March is certainly one of the more random times of year to release a movie. The award winners are still out there raking in the dough for the parts of the nation that didn't get a chance to see them while they were playing for -- oh, the past 150 some odd days. Studios are dumping their lousy high profile pictures to scrape up whatever cash they can and insure that the duds will be on Blu-Ray come summer time so teenage slumber parties and Netflix nights of guilty pleasure can be sufficiently fulfilled.
And somewhere in this mix there is always a strong as hell indie that pops its head straight into the arthouse world for the true cinephiles who've seen it all and are desperate for high quality work -- whether it's the latest French import, Julian Schnabel, or a stunner that should be given its moment to shine and dig its heels in for the long haul without and over-extended release blotter to unfairly drown it out. Win Win may be around a while -- or may well be back out, wowing folks in a second release come Christmastime. But it's official:
This season's solid, perfect little stunner is Tom McCarthy's Win Win -- the best film I have seen since award season -- which may not be saying much to some of you, given how early we are in the year. But I left the theater with a tear in my eye, a smile on my face, and in a state of deep thought: wondering what the hell movie is possibly going to come along between now and the major studio releases of the summer that could possibly be of better quality. This thing's got award season written all over it. From top to bottom. In every regard.
Hats off, Mr. McCarthy. Hats off. I place you in the same category as Todd Field -- though you're wildly different men of different end product, you're actors gone directors, stealthily weaving your way through a rather superb film career that walks the interesting line between indie and art-house. I don't know exactly what we want to call these Fox Searchlight-ish mini-major movies -- but they're wonderful novel-like films that pull us all into the heart of Americana and the specific little struggles each of us is going through. They continually prove that adventures and happiness can come out of nowhere, and show us how many unappreciated heroes are out there in the world.
I'm a sap, sure. But what of it? And I sat in the Angelika -- the perfect place to enjoy this movie morsel -- with my heart in a vise. I cannot recommend it highly enough and I am not going to delve into its plot and ruin it for everyone. I simply going to insist the world attend. However, I can't overlook the performances.
Every step Paul Giammati takes in the film is perfect. The kind-hearted desperado only trying to provide. The local attorney who may cross a line -- but certainly not into a realm that makes him a villain. And the kind of man who accepts the consequences of each action with full honesty and a weighty heart. He snuck into a Comedy Musical Golden Globe win for best actor this year for the very unseen Barney's Version -- who knows what will happen for PG next year. Perhaps he'll earn an Oscar nomination worthy of his consistent work, saluting the type of man he brings to the screen, rather than the period-piece boxing coach he brings to an off-kilter kitsch fest.
Is there anything Amy Ryan can't do? I barely enjoyed Gone Baby Gone and omit a comma from its title out of spite. While I can't deny Ryan's exceptional performance, the award locomotive that pulled out for that movie -- and was apparently missing a coal-car for this year's Town -- turned me off. It's perhaps my least favorite of the Southie pics. But I cannot remotely deny Amy Ryan's endless run of hits. She is the perfect match for Steve Carrell on "The Office" and now the perfect match for Giammati as the Jon Bon Jovi tattooed housewife who initially fears the runaway wrestler who moves into her basement -- nearly deadbolting him in. And flips immediately to wanting to pound the wrestler's mom's face in. And why not?
Jeffrey Tambor and Bobby Cannavale -- what can I say. The wingmen to Giammati's wrestling coach are second to none. While I personally thought Cannavale stole the entire film -- and was thrilled to find him sitting in front of me at Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo (which you should all see) -- comic chemistry demands a balance of parts. Thus credit for this trio of coaches leads us right back to writer/director Tom McCarthy. Tambor's reticence and school bus screaming props up Cannavale's hero worship and over enthusiasm -- just as much as Giammati serves as the tee for every single one of their jokes. Once again Giammati lets perfect comedy performances buttress off his straight man. There's no Thomas Hayden Church here -- and that's good. It's not what the film requires. But the latitude Cannavale and Tambor take thanks to boss man Giammati can't be overlooked -- and never ceases to be hysterical.
Meet Alex Shaffer -- wrestling dynamo, Kyle. This is his first feature film and if we were still handing out statues for breakthrough males -- to actual breakthrough males -- this kid's got it in the bag. Who knows what he'll do next -- Eisenberg it? Hardwicke it? Be a werewolf? Be an X-Man? Whatever it is -- expect to see a lot more of it -- at all production levels.
Burt Young -- you've never done any wrong. Keep on trucking, Paulie. Keep on driving Jake Gittes' clients to Mexico. And keep on agreeing to the right indies. You were a wonder.
And finally, I'd like to take this time to offer a rare salute to the always working, always under-appreciate Melanie Lynskey. While the world focuses on Charlie Sheen's implosion and the impending doom surrounding "Two and a Half Men" one of the skein's little ladies has just kept plugging along, carving out the perfect career somewhere between Heavenly Creatures co-star Kate Winslet and the up and coming Rose Byrne. Melanie Lynskey has never shied away from playing the best friend, the mom, the pregnant girl in the background -- let's face it, the second fiddle. But boy, the concertos she chooses to play that fiddle in! Up in the Air, Away We Go, Flags of Our Fathers, "The L Word," Sweet Home Alabama, Shattered Glass, But I'm a Cheerleader, Ever After, Heavenly Creatures. This is not a career to shake a stick at. And Ms. Lynskey sure as heck isn't always "that girl." She is a go to actress -- plain and simple. Her work here as the derelict mother anchors the reality of this film and is the perfect balance to new-comer Alex Shaffer, veteran Burt Young, and dynamo Paul Giammati.
