New York‘s Herb Scribnerreported the story today. The things that jilted ex-lovers will do to keep things going. Nuzzi’s lawsuit is unproven but would Nuzzi have filed it if she didn’t have the proof horses that affirm her argument and then some?
…in a family relationship film, co-written by DDL and his twentysomething, red-haired son Ronan Day-Lewis and directed by the latter. But dear God, the title of the film is so precious-sounding, so dandified, so high-falutin’and Charlie Kaufman-esque (remember Anomalisa?) that it will probably repel or elude 97% of potential moviegoers or streaming viewers out there….trust me.
It’s called Anemone, and while the word signifies a kind of flower, to most people it will probably sound like an exotic disease.
Don’t get me wrong — I’m delighted that DDL is back on the stick. I’ll probably watch Pheromone…sorry, Anemone at least two or three times theatrically. I love pretentious-sounding titles and the movies they adorn, seriously, and I’m literally humming with excitement about this one. Even though we all understand that this is purely DDL’s gesture of love and support for Ronan, which makes you wonder how good the script is.
There’s been a slight press dispute about the title. It’s almost certainly called Anemone (according to Variety and other outlets) but if you’re inclined to believe Daily Mail reporter Amelia Wynne, it may instead be called Avelyn.
If you ask me the Day-Lewis clan probably wants the Anemone title to repel or elude or at least sightly confuse. It’s their way of saying “we’re too sensitive and attuned to the invisible, spiritual beauty of life to use a schlubby common-man hot dog title, and if you don’t like our decision….well, sorry.”
There would be more interest in this film among the schmoes, trust me, if Anemone was called Flapdoodle or Manchester Soup or Sod Off, Dad! or Advanced Toenail Fungus.
Either way DDL, 67, is back in business after retiring from acting in 2017, when he turned 60.
DDL’s Anemone costars are Sean Bean, Samantha Morton, Samuel Bottomley and Safia Oakley-Green.
9:05 pm: Bad camera decisions…we missed the walk-ons, the handshakes…Walz’s forceful reply on Israel-Iran is used to lob grenades at Vance. Vance replies with a generic, this-is-who-I-am stump speech, which then segues into an attack on Biden’s foreign policy.
Vance: “Donald Trump consistently made the world more secure”…WHAT? Walz furiously scribbling notes. Love that deep, raspy voice. Vance is lying and misrepresenting, but he’s younger, taller and thinner than Walz & his delivery is cool and measured. He’s doing okay. Walz is also doing well. Frank-sounding, lots of statistics, forthright delivery. And then right back to his notes.
9:17 pm: How many solar panels are being made in China, and how many here in the U.S.? Southern border immigration, “stop the bleeding”, fentanyl smuggling.
Walz: Trump torpedoed a Mexican immigrant bill “because he wanted a campaign issue to run on.” A verbal scuffle between Vance and moderators….Vance won’t stop yapping it up while the moderators are trying to adhere to structure and procedure.
Vance is really running for himself as a 2028 MAGA candidate — he knows Trump won’t be running in ’28, and he’s better at this than Trump ever has been or will be.
Frank Luntz focus group: Walz and Vance are better at digging into the issues than Harris and Trump were. Vance is a bigger liar — Walz is less combative than he could be. He’s a straight shooter, but he’s too decent of a guy to go in for the kill.
9:35 pm: Walz’s defense of Biden-Harris’s economic record is fast, vigorous and factual. Walz is reviewing his career. Travelling to China 35 years ago, but he “misspoke” about the timing of the visit. “I’ve learned a lot about China…now look, my community knows who I am…I’ve not been perfect but my commitment has been there from the beginning.”
9:45 pm: Vice-presidents don’t make policy. The vice-presidency “isn’t worth a warm bucket of spit,” as John Nance Garner once said. Vice-presidents are ceremonial figureheads. They control nothing — strictly backup.
Walz is recounting the story of the late Amber Thurman, who died due to a slowup of procedure due to the absence of Roe vs. Wade regulations.
