Four years and four months ago, Tobe Hooper died at age 74. There's no question that Hooper did himself proud with The Texas Chain Saw Massacre ('74), a low-budget slasher thriller that I've never liked but have always "respected". The following Wikipage sentence says it all: "It is credited with originating several elements common in the slasher genre, including the use of power tools as murder weapons and the characterization of the killer as a large, hulking, faceless figure."
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Last night, feeling jazzed about rediscovering Taylor Hackford‘s Proof of Life and realizing it’s a lot better than I’d recalled, I rewatched another violent, crime-related Russell Crowe film from the aughts — Ridley Scott‘s American Gangster (’07).
It remains a sturdy, absorbing, culturally fascinating, Sidney Lumet-like depiction of the rise and fall of heroin importer Frank Lucas (Denzel Washington) and the scrappy, scrupulously honest detective, Richie Roberts (Crowe), who eventually busted and prosecuted Lucas in ’75 and ’76.
AG opened 14 years ago, and plays just as grippingly as ever — no diminishment, constantly engaging, stepped in the lore of Harlem and North Jersey. And my God, Denzel (52 during filming, now 67) looks so young! Younger, in fact, than he did in Spike Lee‘s Inside Man (’06). And what a murderer’s row of African American (or African British) players — Chiwetel Ejiofor, RZA, Cuba Gooding Jr., Joe Morton, Idris Elba, Common, the late Clarence Williams III, Ruby Dee, Roger Guenveur Smith, Malcolm Goodwin.
I was struck again by how satisfyingly well made this film is, as good in its own New York City way (the clutter and crap of the streets, high on those uptown fumes) as Lumet’s Prince of the City (’81).
One reason it plays so well, I was telling myself last night, is that big-studio movies, free from the influence of the superhero plague that was just around the corner in ’06, were generally a lot better in the aughts than they are now. 2007, remember, was one of the great all-time years.
Incidentally: I’ve never watched the 176-minute “Unrated Extended Edition” of American Gangster. Has anyone?
Hollywood Elsewhere was a thriving business and a happy workplace for roughly 13 or 14 years. After launching in August ’04 ad income …well, it was touch-and-go for a while but found its footing sometime in early ’06. And then it grew and grew…offering stability, adventure, intrigue, annual European travel and a thriving lifestyle.
The worm began to turn with the horrific election of Donald Trump in November ’16. From that point on and certainly by the end of ’17 and into early ’18, you could feel the first tremors of wokesterism, triggered by perceptions of obstinate patriarchal whiteness as represented by the various bad guys of the moment (the Trumpster mob, Harvey, Woody, Roman and all the other alleged ogres who were being called out, many deservedly so).
Before I knew it the furies were swirling all over the place…anything that smelled even vaguely of older-white-guy attitudes or viewpoints became a form of evil. HE’s ad income began to drop in ’17 and ’18. It’s been a hellish four years.
I was reviewing all this after stumbling upon a post about a private evening tour of the Louvre’s Egyptian exhibit. It happened on 5.13.17, or four and two-thirds years ago. Life is never a bowl of cherries, but things felt relatively happy and settled at this point. The calm before the storm. Here’s how it went…
HE’s own Svetlana Cvetko and David Scott Smith invited me to join them early Saturday evening at the Louvre. A connected friend of Svet’s escorted us inside to a restricted–access tour of the Egyptian exhibit. I had never before wandered through this world-renowned museum as an invitation-only cool cat. No crowds or lines to cope with. The Egyptian statues, sarcophagi, relics and artifacts were nothing to sneeze at either. The highlight was the 4000 year-old chapel of the tomb (or “mastaba”) of Akhethotep, a bigwig in the Old Kingdom who was close to the king. (Egyptian rulers weren’t called pharaohs until the New Kingdom.)
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...for popularizing the term "friendo" in No Country for Old Man. (Cormac McCarthy or the Coen brothers wrote it, of course, but Javier brought it home.) Favorite Bardem performances, in this order: Vicky Cristina Barcelona, No Country, Before Night Falls, The Counselor, The Dancer Upstairs, Biutiful, The Sea Inside, Skyfall, Being The Ricardos. One of the very few name-brand actors to stand by Woody Allen when spears and missiles were raining down, and to throw shade upon the fanatics. One night on the Cote d'Azur beach in '07 or '08 I bummed a Marlboro light from Javier, and as we parted company a few minutes later he gave me another -- one to grow on, so to speak.
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After last week’s euphoric reaction to the second half of Spider-Man: No Way Home, I fell into an unusual state of mind. Almost beatific. I began to consider that maybe, just maybe, I’d allowed myself to judge too harshly when it came to big CG-driven tentpole films. Perhaps I was evolving on some level, I told myself.
