As far as I can foresee we’re looking at 16 possible Oscar-calibre films due in 2013. I can predict one thing for sure: between his lead roles in Saving Mr. Banks and Captain PhillipsTom Hanks is looking at an almost certain Best Actor nomination. The only other guarantee is that Lee Daniels’ The Butler will be a fiasco, but you knew assumed that going in.
In the order of likely quality, the probable picks of 2013:
If you want to be liberal about it there is also Terrence Malick‘s two ventures — the film formerly known as Lawless plus Knight of Cups (neither of which might not be released until 2014 or 2015…you know Malick).
One could also include Ben Stiller‘s The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Nicholas Winding Refn‘s Only God Forgives, Ron Howard‘s Rush and David Cronenberg‘s Maps to the Stars. (Thanks to HE readers bfm and Jeremy Baril.)
Not to mention Neill Blomkamp‘s Elysium, Joseph Kosinski‘s Oblivion, Robert Schwentke‘s R.I.P.D., Steven Spielberg‘s Robopocalypse, Sam Raimi‘s Oz: The Great and Powerful, Ruben Fleischer‘s The Gangster Squad, Guillermo del Toro‘s Pacific Rim and David Fincher‘s 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea: Captain Nemo.
Last night was split between premiere screenings of (and after-parties for) Gus Van Sant, Matt Damon and John Krasinski‘s Promised Land (which I gave a thumbs-up to yesterday) and Walter Salle‘s On The Road, which I’ve been friending since my initial viewing in Cannes last May. The after-events were at West Hollywood’s Fig and Olive and a sixth-floor balcony suite at the Chateau Marmont, respectively.
(l. to r.) On The Road director Walter Salles, costar Kristen Stewart and composer Gustavo Santaolalla — Thursday, 12.6, 11:40 pm.
Kristen Stewart and Francis Coppola received most of the attention at the latter event. I spoke briefly with Robert Pattinson about his costarring role in Maps To The Stars, a David Cronenberg film that will shoot in LA in the spring, he said. Previous brief chatter at the Promised Land party happened with Van Sant and Krasinki, who co-wrote Promised Land. The latter spoke enthusiastically about the scriptwriting side of things and mentioned that he’s been speaking with Cameron Crowe about possibly teaming on a project.
(l. to r.) Promised Land star, co-writer Matt Damon, costar & co-writer John Krasinki, Variety‘s Jeff Sneider at Fig and Olive — Thursday, 12.6, 10:05 pm.
(l. to r.) Graemm McGavin, Arbitrage director-writer Nic Jarecki, Francis Coppola at On The Road Chateau Marmont after-event — Friday, 12.7, 12:20 am.
Promised Land director Gus Van Sant.
Promised Land costar & cowriter John Krasinki at Fig and Olive — Thursday, 12.6, 9:45 pm.
Main culinary event at Promised Land after-party, which was funded by the good folks at Focus Features, the film’s distributor.
I missed Alice Rohrwacher‘s La Chimera at last year’s Cannes Film Festival and then again in Telluride eight months ago, but I finally saw it at the Jacob Burns on Sunday night and man, it has a real unwashed, hand-to-mouth, transportational spirit thing going on.
It’s about the ancient past (Etruscan artifacts) being dug up in Tuscany and sold and exploited by lowlife scruffs, and how this all shakes down in a moralistic or fable-like sense. It doesn’t pay off emotionally, or at least not in a way that I recognize, but it almost does. And it definitely feels whole by the end — I can say that for sure.
Rohrwacher, her dp Hélene Louvart (who mostly shoots within 1.37 and 1.66 aspect ratios), editor Nelly Quettier and the mostly tramp-like, generally unattractive cast (except for the radiant Carol Duarte, a Brazilian actress playing a kind of Gelsomina- or Guilietta Masina-like innocent, and the white-haired, eternally beautiful Isabella Rosellini)…Rohrwacher and friends are definitely up to something here.
Tall, pale-faced, unshaven Josh O’Connor plays Arthur, a kind of artifact whisperer — a filthy British-born bilingual fellow who smokes all the time, wears dirty clothing and ugly footwear and shuffles around with one of the worst haircuts in movie history.
But Arthur is about more than just stinky socks and rancid cigarette breath — he can sense or smell where Etruscan artifacts (sculpture, goblets, statues, frescoes) are buried, and so most of the film is about Josh guiding a band of tomb robbers on illegal digs. Their findings are sold to a sinister art dealer (Alba Rohrwacher, the director’s older sister), and that’s how they make ends meet.
