Trailers either tell you nothing or they tell you too much, or they do both at the same time. Is this just-posted Zodiac trailer an exception? I’ve watched it three times. It gives you just enough of the Downey stuff, the Fincher-tude, the Gyllenhaal-ness, the Ruffalo-isms and the Brian Cox attitude to make you want more.
Tracking
Casino Royale is tracking very well (90, 44, 36) and will do…oh, $30 million? Happy Feet (82. 44,19) is going to do even more, about $45 million. Nobody cares that much about Let’s Go To Prison (82, 44,19) or Deck the Halls (41, 24,3) but Tony Scott’s Deja Vu (82, 43, 9) is going to do nicely when it opens on 11.22. And Bobby (limited on 11.17) looks pretty good. So far The Nativity Story isn’t tracking (28, 26), although it has two weeks to build that up before the 12.1 opening. Mel Gibson‘s Apocalypto (12.8) isn’t rustling any bushes and has a fairly high negative. Blood Diamond (12.8) could build into something (65, 35, 3). Nancy Meyer’s The Holiday (61, 25 and 2) has some work to do.
As Far As It Goes
As Far As It Goes
I predicted last August that Dreamgirls (Dreamamount, 12.15) would be a huge thing for costar Jennifer Hudson, who has the role (i.e., Effie White) with the most soul and punch and heartache. I was right. The Best Supporting Actress Oscar is probably hers for the taking. But my feelings are otherwise torn about Bill Condon and Larry Mark and David Geffen‘s period musical, which had its first big preview Wednesday night at the Academy theatre.
I was delighted with it in spurts and pieces — it has a knockout feeling from start to finish, and delivers an adrenalized rush that’s either going to get you or it won’t. It’s one dazzling, machine-gun-edited musical number after another that “sells” itself like there’s no tomorrow, and the sum effect is like something washing over you.
Like, say, a 100-gallon vat of Red Bull and 7-Up. Okay, with a little whiskey and heartbreak thrown in, and a lot of cigarettes and some bad substance abuse on the side.
This is the story of the Supremes — how it all began and came together, and then took off and went sour and finally shook down. It’s recognizably real and yet fast and fizzy — another of those hard-knocks, rough-and-tumble showbiz sagas, this time seasoned with heavy doses of Motown-Broadway pizazz.
< ?php include ('/home/hollyw9/public_html/wired'); ?>
But it didn’t feel to me like it really and truly sank in. After a while you feel so soaked with the stuff it’s selling that you start to go a little bit mad. It didn’t make me angry at all — this is not Chicago but somewhere around the half-hour mark I began to say to myself, “What’s with the push-push, go-go, pop-pop all the time? Why can’t we downshift and quiet down here and there, so we can possibly hear someone’s heart beating?”
That’s not the deal, I realize. This is essentially Michael Bennett‘s vision of Dream- girls re-dreamt and re-launched, and I knew what that probably would be. And I wanted to feel great about it. I really did.
It didn’t feel to me like a real river of a movie (and I trust I don’t have to explain that one — some films have a primal gravity feeling that tells you in a dozens of different ways that you’re into something earthy and fundamental) but for some, like those cheering and whooping in the Academy theatre last night, the razzle dazzle will be enuf.
I “liked” Dreamgirls, for the most part. I didn’t feel hostile in the least. I was entran- ced and smiling and going with a feeling of being among some very good and talented people who are doing everything they can to make me feel it (which I did, as far as it went). I had a much better time with it than I did with Chicago, which I despised to the depths of my soul. But at the same time I felt something missing.
I was going to sort out my feelings and shake it out before writing anything (it won’t open for another 29 days), but then I woke up this morning to a giddy bungee- jumping David Poland rave, and some of the things he said made my brain go into spasms. And then Roger Friedman jumped in, and then Tom O’Neil. But let’s bang up against the Poland.
“Dreamgirls landed in Beverly Hills…last night, and left a giant crater in the Oscar season,” he began. My idea is that it was more of a meteorite that hit and then careened off and then hit and hit again, like a stone skimming across a pond. Dreamgirls is a wowser and not just in a spirited or “technical” sense — it’s a full-tilt, full-throttle thing all the way. It will no doubt turn a lot of people on (it definitely got me from time to to time) but I was there in the room and the feeling during the after-party was not that one of standing at the edge of a huge crater and going, “Wow…big one. I can still feel the tremors.”
The feeling was a mixture of some delight and merriment, contentment (“I went with it,” a journalist friend said) and a kind of “let’s talk this out” therapy session. I wasn’t confused but I felt a wee bit unresolved. I knew I had enjoyed it as much as I’m capable of enjoying an obviously first-rate Motown glitter-funk gay man’s extravaganza, but I was going from person to person and saying (with variations), “It’s not that I didn’t like it — I did for the most part and it’s a great sell. I loved Jennifer Hudson to death. But it feels like a two-hour sketch.”
