It’s a happy birthday to Christie Brinkley, who turns 56 today. She’s no actress, although her appearance in National Lampoon’s Vacation certainly made an impression. Chiefly, though, Brinkley was known to guys who came of age in the 1980s and early parts of the 1990s as a model for Sports Illustrated‘s annual swimsuit issue (her romance with rock ‘n’ roll piano man Billy Joel didn’t hurt in this regard either, upping her profile and keeping her in the public light). No crazy-busty chick, Brinkley and her sunny persona presented a confounding and seemingly at-odds image for plenty of teen and twentysomething guys — the knockout model as relatable girl next door.
And in photos like the one above, the leggy looker (she’s 5’9″) cemented the virtues of bared neck, shoulders and more for a generation of hormonally-charged dudes. Maybe the Internet, with its readily available explicit images, has changed that for the current generation. But movies (and magazines) used to not be above trading in sexiness without any preoccupation with actual sex. The bared female back is a big part of that — a subdued and at times almost startling inversion of what men, in all our visual orientation, most typically focus on. Of course, the ass pear doesn’t hurt either.
It is now not a matter of if but rather only when Avatarwill unseat Titanic as the highest-grossing film of all time, according to The Wrap, besting the latter’s $1.84 billion global haul. Does this mean Hollywood will take note of the fact that it is an original story, without the putative source material/fanbase safety net of a comic book or videogame title? No, not at all. Hollywood will spark only to its 3-D exhibition, because that is something they can implement in piecemeal fashion, in lieu of actually taking more creative chances.
As I’d noted several times previously in writing about both Murphy and her films — most recently in the new-to-DVD Deadline, not one of her better vehicles — she undeniably possessed a certain crazy-girl appeal, that sense that you were in the company of someone who could show you immense highs, but also perhaps leave you broken. On a certain level guys like women like that, even if only from afar, because they remind us of the unattainable girls from high school who moved with a deadly, unearned confidence, and seemed to exist on some other social stratum.
How quote-unquote damaged was Murphy, by life, illicit substances or some combination thereof? I’m not sure. There were rumors here and there, and obviously the coming days will provide a clearer picture of her medical history, for those interested in diving into the details. Without getting into specifics, though, it was clear from fairly early on that Murphy was someone who felt deeply, offscreen as much as on. If there are screen personalities who essentially play only slight variations of themselves (and that wasn’t Murphy), there are also actors and actresses whose greatest gift is a direct line to the telepathic — their own private connection to a deep reservoir of swirling, intense emotion, which they are then free to tap into and pour into whatever roles they tackle. They paint in bold, insistent, impulsive strokes, not the mannered accoutrements of accents or other learned pieces of the craft of acting.
That was Murphy, to me. With her large, expressive eyes, she could do manic and fearful with ease (e.g., Don’t Say a Word), but she was a pip with comedy (e.g., Clueless) and also had a gift at slipping into melancholic quiet (e.g., 8 Mile) in a manner that silently telegraphed a character’s unspoken hopes, fears and regrets. I will say this definitively, too: it’s a shame that Murphy’s starring role in a Janis Joplin biopic never went off. That, I believe, would have been a very solid vehicle for her talents, so adept was she — heartbreakingly, it turns out — at channeling doomed and troubled women.
I finally caught up with Sacha Gervasi’s Anvil: The Story of Anvil on DVD recently, which, despite the best, cajoling efforts of the crack publicity staff at 42 West, I’d missed during its theatrical run earlier in the year. And it’s a big-hearted thing, no doubt. But nagging problems persist, and I wasn’t as totally wowed as I wanted to be, truth be told.
The well received documentary centers on heavy metal act Anvil’s two founding members, guitarist-frontman Steve “Lips” Kudlow and drummer Robb Reiner, Ontario-born pals since their formative teenage years, and specifically their attempts at forging a comeback/commercial breakthrough with their 13th album, even as they edge into their 50s. I felt a bit conned, honestly, at the degree to which the movie’s wonderful trailer, both heartbreaking and funny at the same time, misrepresents the level of bumbled disgrace of their European tour, and also under-represents the functional longevity of the group (e.g., this wasn’t some half-cocked reunion gig, as Anvil has continued to put out records and eke out a meager, supplemented existence with native gigs aplenty). But, fine: it’s selling the drama. I get it.
