David Lean‘s Summertime is a concise story of a 40ish unmarried woman from Ohio (Katharine Hepburn) enjoying her first visit to Venice, Italy, and then falling in love with a covertly married native (Rossano Brazzi). But it’s primarily a glorious atmosphere film — a swoony, Technicolor dreamboat dive into the charms (architectural, aromatic, spiritual) of this fabled city.
The cinematography by Jack Hildyard (The Bridge on the River Kwai) is perfectly framed and lighted, and the fleet cutting by Peter Taylor ensures that each shot is perfectly matched or blended with the next.
“[Jolie’s] complaint and the redacted FBI report suggest that the fuse was lit before they arrived at the airport, when Pitt had a ‘confrontation with one of the children,’ believed to be Maddox. After takeoff, Pitt allegedly ‘accused [Jolie] of being too deferential to the children.’ A source close to Pitt says he felt Jolie ‘was trying to drive a wedge between him and his kids.’
“On the plane, Jolie had a glass of wine. Pitt didn’t appear incapacitated, Jolie would tell the FBI, adding that he could drink a bottle of vodka without losing functionality. Ninety minutes into the flight, her cross-complaint says, Pitt told Jolie to ‘Come here,’ and directed her to the back of the plane away from the children. There, he ‘pulled her into the bathroom and began yelling at her.’
“He allegedly ‘grabbed Jolie by the head and shook her, and then grabbed her shoulders and shook her again,’ pushing her into the bathroom wall. Pitt also punched the ceiling four times.
“The commotion caught the attention of one or more of the children.
“’Are you okay, Mommy?’ they asked.
“’No,’ Pitt allegedly responded. ‘Mommy’s not okay. She’s ruining this family. She’s crazy.’
“When one of the kids confronted him, he ‘lunged’ at the child, according to the complaint.
“Jolie ‘grabbed him from behind’ to hold Pitt back, but he threw himself into the airplane’s seats to get her off him, the complaint says. As a result, she suffered injuries to her back and elbow. ‘The children rushed in and all bravely tried to protect each other. Before it was over, Pitt choked one of the children and struck another in the face. Some of the children pleaded with Pitt to stop. They were all frightened. Many were crying,’ according to Jolie’s complaint.
“Over the remainder of the flight, Pitt continued to rant, and at one point poured beer on Jolie and the children as they tried to sleep under blankets, Jolie claimed, adding that he caused $25,000 worth of alcohol damage to the interior of the plane.
“When the plane landed in International Falls, Jolie told Pitt she and the children were going to a hotel to rest, and they could resume their flight to California the next day. But Pitt wouldn’t have it, according to her complaint. Nobody was getting off the plane, he allegedly said, although he did reportedly disembark to smoke a cigarette before the plane continued on to Burbank.
“He eventually fell asleep, giving Jolie time to devise a plan. She spoke to her children first, asking them not to intervene, no matter what Pitt did. She then woke her husband up.
“As the plane landed in Burbank, Jolie told Pitt that she was taking the kids to a hotel, but Pitt allegedly refused to let the family leave the plane for 20 minutes. ‘You’re not taking my fucking kids,’ he yelled, according to the FBI report. And he ‘shook Jolie by the head and shoulders.”
“’Don’t hurt her,’ one of the children begged. He let her go, but not without calling Jolie a ‘bitch,’ her complaint claims.
“And the authorities were alerted. Representatives of DCFS were reportedly waiting on the tarmac when the plane arrived. Who contacted them, no one can confirm.
“According to a source close to Pitt, ‘Brad was drinking, and the confrontation got out of hand. He was absolutely wrong in how he behaved but immediately apologized and acknowledged that he had crossed a line, which he will always regret, and right away took steps to address this and try to make amends.’”
HE to Rose “tranny tits” Montoya: In one fell swoop, flashing your boobs on the south lawn of the White House degraded all gay and trans activists across the globe. Indeed, the whole progressive left community. And it certainly degraded President Joe “whoops!” Biden.
