A draft of Quentin Tarantino‘s Crimson Tide punch-up, signed by Don Simpson and Jerry Bruckheimer. A 1998 copy of AnyGivenSunday, signed by Oliver Stone, Jamie Foxx (“peace”), Dennis Quaid and Cameron Diaz. And a musty, somewhat early draft of Chinatown (153 pages, Evelyn Mulwray kills Noah Cross at the finale), bearing some resemblance to the finished film and signed by the great Robert Towne, Dick Sylbert, Robert Evans and James Hong.
Polanski wasn’t around, of course, but if he had been he probably wouldn’t have signed because it’s a version of the film he had no influence upon.
I’m the only one who gets them mixed up, right? Sees one and thinks it might be the other, etc. Name any two actresses from the recent or far-off past (and when I say “far off past” I could be referring to a time before the ’80s) who shared this much of a resemblance to each other.
Two and three-quarter years ago I posted one of my “Jesus, things really suck out there” pieces. It was titled “Definitive Saga of The Destruction of Theatrical Experience Still Required,” and the idea was that the next great Hollywood expose or tell-all could or should be called “Super-Vomit: How Hollywood Infantiles (i.e., Devotees of Comic Books and Video Games) Degraded Theatrical and All But Ruined The Greatest Modern Art Form.”
Not filmed dramas per se but the stand-alone, non-sequelized, franchise-resistant form of dramatic endeavor that used to be Hollywood’s bread-and-butter when theatres showed movies of substance (1920 to 2015). This kind of thing hasn’t completely disappeared from theatres, but it nearly has. Streaming and cable are where the goods are now, and half the time you’re talking long-form serials.
Otherwise a form of dramatic story-telling that has existed since the time of the Greeks — a tale told in one sitting, three acts delivered within 100 to 160 minutes and that’s all she wrote — is showing signs of serious theatrical erosion and may even be extinguished down the road. What does Kenneth Lonergan have to say about all this? Oh, Manchester By The Sea, how we loved ya, how we loved ya…your brevity, discipline, dramatic choices, shape.
That was then, this is now. We’ve all been living in a Covid penitentiary for roughly 11 months. It’s unlikely any of us will be paroled until sometime next fall, and perhaps not until early ’22. I’m very happy to be alive and well and writing this column and bringing in ad dough, etc., but spiritually speaking I’m the star of a downish indie flick called Each Dawn I Die.
And all I can say is “boy, would I love to be back in the old Hollywood Elsewhere misery pit of April ’18!”
HE’s West Hollywood grid (south of SM Blvd., north of Beverly Blvd., west of La Cienega) went dark just after 9 pm this evening. Flashlights, candles and slowly melting ice cream.
So Cal Electric’s website initially claimed this was a deliberate maintenance shutdown to improve service. Sorry, fellas, but not during prime time on a Saturday night.
First, this city always collapses when it rains. Second, scheduled power shutdowns are always announced in advance — this one just happened. Third, the initial SCE alert said power would be off between 8 pm and 10 pm. Except they just changed their minds — the latest announcement says power will be out until tomorrow morning (Sunday) at 8 am.
10:46pm: The juice has just returned — nine hours earlier than projected. SCE will never share, but they have a good story to tell.
We all look good (or as good as we’re ever going to look) in our late teens and 20s. But of course (stop me if you’ve heard this one) we don’t tend to become interesting until we’ve kicked around for a while and taken a few punches and acquired that vaguely bruised, weathered, lived-in look.
Hollywood Elsewhere will eventually watch all seven episodes of Pretend It’s A City, Martin Scorsese‘s Fran Lebowitz documentary. Why haven’t I begun? Because I know Lebowitz’s schtick. She’s smart and flinty and cool to hang with, but I have a pretty good idea what she’s going to say so I can take my time. No worry or hurries.
I’m not saying Lebowtiz is boring — far from it. She’ll always be excellent company. But…well, here’s the N.Y. TimesGinia Bellafante in a 1.22 piece called “Everybody Loves Fran. But Why?”
“By nearly any measure of my affinities, I ought to love Fran Lebowitz the way I love lasagna or quickly finding a cab in a thunderstorm. But for a long time now, whenever she has entered my frame of vision, she has come at me like a mime on the subway — an unwelcome spectacle of the familiar.”
I understand writers having trouble putting pen to paper, but how does an author of two worthwhile life-in-New York City books, “Metropolitan Life” (’78) and “Social Studies” (’81), quit writing altogether? All she has to do is hire someone to transcribe everything she’s ever said in interviews and on talk shows, and then use that material to build upon. It couldn’t get much easier than that.
If Donald Trump does in fact launch a hardcore looney-tune Patriot party…great! Because it’ll just siphon off strength (numbers, money) from the Republican party and all-but-assure Democratic victories. I can taste it. Licking my chops.
Ask any Oscar campaign consultant — nothing fortifies an Oscar contender like starring in a Cadillac TV commercial. Seriously…good for Regina King, director of the Oscar-touted One Night in Miami, steppin’ out and pocketing a nice fat paycheck on the side.
We live in times of such terror that I’m almost afraid to mention this, but there’s a longstanding cliche or presumption about African Americans loving Cadillacs. I think it’s more than a presumption. I’ve been hearing jokes about it all my life. Here’s a statistic-based report that says African-American Millennials are “far more likely to drive a Cadillac than other demographics.”
My favorite shot is between the :18 and :23 mark, when King is shown cruising through a ‘hood-like neighborhood (modest one-story bungalows, no shady trees) and waving to her pallies.
