90 minutes were eaten up this morning at the vet (the first of three all-in-one vaccines for Mouse), and then three and a half to four hours were consumed trying to find a place that could do a first-rate scan of a 41″ x 18″ poster of The Presbyterian Church Wager , the 1971 Robert Altman film that was renamed as McCabe and Mrs. Miller. I finally got it scanned and burned to a CD for $86.87; brand-new poster-sized prints will be ready by tomorrow or the next day.
My Sir Speedy guy couldn’t scan full-scale one-sheets; ditto the local Kinkos and a place on Wilshire called Luscen. I went upstairs to an office of an architect named Jackson and asked where they scan their architectural drawings, and one of the office guys directed me to a place on Robertson just north of Olympic called Ford Graphics. Except the Ford guy only does black-and-white scans, and so he sent me over to the West L.A. branch on Military, which handles color.
Mouse, by the way, was with me the whole time and being fairly cool about it — no crying, sitting on my shoulder, checking things out, etc.
Then as I began to remove the poster from the metal-and-glass frame at Ford we realized moisture has seeped in and the lower-right portion of the poster had stuck to the glass. I had to spend a long 10 minutes slowly slicing the sticky paper shreds off the glass with a razor blade. Then I had to wait for the scan to be done and put to disc, and then I had to go back to my Sir Speedy guy and give him the disc for digital touch-ups and printing.
It all reminded me that copying and restoring old materials is a fragile undertaking, and that you have to treat all the materials with kid gloves. But what a beauty this thing is. Those rich blues and reds, the Victorian-era trim on the perimeter, etc. About as rare as rare-ass movie posters come.
The cursive caption beneath the oval-shaped monochrome photo of Beatty and Julie Christie reads as follows: “Mr. John Q. McCabe & Mrs. Constance Miller — Town of Presbyterian Church 1902.”
Some Came Running‘s Glenn Kennyfeels that a certain James McAvoy line in Wanted — “Six weeks ago, I was ordinary and pathetic, just like you” — indicates that screenwriters have contempt for their audience. “What is this bullshit?,” Kenny asks. “”Have screenwriters become so defensive /resentful on account of churning out quasi-nihilistic, faux-convoluted, graphic-novel-mytho-Babel tripe like this that they feel compelled to lash out at the audience that laps their nonsense up?” Uh, yeah…kinda.
A gaffe, as Michael Kinsley famously wrote, is when you blurt something out that everyone knows to be true (like Samantha PowercallingHillary Clinton a “monster”) but which you’re not allowed to publicly acknowledge. And in a way, Kenny seems to be saying, that Wanted line is a kind of screenwriter’s gaffe — a confession of loathing for the unwashed masses that kind of “slipped out” and wound up in the Wanted screenplay. (Which is attributed to Michael Brandt, Derek Haas and Chris Morgan.)
The Hollywood elite, trust me, think very little of ticket-buyers in general. Once you’ve made it to a certain level in the film industry and have begun to run with the truly cool and connected and earn serious dough, you don’t relate to average stiffs. Big Talent tends to look upon regular moviegoers as prisoners of a sort, living in a comfortable penal colony that allows them to indulge in all kinds of perks but keeps them prisoners all the same. (You know…like the way things are in The Matrix.) I’m sorry if this sounds cruel.
Talk to talent on E.T. or Extra about the fans and they’ll go “we love ’em all!” — but that’s public relations. Remember John Lennon‘s lyric about how “you’re still fucking peasants as far as I can see”? That was another “uh-oh…a celebrity just said what he should have kept quiet about.” The real truth about things only comes out when someone is tired or arrogant or involved in primal-scream therapy and the obiter dicta — the words in passing — just tumble out.
I was doing an interview in 1982 with actor Paul Land, who played the “Tommy Dee” character in Taylor Hackford‘s The Idolmaker. Land, whose people skills weren’t that great, was talking about his life before he became a successful actor, and he said at one point, “I was like you back then!” Me, he meant — a low-rent schlub, struggling to survive. I understood what Land was basically saying and I didn’t take offense, but the publicist in the room noticably stiffened and went “aaahh.”
