which she costars with Leonardo DiCaprio, Cate Blanchett, Rob Morgan, Meryl Streep, Jonah Hill, Timothée Chalamet and Ariana Grande. (Yes, the above “teaser” is a fake, fan-made thing.)
In the spring of ’19 Collider‘s Jeff Sneider reported that Red, White and Water “will find Lawrence playing a U.S. soldier who suffers a traumatic brain injury in Afghanistan and struggles to recover back home.”
“Scott Rudin and Eli Bush are producing alongside Lawrence and her Excellent Cadaver partner Justine Polsky. Atlanta star Brian Tyree Henry stars opposite Lawrence. Neugebauer made her Broadway debut last year directing the revival of Kenneth Lonergan’s The Waverly Gallery starring Elaine May and Lucas Hedges, and she also helmed an episode of the HBO anthology series Room 104.”
The mention of Montepulciano in the Benedetta riff took me back, search-wise, to a 3.14.10 post titled “The Crowd.” It was about a woman friend planning a visit to Tuscany with her mom, and my begging her not to submit to a typical-tourist agenda.
“Please think about compassionately persuading your mom to submit to a little Sheltering Sky atmosphere with visits to San Donato or Volpaia,” I wrote. “Or places like them, at least. To do only tourist spots is to ensure that your journey will be colored if not dominated by mobs of people, and worse than that — people from Topeka, Trenton, Minneapolis, Augusta, Waco, Terre Haute, Orlando and Sacramento. It’ll be like making love with re-runs from TV Land and Nickleodeon playing loudly on the TV nearby. It just breaks my heart, knowing what you guys are headed for. And willingly yet!”
This, of course, resulted in outrage. HE commenter Errant Elan said “my beautiful, wonderful foster-parents were born and raised in Minneapolis, and several of my very best friends come from Topeka!” Another commenter, Mo’Nique Waltz, asked “Wells, do you have any love in your heart at all for your fellow man?”
My reply: “To paraphrase Marcus Brutus, ‘Tis not that I love my fellow man less, but that I love more the spellbinding beauty of centuries-old Europe.’
“It’s not really Minnesotans or Georgians or rural Californians per se that I was expressing disdain for. I can take or leave people as they come, and I always smile and offer a handshake and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Rural Americans are so quick to take offense when these discussions come up. “Why can’t New Yorkers and Los Angelenos be a little nicer?” etc. Being nice is everything to them. Well, I like ‘nice’ also (who doesn’t?), but there are other realms and philosophies out there.
“My beef is how the tour-bus crowd (which tends to be composed of older, middle-American suburbans or rurals who are a little timid and unsure of themselves when visiting any place that could be called exotic, which I guess could be defined as a place that doesn’t have corporate chain stores inside malls) tends to mess with the pastoral or architectural or simple atmospheric beauty of an ancient culture or ancient locale — that take-me-away and levitate-me vibe of centuries-old Italy — when they come roaring into some exquisite spot inside their godawful tour buses, invading a place en masse like an occupying army — a roaming battalion of offensively dressed, fanny-pack-carrying, sandal-wearing biddies and gawkers and sea lions with their cameras and camcorders snapping and flashing away and ordering gelato and paninis in their horrible T-shirts and shorts and whatnot.
“They travel around Europe in packs because they’re scared of the unfamiliar. The herding instinct = safety and comfort. And the metaphor of that banding together — that basic fear of the unknown and an experience that hasn’t been pre-planned or prepared by a booklet or a tour guide — coupled with all their other aesthetic offenses has a way of overpowering and even infecting the serenity that some places have, and which was there centuries before they came. And that is how these folks ruin certain places — how they take them over and turn them into ‘tourist haunts’ that the tour buses, completing the cultural pile-on effect, always take them to, etc.
I’ve been imagining atmospheric slivers of Paul Verhoeven‘s Benedetta since the project began filming in Italy (Montepulciano, Val d’Orcia, Bevagna) and France almost three years ago. Who hasn’t?
One would presume that the 2021 Cannes Film Festival (7.6 through 7.17) would premiere Benedetta two or three days before the European commercial debut (Friday, 7.9).
Cannes honcho Thierry Fremaux last year: “Paul Verhoeven delivers an erotic and mischievous, also political, vision of the Middle Ages in a grandiose production.” The key terms, trust me, are “mischievous” and “grandiose.”
