There’s a moment in Martin Scorsese‘s After Hours (’85) when Griffin Dunne‘s miserable lost soul eyeballs a graffiti drawing of a guy’s schlong getting chomped on by a shark.
That’s the one transcendent, pure-light moment in this dark, hard-to-swallow situation “comedy” about how a thirtysomething Manhattan male gets swallowed up by a predatory vortex of Soho hostility.
But After Hours isn’t really about the vortex as much as Dunne’s feelings of panic, helplessness and self-loathing. Why does this guy refuse to man up and figure his way out of a difficult but far-from-insurmountable situation? And why have we paid to watch a film about this wormy?
All the hipsters and know-it-alls swear by After Hours, but it’s not very good..it really isn’t.
In the same sense that Parasite slit its own throat when the drunken con artist mom allowed the fired maid into the home of the rich family, After Hours never even tries to sell the idea that Dunne would visit Soho to see about trying to fuck Roseanna Arquette with a lousy $20 in his pocket (just under $60 in 2023 dollars), or that the $20 would somehow fly out of the taxicab window, or that Dunne believed he was actually stuck and stranded in Soho when all he had to do was hop the turnstile and catch a subway back home.
If he was too chicken to hop the turnstile all he had to do was scrape together 90 cents, which is what a subway ride cost at the time. 90 cents!
Criterion will release a 4K and 1080p Bluray combo of After Hours on 7.11.23. Why would anyone want to pay $40 for this?
I re-watched my 4K UHD Apocalypse Now Bluray last night, and I wasn’t totally happy. I saw this 1979 classic at the Ziegfeld theatre two or three times in August and September of ’79, and the big-screen presentation (we’re thinking back almost 44 years) blows the 4K disc away. Aurally and visually, but especially in terms of sharp, punctuating fullness of sound.
Apocalypse Now was presented at the Ziegfeld within a 2:1 aspect ratio, which Vittorio Storaro insisted upon through thick and thin. The 4K disc uses what looked to me with a standard Scope a.r. of 2.39:1.
And the general sharpness of the image on that big Ziegfeld screen just isn’t replicated by the 4K. It looks “good”, of course, but not as good as it should.
As we begin to listen to The Doors’ “The End” while staring at that tropical tree line, John Densmore’s high hat could be heard loudly and crisply from a Ziegfeld side speaker. Before that moment I had never heard any high-hat sound so clean and precise. But it doesn’t sound nearly as pronounced on the 4K disc, which I listened to, by the way, with a pricey SONOS external speaker.
Remember that “here’s your mission, Captain” scene with G.D. Spradlin, Harrison Ford and that white-haired guy? When that scene abruptly ends, we’re suddenly flooded with electronic synth organ music…it just fills your soul and your chest cavity. Filled, I should say, 44 years ago. But not that much with the disc.
When Martin Sheen and the PBR guys first spot Robert Duvall and the Air Cav engaged in a surfside battle, Sheen twice says “arclight.” In the Ziegfeld the bass woofer began rumbling so hard and bad that the floor and walls began to vibrate like bombs were exploding on 54th Street…the hum in my rib cage was mesmerizing. Not so much when you’re watching the 4K.
As Duvall’s gunship helicopters take off for the attack on a Vietnamese village (“Vin Din Lop…all these gook names sound the same”), an Army bugler begins playing the cavalry charge. It was clear as a bell in the Ziegfeld — less so last night.
Friendo: “This never would’ve happened if Logan Roy was still with us.“
Theories as to why Tucker Carlson has suddenly left Fox News? One presumes that it has something to do with the recent Fox-Dominion settlement, but what exactly could have been the trigger?
Wildcat theory: Carlson might conceivably throw his hat into the 2024 Presidential race.
Here was the end of what turned out to be Tucker Carlson's final Fox News show last Friday. Certainly no indication that he didn't expect to be on the air tonight. In fact Tucker's final words are, "we'll be back on Monday." pic.twitter.com/F9R5MpWHDK
Director-star and series co-creator Bill Hader is directing all eight episodes of Barry‘s final season, and the calibre of understated black comedy is fairly astonishing. Hader’s directing instincts are easily the equal of Steven Soderbergh‘s — he tones it down in every scene, and makes it work just so. The witness protection conference hit scene is hilarious and mesmerizing.
During last night’s Barry episode (“you’re charming“) we all saw Guillermo del Toro play “El Toro”, some kind of dandified, cane-toting, soft-spoken bad guy who visits Hank (Anthony Carrigan) and Cristobal (Michael Irby) to discuss Barry’s forthcoming murder. Toro has arranged for a queasy-looking character (Fred Armisen) to perform the hit during a witness protection meeting between Barry and various law officials.
