In Stanley Kubrick‘s Dr. Strangelove (’64), it is made abundantly clear early on that General Jack D. Ripper (Sterling Hayden) is insane. The basic proof is Ripper’s adamant belief in what he calls a “monstrously conceived” Communist plot to inject fluoride into the U.S. water system. Those who insist on their own facts are, by any fair measure, detached from reality and therefore short of a 52-card deck. There are other signs of mental instability but surely the key factor must be a commitment to fantasy and imagination over anything else.
What’s the difference between Ripper’s delusion and the conclusions about the 11.8 election that were tweeted yesterday by President-elect Donald Trump? Trump stated that in the popular vote he ended up over 2 million votes behind Hillary Clinton because “millions” had voted illegally — a totally fact-free assessment. “In addition to winning the Electoral College in a landslide, I won the popular vote if you deduct the millions of people who voted illegally,” Trump wrote.
The man is living on his own fake-news planet, and millions of followers have probably bought into this. Campaign-trail bullshit is one thing, but when has a U.S. President-elect ever announced this kind of straight-faced investment in alternative facts? This is what tyrants and dictators do — this is Nero time. Tell me how it’s inappropriate to apply the term “insane” to Trump as this stage. I’m serious.
What’s the difference between Trump and President Mark Hollenbach in Fletcher Knebel‘s “Night of Camp David,” a 1965 thriller about a first-term Senator, Jim MacVeagh, who comes to believe that Hollenbach has mentally gone around the bend and needs to somehow be relieved of his duties? They seem similar to me.
I’ll finally be seeing Bridget Jones’ Baby. Missed the all-media last August but screener just arrived. Most of what I heard was “not bad, fairly decent, no harm,” etc. Which is roughly what you hear from a film with a 77% Rotten Tomatoes score. But honestly? My first thought when I opened up the package was the Owen Gleiberman hoo-hah from last July. “My view is that Owen was merely saying that the work wasn’t subtle enough,” I wrote on 7.3. “I think that’s a reasonable thing to observe. You can have all the work done that you want, but you can’t allow it to become a topic of conversation.” The Bridget Jones Baby Bluray/DVD comes out on 12.13. It earned a relatively pallid $24 million stateside, but the worldwide tally was $185 million and change.
The target of the famous 1964 “Daisy” ad was Barry Goldwater, of course, but C.C. Goldwater and Tani Cohen‘s Mr. Conservative (’06) persuaded me that while Goldwater’s aggressive foreign policy instincts were extreme and that he was definitely wrong about mid ’60s Civil Rights legislation, he was a genuine Libertarian and therefore not too bad in certain respects. Also: To bend over backwards towards fairness, Donald Trump exclaiming that he’ll want the option of seeming unpredictable regarding nuclear weapons is a carbon copy of Richard Nixon‘s “Madman theory.” And keep in mind how Machiavelli once argued that it can sometimes be “a very wise thing to simulate madness.”
Earlier today I did a phoner with Rod Blackhurst and Brian McGinn, the co-directors of the admirable Amanda Knox, which has been airing on Netflix since 9.30. It’s a smart, absorbing, well-organized doc. Here‘s my 9.21 review.
I’m trusting everyone knows who Knox is and is up to speed with what happened to her in Perugia, Italy. The film reminds that Knox didn’t kill anyone, and that she was railroaded by (a) incurious, overzealous prosecutors, (b) shoddy, second-rate forensics and (c) sensationalistic press coverage by the media but particularly the British tabloid press. The film persuaded me that Knox is a bruised but innocent woman who deserves our sympathy and compassion.
And then I came upon a photo of Knox and Robinson [above]. I couldn’t help but observe that Robinson, who is presumably a nice guy and a gifted writer, looks like a combination of Sacha Baron Cohen‘s Ali G and a space alien from an episode on the old mid ’60s Star Trek series. Who wears a beard like that? I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit that my opinion of Knox plummeted after seeing this photo. I’m not back to wondering if she’s guilty of a crime, of course, but I’m honestly wondering about…well, I’ve said it.
So is the competition among Best Actor contenders a little weak this year, as a colleague recently suggested? When you get past Casey Affleck‘s performance in Manchester By The Sea (locked) and Denzel Washington‘s in Fences (likely), maybe.
The others comprise a roster of approvable-but-not-greats — Tom Hanks in Sully (sober, believable, sturdy), Ryan Gosling in La La land (skillful and affecting but the film belongs to Emma Stone), Andrew Garfield in Hacksaw Ridge (a respectable if “actorish” performance), Joel Edgerton in Loving (not up to Ruth Negga‘s level), Dev Patel in Lion (a decent turn but not as good as the little kid who stars in the first third) and Robert De Niro in The Comedian (which no one has seen).
