Of course, I went to see “Nine” in the movie house, though I’d never seen the musical on stage.
And, what an odd choice of material to turn into, or try to turn into Big Broadway.
Italy’s Federico Fellini is one of cinema’s great auteurs of all time. “8 1/2″ is certainly his most famous work. And arguably his best. Though many prefer “La Strada” which proceeded it. And I love “Amarcord.”
“8 1/2″ as the basis for a musical just seems awfully odd to me.
The film is a dense psychological examination of a movie director going through creative and personal crisis. But it can’t be confused with such as Scorcese’s “Shutter Island,” which is so filled with sturm und drang. The brilliance of Fellini is that he presents the miasma that is the director Guido’s (Marcello Mastroianni) life in a palatable and visually stunning manner that is easy to digest.
Here’s the original trailer:
Forgetting the story for a moment, the incredible black and white cinematography and visual imagery are worth the price of rental alone. So a shout out to cinematographer Gianni Di Venanzo. The Film Babe and I watched this last night, and I’m thinking of doing so again . . . with the sound off. Just to allow the visuals to work their magic.
The film mixes reality and fantasy in a way that blurs the demarcations. What is really happening to Guido and what is only in his head is never clear. And really doesn’t matter. It’s simply a wonder to watch unfold.
Here’s another scene of performers at a dinner party. I marvel at the geometry of the screen.
I’m not going to prattle on about this masterpiece. If you are a student of film, you know “8 1/2.” But you might not have seen it in awhile. Do yourself a favor, rent it again.
And, if you don’t know the film, and consider yourself a cineaste, well, it’s time to fill out your resume.
As usual I was more than a bit displeased with several of this year’s Golden Globe winners.
But I shan’t commence a rant. I’ve come to praise Jeff Bridges.
“Crazy Heart” doesn’t open here in Louisville for another ten days. But I can’t wait. Bridges is one of my favorite actors, and it really has very little to do with “The Big Lebowski.” I’m really happy the guy is finally getting his due. Let’s hope the Oscar folks give him their statuette too.
Far and away my favorite Bridges film, “Rancho Deluxe,” is also one of my top 5 of all time. Frankly I was stunned when I checked my list and realized I’d praised 27 other flicks before I finally got around to this one. Whatever have I been thinking?
Let me count the ways I looooooooooooove this 1975 film.
1) Bridges and Sam Waterston as a couple of scoundrel cattle rustlers in modern day Montana.
2) Iconic Slim Pickens as Henry Beige, the detective hired to find out who the culprits are.
3) Charlene Dallas as Pickens’ comely niece.
4) Clifton James as the rancher whose cattle are being stolen. Elizabeth Ashley as his horny wife. And Harry Dean Stanton and Richard Bright as Curt and Burt, the dim-witted cow hands.
5) A too cool for school screenplay by hipster novelist Tom McGuane, who was married to Ashley at the time.
6) The Oh So 70s feel of the flick. Including a bar scene with Bridges and Stanton playing Pong, while Jimmy Buffet’s on the bandstand with a group that includes Warren Oates.
“Rancho Deluxe” may in fact rival “Diva” as the hippest flick of all time.
One more scene to whet your appetite before I close shop here.
So I was locked into Football Saturday Night. The Cats were coming back. My Oregon Ducks were going quack on Arizona.
The Film Babe announced ceremoniously, “I’m going to watch ‘The Last Waltz‘.”
It’s something she does periodically. The lady’s got taste.
I’m not sure how many times she’s watched it or how many times I’ve seen it or how many times we’ve watched it together. Several, at least. (For the record, she guesstimates she’s watched it a dozen times.)
My buddy Knuckle — Don’t ask, just understand it’s a fitting moniker — saw it 17 times when it was playing at his local theater. After ten or so viewings, the manager just waved him in.
