Rachel McAdams starred in the “The Notebook”. This movie is the staple of “Girls’ Nights In” everywhere.
Later this year she will star as Clare Abshire in The Time Traveler’s Wife, based off of Audrey Nifenegger’s superlatively good novel.
Will she, in but a few years, seize the “weepy” crowns that have, for so long, remained firmly in the treasure-houses of Ali McGraw and Barbara Streisand?
In the world of comics there are the comics which are considered, well, kids-stuff by the non-initiated. In this silo fall the comics that they make blockbusters of: Spiderman, Superman, et. al.
Then there are the world of Literary Comics, the comics that those who shrug their shoulders at the œuvre of the first style know that they will be thrown out of hipster High for dissing ( nota bene: there’s some overlap in these two camps cf. The Dark Knight Returns, Death of Superman arc, etc.). Chief among these would be anything by Alan Moore but assuredly most embodied in his magnum opus: “The Watchmen”
The third silo would be “Serious Comics for Grownups”. This genre was assuredly ushered in by Art Spiegelman’s “Maus”, a grim recounting of the holocaust with Jews portrayed by mice, and Nazis portrayed by cats.
Among this latter category emerged, in my awareness, Marjane Satrapi’s “Persepolis”, in the early 2000’s. I remember thinking that the drawings were so simple and so plain, but the story of a young girl during pre-Revolutionary Iran was an immediate hook.
My only relationship to Iran had been a hazy recollection of badness during the Reagan years and then that they were a koo-koo theocracy.
Over the years, and especially during my years in California where I met Persians, I came to realize that it’s a country of incredible erudition, of incredibly beauty, and incredible complexity. Persia was the land of Darius, of Xerxes, of Alexander, of the gateway to India, to the place where, on the silk Road, Hindu met Christian met Buddhist met the Cult of Mithras. It’s truly the touchpoint of the philosophic east and the philosophic west.
I would so very much like to go and see that part of the world. If there’s a crossroads where Janus himself) dwells, it is assuredly in the countries of The Great Game.
“Persepolis” has just been made into a beautifully animated move which is, in measures, partly the recounting of teen angst + hijab, the sorrow of being an intellectual family and having loved ones jailed or worse, of being an Iranian who saw her neighbor’s home take a missile, and an education of how the CIA helped install a corrupt regime ( and educated the torturer class ) and how the West happily armed both sides in the Iran - Iraq war, making the atmosphere ripe for no(know?)-nothing theocrats to seize power.
Best intentions, eh?
In any case, this story is the tragedy of a broken land and of a girl’s heart breaking in the process. It’s the story of finding that pure pride of being from the land that kisses the Caspian in spite of the shambles, and bravely entering a world that will look down upon you for what they think you are. It is the story of being strong, of loving freedom, and of the sweetness that no one can deprive you of: the smell of jasmine and rich cigarettes.
The animated feature is highly impressionistic, fades in and out portrays clinical depression, homelessness, fury, death, and torture in a way that such they’re not required to be shown in order to be shocking.
A great bit of voice casting is real-life mother and daughter Catherine Denuve and Chiara Mastroiani voicing the protagonist’s mother and little “Marji” herself.
The soundtrack is also wonderful, Olivier Bernet’s strings manage to convey whimsy, depression, dreams, and tears in a way that perfectly complements the visuals. In fact, it distinctly made “Eye of the Tiger” seem to be an 80’s re-interpretation of the message of “We The Living” - and that’s saying something
It’s a lovely film, just as powerful and tragic as “Life is Beautiful” but rendered from a Middle Eastern perspective.
If it’s playing in your town, do not miss the chance to enjoy this special film.
The esteemed Ransom at Chronological Snobbery has asked if I would like to make a contribution to his retrospective on the 10-year anniversary of “The Zero Effect”.
