The apparent promise of Tony Award-winning actor Dan Fogler playing another dregs-of-the-gene-pool guy in Good Luck, Chuck certainly gives pause. Particularly on the heels of what appears (to judge by the trailer) to be a relentlessly slovenly Fogler performance in the reportedly “awful” Balls of Fury. And yet there’s an intriguing role on the horizon — Fogler as a young Alfred Hitchcock in a comedic thriller called Number 13.
I was wrong in predicting a north-of-$20 million figure for Superbad‘s second weekend, although it’s still far and away the weekend’s Big Kahuna. The Greg Mottola-Judd Apatow-Seth Rogen-Jonah Hill-Michael Cera-Christopher Mintz-Passe comedy did about $5,675,000 million yesterday and with a projected $18,735,000 Sunday-night cume (Fantasy Moguls’ Steve Mason is predicting $15.5 million) for an estimated 53% and a ten-day total of just under $70 million. It will pass $100 million within two weeks.
The Bourne Ultimatum will be second with $12,088,000, and Rush Hour 3 will come in third with $11,195,000. Mr. Bean’s Holiday — the #1 newbie — will come in fourth with $10,025,000. War, the Jet Li-Jason Staham actioner, will be fifth with $7,834,000. The Nanny Diaries, another Weinstein Co. disappointment, will be sixth with $7,834,000. The Simpsons Movie — still selling tickets — with be seventh with $4,373,000. Stardust is eighth with a weekend tally of $3,859,000, followed by Hairspray with $3,548,000 and The Invasion coming in tenth with $3,026,000.
I feel badly for Rod Lurie with Resurrecting The Champ projected to come in eleventh with only $538,000 yesterday and about $1.5 millon for the weekend, give or take.
A Lexus SUV driven by producer-director John Singleton struck and killed a female jaywalker late Thursday night, according to a news report posted at 11:40 pm Friday night. No drugs or alcohol involved, said Jason Lee, a police spokesperson. The accident happened in L.A.’s Jefferson Park neighborhood. The victim, Constance Hall, was 57 years old.
A ten-minute tribute reel in honor of Daniel Day Lewis‘s film career — a reel that will include unseen footage from Paul Thomas Anderson‘s There Will Be Blood (Paramount Vantage, 12.25) — will, I’m hearing from a good source, be shown at the Telluride Film Festival the weekend after next. This info contradicts another source who’s heard that a 40-minute Blood reel will play there, and still another claiming that Blood will screen in its entirety.
“They were talking about [showing a portion of the film] for a Daniel Day Lewis tribute, I know that, but the festival was begging for the whole film to be shown but it’s just not ready yet,” a source remarked. A Paramount Vantage spokesperson said nothing was on the table or suitable for comment.
If — I say “if” — a longish Blood reel is shown, it will be like those product-reel showings of Gangs of New York, Lord of the Rings and World Trade Center at Cannes, and therefore the first time that Telluride — the most pure-minded, far- from-the-madding-crowd film festival around — will have screened a portion of a film solely to spread word-of-mouth to benefit a distributor.
But if just a DDL tribute reel is shown, it’ll be nothing big because Telluride, a regular tells me, “has tributed other visiting actors with reels before.”
A slightly more engrossing, more detailed trailer for Ridley Scott‘s American Gangster (Universal, 11.2) than the one I ran on 8.11. The previous one was pretty much all about Denzel Washington‘s heroin dealer character — this new one gives more dialogue clips to DW nemesis Russell Crowe. The period crime film will begin to screen for elite media just after everyone gets back from Toronto.
“If you want to see a lot of people naked, see this film,” a producer friend said this afternon about Robert Benton‘s Feast of Love (MGM, 9.28). I’ve managed to miss this so far (42 West has only invited me to Manhattan screenings). But honestly? Nudity always raises interest levels. Any guy, straight or gay, who tells you it doesn’t is a liar.
The actors who don’t take their clothes off in this relationship dramedy are Morgan Freeman, Jane Alexander, Fred Ward and, the producer said, Selma Balir. (She’s apparently wrong about Blair.) The actors who do get naked (full-frontally or partially) are Radha Mitchell (big-time), Greg Kinnear (partial), Toby Hemingway, Alexa Davalos, Billy Burke and (the producer wasn’t entirely certain about the next three, but she says there’s definitely nudity among lesbians) Shannon Lucio, Erika Marozsan and Stana Katic.
Feast of Tits….I like that title.
