The only way to stop the Supreme Court confirmation process, at least until after the election and perhaps into January or beyond the 1.20.21 inauguration, is for the Democrat-controlled House of Representatives to initiate impeachment proceedings against Attorney General William Barr, which would have been warranted anyway. Seriously — what other blocking option is there? Re-impeach Trump?
Last night’s open-air screening of Kiss The Ground happened on an upper-level parking lot behind West Hollywood’s Andaz Hotel. It was Hollywood Elsewhere’s first invitational Hollywood screening in six and a half months, and quite the emotional thing. It felt a bit awkward at first, but we all got used to it and loosened up. Thanks to the Allison Jackson Company and 42West (AnnaLee Paolo, Susan Ciccone), who co-hosted. Technical issues abounded but it was all cool. The FM radio band playing the soundtrack kept switching back and forth between 97.7 and 98something. The parking lot power went out twice. The focus and light levels were fine but the aspect ratio was wrong (it should have been 1.85 but they showed a horizontally squeezed 1.37 image.). And then our car battery, drained by listening to the radio without the engine on, began to flash a power warning. I called AAA and 20 minutes later a guy gave us a jump. But it was all good. Awesome to be with people again in a social setting.
Beloved Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg is gone, and with her any chance of at least a semblance of moderate temperance on the court. I was praying so hard that she would hold on for another five months or so, or until Joe Biden‘s hoped-for inauguration on 1.20.21 along with a distinct possibility that the balance of Congressional power in the Senate might tip in favor of sensible liberal allegiance.
Ginsburg’s death means that another Trump stooge will almost certainly fill her seat. With Ginsburg on the Supreme Court, the bench was split between four liberals (herself, Stephen Breyer, Sonia Sotomayor and Elena Kagan), four rabid conservatives (Clarence Thomas, Samuel Alito, Neil Gorsuch and Brett Kavanaugh), and the occasionally sensible if right-leaning, Citizen’s United-supporting Chief Justice John Roberts.
Now the Supreme Court will be six-to-three in favor of conservatives. The ballgame is more or less officially over for many years to come with three Trump friendlies on the bench.
Vox: “Justice Ginsburg died believing that Trump is an ‘aberration.’ Her death ensures that he won’t be.”
Then came Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell‘s refusal to allow confirmation hearings on Obama nominee Merrick Garland in 2016.
Judicially speaking the rights of the Democratic majority in this country and particularly women, anti-corporatists and people of color are now going to be under severe strain for the next 10 to 15 years, at least. The pooch is really screwed.
It’s very disappointing to read that Van Morrison, 75, is some kind of anti-masker, or at least that he believes that Covid health advisories and restrictions in England constitute a form of Orwellian, anti-freedom oppression.
A statement on his website says Morrison will soon release three protest songs — “Born To Be Free”, “As I Walked Out”, “No More Lockdown” — “that question the measures the government has put in place”, and make it clear “how unhappy he is with the way the government has taken away personal freedoms.”
Morrison: “I’m not telling people what to do or think. The government is doing a great job of that already. It’s about freedom of choice. I believe people should have the right to think for themselves.”
Some people turn cranky and obstinate when they get older, and sometimes even unreasonable.
I learned a long, long time ago that genius-level artists and performers are not necessarily sensible or well-behaved people. The art that channels though a person is one thing, but their personal behavior or political philosophy is another. In some cases it’s not entirely their fault as people have been giving them a pass for decades, and after a while they get used to not being called on their bullshit. I wouldn’t say that I’ve come to expect famous, world-class creatives to act or think in disappointing ways as they’re 97% cool, but if something weird pops through I’m ready to shrug and let it go. These days you’re not allowed to say that “art gods get a special pass” but my tendency is to cut them a break unless they behave in a deliberately cruel or sadistic manner.
Twitter epitaph: “There are two kinds of people. Those who like Van Morrison and those who’ve met him.”
In other words, with certain artists it’s better to enjoy their work and let it go at that.
Today’s big story is about Madonna inking a deal with Universal to direct a biopic about herself, based on a script co-written by herself and Diablo Cody. Matt Donnelly‘s Variety story says the untiled pic will evolve under the wing of Uni’s filmed entertainment chairperson Donna Langley and producer Amy Pascal, whose shingle is set up on the lot. No casting announcements or production timeline.
