Any film, play, book, short story, poem or song that uses the phrase “unite the world” goes right into the HE dumpster. Seriously, dude…this looks terrible.
Directed by Dean Parisot, who peaked with Galaxy Quest. Produced by Scott Kroopf and (not a typo) Steven Soderbergh. Written by Chris Matheson and Ed Solomon.
Just before Christmas of 2016 I purchased a UHD 4K streaming version of Lawrence of Arabia, which had been released almost a year earlier. I was deeply impressed or, as I wrote on 12.20.16, “really, seriously stunned by the micro-detail.”
I knew it wasn’t real-deal 4K because of digital compressing, and that it actually represented an image density that was somewhere between 2K and 3K.
And yet “for the first time in my life, I was noticing textures in Freddie Young‘s 70mm cinematography (wood grain, extra-tiny sand pebbles, wardrobe threads, even the subtle composition of fine cement in the opening credits sequence) that I’d literally never seen before, not with this degree of crispness and clarity, and that’s saying something.”
On June 16th fans of David Lean’s 1962 Oscar-winner will be able to own a 4K version, even though it’ll cost them $111.82 because it’s part of a box-set package deal that includes Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Dr. Strangelove, Gandhi, A League of Their Own and Jerry Maguire.
This morning I asked restoration guru Robert Harris, who guided the original 1988 restoration (and who worked closely with Lean for weeks on end) and was involved on all levels with the newbie, how the 4K disc version compares with the streaming version.
“Far better,” Harris replied. “The streaming version is, of necessity, highly compressed. The 4k UHD is spread over 2 triple-layer discs. No comparison. Gandhi and A League Of Their Own are also magnificent. They look like film. But Aurens…other-worldly.”
The 4K UHD Lawrence, he said, is “the equivalent of 750-800 pounds of 70mm film on 13 reels, captured to a couple of discs that probably weigh about an ounce.”
“The new 4K release of Lawrence of Arabia has seemingly reached home video nirvana.
“Everything that one might wish for is here. The film has been split across two discs, for maximum data throughput. Dolby Atmos has been added for a bit of height, which works nicely. Color, black levels, shadow detail and general densities all work nicely. Grain structure is superb. Image stability is perfect.
“For those unaccustomed to the film, be aware that it’s four hours long, has no women with speaking roles, spends hours watching men cross deserts on camels, and has no musical numbers.
“It’s all about this slightly looney Brit who seems to enjoy pain, and takes pleasure in burning himself with matches.
“It was originally released in December of 1962 at 232 minutes inclusive of music. In January, twenty minutes was removed, making certain sequences a bit incoherent, and in 1970, supposedly only for American TV, it was shorn of another fifteen minutes, leading to a wonderful article in the New York Times, entitled ‘Look What They’ve Done to Lawrence of Arabia Now.’
“Most people seemed to enjoy the 202-minute cut (212 with music), until a slightly looney American became involved and put back most of the pieces that had been cut, finally ending up with a Director’s Cut at 227 minutes with music.
“Those elements were digitized in 2012 by Columbia’s Grover Crisp, leading to what we have today.”
Except from Bluray.com review: “To be perfectly frank, the entirety of the Columbia Classics collection is worth buying for the UHD Lawrence alone. One can almost consider the other five films bonuses. This one looks that good. It’s breathtaking, and it’s impossible to imagine even the most stringent videophile not smiling the whole way through.
“The Atmos soundtrack is first-rate, too. There is one new, brief extra but the carryover content is perfectly fine in support. What a gem of a film and of a UHD. Of course, Lawrence of Arabia‘s UHD disc earns my highest recommendation.”
Copy: “In Paris, contented customers sit outside cafes and sip their morning espressos for the first time in 11 weeks. There are, however, strict rules: bars and restaurants have permission to sprawl across pavements but tables must be one meter apart. In the rest of France, customers can now be served inside while observing the same distance.”
These photos literally melted me down. From ’07 to ’19 I was able to downshift and decompress in Paris (or Rome, Prague. Munich or Belgrade) following the Cannes Film Festival, and 2020 was the first time since the late George W. Bush administration that I was unable to do that.
These pics remind me that sipping cappuccino on a Paris sidewalk adjacent to a busy cafe or brasserie (early morning, late afternoon, evening) is one of the most gloriously alive activities available to human beings on the planet earth.
I’m sorry to have taken my time with The Eddy, the eight-episode, Paris-based Netflix miniseries that began streaming on 5.8. I’m actually still taking my time as I’ve only seen the first two episodes, which were directed by Damien Chazelle, the hotshot helmer of La La Land, Whiplash and the (presumably) forthcoming Babylon. (Three other directors — Houda Benyamina, Laïla Marrakchi and Alan Poul — directed the remaining six episodes.) Chazelle also executive produces.
