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The sublimely gifted Tom Stoppard, the Czech-born, British-seasoned author of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (’66), Jumpers (’72), Travesties (’74), Night and Day (’78), The Real Thing (’82), Hapgood (’88), Arcadia (’93), The Invention of Love (’97), The Coast of Utopia (saw it at the Vivian Beaumont in ’07), Rock ‘n’ Roll (’06) and Leopoldstadt (’20)….one of the greatest fellows I’ve ever “known”, so to speak, has passed at age 88.

Posted on 10.16.22: 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.”

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“Love has to do with knowing and being known. I remember how it stopped seeming odd that in biblical Greek, knowing was used for making love. Whosit knew so-and-so. Carnal knowledge. It’s what lovers trust each other with. Knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh, knowledge of self, the real him, the real her, in extremis, the mask slipped from the face.

“Every other version of oneself is on offer to the public. We share our vivacity, grief, sulks, anger, joy…we hand it out to anybody who happens to be standing around, to friends and family with a momentary sense of indecency perhaps, to strangers without hesitation. Our lovers share us with the passing trade. But in pairs we insist that we give ourselves to each other. What selves? What’s left? What else is there that hasn’t been dealt out like a pack of cards?

“[The answer is] carnal knowledge. Personal, final, uncompromised. Knowing, being known. I revere that. Having that is being rich, [so] you can be generous about what’s shared — she walks, she talks, she laughs, she lends a sympathetic ear, she kicks off her shoes and dances on the tables, she’s everybody’s and it don’t mean a thing, let them eat cake.

“Knowledge is something else, the undealt card, and while it’s held it makes you free-and-easy and nice to know, and when it’s gone EVERYTHING IS PAIN. Every single thing. Every object that meets the eye, a pencil, a tangerine, a travel poster. As if the physical world has been wired up to pass a current back to the part of your brain where imagination glows like a filament in a lobe no bigger than a torch bulb. Pain.”

— from Tom Stoppard‘s The Real Thing, directed by Mike Nichols and costarring Jeremy Irons and Glenn Close. It opened at the former Plymouth Theatre (now the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre) on 1.5.84.

Frank Rich’s N.Y. Times review, 1.6.84.

The Indian Fighter (United Artists, 12.21.55) was a passable-but-no-great-shakes western, starring Kirk Douglas and directed by Andre de Toth. It served the usual brawny action stuff in eye-filling CinemaScope, but the main hook was the sexual rapport between the 39-year-old Douglas and the 20 year-old Elsa Martinelli, a native of Tuscany and a fashion model, playing a willing Sioux squaw.

Douglas was a legendary hound, of course, and given the fact that (a) he hired Martinelli after seeing her photo on a European magazine cover, and (b) his company, Bryna Productions, produced The Indian Fighter, you can guess what happened off-screen.

12.22.55 N.Y. Times review excerpt: “Douglas’s Johnny Hawks, a free soul, thinks nothing of detouring a wagon train he is leading towards Oregon in order to keep a nocturnal tryst with the chief’s comely daughter; and only one reel before he nearly had succumbed to the blandishments of an equally beauteous widow.

“It must be noted of course, that the script by Ben Hecht and Frank Davis has a fair sense of humor, and that the forests and mountains of Oregon, where this fiction was filmed, are sweeping and picturesque in color and CinemaScope.

“In the brunette Elsa Martinelli, who plays the Indian lass with a minimum of words and a maximum of feline grace, Mr. Douglas has come up with a pretty photogenic newcomer.

“Eduard Franz as Chief Red Cloud, Walter Matthau and Lon Chaney as the bad men of this escapade, Diana Douglas as the marriage-minded widow and cavalry officer Walter Abel do not contribute spectacular performances.

“But Mr. Douglas’ characterization is properly muscular. As a hard though not faultless gent, he sits a horse well, looks great in buckskins and sometimes gives the impression that he could take over a pioneer’s chores. Mr. Douglas has not blazed a cinema trail with The Indian Fighter, but he has come up with a sturdy entertainment that should please the action fans.”

But what would Ken Burns say?

I haven’t posted about David Jones‘ Betrayal (’83) for several years. The below YouTube version is relatively decent in quality — absolutely worth a watch. Hasn’t been mastered for HD, HD-streamed or Blurayed. YouTube is the only way to watch it.

I first saw the original New York production sometime in January 1980 at the Trafalgar Theatre. It ran for 170 performances before closing on 5.31.80. The late Raul Julia starred as Jerry (Jeremy Irons), Blythe Danner as Emma (Patricia Hodge) and Roy Scheider as Robert (Ben Kinglsey‘s role).

