Patty Rocks

When it comes to Glenn Close, I’m a rather giddy fan. For years I have loved and admired her work: stage, movies, TV, you name it. (OK, I’m willing to overlook that misbegotten South Pacific….). Think of all the great stuff: The Real Thing, Benefactors and Sunset Boulevard on Broadway, the Lion in Winter remake for Showtime, her stint on The Shield, and all those terrific, often madcap movie performances including those which should have easily won her a couple of Oscars, …Garp and Dangerous Liaisons. Hell, she even made that wretched Stepford Wives remake worth a second visit late one night.

Unlike most actors working today, Close always seems to be having so much fun in everything she does while managing a bulls-eye commitment to every role. So, I eagerly awaited the premiere of Damages which landed on FX this week. Close stars as Patty Hewes, a terrifyingly high-powered attorney who won’t be ignored. In one particularly memorable moment, she lashes out at Tate Donavan (as her wimpy associate) with a furious bravado while channeling Alex Forrest and Cruella DeVil. It’s another marvelous characterization: smart, stylish, and flirting with camp.

The show itself is fine, I suppose. But when Patty’s not around, it looks like any other slick legal thriller and some of the casting isn’t quite right. For example, poor Zeljko Ivanek is saddled with a cornpone Southern accent (why are all sleazy lawyers-on-the-take now required to sound like they stumbled out of a John Grisham opus?). Ted Danson and Rose Byrne offer little in terms of interesting characters. At least the always reliable Phillip Bosco is, well, very reliable.

But I’ll keep watching, after that guy from Cincinnati over on HBO, Close’s Patty Hewes is the best thing to happen to TV this summer.

I was, as they say, otherwise engaged, during the mild brouhaha that accompanied the announcement of the American Film Institute's latest list of the Greatest 100 Films list. Now, a few weeks later, finding myself at last in catch-up mode, a quick perusal of the list leaves little surprises; it’s not much different than the first. Although it’s a bit discouraging to see new additions like The Sixth Sense and Titanic bumping Stagecoach and The Manchurian Candidate off of the list. But, of course, this isn’t exactly the Sight & Sound Survey. As before, it’s a list that is provides a great introduction to all that is good about American ci-ne-mahh. And it celebrates dozens of truly great American film. Too bad it ignores dozens of other truly great American films in order to honor such favorites as, Toy Story, for instance (OK, a good movie, to be sure, but let’s face it: it’s not From Here to Eternity).

What makes this list so valuable to me is that it inspired a lot of film buffs and bloggers to reply with lists of their own. Sure, they are all reflections of personal choice (just like the one you’re going to see momentarily) but they all reminded me of some real gems that I hadn’t seen in a long time or, better yet, have never seen before.

It’s impossible for me to offer up a list of Best Films. I just can’t do it in a way that would garner respect and admiration among the high-minded and serious movie scribes.
As I have mentioned before, yes, on my list you will find all the usual suspects (Citizen Kane, The Godfather, Singin’ in the Rain) but they settle in next to the likes of The VIPs and Star!

Growing up an Air Force brat, I was lucky. An adolescence spent at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio provided me with five on-base movie theaters which showed just about everything you could hope to see. Premium movies got the prized Sunday-Monday or Thursday-Friday slots, everything else played one night, and then moved on to the next theater a few blocks away. Admission was something like 35 cents. If you liked a certain movie a lot (such as Airport, Chisum, Butch Cassidy...), you could catch it several times during its on-based rotation. I recall countless nights and matinees spent with my best pal Lester or with my parents (both avid moviegoers). It was at the Fairchild, The Chaparral, the Corral, among other Uncle Sam bijous, where I saw everything from Half a Sixpence and Planet of the Apes to Count Yorga, Vampire and What’s So Bad About Feeling Good? One day it was Z, the next day is was Yours Mine and Ours. Custer of the West. The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes. The first Italian Job.

There’s probably a much longer story here, about coming of age at the movies amidst thousands of troops who are one night watching Doris Day frolic through Where Were You When the Lights Went Out? and then shipping off to Vietnam a day later. But we’ll save that for another post.

There was something else about all those movies and movie theaters at Lackland: on occasion, there would be festivals during which over the course of a week you could see all of the James Bond movies (there were only five at that point, but still…. I saw Dr. No I don’t know how many times) or take in a big helping of Clint Eastwood (the Man-With-No-Name trilogy PLUS Hang ‘Em High and Coogan’s Bluff). I also recall the very big deal surrounding the premiere of Patton. We got it on base a few weeks before its commercial release.

After Lackland, my father was transferred to Ankara, Turkey where about a dozen theaters were showing primarily American and European movies from the 60’s and early 70’s. Big beautiful theaters and modern little cinemas where every movie had an intermission. I could see Tobruk, Two for the Road, and a Sound of Music with most of the songs lopped out, all in the course of a weekend. Two days later it was Dr. Zhivago and Die! Die! My Darling! followed by Justine and the remake of Stagecoach. And all with Turkish subtitles. Also, since there was no rating system in place, as high school sophomore I could walk right into Midnight Cowboy and The Music Lovers.

Here’s the point I’m trying to make: as a kid, I devoured movies. Good and bad. And I still do. Thus any list I would offer can only be on of my all-time favorites. I’m perfectly capable of jotting down my selection of “the Best” but where’s the fun in that? Some of them I would probably never watch again. Did someone say L'avventura? Sorry, life’s too short.

I have been thinking about my own 100 list for quite some time. But what criteria would assure a truly representative list? Finally, it boiled down to this: Did I (a) love it? And/or (b) admire it? Would I happily see it again? Have I already –happily—seen it again? And again? Would it make the Desert Island list? If I am channel surfing at 3:30 a.m. and ran across it, would I settle in and watch, even if the DVD already sits in my library? An affirmative answer landed each title on the list. But I then had almost 200. I had to get ruthless. This, as it turns out, was no easy task. So, I decided to offer up my list of favorites that did not make the AFI list, or Sight & Sound. And none of them won the Oscar for Best Picture. All of those great movies, from Casablanca to Lawrence of Arabia to Chinatown and Raging Bull….well, they get a lot of love, anyway. Here, then, is my list of much-loved Runners Up. The List could change tomorrow, but here we go:

1925 Ben-Hur
1928 The Passion of Joan of Arc
1933 The Invisible Man
1933 Queen Christina
1935 Top Hat
1935 The Bride of Frankenstein
1936 Way Out West
1938 Holiday
1938 Alexander Nevsky
1938 The Dawn Patrol
1939 The Hound of the Baskervilles
1939 Stagecoach
1939 The Women
1939 Tarzan Finds a Son
1940 The Philadelphia Story
1944 Laura
1945 Mildred Pierce
1944 Cover Girl
1946 Notorious
1948 The Red Shoes
1949 On the Town
1954 A Star is Born
1954 Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
1956 The Ten Commandments
1956 Giant
1958 Auntie Mame
1958 Suddenly, Last Summer
1958 Touch of Evil
1961 Breakfast at Tiffany’s
1961 La Dolce Vita
1962 The Manchurian Candidate
1962 Dr. No
1962 How the West Was Won
1963 8 /12
1963 The Birds
1964 The Americanization of Emily
1965 Dr. Zhivago
1965 The Great Race
1966 The Good, The Bad and The Ugly
1966 Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
1967 Two for the Road
1968 Star!
1968 Romeo & Juliet
1968 The Lion in Winter
1969 The Damned
1969 They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?
1970 Chisum
1971 McCabe and Mrs. Miller
1971 Death in Venice
1971 The Garden of the Finzi Continis
1973 Cries and Whispers
1973 Ludwig
1974 Amarcord
1975 Barry Lyndon
1977 Julia
1977 The Turning Point
1977 New York, New York
1978 An Unmarried Woman
1979 Manhattan
1979 The Marriage of Maria Braun
1981 Chariots of Fire
1982 Victor/Victoria
1982 Veronika Voss
1983 Fanny and Alexander
1983 The Right Stuff
1983 Tender Mercies
1985 Ran
1986 Hannah and Her Sisters
1986 A Room with a View
1987 Maurice
1987 Law of Desire
1988 Hairspray
1988 Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown
1990 Dances with Wolves
1992 Howards End
1992 The Last of the Mohicans
1993 The Age of Innocence
1995 Clueless
1996 Fargo
1997 Boogie Nights
1998 The Thin Red Line
1999 Topsy Turvy
1999 All About My Mother
1999 Election
1999 Magnolia
2000 Tigerland
2000 Almost Famous
2001 Gosford Park
2001 Ghost World
2002 The Hours
2002 Far From Heaven
2002 Y Tu Mama’ Tambien
2003 Kill Bill 1
2004 Bad Education
2005 Brokeback Mountain
2005 Pride & Prejudice
2005 Munich
2006 Volver
2006 Casino Royale

A Cavalcade of Insults

Congratulations to this year’s Emmy winners.