I realize that there’s something inherently sketchy about all musicals — you’re never going to get Long Day’s Journey Into Night with songs — but for me, Dream- girls is too pat. Everything is in shorthand. Nothing is off or raggedy or haphazard. It doesn’t feel like Detroit, or like the ’60s or ’70s even. It feels like it’s happening in director-writer Bill Condon‘s head, and that’s fine. There’s no one who respects his talent and chops more than I.
“The film was everything promised and more,” Poland said. I would say it was everything promised and somewhat less. Not a crashing disappointment, but a film that simultaneously roused and satisfied in several ways, but didn’t quite bring it home.
Dreamgirls is a highly-charged moviefication of a hot stage musical that was (I’m told) all songs and sparkle (which benefitted from Michael Bennett‘s inspired staging), and nothing really acted or spoken. Condon has, I’ve been told, added narrative tissue and emotional intimacy and made it more of a people thing and less of a big, brassy presentation. I can half-see that, and I respect the effort.
And yet Hudson aside, I didn’t feel much for anyone. They’re all “on” and, as far as it goes, “terrific.” But I wasn’t rooting for Beyonce Knowles and her thin Diana Ross character, and as much as I liked watching Eddie Murphy, Jamie Foxx, Anika Noni Rose, Danny Glover, Keith Robinson and Sharon Leal, I felt pretty neutral about the fates of their characters.
Poland actually said (this was the biggest mindblower for me), “It’s like the old question, is Chinese food in China ‘Chinese food’ or just ‘food?'” A rave review should not, I feel, bring up this metaphor. The odd thing is that I don’t feel this way about Dreamgirls. I feel that the “all” of it, in a certain sense, is quite substantial.
But it’s not an emotional bath experience as much as an emotional car wash — you’re in a mint-condition 1970 Cadillac with the windows up and everything sealed tight, but instead of moving through the water and brushes and soap and hot air at 2 miles an hour, you’re moving at 80 or 90 miles an hour and the car-wash tunnel is almost 185 miles long. I’m saying that for all the application of craft and feeling and kick-out soul, the emotional moisture never really penetrates.
But Jennifer Hudson, at times, is in the car right next you and she’s the absolute real deal. I loved her. I love her now as I’m sitting here. I loved her hurtin’ stuff. I loved her singing “what about what I feel? what about what I need?” I loved the way she sang “Love You I Do,” a new number written by Henry Krieger. I loved the way she sang “One Night Only.” But anyone who says she should be pushed for Best Actress is insane. She’s the new kid and she’s not in Helen Mirren‘s or Judi Dench‘s or Meryl Streep‘s class…please.
Poland has written that Beyonce “absolutely deserves” a Best Supporting Actress nomination. It won’t happen. Her best moment comes when she sings another Henry Krieger song, “Listen,” but her character (like the real-life Diana Ross) is mainly about opportunism and eyelash-fluttering and going for the gold. The only reason she turns is because Jamie Foxx’s character turns into a shit and she feels she needs to go elsewhere to grow. But if he’d been a better, more sensitive partner, Beyonce’s character would be about complacency from start to finish.
Poland thinks Dreamgirls is going to win for Best Picture. It might, but I spoke to people last night who were four-square against it and they were saying “no way.” One guy even said it may not be nominated.
If it does win, I know I won’t go into convulsions like I did when Chicago took it. I know that Dreamgirls doesn’t have the human-condition current that makes films like The Lives of Others, Babel, Volver, Little Miss Sunshine, The Queen and United 93 truly special experiences. It has a musical current, yes, and that punch-it-out spritzy-wow thing, but….
I know that Condon has done as good a job at this kind of thing as anyone could. I don’t pretend to fully understand or support it 100% — I can only try to feel it as best I can and hope for the best — but as far as this kind of musical goes, the heart and effort that went into it has my respect. Let’s leave it at that. For now.
Larry and Bill
At last night’s hot-ticket, connected-media-people-only debut screening of Dreamgirls (Dreamamount, 12.15) at the Academy theatre, Laurence Mark (l.) and Bill Condon (r.), the musical’s producer and director-writer, respectively — Wednesday, 11.15.06, 11:15 pm
Lynch, cow, “Inland”
Again, David Lynch and his cow sought to promote Laura Dern‘s performance in Inland Empire, this time in front of Tower Records on the Sunset Strip.