I admit, I procrastinated, I avoided the obligation and said that I, quite honestly, had nothing positive to contribute to the movie. Mr. Ransom agreed that I could take a con position. I took that offer and decided to re-watch the film and see if my perceptions had changed in the 10 years since I saw the movie. I can say they have not and I think that the movie is just as forgettable and insignificant today as I thought it was 10 years ago.
If any of the other contributors induce you to consider seeing this movie qua movie, let me be the first to say that its only merits in my book are to see the two primary protagonists give laudable acting performances of a high quality that will make you blink twice in surprise against your familiarity with the larger scope of their respective œuvres.
I speak of Bill Pullman and Ben Stiller.
Pullman executed a string of intense studies on men in very non-conventional relationships in this remarkable fecund period in the early 90’s. In fact, against several performances given between 1994 and 1998 Pullman’s role in the Summerstravaganza Crapfest “Independence Day” can be seen as an outlier.
Starting in 1994 he starred against the sexy “Wendy Kroy ( Linda Fiorentino )” in The Last Seduction. Having been manipulated by his scheming wife who sent him for condoms as she skips town with the proceeds of a lucky dope score, Pullman opened up a floodgate to exploring rage, fury, homicide, and seething frustration within the bounds of a relationship that was to pour over his next several films.
Between “The Last Seduction” and “Zero Effect”, Pullman continued his study in relationship-bounded fury in David Lynch’s Möbius murder-mystery “Lost Highway”. “Lost Highway” was the first film that the director himself, at the time, reported as “the perfect David Lynch movie”; the movie he had always wanted to make (for the record, this same theme was explored again, and much more compellingly, I’ll assert, in 2001’s “Mullholland Drive”).
In “Lost Highway”, Pullman does the research and experimentation that makes his portrayal of Zero so effortless. The protagonist believes himself cuckolded, marvels and wonders at his potential capacity as a murderer, and generally exists in a space parallel, but outside of the social mainstream.
In the character Zero, Pullman continues the detailed study of men undergoing psychological fugue between the men they are expected to be, and the men they know they are. It is a superb moment in Pullman’s career. Pullman closes this study in 2002’s Igby Goes Down. Somewhere the raging cuckold has morphed into an alcoholic, suicidal, Zen-like approach to getting a cricket bat to the face courtesy of life.
Pullman’s portrayal of Zero’s meditation on searching for things by not searching for them is reminiscent of the farcical method of flight described by “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” as well as an artful delivery into the mind of the Holmes 2.0, the detective Zero. It’s the only thing that I really remembered as being enjoyable about this movie years on.
Pullman’s not been given the best source material of late, but his performance almost makes “The Zero Effect” worth watching — if only anything else happened in it.
In 1993 there was a channel known as Fox which was favored for showing edgy and daring comedy.
In the 5 or so years previous, this network had launched “Married With Children” and “The Simpsons” and marked a decided turn in the culture wars. America, en masse disagreed with President Bush and said, effectively: “No, we think the American family should be more like The Simpsons and less like that other show you talked about”. To prove their point they elected a president who had played a notoriously difficult-to-tune woodwind on The Arsenio Hall Show.
Fox took another risk by giving Ben Stiller his own show which featured his formidable comedic talents as well as the talents of Bob Odenkirk, and pre-yakuza-arm-sleeve Janeane Garofalo. There was also this un-funny douchebag named Andy Dick on it too.
In this role we saw Ben as an edgy and intense comedic talent. Naturally, the show would be quickly cancelled as reward for such innovation. Yet in the show we saw the talent that’s there in Stiller: a wry eye for satire and a mean streak which could take the absolutely piss out the Fox network with the mockery pilot treatment “Heat Vision and Jack”.
After being kicked to the curb by Fox, Stiller found his way back to mass entertainment and landed in “The Zero Effect”. Taking the Host of the Ben Stiller show and dressing him up in a suit was the perfect chance to show off the best of Ben Stiller, man, not actor. The likable personality behind the “Ben Stiller Show” was given another chance to become familiar to the viewing public.