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I knew Sterling Hayden personally. Not well but somewhat. I ran into him here and there in the late ‘70s, interviewed him once or twice. I was a fan and a friend as far as it went. His manner was a bit odd and curious but only because there was so much going on inside. I actually loved that about him. At times peaceful and reflective, at other times anxious or even turbulent, I could always feel — sense — where Sterling was at. He was like a surly uncle with a kind heart and a beautiful half-smile that he only revealed in rare moments.
I watched him act in two locations during filming of Frank Pierson’s “King of the Gypsies” in ‘77. He was happiest as a roamer, a wanderer. He once lived on a river barge in Paris — a life for me if I could’ve managed it! Sterling was magnificent in “The Asphalt Jungle” and “Dr. Strangelove.” and “The Long Goodbye” and Bertolucci’s “1900.”
Quote: “Fasting is the precise opposite of debauch. I’m always torn between the two. The hard thing is to hold that middle ground, hold that middle ground.”
Hayden reminded me of my big, tall, eccentric paternal grandfather, although he wasn’t that far from my father, age-wise. A nearby resident of Wilton, CT. He used to take long morning walks. He was a great writerly fellow, like a character out of Melville. A writer, a dreamer, the soul of a poet, Wonderful Zeus-like gray beard, walking stick, Irish tweed cap. Deep purring voice, and occasionally a bellower when irate. Enjoyed an occasional hash pipe. Loved his Johnnie Walker Red.
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Hayden was one of the most spiritual actors I’d ever had the pleasure to know or speak with.
There are the rote facts of life, the plain material truth of things, and then there are the currents within. The singing angels, the demons, the fireflies, the banshees, the echoes, the dreams…the vague sense of a continuing infinite scheme and how we fit into that. Every last one of us can define our lives as a constant mixing of these two aspects, but the charm and final value of a person, for me, is about how much he/she seems to be cognizant of and dealing with the interior world, and how much he/she comments and refers to those currents and laughs about them, and basically lives on the flow of that realm.
Some go there more frequently or deeply than others, and some are just matter-of-fact types who let their spiritual side leak out in small little droplets from time to time.
Sterling Hayden, by my sights, was almost entirely about those currents. He never just said, “I’d like a little sugar in my coffee” and let it go at that. Well, he would…but if you asked him to expand upon that notion he would just take off and you’d just sit back and marvel. Hayden knew various coffees and coffee growers and had walked through coffee plantations in the Caribbean at dawn and he knew all about how sugar was refined and would speak metaphorically about the sweetness of sugar being the enticement but coffee being the reality of it all, the bean from the earth, the bean that needed to turn brown and then be ground down and prepared just so, and then he’d be off on some tangent that took the coffee-vs.-sugar metaphor and ran with it, or took it and jumped off a cliff as it were.
Hayden was a fascinating, hungry and obviously vulnerable man, Proud but insecure and ridden with guilt about naming names in the ’50s, jolly or surly depending on the time of day, very singular, a great contentious bear of a man, unsettled, always the thinker, certainly a poet or a man trying all the time to be one, a man of the sea and a boy in some ways. He and Patti Smith would have gotten along famously. He loved getting high. And (I’ve already said this) he loved his Johnnie Walker Red.
We were once speaking about his role as the farmer in Bernardo Bertolucci‘s 1900 and he started to talk about his final line in the film, which he wrote, but I said it before he did — “I’ve always loved the wind”. Sterling loved that. He chuckled and patted my knee and said “God love ya.”
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Nancy Reagan was the toughest, closest and most trusted adviser of her husband, Ronald Reagan, during his California governorship and U.S. Presidency. I never had any strong opinions about her one way or the other. I didn’t dislike her as much as I didn’t care. Except, of course, when she launched her infamous “Just Say No” anti-drug campaign in 1986, which nearly everyone regarded as an embarassment.
But my heart went out to her one day in the summer of 2013. It happened inside Alex Roldan hair salon, which is on the first floor of the London hotel in West Hollywood. She was driven from her Bel Air home to the salon every two or three weeks, my hair guy told me, but at age 92 she was obviously frail and her legs were apparently gone. I recognized the syndrome as my mother, who passed in 2015, was going through similar woes at the time.
Two people — a personal assistant and a hair salon employee — were trying to help Mrs. Reagan move from a shampoo chair into her wheelchair, and it was taking forever. I was about ten feet away and was on the verge of offering to help. It wasn’t my place, of course, so I just stood there and watched. The poor woman. Old age offers very little dignity, and no mercy at all.