Jonah Hill as former arms dealer Efraim Diveroli in Todd Phillips’ War Dogs.
Remember War Dogs? I know — not serious enough, released in August, a Todd Phillips film, etc. But if you ask me Jonah Hill was a remarkable stand-out as 20something arms dealer and stone-cold sociopath Efraim Diveroli. Not one of those “maybe” or “pretty good” performances, but extra-level. Really.
From my 8.17.16 review: “Hill’s rascally, conniving performance is the big reason to see War Dogs this weekend. Jonah, Jonah, Jonah…back in Superbad territory but with less schtick and colder blood. The highs, lows and demonic detours of a sociopathic, three-card-monte hustler!
“Jonah is in charge of the surge moments. Half the time you’re thinking ‘okay, this is good, moving along but where’s Jonah?’ or, you know, ‘what’s Jonah’s next big bullshit play gonna be’?
Once again, hats off to the marketing team behind Tom Ford‘s Nocturnal Animals (Focus Features, 11.18) for making this ambitiously conceived but mostly uninvolving psychological drama seem more intriguing than it is. The new trailer is flat-out masterful, and the mildly spooky one-sheet nails it also. I’m not sure if Focus used an outside agency or what, but this is the kind of sell-job that every distributor wants.
My only opportunity to see Gavin O’Connor‘s The Accountant pre-opening was last Wednesday’s Manhattan all-media screening. I blew that off in order to have dinner with Jett in a Bed-Stuy Mexican restaurant. So I saw it last night at the Grove. But within an hour I was ready to leave. Give me credit for sticking it out until the 90-minute mark.
I was moderately intrigued by the autistic assassin idea, but the film is only interested in using that concept to sell a same-old-malarkey action franchise about another lethal, emotionally remote action hero who eliminates bad guys like he’s channel-surfing or, you know, doing what comes naturally. Because he’s a brawny, stealthy, quietly charismatic killing machine of few words…zzzzzz.
Ben Affleck‘s Christian Wolff may be an emotionally remote math wiz, but he’s still Bruce Wayne mixed with John Wick plus (as noted by Atlantic critic Chris Orr) Christian Bale’s Michael Burry character in The Big Short. Who received martial arts training as a child from a robe-wearing, bald-headed Asian instructor…Jesus! That’s when I decided to leave early. If an action film attempting to launch a franchise (and that’s really the basic game here, an origin story that might launch three or four Christian Wolff flicks) can’t create a backstory without resorting to fucking martial-arts training at a formative age, I for one won’t participate.
On top of which I really couldn’t figure out some of the plot teasings, and I really didn’t want to make the effort. I paid money to see this thing and now I have to screw my brain down and work to figure it out? Fuck that. On top of which I can never understand much of what Anna Kendrick is saying with her thin little pipsqueak vocal fry. (Everything she says is a variation on the old Minnie Mouse helium voice…beep-beepity-beep-beep.) On top of which I felt like an idiot for having paid to see this, sitting there in the front row with my fucking small popcorn and large bottle of Dasani water.
Plus The Accountant has no sense of moral order or clarity or balance. Does anyone in this film breathe ordinary oxygen? Every character except Kendrick’s is fairly full of it, side-stepping, double-dealing, lying, misrepresenting, living by some expedient ethical code, a killer or an enabler of same. Or greedy. On top of which I don’t believe that a Treasury Department employee with a soiled past (Cynthia Addai-Robinson) would have been hired in the first place without her background being discovered. Don’t even start with that shit.
I remember watching this 208-minute doc with 18-year-old Jett in the summer of ’06, and his saying around the 70- or 80-minute mark, or roughly where Dylan’s career was in ’60 or ’61, “I don’t get it” — i.e., what was the big deal about this guy? That’s because Dylan didn’t really come into full flower until ’62 or even ’63, and because Part One of No Direction Home (roughly the 110-minute mark) ends with Dylan’s performance at the 1963 Newport Folk Festival. That’s when the heavy journey really began, and when the earth began to move.
People forget that Dylan wasn’t fully free of his lefty-social-protest folk troubadour chapter until Another Side of Bob Dylan. And for many, he didn’t really hit the brass-ring zeitgeist jackpot until Bringin’ It All Back Home.