I was mildly jolted by a paragraph in Katherine Q. Seelye and Julie Bosman‘s 6.13 N.Y. Times piece about allegations of a sexist slant in the coverage of Hillary Clinton‘s campaign, to wit: “The cable networks do not reach as many viewers as the broadcast networks — 2.6 million per night for prime-time news programs on cable compared with 23 million for broadcast — but their coverage runs in a continuous loop, is amplified by the internet and is seen by many people involved in politics.”
It felt comforting on some level to spot my little Olympus digicorder in this shot taken during a news conference aboard Hillary Clinton’s plane.
In other words, the cable-satellite TV information world that I and everyone I know lives in — MSNBC, CNN, CNBC, CSPAN, etc. — is absorbed by only one ninth of the viewing population. One viewer out of nine. So the vast majority out there are…what, people who watch TV in their kitchen or bedroom with a roof antenna or a metal coat hanger for reception? Who are watching…what, Fox News, The View, Access Hollywood and their local Stepford news hour for updates?
How much smaller is the percentage of those who (like me) constantly keep up with the news cycles online via laptops and handheld devices compared to the average 20th Century slow-boater living in Nickleodeon world and driving a car that needs a new muffler? People who go to their kids to look at this or that online but otherwise haven’t a clue? (John McCain admitted a day or two ago that he doesn’t know how to use a computer.)
Every time you take a hard look at things it comes down to the same equation — a small percentage is paying real attention to what’s going on, and the vast majority is walking around in a kind of narcotized broadcast-media head space. What happened to the idea of a 21st Century information revolution and the resultant strengthening of our democracy? It can’t begin to happen with the levels of relative ignorance being what they are these days.
It would be one thing if, say, half the population was absorbing cable and wireless news sources and the other half constituted the media underclass, but when you’ve get eight out of nine still watching broadcast TV and shuffling around the house in their hush puppies…good God. And people wonder why this is essentially a Red country with tiny little Blue nerve centers in and around the big cities.
I woke up this morning — late, around 9 am — to news of the death of Sydney Pollack. Which we all knew was coming for a long while. The thing about “death’s honesty” (a Bob Dylan coinage from the mid 60s) is that all dread and preparation are forgotten once that solitary walk across the footbridge has been made. Then it all comes washing in. Sydney wasn’t a “friend” but a confidante and supporter, a guy I could always call and, I felt, a warm acquaintance.
As difficult as approaching a threshold always is, once it’s been surmounted there is only peace and tranquility for the traveller. The burden is over, the pain is over. In finality, serenity. And yet it feels…I don’t know, like I’ve lost a favorite uncle or something. I’m feeling that fluttery thing inside.
But if you had told me 18 months ago that Pollack and Anthony Minghella, partners in Mirage Enterprises who worked together on The English Patient, Cold Mountain, The Quiet American and several other quality films…if you had told me then that both of these guys would be lights-out by May 2008, I would’ve said “what…?” Both of them were too active and alive. They had too much talent and know-how, too many miles to go.
People always bring up the Oscar-winning Out of Africa (’85) and Tootsie (’82), the hugely successful comedy with Dustin Hoffman as a straight cross-dressing actor, as Pollack’s finest, best-known films. They’re both solid and accomplished (Tootsie especially), but the Pollack pics that I’ve most enjoyed are the genre thrillers — Three Days of the Condor, particularly, and The Firm — because they exceed their boundaries and then some. They’re about Pollack adding shrewd and surprising things rather than just meeting expectations.
Both have melancholy emotional currents — feelings of loss and regret — and some graceful resignations, courtesy of the wry and understated dialogue by David Rayfiel, Pollack’s pinch-hit rewrite guy for decades. Plus they’re both driven by character as much as plot.
Gene Hackman‘s confession to Jeanne Tripplehorn in The Firm that he plays around “because my wife understands me.” (Too well, he meant.) European Condor assassin Max Von Sydow working with miniature models in his New York hotel room. Condor CIA guy Cliff Robertson asking his superior, played by John Houseman, if he misses the “action” he encountered during the World War II years, and Houseman responding, “No — I miss that kind of clarity.” Both films teem with this kind of stuff.
After these my favorites are (a) Sketches of Frank Gehry (Pollack’s wise, affectionate, layman-level appreciation of our greatest architect), (b) Jeremiah Johnson, (c) the final voice-over moment in Havana, (d) the first half of Random Hearts, (e) all of The Yakuza, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? and Castle Keep, (f) the bomb-on-the-bus scene in The Interpreter and (g) portions of The Way We Were, particularly the final scene.