Remember Lin Manuel Miranda‘s In The Heights, the pizazzy, well-reviewed, media-adored, ethnically-celebrated New York City musical that became one of the biggest crash-and-burn calamities of recent times?
Initial first-weekend projections had it earning as much as $25 million; that figure dropped to the low teens after the first day of release yielded a lousy $5 million. The final opening weekend tally was $11.5 million. Shrieks of shock and disbelief echoed ’round the twitterverse…”what the eff happened?” In The Heights needed $200 million worldwide to break even, but ended up with $43.9 million…wipe-out.
It was generally surmised that Steven Spielberg‘s West Side Story would do better — ecstatic reviews, greater brand recognition, great songs, adored by older demos, respected by upmarket X-factor Millennials. Especially given that it opened without a competing day-and-date streaming option (which In The Heights had). Plus Jett and Cait wanted to see it this weekend at their local West Orange plex and every after-dinner weekend show was sold out — they had to settle for Monday evening.
As recently as yesterday morning it was projected by CNN Business’s Frank Pallotta to earn “roughly” $15 million. But WSS only managed a paltry $4.1 million on Friday (including Thursday previews) and will probably end up with a fizzly $10.5 million by tonight — over a million less than In The Heights.
This basically translates into a big nope.
Deadline‘s Anthony D’Allessandro: “[While] the end game for West Side Story is a marathon [and] not a sprint, the mainstream box-office media [can now] feasibly write that a Spielberg film with a $100 million-plus production cost” — rumored to be as high as $130 million, and that’s without prints and ads — “is a bomb.”
Thanks, Millennials who fucking ignored this exceptionally well made and emotionally affecting film and yet intend to storm theatres next weekend for Spider-Man: No Way Home…thanks, Zoomers…and thanks older people (especially older women) who were too busy or too Covid-concerned to show up. You joined your various lethargies and worked together to help kill the theatrical aura (but hopefully not the long-term potential) of one of the finest and most alive-on the-planet-earth films of the year.
Yes, West Side Story is looking at a long game, but how do you work your way out of under-performing compared to In The Heights? Especially considering that West Side Story cost twice as much as Miranda’s film, and probably shouldered heftier p&a costs.
Jett (33 year old Millennial): “There was nothing about West Side Story that was new or immediate or star-driven or which felt like any kind of direct feed or boost from today’s culture. It’s not a streaming-age movie, and the here-and-now element is minimal. It’s basically a nostalgia show for older audiences, and not enough older viewers came out for it.”
67% of In The Heights audience was over 25; 63% female and 40% Latino. 52% of West Side Story ticket buyers were over 35 and 57% female.
No way around it — this was a shit-level opening for West Side Story. And if it finds no traction next weekend, what left will there be to say?
Nick “Action Man” Clement: “I find it interesting that anyone would have thought that this movie would have actually been a box-office hit. Nobody cares. This would have been the case pre-COVID, but mid-COVID? The movie was doomed from the start.
“I haven’t seen it yet — doubtful I’ll have the chance to see it on the big screen — but this spells the end of the studio-fortified adult drama-slash-big musical. If an ecstatically reviewed Beardo film can’t put butts in seats, what can?
In a 14-paragraph discussion about various pluses and handicaps affecting the 2021 Best Actress Oscar race, Vanity Fair ‘s David Canfield and Rebecca Ford acknowledge (a) the worthiness of Lady Gaga, Kristen Stewart and Nicole Kidman’s respective performances in House of Gucci, Spencer and Being The Ricardos, and at the same time (b) note that buzz for the films themselves has been settling down. And they salute West Side Story’s Rachel Zegler, of course.
Then they actually manage to mention (in paragraphs #10 and #14) the year’s finest lead female performances, hands down — Parallel Mothers’ Penelope Cruz and The Worst Person in the World’s Renate Reinsve. Which struck me as obliging and accommodating.
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…for my early-evening date with Guillermo del Toro‘s Nightmare Alley (which is getting raves for its cinematography and production design), and a little running around after, so I need to delay some of the posts I have planned. But in the meantime…
The night before last I had an excellent time re-watching Spike Lee‘s Inside Man, which is now 15 and 1/2 years old. One of my thoughts was “jeez, Denzel looks so young!” — he was around 51 or 52 during filming. No spring chicken, but much more buoyant looking compared to his 2021 constitution.
Anyway, the HE community needs to assemble a list of the best crime or heist films in which the “bad guys” get away with it**. The first of these would have to be Lewis Milestone and Frank Sinatra‘s Ocean’s 11 (’60) — no, they didn’t get to keep the money at the end but they weren’t caught or punished by the law, and were free to try again. Peter Yates‘ Robbery (’67), to some extent. Norman Jewison‘s The Thomas Crown Affair (’68), of course. Thieves get to keep the loot in Peter Yates‘ The Hot Rock (’71), and of course the cops never get wise.