But even within the realm of episode #1 and #2, I was slow to get into it. Because The Eddy, by design, is slow to get into itself. It slips and slides and shuffles into its own rhythm and razzmatazz, adopting a pace and an attitude that feels casual, unhurried and catch-as-catch-can. Which is cool once you understand what The Eddy is up to.
Written or co-written by Jack Thorne, it’s about a Belleville/Oberkampf jazz club owner named Elliott (Andre Holland) and the friends, fragments, tangents and pressures of his life — debts, uncertainties, his daughter (Amandla Sternberg), the resident jazz band’s diva-like singer (Joanna Kulig), his business partner (Tahar Rahim), bad guys, business permits, sudden tragedy, etc.
Toward the end of episode #2 it finally hit me. In a certain unannounced sense The Eddy is an atmospheric musical — a drama of friends and families in Paris that’s punctuated with spirit-lifting jazz sequences. (The original music was composed by by Glen Ballard and Randy Kerber.) It’s a film that says over and over that “life can be hard and cruel, but music will save your soul.”
Which also means, not incidentally, that the French-speaking Chazelle is recharging his on-screen love affair with jazz, which began with Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench (’09) and continued with Whiplash (’14) and La La Land (’16).
This is how it feels to me. This plus a tangled mystery about finding the killers of Farid, the business partner. Plus the constant savorings of the Oberkampf and Belleville districts.
Boilerplate: Elliott, a semi-retired jazz pianist, and Farid run The Eddy together — Elliott handling talent, Farid doing the books. Things begin with Elliott’s daughter Julie (Sternberg) hitting town. The club is financially struggling (what else?). Elliott is trying to arrange a record deal for the house band. The singer is the moody, no-day-at-the-beach Maya (Kulig) with whom Elliott has been romantically entwined, and the pianist is Kerber.
The main complication is Farid’s murder, along with the fact that Paris detectives think Elliott might be the culprit.
Apparently each episode focuses on a different character — Elliott, Maja, Julie, etc. — with the storylines intersecting.
To repeat myself, the main thing in The Eddy is the music. It’s completely worth it for this element alone. It made me feel like I’d really been somewhere.
Back in the old days of commercial aviation (i.e. three months ago and earlier), civilians used to fly whenever and wherever. I used to fly to New York City, London, Paris, Nice, Prague, Key West, Honolulu, Hanoi…you name it. Big Apple-wise I always flew into JFK or Newark, but this final approach to LaGuardia is quite beautiful. East across Queens and over uptown Manhattan, following the Hudson River south, curving about the Battery (you can see the WTC pools next to Freedom Tower) and forth to Midtown and east across Queens (observe the remnants of the ’64 World’s Fair as well as good old Shea Stadium) to LGA…magnificent. I really miss flying. (The below video was shot three-plus years ago, but who cares?)
Anya, our three-year-old Siamese, was actually watching Luis Bunuel‘s Los Olvidados (’50) this morning. Her eyes were glued to the screen, following the action, staying with it, etc.
90 year-old movie poster of young Luis Bunuel inside Ristorante Gallo Romano, 44 Rue Galande, 75005 Paris.
If things were normal the annual La Pizza journo gathering would’ve happened a few hours ago, and the 2020 Cannes Film Festival would begin tomorrow (Tuesday, 5.12).
Of all the highly anticipated films that might’ve premiered at the now-cancelled 73rd festival, Leos Carax‘s all-sung Annette is the one I’m sorriest about missing.
Boilerplate: “The lives of a provocative stand-up comedian (Adam Driver) and his world-famous soprano wife (Marion Cotillard) take an unexpected turn when their daughter Annette is born — a girl with a unique gift.” Can someone at least tell me what the “gift” is?
Other missed hotties (some possibly Covid-stalled in post): Wes Anderson‘s The French Dispatch, Clio Barnard’s Ali & Ava, Stacey Gregg’s Here Before, Harry MacQueen’s Supernova, Ninja Thyberg‘s Jessica, Valdimar Jóhannsson‘s Lamb, Stephane Brizé’s For Better Or Worse, Bruno Dumont‘s On A Half Clear Morning, Sylvie Verheydes‘ Madame Claude, Mia Hansen-Love‘s Bergman Island, Emmanuel Carrère’s Between Two Worlds, Antonin Peretjatko‘s Old Fashioned, Giovanni Aloï’s The Third War, Franka Potente’s Home, Nanni Moretti‘s Three Floors, Sergio Castellitto’s A Bookshop In Paris, Pilar Palomero’s The Girls, Kirill Serebrennikov’s Petrov’s Flu, Tom Shoval’s Shake Your Cares Away…it’s just a shame.