This is the first time in history that any big-name talent has announced such an intention. And of course, the idea invites skepticism. Intriguing biopics have to about more than just “this happened and that happened,” and what hope is there, honestly, that Madonna, who’s directed two features, will be interested in conveying some kind of warts-and-all saga about who she is or was deep down? An approach, in short, that might push the usual biopic boundaries.
Official Madonna statement: “I want to convey the incredible journey that life has taken me on as an artist, a musician, a dancer…a human being trying to make her way in this world. The focus of this film will always be music. Music has kept me going and art has kept me alive. There are so many untold and inspiring stories and who better to tell it than me? It’s essential to share the roller-coaster ride of my life with my voice and vision.”
Madonna and producer-mixer Jellybean Benitez, sometime around the release of her 1983 debut album.
Three or four years ago Madonna made it clear that she was no fan of Elyse Hollander‘s Blonde Ambition, a top-rated Black List script about her struggle to find success as a pop singer in early ’80s Manhattan. I became an instant fan of this script, and declared in a 12.16.16 piece that “it’s going to be a good, hard-knocks industry drama when it gets made — basically a blend of a scrappy singing Evita mixed with A Star Is Born.”
At the very least Madonna and Cody should re-read Blonde Ambition and borrow as much as they legally can from it. Or, better yet, hire Hollander to come aboard as a co-writer.
Blonde Ambition “is a flinty, unsentimental empowerment saga about a tough cookie who took no prisoners and was always out for #1,” I wrote. “No hearts and flowers for this mama-san.
“A Star Is Born‘s logline was basically ‘big star with a drinking problem falls for younger ingenue, she rises as he falls and finally commits suicide, leaving her with a broken heart.’ Blonde Ambition is about a hungry, super-driven New York pop singer who, like Evita Peron (whom Madonna portrayed in ’96), climbs to the top by forming alliances with this and that guy who helps her in some crucial way, and then moves on to the next partner or benefactor, but at no point in the journey is she fighting for anything other than her own success, and is no sentimentalist or sweetheart.
Alternate: Our very own hungry, hustling, hard-charging singer, living on tips and dimes in NYC in ’81 and ’82, finally gets a leg-up when she cuts a deal with (and then falls in love with) Jellybean Benitez, who remixes her initially troubled debut album (which contained “Borderline” and “Lucky Star”) and makes it into a hit…but like with a previous boyfriend, bandmate DanGilroy, she eventually pushes Jellybean aside in favor of a new producer for her second album, Like A Virgin (’84). So Jellybean is the Vickie Lester of this tale, his heart broken at the end by a woman he loved but who finally loved only herself.
I never got around to watching Luca Guadagnino‘s We Are Who We Are until yesterday, which is when the debut episode began streaming on HBO. So that’s all I’ve seen of this eight-episode series — installment #1. (It’s embedded after the jump.)
Set in 2016, it’s a dive into here-and-now teenage alienation — an awkward-adolescence, coming-of-age, trying-to-figure-it-out thing about a 14 year-old kid (Jack Dylan Grazer, who just turned 17 in real life) with the worst taste in clothing…I have to stop myself right here. I don’t want to make this piece about my own sartorial preferences past or present, but if I was 14 today I would rather stab myself with a steak knife than wear an unsubtle, over-sized T-shirt with the ugliest pair of baggy, leopard-skin shorts ever manufactured in human history. Not to mention a pair of unappealing red sneakers…okay, I’ll give that part of the ensemble a pass.
We Are Who We Are is set on a U.S. military base near Venice, Italy, and it concerns the initially agonizing struggle of Grazer’s character, Fraser Wilson, to acclimate after flying in from New York to live with his mom, an Army colonel named Sarah (Chloe Sevigny), and her wife, Maggie (Alice Braga), who also wears a uniform. Fraser is gay but not “out,” or so it appears. (There’s an eye-rolling moment when he happens to step into a barracks and catch sight of a few Army guys taking a shower, and he just stares.) All kinds of new relationships, assessments and misadventures await the poor guy, the most prominent being Jordan Kristine Seamon‘s Caitlin, a long-haired, African-American beauty who appears to be more or less straight but you never know.