Run don't walk.
- Matthew J. McCue
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Angelo Badalamenti: Scoring Lynch's World
A very happy birthday to Angelo Badalamenti the amazingly non-Oscar nominated scorist of 75 films -- best known for his work with David Lynch from Blue Velvet onward. No Elephant Man, no Dune, no Eraserhead. But hasn't it been since these films -- though gems all -- that the true Lynchian world has emerged? And each masterful director knows that half the cinematic experience is music.
Would I cry when Yoda raises the X-Wing from the Dagobah swamp without John Williams?
Would I cry when the Cadillacs of the sky buzz by without the very same John Williams?
Where is Edward Scissorhands, Beetlejuice, or Batman without Danny Elfman?
And where would a small milltown with a murdered prom queen... a young man caught-up in the kidnapping ear-snipping love triangle... an old man on a tractor... a pair of lesbian starlets... ironing bunnies... Julee Cruise... or the J.G. Ballard (second ref to the man in this post) collaborations be without the man himself, Angelo Badalamenti.
"Twin Peaks" is probably his musical masterpiece. Badalamenti brought intense multi-track scoring complete with character oriented themes, leit motifs that cued the presence of the supernatural, roadhouse performances, drug addled over the border brothels, and the perfect combination of romance and suspense. The sounds of "Twin Peaks" are as memorable as it's backward talking dwarf, the Log Lady, its stoplights, its blowing Douglas Firs, ceiling fans, donuts, flickering lights, and un-hung dear trophies. The relentless soundscape elevated this program from mere soap opera to a level of television never witnessed before: film quality in hourly doses. It did what only music could do -- dance between two worlds with the shift of a key or the change of tempo.
Badalamenti paved the way for the likes of Thomas Newman's work with "Six Feet Under" and Michael Giacchino's work on "Lost." The music of television has never been the same -- and used properly -- lofty stories are granted the poetic soundscape to make each episode a true feast for the senses.
So I thank you, Angelo. I thank you for letting me fall in love with Audrey Horn. Thank you for "Rocking Back Inside My Heart." Thank you for creating perfect cover material for Anthony and the Johnsons. Thank you for meshing perfectly with Bowie. Thank you for being with Lynch -- no matter what the tale required.
Thank you for City of Lost Children -- and the beyond minimalist score from Eyes Wide Shut... which truly borders on psychosis -- but ends up being perfect for Kubrick's last.
I listen to you with revery and respect.
Happy Birthday, good sir.
- Matthew J. McCue
Would I cry when Yoda raises the X-Wing from the Dagobah swamp without John Williams?
Would I cry when the Cadillacs of the sky buzz by without the very same John Williams?
Where is Edward Scissorhands, Beetlejuice, or Batman without Danny Elfman?
And where would a small milltown with a murdered prom queen... a young man caught-up in the kidnapping ear-snipping love triangle... an old man on a tractor... a pair of lesbian starlets... ironing bunnies... Julee Cruise... or the J.G. Ballard (second ref to the man in this post) collaborations be without the man himself, Angelo Badalamenti.
"Twin Peaks" is probably his musical masterpiece. Badalamenti brought intense multi-track scoring complete with character oriented themes, leit motifs that cued the presence of the supernatural, roadhouse performances, drug addled over the border brothels, and the perfect combination of romance and suspense. The sounds of "Twin Peaks" are as memorable as it's backward talking dwarf, the Log Lady, its stoplights, its blowing Douglas Firs, ceiling fans, donuts, flickering lights, and un-hung dear trophies. The relentless soundscape elevated this program from mere soap opera to a level of television never witnessed before: film quality in hourly doses. It did what only music could do -- dance between two worlds with the shift of a key or the change of tempo.
Badalamenti paved the way for the likes of Thomas Newman's work with "Six Feet Under" and Michael Giacchino's work on "Lost." The music of television has never been the same -- and used properly -- lofty stories are granted the poetic soundscape to make each episode a true feast for the senses.
So I thank you, Angelo. I thank you for letting me fall in love with Audrey Horn. Thank you for "Rocking Back Inside My Heart." Thank you for creating perfect cover material for Anthony and the Johnsons. Thank you for meshing perfectly with Bowie. Thank you for being with Lynch -- no matter what the tale required.
Thank you for City of Lost Children -- and the beyond minimalist score from Eyes Wide Shut... which truly borders on psychosis -- but ends up being perfect for Kubrick's last.
I listen to you with revery and respect.
Happy Birthday, good sir.
- Matthew J. McCue
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Adjustment Bureau: Not Nearly As Bad As You Think
Let's be honest and admit that the title is half the problem.