It goes without saying that the words “you should be ashamed of yourself” can’t apply because you’re obviously incapable. Either you understand the concept of class or you don’t. You’ve made it clear which camp you’re in, girly.
Female friendo: “Rose said she would not have been in trouble for baring her breasts if she was a straight woman — the hoo-hah is only over the fact that she’s trans. HELLO, YOU BLITHERING IDIOT…you now claim to be a woman so welcome to life as a woman. We can’t and don’t do that!”
John Lennon: “And you think you’re so clever and classless and free / But you’re still fucking peasants as far as I can see.”
The great Cormac McCarthy — the guy who dreamt up the ice-cold perversity of Anton Chigurh and came up with the line “if it ain’t it’ll do until the mess gets here” — has passed on to the next realm.
I’ve only read three of his books — “Blood Meridian or The Evening Redness in the West” (’85), “All the Pretty Horses” (’92) and “No Country for Old Men” (’05).
A wonderful writer — his sentences are truly magnificent in their construction and economy.
Believe it or not, McCarthy was actually young once…full head of dark hair and everything.
I remember almost nothing about Billy Bob Thornton‘s All The Pretty Horses movie, which came out 22 and 1/2 years ago. A lot of people have spoken about making a movie of “Blood Meridian”, which many regard as his masterpiece, but nobody’s ever done it. In my view the Coenbrothers‘ No Country For Old Men (’07) is the finest McCarthy adaptation of all. I expect I’m not alone in that assessment.
The window of a westbound New Jersey Transit train, covered in grease and slime…you can hardly see through it. The maintenance of Metro North trains is much more disciplined. Don’t even mention European trains in the same breath.
I’m still really angry at those Cannes critics who dismissed or otherwise pooh-poohed Jean-Stéphane Sauvaire‘s Black Flies. It’s nothing phenomenal or earth-shattering, but is bruisingly efficient and sufficiently good for what it is — a jarring, hard-hitting, you-are-there NYC paramedic trauma film.
Black Flies occupies the same general atmospheric turf as Martin Scorsese‘s Bringing Out The Dead (’99), which of course was critically praised because critics know they’re obliged to give any Scorsese film the benefit of the doubt and then some.
If Scorsese had never made Bringing Out The Dead but had produced and/or collaborated to some extent on Black Flies, Cannes critics — almost all of them fickle, posturing snobs — would have been much more supportive.
Call Me Kate, the Netflix doc that I finally caught last weekend, reports that upon her first meeting with Spencer Tracy in mid ’41, prior to their costarring in Woman of the Year, the 5’8″ Katharine Hepburn said, “You’re not very tall, are you?”
Tracy stood around 5’9″, or an inch taller than Hepburn so what the hell was she talking about? Tracy was four inches shorter than the 6’1″ Clark Gable, granted, but at the same time was no one’s idea of a shrimpy shortypants. He was an inch taller than Humphrey Bogart and way taller than the bowling-pin-sized Alan Ladd. Tracy was the same height as Kirk Douglas, whom I hung out with a bit in ’82 and who never struck me as height-challenged.
So where’s the wit or pizazz in Hepburn saying to Tracy “yo, bruh…how come you’re not taller?” Kind of a dumb-ass comment.
Nonetheless the line got around (i.e., was repeated during parties and story conferences) and it turned up three or four years later during the filming of The Big Sleep (’46). Twice, in fact. Martha Vickers‘ “Carmen Sternwood” says to Bogart’s Phillip Marlowe, “You’re not very tall, are you?” and Marlowe replies, “Well, I try to be.” A few minutes later Bogart/Marlowe confesses to Lauren Bacall‘s Vivian Sternwood Rutledge that he’s “not very tall…next time I’ll come on stilts, wear a white tie and carry a tennis racket.”
For the record, the classic-era stars who were, in fact, height-challenged included Mickey Rooney (5’3″), JamesCagney (5’5”), Alan Ladd and Dustin Hoffman (‘5’6″), Bing Crosby, John Garfield, Gene Kelly, Stanley Kubrick and Al Pacino (5’7″) and James Dean, David Hemmings, Frank Sinatra and Humphrey Bogart (5’8″).