I didn’t initially care all that much for Frazer or the general vibe, to be honest, but then it began to gradually pull me in. Guadagnino, whose A Bigger Splash and especially Call Me By Your Name established him as a maestro of sun-kissed Italian sensuality and a certain instinctual, improvisational, come-what-may attitude about life’s possibilities, really gets into Fraser’s impressions and moods and whatnot, and even though he’s another typically inarticulate kid who lives deep in his head and inside whatever tunes he happens to be listening to, there’s something about the nowness, aliveness, alone-ness and scattered whatever-ness in the atmosphere of this thing that turns a certain key.
We Are Who We Are is breathing fresh air, up to something else and, to me at least, offering a new kind of stimulant.
Fraser seems so dorky, so emotionally stunted and scowling. He’s 14 but behaves more like an angry eight year old with a taller, lankier frame. I guess I’ll eventually get used to him. Interesting eyes but so fucking clueless and closed off. Yes, of course — so was I at that age. The difference is that I kept most of my anxiety bottled up inside, at least in the presence of elders and to some extent with my peers. I half-confided in a couple of friends, I suppose, although I probably wasn’t articulate enough at the time to even share my truest thoughts with myself. But at least I didn’t commit any clothing crimes.
A filmmaker friend who knows the series top to bottom assures me that “you’ll end up loving Fraser — he’s an angel of vengeance against the current.”
I don’t know what else to say except that the first episode has convinced me to see the series through to the end.
As a Santa Monica College film student, Tatiana is taking a Coen Bros. appreciation course. She’s in the midst of watching a long list of their films for preparation, and I’ve watched two or three with her. Unfortunately this immersion has reminded me of some aspects of their films that I don’t like all that much any more. Certain strategies or indulgences that I found captivating or delightful 20 or 30-plus years ago have lost some of their intrigue.
For the most part Blood Simple (’84) has lost none of its deliciously manipulative, film-nerd brilliance. The dying M. Emmet Walsh (as the sleazy gumshoe) looking up at that tiny glob of sink water and waiting with a mixture of apprehension and panic for it to drop onto his face is one of my all-time favorite closing sequences. Brilliant! But I also found myself irritated by the none-too-bright behavior of John Getz‘s “Ray” and especially his unquestioned and unexplored assumption that Frances McDormand‘s “Abby” killed her husband (Dan Hedaya‘s “Marty”), and his decision to make sure Marty is dead and then bury his body. I’ll accept a certain amount of stupidity on the part of a central character, but when he/she crosses the line I’m out.
I found myself doubling down on my hate for Raising Arizona (’87). I wrote last March about a friend slipping me a draft of the script in early ’86, before they began filming. I loved the dark humor, the flirting with absurdity, the Preston Sturges-like tone. But I was envisioning a film that would work against all that with a tone of low-key naturalism.
When I saw the finished film I was horrified. It was pushed way too hard — too pedal-to-the-metal. And I hated, hated, HATED John Goodman‘s Gale and William Forsythe‘s Evelle.” Simon Pegg once described Raising Arizona as “a living, breathing Looney Tunes cartoon” — that’s precisely what I hated about it.”
Then we watched Barton Fink (’91), which I hadn’t seen since…I forget but sometime in the mid to late ’90s. My first reaction was that the various horrors experienced by John Turturro‘s impossibly pretentious screenwriter (based, I’ve always assumed, on Clifford Odets) are a metaphor for a terrible case of writer’s block and the feeling of suppressed panic that takes over when you’re unable to make an idea or some kind of writing challenge “work” — to put it down on the page in a way that feels right and true and perhaps even profound. Hell, the inability to write anything along these lines and the self-doubt that creeps into your system the longer the blockage lasts.
This time I was filled with more and more irritation for Fink’s general arrogance and stupidity — his obstinate mindset, his inability (i.e., the Coen’s refusal) to share his thoughts, the refusal to watch a few Wallace Beery films or peruse some scripts for research, his inability to at least type out a few random ideas or at least write stuff on napkins. Once I succumbed to this negativity I started focusing on his ridiculous Eraserhead haircut, and the way his bare feet looked and the awful cut of his thick tweed suit and the fact that he travelled all the way from New York to California with some kind of overnight suitcase with room for maybe a shirt or two, a couple of boxer shorts and a couple pairs of socks but that’s all.