Is this a Pottery Barn item inspired by a chiropractor's supply closet?
Is this a law firm for victims of overly aggressive pants tailors?
Why couldn't they just have called it Fate?
That question will never be answered.
Surprisingly, this new little movie from from first time director George Nolfi doesn't leave the audience with many other questions. It isn't the muddy mess folks started to get the impression was headed their way as the film's release date was continually pushed back and ultimately hit the screen with lukewarm reviews and less than stellar box office. Obviously the film had its reshoots -- who knows who did them -- who knows who rewrote what -- who knows what scenes were replaced -- when certain overclarifications came to pass and when pockets of selective voice over arrived.
Amazingly, this seems symptomatic of many a film adapted from Phillip K. Dick stories. Spielberg - surprise! - escaped this pitfall with Minority Report and released his film simply as intended. It stands as one of the best science fiction films of the past decade in a year where Steven also gave us Catch Me If You Can. He didn't get tripped up on the need to overly explain the conceit of his PKD tale -- then again, folks don't tell Spielberg what to do.
One wonders whether there's an original Adjustment Bureau out there that accepted the intelligence of its intended adult audience and didn't murk itself up with a bit (and truly just a bit) of egregious exposition and explanation. Anyone who has seen the overly voiced-over Bladerunner and then enjoyed Ridley Scott's actual cut knows the difference -- the director had it right all along. Time will tell whether Mr. Nolfi had it pegged or whether the studio was right. Frankly, I hope Nolfi had it and look forward to buying a director's cut Blu-Ray in a few months.
That bit aside, let's talk about the poorly sold film -- which is masquerading as an action drama but is far more of a love story than anything else. Franzly, it should be categorized as Kafka-esque romance -- with a positive spin. There's no shapeshifting or buggifying -- but there's obviously a bureau. The ins and outs of fate and its many doorways had my brain drawn far more to Orson Welles' Trial than any sci-fi pic or Pakula chase and race. But here, we're not watching Anthony Perkins languish in a land of nightmarish bureaucratic persecution -- we're watching Matt Damon and Emily Blunt fall in love.
I am an unabashed, over the moon Matt Damon superfan. His selection of material is routinely fantastic and I wonder what his hand was in The Adjustment Bureau considering Writer/Director/Producer George Nolfi's having served as one of the writers on both The Bourne Ultimatum and Ocean's Twelve. Perhaps he and Mr. Damon have developed a working relationship over the years -- as wise writers and actors often do. And Damon ain't no dummy.
Professionally speaking, The Adjustment Bureau may not be bringing Matt a grandiose check or any awards. It's no True Grit, it's no Hereafter. But from an actor standpoint, this script was a smart move. Damon plays a Congressman from New York whose days as a bad boy cost him his first stab at the Senate -- despite initially holding a 10 point lead. Right before his concession speech, he meets the lovely Emily Blunt. And it's love at first sight.
Frankly, not enough movies are playing the love at first sight card and this movie is a true testament to the fact that it needs to come back in a major way. Why wouldn't two of the world's most beautiful, talented and naturally comic people not charm each other right off their feet in a first meeting? Isn't this what we go to the movies for?
And when they run into one another the next day on the bus -- well does it even matter that you lost your Senate bid? The girl of your dreams is on the M6!
Enter The Adjustment Bureau whose mission is to keep us mortals to the plan -- you've all seen the weird auto-Etch-A-Sketch notebooks toted about by the likes of John Slattery and Terrence Stamp. Yes, that's our fate in there. And Damon and Blunt have knocked one another off course. They can't end up being the fated political juggernaut and dancer/choreographer "the chairman" has in store if they pursue one another -- they must be pulled apart.
The film reels off on a four year course toward Damon's next stab at the Senate, as these two lovers search for one another out of a compulsion to love and avoid one another when they fear destroying their true love's fate.
And yes, idiot in the audience, Senate terms are six years long. He's obviously running for the other seat, you jackass.
In what may be the most obnoxious pun considering the film in question: hats off to Blunt and Damon.
The chemistry between the two of them is remarkable considering they have to trust one another in the face of a completely absurd set of surrealistic fedora wearing guardians of fate. The charm in the flick of an eye or the glint of a smile -- and the passion of their kisses had me hook, line, and sinker. They are absolutely believable real human beings in amidst a ridiculous set of circumstances and it works. The romance is unquestionably on the screen and that's all the movie needs despite its self-conscious need to explain its every device right down to the nitty gritty. One hardly needed a flashcard session with Damon and Anthony Mackie down in the New York sewers -- or wherever the hell they were supposed to be -- to go through the point by point plan for act three. For heaven's sake, throw Damon and Blunt back into bed! Use your brain!
I recommend it. Just know that you're walking into a romance -- not a sci-fi thriller or some Inception like piece of alternarama -- man how Nolan must have thrown Adjustment for a loop!
You will enjoy yourself. McCue seal of approval.
I might add, the only thing that surprised me more than how crazy excellent Damon looked -- like he'd gone back in time ten years -- was how damn spry Terrence Stamp was. Look at Stamp trotting up those stamps in his smart little suits and swaying scarfs. Well done, sir!
