What Pete's Watching

The Annoying Child Actor Hall of Fame Welcomes...Thomas Horn

2012-01-25T05:55:00.000-08:00

Horn, the amazingly grating star of "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close" needs to share the honor with screenwriter Eric Roth and director Stephen Daldry. Their simple, unimaginative approach to handling a difficult, quirky character creates the most unsympathetic, obnoxious protagonist in recent memory.

As I say in my review for "The Weekender," the only way we'd get behind Horn's character is if we could push him off a cliff.

Take a bow, young man.

You can read the review of this Best Picture nominee--man, it pains me to type that--here.

Book of the Month, Jan. 2012

2012-01-18T11:27:00.000-08:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and they're totally old school--at least the paperbound contingent.

January is the time of resolutions, a concept that aggravates me to no end. Self-improvement should not be seasonal, only to be quickly discarded like a barren Christmas tree. It's a constant, never-ending battle filled with little wins and bigger losses. You can't just utter a goal and think you're salvaged.

And even if that resolution is accomplished, there's no guarantee that it will last.

Last year Caitlin Shetterly (pictured) wrote a terrific memoir, "Made for You and Me," that detailed such a scenario. Shetterly and her husband, Dan Davis, were doing well in their artistic endeavors (she's a writer and performer; he's a photographer) but felt limited by their existence in New England. So they headed out to Los Angeles, confident that their talents and romantic notions of the city would keep them afloat.

Things started off well, then the Great Recession ravaged their careers. Money became scarce, their family and friends were 3,000 miles away. And in the middle of this Shetterly found out she was pregnant.

I raved about the book for BookPage, but what has resonated with me a year later is the realization that there's no such thing as a happy ending. Things go well and collapse. You rebuild. Shetterly shows us that life is about continually striving toward something, even when the roof is caving in.

That's it for now. Until next month, read in peace.

My Hometown Movie Theater: "O" No!

2012-01-10T10:00:00.000-08:00

Review of "War Horse"

2012-01-06T09:45:00.001-08:00

In my best Gene Shalit voice: "It's horseshit!" You can read my review for "The Weekender" right here.

And, thanks to my brother Dave, for spotting this Shalit mash-up, which originally appeared on FilmDrunk.com. It's delightful--or depressing.

You decide.

Reserved for Croatto(s): The Ballad of Snappy and Happy

2012-01-06T09:23:00.000-08:00

Last year, my wife, Laura Amoriello, talked about the high-wire act that was watching a movie she loved with me. Here, she reveals what it's like to accompany me to work, so to speak.

Ladies, see what you missed out on!

********************

Growing up I nursed a series of celebrity crushes, each involving a glamorous locale. First I watched Joey McIntyre from the sidelines of NKOTB concerts. Then I cheered for Pete Sampras at Wimbledon. For a brief period I accompanied Leonardo DiCaprio to the Oscars. Roger Ebert was never part of those fantasies. But I can tell you that his lovely wife Chaz is a lucky lady.
I’ve had the pleasure of accompanying Pete to many a film screening since we’ve met.

I am his “Plus One,” and this is my story.

We begin with timing. Pete likes to be early. The screening people suggest 20 minutes, and they will threaten to turn you away if you arrive later. They never do, but we don’t take any chances. Because 95 South traffic makes Pete nervous, I created a jingle to the tune of Olivia Newton-John’s big hit to make him laugh: “Let’s stop pan-ick-ing! Pan-ick-ing!” Hey, it works!

If we’re lucky, we’ll bypass the line and proceed right into the theater. Here my greatest struggle of the evening begins: surviving the walk past the snack bar. Pete is strong and can resist confections, but I am easily manipulated by the smell of butter and giant pictures of pretzel bites smothered in imitation cheese. I still can’t get over the fact that these fancy-pants theaters don’t offer the occasional handout or five at their screenings.

Now I must stop salivating long enough for us to find a seat. Two-thirds up, two seats in. That’s the rule. (While Googling Pete after we met, I found “2/3 up, 2 seats in” listed as “Location” on his MySpace page. Cute, right?) This makes me feel slightly off-center, but I’m the guest here, so I roll with it. Plus, there might be a bonus waiting: Our name is on the seat sometimes! I shamefully pretend I’m famous and revel in it a little while.

While waiting for the film to begin, I people-watch. In particular I am fascinated by other reviewers’ children. One mother admonished her son: “You do not have permission to touch that.” “I give myself permission!” he retorted. Using the kid’s logic, I would have permitted myself to whack his douchey ass, but that would break the rules of theater etiquette. These are all some variation of “be quiet.” Do not ask questions during the film; the good ones will answer them for you. Turn your cell phone off. Not on silent. Off. Or a guard will actually come out during the film and point a little red dot thingy at you and bark, “Sir” or “Ma’am.” (Scary! And embarrassing!) Do not kick the seat in front of you. And do not throw popcorn at the reviewer’s girlfriend. Though that sounds unfortunate, Pete won my heart early on when he (verbally) kicked some popcorn-throwing teenage ass at a viewing of “The Dark Knight.”

Because I love Pete, I want to make him feel better when he doesn’t like something--which is kind of often. This means I spend much of the film sneaking sideways glances to gauge his reaction. If he’s wearing his pleasant grin of satisfaction,
I’m relieved. But if the movie is bad, no glance is required; his wrath is tangible.

I practically had to shower the hatred off of me after “War Horse.” I don’t know what else to do in these situations, so I imagine myself absorbing his pain through some kind of osmosis. It doesn’t work, not even for previews such as “Liam Neeson Kicks Ass (Again)” and “Famous People Really Do Get the Recession.” All I can do is wait it out, cringing as his pen becomes ever more scratchy.

The movie ends, and the “Cast” part of the credits rolls by. I wait for it: “What did you think?” He asks the same question every time. It’s adorable in its predictability, but almost as challenging for me as getting past the snack bar. What should I say? I’m intimidated by these foreign surroundings. What if I fell for an “idiot plot?” Or what if I failed to see the artistry in “quirk?” What if I liked it, and it was just dumb? (I still have nightmares wondering what would have happened had I liked “Larry Crowne.”)

I decide to grow a pair and announce my opinion: “It was pretty good?”

After wandering through a Philadelphia parking garage a while, the analysis begins. Contrary to what some may think, Pete does not hate every movie he sees. He thoughtfully considers what’s good and what went wrong. I’m always impressed by his laser-like ability to zero right in on each, and I learn a lot about films from listening to his reaction. If the movie was bad and extra time is required, this may necessitate stopping for burgers at Sonic off Exit 37. Because I am a very supportive spouse, I am always happy to oblige.

Thankfully, my juvenile fantasies never came true. NKOTB broke up, Pete Sampras went bald, and DiCaprio hasn’t won an Oscar. I suppose I should conclude my story by telling you that finding everlasting love with our blogger was better than any of those silly dreams anyway. But I’ve learned you shouldn’t fall for the quick-and-easy deus ex machina ending. Pete’s criticism will get tougher as his standards grow higher, but I’ll still be sitting in the seat beside him. Perhaps even munching from a trough of free pretzel bites.

The Big Review: We Need to Talk About Kevin

2012-01-02T12:07:00.001-08:00

Aside from Tilda Swinton's performance, meh...

This review previously appeared in "ICON" and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

****************

Lynne Ramsay's We Need to Talk About Kevin places its main character (Tilda Swinton) in a shattered suburban world, where she mopes in an indifferent daze, unsure how she got there and if she can ever leave. The movie is a showcase for Swinton, who in delivering an assured, intense performance provides the movie's lone reason for being.

When we first meet Swinton's character, Eva, she emerges from a rough night to find her house covered in red paint. The car has also been hit, though she can see enough through the crimson windshield to go for a ride. Through it all, Eva reacts like the paperboy threw the newspaper in the rose bushes again.

We learn the story of Eva's numbness, which starts with the birth of her son, Kevin. Eva, who has little enthusiasm for motherhood, holds the baby like a sack of flour. Kevin cries incessantly. Eva's solution is to stand next to a construction site, where even the jack hammering can't drown out the yelps. As Kevin exits his toddler years, he's a loathsome, manipulative terror. He portrays himself as an enthusiastic, happy tyke to Franklin (John C. Reilly), Kevin's dad and Eva's husband, while driving Eva nuts. Kevin ruins her map-lined room, the only enclave in a gigantic, soulless suburban fortress that's her own. When confronted by Franklin, the boy says he only wanted to make the room special for mom. Though clearly beyond potty training, Kevin favors diapers, controlling his bowel movements solely to spite Eva. Since Kevin faces no consequences and belongs to disagreeing parents—one who is never around; the other who resents his presence—the stage is set for an act of teenage rage that will devastate a community and destroy Eva.

Ramsay and co-writer Rory Stewart Kinnear, working from Lionel Shriver's novel, fashion a strong dramatic base by capturing the despair involved in raising a young child. (Women worldwide will feel compelled to double-check their birth control pills.) But in establishing Kevin's malignant behavior and Eva's current misery, Ramsay and Kinnear take shortcuts. Reilly's sole purpose here is to provide the "Kevin isn't a bad kid" counterweight. It's a lazy tactic that allows the writers to glance over Franklin and Eva's marital woes and how Kevin becomes a nihilist with great hair. Kevin's evilness gets reduced to shallow logic: Since he plays one parent against the other, he's destined to do horrible things. Really? Did Ramsay and Kinnear ever see The Parent Trap?

Franklin's presence in the storyline, aside from wasting Reilly's considerable talents as America's favorite sad sack, leads to a thematically jumbled film. Throughout the toggling between the present and the past, we get glimpses of Kevin's terrible act. Because Ramsay can't move firmly in one direction, the film exists in this unsatisfying realm where you kind of get a somber character study and you sort of get an updated version of Gaslight.

That's not the only way Ramsay mishandles the material. Eva is the town enemy, prone to being slapped or verbally maligned for Kevin's actions. Considering the losses Eva has suffered, and if the wronged still honor Hamurabi's Code, why does that happen? And if every time I went to Subway I risked getting kicked in the balls, I'd at least consider moving to the next county. A scene where trick-or-treaters terrify a candy-less Eva plays like something from a Roger Corman cheapie. Franklin and Eva's home comes from a long line of suburban palaces whose sole purpose in movies is to shout, "Love can't exist here!" Eva's current job is so flagrantly drab—badly dressed, barely washed employees, travel posters not sticking to the wall—that you're not sure if Ramsay is being sardonic or obvious. Either way, it's an ill fit.

We Need to Talk About Kevin does have Swinton, who helps illuminate the one positive aspect of Eva's tragedy: she's become a mom for the first time. Ezra Miller is gripping as the 15-year-old Kevin, turning charisma and intelligence into absolutely chilling characteristics. Those strong performances, and a potentially absorbing story, get lost in Ramsay's rush to elicit effect with little regard for cause. [R]

The Film Round-Up, January 2012

2012-01-02T11:50:00.000-08:00

In 2012's first film round-up, we give you a mixture of the multiplex and the art house: Spielberg! Damon! Fassbender! Oldman! It's a holiday movie season explosion!

Two notes before we hit the reviews. Of course, I saw a movie Saturday night that I missed putting on my top 10 list: Mike Mills' "Beginners." What a lovely film. If Christopher Plummer (pictured) doesn't get an Oscar nod, the Academy should dissolve and just choose nominees from a hat.

Second, I'm pretty sure Michael Fassbender is responsible for the 17 of "Shame's" NC-17 rating. Let me put it this way: Getting the jumbo hot dog before that screening was a terrible idea.

These reviews previously appeared in "ICON" and are reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

***********************

War Horse (Dir: Steven Spielberg). Starring: Jeremy Irvine, Emily Watson, Peter Mullan, Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch, David Thewlis, Niels Arestrup. Like drinking maple syrup straight from the bottle. A plucky English farmboy (Irvine, in a grating performance) connects with a beautiful, wild stallion, but the relationship abruptly ends when the boy's cash-strapped father (Mullan) sells the gorgeous beast to the British cavalry. And so begins the horse's glorious travels through World War I Europe, where he provides an escape for two ill-fated German brothers, enchants a sickly French girl, and helps warring sides work together. Spielberg has always had a saccharine side—remember his endings to Schindler's List and Saving Private Ryan?—but at least those movies had memorable content that somewhat justified the weepy finales. War Horse is a feature-length greeting card from Spielberg on the wonders of a beautiful animal with vaguely human qualities, which should delight the apartment-bound, cat-hoarding spinster demographic. Thanks to characters with the emotional depth of Precious Moments figurines, we're left with no relatable protagonist, only a damned horse running purposelessly toward a conclusion we can't wait to arrive. Previously a novel and a Broadway play. * [PG]

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (Dir: Tomas Alfredson). Starring: Gary Oldman, Colin Firth, Benedict Cumberbatch, John Hurt, Mark Strong, Tom Hardy, Toby Jones. Adaptation of John le Carré's 1974 novel stars Oldman (in heavy make-up) as George Smiley, a veteran British secret intelligence officer who returns from a forced retirement to catch a double agent working for the Soviets. The twists, turns, and details quickly accumulate in this Cold War-era espionage drama. It's entertaining for about an hour until you reach a damning realization: the pot is on the stove, but the water ain't boiling. The film presents each revelation so somberly that you can't get jazzed about the web of lies uncovered by Smiley, who escorts us through the events like a beaten down tour guide, not the ideal personality to carry a film heavy on details. Films like Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy only succeed if the constant misdirection grabs our attention or if there's a grand payoff that makes the waiting worthwhile. Alfredson's film has neither. It's in permanent anticlimax. ** [R]

We Bought a Zoo (Dir: Cameron Crowe). Starring: Matt Damon, Scarlett Johansson, Thomas Haden Church, Colin Ford, Maggie Elizabeth Jones, Elle Fanning, Patrick Fugit, John Michael Higgins. Recently widowed and "sick of sympathy," journalist Benjamin Mee (Damon) decides that he and his kids need a fresh start. And they get one, moving onto 18 acres of rolling California real estate that features a broken down zoo that he's required to maintain. This development thrills Mee's seven-year-old daughter (Jones), annoys his moody teenage son (Ford), and shocks his older brother (Church), who advises Mee to stop making life changes "just before you get to zebras." Damon and Johansson, as Mee's no-nonsense zookeeper and inevitable romantic interest, are the reason to watch. Their stripped-down, stirring performances rise above the cutesy material, and maintain our interest amidst the self-help maxims disguised as dialogue, Jones' insistent mugging, and Higgins's tired self-serious nimrod routine. Crowe, who apparently has forgotten everything since making Almost Famous 12 years ago, does everything but include shots of puppies and babies in a non-stop attempt to make us ooh and aaah and remember to call mom. Damon and Johansson help him dodge a bullet. Based on a true story. *** [PG]

Shame (Dir: Steve McQueen). Starring: Michael Fassbender, Carey Mulligan, Nicole Beharie, James Badge Dale. Stoic, successful New Yorker Brandon Sullivan (Fassbender) lives in an upscale, minimalist bubble. Driven by an insatiable appetite for sex, the only people that enter his realm are the women who give him momentary pleasure, a pursuit that keeps him occupied and isolated. When Brandon's younger sister, a needy, wayward singer (Mulligan, excellent as always), whirls into town, a major dilemma arises: How does Brandon respond to a woman who wants him for an emotional connection, not just sex? Critics have properly raved over Fassbender's anguished, gutsy performance, but McQueen's deliberate (the man loves long takes), deliberately unsexy direction provides the ideal stage for Brandon's moral torture. The director doesn't frame New York as some twinkly cosmopolitan wonderland, but as an anonymous, impersonal landscape that can amplify loneliness, the kind of place that warrants Mulligan's haunting, forlorn rendition of "New York, New York." ***1/2 [NC-17]

Best Five, Worst Five of 2011

2011-12-31T13:05:00.000-08:00

This is an annual form of distress for me. Inevitably, I'll forget something or feel bad that I haven't seen two or three key films that were adored by the masses. But that's the way it goes. I'm never going to see everything. All I can do is write about how the films affected me, and share that love, hate, or indifference in the most expressive way possible.

These ten films, scroll down to see the full list, impacted me the most. I'll have a full blown rundown in a month or two, when we get closer to Oscar time.

For everyone who stopped by the site, left a comment, or followed along, thank you. Happy holidays and happy new year. I'll see you in 2012.

What Oprah's Watching

2011-12-28T08:58:00.000-08:00

According to my wife, the movies shown on OWN, or the Oprah Winfrey Network, are Oprah's personal favorites. That gives me hope that one day my love of "American Pie" will lead to some grand, nationwide enlightenment.

I know we all have our criteria for what makes a movie wonderful, but what are Oprah's? Here's my best guess:

1.) A focus on female empowerment.
2.) Characters that don't reinforce societal and racial stereotypes.
3.) Three knife fights--minimum.
4.) Smart, savvy female characters with heaving breasts.
5.) Scripts with a light sense of humor and lots of insight into the human condition.
6.) Fart jokes, with at least one reference to "cheek-flappers."
7.) Banjo-driven music score.
8.) If it's about sports, that'd be, like, the best.
9.) Fun-loving truckers like Jerry Reed in "Smokey and the Bandit."
10.) Rapping grannies
11.) Meg Ryan circa 1989 to 2000.
12.) Katharine Hepburn circa 1935 to 1967.
13.) Larry the Cable Guy circa 2003 to present.
14.) Anything starring Milla Jovovich...She made "The Three Musketeers" totally high-octane!
15.) Goons blowing shit up.

Review: "Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows"

2011-12-22T13:03:00.000-08:00

Last of the year for "The Weekender." You can read it here.

The wife and I saw this the Saturday morning after it opened, which meant a trip to the nearby AMC. Though I go to screenings, I love the multiplex. Not only do I get to maintain my critic street cred--so important to maintain in a competitive field--there are the following advantages.

1.) Previews: I need some surprises in my life, which is one reason why I try to avoid all Hollywood news and publications like "Entertainment Weekly." So, I get to get pie-eyed over the preview for the new "Batman" and feel the energizing hot flash of rage over "Battleship."

By the way, Liam Neeson is the new Sean Connery. Regardless of the character's nationality, Neeson's Irish brogue stays. It's part of his performance.

2.) The automatic ticket machines: Not because of the technology, but AMC's farewell image, which features a young employee waving goodbye. For reasons I can't fathom, the photographer caught him mid-farewell, so his hand resembles a claw and he sports a goofy snarl. He looks like he just absorbed a blast from a Winchester.

3.) Getting to enjoy a movie in peace: As Chris Rock said, "They show the same movie at 10 a.m. that they show at 10 p.m." There's something indulgent about having a big theater almost all to yourself.

Book of the Month, Dec. 2011

2011-12-18T12:19:00.000-08:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and they make wonderful Christmas gifts. (Really, they do.)

A few weeks ago, The Projector, the Yahoo! movie blog run by longtime friends Tim Grierson and Will Leitch, came to an abrupt end. It was a shame for several reasons. Yahoo! took forever to launch the project and never promoted it properly. Plus, the duo's reviews and posts were thoughtfully written and insightful, with Leitch's essay on Jessica Chastain a highlight.

Grierson and Leitch will be just fine. Grierson, who writes for "LA Weekly", has a couple of books coming out. Leitch is an established author and writes for a bunch of other places, including "New York" and "GQ".

Leitch also founded Deadspin, the popular sports blog, and several of his books focus on sports. My favorite of his is "God Save the Fan," a hilarious, keenly observed collection of essays that looks into every aspect of sports that uncovers two truths: First, players, broadcasters, and team officials have contempt for the people who worship the game they represent. Second, people should not blindly worship at the altar of sport. They should feel free to root--and hate--on their own terms. For anyone who believes that sportswriting is just pageantry and snoozy summaries, "God Save the Fan" is an eye-opener.

That's it for now. Until next month, read in peace.

Review of Knuckle

2011-12-16T13:38:00.000-08:00

This is availale on demand and in theaters right now. I wanted it to appear in "ICON" next month, but it got bumped. Instead of waiting for February, when it'll be forgotten, I've decided to be relevant for a change.

The full crop of "ICON" reviews--both big and small--will appear on or around Jan. 1. I can't think of a better way to celebrate the new year, can you?

******

The Joyces and the Quinn McDonoughs, two related Irish Traveler families, have feuded for years. Instead of talking, the factions have settled their differences with bare-knuckle fighting. The pursuit is surprisingly sophisticated. The videotaped messages issued by the participants resemble the theatrical call outs of pro wrestling, while the fights themselves combine elements of a backyard brawl and an organized event. Neutral referees manage the action, breaking up holds and watching out for biting and illegal blows. Bets are placed. What's most troubling is that nearly everyone involved, even the film's star, venerable boxer James Quinn McDonough, thinks the activity solves nothing. Yet the cycle continues year after year: uneasy peace, taunt, fight. Director Ian Palmer spent more than a decade following this bitter Gypsy rancor. Though he clearly has some trouble coordinating the footage—Palmer doesn't quite untangle the web of bad feelings that has led to grown men pummeling each other and his attempts at including himself in the narrative are awkward—he's provided a stunning and sad sociological profile. ***1/2 out of 5 [R]

Review of "Hugo"

2011-12-07T09:03:00.000-08:00

Scorsese's first masterpiece in a long time. I think too many people associate him as making one type of hard-boiled picture. But look at "After Hours," "The Last Waltz," and "The Aviator," which held bite underneath the gloss. He's versatile, and he could rock the beard. In fact, I'm sure that's how he got so close to The Band.

Other fun facts surrounding this review, which appeared in "The Weekender" and which you can read here.

*I wrote most of the review in longhand on a Philadelphia-bound train. I then labored over it for another two and a half hours at home, missing my beloved weekly pick-up basketball game. (I'm still not sure if I nailed the review.)

*Took Philadelphia's subway system for the first time. Among the highlights: carpeted seats and an argument between an old man and a booth attendant. Being next in line after that exchange was a bit awkward. I just about curtsied to the subway worker.

*I was in Philadelphia, near UPenn, for a screening. There, I sat a few rows behind a college student who would not shut up to his female companion about his career direction and his interpretation of "Melancholia." I instantly replayed every movie-themed conversation I've ever had with my wife. Verdict: Laura should carry a muzzle with her everywhere.

*One thing I love about Philly is it's cost-effective. Going to New York every week will make you poor. Ticket from New Brunswick: $28.00. Parking: At least $10.00. Subway: At least $5.00. Total: $43. To justify the travel, I have to see two or three movies per trip.

Here's Philly's breakdown: Independence pass to Philly, which includes subway and bus travel: $11.00. Parking at train station: $1.00 for the day. When I drive to Philly, then it's $6.00 if I can get street parking. Granted, I don't have the variety of screening opportunities, but I don't have to eat dog food or absorb the questionable scenery of the Northeast Corridor.

Film Round-Up, December 2011

2011-12-02T14:56:00.000-08:00

Do you know how perilously close y'all came to reading another review of "Happy Feet Two"? It took a last-minute screener of "Lads & Jockeys"--which arrived in the mailbox on deadline day--to maintain "ICON"'s reputation as a fine arts publication.

There is some good stuff in the Round Up, including a cool costume drama about a legendary literary figure and a terrific documentary on a Hollywood icon. And you have Michelle Williams playing Marilyn Monroe in a movie that wastes her splendid performance.

That's it for now. These reviews appeared in the December issue of "ICON," and are reprinted with permission.

**************************

Corman's World: Exploits of a Hollywood Rebel (Dir: Alex Stapleton). Despite having the refined, gentle bearing of your favorite English professor, Corman insists that inside he's an "inferno," which explains his nearly 70-year career producing and directing hundreds of cheap, campy flicks like The Little Shop of Horrors (1960) and The Raven. He's perhaps more famous for his films serving as a training ground for actors and directors such as Ron Howard, Jonathan Demme, and even Jack Nicholson, who says the filmmaker was his "lifeblood" during the lean years before Easy Rider. In this heartfelt, enlightening gem, Stapleton traces Corman's unconventional success and his enduring influence. The movie benefits immensely from the warm, funny anecdotes of his numerous collaborators—Pam Grier says her willingness to perform stunts kept her employed; Martin Scorsese credits directing Corman's Boxcar Bertha in helping him film Mean Streets—which also trace Corman's rise and fall in the movie industry. Even better, Corman, now 85, is exceedingly likable, a man more concerned about producing the TV movie Dinoshark than his impact on the American movie landscape. Not just a wonderful tribute, but one of 2011's best documentaries. **** [R]

Young Goethe in Love (Philipp Stölzl). Starring: Alexander Fehling, Miriam Stein, Moritz Bleibtreu, Volker Bruch, Burghart Klaußner. It's widely acknowledged that Charlotte Buff inspired the lovelorn Johann Wolfgang von Goethe to write his landmark 1774 novel, The Sorrows of Young Werther. Stölzl's charming, original work provides the background behind the literary misery. In 1772, 23-year-old Goethe (Fehling) is a fledgling poet and writer whose buffoonish behavior and lack of direction enrages his father (Klaußner), who sends him to Frankfurt for a more appropriate (and thankless) legal job. There, Goethe meets and falls in love with the witty, wild-haired Buff (Stein), whose family's struggles make marrying for love nearly impossible. That condition sets the stage for a most uncomfortable and dangerous love triangle. Spirited performances and a lively pace aid an entertaining affair that earns points for showing the rough side of romance. Many costume dramas coast on prestige or submerge their conflicts in courtly passion. Young Goethe in Love doesn't steer away from meatier, relevant subjects. ***1/2 [NR]

Lads & Jockeys (Dir: Benjamin Marquet). Documentary profiles three teenage boys who attend a boarding school for jockeys in Chantilly, France, a village near Paris. When not attending classes or ogling female classmates, the students are immersed in horse racing, which includes learning everything from cleaning stalls to controlling the horse's speed and temperament. Marquet employs a hands-off approach here, capturing the kids during their daily lives and showing the hard work and drudgery required in getting these graceful animals ready. There's no narration and no formal interviews, unless you count black and white news footage. For a while the absence of canned answers is a blessing, until you realize that Lads & Jockeys is shapelessly edited. The footage presented doesn't tell a story or provide much insight into the students, their instructors, or anything else. Aside from the last 20 minutes, the movie sort of sits there, when it could portray the intoxicating fear that is being young and away from home. ** [NR]

My Week with Marilyn (Dir: Simon Curtis). Starring: Michelle Williams, Eddie Redmayne, Kenneth Branagh, Judi Dench, Julia Ormond, Emma Watson, Dougray Scott, Toby Jones, Dominic Cooper, Derek Jacobi. In 1956 Marilyn Monroe (Williams) flew to England to film The Prince and the Showgirl with Laurence Olivier (Branagh), a union of future legends that was fraught with difficulty. Intimidated and in constant need of reassurance, Monroe maintained a sycophantic entourage and exhausted the patience of new husband Arthur Miller (Scott). Olivier, though a fan of Monroe's attributes, was exasperated by her fragility and leisurely pace. Third assistant director Colin Clark (Redmayne), a wide-eyed 23-year-old working on his first film, got thrown into the middle of this hoopla when Monroe took a shine to him…and destroyed his professional veneer. Adaptation of Clark's memoir works because of Williams, who aside from her physical resemblance, nails Monroe's neurotic vulnerability: the adulation both revives and destroys her. Unfortunately, the movie lacks the star's poise. It's too dark to be a frothy coming-of-age story. And it's too glossy—the film has the Weinstein brothers' prestige-y fingerprints all over—to pass muster as a character study, which would have made Williams' excellent performance all the more absorbing. Pleasant and polished, My Week with Marilyn's lack of bite turns it into another piece of baby boomer-friendly nostalgia. ** [R]

The Big Review: The Descendants

2011-12-01T06:47:00.000-08:00

One of the year's best films features perhaps Clooney's finest performance. This review previously appeared in ICON and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

Alexander Payne prefers a lasting impression to an immediate impact. At the surface, The Descendants, his first movie in seven years, is about a harried father coping with two rambunctious daughters and a comatose wife. That's like calling Payne's glorious Sideways a buddy-buddy comedy about wine. What lies beneath is glorious.

Attorney Matt King (George Clooney) calls Hawaii home, but notes that living in paradise does not make him immune to life. His adventurous wife, Elizabeth (Patricia Hastie), lies in a coma after a boating accident, a tragic development in an unraveling marriage. When she wakes up, Matt vows to talk things out with her. In the meantime, Matt is thrown into the unsavory role of primary caregiver. "I'm the back-up parent; the understudy," he tells us. It shows. His younger daughter, Scottie (Amara Miller) is a belligerent handful, and Matt's attempts to control her are half-hearted.

There's also work-related chaos. He's orchestrating a lucrative deal: selling 25,000 acres of pristine island property in the family's trust, which will make Matt and his cousins very rich. Then, everything changes. The doctor tells Matt that Elizabeth has no chance at living a normal life, a condition that legally requires taking her off life support. Ever the paragon of parental resolve, Matt picks up his older, brattier daughter, Alexandra (Shailene Woodley), from boarding school to help him inform friends and family.

Alex, sullen and resentful at the sudden attention from her neglectful father, has no desire to do anything for her mother. Matt tells Alex to grow up. That's when Alex drops the bombshell: Elizabeth was seeing another man. At this point, Payne's restraint becomes a glorious asset. Matt is determined to discover who slept with Elizabeth, a situation that any other director would portray as a race against time or some other domestic vengeance nonsense. It's clear that Matt needs closure right now. By not wasting time on the obvious, Payne provides the little details that make The Descendants such a lush film.

Payne, along with co-screenwriters Jim Rash and Nat Faxon, dares us to pay attention. Matt remarks that all the women in his life are determined to make him miserable, but what has he done to prevent that? Teachers and parents recognize Scottie's lack of respect, but not Matt, who lets her toss deck chairs into the pool. Alex's self-loathing—no one gave her credit for getting good grades or even saw her in the school play—highlights how oblivious both parents are. Also, Elizabeth and Matt clearly weren't a match. Early on, Matt comments that he hasn't ridden a surfboard in 15 years. What's prominently displayed in their backyard? Surfboards. Matt's father-in-law (Robert Forster) chastises Matt for being cheap with Elizabeth. What's most telling in those scenes is that Matt never corrects him.

Matt facilitates the pre-ordained. The King family has always been taken care of, so of course the land should be sold. Before taking the girls and Alex's dopey friend (Nick Krause) on a luxurious search for Elizabeth's paramour, Nick was content as the understudy, even though Elizabeth clearly wasn't mother-of-the-year material. When Alex observes that she's becoming her mother, it's uttered with the solemnity of a cancer diagnosis. Matt's quest isn't about resolution. It's about saving himself and his family.

Clooney's excellent performance is worthy of Matt's emotional journey. For years, the star has eschewed empty blockbusters for movies (e.g., Up in the Air, The Ides of March) that were so busy peddling important messages that they obscured his best qualities. Without a world-saving agenda to support in The Descendants, we remember that Clooney is the new Jack Nicholson, a leading man who can adjust his charisma for the situation. (Nicholson did just that, playing a pathetic, adrift retiree in Payne's About Schmidt.) Matt is flawed in many respects, but we always like him. That has everything to do with Clooney, whose performance adjusts to Payne's subtle shifts. In a supporting cast of able veterans (Judy Greer, Beau Bridges, a surprisingly good Matthew Lillard), the 20-year-old Woodley shines. As a crazy scheme develops faces and complications, she, like the movie, matures in front of our eyes.

Little things add up, both in life and in The Descendants, which by the end has accumulated the emotional resonance and complexity of a great novel. Payne has made a grand, emotional masterpiece from tiny strokes. So many dramas scream and strain to be heard. Rare is the movie that can satiate the soul by ending with couch-bound characters eating ice cream in front of the television. By mastering the art of what not to say, Payne has become one of America's most essential filmmakers. [R]

The Etc.--Why Nudity Can't Sell a Film, Christmas Songs, Debra Winger

2011-11-28T14:49:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, Jessica Biel was in a movie called "Powder Blue," where she played an exotic dancer. My first thought was, "This film is going to make a jillion dollars. What guy wouldn't want to behold Jessica Biel's naked body on a giant screen?"