Posted on 6.12.16: Never rat another guy out when it comes to women. To put it more formally, one of the most paramount ethical codes between adult males is that you can never spill the beans on a friend or acquaintance if his girlfriend or wife asks you to reveal the truth about whatever (i.e., usually his deep-down feelings or some past behavior that has come under question).

Determining the factual or emotional truth of things is something that only a couple can sort out for themselves. It’s not yours to get involved. If a guy is lying to his girlfriend or wife about some indiscretion or affair or saying anything out of earshot that might get him in trouble, it’s none of your damn business and you’re obliged to say nothing. Omerta.

The truth will out sooner or later, but even if it doesn’t guys are absolutely honor–bound to protect each other. I’ve never run into a single fellow in my life who would even think of questioning this.

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Can anyone improve upon the generic capsule synopsis of the forthcoming Alejandro G. Innarritu / Tom Cruise film?

Chat GPT: “The untitled Alejandro G. Inarritu film starring Tom Cruise is a dark, psychological comedy-thriller about the world’s most powerful man (Cruise) who inadvertently causes a global catastrophe, and then races to convince humanity he’s some kind of savior before everything collapses. Pic costars Riz Ahmed, John Goodman, Michael Stuhlbarg, Jesse Plemons, Sophie Wilde, Kenton Craig, Emma D’Arcy and Sandra Hüller.

It opens on 10.2.26. Cannes is unlikely. Venice Film Festival or Telluride, or both?

A black comedy as in a Stranglove-ian comedy?

HE to Inarritu: Don’t futz around on the title. Too much delay will create a weird vibe. Bite the bullet and decide.

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Except for that ridiculous bit in which Chase Infiniti is threatening to shoot Leonardo DiCaprio, her DAD, unless he knows the correct French 75 pass phrase. Her DAD is pleading “let’s go home, baby” and she’s ready to drill him? Total fucking lunacy.

4:40 mark:

No offense but the 1972 Robert Redford (35 or 36) was much better looking than the 2025 Joel Edgerton (51 as of late June), so there’s that also. It’s always more involving, not to mention more pleasant, to watch a good-looking actor cope with grueling physical hardship and the relentlessly brutal terms of outdoor, hand-to-mouth survival than to watch a not-as-good-looking guy do the same.

I’m sorry but life is unfair. Always has been, always will be.

Plus there’s no scene in Train Dreams that delivers the eerie, take-it-or-leave-it finality of Redford reading Hatchet Jack‘s farewell letter.

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News bulletin: HE’s Bobby Peru was wrong when, based on research, he stated on 5.24.25 that the Sentimental value house is known as Villa Filipstad, “a notable building in the neighborhood Filipstad in Oslo, Norway…located at Munkedamsveien 62”) …brrraaannnggg!

In fact the home is located at Thomas Heftyes gate 25 in Oslo’s hilly Frogner neighborhood. Western region, blue chip, nice view of the city.

From Margaret Talbot‘s “Joachim Trier Has Put Oslo on the Cinematic Map,” The New Yorker, 11.3.25:

“If you walk through the elegant neighborhood of Frogner, in Oslo, you may notice a house that doesn’t fit in with the understated apartment buildings and embassies nearby. It’s not that the house is ugly or run-down. Rather, it evokes a cottage from a fairy tale. Clad in dark wood with a steeply gabled roof, it has squiggles of cherry-red trim, like decorations on a birthday cake. Norwegians call such architecture dragestil, or ‘dragon style,’ a late-nineteenth-century aesthetic recalling Viking ships and wooden-stave churches.

“To Joachim Trier, the Norwegian director whose new film, Sentimental Value, is partially set at this address, the house is ‘a bit like Pippi Longstocking’s. There’s a feeling of something wild and soulful in the middle of something more mannered and polite.'”

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Here’s a re-boot of HE’s “Almost Famous Scene That Never Happened“, which initially posted on 5.3.19:

Almost Famous, Cameron Crowe‘s finest and most personal film, opened 25 years ago. I remain a huge fan, especially of the 162-minute director’s cut “bootleg” version that came out on Bluray in 2011.

Crowe’s initial theatrical version ran 122 minutes, in part because Dreamworks producer Walter Parkes kept insisting on “shorter, shorter, shorter.” It felt a bit constricted, didn’t really breathe. The 162-minute Bluray is the definitive version.

During production I got hold of a 1998 copy of Crowe’s script. It was 168 pages long, and I fell in love with it straight off. Almost all of it was shot and most of it became part of the final cut. Unfortunately my favorite scene (which is posted after the jump) wasn’t shot or was shot and never used.

Almost Famous is a largely autobiographical saga about a teenaged, San Diego-residing Crowe stand-in (called William Miller in the script and played by Patrick Fugit) landing a Rolling Stone assignment to profile an up-and-coming band called Stillwater, which had a star performer called Russell Hammond (Billy Crudup).

