This Is Bad

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This Is Bad

I can’t overstate what a besotted, drugged-out feeling it is to be back in Los Angeles…to once again stand on the roof of a certain West Hollywood high-rise and smell the faintly noxious air and gaze out at the milky haze and tell myself, “It’s okay…despair not.”
There is only way to live in this town and that’s to crawl into the cave of your own head and your work, and to feed off screenings and DVDs and the faces and bodies of pretty women, and to savor those special times in which you happen to be in the company of similarly diseased and/or disgruntled persons like myself.


Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood — Tuesday, 9.20, 1:40 pm.

Like, for instance, the amazing Joss Whedon.
I would find it astonishing to find myself in the pasta-and-sauces department of Pavilions and all of a sudden…Whedon! Just standing there in boring clothes like a regular mortal and telling himself, “I can’t eat pasta any more, certainly not in the evening. Face it — those days are over.”
A portion of my L.A. lethargy is indicated by the fact that I’m back to reading Defamer and going “hyeh-hyeh” like Beevis and Butthead. I didn’t go to Defamer once during the Toronto Film Festival, and not all that much when I was living in Brooklyn. I like Defamer — it’s a very well-written thing and a necessary component — but you have to be a little sick in your soul to be into it in the first place.
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I could feel the old vibe swirling around me like that banshee from Darby O’Gill and the Little People, so I did the sensible thing and evacuated myself off the roof of the high-rise and made my way over to Tower Records and bought the DVD of “No Direction Home: Bob Dylan.”
I tried to wangle a freebie from the Paramount Home Video publicist who took Martin Blythe’s place, but she didn’t call back until today. I tried to buy it yesterday at Laser Blazer in the early afternoon, only to be told it had sold out. The Tower Video guys, who had plenty of copies, said it was moving moderately well but nothing to write home about.
I nodded off for about 20 minutes when I saw David Cronenberg’s A History of Violence in Cannes and I didn’t get around to it in Toronto, so tonight I get to absorb the whole thing at the American Cinematheque, more or less alert…down for it.


Looking due north from the roof of a condo building at Alta Loma and Holloway — Tuesday, 9.20, 8:45 am.

That means blowing off the all-media of Flightplan, but sometimes you just have to say no.
I’m a little surprised to be riffing rather indulgently about the stink of Los Angeles seeping back into my bones (that’s a Charles Bukowksi line), and I promise to get back into matters of substance fairly soon.
Except melancholia is a matter of substance if you live here.
I’ve got a screening conflict next Tuesday evening — Tony Scott’s Domino vs. Joss Whedon’s Serenity. Well, not really. I would be squirming a bit if Whedon and I were talking in the pasta-and-sauces aisle right now and he was asking me, “So, are you going?”…but we’re not so I’m cool.
The only thing that gives me concern about Domino is an observation in David Katz’s profile of Keira Knightley in the current issue of Esquire. He says that Domino is “a messy movie, often intentionally, often not.”

Turnaround

For years the notion of Catherine Keener being in this or that film was not, for me, a reason to celebrate. She always seemed to play users, takers, manipulators… usually more pissed off than not.
Not each and every time, but I know this impression started to take hold in the late ’90s. I liked her frustrated actress character in Living in Oblivion back in ’96, but I remember going “whoa” after she played the heartless Maxine in Being John Malkovich.
I forget how many other razor-blade women she played in other films, but it seemed as if there were more than a few.


Capote costar Catherine Keener.

Now I feel rather differently, and all due to Keener’s last four roles — Daniel Day Lewis’s would-be signficant other in The Ballad of Jack and Rose, the quip-smart government agent in The Interpreter, Steve Carell’s sweet, spiritually-centered love interest in The 40 Year-Old Virgin, and Harper Lee, Truman Capote’s patient, all-seeing best friend, in Capote.
The Capote performance ought to result in a Best Supporting Actress nomination. It really and truly should — I can’t imagine anyone saying “no, I disagree” — and not just because Keener is so moving and touching in this role, but because of her image change.
I’m presuming I’m not the only person with this impression. Keener has always been a “good” actress, but now I think of her in terms of who I perceive her to be possibly be, based on an amalgam of the last four roles.
I was thinking of mentioning this during last night’s discussion at the Los Angeles County Museum’s Leo S. Bing Theatre after a screening of Capote, but it seemed too kiss-assy.
Keener, looking great, was sitting there along with her Oscar-worthy cohorts — director Bennett Miller, Philip Seymour Hoffman (a lock for Best Actor), Clifton Collins, Jr. (near-lock for Best Supporting Actor), and screenwriter Dan Futterman (ditto in the Best Adapted Screenplay category).