I learned recently that the film went right to DVD, which is when I realized something: The days when nudity was a film's calling card are long gone.

The Internet plays a huge role, of course, but not in the way you think. The running joke is that the Internet is only good for porn and stock quotes--"porn quotes" to quote George Costanza--but the speed in which those images are acquired is breathtaking. Suffice to say, when news of the movie's release came out, photos of Biel "in character" were everywhere. If something is committed to film these days, everybody sees it.

OK, let's say some production assistant refused to play the role of ribald Santa, or Egotastic's minions couldn't get behind enemy lines. There's still no way "Powder Blue" makes money. Everyone would wait until some kind soul posted the sweet clips online and not waste their time on plot, secondary characters, and all that filler.

In this environment, I don't think we're ever going to see a director or screenwriter like Adrian Lyne or Joe Ezterhaus succeed by going the steamy and sexy route. Movies like "Basic Instinct" and "Striptease," where the calling card is an actress willing to expose herself, won't work. Movies featuring nudity have to actually, you know, entertain us in some way. Just relying on pert body parts will no longer do the trick.

With that said, I'm fascinated by what "Shame" does. As for "Powder Blue," not so much. Over the course of 95 minutes, I'd rather see Carey Mulligan act fully clothed than watch Jessica Biel dance naked.

*OK, so the annual Christmas song bombardment has started, which actually erodes my yuletide spirit. Honestly, just play the following songs intermittently: "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer" (Leon Redbone and Dr. John), "Merry Christmas, Darling" (The Carpenters), "Christmas Wrapping" (The Waitresses), "Another Auld Lang Syne" (Dan Fogelberg), "Backdoor Santa" (Clarence Carter). Seriously, I have to hear some warmed-over, synth-happy tune from Gloria Estefan or Amy Grant, I'm swerving my car into a telephone pole.

*Is there a rule that NFL studio shows have to at least five analysts, with at least one of them unable to speak in coherent sentences?

*When I'm in New York, I always get a hop in my step when someone asks me for directions. I guess my all-Yankees wardrobe helps me blend in.

*I don't think I want to live in a world where a network executive favors "Whitney" over "Community."

*Can someone tell me why Philadelphia's CW17 played two Debra Winger movies back-to-back on a recent Sunday? Is she Pat or Geno's granddaughter? Was she in "Rocky"? Not that I'm complaining; Winger was such a natural talent. And "An Officer and a Gentleman" is a wonderful movie. Way to go, Paula!

*Recommended reading: Jacob Lambert on the death of the classic comedy. R. Kurt Osenlund on movie theater etiquette. Brian Hiatt's terrific interview with Eddie Murphy for "Rolling Stone."

Oh, and here's an essay I wrote for "The Christian Science Monitor."

Review of Happy Feet Two

2011-11-23T07:08:00.001-08:00

The subtitle for this should have been "We're Back for More Cash!" Uninspired fare, at best.

You can read my review for "The Weekender" right here. Enjoy!

Book of the Month, November 2011

2011-11-10T07:10:00.000-08:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and they keep trees from getting too confident.

Over the last several weeks I've been ragging pretty hard on George Clooney's "The Ides of March," which missed a golden opportunity to comment on modern politics. Instead, it told us stuff most of us have known for years.

That got me thinking: Is there any work that would satisfy the political junkie in an original way?

Written nearly 40 years ago, Timothy Crouse's "The Boys on the Bus" profiles the pool of reporters who followed the 1972 presidential campaign. Not only is it a terrific, spirited read, but it shows that long before the presence of the Gannett template and spin artists, that there's a template in how news is reported and delivered, especially in a group environment.

Also, Crouse does a wonderful job in writing about the reporters as professionals and people. That's where the book really resonated with me. It gave me a human element behind the dog-and-pony show that is the campaign trail. That kind of insight was sorely missing from Clooney's misfire.

That's it for now. Until next month, read in peace.

Review of "Tower Heist"

2011-11-09T07:29:00.000-08:00

Click here to read my review of Brett Ratner's "Tower Heist" for "The Weekender." Very quickie review: It should have been rated R.

"Tower Heist" is starting to get a spooky reputation. The movie's release came a few days before Ratner's meltdown on Howard Stern's show, leading him to resign from producing the upcoming Oscars. Then, yesterday, I hear that rapper/actor Heavy D, who has a small part in the film, died.

What makes Heavy D's death so sad is that he was young (44) and had gotten healthy, losing a ton of weight. A positive guy does (seemingly) everything right and still gets the short end of the stick. It's a sad reminder that life is not fair.

Film Round-Up for November 2011

2011-11-01T14:51:00.001-07:00

In this edition of The Film Round-Up, it's a writer-director battle royale! Who emerges victorious? The French comic book god! The Danish auteur! The scrappy youngster from the Midwest!

And, because it's my site, here's a photo of the late Charles Napier, one of the finest character actors of my generation: "Silence of the Lambs," "The Blues Brothers," "UHF," "The Critic." That's a resume, Jack!

These reviews previously appeared in "ICON" and are reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

**************************
Melancholia (Dir: Lars von Trier). Starring: Kirsten Dunst, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Kiefer Sutherland, Alexander Skarsgård, John Hurt, Charlotte Rampling, Stellan Skarsgård. Surreal drama from Danish rabble-rouser von Trier consists of two parts. The first takes place at a lavish wedding that quickly becomes a disaster. The bride, Justine (Dunst), lapses into a deep depression as she discovers that no one can make her happy—not her dim-witted groom (Alexander Skarsgård), not her curt, cynical mother (Rampling), and not her sister (Gainsbourg), whose wealthy husband (Sutherland) can't stop reminding everyone of his generosity. The second part has Justine returning to her sister's estate as a mysterious planet named Melancholia moves uncomfortably close to Earth. In exploring the fallacy of a beloved custom (weddings) and the irrefutable (science) in an unforgiving modern world, von Trier has created an unsettling, sobering film. And he gets excellent performances from his cast, especially Dunst (see R. Kurt Osenlund's story on page TK). But the writer-director spends so much time establishing atmosphere that he forgets to rattle our senses. Melancholia, unfortunately, is little more than an intriguing, anticlimactic disappointment. ** [R]

Gainsbourg: A Heroic Life (Dir: Joann Sfar). Starring: Eric Elmosnino, Lucy Gordon, Laetitia Casta, Sara Forestier, Doug Jones. French-born Sfar has been infatuated with Serge Gainsbourg (1928-1991) since childhood. "He made it cool to be rebellious," Sfar says of the legendary French singer-songwriter and hedonist. In Sfar's vision of Gainsbourg's life—which he insists is based on fact—an id-based creature (Jones) steers the young musician (played with grizzled cool by Elmosnino) toward commercial success and epic philandering. Certainly not a conventional biopic, writer-director Sfar's dazzling visual style (influenced by Pan's Labyrinth) and his narrative bluntness—without the reckless lifestyle, Sfar suggests that Gainsbourg wouldn't have mattered—produces a memorable homage to a cultural institution, a one-man Rat Pack who straddled musical genres and Brigitte Bardot. "I'm fed up with mainstream heroes teaching me how to behave," says Sfar, who's perhaps best known as a comic book artist. His award-winning debut, a most unusual love letter, provides a refreshing alternative. ***1/2 [NR]

Mozart's Sister (Dir: René Féret). Starring: Marie Féret, Marce Barbé, Delphine Chuillot, David Moreau, Clovis Fouin. This "re-imagined account" covers the not-so wonder years of Maria Anna “Nannerl” Mozart (Marie Féret, the director's daughter) who spent her childhood thanklessly backing up her legendary younger brother. Nannerl, now 15, is chafing under the arrangement, especially since her tyrannical father (Barbé) refuses to nurture her aspiration to compose music. The young lady seems locked into a subservient, unrewarding life until a trip to France, where she falls for the recently widowed Dauphin (Fouin), who appreciates her beauty and her talents. Potentially ripe coming-of-age story loses juice way too soon. René Féret, who also wrote and produced, doesn't showcase Nannerl's struggle: does she fulfill her ambitious music dreams or follow her domestic destiny? Conflicts continually get buried or brushed aside in favor of a utilitarian, just-the-facts approach that is as baffling as it is sleep inducing. If the director can barely maintain an interest in the title character, what hope do we have? ** [NR]

Take Shelter (Dir: Jeff Nichols): Starring: Michael Shannon, Jessica Chastain, Tova Stewart, Kathy Baker, Shea Whigham. Here's the movie you should see instead of Melancholia, a leaner, far more compelling look at the uncertainty that lies beneath our measured facades. Working-class family man Curtis LaForche (Shannon) is suddenly plagued by weird, frightening visions: Birds form into angry swarms, violently stormy skies appear before his eyes. At night, his sleep is interrupted by awful dreams of life run amok. Everybody else sees nothing. Considering his options and swallowing his feelings, a slowly unraveling Curtis decides to renovate the back yard's storm shelter and fill it with supplies, an endeavor that isolates him from his family and raises questions among his neighbors. Moody, uneasy drama sticks with you, and is greatly aided by the perfect casting of Shannon (Revolutionary Road), whose squirrelly intensity summons the best memories of Christopher Walken. Chastain (The Help), who is everywhere these days, is excellent as Shannon's incredulous wife. Nichols also wrote the script. ***1/2 [R]

The Big Review: The Ides of March

2011-11-01T14:00:00.000-07:00

When I chose to review this for the November issue of ICON (where this first appeared), I thought the month's election buzz would make this film relevant. No dice. It's a lukewarm political thriller that couldn't sustain momentum into November, even with an all-star cast.

The other question some of you may ask: You have reviews of "Melancholia" and "Gainsbourg: A Heroic Life," so why don't you write a lengthy review of one of those newer titles? Here's the truth: I didn't have a lot to say about those films. I'd rather write in depth on something a little older (e.g., "The Hurt Locker," "Up in the Air," "The Social Network") than be stupidly verbose regarding something newer.

Timing also plays a role. "ICON's" status as a monthly publication means I have to plan ahead. I try to make sure the reviews come out the month when the magazine is published. That's a bit tricky. As you might imagine some publicists balk at reviews being printed before the release date. Or I'll aim for movies released late in the preceding month. Another consideration: if the movie is being talked about high and low.

Translation, if a movie was released on November 4, there's a slim chance it's going to be reviewed in December. So you won't get to read 800 words on "Tower Heist," there are worse things in life.

This review originally appeared in "ICON's" and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

***********************

Recently, I saw a reference to how George Clooney's political potboiler The Ides of March is a throwback to the more edgy, character-driven dramas of the 1970s, which is somewhat true. It's fine to honor elements of past cinematic styles and ideas if it leads to something new and exciting. That's how any artistic medium evolves. Otherwise, we'd still be watching silent movies featuring mustache-twirling villains.

Peddling the familiar as groundbreaking is when filmmakers get into trouble, and Clooney is up to his ears in it in The Ides of March.

The movie presents us with Gov. Mike Morris (Clooney, who also produced and co-wrote the script), a war hero and Democratic presidential hopeful who needs to win the Ohio primary to guarantee the nomination. Helping Morris is crafty veteran campaign manager Paul Zara (Philip Seymour Hoffman) and young press secretary Stephen Meyers (Ryan Gosling), a charming, self-assured hotshot whose star is rising.

Meyers is so coveted that the campaign manager for Morris' rival, Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti), courts the youngster, promising him that Morris won't win Ohio. On a roll, Meyers then beds an attractive intern whose father is the head of the Democratic National Committee. Since the intern is played by Evan Rachel Wood, who perpetually looks like she's about to star in a remake of Double Indemnity, it's a given that her presence spells doom. The intern knows Morris intimately, an arrangement that could end his political career. If that doesn't sink the candidate, his integrity will. Morris refuses to satisfy the demands of a senator (Jeffrey Wright) whose support could secure the primary. To make matters worse, a newspaper reporter (Marisa Tomei) learns of Meyers' clandestine meeting with the opposition, a juicy scoop that suddenly jeopardizes his—and the campaign's—future.

Based on Beau Willimon's play Farragut North, The Ides of March is so heavy on dialogue that we never feel the weight of these crises. Every one (and their revelations) involves tense conversations in dark, lonely places, which amounts to stock footage. As Meyers scrambles to save the campaign, and his livelihood, there's no sense of him discovering larger truths. Maybe if these didn't involve shifty motives and lying—problems most of us encounter on a daily basis—the movie wouldn't feel so gullible.

Or broad. A cast featuring three Academy Award winners is stuck playing caricatures. Tomei, Hoffman, and Giamatti play frumpy political lifers. Clooney is the good-looking, middle-aged, easily manipulated beacon of hope. Gosling, however, doesn't even have a model to follow. Clooney and his writers have Meyers crafty one minute, naïve the next. It's a classic example of screenwriters bending a character to fit the story's whims. And it's unnecessary: Gosling's forte is playing morally imperfect characters. That Clooney reduces Meyers' emotional crisis to youthful hubris and shock (Meyers, supposedly a PR pro, is stunned that a newspaper reporter isn't his friend) is an insult to Gosling's talent—and the audience's intelligence.

Artifice defines this film. Take away the all-star cast and the fortuitous release date, and you just have a lukewarm political thriller that doesn't tell us anything new. Clooney has garnered a lot of goodwill as an actor (Out of Sight) and as a director (Good Night, and Good Luck) for not just participating in a string of blockbusters that appeals to the Entertainment Tonight crowd. Still, I can't shake the feeling that he expects admiration for simply rubbing elbows with real life. As a director, Clooney needs to tap into how we're feeling now, when a youthful, energetic president hasn't delivered on his potential and Congress feels hopelessly and angrily divided. (False idols and promiscuous interns are so 1998.) There's a movie to be made from those emotions. The Ides of March isn't that movie because it can't comment on where we are now or where we are headed.

Take Shelter, now playing, and Melancholia, opening later this month in Philadelphia, speak more to the jittery mood of the populace. One is about a working-class guy tormented by apocalyptic visions. The other is a dreary, poetic drama centered around a planet on a collision course with Earth. Both are more honest than The Ides of March, which reveals that movie stars have finally learned that politics, like life, is not for the faint of heart

Review of Life Itself for BiblioBuffet

2011-10-31T06:44:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know it's not really a sports book, but Ebert did begin his writing career as a sportswriter, so I think it's appropriate. Especially when I compare it to Robert Lipsyte's memoir, "An Accidental Sportswriter."

In short, Ebert's memoir is outstanding. You can read my thoughts here.

And a special thanks to our immensely talented film friend in Brooklyn, R. Kurt Osenlund, for the book.

Review of The Three Musketeers

2011-10-26T06:31:00.001-07:00

Buy the candy bar instead. You'll spend less money and the experience will be ten times more memorable.

You can read the review here, and observe my continued transformation into Jay "It stinks!" Sherman.

P.S.--Someone once asked me how I can review movies if I hate everything. I do not. Movies like "The Three Musketeers" and "Captain America: The First Avenger" are occupational hazards. My faith in the power of movies, however you would like to define that phrase, is unshakeable.

And to quote Joe Queenan: "Let me confess that I am one of those people who has never lost his childlike belief that the next motion picture he sees could be the worst film ever made. That's why I go to all of them."

The Etc.--My Strip Club, Playing Hooky, Greeting Kids

2011-10-25T10:42:00.000-07:00

The Englishtown Auction, a colossal outdoors flea market based in Manalapan, NJ, literally has everything: used books and tools, CDs, toys from the 1980s, new toiletries, Christmas ornaments, furniture, clothes. For someone like me, who likes low prices and endless browsing, it's wonderful.

But the people-watching makes the place Xanadu. Englishtown is a required visit for any writing student. Some of the vendors look like recovering hoarders who reluctantly bring whatever was in their attic with them. Most are surly. Some are condescending ("One peso," remarked one to a Spanish-seeking crowd, unaware that a dollar and peso are two different currencies). Others are downright neighborly. The shoppers consist of Yuppies, immigrants, teenagers, and white trash.

It's also my strip club. Every couple has certain places that a man adores but a woman loathes. A visit to this place requires months of planning and superb timing. You can't go every week unless you want your possessions relocated to the front lawn. For most couples, the battleground is a strip club, a golf course, or a bar. Think this is the death of manhood? No, it's a natural consequence of being in a relationship. It's not all about you.

My wife loathes Englishtown. She thinks it's dirty (when it rains, the venue resembles a mud wrestling pit), filled with a special variety of weirdo, and beyond creepy. After seeing underwear of questionable origin for sale, she threw in the towel. Her open disdain is rare because she's so patient--after all, she's married to me. My sister-in-law also hates it, so my brother is left to fantasize about searching through mounds of old Happy Meal toys.

On Sunday, circumstances aligned so that we got our freedom. And it was glorious. I bought a packet of Gilette Fusion razors for eight dollars and a hardcover of "The Miracle of St. Anthony" for one dollar. I munched on a bagel, sipped a coffee, and took it all in.

It was a ton of fun, and I look forward to the next visit. Unless I develop a drinking problem or improve my tee shot, then it's anyone's guess.

2.) I was watching the end of "Wanted" the other day, and I couldn't help wonder why James McAvoy was in this dreadful affair. Movie executives couldn't have imagined the following conversation, right?

Artsy Husband (from behind "New York Times" arts and leisure section): James McAvoy? Honey, isn't that the young man from "Becoming Jane"?

Artsy Wife (looking up from Anita Diamant paperback): Yes, he was fabulous in that! And he was riveting in "Atonement." He's such a thoughtful, sensitive actor. Oh, I like him.

Artsy Husband: Well, the review says he plays an assassin who can bend bullets, or some such nonsense. That can't be the same actor, right?

Artsy Wife: There's one way to find out. Let's invite the gang from the film society. We should go soon, before the Fassbinder marathon on IFC.

3.) My wife and I recently visited friends who have three young girls, all under the age of seven, whom we were meeting for the first time. Is there anything more awkward than introducing yourself to little kids? Hugs are too intimate. Handshakes are too formal. High-fives make me feel like a doofus youth coach.

Anybody have any advice on this? I'm legitimately puzzled.

4.) During a weekday afternoon trip to the drug store, I bought a packet of razors and some business envelopes. The clerk, a very nice, gregarious guy, said, "Playing hooky today?"

This got me thinking: What in this transaction suggests that I'm blowing off work? "Yeah, I'm just going to shave my neck hair and mail the shaving scum to business contacts. That's how I chill out."

5.) Note to the writers of "He's Just Not That Into You": Ginnifer Goodwin's character is how a 15-year-old acts, not a 28-year-old. That's one reason why I jumped ship after 10 minutes, and I'm the schmuck who sat through "Made of Honor."

6.) It's quite possible that the opening to the "Jane Austen Book Club"--look at how modern technology is failing us; we need a return to a simpler time!--is one of the most patronizing in recent memory. However, it is the perfect beginning to a shrill, predictable movie that examines unfulfilled lives with the grace of a truck stop bathroom

7.) Recommended reading: Roger Ebert's "Life Itself" (thanks, Kurt); Rin Tin Tin: The Life and the Legend by Susan Orlean

My Hometown Movie Theater: Creating New, Pretentious Movies

2011-10-14T10:21:00.000-07:00

Lars Von Trier has to direct "What's Urnumber?", right? It sounds moody and unpleasant and ripe with meaning that I can't comprehend. My guess is that Urnumber is just like Grendel. Stellan Skarsgard can play the mythical, tortured hunter. It's too perfect.

Also, I think the theater manager simply instructing his employees to put up the titles via text message. "Ur"? "Dolphin" for "A Dolphin's Tale"? "Stee" instead of "Steel" Nicolas Carr is right: The wired world is turning our brains to mush. Pretty soon we will all communicate with grunts and head nods.

The Susan Orlean Q&A

2011-10-09T15:08:00.000-07:00

I don't think this piece needs a giant introduction. All I'll say is that it's always nice when the writers you admire are decent human beings. It's another little thing that prevents me from filling out law school applications.

This interview previously appeared in "ICON" and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina).

P.S.--I didn't ask about "Adaptation," because she's talked (and written) about it a thousand times. I wanted to explore somewhat new terrain.

*****************************

Susan Orlean is busy today. She's settling into a new home. Her pets are giving her trouble. A deadline is looming. Yes, she's still up for the interview, which amidst the swirl of domestic- and work-related chaos, she nails.

This snapshot of Orlean's afternoon encapsulates her strength as a writer—she's remarkably focused. Her latest book Rin Tin Tin: The Life and the Legend (now available for sale everywhere) covers the rise of dogs as pets, dog training, the beginnings of the film and television industry, and the lives of the dog (or, more accurately, dogs) and his enamored guardians: trainer Lee Duncan and TV producer Bert Leonard.

Every diversion fits into this memorable portrait of the canine icon, and Orlean's orderliness does not lead to stodgy prose. The author of The Orchid Thief and New Yorker staff writer clearly relishes finding every angle to a story, even the ones that affect her personally. It's why I'll read anything she writes. Regardless of how arcane the subject is, she makes it sparkle via wit and investigation.

In this mid-September interview, Orlean, 55, talks about juggling all those subjects, what led her to write about Rin Tin Tin, and if an animal will ever again reach such a level of celebrity.

Pete Croatto: The last time we talked you displayed quite a passion for bookstores misplacing you and other authors' books. With that said, where is Rin Tin Tin going to end up being placed?

Susan Orlean: Well, I already see it listed under pet care, which I guess is not surprising, and biography, which is not incorrect. I think it's going to end up in a couple of different places, and I suppose better that it end up in many rather than none. It's tricky. It's a biography of a sort. It's an animal book of a sort. And it's kind of a cultural observation of a sort, so I don't blame bookstores for finding it a little hard to figure out.

PC: The book covers a lot of ground. How did you manage to tie all those subjects together without getting overwhelmed or cluttering the narrative?

SO: Well, you're assuming I didn't get overwhelmed. I did. The book took me a long time [nearly 10 years]. First of all, it was a huge undertaking that was far bigger than I expected. I felt strongly that it made sense only if I told it in a really thorough way. What I think was the only thing I could do in terms of keeping the narrative intact was to try to convey to the reader the story of my discovery of what I was learning. Essentially that I started a subject expecting it to be kind of compact—not simple, but just manageable—and it grew and grew and that I wanted them to come along on that same exploration with me.

PC: It's funny you mention wanting to take readers along with you, because in Rin Tin Tin, like your other work, you write regularly in the first person. How did you come to write in that style, and did anyone encourage you not to at any point?

SO: To answer your first question, I began writing in the first person—or at least not pretending that I wasn't in the story as the reporter—at a point where the only way to make sense of the narrative meant acknowledging my presence, basically. And it was really liberating. And I didn't feel that it meant that I was suddenly the subject of the story, but rather that it made it so much easier to move the reader around in time and space. I'm just sort of saying, "I'm here. I'm the person observing this." It's actually much more natural. It's the way you'd tell a story over dinner. We're not inhibited in telling a story at dinner to friends: "And then I asked" or "Then I went to figure out x." So, to me, it's actually far more authentic. And it's the way you tell stories, so it never felt phony to me.

I've always written for places that, fortunately, don't have strict rules about how you write. You write to achieve the best effect. I don't think the stories become narcissistic exercises, so no one ever said to me, "I don't see what the point is of having you in here. Get out." It's not been a problem in that way.

PC: The one reason I ask is that I've read a lot of books steeped in reporting where authors include themselves in the narrative, and it becomes a distraction. How do you keep yourself from being the elephant in the room? When do you know not to include yourself in the narrative?

SO: Well, it's kind of hard to answer that. It's surely intuitive. I really do think it's strictly a kind of measure in your own gut of whether you're interfering or helping. It should always feel that you're advancing the story by being in there. Huge, huge long stretches of my writing I'm not the least bit present. To be honest with you, I feel I always write in a way that my voice is very subjective. Even if I don't say "I, I, I," I think there's always a sense that this is a story being told by an actual person, and I happen to be the actual person. Occasionally, I'm going to refer to something specific. Not everyone is going to like that. There are some people who get very irritated by the writer being present at all. That's fine. It's a matter of taste, but I feel strongly that I follow my instincts and hope that they keep it authentic and readable.

The bottom line is that I feel that my goal is to be the most interesting storyteller in the world, and whatever I need to do to make that happen is what I try to do.

PC: Without giving away too much, Rin Tin Tin had a special significance to you from an early age. What made you decide to write this book now?

SO: Very specifically because I had come across Rin Tin Tin's name in the course of working on another story. I hadn't actively thought about Rin Tin Tin in decades. I came across his name and had a reaction that was so strong that I really kind of sat up straight. It's rare that you have a reaction to a memory that's so strong. It just led me almost instantly to think, "This is a book; I want to write a book." Because I so quickly learned so many things about Rin Tin Tin that were so fascinating and rocked me out of what I had thought was the case of his life. It made me think, "Oh my gosh here's something that I thought I knew, and in fact I don't know it all—and there's this amazing story to be told."

PC: You could also say that sense of discovery runs through the book.

SO: Yeah, very much. This is so much a case of falling into the rabbit hole and thinking, "Wow, this is an incredible story and it just keeps getting more and more interesting. I can't walk away."

PC: One striking aspect of the book was how much the general public loved Rin Tin Tin. Are we ever going to see an animal with such a devoted following or has the novelty of TV and films—two media he was around for in their early days—worn off?

SO: I think that the innocence that is required to look at an animal as so powerful and so symbolic, I don't know that we're that culture anymore. I don't know if we look at animals with the same kind of belief the way we used to. Animals have been heroic and moved in and out of roles many times as far as being looked at almost as more powerful than people. I'm not sure that we will have that connection. Also, at the time Rin Tin Tin became such a phenomenon, the number of channels, so to speak, of entertainment was so limited. You had three networks. It was just a very different world. We still have stars that take on enormous significance, but I think the impact is kind of different these days.

PC: I would agree with that. Also, you mention in the book dogs only become a regular part of domestic life until the 1940s or 50s. Rin Tin Tin premiering onscreen in the late 1920s was a big deal.

SO: We're a far more sophisticated culture now. It's harder to surprise people. It's harder to get a reaction of such amazement because we've seen it all.

PC: Yeah, we have. We've seen Keyboard Cat.

SO: Because of the rise of things like YouTube and reality TV, we just don't look at entertainers as having a kind of god-like quality. That's something we just don't see anymore. It used to be that you knew nothing about Hollywood stars and you simply admired them from afar, and that simply does not happen anymore.

PC: Bert Leonard, the producer of the first Rin Tin Tin television show, was devoted to the dog until his death. You learned of Leonard's loyalty via a storage locker full of old documents, the key for which you received from his daughter Gina. How do you get subjects to give you that kind of trust?

SO: The one thing a writer needs to be is genuine and I think that many people are really eager to have their stories told and in the case of Bert…I think his family loved the idea of his being remembered when he had kind of disappeared. And so, while she had no idea if there was anything in there, I think also her feeling was it's great that you're interested in him; if you want to take a look, go ahead. But I was certainly fortunate that I had her trust. I think that's the sort of result of being honest and saying, "I really want to know his story and I really care about telling his story."

PC: Your best-known books have dealt with subjects—orchids and Saturday nights—that are not on the tips of everyone's tongues. Many people don't know who Rin Tin Tin is. These aren't what publishers would consider sexy topics.

SO: I am a victim of my own curiosity. The only ideas that really get me excited are the ones that really get me excited. I have a sort of temperamental inability to focus group my ideas. I tend to get interested in a subject and really want to learn about it. My natural next reaction is, "Oh, I just learned something really interesting. I want to tell people about it." The fact that I do that via a keyboard and a published book is really almost incidental. Learning a story and telling a story is what really interests me…It's just sheer impulse and, frankly, a certain instinct of, I know this is a good story. I know people won't think that they want to know this, but boy, it's so cool they're going to be really glad that I told them.

PC: If you write a book because it's a popular topic and you don't care about it, then that lack of interest may show.

SO: I'm just not interested in that. If something is already popular, why would I want to write a book about it? I don't pick subjects just to be contrarian and purposefully offbeat. I like to write about what interests me. The kind of commitment I have to it and my enthusiasm is what usually draws people in and later they may think, "Wow, now I'm interested in that." I'm so often curious about the things that I don't know anything about and that strike me in a surprising way. It's hard to be surprised if it's something that's already really familiar.

PC: There's one quote from the book that stuck with me: "A singular passion helps you slice through the mess of the world, but I had also come to believe that cutting such a narrow path plays tricks with proportion and balance and pushes everything to the edge." That's written about people who were passionate about Rin Tin Tin. But, for you, does that apply to writing?

SO: Absolutely—I think the focus and, frankly, obsession required to write something is just as consuming as any passion, and sometimes plays the same tricks on your ability to be balanced and have perspective. Unfortunately, that's also the only way to get it done.

PC: Over the last couple of years, you've hit the social network with abandon. Your Twitter account is a blast. You're easily reachable on Facebook. Is that part of a writer's job now or was it a curiosity that blossomed?

SO: Aha! It's a bit of both. I first signed up for social media at the urging of my assistant; she insisted that it was a new job requirement for a writer. Then I discovered that I enjoyed it, much to my surprise. I think there are still many writers who don't engage in social media and still sell lots of books and do a great job. I just think it's a good opportunity to talk to your readers, to have fun, and to add another dimension to your experience as a storyteller.

PC: You're in California now. Has moving west changed your perspective as a writer?

SO: I'm sure it will—place has such a profound effect on all of us. But we've only been here two weeks. So far, I'm still jet-lagged.

Book of the Month, October 2011

2011-10-06T06:31:00.001-07:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and without them 85 percent of movies wouldn't be made.

Case in point, "Moneyball," an adaptation that fought an uphill battle from the start: How can you make a movie about a statistics-driven business model? Bennett Miller tried, but by making the movie more about A's GM Billy Beane than his methods, he watered down what made Michael Lewis's book so special.

So, what baseball book should be made into a movie? How about Jane Leavy's "The Lost Boy," her superlative biography of Mickey Mantle. The best aspect of her book is that Leavy paints a full, vivid portrait of Mantle as a legendeary athlete and as a flawed person.

What's tragic about Mantle--and why his story is tailor-made for the big screen--is that he succumbed to the cult of personality. Post-baseball, Mantle became an aw-shucks, hard-drinking bullshitter, which is what the fans wanted and what made him profitable. It was an arrangement that ultimately cost him his life, and what defines Leavy's effort as so much more than a "sports book."

That's it for now. Until next month, read in peace.

Film Round-Up: October 2011

2011-10-04T10:44:00.001-07:00

In this edition of the Film Round-Up: Joseph Gordon-Levitt's attempt to woo the multiplex, solid documentaries on a legendary Yiddish author and a high school band, and an apocalyptic love story for the art house crowd.

One of the nice things about "50/50" is to see Dallas Bryce Howard expertly play another bitch. She's finally found her niche, which is great because her work before "The Help" was less than impressive. You ever see her and Chris "Cardboard" Evans in "The Loss of a Teardrop Diamond"? Oof.