- Matthew J. McCue
Is this a Pottery Barn item inspired by a chiropractor's supply closet?
Is this a law firm for victims of overly aggressive pants tailors?
Why couldn't they just have called it Fate?
That question will never be answered.
Surprisingly, this new little movie from from first time director George Nolfi doesn't leave the audience with many other questions. It isn't the muddy mess folks started to get the impression was headed their way as the film's release date was continually pushed back and ultimately hit the screen with lukewarm reviews and less than stellar box office. Obviously the film had its reshoots -- who knows who did them -- who knows who rewrote what -- who knows what scenes were replaced -- when certain overclarifications came to pass and when pockets of selective voice over arrived.
Amazingly, this seems symptomatic of many a film adapted from Phillip K. Dick stories. Spielberg - surprise! - escaped this pitfall with Minority Report and released his film simply as intended. It stands as one of the best science fiction films of the past decade in a year where Steven also gave us Catch Me If You Can. He didn't get tripped up on the need to overly explain the conceit of his PKD tale -- then again, folks don't tell Spielberg what to do.
One wonders whether there's an original Adjustment Bureau out there that accepted the intelligence of its intended adult audience and didn't murk itself up with a bit (and truly just a bit) of egregious exposition and explanation. Anyone who has seen the overly voiced-over Bladerunner and then enjoyed Ridley Scott's actual cut knows the difference -- the director had it right all along. Time will tell whether Mr. Nolfi had it pegged or whether the studio was right. Frankly, I hope Nolfi had it and look forward to buying a director's cut Blu-Ray in a few months.
That bit aside, let's talk about the poorly sold film -- which is masquerading as an action drama but is far more of a love story than anything else. Franzly, it should be categorized as Kafka-esque romance -- with a positive spin. There's no shapeshifting or buggifying -- but there's obviously a bureau. The ins and outs of fate and its many doorways had my brain drawn far more to Orson Welles' Trial than any sci-fi pic or Pakula chase and race. But here, we're not watching Anthony Perkins languish in a land of nightmarish bureaucratic persecution -- we're watching Matt Damon and Emily Blunt fall in love.
I am an unabashed, over the moon Matt Damon superfan. His selection of material is routinely fantastic and I wonder what his hand was in The Adjustment Bureau considering Writer/Director/Producer George Nolfi's having served as one of the writers on both The Bourne Ultimatum and Ocean's Twelve. Perhaps he and Mr. Damon have developed a working relationship over the years -- as wise writers and actors often do. And Damon ain't no dummy.
Professionally speaking, The Adjustment Bureau may not be bringing Matt a grandiose check or any awards. It's no True Grit, it's no Hereafter. But from an actor standpoint, this script was a smart move. Damon plays a Congressman from New York whose days as a bad boy cost him his first stab at the Senate -- despite initially holding a 10 point lead. Right before his concession speech, he meets the lovely Emily Blunt. And it's love at first sight.
Frankly, not enough movies are playing the love at first sight card and this movie is a true testament to the fact that it needs to come back in a major way. Why wouldn't two of the world's most beautiful, talented and naturally comic people not charm each other right off their feet in a first meeting? Isn't this what we go to the movies for?
And when they run into one another the next day on the bus -- well does it even matter that you lost your Senate bid? The girl of your dreams is on the M6!
Enter The Adjustment Bureau whose mission is to keep us mortals to the plan -- you've all seen the weird auto-Etch-A-Sketch notebooks toted about by the likes of John Slattery and Terrence Stamp. Yes, that's our fate in there. And Damon and Blunt have knocked one another off course. They can't end up being the fated political juggernaut and dancer/choreographer "the chairman" has in store if they pursue one another -- they must be pulled apart.
The film reels off on a four year course toward Damon's next stab at the Senate, as these two lovers search for one another out of a compulsion to love and avoid one another when they fear destroying their true love's fate.
And yes, idiot in the audience, Senate terms are six years long. He's obviously running for the other seat, you jackass.
In what may be the most obnoxious pun considering the film in question: hats off to Blunt and Damon.
The chemistry between the two of them is remarkable considering they have to trust one another in the face of a completely absurd set of surrealistic fedora wearing guardians of fate. The charm in the flick of an eye or the glint of a smile -- and the passion of their kisses had me hook, line, and sinker. They are absolutely believable real human beings in amidst a ridiculous set of circumstances and it works. The romance is unquestionably on the screen and that's all the movie needs despite its self-conscious need to explain its every device right down to the nitty gritty. One hardly needed a flashcard session with Damon and Anthony Mackie down in the New York sewers -- or wherever the hell they were supposed to be -- to go through the point by point plan for act three. For heaven's sake, throw Damon and Blunt back into bed! Use your brain!
I recommend it. Just know that you're walking into a romance -- not a sci-fi thriller or some Inception like piece of alternarama -- man how Nolan must have thrown Adjustment for a loop!
You will enjoy yourself. McCue seal of approval.
I might add, the only thing that surprised me more than how crazy excellent Damon looked -- like he'd gone back in time ten years -- was how damn spry Terrence Stamp was. Look at Stamp trotting up those stamps in his smart little suits and swaying scarfs. Well done, sir!
