Over the last two or three weeks I read several articles about the seemingly close race between French president Emmanuel Macron and his arch-conservative, Putin-favoring challenger, Marine Le Pen. The general tone of the pieces was alarmist…”the sky might be falling!”
Not so much, it turns out. Macron has reportedly defeated Le Pen in a landslide — 58% to 42%.
Somewhere in Time opened on 10.3.80, but was filmed in the spring of ’79 or 18 months earlier. This synchs with Jane Seymour‘s account of her on-set affair with costar Christopher Reeve.
In late 2017 Seymour confided some of the details to the Herald Sun: “[Chris] was a wonderful man. We fell madly in love while we were doing the movie. We were both single, but kept it very hidden.”
Reeve and Seymour broke it off when Reeve’s ex-girlfriend, Gae Exton, revealed she was pregnant with a child — Matthew Exton Reeve, as it turned out, born on 12.20.79
“That was the beginning of the end of an amazing relationship,” Seymour said. “Chris and I were close friends until the day he died [in 2004].
Exton gave birth to a second child, Alexandra Exton Reeve, in December 1983.
HE-posted on 7.31.17: I haven’t written about Jeannot Szwarc‘s Somewhere in Time for 13 years, or since the sad passing of Christopher Reeve on 10.10.04. I’ve said before that Reeve gave one of his better performances in it.
I’ve never called Somewhere In Time a great or even especially good film, but it did develop a cult following about a decade after it opened, and it has — or more accurately had — one of the most beautifully executed single-shot closing sequences in a romantic film that I’ve ever seen, and one that almost certainly influenced the dream-death finale in James Cameron‘s Titanic.
I’m speaking of a longish, ambitiously choreographed, deeply moving tracking shot that’s meant to show the viewer what Reeve’s character, Richard Collier, is experiencing on his passage from life into death. I saw it at a long-lead Manhattan screening of Somewhere in Time 37 years ago, but no one has seen it since.
That’s because some psychopathic or at the very least criminal-minded Universal exec (or execs) had the sequence cut down and re-edited with dissolves. The version I saw allegedly no longer exists. All that remains today is the abridged version.
The sequence was a single-take extravaganza accomplished with a combination crane and dolly. It happened as Collier is dying on a bed in a Mackinac Island Grand Hotel room. His spirit (i.e., the camera) rises up and above his body, and then turns and floats out the hotel-room window and into a long, brightly-lighted hallway and gradually into the waiting embrace of Collier’s yesteryear lover, Elise McKenna (Jane Seymour).
A completely fair assessment: “Democrats, for all their flaws, still see democracy as the essence of America. They see America and democracy as inextricably linked. They believe that one without the other is unthinkable. Republicans? Thinkable. Very, very thinkable.”
That lovingly restored version of HE’s beloved Invaders From Mars (‘53) screens tonight at the TCM Classic Film Festival at Mann’s Chinese 6 (which is a very small house, by the way).
Truth be told, William Cameron Menzies’ low-budget film suffers from a lack of polish and finesse (the most devout admirers admit that the cheesy parts are fairly comical) but — but! — the combination of Menzies’ famously impressionistic sets, that curious atmosphere of spooky ‘50s Americana, that green-faced, goldfish-bowl alien with the lizard pincer hands and that spellbinding musical score (<u>not </u> composed by Raoul Kraushar but the unsung Mort Glickman) still amount to something extraordinary.
In a twinkling of an eye (i.e., the last four or five days) Bill Murray, 71, has undergone a sudden industry devaluation. I’m not saying he can’t do any more Wes Anderson films but otherwise he seems to be suddenly “over.” As in more or less unemployable.
Unless, that is, Murray submits to behavioral rehab or goes on a major Apology Tour or something in that realm. I for one can’t imagine that Murray would swallow any humble pills. Old leopards can’t change their spots.
Murray is certainly the latest swaggering, boomer-aged hotshot actor to have behaved questionably (i.e., stupidly) in the vicinity of Millennial women on a film set, and thereby jeopardized his career.
Murray: “Hey, guys…I’m Bill freakin’ Murray and I’m just futzing around…or, you know, picking on a younger co-worker. Or experiencing a goofy mood swing. Or a dark one. But it’s cool, no sweat…been doing this for over 40 years.”
Millennial Co–workers: “Do you know why you’re a cautionary tale, Bill? Because you haven’t read the writing on the wall. We run the show now, not you. You will mind your on-set behavior, respect our rules and jump through our hoops or we will destroy your life…got it? Let this be a warning to all of the older assholes in this town…adapt or die.”
This is nothing less than generational cultural warfare.
The last time I briefly spoke with Murray was nine years ago (early May 2013) on the set of George Clooney’s The Monuments Men. He was “on” and funny and a kick — I was saying to myself “this is so cool…Murray is performing and cutting loose and it’s just me and the unit publicist enjoying the show.”
So Aziz Ansari’s Being Mortal is dead because Murray invaded someone’s safe space or pulled somebody else’s pigtail? What about “enough of this crap…everyone back to work?