Wow. What a great line-up; each and every one so totally deserving!

Drama:
Deadwood, Ian McShane, Lindsay Duncan, Dominic Chianese, Paula Malcomson

Comedy:
Weeds, Jason Lee, Mary Louise Parker, Jeremy Piven, Jaime Pressly

Oh. Wait a minute. Sorry. I must have drifted off. The awards won’t be handed out for a few more weeks. And most of the above contenders weren’t even nominated.

The Emmy Brigade strikes again.
Cocksuckers.

Yesterday marked the centennial of the great Barbara Stanwyck. Rather than offer up an appreciation which may sound like the ravings of a Stage Door Johnny, let me direct you to two excellent must-reads courtesy of Edward Copeland on Film and The House Next Door . Both will surely inspire you to adjust your Netflix line-up immediately.

In a salute to the great dame, I stayed up til the wee hours last night, watching her in Robert Wise’s Executive Suite. I love this movie. A sharp and tidy little gem from 1954, it’s not Stanwyck’s greatest achievement but, golly, does she shine in her small but oh-so-pivotal supporting role. Walter Pidgeon, Fredric March, William Holden, June Allyson, and a lovely (and Oscar-nominated) Nina Foch fill out the very all-star cast.

Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for Ball of Fire.

No Regrets

Forget the surprisingly knuckleheaded reviews being offered up by some of our most reliable critics and judge the many merits of La Vie En Rose for yourself. Olivier Dahan’s biopic is downright marvelous. A big, overstuffed Dickensian melodrama, it careens around the screen with the reckless spirit very much like that of its hallowed subject, Edith Piaf. The jolting jumble of the chronology which has made some reviewers apoplectic is, as far as I’m concerned, an appropriately cinematic representation of the chaos that was Piaf’s life. And in a career-defining performance, Marion Cottilard breaks your heart as the legendary Little Sparrow. Beautiful cinematography courtesy of Tetsuo Nagata , by the way. And a dashing turn by Jean-Pierre Martins as boxing champ and Piaf’s one great love, Marcel Cerdan.

A wonderful movie. My Top Ten List of 2007 has officially launched.

The Honorable Brigham Anderson

Turner Classic Movies recently wrapped up its terrific SCREENED OUT festival of gay-themed (or gay-related) films, offering quite the banquet of the good, the bad and the forgotten. A prime example of the latter would be Staircase, Stanley Donen’s little stinker from 1969 with Richard Burton and Rex Harrison mincing their way through a kitchen-sink soap opera that, by comparison, makes The Boys in the Band upbeat and life-affirming. It’s a forgettable flick, but still worth watching just to see movieland’s Caesar and Antony flitting about as two desperate old poofs.

Happily, the Screened Out series, inspired by Richard Barrios’ 2005 study, Screened Out: Playing Gay in Hollywood from Edison to Stonewall , offered lots of treats, including such seldom seen novelties as Hal Roach's hilariously bizarre screwball comedy Turnabout as well as George Cukor's brittle drawing-room comedy Our Betters made the same years as his Dinner at Eight and Little Women (1933)and featuring a rather grand leading-lady turn by Constance Bennett.

At the other end of the spectrum was Otto Preminger’s great, sprawling Advise and Consent which remains one of the most entertaining movies ever made about our nation’s capitol. It’s a marvelous political potboiler that actually makes a confirmation hearing a juicy springboard for all sorts of intrigue. It’s not a gay movie, per se, but since secrets and blackmail are essential to the plot, you can easily guess the subject of the cover-up. Based on Allen Drury’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel, the movie is dark and jaded, showcasing some real Hollywood bluebloods in outstanding performances (Henry Fonda, Lew Ayers, Walter Pidgeon, a gorgeous Gene Tierney, and world-weary Franchot Tone), the best being a scenery-gobbling Charles Laughton, in his last performance, as Senator Seabright Cooley of South Carolina.

It’s said that all the major characters are based on actual politicos, thus Peter Lawford’s suave and charming take on JFK, his brother-in-law, is certainly irresistible. Among the youngsters in the cast, handsome and stalwart Don Murray is also quite good as the Mormon senator from Utah, Brigham "Brig" Anderson, the one with that desperate secret. And Inga Swenson is also on hand, as his long-suffering and noble wife. Weep for her.

Introducing Miss Kitty Twist

Added to my Guilty Pleasures list last week: Walk on the Wild Side (1962), Edmund Dmytryk’s lurid tale set in a French Quarter bordello, starring Barbara Stanwyck as a stylishly butch and aging madam with the hots for Capucine (can you blame her?) Also on board are Laurence Harvey as a Texas (?) farm hand also in love with Capucine (can you blame him?) and Anne Baxter as a Mexican (?) owner of a truckstop café who pumps gas in high heels and quietly smolders for Harvey.

Best of all, however, is a young Jane Fonda as a piece of trashy jailbait named Kitty Twist. Yes, yes, yes: she’s a great thespian with Coming Home and Klute and Julia and a few other rightfully praised performances under her belt…but this is early Fonda, the Jane We Love of The Chase and –best of all—Hurry Sundown. She sizzles in this one and appears to be having one hell of a good time. And when she disappears for the second act, we miss her (although Baxter’s impersonation of Katy Jurado keeps us glued, as does Stanwyck’s aching loins). But Kitty’s too tantalizing not too pop back into the picture, which she does with scene-stealing abandon.

Really, this is a major delight. If the camp doesn’t seduce you, then at least take time to appreciate Elmer Bernstein’s groovy score with that pounding theme song and the naughty opening credits, courtesy of Saul Bass, with that angry black cat

What Should Have Been A Night to Remember

What a shame. What a bore. What should have been a celebration of a pretty great Broadway season was, instead, the Berlin Alexanderplatz of commercials, a three hour blitzkrieg of advertisements interrupted every few minutes for a quick snippet of an awards show. I can't remember when the Tony Awards have ever been stripped of their customary razzle dazzle as they were this evening. You can't blame Christine Ebersole or Raul Esparaza or the cast of Spring Awakening (or Fantasia, for that matter) for doing their best, but they fought a losing battle.

In recent years the Tonys, overproduced and overlong, have only hinted at the horrors of what could be. Tonight, it all came to pass. The show was not about excellence on Broadway, but about corporate shilling.

What should be remembered for The Coast of Utopia’s seven awards (a record, I think, for a non-musical), the canonization of Spring Awakening, the crowning of Ebersole and Wilson, the surprise victories of Julie White and David Hyde Pierce, and all the other fun stuff that came and went too quickly, will instead be remembered for the eight thousand commercials for some godawful-looking show called Viva Laughlin which CBS clearly thinks theater enthusiasts are going to embrace simply because it features Hugh Jackman (Tony winning wonderboy who saved The Boy From Oz from oblivion a few seasons past and proved to be a delightful Tony host on more than one occasion). How sad, we saw much more of Jackman’s costar, Melanie Griffith, than we did Vanessa Redgrave and Angela Lansbury combined.

It’s unlikely that anyone had it tougher than Jane Alexander. She appeared in the pre-show webcast to present the Regional Theatre award, then had to come back on at the end of the broadcast, nine hours later, to announce that she had given the award earlier in the evening. Poor thing. In between appearances, I hope she got to go home and take a nap.