- Matthew J. McCue
Monday, March 14, 2011
How to Fix Award Shows? The Hollywood Reporter's complaints continue
I am a huge fan of the newly formatted Hollywood Reporter thanks to J.R.'s having pointed it out to me. It offers unlimited web-access and doesn't leave readers staring at a black screen a la Cloak and Dagger when they've read too many articles like some other celebrated trades. However, the analysis of the Award season has been surprisingly short sighted given their continued articles about first Ricky Gervais' hosting the Globes and now the seeming Oscar fail.
Many of the adjustments suggested in today's article by Tim Goodman are wise. However, Mr. Goodman has fallen victim to the very misstep an Oscar worshipper like myself could tripped over himself. Mr. Goodman still sees the Oscar -- and its telecast -- as the unquestionable gold standard in entertainment ceremonies. It is. Of course it is. For heaven's sake, it's the Oscars. But the telecast has gone a bit schizo -- it knows it's too long but suddenly it's freaking out. This doesn't mean Mr. Goodman should consequently dismiss the Golden Globes as a laughable ceremony.
How are they laughable when one of Goodman's first suggestions is that the Oscars immediately move themselves to the other side of the Globes so they stop losing their "gravitas." Do the math, pal. That means HFPA has the gravitas. Slide between Christmas and Globe time? I could not disagree with Mr. Goodman more.
If the over-campaigning of the 90s Weinstein brothers, followed by the Dreamworks/Miramax wars of the turn of the century, and now the dark days of the 10 nominees has taught us anything, it is that the Oscars are in a serious state of self-doubt and -- much like our own political system -- they simply do not know how to do a bit of simple "campaign finance reform." It seems Russ Feingold is currently available. Perhaps he could swing by Tinsel town and give AMPAS a lesson or two.
The truth of the matter is that Ricky Gervais -- despite the endless criticism he received afterward -- hit the ball clean out of the park with this year's Golden Globe telecast. He was edgy, he was tough, he was hilarious. So what if a few people were offended? If another of Mr. Goodman's major suggestions is to stop looking at "the awards" as something for people "in the room" and "industry" only -- isn't a little ribbing toward the bevy of boozing celebs just what the doctor ordered? And Dr. Gervais delivered. I don't think Robert Downey, Jr. minded his introduction one bit. I think Tim Allen may have -- but so what? He can afford it! And Downey certainly proved he can take a tough joke when Jude Law once again aired Downey's arrest record at the Oscars.
Thus let's forgive Ricky -- he did an excellent job.
James and Anne -- both of whom I love -- not so much.
The other point of fun with the Hollywood Foreign Press is that it's the first telecast of the year that gets all the big stars in one room and hands out trophies to the stars of stage and screen -- and it's a good show. Christ, SAG does the same thing but few people are elevating that little wonder to Oscar status.
What we've got here is a closed award window where the Oscar nominations follow so quickly on the heels of the actual Globe presentation -- where the campaigning seems far less psychotic -- that the HFPA shifted from being a predictor to an indicator.
For years, idiots like myself hoped something amazing would happen -- even after the "SKG vs. Bob and Harvey" feud shaved a year off the Oscar calendar. We woke up on that fateful nominating Tuesday with the hopes that some crazy little weasel was going to pop its head into the best picture mix. Sure, we were stunned when things like the 1995 (a talking pig, a spaceship, and an Italian mailman beat out a Sean Penn death march and Mike Figgis?) and 1998 (5 nominees -- 3 World War II, 2 Elizabethan) happened. There's always a shun -- Dreamgirls, anyone? But we idiots continued to operate under the impression that somehow Oscar would see the light and we'd all be back in 1991 -- when a movie about a well scrubbed rube and a cannibalistic psychiatrist could take the top honors.
Amazingly this ire came to an overflowing boil when Dark Knight wasn't nominated. Suddenly there was a demand to expand the Oscar pool to ten pictures -- the worst mistake imaginable. Had any of us known this meant they were going to go right on NOT nominating Christopher Nolan we wouldn't have even looked at Dark Knight as any sort of problem -- frankly, as much of a fan as I am of that movie (I own it and watch it regularly) I would not have nominated it. I would have given it technical accolades -- just like the Bourne movies. If Greengrass wants an Oscar nomination, it's United 93 -- even he knows that.
But now we have an award show where there is a distinct separation between Musical/Comedy and Drama -- Drama always having the edge in Oscar-land -- and then find ourselves in one giant free for all. Christ, it's worse than the Grammys!
So now the pool is so damn vast, all a producer has to do is find a way to run with the ball and take down the front runner. It's been two in a row and I'll bet it happens again next year unless everyone gets a case of the Julie Andrews and starts turning down Critics Circle Awards.
"The Ten" is making Oscar borderline irrelevant -- obviously they're never going to be irrelevant. My solution is to pull away from the Globes. Screw the tailgaters by moving back to the end of March.
Studios should release all of their contenders Christmas week in both New York and LA with a slow roll out during the early spring -- let the Globes earn you money, and the reviews, and the Oscar nominations, and then the wins. Why get it all at once?