From Peter Debruge’s 2.29 review: “Turns out there are a lot of things that have gone unsaid in movies until now, and Saint Frances (available on VOD) goes there in a way that’s not only enlightening, but entertaining as well. This exceptionally frank, refreshingly nonjudgmental indie was written by and stars Kelly O’Sullivan, a ‘girl next door’ type whose no-nonsense approach to issues facing both her gender and her generation leaves ample room for laughter — a la Amy Schumer’s Trainwreck.
“But unlike that Judd Apatow-produced studio entry, Saint Frances shares none of the pressure to partner up its potentially ‘unlikable’ female protagonist with a man who can handle her baggage. I put ‘unlikable’ in quotes because I adore this character: Bridget makes a lot of bad choices (who doesn’t?) and seems totally unprepared for most of what life throws at her (she’s the last candidate most folks would hire as a nanny), but she feels as human as they come. So a better comparison might be the work of Girls creator Lena Dunham, as O’Sullivan embraces her own fallibility, renders it into fiction, then presents it as comedy.”
It takes a certain amount of character and maturity to simultaneously walk and chew gum about a certain film — to be able to disagree with the content (or some aspect of it) but at the same time admire the chops or the expertise with which it casts a certain emotional spell.
If wokesters disagree with what a film is saying, they’ll write it off without a second thought. Serious cineastes take a broader view. They may not respect or even despise where a film is coming from but the reputable ones can’t reject it entirely if it hits the emotional mark, or if it’s superbly made.
The oldest example is Leni Reifenstahl‘s Triumph of the Will — reprehensible content, mesmerizing technique.
A recent example is Peter Farrelly‘s Green Book, which a chorus of cranky Shallow Hals derided for daring to operate within the realm of 1962 and thereby not in synch with 21st Century wokester values. I knew all that, but there was no denying that Farrelly’s film was emotionally affecting — that the connection between Viggo Mortensen and Mahershala Ali‘s characters carried a kindly, comforting current.
Jean Luc Godard was probably the first serious film demon to acknowledge this dichotomy, In a Cahiers du Cinema piece Godard admitted to being seized with affection for John Wayne‘s Ethan Edwards at the end of The Searchers when he picks up Natalie Wood and says, “Let’s go home, Debbie.” This is a “dishonest” moment from a 20th Century perspective as Ethan is a racist sonuvabitch, and there’s no way he’s going to renounce his gut feelings at the very last minute. But for Godard, the moment was transcendent.
I revisited this idea yesterday when I re-posted a Gunga Din riff from 12.24.17: “Otis Ferguson‘s review of this 1939 adventure flick called it a racist and arrogant celebration of British colonial rule. And yet I’ve been emotionally touched and roused by this film all my life. The last half-hour of Gunga Din is perfect, but it ends with Sam Jaffe‘s Indian ‘bhisti’ basking in post-mortem nirvana over having been accepted as a British soldier.” An appalling idea when you think about it, but it works.
I’ve always hated the shallow fantasy notion of superheroes and the corporate, FX-dependent theology of Marvel and D.C. films, but from time to time I’ve been surprised to find myself buying into the bullshit, Avengers: Endgame being the most recent example.
A couple of times I’ve mentioned how Billy Wilder‘s The Spirit of St. Louis says the wrong things by (a) ignoring the dark underside of Charles Lindbergh — “a nativist anti-Semite who admired the fascist state and urged the United States to stay out of the war because Nazi victory was certain,” as an HE commenter once put it — and (b) shamelessly embracing the idea of heavenly assistance just before the exhausted Lindbergh (James Stewart) is about to land his plane at Le Bourget field in Paris. He starts to lose it — freaking and whimpering over a sudden inability to focus on the basics of landing a plane. Then he thinks back to a “flying prayer” that a priest had passed on, and he blurts out, “Oh, God, help me.” And of course he lands safely. It’s a cheap Sunday-school trick, but Stewart’s acting and Franz Waxman‘s music sells it.
Leonardo DiCaprio was 19 or 20 when this MTV chat (posted a couple of weeks ago, allegedly taped on 2.5.95) happened. He says he was in Paris to finish shooting The Basketball Diaries, but how could that be when Diaries premiered at the ’05 Sundance Film Festival a couple of weeks earlier? He more likely was there to begin shooting Agnieszka Holland‘s Total Eclipse, right?
LDC’s actual quote about youth (at 4:38) is “I’ll never get to be young again…this is my time to be young.”
