I heard yesterday about this 2016 video of Sean ‘Diddy’ Combs assaulting Cassie Ventura, but I didn’t see it until today. As bad as it gets. Guilty.
…at the end of yesterday afternoon’s Salle Debussy screening.
It’s a kind of darkly humorous, oddly grotesque, Bunuelian satire of middle-class misery…an attempt to capture the cold, deathly emptiness of things…the self-loathing, the horrifying banality. It’s basically a surreal elevated horror film…dead-eyed zombies and slithering serpents and empty robots eating food, talking about their fears, manipulating each other, indulging in wife-swapping, diving into empty pools, a husband asking a wife to cut off a finger and serve it as a snack, and then deciding to give it to the cat instead…you get the idea.
There’s a point to all this cold repellent antiseptic shit, and I respect that the humanity-hating Lanthimos had a deeply perverse vision in his head as he put it all together, but unlike Bunuel he hasn’t much chuckle in him, and when a film gets booed, even if only by two or three malcontents, it usually means something.
Early this morning I was late to my 8:30 screening of Emanuel Parvu‘s Three Kilometres to the End of the World, a small-town Romanian drama about homophobia and a hate crime. But I had 15 minutes to make it to the Salle Agnes Varda, a relatively short distance from the pad, and figured I had a fighting chance. I had my laminated pass, my bar-code ticket…this could work.
But I didn’t have a fighting chance…not really…as the Cannes Film Festival security guys have set up too many blocking gates, lines and security checks.
I tried to walk directly to the A.V. from the Place Maritime entry gate, which I’ve done dozens of times in the past. Nope — your press pass isn’t sufficient, go around the Grand Palais, enter from the other side. But after doing that I was confronted by a long, terribly slow, shuffling-nightmare line. After getting through that soul-suffocating gauntlet and climbing the A.V. stairs I was blocked yet again by security staff. After being allowed to pass I was blocked a fourth time from entering the theatre.
And this wasn’t just me — a sizable crowd of credentialed journos had the same beef and were trying to beg, argue and cajole their way in. They all failed.
It was that beefy Place Maritime guard and that long behind-the-Palais line…the one-two punch that killed my spirit and sent me plunging into the pit.
…that women as attractive as Sienna Miller, Abbey Lee, Jena Malone and Ella Hunt were part of the common community of westward-travelling settlers during the Civil War era.
I’m glad they were cast in Kevin Costner‘s Horizon, but I don’t believe that hotties were even dreamt about until much later in the 19th Century and more likely into the 20th.
Nor do I believe that women as attractive as Red River costars Joanne Dru and Coleen Gray were wagon-trainers during the same era. I’m glad Howard Hawks cast them but, etc.
Does anyone have faint memories of Westward Ho The Wagons (’56), a Disney-produced, wildly unrealistic western about covered-wagon settlers heading for Oregon? A family-friendly saga, settlers vs. Native Americans, etc. Fess Parker, Kathleen Crowley, Cubby O’Brien, Jeff York, Sebastian Cabot, David Stollery and George Reeves (Superman’s final feature film).
Most of us have a basic impression about the late Dabney Coleman, who passed yesterday at age 92. Aside from being a dependable, professional-grade character actor, he mostly played sexist jerks, stubborn asshats and comic foils.
But by my scorecard Coleman lucked into at least two interesting characters and did very well by them — (1) “Mayo”, the assistant Olympic ski team coach (subordinate to Gene Hackman) in Michael Ritchie‘s Downhill Racer (’69), and (2) “Dr. Bill Ray”, Jane Fonda‘s sensible, good-natured boyfriend in On Golden Pond (’81).
Mostly, however, he played dicks, and his best-known in this regard were “Ron Carlisle,” the sexist soap opera director in Tootsie (’82) who antagonized Dustin Hoffman‘s “Dorothy” and vice versa and the sexist, jerkwad boss in 9 to 5 (’80). Both were broad, boilerplate performances.
…of ticket buyers don’t regard “insane” (as in unstable, directionless, subject to whim, blown by the wind) as a cinematic virtue.
Most viewers want filmmakers to show a sense of control, discipline, assurance and command.
One of the most unappetizing “crazy” films ever made was and is Philip Kaufman’s Quills (‘00). I hated Geoffrey Rush’s Marquis de Sade, especially when he began using fecal matter with which to paint on prison walls.
I’ll post the official festival video of the just-concluded Megalopolis press confererence when it pops through…sometimes it takes a few hours.
“Admirable Coppola,” posted 2 and 1/3 years ago:
We’re always adapting — all of us, but especially Type-A creative types. Maturing, cranking up, calming down, adjusting, shape-shifting — always in response to a changing world. It follows that no 40 year-old director is exactly the same in terms of craft, choices and sensibility as he/she was at age 30.