La Chimera is about hundreds upon hundreds of spirit elements coexisiting in a hungry, dirt-poor realm without showers or deodorants or laundromats…the soiling and pirating of ancient remnants by low-life scuzzies…buried Etruscan pottery and tiled floors and erotic figurines…soil whispers, dusty ghosts.
Ethical conflicts abound, of course, but what matters is treating the past with care and reverence and allowing others to bask in its beauty. I don’t see what’s so bad about selling found history. As long as the artifacts are respected and not hoarded, what’s the problem?
It took me a good half hour before I got past O’Connor’s smelly feet and disgusting cigarette smoking and began to realize where the film is headed — before it hit me that it’s a casting a kind of underclass spell that really takes hold…that it’s a La Strada-like adventure or dirt poem, a half-fantasy or fairy tale about wretched refuse types looking to survive as best they can and not fretting about ethical issues…about digging up Etruscan pots and cups and marble statues and you-name-it…poor folks sifting through soil in Tuscany’s hidden regions (i.e., the kind that tourists rarely gaze upon).
Talk about a curious turn-on mechanism but this is Rohrwacher’ssignature…she takes all kind of disparate, haunting, non-hygenic elements and throws them together like a salad maker…nothing is the least bit glammy or posed or polished or conventionally alluring…everything is half-assed, raggedy-assed…the sublime merged with the ugly.
La Chimera features one of the ugliest coastline super-sized factories I’ve ever seen in my life — it reminded me of a coastline factory in Piombino, a working-class town where tourists catch the ferry to Elba.
La Chimera has a real sense of spirit. Rohrwacher (her first name is pronounced Ahh-LEE-chuh) really goes for the off-handed, the weird, the gunky, the untidy, the muddy. It’s not exactly pleasant, but is kind of wonderful all the same.
Yesterday evening I told a journalist friend I was having trouble reaching out to associates of a certain famous guy over a certain matter (never mind what). And so I mentioned a thought about possibly dropping off a sealed note at the famous guy’s home. Couldn’t hurt, right?
Journo friend was mildly alarmed by this. He actually used the word “stalker” in our discussion. Dropping a note in a mailbox is stalking?
The first time I tried the letter-drop approach was in December 1980. I had pitched a Peter O’Toole interview to GQ, and they said “okay, go for it” and ICPR publicist Carl Samrock approved it by, I understood, laying the groundwork. So I flew to London, and O’Toole’s rep said “what interview?…we didn’t agree to this.”
How did I save the day? In journo-friend terminology I “stalked” O”Toole by finding his Hampstead Heath address (Guyon House, 98 Heath St., London NW3 1DP, UK) and dropping off two or three letters (successive) in his mailbox, begging him to grant me a little time so I could fulfill the assignment.
After the second or third letter they agreed. I was given 45 minutes at O’Toole’s home. Downstairs parlor. Our chat happened a day or two after John Lennon was murdered — 12.9.80 or 12.10.80.
I might not have been the most skilled or confident journalist at the time, but he gave me the absolute bare minimum in terms of time and open-heartedness. (I remember thinking as I left his home, “Wow, a bit of a prick but at least we spoke.”) We also chatted during a 1981 press event for My Favorite Year, and once again he wasn’t all that mensch-y.
O’Toole was probably one of those guys who needed a few drinks to really relax. I know he tended to regard conversations as an opportunity to pronounce and speechify.
So no, it wasn’t a great interview, on top of which only half of it was recorded due to some glitch in my ghetto-blaster recording device. I nonetheless managed to throw together a reasonably good article.
HE to journo pally: “Do you sincerely believe that if I were to drop off a letter at [the famous actor’s] building and he were to read it after his lobby concierge guy passed it along…do you sincerely believe that the blood would drain out of the guy’s face upon opening and reading the letter? Do you honestly believe that he would be seized with anxiety and paranoia and might reach for a sedative?”
From HE’s O’Toole obit (12.14.13): “He was a legendary lover of drink, a magnificent royalist, a classical actor for the ages with one of the most beautiful speaking voices ever heard. Fire in the blood and diction to die for. O’Toole was a legendary personality (he could be great on talk shows), the half-mad blonde beauty of Lawrence of Arabia, an inhabitor of King Henry II (twice), the wonderfully spirited fellow who rebounded with The Stunt Man, the voice of the gourmand in Ratatouille…a brilliant man in so many respects.