These reviews previously appeared in "ICON" and are reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

*********************

Thunder Soul (Dir: Mark Landsman). In the 1970s, the Kashmere Stage Band was a phenomenon. Based in Houston's all-black Kashmere High School, the band annihilated its stodgy competitors with funky, pounding arrangements and nifty choreography. After dominating nationally with their groundbreaking content, the kids toured the world and even found listeners decades later, thanks to a popular retrospective album. Landsman's documentary covers band members from KSB's heyday—many of whom have not played their instruments since graduation day—reuniting to play a 2008 concert for their beloved leader and teacher, Conrad "Prof" Johnson. Undeniably upbeat and heartfelt film that shows the impact a good teacher can have on students, especially those who need a father figure. The music, of course, is fantastic. Only glaring flaw: With one or two exceptions, we don't know the members of the band and how their lives fared after their high school glory days. Jamie Foxx served as executive producer. [PG] ***1/2

50/50 (Dir: Jonathan Levine). Starring: Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Seth Rogen, Anna Kendrick, Bryce Dallas Howard, Anjelica Huston, Philip Baker Hall. Adam (Gordon-Levitt), a seemingly healthy 27-year-old, is diagnosed with a nasty form of cancer that comes with a grim outlook: he only has a fifty percent chance of surviving. As the disease begins its onslaught and Adam undergoes treatment, his coarse best friend-wingman (Rogen, who also produced) stands by his side and a cute, practically novice therapist (Kendrick) navigates Adam through the rough patch. Like Judd Apatow's emerging catalogue of bromedies (Knocked Up, Funny People), Levine's effort embraces aspects of testosterone-driven comedy and legitimate, man-friendly drama, though not consistently; 50/50 never completely satisfies as a hearty comedy or as a raw character study. Still, it's a solid, entertaining look at young adulthood interrupted that features good performances from everyone, especially Huston as Adam's overprotective mom, and Kendrick (Up in the Air) as the young professional with strong feelings for her new client. The movie's writer, Will Reiser, is a cancer survivor. [R] ***

Sholem Aleichem: Laughing in the Darkness (Dir: Joseph Dorman). Aleichem (1859-1916) is probably best known as the creator of Tevye, the lead character in the beloved musical, Fiddler on the Roof. In reality, Aleichem's stories about the Jewish milkman were less than cheerful. They reflected the changing status of Eastern European Jews who, at the end of the twentieth century, were struggling to find their way amidst pogroms and opportunities in the secular world. One interview subject in this illuminating, intelligent documentary puts it best: Aleichem taught Jews how to live in the modern world. Dorman effectively puts Aleichem's cultural significance into perspective. By writing his stories in Yiddish, Aleichem helped turn it into a credible language; his funeral was so massive that it introduced the Jews as an influential demographic in New York City politics. But what's more impressive—and touching—is how the director reveals Aleichem as a writer of the people. The author truly struggled (and coped) like his beloved characters. Other plusses: Terrific interviewees and Peter Riegert and Rachel Dratch offering sublime readings of Aleichem's work. [NR] ****

Bellflower (Dir: Evan Glodell). Starring: Evan Glodell, Jessie Wiseman, Tyler Dawson, Rebekah Brandes, Vincent Grashaw. Highly stylized, borderline incomprehensible drama follows Wisconsin natives and friends, Woodrow (Glodell) and Aiden (Dawson), who aspire to construct a flamethrower a la what they saw as kids in Mad Max. Everything changes when Woodrow falls hard for the wrong woman (Wiseman). That romance, of course, ends badly, causing the poor guy to succumb to a deadening pattern of alcohol and self-pity. Soon, a flamethrower isn't enough and Aiden and Woodrow's goofy intentions darken. Starts off as a quirky take on the Go West Young Man tale, with two nimrods trying to make it in the seedy, unglamorous side of Hollywood. But the plot takes a hard left into kinetic, jealousy-tinged nihilistic nonsense that abandons the characters and exhausts the audience's patience. There's a story in Bellflower. It's too bad that debut director-writer-editor-producer Glodell abandons it for sound, fury, and apocalyptic dream sequences. If Glodell relies on substance more than style, his future work will be worth watching. This one is not. [R] **

The Big Review: Contagion

2011-10-04T10:37:00.000-07:00

Every fall, a movie comes out that throws everyone into a tizzy with its name cast and high-profile director. It seems destined for a gaggle of awards. Then it's released and...pfft!

Here's the front-runner for 2011's unique distinction.

This review--complete with 9/11 interpretation and my take on Steven Soderbergh's stoic approach--previously appeared in "ICON" and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

************************************

Director Steven Soderbergh has always displayed a coolness that borders on emotional disconnect. You don't see teary speeches or hug-filled reunions. His box office triumphs (Erin Brockovich, the Ocean's trilogy) feature characters who can't afford to let their guard down. King of the Hill might be the most intense coming-of-age story I've ever seen. Traffic could have made a billion dollars and sold a zillion t-shirts if he chose to glamorize drug dealing with violence and big personalities.

Soderbergh didn't. All he got was an Academy Award for best director.

His refusal to talk down to his audience while skipping through genres, even if it costs him, is why I am an admirer. But it makes Soderbergh an odd choice to direct Contagion, the star-studded virus-runs-amok drama. A good poker face is not scary. The film never grabs you by the shoulders and gives you an old-fashioned fright. You can watch it with your eyes wide open—unless you find stellar ensemble work and directorial polish bone chilling.

The origins of the viral horror are benign. Executive Beth Emhoff (Gwyneth Paltrow), coughing and pale, prepares to board her flight home after a business trip to Hong Kong. The same conditions plague a fashion model in London, a Tokyo businessman, and, logically, a Hong Kong waiter. Everyone looks like they have the flu. Emhoff returns home to Minneapolis, where a few days later she collapses on the kitchen floor, frothing at the mouth and lapsing into seizures. The hospital's doctor can't explain her death, but the coroner's reaction during the autopsy says it all: "Call everyone."

Soon, a no-nonsense investigator (Kate Winslet) from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention travels to Minnesota. A World Health Organization official (Marion Cotillard) heads to the Hong Kong casino where Emhoff gambled and dined. As the ladies follow leads, attempts to vaccinate the virus prove exceedingly difficult. It's a model of biological perfection, fitting into cells "like a key into a lock." People keep dying, so much so that body bags run out.

In the ensuing weeks, things fall apart. Homeland Security becomes interested. A popular, truth-telling blogger (Jude Law) gets his priorities mixed up. Beth's widowed husband (Matt Damon) becomes really overprotective of his only daughter. Throughout, Soderbergh handles the material with his usual quiet confidence. The proof is in the cinematography: Winslet opens her hotel window to see a caravan of military vehicles driving down an empty street on a miserable gray morning. The beleaguered CDC deputy director (Laurence Fishburne) sits in a cafeteria, surrounded by empty chairs, overwhelmed by a problem he can't solve.

Soderbergh's approach only takes him so far. His quiet confidence turns into politeness. Grave red lettering pops up to remind us of the number of days that have passed in this misery. Everyone is clearly working against the clock, but the tension never explodes. The movie proceeds as one long anticlimax. Major plot developments get treated with little fuss as Soderbergh and writer Scott Z. Burns make their points about leadership (the military calls the shots; the president is nowhere to be found), bureaucratic red tape, and the common good of people. These messages are fine, but they're placed too high on the priority list. The movie is about an unstoppable virus killing millions of helpless people. Shouldn't we feel a little bit scared? Is it weird not to feel any connection to characters? (Burns and Soderbergh address this shortcoming by having Damon turn into a less hirsute version of Viggo Mortensen's character from The Road, a distracting move in an otherwise journalistic-style narrative.) Why does the movie feel respectful and orderly, like something The Learning Channel would produce?

An argument could be made that this kind of restraint is appropriate for a movie released two days before the 10th anniversary of the September 11th terrorist attacks. I don't buy that. The Dark Knight perfectly captured the random terror that comes when a psychopath gains power over a major city. V for Vendetta, released in the middle of George W. Bush's second term, explored the horror of an overprotective government. And there was The Road, Team America World Police, and more.

One of the great artistic triumphs post-September 11th is that filmmakers have used the fear of a world run amok in a creative, non-exploitive way. Movies have helped us explore the uncertainty of that day and ever after. By holding back his own emotions, whatever they might be, Soderbergh has offered a somewhat entertaining, well-acted cop out. [PG-13]

Review of Moneyball

2011-09-28T08:16:00.000-07:00

Great book, OK movie. It helps if you don't know anything about baseball. I remember the 2002 Oakland Athletics having both the MVP and the Cy Young Award winner on their roster, not to mention a great starting rotation. Bennett Miller happily ignores those memories. No one led the team to glory!

You can enjoy my review for "The Weekender," delightfully free of baseball nerd jargon, right here.

Your Road to Success Includes a Polyester Uniform!

2011-09-16T06:54:00.000-07:00

I took this shot at a movie theater lobby in Sedona, AZ.

You know who also gets to watch free movies: studio execs, actors, movie critics. Everyone is in the same caste. Brad Pitt still has to work the nacho station at the Warner Brothers commisary. The Weinstein Brothers routinely vacuum their own screeing rooms. Roger Ebert works on holidays and weekends for minimum wage.

Give me a break. Unless you're 18, a retiree looking for a very aggravating way to kill time, or recently paroled, then work at a movie theater. As someone who spent six months ringing up ticket sales for "Men in Black" and "Titanic" trust me.

I would have preferred this slogan for the poster: "Obama's jobs plan looks pretty dicey. Pick up an application before the Japanese buy us."

My Hometown Movie Theater: Bow Chicka Wow Wow...

2011-09-15T06:58:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorites. The absence of letters leads to two beautiful names.

Take the "i" away from "Midnight in Paris" and you get MD Night Paris or Dr. Night Paris, which sounds like the character in a movie that requires a locked bedroom door and hand lotion for proper viewing. The confusing replacement of the "y" for an "i" in "Crazy, Stupid, Love" creates one of the best stripper names of all time. It's right up there with Blaze Starr and Tempest Storm.

What's most confusing: How the almost-lousy "Midnight in Paris"--not the sexy, younger, and far superior "Vicky Cristina Barcelona"--is Woody Allen's highest grossing film in years. The only good thing about this is that it may expose a younger audience to his earlier, far better work.

Dr. Paris would agree with me.

My Hollywood Ending

2011-09-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

I can't wait to see what the sequels bring.

The Etc.--The Value of Browsing, Plane Rides, Stevie Wonder

2011-09-04T09:09:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, my friend introduced me to his Kindle, a nifty device that has brought him untold pleasures. It's a kick-ass device, but it left me with a weird feeling, like I was in a science-fiction story where the ending had yet to be written.

As an adult, I've always lived near terrific libraries. When I lived in Raritan Borough, the headquarters for the Somerset County Library System was in nearby Bridgewater. That cavernous, cozy library had no holes. East Brunswick's was first-rate and included a terrific DVD catalogue and an annual used book sale that was so big it had to be held at the town mall.

Libraries offer the pleasure of browsing. Everything now is about options and ease. You type in a title and get exactly what you want, or you download your entertainment. There's something to be said for not being paralyzed by limitless options, for being open to the process of discovery. So much of our lives is spent in a rush and IM, emails, and everything else ensure that. Being able to drift is quickly becoming a forgotten joy.

The other thing is this: Libraries provide an invaluable social component. Right now, a giant portion of my life is spent in my office where I sit in front of a laptop screen. A trip to the library breaks up my day, forces me to communicate with people, and reintroduces me to the outside world.

Th technological ease of entertainment, wonderful as it is, threatens to isolate us. As much as I like solitude, I don't want my books and my poetry to cocoon me.

*The only downside of my honeymoon was that I had to take a redeye flight back to Pennsylvania, which only reaffirmed my hatred for plane travel. I sat next to an obese woman whose gelatinous right thigh squirmed into my seat, and a guy who pushed his seat back before the flight took off.

During the trip, the aforementioned space-stealer pushed his seat all the way back, which made sleeping impossible since in order to be comfortable, I had to adjust my body to an angle only found in geometry books.

Maybe there's a better way to travel on airplanes, instead of feeling like being on a cattle car with wings, but I severely doubt it.

*Before boarding our cross-country bus with wings, the wife and I spotted Stevie Wonder at the airport, which easily became my number one celebrity encounter. We wanted to take a photo, but were shooed away by his escort.

It's actually better that we didn't meet him, because if I had mustered the ability to say anything it wouldn't have been something he hadn't heard before--unless I referenced some scene from his appearance on "The Cosby Show"? And the photograph would have been nice, but what would have been accomplished from the encounter?

Seeing Stevie Wonder at the airport was important, because it had been a long time since I'd seen a celebrity as a fan. It's nice to know that that my reporter's skeptical facade can be suspended every once in a while.

*Over the last two months, two friends of mine, Danny Fox and Sarah Donner, have released albums. What's even nicer is that the albums are really good. This is such a relief, because there's nothing worse than having to sugarcoat someone's misguided artistic endeavor right to their face. I probably spent half of my twenties suffering through people masquerading as artists when they should have been going to graduate school.

*If "What to Expect When You're Expecting" can be adapted into a movie, so should William Zinsser's "On Writing Well."

*Recommended reading: David Carr's "The Night of the Gun," Derf's "Punk Rock and Trailer Parks," and James S. Hirsch's biography of Willie Mays.

*Can someone tell me why the person who decided to mount televisions onto treadmills hasn't been awarded a Nobel Prize yet?

Book of the Month: Sept. 2011

2011-09-02T11:22:00.000-07:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and they don't have any of those pesky commercials.

One movie I want to see is Steven Soderbergh's "Contagion." It's not released until next Friday, but there's a book that can tide you over until that day.

Though it's not as dramatic as "Contagion," Jeanne Guillemin's "American Anthrax" details the country's response to the antrhax letters that emerged after the events of September 11, 2001. Guillemin, an expert in anthrax who teaches at MIT, writes about how uninformed and unprepared the government was in its initial response. Things, she attests, have not gotten much better.

It's a riveting book that is alternately eye-opening and unpleasant because we realize just how ignorant authority figures can be in times of crisis. As civilians, we're all walking on a tightrope without a net. Ignorance really is bliss.

If you want to learn more about the book. Read the review I wrote for "BookPage" here.

Until next time, read in peace.

The Big Review: Our Idiot Brother

2011-09-01T10:28:00.001-07:00

The last review that I submitted as a single man, for whatever that's worth. Kind of a lazy, half-committed affair--the movie, that is.

Also, no round-up for this month, but October will be a different story completely. On tap: The regular goodies, plus an interview with one of my favorite journalists, one who just happens to have written a new book.

Oh, the suspense!

This review was originally published in ICON and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

*********************

Our Idiot Brother, Jesse Peretz's comedy-drama, is enjoyable and pleasant but spends too much time finding its place. The movie resembles its title character, Ned (Paul Rudd), a hippie farmer with a heart of gold and a brain of tin. Ned annoys the hell out of his family, but it's the meandering plot that will cause audiences consternation.

While manning the stand at his local outdoor market, Ned sells weed to a uniformed police officer whose sob story dissolves any common sense. After eight months in prison, Ned departs as hardened and skeptical as a Smurf. It's fitting that his longtime girlfriend Janet (the indispensable Kathryn Hahn) throws him out of his own place, keeps his beloved dog, and takes up with a younger, spacier boyfriend (T.J. Miller). But there is a ray of hope. Ned's replacement paramour says that the goat shed out back is available. If Ned can put together two months' rent—no worries, Janet will be cool with the new arrangement—the space is his.

Only family could endorse such an idiotic plan, so Ned bounces among his three infinitely more grounded sisters. Liz (Emily Mortimer) enlists Ned to lug film equipment for her pompous documentarian husband, Dylan (Steve Coogan), and watch their prep school-bound kid. Ned also serves as a chauffer during a big assignment for overly ambitious journalist Miranda (Elizabeth Banks). Natalie (Zooey Deschanel), an aspiring stand-up comic with seemingly a dozen roommates, recruits Ned as a nude model for her artist friend (Hugh Dancy).

Ned's good-natured, trustworthy attitude makes him a rarity in New York City, but it also leads to an array of problems. Ned discovers Dylan in a compromising position with his film's ballerina subject, which exposes Liz as a rapidly aging dishrag. His rapport with Miranda's interview subject leads to a shocking revelation and exposes Miranda's duplicitous nature. And when Ned reveals Natalie's malleable sexual tendencies to the aforementioned artist, it threatens her very serious relationship with a lesbian lawyer (Rashida Jones).

The problems created by Ned's organically grown logic disrupt the ladies' lives while improving them; they're forced to face their real selves. That's the main focus of Our Idiot Brother. It's not the right one. Husband and wife writers Evgenia Peretz (Jesse's sister) and David Schisgall invest way too much time constructing outlandish scenarios that lead us to that realization while more compelling elements escape their attention.

This includes how the three sisters interact with each other. It's an odd move to say the least. Mortimer, Banks, and Deschanel excel at comedies and dramas; you can make the case that Mortimer (Lars and the Real Girl, Lovely & Amazing) is the most underrated actress working today. The three have a scene where Miranda and Natalie bemoan Liz's diminished hotness that is so natural in its loving combativeness that you wish the movie had five more just like it. The family's shaky dynamic gets abandoned except in brief flashes, like when Ned unleashes his true feelings during a game of charades. How did everyone get to this point? And where's dad in all this mess?

Plot architecture is swell, but not at the expense of character development and storylines. What's so aggravating about Our Idiot Brother is that abundant comic possibilities also get underutilized. There's plenty here for a splendid goofball comedy, especially with Rudd leading the way. Hahn and Miller are great as the two nimrods who turn Ned's domestic dispute into a farce, and Adam Scott shines as a nice guy who loathes Miranda's bitchy façade but falls for her anyway. These performances don’t feel tied to the film, which is content to wander here and there like a Lollapalooza attendee. If something is funny or stirs you, that's a bonus. We're just gonna have Ned stumble into revelations and see what happens.

Director Peretz (The Ex) and his writers are enamored with options, but they never choose anything. (That notion is reinforced with a cast whose size is almost wasteful.) With the level of talent involved, Our Idiot Brother is guaranteed to be fine unless your director doesn't know the difference between "action" and "cut." But a great cast and an idea with this much potential shouldn't come attached with excuses. And it certainly should be better than a lazy afternoon distraction. [R]

Review of "30 Minutes or Less"

2011-08-17T07:12:00.000-07:00

Since this Jesse Eisenberg/Aziz Ansari caper wasn't a laugh riot, I'll share a scene from the movie theater that was.

The fiancee and I were leaving a matiness of "Captain America: The First Avenger" as a youngish couple entered. Suddenly, the girl stopped cold.

"Where did you put my sweater?" she snapped, as if her boyfriend had the comprehension skills of a three-year-old.

The boyfriend said nothing.

"Go get it," she snarled. Cue the guy running to the car.

Initially, this scene was pretty funny. It still is once my anger subsides. This is my last review as a single man, and if there's one piece of advice I can offer, it's this: Always keep your self-respect. You shouldn't relinquish that just because someone allows you to see them naked. That's a terrible deal that ranks right up there with the Louisiana Purchase or the Golden State Warriors giving up Kevin McHale and Robert Parish and getting Joe Barry Carroll.

Enjoy the review, which I wrote for The Weekender.

Also Not Included: Any Sense of Realism

2011-08-12T10:55:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I posted a little something on "Valentine's Day," which inspired a wrath of negative comments on Facebook to Garry Marshall's terrible ode to a holiday created by a greeting card company. My future brother-in-law, The Big Ragu, said it was a dumber version of "Love, Actually." The fiancee said there were too many characters, including many who couldn't act.

(The latter development is both joyous and terrifying. The fiancee is as sweet as strawberry pie and the venom she unleashed on Taylor Swift was merciless--and wondrous to behold. But this relationship already has too much cynicism. I'm a slice of burnt toast from becoming a grumpy old man. Her kindness makes me palatable to the world.)

Both are right, but the more I think about it, I also hated how "Valentine's Day" included every possible demographic and nationality. It's an insulting approach at giving a movie universal appeal. Hey, the script is awful, but if we can get Jamie Foxx and Queen Latifah, we can rope in 10,000 more African-Americans on the opening weekend!

But I think Marshall and his writers didn't capture everyone. It would have been nice if they had given screen time to the following:

--Zombies (unforgivable, actually)
--Hobos
--Infants who can communicate with each other
--Albinos
--Bisexuals
--Little people
--Ugly people
--Pets dressed like people
--People dressed like pets
--The unemployed
--Autistics
--Jugglers
--Al Qaeda operatives (if the American military is represented...C'mon, Gar)
--My parents
--Your parents
--Orphans
--The overweight
--The terminally ill
--High school students that don't have access to personal trainers
--Dinosaurs

Book of the Month, August 2011

2011-08-07T19:28:00.000-07:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and can serve as hip coasters for sweaty beverages.

A few days ago, I watched "Picnic," the 1956 lost youth sudster starring William Holden when he was young and handsome. (Note: It's one of my mom's favorite movies.) Holden has always fascinated me. I read somewhere that he was an avid traveler, so much so that he chose movie roles simply based on shooting locations. And, of course, he was a terrible alcoholic. Both led to his steep decline as a matinee idol.

Looking to learn more, I turned to David Thomson's "New Biographical Dictionary of Film," which is a terrific resource. It contains short, information-packed bios of directors, actors, screenwriters. It's one of those books you can read for hours, primarily because Thomson is such a good writer.

Check about what he writes about Holden: "You could pick a dozen or so maturing close-ups of Holden and the series would tell the horrible story of movies as a marinade called early embalming."

It takes a certain kind of talent to encapsulate an entire career in one swift sentence. Sometimes less is more with good writing. Thomson, and his wonderful book, proves that.

Until next time, read in peace.

P.S.--Holden, amazingly, is in his mid-50s in this still from "Network." Harrison Ford, by comparison, is now 68. Holden suffered one of Hollywood's sadder finales. After a night of drinking, the actor cut his head during a household incident. The worst part? He was conscious for at least 30 minutes after the injury but never called for help. His body was discovered four days later.

The Miranda July Interview

2011-08-03T06:19:00.000-07:00

I was extremely psyched when this opportunity came up. The woman has carved out her own path as an artist, filmmaker, and writer. What's more remarkable? She's talented (and in-demand) in all of those areas. In a world of pseudo, lame-o triple threats like Jennifer Lopez, July is the real thing.

So, aside from being a fan, imagine my surprise when it turned out she was the cat's ass. Having reviewed the tape and gotten over my nerves, July may have been one of the most cooperative interview subjects ever. There wasn't one canned answer. No is-this-over-yet? gestures.

I think the interview, which apeared in "ICON" and is reprinted with permission, shows that. Enjoy.

P.S.--Having now seen both of them up close, Darcy Savit Croatto doesn't look like Miranda July.

********************************

Six years ago, Miranda July wrote, directed, and starred in Me and You and Everyone We Know, a wonderfully offbeat, bittersweet character study that earned her critics' darling status. Anyone else would have made three more movies since then. July, however, doesn't consider herself to be just a filmmaker.

This is not the philosophical yammering of the deluded. She's put out a terrific collection of short stories, No One Belongs Here More Than You, worked on art projects (known as a performance artist, her work has been featured at the Guggenheim and the Museum of Modern Art), and finished a non-fiction book. There's also a novel that needs tending to.

The time between feature films hasn't diminished July's talents. Her latest, The Future (opening in Philadelphia on Aug. 12), is a moody, resonant meditation on modern life centering on a young couple, Sophie and Jason (July and Hamish Linklater), whose decision to adopt a very sick cat causes their lives to catastrophically unravel.

Paw-Paw, the feline waiting to be taken home, narrates; July provides the voice. The moon speaks. Time stops and starts. What differentiates July, who also wrote The Future, from the likes of Todd Solondz and Charlie Kaufman is that her weirdness embraces the world, not pushes back at it. She's not afraid to be vulnerable. Some may find her film's plot twists unbearably artsy or self-indulgent, but look again: They comment on how the rhythms and expectations of daily life affect us.

Thankfully, July, 37, does not let her work speak for herself. During a 40-minute interview last month, she was an interviewer's dream: eloquent, honest, and funny. She spoke about life as an "artistic polymath," the challenges and rewards of directing her anticipated follow-up, and what she wants audiences to take away from it.

Pete Croatto: When Me and You and Everyone We Know was released, a profile of you in the New York Times declared: "The next movie will be easier to finance with a bigger budget and a star or two. And Hollywood just might come knocking, as it has for other gifted, offbeat directors." Is any part of that statement true?

Miranda July: [Laughs.] Ah, let's see. It wasn't easier to finance in part because of the recession happened right around the same time and also because I think these scripts are never easy. If I had written the same exact script again they'd be like, "We know she can do this," but it had all these new things that people were unsure about.

PC: So, it was a combination of the recession and the script being too daring? Was it more one thing than the other, or did both play equal parts?

MJ: There were plenty of people who wanted to make it—it just couldn't be for very much money. That was very much determined by what the market can bear: You make it for this much, you have to sell it for this much. There's kind of a known range for that. Even if you do have a star, frankly, it doesn’t that get much higher.

PC: What's surprising to me is that the people who make these decisions have seen your work. It's not like they're expecting a romantic comedy about two New Yorkers.

MJ: Right after the first movie, there were different offers. I don't know [about] "Hollywood comes knocking," but there were a few knocks. But the other thing is, I worked on my other work for a while and came at this, you know, in a very organic way through this performance [Things We Don’t Understand and Are Definitely Not Going to Talk About, the inspiration for The Future]. But I didn't strike while the iron was hot. I never do that, it seems. To not have a star, ultimately, I did meet with a whole lot of people [for the male lead] but they didn't seem as right as the guy I chose [Linklater].

PC: You didn't feel any pressure to direct another movie right away?

MJ: I felt it, but I didn't heed it. I felt a greater pressure to put out my book of short stories.

PC: Did the time off between films help you in any way?

MJ: It helped me in every way because it was what I wanted to do. And, just practically, I was trying to make a career that was more like the career I really wanted to have, which isn't just a film career. I make a living from the fiction, not from movies. In the most practical sense, like, that's what I'm living off of. I then started writing a novel, enough to sell that. If I had just been going from indie movie to indie movie I think I'd be in dire straits.

PC: So, life got in the way, but in a good way. You had your own projects.

MJ: It wasn't life got in the way; it was very calculated, seriously. That sort of sounds like I was unaware and time just passed. If I try to write another script now it's going to be bad because I'm going to be doing it in order to prove I can do a second movie, so I need to work exactly in the way that I've had for the last 10 years.

PC: It's obviously worked for you because I read somewhere that you haven't had a day job since you were 23.

MJ: Right. I've also been quite poor and used to be a thief, so that's not saying that much, you know.

PC: I know you were arrested for shoplifting once years ago. I had no idea you had such a criminal background.

MJ: It was just years and years of not paying for stuff.

PC: Like the rest of America right now.

One line in The Future that struck me is how the film's couple, Jason and Sophie, is "in the middle of the beginning." What made you decide that now was the time for this movie, instead of 20 years later, when you may have more to say about life?

MJ: I was thinking a lot about the future. I met my husband [Mike Mills, the director of Beginners] and kind of had that moment where you realize you're going to try and be with someone for, like, the whole life. Which kind of makes you think about the whole thing. Even though it's a good thing, you're suddenly really thinking about death more and being an old person. Those were all kind of new thoughts to me, and then while I was having those new thoughts, through doing another project where I'm interviewing people selling things through the PennySaver classifieds, I met this actual person at the end of their life [her co-star, the late Joe Putterlik], this old man who had been with his wife forever who was making these raunchy cards for her. It was the lens I was looking at everything through, but you're right: You could almost make the same movie again.

PC: Though it's not epic in terms of budget and stars, The Future feels grand. It covers relationships, mortality, time, technology, and a cat serving as the narrator. How do you corral all those ideas without losing a connection with the audience?

MJ: That's the area that's really exciting to me: How can this still feel surprising, where you're engaged enough to be surprised, and funny or sad where you're actually feeling sad? All those things plus see these ideas that are not necessarily very grounded in the visual world. Some of that with this movie was letting myself be free in the way that I might in a short story or something with metaphor, but be very simple about it—it wasn't like he stopped time, he stopped time— really use the emotional value of [metaphors].

That word "epic," I would try and impress that upon people in pitch meetings: "I know this seems small or quirky or whatever, but to me this is like an epic drama." There's a journey through the night. If nothing else having that in mind constantly—this is almost like a fable, we know this story. Hopefully that intent comes through.

PC: You have that idea, but you have two ordinary people going through the ordinary twists and turns of a relationship. But there's also this grand swelling underneath.

MJ: I never want to be grand about the grand stuff. That's just embarrassing to me, because none of us are living that life. When you have grand feelings there's still these objects around; the present moment, always, something is wrong in it.

PC: One aspect of the film that spoke to me was how Sophie and Jason are tethered to the Internet. Sophie cuts them off, hoping to create a series of dances for YouTube, but instead she's paralyzed. Is it still hard for you to make that creative leap when working on something new?

MJ: Whether or not it is—and sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't—I'm always afraid of that. I think that was the main thing for me: Wow, even though I keep managing to make things, I only seem to be getting more and more afraid that I'm not going to be able to. It seemed worse looking at that.

PC: You still have that fear, even though you're well established?

MJ: Oh, yeah. Sure.

PC: Does that drive you?

MJ: Probably, yeah. It's not a relaxed environment inside. [Laughs.]

PC: Can you picture your life without that creative tension?

MJ: It's always been really high stakes to me, even before there was any attention. It's like everything has to be born out of the crucible of my inner whatever. It's not just my art. The person who lives with me knows each day we live and die a million, tiny deaths. He's not doing that, he's fine. [Laughs.] He's wired differently. But I take each thing so hard. I have kind of a sense of humor about it at this point.

PC: Reading the production notes, you talk about working in a world without distractions, as Sophie attempts to do, and that this would be about the worst thing possible because "no one would have time to watch me every second." In this environment, "my true self would haunt me, and this would be a nightmare. It was very painful to act all of this out."

Two questions: First, was making The Future therapeutic in any way? Second, is part of your artistic motivation – whether it's your performance art, short stories, or films – the desire to stay connected to the outside world?

MJ: There's a pretty isolated, lonely tendency in myself that doesn't seem to be improving wildly. [Laughs] So I really have to hurl myself at that wall. It's pretty good at that, as it turns out. I mean, the work does a good job of that. Is it therapeutic? Well, not really in the way those notes would imply, that I worked through that. Putting yourself through hard things and surviving them, there's something therapeutic about that. Part of what was painful about it was just it was a hard movie to make. We shot it in 21 days. It's therapeutic because it makes me braver by the end, and I sort of ruined the idea of affairs with creepy men. It's like, "Can't do that now, I just made a movie about it." Unfortunately, sometimes I'll point at the moon and I'll be like, "Ruined." And the beach [which is also featured in The Future]? Ruined, at least for a while.

PC: Is it hard to live a life normally and not have it tethered to anything artistic?

MJ: It is kind of hard, yeah. Sometimes I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. I'll feel myself looking for some way to use whatever the moment I'm having to get through for art. Sometimes I'll be like, "Come on, just hang out here. Everyone else here seems to be doing it." Or I'll just give in. I'll be like, "Well, we all have our crutch and that's mine." It could be worse.

PC: You told Interview magazine last year, "Life is so ridiculously gorgeous, strange, heartbreaking, horrific, etc., that we are compelled to describe it to ourselves, but we can’t! We cannot do it! And so we make art." Without getting into a debate about what art is, how does making movies help you describe life?

MJ: You can't. I always have this sense of failing at it, but there's something about the trying that makes it this other thing that's very human, that's like what a person would do if they were trying to describe life. In that, you didn't describe the thing itself, but you did a really good enactment of what we do, which is a good thing to have examples of.

PC: I'm not sure I get it.

MJ: Let's say there's God. [Gestures to wall.] You couldn't describe him, but your picture that you would paint would be a really maybe important thing, because it would have devotion in it, it would have this reaching and this yearning and it'd be this trying to get at something that's impossible to get at. That, in and of itself, is a good thing to have, but it's not God.

PC: A lot of people know you for being, to borrow a journalist's phrase, "an artistic polymath."

MJ: It makes me seem like I'm good at math, which I'm not. [Laughs.] It's the one thing I'm not good at it.

PC: How hard is it to shift from one medium to another, and what made you realize that The Future would work best as a movie?

MJ: It's easy to move between the mediums. The hard thing is sticking with the one when you really have to. At a certain point, there has to be, like, a whole year of just movie in order to make the movie. I sort of feel condemned to eighth grade. There's something kind of sad about that to me.

PC: So writing a screenplay becomes like completing your civics homework?

MJ: Right. You can do other things at the same time. The performance [Things We Don’t Understand and Are Definitely Not Going to Talk About], I felt really good about it. I liked it a lot. For one thing, I didn't want to tour. I didn't want to travel the world with it, which is the next thing you do with a performance. I don't really like that life. That was one part of it, and then I was like, "Oh, and conveniently, I need to make a second movie anyway." And I think I just kind of tricked myself in through the door on that, where I don't have to have that part where I'm like, "What's it going to be about, what idea is good enough?" I also thought if I could pull it off as a movie it'd be more interesting in this less avant-garde context.