Yet in “The Zero Effect” we also get a brief peek at the disaster that Stiller was to come to accompany: The narcissistic, whiney, rubber-faced-angry-little-bitch that would come to define his character portfolio up to the present. Like Darwin’s finches, every role of Stiller’s that is beyond a cameo is essentially playing a character slightly more or less little-bitch than Arlo in “Zero Effect”
Consider: Arlo, Stiller’s character, is perpetually complaining about not getting his due, is perpetually obsessing about his relative import ( or lack thereof ), or is being frustrated about his situation using the same 3 stock faces:
*”disbelief/angry”
or
*”disaffected/feeling that he’s not being treated like God’s special snowflake”
*”Grr! I’m Angry”
Does this not sound like pretty much every role Stiller has played since 1998?
A few traces should suffice to prove the downward trajectory.
The Arlo persona had its whiny-bitch-o-meter revved up in “Flirting with Disaster”: over-neurotic to the point of absurdity, narcissistic to the extreme, obsessed with external validation to a fault, etc. Stiller’s character’s single nuance of “unbelievable outright neediness” threatened to tank that film, were it not for Teà Leoni’s and Patricia Arquette’s balancing desperations ( Ms. Leoni’s ticking clock and Arquette’s armpit licking made Stiller’s neurotic individual stick out less ).
Stiller took the same identikit mix for the Neil LaBute squirm-fest “Your Friends and Neighbors”. Never have I enjoyed watching a character get humiliated quite like Catherine Keener’s ego-destroying “Buh” or “Should I write hold me?” to Arlo, er, Jerry in the third act.
The only addition that has come to modify the Arlo archetype is the “Stiller Rage Face” that calls to mind G.E. Smith’s What’s-that-smell? guitar style from 90’s era Saturday Night Live ( ironically a main character feature of his Mr. Furious in the utterly forgettable “Mystery Men”).
Since that time Stiller has basically played the same role with only minor deviations.
These indictments should be sufficient to show that Zero effect marked the death of Ben Stiller auteur, thinker, and risk-taker to Ben Stiller, a guy in movies. It hurts, because goddammit Ben, you have the skills, we saw them accidentally escape in your cameo in “Anchorman”, but dammit man, the penis-inflation sight-gag from Dodgeball? What the hell is that? I thought Ben was going to fight the machine and do great things. With his connections into the Apatow mafia he still could. C’mon Ben, you’ve got the cash now, make those great things you dreamt about ( although leaving Andy Dick behind is entirely acceptable).
In conclusion, if you’re looking for the genetic ancestor of all Ben Stiller roles since 1992, you can look to “Zero Effect”. If you’re writing your master’s drama thesis on the fecund period of Pullman, look to “Zero Effect”. Otherwise pick up 7% Solution, by Doyle, its conceit is much more compelling – and there’s no open-mouthed gaping Stiller freeze frame that you will need to endure.
I’m well past the age of seeing movies that are terrible for the purpose of throwing back a few beers and marveling at just how horrible it is.
But I remember that Mr. Shoemaker, at the beginning of UT football season, and I were both kinda excited to catch Shoot ‘em Up. We thought that, from the trailers, the gratuitous love of bullets would be an unashamedly bullet-heavy, ridiculous action-fest.
Through a moment of loopiness at the RedBox DVD kiosk, I found myself watching this with Lauren.
Now on paper my man-crush, and Lauren’s more conventional crush, Clive Owen will be afforded opportunities to excel all things he’s good at:
And my conventional crush, no opinions from Lauren, Monica Bellucci will be afforded opportunities to excel at things she’s good at:
And the movie doesn’t fail to deliver as a send up of the ridiculous action-packed thriller ( “The Transporter”, oh hell, pretty much anything with Jason Statham). It doesn’t fail to afford the gunslinger a mysterious past, a vendetta, and a quick ( carrots, seriously ). And in this, the movie absolutely succeeds. Bullet casings fly, seas of bullets are dodged and human limits of pain are ignored. In this sense it is funny and fun.