And, of course, there were Sydney’s first-rate performances — the divorcee in Husbands and Wives, that red-felt pool table scene with Tom Cruise in Eyes Wide Shut, a pair of cynical and corroded seen-it-alls in Changing Lanes and Michael Clayton.
Here’s an mp3 of a chat I did with Pollack about the Gehry doc.
The last contact I had with Pollack was four or five months ago, sometime around Christmas. I e-mailed him and asked if he’d seen 4 Months, 3 Weeks & 2 Days. When he said no I asked him if he wanted a DVD to look at and he said sure. A few hours later I drove over to his Pacific Palisades home — a sprawling, well-fortified Cape Cod-like place with tall trees and beautiful grounds — and dropped it off with his wife. I didn’t ask to see him. He was pretty sick at that point.
I first got to know Sydney a little bit in the summer of ’82. He’d heard I was writing a couple of stories about how Tootsie had been a chaotic shoot (which it was) and had cost an astronomical $21 or $22 million — this at a time when a typical mainstream studio film cost $10 to $12 million to make. I hadn’t yet tried to reach him — he’d heard I was calling around and so he called me. He was pissed off but enough of an adult and a strategic player to get right into it and try to spin things his way.
Pollack and Robert Redford during the 1972 Cannes Film Festival.
We became friendly in the mid ’90s when I wrote an L.A. Times Syndicate piece about Rayfiel, whose lamenting and soulful dialgoue had always moved me. Pollack thereafter helped me with an article I did about Mike Arick‘s restoration of They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? I sent him a note when he busted his hip after a bicycle-riding accident. I once gave him a heads-up about the poor quality of a digital master of On The Waterfront that was shown on TCM’s “The Essentials,” which he hosted for a season or two. He talked to me a bit about the making of Eyes Wide Shut, and laughed when I told him the Lars von Trier story about why Harvey Keitel left the film (i.e., the Legend of Mr. White, “an honest misfire,” etc.).
Four years ago Sydney gave me an admiring quote to use when I started Hollywood Elsewhere. He brought me in and showed me a cut of The Interpreter before it had gotten around, and then did a guest appearance up at my UCLA class when I screened it. And we did that phoner about Sketches of Frank Gehry, etc. A steady guy, dependable…about as adult and un-flaky as they come.
He was one of the best DVD voice-over and making-of commentary guys in the business. Sydney was a fretter, a kvetcher. Anxiety-ridden when he was working on something. Always very concerned about fucking up or falling short. Being this kind of person myself, I obviously related.
This quality comes through, in any event, in his commentary tracks — a tone that says, “Look, I don’t know everything but I do know this much, and I’ve been around enough to understand what tends to work and what doesn’t, and I tried to make this particular aspect work. I don’t know if I succeeded or not but people have told me I did so okay, maybe. But what I really love is the process — the shaping and refining — even though it gives me gray hairs. And I believe in having a sense of humor, or at least a sense of irony.”
He was a Paris lover, so we had that in common. He was a pilot (or so I recall him saying), and told me once about flying to Paris once in a private jet of some sort.
Pollack was healthy all his life, I’ve been told by his friends. He ate well, cooked well, didn’t drink much, hadn’t smoked for decades. I don’t know where the cancer came from or why it took him when he had a good 10 or 15 years to go, at the very least. Death knocks on the door when it damn well wants to, whether you’re ready or not.
As Woody Allen said during the just-finished Cannes Film Festival, “We’re hard-wired to resist it. Unfortunately, it doesn’t resist us.”
From the 2nd floor (1st etage) balcony cafe at the Martinez Hotel, just before yesterday’s Vicky Cristina Barcelona sit-down with Woody Allen, Penelope Cruz and Rebecca Hall — Sunday, 5.18.08, 11:28 am
I don’t know how the Times Online‘s John Harlow managed to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull “last week,” unless he put on a hat and a fake beard and snuck into an exhibitor screening. Nonetheless, he’s got a “review” up in the Sunday, 5.18 edition. However good or bad Indy 4 is, I’m not going to take Harlow’s word. His prose tells you right off he’s a relatively easy lay.
