I almost always get up early (between 6 and 7 am), and that’s usually after having gotten five or six hours of sleep. Even though it’s better for people (especially those with demanding, stressful jobs) to get 7 or 8 hours my eyes are almost always open in the quiet morning hours, when things outside are mostly still and semi-shadowed to some extent.
Sometimes I’ll even awaken at 4 or 5 am. There’s no point in trying to go back to sleep so I just turn the phone on and start the usual chores — editing and refining the material I wrote the day before, responding to commenters, figuring what to write about next.
But after doing this for two or three hours, or around 8 am, that sleepy John Lennon feeling returns and I’ll go under again for an hour or so. My body tells me this without fail — “You need this…do it until 8:45 or 9 am.”
The homework period is always blissful, and I’m so grateful that I get to settle in and experience this portion of peace and security every morning.
I for one didn’t revisit Fatal Attraction on the occasion of its 30th anniversary, which happened three and a half years ago (9.16.17). But others have in the interim, and the #MeToo view is basically that even though Glenn Close‘s Alex Forrest was damaged and unstable and jumped the gun as far as Michael Douglas‘s Dan Gallagher was concerned, she was coming from a no-bullshit emotional place, and she had a point.
Gallagher, a married attorney, saw an opportunity for some hot recreational sex (the kind that married people generally don’t have as a rule) and a brief revisiting of his hormonal hound-dog past with an enticing woman while his wife was out of town, and he went for it.
But almost right out of the gate Forrest began asking him why he was cheating. In some corners the new thinking is “was Alex really so wrong to want something real from the guy? She wasn’t some predatory psycho — she was hurting and off-balance, agreed, but it was the mid ’80s, she was 36 years old and she didn’t want to be treated like a sex poodle. She was simply putting her cards on the table.”
Hollywood Elsewhere re-watched Fatal Attraction two or three nights ago, and here’s the basic deal, #MeToo or not.
Forrest was way out line to even fantasize that a weekend (36 hours, give or take) of great sex and spaghetti and opera and more sex plus a suicide attempt…she was way out of line to think that there was even a slight basis for a serious extra-marital affair between herself and Gallagher.
The rules are the rules, and everyone knows that the first night or two of sex between consenting adults is strictly about sensual abandon and intoxication…under the best of circumstances and with the right person the initial stages of a sexual escapade can be a glorious and ecstatic escape from the regular grind of living and working and carrying the weight of it all.
And this rule goes double if not triple if one of the parties is married. In such a situation there’s always an assumption that this is strictly a one-timer or a one-weekender…all sane adults understand this.
If, on the other hand, the affair continues and the married man or woman becomes more and more attached to the non-married lover or vice versa, then it’s cool for the unattached person to ask “what are we doing exactly? Because I’m not into recreational, gymnastic sex for its own sake…I’m interested in having a real-deal relationship with someone I truly care for so where are we exactly?”
That kind of conservation is completely normal and par-for-the-course after the affair has been going on a while. But you can’t broach the subject after only a night or two. That’s crazy — totally bonkers.
Which is why Gallagher froze and said “oh, shit” to himself at the 42-second mark in the above scene, or right when Forrest said “so what are you doing here?”
Today is technically the tenth anniversary of the killing of Osama bin Laden, as the infamous al-Qaeda mass murderer breathed his last at 1 am Abbottobad time on 5.2.11. The choppers bearing the Navy Seals took off a couple of hours earlier in Afghanistan. President Obama announced the killing on 5.10 from Washington, D.C., which is twelve hours behind Abbottabad.
This is as good a reason as any to re-submit to Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal‘s Zero Dark Thirty (’12), one of the finest films of this century and probably the greatest military-intel drama ever made.
Today (5.2) CNN’s Jim Acosta didn’t lament the well-ingrained tendency at Fox News to report b.s. — rumor, heresay, invention, flat-out lies. For the first time in my recollection he called it “bullshit“, and not once but twice (between 1:45 and 2:02).
Maybe other mainstream news anchors have been using agreeably frank language from time to time and I haven’t been paying attention. If so, when did occasionally salty terminology first break the ice on a major-market outlet?
The first time I heard a well-known news anchor say “bullshit” was in a fictional context — Peter Finch‘s Howard Beale in Network, roughly 45 years ago.
4 pm update: Before anything else, consider information supplied this morning by Lee Hill, a British-residing HE reader and Terry Southern biographer who stated that the Dr. Strangelove pie-fight sequence exists on film and is currently being stored in British Film Institute archives.
Earlier: This morning I stumbled upon a fascinating article by Dr. Strangelove co-writer Terry Southern. Titled “Notes From The War Room“, it contains several inside-baseball stories about the making of Stanley Kubrick‘s 1964 classic comedy, and particularly a blow-by-blow description of the pie-fight scene:
“[Then] we began shooting the famous eleven-minute ‘lost pie fight,’ which was to come near the end of the movie. This footage began at a point in the War Room where the Russian ambassador is seen, for the second time, surreptitiously taking photographs of the Big Board, using six or seven tiny spy-cameras disguised as a wristwatch, a diamond ring, a cigarette lighter and cufflinks.