Tony Vs. Tony

It’s just about an hour until the Tony Awards kick off… and the webcast is streaming from the red carpet…Christine Ebersole looks great, by the way, and so does Donna Murphy (but God help whoever sits behind her and that huge hair), ...and tonight’s show should be pretty great, even though that other big event is taking place over on HBO.

This has always been my favorite of all the award galas. Recently, while watching lots of this season’s big moments on YouTube (especially Spring Awakening and Company), I remember getting my first VCR just in time to record the telecast from 1984; that was the year Julie Andrews and Robert Preston co-hosted, when La Cage beat Sunday in the Park with George for the Best Musical prize, when Chita Rivera finally won her first Tony, when Bea Arthur and Angela Lansbury were reunited for a show-stopping rendition of “Bosom Buddies.” It was almost too much. Every single viewer had no choice but to embrace, with pride, their inner gaiety, if only for the remainder of that singularly sensational evening.

That was also the year that the original production of The Real Thing swept the non-musical field. That was a great production: Jeremy Irons, Glenn Close, Christine Baranski (all winning Tonys), not to mention Peter Gallagher and Cynthia Nixon, all under Mike Nichols’ direction. To this day, one of those “great nights in the theater” that you never forget. Now, I also recall how the great Rosemary Harris was nominated that season for the revival of Heartbreak House. She lost to Close who played Annie in The Real Thing. Many years later, Harris would be nominated for Waiting in the Wings, and she lost again, this time to the actress playing Annie the revival of The Real Thing who also happened to be her daughter, Jennifer Ehle.

I’ll probably be one of about ten viewers outside of New York who tune into CBS tonight and then catch The Sopranos a little later. I doubt that David Chase will disappoint us with anything like the ultimate M*A*S*H or Seinfeld sendoffs, and even if it doesn’t reach the brilliance of, say, “White Caps” or “Long Term Parking,” it’s already guaranteed a place in TV history simply for being the last one. I’m not really sure what to look for this evening since my expectations have been so wonderfully undermined during the past two seasons. However, in retrospect, everything makes sense within the world of these characters. (Of course Tony had to kill Christopher.) I think I actually gasped when Adriana showed up in Carmela’s dream during the Paris visit. And there is a look that Aida Turtorro gives Steven Schirripa in the recent “Soprano Home Movies” that is so great, so heartbreaking, that you knew, then and there, Bobby was doomed. Edie Falco’s Carmela is the one I’ll miss the most (we even named our dog after her) with Lorraine Bracco’s Dr. Melfi pulling a close second. And I think she should still get a retroactive Emmy for the “Employee of the Month” episode.

Gotta wrap this up. It’s almost curtain time at Radio City.

I Remember Mama

Roger Michell’s The Mother (2003) is the kind of movie where half way through you want to take a sledgehammer to your DVD player. Or at least switch over to reruns of Cheaters or Friday Night “SmackDown.” Anything, you think, will be better than this experiment in agony. Yet, for some reason, you stick it out til the end. Probably due to the lovely performance by Anne Reid as the widowed grandmother who pulls a Dolly Levi and decides she won’t let the parade pass her by, at least not yet, and emerges from the dreary doldrums of a bad marriage by boffing the sensitive/brutish young handyman who, coincidentally is also boffing her whining wretch of a daughter. That’s about it. The handyman is, incidentally, Daniel Craig, saddled with a dullard of a character who’s about as awful as everyone else in this plodding potboiler who in some way or another manage to block Granny’s second-act attempt for, you know, a life ripe with meaning. And orgasms.

This, and Sofia Coppola’s surprisingly marvelous, crafty Marie Antoinette are maybe the only two movies I have seen in the past two months. It’s been one of those madcap, difficult stretches (I am terrible at over-committing) during which I have not focused on anything more challenging than the season finale of Workout (big Jackie fan here) and the nightly/early morning offerings at TCM. Thank Heaven for Robert Osborne (and the inspired programmers who can still get me excited about the umpteenth broadcast of Stagecoach.)

Sometimes I find that just a snippet or two from a favorite film is all I need to take the edge off. Believe me, a nice little chunk from It Happened One Night or Bringing Up Baby or The Big Sleep provide the kind of nightcap that only old school Hollywood can provide. Who needs Grey Goose?

I keep a running journal entry of movies that I watch, but lately, it’s more like a list of scenes…favorite moments or maybe films where I land in the middle and snuggle in til the end. Over the past month, “the list” reveals an interesting little catalogue of viewing delights, not a single one in its entirety:

--I Want to Live!

--Morning Glory (in which Hepburn is so bad, so annoying, so over-the-top ridiculous that to this day it remains a mystery and miracle that she’s the same thespian who, five years later would become, at least in my opinion, the greatest American actress of four decades)
--The Shoes of the Fisherman (it goes on for about a day and a half with all the pomp and gravity that accompanied those “prestige pictures” of the 1960s but, taken in small doses, it’s kind of fun)
--Stella Dallas
--Brief Encounter
--A Farewell to Arms (’32 version, featuring Helen Hayes in one of her few screen appearances where she doesn’t play First Lady of the American Theatuh and dare you to resist wanting to smack the crap out of her)
--Lord Jim
--Mary of Scotland (John Ford does a costume drama. Badly.)
--The Catered Affair
--The World of Henry Orient (which I haven’t seen since I was a kid. Very strange movie. But it has Paula Prentiss. Who could ask for anything more?)
--As You Like It (impossible to watch for more than fifteen minutes, but still fascinating and a little bit horrifying. Olivier is adorable and oh-so-gay while Elisabeth Bergner makes you want to stick an ice pick in your ears)
--The Hurricane
--The High and the Mighty
--Yours, Mine and Ours

OK, so not exactly the kind of line-up you would find on the Sight & Sound survey, but comfort-food movies have their place in our hearts, if nowhere else. If you had to play the desert island scenario and you had to pick, say, Clueless or The Passion of Joan of Arc, which one would get your vote?

Last week I checked out Bergman’s Hour of the Wolf, but I just couldn’t do it. So I opted instead for Flower Drum Song, which really may be one of the worst big screen musicals of all time. But there’s something very reassuring about Miyoshi Umeki, in a warm-up for her turn as Mrs. Livingston, singing “A Hundred Million Miracles” while Nancy Kwan vamps like nobody’s businesses. I don’t know, maybe I just wasn’t in the mood for Bergman that night. Or maybe I was still smarting from The Mother.

One more thumbs-up to TCM in anticipation of what I think is it’s first Gay and Lesbian Film festival. Screened Out: Gay Images in Film promises to deliver, over the course of Mondays and Wednesdays in June, “a 44-Movie Festival that examines gay sexuality in the cinema from the silent era up to the films that challenged Hollywood's rigid Code…” Oh boy. Anything that brings us everything from Franklin Pangborn to The Killing of Sister George is something worth celebrating.

You should SO be watching this...

So I received an email from my dear friend Laney the other day. The subject line was:
Oh, you should SO be watching this…, and was an alert that William Wyler’s classic DODSWORTH (featuring Walter Huston and Madame Ouspenskaya, among others) was playing on TCM. And Laney was so right. We should all be watching DODSWORTH right now, especially since there’s not much being offered at the local Cineplex these days.

Maybe I’m getting cranky but it seems to me there is just more and more junk out there. I’m turning into my parents, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Twenty years ago they started in with the “they just don’t make movies like they used to.” I rolled my eyes and took off to see GREMLINS or COCKTAIL.

Scanning this Sunday’s movie listings, I must admit there was nothing that I cared to see, or at least nothing that couldn’t wait til it ended up on DVD at Netflix. OK, I do want to see SPIDER-MAN 3 on the big screen but must wait until the hullabaloo dies down. And despite its boffo box office this weekend, the so-so reviews might make this happen a bit sooner than anticipated. Actually I’m probably the only person who goes to the Spiderman movies in anticipation of another great turn by Rosemary Harris.

But who can possibly attend a big summer blockbuster anymore without resisting the urge to smack a few people? When did going to the movies stop being about the movie and instead, become a gathering place for half-witted yokels to have a family reunion while gobbling tubs o’ corn and guzzling buckets o’ Diet Coke? (And what good do these behemoths think they are doing, downing a gallon of diet cola, when their veins and vessels are already packed with sludge from the nacho cheese goo they have slathered all over their Jumbo Trough o’ Chips at the concession stand?)