The nominations should not be announced until mid February -- a cool month after the Golden Globes. Currently the Globes are so close to the current Oscar telecast (Oscar moved, Globie stayed put like a good little Globie) they're more or less a glorified red carpet with trophies. Of course everyone's watching the pre-show -- it's like a great play off game! Why not watch both Annette and Natalie win? But this doesn't mean double the trophies. It just means let that cocktail party do its thing. You stand back and wait for the minor post season to end. You get to close and you lose your moxie.
Sometimes the best game of the year is Jets/Patriots. But not if you move the Super Bowl back a month.
So drop the ten, slide it back, and get yourself a damn host. Stop blaming the Globes for your woes. Look to the ads! Look to the ads!
For Christ sake, the next thing you know the Sierra Club and the Wiley Brothers will be buying air time for the Coen Brothers.
I thank you for your time and consideration.
Matthew J. McCue
Many of the adjustments suggested in today's article by Tim Goodman are wise. However, Mr. Goodman has fallen victim to the very misstep an Oscar worshipper like myself could tripped over himself. Mr. Goodman still sees the Oscar -- and its telecast -- as the unquestionable gold standard in entertainment ceremonies. It is. Of course it is. For heaven's sake, it's the Oscars. But the telecast has gone a bit schizo -- it knows it's too long but suddenly it's freaking out. This doesn't mean Mr. Goodman should consequently dismiss the Golden Globes as a laughable ceremony.
How are they laughable when one of Goodman's first suggestions is that the Oscars immediately move themselves to the other side of the Globes so they stop losing their "gravitas." Do the math, pal. That means HFPA has the gravitas. Slide between Christmas and Globe time? I could not disagree with Mr. Goodman more.
If the over-campaigning of the 90s Weinstein brothers, followed by the Dreamworks/Miramax wars of the turn of the century, and now the dark days of the 10 nominees has taught us anything, it is that the Oscars are in a serious state of self-doubt and -- much like our own political system -- they simply do not know how to do a bit of simple "campaign finance reform." It seems Russ Feingold is currently available. Perhaps he could swing by Tinsel town and give AMPAS a lesson or two.
The truth of the matter is that Ricky Gervais -- despite the endless criticism he received afterward -- hit the ball clean out of the park with this year's Golden Globe telecast. He was edgy, he was tough, he was hilarious. So what if a few people were offended? If another of Mr. Goodman's major suggestions is to stop looking at "the awards" as something for people "in the room" and "industry" only -- isn't a little ribbing toward the bevy of boozing celebs just what the doctor ordered? And Dr. Gervais delivered. I don't think Robert Downey, Jr. minded his introduction one bit. I think Tim Allen may have -- but so what? He can afford it! And Downey certainly proved he can take a tough joke when Jude Law once again aired Downey's arrest record at the Oscars.
Thus let's forgive Ricky -- he did an excellent job.
James and Anne -- both of whom I love -- not so much.
The other point of fun with the Hollywood Foreign Press is that it's the first telecast of the year that gets all the big stars in one room and hands out trophies to the stars of stage and screen -- and it's a good show. Christ, SAG does the same thing but few people are elevating that little wonder to Oscar status.
What we've got here is a closed award window where the Oscar nominations follow so quickly on the heels of the actual Globe presentation -- where the campaigning seems far less psychotic -- that the HFPA shifted from being a predictor to an indicator.
For years, idiots like myself hoped something amazing would happen -- even after the "SKG vs. Bob and Harvey" feud shaved a year off the Oscar calendar. We woke up on that fateful nominating Tuesday with the hopes that some crazy little weasel was going to pop its head into the best picture mix. Sure, we were stunned when things like the 1995 (a talking pig, a spaceship, and an Italian mailman beat out a Sean Penn death march and Mike Figgis?) and 1998 (5 nominees -- 3 World War II, 2 Elizabethan) happened. There's always a shun -- Dreamgirls, anyone? But we idiots continued to operate under the impression that somehow Oscar would see the light and we'd all be back in 1991 -- when a movie about a well scrubbed rube and a cannibalistic psychiatrist could take the top honors.
Amazingly this ire came to an overflowing boil when Dark Knight wasn't nominated. Suddenly there was a demand to expand the Oscar pool to ten pictures -- the worst mistake imaginable. Had any of us known this meant they were going to go right on NOT nominating Christopher Nolan we wouldn't have even looked at Dark Knight as any sort of problem -- frankly, as much of a fan as I am of that movie (I own it and watch it regularly) I would not have nominated it. I would have given it technical accolades -- just like the Bourne movies. If Greengrass wants an Oscar nomination, it's United 93 -- even he knows that.
But now we have an award show where there is a distinct separation between Musical/Comedy and Drama -- Drama always having the edge in Oscar-land -- and then find ourselves in one giant free for all. Christ, it's worse than the Grammys!
So now the pool is so damn vast, all a producer has to do is find a way to run with the ball and take down the front runner. It's been two in a row and I'll bet it happens again next year unless everyone gets a case of the Julie Andrews and starts turning down Critics Circle Awards.