Most irritatingly, though, there’s just the sense the film holds back on certain details, playing a couple cards close to the vest in order to maintain favor with the band, and present a pruned narrative that fits within the prescribed template of underdogs-stick-to-artistic-guns-and-make-good. That’s not cool. Most of this feeling relates to the portrayal of English-mangling Euro-manager Tiziana Arrigoni, who during production is apparently dating one of the newer members of the group (they later wed). The explanation of how she came into the Anvil collective is perfunctory, and when things go off the rails in Europe, one gets the feeling that a lot of the recrimination and finger-pointing is left off-screen. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still plenty here to love, and the movie consistently connects courtesy of Kudlow’s woolly charisma, and the yin-yang allure of his thick-as-blood relationship with Reiner. It’s just that Gervasi clearly doesn’t have an interest in asking a lot of tough questions of his beloved subjects, and that harms the film’s emotional punch in the end; it doesn’t bruise quite like it should.
It’s a happy birthday to The Ruins‘ Laura Ramsey, who turns 27 today. I’m not particularly recollecting her from The Real Cancun, and I skipped The Covenant since Renny Harlin failed to invite me to the premiere, but she honestly gives a praise-worthy, full-bodied performance in The Ruins. And no, that wasn’t a nudity pun. Though it works as one, sure. A Wisconsin native, Ramsey has that Midwestern wholesomeness going for her. This isn’t to say that ladies from the coasts can’t radiate natural beauty and charm — they just as frequently do — but rather just that there’s a segment of the population that typically hails from states like Ohio, Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, Nebraska and the like that seems unburdened by fashion polarities and the quest for au courant status, and that’s refreshing. I hope Ramsey eschews any Botox treatments or club-excess lifestyle choices, and keeps that quality; regardless of how her career tracks, movies need more women like that.
Hollywood’s search for the next “It Girl” is perpetual, almost humorously unending, and occasionally it leads them down strange paths, but if I had to lay money on the staying power of a female up-and-comer outside An Education‘s Carey Mulligan, I’d most likely turn eyes to the 25-year-old Zoe Kazan, the cherubic-faced granddaughter of Elia Kazan, and daughter of screenwriter-directors Nicholas Kazan and Robin Swicord. More Amy Adams than Rachel McAdams, Kazan made an impression in a small but pivotal role in last year’s Revolutionary Road, getting bedded by Leonardo DiCaprio (which, hey, boded well for Elizabeth Banks in Catch Me If You Can), and she’s an absolute airy delight in Richard Linklater’s Me & Orson Welles, which hits screens in late November. She only figures in three scenes, as part of a loose framing device for the larger narrative proper, but she creates a whole-bodied character who spills over into its frames, and makes you wish there was some spin-off companion piece. Now comes word that indie distributor Oscilloscope has picked up the North American rights to Bradley Rust Gray’s The Exploding Girl, for which Kazan won Best Actress honors at the Tribeca Film Festival. So… check back in two years; Adams and Zooey Deschanel can’t hold down all the ingenue roles.
I was discussing R.J. Cutler’s The September Issue with a friend and colleague recently, and the idea that clothes say more than words, or even body language (their assertion). I disagree, but it’s undeniable that there are some for whom fashion is a religion… or a church, let’s say. High-end or designer clothes provide not just a status symbol, or stamp of outwardly reflected, au courant modernity (though that’s it for some, sure), but a sense of actual order. Their understanding and engagement with the outside world is funneled through the external packaging. I know this because I’ve seen it in the askance glances or judgments on harmless professional attire of mine — shirts matched with ties, or jeans and Oxford button-downs — and I think I’m a fashion zero, more or less, tidy enough to look nice, but generally unadventurous enough to avoid attention. (Except when it comes to some novelty and/or hand-altered T-shirts.) I know many more women like this than men, but it’s not at all uncommon, and it’s not merely a social snobbery thing either. Part of the success of The September Issue, I believe, stems from the manner in which the movie embraces that enormously self-serious reverence, while also showcasing the capriciousness of its tastemakers and the all-too-familiar pettiness of its office rivalries. At any rate, something to ponder. To view the film’s trailer, click here.