Culturally and landmark-wise, the eye-catchy, partly neon sign at Astro Burgers (7475 Santa Monica Blvd., West Hollywood, NE corner of Gardner and S.M. Blvd.) is one of my favorite spots in this town. Because it conveys an old-time feeling of 1950s and ’60s kitsch, and Lord knows there’s damn little of that left. As I said a couple of weeks ago, it would be that much cooler if they re-named the place Mojo Burger. I’m sorry but Mojo kicks Astro’s ass.
The only wrinkle is that the joint is less than…actually I’m not sure how old it is. 35 or 40 years? Less? An Astro Burger opened at 5601 Melrose in ’74, but who knows when the WeHo site launched? The original Astro Burger, a Greek-style operation (“Cheeesburger! Cheeseburger!), was launched in Salt Lake City in ’82 by John and Soula Lyhnakis. I’m not really sure if the WeHo outlet is contractually descended from the Utah operation. The website says that John and Soula’s three sons, Vasili, George and Michael, grew up in the business and helped their parents open two more stores, one in South Jordan in 2002 and another in Draper in 2006. For all I know Roger Durling (aka “Nick the Greek”) owns the WeHo branch.
Astro Burger is the only WeHo place where you can get a decent-tasting hot dog. (Pink’s is technically not in West Hollywood.) Or at least the only one I know about.
Imagine being at last night’s Rose Bowl drive-in screening of Nomadland. Imagine all the usual distractions — small-looking screen if you were parked in the middle section, not-bright-enough image, people roaming around, ambient sounds.
Now add a guy parked in front of you who decided to watch the film with his air-conditioning on, which of course meant keeping his engine on for two hours straight and thereby bothering nearby viewers with (a) his bright red parking lights (i.e., the drive-in equivalent of twitter-surfing during a theatrical screening) and also (b) the gentle spewing of exhaust. Thanks, homey! The temperature was around 70 so no real need for a.c. Alas, some people want what they want when they want it.
I heard William S. Burroughs say “some people are shits” during a Madison Square Garden appearance about 40 years ago. It always stayed with me.
Chloe Zhao‘s Nomadland is a moody, mesmerizing bulls-eye — a 21st Century Grapes of Wrath minus the simmering anger of Tom Joad and the villainy of random predators. Like John Ford and John Steinbeck‘s 1940 classic, Zhao’s film is pure Americana, set against a backdrop of brusque fate and heartless capitalism, shaded with angst and no shortage of adversity and yet sustained by a certain persistence of spirit, both in front of and behind the camera.
It’s a masterful, painterly portrayal of the American dispossessed, and a fascinating, character-rich study of a roaming vagabond and a constantly evolving community of weathered, mostly retirement-age homeless victims of a cruel economy (it’s set in the wake of the ’09 recession).
I respected Zhao’s previous film, The Rider, which, like Nomadland, is about a sympathetic character who’s stuck in a tough situation with no apparent way out. But I didn’t love it for the rigid scheme and an ending that was mostly about resignation.
Nomadland is on another level. Within five minutes I knew it was a much better, more ambitious film — quietly somber and yet grander in scope, gentler, sadder.
A Best Actress nomination is absolutely locked and loaded for Frances McDormand and her performance as Fern, a sturdy 60something, widowed and close to broke and living out of a van and with no interest in settling. She’s an iron-willed survivor coping with extreme vulnerability; amiable and attentive and yet closed off or at least resistant to emotional attentions on a certain level, self-described as “house-less” as opposed to homeless, moving from job to job, camp to camp, parking lot to parking lot. Inscrutable and yet scrutable.
Nomadland, trust me, is going to be Best Picture nominated. Obviously. Zhao will be Best Director nominated. Joshua James Richard‘s magic-hour cinematography will also lasso a nom. But not, I’m told, Ludovico Einaudi‘s haunting piano score, because it wasn’t composed for the film.
A friend told me that Nomadland, which he felt had shortchanged him due to a lack of some of the usual usuals (carefully-plotted story, second-act pivot, decisive ending), would’ve been better as a half-hour short. I strongly disagree due to the incontestable fact that it grows and deepens and adds more detail with each and every scene. It’s a portrait piece.