Summing up: Hillary was the adult, Trump was the bully, Holt was the wimp. She was calm, measured, factual. Trump blathered on, lied, blustered and lied some more. Chris Matthews believes it was A Few Good Men — Trump was Jack Nicholson, Hillary was Tom Cruise. I think by the measure of adult-level facts and seasoned judgment, Hillary out-pointed Trump. Will this matter to Trump voters? Not a bit. Possibly some Gary Johnson voters will be moved somewhat. The main thing is that Hillary stood up and said the right things. She wasn’t knocked off balance, and there were some moments in which she definitely ruled. The loser of the night? Lester Holt.
10:36 pm: Trump: “I saw the polls come in today and I’m either winning or tied.” Hillary: “I hope the people out there understand that this election is really about you. I sure hope that you will get out and vote.” Holt: “Will you accept the will of the people in this election?” Trump: “I will absolutely support her.”
10:30 pm: Hillary: “It is essential that America’s word be good. My answer to the world leaders who are concerned about this, is that our word is good. Donald never tells you what he would do. He has no plans to defeat ISIS. Are we going to lead the world with strength and in accord with our values? I wont to lead a country that our allies can count on.” Trump: “I don’t believe she has the stamina. ” He’s referring to the fainting episode. Holt, your deft and deferential manner is an embarassment.
Hillary: “Try testifying for 10, 11 hours…talk to me about stamina.” Trump: “She’s got experience but bad experience.” Hillary: “This is a man who has called women pigs, slobs and dogs. One of the worst things he said was call a woman in a beauty contest, he called her ‘Miss Piggy’ and ‘Ms. Housekeeper.’ And this woman is going to vote in this election.”
10:22 pm: Trump: “I have better judgment than she has. Of course I do. I also have a better temperament. That may be my biggest asset.” Hillary: “Whoo! Okay!” And then she doesn’t mention his blustery, lying bullshit — all the lies he’s been called on, all his intemperate statements, all his goading of his ugly followers at rallies. Hillary: “The worst part is his attitude about nuclear weapons. His cavalier attitude about nuclear weapons is so deeply troubling. A man who can be provoked by a tweet should not have his hands anywhere near the nuclear codes.”
Grow some balls, Holt! Properly mannered candy-ass. Trump is occupying this debate, hoarding 65%, 70% of the air time.
I didn’t beat a path to see Mel Gibson and Jean-Francois Richet‘s Blood Father because it felt like too much of a rage-driven exploitation retread — a grizzled, tattooed dad with a criminal past protects an alienated, errant daughter from drug dealers. I figured it might be another Get The Gringo, which no one paid attention to. Yes, it managed an 88% Rotten Tomatoes rating when it opened on 8.12, but I still resisted. I figured at least some of the critics were giving Gibson a sympathy pass or paying tribute to the charismatic big-bucks hotshot he used to be.
Well, I was wrong. I finally watched Blood Father last night (it’s streaming on Amazon prior to the 10.11 Bluray debut), and damned if isn’t a highly efficient action-exploitation flick, like something Don Siegel might have made in his prime. It’s tight and well-layered, the writing is character-driven and flavorful and often amusing, the action is grounded and realistic (credit Richet, who directed those excellent, similarly grounded Mesrine flicks from ’08) and the performances deliver well above the usual for this kind of fare, especially in Gibson’s case.
It just works all around and never feels cheap or sloppy or self-mocking. It was clearly assembled by pros who were committed to making something smart and extra-punchy.
Some critic called it “a small gem…a good old-fashioned chase picture, thickened with pulp.” But that makes it sound like it’s mainly an adrenaline flick for the animals. Which it is to some extent, but Blood Father (which is based on a 2006 Peter Craig novel) is also a first-rate character study of a classic bad hombre (ex-con, rage monster, former alcoholic) trying to walk the straight and narrow as well as a mildly affecting father-daughter relationship thing.
I’m sorry to report that Tom Ford‘s Nocturnal Animals (Focus Features, 11.18) is an unappealing drag — a grim, adult-angled thing that few ticket-buyers will like and perhaps a trickle of elite critics (Manhattan foo-foos like Richard Brody, I’m guessing) will tumble for. Speaking as a big fan of Ford’s A Single Man, it gives me no pleasure to say this. I’m heartbroken for all concerned, but this is an ambitious, serious-minded double-tracker — half 21st Century elite ennui, half “fictional” flashback — that scores in a fleeting, in-and-out fashion but mostly sinks into mud.