"The Ten" is making Oscar borderline irrelevant -- obviously they're never going to be irrelevant. My solution is to pull away from the Globes. Screw the tailgaters by moving back to the end of March.
Studios should release all of their contenders Christmas week in both New York and LA with a slow roll out during the early spring -- let the Globes earn you money, and the reviews, and the Oscar nominations, and then the wins. Why get it all at once?
The nominations should not be announced until mid February -- a cool month after the Golden Globes. Currently the Globes are so close to the current Oscar telecast (Oscar moved, Globie stayed put like a good little Globie) they're more or less a glorified red carpet with trophies. Of course everyone's watching the pre-show -- it's like a great play off game! Why not watch both Annette and Natalie win? But this doesn't mean double the trophies. It just means let that cocktail party do its thing. You stand back and wait for the minor post season to end. You get to close and you lose your moxie.
Sometimes the best game of the year is Jets/Patriots. But not if you move the Super Bowl back a month.
So drop the ten, slide it back, and get yourself a damn host. Stop blaming the Globes for your woes. Look to the ads! Look to the ads!
For Christ sake, the next thing you know the Sierra Club and the Wiley Brothers will be buying air time for the Coen Brothers.
I thank you for your time and consideration.
Matthew J. McCue
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Unknown: Not Taken
I couldn't be more pleased that Liam - Darkman, Schindler, Aslan, Zeus - Neeson has somehow become the world's favorite action star. If I could flux-capacitate back and share this with audiences leaving Michael Collins they'd punch me in the face and throw me in a one way cab to Belleview. And yet, it's the case.
Neeson is launching himself into that strata of Euro-actors who takes film after film -- sometimes lending his clout to simple one-liners "RELEASE THE KRACKEN!" which the formerly "Sir" Anthony Hopkins shall do with this summer's Thor.
The old Grand Moff Tarkin move.
At the same time, Neeson is headlining would be crummy action movies that are driving middle aged women crazy and are -- admittedly -- not half bad. The amount of street cred he gained with Taken was nothing short of astonishing. It wasn't a solid film by any means -- yet its undeniably entertaining. The world loved it. It's constantly on television and is the type of movie Mel Gibson would have (actually) killed to have chosen instead of the astoundingly unattended Edge of Darkness.
So here we are with Unknown which is raking in the dough and has audiences clamoring that they've found a new Taken. I'm here to tell you that couldn't be further from the truth. The plot holes in this thing are beyond compare. There's some sweet action -- I'll admit that. Diane Kruger is pretty excellent. And the best performance in the entire film is seasoned Swiss star Bruno Ganz -- perhaps best known for the recent Hitler film Downfall or the 90s masterpiece Far Away, So Close. With an actor like that, would you expect any less?
But my word is the storyline a stunner of repetitive, weak, forced twists and turns.
Neeson's screamed, "I'm Martin Harris!" borders on "Give me back my son!" and "Not without my daughter!" As a drinking game, it would leave audiences the world over fighting their way onto organ donor lists. There is literally an hour of film where Neeson yells that line at least once per scene. I'm going to go out on a limb and say, "We got it, Qui Gon."
If you're looking for something mindless to rent or netflix stream in the months to come -- perhaps consider it -- but this is not something one needs to hurry to a multiplex to enjoy. In fact the only redeeming line of dialogue is when amnesiac Neeson screams "I haven't forgotten how to kill you a**hole!"
Other than that, my review Unknown is this: Corn?
- Matthew J. McCue
Neeson is launching himself into that strata of Euro-actors who takes film after film -- sometimes lending his clout to simple one-liners "RELEASE THE KRACKEN!" which the formerly "Sir" Anthony Hopkins shall do with this summer's Thor.
The old Grand Moff Tarkin move.
At the same time, Neeson is headlining would be crummy action movies that are driving middle aged women crazy and are -- admittedly -- not half bad. The amount of street cred he gained with Taken was nothing short of astonishing. It wasn't a solid film by any means -- yet its undeniably entertaining. The world loved it. It's constantly on television and is the type of movie Mel Gibson would have (actually) killed to have chosen instead of the astoundingly unattended Edge of Darkness.
So here we are with Unknown which is raking in the dough and has audiences clamoring that they've found a new Taken. I'm here to tell you that couldn't be further from the truth. The plot holes in this thing are beyond compare. There's some sweet action -- I'll admit that. Diane Kruger is pretty excellent. And the best performance in the entire film is seasoned Swiss star Bruno Ganz -- perhaps best known for the recent Hitler film Downfall or the 90s masterpiece Far Away, So Close. With an actor like that, would you expect any less?
But my word is the storyline a stunner of repetitive, weak, forced twists and turns.
Neeson's screamed, "I'm Martin Harris!" borders on "Give me back my son!" and "Not without my daughter!" As a drinking game, it would leave audiences the world over fighting their way onto organ donor lists. There is literally an hour of film where Neeson yells that line at least once per scene. I'm going to go out on a limb and say, "We got it, Qui Gon."