By the end you’re left with a full understanding of an industrious but somewhat closed-off woman who doesn’t want to invest in anything but her own discipline, and is curiously resistant to any overtures that verge on the intimate. She can only live in the unstable now, in her own hard but not quite miserable life.
Thank fortune for Fern as well as the audience that Nomadland is full of humanist grace notes…charity, kindness, confessions, helping hands.
Shot in 2.39:1 (which none of the critics so far have even mentioned), it’s all character and atmosphere and mood — “tone poem” is the most favored term thus far. The enhancements are, in this order, (a) McDormand McDormand McDormand, (b) a winning supporting turn by David Straitharn as a kindly, would-be romantic partner, (c) a steady supply of brief turns by real homeless folk, (c) the painterly images…gently dusky and soft and glowing, (d) Zhao’s crisp, urgent editing and especially (e) Einaudi’s score, which pulls you in you right away and captures exactly the right meditative tone.
Ammonite star Kate Winslet to Vanity Fair‘s Julie Miller: “It’s like, what the fuck was I doing working with Woody Allen and Roman Polanski? It’s unbelievable to me now how those men were held in such high regard, so widely in the film industry and for as long as they were. It’s fucking disgraceful.
“And I have to take responsibility for the fact that I worked with them both. I can’t turn back the clock. I’m grappling with those regrets but what do we have if we aren’t able to just be fucking truthful about all of it?”
In other words, having worked with Polanski in 201l’s Carnage, which was shot a year after Polanski’s controversial 2009 arrest in Switzerland in concert with a U.S. extradition attempt (or roughly a decade ago), Winslet has suddenly decided that this wasn’t cool, apparently because making Ammonite has strengthened her #MeToo convictions.
Obviously a little Johnny-come-lately but okay, that’s how she feels.
But to equate Polanski and Woody Allen in terms of alleged crimes and offenses isjust forehead-slapping ignorant. Moreover, it was derelict of Miller not to ask Winslet about the mountains of evidence, indications and public statements that indicate Allen is completely innocent.
I’m so tired of having to refute kneejerk anti-Woody slander by obstinate or under-informed persons, but here, for what feels like the 28th or 29th time, is what any reasonable person would regard as the irrefutable truth of things:
(1) There is no evidence to support Dylan Farrow’s claim. But there’s a fair amount of evidence and ample indication that Mia Farrow, enraged by Woody’s romance with Soon-Yi Previn, made it all up to “get” Woody during an early ’90s custody battle, and as part of this determination coached Dylan to make the claims that she did. I happen to personally believe this scenario. There’s simply no rational, even-handed way to side with the “I believe Dylan Farrow” camp.
(4) “In developing our opinion we considered three hypotheses to explain Dylan’s statements. First, that Dylan’s statements were true and that Mr. Allen had sexually abused her; second, that Dylan’s statements were not true but were made up by an emotionally vulnerable child who was caught up in a disturbed family and who was responding to the stresses in the family; and third, that Dylan was coached or influenced by her mother, Ms. Farrow. While we can conclude that Dylan was not sexually abused, we can not be definite about whether the second formulation by itself or the third formulation by itself is true. We believe that it is more likely that a combination of these two formulations best explains Dylan’s allegations of sexual abuse.”
The great Diana Rigg has passed from cancer at age 82. She lived a radiantly full life and enjoyed a long, vibrant career (her first professional gig happened in 1957 at age 19, performing in the RADA production of Bertolt Brecht‘s The Caucasian Chalk Circle), and I felt a genuinely poignant pang when I learned of her death this morning.
I understand that I’m obliged to celebrate (a) her Emma Peel role in The Avengers, (b) her wife-of-James-Bond turn in In Her Majesty’s Secret Service (’69) and (c) her ongoing performance as Olenna Tyrell in Game of Thrones. But for me Rigg’s sincere but sardonic performance as Barbara Drummond in Arthur Hiller and Paddy Chayefsky‘s The Hospital (’71) was her absolute finest moment.
The fact that Rigg was a pack-a-day smoker for 53 years straight (1956 until 2009) probably had something to do with her passing, but then again that was her choice. Quality over quantity, she probably felt. How anyone could believe that inhaling foul cigarette smoke for decades on end constitutes quality is beyond me.
Madonna and producer-mixer Jellybean Benitez, sometime around the release of her 