I think Francis Coppola (whom I had the pleasure of doing a two-hour phone interview with 41 years ago) was one guy when he made The Godfather, The Conversation and The Godfather, Part II. He was a slightly different guy when he made Apocalypse Now, and a faintly altered version of the Apocalypse Now guy when he made One From The Heart. He was a whole different dude when he made Jack — that’s for damn sure. And a much different guy when he made Tetro, Youth Without Youth and Twixt.
Coppola has said he’s planing to invest over $100 million of his own dough in Megalopolis, which he’s called “a love story that’s also a philosophical investigation of the nature of man.”
It is my prediction that however good or bad it turns out to be, Megalopolis won’t connect with Joe Popcorn. Some will see it (I certainly will) but most won’t, and it’ll just end up as a streaming selection. That said, Coppola is living righteously for an artist who’s nearly 83 — still striving, still dreaming. Here’s hoping he makes Megalopolis and that it satisfies those who are willing to take the journey.
From David Ehrlich’s 5.16 IndieWire review of Francis Coppola’s Megalopolis: “Madison Square Garden has naturally been reimagined as a sandy colosseum. The exterior shots don’t look anything like the world-famous arena they’re meant to represent, but the interior ones get MSG’s iconic ceiling exactly right.”
Ehrlich was thinking of Manhattan’s current Madison Square Garden, which opened in ’68 and stands on Eighth Ave. between 31st and 33rd, above Penn Station.
Coppola’s version, of course, is based on the funky, gunky older version of the garden, the one that stood on the west side of Eighth Ave.between 49th and 50th streets with the neon Nedick’s sign…the one in which Laurence Harvey shot Angela Lansbury through the head in John Frankenheimer‘s The Manchurian Candidate (’62)…the one in which Terry Malloy took “a dive for the short-end money”…the one in which Marilyn Monroe sang “happy birthday, Mr. President” to JFK in May ’62.
Coppola’s version:
Actual late ‘50s version:
Anya Taylor-Joy‘s Theda Bara-meets-Clara Bow look (i.e., beaded headpiece, heavy eye shadow) plus the cropped jacket and naughtily sticking her tongue out duuring the photo call…great old Hollywood vibes. I didn’t attend the Furiosa press conference — catching up on filing plus an hour-long nap seemed more important at the time.
So far the Cannes reviews of Francis Coppola‘s Megalopolis, which screened this morning for elite crickets and late this afternoon for schlubs like myself, have been a mass exercise in “c’mon, give Coppola a break…he’s a visionary who spent $120 million of his own dough…be creative and find ways to offer charitable impressions…this film may be a surreal exercise in whatever, but you do not want to pan it…c’mon, it’s Francis.”
I mean, IndieWire‘s David Ehrlich has given Megalopolis a B-plus grade, for Chrissake. Talk about the delusion of too much compassion. Remember A Clockwork Orange‘s “Cat Lady” sneering at Malcolm McDowell and saying “cut the shit, sonny“?
It’s 12:10 am and I’m really too whipped to tap out a review — I intend to expand and polish tomorrow morning but for the time being allow me to share a few post-screening notes and texts, written in a rather crude fashion.
(a) “Coppola has seemingly lost his mind. Watching Megalopolis just now and listening to random moo-cow boos as the closing credits began to roll was a very sad and sobering experience. It’s not just an embarassment and a calamity — I almost feel like weeping for the poor guy — but a film that hasn’t a prayer of attracting any Average Joes or Janes whatsoever, and you can totally forget any sort of fall awards campaign or any distributor even flirting with paying for same…no way, man!”
(b) “On the other hand…Jesus, I don’t know what to say or think as I don’t want to dump on a film that is so nervy and creatively ludicrous and out-there bonkers. I’m not surprised by how Megalopolis played with the Salle Debussy crowd, and I’m certainly not angry about having sat through it, but holy fucking moley.”
(c) “It’s such a head-in-the-clouds goofball thing with such an overload of pompous-sounding, smarty-pants dialogue that it’s almost like a 1965 philosophical psychedelic fantasy flick by the Merry Pranksters, shot in 16mm and edited by a guy who’d been chewing peyote buttons.”
(d) A friend has compared portions of the dialogue as well as the narration (voiced by Larry Fishburne) to Ed Emshwiller‘s “Unveiling The Mystery Planet.” HE is hereby advising the readership to see Megalopolis while tripping. (Not acid necessarily but maybe some soft mescaline?)
(e) Jon Voight‘s Crassus character, adorned in black silk pajamas, during a third-act comic-detour scene: ““Whadaya think of this boner I’ve got here?”
(f) “All this said, I feel MUCH better about having seen Megalopolis than having seen Fast X or any of the shitty, soul-draining, post-Iron Man franchise movies because at least it’s about something other than the usual corporate bullshit and is at least alive with quirky indivduality, and that ain’t hay.”
(g) Journalist friend to HE five minutes after Megalopolis ended: “What the fuck was that?”
I’m sorry but I found George Miller‘s relentlessly eye-filling Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (Warner Bros., 5.24) a chore to sit through, which is to say lacking in wit, dark humor and irony (which Miller’s The Road Warrior had in abundance) and therefore frankly boring because it’s all on the surface.