Harlow spends the first six paragraphs blah-blahing and blowing obsequious journo-farts. He finally gets down to a semblance of business in paragraph #7: “The good news for Harrison Ford fans is that Indy may be older and greyer, but there’s still a spark to his repartee,” he says, “and he still gets the girl in the end (the girl in question being Marion Ravenwood, played by Karen Allen, who was the love interest in the first Indiana movie, Raiders of the Lost Ark).
“Whether Ford’s charm will be enough to earn the film the $400 million it is estimated to need to recoup Paramount Pictures’ investment remains to be seen. However, a preview attended by The Sunday Times last week suggested that the internet gossips who have doubted the film’s drawing power may be proved wrong.
“Jones admits early on that chasing baddies is not as easy as it used to be. In one scene he escapes from a nuclear blast by hiding inside a lead-lined refrigerator. Science and probability were never among the series’ strong points.
“It rapidly becomes clear that since we last saw him saving the Holy Grail from the Nazis, Jones has become a sadder and more solitary character.
“His gloom is broken when an unlikely pair of treasure hunters — Mac, played by Britain’s Ray Winstone, and Mutt, played by Shia LaBeouf, a teen idol — warn him that the dastardly Soviet Union is after a crystal skull that, in the finest Indy tradition, offers dangerous powers to anyone who possesses it.
“Much has been made in internet chatrooms about LaBeouf’s potential impact on the film, and fears that he is merely a sop to lure teen viewers. Yet LaBeouf, who made a striking impact against computerized villains in Transformers, matches Ford quip for quip and leather jacket for leather jacket.
“The first Indiana Jones film in 1981 was Spielberg’s homage to the Saturday morning cliff-hanger serials of the 1930s. The latest film still has a pleasingly old-fashioned feel, with several long, slow shots, plastic-like foliage, tinny sound effects and a silly python.
“Cate Blanchett makes an eye-catching appearance as Irina Spalko, the spooky leader of the Russain villainry; John Hurt, the veteran British actor, lurks menacingly as a rival hunter.
“The crystal skull itself was formerly the subject of obscure disagreement between Spielberg and Ford, but it’s now hard to see what the fuss was about. It might as well have been a brussels sprout for all the difference it makes to the plot.
“The real pleasure for series fans may lie not so much in the madcap action, the carnivorous bugs and the familiar perils of quicksand, but the restored romance between Ford and Allen, and the fatherly relationship that develops between Ford and LaBeouf, who is clearly the new pretender to his whip.
“Indy treats Mutt with the same sarcastic disdain that his own father, played by Sean Connery, lavished on him during the Last Crusade. You can probably guess how it all works out.
“The new film has long appeared critic-proof — audiences will flock to it whatever the critical verdict. Yet will it have the box-office legs to join its distinguished predecessors among the most popular films in Hollywood history?”
Here’s another early review from the Times Leader‘s Michael H. Price.
I went four, four and a half minutes with Harrison Ford a little while ago at a small Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull party held at the Carlton hotel. Usually you get maybe two or three minutes with a major star at a gathering like this with aggressive journalists prowling around like wolves, looking for a name to bite into and a quote to take home.
Harrison Ford inside the Carlton Hotel’s La Cote restaurant– Saturday, 5.17.08, 6:40 pm
I didn’t even try to talk to Steven Spielberg, who was wearing a black baseball hat and dressed like some semi-retired suburban guy driving down to the hardware store for some weed killer. He was there for maybe 25 minutes, if that. I also spoke to Indy 4 costars Shia LeBeouf (guarded, formal), John Hurt, Ray Winstone and Jim Broadbent.
Ford and I talked about director and mutual friend Phillip Noyce, who directed Ford in Patriot Games and Clear and Present Danger, and about Phillip’s recently born daughter, Anthony Minghella‘s tragic death, his excellent appearance (trim, bright eyes, good color..forget that Uncle Festus stuff!), how often he works out (three times weekly), how many stunts he did in the film (“I just did the acting,” he said) and some minor stuff. We’d last spoken at a San Francisco junket for Clear and Present Danger, in ’94.
It was an odd crowd. Nothing but “top journalists,” as one Paramount publicist said, but some of them looked…I don’t know, a little weird. Like cattle buyers or Israeli used-car salesmen. They didn’t have the right uptown, dark-suited vibe. Bad clothes, funny hair. Not to judge a book by its cover.