PC: In going from one medium to another, how are your days scheduled?

MJ: It's always different, but a lot of times if I'm going to write, I'm going to write in the first half of the day. And then sometimes I'll say, "If I can write until two, then I can work on these art ideas or this performance or something that seems like a break." Or they'll just be things I need to do. Like when I was invited to be in the Venice Biennale it was like, "Rad." I had to come up with sculptures, and I had these lovely days where I would write and then go make something in clay.

PC: The reason I ask is that as a freelance writer I find it hard to toggle from a book review to a movie review…

MJ: If they're all kinds of writing, that's hard.

PC: It's much easier to go from performance art to script to something else?

MJ: They have to be pretty different, because you want the feeling that you're playing hooky from the one. That's what's useful. If it's between two writing things, sometimes that works if it's a short, fun writing thing and then your book. That can work.

PC: A lot of people think that the days are open-ended for anyone who works in a creative field, that you write or do whatever you do when the muse strikes.

MJ: No, it's all endless to-do lists and there's never enough time in the day and it's a lot of discipline.

PC: Going back to The Future, since I'm not writing about Larry Crowne, I feel this is valid question to ask: What do you want people to take away from the movie?

MJ: That's funny. In the Minneapolis screening at The Walker [Art Center], there were these two friends who were like writing friends. All they did was write together. They said, "We just wanted to say hi, but we're going to go to this place where we write and we just feel so inspired we're going to do that right now." That's like the best compliment. For me, when something makes me feel that way, that's like gold, really valuable. To be that thing…It's not necessarily that you're going actually go make something, but that maybe you feel like you have some new space that’s for you to feel something in or do something in.

PC: You want people to feel like there's some wiggle room in their lives to do the things they want to do?

MJ: Or feel something new, and that thing might be a sad feeling. I'm not saying everyone's going to go out and make crafts and be happy or something.

PC: What I love about your movies is that they're gloriously open-ended.

MJ: I guess the only thing I would hope is that they do feel something, that there'd be more an increase in feeling by the end. [Laughs.]

PC: That's a great tagline for the poster.

MJ: An increase in feeling—guaranteed.

PC: Are you optimistic about your own future or, do you, like Jason, consider yourself at the "loose change" part of your life?

MJ: I don't feel that way. So many of my friends are quite a bit older than me and I always cringe, like, I hope they don't think I think that about them. But I do sometimes have this getting ahead of myself thing, where I'm already thinking of myself as if I'm 60 or something…I don't know how I do some crazy math where it's all gone, the time. And I have to kind of remind myself: You're actually still in the scheme of things in the young part of your life, God willing. And I feel hopeful. I guess there is hope in that because I'm so invested and there's so much I want to do. I like it. [Laughs.]

PC: How's your novel going?

MJ: Well, according to these interviews, it just keeps getting realer and realer. [Laughs.] I just made a movie and now I've been promoting it. I did write a book in the last six months, but it wasn't the novel, it was a non-fiction book [It Chooses You, available this fall] that has to do with all the people I interviewed through the PennySaver thing but is also very personal. [Adopts helpful tone.] People can read that while I'm writing the novel.

PC: You're big on observing life and drawing from that. Do these interviews and the press tour feed the creative side?

MJ: Kind of, at first, although I'm sort of shutting down a bit with my interest and all that, only because I'm in self-preservation mode only as of the last couple of days. I'm out for two weeks this time, so you hit that one-week-to-go wall. That stuff is interesting. I've been doing this, also, for six months on and off. There's part of me that feels really, really guilty for not working every day, not writing or making something new.

PC: Do you squeeze work in on plane trips, in your hotel room?

MJ: I don't. I'm not really writing. Sometimes I have an idea, but this is pretty hard work. I have to give myself a break. And also, to some degree, I'm going to be writing for the next few years. This is the part that you fantasize about when you're writing. So it's OK.

PC: So sitting across the table from a sweaty, bearded journalist is part of the dream?

MJ: [Laughs.] I've been waiting for this!

The Film Round-Up, August 2011

2011-08-02T08:30:00.000-07:00

With the exception of the stupendously overrated "Another Earth," this was a good batch of flicks. After a stretch that I've been through, it was nice to have fun at the movies again.

By the way, rent "Testament" instead of "Another Earth." The former film mixes quiet terror and personal uncertainty with nary a misstep. It's the movie the fancy-pants "Another Earth" strives to be. And it's got a wonderful performance by Jane Alexander (pictured).

These reviews previously appeared in "ICON" and are reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

***********************

The Future (Dir; Miranda July). Starring: Miranda July, Hamish Linklater, David Warshofsky, Joe Putterlik, Isabella Acres, Angela Trimbur. Writer/director July's long-awaited, haunting follow-up to Me and You and Everyone We Know stays with you. A misguided, mostly housebound couple (July, Linklater) decides to adopt an injured cat, prompting them to quit their jobs and spend a month living meaningful lives before feline parenthood. She sets out to perform a dance a day, an artistic endeavor that paralyzes her, especially when she cancels Internet service. He becomes a full-time volunteer who spends all day soliciting donations from Californians uninterested in saving the environment. Desperate for attention, she randomly connects with a successful businessman (Warshofsky) who provides it. And, of course, there's a narrating cat, a talking moon, and time stoppage. Quirky and occasionally baffling, but the film is always compelling. July, who's also an acclaimed short story writer and artist, explores our crippling dependence on technology, the drudgery of relationships, and how our need for acceptance can poison us. July's ability to establish her special kind of weirdness, while maintaining her characters' humanity and telling hard truths, makes me wish she had fewer occupations. See interview on page TK. **** [R]

Point Blank (Dir: Fred Cavayé). Starring: Gilles Lellouche, Roschdy Zem, Elena Anaya, Gérard Lanvin. When nurse's aide Samuel Pierret (Lellouche) foils a murder attempt on a mysterious patient (Zem), there are unexpected consequences. The next day, after a vicious home attack, Samuel's very pregnant wife (Anaya) is kidnapped. If he doesn't bring the patient to the abductors within three hours she's dead, but when Samuel's new lethally skilled companion has his own score to settle, plans change. Breathlessly paced French thriller—which bears no resemblance to John Boorman's 1967 hard boiled classic—never lets its foot off the gas, thanks to a series of clever plot twists and terrific action scenes. Little things matter here: Crisp editing, kinetic, but lingering camerawork that allows you to enjoy the action, and a filmmaker clearly influenced by the ordinary guy heroics of Die Hard and The Fugitive. It's refreshing to see Lellouche, a regular looking person with a regular body, use his wits to triumph. He and Zem are excellent as the unlikely, desperate allies, and Cavayé never resorts to Lethal Weapon-style riffing. You want smart summer fun? Look no further. **** [R]

Another Earth (Dir: Mike Cahill). Starring: Brit Marling, William Mapother. Four years ago, aspiring astrophysicist Rhoda (co-writer and producer Marling) obliterated her future when she drunkenly careened into a stopped car, killing the family of a successful conductor (Mapother). That same night, scientists discovered a second Earth, or Earth 2. Freshly released from prison, Rhoda, now sulking through a grief-induced fog as a school custodian, seeks to make amends with the widower. Before she can tell him the truth, Rhoda loses her nerve and misrepresents herself, leading to a problematic relationship, especially when she gets the chance to visit Earth 2. Much ballyhooed film starts promisingly but there's a giant flaw: The looming presence of a parallel Earth is nothing more than a pretentious and pandering distraction, a metaphorical shiny object used to lend faux gravity to the story of two troubled lovers. Here is a prime example of the damage that results when concept overrules characters. ** [PG-13]

The Myth of the American Sleepover (Dir: David Robert Mitchell). Starring: Marlon Morton, Amanda Bauer, Claire Sloma, Brett Jacobsen, Nikita Ramsey, Jade Ramsey. The events of this ensemble teen drama unfold over the last night of summer at several sleepovers in a Midwestern suburb. Young heartthrob Rob (Morton) ditches his friends to find the pretty blonde who locked eyes with him at the supermarket. New kid in town Claudia (Bauer) uncovers a hurtful secret involving her track teammate (Shayla Curran). Before heading to her friend's house, freshman-to-be Maggie heads to a house party where she discovers that her pool boy crush has some depth. And heartbroken college student Scott (Jacobsen) attempts to find himself by romancing attractive twin sisters (Nikita and Jade Ramsey) at their college orientation. The film's easygoing pace and understated nature are to its benefit as debut director/writer Mitchell evokes the drama and impatience that accompanies those tiny slices of independence in a suburban teenager's life. Refreshingly free of guile and gloss, this sincere depiction of growing up is comparable to Dazed and Confused and American Graffiti (right down to the mysterious blonde). Also available On Demand. *** [NR]

The Big Review: Crazy, Stupid, Love.

2011-08-01T14:57:00.000-07:00

Patronizing, simply-minded, unbearable.

This review previously appeared in "ICON" and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

*****************
What a waste. That's all that came to mind after finishing the star-studded unraveling that is Glenn Ficarra and John Requa's Crazy, Stupid, Love. What a waste of talent. What a waste of a promising story. You watch with your mouth agape and your intelligence insulted as good performers sink deeper and deeper into sitcomish misunderstandings and life-affirming speeches disguised as dialogue. No one surfaces.

Steve Carell and Julianne Moore play Cal and Emily Weaver, high school sweethearts turned longtime married couple. Now in their forties, things have grown stale. He's become immune to the boredom; Emily not so much. As they prepare to order dessert, she requests a divorce. On the drive home from the restaurant, Emily admits to having an affair with a co-worker. Cal responds by exiting the car—as it's moving.

Sweet and meek, Cal moves out and settles into the sad caricature of middle-aged single life: shabby condo, baggy clothes, and a nighttime visit to the local bar, where he bitches and moans about being a cuckold. Cal's vocal self-loathing draws the attention of the establishment's lothario, Jacob (Ryan Gosling). The young man takes pity on Cal, remaking him in his sharply dressed ("Be better than The Gap."), bed-hopping image. It works, only Cal still considers Emily his soul mate, and no amount of nighttime frolicking with nubile playthings can convince him otherwise. Emily misses Cal, but can't get over his new lifestyle, an odd stance for an admitted adulterer.

This is where the movie begins its steep, fatal decline. Cal's forgiveness and Emily's galling hypocrisy can't be overlooked just because they're made for each other. But that's exactly what writer Dan Fogelman (Fred Claus, Cars 2) believes. He doesn't illuminate Cal and Emily's history together, and he certainly doesn't reveal the difficulties in sustaining a long-term relationship. Instead, love will save the day for all! Jake falls for an attractive aspiring lawyer (Emma Stone) who cuts through his ladykiller façade when only their souls are bared during a late-night rendezvous. We must endure a profoundly stupid series of scenes involving Cal and Emily's eighth-grade son (Jonah Bobo) and his babysitter (Analeigh Tipton), starting with her walking in on him as he masturbates.

The boy is so in love with her that he publicly states his affection in front of the whole school and shares his feelings on the school's front billboard. Such acts would require a stern lecture from the parents or a visit to the school psychologist; instead, the little creep is painted as a fearless romantic. The older woman, if you want to call a high school senior that, is infatuated with Cal but can't get the words out. Then there's Kevin Bacon, looking lost, as Emily's office paramour. Marisa Tomei, in a scorned-women-are-crazy role more fit for Jerry Springer, embarrasses herself as Cal's first conquest. Snoozy crooner Josh Groban shows up as Stone's "human valium" boyfriend. He fares best. That's not good.

Last year's playful, brainless Valentine's Day glamorized the shallow holiday among a group of attractive Los Angelinos, an approach that Crazy, Stupid, Love. adapts to fragile, damaged souls. This isn't misery romantic? move defies logic, and paints Cal and Emily as soulless pawns, easily answered questions. The couple's problems get buried underneath a pile of pat explanations—Emily wants a divorce because "we haven't been us for a long time"—and distractions: obnoxiously wise 13-year-olds, Gosling's sculpted abs, and a principal cast the size of my senior year class. The last 20 minutes offer everything but Tomei going topless, including a backyard fight involving at least four coincidences so remote that the whole scene could only occur in a fever dream. Afterward, we have to stomach a graduation ceremony that serves as a showcase on how love conquers all.

And offends our intelligence. Every problem in Crazy, Stupid, Love. exists because no one asks questions or talks directly to the responsible party. Problems in a relationship don't get solved with crazy, stupid gestures but by long talks and hard truths. It takes effort, and even then the union may not be saved. (Hell, even Mrs. Doubtfire had the good sense to know that.) Crazy, Stupid, Love. just wants the good stuff. Love, however you want to describe it, doesn't work that way. Neither does anything else in this lazy, condescending movie that turns the term "crowd pleaser" into an expletive. [PG-13]

Review of Captain America: The First Avenger

2011-07-27T07:15:00.000-07:00

What do you get when you combine a boring director with a boring leading man? I'll give you three guesses. Read the review, which previously appeared in "The Weekender," here.

P.S.--Great photo, right?

The Verdict on "Valentine's Day"

2011-07-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

In order to answer a nagging concern about "Crazy, Stupid, Love." I finally saw Garry Marshall's ode to attractive people falling in love despite fake obstacles and contrivances.

My fiancee's aunt had liked the movie, especially the number of hunky guys present, a fact that had no influence on me. She then added, "But there's also Jessica Biel and Anne Hathaway..."

"Are they topless?" I replied.

Sadly, after watching "Valentine's Day" from beginning to end I can report: No female actress gets topless, though Shirley MacClaine does wear a lovely series of blouses. Oh, and you see Hector Elizondo's package.

One of those things is true. Either way, proceed with caution.

An Awakening in an Elantra

2011-07-21T09:00:00.001-07:00

Unless you live smack dab in a city or can have publicists willingly give out DVD screeners, reviewing movies requires a car. This is especially true now that I'm living outside Philadelphia, a commuter friendly city that holds screenings in the adjacent suburbs.

Those who read this blog regularly--all three of you--know that I'm not the biggest fan of driving. I'll do it, but I get nervous. What is the traffic like? Where can I park? What if I get lost? How much gas will I need? A few months ago, I endured a series of unfortunate events that made me realize that I need to not overcomplicate the very simple, sometimes enjoyable task of going from point A to point B.

Bottom line: I had to grow a pair.

In January I went to a screening of "Biutiful" in Philadelphia. As is my overprepared wont, I gave myself plenty of time, brought directions, and hired a sherpah to guide me through the rough patches. Things were going fine until I hit a nasty patch of traffic. The screening was at 10 a.m. The minutes sped by 9:40, 9:50 a.m. Like the mature, sensible adult I am, I started to panic.

Got on the exit, now racing to the parking garage like I'm in the nerdiest version of "Bullit." I got to the parking garage, and realized I was in the service vehicle entrance. Flustered, I tried to figure out where I was, how I got here, how I was going to get out....

Crash!

Me and my car had gone through the parking garage's gate.

The car was fine, but mortified doesn't begin to describe how I felt. My mind raced through options and then I realized I had to come clean. So I went to the garage's office, and explained what happened and that I was prepared to compensate for the cost of the damage. The manager, couldn't have been nicer. She said that this thing happens often, not to worry about it, and just to reenter.

By the way, I made the screening on time.

Since then, I've been a little reluctant to drive into Philly for screenings. The fiancee, who I think was a getaway man in a past life, loves to drive. Since she can tag along to most screenings now, she handles the commute.

This week I had two screenings in Philly that I had to drive myself to. The trips were smooth and I drove with gusto and verve (i.e., well above the speed limit). As I headed for home last night, I realized how stupid I had been. I'm not dismantling a bomb. I'm not facing the firing squad. I'm driving a friggin' car.

Imagine employing the same scaredy cat mindset to pay bills:

Oh god, what if I don't sign my name on the check? If it's a day late, will the creditors start calling? Did I spell the company's name right? What color ink should I use? Is that pen full? Is that pen full?!?!

Here's the other thing: I want people to rely on me. If I can't drive someone to the airport, what's going to happen when a real emergency arises? Being dependable isn't something you can be on a whim. It takes effort--and the personal insight that only comes on a mad dash to see a bleak Spanish film.

P.S.--On the way back from "Biutiful," I mistakenly chose the wrong address on the GPS, forcing me to take a roundabout way home. A 35 minute drive took close to 90 minutes. I have no philosophical bon mots to share. That was just my own shining stupidity.

The Etc.--A Tale of Two Fourths, Celeb Profiles, Commercial Wives

2011-07-08T13:18:00.000-07:00

Though I've only lived in Bucks County for less than a year, I really like it. One reason is that it's near Philadelphia, a city that is completely without airs.

I lived within a train ride of New York for years and years. I love the city and its neighborhoods and its quirky urgency. But I'm always aware that I'm not part of the club and its pricey perks. I can see it in the stares of some New Yorkers when I tell them where I live. It was even worse when I called New Jersey home. I could feel people imagining me standing in line at the Olive Garden or spending my weekends shopping for discount James Patterson novels at BJ's.

Never mind that I didn't work in New York or couldn't afford to live there unless I roomed with four dudes in a studio apartment the size of a garden shed. To some people, not living in New York was an irredeemable character flaw.

The difference between Philadelphia and New York can be found in its holiday celebrations. Last weekend, I switched back and forth between their July 4th events, which took place on a sultry evening.

New York's emcee and setting: An immaculately groomed Nick Lachey in front of a gorgeous backdrop of the Hudson River and gloriuously phallic buildings.

Philadelphia's: In the downtown, where some dude in a t-shirt and shorts drenched in sweat to the point that he looked like he had just run through a car wash.

New York's star musical guest: Beyonce, who looked like a million damn dollars.

Philadelphia's: The O'Jays' Eddie Levert, dressed in the event's t-shirt, who was straining so hard and sweating so profusely, I thought about calling 911.

New York's crowd: Enthusiastic, but subdued.

Philadelphia's crowd: During Boyz II Men's performance--yes, they're still around apparently--a large woman got onstage and started grinding on one of the singers. After he retreated to warble the remainder of a 15-year-old hit, the modern-day Moms Mabley danced for at least another minute before anyone escorted her off. The Roots' tuba player was in hysterics.

New York's fireworks: Spectacular

Philadelphia's fireworks: I don't know. I never saw any and I watched for an hour. The fiancee watched longer before calling it a night.

But here's the thing. I loved Philly's celebration, because it felt like a terrific outdoor barbecue complete with embarrassing family members and mistakes. In short, it was the kind of place where I'd have a good time, where anyone was welcome.

Philly is growing on me.

--I love "GQ" but it has to stop assigning young female journalists these "nights on the town" pieces with hunky celebrities. I realize that profiling boring matinee idols like Channing Tatum and Chris Evans is torture, but this approach doesn't work for several reasons.

a.) It takes away from the subject. It's just my opinion, but a reporter should never make him or herself the subject of the story.

b.) It's gimmicky -- you're not catching the subject in his element -- and it takes the place of real reporting. That's what made Gay Talese's legendary profile of Sinatra so good--he chased outside sources. Chris Jones excels as these because he captures Benicio del Toro or Naomi Watts at a certain time in their lives.

c.) Unless subject and writer get down to business in the bathroom stall of a trendy nightclub, it's just an orchestrated PR stunt to make the subject seem like a regular guy.

--Is there a reason why the wives on TV commercials are so bitchy? Have you seen the one for "5 Hour Energy" where the wife is angry that her previously sleepy husband now has the temerity to work out with her? Or what about the one for NBA merchandise where the alarm rings and the wife punches her jersey-wearing husband?

At some point before I dide, I'd love to see a sitcom or a commercial where husbands are not portrayed as clueless bozos so grateful to have a reasonably attractive partner that they put up with surly, patronizing behavior.

--Articles to read: Ryan D'Agostino's brilliant profile of Dr. William Petit; Robert Huber's examination of Philadelphia's scandal-plagued Catholic priests in "Philadelphia"; Michael J. Mooney's look at a high-school basketball hoax in Texas.

--"Hoarders" is back, which makes me wonder: Why are there never any attractive hoarders?

Book of the Month, July 2011

2011-07-06T11:52:00.001-07:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and their covers have such pretty colors.

Since this blog currently features a review of "Page One" and an interview with the doc's director, Andrew Rossi, it's only that this month's BOM covers another publishing giant--"Sports Illustrated."

Michael MacCambridge's "The Franchise" is a thoroughly researched, immensely entertaining history of "SI," its office politics and hard-living staff. The latter includes legendary college football scribe Dan Jenkins (who partied like a rock star), bonus king Frank Deford (who left to edit the ill-fated sports daily, "The National"), and Mark Kram (a tempestuous, talented boxing writer who went off the rails).

"The Franchise" is an outstanding, sadly overlooked predecessor to "Those Guys Have All the Fun," James Andrew Miller and Tom Shales's rock-solid oral history of ESPN. You may also enjoy MacCambridge's inspiration: Robert Draper's excellent history of "Rolling Stone" magazine.

That's all for now. Until next month, read in peace.

P.S.--"The Fighter" is still lousy.

The Andrew Rossi Q&A

2011-07-05T06:29:00.000-07:00

Who's up for a little chat with the director of "Page One: Inside the New York Times"? Not only was Rossi engaging, I learned something about postmodernism. And he wiped out the memory of that day's train ride to Philly, which featured two meth addicts on the verge of collpase.

Working on scheduling an interview next month with an indie film darling. Who is it? Start your guessing.

This article previously appeared in the July issue of ICON and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

******************

Yes, documentary filmmaker Andrew Rossi did read the print edition New York Times this morning on the train ride from New York to Philadelphia. But the presence of a cell phone and some kind of smart phone—I'm not enough of a tech head to recognize the brand—suggests that Rossi stays informed in other ways.

That dichotomy is at the heart of Rossi's terrific documentary, Page One: Inside the New York Times, which profiles the paper's media desk. The staff of 14 covers the changing media world, including the famed newspaper's own struggles. Through the personal and professional developments at the Times, Rossi captures the evolution of journalism mid-stream. It involves more than advances in technology and the growing influence of social media. People's careers are on the line.

In a 25-minute interview, Rossi, an associate producer on another splendid newsroom documentary (Control Room), talks about Page One's "script," what the recent resignation of Times' executive editor Bill Keller signifies, and offers job advice to a worried interviewer.

Page One opens July 1 in Philadelphia.

Pete Croatto: It took six months of negotiations for the New York Times to agree to be involved in this film. When did the breakthrough occur?

Andrew Rossi: One of the more important meetings was with the journalists of the media desk. I came to the meeting [with] pink eye because my young daughter was sick and I got it from her. So I came to the meeting with red, puffy eyes. I told them, "I thought if I was crying during this meeting you would decide to be nice, and say yes."

I probably had one of the most tense meetings in the whole process. A lot of the journalists were concerned that while I was shooting, how could they trust that what I would capture would not compromise sources. There was a lot of talk about process. I just very frankly and deliberately explained that my process is in this tradition of Cinéma vérité: to shoot and collect materials that render an accurate portrait of what I'm shooting, of what my subject is. It's a relationship of trust, so that, of course, I'm not going to sneak a shot of something and put it on YouTube and try to compromise people's sources or embarrass them.

Instead, what I'm doing is I'm trying to give viewers this front row seat inside the four walls of an institution, which could be the Wall Street Journal or the Washington Post or the Los Angeles Times for that matter—anywhere that has original reporting as its main base—and let people be themselves. And let viewers then decide: Is this something that's very archaic and seems bloated and is a waste? Or rather are we seeing vital conversations and truth squadding going on to create a paper every day that is contributing to our understanding of the world. I think the fact that I wasn't going in with some agenda other than just to capture what was going on there, it resonated with them.

PC: It had to be weird for them because the reporters are used to being the profilers, and now they're the subjects. Did you sense any discomfort on that end, that they couldn't control the final product?

AR: I found with [media desk editor] Bruce [Headlam] and [media columnist] David [Carr] and [reporter] Brian [Stelter] a real sense of pleasure to engage in conversations that challenged the stories that they were writing, challenged their own conclusions, and almost provided them with an outlet to think more broadly about some of the stories that they were reporting. I had to be a real student of their own work and try to tease out the stories that are most emblematic of what's happening to the media landscape and constantly be aware of what their schedules were and what they were planning to write on.

PC: You were essentially a one-man crew. How hard was it to chronicle the media desk but also the editor, the reporters, and the paper itself?

AR: It was extremely challenging, but I was very lucky to have a co-producer and co-writer, Kate Novack, who I was able to call on while I was shooting. I'd schedule to do an interview with [Times' executive editor] Bill Keller and then say, "OK Kate, go to talk to him about the Afghan war logs being released this morning. Can you help come up with questions? Somebody mentioned x, y, z. Can you do some research on that?" And then Kate was also in the process of compiling a list of and researching people outside the Times that we could speak to as a counterpoint. Then in the down time moments from shooting in the building, we would then assemble and do these other interviews.

PC: You mentioned how Ms. Novack was the film's co-writer, which I find odd since this is a documentary. It's not as if there's scripted dialogue. Why is there a "written by" credit?

AR: We did actually cull David's columns and produce a sort-of narration, a voiceover that comes in and out of the film, so we did do that. I was shooting for about 14 months, but in order to structure…we viewed it as a play within a play. All of the different stories that the writers are producing are these little vignettes or scenes that illuminate some aspect of the media landscape. Then there's this macro-, meta-play, which is what's happening to the paper itself and to their own personal trajectories there. Ordering all that material, Kate and I sort of wrote that. We decided what the order should be and how one thing relates to another and when we needed to go out to David Remnick [editor of the New Yorker] to provide some insight or [media journalist/author] Sarah Ellison.

PC: How hard is it to coordinate a script that was so complicated?

AR: It was joyous. It's a thrill.

PC: Really?

AR: Yeah. It's physical. It's intellectual. It's a real fusion of many different muscles—both mental and physical.

PC: So, as a filmmaker, there's a creative challenge in putting this together?

AR: There is, but there's also a sense of like, put yourself in the right place at the right time. The other layer of challenges was that there was an urgency to complete the film in a timeframe where it could sort of enter the broader cultural conversation and have an impact.

PC: The fact that newspapers are dying has been talked about for years. In making this movie how did you make that debate current and attention grabbing?

AR: So, people have been trying to make a "newspaper movie" for years. I was, in fact, developing something for HBO at the time when I started on this. I was told that a new producer was coming to HBO every week with an idea about doing a newspaper movie. As you say, this crisis in the newspaper business has been gaining increasing urgency for like five years. But when I looked at the problem is when it reached the front door of the New York Times.

I had a pre-existing relationship with David Carr and it seemed that this idea of focusing on the media desk while giving this intimate portrait of, in a Cinéma vérité format, what people do at the New York Times, which has this incredible brand, could tackle some of the largest theoretical debates in the question about the future of journalism. But [we'd] also have this fascinating character with a great sense of humor and a real poetic take on the media that I think also taps into something even larger than newspapers—society's general ambivalence about digitization.

PC: Was it always the plan to have David Carr as the guy up in front, or did that happen as filming progressed?

AR: He was actually going to be the sole protagonist, initially. Then we broadened out to include the entire media desk and it became more of an ensemble. Even when we transitioned to that structure, David was always what I called the Virgil character, from Dante's Inferno. Virgil is taking Dante through the various [circles] of hell.

PC: Is that what the Times is going through right now, that it's on this tumultuous journey that has a destination but before it gets there, a hell of a lot is going to happen?

AR: I would say, to continue with this analogy, that they're in purgatory. I think Bill Keller stepping down last week really crystallizes this idea that an era of crisis at the Times has abated, come to a close.

PC: Really? Because in the movie he has that great line where he says that it feels like he's wearing a bloody butcher's smock. You think his leaving is more about things being resolved, but couldn't it be fatigue? He's been executive editor for about 10 years.

AR: I believe that his decision to step down was made on the basis of him feeling that the paper was in a more secure position than it was when he assumed the role [after the Howell Raines-Jayson Blair scandal], and that he was able to see the paper through the Great Recession, through two rounds of layoffs, corrections in the reporting that Judith Miller did on WMDs (weapons of mass destruction). Also, on his watch, he had so many journalists killed or kidnapped. It's been a very tumultuous period in American life. You take any two or three month snapshot, with the tsunami and nuclear disaster in Japan, he's had a really full plate in addition to this other unforeseen layer of economic disaster and calamity in the newspaper business.

The fact that now he, along with the publisher, has sort of assessed that he can step down and hand off a paper to Jill Abramson that has preserved his promise of providing quality journalism—to me, is a very hopeful event. But the challenges all remain. I think the movie kind of takes on a whole other level of significance.

PC: You've mentioned the movie's themes and sub-themes, but in the process of filming day after day for 14 months did you think to yourself, "Where are we going with this?" Or did you have a game plain laid out?

AR: At the risk of sounding sort of pretentious, I'm an admirer of postmodern theory in addition to [screenplay teacher] Robert McKee, who is the author of Story. So I view my process of telling story as a fusion of bricolage in the sense of [French anthropologist Claude] Lévi-Strauss, the notion of combining found objects to create meaning. So then everything that I'm collecting in the vérité sense are all these little elements that can be put together within a set of genre expectations about three-act structure and McKee's idea of plusses and minuses and scenes turning in a way that a film audience can [appreciate].

PC: Doesn't this style go against your status as a Cinéma vérité director?

AR: I think it goes back to this notion of [the film] being a play within a play. When we're following Brian Stelter reporting on this video that WikiLeaks has released with the Reuters journalist, and then Bruce Headlam is trying to have Brian finish the story so he can pitch it to the A1 meeting. And then Bill Keller and [editor] Ian Fisher and Bruce are debating the accuracy of the video and whether WikiLeaks is an advocacy group or a journalistic group. All that material is being collected in a classic Cinéma vérité manner, meaning that I'm really trying to be, as much as possible, a fly on the wall. All of that gets presented in that scene. There are a couple of tangents into comparisons with the Pentagon Papers, but for the most part that's 10 minutes just on the reporting of one story and one day, which is not necessarily so common in most reality-influenced documentary films or television that we see.

There's this wonderful line where Bruce Headlam is asking Brian for his article and Brian is sort of equivocating, and then Bruce turns to the camera and says, "He's lying." To me, that's a classic vérité moment, it's true to the moment. That's not a sit down interview with someone like, "What was it like to write the story?" That's really capturing the scene in the newsroom unfolding.

PC: So it's organized reality?

AR: I view it almost like literary journalism, but with picture instead of words.

PC: You do interview Gay Talese, who's a legend in the genre.

AR: That, and the New Journalism that he was a pioneer of, is such an inspiration to me. And The Kingdom and the Power, specifically, I think is a breathtaking work.

PC: If the Times fails, what do you think is the ripple effect?

AR: I think the ripple effect would be devastating. "Consider the source" is the tagline that Participant Media [the film's co-distributor] came up with. I think it's really important because all the stories that are linked to [online]. I think there's a New York Times article tweeted every four seconds, stories on Facebook, stories that get aggregated or just referred to all across the net or get embedded in news reports that we watch on television. The New York Times is one of a handful of organizations that's doing original iron-core news reporting like [writer/author] Alex Jones refers to.

PC: I'm a journalist. It used to be, as media desk reporter Tim Arango says in the movie, that if you got to the New York Times you had a 30-year career. Where do people like me go now?

AR: You're at The City Paper?

PC: Actually, I write for ICON, it's a monthly A&E pub. But I also write for newspapers, magazines, Web sites. I'm just curious, where is that new stability?

AR: It sounds like you're already living a sort of challenging, professional life.

PC: I'll show you my checkbook.

AR: Unfortunately, it's probably more of the same.

Film Round-Up for June 2011

2011-07-04T20:18:00.000-07:00

In this edition of the Film Round-Up, a bland documentary, a bold indie film, a family-style blockbuster, and one of the worst movies of the year.

Note to Emma Roberts: You can't go on like this. Invite Emma Stone to lunch and figure out how she does it. IM Carey Mulligan. Call you Aunt Julia and learn how she got into "Pretty Woman" territory.

Actually, I just saw "Larry Crowne." You may want to hold off on that last phone call.

As always, these reviews previously appeared in "ICON" and are reprinted with permission (thanks, Trina).