So screenwriters Aline Brosh McKenna and Simon Kinberg have sold an untitled pitch to Paramount for a cool $2 million, through a first-look deal with J.J. Abrams’ Bad Robot shingle, according to Variety. Mum’s the word on the plot, but the two scribes — who met on a production rewrite of the forthcoming Date Night, starring Steve Carell and Tina Fey — are seemingly a weird fit, as even Abrams acknowledged. “These two writers couldn’t be more different; the genres they write seem almost diametrically opposed,” he said. “But they came to Bad Robot with a pitch that thrilled us.” So, given their respective filmographies, and the purchase price, it has to be a femme-centric spy thing, right? Probably not an Alias movie, but something in that vein, no? With comedic undertones. If there’s not at least a sizeable genre component, the cash register doesn’t ring for that amount.
From the “Errr… what?” files, days-old news that James Franco will be guest-starring on ABC’s daytime soap opera General Hospital, for a two-month stint beginning in November. Strange, sure, and a bit of a step down from the Spider-Man flicks for which Franco remains best known to mainstream audiences. But this is a guy who’s always marched to the beat of a different drummer, as evidenced by everything from his choice in projects (Milk, an upcoming Allen Ginsberg biopic) and squirmy disregard for interviews to his low-fi directorial debut, The Ape, which was about a corporate drone and would-be writer struggling with his roommate — a raunchy, talking gorilla with a penchant for loud Hawaiian shirts. Studio films like Tristan + Isolde and Pinepple Express notwithstanding, this route to mid-aged stardom — very loosely the same sort of flirtation-rejection that Johnny Depp engaged in with Hollywood for years — is the much more interesting path to take. And make no mistake, Franco has the chops to be a perennial Oscar nominee.
Rich Juzwiak has gone and done the hard work and heavy lifting for me, putting together a five-minute clip of wonky, non-receptive cell phone calls that spans 66 films over the past… what, seven or eight years? It’s a particularly modern problem — isolating characters in a technological era in which isolation is all but obsolete — that screenwriters have labored over and had a lot of difficulty reasonably cracking, but the clip-fest really runs the gamut, from those movies that play it smooth and loose (The Ruins, Turistas) to those that overstate their case (The Hills Have Eyes). The trophy for Most Amusing Write-Around, incidentally, probably goes to Hatchet, for its exclamatory “No bars… I hate the South!” This sidestepping of technology bugs the crap out of me when it’s handled badly, sure, but most studio films are only concerned with eliminating cell phones from thriller/horror storylines, and then moving on as quickly as possible. And empty coffee cups are still my number one target.
I caught the Los Angeles premiere of Capitalism: A Love Story last night — documentarian Michael Moore‘s latest foray into the heart of American hypocrisy, greed and the thorny political considerations that protect the status quo.
More thoughts on the film will follow, but it will be interesting to see how this movie plays in the rural flat-lands. Will it somewhat tap into something similar to the type of righteous anger that helped propel Fahrenheit 9/11 to a record-smashing $119 million domestic gross, or will aggressive pre-release push-back from invested powers-that-be consign it to something along the lines of the relatively paltry $24 million gross that greeted 2007’s Sicko, Moore’s documentary on the American health care system? One of the interesting things about the movie, to me, is that it seems to stand a good chance of being fundamentally misread by the sort of angry, undereducated masses (“Birthers,” Tea Partiers and the like) who, after eight years of profligate spending, have suddenly embraced fiscal conservatism — or, in more knee-jerk fashion, a freeze on federal spending and action of almost any sort — as their wave-the-flag cause. In Capitalism, Moore underscores income disparity and advocates the infusion of more democratic principles and ideals into the workplace, but folks like Joe the Plumber will stand a good chance of looking at the movie — if they see it at all — seeing in the Wall Street bailouts a massive giveaway, turning red with rage, and then saying, “Yeah, no money for health care! Screw that entitlement!” Ironic, no?