I saw Ford give Fox 411‘s Roger Friedman one of those “jeez, man…I don’t know” looks when they started talking. Friedman has seemingly asked something unusual or challenging, something that required a little heavy consideration.
I told LeBeouf he looked great also, adding — this was a minor mistake — that the program obviously agreed with him. “The program?,” he asked. “Yeah,” I said. “AA….no? I read you’d gone into the program after the Chicago Walmart bust.” “Nope…no program..just livin’ my life,” he replied, registering zero emotion, cool as a cucumber. The guy looks rail thin — thinner that the way he looks in Indy 4, thinner than Transformers, etc.
I spoke to Hurt about his portrayal of Warren Christopher in Recount and the hullaballoo that had broken out about the accuracy or fairness of depicting the former Secretary of State as a wimp, which the film certainly does. He said the research was up to the filmmakers, but that he knew they had based the screenplay on first-rate source material. He also said that Recount screenwriter Danny Strong is smart as whip and a mine of information.
A guy who knows a guy who’s on the Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull team has passed along #2’s impressions of the finished film. I’m not 100% comfortable running them, given the obvious fact that #2 is a coward, cowering like an eight year-old girl behind the creased khaki slacks of #1, as well as a shill and a spinner, but here goes anyway:
“I felt compelled to write, having just read Anne Thompson‘s 4.17 Variety column which states that ‘the advance buzz on Indy 4 is getting damaging enough that Lucas and Spielberg may want to reconsider the current strategy of waiting until May 18 to show the film…that’s a long way off.’
Composer John Williams, Guy #2 says, was initially correct on the Indy 4 running time of 140 minutes, but the film “underwent belt tightening and has been receiving customary tweaking for its final mix.” Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull “is the best of the Indy sequels,” he declares. “Steven Spielberg‘s helming puts the imitators (The Mummy, National Treasure) to shame. There are many breakneck set pieces, with a protracted jungle chase being particularly memorable. As well as being evocative of the truck chase from the first movie. Harrison Ford, he claims, “gives his best performance in the role, not only physically belying his age but layering in welcome poignancy. More than before, audiences will be rooting for Indy. Shia LaBeouf makes essential contributions. Chemistry between he and Ford is palpable, yielding some nice character comedy.
“Jones is particularly beleaguered throughout the adventure, making his predicaments all the more entertaining.
“The film has the strongest supporting cast of the sequels. They all raise the bar. Ray Winstone amuses and fascinates, but the strongest impression is left by Cate Blanchett‘s Agent Spalko, a characterization that achieves instant cult status.
“Hopefully, the surprises in this film can continue to be guarded. Eventually, these spoilers will get out, but it would be shameful for reviewers and bloggers to reveal an ending that any longtime diehard fan of the films could only dream about. Expect a particularly resounding reaction in the theater.
“Kudos to screenwriter David Koepp for pulling all this together on the page. This will easily be the biggest hit of the year.”
I concur 100% with Toronto Star critic Peter Howell when he says that “just one person saves Smart People from being completely wretched, [and] it’s the presence of Thomas Haden Church.”
The problem, unfortunately, is that Haden Church wears a truly wretched moustache in Noam Murro‘s film, and it wrestles with his performance. He’s still the film’s most winning actor (slightly more engaging than Ellen Page, and much more so than the growly and curmudgeonly Dennis Quaid), but every time you look at him your eyes go right to his upper lip and it’s like…why?
This led me to lament almost all moustaches everywhere. I realize that some actors look better with them. Or they did in the good old days. Clark Gable, Ronald Colman, William Daniels in The Graduate, John Hillerman in Chinatown, etc. Robert Redford’s ‘stache in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid looked terrific. But almost everyone who doesn’t have the kind of face that really and truly needs the augmentation of upper-lip hair looks awful when they grow one. I mean terrible and sometimes even comically miscalculated at times. The word doofusy comes to mind.
Black guys, for whatever reason, almost always look good with moustaches. Who can imagine Billy Dee Williams without one? Except for Denzel Washington — they don’t work for him at all.