Forgive the rant, but it’s becoming impossible to enjoy a movie any more without having to deal with compulsive talkers who, even when attempting a sotto voce whisper, sound like King Kong grunting at Naomi Watts. Then there are the boisterous gobblers attacking their Milk Duds and Twizzlers with a chomping desperation as though it were their last supper. And it’s bad enough when a cell phone goes off, it’s even worse when the person next to you answers it, like the nit witted hag at CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAGON who ---during the last magical moments of that movie--- answered her phone (with a ringer that sounded like an air-raid warning) and launched into a full-throttle gab session with her gal pal. And that was years ago, but the memory still scars me.

I’m a nice person. Really. And I love movies. But I’m starting not to love people. At least the people who are, more and more, robbing me of the pleasures of a few hours in the dark staring at the silver screen. One of the very few pleasant experiences I have had in the past year was when I attended a 10:45 a.m. matinee of THE QUEEN. Perfect. Of course the entire audience was made up of me and about 200 genteel Rosemary Harris look-alikes. Now that was a lovely day.

Soon It's Gonna Reign

There’s really not much to say about The Tudors except that it doesn’t differ all that much from that other Showtime series, Queer as Folk. Only this time, the queens are real women.

Just like QAF, this new saga is short on intelligence but big on bed-hopping, handsome men, and a numbskull narrative that offers us Merrie Olde England by way of Aaron Spelling. In short, it’s irresistible. All that’s missing is Sharon Gless whipping up some bangers and mash.

Henry, his six wives, and the big break with Rome has inspired so many movies, plays, miniseries and even one big Broadway floperoo that we get a queasy sense of deja-vu just minutes into the first installment. But then Jonathan Rhys Meyers arrives on the scene. He looks about as much like Holbein’s Henry as Charles Laughton favors Elvis, but he immediately gives us what he does best. He smolders. He broods. He pouts. Then he gets naked and the games begin. His isn’t the only flesh that’s flashed, by the way. Lusty lords are leaping and many a maid is mating in nooks and crannies hither and yon.

Which is probably a good thing since the show doesn’t offer anything new in its consideration of history or the Who’s Who of familiar faces. Sam Neill gives us yet another Cheneyish Cardinal Wolsey, while poor Jeremy Northam hasn’t much to do as yet another nobly pious Thomas More (but then again, the man was a saint for all seasons, there’s really not much more you can do with him). Natalie Dormer plays Anne Boleyn as, what else?, a tarty sexpot while Maria Doyle Kennedy gives us one more tragic and put-upon Queen Katherine. Only Steven Waddington, as Buckingham, provides anything close to a performance but history being what it is, don’t get too attached. Remember that several unlucky players lose their heads in this oft-told tale.

The show looks great and exudes self-important pomp. And although it fades quickly when compared to the dearly departed Rome, it at least gives us something to look forward to on Sunday nights. . Not since The Private Life of Henry VIII or Carry On Henry (with its working title Anne of a Thousand Lays) has royal watching been so much fun.

Hail, Caesar! But beware the Ides of March...

So yesterday I was having coffee with my friend Roberto when our conversation turned to Julius Caesar. He’ll be directing a production of the Bard’s classic later this summer, and we were sharing our enthusiasm for the Joseph Mankiewicz movie version from ‘53, in particular Brando and James Mason, as Antony and Brutus, respectively. He also indulged my babbling on about HBO’s Rome and how there were only two episodes left, what I am going to do, etc. Anyway, we failed to realize we were having this chat on the very eve of the Ides of March. Fancy that.

In fact, I didn’t even think about today being that fateful date until I read the latest posting over at The Phantom Professor. This has little to do with Caesar being carved into cutlets, but it’s still one of the funniest things you will read all week. The Phantom Prof is actually a much-beloved college buddy. I was a wide-eyed freshman when, as a world-weary senior, she took me under her wing. She was like Dorothy Parker, Hedda Hopper and Eve Arden all rolled into one. Still is. For a sampling of her quick wit, read the post, "Beware the Hides of Zarch." Like me, you will probably laugh out loud.

Back to Caesar, just for a minute. If you haven’t seen the Mankiewicz film, be sure to do so. I’ve seen it several times and it never gets old. It’s much better than Stuart Burge’s 1970 version which, to be fair, at least offers, among its few pleasures, Gielgud in the title role (he was a great Cassius in ’53) and Diana Rigg, still looking like Mrs. Peel, popping in as Portia.

And as long as we’re thinking about old Julius, let’s offer a tip of the toga to Rex Harrison’s Oscar-nominated Caesar in Cleopatra, Ciaian Hinds in Rome, John Gavin in Spartacus, as well as Warren William and Claude Rains who played opposite the Egyptian queens of Claudette Colbert and Vivien Leigh.

And finally, this is a stretch, but a closing “Hail!” to the late Richard Kiley who, in one of his least successful Broadway romps, played Caesar to Leslie Uggams’ Cleopatra in that fabulous, fabled flop from 1968, Her First Roman. Kiley had just left his Tony-award winning smasheroo, Man of La Mancha for this misbegotten adaptation of Shaw’s play. You have to love a show that opens with the chorus boys, as Roman soldiers, belting out that memorable ditty, “What Are We Doing in Egypt?” It closed after 17 performances and lost more than half a million dollars.

Tonight We Dine in Hell!!

Why am I not surprised? I mean, it was probably bound to happen: the loincloth worn by Gerard Butler in 300 is now up for grabs on eBay. If you don’t believe me, check it out.

When you stop to think about it, this makes perfectly good sense. Ever since 300 launched its brilliant marketing campaign several months ago, we have been bombarded with a PECtacular promise of man meat. Butler, as King Leonidas, has been featured prominently, perhaps giving new meaning to “coming attraction.” The movie does not disappoint. It celebrates heroism and sacrifice. But no more than that, it also honors beefcake and brawn. For all its well-intentioned prattle about valor and machismo, it is also the gayest movie since Auntie Mame. Pumped up and edging its audience towards an orgiastic bloodbath, 300 pulls on everything from Steve Reeves movies to Tom of Finland cartoons with such confidence and authority that it is impossible not to surrender to this mind-numbing, jaw-dropping extravaganza.

In his very funny review for the New York Times, critic A.O. Scott wrote, “300 is about as violent as Apocalypto and twice as stupid.”

To a certain extent, Scott is right. The movie may very well be a simple-minded sword and sandal saga, gleefully choking on its own guts and gore. But as far as Cro-Magnon entertainments are concerned, this one is hard to beat. Director Zack Snyder, adapting Frank Miller’s graphic novel, has brought forth something very new and rather strange: it’s part amusement park and part video game disguised as a movie. And it works. Brilliantly.

It covers familiar territory, already drawn out on the screen in The 300 Spartans (1962): Sparta’s King Leonidas (Butler) leads his army of a mere 300 soldiers against Persia’s King Xerxes (Rodrigo Santoro, late of TV’s Lost) and his bazillion troops at the Battle of Thermopylae. But Snyder’s movie is much less a history lesson than a brutal, nihilistic, musclebound glorification of cinema’s future shock, where things like acting and design are replaced by blue screens and the marvels of technology. Sin City (also based on a Miller work) and Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow have already hinted at the possibilities of computer-generated movies. 300 claims that movies like these are here to stay. Design-wise, it’s a winner. It’s pretty to look at it, in a blood-drenched kind of fashion, with excellent editing and a lovely score. Be on the lookout for a sequence involving the sinking of Persian ships. Wow.

Much has been written this week about the film's boffo box-office ($70 million in less thn than a week) and how fansites and comic book enthusiasts have assured its popularity. That’s fine. But what may be a tad worrisome is that the things that many of us hold dear, like craft for starters, is replaced here by spellbinding gadgetry. The story doesn’t simply unfold. It is catapulted off the screen right into our laps and, in case we are newcomers to nuance, there’s a narrator on hand to make sure we understand exactly what we are supposed to know. The acting, if you can call it that, is even less subtle. The entire cast preens and struts, flexes and poses. For all his swaggering and breast beating, Butler doesn’t act as much as be barks and bellows. But boy, does he pack that loin cloth. (He also sounds just like Sean Connery every time he brays “Shhhhpartaaaah!”)