***********

All In: The Poker Movie (Dir: Douglas Tirola). Tirola's documentary examines the factors behind poker's rise over the last decade-and-a-half: namely, the 1998 Matt Damon-Edward Norton drama Rounders, the advent of technology that actually made televised poker games absorbing, and the unlikely success story of Chris Moneymaker. An unsuccessful, inveterate gambler, the aptly named accountant, who could barely make ends meet, entered the 2003 World Series of Poker—and won the whole thing. His victory cemented poker's anybody-can-win reputation, and saved the sport/game/hobby from irrelevance. Tirola adroitly details poker's journey to pop culture prominence, so the movie is informative. Overall, it's as dry as toast. There's no central figure and Tirola has nothing to offer aside from facts and insight. We're subjected to another entry in documentary films' current obnoxious trend: opinion-spouting experts taking the place of narrative momentum. Despite its wide array of sources (poker players, writers, even Kenny Rogers), All In feels utilitarian, like the ambitious adaptation of an instruction manual or a pamphlet. ** [NR]

Septien (Dir: Michael Tully). Starring: Robert Longstreet, Onur Tukel, Michael Tully, Mark Darby Robinson, Rachel Korine, Jim Willingham, John Maringouin. Eighteen years ago, Cornelius Rawlings (Tully), a star high school athlete, vanished. Bearded and expressionless, Con has finally returned to the family farm, and to his two equally eccentric brothers—Amos (Tukel), whose stylish, gruesomely violent paintings speak of the family's secret pain, and Ezra (Longstreet), the effeminate "matriarch" obsessed with cleaning and order. The family must address its issues when Con's morally dubious coach (Robinson), now a plumber, fixes the farm's septic tank, prompting the unannounced arrival of a black-clad preacher (Maringouin). Utterly bizarre in spots (try to forget the men-on-man breast sucking scene), mysterious to the point of being opaque, but Tully unearths the humanity from the layers of oddness. Septien details the dark side of the stoic, long admired model of manhood: dangerous emotions have nowhere to go. Obviously, not for everyone's taste. As for the definition of "septien," Tully says it captures "a particular feeling of nostalgia," which for the sports-loving director/writer could refer to Rafael Septien, the scandal-plagued place kicker who played in the National Football League from 1977 to 1986. Available on-demand. *** [NR]

The Art of Getting By (Dir: Gavin Wiesen). Starring: Freddie Highmore, Emma Roberts, Michael Angarano, Rita Wilson, Sam Robards, Elizabeth Reaser, Blair Underwood. Fatalistic NYC prep school student and "Teflon slacker" George Zinavoy (Highmore) is content to doodle in his textbooks and drift through his senior year. Thanks to a selfless act, he becomes friends with a sexy, sophisticated classmate (Roberts). They're clearly meant for each other, but since he's a brooding, moody artiste—and the movie's running time desperately needs padding—they can't connect. The first of Wiesen's many mistakes is building a movie around an unlikable, unappealing caricature of a mopey teen. The writer/director makes no attempt to turn George into a human being or to use him to satirize his Upper West Side trust fund baby classmates. Everything is approached with solemn intentions, so we're asked to sympathize with attractive kids living in million dollar apartments, whose New Year's Eve parties take place in lavish nightclubs with lax alcohol policies. By saddling these mature kids with grown-up problems in adult situations, Wiesen manages to isolate everyone. Adults will find the results fetishistic, like a sweeter version of Kids. Teens will find the movie condescending unless they've attended Phillips Exeter Academy or have slept with 25-year-olds. The Art of Getting By isn't just divorced from reality; I'm pretty sure it's divorced from anything that's ever happened on Earth. * [PG-13]

Super 8 (Dir: J.J. Abrams). Starring: Joel Courtney, Kyle Chandler, Riley Griffiths, Elle Fanning, Ron Eldard, Noah Emmerich. For a group of friends in the sleepy town of Lillian, Ohio, the summer of 1979 means working on a no-budget zombie flick that features a middle-school beauty (Fanning) and loads of fake blood. A different, troubling excitement builds when a train derails in the middle of their shoot, prompting a lot of missing electronics and the visit of military personnel with vague intentions. Writer/director Abrams (the most recent Star Trek) again avoids blockbuster bombast, crafting a tension-filled good time that doubles as a tender account of growing up and letting go. Courtney is wonderful as the shy, motherless kid who finds his voice, with Chandler outstanding as the youngster's gruff and clearly overwhelmed deputy father. By concentrating on people—and timing his thrills with precision—Abrams has fashioned a family adventure on par with E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial and Raiders of the Lost Ark. Fitting then that Steven Spielberg served as a producer. **** [PG-13]

The Big Review: Page One: Inside the New York Times

2011-07-03T20:09:00.001-07:00

Excellent. David Carr steals the damn show.

(This review previously appeared in "ICON" and is reprinted with permission. Thanks, Trina.)

*************

Instead of documentary filmmakers reporting on a subject or demonstrating their own style, an increasing number are content to feature a non-stop, yammering array of experts. Like being read a 3,500-word magazine article or attending a lecture where the speakers change every 30 seconds, this strategy does not contribute to first-rate filmmaking.

Andrew Rossi's Page One: Inside The New York Times, which covers the newspaper industry's tenuous status, isn't just about smart theories and grave predictions. It's about people's livelihoods. Even at the paper of record, no one is safe, a human component that elevates Rossi's film. We get much more than an absorbing think piece about uncertain times (or Times).

The director spent over a year following the goings-on at the Times' media desk, which was created in 2008 to cover the ever-changing media world—including the Times' own layoffs and financial problems. We meet Bruce Headlam, the no-nonsense editor. David Carr, the been-around-the-block star who is the paper's most passionate defender. Tech-savvy wunderkind Brian Stelter is a new breed of reporter and, possibly, an odd fit. He's astounded when reporters boast of writing stories that he saw on Twitter 12 hours ago. Executive editor Bill Keller, who recently announced that he's stepping down, steers the ship through choppy waters.

Though other sources elaborate on journalism's evolution, Rossi shows the real-life implications. There's a macabre aura to the media desk. Its staff exposes the limits of traditional mass media, which the Times represents. Stelter sums it up when writing about WikiLeaks' posting decrypted footage of a 2007 U.S. Army assault on Baghdad: "They just dropped it off on YouTube and waited for the world to find it." The Times' reputation as an indispensable news source is at risk. Online rebels like Julian Assange can provide information beyond the capabilities of a typical newsroom. Social media like Twitter and Facebook mean that anyone can share a story. And don't forget blogs, which is how Stelter, who ran TVNewser, reached national prominence before joining the Times at the preposterously young age of 21.

Reporter Tim Arango says landing at the Times once meant a 30-year career. Not anymore. We see veterans get laid off, including one whose interview is filmed against a sad background: her office belongings packed in bags. The battle between old world and new world exists at the Times. Carr, the raspy voiced, eloquently cantankerous media columnist, is a classic newspaperman and the film's central figure. During an announcement for a partnership between Vice Magazine and CNN, the magazine's founder, Shane Smith, declares that his special on Liberia trumps the Times' coverage. "Just a sec, time out," Carr interrupts. "Before you ever went there, we've had reporters there reporting on genocide after genocide. Just because you put on a f***ing safari helmet and looked at some poop doesn't give you the right to insult what we do." He quips that Stelter is actually a robot assembled in the newspaper's basement whose purpose is to destroy him.

A former cocaine addict and welfare recipient, Carr has the survival skills of a cockroach. He represents the value of the New York Times and other newspapers: People go into the world and report stories. This is illustrated by one of the pointless new media vs. old media conferences that Carr attends. In the film, the 54-year-old battles it out with Newser, a Web site that collects major headlines which serve as links to stories. He holds up a print out of the site's home page. Then, he reveals the home page featuring headlines actually reported by Newser staff—it's riddled with holes. The Internet may allow us to get news instantly and for anyone to share an opinion on any story. But someone has to pursue those stories. That requires old-fashioned attributes like digging for facts in unpleasant places and interviewing the reluctant.

The New York Times has one of the best collections of reporters in the world, which is the source of the paper's influence: It provides news for so many other outlets. How much longer will that last before Gawker, Apple, or Google find a shortcut? Will reporting then become an undesirable trade like auto repair or plumbing? Rossi doesn't rely on talking heads or provide easy answers. He shows where journalism is headed, where it's been, and profiles the survivors finding their place in the reshuffling. That uncertainty makes Page One a captivating and honest film. [R]

"N...As In Not Working."

2011-06-21T09:59:00.000-07:00

If you'll indulge me, an imaginary conversation between the theater manager and the town's giant letter distributor.

Manager: What are you talking about, Demetri?

Demetri (in vaguely threatening accent reminscent of Teddy KGB in "Rounders"): That is business, my friend. Costs go up.

Mananger: Ns are the money letters. What am I going to do when "Transformers" and "Planet of the Apes" come out?

Demetri: That not my problem. People will understand. You pay price or make ahdjustment. It very simple, no?

Manager: It looks like a drunk dyslexic is putting up these titles. "Pa Da" sounds like an early Mira Nair film, and "Ha Gover"...What is that French, Scandinavian? No one's gonna know what's playing.

Demetri (blows cigarette smoke, knows his next move): I tell you what. You either stop crying like a lihtle guryl or pay $500 per "N" and every other Sajack letter. That is deal.

Manager (trying to control himself, but must break free): I'll see you in hell, you crazy Russian. I don't need you or your precious consonants.

(Hangs up phone. Fueled by inspiration, he rushes to the lobby and screams to the heavens.)

Manager (yelling to employee): Kyle! Get some black paint and a shitload of straws. I just solved our letter problem!

Screw You, J.J. Abrams!

2011-06-17T08:32:00.000-07:00

I know it's wasteful and kills trees, but I initially write most of my reviews in longhand. I really enjoy the feeling of a nice pen on paper, and I would like to think that the intimacy finds its way to the writing.

Plus, it's wonderful have a new perspective, aside from a blindingly white Microsoft Word document and an office whose window looks directly onto a strip of grass and a tarp-covered barbecue.

Sometimes, however, the process leads to what you see here.

There's nothing more frustrating than writer's block. I know it will pass--I just have to work a little harder for the words--but it's a major inconvenience. The clock is marching forward, the deadline is not changing, and your brain is not cooperating. It's an awful, interminable wait.

What's baffling is that I had plenty to say about J.J. Abrams's "Super 8," but I didn't know how to express it or where to start. Everything sounded trite or pompous or boring. So I wrote and scratched. I watched TV. I read a book. I called my mom. I cursed Abrams and his vivid imagination.

After three hours of struggle, I finally wrote a lede that I was satisfied with and moved to the office to put together the rest. I finished at 2:30 a.m., awaking at 8 a.m. to revise it.

An hour or so later, I filed the review...and I lost another chunk of my sanity.

TCNJ Magazine Profile: Kevin Kasha of Anchor Bay Films

2011-06-10T09:28:00.000-07:00

I'm not a big fan of patting myself on the pat for a job well done, because I immediately assume that my hubris will lead to a "Scarface"-like topple from the top of my ego-built perch. The goal with writing is to keep getting better, to keep challenging myself. Needless to say, there's not a hell of a lot of self-satisfaction in my suburban Pennsylvania digs. But I can't imagine doing anything else.

With that said, I'm really happy with my profile for TCNJ Magazine on Kevin Kasha, who has also worked for Miramax, Vestron, and New Line. (He's also a gigantic Steve McQueen fan.) Maybe it's because it was the first story where I appreciated the storytelling value of additional sources; maybe it's because Kevin was a very direct, likeable guy; maybe it's because the Jersey kid who loves movies reminded me of myself a bit.

I don't know, but I'm happy with the story. I hope you are too. Read it here.

Book of the Month, June 2011

2011-06-03T08:26:00.000-07:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and they're instrumental in the construction of fun, affordable forts!

Given my Herculean work on this blog over the last few days, I'm going to keep things really simple this time. My last post for The Etc. featured my thoughts on the encroaching popularity of tablets, which I fear are making bound books irrelevant.

Well, Nicholas Carr wrote an excellent book last year called "The Shallows" that really explains why I feel the way I do. In fact, I reviewed the book for "BookPage." You can read the review right here.

That's it for now. Until next month, read in peace.

Film Round-Up: June 2011

2011-06-02T17:46:00.001-07:00

Your classic mixed bag: Two good ones, two "meh" ones. Good to see Sabrina Lloyd (pictured)around these parts again. Had a bit of a crush on her when "Sportsnight" was on. Then she was on "Ed" and after that, like, poof.

By the way, if you're getting tired of watching reruns, rent "Sportsnight" on Netflix. It's the nearly forgotten, Aaron Sorkin created dramedy that was based on ESPN's SportsCenter. It's exquisitely written, beautifully acted (it's where Peter Krause and Felicity Huffman cut their teeth), and, well, it's about sports.

Of course, it was on for only two seasons. Man, I hate television.

As always, these reviews previously appeared in "ICON" and are reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

********************************

Mr. Nice (Dir: Bernard Rose). Starring: Rhys Ifans, Chloë Sevigny, David Thewlis, Christian McKay, Omad Djalili, Crispin Glover. In the 1970s, Oxford graduate Howard Marks (Ifans, Greenberg) became one of the world's biggest drug smugglers, using ingenuity, business sense, and international connections to bring hashish from Pakistan into Europe and later the United States. At one point, Marks (who for years went by the alias Donald Nice) was virtually untouchable thanks to his supposed position as a spy for MI6. Of course, the good times came to a crashing halt. The movie, based on Marks's book, comes undone due to two crucial flaws: We never understand Marks's motivations to go big and tempt fate, and Ifans's surprisingly tame performance provides no incentive for us to care about anything that happens. Thewlis easily steals the film as Marks's unhinged, porn-loving IRA drug associate, while Sevigny, as Marks's wife, can't even muster a consistent English accent. McKay's sideburns are impressive, though. Save yourself the trouble and re-watch Traffic or Goodfellas. [NR] **

Make Believe (Dir: J. Clay Tweel). Documentary follows six skilled magicians as they prepare for the World Magic Seminar's celebrated international teen competition in Las Vegas. Among the more interesting subjects are 17-year-old Krystyn Lambert, who is predicted to become a legendary magician—if her type A personality doesn't do her in; Bill Koch, a 19-year-old from Chicago, who abandoned a college scholarship to prepare for his last chance to win it all; and Hiroki Hara, 18, who hones his craft relentlessly in his remote, picturesque Japanese village, studying videotapes frame by frame and transforming dollar store purchases into stage props. Tweel does zero editorializing and just captures his subjects' souls, whether it's Krystyn obsessively organizing books during a tour of her library job or Bill comparing himself (without irony) to Michael Jordan after winning a Chicago magic show. Like the ventriloquist documentary Dumbstruck, Make Believe doesn't just poke fun at passionate oddballs. Though Tweel's effort isn't as emotionally stirring as its odd job predecessor, the director reveals the glorious torture involved in capitalizing on one's potential. Adults and teens will nod their heads in recognition. For screening information, visit www.makebelievefilm.com. [NR] ***

Hello Lonesome (Dir: Adam Reid). Starring: Harry Chase, Lynn Cohen, James Urbaniak, Nate Smith, Sabrina Lloyd, Kamel Boutros. Quirky, but endearing, character study features three separate storylines. A lonely voice over artist (Chase) lives in suspended adolescence (and denial) at his bucolic retreat; an elderly widow (Cohen) strikes up a friendship with her sardonic, divorced, and considerably younger neighbor (Urbaniak); and a New York City couple (Smith and Lloyd) find their burgeoning relationship undercut by devastating news. Writer/director/producer Reid has some trouble sustaining the momentum of every storyline – Smith and Lloyd's succumbs to a draggy, O.Henry-like finale – but we're drawn to these lost souls and their peculiar life issues. Reid's straightforward, you-can-figure-it-out approach to the material is a big asset. Veteran actors Urbaniak (Robert Crumb in American Splendor) and Cohen (Miranda's housekeeper on Sex and the City) are wonderful. Thank goodness Chase, in his film debut, is solid. After all, he is a real-life voice over artist. Also available on demand. [NR] ***

The First Grader (Dir: Justin Chadwick). Starring: Oliver Litondo, Naomie Harris, Tony Kgoroge. After the Kenyan government promises free primary school education, the response is overwhelming; parents are determined to enroll their kids. One old, illiterate man is determined to join them. Kimani N'gan'ga Maruge, a Mau Mau veteran in his eighties, endured unimaginable physical and emotional pain in helping Kenya free itself from British colonial rule a half-century before. Now, he wants the education he missed. Luckily, the sympathetic, dedicated head teacher (Harris) at a nearby school agrees to teach him. While her decision to put Maruge with 50 six-year-olds attracts international attention, it also angers townspeople and her supervisors. Fact-based, inspiring tale benefits from the heartfelt performances of Litondo (whose last appearance in a feature film was in 1984) and Harris, but the script's patriotic ballyhoo and heavy-handedness – stylized flashbacks figure prominently, the dialogue is essentially a collection of abbreviated speeches – almost turn Maruge's heartbreaking and triumphant story into a parody. Maruge died in 2009. [PG-13] **

The Big Review: Midnight in Paris

2011-06-02T17:34:00.000-07:00

I love Woody Allen, but good god was this lousy. Kind of intrigued as to why so many people are digging this movie. Could this be my "Up in the Air" or "Benjamin Button" of 2011, a flick everyone loves but I despise? Stay tuned.

Best part of the movie, seriously: Carla Bruni. Usually presidential wives look like dowagers from a Three Stooges skit. Here and Michele Obama are starting a delightful new trend: First ladies you want to see in their underpants! You can bet "Maxim" is already on it.

This review originally appeared in the June issue of "ICON" and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

******************************

Every five or six years, Woody Allen makes a wonderful film that reaffirms my admiration for him. In between those creative peaks lie efforts ranging from mildly entertaining to exasperating. Allen's latest, Midnight in Paris, resides in the valley. But it's a troubling film, because the writer/director displays a fatigue that requires more than the anticipated turnaround.

Not surprisingly, the setting is Paris, where Gil (Owen Wilson) and Inez (Rachel McAdams) have tagged along with her wealthy parents (Kurt Fuller and Mimi Kennedy) for a lavish sojourn. Inez longs to partake in Paris's glittery attractions. Gil, a successful but fatigued screenwriter working on a serious novel, is tickled by the city's cultural past. He's just dying to walk the streets in the rain.

Inez, who can barely tolerate her fiancé's flighty, romantic nature, pals around with her overbearingly academic friend, Paul (a criminally underused Michael Sheen). One night, frustrated and uninterested in after-dinner activities, Gil walks back to his hotel. Hopelessly lost, he sits down to gather his thoughts. The clock strikes midnight. An old timey car appears, Gil enters, and he is mysteriously chauffeured to the Paris of his dreams, a 1920s bohemian paradise featuring Salvador Dali (Adrien Brody, talking a lot about rhinos), F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald (Tom Hiddleston and Alison Pill), Ernest Hemingway (Corey Stoll), and all his other artistic heroes.

Even better, Gil, an unapologetic admirer, is their equal. And he gets to return to this legendary coterie night after night. In between getting writing advice from Gertrude Stein (Kathy Bates) and giving Luis Buñuel (Adrien de Van) movie ideas, the young writer falls in love with Adriana (Marion Cotillard), the resident "art groupie." Even her dalliances with Hemingway and Picasso (Marcial Di Fonzo Bo) can't separate these old souls, though their love of the past might. Despite the decades-crossed romance, Allen keeps the proceedings simple: Gil heads to his designated spot each night, waits for his space-time continuum carpool, lives it up Jazz Age style, and heads back to present day. It's a pretty stagnant arrangement, which paints the time travel aspect as a cheap narrative gimmick to enhance a pallid romantic comedy with a weak, obvious moral. The past, it turns out, isn't necessarily better.

Midnight in Paris is rife with useless, condescending enhancements. Introducing cultural icons in scene after scene doesn't add mystique; it makes Allen look like a hypocritical know-it-all. (If anyone is in love with the past, it's Allen, who in his films refuses to acknowledge any musical, literary, or comedic movement developed after 1945.) Giving Paris a cinematic ass kissing—including an interminable opening sequence of the city's street life—doesn't infuse the story with urban poetry; it shows artistic desperation, a hope that scenery will do the work of a functional script and good acting.

Allen deflates his promising material by choosing the easy way out. No one in the past questions Gil's futuristic wardrobe. Inez's growing rapport with Paul is handled via cutting remarks and summaries, not with scenes between the two of them. Gil stealing Inez's earrings to give to Adriana could have been a madcap comic moment. Instead, it becomes a strained commentary on how rich folks don't trust the help. Allen's refusal to play with the story's time travel aspects, save for one scene near the end, is baffling. Wouldn't it have been fun to have Adriana land in 2010 while a surprised Gil has to cover her tracks? How would she react to a world ruled by Thomas Kinkade and John Grisham, where Starbucks is the cultural hotspot?

Characters we like don't stick around for long. Pill is a delight as Zelda Fitzgerald – you want Allen to mix her up in Gil's double life – but she's part of the movie's interminable parade of literary celebrities and is soon gone. Before he's banished to the script's margins, Paul is positioned as a snobby foil for Gil, except Allen doesn't give the latter enough intellectual ferocity to fight back. Some characters we can't wait to never see again, especially Inez, whom McAdams transforms into a pampered, shrill screaming machine. Granted, we need a reason for Gil's nocturnal strolls but McAdams is downright vituperative, like she's filming the sequel to Mean Girls. Inez could have been sweetly doubting or lovably frustrated, a straight woman thrown by her fiancé's loopy demeanor. McAdams's work here is so abrasive and isolating that I'm forgetting why I liked her in the first place.

Allen never seems fully invested in anything—the storyline, the characters, the jokes. At least with duds such as Melinda and Melinda and Hollywood Ending there was a sense of creative certainty. Like Gil, Allen is adrift in Midnight in Paris. At age 75, the legendary filmmaker doesn't have much time left to get everyone—including me—to love him again. [PG-13]

The Etc.--Books vs. Tablets, My Bridal Registry, Fireworks

2011-06-01T14:58:00.000-07:00

Recently, I summoned up enough courage to put on a tie, get up before noon, and head into New York City for an in-house editing job. One thing that struck me as I took New Jersey Transit over a few days was the number of people reading from iPads or similar devices.

That's where I had a shuddering realization: I'm starting to hate technology, which means I'm on the edge of plummeting into complete fuddydum. Soon, I'll be complaining about sex on television and how today's music has no pep.

Technology has made me very happy. It allowed me to meet my fiancee (lovely girl, smart as a whip, plays the piano), make my living (look whose blog has sponsorship? Heeyy!), and maintain my apartment at temperature that doesn't make me sweat like Patrick Ewing.

But tablets and deep reading (the definition excludes magazines, newspapers, websites etc.)? It's a purposeless innovation.

I'm all for anything that gets people reading, but are the buyers of iPads, Kindles, et. al. really interested in the activity or are they into the gadget? The same way that buying a pull-up bar isn't going to automatically get you a sculptused body, a tablet isn't going to make you into a reader. That comes from embracing the culture of reading, which involves, well, life. It's having your parents read to you as a child, finding a book that spoke to you during a hard time. It's the thrill in finding that words and sentences have an ineffable magic, a redemptive quality, that means you have to read. It's never a choice.

We spend hours staring at a screen. We watch television, type e-mails, send text messages. It's nice to be able to take a break, slow down, and invest the imagination to entertain ourselves. Putting a book on a tablet puts reading on the same urgent, skimmable level as text messaging. And it's not. We can't forget that reading--intense, escape from the dreariness reading--has a soul. Technology doesn't. You do.

/Written from my iPad

--Went wedding ring shopping with the fiancee the other day. We were looking at rings, when the proprietor (who was helping us shop) commented that my future wife had a nice body.

Three things about this remark:

1.) How unusual it was. It's not like we were shopping for body stockings, unless a nubile figure flatters the ring in some way.

2.) I had no idea how to respond. This was a sweet lady whom I've known for years. "Back off, whore" seemed too aggressive, and "Really?" seemed like an invitation for disaster. Should have gone with my brother's option: raise my hand to the woman and declare, "Up top, bro!"

3.) The fiancee was positively tickled. Sure, she's flattered by a charming old lady's comment, but she screams bloody murder at the dude who made kissy faces at her during a toll stop at the New Jersey Turnpike.

Women, am I right?

--Speaking of marriage, we have a bridal registry. It's very nice, but it's stuff for the house and our life together. The fiancee also gets gifts at the bridal shower. I get nothing, except the joy of lugging gifts home. Thank you, no!

I think men would be a lot more keen on marriage, if there was a registry for them. With that said, let me get the ball rolling. We're registered at Macy's, but guests can also get me any of the following:

*NFL Blitz arcade game
*A pallet of Parmesean and Basil Wheat Thins
*The complete "30 for 30" series on Blu-Ray...and a Blu-Ray player.
*A shopping session with Walt "Clyde" Frazier
*A Tama drum set. Since it's my special day, I want a Keith Moon-sized set. Don't half-ass it. You love me, right?
*A week at Mets fantasy camp...no, make it, on the actual Mets.
*An IV drip of Dunkin Donuts' chai tea.
*A production deal for my unpublished high school play, "Diner Theater."
*Beard trimming lessons from Sean Connery.
*A vacuum cleaner. (We really need one.)

--A couple of weeks ago, the fiancee and I went to a minor league baseball game that featured post-game fireworks. I was joking around with my brother-in-law that the fireworks were going to be lame, but then a strange thing happened: About midway through we were captivated. Lesson learned: Like pizza, "Goodfellas," and SportsCenter, fireworks are never boring.

--OK, so I hated "Midnight in Paris." Michael Sheen was wasted. You know where he isn't? "The Damned United." Watch it.

--The only good thing about the royal wedding? TCM showed "Roman Holiday."

--Now that Oprah's retired, who's going to tell us what to read? Time to step up, Conan.

Mommy, Why is Po Talking Funny?

2011-05-30T19:54:00.000-07:00

Considering the wacky Japanese to English translations and "The Hangover, Part II's" Asian flavor, it's not inconceivable that "Hangover Panda" is playing at a Tokyo movie theater.

Just to be clear, I'm not seeing the sequel. "The Hangover" might be the most overrated comedy of all time...Also, kudos to the billboard crew for not using an upside down "V" or a "U" and a sideways "I" to replace "A" in "Bridesmaids."

Rachel McAdams's Charisma, 2005-2011

2011-05-25T13:05:00.000-07:00

PHILADELPHIA -- Rachel McAdams's charisma died on Friday, May 13, after her performance in Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris." It was six years old.

The charisma's demise was directly attributed to McAdams's abrasive, nails-on-a-chalkboard performance in a romantic comedy. The time of death was announced at roughly 11:05 a.m., 55 minutes into the movie's critics screening.

Viewers had seen the warning signs since 2009, when McAdams delivered lifeless performances in two high-profile films, "The Time Traveler's Wife" and "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes." Things took a turn for the worst after her spunky, grating star turn in 2010's "Morning Glory."

Unfortunately, Allen's iffy handling of McAdams's character and the actress's mystifyingly shrill performance were too much.

The charisma's death is survived by happy, questionable memories of McAdams's turn in "Wedding Crashers," Zooey Deschanel, and Carey Mulligan. In related news in early May, Kate Hudson's effervescence was euthanized after the release of "Something Borrowed."

And now a musical interlude from Gamble and Huff

2011-05-24T13:18:00.000-07:00

Why am I posting a profile on Kenneth Gamble and Leon Huff on an avowed movie blog? There are two reasons. First, the article is not available online, and I'd like people to see it. Second, movies are still using their songs in soundtracks, so it's not like there isn't a connection.

More importantly, I'm proud of the piece, because it proved to me the value of finding additional sources. Originally, I wanted to do a straight up Q&A with the legendary duo, but it quickly became apparent that wouldn't work. Gamble and Huff were somewhat bored, which I understand. They've been interviewed so many damn times, that any question I asked they've probably heard about 25 times.

And, in all honesty, I wasn't as prepared as I should have been. My questions should have been sharper and better organized.

So I decided to call secondary sources to attest to the producers/songwriters' importance. Five got back to me, including Earl Young, the legendary session drummer, and Joe Tarsia, G&H's sound engineer.

The article, in a slightly different form, appeared in the May issue of ICON, and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

****************

"It did happen. You can't say what couldn't have."

"It's too scary to think about."

This is how Kenneth Gamble and Leon Huff respond, respectively, when presented with the following scenario: What if the legendary hitmakers, the architects of The Sound of Philadelphia (TSOP), had never met?

You can't blame them for dismissing such unpleasantness. Who wants to live in a world where we can't shimmy in our car seat to "Love Train"? Or where you can't belt "Close the Door" in the shower, the only acceptable venue for approximating the soulful yearnings of Teddy Pendergrass. Jeez, how many babies were made to "When Will I See You Again?", "Me and Mrs. Jones," and "Lady Love"?

The world long ago realized its good fortune. Philly native Gamble, 67, and Huff, 69, have been honored and feted thoroughly by various associations, colleges, halls of fame, and Philadelphia, the city that became their muse. Gamble and Huff Walk lies in front of the duo's headquarters, Philadelphia International Records—the famed record label they formed 40 years ago. Huff's hometown of Camden, NJ, features Leon Huff Way.

On Saturday, May 21, The Chamber Orchestra of Philadelphia will join the respectful masses, holding a Lifetime Achievement Award gala for the duo. The event, held at the Westin Philadelphia, starts at 6 p.m.

Not to take anything away from awards and tuxedoed dinners, but the highest honor may actually be a statistic: Every 13-and-a-half minutes, somewhere in the world, a Gamble and Huff song is played on the radio. The appeal of TSOP—soulful singing, lush arrangements, and eloquent lyrics—remains untarnished by time. And appreciated by just about every one. The Chamber Orchestra plans to release a CD featuring a selection of the duo's hits (in classical form, of course) sometime next year.

"That's the mark of a real original," says Bruce Warren, program director at Philadelphia's WXPN, 88.5 FM. "You can create something so unique that it may have some immediate influences, but it can still stand on its own."

"There is nothing today that is playable that will bring you back to a better time," says Jerry Blavat, the legendary Philadelphia deejay/mover n' shaker, who has known Gamble and Huff since before their nearly 50-year partnership. "Their music brings you back to a better time."

Even Huff doesn't tire of his music following him wherever he goes. "It still sounds great," he says.

******

From the start they were musical soul mates.

Huff instantly felt the chemistry. Their early output was staggering, and effortless—"five or six songs a day, like it was nothing," Gamble recalls. They'd write song titles on legal pads, one would stick out, and then "Huff would hit a chord on the piano, and that would be it," explains Gamble. "We'd be off to the races."

"You've got to talk songs, to me," Huff says. "We always talked about life itself, and all the activity that goes on in the world. Some great songs can come out of conversations or other people's mouths or anywhere." A tape recorder was always running.

The ease of their productivity belied the music's depth. Blavat says the duo not only captured America's swirl of social change in the 1970s—think of Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes' "Wake Up Everybody" and The O'Jays' "Back Stabbers"—but they "knew what was happening musically in the streets, and they took it to another level with full orchestration."

TSOP's distinct sound—classical elements like violins and French horns mingling with finger-snapping drums and bass guitar—came from another acronym, MFSB. The 42-piece orchestra's rhythm section featured members of The Romeos, Gamble's former band. "We had great musicians, see, and the thing that made us real great is that we played together all the time," Gamble says. "Everybody knew each other. You knew what the other person could do."

"That created a certain sound, a certain quality of sound, that kept getting better and better," Huff says.

"We could play anything," says renowned drummer Earl Young, who was a staple on TSOP tracks along with his late bandmates, bassist Ronald Baker and guitarist Norman Harris.

"The major part of our production and skill was rehearsal," says Gamble. "We would rehearse a couple of weeks before we would decide what songs we were going to do with the artist." The performer would sing the song, and then the musicians would work on the groove, says Young. "It was more of a feeling than cutting a record," he adds.