It was just a cameo role, but it was very cool to see GDT delivering lines from a place of quiet confidence and with a dry understated manner. “Holy shit…there he is!” I said to Jett and Cait. I immediately wrote GDT a congratulatory note. And yet…
Guillermo was playing an allegedly fearsome criminal, the kind of sociopath who wouldn’t blink an eye at hiring a hitman. The emphasis, of course, was on dry humor with GDT talking about the difference between a podcast and TikTok exposure, but honestly? The undercurrent of menace wasn’t there. Because Guillermo couldn’t bury his humanity. He’s one of the gentlest and most compassionate people in the film industry, and simply couldn’t manage to “become” a sociopath. But at least he gave it a shot. File this under “hoot-level cameo.”
In yesterday’s “Strange Architecture” piece” I criticized the odd decision of Ben-Hur‘s production designer to build a large, visually obstructive island in the middle of the Jerusalem chariot-race stadium. The result was that a significant portion of the crowd was only able to see half the racetrack and therefore half the action.
This triggered a bizarre response from “Brenkilco,” who claimed that “they only built half the track with stands on one side,” and that “a lot of fancy editing was employed but the chariots were always racing down the same straightaway.” This “illusion,” he said, “concealed the fact that there was nothing on the other side.”
Poppycock, I replied, but I couldn’t find any smoking gun photos that proved that the racetrack was completely whole with two sides. And then “SlashMC” came to the rescue with two such photos. It makes you wonder which HE commenters besides “Brenkilco” are just talking out of their ass half the time. Thanks ever much to SlashMC.
As you’re approaching Stockholm Arlanda airport you’ll notice that it’s waaay out in the country. No sprawling suburbs or congested business strips nearby — just mile upon square mile of birch and pine trees, like you’re flying into Savannah.
Arlanda is an unusually attractive environment. Not oversized, mellow vibe, nice place to hang.
Plus (and I wouldn’t want this to be taken the wrong way) it’s also somewhat pleasant to be around all those attractive Swedish people with their Nordic features, blonde hair (although black hair is equally plentiful) and relatively trim physiques.
If you’ve done any travelling over the last 10 or 15 years you know that mordibly obese people are fairly ubiquitious in U.S. airports, but there are almost none here. So it’s like another world in more ways than one. Fascinated and intrigued, I started roaming around the airport in search of Jabbas, and I’m telling you honestly that I may have spotted one or two at most. No judgment, just saying.
My original Arlanda post appeared four years ago — 5.12.19. I’m reposting because I love the top airport photo with the dark Cecil B. DeMille clouds.
We are living in the age of the male blanc dangereux, or, if you will, the homme fatale.
If there’s one thing the mainstream media and entertainment industry agree upon without hesitation, it’s that 40-plus white guys have enjoyed too much power for too long and need to be brought down.
The view is that too many of these ayeholes are anti-woke or not woke enough and therefore bad news, and that they need to ride in the back of the bus for a while and learn how it felt for marginalized people for too many decades.
Aside from your basic wokequake and #MeToo factors, I wonder if this viewpoint was in some way triggered by (or is perhaps a delayed reaction to) the ’90s femme fatale wave. All of those films about scheming, black-hearted women with ravenous sexual appetites, blah blah. What intelligent woman wasn’t quietly furious about (or at least hugely irritated by) these films, one after another after another?
The first crop of femme fatales, of course, arose with the film noirs of the late ’40s to mid ’50s. Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice, Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity, Jane Greer in Out of the Past, Ava Gardner in The Killers, Lizabeth Scott in Dead Reckoning, etc.
The second manifestation happened 25 years later with Lawrence Kasdan‘s Body Heat (’80) and particularly Kathleen Turner‘s greedy and conniving Matty Walker. This wasn’t exactly followed up upon by Stephen Frears‘ Dangerous Liasons (’88) and Harold Becker‘s Sea of Love (’89) but the notion of selfish, cunning and possibly dangerous women was certainly underlined by these films.
The ’90s wave, sparked by the perverse imaginings of screenwriter Joe Eszterhas, pretty much began with the one-two punch of Curtis Hanson‘s The Hand That Rocks the Cradle (’92) and Paul Verhoeven‘s Basic Instinct (’92). It more or less ended with Roger Kumble‘s Cruel Intentions (’99).
Call it a vogue that lasted seven years or a bit less.
The headliners were (1) Basic Instinct, (2) Barbet Schroeder‘s Single White Female (’92), (3) Katt Shea‘s Poison Ivy, (4) Philip Noyce, Ezsterhas and Ira Levin‘s Sliver (’93), (5) Nic Kazan‘s Dream Lover (’93 — earned a grand total of somewhere between $256,264 and $316,809, (6) Alan Shapiro‘s The Crush (’93), (7) Uli Edel‘s Body of Evidence (’93), (8) William Friedkin‘s Jade (’95), (9) Gus Van Sant‘s To Die For (’95) and Cruel Intentions — an even 10.