Like I said, more thoughts soon. The event itself, meanwhile, was lovely. Overture Films CEO Chris McGurk, above left, provided a pre-screening introduction; Moore gave brief speeches before and after the film, introducing various crew and the family of Jonas Salk, who were special guests in attendance; and Bill Maher, Olivia Wilde, Larry King and others mingled with the plebians at a deliciously catered post-screening event in the lobby of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences building.
Is it just me, or can the fact that NBC is using Sam & Dave’s “Hold On, I’m Coming” to promote Jay Leno’s forthcoming 10 p.m., five-night-a-week talk show kind of be taken as a dig at Conan O’Brien’s rocky-out-of-the-gates stewardship of The Tonight Show? Leno hasn’t been gone that long, really; it’s not like he’s a prizefighter coming out of retirement, or an actress coming back the small screen after a couple years of maternity leave. It’s just a weird song choice to me. Aimed at the segment of the old Tonight Show audience who wouldn’t know the Masturbating Bear from Comic the Insult Triumph Dog, the subtext seems to be, “Yeah, yeah… we know: but now you’ll get Jay earlier, and can go to bed at 11:10 after catching some local news, instead of 11:50, after his monologue!”
Much more on this soon, but Tuesday’s meeting with LACMA director and CEO Michael Govan shed a bit of light on the state of the museum’s film program moving forward. The most heartening thing from my perspective, and likely for those who have a vested interest in the sort of current classical programming that underscores cinema’s position as a primary art form, was Govan’s unequivocal statement of belief that film was and is an art on par with the other collected and curated works of the museum, and that there was no inter-organizational opposition toward establishing a separate curatorial department for film.
Attending on behalf of the Save Film at LACMA grassroots campaign were site/petition organizers Debra Levine and Doug Cummings (far right), along with, from left, former Los Angeles Film Critics Association president Lael Loewenstein; Oscar-winning costume designer James Acheson; American Cinematheque Director of Publicity and Promotions Margot Gerber; Sony repertory executive Jared Sapolin; Shannon Kelley (kneeling), Head of Public Programs at the UCLA Film & Television Archive; yours truly, current president of LAFCA; DocFilms Programming Chair emeritus Kyle Westphal, and Michael Schlesinger (in sunglasses), a veteran film distribution and repertory programming executive.
For Govan’s perspective, and more on the museum’s announced “CineClub” endeavor, a $50 LACMA membership add-on that would give members priority ticketing and help them support a program they value deeply, click here. There’s also an op-ed in today’s Los Angeles Times which ably sketches out many of the particulars of the situation, but perhaps misstates things when it concludes: “Looking at Govan’s original decision, it’s clear the program wasn’t being canceled because elitists at LACMA don’t take film seriously; the bigger problem was that attendance had fallen by 50 percent. Ultimately, if the program is to succeed, it must attract patrons.” Knowing the numbers, that figure is a bit of an overstatement. And yes, money is key. But this isn’t a fight over patrons; big donor money is what it’s about. Underline that.
It’s worth noting that Year One deploys the old “goodwill end credits” tack, displaying a montage of gaffes under its closing credits.
This is nothing new, per se, of course, but crucial to any theatrical blooper reel is the fact that it must be funny, of a piece with the tone of what preceded it, relatively fast-moving (repeatedly flubbed lines from a single sequence often serve to undercut this dictum) and, if it wants to really stand out, cast one or more of its stars in a marginally bad light (e.g., Chris Tucker’s cell phone repeatedly going off during the filming of Rush Hour 2). In this sense, the end credits for Year One really work, crammed as they are with Jack Black ruining a scene by accidentally farting, and the sounds of a train in the distance repeatedly disrupting shots; the latter especially connects, because it underscores in winking fashion the movie’s mock-period setting, which is faithfully if not exactingly rendered.