It’s always a worthwhile endeavor. It is — and there can be no argument about this — far and away the best rock & roll concert movie of them all. Those Talking Heads fans in the “Stop Making Sense” contingent, please sit down. That one is good. Martin Scorcese’s film about The Band’s last concert is transcendent. Take a look.
You know the deal. Dylan’s buddies from Woodstock, those hippie hosers from north of the border along with that one helluva drummer and and singer from Helena, Arkansas — simply The Band — had been on the road for years and years since they started backing up Ronnie Hawkins. They finally wore out. At least that was the storyline at the time. Levon’s revisionist history is that Robbie Robertson alone wanted to park the bus. Anyway the group hung up their rock & roll shoes.
You’d never feel tension from the interviews in the movie. though they have surfaced and festered since.
So the group and Bill Graham ended it in style. In San Francisco on Thanksgiving night ’76. $25 got you turkey dinner and arguably the greatest collection of rock royalty ever. Certainly the best music ever at one of these conglomeranzas. (Though I’m looking forward to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame concert premiering on HBO this coming week.)
So, along with Levon, Robbie, Garth, Rick and Richard, you had a boffo horn section, the Staples singing backup, and Dylan, Neil Young, Van Morrison, Dr. John, Eric Clapton . . . take a breath . . . Joni Mitchell, Muddy Waters, Ronnie Hawkins, Neil Diamond and a few others whose names escape me for the moment.
The tunes in the film, as they usually were with The Band, are immaculate.
The ensemble had the facility of capturing Americana zeitgeist. Their songs were incisive and they rocked. Top score on the Dick Clark American Bandstand scale. And the fivesome lived the life, “getting laid more than Frank Sinatra,” and harvesting deserved acclaim. Even if they often blanched in the spotlight.
The interviews are intimate, and explain why the road doesn’t go on forever.
Remember The Band. But, if you can’t recall the singer, you can still recall the tune.
“Rednecks, crackers, hillbillies, hausfraus, shut-ins, pea-pickers – everybody that’s got to jump when somebody else blows the whistle. They don’t know it yet, but they’re all gonna be ‘Fighters for Fuller’. They’re mine! I own ‘em! They think like I do. Only they’re even more stupid than I am, so I gotta think for ‘em. Marcia, you just wait and see. I’m gonna be the power behind the president – and you’ll be the power behind me!”
The words belong to a character, Lonesome Rhodes, in a film that was way more a harbinger of things to come than we could have ever imagined when it was released in 1957. He was played by Andy Griffith in his film debut, several years before he became a beloved icon as Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry.
He was heralded as the next Brando or James Dean.
Check out the trailer.
The Elia Kazan film features some amazing performances from Patricia O’Neal and Walter Matthau and Anthony Franciosa. It’s the cinematic debut of Lee Remick. She’s the comely teenager that becomes Rhodes lust object.
More important, the film accurately portrays the future of politics and culture. More sound bites. Less substance. Charismatic Pied Pipers leading flocks of followers wherever he or she wishes. The increased use of electronic media to convey political polemics.
It is an eerie look into the future. But abundantly accurate.
Of course, Griffith didn’t morph into Brando or Dean. Thank heavens.
But, in a calmer Eisenhower America, he did a mighty prescient imitation of Glenn Beck more than a half century before that poseur came on the scene.
I came across Mel Brooks’ classic “Blazing Saddles” the other night on cable. Several things struck me.
The first was that the channel showing it always — I mean always — bleeps out words in the dialog it deems objectionable. Like “fuck” and “nigger” and all the other terms of slang that make the movie so salient, so . . . right. How ironic that the method being used to ridicule hypocrisy is censored by the networks.
What then thunderstruck me was that this film — one guy’s opinion, the funniest of all time — has never been listed here in “Movies I Love.” Geesh. I went through 24 other gems before getting here. My apologies.
And, hearkening back to my first moment of clarity, the sad truth is that this marvelous gem could never be made today. I think I read somewhere that Brooks has even acknowledged that. The movie is so politically incorrect. It is so irreverent. It is so even-handed in its scathing satire.