(l. to r.) Capote screenwriter Dan Futterman, star Philip, costar Clifton Collins, Jr., star Philip Seymour Hoffman, director Bennett Miller, and a portion of costar Catherine Keener at L.A. County Museum’s Leo S. Bing theatre — Tuesday, 9.20, 9:50 pm.

LACMA’s film department head Ian Birnie asked each a single question, and then asked the audience to chime in.
I asked Hoffman and Miller if they had somehow tried to suggest that Hoffman, who’s about 5’10” or so in real life, was closer to Truman Capote’s height of 5’2″. It sure seems this way in the film. They ignored my question, but Miller delivered a good line: “Philip lost 40 pounds and 4 inches for this role.”
I also asked about a little kid whom Capote happens to notice during a brief visit to a grocery store. About three years old, the kid has a toy pistol and does a kind of Diane Arbus-y routine for Capote with two or three grotesque expressions. Miller said this scene was some kind of tribute to Arbus….whatever.
A woman friend who came with me called Capote “one of the best films I’ve ever seen.” It sure as shit is one of the best of the year, a fact expected to be acknow- ledged by the Academy.
Wait a minute…have I said this before?

Grabs


Billboard above Viper Room — Tuesday, 9.20, 10:50 pm.

Another depressing landscape.

Self-explanatory — Tuesday, 9.20, 10:45 pm.

Aboard Northwest Airlines #1411, Memphis to Los Angeles — Monday, 9.19, 5:50 pm.

Kings

“I’ve seen Steve Zallian’s All The King’s Men, and it felt to me like a very mature, richly adult political drama that carries considerable end-of-year pedigree.
“Major kudos, first and foremost, to Zallian for his subtle way of telling a story. All too often in telling convoluted, multilayered stories of this kind, filmmakers rely on excessive exposition to make sure that anyone can follow the plot without having to pay too much attention.
“Zallian goes the other route — details and plot twists are implied rather than explained, and this technique affords the film much more credibility.


Jude Law, Sean Penn in Steven Zallian’s All The King’s Men

“Performances are strong all around, though Tony Soprano.. er, James Gandolfini struggles a bit with his Southern accent.
“There are two leads, Sean Penn’s Willie Stark — a wildly passionate and utterly corrupted Southern governor — and Jude Law as a tortured and crestfallen reporter named Jack Burden.
“Penn seems to be a much stronger contender for your Best Actor Oscar balloon. He delivers exactly what Academy voters are thought to love, giving a bombastic, almost Pacino-esque performance. And yet I would be much more excited to see Law’s performance be rewarded come awards season.
“And Zallian’s camera work compliments his sophisticated script nicely.
“What was shown was a work in progress (visually grainy, using pieces of the musical scores from Fargo and The Shawshanbk Redemption, to be sure, but one that shows significant promise.” — John McGilicutty

Down by Whedon

“In response to your Wired item about Joss Whedon, my first advice to you is this: as you prepare to rip or praise him in whatever fashion you intend, remember to tread very, very lightly.
“The man’s fan base is as rabid as that for any geek property out there, and if you do decide to trash him, you should be prepared for hate mail on the level of whatever Star Wars or Lord of the Rings flaming you’ve received over the years.
“Now, that being said, the idea of ‘getting’ Whedon is not something you will be able to do from just watching Serenity. It’s an impossibility.


From Joss Whedon’s Serenity

“The film is a continuation of a TV show that only a small but very devoted group of people watched in its original incarnation and more discovered later on DVD. Whedon’s appeal cannot and will not be understood by those coming to the film cold which, I feel, will kill it financially. If it does manage to catch on beyond the fan base, then great. But I don’t think anybody, beyond his most ardent followers, is expecting much.
“As for critics and columnists (like yourself) who are coming to the film cold, I fear that the response will be mixed to negative, as they will be reviewing the film on its own merits and not as a part of the larger whole. There is nothing wrong with this — it is their job. The best thing I can say to them and you is please, go easy.
“Serenity is a gift to Whedon’s fans, to provide closure on a TV series that they watched and enjoyed and which was snatched from them far too soon. I feel that a theatrical film was absolutely the wrong way to go on this, and that the property would have been much better off in a miniseries or TV movie on the Sci-Fi channel, in hopes of finding a new TV life.
“But Universal is taking a chance on Whedon and I truly hope that it works out for them.
“As for ‘getting’ Whedon, there’s really not much to get beyond the fact that the man has produced some great, great television (Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its spinoff Angel).