Incidentally, of arguably the same genus if not family is the leave-’em-dancing credit sequence. Going back at least a decade, the Farrelly brothers pioneered the use of an end-credit, out-of-character, cast and crew sing-along montage set to a single, particularly peppy song (was this part of 1996’s Kingpin? I can’t remember), a move which has on occasion been appropriated by dreadful films like Lethal Weapon 4, in an attempt to erase any memory of the previous 100 minutes or so of pain and suffering. Will Smith’s Hitch, with its shut-down set to Heavy D’s “Now That We Found Love,” worked fantastically in this regard, since there was both a wedding closing the film, and the instruction of rhythm and appropriate dancing figured at least nominally into the movie’s plot.
Writer-director Matt Bissonnette’s Passenger Side had its world premiere at the L.A. Film Festival Friday evening, with a handful of boutique distributor reps in attendance amidst the three-quarters-full crowd at the Mann Regent in Westwood.
A low-fi, California-set road flick of indolent, occasional charm, Passenger Side centers on Los Angeleno Michael Brown (Adam Scott, above right), an exasperated copywriter/unsuccessful novelist whose birthday begins with a telephone call from his estranged, drug addicted older brother Tobey (Joel Bissonnette, above left, the director’s brother). Tobey is without car, and needs Michael’s help ferrying him around on a series of mysterious but apparently vital errands. To this end, Michael puts his nebulous birthday plans on hold to embark on a sketchy Southland odyssey that crosses paths with a randy transsexual, a drunken party girl, a desert-dwelling pie server, an immigrant with lopped-off fingers and all other manner of oddballs.
It may sound positively Lynchian, that mix, but Bissonnette (Looking for Leonard, Who Loves the Sun) is much more interested in the rhythms of honest, forward-leaning conversation, and constructs his movie as a snapshot of swallowed fraternal standoffishness, where obvious mutual regard has been worn down by the cutting winds of life, and each brother’s disapproval over some of the other’s choices. In press notes the filmmaker describes Passenger Side as being about “the complex bonds created when opposites are bound together by life, family and blood… and also about different ways that a life can be lived: from the supposed safety of the sidelines, or deep in the middle of the mess.” With that in mind, Passenger Side is in some ways a (much) more plugged-in companion piece to Gus Van Sant’s willfully meandering Gerry; here, though, it isn’t modernity or so much man’s relationship to nature itself under the microscope, but the accumulated baggage that comes with dreams gone off-track, and how that can warp decision-making and breed stasis.
The problem is that Michael remains too much of a cipher; with no backstory as arguably turbulent and self-destructive as Tobey’s addiction, we’re left to get bits and pieces filled in along the way. While Scott’s engaging performance mitigates this somewhat, there is the lingering feeling that he’s just somewhat of a grumpy jerk. A bit more (non-familial?) shading of his personality would have helped nail down the character more concretely.
There’s also a girl at the center of Passenger Side, but the manner in which she looms over the narrative — played for a big twist at the end — feels lacking, or perhaps just overly coy. Damningly, there’s also no sort of exacting chronological/topographical honesty or logic, which undercuts at least a bit the way the movie plays to a film-savvy crowd, either comprised of Los Angelenos or New Yorkers who know the City of Angels and surrounding areas at least a bit. Events unfold in Los Angeles, and see Michael and Tobey then drive to Glendale, to Joshua Tree, back to Los Angeles, to Long Beach, back to the San Fernando Valley, and then to Hollywood. Given the timeframe, this is something of a stretch. Also, at one point theoretically leaving the Valley, we see the pair instead driving west past Universal City, presumably because it provides a more scenic backdrop.
The film’s chief selling point is the rapport between Scott and Bissonnette, which is delightful — powered by the
sort of masculine-sardonic patter that disaffected brothers, either
real or in feeling/name, use to keep each other at arms’ length. Leaning on ex-Superchunk frontman and Merge Records co-founder Mac McCaughan as a musical consultant, Bissonnette also constructs a fantastically evocative soundtrack for the tape deck of Michael’s beat-up, mid-1970s BMW. It’s those details that give Passenger Sidethe weight of knock-about authenticity, even if one wishes its conversational patter were a bit more honed toward the end target at which it’s aiming.
