In a 6.7 N.Y. Times piece about the increasing prominence of web-based critics in movie-marketing campaigns, Michael Moses, executive vice president of national publicity for Universal, tells Brooks Barnes that “some of the best film writing and most substantive reviews are found online. Those sources are as legitimate as any other.”

And Mike Vollman, president of marketing for MGM and United Artists, says he “will probably rely more on quotes from blogs than from Time magazine and The Los Angeles Times” when he slaps together his campaigns for Fame, a remake of the 1980 musical, and Hot Tub Time Machine.

“The reality, and I’m sorry to tell you this, is that younger moviegoers are more likely to be influenced by a blog than by a newspaper critic,” Vollman said.

In Dave Kehr‘s 6.7 N.Y. Times review of Warner Home Video’s just-out DVD of Michelangelo Antonioni‘s Zabriskie Point (’70), he quotes a line spoken by the late Mark Frechette, who played the lead male role. I haven’t seen Zabriskie Point in eons and Kehr has obviously just seen it, but I’m 95% sure he slightly misquotes.

The line is spoken when Frechette stands up to speak during a meeting of lefty radicals who are talking about whether they’re willing to risk their lives in order to fight the pigs. My recollection is that Frechette says, “Well, I’m willing to die” — beat, beat — “of boredom.” And then he walks out. Kehr quotes Frechette as follows: “I, too, am ready to die for the revolution, but not of boredom.” Very slight difference and not a big deal, but I have pretty good recall.

Sidenote #1: “On August 29, 1973, Frechette and two members of [Mel Lyman’s] commune attempted to rob the New England Merchant’s Bank in the Fort Hill neighborhood in Boston. One of the members of the commune was killed by police and Frechette, who did not have bullets in his gun, was arrested and sentenced to the minimum security state prison in Norfolk, Massachusetts. He died under suspicious circumstances during a weightlifting accident when a 150-pound bar fell on his neck, allegedly choking him to death. Officials did not suspect foul play however questions arose over whethere Frechette had been suffering from depression.”

Sidenote #2: Harrison Ford’s Wikipedia bio says he “had an uncredited role in Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1970 film Zabriskie Point as an airport worker.” Whatever the accuracy of this, I doubt that Ford is the guy in this Great Escape clip — even though it looks just like him.

I wandered outside yesterday afternoon for something to eat, and when I began to head back I realized I’d left my keys inside and had locked myself out. It took 45 minutes to get back in, and the way I managed it drew a small crowd. Flashing firetruck lights, an extension ladder against the building, loud walkie-talkies, etc. The talk of the neighborhood.

My first move was to buzz myself into the building and ask the fat guy who lives upstairs if I could hang myself out of one of his windows and drop down to my level. His place looks out on a four-walled open-air space that adjoins an open window in my kitchen. He was cool about it, but said the only window is in the bathroom and I might not fit. He was right — strictly a job for the Asian guy from Ocean’s 11 — and it was too far to drop down anyway.

So I called a couple of locksmiths and was told it would probably cost $150. Didn’t like that at all. Then I remembered that my street-facing living-room window was open without a screen. Do you guys happen to have a ladder of any kind?, I said. “Why would we have a ladder?,” the guy said. “We’re locksmiths.” I went over to the hardware store across the street and asked if they had a ladder I could borrow — nope.

So I sucked it in and called the local fire department — took me a long while to finally get through — and asked if they’d mind doing me a favor. Less than ten minutes later a big shiny red truck arrived with three guys aboard. “Have you got ID that says you live here?” the top guy asked. Yes, I do, definitely. They took the ladder off the side of the truck and three minutes later my door was open, situation solved. Thanks, guys — good of you to do this. “You’re welcome, have a good day.”

Tax dollars, public utilities…a good thing!

“So far I’ve only succeeded in my dreams. I practice transcendental meditation and there is a phase where you’re meant to lift off the ground. It hasn’t happened yet. I’ll manage it one day. In fact, I’m aiming beyond levitation. I want to be able to fly like a superhero. I won’t be happy until I can fly across oceans and cities, saving people from being murdered.” — The Hangover costar Heather Graham quoted in an interview with London’s Daily Mail.