The rest of the cast members are about as wooden as the Bill Baird marionettes performing “The Lonely Goatherd.” Those cast as the Persians are especially one-dimensional but it’s hard to poo-poo the brave souls writhing around in Xerxes’ orgy, especially when they are credited with characters such as Transsexual Asian #1, Kissing Concubine #2 and Transsexual Arabian #3. Oh, that Xerxes. He was an equal-opportunity libertine, that’s for sure.

And yes, when it is all over and accounted for, it really comes down to the loincloth. Bidding is currently underway. May the best man win.

Fair Weather Friends

Our friends over at Turner Classic Movies are offering a treasure trove of Gene Kelly classics right now. Kelly is their Star of the Month, which means within the span of thirty days you can catch up on a bundle of his movies, not to mention the American Masters documentary as well as Robert Osborne’s visit with a charming Stanley Donen.

For someone like me, a longtime Kelly fan and wide-eyed enthusiast for anything that came out of MGM’s fabled Freed Unit, this retrospective is heavenly.

Last night I settled in for a near six-hour marathon and saw two old favorites and one that I have never seen until now, It’s Always Fair Weather. I know, I know: in some circles this is like saying that I never saw Seven Samurai or The Tree of Wooden Clogs. What can I say? Only that it’s nice to still be discovering a few treats from yesteryear. Lately, I’ll pop in a DVD to watch a favorite scene, listen to new commentary, or watch the extras. Sometimes watching on TV, with Robert Osborne’s dependably masterful and loving introductions, is actually more satisfying.

I don’t know how often I have seen On the Town (which along with Seven Brides for Seven Brothers remains my favorite from the MGM library. That’s right: I even prefer it to Singin’ in the Rain. I prefer An American in Paris, too. Call me crazy. Anyway, as always, On the Town is as brash and buoyant as always. It might just be the happiest movie ever made.

Roaring onto the screen in 1949, and one of the first musicals to actually shoot part of its story on location, the now familiar tale of three sailors (Kelly, Frank Sinatra and Jules Munshin) on 24-hour shore leave in New York City remains thoroughly engaging and even a little poignant. Ann Miller, Betty Garrett, and Vera-Ellen are on hand as the boys’ all-singing, all-dancing love interests. Alice Pearce, the only veteran of the original Broadway cast, is also on hands for additional comic relief. Ann Miller, hot off the set Easter Parade, is my favorite here, especially as she leads the gang through the frenzied “Prehistoric Man” number.

The only disappointment here is the second-rate “second version” of the musical score. The Broadway original (music by Leonard Bernstein, lyrics by Betty Comden and Adolph Green) is brilliant. Rooted in Bernstein’s great work “Fancy Free” for Ballet Theatre, the Broadway version, which opened in 1944, has a modern day urgency that is both jazzy and symphonic. In my mind, it’s an instant classic and one of Broadway’s best mid-century compositions, pointing ahead to Candide and West Side Story. For the movie version, Comden and Green signed on and penned several new lyrics to songs by composer (and associate producer) Roger Edens. The new songs aren’t particularly bad; they just pale in comparison to the originals. Only three of Bernstein’s songs remain, plus some ballet music. (Ironically, Edens and Lennie Hayton won the movie’s only Oscar, for Best Scoring of a Musical Picture.)

Cover Girl (1944) finds Kelly freelancing over at Columbia in between Thousands Cheer and Anchors Aweigh at MGM. Directed by Charles Vidor, this was probably Columbia’s most successful musical until Funny Girl and Oliver! came along forty odd years later. The studio was never a real contender when it came to big screen song-and-dance fantasias, but it did have something to offer in the 1940’s that MGM and Paramount could not: Rita Hayworth. All these years later, it is still so easy to see what all the fuss was about. She was the ultimate movie star and, in my book, the most beautiful and enchanting creation of Hollywood’s dream machine.

The story follows Rusty Warren (Hayworth) from her hoofing at a Brooklyn nightclub with boyfriend Kelly and sidekick Phil Silvers to fast fame as a fashion model and, naturally, Broadway star. Romance troubles quickly develop, but with a happy ending guaranteed. Cover Girl, even with its creaky, farfetched plot and a couple of over-the-top musical numbers destined for camp classic status, remains a real pleasure thanks to Hayworth’s performance (and, boy, can she dance). Her Rusty Parker has been one of my favorite screen characters for as long as I can remember.

Kelly, although like everyone else, politely eclipsed by the leading lady, has some sparkling sequences. His most memorable moment is “The Alter Ego Dance” in which he dances with, well, his alter ego (just see it, don’t make me explain); it’s a clever number conceived with his cohort-in-choreography and future co-director Stanley Donen. Eve Arden is also on hand to play, who else?, Eve Arden. She’s marvelous. Phil Silvers, on the other hand, is not. I never cared much for his on-camera mugging. It was as if he never understood he was playing to a camera lens and not standing room only at the Winter Garden. There’s a wonderful Jerome Kern – Ira Gershwin score that includes one of my top-ten desert island standards, “Long Ago and Far Away.” (which was Oscar nom’d for Best Song but lost out to “Swingin’ on a Star” from that year’s Academy champ, Going My Way).

By the way, there was only one film in Hayworth’s career separating Cover Girl from her even bigger, some would say iconic, Gilda. That movie was Tonight and Every Night. Dismissed by most critics and fans, it does have songs by Jules Styne and Sammy Cahn, as well as Janet Blair and Marc Platt in supporting roles. Platt was a member of the Ballets Russes (and was one of the Pontipee brothers in Seven Brides...). Anyone who saw terrific documentary on the Ballet Russes last year will remember Platt from that. Tonight and Every Night was his movie debut. And I’ve never seen it. Until now. Happily, TCM has it on the roster for later this week.

Finally, It’s Always Fair Weather is a real treat. Watching it, you know that MGM’s musical heyday is about to come to its crashing demise. This is 1955. Big-budget Brigadoon has opened by this point and was not a hit. Les Girls, Silk Stockings and The Opposite Sex would follow (and stumble) with only Gigi left to make any real money (and gobble up the Oscars for 1958).

There’s a bitterness that hangs over this movie like a shroud.

It was first conceived as a sequel to On the Town, but that was scrapped when Sinatra and Munshin were not available. So the three happy-go-lucky Navy buddies are now three happy-go-lucky Army buddies: Kelly, Dan Dailey and Michael Kidd. Home from World War II, they toast to a lifelong friendship and vow to reunite ten years later. They do, but they’re not particularly happy and realize they have nothing left in common except a shared disillusionment. Dreams have faded, self-loathing is creeping in to stay, and the man-in-the-grey-flannel-suit cynicism of the Eisenhower years is everywhere. This is one of the darkest screenplays (by Oscar nominated Comden and Green) to ever try and dovetail with an MGM musical. It doesn’t always work but the resulting grumpiness is fascinating. The movie is obsessive in its critique of advertising and television. Given that TV was, at this time, Tinsel Town’s newly feared and hated adversary, the lampoon is pretty timely.
One question you have to ask: for whom was this Best Years of Our Lives Meets On the Town intended? Kelly and Cyd Charisse are reunited again but they never dance together (a duet was filmed, but cut, as was a lengthy solo number for Michael Kidd). There's no romance and no real laugh-out loud moments except for a couple of set pieces with Dolores Gray (see below). Other moves of the era like On the Waterfront and Marty could get away with being gloomy. They didn't have Cyd Charisse.

Among the brighter moments are Kelly’s great “I Like Myself,” in which he roller skates around town on one of the biggest sets since DW Griffith gave us Babylon in Intolerance. It’s a knock-out number and especially refreshing for those of us who have seen the puddle-jumping gaiety of Singin’ in the Rain one too many times. The whole movie looks great and showcases the wonders of wide screen nicely, escpecially in a big number featuring Charisse and a motley group of boxers.