“The head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Air Force General Buck Turgidson (George C. Scott) catches him in flagrante and, as before, tackles him and throws him to the floor. They fight furiously until President Merkin Muffley intervenes: “This is the War Room, gentlemen! How dare you fight in here!”
“General Turgidson is unfazed. ‘We’ve got the Commie rat redhanded this time, Mr. President!’
“The detachment of four military police, which earlier escorted the ambassador to the War Room, stands by as General Turgidson continues: ‘Mr. President, my experience in these matters of espionage has caused me to be more skeptical than your average Joe. I think these cameras” — he indicates the array of ingenious devices — “may be dummy cameras, just to put us off. I say he’s got the real McCoy concealed on his person. I would like to have your permission, Mr. President, to have him fully searched.’
“‘All right,’ the President says, ‘permission granted.’
“General Turgidson addresses the military police: ‘Okay boys, you heard the President. I want you to search the ambassador thoroughly. And due to the tininess of his equipment, do not overlook any of the seven bodily orifices.’ The camera focuses on the face of the ambassador as he listens and mentally calculates the orifices with an expression of great annoyance.
A few years ago I ran a list of the five worst cinematic parents of all time: John Huston‘s Noah Cross from Chinatown, Daniel Day Lewis‘s Daniel Plainview from There Will Be Blood, Chris Walken’s Brad Whitewood from At Close Range, Faye Dunaway‘s Joan Crawford in Mommmie Dearest and Marion Lorne‘s Mrs. Antony (mother of Robert Walker‘s Bruno) in Alfred Hitchcock‘s Strangers on a Train.
And then a real motherfucker of a dad I hadn’t thought of in a long time popped into my head: Karl Malden‘s oppressively demanding John Piersall, the father of Tony Perkins‘ Jim Piersall, in Robert Mulligan‘s Fear Strikes Out (’57).
I decided to stream an HD version the other night on Amazon, in part because I wanted to savor the detail of a black-and-white film shot in VistaVision. It looked pretty great, but God, Malden played such a fiend I couldn’t believe it. His son’s glories and accomplishments were never enough. The film throws a semi-happy gloss on their relationship at the end, but Malden is the kind of papa you need to keep at a certain distance until he’s dead.
But you know what? The Malden-Perkins relationship is almost exactly the kind of thing I have going on with the little man in my chest who’s never fully satisfied with anything good that I do. He’s always saying “okay, that’s pretty good but don’t get smug and coast on your laurels. You could probably do a little better than you’ve done so far, as you know. Because while you have talent and drive, you could use a bit more of each. And what about tomorrow’s agenda? And don’t forget to buy groceries and call the cleaning lady,” etc.
Please post your favorite dads and moms. The deceased Mrs. Bates in Psycho. Angela Lansbury in The Manchurian Candidate and All Fall Down, for sure. Harrison Ford in The Mosquito Coast. Who else?
The latest trailer for Apple TV’s The Mosquito Coast says it all — it’s obviously been made for ADD idiots who need a lot of noisy gunfire and threats of violence and death to stay interested.
A non-adaptation of Paul Theroux’s 1981 novel about a cranky, hyper genius who despises modern life, the seven-part series premiered last night, although I couldn’t be bothered to watch.
L.A. Times critic Robert Lloydsays “it’s as if someone decided The Catcher in the Rye might be improved by some chase scenes, a gun battle and a jailbreak, and that Holden Caulfield would be a more compelling character if he knew how to use a Coke can to get out of handcuffs.”
Respect and regrets for the late Olympia Dukakis, the veteran actress whose career peaked with an Oscar win for her performance in Moonstruck (’87). She’s passed at age 89. Her career rumbled along in mid-gear until Moonstruck came along, when she was 56. Her other big role was in Steel Magnolias, which I can’t speak of directly as I’ve never seen it. But we all love Moonstruck! Hugs and condolences for Olympia’s family, friends, fans.
I never knew Olympia played supporting roles in Brian DePalma‘s Sisters (’73) and Michael Winner‘s Death Wish (’74). Now I do.
Don’t forget that Joel Coen‘s The Tragedy of Macbeth (A24), a black-and-white adaptation of William Shakespeare‘s classic tragedy with Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand in the lead roles, won’t be the only Bard-related melodrama about ambitious bloodletting to open this year.
Robert EggersThe Northman (Focus Features), based upon the Scandinavian legend of Amleth which inspired Shakespeare‘s Hamlet, will also surface. The costars include Alexander Skarsgård, Nicole Kidman, Anya Taylor Joy, Ethan Hawke, Claes Bang, Willem Dafoe and Bjork.
Neither have official release dates, but it’s probably safe to say they’ll open sometime in the fall or holiday periods, and probably within a few weeks of each other.
Six years ago I posted a piece about the great and very good films of 1971 (“They Won’t Forget”). Before assembling it I’d never quite thought of ’71 as one of the truly legendary years in American cinema, but now I do — it was arguably as rich and bountiful as 1939, 1962 and 1999 were.