Young says Gamble had a great ear, which allowed the producer to pick one drumbeat from the vast array that the drummer played. Gamble still marvels over Huff's instincts for knowing—regardless of how trivial it might be—what belonged in a song.

"If the song warrants it, that little ding could be important," Huff says.

Creating the music was an instinctive, even personal process. Gamble insists that songs were written specifically for the artist—"We didn't write songs just to write them." But there were roles, according to Joe Tarsia, TSOP's recording engineer and founder of the legendary Sigma Sound Studios. Gamble, he says, was the "architect of the story," while Huff developed the music's rhythm and intensity.

A "basic rhythm concept" would be worked on in the studio, Tarsia says. Then, voices would be added; arrangers would write music for strings and horns. By the end, a song could contain dozens of parts. "But it was always more than less, so that in the final mix it left room to make arrangements that built and climaxed," he says. "It was sort of sexual in a way—there was some foreplay before you got to the climax of the song."

******

We're currently in the nostalgic afterglow. All you need to cut a record these days, Young says, is a computer before dropping the tracks in the studio.

Thanks to the Internet, the music industry's bar of entry is pretty much on the ground. "You're a producer if you say you are," says David Uosikkinen, the longtime drummer for The Hooters. Tarsia compares the changing music scene to television. There used to be three TV stations, he says, but "now we have 300 [and] no one can afford anything of substance."

"Musicians don't go to the studio and create music anymore," Young says.

"I think that's the way technology has changed music," says Uosikkinen, whose project, In the Pocket (www.songsinthepocket.org), features a rotating group of musicians playing songs either recorded in Philadelphia or by Philadelphians. "For better or for worse, that's how it is. It's expensive to do it [like Gamble and Huff]. There are a lot of economics involved. Just to get five great musicians into a room together costs money."

Just because something is the norm, doesn't make it right. "There's nothing like being in a studio [with musicians] because you're going to feel the real dramatics from the human beings that are going to be inflicted into your music," Huff says.

"Humans sweat," Gamble says. "That's what's missing from the records today, is the sweat and the effort and the energy. And the other thing that's missing from it is the mistakes that humans make that sometimes turn out to be something that's fantastic."

Gamble and Huff's collaborative, hands-on days do come back—every 13-and-a-half minutes, to be exact.

"That scene was remarkable," says Uosikkinen, who plans to record "Back Stabbers" with MFSB guitarists Bobby Eli and T.J. Tindall for In the Pocket. "It's part of Americana and it comes from our city. It's awesome."

The Etc.--The Stripper Con, Rollergirl's Demise, Office Work

2011-05-19T07:32:00.001-07:00

Writer's note: Apologies for the tardiness of this post. Consider this April's edition, with another to follow in a week or so.

My wedding is fast approaching, which means at some point I'll be having a bachelor party. I'm excited for this because I'll get to hang out with my closest friends. As I all get older and responsibilities mount up, it's harder to see everyone, so the bachelor party is a nice excuse to see everyone in a fun-filled venue.

It will not be an excuse to visit a strip club, get a lapdance, or any other activity involving soulless contact with a glassy-eyed 22-year-old. I'm too old to care if I'm cast as boring or not a guy's guy or a whimp. I'm too old to live my life according to Tucker Max.

So, friends, if you're expecting a shower show at my bachelor party, many apologies! Strap in for a Woody Allen movie marathion followed by a discussion moderated by the one-and-only Dick Cavett and "New York" film critic David Edelstein!

The strip club mystique is something I will never understand, because it involves men voluntarily labeling themselves as easily duped, walking erections. This woman doesn't like you, probably never will. It's not more exciting because it's live; I guarantee her mind is focused on a more pleasant distraction. She's essentially a waitress, but instead of delivering a turkey club, she's offering heavily perfumed lapdances. The same commerce-driven principles are involved.

Anything sexual is more gratifying when it's earned. It's one thing if the pert teller at the bank liked your vibe and started peeling off clothes to the lobby's muzak cover of "Disco Lady," but a stripper is a saleswoman. How is getting a dance from her a triumph of manhood or proof of attractivness? I refuse to buy into that sham, especially when there are myraid ways to get aroused that involve no money, less frustration, and less dings to the dignity.

Three unshakeable memories have also led me to this position.

1.) When I worked as a newspaper reporter, I had to cover a strip club for a story. (Don't ask. It was a Gannett paper.) This involved talking to a couple of the dancers, who were eloquent and straightforward. One dancer told me: "I barely take off any clothes, and I make a ton of money. It's all eye contact."

In all my years of reporting, I don't think I've come across a sadder, elqouent truth.

2.) At the same club, in between dances, the owner Windexed the pole. Classy!

3.) A year or so ago, my dad and I were driving down Route 35. It was a Tuesday afternoon, about 3:55 p.m. As we zoomed through the pre-rush hour traffic we passed a strip club whose doors opened at 4 p.m. There was a line of five or six guys waiting to get in. On a friggin' Tuesday afternoon, mind you.

We immediately deemed this phenomenon "the loser queue."

So, yeah, I'll pass on the strip club/stripper experience. Plus, my brothers-in-law will be there. Some experiences with family are best left unshared.

--R.I.P. Heather Graham's sex appeal. She's now reached wacky aunt territory, courtesy of the upcoming "Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer." Though it's fun to think of young fathers taking their kids to see this while images of "Rollergirl" skate through their minds.

--Recommended reading time, including work from two friends. Our movie buddy R. Kurt Osenlund gives us a tour of his movie-centric office, and the outstanding Jacob Lambert mourns his local video store in this piece for The Millions. Also worth reading, Whitney Pastoreks's oral history of "Party Down."

--One reason for the delay in posts is that I spent about two weeks working in an office as part of a copy editing gig. It had been three years since I had done that. The weirdest things: Realizing that getting to work is work; dressing in casual business attire; not having access to my own fridge filled with my stuff.

At the same time, I sort of enjoyed the experience. It was a like a 9 to 5 fantasy camp. Now that I'm back home, my life somehow seems less exotic.

--By the way, two proud moments for the blog: We have an advertiser! And a follower we don't know personally. That's immensely satisfying. All I need are 10 more advertisers and I can pay my phone bill. Hooray!

--Writing announcements. If you haven't read my piece on dating shows for The Millions, you can do that here. And please check out my work for Virgo's SupplySide Community blog. It's about supplements, but I'll try to incorporate as many movie references as I can.

Book of the Month, May 2011

2011-05-10T14:22:00.000-07:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and they can be used in the making of delicious meals!

As a sports fan and a lover of sports books, I'm busting to read Tom Shales' and James Andrew Miller's oral history of ESPN, "Those Guys Have All the Fun." It promises to be ripe with anecdotes, scandal, and behind-the-scenes intrigue. The fact that Little, Brown has embargoed the book--no advance copies to the press--only makes me more excited.

Part of the reason for my anticipation stems from Shales and Miller's prior effort, "Live from New York," an oral history of "Saturday Night Live." The authors interviewed countless stars, guest hosts, writers, producers, and other talent to craft an addictive read into the inner workings of a comedy institution.

And some of the revelations on folks like Chevy Chase, Nora Dunn (hated by her female costars, Victoria Jackson and Jan Hooks), and Milton Berle are eye-popping. Especially Berle's classic line about his infamous appendage: "What do you think of the boy?"

However, Shales and Miller's work isn't the only must-read about SNL. I also recommend Jay Mohr's backstage memoir of SNL, "Gasping for Air," and the wonderfully reported "Saturday Night: A Backstage History of Saturday Night Live" by Doug Hill and Jeff Weingard. And let's not forget another wonedrful oral history that I profiled previously in these parts: "The Chris Farley Show."

The last two titles actually might be the best books about "SNL" that I've read. Anyone have any other suggestions?

Until next month, read in peace.

P.S.--Vastly underrated skit: John Belushi (pictured) as Joe Cocker.

Film Round-Up May 2011

2011-05-09T15:23:00.000-07:00

In this edition of the Film Round-Up, another local filmmaker does good, two documentaries (one meh, one great), and a pretty enjoyable foreign film.

I don't have anything else to really say here, except that I'm so sorry these weren't posted sooner. I've been knee-deep in freelancing assignments, including one for a magazine that has required daily trips to New York City.

The move to PA hasn't cost me a step. I'm not bewildered by tall buildings. I can still swipe a Metrocard. I don't gawk at the young woman loudly berating her boyfriend on a cell phone. I'm still a badass.

As always, these reviews previously appeared in the April issue of "ICON" and are reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

****************

L'Amour Fou (Dir: Pierre Thoretton). After legendary fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent died in 2008, his longtime lover and business associate, Pierre Bergé, put their valuable art collection up for auction. As Bergé prepares to part with the objects, he reminisces about Saint Laurent, whose quest for creativity led to self-destruction and isolation. You would think the art would serve as some kind of symbolic motivator, a metaphor for two slowly separating lives, but debut director Thoretton ignores that possibility as well as others: Why is Bergé so eager to sell the collection? What's it like emerging from someone's shadow after decades? Hell, it'd be neat just to meet the potential buyers of these works, or to explore the particular difficulties of packing and shipping a Picasso. Bergé and Saint Laurent's tumultuous life together (and apart) is entertaining; after all, who doesn't like to learn more about the fabulously wealthy? But to focus on oral biography when so many tantalizing options remain unexplored—well, it's puzzling to the point of distraction. ** [NR]

Lebanon, PA (Dir: Ben Hickernell). Starring: Josh Hopkins, Rachel Kitson, Ian Merrill Peakes, Samantha Mathis, Mary Beth Hurt. Following the death of his estranged father, a brusque Philadelphia ad exec (Hopkins, ABC's Cougar Town) heads to quiet Lebanon, PA for the funeral and to settle affairs. His weeklong visit gets extended after he develops a bond with his 17-year-old distant relative/neighbor, pregnant, college-bound CJ (Kitson), and develops feelings for her married, dissatisfied teacher (Mathis). Complicating matters is that after years of tunnel vision and city life, the town's simple ways look awfully appealing to the young man. Writer/director/editor Hickernell's carefully paced, insightful character study covers familiar topics (teen pregnancy, finding yourself) but uses them to deliver universal truths: All small towns aren't destinations for spiritual rebirth; the intimacy there can embrace and suffocate you. A little heavy-handed in spots, but it's definitely worth watching. Hickernell, who also works as a freelance producer and director of photography for Philadelphia media companies, is a Haverford College graduate. Kitson is a theater major at Temple University. *** [NR]

Dumbstruck (Dir: Mark Goffman). Wonderful documentary focuses on five ventriloquists of various skill levels whom we initially meet at the annual Vent Haven Convention in Ft. Mitchell, Ky. Dylan is a 13-year-old who sheds his shy demeanor when giving voice to his wise-racking dummy; Kim, a former beauty queen, dreams of ascending to the next level—cruise ships; Dan, a respected veteran, struggles to balance family with his non-stop work schedule; and Bucks County resident Wilma, shunned by her family and behind on her taxes, views ventriloquism (and its community of practitioners) as her salvation. Then there's Terry Fator, who after 20 years of professional failure, became a Las Vegas sensation after winning TV's America's Got Talent. To his everlasting credit, debut director Goffman treats his subjects with compassion and respect, which prevents Dumbstruck from becoming a feature-length spoof on overzealous kooks: It's really a stirring, poignant look at the difficulties that arise when someone tries to make their dream come true. **** [NR]

The Princess of Montpensier (Dir: Bertrand Tavernier). Starring: Mélanie Thierry, Grégoire Leprince Ringuet, Gaspard Ulliel, Lambert Wilson. In 1567 France, the beautiful Marie de Mézieres (Thierry) gets hearts aflutter as the Huguenots and Catholics battle. Marie is forced to marry the Prince of Montpensier (Ringuet), a man of substance but lacking the flashy qualities that would enchant a young lady. She's madly in love with Henri de Guise (Ulliel), a dashing swordsman whose scars only enhance his brooding sex appeal. Helping to navigate her way through the tumult is the prince's right-hand man and mentor, Chabannes (Wilson), who in tutoring Marie about the ways of the world develops a dangerous affection for her. Takes a while to get going, but director/co-writer Tavernier's shifty focus—the movie doesn't invest all its attention on one character—and the emotional maneuvering keep you involved. The Princess of Montpensier is an intelligent romantic drama that never settles for pat answers—a rare find these days. *** [NR]

Review of Arthur (2011)

2011-05-09T14:54:00.000-07:00

It's not that "Arthur" is a bad movie--it's not. But that's exactly why it should have never been made.

Also, Jennifer Garner has to stop being a breath of fresh air in second-rate movies. This is precisely the career path that will lead her to star in an NBC sitcom in three years' time with Kate Hudson and Topher Grace. Please don't let this happen.

By the way, what's Garner's workout routine? Lifting paint cans full of cement between takes? Bench-pressing the craft services table? Aspects must be culled from from Strongman competitions. Her arms and back looked huge in "Arthur."

I'm pretty confident that I could handle all comers in a female actress battle royale, except for Garner and possibly Angela Bassett.

Anyway, this review originally appeared in "ICON" and is reprinted with the permission of everyone's favorite redhead, Trina Robba.

******************

Joel and Ethan Coen's inspired, Western noir take on 1969's sappy True Grit demonstrated the cardinal rule of remakes: Make sure the property is in dire need of repair before considering renovation. If a director can't improve the original product, then what's the point of revisiting it?

That question is practically a leitmotiv in the new version of Arthur, a movie so unnecessary that its mere presence is redundant. The 1981 original, starring Dudley Moore as the millionaire man-child title character and John Gielgud as his long-suffering valet, doesn't creak like some older comedies, a testament to director Steve Gordon's charming, crackling screenplay. Rent the movie—it holds up.

But since Gordon, Moore, and Gielgud are all dead—and no one consulted me—we're subjected to the unhinged Russell Brand as the rudderless, fun-loving tycoon. An alcoholic womanizer whose idea of a good time is taking the Batmobile for a joyride around New York, he's a tabloid editor's best friend. If not for Arthur's ever-present nanny, Hobson (Helen Mirren), the young man's obituary would have been written years ago.

His mother (Geraldine James), who runs a mega-successful, multi-faced corporation, has had enough. She gives her only child—and heir to the family fortune—an ultimatum: Arthur must marry Susan Johnson (Jennifer Garner), an attractive corporate go-getter, or he's cut off. He reluctantly agrees, but the arrangement becomes stifling when Arthur meets the working-class, adorably attired Naomi (Greta Gerwig). There's obviously a connection between the two, but can love triumph over financial security?

I'll give you one guess. The lack of romantic suspense doesn't affect the enjoyment. What kills Arthur 2.0 is that its attempts to shake things up fall so flat. Susan was a minor character in the original. Here she's a shrill, humorless Gordon Gekko in Prada monster whose only function is to make the audience realize whom Arthur should choose. And she has a father (Nick Nolte) who's an overtly threatening, rough-around-the-edges man's man! (Having two pros like Garner and Nolte play such stupid sieves should be a federal violation of some sort.) Mirren is fine as Hobson, but director Jason Winer makes her into a tolerant surrogate mother. The beauty of Gielgud's Oscar-winning performance was that though he stood by his ward, he couldn't stand Arthur.

The only notable improvement from the first film is the casting of Gerwig. Long considered a cinematic breath of fresh air, the Greenberg star steals the movie as Arthur's soul mate. She remains blissfully natural. Some actresses have to huff and puff to reach winsome, but like Amy Adams, Gerwig does it without breaking a sweat.

That brings us to Brand. Moviegoers might remember the manic British comedian for his work as hipster doofus rock star Aldous Snow in Forgetting Sarah Marshall and the unbearable Get Him to the Greek. Brand is best enjoyed in small doses; he's almost like the comedic version of Daniel Day-Lewis. In Arthur, Brand is in nearly every scene. He isn't annoying, but his character's constantly shifting personality is. One minute, Arthur is witty. The next, he's child-like. Suddenly, he's partying like Charlie Sheen's eager protégé.

It's hard to warm up to an undefined character, and Brand's physical presence makes it even harder. Equipped with the build of a buff scarecrow, a mop of inky black hair, and a gaunt, serious face, he never resembles lovable. Brand looks so much like a professional goofball that he's a stranger in his own movie. This is the wrong kind of showcase for Brand, who can't even convey that underneath Arthur's lavish tomfoolery lies a lonely, miserable man. He's nothing but good times.

Arthur is just a marketing gimmick, a purposeless new spin on an old favorite, like blue ketchup or square bagels. It's not that Arthur is terrible. Thanks to Gerwig and a quip-heavy script, it's sometimes sprightly and fun. Overall, it's OK. But if you're going to remake a borderline comedy classic that's remembered fondly by millions, OK won't cut it. Judging by the movie's lackluster showing at the box office, audiences agree. [PG-13]

Other Presidential Cameos

2011-04-25T14:06:00.000-07:00

As I'm sure everyone knows, Bill Clinton will have a cameo appearance in the sequel to "The Hangover." When I read about it in "GQ," I thought it was a joke, but it turns out that other former presidents have made cameos in movies.

Two notes:

1.) None of these are true, of course.

2.) I love the photo of Clinton and Sheryl Crow. Man, he really is the country-fried version of Frank Sinatra. How can you not love the guy?

Lyndon B. Johnson: The redneck who drives toward Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper at the tragic end of "Easy Rider." No lines. Told crew members that "he wanted to do something normal."

Richard Nixon: A bigoted desk sergeant in the original "Shaft." Wore moustache and mutton chops to hide famous visage.

Jimmy Carter: One of the barber shop denizens in "Forrest Gump." Has one line: "That boy sure is a running fool."

Ronald Reagan: No film work, surprisingly, but he played the robotic grandfather on those creepy Duracel commericals in the mid-1990s.

George H.W. Bush: Played uptight, bristly plane passenger in Tyler Perry's "Why Did I Get Married?"

In Celebration of Earth Day

2011-04-21T19:02:00.000-07:00

After unwinding from a long day of whatever it is I do, I stumbled upon "Forgetting Sarah Marshall." Even though I own the DVD and am quickly committing the movie to memory, whenever it's on I have to watch it--a gem of a scene is always right around the corner.

(Hold on, I have to do it..."God, there was a week where you wore sweatpants--every day!")

I first saw "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" right around Earth Day (aka Environmental Valentine's Day) 2008. I will always remember that date. Here's why.

I was going to watch the movie as part of my weekend plans with a girl I was seeing at the time. The weekend also consisted of driving 45 minutes to Jersey City to plant trees, an endeavor that seemed to counteract the effects of the agricultural act.

The Thursday before, my mom calls. My grandmother took a vicious fall, and she's now in the hospital. Her heart stopped for a bit, a pacemaker needs to be installed. In other words, she may not make it.

As soon I got off the phone, I knew that all social engagements were off. No movie, no urban tree planting, nothing. I would work Friday--I was fully prepared to bolt if the worst occurred--and spend as much time either at the hospital or close to it.

I called the girl next. The conversation went as follows:

Me: Hey, I'm going to have to cancel for tomorrow. My grandmother took a fall, and her heart stopped. I need to be there.

Her: That happpens.

Me: (Confused, but continuing. Did she not hear anything?) As for Saturday...

Her: Are you not coming for Earth Day?

Me: Sweetie, I can't. I don't want to be far away from the hospital, checking every ten minutes for news. I'm sorry about that.

Her: Whatever.

Me: (Looking at the phone as if it just grew lips and started singing "Patches" in flawless French.)

And scene...

Thankfully, everything worked out just fine. My grandmother survived, and lived for another two-plus years. It was heartwarming to see my family pull together--my Aunt Joanne, a nurse, was amazing. My parents were paragons of quiet assurance. As a reward to myself I met up with my friend Barry and his older sister, Christine, and watched "Sarah Marshall" later that night.

And that Monday, I politely told "Earth Day Girl"--as my fiancee calls her--that we should stop seeing each other.

Morning Glory vs. Eat Pray Love--Round 2

2011-04-07T18:25:00.000-07:00

In my previous post, I discussed the mishap that was "Morning Glory" in the battle of 2010's big-deal chick flicks. Today, we focus on "Eat Pray Love" starring Julia Roberts and lush international scenery. Who wins the battle? Let's find out.

The memoir "Eat Pray Love" first came to my attention when I worked at Borders. The book was a giantic hit based solely on a clientele of thirtysomething women who had fond memories of spending a semester abroad. Seriously, though, author Elizabeth Gilbert tapped into the neuroses of the modern woman. Was it worth really having it all? And what was "all"?

Why am I writing like Carrie Bradshaw? Wow, I really am becoming domesticated.

The movie adaptation stars Julia Roberts--still with the fiery mane, still with the poolroom laugh--as Gilbert, a travel writer who reaches a personal crisis. She's married to an aimless hunk and lives in a lovely home, but her life feels false. So, she leaves everything behind and heads off for a year of solitary, overseas travel. She eats her way through Italy, finds her spirituality in India, and falls in love in Bali.

Directed by Ryan Murphy of "Glee" fame, "Eat Pray Love" is like drinking a cup of chamomile tea for two-plus hours. Those who have read Gilbert's book--um, my fiancee--say it's very introspective. That gets lost here, with the scenery (lovingly captured by noted cinematographer Robert Richardson)and speeches serving as Gilbert's catharsis. It's an understandable tactic--hell, even I don't want to see Julia Roberts existentially mope for 120 minutes--but the whole experience is a little hollow.

Roberts, though charming and smiley and serviceable, doesn't help matters. She's a brand name, and with that comes a certain set of expectations--namely, nothing bad can happen to Julia Roberts nor can she demonstrate a touch of evil. Your grandparents like her, for crissakes. (This is why Maggie Gyllenhaal or Michelle Williams would have been perfect, but they don't have Roberts's box-office glow.) So Elizabeth can't leave her husband because she's bored; the screenwriters have to paint him as a petulant, immature flake. The cherry on top is the husband is played by Billy Crudup, who is still loathed for dumping a pregnant Mary-Louise Parker for Claire Danes.

But, hey, Roberts finds romance with James Franco--in a subplot that should have been cut to ribbons--and an impressive Javier Bardem, who eases off the intensity and ups the charm as Gilbert's romantic salvation.

The best performance comes from Richard Jenkins, who plays a Texan Gilbert meets in India, because he comes attached with no preconceived ideas. He just acts his ass off, and it's a glorious example of why the man will work forever: Jenkins gives you something different every single time.

Too bad the movie couldn't have been about him. At least it wouldn't have been so bloody predictable. But at least it's watchable, which I can't say for "Morning Glory."

Final decision: "Eat Pray Love" by KO.

Morning Glory vs. Eat Pray Love--Round 1

2011-04-05T17:18:00.000-07:00

The fiancee had wanted to see "Eat Pray Love" and "Morning Glory" for a while. Due to clever excuses (me) and busy schedules (both), we did not see either during their initial runs in the multiplex.

Then the gig was up: The DVDs came out.

Seriously, I wanted to see both. "Eat Pray Love" features a really solid cast--this sunny, woman-triumphs-life material is in Julia Roberts's wheelhouse--and "Morning Glory" received generally positive reviews from respectable folks (including Ebert).

Besides, after sitting through stuff for work, the Professor deserved to see something that she wanted. Hell, she voluntarily sat through "Kaboom," which should have earned her some kind of humanitarian medal.

How did I fare? Just fine. My testosterone plummeted to dangerously low levels, but after a day of bed rest and nothing but dry toast and hot tea, I am back to normal. Well, normal for me.

Here's what I remember. (Note: My take on "Eat Pray Love" will run in a day or two.)

"Morning Glory," allegedly a romantic comedy, stars Rachel McAdams as a young, scrappy producer who is hired to resurrect the sagging morning news show "Daybreak." In order to get things back on track, Becky hires venerable sourpuss newsman Mike Pomeroy (Harrison Ford) to give ratings a boost. But can he coexist with his diva co-anchor (Diane Keaton). Can the prickly Mike respect his much younger superior? Can Becky find personal success amidst the professional tumult?

These questions are easily answered, and worse, we never care about the answers. "Morning Glory" is basically female empowerment porn with McAdams vacillating between confident and frazzled--looking fabulous the whole way--before she finds her working gal rhythm. Aline Brosh McKenna who wrote "The Devil Wears Prada," basically just sets up a series of obvious obstacles and empty characters (the disapproving mom, the unforgiving boss)so Becky's triumphs never connect. It's like watching a really long but passable sitcom.

Other things that bugged me:

1.) Diane Keaton is absolutely wasted here. She's initially slated as a foil for Ford, but then the script veers toward his relationship with McAdams. Keaton gets shuffled off into no-(wo)man's land, making you wonder why she's even in this effort in the first place.

2.) Patrick Wilson has no charisma. He's a good-looking guy who looks like he can do a lot of pull-ups, but if you replaced him with Cole Hauser or Bradley Cooper or Jason Marsden would anyone care?

3.) Speaking of Wilson, could there have been a little more mystery and heat behind his courtship with McAdams? I've sat through zoning board meetings that were more spontaneous.

4.) Oh, and speaking of McAdams, she's given a positively thankless role, a hybrid of every spunky single gal role since "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" wrapped up in the overbearing enthusiasm of a college freshman who emerges from a semester of English Lit 101 and two bong hits knowing all the answers. Basically she's Anne Hathaway's character in "The Devil Wears Prada" with a worse wardrobe and a lower IQ.

3.) A charmless work environment: I really enjoyed "The Devil Wears Prada" because Brosh McKenna went out of her way to create a chaotic workplace featuring vivid, memorable characters--e.g., Stanley Tucci's art director, Emily Blunt's bitchy receptionist--that actually made the offices of "Runway" feel like a dysfunctional home. We understood why Anne Hathaway couldn't leave.

That vibe doesn't exist in "Morning Glory," which features an array of humdrum goofballs and oblivious prima donnas. We don't feel that Becky considers the crew her family, which the movie has the gumption to suddenly demand with its obnoxious, isn't-life-funny? ending.

For "Morning Glory" to work we need to buy that Becky needs the show as much as it needs her. It's too submerged in gimmick and gloss to present us with such a bracing concept, so a nation of 16-year-old girls will think that with a little elbow grease and pluck the working life explodes into colors. "Morning Glory" desperately needs more shades of grey--for everyone's sake.

Book(s) of the Month, April 2011

2011-04-02T11:33:00.000-07:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and you if you read enough of them you might get a free sandwich. I know places do that for kids, but what about adults? Wouldn't we read more if a personal pan pizza was on the line?

A few months ago my brother, the comedy writer, had the distinct pleasure of meeting some of the guys from "Mystery Science Theater 3000," one of the most beloved shows of our TV-watching, Dipsy Doodle-scarfing childhood. This led to one of the few times in my life that I was jealous of someone else's job.

I love my job, but the only time anyone visits my office is, well, no one. I feel like I'm in a remake of "The Shining" sometimes.

Anyway, my brother's historic meeting made me realize that MST3K crew has come out with at least two good movie books: Kevin Murphy's "A Year at the Movies" and Michael J. Nelson's "Movie Megacheese," his collection of scathing movie reviews. (Nelson replaced Joel Hodgson, the show's first host, in 1993.)

Murphy, who was Tom Servo on the show, writes about his quest to see a movie every day, which involves heading to the Cannes Film Festival and sneaking Thanksgiving dinner into a screening of "Monsters Inc." His writing is insightful without being snobbish; and he comes across as likable and endearing. Plus, it's very funny: One highlight is watching "Corky Romano" with Nelson at mall multiplex, where they barely survive.

As for Nelson, who reviews everything from "Wild Things" to "Last Days of Disco", is one of my favorite books of all time. Every time I write a scathing review I use Nelson for inspiration: Be funny, be eloquently vicious, but always explain why you hate something so much. There's nothing worse than just blindly hating something. That's prejudice, not criticism.

That's it for now. Until next month, read in peace.

Review of Win Win

2011-04-01T08:00:00.000-07:00

A different effort from director/writer Tom McCarthy, but just as rewarding as initial efforts. Worth watching for sure.

This review previously ran in ICON, and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

Tom McCarthy's first two films, The Station Agent (2003) and The Visitor (2008), were intimately crafted, keenly observed slices of life featuring regular people whose lives were interrupted. In an indie marketplace where slickness and gimmick sell—ladies and gentlemen, Quentin Tarantino—McCarthy's films were devoid of ironic, look-at-me gloss. They felt authentic because their power snuck up on you. Emotional assault was not on the agenda.

The writer/director's latest effort, Win Win, is a departure. It's a feel-good movie starring Paul Giamatti, who is Johnny Depp compared to the almost anonymous leading men (Peter Dinklage, Richard Jenkins) in McCarthy's previous films. The problems here are more easily defined, less grounded in pregnant pauses and subtle emotional shifts. It sounds like a sell-out, but McCarthy uses his restraint to make Win Win into a heartwarming drama that never churns the stomach.

Giamatti plays Mike Flaherty, a classic nice guy and neighborhood fixture who can't leave church without talking to five people. Mike's high profile and ease with his neighbors in New Providence, NJ (McCarthy's hometown) only takes him so far. His law practice is floundering, making it difficult to support his wife, Jackie (Amy Ryan), and their two small kids. Even his after-work activity, coaching the perennially awful high school wrestling team, provides little solace.

Mike does have one client, the wealthy Leo Poplar (Burt Young), whose early-stage dementia requires a guardian. Mike is all set to put Leo in assisted living—in fact, he's in the courtroom making the arrangements—when inspiration hits. He'll become the old man's guardian, put Leo in new digs, and pocket the $1,500 monthly salary. Leo's only family is his estranged daughter, so Mike can finally get something for nothing. Not so fast. Leo's thuggish grandson, Kyle (Alex Shaffer), has come to New Providence, hoping to stay with the grandfather he's never met. Since no one can take Kyle—his mother is stuck in rehab—Jackie volunteers, showing a generosity that Mike cannot muster.

While Mike worries about now supporting three kids, Kyle tags along to wrestling practice, where he participates and displays otherworldly talent. A little Internet research reveals that Kyle was a high school champion back in Ohio, which really piques Mike's interest. He enrolls Kyle in school and the two start to bond. But Kyle's newfound happiness is threatened by the domestic drama he left behind, specifically his fresh-from-rehab mom (Melanie Lynskey).

McCarthy's earlier films featured first-rate acting, and Win Win is no different. No one plays hard-luck characters better than Giamatti, and his work here is expectedly excellent. Better yet, he looks defeated, a characteristic that gives his performance depth. Ditto the casting of the ever-reliable Ryan (Gone Baby Gone), who actually resembles and behaves like a mom. Despite using actors we know and featuring Bon Jovi on the soundtrack, McCarthy still disdains glamour, opting to cover people with problems. The actors still look like your friends and neighbors, including newcomer Shaffer, whose sad croak of a voice tells us volumes about what he left behind. The most attractive person here (Bobby Cannavale, playing Giamatti's friend) has the most apparent problems: Divorced and living alone in a sterile, upscale bachelor pad, he practically begs Mike to help coach the wrestling team.

Win Win features the hallmarks of a conventional dramatic storyline—a sports team coming together, the beleaguered family man—but McCarthy doesn't revel in its banalities. Kyle's arrival doesn't turn the team into a championship contender, probably because his winning ways are hard to emulate. He escapes capture by pretending that his opponent is "holding my head underwater and I do whatever the f**k it takes" to break free. The attempt from assistant coach Vig (Jeffrey Tambor, yet another ace character actor) to turn that mindset into a rallying cry is a great jab at the inanity of locker room speeches. Even the "coming together" montage, a staple of every sports movie ever made, feels fresh; one highlight features Kyle and Mike triumphantly removing an old tree from the Flahertys' front yard. Clearly, team spirit is not the only thing being created.

It's a family drama with shades of gray. For a protagonist, Mike is not an altogether likeable guy. He thrives on appearances: At his most frayed, he smokes a single cigarette behind a convenience store, out of view from the public. He initially views Kyle as a hindrance—Jackie has to remind him that taking in Kyle is necessary—but Mike warms up after marveling at the boy's wrestling footage. McCarthy trusts dialogue and his performers to deliver the impact, which gives Win Win a meditative weight. No one tells us that Mike can't comprehend how he's failed despite doing the right things. It's conveyed in Giamatti's sad features, how Mike tells Jackie over the phone that she can finally pay the health insurance as he deposits an ill-gained $1,500.