The true highlight of this film for me, however, is a bizarre and vastly entertaining performance by Dolores Gray as Madeline Bradville, a musical Madwoman of Madison Avenue. The star of a TV show that is part variety hour and part “Queen for a Day,” Gray gives us a creation suggesting the lovechild of Audrey Meadows and Charles Nelson Reilly. On her broadcast, when not shilling for the big sponsor, she delivers a showstopper called “Thanks a lot, but no thanks” in which slithers and careens around the stage, knocking off a whole battalion of chorus boys.

Gray had just arrived from Broadway (with a Tony for Carnival in Flanders) and by way of London (where she starred for three years in the West End’s smash hit Annie Get Your Gun). She also had to her credits a less-than-happy outing with Bert Lahr in Two on the Aisle (written by Comden and Green). Maybe singing Annie Oakley to the last row of the balcony for over a thousand performances at London’s Coliseum had made Gray a bit, um, overwhelming for the camera. She’s certainly larger than life here, this close to a drag queen, and very very funny. She would quickly go on to play essentially the same character, just with wardrobe changes, in MGM’s Kismet and The Opposite Sex.

Serious movie critics can point to several scholarly reasons why this is a must-see film. And I’m sure they are right. But for me, it’s Gene Kelly on roller skates and the clowning of the daffy, delightful Dolores Gray.

"Attia of the Julii, I call for justice!!"

They’re dropping like flies on Rome right now. The body count is bigger than Hamlet and I, Claudius combined. Like everyone else, I was prepared for one last showdown between Atia (Polly Walker) and Servilia (the divine Lindsay Duncan) before the latter had to join most of the Season One cast out there in the great beyond. However, nothing prepared me for the spectacular theatricality of her leave-taking this week. Wow.

I have complained lately about this sophomore (and final) season. Comparing it to last year, it’s been too hysterical, too lurid (and in last Sunday’s heaving, grunting tryst between Pullo and Gaia, something like a an ancient twist on Russ Meyer). Anyway, throughout the recent travails wherein domestic troubles have exceeded historical truth, I have still enjoyed this spectacular romp which has combined the tastes and expectations of both Alistair Cooke and Bob Guccione. Any sequence involving Duncan has been a stand-out. And her descent into madness (and who can blame her?) singles her out as the only character for whom we really feel any compassion. Obviously Rome’s creative team felt likewise as her send-off was most memorable. She and Suzanne Bertish (as the devoted Eleni) bit the proverbial dust like a sword-and-sandal version of Thelma and Louise.

Antony (James Purefoy) put it best: “Now that is an exit.”

On other fronts, poor Octavia: let’s not forget she and Servilia enjoyed a December-May Sapphic canoodling. So witnessing her former lover’s suicide just before being married off to her mother’s lover, well, she just didn’t have a very good week.

Everything is Connected

For some reason, I never got around to seeing Syriana last year. I finally corrected that oversight last night and am very glad that I did. As political potboilers go, this one is wound pretty tight, and it reminds me of Oliver Stone’s JFK with those mounting feelings of unease and dread that maintain a stranglehold til the final fade-out.

Looking back, I’m surprised it was not in the running for more awards at Oscar time, especially Original Score and Editing; but then again those categories were already crowded with strong contenders. Clooney, although quite good, doesn’t really merit his accolades for this one (I’d give him gold for Out of Sight or Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? before Syriana). If I’m not mistaken, this was Stephen Gaghan’s first time out as director; for a freshman feature it is remarkably assured, well-paced, and balances its large cast and multiple storylines quite masterfully.

Not a great movie. But a very good one (and thank God for closed-captioning which made possible an easy appreciation of the topsy-turvy plot). Matt Damon and Alexander Siddig are stand-outs. Ditto, as always, Chris Cooper. And Captain Von Trapp smacks his chops with villainous glee.

All the other banal bogies

A year or so ago, there was a bit of a hubbub about the long-awaited DVD release of Arthur Hiller’s The Americanization of Emily. Someone, somewhere – and I wish I could remember who – wrote a great piece proclaiming it one of those overlooked great movies deserving of rediscovery. It’s been on my must-see list ever since. I finally caught up with it last night. And I watched it twice.

It’s astonishing. A sinister, darkly hilarious satire, I’m not quite sure how it even got made when it did (1964), nor how Bosley Crowther’s nice review failed to consider the scalding satire sure to offend anyone with patriotic tendencies. Paddy Chayefsky, in his blistering adaptation of William Buie Howard’s novel, delivers a screenplay every bit as audacious –and as entertaining – as his Network.

In his charming commentary to DVD edition, Hill says that the movie is “not anti war, not anti American, but anti the glorification of war.” In these dark days of a new century, the movie packs more of a wallop than ever before.

On the eve of D-Day in a dreary, rain-sopped London, American Navy officer Charlie Madison (James Garner, never better) meets up with war widow and motor pool driver Emily Barham (Julie Andrews, also in her best performance). Having lost a brother in the war and experience firsthand the horrors of battle, Charlie is now an unrepentant coward, enjoying the relative safety of his work as personal assistant to Navy Admiral Jessup (the great Melvyn Douglas fresh off the set from HUD). He’s a “dog robber,” or procurement officer who keeps the brass happy with good booze and easy broads, and a warehouse supply of rationed and contraband steaks, fruit, and other delicacies.

Emily doesn’t approve. He calls her a prig. She seduces him. They fall in love. And both being strong-willed, their bumpy road to romance is punctuated with the kind of gleefully delivered dialogue and debate rarely heard in movies anymore.

Emily:
I despise cowardice, I detest selfish people and I loathe ruthlessness. Since you are cowardly, selfish and ruthless, I cannot help but despise, detest and loathe you. And that is not the way a woman should feel about the man she’s going to marry.

There is great chemistry here and I would wager that one of the reasons the film was never a huge success has nothing to do with its themes but rather with Andrews’ marvelous performance as a smart and sensuous woman who contradicted everything that Mary Poppins (and soon Maria and Millie) stood for. Fans must have stayed away in droves.

Soon, Charlie pays a visit to Emily’s house, to meet her mother, and he arrives bearing gifts (Hershey bars, of course)

Emily:

Well, that’s very American of you, Charlie. You just had to bring along some small token of opulence. Well, I don’t want them. You Yanks can’t even show affection without buying something.
Charlie:

Well don’t get into a state over it. I thought you liked chocolates.
Emily:

I do, but my country’s at war and we’re doing without chocolates for a while. And I don’t want oranges or eggs or soap flakes, either. Don’t show me how profitable it will be to fall in love with you, Charlie. Don’t Americanize me.

Charlie then meets mum (a brilliant turn by Joyce Grenfell), who has lost a husband, son, and son-in-law to the war. She’s charming and a bit loony, still in denial over whom and what she has lost. As she pours tea, they share a polite and utterly ruthless exchange that cuts to the chase of what Emily is all about.

Charlie:
We shall never end wars, Mrs. Barham, by blaming it on ministers and generals or warmongering imperialists or all the other banal bogies. It’s the rest of us who build statues to those generals and name boulevards after those ministers; the rest of us who make heroes of our dead and shrines of our battlefields. We wear our widows’ weeds like nuns and perpetuate war by exalting its sacrifices. My brother died at Anzio – an everyday soldier’s death, no special heroism involved. They buried what pieces they found of him. But my mother insists he died a brave death and pretends to be very proud.

Mrs. Barham:
You’re very hard on your mother. It seems a harmless enough pretense to me.

Charlie:
No, Mrs. Barham. No, you see, now my other brother can’t wait to reach enlistment age. That’ll be in September. May be ministers and generals who blunder us into wars, but the least the rest of us can do is to resist honoring the institution. What has my mother got for pretending bravery was admirable? She’s under constant sedation and terrified she may wake up one morning and find her last son has run off to be brave.