The spirit of any Wes Anderson film can be found in his choice of pop-music tracks, and the relentlessly insipid USA Today columnist Whitney Matheson (a.k.a. “Pop Candy”) has listed some of the tracks in The Darjeeling Limited (Fox Searchlight, 9.29), and the emphasis is definitely on…the Kinks!
The three Kinks tunes are “This Time Tomorrow,” “Strangers” and “Powerman.” There’s also the Rolling Stones‘ “Play With Fire,” Joe Dassin‘s “Champs Elysees” and Peter Sarstedt‘s “Where Do You Go to (My Lovely).” Anderson “also throws in several classical tracks, like Debussy’s Clair De Lune and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 in A, Op. 92,” Matheson reports.
Rod Lurie‘s Resurrecting The Champ (Yari Film Group, opening today) is a well acted, throughly decent film that is reasonably absorbing as an adult drama and interesting in an atmospheric newsroom sense. I’m a solid fan of Alan Alda and Peter Coyote‘s performances as a newspaper editor and a boxing world veteran, and I’m fairly okay with Josh Hartnett‘s performance as a somewhat immature journalist who can’t be bothered to double- or triple-check his facts before running with a big story.
The plot is about Hartnett having found a scuzzy old homeless guy (Samuel L. Jackson) who may or may not have been a boxing champ in the ’50s, and the truths that come out when he runs a story about the wily old guy. The problem is that I despise sloppiness and inexactitude, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand how any journalist, Hartnett’s character or anyone, could mess up as badly as he does here.
There are no secrets out there, and you can double and triple-check anything in a few hours these days. I just didn’t relate or buy what happens. The only thing that made sense was Hartnett’s guy deliberately fucking up, and I’m not a big fan of stories about guy putting shotguns in their mouths and then pulling the trigger.
At first I had a problem with Jackson’s “whinny” voice. Like with all movie stars, I want Jackson to be Jackson. He’s “acting” here, talking a little bit like Dustin Hoffman did as the 105 year-old Jack Crabbe in Little Big Man, but there’s no denying that it’s good acting. I could sit here and struggle to put together exactly the phrasings, but it’s easier to just quote N.Y. Times critic Stephen Holden, who’s a tad more enthusiastic about Jackson than myself but we’ll let that go.
Jackson is “wily, secretive, charming and pugnacious.,” Holden writes. “At his most charismatic he has the aura of a holy fool…[he] is entirely convincing, and frequently incandescent.”
Champ is also about Hartnett’s slightly older wife (Kathryn Morrris) who has one of the worst pissy-face, naggy-face, guilt-trip expressions you’ve ever seen on any woman anywhere.
In the version of Resurrecting The Champ that I saw last year, Lurie plays a walk-on role as an editor/journalist, and he’s relaxed and believable right rom the start. Lurie should use himself again and again — seriously. He could be the new Sydney Pollack among acting directors.
Resurrecting the Champ hasn’t been tracking all that well, and probably won’t crack $5 million over the weekend. It’s worth seeing for Alda, Jackson and Coyote’s performances, in that order Right now it has a Rotten Tomatoes rating of 62% general and 45% Cream of the Crop. I don’t know what else to say except that it’s a tough world out there — a mosh pit.
“I saw The Bourne Ultimatum. I liked the first one the best but the third one is second-best. I like entertainment. Cinema can say many things. There’s nothing wrong with a great Hollywood blockbuster. But sometimes you’re [into] it like crazy while it’s going and when you leave it sort of pops and evaporates.” — David Lynch speaking to MTV.com’s Josh Horowitz. Yeah, we know that tune except Bourne didn’t pop and evaporate because I didn’t want it to. So I went back and saw it twice more.
For a recent meeting in Manila with Phillipine president Gloria Macapagal Arroyo at the Presidential palace, Quentin Tarantino wore “a traditional Filipino formal shirt called Barong Tagalog but [ also] wore sandals,” says an 8.16 report in The West. “He was handed size 13 black leather shoes because sandals and rubber shoes are not allowed inside the palace during presidential ceremonies, a staff of the National Commission on Culture and Arts said.”
What kind of an elitist swaggering attitude do you have to have to figure it’s cool to wear sandals to a meeting with a chief of state? Was Tarantino brought up in a barn? Anyone with a vestige of breeding would arrive for a meeting with any head of state wearing at least a sport jacket and some kind of leather footwear. The guy’s an animal.
“Sailing to Byzantium,” the William Butler Yeats poem from which Cormac McCarthy derived the title of “No Country for Old Men.” Yates, not Yeets.