In The Americanization of Emily James Garner‘s character says a line to the effect that “nobody gets moral or spiritual unless they want to get something or get out of something.” Graham sounds like she’s in a relatively good place in her head, but I think she’s emphasizing her spiritual life in this interview as a way of saying “I’m fine with my career having cooled down and that I’m playing leads in indies that nobody sees and supporting roles in rowdy guy comedies. That’s all right with me because I’m tethered to something eternal and inspiring. And whatever happens, happens. I feel good.”

Ed Helms owns The Hangover. He puts out the most energy and and comic pizazz. By far. Zach Galifianakis, I have to say, disappointed me somewhat. Certainly in contrast to Helms. He’s just playing the primitive oafish infant who causes all the trouble…not impressed. Bradley Cooper scores nicely. I’ve never really tuned into him before, but he’s given his best performance yet. Justin Bartha is fine but he’s the absent sacrificial lamb. The second funniest guy is Ken Jeong — a madman.

I was fairly pleased with The Hangover. It’s much better than any number of drunk-adolescent-guys-get-into-into-serious-trouble-and-have-to-extricate-themselves-the-next-morning movies I’ve seen over the last 27 or 28 years, when the genre more or less began with films like Losin’ It and Risky Business. It put me in a good mood. I laughed from time to time. I loved the line about how “roofies” should be called “floories” because that’s where you always end up — on the floor. And the closing video montage that finally shows us what happened works nicely.

But it’s not a landmark film. It’s a B-plus. It takes a while to get going. (Jett leaned over at the 15-minute mark and whispered. “It’s not funny.”) But if I were a Warner Bros. exec, I’d definitely call for a sequel, especially considering what it made this weekend.

I picked up a two-disc collectors’ edition of The Magnificent Seven a couple of days ago. Would this 1960 John Sturges western be considered a classic without Elmer Bernstein‘s rousing score? I don’t think so. And yet I’ve always preferred it to Akira Kurosawa‘s The Seven Samurai (’54), which Seven is a remake of, because of the zen coolness factor provided by Yul Brynner, Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson and James Coburn.

I’m not saying it’s not a legendary western or a great guy movie, but it’s too talky. On one level I admire Sturges’ decision to clearly state the themes with William Roberts, Walter Bernstein and Walter Newman‘s above-average dialogue, but there’s just too much of it. When in doubt say less, or better yet nothing. Silences and visual suggestions can be golden.

And I’ve always been bothered by the affected acting style of Robert Vaughn (i.e. the way he conspicuously smacks his lips and draws a breath before delivering each line) — a huge pain in the ass. And if only the English spoken by the Mexican peasants was a little less correct with maybe a little Spanish thrown in from time to time. These guys sound like Hispanic literature professors at L.A. City College.

But the worst thing about it are those awful gunshot sounds. Every time someone fires we hear the exact same guh-BACH-auhl sound, like the sound team recorded one gunshot out in a canyon somewhere and used the same fragment over and over and over. God! I would go so far to say that the Magnificent Seven gunshots are the most irritating in motion picture history. The guilty parties are Del Harris (sound effects editor) and sound assistants Rafael Esparza and Jack Solomon.

I would go further and say that a defining trait of all first-rate westerns and urban action films is that the gunshots always sound awesome. The best six-shooter gunshots ever heard in motion picture history are in Shane, of course. They sound like warship cannons in an echo chamber. (Director George Stevens expended great effort, of course, to achieve this effect.) Another film with excellent gunshots is Michael Mann‘s Collateral, except they’ve never sounded as good on the DVD as they did when I first saw it at an Arclight press screening.

This conceptual Invictus poster, posted yesterday by Ryan Adams on Awards Daily, is embarassing. Matt Damon, who plays rugby star Francois Pienaar, is wearing the same kind of green jacket that he’s been photographed wearing on Clint Eastwood‘s set, but without the dyed blonde hair. And it sure seems as if the rendering of Morgan Freeman, who plays Nelson Mandela, is taken from Million Dollar Baby. I mean, it’s just crap. Plus Adams says the IMDB “hasn’t yet caught up with the title change” from The Human Factor to Invictus. Except they have.