Its type will never be seen again. As the irrepressible Lily Von Shtupp (Madeline Kahn), the Bavarian Bombshell, the Teutonic Titillow, says “It’s twu, it’s twu.”
It’s at this point that I’d love to share my favorite dialog from the film And I might soon enough. But first, here is a main reason why the film works so well: Casting. It’s an often overlooked craft that can make or break a movie. Assigning the right actors for the right characters is an art. So let’s give props to Nessa Hyams who gets the credit. I’m sure Brooks himself had a major hand in it. Many of the actors are his cronies.
How brilliant is the casting? Take Burton Gilliam for example. He’s a character actor you’ve seen lots of times, plenty of them in westerns. His look is indelible, even if he’s never been a star. Here he plays Lyle, the bad guy sidekick of Taggart, who is rendered by the only actor who could carry the role, Slim Pickens. God bless his bombastic soul.
Madeline Kahn may be the great female comedic actor of film, Lily Von Shtupp her greatest role.
Cleavon Little as the sheriff, Gene Wilder as the gunslinger, Harvey Korman as Hedley Lamar, Dom DeLuise as Buddy Bizarre and Brooks himself in several roles, one an Indian chief who speaks Yiddish (The band on his headdress reads “Kosher for Passover” in Hebrew.) — they’re all brilliant choices for the roles, brilliantly portrayed. It is obvious that these people had fun making this film. The joy is palpable in every scene. Read the rest of this entry »
My pal Bill is of the opinion that the best guy movie ever is “Diner.” And a reasonable choice it is.
Except that he’s dead wrong.
Clearly the most resonant guy movie ever is “Caddyshack.”
I know this because: 1) I’ve been in a lot of guy situations (even on date nights) when out of the blue, a line of dialog from this flick will fill the air (“This is a hybrid. This is a cross, ah, of Bluegrass, Kentucky Bluegrass, Featherbed Bent, and Northern California Sinsemilia. The amazing thing about this is, that you can play 36 holes on it in the afternoon, take it home and just get stoned to the bejeezus-belt that night.”). 2) After once reciting the entirety of Carl Spackler’s soliloquy about looping for the Dalai Lama on the radio as part of retrospective of the films of 1980, I was accosted the following weekend by a group of thirtysomething guys at a couples wedding shower, who thought my homage was the coolest thing they’d ever heard in their life, and 3) After placing the entirety of that soliloquy in a Culture Maven column in LEO years ago, I received more praise on the street than after any other thing I’ve ever written.
All of which says to me: “Shut up, you dumpkopf, and play the video of the soliloquy already.”
Say what you want to about Bill Murray’s checkered film career, his Carl Spackler is one of the greatest if not the greatest acting performance in the history of film.
To be fair, however, I must admit there are other cinephiles who believe Rodney Dangerfield’s monumental portrayal of Al Czervik in this film is the equal of any male ever on the silver screen. Read the rest of this entry »
So a bitchin’ Valley Gal is sunbathing in her backyard. (Hot young Geena Davis in a skimpy bikini.)
She gets like totally splashed. She thinks it’s a giant blow dryer. It’s only a spaceship that’s landed in her pool. It contains three furry and like you gotta see ‘em totally funny aliens. Jeff Goldblum. Damon Wayans. And Jim Carrey before he was, uh, Jim Carrey.
Astoundingly clever one-liners and bon mots ensue. Plus a great club scene with an awsome disco dancedown. A little romance. Song and dance. Lots of laughs. Michael McKean as Woody the stoner/ surfer pool boy. His credo: “Waste your brain; wax your board; pray for waves.” Rad.
And, as the veritable coup de grace, there’s the abundant comedic and musical talents of sardonic Julie Brown. (Who, by the by, co-wrote the movie with Charlie Coffey and Terrence McNally.) Not to mention her bodacious ta-tas. Her beach song/ dance scene, “I’m A Blonde” is worth the price of admission.