What am I missing? Basic Instinct 2 (’06) doesn’t count — it arrived way past the end of the cycle.
On or about 11.5.19 I chatted with Leonardo Dicaprio at a San Vicente Bungalows party. He was particularly excited about Killers of The Flower Moon, describing it as a kind of “birth of the modern FBI” story. The basic line, he said, focused on former Texas Ranger Tom White (whom Leo was intending to play at the time) being ordered by top G-man J. Edgar Hoover to take over the Osage murders case and make sure the bad guys pay the price.
Eventually DiCaprio decided to play one of the killers, Ernest Burkhart, with Jesse Plemons stepping into the White role.
Given Leo’s summary, one could have been forgiven for presuming that Martin Scorsese‘s film, which didn’t begin shooting until April ’21, would be a “white FBI guys bring justice to Oklahoma” movie, or something in that general vein. Certainly not as fictitious or fantastical as Alan Parker‘s Mississippi Burning, as Eric Roth‘s screenplay has always been closely based upon David Grann’s scrupulously researched 2017 book. But perhaps with a certain good guys-vs-bad-guys attitude.
But between Scorsese, Grann and Roth, how could Flower Moon possibly have been made with the idea of delivering an Oklahoma version of Parker’s 1988 thriller, which ignored many facts about the 1964 murder of three Civil Rights workers and reduced the African-American characters to people who grieved, cowered and sung hymns?
But then, three months ago, along came Flower Moon costar Lily Gladstone, who, in a Variety interview with Zack Sharf, seemed to suggest that Scorsese had, up to a point, made a film that hadn’t, in fact, sufficiently considered the Osage native point of view of the killings and the investigation of same.
Gladstone said that Scorsese “worked closely with the real-life Osage Nation to ensure his movie would properly represent the community. The result was that “the Osage Nation ended up positively changingFlower Moon from what Scorsese [had] originally planned.”
“The work is better when you let the world inform the work,” Gladstone explained to Sharf. “That was very refreshing how involved the production got with the [Osage Nation] community. As the community warmed up to our presence, the more the community got involved with the film.
“It’s a different movie than the one [Scorsese] walked in to make, almost entirely because of what the community had to say about how it was being made and what was being portrayed.”
Glenn Kenny: “That’s Gladstone’s perspective, shaped through that of Sharf, and in any event has nothing to do with reshoots. Scorsese and company were getting Osage input from well before the cameras started rolling.
“Look, man, I know how precious the ‘Native Americans strong-armed Scorsese into going woke’ narrative is to you, and I know you’re gonna stick with it through thick and thin, but just don’t pretend too much insider knowledge here.”
HE response: “So Gladstone misstated Scorsese’s creative strategy (i.e., before the alleged Osage Nation re-think) in order to celebrate the Osage Nation’s strength as a culture and to emphasize that their perspective on the 1920s murders was, thank God, crucially included at the 11th hour.
“You’re saying, in other words, that Scorsese had understood the entire Killers equation from the get-go, as had original author David Grann, and that neither of them needed woke tutoring as far as the Osage perspective was concerned.
“Gladstone, in short, was spinning her own impressions last January, and Sharf, a go-along wokester parrot, played along?
“Maybe so.”
Here, by the way, is a snap of the actual Ernest Burkhart and Mollie Burkhart (played by DiCaprio and Gladstone in the film)
I said earlier I’ve no particular problem with Dylan Mulvaney endorsing Bud Light. But the decoration on this Bud Light can gobsmacked me. I thought inclusion was the new idea — not just beer bruhs chugging Bud Light during football games but all sizes, shapes and persuasions. But the decoration plainly says “gays and trans people only.” Sober for 11 years, I haven’t been up to speed on beer cans for quite some time.** Sorry.
Stanley Kramer and William Rose‘s Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner was arguably already dated when it opened on 12.12.67. It wouldn’t have been dated if it had opened, say, in ’62, ’63 or even ’64. But ’67 was too activist, too strident, too Stokely Carmichael‘ed, too rioted, too Black Power-ed, too Vietnam War-ed, too Sgt. Pepper-ed and too psychedelicized. It just didn’t fit.
I’ve never seen Kramer’s film, by the way. I avoided it like the plague when it came out, and I’ve never felt sufficiently motivated to watch it at home. But Spencer Tracy‘s soliloquy in this climactic scene, which I only just watched a few minutes ago, is fairly terrific.
Tracy dropped dead in his kitchen on 6.10.67, 17 days after Kramer’s film was completed. He was only 67, but he looked at least 80 by today’s standards.
As noted, GWCTD opened six months later (12.12.67). Four months later Martin Luther King was murdered.