But on another level, a plot level, it’s as intelligent as an episode of “Walker, Texas Ranger”, which, in college-times, was a favorite mark for cruel assessments of ridiculous characterization, lousy direction, and un-necessary slow downs of Chuck’s roundhouses.
In short, watch it when you can tolerate an absurd laugh or two.
This last weekend Lauren and I caught the anti-Darjeeling Mumbledy, a movie with quirk and actual heart, “Lars and the Real Girl”
Lars is a very young, very lonely, and painfully shy 27-year-old man who lives in the upper wint’ry wastes of The Mitten. He lives in a small, meagerly-heated garage adjacent to the big house where his brother and pregnant wife live. He drives his winter-reasonable Toyota hatch-back from his “Office Space” ( action figures and stuffed animals, yes, humorous destruction of productivity solutions, no ) job and on Sunday Lars shows up to church ( while the brother and wife attend Keillor’s Church of Brunch ).
What makes a “quirky characters” movie work is that the characters have time and space to breathe, to expand, to talk about their situation, at length, and to let you find ways to identify with them. If they are merely “zany and like action figures” ( or luggage, or frisbee golf ) for no apparent reason without an intimate bond to the viewer, then the magic fails and you wind up with a Darjeeling Mumbledy. But, if, in their subtle and vulnerable invitation, you see a reflection of your own quotidian loves, foibles, and failures, then, my friends, the magic is on.
So when we let Lars breathe we see that he’s in a painful phase that, I’d wager, just about everyone who reads my little review can identify with: he’s horribly lonely. In a conversation with Patricia Clarkson’s Doctor / Psychotherapist ( “you have to be, this far North” ) he asks her if she still feels lonely since the death of her husband.
Some days I feel so lonely I forget what day of the week it is.
What young man moved away from the farm doesn’t know this? What divorcée, widow, brother, or husband, what ex-girlfriend, ex-boyfriend, the girl left on the train station platform back home? In short, we all are Lars, getting by in spite of the oppressive blackness of loneliness in whatever way we can. To condemn that fragile tendril of love that pulls us together because it’s “immoral” or “he/she’s not like us” is to damn a soul to the slowest death of all: death by disassociation.
But how to flesh out the subtle undercurrents of loneliness, what this private madness does to the heart and the mind? Soliloquy and invective are not the best media for his message. How can the depth and subtle nuances of loneliness be revealed in a new way?
Enter “Bianca”. That is, Lars orders a “Real Girl”. A real girl is a fully, uh, functional, anatomically correct, uh, partnership doll. We’re talking 150 pounds of incredibly realistic-looking female with a synthetic skin and go-go boots.
While the townspeople immediately ruminate on Lars’ sexual designs on Bianca, we see that it was not horndoggery that brought the two together, it was Lars’ deep abiding need to love someone, even if that love could not be given back in equal measure. And in this we see a new face of loneliness, as Monsieur Hugo said, that while it is fine to be loved, a far, far finer thing it is to love.
Further, we see that aspect of projection that is so deeply hidden in deep loneliness. Lars projects the life he dreams he and his dream-girl living. He doesn’t force Bianca to wear risqueée clothing Bianca was shipped with, he immediately seeks to clothe her in the demure jumpers of his sister-in law. He sees cute winter wear and thinks “Wouldn’t that look great on her”. He fabricates in her life story that she is half-Danish to be like the, I assume, Danish-Americans both he and his brother represent (Lars and Gus[tav] - chances are in my favor ).
He imagines so much more than just sex – he imagines life: trips to the lake, a heartfelt serenade, taking his best girl to church, and introducing her to his brother and sister-in-law.