Based on Austin Wright‘s “Tony and Susan,” Animals is mostly a glum critique of moneyed lifestyles and values. It’s also about different forms of cowardice. It’s enlivened in the fashion of a ’70s exploitation film (such as Wes Craven‘s The Hills Have Eyes) by a violent fictional side-story about a family being attacked in rural Texas by a trio of scumbags, but all this does is create an unwelcome odor.
On top of which the good old “standing waves” acoustical effect, an established characteristic of the Prince of Wales theatre, wiped out at least half the dialogue from my vantage point. But that’s okay — I’ll receive a Nocturnal Animals DVD screener sometime in mid to late November, and I’ll be able to watch it with subtitles.
I got what Animals was saying for the most part, but at the same time I was muttering “that’s it?”
The only keeper in the whole thing is the always dependable Michael Shannon, who scores as a cancer-ridden Texas lawman who just wants to put the bad guys away and to hell with due process. No matter who or what he’s playing, Shannon always nails it.
The film is basically about Susan (Amy Adams), a Los Angeles-based art gallery owner feeling drained by a failing marriage to a big-finance type (ArmieHammer), reading a manuscript of a forthcoming novel by her ex-husband Edward (Jake Gyllenhaal).
A brutal, Death Wish-like tale of an attack upon a husband (also played by Gyllenhaal in the film’s enactment), wife (Isla Fisher) and daughter (Ellie Bamber) in the Texas back-country and the revenge that follows, the book puts Susan through the ringer and takes her back to the reasons she left Edward when he was a struggling book-store employee.
I didn’t hate Nocturnal Animals. I’m fully aware that it’s an ambitious, experimental thing (certainly from a structural standpoint) but I never felt fully drawn in. It keeps you at a distance. Less than 15 minutes after it began I was saying to myself, “Uh-oh, this isn’t working.”
The depiction of Adams’ life is appropriately somber if not morose, but there’s no energy to it. An occasional witty line or smart-ass character (i.e., Jenna Malone‘s) pops up, but this portion of the film (the slow pollution of the soul in the midst of great wealth) felt to me like a flatline thing. The early ’60s films of Michelangelo Antonioni still own this milieu.
Animals is mostly about the Hills Have Eyes sub-section, but there’s very little satisfaction as Gyllenhaal’s within-the-book character, Tony Hastings, doesn’t exactly handle himself like Clint Eastwood or Vin Diesel. I don’t know what he could have done differently after the animals (led by Aaron-Taylor Johnson and Karl Glusman) strike, but he’s a wimp for the most part, and I generally don’t hold with candy-asses. Yes, a certain payback finally arrives but not in a way that I enjoyed or cared about.
But at least this portion gives Shannon an opportunity to saunter along and hold the film hostage with his steely glare and deadpan humor.
I got into a brief back-and-forth last night with Farran Nehme (a.k.a. Self Styled Siren) about’60s-World War II movies and particularly John Sturges‘ The Great Escape (’63), which I loved as a teenager and 20something but which has been irritating me more and more as I get older.
My basic beef is that the American and British prisoners are so casually enterprising, so smooth and cool and smug, that most of the camp scenes feel more or less like Hogan’s Heroes — i.e., doses of light attitude + mild slapstick comedy mixed with Sgt. Bilko with Germans. Stalag 17 feels much more realistic. The prisoners swagger around like cock of the walks, smirking and dispensing insults and just getting away with every stunt in the book.
The only bad thing that happens during the entire camp portion (or about 65% to 70% of the film) is when one of the three tunnels is discovered by the Germans. That’s it! No other mishaps or mistakes except for the shooting of Angus Lennie‘s Archibald Ives, except in my book that’s a good thing.
Five random irritants: (1) The German camp commanders are far too lenient with the prisoners, who after all have been put into this super-camp because they’re all disobedient bad apples with a high likelihood of trying to escape;
(2) Why oh why don’t the Germans simply post two guards inside each of the barracks so as to spot any possible digging going on?;
(3) I despise Richard Attenborough‘s Roger/”Big X” character, such that I always feel a slight pang of pleasure when he gets machine-gunned to death near the end (not that I’m happy that the other 49 other prisoners are killed but at least Attenborough has been shut up for good);
(4) I hate the Brigadoon-like Scottish accent and cute-little-guy mannerisms used by Lennie, and so I always find it gratifying when Ives gets machine-gunned to death on the camp wire;
(5) That scene when McQueen and Ives explain to their superiors how they intend to dig their way out under the fence like moles is completely absurd and not even vaguely funny, and McQueen’s delivery of his dialogue is straight out of The Honeymoon Machine.