William hangs out with the band, gets into all kinds of wild-ass adventures, gets to know the Stillwater groupies and so on. After a false start he eventually turns in an honestly written article to Rolling Stone.

Russell and the band members are alarmed when the fact-checker calls. Fearful of being portrayed as insecure dipshits, they lie by insisting that Miller’s account is fiction. The article is killed, and William returns home in a state of defeat and total exhaustion.

The final graph of the Wiki synopsis: “Russell feels guilty for betraying William. He calls Penny Lane (Kate Hudson) and wants to meet with her, but she tricks him by giving him William’s address. He arrives and finds himself face-to-face with William’s mother (Frances McDormand), who scolds him for his behavior. Russell apologizes to William and finally gives him an interview.

Russell, we learn, has verified William’s article to Rolling Stone, which runs it as a cover feature. Penny fulfills her long-standing fantasy to go to Morocco. Stillwater again tours only by bus.”

The scene that I loved so much shows a guilt-stricken Russell visiting the offices of Rolling Stone and admitting to Jann Wenner, Ben Fong Torres and David Felton that William’s article is an honest account. I’ve had this script in a file cabinet for 20 years, and this is the first time I’ve posted these now-yellowed pages:

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Five months ago in Cannes I experienced my first (and so far only) spiritual levitation by way of Joachim Trier‘s Sentimental Value (Neon, 11.7). And now, at long last, it’s finally starting to percolate stateside.

Value screened last weekend to an adoring crowd at the Hamptons Film Festival, and is currently press-screening in Manhattan prior to the early November debut, which is only 24 days off.

It’s a guaranteed Best Picture Oscar nominee; ditto Renate Reinsve and Skellan Skarsgard for Best Actress and Best Supporting Actor, respectively. We all understand that Hamnet is the Oscar frontrunner as we speak, but don’t sell Value short.

Posted on 5.21.25: I saw Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value last night at 10:30 pm, exiting around 12:40 am. I was afraid it might not live up to expectations, but no worries — I began to feel not only stirred and satisfied but deeply moved and delighted by the half-hour mark, and then it just got better and better.

For my money this is surely the Palme d’Or winner. I wanted to see it again this morning at 8:30 am. Yes, it’s that good, that affecting, that headstrong and explorational. A 15-minute-long standing ovation at the Grand Lumiere, and all the snippy, snooty Cannes critics are jumping onboard.

But what matters, finally, is what HE thinks and feel deep down, and that, basically, is “yes, yes…this is what excellent, emotionally riveting family dramas do…especially with brilliant actors like Renata Reinsve (truly amazing…she really kills) and Stellan Skarsgård, Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas and Elle Fanning topping the ensemble cast.”

But I was really too whipped to tap anything out when I returned to the pad at 1:15 am. I managed a grand total of 4.5 hours of sleep, and am now at a Salles Bunuel screening of Eugene Jarecki‘s The Six Billion Dollar Man…beginning in a few.

Sentimental Value (why do I keep calling it Sentimental Gesture in my head?) is a complex, expertly jiggered, beautifully acted Ingmar Bergman-esque family drama that feels at times like Woody Allen‘s Hannah and Her Sisters but with less comic snap…it’s more of a fundamentally anxious, sad, sometimes very dark but humanist dramedy (a flicking comic edge, a Netflix putdown or two).

It’s a film that’s completely receptive and open to all the unsettled cross-current stuff that defines any shattered, high-achieving family, and this one in particular.

Emotional uncertainty and relationship upheavals are in plentiful supply.

Set in Oslo, it’s basically about an estranged relationship between Skarsgard’s Gustav Berg, a blunt-spoken, film-director father who hates watching plays, and his two adult daughters — Reinsve’s Nora Berg, a prominent stage and TV actress who’s a bundle of nerves, anxiety and looming depression, and Lilleaas’s Agnes, Nora’s younger sister who’s not in “the business.”

Gustav’s career has been slumping but now he’s returning to filmmaking with a purportedly excellent script that’s partly based on his mother’s life (although he denies this), and he wants Nora to star in it. She refuses over communication and trust issues, and so Gustav hires Fanning’s Rachel Kemp, a big-time American actress, to play Nora’s role.

I could sense right away that Kemp would eventually drop out and that Nora would overcome her anger and step into the role at the last minute. And I knew the film would explore every angle and crevasse before this happens.
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Value really digs down and goes to town within a super-attuned family dynamic…steadfast love, familial warmth, sudden tears, extra-marital intrigue, stage fright, film industry satire, thoughts of suicide…nothing in the way of soothing or settled-down comfort until the very end, and even then…but it’s wonderful.