This reminds me of Mr. Robinson’s remark to Benjamin Braddock in The Graduate, after learning that Ben has just turned 21. Mr. Robinson (lighting a cigar): “That’s a helluva good age to be. Because Ben…?” Braddock: “Sir?” Mr Robinson: “You’ll never be young again.”
Weekends used to mean something. Now they mean nothing. Friday is like Monday or Tuesday or Sunday. I’ve even stopped caring what day it is.
Nonetheless with my so-called life caught in a faintly hellish state of suspension I’ve decided to try and slog my way through The Wire again. But God, I resent this. I feel the same way about watching this fucking show that I used to feel about certain homework assignments when I was in my early teens. It’s partly to do with the intense anti-allure of Baltimore. The pall of Barry Levinson and John Waters, etc.
If I was in Baltimore right now I’d be immediately be plotting my escape. I’m a tristate area guy — New Jersey, Connecticut, Manhattan/Brooklyn. I’m also attached to Boston, Hanoi, Los Angeles, Paris, Rome, southern Vermont, Key West, Prague, London, Belize, southern Ireland, San Francisco and Livingston, Montana. Just don’t try and force Baltimore on me…Jesus.
A handful of films starring Seth Rogen, or those cowritten by or co-produced by Rogen and Evan Goldberg, have felt unbelievable (i.e., posing a strenuous or obstinate argument with reality or any kind of internal logic) in this or that way. Often in many ways. Knocked Up, The Green Hornet, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, Neighbors, Neighbors 2, The Interview, Sausage Party, Long Shot — all surreal fantasy bullshit devoid of any relationship to human behavior as most of us understand it. Even the wildly hilarious Pineapple Express steps into absurdity quicksand toward the end.
Rogen’s best films and performances — 40 Year-Old Virgin, Superbad, Funny People, 50/50, The Disaster Artist — have happened when he played supporting characters.
The disaster trigger (for me at least) is when an attempt is made to sell Rogen as a sexual being who scores or at least gets lucky. That is a total stopper. If I was some kind of Supreme Hollywood Dictator I would say “keep those dopey Rogen-Goldberg films coming but Rogen can never get laid again with an attractive woman…that scenario is OUT for the rest of his career. Rogen is 38 but looks 49 if a day, and the idea of him participating in any sexual scenario with anyone or anything (including a love doll) doesn’t work for me…that is my final edict.”
All to say that streaming Long Shot was recently suggested, just for the goofy fun of it. And I said “no, no…I can’t, I really can’t. Because it farts in the face of reality at every turn, and because I sat there like a sphinx when I saw it in a theatre.”
“What if a bearded, bulky-bod, hairy-chested journalist with an extremely blunt and adolescent writing style and a name (i.e., FredFlarsky) that says “I’m a dork”…what if the current U.S. Secretary of State, a 40ish foxy type named CharlotteField (Theron), used to babysit Flarsky (Rogen) when he was 10 or 11 and she was 16 or thereabouts, and is now thinking about running for President because the current Oval Office occupant wants to become a bigtime movie actor?
“And what if Flarsky suddenly meets Field at a party and (a) they recognize and reminisce, (b) she decides to hire him as a speechwriter because sheneedsaguywhowriteslikeapissed–offseventhgrader but also (c) quickly develops an attraction for Flarsky, and before you know it is doing him six ways from Sunday? And then love enters the picture and the movie is suddenly about values.
“Given the extremely improbable story line in Long Shot, I figured they’d try to aim it at a late-teen sensibility, perhaps even at 20 or 22 year-olds. Low and semi-coarse and therefore ‘funny’, but occasionally sounding and behaving like, say, a Seth Rogen-flavored In The Loop. Remember that Armando Iannucci film? How fast and sharp it was? How skillful and sure-footed?
“Well, guess what? In The Loop isn’t stupid enough for the Long Shot crowd. It isn’t stoned or digressive or downmarket or druggy enough. (There’s a scene in which Seth and Charlize drop some ‘Molly‘ in Paris.)
“Long Shot, alas, is aimed at a 13 year-old mentality. Okay, a 14 year-old mentality. Every line, every scene save for three or four half-decent moments (did I hear a Brett Ratner joke in there somewhere?) plays to the stoners and dipshits in the cheap seats, otherwise known as the Seth Rogen crowd.
“This would be totally forgivable, of course, if LongShot was funny, but it’s not. When you play it this broadly and this coarse, when every bit and line is written and played on an obviously farcical but brainlessjack–offlevel without the slightest respect for the venal but semi-grown-up political milieu out there or for human behavior as most of us know it, IT’S NOT FUCKING FUNNY.