** The script was co-authored by Verhoeven and David Burke (Elle). An earlier adaptation, which would have been titled Blessed Virgin, was penned by Jean-Claude Carrière. Veteran Verhoeven collaborator Gerard Soeteman (Turkish Delight, The Fourth Man, Black Book), replaced Carrière, although Soeteman “ultimately distanced himself from the project and had his name removed from the credits as he felt too much of the story was focused on sexuality.”
The way she says “damuhjizz” when attempting to say “damages.” Actual quote: “When will the witch hunt of Donald J. Trump come to an end, and [of] those who support him?”
Is it me or does this trailer for Dear Evan Hansen radiate an aura of extreme sensitivity and emotional vulnerability? It feels…what’s the term I’m searching for?…kinda snowflakey. Is that a fair thing to say? I think it is because the trailer is what it is, and I’m just conveying my reaction. Then again I wouldn’t want to agitate the snowflakes out there. Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything and just wait for the music and lyrics…the full package.
Among Jimmy Kimmel‘s remarks during Disney’s upfront presentation that streamed earlier Tuesday, as reported by THR‘s James Hibberd:
(a) “Here at ABC we have two kinds of shows: canceled, and ‘I didn’t know that was still on.’
(b) “The Wonder Years is back. Our programming strategy is like an old person with a computer that’s not working: Shut it down and hope it reboots. This version of The Wonder Years follows a middle-class black family in the late 1960s. And if you don’t buy ads on it, we’re going to tell everyone you’re racist.
(c) “We’re all screwed. My kids don’t even know what commercials are. I’m sorry to tell you this, but when we go on vacation and put on Cartoon Network or something, they’re like, ‘Why is this woman doing laundry in the middle of our show?’ We’re a dying breed, but [at least] we’re dying together.”
Common sense issues undermine John Krasinki‘s original A Quiet Place (’18), of course. The most glaring, for me, is the decision by Evelyn and Lee Abbott (Emily Blunt, Krasinski) to have a baby, which of course is tantamount to suicide in the “be silent or die” realm in which they’re trapped.
“Instead of addressing the gaping plot holes — why has no one else figured out the aliens’ weakness (they can’t handle tinny, high-pitched sounds generated by cochlear implants), or why these creatures have such scary teeth if they don’t stop to eat anything — the new film wagers if you’re on board for the ride, logic shouldn’t matter.
“But it does make a difference, and anyone bothered by the way Krasinski has already ignored such glaring inconsistencies as the monsters’ ability to hear small noises from far away, but not breathing or heartbeats mere inches from their ears, will drive themselves crazy this time around.
“As the helmer’s canvas widens, it becomes even harder to overlook the obvious (like the decision to transport a baby through open spaces), amounting to a cunningly executed thriller that will leave half the audience wondering, ‘Why didn’t they just do that in the first place?'”
I wrote the following article in ’97 for the L.A. Times Syndicate, and re-posted it in October ’04 — two months after launching Hollywood Elsewhere:
Say what you will about Bliss, Lance Young’s film about love and sexuality that earned a 50% RT rating. But that housefly-on-the-fan shot is awesome.
“Young marrieds Craig Sheffer and Sheryl Lee are lying in bed and mulling over their troubled sex life. Lee’s psychological history is at the nub. One of her problems is a bug phobia — always scrubbing under the sink, hunting around for creepy-crawlies. Anyway, the camera rises up from their bed, climbing higher and higher until it comes to an overhead propeller fan. And we suddenly notice a fly sitting on one of the blades.
How did Young get the little bugger to just sit there, waiting for his big moment?
Answer: The fly had been placed in a freezer for five minutes just before Young yelled “action!”, and was thus too frozen to make any moves. And even if he wasn’t all but frozen stiff he would’ve failed, due to a thread of tungsten wire — thinner than a human hair — tied to the fly’s midsection.
The person who arranged all this was “fly wrangler” Anne Gordon, whose company, Annie’s Animal Actors, was hired by the Bliss shoot in Vancouver.
The Bliss fly is actually a flesh fly — the kind that feeds on meat, and is about two or three times larger than your average house fly. Gordon bought 100 to the set on shooting day but only used “about a dozen” to get the shot.