Serenity creator Joss Whedon

“His appeal can be gleaned from the fact that he takes high-concept approaches to well-worn genre shows (in Firefly’s case, the space opera and the western), fills them with sparkling wit and humor, and populates them with real, fully-dimensional characters that think and feel and hurt, where actions have real consequences and tragedy doesn’t always beget triumph.
“For years, Whedon managed to do the impossible in creating TV that didn’t take itself too seriously while, at the same time, taking itself absolutely seriously. He elevated genre television in the same way that David Chase elevated dramatic television with The Sopranos. This is what his fans reacted to, and why they continue to follow him into whatever avenue he chooses to pursue. I proudly count myself among them.
“Jeff, I don’t see you as the kind of person who will see Serenity, and rush out to pick up any of Whedon’s TV work on DVD, but this is really the only way to understand his appeal. The movie itself won’t do it. Just don’t judge the man on this film alone (or his spotty film record thus far). It’s not fair to him or to the fans that respect him.” — Mark of Boston, Mass.


East side of Broadway and 44th street, looking north — February 1963.

With Serenity due to open

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With Serenity due to open in ten days, I can feel the words taking shape in my head: “Get Joss Whedon.” (Yesterday’s misspelling was unfortunate, I agree.) Does this mean we should try and “get” Whedon in the sense of trashing his movie, fixing his game, beating him up in an alley, etc.? Not necessarily. Does it mean we should try to really get Whedon in the sense of arriving at a more profound understanding of who this ultra-crafty guy really is and what his wowser films are about deep down? I’m not certain. Thoughts?

Writing about Bubble, a certain

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Writing about Bubble, a certain columnist has said, “Steven Sodebergh’s most recent experiment has journalists with no actual depth of insight who were outraged by previous experiments flip-flopping and somehow embracing this one…and vice versa.” That’s a direct reference to, among I-don’t-know-how- many-others, myself…I’m one of those “with no actual depth of insight.” I don’t know how to say it in a limited space, but Bubble is (a) not as whack-cool as Soderbergh’s Schizopolis but (b) it’s way, way cooler than Full Frontal, which put Soderbergh into the critical doghouse. I could watch it another four or five times easily, but I don’t think I want to see Solaris ever again.

The Guardian’s John Patterson hates

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The Guardian‘s John Patterson hates Madonna and Guy Ritchie… whatever…but his 9.17 tear-down piece is wrong about two things: (1) Madonna’s palatial home near the Hollywood Reservoir was not in Silver Lake and didn’t even border on it — it was adjacent to Beachwood Canyon and is therefore smack dab in Hollywood; and (2) his observation that Madonna had to be “either terribly thick-skinned or terribly thick-headed” by continuing to make movies “after the quadruple-whammy of Shanghai Surprise, Body Of Evidence, Four Rooms and Evita” is 75% correct. Evita is a completely honorable and (for me) curiously touching film. I’ve seen it over and over on DVD, and it’s gotten a bit more rapturous each time. It’s one of Alan Parker’s finest films ever (certainly his most beautifully filmed), and say what you will about Madonna’s innate acting abilities but she’ll never be better than she was in this, largely because she wasn’t required to do anything but visually convey ruthless ambition while singing (and pretty well too, although she wasn’t up to delivering as well as Patti Lupone did in the Broadway stage show).

Back to Los Angeles and

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Back to Los Angeles and the real world starting today…not a pleasant thought. In fact, I am filled with dread. The best film opening this coming Friday (9/23), hands down, is David Cronenberg’s A History of Violence. There’s also Flightplan, which I haven’t seen. Plus Polanksi’s Oliver Twist, The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio (Woody Harrelson’s character seems like such an asswipe in the trailer), and Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride.

The Thing About My Folks,

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The Thing About My Folks, that amusing and surprisingly touching little family film with Paul Reiser and Peter Falk?…the one I first wrote about after seeing it at the Santa Barbara Film Festival last February? It opened limited yesterday (9.16) and…well, do what you think is best. It’s not a Luchino Visconti film but it has a certain caringness about it…paternal love, compassion, recognizable family values. “With movies that are quality-level and playing well, there’s two kinds of buzz — good word-of-mouth and what we call compelling word-of-mouth,” Jeff Dowd said earlier this year. “The Thing About My Folks has compelling word-of-mouth, which you have when the movie is value-based….like The Passion of the Christ. That was a movie that culturally embraced the values of a certain audience. Fahrenheit 9/11 had a value-based appeal, and so did My Big Fat Greek Wedding. People want to see adult films that are positive and empowering and also entertaining, and this is a real family-values film. It’s what people really go through in holding families together…without being ideological or getting into any kind of red-state thing. It’s playing just as strongly in blue states. Throw a dart at a map of the country and it’ll play there.”

