Nicholas Winding Refn‘s Only God Forgives (Radius-TWC, 7.19) is world-class in its repulsiveness, and it goes way beyond being a time-waster. The fumes from this oppressively violent Asian macho bullshit sword-slicing fantasy will sink into your system and your soul and leave you off-kilter — tainted in ways that may be hard to pinpoint at first but are no less real — for weeks after seeing it. Or months. Or eternally.
I’m feeling a little odd in that I’m finding myself in…well, perhaps not 100% agreement but certainly not strident disgreement with an op-ed about the recent Egyptian military coup by N.Y. Times op-ed columnist David Brooks. His basic point is that it’s at least a half-good thing that Mohammed Morsi is out on his ass. Core statement: “This week’s military coup may merely bring Egypt back to where it was: a bloated and dysfunctional superstate controlled by a self-serving military elite. But at least radical Islam, the main threat to global peace, has been partially discredited and removed from office.
A light dinner last night around 7 pm, and then we schlepped up Eighth Avenue with mobs of people gathered on corners and sitting curbside and on sidewalks in hopes that this would be a good enough vantage point to see the fireworks. For whatever reason the bulls were blocking off almost all side streets leading to the Hudson. The exception was 23rd Street so that’s where we made our left turn. We would up a block or so past 10th Avenue.
That viral video of a Hawthorne cop shooting a rottweiler four times followed by the poor dog writhing in pain…awful. I always thought if you shoot a dog, God forbid, that he’d be out like a light. It was obviously a volatile, hair-trigger thing on the cop’s part, but rottweilers are killers. The video clearly shows that the owner was taunting the fuzz, and if he’d been smart he wouldn’t have allowed the dog to jump out of the back seat by failing to roll the windows up two-thirds. We all know why people own Rottweilers. They want a snarling beast by their side in the event of a home invasion or street altercation of some kind. Eff with me and my dog will take a chunk out of your ass. Yes, the poor dog was only following instinct by trying to protect his owner, but the owner created the hassle in the first place.
I for one don’t hold with the idea that disco and the disco era (’74 to ’80) has been “gravely misunderstood”, as Jamie Kastner‘s The Secret Disco Revolution maintains. It was actually “a time of liberation for gays, blacks and women,” he’s saying. To a certain extent he’s right, I suppose, but when disco was peaking a lot of people like myself were somewhere between intensely put off and revolted. Okay, I went to Studio 54 like everyone else, yes, and I did a line or two there and even had fumbling, incomplete sex in the balcony once and yes, I loved dancing to “Don’t You Want Me, Baby?” and “Gloria.” I strangely enjoyed those times. Which is why, apart from liking the film and wanting to discuss it, I asked to speak with Kastner.
The Film Experience‘s Nathaniel R. is calling Albert Brooks‘ Lost in America (’85) a significant Independence Day film. In fact, Rogers calls it “an obvious, easy choice.” Brilliant, hilarious and endlessly rewatchable as Brooks film is, is there anyone out there who has said to themselves or their friends, “Lost in America? You have to ask? Totally great film to watch on the 4th of July!”
LIA “has a great many trenchant observations about American lives in the Reagan years in the form of its willfully self-deluded yuppies played by Julie Hagerty and Brooks himself,” he writes, “but the myths it demolishes about following one’s heart and all that cuts much deeper into the national psyche than satirizing just one decade. Constantly hilarious in a characteristically deadpan, mordant way, Lost in America is easily the most cynical title on this list, cynical enough that a less gifted comic mind might not have been able to balance out the humor with the acid, but there’s no rule that a national holiday can’t be used as a time for frank self-reflection and an acknowledgement of the nation’s character flaws.”
I’ve been waiting for years to find a decent YouTube clip of Warren Beatty as Milton Armitage, the snooty and in almost all ways superior nemesis of Dwayne Hickman in the first season (’59-’60) of The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis. Only now with the entire series recently released on DVD can the full flavor of Armitage be re-appreciated. What a shit, and yet a shit whom Beatty (along with the writers, of course) labored mightily to mock at every turn.
I could have danced on the grave celebrated acknowledged the sad failure of The Lone Ranger to cut the box-office mustard much earlier in the day, but I was having too good a time. Pic took in less than $10 million yesterday, which translates into $40 million-plus for the weekend. Not good enough! It had to do at least $60 or $70 million! “A train wreck…another John Carter for Disney,” says Variety‘s Andrew Stewart. Failure! Anemic!
Oh, look, look…here comes Gore Verbinski, Johnny Depp and Jerry Bruckheimer. Wait…is that them? Oh, God, it is. Quick — cross the street so we don’t have to commiserate and tell them we love the film and that they should all be proud or some shit. Oh, fuck, they’ve seen us. Oh, fuck, they’re waving. Okay, let’s make the best of this…wave back.
Here’s a one-hour BBC doc about Cannon Films, apparently lensed around ’87 or ’88…but it’s hard to tell. “I worked as a Cannon staff press-kit writer for much of ’86, all of ’87 and into early ’88, so I know whereof I speak,” I wrote in August 2010. “I know all about that operation and the mentality behind it. There were quality exceptions here and there (which I was very grateful for), but the films were mainly schlock. Which fostered a certain atmosphere among Cannon employees. ‘Fatalism mixed with humiliation resulting in gallows humor’ is one way to describe it.”
A Bluray of Walter Hill‘s The Driver is popping through on 7.23. A mere 3000 copies. 1.85 to 1. 89 minutes long. Move it or lose it.
Unlike Slate‘s Dana Stevens, my objection to flip-flops has solely to do with the fact that many, many people out there (mostly men but a fair number of women also) have unappealing feet. I sit on subway cars and look at the toes of people who should never be barefoot except in their own bathrooms and even then, and I ask myself “whatever happened to the concept of sartorial shame?” Or “she thinks this makes her look attractive?” I was almost surprised yesterday when I sat across from a 20something sandal-wearing couple on the A train, and they both had feet that I regarded as tolerable if not moderately attractive — a very unusual occurence.
That said, I planted my flag on anti-flip-flop soil years ago. Glenn Kenny has tweeted that I’ll now be grateful to Stevens for validating my views on this topic. No offense (and I’m sure there’s none taken) but she’s a visitor and I’m an old resident. “This is my table, man. I own it.” — Paul Newman as Eddie Felson in The Hustler.
Congrats to whomever cut and scored this trailer for Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Freidman‘s Lovelace (Radius-TWC, 8.9). Because it makes the film, a slow-downswirl tragedy that takes you down an icky and downish journey, seem a lot more engaging than it actually is. After catching it at last January’s Sundance Film Festival I filed it under “glad I saw it but if it had never been made I don’t think the universe would be any poorer or hungrier.”