“In private he could be a bit of a snob (or at least with the occasional journalist) but when he chose to be ‘on’ O’Toole snapped and crackled like lightning.
“He had five peak periods in his career. The first peak was a three-year period (’61 to ’64) starting with his being hired to play T.E. Lawrence and then making the film and exploding onto the scene when Lawrence of Arabia opened in late ’62, and then following up with his best performance ever as King Henry II in Peter Glenville‘s Becket.
“He lost ‘it’ for a period in the mid ’60s but then got it back as Henry II redux in Anthony Harvey‘s The Lion in Winter (’68). Then he returned again with that hilarious performance as a hippie-ish paranoid schizophrenic in The Ruling Class (’72). The fourth rebound happened between ’80 and ’82 with his performances in The Stunt Man, the TV epic Masada and My Favorite Year. The fifth and final rebound happened in the mid aughts with Troy, Venus and his voicing role in Ratatouille.
“I loved who he became when the spirit burned within. When he had great dialogue to run with, when the movie and the director were right and the stars had aligned.
“And I loved his snarliness. Listen to this wondrous passage from Becket. This was a man who knew from the crackle of electrons and who didn’t shrink from the moment or the role or anything else. He never ‘existed’ in the Llewyn Davis sense of the term. I never really knew who he really was deep down but when the moment required it O’Toole was one of the most intensely alive actors of all time.”
12.8.20 will be the 40th anniversary of John Lennon‘s murder. I’ve written about this four or five times, but how can I ignore the 40th? How can I not go there?
I was in London, waking up on a couch in Stockwell, when I heard the news. I was there to do a Gentleman’s Quarterly interview with Peter O’Toole, whose career-reviving performance in The Stunt Man was one of the hot topics of filmdom. (I wound up doing it a couple of days later in the basement of “Shady Old Lady”, O’Toole’s Hampstead home at 98 Heath Street.)
So I was crashing with a couple of ladies I knew through a journalist friend, and the first thing I heard in the early morning light (maybe 6 or 6:30 am) was “Jeff, wake up…you need to hear this.” And then the radio came on.
Being in London that morning made me feel vaguely closer to the Lennon legacy. Somewhat. Even though Lennon had been a U.S. resident for eight-plus years. I felt gutslammed like everyone else, but I didn’t choke up for another few hours. That evening in fact. After a couple of pints. Alcohol does that.
My stoic younger brother wept, according to my mother. He visited my parents’ home (45 Seir Hill Road, Wilton, CT) the following day to talk it over, and it all leaked out. The poor guy didn’t wind up living what anyone would call a driven or a bountiful or even a somewhat happy life. He passed from an accidental Oxycontin and alcohol overdose in October 2009.
If I’d been in the States I doubt I would’ve heard the news from Howard Cosell on Monday Night Football. I’ve never watched football games, ever, for any reason. And I never will.
Many rock stars had died of drugs and fast living in the ’70s (Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin), but Lennon’s murder was the first big twentysomething and thirtysomething boomer tragedy — an event that throttled the big media world, and which made everyone who’d ever learned Beatle harmonies feel suddenly slugged in the heart, not in a sharply painful romantic breakup way but in a slightly older person’s (certainly not a younger person’s) way…a terrible weight of the world thing…an awful sense of vulnerability and the jabbings of a harsh and cruel world.
In the obsessively warped mind of Mark David Chapman, Lennon was killed for having betrayed his destiny as a kind of spiritual leader and torch-bearer, which he arguably was from ’64 through ’70 (the end of the dream coming with the release of Plastic Ono Band).
He was therefore assassinated, in Chapman’s mind, for the crime of having withdrawn from the hubbub and become a retiring house husband in the Dakota…just another pampered rich guy whom Holden Caulfield would have strongly disapproved.
YouTube guy: “I was watching that night. Never in a million years would I have imagined that John Lennon would be murdered, and that I would learn of his death from Howard Cosell on Monday Night Football. Like millions of fans, I burst into tears. I felt like I’d personally been robbed of most of my childhood. Of course I grieved for his family, but I was a member of John Lennon’s larger family, which was the whole world.”