I’ve heard some credible-sounding information from a couple of solid guys about The Argentine and Guerilla, Steven Soderbergh‘s Cannes-bound Che Guevara films. And the situation, they’re telling me, is more or less as follows:
(1) The second of the two films, Guerilla, which deals with Guevara’s failed attempt to incite a revolution in Boliva in 1967, is pretty much done, largely, I gather, because principal photography was completed on this one before it was on The Argentine, which is about the triumphant Cuban revolution from ’56 to late ’58. (I’ve written the films’ producer Laura Bickford to clarify this and other matters.)
(2) Right now, I’m hearing, Soderbergh is jacked and sweating bullets in a Manhattan editing facility getting The Argentine into showable shape in time for Cannes. One guy says he’s been told by a Warner Bros. source that Soderbergh is determined to get the film[s] done in time for Cannes. Another guy told me he’s heard the chances of The Argentine being “ready-ready” are “less than 50%.” And yet Soderbergh, he adds, repeating what the Warner Bros. guy passed along, is said to be confident he can have The Argentine in some kind of decent shape by the mid-April deadline, or roughly ten days from now. Of course, he could always screen The Argentine as a not-quite-completed work in progress a la Apocalypse Now.
(3) It’s been deemed crucial in the view of various players, including Wild Bunch topper Vincent Maraval, the film’s Paris-based financier who’ll be selling the distribution rights to an as-yet-uncommitted U.S. distributor, that The Argentine and Guerilla should be shown in Cannes as a single unit consisting of two parts. Soderbergh has said he’d wants the films to come out in tandem or something close to the same time (i.e., maybe a couple of weeks or a month apart).
(4) It’s also very important to get The Argentine done for Cannes because it’s the more “up”-ish of the two…more exciting, more rousing. It’s about struggle and success. Well written as it is, Guerilla is pretty much about struggle and failure. Peter Buchman‘s Argentine script seemed complete on its own terms, but Guerilla, I thought, needed the Argentine counterweight.
(5) A potential buyer confides that “it’s a tough deal…looks like a tough deal. Two Spanish-language films, no dubbed English versions, gritty subject matter, possible rancor in some sectors of the U.S. — the right-wing Cubans in Miami, say — when the two films open.” The upside, he adds, is you have a likely Best Actor contender in Benicio del Toro‘s performance, and possibly other award-level attributes, including, obviously, the two pictures themselves for Best Picture.
“”All you have to do is sell it to all those kids who’ve hung that Che poster on their college bedroom wall,” he said. Variety‘s John Hopewellreported from the Berlin Film Festival two months ago that Wild Bunch’s hottest draw — very possibly the most talked-about film at this year’s Berlin festival — was Soderbergh’s two-pic Che, an action bio of large artistic ambition. Screened in Soderbergh’s presence, 10 minutes of excerpts, mainly of first-part Argentine, had buyers talking bullishly about a work with the makings of a modern classic.
“Three U.S. buyers are circling Che, said Berlin reports. The number is most probably significantly higher than that, though Wild Bunch’s Vincent Maraval said [that] Wild Bunch was in no hurry to close a U.S. deal.”
The grapevine says the most likely U.S. buyer at this stage is Warner Independent. And no, Focus Features is not involved at this stage. A rumor got started along these lines a year or so ago, but I’ve been told Focus is not connected.
Hey, how about showing the two films as a gargantuan Lawrence of Arabia-styled two-parter with an intermission, running at least three or three and a half hours?
A few days ago I mentioned a passing interest in wanting to read the script of Down and Dirty Pictures, an adaptation of Peter Biskind‘s 2004 book about the indie movie heyday of the ’90s. A couple of days later a guy sent me a draft of it, written by Joshua James and Dean Craig, undated, 121 pages, based on a story by James and Ken Bowser. u
And I have to say the following: the movie, which PalmStar Pictures is going to shoot in September, may turn out well or not. But the script isn’t half bad. At the very least it has a certain bold, punchy recklessness. It’s a movie within a “movie” with lots of yelling, arguing, maneuvering, jousting. It breaks down the fourth wall with characters talking to the camera. I muttered the word “Fellini-eseque” to myself at one point. It also reminded me at times of American Splendor. And it’s pretty funny at times. Especially the Bingham stuff.
The script could use a little refinement. The tone is a little too belligerent. It needs some meditation, quiet, stillness. But it’s a lot better than I expected. Here’s page #1, page #2, page #3 and page #4.