It’s worth suffering through this Dobie Gillis clip for the appearance of Warren Beatty, who’s onscreen from 3:15 to 4:23. The 22 year-old actor played the snooty jock Milton Armitage, Gillis’s romantic nemesis, for six episodes during the ’59-’60 season. The interesting thing is that Beatty, obviously in agony, didn’t use his own scruffy offbeat charm in order to steal the scene. He’s playing a rich and arrogant smoothie in a very immersive and low-key fashion. The affected blue-blood accent is the only concession to comedic sitcom acting.

The Bluray of Michael Wadleigh‘s director’s cut of Woodstock is a curiously beautiful thing to sit through. There’s something in the way it brings you back to ’69 and makes you feel the whole tingle of it, the way it felt “out there” before the festival kicked off and how the emotional generosity and benevolence from the crowd and the performers alike seemed to catch on and reverberate every which way.

I’m glad I own it, glad I’ve seen it. I’ll be watching portions from time to time over the summer. The Bluray mastering adds stronger colors and sharper detail to my recollection of how the film looked in theatres, although I haven’t watched the regular DVD version. The bottom line is that it was filmed in 16mm so it can only look so good. The sound, as you might imagine, is excellent and full of good throb, but I’m sure it all sounds better in a big theatre with heavy-duty speakers.

The best back-to-Woodstock experience would be for Warner Home Video to have a huge public screening on a massive screen at the original festival site in Bethel, New York. At night. With good food and drink and killer digital sound. But that’s not going to happen, apparently.

In a recently-posted piece called “Grainstorm, My Ass,” Some Came Running‘s Glenn Kenny says my 6.4 complaint about the extra-vivid grain in the new Dr. Strangelove Bluray is “all wet” and that I “need to recalibrate my monitor,” etc. His basic point is that director Stanley Kubrick was always a grain freak and that Strangelove is supposed to look as if a swarm of monochrome Egyptian mosquitoes are flying around the heads of Peter Sellers, George C. Scott Sterling Hayden, etc.

The problem is that he’s ignored a paragraph that precisely explains what I meant. I said it isn’t that the presence of Strangelove grain that bothers me per se but the way it seems much more pronounced than on any previous home video rendering.

“I understand and respect the fact that Dr. Strangelove (’64) was always intended to look somewhat grainy” I said. “I realize that the inside-the-B-52 scenes used source lighting and that the combat footage outside Burpleson Air Force base was supposed to resemble newsreel footage, and these conditions were meant to result in stark and unprettified images. Which is fine.

“But I’ve been watching this film for decades and the Bluray version is easily the grainiest rendering yet. The grain isn’t just noticable — it’s looks much more explicit.”

This DVD Beaver comparison of the various Strangelove versions make it clear the Bluray rendering is brighter and sharper and thus more grain-vivid. My point is therefore proved — just look at the differences. Glenn Kenny and other detractors have therefore been proved wrong. Case closed.

As I explained in my just-posted reasons to be pretty review, the plot of Neil LaBute‘s play is triggered by an overheard ill-chosen remark by factory-worker Greg (Thomas Sadoski) that the face of his live-in girlfriend Steph (Marin Ireland) is “normal,” which she finds so devastating that she leaves him. He tells her that he meant “normal” as a compliment but it it doesn’t fly.

To describe a woman you care for as “normal” obviously means you don’t see her as drop-dead attractive. It means that you see her face as fine, good enough, pleasant, half-there. Most of us think of “normal” as one step up from homely — obviously a hurtful thing to say about anyone. (I would never use the term”ugly” to describe anyone outside of sufferers of elephant-man disease, and even then I wouldn’t use it.) But if you substitute “normal” for a letter grade of B-plus, B, B-minus or C-plus, you could almost see “normal” as a kind of compliment.

Let’s consider two well-known quotes to start things off. Albert Brooks‘ character voiced the first in Broadcast News: “Always choose a woman who’s just hot enough to turn you on.” He could have continued by saying, “Reach a little bit higher than that and you’re flirting with trouble. Go much higher than that and you’re flat-out asking for it.” The other quote is from a famous early ’60s Jimmy Soul tune that goes “if you want to be happy for the rest of your life, don’t make a pretty woman your wife.”