This Beat The Devil ad ran in the N.Y. Times in mid February 1964. In ‘79 I was the managing editor the Thousand Eyes Cinema Guide, a TV Guide-styled monthly magazine that focused exclusively on Manhattan repertory cinemas, so I knew that realm pretty well but I’d never heard of the 5th Avenue Cinema, which had given up the ghost in September ‘74.
In her testimony earlier today about a case seeking to disqualify Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-Ga.) from running for reelection for her role on Jan. 6, the Congressperson repeatedly lied, evaded, hemmed and hawed. She also said “I don’t recall”, “I don’t remember” and “I don’t think so.” Greene undoubtedly committed perjury.
Question: Did you advocate to President Trump to impose martial law as a way to remain in power?
Greene: I do not recall
Question: So you’re not denying you did it?
Greene: I don’t remember pic.twitter.com/T2vNh6Jftt— Acyn (@Acyn) April 22, 2022
Marjorie Taylor Greene says under oath that it is NOT accurate to say it was her opinion and wish that Congress not certify President Biden’s win… what? pic.twitter.com/aBa9u0v5bZ
— Scott Dworkin (@funder) April 22, 2022
In his New Yorker review of The Northman, Anthony Lane notes that “the period detail is unstinting,” adding that “scholars of Old Norse who were unconvinced by Tony Curtis’s miniskirt, banded with chevrons, in The Vikings (1958), will be reassured by Eggers’s dedication.”
But for the rest of us, The Northman is not reassuring in terms of emotional involvement. You just don’t give a damn about anyone except for Anya Taylor Joy‘s “Olga”, except she’s kept on a short leash.
Hence this view of Eggers from a producer who’s seen The Northman: “In another era, Eggers would be a landscape painter, but never a portrait painter — unwilling or unable to capture the soul of his subject, and only the technical details of their environment. He might paint one of those massive battlefield canvases where hundreds of warriors gouge each other’s vital organs out, but end up as stick figures of glory against a barren emotional terrain.”
Though clunky and unsubtle, Richard Fleischer‘s The Vikings does not present a barren emotional terrain. Obviously inauthentic by today’s standards, it gives you emotional material to chew on.
[Posted two or three times]: “One thing that still works in The Vikings‘ favor is the film’s refusal to dramatically amplify the fact that Kirk Douglas‘s Einar and Tony Curtis‘s Eric, mortal enemies throughout the film, are in fact brothers, having both been sired by Ernest Borgnine‘s Ragnar.
“Ten minutes from the conclusion Janet Leigh‘s Princess Morgana begs Douglas to consider this fraternity, and he angrily brushes her off. But when his sword is raised above a defenseless Curtis at the very end, Douglas hesitates. And then Curtis stabs Douglas in the stomach with a shard of a broken sword, and Douglas is finished.
“The way he leans back, screams ‘Odin!’ and then rolls over dead is pretty hammy, but that earlier moment of hesitation is spellbinding — one of the most touching pieces of acting Douglas ever delivered.
“I’m not trying to build The Vikings up beyond what it was — a primitive sex-and-swordfight film for Eisenhower-era Eloi. But it did invest in that submerged through-line of ‘brothers not realizing they’re brothers while despising each other’, and the subtlety does pay off.” — originally posted on 3.27.06, on the occasion of Richard Fleischer‘s passing.
So who voiced the complaint against Bill Murray that resulted in the suspension of Aziz Ansari‘s Being Mortal? Nobody’s saying and nobody knows (myself included), but four days ago 28 year-old Being Mortal costar Keke Palmer (aka “Millennial Diva“) posted an Instagram riff about professional behavior, and how “it can lower your rate when people don’t like the experience of working with you.”
One could obviously interpret this post (initially flagged by Showbiz 411‘s Roger Friedman) as a commentary on the Murray brouhaha, whether Palmer was directly involved or not. You tell me….who knows?
Palmer: “It’s not always about how good you are at the actual job. It’s about how you show up to the job. Are you on time? Do you have a good attitude? Are you efficient? Are you flexible? Are you calm under fire? Do you represent yourself and the employer well? Are you a good communicator?
“These are the things people sometimes don’t think matters, especially those who work in fields that come natural to them. It can double your rate in any field if you create an enjoyable EXPERIENCE for the client. And it can lower your rate when people don’t like the experience of working with you, no matter the outcome of the actual task.
“I’m talented but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that there aren’t many talented people. However, not every talented person is a professional and people PAY for PROFESSIONALISM.”
Creative HE translation: “Being talented and charismatic is all well and good, but Millennials like myself value safe spaces and cheerful attitudes and being cool and professional on the set, especially in the matter of creative conflicts and whatnot. If you think you can ignore Millennial social behavior rules because you’re popular and world-famous, you’d better think again, pops.”
Radical idea #1: If there was personal conflict on the Being Mortal set (possibly between Murray and Palmer or somebody else…who knows?)…but if there was conflict on the set, why didn’t the producers and a Searchlight rep or two simply step in and ask everyone to be a professional, put a lid on the bad vibes, put on a happy face and finish the damn movie? Why suspend shooting on a film because someone got offended? Couldn’t they have simply have had a cast-and-crew sitdown to settle things?