Variety confirms “Letters” change
The Letters from Iwo Jima-opening-in-December story that The Envelope‘s Tom O’Neil reported Tuesday night (and which I later confirmed through an exhibition source and posted a followup story on around 11 pm Tuesday) has been confirmed in a Pamela McLintock Variety story that will be in the print edition on Thursday morning.
Last night and all day today Warner Bros. publicists dummied up and wouldn’t officially confirm the story. I’ve been told that Hollywood Reporter also called more than once and got no confirmations either. Obviously the fix was in for Variety to deliver the official, exclusive confirmation, a deal presumedly grandfathered by Variety editor Peter Bart‘s friendship with Letters driector Clint Eastwood.
McClintock’s story says Warner Bros. is moving up the release date of Eastwood’s Japanese-language Iwo Jima war flick from 2.9.07 to 12.20.06, which obviously puts it into the running for Best Picture and whatever else. The film will open that day — Wednesday, 12.20 — in L.A. and New York, and possibly also in San Francisco, her story said.
McLintock reports that Eastwood “approached Warners about the date change for Letters after consulting with Steven Spielberg, who brought in Eastwood to direct Flags for DreamWorks.” I heard tonight that DreamWorks marketing stategist Terry Press has been pushing the date change also. The 12.20 date was “locked in early Wednesday evening, as Eastwood was in Japan to promote Letters,” McLintock wrote.
Locked it a few hours ago, they mean? That’s funny considering that I was told Tuesday night that an arthouse exhibition chain had booked Letters into some of their theatres at least a day or two earlier, perhaps as early as last Friday.
Can we cut the crap? If Warner Bros. had had any real respect for Eastwood’s decision to make two Iwo Jima films, they would have decided from the get-go to follow the Japanese release plan and open it in December so people could fully appreciate it as a Flags companion piece. But WB execs pushed it off into a February 9th release anyway, for reasons best not shared.
Warner Bros. sources will never admit it, but the only reason Letters was suddenly advanced into December is because everyone got scared over the last week or two and said to each other, “We’re in trouble! The bandwagon is slowing down! The Oscar plan is falling apart! We need to throw a Hail Mary pass!” The concern kicked in because Flags of Our Fathers is losing theatres and is withering on the box-office vine, as well as in the court of industry opinion, and so they figured, “What the hell, let’s release Letters and see what happens! Can’t hurt at this stage!…why not?”
Pedro, Penelope, fake ass
Whenever I think of the great Volver, the story of Penelope Cruz‘s fake prosthetic ass never comes to mind. Maybe it will henceforth, after reading Rebecca Winters Keegan‘s story in the current Time.
“Carousel” problems
On the same day (11.14) N.Y. Times DVD columnist Dave Kehr reviewed a spiffed-up 50th Anniversary version of Henry King‘s Carousel (just released as part of a new Fox Home Video Rodgers & Hammerstein box set), The Fountain star Hugh Jackman told Coming Soon’s Heather Newgen that Fox 2000 is “looking for a writer and director” for a Carousel remake, in which he’ll play the egoistic, self-destructive big-mouth Billy Bigelow.
Gordon Macrae, Shirley Jones
Except something’s wrong here: Variety‘s Michael Fleming announced that Fox 2000 and Jackman’s partner John Palermo were trying to make this happen on August 1 — two and a half months ago. You can bet they were hunting around for a writer for several weeks (if not months) before that. That means that various parties aren’t on the same page — Fox 2000 wants this, Jackman wants that — and they’re going round and round. Otherwise they would have found the right director and writer and begun work. Too bad — Jackman is a talented song-and-dance man, and he’d probably be great in the part.
As long as we’re talking about this musical yet again (mainly because it’s the only Rodgers & Hammerstein musical I can stand, because it’s the only one with a tragic story and dark undercurrents that make for an unusually touching effect), here’s that Frank Sinatra“Soliloquy” track that was recorded but never used because Sinatra bailed on the 1956 film and was replaced by Gordon MacRae.
Fly balls
In the agent community a job that your client lucks into is called “a fly ball” — all you have to do is look up and spot it and put your glove out. Ralph Fiennes caught one when Steven Spielberg happened to see him as Heathcliff in a British TV version of Wuthering Heights and said, “I want that guy to play the evil Nazi in Schindler’s List.” Wolfgang Petersen‘s career was on a low flame when Clint Eastwood decided out of the fucking blue, “I want the guy who directed Das Boot to direct me in In The Line of Fire.” The agents repping Italian director Gabriele Muccino (the original The Last Kiss, called L’Ultimo bacio) had tried and failed to to get him a directing gig for two or three years and nothing, and then Will Smith happened to see L’Ultimo bacio and said, “I want that guy to direct The Pursuit of Happyness.” Serendipity, luck…God’s grace.