You want a subdued approach for this kind of movie. When characters raise their voices, you pay attention. Win Win isn't just another fine dramatic effort from McCarthy, but an encouraging, even bold, step. His gift for peering into the lives of others has not diminished. Win Win, though, shows how versatile that approach is. I can't wait to see what McCarthy does next. [R]

Film Round-Up for April 2011

2011-04-01T07:50:00.001-07:00

In this edition of the Film Round-Up...One of the best movies (so far) of 2011; a promising indie feature produced by a local boy; and two movies that miss golden opportunities to be great.

And, yes, I'm on the Ellen Page bandwagon. She's jaw-droppingly good in "Super."

The reviews were previously published in "ICON" and are reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

Note: Finally, after five years of writing for "Primetime A&E"/"ICON", I finally met Trina. As anticipated, just a lovely, lovely woman.

Ceremony (Dir: Max Winkler). Starring: Michael Angarano, Uma Thurman, Reece Thompson, Lee Pace, Jake M. Johnson. Most wedding-themed films are played for love-inspired laughs or showy drama. Here's a wonderful exception. "When Max came to me with the idea for the movie, the way he pitched it to me—and the version that I was interested in helping him make—was the not-easy version," producer Matt Spicer, who grew up in Montgomery County, tells me. "We've all seen the movie where the guy goes to the wedding or whatever and tries to win back the girl." Intellectually precocious Sam Davis (Angarano), an aspiring children's book author, reunites with his sheltered best friend, Marshall (Thompson). But Sam, who's 23 and borderline obnoxious, has an ulterior motive: Their beach weekend occurs next door to where Sam's longtime lover (Thurman, never better) is getting married. Instead of the aforementioned usual proceedings, Winkler offers a moving and honest look at the awkwardness of young adulthood that's reminiscent of classics like Five Easy Pieces and The Graduate. Terrific performances from everyone involved, especially Pace as Thurman's pretentious, smarter-than-he-appears groom, and Johnson as her coarse, but sage, brother. This understated gem is also available on demand. [R] ****

The Conspirator (Dir: Robert Redford). Starring: James McAvoy, Robin Wright, Tom Wilkinson, Kevin Kline, Evan Rachel Wood, Colm Meaney, Danny Huston, Justin Long, Alexis Bledel, Johnny Simmons. After the assassination of Abraham Lincoln on April 14, 1865, authorities quickly rounded up the Southern loyalists behind the murderous plot, except for one—John Surratt (Simmons). Desperate for a scapegoat and fueled by vengeance, fear-mongering Secretary of War Edwin Stanton (Kline) put Surratt's mother, Mary (Wright), on trial. She faced a clearly biased military tribunal and was assigned a reluctant lawyer (McAvoy) who fought for the North. But the young Frederick Aiken soon discovered that his client's guilt was irrelevant; it was about whether she could get the fair trial she was entitled to by law. The movie's historical revelations—which have contemporary relevance—fascinate, but they can't compensate for Redford's lack of urgency or the curiously muted performances by everyone. Another crucial flaw: We never fully understand why Aiken accepts such a difficult case. In this courtroom drama, there isn’t enough of the latter to keep us interested. [PG-13] **

Super (Dir: James Gunn). Starring: Rainn Wilson, Ellen Page, Liv Tyler, Kevin Bacon, Nathan Fillion, Gregg Henry, Michael Rooker. Lifelong loser Frank (Wilson) has only had two triumphant moments in his life—pointing a cop in the right direction of his fleeing target and marrying the beautiful Sarah (Tyler), a recovering drug addict. When Sarah leaves him for the town crimelord (played to oily perfection by Bacon), Frank is divinely inspired to save her while stopping other evildoers ranging from drug dealers to line cutters at the movies. So he dons a red costume, grabs a pipe wrench (which he uses to brutal effect), and becomes the Crimson Bolt. Writer/director Gunn (Slither) has created something amazing: The feel-good version of Taxi Driver, a hyper-violent, touching, and hilarious story of a troubled loner's quest for redemption in a world that has forever mocked him. And it works. There's barely a misstep in this comic masterpiece. With his droopy features and sad eyes, TV star Wilson (The Office) is perfectly cast in the lead, while Page steals the movie as his petite, horny, and surprisingly bloodthirsty sidekick. [R] *****

I Am (Dir: Tom Shadyac). A few years ago, Shadyac, the director of comedy blockbusters such as Ace Ventura: Pet Detective and The Nutty Professor, was in a terrible bike accident. Shadyac emerged from his physical and emotional injuries as an enlightened soul sickened by his lifestyle of material excess. The shaggy-haired director's latest effort features him asking various academics, authors, and spiritual leaders about what's wrong with the world and how we can change it. Puzzling effort from Shadyac, who doesn't concentrate on his own momentous life change—which is the real story; he now rides a bike to work and lives in a mobile home—but devotes time to an endless procession of talking heads. The constant stream of chatter turns I Am into a well-intentioned but droning infomercial for positive living. If Shadyac had fully chronicled his own spiritual rebirth, not only would he have made a more interesting film, people may have been moved to change their ways. Unfortunately, I Am inspires nothing but indifference. [NR] **

The Etc.--New York Sports Withdrawal, the Oscars, American Idol

2011-03-26T07:23:00.000-07:00

I'm a big sports fan--specifically, the New York teams. The fiancee and I now live in Bucks County, PA, which is lovely and features no coverage of the teams I like.

As a constant reminder of my geographic misfortune, the fans here are positively rabid. I think it's a requirement that residents in the Philadelphia area must own a Roy Halladay jersey or believe that Thaddeus Young is the next Moses Malone. Eagles fans are utterly and lovably deranged. I've never seen a town embrace a team so close to their collective bosom. Even Ed Rendell, the former governor of Pennsylvania, co-hosts a studio show and it's viewed as being completely normal.

I haven't gotten sucked into the hysteria. My allegiances are set. I'm a Mets, Giants, Knicks fan--always will be. But it's odd to watch games with no rooting interest. The experience is calming, devoid of the hang-wringing of my younger days. Honestly, watching the Knicks-Bulls playoff series of the early 1990s was a joyous form of torture. The Mets were that way too.

And I miss it. The Knicks have done nothing since James Dolan and his gigantic ego took over. With all the astoundingly bad hires and deals (e.g., Jerome James, Steve Francis, Eddy Curry, and, yes, the Carmelo deal), it's been like watching your best friend dump his awesome girlfriend and then date a procession of tarts and floozies...As for the Mets, they've accepted being second place to the Yankees. It's hard to stay interested in a team that doesn't have any confidence in itself.

What's taken the place of rabid, frothing-at-the-mouth devotion? Writing. I get the same sick, excited feeling in sending off an article, that I used to get watching John Starks take three pointers from inadvisable angles. Instead of following box scores, it's job boards and writing blogs. Instead of tracking my teams' fate in the newspaper, I follow mine with every clip, pitch letter, and signed contract.

This may sound foolish, but so is sports fandom: You get utterly and hopelessly wrapped up in the events of people you'll never meet, who may not be around in a year or two. I'm not going anywhere, and neither is writing. Plus, I'm an active participant in my own fortunes.

I hope not to lose perspective. Should I cancel that order of "Croatto" jerseys?

1.) That was some Oscars telecast, huh? Just a hint to the producers for next year's show: Don't go for cool points. Billy Crystal was a gigantic ham, but at least he wanted to be there and knew how to move a show along. You need leave-it-on-the-floor entertainers, not someone like James Franco, whose whole contemptuous persona is the antithesis to this kind of event.

Other than that, awesome show. Oh, and the prolonged, confusing tribute to Lena Horne wasn't a condescending gesture to African-American interest groups, who were upset over the lack of black nominees. (I'm having a hard time mustering sympathy, but that's a minor point.) Really, it was seamless. It wasn't contrived at all.

Also, Anne Hathaway, it wasn't your fault. You needed a comedic catalyst to help you out. You'll be fine. And you didn't leave your grandmother hanging.

2.) Read a headline on Yahoo! about some "American Idol" finalist crying on air about his elimination from the show. This isn't surprising--people cry all the time--nor is it news. You know what would have been newsworthy? If the kid vomited all over the front row. I would have read that story and actually started watching "American Idol," a show I can't stand, to see if anyone else upchucked on Ryan Seacrest after "Beatles Night" or "A Salute to the Oak Ridge Boys" or whatever uninspired, sing-for-the-cheap-seats nonsense was on. Also acceptable: A rejected contestant throwing a Peter Finch in "Network" meltdown or strangling a judge.

3.) If you've watched the NCAA basketball tournament, then you've seen the commercial for Lowe's featuring the young homeowners learning to become handy. This spot bothers me for about 3,000 reasons--righty tighty!--but mostly because of the couple. The husband looks like a thinner, dorkier version of Ben Folds, but his wife resembles Minka Kelly's younger sister. Commercials never get couples who look remotely compatible. Dad always looks like the sad folks who wear stained sweatpants in public and believe the waitresses at Hooters really like them, while Mom looks like a pole dancing nutritionist.

4.) Really enjoying "GQ" recently. Amy Wallace's piece on Charlie's Sheen downward spiral was insightful without feeling sordid. And the magazine's "Open Letter" is always spot-on.

5.) The saddest thing about Borders closing down? Where the hell are these people going to find work? Lauren Roberts, my terrific editor at BiblioBuffet, writes about what happens when she treats the employees at her local, soon-to-close spot like human beings. Read it here.

Or...I've Never Kissed a Girl

2011-03-23T18:23:00.000-07:00

Sadly, there was no "My Millennium Falcon is in the shop" bumper sticker.

(Movie) Scenes from a Wedding

2011-03-22T19:29:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I had the honor of being the best man at my brother's wedding. My responsibilities stretched over three days and then the recovery time--which coincided with preparation for a new gig and myriad assignments--was lengthy. I didn't get a good night's sleep until Thursday night, nearly a week after the festivities began.

To start, I wanted to do a blog on the wedding. Someone said I should review the festivities, which seemed like a good way to become instantly ostracized. The good thing is that were plenty of moments that reminded me of movies.

Here they are in no discernible order.

1.) The best man toast--I kept thinking of what not to do, and Steve Buscemi's hilarious meltdown from "The Wedding Singer" kept popping into my head. ("Harold wouldn't punch his landlord!") I thought of the never-seen, curse-ridden wedding toast that George gave on "Seinfeld." Jerry's description: "It was like a Redd Fox album. There were old people there."

It turned out well probably because I channeled the nervous confidence of Woody Allen's old stand-up albums for inspiration. I probably said "um" about 15,000 times, just breaking Angelica's Huston's record on Barbara Walters' 1991 Oscar interview special.

2.) Before the ceremony--I was walking nervously in the hall, running last-minute errands and rounding up my parents, principals, etc. My friend Rich remarked that I looked like Doc Brown from "Back to the Future" obsessed about the flex capacitor.

3.) Before the ceremony, part II: My brother was eerily calm. I was afraid of losing the rings, not getting the rabbi his payment, sputtering sentence fragments during my speech. For a while, I was sweating, which conjured images of Albert Brooks' disastrous newscast in "Broadcast News."

Please note that my inclusion of "Broadcast News" does not mean that I endorse that movie. Far from it. James L. Brooks has never met a dramatic moment he couldn't turn into a three-ring circus.

And, yes, that diatribe was part of my toast. I also talked for five minutes about how much I hated "Up in the Air."

4.) At the reception: Talking to a friend of mine, who remarked that his wife's delivery date is scheduled for the day after the release of "The Green Lantern." This instantly made me jealous because my wedding date (Aug. 20) is a notoriously slow time for movies.

5.) At the reception, part II: Was talking to my sister-in-law's cousin. I know the cousin very well, but had never met his girlfriend. I said something to the effect of, "Oh, every time I see you, it's only for a quick sliver of time..."

As the words tumbled out of my mouth, I thought of Vince Vaughn sandbagging Patrick Van Horn in front of his dour girlfriend in Swingers: "No, we played football on Wednesday, and I didn't see you call anyone..."

That was not my intent--and everyone realized that--but it's further proof that I should probably let the fiancee handle all pleasantries. I should stick to nodding and cramming my gigantic head with lunch meats.

6.) At the reception, part III: The fiancee and I had not idea that we'd spend so much time talking and mingling. Astonishing: It probably took us about an hour to go from one end of the reception hall to the other. I'm a good conversationalist, but I'm not that good.

So, my apologies to anyone who thought I sounded like the mentally challenged groundskeeper in "Bad News in Breaking Training" who could only say "Hello. How are you?" I'll make it up to you in a few months.

On a serious note, I want to wish David and Darcy all the luck and love in the world. May this be the first of many Hollywood endings.

Review of Poetry

2011-03-05T07:09:00.001-08:00

Opened in Philadelphia yesterday. Catch it if you can. Powerful, moving stuff.

This review originally appeared in ICON and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina)

Popular culture frequently treats the elderly in a hi-and-goodbye fashion. Once in a while a writer bestows a soul upon someone with noticeable wrinkles, but most characters over the age of 60 are usually placed into one of three categories: genial kook, sage crank, or wacky comic relief. Even the great actors heading into their golden years can't catch a break. Robert De Niro's explosiveness has morphed into comic irony. Dustin Hoffman, one of the best actors of the last 40 years, is now an invaluable supporting player. The days of Harrison Ford opening a movie on his own are long gone.

Director/writer Lee Chang-dong's subdued and powerful Poetry (opening March 4 at Ritz at the Bourse in Philadelphia) features a 66-year-old Korean maid as its heart and soul. Mija (Yun Jung-hee) is a sweet lady who expresses herself in platitudes and memories. You run into folks like her everywhere. Maybe she's an overly chatty relative or the cashier at the supermarket. She has no interests, no social awareness. Smiling politely and nodding is the best conversational tactic. You won't feel that way after the credits roll.

The people in Mija's life barely perform those simple gestures. She lives in a cramped apartment with her teenage grandson Wook (Lee David), who talks to her in commands when he's not ignoring her. Mija boasts of having a close relationship with her daughter, Wook's mother, though she's never around. We catch the end of one phone conversation that features Mija pleading with her to get Wook to use less electricity. Even Mija's clients can barely maintain polite interest. She's described as stylish and pretty, words used to humor her or serve as the preface to a request.

Then her uneventful life gets thrown into tumult. Mija is forgetting words, and her doctor's concern leads to a grave prognosis. There are more immediate problems. A girl at Wook's school kills herself, a terrible event made worse when it's revealed that Wook and his friends' unimaginable cruelty led the girl to jump off a bridge. The school and the police want to keep the story quiet, which requires that each of the boys' families pay five million won—or roughly $50,000. Mija does not have that kind of money, not that Wook or her ethically shaky associates care.

The only solace for Mija is a poetry class where the instructor wants the students to write a poem b the end. For Mija, the class is a pleasant diversion, a chance to tap into the artsy instincts people say she possesses. But despite looking at flowers and trees for inspiration, nothing comes. What does happen is that Mija becomes obsessed with the deceased young girl, unknowingly embarking on a journey that slowly awakens her soul. Unlike most films, which would squeeze in a spiritual rebirth after a musical montage, Poetry takes its time telling the story. We know Mija, whose quest for expression is not just an artistic endeavor: It's about justifying her existence and the girl's. .

Lee's leisurely approach allows the tension and drama to sneak up on us. The emotional shifts feel all too real; understanding is earned the hard way. The tension between Mija and Wook--Yun and Lee David give stripped down, painfully human performances—is unbearable. The grandmother gives her oblivious, unconcerned grandson every chance to show remorse. She thrashes out; she leaves a memento of his callous behavior on the breakfast table. The kid just curls under the covers or turns on the television, not realizing that he's spurning his lone ally's help. Lee destroys the carefully constructed lie where Mija has resided for so long. He swiftly deflates her love affair with flowers: They're featured in a photo with the ill-fated girl; before a blunt diagnosis, a humorless doctor says that the pretty flowers in her office aren't real. Like a child, Mija is flattered and sweet-talked by the men in her hush money ring.

Mija finds her voice and ends up writing a moving poem that certainly isn't about flowers or trees. It's one she deserves to write, and it serves as the perfect conclusion to Lee's haunting exploration on what it means to be human. Poetry doesn't give us a homogenized, happy-faced triumph—it rips the blinders from our worldview. The movie is hard to watch, but empowering in a way few dare to be. [NR]

Film Round-Up for March 2011

2011-03-05T06:38:00.000-08:00

Not much to report here, just proof that January and February are the coldest months if you're a movie reviewer. Except for Making the Boys--that was excellent.

Oh, and another thing: Poor, poor Kelly Lynch.

These reviews originally appeared in ICON. (Thanks, Trina.)

Kaboom (Dir: Gregg Araki). Starring: Thomas Dekker, Juno Temple, Haley Bennett, Chris Zylka, Kelly Lynch. Pansexual college freshman Smith (Dekker) is pursuing the normal campus activities—beach sex with anonymous hunks, drug-induced one-night stands with kinky coeds—when he starts being pursued by mysterious figures in animal masks. This leads, logically, to the discovery of a powerful secret society to which he is intimately connected. I feel fortunate to have taken away that much. Araki, who also wrote the script, cannot commit to any storyline or style for more than five minutes. The movie has no identity, no compelling point of interest. It's about cynical college kids lifted from The Rules of Attraction, another awful movie! No, it's a murder-mystery! Wait, wait, it's really a conspiracy thriller! Regardless of genre, what's onscreen is incomprehensible and condescending. I think Araki wanted to comment on today's dissatisfied and adrift youth, but by making his characters little more than pop-culture spouting sex machines, he shows how little he cares about the characters or the audience. All Araki is concerned with is context-free shock. Kaboom isn't a movie. It's an 86-minute long slap in the face. [NR] *

Making the Boys (Dir: Crayton Robey). In 1968, Mart Crowley's play The Boys in the Band opened off-Broadway. At the time, it was considered groundbreaking because it depicted gay characters with real problems. The show quickly became a hit, moving to Broadway and inspiring a movie and touring shows. Its success was a double-edged sword. As the sixties morphed into the sexually empowering seventies, critics scoffed at the play's stereotypes and self-loathing attitude. After his second play flopped, Crowley traveled the world aimlessly before becoming a producer on Hart to Hart. The show's cast had difficulty landing roles after the play; sadly, some succumbed to AIDS in the 1980s and 1990s. Robey deftly juggles multiple angles regarding the play (its development and influence, the story of its cast and creator) and how social history has influenced its legacy. The interviews make the film, with a tart and eloquent Edward Albee emerging as the best. The legendary playwright, after reading The Boys in the Band, deemed it a "highly skillful work that I despised." Regardless of your take on the play, Robey offers a heartfelt story of gays' emergence in popular culture. [NR] ****

Carbon Nation (Dir: Peter Byck). The press release for this documentary features such adjectives as "optimistic," "solutions-based," and "non-partisan." "Humdrum" isn't among them. Byck travels across the United States to learn how forward thinking individuals and businesses are reducing carbon output, which is leading to global warming and related maladies. Though it's nice to see an objective, friendly stance on an environmental issue, it makes for a movie that has the passion and urgency of a science class lecture. Its biggest mistake is to not have a symbol—the way Cool It employed Bjørn Lomborg or Gasland featured director Josh Fox as the ignored everyman—to make us care about what's going on. The topic alone is not enough to justify the film's existence. Byck, whom we don't see, tries to compensate by being cheeky and sarcastic with the script and interviewee bios. That, plus Bill Kurtis's smooth, wink-wink narration, makes us long for Byck to express himself instead of hiding behind coyness (say the title out loud) and the same old pleas for environmental action. [NR] **

Immigration Tango (Dir: David Burton Morris). Starring: McCaleb Burnett, Carlos Leon, Elika Portnoy, Ashley Wolfe. Uninspired, transparent romantic farce features two Miami couples committing domestic duplicity so sexy Russian business student Elena (Portnoy) can avoid deportation. She agrees to marry and cohabitate with hunky Mike (Burnett), the boyfriend of her best friend, Betty (Wolfe). To keep up the ruse, Elena's chef boyfriend, Carlos (Leon), shacks up with Betty, a law student whose rigid demeanor exists solely to move the story along. The four friends quickly discover that the arrangement creates new feelings—and awakens dormant ones—that complicate everything. Morris, who also co-wrote the script, tries to goose a plot that's been rehashed in countless sitcoms and movies. He wants a genial comedy that deals with heavy emotional issues, an impossible compromise. Morris seems to know this, since he happily dumps any dramatic wrangling for the requisite sunny solution. Immigration Tango is not charming, and it's certainly not convincing. There's no reason for the original two couples to be best friends outside of screenwriter's convenience. The rest of the movie follows suit. [R] **

Book of the Month, March 2011

2011-03-03T10:33:00.000-08:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and you may learn some new and interesting curse words.

When I interviewed Susan Orlean a couple of years ago, she mentioned her admiration for "New Yorker" writer Joseph Mitchell (pictured). I had never heard of him, but since I love Orlean's stuff--she just finished a new book on Rin Tin Tin--I made it point to find Mitchell's stuff.

Last year, I was in a used bookstore in Poughkeepsie, NY when I found Mitchell's "Joe Gould's Secret," which is about a legendary NYC vagabond/bohemian who has spent years working on an all-encompassing work called "The Oral History."

I just finished the book--Mitchell's, not Gould's--which is divided into two parts: Mitchell's profile of Gould and the aftermath. Both are exquisitely written and show that part of good writing is good reporting. Mitchell chased down Gould's associates, took copious notes (seriously, I don't know how he captures such long quotes), and spent lots of time with his subject. What you get is a tender look at a self-created, malleable personality who somehow defines New York.

The book was made into a movie, starring Stanley Tucci (as Mitchell), Ian Holm (as Gould), Steve Martin, Hope Davis, and more. So, I need to add that to my never-ending Netflix queue.

Thanks literature for leaving me hopelessly behind in my movie watching! Damnit!

Read in peace.

"IV" Does Not Equal "N"

2011-03-03T10:09:00.000-08:00

After a six-month hiatus--not a title misspelled, not an unintentional pun displayed--my hometown movie theater really outdid itself.

It took me about a minute to decipher the first title as "Unknown." And I was standing in front of the damn thing. How is anyone driving 45 mph going to figure that out? "Gee, honey, I never heard of that first one. Is it Russian or something?"

The other three aren't as spectacular, but pretty fantastic. "Beber" actually means "to drink" in Spanish. I'd like to imagine some uptight intellectual all excited that he's seeing some Almodovar-inspired masterpiece, only to discover he's watching the celluloid PR spin of a shaggy-haired pop star.

Also I find it amazing that both words in "Gnomeo and Juliet" are spelled incorrectly, while "Just Go" sounds like a pathetic plea to visit the movie theater: "Come on, just go inside. We'll be your best friend."

The Etc.--Borders, Sitcom Couples, Giada at Home

2011-02-26T09:51:00.000-08:00

Borders filed for bankruptcy a couple of weeks ago. It hurt a little bit. I've spent a good portion of my adult working life in bookstores, including Borders. The year I spent at the Borders in East Brunswick was easily the most fun I've ever had at a job. My co-workers were funny and well-read and sarcastic. I got along with everyone.

That store closed three years ago, so I've seen the writing on the wall for a while. Stores like Borders, though wonderful, operate on a library's business model. People browse and borrow, but rarely buy. That's a wonderful way to lose lots and lots of money.

In East Brunswick, most customers would purchase a drink and then spend hours in the cafe taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi. Or they'd grab a stack of magazines, find an empty table, and while away the hours. (They rarely put the magazines back, meaning someone else would have to put them away.) Teens would sit in the Manga aisle and read the books like they were at their friend's house. (They rarely put the comics back, meaning someone else would have to put them away.) Folks would park their broad behinds in overstuffed chairs and sit back with a book or two. (They rarely put the books back, meaning...)

You get the idea.

Because of this corporate philosophy, bookstores are in a losing situation. What also spells doom is the sagging economy--people who have less disposable income will find other ways to get their reading fix--and overexpansion. When I lived in Jersey, at one point I could reach five big-box bookstores within 25 minutes. No book lover needs that many options. And neither does the general public. We're not talking about supermarkets or gas stations.

I'm sad to see Borders on the ropes, but it's not surprising. Forget the e-readers. Libraries are free. Book sales are abundant. Used bookstores have better prices and more character. Even my gym has awesome deals. Paperbacks cost a dollar; hardcovers are two bucks. The fiancee and I have picked up some terrific stuff.

And, yes, we put them away.

1.) Speaking of the gym, we've been going pretty frequently. I've decided my goal is not to get a six-pack or run a certain number of miles. It's to not look like the chubby husband in a sitcom. My fiancee is cute and very slim; I'm a double cheeseburger away from looking like Kevin James or James Belushi.

2.) A note to the organizers of the Super Bowl halftime show: Can you actually pick a band that sounds good live, and isn't dependent upon studio trickery? I've seen talent show bands that sounded cleaner than the Black Eyed Peas. Next year just put my iPod through the sound system. Hope everyone likes Steely Dan.

I knew the show was going to suck when Joe Buck and James Brown were touting how good the dress rehearsal was. I'll bet you a million dollars that Buck's iPod is loaded with nothing but Celine Dion and the Eagles. James Brown is a bright guy, and no sensible person can believe any band fronted by Fergie has redeemable qualities.

3.) Really missing "Hoarders." "Heavy" is OK, but I feel that the show doesn't delve into the emotional web that causes someone to consume 10,000 calories a day. Good thing "Intervention" and "True Life" are on demand.

4.) Is there a rule that the hosts of "fun time" cooking shows have to dress like douchebags at a Jersey shore bar? I feel like taking Adam Richman and Guy Fieri to the Gap so they can have at least one image-less T-shirt.

5.) Speaking of cooking shows, is there any show that's a bigger piece of fiction than "Giada at Home"? When I make pancakes, it looks like I've just compounded a living room. The woman makes an elaborate dinner without a stain or a bout of sobbing. You could perform surgery on her countertops.

The First Annual Pizzas!

2011-02-24T13:52:00.000-08:00

Hey, do you know the Academy Awards are airing in a couple of days? Isn't that awesome? Look at the glamour, the glitz, and all the stars! Don't you want to watch?

Um, not really.

The one thing I like about the Academy Awards is the nominations. It's fun to badger and bicker and play pundit. But I can't stand the ceremony itself. Too long, too predictable, too showbiz. I always feel like I'm being issued a glimpse into how celebs celebrate, like I'm being thrown a bone. "Oh, thank you Brad Pitt for letting us see you out and about. You're an inspiration to us all! I must get my eyebrows plucked post haste."

So, with that said, here are my own awards for the 2010 movie season, which I'm calling the Pizzas. It's an adorable mangling of my name, and it just may catch on, especially now that I've put up that awful image for eternity.

OK, now onto the awards.

Best cameo: Paul Krugman in Get Him to the Greek. Hilarious in its oddness and his stoic reaction to Jonah Hill's drunken compliment. "Paul Krugman, my dad loves your shit." That's the only reason to watch the movie. It's true.

Best comeback: Michael Keaton in The Other Guys. It's not a good sign if the two stars in your buddy-buddy comedy are blown away by a guy who has a quarter of the lines. Perhaps it's because Keaton was just plain funny, and wasn't governed by shtick (Will Ferrell) or a shocking lack of range (Mark Wahlberg, whose success is getting harder and harder to explain).

And a shout-out for Barry Pepper in Casino Jack and True Grit, where he held his own against Kevin Spacey (no easy task) and made viewers forget about a role created by Robert Duvall, respectively.

Best villain: Ned Beatty in Toy Story 3. As Lotso, Beatty's honey-voiced menace defined the film's dark side, which made the movie an emotional powerhouse. But everyone seemed to ignore Beatty.

Best performance in a dreadful movie: Anthony Hopkins in The Wolfman and The City of Your Final Destination. The old master breathed life--albeit briefly--into two movies that were comatose on arrival. He deserved better than this. So did we.

Best documentary no one saw: Cool It. An environmental awareness movie that truly raised awareness. Too bad it came out during a year that was flooded with critically acclaimed docs.

Best animated feature no one saw: My Dog Tulip. If you're a dog lover, it's a must-see. If you're not a dog lover, it's a must-see because you'll finally understand how a man could truly love an animal.

Best movie every young, clueless, and in-love couple should see: Blue Valentine. When I have kids and their hormones start a'swirling, I'm showing Derek Cianfrance's masterpiece in lieu of any mumbling, stumbling speech I can give.

Best new headliner: Emma Stone in Easy A. Like Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde or Morgan Freeman in Lean on Me, she strapped the movie on her back and made it better than it deserved. Note to filmmakers: This does not mean you should make a sequel.

Best proof for women to age naturally: Julianne Moore in The Kids Are All Right, Patricia Clarkson in Cairo Time, Marisa Tomei in Cyrus. At least one of them made a pact with the devil. My bet is Tomei. I think she's impervious to gravity.

Honorary Pizza: Gary Cole. Like Harry Dean Stanton and M. Emmett Walsh, every movie Gary Cole is in is a little better. He's cinematic avocado.

Best movies of 2010 (all get a slice): The Kids Are All Right, Blue Valentine, The Social Network, Delta, Heartbreaker, True Grit, Greenberg, Cool It, Rabbit Hole, Please Give.

Mortality Bites

2011-02-13T13:04:00.000-08:00

Recently, I picked up a gig writing short biographies of people in the entertainment industry. I came to the job late, meaning that thousands upon thousands of people were already covered, meaning that I'm writing about actors and directors even I don't know.

As a result, I've learned about a whole other universe of actors. I always divided actors into two camps: stars and supporting players. Now, I'm writing about the grinders, men and women who appear in a string of shows, commercials, and movies for years (frequently decades) without ever really breaking through. Their biographies on IMDB.com are scant; no one is devoting a fan page to them.

Some of their stories are, let's be honest, depressing. Gail Fisher (pictured) was the first African American to win an acting-related Emmy Award, getting one for playing Peggy Fair on the detective show Mannix. After the show ended in 1975, she battled substance abuse problems and lived off residuals from the show that made her a star. Cesare Danova, who played the greasy mayor in Animal House lost the lead role in Ben-Hur, then had his part in Cleopatra cut to shreds four years later.

But they made it. There are so many aspiring actors and actresses who can't get a SAG card, who spend their whole lives waiting tables and parking cars only to get nothing. There are no callbacks, there are no premieres--just delusion and confusion. Folks like Gail Fisher made it. They got to earn a living doing what they loved, even if they never became superstars or were forgotten well after their heydays.

There's something nice about that. Then again, I'd hate to have my life defined by unfortunate events and could-have-beens. From 1998 to 2000, Pete Croatto whiffed on interviews for three high-profile magazine internships that could have changed everything...Consequently, writing these profiles has been educational, inspirational, and sobering. There's a side to Hollywood that is as mundane and mortal as yours and mine.

Sometimes it's not fun to know how the sausage gets made.

Black Swan and Me

2011-02-09T06:23:00.001-08:00

As some of you may know, I was not a giant fan of "Black Swan." With that said, there is one aspect of the film that hit home.

In the movie, Natalie Portman (Mila Kunis is her id/rival) plays a perfection-obsessed ballerina, one who is so driven that she has no sense of perspective, no life. Her devotion to her craft drives her insane.

And here's where I can relate. I, too, get consumed by work, chase something that is not obtainable. Everytime I write something, I strive for perfection (or my version of it) and it drives me nuts to read through older articles and see my inexperience in neon lights. Even worse is seeing a typo or a mistake. To me, that reflects a lack of discipline, and is a sure sign that I'll be mopping the floors at an Applebee's if I don't straighten up and fly right.

Writing is not an occupation to me; it's a neverending, all-consuming passion. That passion cuts both ways: I love writing and stringing sentences together, but mistakes and missed opportunities kill me, humiliate me. I've tried to put those feelings in a separate box, dismiss them as an occupational hazard, but it never works. I remember everything.

I'm resigned to embracing all the ups and downs, and keep trying to reach a happy medium. But it's tough. Awareness is hell.