What are the other big titles in this realm?
** Not Rififi, not Topkapi…a lot of gangs got busted or went home empty-handed in the ’50s and early ’60s.
Earlier today a N.Y. Times story reported that “after two hours of sometimes tense exchanges in one of the most significant abortion cases in years, [a majority of justices on the Supreme Court] appeared poised to uphold the [Mississippi] state law, which bans abortions after 15 weeks of pregnancy.”
I’ve mentioned before that something happened inside me several months ago, back when Jett and Cait‘s daughter, the recently born Sutton, was growing inside Cait. Suddenly the idea of terminating a fetus’s life was no longer an abstraction. I was especially disturbed by the idea of terminating a fetus at 24 weeks, which suddenly seemed wrong on some primal level. The Roe v. Wade law stipulated 24 weeks because that’s the point at which fetuses become viable, yes, but why so long into the pregnancy? Why not 18 or 20 weeks?
The Mississippi law says no abortions after 15 weeks, or a couple of weeks shy of four months. Given reports that many or most women don’t even realize they’re pregnant until the fifth or sixth week, what is so difficult about deciding what to do about a pregnancy within a nine- or ten-week period?
However, the following sentence in the Times story bothered me: “Should Roe be overturned, at least 20 states will immediately or in short order make almost all abortions unlawful, forcing women who can afford it to travel long distances to obtain the procedure.” Why would these 20 states do that? Why not allow pregnant women to terminate pregnancies within the 15-week period?
21 years ago I sat down with Tony Curtis at the Beverly Glen shopping center, just south of Mulholland Drive. I waved to him above the heads of several customers sitting outside a popular, packed delicatessen. Curtis waved me over and led me to the inside of a less-crowded Starbucks — fewer people, fewer stares.
When he ordered coffee for both of us, the woman at the counter insisted on a freebie. “Really?” he said to her. “Well, thank you so much!”
We talked about everything — politics, drug-dependency (Curtis had difficulties in this area during the ’80s), Burt Lancaster, old Hollywood, his website (tonycurtis.com, a venue for selling his paintings), women, new technologies, etc.
At midpoint I handed Curtis a list of his 120 films and asked him to check those he’s genuinely proud of. He checked a total of 18. He checked Sweet Smell of Success (naturally) but not The Vikings. Some Like It Hot (of course!) but not The Outsider. He checked Houdini. Every film he made after Spartacus in 1960 up until 1968’s The Boston Strangler, he didn’t check. He checked his role as a pair of mafiosos — Louis ‘Lepke’ Buchalter in 1975’s Lepke and Sam Giancana in the 1986 TV movie Mafia Princess.
Among his notable TV guest appearances, Curtis checked only one — the voice role of ‘Stony Curtis’ in a 1965 episode of The Flintstones.
Imagine my sitting down with Dwayne Johnson under similar circumstances. Imagine my handing Johnson a list of the nearly 40 films he’s starred or played a strong co-lead in over the last 20 years, and asking him to check those he’s genuinely “proud of”.
Dwayne’s answer would have to be “well, if you’re asking me that in the same way you asked Tony Curtis the same question, my answer would have to be zip. Because I’m not genuinely proud of any of my films. I’m glad a lot of them were popular and made money, and I’m certainly glad that I’ve become a hugely successful brand and all. But I’m not a Tony Curtis-level actor, and I never will be.”
Imagine my sitting down with Chris Pratt under similar circumstances. Imagine my handing him a list of the 14 or 15 films he’s starred or played a strong co-lead in over the last, say, 10 years, and asking him to check those he’s genuinely “proud of”.
Pratt’s answer would have to be “well, if you’re asking me that in the same spirit that you asked Tony Curtis and Dwayne Johnson, my answer would have to be that among the films I’ve starred in, I am genuinely proud of nothing. I’m ‘proud’ a lot of my films made money, and I’m certainly glad that I’ve become a hugely successful, bulky-bod, conservative-minded actor with big money and big homes.
“I’m genuinely proud of three films that I played a supporting role in between 2011 and 2013 — Bennett Miller‘s Moneyball, Kathy Bigelow‘s Zero Dark Thirty and Spike Jonze‘s Her — but that’s another subject. The bottom line is that as a movie star I make commercial fast-food movies and that’s all. If I’m the star, you know it’s going to be a throw-away, more or less. You know it, I know it. I’m really sorry I did Passengers, which everyone hated, but the money was good so I took it and ran like a thief.
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