Whenever I think back upon

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Whenever I think back upon the lightning-in-a-bottle period in Bob Dylan’s career, the time (’62 to mid ’66) when he wasn’t just the greatest ’60s generation poet-troubador of all time but someone (or something) who wasn’t just cable-connected to the heart of the early to mid ’60s tumult but in various ways was a kind of Zeus figure, sculpting and cutting through to the bone and voicing the whole evolving drama in head-turning verse…I just crumble inside. More often than not I think of the lyric Dylan wrote for a sad song from “Nashville Skyline” that went, “Once I had mountains in the palm of my hand.” Anyone with their ear to the rails back then could feel the rumble of that possession…the vibration was everywhere. And now, sitting at a dining-room table in a Toronto apartment in September 2005, my weariness amazes me. Martin Scorsese’s 201-minute documentary No Direction Home: Bob Dylan, which showed at the Toronto Film Festival last night, will be available on DVD this coming Tuesday (9.20) and will air on PBS in two segments on 9.26 and 9.27, is a truly magnificent American epic. It’s the best Scorsese film since My Voyage in Italy (’99), although I think it’s a much more emotionally powerful film than that 246-minute doc…or anything else Scorsese has created since Goodfellas. But is it the movie or just me and my investment in the Dylan saga? Scorsese is “in” this film, sure, but it all boils down to found footage and smart editing choices. In a way he lets the story tell itself, but he also frames Dylan’s saga in the same way David Lean configured the life of T.E. Lawrence in Lawrence of Arabia. This analogy originated with screenwriter Larry Gross in a Movie City News posting after he caught No Direction Home at the Telluride Film Festival, and it’s absolutely right-on. This movie is, in a sense, Scorsese’s Lawrence of Arabia, and without losing control of my faculties I have to say that here and there it’s more breathtaking and lump-in-the-throat terrific than Lean’s version. Part One, which lasts two hours, is about becoming…about Dylan’s absorbing all he could and summoning his many strengths, and it ends with his triumphant performance at the 1963 Newport Folk Festival…when Dylan had reached the summit of his powers as the penultimate poet and folk singer of his day. Part Two, which covers ’63 to ’66, is about the complications that came from Dylan’s shifting away from his acoustic roots and embracing his electrified destiny with “Bringing It All Back Home,” “Highway 61 Revisited” and “Blonde on Blonde”…complications and pressures that involved accusations of being a “traitor” to folk music and having to deal with repulsively stupid questions from middle-aged journalists. It all got thicker and gnarlier and finally led to a kind of downfall (his July 1966 motorycle accident, which…who knows?…might have occured for reasons other than mere chance) and a withdrawal from touring that lasted for eight or nine years. “I must have been mad, I never knew what I had”…I can’t nail this film in a Word item, but do not miss it. No Direction Home: Bob Dylan is easily one of the finest and most moving films of the year, and one of the most profound rock docs ever.

I saw Phillis Nagy’s Mrs.

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I saw Phillis Nagy’s Mrs. Harris, an HBO movie that will air sometime in early ’06, at Roy Thomson Hall last night with two women friends who are…well, agreeably seasoned. The film is a restrained (read: more than a bit dull) account of the downfall of Jean Harris (Annette Bening), the teacher who shot and killed Scarsdale Diet guru Herman Tarnower (Ben Kingsley). The film reminds us that powerful men who are used to getting what they want can be heartless dogs, and that women of taste and refinement sometimes throw caution to the wind in getting involved with guys of this sort, and that sometimes, if you’re really blue and feel pushed to the edge, you can just lose it and want to shoot somebody…yourself, for instance. It’s a huge bummer of a movie, so much so that one of the women I came with left without saying goodbye…she just walked out of the theatre talking on her cell phone, offering nary a word of farewell or even a wave from across the room. Things would have been different if she had come with us to the In Her Shoes screening at Roy Thomson a couple of nights ago, which I invited her to. That movie leaves you in a very nice place.

I’ve seen so many good

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I’ve seen so many good films at the Toronto Film Festival, I’m feeling a little worn down. This one’s Oscar-worthy, that one’s stellar, this one stirred me to the depths of my soul…gimme a break already. It’s almost like I need to see a few stinkers now (or well-made worthy film that I simply don’t care for…whatever) just to restore my sense of equilibirium. Peter Jackson, I miss you.

Drive a mint-condition Mercedes sedan

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Drive a mint-condition Mercedes sedan into the middle of any dirt-poor neighborhood and then park it and leave it there — the next morning it will be completely stripped. Leave a fresh and untouched edition of the Wall Street Journal and the Toronto Globe & Mail on a dining table at the Manulife Center early Friday morning during a visit to the local facilities, and when you return the two papers will either have been fully leafed through or flat-out stolen. Like Alaskan wolves or wild dogs roaming the plains of Africa, movie journalists cruise the Manulife Centre looking for fresh and free newspapers, and when they see a couple of free ones lying there…rowwrrl!

I gave up on doing

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I gave up on doing columns on just Wednesday and Friday during the Toronto Film Festival…or at least, I put up a new lead story a lot more often, whenever something happened or the spirit moved, etc. I kind of liked doing this. Keep adding, keep rolling…keep it fluid and malleable. I’m thinking I should maybe keep on like this.