Among the tallest classic-era actors were Sean Connery, Errol Flynn, Henry Fonda, James Garner, Cary Grant, Burt Lancaster and Joel McCrea (all 6’2″), Gary Cooper (6’2 1/2″), Fred MacMurray, Gregory Peck, Randolph Scott and James Stewart (6’3″) and Clint Eastwood and John Wayne (6’4″)
Hollywood Elsewhere stands six foot and 1/2 inches. I reached that height sometime around 14 or 15. I’m taller than most other film critics and columnists, and my shoulders are also broader than most.
But given an apparent consensus that Allen’s latest is a respectable, noteworthy film and possibly his best since Match Point, and possibly his last film (who knows?), I’m very sorry for the domestic political quagmire in this country…a political reality that will most likely prevent Coup de Chance from playing the domestic early fall film festivals (Telluride, Toronto, New York).
The Cannes board allegedly said no to Thierry Fremaux about potentially debuting Coup de Chance in Cannes for the same reason…no berth for a filmmaker whom the #MeToo scolds have been labelling as persona non grata for several years now.
Even the most enlightened film programmers — those who believe in simply screening the best available choices of the moment, and who aren’t beholden to woke Stalinism — have no realistic choice in the matter, politically speaking. I feel for their situation as it’s a very difficult call all around. I feel very badly for everyone caught in this mishegoss.
The recently unveiled French-language trailer announces that Coup de Chance is opening in French-language territories on 9.27.23. As we speak no U.S. distributor has found the balls to release the film stateside. It goes without saying I would love to see Coup de Chance play Telluride ’23, but of course it won’t.
Finessed synopsis: “Fanny (Lou de Laage) and Jean (Melvil Poupaud) are an ideal couple: financially flush and professionally fulfilled, they live in a magnificent apartment in [one of] the high-end districts of Paris and seem to be as in love as [they were on] the first day they met.
”But when Fanny crosses, by chance, Alain (Niels Schneider), a former high school friend, she is immediately hooked. They see each other again, and, very quickly, get closer and closer…”
A couple of months ago I reported about an early April screening of Coup de Chance in Manhattan. Resturateur Keith McNally and columnist Roger Friedman raved.
“I am scandalized and indignant that Cannes has chosen not to present [Woody’s] latest film, all because of the accusations made by his wife Mia Farrow and her daughter Dylan. Need I remind everyone that Woody has already been acquitted of these charges twice? This #MeToo obsession continues [to our general misfortune]. Yes, it is bringing real systemic issues to light, but it’s also doing a lot of unjust damage. It’s a witch hunt that goes beyond the bounds of common sense.”
The Golden Globes brand has been bought by Todd Boehly‘s Eldridge Industries and Penske Media’s Dick Clark Productions. The slip-slidey HFPA no-accounts will continue to collect salaries for the next two or three years, but have essentially been shown the door.
And yet, from the perspective of Joe and Jane Popcorn, nothing will really change. The Globes will continue to serve as a warm-up awards show for the Oscars, and the award recipients will continue to enjoy a certain award-season heat. The only difference is that the show will henceforth be produced by a fresh gang of hustlers.
From a 5.10.21 HE piece called “Golden Globes Castle Is Collapsing“: “Nobody loved the HFPA dilletantes before — they were ‘tolerated’ in a shoulder-shrugging, eye-rolling sense of that term, and now distributors and talent are saying ‘okay, fuck these guys…even with the announced reforms they aren’t woke enough, not by 2021 standards, and now, trust us, they’re about to understand the cost of their terrible folly.’”
For their latest Oscar Poker chit-chat, Jeff and Sasha wade in the waters of The Idol, Rock Hudson: All That Heaven Allowed, Woody Allen’s Coup de Chance and its almost certain exclusion from domestic film festivals, Sasha’s late reaction to Air, the still unexplained French Connection / William Friedkin censorship thing, the Kate Hepburn and Arnold Schwarzenegger docs, etc. We recorded a few hours before the announcement of the tragic motorcycle death of Treat Williams…condolences.