Book of the Month, Feb. 2011

2011-02-02T13:44:00.000-08:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and they provided LeVar Burton a job for many years. But don't take my word for it.

On previous entries, I have mentioned that I don't watch a lot of TV. However, one show that I inevitably make time for is A&E's Hoarders. The show is insightful and dramatic without feeling exploitative. It really shows the fragile human side behind a disorder (two subjects are profiled each episode) not many people know abou> It's more than just laziness or sloth.

Even more amazing is that no two stories on Hoarders are the same. The episodes are as unique as snowflakes.

In order to satisfy my neverending curiosity, I bought Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things by Randy O. Frost and Gail Steketee. Though they're both scientists, the authors' insight into the disorder is illuminated through case studies, research, and terrific, colorful writing. This isn't dry, academic gruel but gripping, compassionate non-fiction that will expose you to the mindsets behind a puzzling way of life.

Read in peace, friends.

The Film Round-Up, February 2011

2011-02-02T13:35:00.000-08:00

Anyone up for quick-hit reviews of recently released Oscar noms? Yes? Yes! Blue Valentine got robbed. That's all I'll say.

These reviews previously appeared in ICON and are reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

Biutiful (Dir: Alejandro González Iñárritu). Starring: Javier Bardem, Maricel Álvarez, Hanaa Bouchaib, Guillermo Estrella, Eduard Fernández, Cheikh Ndiaye, Diaryatou Daff. Set in the gritty Barcelona underworld, Bardem plays a street criminal diagnosed with terminal cancer who struggles to settle his personal and professional issues—reconciling with his manic depressive, estranged wife (Álvarez), trying to improve conditions for his immigrant employees—before time runs out. Iñárritu (Amores Perros, 21 Grams) lets the story leisurely progress, examining the nooks and crannies of the crook's crumbling life as well as his associates' struggles. Bardem's riveting, lived-in performance and Iñárritu's refusal to peddle sentiment or muse on the afterlife make you care. But the film's sprawl—specifically its length (147 minutes) and open-ended format—ultimately makes it hard to warm up to. Flawed, sure, but Iñárritu remains a director who finds a compelling way to tell a story. That's worth something, especially in a world where (as of press time) Little Fockers makes over $120 million at the box office. *** [R]

Blue Valentine (Dir: Derek Cianfrance). Starring: Ryan Gosling, Michelle Williams, Faith Wladyka, John Doman, Mike Vogel. Heart-breaking, powerful, and utterly captivating story of a young working-class Pennsylvania couple (Gosling, Williams) whose marriage we see fall apart over the course of two days. In between the errands and last-gasp lovemaking, we see flashbacks as to how they became a couple and that they were pretty much doomed from the start. Cianfrance, who also co-wrote the script, gives us the pieces to complete the picture. He doesn't take sides; he doesn't pull punches or offer easy resolutions. The evocative camerawork and the terrific performances by the leads—Williams summons more empathy from her expressions than just about anyone alive; Gosling is so jittery and desperate that his fear is practically palpable—create an epic emotional tale out of regular life. There is a difference between finding the love of your life and the love of a certain time of your life. Blue Valentine examines the second unfortunate option in a way you cannot forget. **** [R]

The King's Speech (Dir: Tom Hooper). Starring: Colin Firth, Geoffrey Rush, Helena Bonham Carter, Guy Pearce, Derek Jacobi, Michael Gambon. In 1925, the future King George VI (Firth) suffered perhaps his greatest embarrassment, epically butchering a nationally broadcast speech at Wembley stadium. The royal scion then stayed in the background for the better part of a decade until the death of his unforgiving father, King George V (Gambon), and the scandal-plagued abdication of his brother, King Edward VIII (Pearce), required him to step forward. By the new king's side was Australian Lionel Logue (Rush), a failed actor and makeshift speech therapist. In smoothing over his client's crippling stammer, Logue also uncovered the confidence befitting a king. Don't let the royal trappings and fancy-pants cast fool you: The King's Speech is Good Will Hunting sans complex math and Boston accents. But it hooks you, anyway. Straightforward and stirring, the feel-good movie is helped immeasurably by the sublime performances of Firth and Rush, whose characters find a lasting friendship beneath a reluctant partnership and obvious class differences. Based on a true story. Rush served as an executive producer. **** [R]

Black Swan (Dir: Darren Aronofsky). Starring: Natalie Portman, Vincent Cassel, Mila Kunis, Barbara Hershey, Winona Ryder. Ballerina Nina Sayers (Portman) wants nothing more than to be perfect. Playing the White Swan and Black Swan in a Lincoln Center production of Swan Lake would appear to be validation, but the presence of an uninhibited, naturally gifted dancer (Kunis, perfectly cast) and the non-stop criticism of the dance company's lecherous artistic director (Cassel) cause Nina's psyche to rage in unimaginable ways. Aronofsky's much publicized drama is unrelenting in profiling the psychological unraveling of a sheltered talent, but his refusal to step back, coupled with his decision to stage Nina's breakdown as bizarro theater, leads to a film that's obscured by allegory, symbolism, and self-congratulatory cleverness. Black Swan isn't so much a film as the celebration of an idea. It's all a pretentious front, and not a surprise given Aronofsky's past work (The Fountain, Requiem for a Dream). Probably 2010's most overrated film—and one that will unfairly grab a handful of Oscar nominations. ** [R]

Review of Every Day

2011-02-02T13:27:00.000-08:00

Gee, we're barely a month into 2011 and we already have a contender for the year's worst movie. Oh, happy day! Happy to see Carla Gugino get work, though. She's a nice lady.

This review was previously published in ICON and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina)

Every Day (now playing in a few cities and On Demand) is about a family going through a rough patch, something many filmmakers, writers, and grandparents have shared with us before. In fact, the topic has been explored so many times that writer/director Richard Levine builds the story not on a body of fresh experiences but on common assumptions and memories of movies past. Every Day feels as safe and familiar as your favorite blanket, so much so that you'll have trouble staying awake.

The film, set mostly in leafy suburban New York, offers several characters with vaguely defined problems. Ned (Liev Schreiber) is a television writer floundering at his show, thanks to a boss (Eddie Izzard) who equates titillation with creativity. Ned's wife, Jeannie (Helen Hunt), feels overwhelmed balancing family, career, and now the demands of their new housemate—her cantankerous, wheelchair-bound father (Brian Dennehy). Combined with a lengthy marriage, two kids (one an openly gay teen played by Ezra Miller), and chaotic lives, husband and wife are showing strain.

And they're barely amorous, a sure sign that their marriage is dying. Dennehy's crankiness, plus a couple of big speeches, is supposed to tell us volumes about his life and relationship with his annoyed daughter. The gay son's impatience suggests that he wants to explore his own sexuality. Levine (previously a writer and executive producer on TV's Nip/Tuck) works in this kind of shorthand throughout Every Day. It's not a bad idea, but there's no support. As a director, Levine has zero visual flair; I've seen commercials for laundry detergent filmed with more artistry. His characters are either bland or caricatures. Pity Carla Gugino, as Schreiber's seductive co-worker, who spends most of the movie either in a bikini or using recreational drugs. It's a role so transparent in its bohemian, let-loose intentions that she's as sexy as a stage direction.

Gugino isn't the only cast member trapped by their role. Schreiber, Dennehy, and Oscar winner Hunt are solid actors given nothing to work with but scuffed clichés and long faces. Levine presents three or four storylines—none of which involve Jeannie and Ned's other mop-headed kid—to test our interest, almost like he's easing into a warm bath, before withdrawing. Perspectives get moved around like chess pieces. Is it a family drama about getting older or a mid-life crisis comedy? Is it a skewering of the television industry? Why do four characters need such immense problems? Can Levine stick to a style or a viewpoint before the credits roll?

The answer to the last question is no, but the ending suggests that we should appreciate these abruptly ended storylines as the snapshot of a frayed family. If that's the case, then why offer a conventional story arc with conventional problems featuring conventional characters? Why let good actors go to waste? Levine's noncommittal directorial style is a constant annoyance, but his open-ended conclusion is downright shifty, bestowing the movie with a serious restraint that it doesn't deserve. An ending should cement a movie's reputation, not serve as a last-ditch plea for legitimacy.

Moviegoers should spend the entirety of Every Day futilely searching for something worthwhile: a challenging character, a problem with teeth, an emotion they've felt outside of an episode of 7th Heaven. This movie is not about the poetry of everyday life or ordinary people adjusting to life's wave of woes. It's 93 minutes of waiting for something, anything to happen. That's life, I guess. [R]

The Etc--Party Down, Oscars, and More

2011-01-27T18:50:00.000-08:00

I love Twitter and Facebook, but there are some topics that cannot be fenced in by a 140 character count or status updates. Conversely, I don't feel that every one of my cultural experiences deserves its own blog post.

There's got to be a better way!

Well, let me present The Etc, which will serve as an end-of-the-month depository of pop culture quick hits. Think of it like Larry King's old column for USA Today though handled by somebody who actually writes in complete sentences, or the old "Jeers & Cheers" column at TV Guide.

Away we go.

1.) Party Down: I realize that the New Orleans funeral for this show has come and gone, but it's one of those rare shows that's as good as its fans proclaim. The big reason: Though it's technically a sitcom, the writers never stuck to the contrivances of that label. There's a dramatic depth that you don't see in traditional comedies--problems don't get easily solved; characters don't have a set range of behaviors--which is why I loved it so much. Plus, the cast is a wealth of riches: Ken Marino, Adam Scott, Lizzy Caplan (the newest member of the Tina Fey Funny & Sexy Society).

It's gotten to the point know that it's almost a sign of honor if a TV show has an abbreviated run ("Freaks and Geeks," "Can't Get a Date?"). Party Down is no exception, which is a mixed blessing.

2.) Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work--Loved it because Rivers comes across as being like everyone else--working her ass off not to become irrelevant. Whether that's a good thing or not is left to the audience to decide. Too bad this was such a strong year for docs, otherwise we'd be talking awards. Which, of course, leads me to...

3.) The Oscars: Meh. I have a feeling that I know who's going to win. No real surprises. I'm short on rage. I've already accepted the fact that Christian Bale is going to win for swallowing the scenery whole in "The Fighter." I know Firth will win for the it's-not-your-fault rebirth in "The King's Speech." Amy Adams will get her kudos because she's young and went beyond playing a naive waif.

Just let Annette Bening win, for crying out loud. Better yet don't let Natalie Portman. Give awards for performances, not allegories.

4.) The Town: Really wanted to like it. Two problems: First, Ben Affleck and Rebecca Hall had zero chemistry; second, the ending was awful. The late Pete Postelwaithe was great, though. The movie looked spectacular on the new TV. So, that was kind of worth two hours.

5.) Great movie article to read: Movie journalist extraordinaire Mark Harris ("Movies at a Revolution") looks at the day movies died in GQ. Can't find a link. Will post soon. And not related to movie news: Katie Baker's wonderful first-person account of using the Internet to be someone else--with haunting results--on the sports site Deadspin.com.

6.) Can someone please explain the relevancy of Giuliana Rancic? What does she do exactly?

Annoying Tales of Freelance Writing: The Q&A Delay

2011-01-27T09:07:00.000-08:00

Aside from reading books and watching movies, sometimes our intrepid blogsmith moves away from his comfort zone and attempts to drum up work as a freelance writer. The following is the latest in a series of posts detailing the perils of his job.

About a month ago, I was offered the chance to interview a recent Golden Globe winner, among others, for a recent film. It was a dandy of an opportunity. About two weeks later, I e-mailed to see a screening of the film and for the press day, then followed up with the PR person. The screening and interviews were on Monday, but I figured no one would schedule both at the same time.

Days passed and I didn't hear anything about either possibility. The Thursday before, I get a mass e-mail from the publicist: The screening will be at 12 p.m.; the press day will start at 1:20 p.m. The movie is over two hours long and in in different parts of the city, an arrangement that makes no sense.

I write back to the publicist that I can't make it. The next day I get another mass e-mail from the publicist: The screening has been pushed up to 10 a.m. I then e-mail the head of the agency--whose e-mail is CC'd--about whether I can attend both. At this point, the original publcist has not responded directly to any of my queries.

He writes back immediately, saying that he'll forward my request to the original publicist. Awesome. Back to square one.

On Saturday afternoon--two days before the press day and screening--I finally get an e-mail from the publicity agent...about a completely different movie that we had discussed weeks ago! I respond that I will review that movie, but could I please interview said star and recent movie.

I spent the whole weekend waiting to see if I was in. I never heard back. Guess I'm not as big a wheel at the cracker factory as I thought.

I'm Kind of a Big Deal

2011-01-26T14:20:00.001-08:00

This was at a screening of "Rabbit Hole," along with two seats taped off.

Hey, I don't get too many Henry Hill at the Copacabana moments. I'll take what I can get.

Film Round up for January 2011

2011-01-04T09:28:00.001-08:00

In this edition of the Film Round-Up: That other Ryan Gosling movie, the movie Jeff Bridges should have won the Oscar for, the performance that will revive Nicole Kidman's career, and a reminder of why Kevin Spacey is great.

These reviews previously appeared in ICON and are reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

Casino Jack (Dir: George Hickenlooper). Starring: Kevin Spacey, Barry Pepper, Kelly Preston, Jon Lovitz, Rachelle LeFevre, Maury Chaykin. Spacey, summoning the self-entitled rage that made him a star in the mid-1990s, plays Jack Abramoff, the former B-movie producer who became one of the nation's most influential lobbyists in the early 2000s. But power did not breed humility. To feed his bank account and ever-growing ego—a school for Jewish children and high-end Washington, D.C. restaurants were on his agenda; his family not so much—Abramoff bilked his Native American clients (growing rich from casinos) out of millions while providing the puppet ownership for a profitable fleet of floating casinos. Needless to say, it didn't end well for Abramoff or his power-hungry associates, which included disgraced former GOP House majority leader Tom DeLay. Hickenlooper (who died in October) and screenwriter Norman Snider have fashioned a rousing and funny real-life tale on the demise of the corporate dynamo, highlighted by Spacey's spirited, balls-to-the-wall performance. Pepper, as Abramoff's slick, cocky partner, and Lovitz, as the handpicked casino "owner," give Spacey a run for his money. [R] ***

Rabbit Hole (Dir: John Cameron Mitchell). Starring: Nicole Kidman, Aaron Eckhart, Dianne Wiest, Miles Teller, Tammy Blanchard, Sandra Oh. Eight months after the accidental death of their four-year-old son, the parents (Kidman, Eckhart) still can't move on. Slowly, but surely, she is erasing every sign of the child's existence while maintaining a composed, almost cold demeanor. His desire to move forward while acknowledging the boy's memory is met with almost professional indifference, which baffles and enrages him. The presence of family, friends, and acquaintances brings out their humanity but threatens to pull them apart. Mitchell and screenwriter David Lindsay-Abaire (adapting from his Pulitzer Prize-winning play) offer us an uncompromising, sobering look at what results when the initial raw pain of a tragedy subsides and those affected have to return to whatever normal is. Eckhart and Kidman are terrific, but so is the entire cast, including Wiest, as Kidman's wiser-than-she-appears mom, and Teller, who shines as the high school senior partially responsible for the couple's current misery. [PG-13] ****

True Grit (Dir: Ethan and Joel Coen). Starring: Jeff Bridges, Hailee Steinfeld, Matt Damon, Josh Brolin, Barry Pepper. One of the few times you should embrace a remake. A whip-smart, fiercely independent farm girl (Steinfeld) hires an alcoholic, shoot-first U.S. marshal (Bridges) to help her find the man (Brolin) who killed her father, while a big-talking Texas Ranger (Damon) intermittently joins them. The 1969 original, which earned John Wayne an Oscar, featured a bulky plot, a screenplay that announced every intention, and a sunny tone that was at odds with the material. Plus, you had to endure Glen Campbell, who had the greasy aw-shucks demeanor of a Lawrence Welk performer. The Coen brothers trim the fat, ditch the obviousness, and erase any trace of sentimentality. And it's awesome. Like Fargo and No Country for Old Men, they've fashioned an entertaining story that dazzles you with technical craftsmanship (namely Roger Deakins's cinematography), sterling performances, and the filmmakers' uncanny ability to make powerful points with the littlest gestures. Steinfeld nearly steals the movie as the vengeance-minded, practical Mattie Ross, while Bridges—not locked into a persona like Wayne—creates his own indelible version of Rooster Cogburn. [PG-13] ****

All Good Things (Dir: Andrew Jarecki). Starring: Ryan Gosling, Kirsten Dunst, Frank Langella, Philip Baker Hall, Diane Verona, Lily Rabe. David Marks (Gosling) was the classic black sheep: a moody, sensitive soul who wanted nothing to do with the family business of New York real estate. Unable to resist his father's pull, David and gorgeous wife Katie (Dunst) settled into the city's lush life, where everything—their marriage, David's fragile mental health—tragically unraveled. Jarecki directed the astounding documentary Capturing the Friedmans, so helming a movie inspired by true events seems like a perfect fit. It's not. Jarecki shuffles through the story's meaty dramatic possibilities before focusing on David's increasingly squirrelly behavior. That would have been OK if Jarecki had explored what went awry instead of having Gosling (pretty much wasted here) mutter to himself and mope around. All Good Things plays like a mystery without any clues. Jarecki hints and theorizes about the atrocities David may have committed and gotten away with, resulting in a story about a troubled man who's kind of, sort of villainous. That's a shaky foundation to build a movie on. Also available on demand. [R] **

Review of The Fighter

2011-01-04T09:17:00.000-08:00

I don't think David O. Russell knows how to direct movies about real people. I would recommend his next effort be based on the writings of David Hume or Andrea Dworkin essays or a really wordy instruction manual for a Blu Ray player.

This review previously appeared in the January issue of ICON, and is reprinted with permission. (Thanks, Trina.)

Director David O. Russell, as you may remember, has never met a genre he didn't want to shatter, whether it was a war movie (Three Kings) or odes to family life featuring incest (Spanking the Monkey) or armpit foreplay (Flirting with Disaster). With 2004's indecipherable I Heart Huckabees, he made an existential detective story, whatever the hell that is.

But Russell's newest film, The Fighter, is easy to read, which makes for an uncomfortable experience. It covers boxer "Irish" Micky Ward's real-life quest for professional legitimacy amidst personal chaos. His older brother, Dicky (Christian Bale), was a promising boxer before becoming a crack addict and neighborhood embarrassment. Their mother, Alice (Melissa Leo), is a tough-talking dame who bullies anyone in her way—except for her beloved Dicky. Mother and brother are Micky's manager and trainer, respectively, which guarantees that Micky (Mark Wahlberg) will spend his remaining useful years as a sacrificial lamb for a paltry purse. But it's family. What can you do?

If you're Micky, you suffer in silence and watch your prime evaporate. By 1993, he's pushing 30 and irrelevancy when he meets Charlene (Amy Adams), a sexy, tart-tongued bartender who convinces Micky to see things differently, namely that his family resembles King Lear by way of Lowell, MA. When Micky gets a chance to train professionally and possibly get a title shot, he knows he must cut ties. Alice and Dicky feel betrayed and Micky has to decide if his championship quest can include his destructive but loving family.

That's a conflict ripe with dramatic possibilities. And Russell does get some memorable scenes from it: Alice and Dicky (who is in jail) endure Micky's fight over the phone; Charlene's first meeting with Alice is a tense confrontation between two strong-willed woman who want what's best for the man they love. But Russell has nothing but contempt for these people. In his attempt to capture a slice of working-class Massachusetts misery, Russell presents a burlesque. Nearly every scene in The Fighter has the feeling of second-hand news, or worse, stereotypes hijacked from a Saturday Night Live skit. Charlene has a tramp stamp. Micky's sisters all have hair inspired by Paramus Park's food court circa 1989. The accents are as thick as pancake batter. The soundtrack features songs from Aerosmith and Led Zeppelin. It's rock loved by palookas who punch timecards and foul-mouthed girls who drink beer from the bottle. By trying so hard to profile these people, Russell lampoons them. Repeatedly.

The desperate showiness, the misguided attempts at authenticity, seep into everything. Leo earned—and I do mean earned—an Oscar nomination playing a no-collar single mom in 2008's indie darling Frozen River. Here, her performance is forced and broad, like she's doing some kind of white-trash song-and-dance routine. Adams, who plays naïve nice girls better than anyone, is astoundingly miscast as a tough cookie. (Note: Both women would have benefited from watching Amy Ryan's magnificent, natural work as a morally indifferent Boston single mom in Gone Baby Gone). Bale and Wahlberg give the same performances they always do—full-blown intensity (complete with gaunt frame, rotting teeth, and a bald spot) for the former; eager-to-please, wide-eyed wonderment for the latter. In doing so, the actors confirm that we're watching a cookie-cutter, sweat-stained tearjerker. Besides, hasn't Wahlberg been down this road before with the football drama Invincible, right down to the same big-hearted fellas from the neighborhood, impossible odds, and cute barroom muse? And wasn't that movie much, much better?

Unlike Invincible, none of the performances—or anything else—in The Fighter possesses a soul. It turns out that for all of his cleverness and verve, Russell doesn't work well with emotions. The director has spent nearly 20 years striving to be an artist. It's quite possible he may have forgotten how to be a human being. [R]

Our Newest Addition

2011-01-03T12:50:00.000-08:00

Weighing in at 8 pounds and 32 inches, we would like to welcome the newset member of our family.

We look forward to watching "Hoarders" and "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" the way God intended.

Happy New Year, everyone!

/Thanks Mom & Dad

Book of the Month, Jan. 2011

2011-01-03T12:28:00.000-08:00

I love books. They're fun, educational, and they're cheap...The fiancee and I were driving back New Year's Day from our friends' apartment, when she noticed that the Borders in West Windsor was having a going out of business sale.

Of course, we pulled over.

The final damage: Seven books--including David Maraniss' "Rome 1960" and Sarah Vowell's "The Wordy Shipmates"--for $8.02. Even better, a Borders near our place is closing. What did I get as a Xmas gift? A $20 Borders gift card. I'm going into the digital age kicking and screaming, folks.

Anyway, this month's Book of the Month wasn't on sale, but it's still worth picking up. Karen Abbott's "American Rose," her outstanding biography of Gypsy Rose Lee, is available this month. I reviewed it for BookPage, and it's tremendous--well-researched, exquisitely written, and full of revelations. In short, it's perfect to read over a cup of tea during a long weekend. You can find my review right here.

Ms. Abbott was nice enough to write me a letter about the review, in which she said that "I got" the book. That's nice to hear, because one of my biggest fears as a reviewer is that I completely miss the point of what I'm seeing or reading. It's only a matter of time before I reach my Marshall McLuhan moment.

For now, read in peace.

Review of True Grit (2010)

2010-12-29T08:44:00.000-08:00

There was a mix-up at "The Weekender," so this didn't run. Consider this a WPW exclusive!

One rule regarding remakes is that it's always wise to renovate a rusty original. Case in point, legendary filmmakers Joel and Ethan Coen have transformed 1969's True Grit into one of this year's masterpieces.

The original western is entertaining but flawed. The plot is bulky. The screenplay announces every intention. Considering that it was released right when mainstream movies were embracing cynicism and antiheroes—The Graduate, The Wild Bunch, Easy Rider—True Grit sports the sunny strut of a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. John Wayne, winning his lone Oscar as thorny U.S. marshal Rooster Cogburn, has a grandfatherly rapport with his teenage employer, Mattie Ross (Kim Darby), calling her "baby sister." Darby's perky pluck recalls every obnoxious grade school brownnoser; Glen Campbell, as a grinning Texas Ranger assisting the two, has the oily presence of a Lawrence Welk performer.

In the 2010 upgrade, the story remains the same: When her father is fatally shot by his employee on a business trip, young Mattie (Hailee Steinfeld) is determined to capture the on-the-lam murderer (Josh Brolin). Using a thorough, no-nonsense approach, she learns that Cogburn (Jeff Bridges) is the meanest tracker, though not necessarily the best. In his four years of service, he's killed two-dozen men. Cogburn is either drunk, mean-spirited, or both. He should ride alone, but Mattie will do no such thing. They embark on a lengthy search, with Texas Ranger LaBoeuf (Matt Damon, infinitely better than Campbell) intermittently joining them.

The Coen brothers have trimmed the original film's fat, ditched any obviousness, and erased any trace of sentimentality. And it's awesome. Like Fargo and No Country for Old Men, True Grit is an entertaining story that dazzles you with technical craftsmanship (namely Roger Deakins's cinematography), first-rate acting, and the filmmakers' uncanny ability to sway you with the littlest gestures. Its power and poignancy surprise you. So do the performances. Steinfeld nearly steals the movie by revealing Mattie's sad truth: her adult behavior isn't an adorable affectation; it's a survival mechanism. Bridges—not locked into a persona like Wayne—creates his own indelible, bad-ass (and non-grandfatherly) version of Cogburn.

The newer True Grit is not some gaudy gift for the Facebook generation. Unburdened by a legendary good guy and the need to provide warm and fuzzies, the Coens turn stoic, flawed heroism into cliché-free, cinematic poetry. There's no need for renovation. It's damn near perfect.

Living in Film Fear: The Laura Amoriello Story

2010-12-28T08:00:00.001-08:00

One of the hardest things is sharing a beloved movie with friends and loved ones. It's almost always a losing situation. Author/blogger Drew Magary summed it up perfectly: There's no way the person you're trying to convert will feel the same way, and then you feel like a complete moron.

Sometimes the damage is irreparable: My parents still haven't forgiven me for recommending "Bring it On." (Note to mom and dad: It's time for you to get over this. I was 22 and Eliza Dushku was sizzling hot. I got snookered. Sue me.)

It has to be twice as aggravating to lobby for a movie when you're living with a movie critic, and that's the situation my fiancee, Laura Amoriello, found herself in recently. One of her favorite movies is "White Christmas," which I had never seen.

Before Laura goes on her spiel, I will say this. I didn't hate "White Chrismtas." It just wasn't my cup of tea. I'd say more, but it's time for Laura to take over.

***********************************

I just love the holidays, and this year’s Thanksgiving was a perfect start. We settled in to watch the parade after breakfast, cozy-ing up on the couch as the snow fell. Pete might (bitterly) describe it as scene from a Nancy Meyers film, but I was in heaven. Upon returning from dinner with the family, Pete suggested we watch “White Christmas,” a favorite movie of my childhood. A red letter day! I couldn’t wait to watch this movie with Pete, and I was confident it would be added to his my-movie-collection-is-better-because-we-moved-in-together list.

I was wrong.

Being together has taught me many things about watching movies with a film critic: Do not talk. Do not ask questions, either about the film itself or his impression of it. The syrupy “Do you like it, honey?” and the mom-like “Are all those f-words really necessary?” are forbidden, along, of course, with “What is happening?/What is she doing?/Who is that?,” etc. Arriving late, purchasing expensive concessions, sitting too close, and watching holiday movies prior to the season are no-no’s. Of all these battles, I’ve chosen to fight only the latter, which meant I had to keep quiet during this viewing.

On the other hand, the critic may offer as generous an array of sarcastic comments during the film as he deems necessary. “Sack of garbage” and “Unbel-IEV-able!” are common, along with a variety of colorful expletives. Exasperated sighs must be executed at the end of each scene for survival purposes. Copious note-taking is fair warning that this review will be low on stars. And no matter how bad it gets, he will never, EVER hit the power button or exit the theater early.

So, I knew something was up when the polite smiles began.

During a particular dance sequence involving Danny Kaye frolicking against a very fake-looking tropical backdrop (oh, why didn’t I see the storm coming?!), I snuck a sideways glance at Pete. His face was frozen in his don’t-want-to-hurt-your-feelings look: stiff, polite smile, eyebrows slightly raised. He is too kind for criticism when he knows I love something, but his reaction was clear: He hated it.

I knew it was stupid, but I was disappointed Pete didn’t like the movie. Of course he was entitled to his own reaction, but, irrationally, I wanted so badly for Pete to like it as much as I did. I thought if he did, he’d share my childhood joy. I had to remember that my memories were not his, and that his reaction was not an insult to them. I had to simply remember that we would not always love the same things.

Combining movie collections reminded me that our tastes will occasionally clash, and that this is what makes our adventures—moving in together, getting married, deciding what to watch on Saturday night—well, ours. I’ll watch “Love Actually” in July, he won’t. He adores “Pulp Fiction,” I can’t stomach it. What’s good or bad is for the viewer to decide. We won’t always agree, but thankfully, we’ll give each other space to react. Unconditional acceptance is this year’s present, and it’s one we’ll re-gift. I just hope I can sneak one more “White Christmas” viewing before Pete deems the season closed.

Annoying Tales of Freelance Writing: The Christmas Miracle

2010-12-27T15:48:00.000-08:00

Aside from reading books and watching movies, sometimes our intrepid blogsmith moves away from his comfort zone and attempts to drum up work as a freelance writer. The following is the latest in a series of posts detailing the perils of his job.

The e-mail came on Friday, December 17, about 10 a.m. Gelf Magazine asked me to do an interview with Chad Millman, the author of "The Ones Who Hit the Hardest." I agreed to do the piece. My editor promised that the book's publicist would send a copy to my abode.

On Monday, there was no book. Nothing came on Tuesday and Wednesday. I began to get concerned. By Thursday, December 23, the book still hadn't arrived, and I was apoplectic. Why? Let's review.

--The Q&A was due December 31.

--The interview had to be done regardless of whether I had read the book or not. The latter option made me physically ill, because it meant going the morning DJ route: "So, those Steelers were a wacky bunch?! Awoogah! (Cue farting noises and work whistle.)"

I should note that I feel a little nervous when I interview people after proper preparation. Going blind was not an option. Especailly with the friggin' Senior Deputy Editor at ESPN The Magazine.

--The book wasn't available at any library branch in my county. (All four copies were gone, which is weird because this is Eagles territory.)

--My parents' library (smack dab in Giants territory) didn't have it.

--Neither did my in-laws' library system.

--The book's publicist was on vacation through New Year's, so another copy couldn't be mailed.

--Friday was December 24, Christmas Eve. If the book didn't arrive by Friday, before my fiancee and I left for a three-day holiday merriment tour, I wouldn't be able to read it until Monday, December 27.

--Millman's only two days of availability: Friday (an impossibility, since we were leaving in the late morning) and Monday, December 27. After that, he was on vacation.

So, yeah, I was a bit stressed.

On Thursday afternoon, I called my post office to inquire about picking up any package that came in on Friday. The nice man who answered said I should call by 11:20a.m the next day to check.

I called at 11:15 a.m. the next day, Christmas Eve. My postman had already left. He'd be in our neighborhood in about 15 minutes. So, I waited. The postman arrived early, a good sign. The postman dropped off letters in the slot, another good sign. I rummaged through the mail to find a package from...BookPage.

The day before a package had been dropped off at the front door from...Publishers Weekly. I was beginning to feel like I was in the lamest story O'Henry never published. "The pudgy freelancer got books, but never the one he wanted the most. And then he died of polio."

We had to go sans book. I spent Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day at my parents', then drove down the New Jersey Turnpike to my in-laws. The fiancee and I arrived at about 4:30 p.m. Saturday and opened gifts.

About fifteen minutes into the tearing and thank-yous, I opened a box with a book inside. I felt like bursting into tears.

A couple of weeks ago, my fiancee had fired off gift suggestions to her mom. I had looked at Amazon.com for ideas, and came across "The Ones Who Hit the Hardest." It had garnered good reviews (Yahoo!'s peerless Dan Wetzel loved it), and I liked Millman's work on "The Odds." I really thought nothing of it. I just figured that it would be a fine selection to my library.

Indeed it was. I devoured the book on Christmas Night and the evening afterwards. I came up with questions this morning, and I wrapped up a very pleasant 25-minute interview with Millman at about 5:30 p.m. today.

And that's how one assignment almost took three months off my life.

NOTES: The only other option was to buy the book. Snowmageddon or Snow Job or whatever the local news stations were calling the weekend blizzard made purchasing the book an impossibility...By Monday, it had still not arrived...My fiancee had also given her mom several choices, including Howard Bryant's acclaimed biography of Hank Aaron.