Poor, dessicated, syphilis-afflicted Al Capone (Tom Hardy) near the end of his life. Plotzing in South Florida (he resided at 93 Palm Avenue in Miami Beach), shuffling around in a bathrobe, sucking on a fat stogie, haunted by his violent past. Capote was only 48 when he died.
Josh Trank‘s film, which began filming two years ago in New Orleans, is now called Capone. Trank directed, wrote and edited. Costars include Linda Cardellini, Matt Dillon, Kyle MacLachlan, Kathrine Narducci, Jack Lowden, Noel Fisher and Tilda Del Toro.
Hardy loves to play grotesques, obsessives, creepy oddballs. The Kray brothers in Legend. John Fitzgerald in The Revenant. Eddie Brick in Venom. Tommy Riordan Conlon in Warrior. The all-but-indecipherable Bane in The Dark Knight Rises. Leo Demidov in Child 44.
Over the last decade I’ve liked three of his performances — building contractor Ivan Locke in Locke (my all-time favorite), Farrier the Spitfire pilot in Dunkirk, and Max Rockatansky in Mad Max: Fury Road.
Sopranoscon (i.e., Comic-Con meets The Sopranos) is happening this weekend at the Meadowlands Exposition Center in Secaucus. (Or, as Joe Pesci‘s Tommy pronounced it in Goodfellas, “SEE-kawkus.”) “Sopranos Sessions” co-authors Matt Zoller Seitz and Alan Sepinwall were the Sunday stars.
Sidenote: Among all the classic Sopranos lines immortalized on the wall [pictured below], I don’t see “they don’t sell hot dogs here — they took the bleachers out two years ago.”
Of the three films I’m planning to catch today, Kleber Mendonca Filho and Juliano Dornelles‘ Brazilian, politically-driven Bacarau (which screens tonight at 10 pm) seems to have a special energy, to go by the trailer. Filho’s last film, Aquarius, played in Cannes three years ago. Sonia Braga stars in both.
Boilerplate: “Bacurau, a small town in the Brazilian countryside, mourns the loss of its matriarch, Carmelita, who lived to be 94. Days later, its inhabitants notice that their community has vanished from most maps.”
Filho to The Jarkata Post: “I am a Brazilian filmmaker. I live at a time when Brazilian society is suffering and stories are springing up.”
George Clooney‘s Catch 22 miniseries (Hulu, 5.17, six episodes) looks visually similar to Mike Nichols‘ Catch 22 (’70), and they sound alike also. The thinking, I’m sure, was that Clooney’s six-hour version could accommodate more of Joseph Heller’s sprawling World War II saga (Clooney is playing Colonel Scheisskopf, a character ignored by the Nichols version) and that it might feel more satisfying than Nichols’ film, which after all was a critical and commercial bust.
Nichols’ film famously missed the mood and tone of its era. Audiences preferred Robert Altman‘s loose and fraternal M.A.S.H. to Nichols’ somber, handsomely shot arthouse creation.
The six-part limited series from Paramount Television and Anonymous Content is directed by Clooney, Grant Heslov and Ellen Kuras, who also serves as producer. Each directed two episodes.
Clooney’s cast includes Christopher Abbott as John Yossarian, Kyle Chandler as Colonel Cathcart, Hugh Laurie as Major — de Coverley, Daniel David Stewart as Milo Minderbinder, Austin Stowell as Nately, Rafi Gavron as Aarfy Aardvark, Graham Patrick Martin as Orr, Pico Alexander as Clevinger (who?), Jon Rudnitsky as McWatt, Gerran Howell as Kid Sampson, Lewis Pullman as Major Major Major Major and Heslov as Doc Daneeka.
Alice Rohrwacher‘s Happy as Lazzaro, which I saw this morning at the Salle Du Soixantieme, may win the Cannes Film Festival’s Palme d’Or next weekend. It’ll almost certainly win something big as it’s quite the spiritual film, and it delivers the kind of humanist current that can lift all boats.
In this stand-up-for-women moment on the Cote d’Azur, the deciding factor, I suspect, may simply be one of gender. I’m not saying Happy as Lazzaro is a woman’s film — the spiritual current is universal and gender-less — but it’s very much a “heart” film, and I’m sensing that this plus a “let’s give the big prize to a woman director if we can” factor will penetrate.