“Bill Harrah is the boss and he made sure that Camille and I had a car. We stayed in a motel and they sent over for us to drive a red convertible Cadillac. I went to the entertainment director and I said to him, ‘I have a problem with this car.’ There’s a negative stereotype, if that isn’t a double entendre, about black people and their favorite-color Cadillac is red in a convertible. It’s racist people making fun of black people — it’s similar to watermelon. So I said, ‘I really don’t want to be seen riding around in this stereotype car.’ He said, ‘Okay. What kind of cars do you like?'” — Bill Cosby recalling an incident in 1964 when he was about to perform at a Harrah’s in Reno.
Closing Passage: “Marjorie Taylor Greene, the Congresswoman who makes most people say ‘how is she not a teacher from Florida who fucks her students?’ I don’t know but holy shit, is this lady crazy! She does not listen to lobbyists or special interests. No, she listens to microwaves. And talking dogs. She’s an all-in QAnon believer who thinks science and reason are conspiracies to trick people into thinking. Reagan saw a shining city on a hill — this chick sees spiders on her arm. Move over, AOC — say hello to WTF.”
I thought Larry King was out of the woods a few weeks ago when he was released by Cedars Sinai after surviving a Covid infection. When he beat that, I thought “jeez, he’ll probably last until he’s 97 or older…the guy’s a locomotive” But something else took him down. That’s life, old age, genetic destiny, the way it goes.
If you’ve made it to age 87 with your health and wits about you until the very end, you’ve done well by yourself and your kin. If you’ve had a successful, decades-long career and achieved nationwide fame and made a fair amount of dough and brought a certain kind of pleasure to tens of millions…you’ve done exceptionally well.
One of my favorite Larry moments came when he half-insulted CIA spook, Watergate burglar and spy novelist E. Howard Hunt. They were talking about Hunt’s latest book as well as his voluminous output (22 books altogether). Larry regarded Hunt with those bespectacled hawk eyes and said with a straight face, “You just bang ’em out, right?”
“Page Six” item: “In December ’14 I ran a short story on the Weinstein Co.’s Nine luncheon at Per Se, along with some photos. I called it ‘Nine Is A Ten’, but I didn’t explain that the line was a mock-quote fed to me by Forbes.com’s Bill McCuddy, who was joking that CNN’s Larry King (who was also at the luncheon) would eventually pass this quote along to Weinstein Co. publicists about Rob Marshall‘s film. Sure enough, the quote appeared in Friday’s N.Y. Times. McCuddy nailed it before King said it — brilliant.”
I was at that Per Se luncheon also. Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neil suggested to a couple of us (McCuddy included) that we approach Larry and remind him that we were the top Oscar handicapping hotshots of New York and Los Angeles and that Larry should have one of us on the show. But I was watching King’s eyes as the conversation began, and the second that Tom said “we’re the Oscar-bloggers, Larry” (he may have used the term “Oscar whisperers”)…the minute O’Neil said this King’s expression narrowed and his face said “yeah, whatever, nice try.”
Except “Oscar whisperers” had just been used by New York magazine’s Boris Kachka in a profile piece about the L.A. Oscar-blogging fraternity (i.e., myself, Sasha Stone, Scott Feinberg, Pete Hammond, Steve Pond, David Poland, Tom O’Neil, Kris Tapley, Anne Thompson, et. al.). And Stephen Rodrick‘s January 2007 Los Angeles piece about the same subject was called “The Blog Whisperers.” So O’Neil wasn’t blowing smoke, and King, due respect, hadn’t been paying attention.
Basic logline for Young Hearts: “Tilly (Quinn Liebling) and Harper (Anjini Taneja Azhar) ultimately become each other’s first high school boyfriend and girlfriend. But when their budding relationship suddenly becomes the talk of their school, they are faced with enormous pressure from their so-called friends. A breakup is, perhaps, inevitable.”
Can I ask something? I’ve watched this trailer twice and what is it, exactly, that Tilly and Harper are doing that strikes their friends as uncool or warrants being “the talk of their school”? They’re nice kids and attracted to each other — what’s the problem?
Honest question: At what point does the physical size of a young woman in a presumably adult relationship become…well, an issue of vague discomfort? Azhar is only 4’8″, or roughly the size of a seven or eight year old girl in elementary school. Elliot Page towers over her at 5’1″.
I’m not espousing sizeism, but if you were Chris Nolan and a casting agent had urged you to consider hiring either Azhar or Elizabeth Debicki for the role of Kenneth Branagh‘s wife in Tenet, who would you be more inclined to hire? And why?
I’ve made it clear that Ben Affleck‘s basketball coach alcoholic in The Way Back struck me some time ago as totally naked — perhaps (probably?) the closest-to-the-bone performance he’s ever given.
This is emphasized by the fact that The Way Back isn’t a “let’s man up and put our problems behind us so we can win the playoffs” drama — it’s an emotional (and psychological) saga of a guy who’s furious about something ghastly that happened to him and his ex-wife, and about how he copes with this terrible scar on his heart and soul. I love how The Way Back isn’t afraid of Jack’s rage and subliminal longing for self-destruction — it digs right down into that pit. It isn’t the least bit tidy or sanded down or escapist.
This plus the fact Affleck seems to have lost about 30 or 40 pounds since Naomi Fry‘s “Sadness of Ben Affleck” piece ran in The New Yorker (3.24.18)…a change that I’m processing as a visual metaphor for the shedding of issues that were dragging him down..this also is a good thing.