My head is spinning. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat….ratta-ratta-ratta. I can’t keep up with all the point-counterpoint…whew. But these guys are evenly matched. Nobody’s losing or winning.
10 pm: Should parents be held responsible for school shootings? The easy availability of automatic weaponry is obviously at the root of this.
Walz: My 17 year-old son witnessed something violent close by. In Minnesota we enacted “red flag laws, backup checks.” Finland doesn’t allow these horrible things to happen. We can keep our weapons and still make this work. Sometimes it’s just the [availabilty of] guns. Death from at-home suicides. Kids getting guns and accidentally shooting themselves.
Vance is making an excellent case that despite his lies and evasions, he’s a better, more issue-oriented and mature-minded debater than Donald Trump.
Walz: Kamala Harris will stand by Obamacare (i.e., the ACA) and you will not suffer if stricken by a disese because of the pre-existing conditions clause.
Tim Walz is a smart, decent, honorable fellow, but J.D. Vance is a taller, smoother operator with a nicely trimmed goatee. They’ve both indicated that they respect each other. Hell, they almost even like each other. Nobody’s doing any bitch-slapping.
I think the debate was a draw. Walz closed strongly, especially when discussing he Affordable Care Act and the criminal chaos of Jan. 6th. Vance did a little bit better, I think, during the first half-hour. Vance’s lying aside and attempts to sane-wash the crazy, it was a reasonable discussion for the most part. I don’t think it changes the Presidential race at all.
Thanks to a confederacy of corrupt, clueless slowboats in India, Payal Kapadia‘s All We Imagine As Light is out of the Best Int’l Feature Oscar race. It therefore deserves and must receive a push for a Best Picture Oscar nom.
People need to see this masterful film and come to an obvious realization. Yesterday the Indian film industry — technically the Film Federation of India (FFI) — not only dropped the ball but embarrassed itself. They look like whores, fools. The U.S. film industry needs to correct this. Seriously. Kapadia’s film is too good to be shunted aside.
Posted from Cannes on 5.24.24: “My head is spinning from last night’s surprisingly moving and undeniably artful All We Imagine As Light, a feminism-meets-impoverished-social-realism drama from Payal Kapadia, a 38 year-old, Mumbai-born, obviously gifted auteur.
Shot in Mumbai with a third-act escape to a beach resort, All We Imagine As Light is all about subtle hints, moods, observations and milieu. I knew within 60 seconds that it would deliver profoundly straight cards in this regard — one of the seven or eight humdingers of the festival.
It’s a quiet, soft-spoken, women-centric film but without any current of vengeance or payback or “look at what pathetic fools men are”…there are hints of militant #MeTooism but little in the way of thrust.
What got me was the observationalsimplicity and restraint. I was deeply impressed with what can be fairly described as a reach-back to low-key Indian social realism, which is anything but the flamboyant Indian genre known as masala and regarded in some circles (I’m a little fuzzy about this term) as Dacoit cinema, which flourished in the mid 20th Century.
All We Imagine As Light, a title that’s very difficult to remember, focuses on three struggling women of varied ages who work in a second-tier Mumbai hospital (Kani Kusruti‘s 30something Prabha, Divya Prabha‘s younger Anu, Chhaya Kadam‘s 40something Parvaty).
There are only two noteworthy supporting males (a timidly amorous doctor and a bearded man recovering from having nearly drowned) — both are passive and of relatively little consequence.
The three women are all living in the massive, overflowing, sea-of-ants sprawl of Mumbai, and the tone is basically one of resignation and frustration or, if you will, “we’re all unhappy but social codes are very strict and so we believe in staying in our lanes…restraint and decorum…but we’re going a bit crazy underneath.”
And you can tell from the get-go that Kapadia knows what she’s doing. Her film is solemn, visually plain, matter-of-fact, unsentimental — the work of a formidable, singular filmmaker who knows herself and isn’t into showing off. This is a truly masterful arthouse flick.
Last night I finally went to see Matt Walsh‘s Am I Racist?
