I’m typing this from seat 9A (window) on an American flight from Dallas/Ft. Worth to LaGuardia It’s 6:15 pm — somewhere over Arkansas. $12 and change to connect the laptop; $8 and change for the iPhone. The pages are coming up a bit slowly, but it’s better than nothing.
I can see right now where the Shutter Island discussion will go. Hip, older urban critics like Marshall Fine will do the usual solidarity thing (i.e., their standard response whenever a reasonably decent film by a venerated director comes out) and pass out “Friends of Marty” buttons at screenings and so on. And that’s fine. A fair portion of their readers, of course, will feel a wee bit puzzled if not burned when they shell out their twelve bucks, but that’s the rough and tumble of it.
I did my farewell hugs with the Santa Barbara Film Festival team last night. For the most part at a big noisy wrap party at a place called Eos. I was forced to leave when a large crowd started dancing to Kool and the Gang. Thanks to Roger Durling, Carol Marshall and the others who made my ten-day stay a pleasant one. (Excepting that goon who got in my face the other night.) Short hop to LAX, LAX to Dallas, Dallas to LaGuardia — back around 9 pm.
A leftover pic from eight or nine days ago.
At last night’s SBIFF staff party at Eos.
Also from last week.
Since mid December I’ve been 90% convinced that Kathryn Bigelow would take the Best Director Oscar with the Best Picture prize going to Avatar for mostly political reasons (3D game-changer, all-time champion earner, injector of economic vitality into the industry, tens of millions of dazzled international fans). Whenever there’s a toss-up contest, the majority of Academy voters always favor the political.
But hearing last night that The Hurt Locker had won the Best Edited Feature (Dramatic) Eddie Award over Avatar made me go “wait a minute…I’m sensing an alignment of the planets here.” It was actually that plus a web-journalist colleague confiding two or three days ago that she’s convinced that Hurt is the most likely winner.
All along I’ve presumed that a little movie that’s only made $12-plus million can’t win. Now I’m thinking “wow, this year may be different” and “money may not be everything.” It’s still called the Academy of Arts & Sciences & Money, of course, but I’ll howl like a coyote and melt all over the carpet if The Hurt Locker wins.
And then I’ll go back to Extra Virgin and ask those women who told me last November they’d never heard of The Hurt Locker much less seen it and say, “So, guys…?”
I took some very sloppy and haphazard footage of Crazy Heart‘s Jeff Bridges during this afternoon’s Santa Barbara Film Festival tribute. I’m sorry. It happens. I guess I didn’t try hard enough. One reason that Bridges’ on-stage discussion with In Contention‘s Kris Tapley‘s was over in a flash is that Bridges “had a dinner reservation” so Tapley kept it short so as not to hang him up. Good manners.
Bridges said he thinks his Crazy Heart performance is among his “top five.” Tapley didn’t ask what the other four were, so here’s my…fuck it, here’s my top eight Bridges performances, in this order: (1) The Big Lebowski, (2) The Last American Hero, (3) Crazy Heart, (4) Rancho Deluxe, (5) Against All Odds, (6) Fearless, (7) The Fabulous Baker Boys, and (8) 8 Million Ways to Die.
Having read the Coen brothers‘ True Grit script and obviously knowing what Bridges can do (especially when inspired), I’m predicting that his performance as Rooster Cogburn will, eleven months hence, be commonly regarded as one of his finest.
Someone working for the Copenhagen film magazine Ekko allegedly reported today — get this — that Martin Scorsese is open to the idea of remaking Taxi Driver with Lars von Trier as some kind of creative partner. Or vice versa.
Can’t be real. Has to be bullshit.
The report, allegedly emanating from the Berlin Film Festival, says Scorcese and von Trier are in attendance, and that the two men had discussed the possibility of a remake. And it gets more twisted. The Ekko story allegedly says that Robert De Niro would again play the title role — presumably a reference to Travis Bickle.
In an initial reaction, von Trier’s Zentropa producing partner Peter Aalbek said he could “neither confirm nor deny,” but that an official announcement would be made soon.
The 67 year-old Scorcese is in Berlin for the world premiere of his new psychothriller, Shutter Island. I don’t know what von Trier is doing there, if he’s there at all. This whole thing could be a total figment of someone’s imagination. It’s such a repulsive idea, it’s embarassing to even float it as a joke.
Tales From The Golden Age, the Romanian omnibus film that dispenses heh-heh (as opposed to tee-hee or yaw-haw) humor, will screen at Lincoln Center on Saturday night. I was down with Tales when I saw it last May in Cannes, but I wasn’t exactly enthralled. The underpinnings of bureacratic torpor and enslavement keep it from being “funny.” It’s more in the realm of mild amusement.