Soon, of course, Charlie finds himself in harm’s way. Big time. And I’m not going to offer a spoiler here. You’ll just have to see it for yourself. Let’s just say the final act provides James Coburn, as Charlie’s gung-ho playboy buddy Lt Commander Bus Cummings, some dastardly funny scenery chewing. He and Garner have an easy rapport here (they had just done The Great Escape the year before). There’s also pitch-perfect cameo by Keenan Wynn as a drunken sailor. Look briefly, too, for that soon-to-be Sock It To Me gal, Judy Carne, as one of Bus’s bedmates.

Like Network, the characters here know what they want and how they want to say it; people never talk like this in real life but Chayefsky’s script makes you wish that we did.
Hiller, coming on after original director William Wyler (and original leading man William Holden) exited the project, makes a confident leap to the big screen following several years in television. This was an early feature, following the sex romp The Wheeler Dealers the year before (also with Garner). It’s a shame that, with the exception of Chayefsky’s The Hospital ten years later, he never really had another great movie to his credit. Some good stuff (like the original Out of Towners but nothing on the level of Emily. And, no, I don’t consider Love Story (his only Oscar nomination, and his only Golden Globe win) worth celebrating.

Shot in crisp, beautiful black-and-white by Philip Lathrop (who balanced crap like Don’t Make Waves and Girl Happy with his grand, gritty Point Blank and They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?), there’s not a moment of waste here. Every scene is worth savoring.

There is, alas, one sticky wicket that cannot be dismissed, and that’s the fact that Emily vigorously asserts its thesis upon a war that was, to a large extent, necessary. However, even World War II had its share of fools, exploitation and crackpot schemers (as Flags of Our Fathers recently reminded us). Whether you agree with its politics or not, there is plenty to admire about this movie, beginning and ending with one of the best screenplays not nominated for an Oscar. Go to Netflix and put it in your queue. Now.

Marty's Party

Well. That's that. Despite its length, and despite at least an hour’s worth of unnecessary filler that made me long for Debbie Allen’s old dance routines or even Rob Lowe’s jitterbug with Snow White, it was somehow one of the livelier Oscarthons in quite some time.

Even though it began a week ago and even though you could hear a nationwide symphonic clicking of remotes to “mute” when Celine Dion was hauled out in honor of poor Ennio Morricone, the show was a bit more upbeat, stylish, and fun than I can remember it being for several years. When was the last time that the big stars of the evening were a beloved director and former Vice President?

Although The Departed isn’t the year’s best picture, its mini-sweep of editing-screenplay-director made its Best Pic victory a no-brainer by the evening’s end. And all of the movie’s winners - Thelma Schoonmaker, William Monahan, Martin Scorsese and Graham King – seemed so genuinely elated by their wins. The long ovation for Scorsese was especially nice (and certainly deserved).

I still don’t understand why winners are booted off the stage with that annoying “exit music” yet Jerry Seinfeld can yammer on into the night, offering up an endurance test that was almost as challenging as any number of those useless montages and that bizarre salute to the wonders of sound effects.

Can’t Philip Seymour Hoffman afford a haircut?

Am I the only one who felt a little sorry for Peter O’Toole?

In my next life, I want to be Catherine Deneuve.

Poor Guillermo Del Toro. To have your movie pick up three early Oscars and then lose Best Foreign Film, supposedly a slam dunk, must have been hard.

Ellen got off to a good start, but after the monologue she went the way of all hosts before her: unnecessary. It wasn’t her fault. They just never really know what to do with the host once things get rolling. Her schtick with the vacuum cleaner made me laugh, though.

I love Diane Keaton. Always have (even if her L’Oreal commercials are a bit creepy).
Like most of the women on parade tonight, she looked terrific. And how great to end the evening with her and Jack onstage together, especially having just seen them recently, again, in Reds. About Nicholson, have I missed something? What’s with the King of Siam do? He actually looks like Victor Buono when he played King Tut on Batman.

The overblown Dreamgirls songfest was a bit too much and sadly, a little too late. The gals were working hard but, like the orchestra that continued to play as the Titanic went down, it was difficult to enjoy.

Can we please pass some kind of legislation that forbids any future broadcasting of any red carpet repartee? The, um, “hosts” (for lack of a useful moniker) are, every last one of them, useless, fawning, mush-mouthed idiots. Who are these people? Didn’t they spend their childhoods watching and learning from Army Archerd and Rona Barrett?

So there we have it. Another Oscar night has come and gone. No Vanity Fair bash or Governor’s Ball for me. Instead, I think I’ll catch the end of Meet John Doe on TCM.

It All Comes Down to This

In a few hours, it will all be over but the shouting. And something tells me that this year, no matter what the final outcome, there will be a lot of shouting.

First, though, a hearty round of applause for Half Nelson so-stars Ryan Gosling and the brilliant Shareeka Epps for snagging Best Actor and Actress at yesterday’s Independent Spirit Awards. In this last prize party prior to the Oscars, the big winner was, not so surprisingly, LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE with several nods, including one for best picture.

A host, a multitude, a nation of Oscar forecasters have emerged this season and all pretty much share the same predictions for acting and director, with the Best Picture race anyone’s guess. And most everyone has declared “who will win and who should win.” On this variation on a theme, I’m offering who I think will win and, if there is an upset, who would make for a fun (and deserving) surprise victory tonight.

Happy Oscars, everyone.

PICTURE
Prediction Little Miss Sunshine
Nice Surprise The Queen

ACTOR
Prediction Forest Whitaker
Nice Surprise Peter O’Toole

ACTRESS
Prediction Helen Mirren
Nice Surprise Penelope Cruz

SUPPORTING ACTOR
Prediction Eddie Murphy or Alan Arkin
Nice Surprise Mark Wahlberg

SUPPORTING ACTRESS
Prediction Jennifer Hudson
Nice Surprise Adrianna Barazza

DIRECTOR
Prediction Martin Scorsese
Nice Surprise Paul Greengrass

FOREIGN FILM
Prediction Pan’s Labyrinth
Nice Surprise Water

The End is Near

It finally happened. I reached my limit today. I can’t read about, or think about the Oscars any more. Today, while spending way too much time at the invaluable Oscarwatch and then spinning off to various links, posts, and commentary, I must have read a dozen persuasive arguments for why Babel, The Departed or Little Miss Sunshine will most definitely win Best Picture. As of now, it appears that The Queen and Letters… have lost what little steam they had to start with, thus making them the two contenders for upset winner. Whatever. Let’s just get it over with.

It appears that the real race is still between LMS and Departed. The fact they are so different at least makes this an intriguing race (if there really is a race to the finish between these two). Comparing these two films makes about as much sense as the old apples-and-oranges exercise. How do you do that? One is a smart, heartwarming and economic comedy; the other is an operatic crime saga. Both of them apply, with skill and panache, the mechanics of filmmaking to achieve their purposes.
In the end, they are both very good –but not great—motion pictures. Great movies didn’t get nominated for best picture this year. I think there was some rule or mandate about that. That’s why Volver, Water, Pan’s Labyrinth and United 93 aren’t on the roster. Maybe that’s why I’m so crabby. As of today, my own personal Top Ten of 2006 would go something like this:
Pan’s Labyrinth
Volver
Water
Children of Men
United 93
Casino Royale
The Queen
Little Miss Sunshine
Dreamgirls
Babel

None of my top five makes Oscar’s top five. Now, taking one last look at the various Guild and Critics awards which we have been tallying since December, The Departed takes the lead just ahead of LMS. And, if my calculations are right, Babel follows, next come Letters, and The Queen stumbles and falls. Of course, as a dependable predictor of anything, this data is absolutely useless (he sighs with rather huffy resignation, still smarting from last year’s Brokeback snub.)

My disappointment in The Departed has, admittedly, softened a bit (although the third act still lags and languishes, and I just don’t believe Vera Farmiga’s character for a second). This is, like United 93 and Pan, so much a director’s picture, that even if he had one a couple of Oscars already, Scorsese should still be the frontrunner in that category. In the early part of the movie, there is vigor, an excitement, that takes us right back to Mean Streets. Scorsese has never stopped loving the movies, or moviemaking. So even if The Departed isn’t his greatest opus (and it isn’t), it is the best directed American film of 2006. Give him the award already and let’s now focus on The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt.