Now it’s time to add 1979 to the list of standout years. At least 27 films released that year were seriously top-tier, compared to the same number in ’71. The mythical ’70s, in short, were still going great guns in the decade’s final year.
Herewith are the top 27 along with (b) 21 that were fully admired and respected in their time and still are today but have perhaps lost a bit of steam here and there, plus (c) eight that I wouldn’t call stinkers but are certainly among the least enduring (most bothersome, hardest to-rewatch, most listless or underwhelming). And in these orders:
Top Ten:
Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now
Hal Ashby’s Being There
Woody Allen’s Manhattan
Ridley Scott’s Alien
Peter Yates’ Breaking Away
Franc Roddam’s Quadrophenia
Paul Schrader’s Hardcore
James Bridges’ The China Syndrome
Robert Benton’s Kramer vs. Kramer
Carroll Blanchard’s The Black Stallion
11 to 27 (17):
Don Siegel’s Escape from Alcatraz
Lewis John Carlino’s The Great Santini
Stephen Frears’ Bloody Kids
George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead
Arthur Hiller’s The In-Laws
George Miller’s Mad Max
Martin Brest’s Going in Style
Bob Fosse’s All That Jazz
Gillian Armstrong’s My Brilliant Career
Ted Kotcheff’s North Dallas Forty
Martin Ritt’s Norma Rae
Terry Jones’ Monty Python’s Life of Brian
Albert Brooks’ Real Life Richard Pryor: Live in Concert
Alan J. Pakula’s Starting Over Alan Clarke‘s Scum Jerry Schatzberg‘s The Seduction of Joe Tynan
Foreign Language Picks (5)
Andrei Konchalovsky‘s Siberiade Shohei Imamura‘s Vengeance Is Mine Volker Schlöndorff‘s The Tin Drum Rainer Werner Fassbinder‘s The Marriage of Maria Braun Andrei Tarkovsky‘s Stalker
Respectable Second Tier, Pretty Good, Holding On, Fading A Bit (21):
Peter Bodganovich’s Saint Jack
Harold Becker’s The Onion Field
Blake Edwards 10
Richard Lester’s Cuba
Nicholas Meyer’s Time After Time Walter Hill‘s The Warriors
Douglas Hickox’s Zulu Dawn
Fred Walton’s When a Stranger Calls
Sydney Pollack’s The Electric Horseman
John Badham’s Dracula
Ivan Reitman’s Meatballs
Robert Aldrich’s The Frisco Kid
Milos Forman’s Hair
Robert Wise’s Star Trek: The Motion Picture
Carl Reiner’s The Jerk
William Richert’s Winter Kills
John Huston’s Wise Blood
Jonathan Demme’s Last Embrace
George Roy Hill A Little Romance
Peter Weir’s The Plumber
John Schlesinger’s Yanks
Over the last decade I’ve ignored anything whatsoever to do with Bitcoin or any other cryptocurrency — instant toilet-flush of definitions, explanations, graphs, charts, market analyses. Sorry but I feel good about this. Like Bill Maher and many others I too believe…okay, sense that there’s nothing actually “there”, that it’s all hat and no cattle.
Maher: “I’ve read articles about cryptocurrency, [and] I’ve had it explained to me and I still don’t get it. And neither do you or anyone else.
“In 2008 an anonymous person or persons made up Bitcoin out of thin air by using the fake name ‘Satoshi Nakamoto“, which I think are the Japanese words for monopoly money.”
I’ll never forget the first time that my sons (Jett, Dylan) and I watched Alfred Hitchcock‘s The Birds together, and more particularly their reaction to the “homicidal crows attack the fleeing schoolchildren” scene. They were somewhere around 8 or 9 years old, as I recall, and basically found it hilarious. The more the schoolkids cried and screamed and fell to the ground and bloodied their knees, the more J & D laughed. A better word is “cackled.”
This happened, I immediately presumed, because the boys found the absurdly mannered and constricted behavior of the kids ridiculous. (Hitchcock was always terrible with children). They especially couldn’t stand the stilted, formal-sounding dialogue that poor Veronica Cartwright was obliged to say. And who, by the way, who doesn’t loathe that awful, perfectly phrased song the kids were singing inside Suzanne Pleshette‘s schoolhouse just before the attack?
Excerpt from Camille Paglia’s book-length essay about The Birds (BFI Film Classics): “It’s another race, this time foot versus wing. Like Furies, the crows harass the children from behind, nipping their necks and cheeks, as we seem to slide helplessly backward downhill, with the mob about to trample us. There’s a tremendous noise of mingled screams and raucous bird cries.
“After the first flash of real horror, I generally settle down to laughing and applauding the crows, whom I regard as Coleridgean emissaries vandalizing sentimental Wordsworthian notions of childhood. It’s like my idol Keith Richards cuffing about Pollyanna and Beaver Cleaver. There’s an exuberant, Saturnalian, Mad magazine zaniness to the whole grisly business.“