4 Months, Three Weeks, 2 Days helmer Cristian Mungiu directed one of the segments. The whole thing runs 155 minutes.
Indiewire‘s Eugene Hernandez has written that Kawasaki’s Rose, the latest from prolific Czech director Jan Hrebejk and screenwriter Petr Jarchovsky, is “easily the best feature of the first few days of the Berlin Film Festival — the one undeniable find so far.”
“A story about an elderly ex-Communist whose misdeeds during the Dubcek era are slowly revealed, it slipps easily back and forth between various perspectives (and such is Jarchovsky’s skill, every character here was nuanced, contradictory, fully realized), and parceled out its revelations as deliberately and rigorously as a conspiracy thriller.” Kawasaki’s Rose “ranks among the writer and director’s very finest work to date.”
I wonder how Kawasaki’s Rose will play with the people who made Garry Marshall‘s Valentine’s Day the weekend’s #1 hit, pouring $52.4 million into Warner Bros. coffers? Is there a chance that a small fraction might pay to see it? What if paramilitary squads were to promise to destroy their homes with flame-throwers and grenades if they don’t see it? Is it possible some could be persuaded?
Copout director Kevin Smith tweeted last night that Southwest Airlines had bumped him off an Oakland-to-Burbank jet because he was “too wide for the sky.” The airline’s “customer of size” policy is that extra-large types have to buy two seats to contain their ampleness. If there are no twins available on a given flight, you’re bumped. Smith was reportedly given a $100 voucher and put on a subsequent Southwest flight.
Sample tweets: (a) “Hey @SouthwestAir! Look how fat I am on your plane! Quick! Throw me off!”; (b) “The @SouthwestAir Diet. How it works: you’re publicly shamed into a slimmer figure. Crying the weight right off has never been easier!”; (c) “Hey @SouthwestAir! I’ve landed in Burbank. Don’t worry: wall of the plane was opened & I was airlifted out while Richard Simmons supervised”; (d) “Last night the wife ALSO kicked me off for being too wide. And she wasn’t talking about the size of my stupid dick.”
Jesus, how insensitive can Smith get? Imagine how all those extra-large types out there who’ve endured similar indignities must be feeling right now. Why would Smith want to go there and be that guy who jokes about being overweight? I know that certain HE readers are very sensitive to this issue, and that they’ll want to lecture Smith for hurting the feelings of a lot of good people. Readers?
I’ve never sprinkled an exotic seasoning (jalapeno, sour cream and onion, caramel, white cheddar) on popcorn in my life, and I never would under any circumstance.
Roger Durling‘s on-stage interview last night with A Single Man star Colin Firth went on too long, but the conversational vibe was easy and unforced. And yet probing, amusing, revealing. I love the smile that always follows after Firth delivers one of those wry, self-deprecating comments. A very mellow fellow. The tribute reel reminded that he does anger quite well when a scene calls for it, but he has virtually none of it on his own, or so it seems.
I was convinced Firth was the leading Best Actor contender when I spoke with him in Manhattan a little more than two months ago, but now the apparent assumption is that Jeff Bridges has it in the bag for his Crazy Heart performance. Firth’s brand has nonetheless been upped. Everyone has come out ahead.
Firth’s classy gentleman aura — that sense of urbane reserve and sensitivity and aplomb– “is what everyone has been savoring since Firth broke through roughly 15 years ago,” I wrote in early December. “And now there’s widespread agreement that he delivers the finest variation of this very particular aura or attitude in Tom Ford‘s A Single Man.
“One of my questions began with a paraphrasing of John Ford’s quote about how directors make the same film over and over. Do actors do the same thing more or less? Firth didn’t disagree. His achievement in A Single Man is that he’s playing the deepest and most intriguing aspect of this patented thing. Because the role of George has found him in exactly at the right place and time, and vice versa.”
The after-party was held in an industrial park in eastern Carpinteria — a 15-minute drive. The SBIFF elite were cordoned off in two smallish, well-lit rooms that were protected by the usual goons in black suits.
One of the security guys — young and muscular with marble-black eyes — came up to me early on and asked to see my wrist band. I said I hadn’t been given one, but that SBIFF publicist Carol Marshall had walked me in. I assured him in any case that he wasn’t going to throw me out. He gave me one of those cock-eyed glares. He wanted to demonstrate his alpha-male capabilities, but Carol chilled him down. I’ve said this before but I were to run a security company I would (a) call it Cool Goons and (b) make a point of not hiring guys who stroll around parties looking for trouble.
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