Nothing is happening thematically or subtextually or quirk-wise — I didn’t chuckle once.
Every shot is a dazzler, but superficial wows are all you get — knockout action, glorious desert colors, killer CG, cinematography to die for, great costumes and set design.
And Lordy, it goes on for 148 minutes. For a relatively superficial action extravaganza like this a two-hour length would have been much preferred . Hell, 110 minutes.
When you have nothing to say except (a) “here comes another expensive chapter in a popular popcorn franchise” and (b) “boy, did we spend a lot of money making this or what?”, don’t drag it out. Bing, bam, boom and out.
Story-wise it’s basically just a drawn-out revenge saga — i.e., Anya Taylor-Joy‘s Furiosa determined to ice Chris Hemsworth‘s Dementus, warlord chief of the Biker Hordes, for killing her young mom, played by Charlee Fraser, when Furiosa was a young child.
All I can say is that I started to die inside around the one-hour mark.
The cast members (Taylor-Joy, Alyla Browne, Hemsworth, Tom Burke, Lachy Hulme, Nathan Jones. Josh Helman, John Howard) do a great job of behaving in various extreme ways, and, as indicated, Simon Duggan‘s cinematography is wall-to-wall splendor.
If you’re a fool for this franchise you’ll be in Ape Heaven. 40-plus years ago I was a fool for The Road Warrior, but those days are gone.
But the film is punishing. My soul felt starved and my leg muscles (especially the left leg) were truly weeping with discomfort.
How tall is Taylor-Joy? 5’2″ or something? Big-boned Charlize Theron (5′ 10″ or thereabouts) felt like a better fit in Fury Road (’15).
Before last night’s 10:30 pm screening of The Girl With The Needle I slipped into an 8:15 showing of Laurent Bouzereau‘s Faye, an engagingly straightforward life-and-career retrospective about the great Faye Dunaway.
It supplies everything about her career that you’d want to see, everything you’d expect. All the biographical anecdotes, all the required clips, full of respect and appreciation plus healthy servings of Dunaway letting it all hang out (or at least as much as she’s able to do within this format).
It reminded me first and foremost what a great majesterial actress she’s always been. Charisma, timing, energy, just the right amount of push and hesitancy…the whole package.
It barely gets into the strident Faye stories that we’ve all been hearing for decades, but Dunaway’s confession that she was bipolar and occasionally alcoholic helps to explain at least some of her extreme behavior.
The doc offers an amusing retelling of the Roman Polanski-hair-yanking-episode-during-the-shooting-of-Chinatown story, mostly courtesy of producer Hawk Koch.
Dunaway honestly recounts her mad two-year affair with a married Marcello Mastroianni (’68 to ’70). There’s often something reckless and illogical about heated extra-marital romances, and the Dunaway-Mastroianni thing was no exception.
Plus it includes a brief interview with Mommie Dearest director Frank Perry saying that 1981 audiences responding with hoot and howls was fine with him. (Hollywood Elsewhere has always loved this film.)
The doc shows many snaps of young Faye during her youth (she was born in January ’41), and I was surprised to discover that when Dunaway was a teenaged brunette she closely resembled young Barry Gibb of the BeeGees. This resemblance was out the widow, of course, once she turned blonde and glammy in the mid ’60s.
I had to duck out at 9:50 pm so I wound up missing the home stretch and wrap-up, but it’ll be on Max before long.
<div style="background:#fff;padding:7px;"><a href="https://hollywood-elsewhere.com/category/reviews/"><img src=
"https://hollywood-elsewhere.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/reviews.jpg"></a></div>
- Really Nice Ride
To my great surprise and delight, Christy Hall‘s Daddio, which I was remiss in not seeing during last year’s Telluride...
More » - Live-Blogging “Bad Boys: Ride or Die”
7:45 pm: Okay, the initial light-hearted section (repartee, wedding, hospital, afterlife Joey Pants, healthy diet) was enjoyable, but Jesus, when...
More » - One of the Better Apes Franchise Flicks
It took me a full month to see Wes Ball and Josh Friedman‘s Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes...
More »
<div style="background:#fff;padding:7px;"><a href="https://hollywood-elsewhere.com/category/classic/"><img src="https://hollywood-elsewhere.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/heclassic-1-e1492633312403.jpg"></div>
- The Pull of Exceptional History
The Kamala surge is, I believe, mainly about two things — (a) people feeling lit up or joyful about being...
More » - If I Was Costner, I’d Probably Throw In The Towel
Unless Part Two of Kevin Costner‘s Horizon (Warner Bros., 8.16) somehow improves upon the sluggish initial installment and delivers something...
More » - Delicious, Demonic Otto Gross
For me, A Dangerous Method (2011) is David Cronenberg‘s tastiest and wickedest film — intense, sexually upfront and occasionally arousing...
More »