So this is my last Oscar post until the much-anticipated morning after. (I say that anyway; but I’ll probably change my mind tomorrow.)

Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials...

... Just leave us alone." (Thanks, Mr. Beale. More to follow in a bit)

The Film Editors guild bestowed their Best of 2006 awards this past weekend.
In the musical/comedy category, Dreamgirls took the prize. Surprisingly, there was a tie between The Departed and Babel in the drama category (I had been predicting United 93 but quietly rooting for Casino Royale, which is just another indicator of how wobbly my predictions have been this season). I’m not so sure this award gives either of these movies a better chance at Oscar glory. We’ll see. At least the countdown has begun.

One of the nicest things about TCM’s "31 Days of Oscar" is the chance, while surfing, to check in with many old favorites. Even if you have the title in you own library, there’s something very comforting about dropping in for a few minutes and realizing that, no matter how often we gripe and groan about the winners, Oscar often gets it right, i.e.:
--Maggie Smith in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
--Patricia Neal and Melvin Douglas in Hud
--Legends of the Fall and Reds (for cinematography; even cramped onto a TV screen, these are two great-looking movies).

--and, of course, Network. One of my all-time favorites. Maybe Sidney Lumet's finest film. Paddy Chayefsky's too. Anyway, I can't tell you how many times I have seen it but late one night, a week or so ago, TCM had it on. Fifteen minutes, I told myself...I won't even stay with it til Howard's "mad as hell..." just see it get started. Impossible. It's like Casablanca, or Godfather 2, or Psycho or Top Hat .... I'm hooked every time. This is another example of where Oscar got it right: were Peter Finch and Faye Dunaway ever better? (OK, maybe just as good in Sunday Bloody Sunday and Chinatown, respectively). We'll save the Beatrice Straight victory for another post. Still baffles me to this day. (If there was a Best Cameo, then the award was hers for the taking...but..oh well...)

Now, not to quibble, but to qualify for TCM's annual festival, all a movie really needs is a nomination. Even so, the inclusion of The Hawaiians (1971) is a bit of a stretch. This sequel to George Roy Hill’s hugely successful Hawaii, picks up where that one leaves off (and still doesn’t wrap up the Michener novel on which it is based). It had just one nomination for best costume design, which it lost to Cromwell. This is a second-rate potboiler at best, and one of my favorite movies growing up, for all the wrong reasons. The Globes, by the way, gave Tina Chen a nomination which was understandable. She brings a bit of gritty grace to the otherwise over-the-top shenanigans played by Charlton Heston (as Whip Hoxworth, which I think would be a great name for a porn star) and Geraldine Chaplin as his wife, Purity. Yes, that’s right. Anyway, it might be worth a visit, if not for the whole thing, then at least a juicy scene or two.

Women on the Verge of a Nomination

So I was having lunch with my good friend Carol yesterday and our conversation quickly turned, as it always does among likeminded movie fans at this time of year, to the Oscars.

After agreeing to disagree on the merits (or lack thereof) of The Departed and Dreamgirls, we could at least concur on the much-praised performances of Mark Wahlberg and Jennifer Hudson. However, this prompted my reinvigorated rant regarding Hudson’s place among supporting actresses. Again, I would wager that she has just as much screen time as most of the Best Actress nominees. Compare this juggernaut performance to Oscar winning turns like Judi Dench’s in Shakespeare in Love, or Beatrice Straight’s peek-a-boo cameo in Network, and you have to agree wiht me. At least a little bit.

Hudson’s much-deserved acclaim and newfound celebrity cannot be disputed. She’s great. It’s just too bad that the other four nominees in her category, who are truly supporting, are being eclipsed. And then this past week, I need to add two more prize-worthy thespians to this group: Shareeka Epps in Half Nelson and the amazing, glorious Carmen Maura in Volver.

Epps, along with star Ryan Gosling and director Ryan Fleck, has garnered various newcomer and breakthrough awards for this film (plus a Best Supporting Actress nod from the Boston critics). As a wise-beyond-her-years inner city kid named Drey, Epps is lovely and tough and even a little heartbreaking. Award-caliber work, without a doubt. Just don't look for her at the Kodak next weekend. What a shame.

And then there is Maura. Where to begin? Let’s just say I came to Almodóvar because of her. It started around 1987 when I saw her in Law of Desire and immediately sought out anything else available on video. This quickly led me to a festival of early 80's comedies, all a little raw and naughty and smart, and all of them directed by Almodóvar. In other words, I ended up discovering one of my favorite directors by way of Carmen Maura.

Anyone who has seen Law of Desire can surely understand my fascination. To even begin to describe her fabulously fascinating character, Tina, one needs to give away about half of the plot turns. Just see it, ok? Maura has won a bounty of awards and nominations from various European film circles, including 4 Goyas. This one should have brought her an Oscar.

And while you’re at it, check out 85’s What Have I Done to Deserve This?, Almodóvar’s last raggedy-looking comedy before his production budgets began to soar. This is the one where Maura plays Gloria, a poor and put-upon cleaning lady who one day knocks off her abusive husband (she whacks him with a ham bone) and sells her randy teenage son to a dentist. And you really can’t blame her. Especially when the money earned on the sale allows her to buy a much-needed curling iron.

Anyway, a couple of years later, around the time of the dazzling Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, I wrote a piece on the Maura-Almodóvar partnership for the Dallas Observer about the time Cinevista video released some of their earlier projects. Searching through the archives this week, I found the article and must admit I pretty much agree with my rather giddy appreciation of Almodóvar’s talents. Focusing on Maura’s performances, I enthused….

Maura is even more mesmerizing in Law of Desire, Almodóvar’s dizzying sex-and-murder farce in which the black and white creepiness of film noir has been colorized with shocking acrylics….anarchy rules with often hilarious results. The film bubbles with betrayal, death, and copulation all fused together in a giddy observation of sex roles and gender confusion. At the middle of this whirlwind is Maura’s Tina, a voluptuous, tarty tornado who plows through life like a one-woman Greek tragedy. Scenery chewing is too often the result of unattractive egomania, but Maura somehow manages to tun it into something resembling an art form, something almost heroic…..like the Griffith-Gish and Bergman-Ullmann collaborations before them, Almodóvar and Maura seem to have found in each other the perfect partnership between director and star. Long may they conspire to delight us.

Alas, they actually went their separate ways after this and I must admit finding the director’s follow-ups much less interesting (especially stuff like The Flower of My Secret and Kika). Then the wonderful Talk to Her, and All About My Mother, and Bad Education came along, making way for the beautiful Volver which, for me, is just about perfect as it sustains the artistry of his recent movies and is enhanced by the return of Maura to his marvelous company of great dames. It’s especially fun to see her sharing a movie again with Chus Lampreave, the Thelma Ritter of Almodóvar’s stock company. They go back more than 20 years to that wacky (and, frankly, not so great) comedy about, well, wacky nuns, Dark Habits. When she first appears, it is a startling and breathtaking moment. It's almost as if her Gloria has returned, only a little older and wiser, and this is a reason to celebrate. From that point on she brings balance and dignity and quiet, heartwarming humor to a great tragicomedy about mothers and daughters. And while we cheer Maura and Lampreave, let's not overlook Penelope Cruz in the best role of her career, as well as Blanca Portillo, Yohanna Cobo and Lola Duenas, all of whom shared the Best Actress honors at Cannes this year.

I'm starting to ramble, I guess. Let's wrap this one up with a big thumbs-up to Sony Classics recent Viva Pedro which brings together eight of the director’s best works. The earliest movies aren’t included and I would certainly make a case for a DVD release of Labyrinth of Passion from 1982. Among its many delights, it introduces two of Almodóvar’s favorite players: the delightful Cecilia Roth (later to star in All About My Mother for which she deserved an Actress of the Decade award, if you ask me) and a 22-year-old Antonio Banderas in his second movie, warming up for his impossibly sexy scene stealing in Matador and Law of Desire a few years hence. It's crazy and a little reckless; its breathless rollercoaster of a plot and dizzying pacing prepare us for many of the great comedies yet to come.

Viva Pedro indeed. And Carmen, too. In my book, this year’s best supporting actress.