Walsh’s low-key manner, gravelly-gurgly voice and logical trains of thought make for an engaging package. And the film certainly comes to the right conclusions, of course — since ’19 or thereabouts and certainly since the George Floyd summer of 2020 many of us (wealthy liberal women in particular) have been prodded and besieged by maniacal race-hustlers.
But the amiable Walsh struck me as being a little bit afraid of sounding too snippy and smart-ass. I could have punched up Matt’s narration if asked. I got a distinct feeling that he didn’t want to let his inner white guy off the leash.
Am I Racist?, in short, plays it a little too gently. It seems to skirt and soft-pedal — it’s a little too low-key. Too much respectful listening and not enough eye-rolling.
Matt’s strategy is to let the race-hustlers hang themselves, which mostly succeeds as far as it goes. But I wanted more of a Ricky Gervais or an Adam Carolla or a Bill Maher-like attitude. Why couldn’t Matt just say what the woke cultists seem to believe, which is that POCs are generally angelic figures with halos and white males (especially the older ones) are more or less demonic Trumpies who need to be shunted aside?
Friendo responds: “But that’s the whole point. It was the same with What is a Woman?. Walsh made it in such a way as people could not write it off as mocking or vicious. People expected it to be a Bill Maher thing but it wasn’t. That was the brilliance of it.”
Jesse Eisenberg‘s A Real Pain (Searchlight, 11.1), a quirky, shifty dudes-travelling-through-Poland thing, is going to connect because of Kieran Culkin‘s richly eccentric and occasionally unhinged character, Benji Kaplan…one of those hyper, live-wire guys whose irreverent, unfiltered energy most of us can’t help but enjoy or even get off on in short bursts.
But Culkin’s stoned-jumping-bean manner is also a bit much after repeated exposures. And knowing that Benji is doomed to some kind of arduous instability later in life…a poet who’s fated to “die in the gutter,” as Bob Dylan might put it…is, of course, quite sad.
Everyone has encountered a Benji or two in their life, and this is the film’s big irresistable draw. A Real Painhas to be seen for the Culkin effect. I had heard quite a lot about his firecracker turn, and yet Culkin didn’t disappoint in the least. God, what an amazing, infectious asshole…love his shpiel! And I adore the fact that he loves to sit in airline terminals and study the travellers.
Pic is basically about a pair of tristate-area Jewish cousins, crazy Benji and anxious, straightlaced, somewhat dull David (Eisenberg, who is strangely being campaigned for Best Actor with Culkin going for a Best Supporting nom) embarked on a group holocaust tour in Poland. The usual intrigues and complications ensue.
On top of which Dirty Dancing‘s Jennifer Grey, 63 years young when the film was shot in mid ’23, is also a participant. (The others are like lumps of mashed potatoes.)
“David is a sweet but conventional middle-class drone, whereas Benji is a loose cannon — a bro who never grew up, the kind of dude who says ‘fuck’ every fifth word, who advance-mails a parcel of weed to his hotel in Poland, and who has no filter when it comes to his thoughts and feelings. He’ll blare it all right out there. Since he’s a brilliant and funny guy who sees more than a lot of other people do, and processes it about 10 times as fast, he can (sort of) get away with the running monologue of hair-trigger nihilist superiority that’s his form of interaction. He can also be quite nice, and knows how to play people.
“Benji is a hellacious man-child the world should shun, only he turns out to be the life of the party. But at heart he’s an anti-social misfit, one who’s clinging to the recklessness of youth just at the moment he should be leaving it behind.
“[And] yet Culkin, for all his crack timing, is not giving a ‘comedy’ performance. He’s doing a sensational piece of acting as a compulsive wiseacre addicted to the ways of one-upmanship. Benji has the personality of a hipster slacker crossed with that of a corporate dick. He’s funny, he’s rude, he’s charming, he’s manipulative, and he will suck the life out of you. Yet Culkin makes him real, and the movie, which Eisenberg has scripted with an ear for the music of ideas and for contrasting voices, presents the story of these two cousins — how they interact, what they mean to each other, how their past intersects with the present — in a way that’s so supple you can touch their reality.