Life has taught most of us that the best women to be with in a relationship are B-plusses, Bs, B-minuses and C-plusses. I’m not saying you can’t be perfectly happy with a triple-A or a double-A — I’m saying that happiness odds increase when you drop down into the B and high-C categories. Every now and then you’ll get lucky and meet a lovely, spiritually attractive, good-for-the-soul A-minus woman, but the odds don’t favor it.

That’s because A-category women — especially the model-pretty, drop-dead glammies (be they rail thin or breathtakingly curvy and buxom) whom I categorize as triple-As and double-As — are often trouble and not worth the long-run grief. Because they know it’s not that hard to find a replacement at a drop of a hat and are therefore a bit more adjusted to the idea of trading up if push comes to shove. They’ll almost never admit this (even to themselves), but this is often how things work.

This is why describing a woman as a B or a high-C is a compliment — because you’re saying in effect that she’s probably got good internal qualities as well as looks. You’re saying that she’s probably a good person inside, good all around the track, keeper material, etc.

Thank God for life’s exceptions (my last serious relationship was with a solid A and she was fine all around for the most part) but many A-category women (with the exception of A-minus types) are a handful — often with very pricey material expectations and wanting things to be as good as what they got from their well-to-do dads if not better, aware that they can trade up fairly easily if the mood strikes, often looking around for a better deal if there are any troublesome issues with their current beau (and what relationships don’t have issues?), or at least exhibiting a tendency to re-assess and renegotiate with much greater frequency than B or C-plus women.

This may sound overly pat but A types tend to be less solid due to the fact that men (starting with their fathers, grandfathers and uncles) have been making a big fuss over them all their lives — catering to them, paying their way, putting them on a pedestal, constantly flattering, quick to offer gifts and concessions and accommodations — and life has simply never encouraged them to develop that much internally. They’ve all been taught that all they need to do is look around and send certain signals and guys all around them will drop to their knees and start panting like dogs.

Life would be heavenly and rhapsodic if women had the personality and temperament of dogs — forever loyal, non-judgmental, constantly affectionate. But that’s a loser’s dream.

B- and C-level women have tasted a little rejection and have come to understand that love and relationships are a two-way street and that it’s not all about them and their whims or whatever. People only develop emotionally and spiritually when they’ve been forced to, and a certain working familiarity with rejection among women or men obviously tends to encourage this. Knowing that others are more attractive than yourself means you have to work harder and develop the internals in order to compete.

Obviously average- or funny-looking guys luck out now and then (as Marty Ingels did with Shirley Jones as well as that French horse-face guy who hooked up with Racquel Welch in the ’70s) but the only way I’d even consider trying to launch a relationship with a solid A, double-A or triple-A would be if they’re 45-plus. That’s because age tends to take everyone down a peg or two by meat-market standards — they suddenly realize they’re not the package they once were and that younger women are more tantalizing to the most stable providers and that encourages them to develop themselves within and reassess the game and be a tad more accommodating.

By this standard women who are Cs should be even better (sweeter, kinder, fairer-minded, more spiritually resourceful, more turn-the-other-cheek) than Bs, and that C-minuses and Ds would be better still and so on. My closest female friends tend to be from the C and D crowd. I’ve noticed however, that if women are too far down into C- and D-hood they sometimes develop scars and hang-ups and complications in the other direction. I don’t have much experience with Cs and Ds in a romantic vein so I shouldn’t say more than this. All my life I’ve been with (or have pursued) Bs and B-plusses and the occasional A-minus. I’ve avoided As like the plague and I don’t even try to talk to double-As or triple-As at parties.

I had a brief chat with Angelina Jolie not too long ago and I couldn’t really relax or be myself. She’s a nice person but those lips, those eyes…the whole thing. I was flustered, quietly stammering, trying too hard. I tried to calm down and play it cool and easy, but I’m so used to not even speaking to women of her calibre that I couldn’t escape a slight inner trembling.

I didn’t want to get this far into it. I’m just saying that calling a woman a B-type can be, in a manner of speaking, a kind of compliment. Let’s leave it at that.