A different chilled fly was used for each take, she says, because it would be cruel — not to mention impractical — for the same fly to be sent back to the freezer after each shot. The optimum time to shoot a chilled fly is four minutes after the ice chest, she says. They’re usually warmed up and able to fly around after seven minutes.
Another way to get a fly to sit still is to “cover him with a special mixture of milk and honey,” says Mark Dumas of the Vancouver-based Creative Animal Talent. “That way it’ll stay there a while and groom itself.”
The overhead ceiling fan shot was “tough,” says Gordon, and not just because of fly-prep issues. She says she felt a bit awkward looking down at a couple doing a love scene all day. “They’re down in the bed doing their thing and I’m up on the ladder,” she says. “They hardly had anything on.”
Tom Wolfe, seven or eight years ago (starting at:17): “I’ve never been tempted to write a memoir. I really honestly believe what George Orwell said, which was that the memoir, the autobiography, is the worst form of fiction ever devised. Because people are willing to confess to anything colorful or exciting [in their lives]…they murdered somebody or they smoked a lot of dope…it could be almost anything.
“Except for the humiliations. They will never write about the humiliations, which, Orwell said, make up 75% of life. I couldn’t agree more with that.”
Wolfe is right — the best autobiographies are those in which the author doesn’t cut himself/herself the slightest break. Which is why my forthcoming, work-in-progress memoir (I probably won’t call it Last Honest Asshole but the title is catchy) will rank highly as I’ve never shirked from talking about rejection, melancholy moods, sullenness and feelings of existential downerism and depression — these states of mind have been tugging at my spirit since I was six. The problem of course, is that most people don’t want to read about guys who scowl and feel shitty about things. And so editors are always telling writers to keep things lively, and that means good, well-told stories, etc.
This is one reason why I shut down after an hour’s worth of party chatter. Because you’re obliged to be “on” all the time, and nobody wants to hear anything but funny stories, pithy insights and amusing anecdotes.
The brilliant, amusingly twitchy and fickle-minded Charles Grodin, 86, has passed on. In my heart and mind Grodin was a mythical actor of the highest neurotic order, and lo and behold he died at his residence in my high-school home town of Wilton, Connecticut.
Knowing he was a Wilton guy somehow adds to my understanding of him. He lived on Chestnut Hill Road…know it well.
I interviewed Grodin once or twice in the ’90s or early aughts…easy guy to converse with. (All my life I’ve gotten along famously with super-smart neurotic Jews, being an honorary neurotic Jew myself.) We also chatted blithely at a couple of N.Y. Film Festival parties in the late ’70s or early ’80s…I forget the particulars.
For me Grodin was defined by five key performances, and his first pop-through didn’t happen until age 32 or 33 when he played Dr. Hill, that kindly, low-key Manhattan obstetrician (John Cassevetes referred to him as “Charlie Nobody”) who betrayed Mia Farrow in Roman Polanski‘s Rosemary’s Baby (’68).
The next milestone was his creepily vacant performance as Captain “Aarfy” Aardvark in Mike NicholsCatch-22 (’70), closely followed by his career-defining role as a mentally deranged sporting-goods salesman named Lenny in Elaine May‘s The Heartbreak Kid (’72). The next highlight was his performance as Tony Abbott, the blithe executive assistant to Warren Beatty‘s “Leo Farnsworth” in Heaven Can Wait (’78). The final keeper was his deadpan mob accountant, “Duke” Madukas, in Midnight Run (’88), made when Grodin was 52 or thereabouts.
Grodin is also fondly remembered for his roles in Real Life (’79), Seems Like Old Times (’80), Ishtar (’87) and Dave (’93). Not to mention his many appearance on Late Night with David Letterman (the angry schtick with his lawyer) and The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.
It was only a week ago when I ran that appreciation of his confrontation scene with Eddie Albert in The Heartbreak Kid, and a couple months ago when I riffed on that great father-daughter scene he shared with Robert DeNiro, Danielle DuClos and Wendy Phillips in Midnight Run.
Grodin’s N.Y. Times obit mentions Beethoven as one of his most beloved films — it is? I never want to see Beethoven again in my life…ever! I barely even remember Grodin’s performance, to be perfectly honest. Okay, he was infuriated and horrified by the big galumphy Saint Bernard…whatever.