Born and raised in Rowayton, Connecticut, Williams worked steadily as an actor and sometime director from the mid ’70s onward — 75 films in all.
His biggest, most acclaimed performance was as Det. Danny Ciello in Sidney Lumet‘s Prince of the City (’81). Alas, it didn’t launch him. Williams’ second biggest role was George Berger in Milos Forman‘s Hair (’79), and his third biggest was Xander Drax in Paramount’s The Phantom (’96).
Other noteworthy Williams performances happened in 1941 (’79), Once Upon A Time In America (’84), Dead Heat (’88), Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead (’95) and Deep Rising (’98).
I was sharing a boozy thought with Treat Williams around 1 am. It was the fall of ’82 or thereabouts, and we were sitting at a table of rowdy actors at Cafe Central, which was the hip bar at the time. John Heard and Cher were also at the table, and I heard the next day that they went home together.
The problem was that I’d had one or two too many and was slurring my words. Not making much sense. “What?” Williams asked, a bit irritated. I blurted it out again, whatever my Jack Daniels-soaked brain had managed to formulate and discharge. “I don’t getcha,” he said, and that was it.
Detective Stern: What did you say your name was? Daniel Ciello: Ciello. Detective Stern: Are you the Detective Ciello? Daniel Ciello: I’m Detective Ciello. Detective Stern: I don’t think I have anything to learn from you.
I regard Prince of the City more affectionately than all the other sublime New York Sidney Lumet films (including Dog Day Afternoon and Find Me Guilty) because it titanically reeks of coarse and odorous five-borough atmosphere in each and every frame. On top of which it may be the most deeply conflicted “moral drama” ever made — it doesn’t finally know what it’s trying to say exactly, but oh the damnable guilt! Guilt so mucky and tortured and ambiguous mixed with loyalty among corrupt and criminal friends, and lathered with lies and confessions and magnificent New York cop-and-mafioso patter….layer upon layer of brag, bullshit, innuendo and terrible truth.
It’s also a movie that taught me one of the most valuable life lessons I’ve ever taken to heart: choose your friends carefully but once you’ve done that, stick by them forever — never rat, never flip, and never trust a prosecutor.
Based on a true story and set in the ’70s, it’s about a narcotics cop (Williams’Ciello) who wants to unburden himself of guilt about his reckless dishonest ways, so he decides to go undercover for the feds to uncover police corruption. At first the danger of the job excites him and he gets away with it, but eventually the feds squeeze him into ratting out his partners and friends, and before you know it the guy’s freaking and then imploding, and then on the brink of suicide.
The blue-chip cast includes Jerry Orbach (his “Gus Levy” is flat-out the best performance he’s ever given), Lindsay Crouse, Bob Balaban, Richard Foronjy, Don Billett, Kenny Marino, Carmine Caridi, Tony Page, Norman Parker, Paul Roebling, James Tolkan, Steve Inwood, Ron Maccone, Ron Karabatsos, Tony DiBenedetto, Robert Christian, Cosmo Allegretti, Michael Beckett — every character and performance is absolutely and thoroughly “New York authentic.”
It runs 167 minutes and 80% of it is about prosecutors and cops and mafiosos, sitting and pacing inside government offices talking about evidence and guilt and indictments. All wearing white shirts and ties, toughing it out and stating their cases, sipping coffee out of cheap styrofoam cups as they try to out-bluster and out-truth-talk each other.
Roger Ebert wrote nearly 26 years ago that “this is a movie that literally hinges on the issue of perjury. And Sidney Lumet and his co-writer, Jay Presson Allen, have a great deal of respect for the legal questions involved. There is a sustained scene in this movie that is one of the most spellbinding I can imagine, and it consists entirely of government lawyers debating whether a given situation justifies a charge of perjury. Rarely are ethical issues discussed in such detail in a movie, and hardly ever so effectively.”
Prince of the City acquainted me with a Thomas de Quincy passage that I’ve never forgotten: “If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination.”