Director Craig Gillespie, thankfully, never leaves Bianca’s inanimate form as a Weekend At Bernie’s sight gag. When Bianca flumps over she is set aright and tenderly covered with a blanket. When she needs a bath, Gus and his wife oblige. Her beauty and texture are realized to be an asset as she “models” in the window of a mall boutique. In short, she’s real because the world relates to her, because they relate to Lars, and out of their love for this home-town boy turned a little odd, they realize he needs this relationship to learn to re-connect.
Lars’ path is shepherded by the fantastic Patricia Clarkson, who plays the aforementioned doctor. Together these two talk about loneliness and help Lars begin to break his emotional ice. Lars is so shy that mere touching feels to him as burning, and that social interactions drive him to painful wincing and panic-attack. Ryan Gosling does a great job conveying the desperation and the shame interwoven into his character. I’d never seen anything the gentleman had done before and I must say I believe he will continue to do great things in future.
And the wild-card in the whole story is the incredibly sweet, warm, and loving Margo played perfectly by Kelli Garner ( incidentally, mad propz for being fearless enough to go lite on the makeup, simple on the hair, and un-chic on the wardrobe: believable and fearless ). A girl whose winter-ready Toyota hatchback might benefit from a warm guy checking its tires, a girl who, I felt, secretly dreams of a sweet guy walking her back to the car after she finishes singing in the choir, a man who will laugh with her when that beautiful throw turns into a gutter ball at the last second.
In all, at the end, I felt I knew Lars, I knew his world, and I appreciated his wonderful family and caring town. I felt good knowing that in their quirky Northern wastes they could count on each other and that love and brotherhood are always in the places where you least expect to find them.
The fact that I saw a few ladies walk out with Kleenexes proves to me that the message of the “Real Girl” is that true and abiding love we all recognize as genuine. Don’t judge this too quickly, or you may miss out on something insightful and true.
Florida Republican representative Bob Allen has been found guilty for soliciting sex in a public ( state park bathroom ) place.
What I found interesting, is his counsel repeated appeals to the fictitious geography known as “Bizarro World” as part of the defence.
During closing arguments earlier in the day, Eisenmenger told jurors the state’s version reminded him of a comic-book land called Bizarro World, “where everything is backward.”
And further….
But in his closing, Whitaker pointed to an enlarged mug shot of Allen’s unshaven face and declared, “This is Bizarro World.” “Bob Allen making eyes at police, looking over a stall door at another man’s eyes, going into that stall … looking at that man and saying, ‘This is kind of a public place, isn’t it?’ That is Bizarro World.”
Is this just not incredibly nutso? It would be like your defence including what happened in an episode of “Friends”. See it was just like that time Joey knew Rachel and Chandler were getting together but everyone thought he was a pervert. But remember, he kept saying “I’m Joey”?
But an appeal to Bizarro world is not unknown in Kryptonian jurisprudence.
Said defence for Zod, Law-El: “It is Bizarro World, General Zod was just arranging fireworks for a celebratory festival for that rapidly-approaching, gaseous star over there!”.
This weekend my Brother in the Sisters of Mercy and his lady invited us to see the latest Wes Anderson movie, The Darjeeling Limited, so duly after a night of masquerading about town, we dragged ourselves up and out to make the midday showing.
I know there are some people in this world who give Wes Anderson an absolute carte blanche, can do no wrong. I think that’s malarky. The man can do wrong, and does so often, but because the films have the earnestness of a thrift store cardigan worn by the ingenue in your freshman English literature survey class but whose number, alas, you never succeeded in getting, he gets away with cinematic sloppiness.
Don’t get me wrong, I thought Rushmore had an energy and a vitality to it that bespoke a fresh and honest new breath into film. Instead it seems that it was the segueway to what’s became an unbearably boring, egotistical, exploration of one’s own kitsch auteur-theory .