Radical idea #2: Before the movie began filming, the complainer’s manager or agent takes him or her aside and says, “Beware of Bill Murray…he can be difficult but he doesn’t have to be. He’s moody at times so play it smart, give him a wide berth, try to turn the other cheek, pretend he’s an 800-pound gorilla who might hurt you and don’t start any fights. Whatever happens, just let it go. He’s been this way before and nothing is going to change. Just get through it, and hopefully this’ll turn into a good film.”
Radical idea #3: During pre-production Murray’s agent or manager or best friend takes him aside and says the following (which is half-copied from my 4.17.22 riff on Frank Langella): “You’ve been in this racket for over 40 years and you’re not gonna change, but listen to me, bruh…don’t fuck with Millennial safe-space fanatics. Especially Millennial women. You’re an older white guy, and you have to understand that you’re a deer, and that it’s deer hunting season out there right now. Because a decent percentage of urban progressive women (teens to mid 30s and perhaps beyond) are ready and willing to murder the careers of older white guys who say or do the wrong thing. So don’t be dumb — play it smart and careful. Because there are some Millennial women out there who will do what they can to kill you if you give them half a reason…they will turn your life in a raging social-media sea.”
I’m kidding, of course. House minority leader Kevin McCarthy, likely to become the House speaker after next November’s midterm rout of the Democrats, is a craven, two-faced liar and shameless kneepad whore when it comes to currying favor with Donald Trump.
McCarthy’s hypocrisy is being relished with last night’s release of tapes confirming that he’s been bald-facedly lying all along about his views of Trump’s complicity in the January 6th insurrection. The whole thing is covered in “This Will Not Pass: Trump, Biden, and the Battle for America’s Future” (Simon & Schuster, 5.3) by N.Y. Times reporters Jonathan Martin and Alexander Burns.
McCarthy on 1.11.22 phone call: “Let me be very clear to all of you, and I have been very clear to the president: he bears responsibilities for his words and actions — no if, ands or buts.
“I asked him personally today, does he hold responsibility for what happened? Does he feel bad about what happened? He told me he does have some responsibility for what happened and he’d need to acknowledge that.”
I’ve been struggling in this town for nearly 40 years, and perfect days are rare. Climate-wise, I mean. Flooded with sunshine, warm but not too warm, deep blue skies, magnificent white clouds, a gentle breeze in the air. Today is a perfect day, and about an hour ago I did something very unusual. I stood on a street corner and stared up at the sky and went “wow,” and then took a couple of snaps.
If Los Angeles were like this half or even one-third of the time, people would feel differently about it. I would honestly say that this kind of day happens maybe two or three times per month in the mid-to-late spring, but no more than that.
Robert Eggers’ The Northman is my idea of an admirable smarthouse DOA movie — a film you have to see because it’s Eggers, even though it does little more than demonstrate his absolute devotion to a harsh and bludgeoning world — a 100% commitment to a blood-and-intestines Viking flick that you can’t feel anything from, much less care about.
You do, however, come away with serious respect for the fierce and fearless performances by Anya Taylor Joy and Nicole Kidman. Seriously. I would give Kidman the edge — she really jumps into a boiling cauldron. One of the best lady villains ever.
Did Eggers actually say to that New Yorker interviewer that this version of The Northman (i.e., Focus Features pressed him for changes) is more commercial or entertaining than his own directors’ cut? Good God.
Give Eggers credit, at least, for going whole hog and not backing away from the extreme brushstrokes. But c’mon, man…The Northman is way, WAY too grim and gutty for its own good, or for anyone else’s.
The craft levels are tip-top but it immerses you so fully in dampness and cold and misery and sword wounds, and the killings are so extreme that it gradually tips into dark humor. One particular sword killing got the biggest laugh, but otherwise there’s nothing to feel or reflect upon. or thematically sink into.
It’s a tale about honor and obsessive revenge, obviously, but the focus is so invested in grotesque machismo — slashings, stabbings, howling, decapitations (including the first horse to lose its head since The Godfather), screaming — that I began to numb out after the first hour or so.
It’s almost entirely about brutality, savagery, top-tier production design (ninth century) and dazzling visual compositions from dp Jarin Blaschke. But story or character-wise there’s so little to invest in and the ending is so dismaying…it’s almost more of an extended technical demo reel than a film.
How many times did I hear scowling, sword-bearing warriors shouting at the top of their lungs “rrooaalrrraugHHHHRRR?”
Earlier notes: Technically and compositionally first-rate, at times amusingly ultra-violent, The Northman delivers the kind of suffocating, soul-draining ordeal that only a major artist could have provided.
I loved Eggers’ The Witch and The Lighthouse but I pretty much felt nothing this time around.
Excessive isn’t the word — startling, repetitious, numbing, eye-filling, confounding and yet all of a single harmonious compositional piece. Obviously the work of a serious artist. Handsome, exquisitely composed and about as bereft of humanity as a film in this vein could possibly be.
A few days ago a female producer friend told me it’s an empty film and that there’s no “there” there. She was right.