For more information on the film, which screens again on Thursday, June 25 at 4:30 p.m. as part of the Los Angeles Film Festival in Westwood, click here.
I caught the music documentary It Might Get Loud earlier in the week, and yesterday interviewed director Davis Guggenheim (An Inconvenient Truth), as well as Jimmy Page and Jack White — who, along with U2’s The Edge, form the triumvirate of axe-men which the film takes as its subjects — for a feature piece a bit further down the line. Part compare-and-contrast piecemeal biography, part godhead gathering, the movie is in sum never less than in-the-moment engaging, even if there’s a lingering feeling that the moderator-less roundtable gathering that forms its spine could perhaps have used a bit more prodding or structure, to get at the marrow of exactly why and how even trite musical expressions sometimes achieve significant emotional lift-off. Nevertheless, music fans will jam on this title big-time, as the above trailer amply demonstrates. For those in the SoCal area, the film screens in the afternoon on Monday, June 22, at the Los Angeles Film Festival in Westwood.
Full review goes live at midnight or so, but Year One is better than expected, at least based on the bulk of its TV advertising. Well, let me qualify that somewhat: the pairing of Jack Black and Michael Cera gives the movie some punch, and a pleasant enough vibe, and the joke writing is pretty strong. The story, about two wayward, primitive age villagers who embark on a weird sort of road trip, is unfocused, and kind of a mess, mainly because it doesn’t unfold in one discrete time period and there’s not a codifying interior logic with respect to what sorts of human inventions and modes of behavior with which its characters are and aren’t familiar. (Black’s Zed, when confronted with a woman who “likes girls,” responds with a blank smile that he doesn’t even know what that means; later, Cera’s Oh pointedly uses the word “gay” when explaining away to his crush an incident where he was caught rubbing oil onto the chest of a priest played by Oliver Platt.) Still, The Office writers Gene Stupnitsky and Lee Eisenberg, along with cowriter-director Harold Ramis, stuff the movie’s edges with an above-average amount of ADR riffs and other scene-capping quips. My favorite line might just be Zed, bargaining for his life after having entered a supposedly forbidden chamber and not being struck dead, trying to save Oh by dint of executive privilege, claiming, “Everyone knows the Chosen One gets a plus-one!”
Screen International‘s Mike Goodridge takes a nice swing at the new studio calculus of foreign theatrical gate when it comes to greenlighting certain films, using as a case study Angels & Demons, among a few other movies. This new slide-ruler will continue to play a more and more prominent role in Hollywood decision-making, which on a certain level has to mean even less support for original spec drama and comedy scripts, since — absent the pre-sale attachment of big stars and directors — there’s more X-factor variability in those types of production go-aheads.
Watching the new TV ads for Drag Me to Hell, which are generally effective and have the added advantage of a good, winking pitch line (“This Friday… even good people go to hell!”), what’s still notable and interesting is the manner in which the film’s marketing campaign is avoiding the tonal variance of the finished product. Not placing a value judgment, just sayin’…
It’s a happy birthday to Swedish-born Malin Akerman today, who turns 31 and probably celebrates by receiving some more Silk Spectre swag from jokester friends and representatives, and being mistaken for Sienna Miller by some hapless barista. It’s no coincidence that the brothers Farrelly cast Akerman in The Heartbreak Kid; she has some of the same spunky, manic charm that helped propel Cameron Diaz into the stratosphere after her winning turn in the smash hit There’s Something About Mary. Key word: some. But she was a part of Watchmen‘s problems, sad but true, and I don’t know that anyone of reasonable mind can picture her donning a wig and going homely, a la Diaz in Being John Malkovich, let alone dabbling substantively in drama.