This is essentially a hundred minutes of smiles. The Film Babe and I can attest. We caught it in our hotel room the other morning as we were packing befire check out.
It’s here that I want to quote some of the one liners. I shan’t. It would be out of context. And all is lost in translation when not coming from the mouths of Geena Davis and the genius Julie Brown.
Hey, just rent it. It’s fluff. But, you know, it’s blonde fluff. Tasty but no calories.
Well, Harry Shearer plays G. Gordon Liddy. Will Ferrell plays Bob Woodward. Dan Hedaya plays Richard Nixon.
And the ones who get to the bottom of the chicanery going on at the Watergate complex, the biggest scandal in the history of American politics are, uh, well, uh, Kirsten Dunst and Michelle Williams. It’s a good thing. A very good thing.
Seems the teens had a crush on Bobby Sherman, so they snuck out of their condos at the Watergate to mail a letter to the singer when, ooooooooo myyyyyy Gooooooood, they end up in the middle of that whole burglary thing.
There is something intriguing about fictional films set in the middle of real life events. How often do we fantasize about being in a situation like, okay, like Watergate. These kind of movies are especially enticing when played for laughs.
Frankly, “Dick” is as good as it gets for this type of film. This is clever and cute and funny and, frankly, not a totally unreasonable scenario. Read the rest of this entry »
Anybody who has ever listened to my film reviews on the radio knows I’m disinclined to give Kevin Costner credit for any worthwhile moments on the screen. Shtick I’ve used far too often credits his best performance as the one in “The Big Chill.” In which film, of course, all his scenes were cut. Yuk.
But the truth: His characterization of Crash Davis in Rod Shelton’s marvelous baseball romantic comedy “Bull Durham” is deserving of praise. If only for this one bit of monologue, one of the greatest in film lore. (My apologies for video quality, sound quality and synchronization. But it’s worth it despite the flaws.)
Of course he’s aided in his performance by a marvelous script and the always intoxicating presence of Susan Sarandon, beguiling as ever as Annie Savoy. Here’s her life code as narrated at the film’s beginning:
“I believe in the Church of Baseball. I’ve tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones. I’ve worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan. I know things. For instance, there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball. When I heard that, I gave Jesus a chance. But it just didn’t work out between us. The Lord laid too much guilt on me. I prefer metaphysics to theology. You see, there’s no guilt in baseball, and it’s never boring… which makes it like sex. There’s never been a ballplayer slept with me who didn’t have the best year of his career. Making love is like hitting a baseball: you just gotta relax and concentrate. Besides, I’d never sleep with a player hitting under .250… not unless he had a lot of RBIs and was a great glove man up the middle. You see, there’s a certain amount of life wisdom I give these boys. I can expand their minds. Sometimes when I’ve got a ballplayer alone, I’ll just read Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman to him, and the guys are so sweet, they always stay and listen. ‘Course, a guy’ll listen to anything if he thinks it’s foreplay. I make them feel confident, and they make me feel safe, and pretty. ‘Course, what I give them lasts a lifetime; what they give me lasts 142 games. Sometimes it seems like a bad trade. But bad trades are part of baseball – now who can forget Frank Robinson for Milt Pappas, for God’s sake? It’s a long season and you gotta trust. I’ve tried ‘em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball.”
How long ago was it that we first heard of TV/ singing phenom Susan Boyle?
Fifteen minutes? Twenty at most.
The video of her initial appearance on “Britain’s Got Talent” had over 200 million hits on the internet.
Her popularity was multifaceted. She could — and still can — really sing. Great Broadway voice. Big. Impressive. Affecting.
And she was Everywoman. Ordinary looks. Ordinary clothes. A shade zaftig. Hard scrabble upbringing. Those play big most everywhere, especially in the British Isles where proletarian has always been a popular character trait.
Even Simon Whatisname was smitten. (Unless, of course, that was show biz. He does own that TV franchise where she was a contestant.)