“To put it as Benji might: This, people, is what fucking filmmaking is about.”
A couple of days ago a friend attended an early-bird screening of Halina Reijn‘s Babygirl (A24, 12.25), a B & D variation on the “Type-A cougar has it off with a hot young dude” genre. Costarring Nicole Kidman, Harris Dickinson, Sophie Wilde, Antonio Banderas, etc.
Last weekend’s CAA screening followed a TIFF showing on 9.10 and the Venice Film Festival debut on 8.30.
Friendo is calling it “a groundbreaking investigation of female sexuality by a female writer-director.” Kidman said afterwards it would have been a “completely different movie if a man had made it.”
Pic drew a “sensational response” from an elite audi4nce, he says. Attending were Brad Pitt, Olivia Wilde, Peter Dinklage, Catherine Hardwick, Rooney Mara, Charlie Hunnam.
There was q post-screening discussion between Kidman, Reijn and THR‘s Scott Feinberg, followed by a schmoozy wine gathering. Nicole stayed very late.
CAA honcho Bryan Lourd was there; ditto Nicole’s agent Chris Andrews.
Pic will gather multiple noms, he says — Best Actress (Kidman), Best Actor (Dickinson), Best Direction and Writing (Reijn).
“Don’t underestimate A24…at this time last year I had the same feeling about Poor Things. And previously about All Quiet on Western Front, Parasite, Cold War.
Another eccentric (older this time, nudging his 60s) apparently wanted to killDonald Trump yesterday but this time didn’t even fire a shot.
Ryan Wesley Routh, 58, is the would-be Florida golf course shooter. Trump was untouched and unfazed and not even in the immediate vicinity. He’s extremely thankful for the attention, of course.
Sunday’s incident might have made for a semi-alarming story as a one-off, but it pales alongside the attempted Pennsylvania assassination of two months ago, which resulted in a bloody ear and a bandage on the stage of the Republican National Convention.
I’m presuming that most average Americans are unimpressed, and are most likely reacting with a “what, again?” Or, if you will, “been there, done that.” This tinderbox country is teeming with well-armed nutters. What else is new?
TimBurton’s BeetlejuiceBeetlejuice (Warner Bros., 9.6) not only screens tomorrow in Venice but opens domestically a bit more than a week hence. Where’s the buzz? I’m not feeling it. Nobody wants to sit through a cash-grab experience. I adore the 1988 original. Please don’t mess this up.
Variety‘s Alex Hitman is reporting that Cooper Hoffman (Saturday Night, Licorice Pizza) will play a would-be “sexual muse” to an artist played by Olivia Wilde in Gregg Araki‘s I Want Your Sex.
Written by Araki and Karley Sciortino, pic is described as a “provocative thriller” that “blithely explores desire, domination and fantasy.”
I’m sorry but nobody wants to see a film in which Cooper (son of “Philly” Hoffman**) performs sexually in any way, shape or form. Nobody wants to see any freckly-faced, doughy-bod, tiny-eyed ginger guy with his shirt or, God forbid, his pants off. He’s just not sexy or good-looking enough….sorry.
There’s a reason why John Wayne, Paul Newman, Clark Gable, Gary Cooper and Errol Flynn used to get the girl but Walter Brennan, Andy Devine, Edgar Buchanan, Donald Meek, Ernest Borgnine and Rupert Grint didn’t.
In fact Paddy Chayefsky wrote a teleplay (and then a movie version of the same script) about a homely Brooklyn butcher (a guy roughly in Cooper Hoffman’s league) who had such bad luck with girls that we was on the verge of giving up. It was sad but 1955 audiences understood his predicament because the actor who played the butcher was Ernest Borgnine.
** I’ll allow that the late, great Phillip Seymour Hoffman was briefly shown slamming ham with Marisa Tomei in Sidney Lumet‘s Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead, but that was a very fast and quick one-off.