I met Akerman, who actually has a music background, on the set of The Brothers Solomon, and the general impression I got was of a fairly sweet-natured gal who, in the memorable words of Mike Skinner, is fit but knows it, and is thus basically just along for the ride in the whole film world. If there exists a burning artistic ambition or fierce independent streak, it was hidden away that day. The star-stuffed ensemble comedy Couples Retreat is on deck for her later this, among other stuff in the works; it’d be interesting, though, if Akerman mixed in a small-town melancholic indie or two along the way over the next couple years, either in the lead or as the wise but somehow broken friend. Nothing too overtly melodramatic, just a tonal change-up. It could open new avenues for her, I think. Regardless, somewhere, Kal Penn and John Cho smile to themselves, and/or possibly exchange the email equivalent of a fist bump.
I recently put a bullet in a long-lingering copy of Sidney Lumet’s Power, from 1986. It’s a not-at-all-bad political-power-broker drama, starring a mustachioed Richard Gere as Pete St. John, a hired-gun, high-billing, ultra-successful political image consultant who’s wrapping up a populist national campaign in South America while also overseeing simultaneous gubernatorial races in New Mexico and Washington, plus a special Ohio senate election to fill the seat of one of his first clients, and perhaps closest friend.
The film’s plot turns mostly on the latter strand, and a potential blackmail/political reorganization scheme that may be afoot in an effort to squash — get this — a comprehensive renewable energies program. Yes, in 1986. Some other forward-reaching, ahead-of-the-curve and/or timeless bits — including eerily appropriate invocations of “straight talk” and not being “able to afford on-the-job-training” — help make the movie look hip, politically knowing and with it, if the fashions certainly don’t. It’s desperately out of step, however, with regards to the mercenary ethic with which it imbues St. John. Money may have ruled in the mid-1980s, but partisans on both sides have since hardened; while party switcheroos are not unusual, either early or late in political life (see James A. Baker, and most recently Arlen Specter), top-shelf campaign gunners could now certainly not move so freely along the ideological spectrum as Gere’s character. They wouldn’t be trusted — kind of like a guy who neither drinks nor knows a single thing about any sport. Information would be withheld, jaws clenched, etcetera; destruction would commence from the inside out, on one brittle campaign or another.
Mostly, though, I was struck by an amusing depiction of technology in Power. There’s a 103-second computer search sequence (think about that) where a number-crunching ally of St. John tries to unearth the business connections, off-shore and otherwise, of a shadowy lobbyist (played by Denzel Washington) who’s hired St. John to oversee the campaign of a well-financed Ohio Democrat. It’s a looong scene, sure, so it’s funny in that regard. But it’s also notable because the character even leaves the room, assuming, I guess, that it will take his supercomputer all night to complete the task. Watching this, you can’t convince me that Google and other search engines, for all their advantages, aren’t going to (even further) massively effect the gratification impulses of today’s kids. This partially relates, I believe, to the Bush administration’s (political) success in playing so fast and loose with facts about the Iraq War, torture, et al. Why? Because information seemingly means less when, over and over, it’s gained without consistent, focused mental effort.
Large fan boy Harry Knowles has seemingly walked back his “official recommendation” of skipping Wolverine, saying he’ll check it out in theaters today, opening day. His initial shrugging protest seemed mainly inspired by the fact that “Fox refused to invite one [sic] the AICN editors to an advance screening,” which was probably inspired by posts like this one, which called 20th Century Fox out on the fact that they were lying about differences between the leaked, air-quote work print online and the final version of the film opening in theaters today. Huge multi-national corporations tend not to like being called out on their shit.
So… Knowles’ reaction: Petty? Sure. But it’s actually more or less in line with my own feelings, in some ways. He just plays the slightly douchey slight-me-and-I’ll-slight-you-back card. I was a huge fan of the first two X-Men films, understandably a bit baffled by the third flick, but still a big fan of Hugh Jackman. So I should care about Wolverine. At least a little bit. But now? After being waylaid in efforts to line up a screening earlier in the week, (which, hey, they at least actually took the proactive step of inviting critics to), I just don’t care. There’s no anger or pique, though, really, except when I have a pressing assignment; this just more or less dovetails with the swell in a shrugging, above-the-fray attitude with which I’ve been infected over the hassle of so many studio screenings. I won’t say that I’ve grown cynical about films themselves; I haven’t. But the number of movies which elicit true anticipation seem to shrink every year. There’s plenty of stuff in which I have legitimate interest, but if all the variables don’t align, or I only get a same-day invite or some such bullshit, nevermind… I’m on to the next thing. Money attaches itself to other opportunities, and there are always other things to see and write about. I don’t feel the slightest bit empty inside missing a lot of these Hollywood movies.