Set sometime in the late ’80s, Rohrwacher’s third film is about a late-teen or twentysomething farmworker named Lazzaro (Adriano Tardiolo), who at first resembles a cross between a pure-of-heart innocent or, if you want to brusque about it, a seemingly charmed simpleton. But that impression changes as the film develops, especially during the second half.
While Happy as Lazarro takes place in two distinctly different realms, they share a tone of exploitive cruelty and a look at the harsh plight of the hurting poor — a rural and almost medieval tobacco farm in central Italy in the first half and a large Italian city in the second half.
The dividing line between the two is a startling event that happens halfway through, and after this the true scheme of Happy as Lazzaro kicks in.
For this is basically the story of a kind of saint who refuses to respond with even a trace of guile or calculation. Lazzaro is very much a lamb-like (or donkey-like if you consider his resemblance to the Christ-like beast in Bresson’s Au Hasard, Balthazar) figure of faith and trust, and the resulting current of kindness and compassion becomes more and more affecting.
Happy as Lazzaro is my second favorite film of the festival so far, second only to Pawel Pawlikowski‘s Cold War. It’s quite the mixture of fabulism and a certain kind of grim, social-critique drama, shot in 16mm with a hand-held, rounded-edges aesthetic.
I’m not saying Rohrwacher is copying anyone, but I felt the influence of the Taviani brothers‘ Padre Padrone and Bernardo Bertolucci‘s 1900 in the first half, and then a whole different kettle of fish (urban poverty) in the second half. But it’s always about purity vs. venality and indifference, and it’s really quite magical.
Among the costars are Alba Rohrwacher (the director’s older sister) and Spanish actor Sergi Lopez (Pan’s Labyrinth), whom I didn’t even recognize at first.
The rural portion (i.e., the first half) was shot in Bagnoregio, a small commune in the Lazio section of Italy.
I have to leave for a screening of Spike Lee‘s BlacKkKlansman, but there’s something very special, trust me, about Happy as Lazzaro.
The first time I saw that stony green island where Rey (Daisy Ridley) finds Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) at the end of Stars Wars: The Force Awakens, I said to myself “I know that place…I’ve seen it before.” But I wasn’t sure where or when. The island is called Skellig Michael, and is located about 12 kilometers off the west coast of Ireland. Today I finally remembered. I first saw the island near the end of Billy Wilder‘s The Spirit of St. Louis (’57). It happens about 15 minutes before the finale. Jimmy Stewart‘s Charles Lindbergh, exhausted and bleary-eyed after 30-plus hours of flying, looks out and spots a pointed, rocky island that he eventually realizes is his very first glimpse of Irish soil. No question about it — it’s the same damn island.
Skellig Michael at it appears in Star Wars: The Force Awakens.
The same island as it appears in Billy Wilder’s The Spirit of St. Louis.
“The vacation of a famous rock star and a filmmaker is disrupted by the unexpected visit of an old friend and his daughter”…okay. And then somebody does something they shouldn’t…right? There is ample evidence that Luca Guadaginino‘s A Bigger Splash exists as a film, but I’m not sensing any organic strands, aromas, tastings. Where’s the teaser? Why is this remake of La Piscine (which I tried to watch on Amazon Prime a few months ago only to lose interest) using the title of a late ’60s David Hockney painting? Answer: Because they both use images of swimming pools but I’m not getting any kind of sparkling blue chlorine vibe from A Bigger Splash — I’m getting an exotic Mediterranean island vibe with the aroma of the sea and beach tar and fine red wine. Splash will be seen at the Venice Film Festival and will probably, I’m guessing, turn up in Toronto (and perhaps even Telluride?). The IMDB says it’ll open in England sometime in October but what about stateside? Fox Searchight acquired it last February but their theatrical plans seem enveloped by a kind of fog bank or misty haze. I’m sensing a 2016 winter-spring opening. You could explain it 100 ways from Sunday and A Bigger Splash would never mean anything to Joe Popcorn because it seems to be about lah-lah elitists succumbing to base urges (or something like that). The costars are Tilda Swinton, Dakota Johnson, Matthias Schoenaerts and Ralph Fiennes.
Matthias Schoenaerts, Tilda Swinton, Dakota Johnson, Ralph Fiennes in A Bigger Splash — a movie that will play in Venice in less than four weeks but which is shrouded in a kind of haze. It seems to be hiding something on some level or at least has yet to define itself in a way that adds up to some kind of recognizable psychology or geography or odor…something that hints at a certain molecular constitution.