Wilson biopic is doomed
All due respect to Brian Wilson biographer and legend-protector David Leaf, but I think he’s too close and too invested to help render a warts-and-all Wilson biopic for producer Mark Gordon. On top of which Wilson’s managers Ronnie Lippin and Jean Sievers are also part of the deal…forget it.
The only way to make a biopic of an eccentric rock genius work is to have the freedom to be absolutely merciless. People invested in your continued well-being are obviously incapable of this; every time there’s a family member or trusted friend involved the biopic turns out to be dreck, or at least overly soft. Leaf and John Scheinfeld ‘s The U.S. vs. John Lennon was made with Yoko Ono‘s involvement, and look what happened — one of the biggest rock doc crocks ever made.
The cool part, if and when the script pans out and they get a green light, will be in the casting. That obviously means they’ll have to find a tallish, pasty-faced actor who not only looks like Wilson, but can put on lots of weight (or stand still for a heavy prosthetic blubber-gut make-up job).
Wilson’s story has already been told, of course — and very movingly — in the 1995 Don Was doc I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times.
Gordon told Variety‘s Michael Fleming that “Wilson’s willingness to include the rough spots in his life, and the guidance of Beautiful Dreamer filmmaker Leaf (who’s known Wilson for 30 years), gives the movie its core” — bunk.
“I admire Brian for his willingness to tell his story truthfully,” Gordon told Fleming. “It’s complex and there is a lot to be learned from what he went through. It’s easier to tell that story when you’re in a good place and you have a happy ending. Brian has that now.”
It can’t and won’t work. Not with these guys at the helm. The only chance at success is to hire a director who’s totally un-invested — somewhat respectful but fundamentally indifferent to the Wilson legend. You obviously need someone who gets Wilson and his music and knows Pet Sounds backwards and forwards…but it can’t be an American who was into the surf-and-frolic thing as a teenager. Gordon needs to hire someone from a gray, foggy country like England or Germany to direct it — Perfume helmer Tom Tykwer, say, or The Lives of Others director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck .
In short, it’ll take a strong visionary outsider to stand up against the Leaf-Lippin- Sievers alliance, which will have one goal and one goal only — to keep the finished film from hurting Brian’s feelings.
Final docs
The final Best Feature Documentary short list is out and yes, it’s true — Sydney Pollack‘s Sketches of Frank Gehry, Christopher Quinn‘s God Grew Tired of Us, and Christopher Creadon‘s Wordplay have been given the shaft.
Every year pedestrian docs are put on the list and some really exceptional ones are blown off. We can only assume this is because those who choose the finalists aren’t all that hip or perceptive. If not, what are we to assume…the opposite? People have been snickering about these guys for a long time. They earned lifelong notoriety for blowing off Grizzly Man last year.
I can say for sure that there are three respectable so-so’s (and in my opinion films of a much lesser calibure) among the finalists: (a) Blindsight, Lucy Walker’s perfectly fine but obvious doc about six blind Tibetan students tryign to ascend Mt. Everest; (b) Stanley Nelson‘s Jonestown: The Life and Death of People’s Temple, which, in my view, pulls too many punches (“What happened in Jonestown was NC-17, but Nelson’s doc is strictly PG-13…there’s no anger or fire in it…no ghastly details, none of the horror, not enough particulars about Jones’ sleazy seducer tendencies”); and (c) Barbara Kopple‘s Shut Up & Sing, the Dixie Chicks vs. conservative Bush-lovers doc, which is only pretty good.
The other short-listers are Can Mr. Smith Get to Washington Anymore?, Deliver Us from Evil, The Ground Truth, An Inconvenient Truth, Iraq in Fragments, Jesus Camp, My Country, My Country, Sisters in Law, Storm of Emotions, The Trials of Darryl Hunt (the Bend Film Festival double-winner!), An Unreasonable Man and The War Tapes.
“Lambs” Afganistan
This Michael Fleming description of Matthew Carnahan‘s Lions for Lambs, which Robert Redford will direct and co-star in for Tom Cruise and Paula Wagner‘s revived United Artists, is more intriguing that the one I read in his Variety column in mid-October.
It’s basically three intertwining, almost Babel-like storylines: Cruise as “a congressman who interacts with a journalist (Meryl Streep); Redford as an idealistic professor who attempts to inspire a privileged student in his class; and a third storyline about a pair of American soldiers wounded in enemy territory, one of whom is Redford’s former student.” I can see this…it sounds good.
The third storyline takes place, if I recall Fleming’s earlier summation correctly, in Afghanistan. I think now is the time for everyone to remember that in The Hot Rock, the 1971 caper flick which Redford co-starred, the words that trigger a state of instant reactivated hypnosis in a safe-deposit-box manager are “Afghanistan banana-stan.” Think about that.