So I had a realization about Matthew McConaughey recently, and it didn’t come from staring at a picture of the sun glistening off his shirtless body. No, instead, it struck me as I was wandering through Target, and came across some Johnson’s Baby Powder, which actually has the enigmatic phrase “Clinically proven mildness” stamped across the front of its packaging: McConaughey is the Johnson’s Baby Powder of the under-40 set, masculine enough for the ladies, but so totally bro-riffic as to induce absolutely no feelings of hostility or jealousy in any guy. This isn’t to say that he’s at all feminine, just that there’s no edge, darkness or menace to him, no capacity for ill will, violence or even complication lurking behind those eyes. Paul Walker has undeniably more of an edge to him than McConaughey; hell, I think DJ Qualls might, too.
In and of itself this wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but for the way it’s coloring McConaughey’s work, and choices. I mean, just look at the sigh-inducing poster for Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, his new pairing with Jennifer Garner (Kate Hudson was apparently unavailable), and try to convince me that there exists a more de-fanged-looking actor working consistently in studio fare these days. Even the rare, occasional curveball (We Are Marshall, Two for the Money) can’t escape the drag of McConaughey’s Southwestern stoner-folksy persona, which descends like a thick mist upon almost all in which he appears. Notice I said almost. A late sub for Owen Wilson, McConaughey slayed in Tropic Thunder, reminding viewers how fun he can be when unhooked from rom-com piffle. Unfortunately, apart from that emergency role-snatch, McConaughey seems unconcerned with any sort of on-screen exercise to match his off-screen workout regimen, and so his movies have become near caricatures of themselves.
With regards to the latest news over the leaked online version of Wolverine, Patrick Goldstein, in his Big Picture blog, seems to take a curiously emotionally distant, wrongheaded and naive stance in his reportage on the matter, saying “until now (emphasis mine) 20th Century Fox has never adequately explained how co-chairman Tom Rothman could say 10 minutes of
footage were missing when the [107-minute] running times for the pirated version and
the theatrical version were the same.”
The only apparent reason for his qualifier from Goldstein? This explanation from Fox’s senior vice president of corporate communications, Chris
Petrikin: “There was no ‘fibbing’ involved — that would imply that we were so
on top of things that we anticipated having one of our biggest films of
the year stolen and had time to concoct a plan to purposefully ‘spin’
wrong information. Remember, Tom gave this
[Entertainment Weekly] interview a day after we learned of the theft. A
lot of information and misinformation was flying back and forth then,
and there was no way to sort it out quickly or definitively. In fact, I
think I told Tom that there might be 10 minutes missing from the
stolen version, based — obviously — on misinformation I was given or
misinterpreted. The real issue is the scale of this crime, and that the
film was not finished when it was stolen.”
Jesus Christ, this reminds one of Scooter Libby, Karl Rove and the whole Valerie Plame situation. Of course Fox would/did/will lie about compromised product in an effort to protect their investment, and goad fanboy audiences into shelling out money for something they’ve already downloaded illegally online. Is anyone remotely connected to the film industry really shocked by that? Or any thinking person in general? The motive is clear, and understandable. But to accept as somehow satisfactory the explanation for a massive factual error — from a vice president of corporate communications — that simply “a lot of information was flying back and forth” is simply retarded. Huge, multi-national corporations do not make uncalculated moves, or shoot from the hip, or send co-chairmen out to talk in crisis situations with scant outlines of a situation. The original lie needed a face/name to give it heft, hence Rothman’s aggressiveness; the walking back of the lie will begin (and possibly end?) at lower levels, so Petrikin, dutifully playing the Scott McClellan role, gets to get an early start on his career in creative fiction. Whatever, I get it. I’m just more irritated, actually, with the notion that anyone would accept this argument on face value. It’s ridiculous.