Je vous dois: The Darjeeling limited
The movie doesn’t start terribly, the prequel film “Hotel Chevalier” lets you know that there’s something very, very stunted with Mr. Schwartzman’s character. Peter Sartedt’s “Where Do You Go To My Lovely” plays (sounding quite a lot like Leonard Cohen) and Natalie Portman comes for, what appears to be, a trans-atlantic booty call. It’s a bit overdone and feels like someone acting in an amateurish American attempt to capture a sort of Bergman-esque spareness ( I can imagine actor John Cassavetes doing this part oh-so very well ), but serves to establish a bit of interest in the background story of this fellow.
The movie then cuts to “part 2” the movie proper and starts with an anxious Bill Murray riding sans fear, but very, very anxiously in one of the hellbent for Mach 2 Indian taxis that avoids pedicabs, motocabs, and a cow as Bill rushes to catch the train that shares the same name with the film. As Bill’s businessman runs to catch the train, he is passed by Adrien Brody who manages to catch the train with a self-satisfied exhaustion that continues to build the intrigue.
Regrettably, there it ends. Little did I know it, but Bill’s out-of-breath businessman stranded was the perfect visual metaphor for the rest of the film: it was already out of breath. From this point on it’s a series of discursive and, well, whiny, pleas by boy-men who can’t figure out what they’re supposed to do with their lives. Owen Wilson plays the third brother who arranged for the brothers to take a trip on this train as a togetherness exercise a year after their father’s funeral.
Change the train to an RV, add antics and Robin Williams, and you could have called it “RV”.
Blarf.
The characters do absolutely nothing interesting and every plot turn or character quirk is telegraphed, no, put on a great big Amber Alert board, 20 minutes ahead of the reveal. Any subtlety is foregone as they try to deal with the unresolved baggage thrust upon them by their father’s sudden death and their mother’s disappearance. And yes, there’s a reference to the end in that paragraph. I don’t feel the need to *Spoiler* it because it’s entirely obvious.
It was, a yawner.
It wouldn’t have been quite so insufferable had not this exact same territory been explored by Anderson himself in The Royal Tenenbaums but only 6 years ago. He’s returned to the topic with absolutely nothing to add to the topic.
I saw a quote at rottentomatoes that at a point in his career where he should be moving forward he’s going backwards. Yes. So right. It’s time for Anderson and his characters to bravely go to that world of people older than 30 who manage to pay their utility bill on time, and manage not to dwell in shadows of how it was easier when you had parents who did things for you and re-assured you that you had made the right decisions.
Here’s a growth opportunity for Anderson. Try writing a movie where the characters have real jobs versus limitless wealth which affords them the chance to lounge about pondering stupid bullshit questions and fetishizing stupid pop culture bullshit. I mean seriously, when was the last time a character in an Anderson movie had a job you saw them actually do ( and I don’t mean underwater explorer ). Last I can think of? Rushmore. Max and his dad were barbers.
So The League informed the world of the availability of the Iron Man trailer. I must say Downey looks like he’s caught the disaffected playboy / Bush-era military-industrial-complex profiteer turns warrior for good ( but with a hint of misanthrope ) lightning in a jar in a way which is not “just the character formula of Batman” yet again.
He can do that because he’s an excellent real actor. See counter-example:
But the thing I’d like to lens in on is the use of Black Sabbath’s Ur-Metal song, uh, “Iron Man”. “Iron Man” is the Epic of Gilgamesh of Heavy Metal. Like the waters of Enki, it’s the source from which all that is meht-haaaaal comes.
[ Death says: “Mehtal rules!” ]
In any case, assuming you have some level of pop culture knowledge and a “The Arrow” formatted radio station somewhere in your experience, when you hear Tony Iommi’s pick-up bending, bridge-buckling, whammy-bar distorted opening air-raid dive-bomb opening of “Iron Man” you get the “Aw shits”.
“Aw shit, it’s “Iron Man” by ür-metal band Black Sabbath in the trailer for “Iron Man” - bet the studio paid through the nose to use that one! But it’s so cool!”
