Something happened a couple of days ago that may seem minor in the greater scheme, but every time I think about it I can’t help feeling elated. I dropped my iPhone into a kitchen sink filled with warm water and it survived. No twitches or glitches or after-damage whatsoever. It was saved from instant death by (a) the fact that it was encased in a Mophie juice pack and (b) the fact that I scooped it out in less than a second — the bat of an eyelash. I was so fast I surprised myself. I was faster than Muhammad Ali delivering a jab. And then I used paper towels and all was well. The possibility that I might have to buy another one after losing my previous iPhone in Berlin last May was horrifying. Saved by the Mophie!
Parkland Saluted, Shot At In Venice
Hollywood Reporter critic Stephen Farber is calling Peter Landesman‘s Parkland (Open Road, 2.20), a docudrama about the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, “engrossing, quietly revelatory and often profoundly moving as it retells a story we only thought we knew..filled with sharp details that will be eye-opening to most viewers, [and] exceptionally well made.” And the Guardian‘s Xan Brooks is saying that Parkland “gives us a neat Texas spin on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, [using an] approach that makes a worn-out old tragedy feel supple and urgent.” But Variety‘s Peter Debruge and Indiewire‘s Matt Mueller have totally dumped on it.
Spectacular, Eye-Popping Gravity Could Be Deeper
Alfonso Cuaron‘s Gravity (Warner Bros., 10.4), which screened twice last night at the Telluride Film Festival, is the most visually sophisticated, super-immersive weightless thrill-ride flick I’ve ever seen. If Stanley Kubrick had been there last night he would freely admit that 2001: A Space Odyssey is no longer the ultimate, adult-angled, real-tech depiction of what it looks and feels like to orbit the earth. Nifty and super-cool from a pure-eyeball perspective, Gravity is certainly the most essential theatrical experience since Avatar. You can’t watch a top-dollar 3D super-flick of this type on anything other than a monster-sized IMAX screen.
Just Like That
The once-legendary David Frost died yesterday at age 74, possibly of a heart attack. He was on a Mediterranean-bound cruise ship to do a speaking gig. Not the worst way to go — suddenly, sea air in your lungs, no prolonged deterioration. When I heard the news I didn’t think first of Frost’s 1977 Richard Nixon interviews or his hosting of That Was The Week That Was in the ’60s. For me Frost’s finest moments were those 1974 interviews with Muhammad Ali in Zaire before his Heavyweight Championship bout with George Foreman. Those were the high times. Frost was a celebrity conversationalist, a go-getter, a personality, a lightweight who grew into a middleweight (at least that) in the ’70s. he appeared to live in a state of constant engagement, drive, curiosity. A good fellow. Condolences to friends and family.
Decline and Fall
I really want to read Robert Koehler‘s thoughts about the gradual dilution of The Artist Known As Terrence Malick, but I have to subscribe to Cineaste in order to do so. The short answer (which I’ve repeated ad infinitum on this site) is that Malick needs a Bert Schneider-type producer who will read him the riot act and slap him around when his flake tendencies go into overdrive, and instead he’s been enabled to death by producers who’ve never said boo.
Calm Down On Prisoners
If you ask me Denis Villenueve‘s Prisoners (Warner Bros., 9.20) has been a little bit over-hyped by critics. Don’t get me wrong — it’s a moody, riveting, well-crafted thriller by a director who’s obviously a cut or two above the norm and is into complexity and adult stuff. Set in the grimmest, coldest, rainiest part of Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania you’ll ever not want to visit, the story (written by Aaron Guzikowski) is about the kidnapping of two young girls and the efforts of a lone-wolf cop (Jake Gyllenhaal) and the girls’ vigilante-minded dads (Hugh Jackman, Terrence Howard) to find them. Although not in synch, of course.
Aimed more at critics than ticket buyers, Prisoners is one of those thoughtfully murky, atmospheric, densely plotted thrillers that’s more about the journey than than the destination. Because when you get to the end it’s like “uhm…wait, what?” That was my reaction, at least.
Philomena Raves, Intrigue
So Stephen Frears‘ Philomena is a huge Venice wow, but Telluride audiences won’t catch it on Monday due to Toronto programmers strongly protesting this. HitFix‘s Kris Tapley reported Friday that he;d been told that Weinstein Co. “had Stephen Frears’ “Philomena” all lined up for a sneak preview on Monday, fresh off its Venice bow, [but] this didn’t sit well with programmers at the Toronto Film Festival, incensed that yet another of their big North American debuts was going to drop here.”
Ambiguous Ending of Lost
The fascinating ending was the first topic broached by moderator John Horn during yesterday’s post-screening discussion of All Is Lost with director-writer J.C. Chandor and Robert Redford. They don’t spoil anything so no worries. I wanted to catch it again to see if it played as strongly as it did in Cannes, and it definitely did that. Anyone who sees this film and goes “yeah, not bad, decent” needs to get his/her pipes cleaned. All Is Lost is landmark, classic, world-class stuff, and most definitely a metaphor for the struggle and the loneliness that comes with late-period aging.
Prisoners Wake-Up
After unforgivably programming Steve McQueen‘s 12 Years A Slave against Denis Villeneuve‘s Prisoners last night (everyone I spoke to was pissed about this), the Telluride guys are offering a Prisoners follow-up screening this morning at 8:30 am at the Palm. Wait…the widely-hailed pic runs 153 minutes? Okay, I’ll get out at 11:15 or thereabouts. Oh, right — they never start films on time and they always spend 10 minutes on introductions so make it a little past 11 am.
I’m especially intrigued by the opening of Kris Tapley’s HitFix review: “They simply don’t make thrillers like Denis Villeneuve‘s Prisoners at the studio level, and yet here it is. Glacially paced, bloated to a 158-minute running time, stingy with details as its mystery unfolds — it goes against most every convention for a film like this.
Masterful American Epic
My 12 Years A Slave tweets, tapped out on dark streets between the Galaxy and 221 South Oak, failed to mention likely Best Supporting Actress contender Lupita N’yongo and Hans Zimmer‘s dynamic, impacting, non-period score. Cheers also to supporting players Michael Fassbender (whose performance as a plantation owner makes Simon Legree look like Shirley Temple), Brad Pitt, Sarah Paulson, Benedict Cumberbatch, Paul Giamatti, Paul Dano (whose beating scene is ten times more satisfying than all of the posturing payback scenes in Django Unchained) and Alfre Woodard, among others. Make no mistake — Slave is Steve McQueen‘s high-water mark, his grand slam.