Then she went Madonna. Sort of. Did kind of a makeover without the calculation and acmen.
Star ascends. Star descends.
I remember thinking when she first blasted into our conciousness how she was the perfect metaphor for our instantaneous cybergalactic age. One day she’s nobody. Next day her name is on the lips of everybody in every Starbucks — even the one in Sevilla across the street from Europe’s oldest gothic cathedral.
Now I believe her career arc has become the new celebrity paradigm. She lost that talent show and her incredible popularity, because, well, because, hey, Susan Boyle was sooooooooooo an hour ago. And we tired of her fame, fleeting as it seems to have been. She lost to a group of dancers named, uh, what is their name, uh, Diversity, that’s right.
So Susan Boyle’s career arc lasted, okay more than twenty minutes, but not much more than a month.
Welcome to the age of what have you got new for me this very minute?
And, so, henceforth, I shall refer to that point when a new fad, phase, trend, celeb crests in celebrity and commences its rapid plummet as the Boyle Point.
Look for her next week on VH1′s latest “Where Are They Now?” special. That old footage should be really neat to see.
The 70s were the undisputed halcyon days of filmmaking, and “Car Wash” is one of the underappreciated gems of the era.
You’ve got two of the greatest comedians ever. George Carlin as a befuddled cabbie. Richard Pryor as a TV evangelist, Daddy Rich, who always travels with back up singers.
Okay, there’s also Professor Irwin Corey, one of the wack jobs of all time.
Plus the man with the ‘fro (here anyway), the irrepressible Franklin Ajaye, who just wants to win the radio jackpot. There’s the white car wash owner. And the not as pretty as she’d like to be cashier, played by Melanie Mayron, before she lost weight and turned H.O.T.. And there’s the lonely hooker who uses the facility’s restroom as a home away from home. And the son who wears his Chairman Mao t-shirt.
And the solid old fella, considered an Uncle Tom by the young car wash workers, one of which is a transvestite. And there’s the angry, militant Duane, who insists he be called Abdullah, played by Bill Duke.
It’s a Day in the Life just off Sunset Strip. The day unfolds. Stuff happens. There’s lots of comedy. A bit of drama. A whole lot of music.
These seeming stereotypes are revealed. By the end of the film, we know them. More important, we care about them.
Director Michael Schultz and writer Joel Schumacher provide each his and her dignity.
This is a wonderfully entertaining bit of cinema. And it has far more substance than one could imagine, given the premise (and my explanation).
Plus there’s lots of great music, including the title tune by Rose Royce.
You may have come across this film on late night TV. If you stayed with it, you were surprised by its substance. If you clicked away, now’s the time to rent it.
The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival is now forty years on, and grooving as strong as ever. As we do, my krewe and I made it down for opening weekend. It was my 23d JazzFest, including 21 of the last 22. (For a primer on JazzFest and Quint Davis, the festival’s long-time major domo, you can read this article from the New Orleans newspaper.
It is a rite of spring. It is, as somebody far more poetic than myself once articulated, “the gravitational pull of my year.”
The first two albums I ever owned were recorded in New Orleans. “Here’s Little Richard” and a Fats Domino album, the title of which I’ve long forgotten. Fats and I share a birthday. There is something about the music of this town, and the city itself, flawed and fantastic, that cut through to my soul. I’d explain further, but I simply cannot.
Of course, I went to see “Nine” in the movie house, though I’d never seen the musical on stage.
As usual I was more than a bit displeased with several of this year’s Golden Globe winners.
Revised 11/23 9:50 a.m.
The following is not a quote from Rush Limbaugh.
I came across Mel Brooks’ classic “Blazing Saddles” the other night on cable. Several things struck me.
My pal Bill is of the opinion that the best guy movie ever is “Diner.” And a reasonable choice it is.
So a bitchin’ Valley Gal is sunbathing in her backyard. (Hot young Geena Davis in a skimpy bikini.)
This is the untold story of Watergate.