Great moments are achieved by subtlety not by the TOTAL RUINATION OF THE AD BY INCLUDING THE OPENING DISTORTED VOICE EFFECT “I AM IRON MAN” FROM BLACK SABBATH’S “IRON MAN” SONG AS THE MOVIE TITLE IRON MAN IS PRINTED IN A BLADE OF IRON
Wait did you miss it? He’s IRON MAN.
Stupid hacks always butcher good things.
Read more to find out how I would have cut the trailer.
Last night Lauren and I, sick of being sick and trapped in the house, went out to Austin’s Paramount Theatre and saw the 9 o’clock showing of “Bombshell”.
The synopsis runs essentially like this: “Bombshell” film actress Lola Burns, a from the farm in Illinois to Hollywood starlet type who fickly hops from idea to idea: Marrying the tanned European marquis, adopting a baby, changing her Hollywood image. Naturally the studio’s publicity man and the studio head are none-too-keen on their bombshell becoming “a rubber nipple” and are thus dedicated to thwarting her ambitions and making sure she’s back for her make-up call.
Notably, this movie was pre-Code, so instead of smarmy pratfalls and fades to black, you get characters’ adult dialog being actually fit for adults ( implication of single motherhood, racy dialogue about underclothing, displays of drunkenness, etc. ).
It was stunning to both Lauren and I how different the expectations of movie viewers have become. These characters had absolutely no depth there was no empathy that I could have had for any of the characters. Rather, I thought this “talkie” to basically be like watching flesh-animated cartoons.
“Oh look Daffy’s doing blackface (now considered racist) stuff!”
“Oh look, they’re going to put the goldfish in the water pitcher!”
It was as if the idea of the character having a mental world wherewith the viewer could empathize, relate, or see their thought process was completely un-considered, like a cartoon.
Somewhat appallingly to the modern viewer, as the Lola’s character attempted to control her public image ( instead of being a slut, being a virgin, because that’s the only two choices a lady has, mind you ) and not be quite such a tool of the studio, the direction seems to prod you to the conclusion: “That silly platinum blonde dame, she lacks the gumption to stick to anything of import anyway, all the better the studio kept her from trying that!”
The subtext was very surprising to both of us.
Nevertheless, the pure absurdity, and that incredibly loud ( to add to the chaos ) soundtrack combined with the comedy of errors/manners/impaired mental function do bring together some absurd and farcical laughs ( especially when Lola is romanced by a Bostonian blue-blood whose spare time is occupied by writing “verse” )
Interestingly, the studio publicist, Lee Tracy had this tidbit of information at the imdb:
While in Mexico for location shooting for VIVA VILLA!, Tracy stepped out onto his hotel balcony and urinated on a passing military parade. He was immediately arrested and deported from the country. Embarrassed & furious, Louis B. Mayer fired him instantly from MGM.
Now that would be a turn in a biopic that I’ve not seen before.
Two Christmas seasons ago that mindless namby-pamby drivel known as Narnia assaulted my eye-sockets in San José. The only blessed moment of that two hours of tooth scraping was when a certain screenwriting lawyer-friend of mine abruptly turned and “Ssshhh!’d” a chatty 12 year old behind him.
…CGI lion comes on screen and mutters something… Kid: It’s Qui-Gonn! Lawyer-Friend: ¡¡¡Shh!!!!!
This Christmas, the gorgeous Golden Compass is coming to theaters near you and it’s envisioned the world of His Dark Materials in a lush, dream-filtered, techno-steampunk richness. The plot is compleling and the charaters rich. It’s sort of what Narnia would have been, had it been written by Richard Dawkins.
The casting looks great:
Nicole Kidman playing the fundamentalist Mrs. Coulter equal parts seductive and adamant, like fundamentalism and ignorance themselves
Or Daniel Craig as the Byronic and mercurial Lord Asriel
I think it will be a winner.
And I, for one, am excited to see computer effects bring to life the Nordic-named, heroic, armor-wearing polar bear named Iorek Byrnison.