It’s basically a series of scenes showing some famous indie players — Bingham Ray, Harvey Weinstein, Jeff Lipsky, Quentin Tarantino, David Dinerstein, Cassian Elwes, Robert Rodriguez, Jeff Katzenberg, Tony Safford, Amir Mailin, Scott Greenstein, Allison Anders, Kevin Smith, Tim Roth, John Schmidt, Linda Lichter — trying to out-do or out-finagle or out-bullshit each other. Arguing, sniping, boasting, bellowing, boasting, bitching, whining, moaning. It’s pretty much Biskind’s book — all the good parts, I mean — minus the narrative padding and commentary and windy perspective.
You know the story if you’ve read it. It’s about how indie films became cool and happening in the late ’80s and early ’90s, how some titles caught on or exploded commercially, how the corporate guys bought some of indie operations and their operators and slowly, gradually co-opted and corporatized the “movement,” as it were.
The best characters, for me, are Bingham and Harvey — partly because they’re the most outsized and bellicose. It begins and ends with Bingham. Lipsky, Ray’s former October Films partner, figures prominently.
The problem, of course, is that the “characters” will be played by actors, which will probably feel strange. (To me, anyway.) The other obvious problem is that audiences haven’t exactly flocked to inside-the-beltway films about the film business.
I talked earlier today with PalmStar’s Kevin Frakes about the script and the shoot. He sounded like an intelligent, fair-minded guy. The film will not be “micro-budgeted,” he said, but will cost less than $15 million, he said. Name actors will we cast, he said. The shooting, which will happen during September and October, will shoot in Toronto (“Toronto for itself and Toronto for New York”), Park City and a couple of days in the South of France.
The very first copies of the revised script were sent to Harvey and Bingham, he said, right before the start of the WGA strike. Weinstein “told us to get somebody good to play me…that’s a quote,” he said. He didn’t share Ray’s reaction, whatever that was or is. Ray didn’t return my calls about the script. I also called Biskind — zip. My former boss Kevin Smith has yet to return also. Presumably they feel chagrined or rattled or at the very least guarded about it.
Something is telling me that Down and Dirty Pictures would work best as a six-hour HBO miniseries. The story covers a ten-year period and needs room to breathe. The PalmStar script is pretty good, but it feels a little too compressed.
HE reader Richard Huffman wonders if N.Y. Post reporters Kati Cornell and Samuel Goldsmith were “played” in the reporting of a 3.15 story about Ashley Alexandra Dupre, given an end-of-the-story quote attributed to defense attorney named Steve Zissou, the character played by Bill Murray in The Life Aquatic.
“What’s the likelihood that someone has that name outside of that Wes Anderson flick?,” Huffman wrote. The answer is that there are men and women with movie-character names all over this country. They’re ubiquitous. And they’ll probably have to deal with bad jokes about this the rest of their lives.
Switchboard has three Steve Zissous in New York alone, and one living at 1 Irving Place in Manhattan. There are two New York State guys called Frank Galvin, i.e., Paul Newman‘s drunken attorney character in The Verdict. There are four guys named Roger Thornhill, Cary Grant‘s adman in North by Northwest, in New York State also. The state is home to no less than seven fellows named Max Fischer, the name of Jason Schwartzman‘s character in Rushmore. There’s even a guy named Hans (not Han) Solo with a business address at 30 Rockefeller Plaza.
And this is just from a casual scan of one state. There are probably scores of U.S. citizens going by every major character name in movie history except for eccentric Stars Wars names Boba Fett, Jar-Jar Binks and Lando Kalrissian. I wonder how many guys are named Charles Foster Kane? Or John Book, i.e., Harrison Ford‘s cop character in Witness?
Now that I think of it, I can definitely imagine Star Wars freaks (just starting their adult lives in ’77, now pushing or slightly over 50 with grown kids) with kids named Lando or Han or Obi-Wan. Lando Rodriguez. Obi-Wan Schwartzman.
Wait — there’s a guy named Frank Bullitt, Steve McQueen‘s detective in Bullitt, living on Rochester Street in West Los Angeles right now. Same two l’s and two t’s. What if it turns out he’s driving a dark green late ’60s Mustang fastback?