If you're looking for something mindless to rent or netflix stream in the months to come -- perhaps consider it -- but this is not something one needs to hurry to a multiplex to enjoy. In fact the only redeeming line of dialogue is when amnesiac Neeson screams "I haven't forgotten how to kill you a**hole!"
Other than that, my review Unknown is this: Corn?
- Matthew J. McCue
Little Red's Little Review
What a muddy plot you have.
The better to confuse you with, my dear.
I am a huge fan of Catherine Hardwicke. The "Twilight Saga" has ventured onward without her and has dragged in colossal sums -- who knows what kind of box office numbers the Breaking Dawn two-parter will do under Bill Condon. We're talking borderline Harry Potter numbers here.
The problem is, they've lost their edge. That handheld choppiness -- that borderline off-putting editing -- that slow it down/speed it up -- clear "direction" has left Forks. Eclipse and New Moon are clean and pristine -- about all they've kept in common with the franchise kick-off is their excellent soundtracks -- another Hardwicke signature. And this isn't to say Chris Weitz (my hero) or Hard Candy's David Slade didn't nail the follow-ups. But they've been smoothed down and polished beyond studio compare. Take one look at the directorial style of the Twilight "baseball game" and it couldn't be more clear -- the edge is gone -- then again, so is glittering in the sunshine -- you take what you can get, I suppose.
But this helmer of Thirteen and The Lords of Dogtown is clearly a director to be reckoned with (or for any of my students who happen to be reading this "a director with whom one should reckon"). I wonder what she'll do next and which film will be her signature piece. One thing is certain -- it shall not be Red Riding Hood.
I for one am overjoyed about Hollywood's current tip toward adapting and reinventing fairytales and folklore. It's always a nice recurring trend to ride through and the vampire - werewolf obsession spawned by Stephanie Meyer, Kristen Stewart, Taylor Lautner and Robert Pattinson makes Catherine Hardwicke the slam-dunk choice to lens it.
But the plot, my friends, the plot. And let me just say spoiler alert to the max.
What looked like it had the possibility of being a neat little film about a small town, a werewolf, a snow and some hot people turned into a muddled near laughable mess that made me re-evaluate my deep disrespect for The Village.
A small town is haunted by a werewolf to whom they sacrifice livestock each month. One month, the wolf kills the beautiful Amanda Seyfried's sister. How can this be? We've been giving that wolf goats and pigs on a regular basis and then he up and kills one of us? Murmurmurmur, watermelonbubblegum, elephantshoe.
Lukas Haas -- who still looks like he stepped off the set of Witness and who may well be the reason Leonardo DiCaprio produced the pic (or vice versa) -- is the local priest who insists they call in the big religious guns. And who else would be the worst possible priest to ring up? Well, Gary Oldman, of course. What was nice to see is that this was real Gary Oldman -- not watered down Sirius Black. This was the Oldman of the '90s who we all think could snap at any moment, torture folks, or just straight up kill them -- and he does. That was at least a pleasure.
But apparently -- according to this film -- the town is currently under a "Red Moon" wherein a werewolf's bite can turn anyone into an additional werewolf. This, of course, is long after multiple drifting, warning camera shots of a VERY white moon -- at least they were kind enough to keep the moon red once this brand-new piece of folklore was introduced.
Thus we're left with a love triangle between Seyfried unknown actors -- a woodcutter and a blacksmith -- both about 18 and great looking. Amazingly to us of the modern age -- a woodcutter is an absolutely unacceptable husband whereas with a smithy you've struck gold -- or you've at least met someone who can hammer it into the shape of something.
So the wolf obviously returns and starts killing people and no significant actor is ever on-screen while this is happening to keep absolutely everyone a suspect. And one night -- while the wolf is slash folks to pieces it corners Amanda Seyfried and speaks to her. Yes, the wolf speaks. And this is one of these modern day werewolves who doesn't take its lycanthrope form like good old Benicio del Toro in the highly underrated (seriously, rent it today) and now Oscar-winning Wolfman. No torn shirt and jeans here. This is one of these actual wolves that looks more like that bad-ass from The Neverending Story and yet it speaks. So it tells Seyfried to leave town and make a new life.
Of course, every single character in the movie has told Seyfried to do this one way or the other, so there's no telling who it could be. Amazingly, in my opinion, it's also a clear sign that Seyfried should indeed leave town -- wolf endorsement or not.
And here's where the holes come in. The questions.
What the hell is Julie Christie -- dame of Beatty-dom -- doing here?
Oh, she's the dad's mom?
If the wolf can't go on holy ground, why don't we all just chill in the church for the whole movie?
Aren't there like 15 people in this town? Wouldn't it be relatively easy to just take attendance?
Why are they killing every person who is "wolf bit" when the wolf itself claims its power can only be passed on to someone in its bloodline?
How are there locked guarded gates around the entire village and yet my dear Julie Christie -- granny who lives out in the woods -- can come and go as she pleases?
What is going on?!
I'm not going to spend time nitpicking over the remarkable contradictions of logic that persist through the rest of the film because frankly I'm in a storm of conflicting emotions -- I wish to hell Hardwicke had made a better movie and at the same time, it's so bad, I can't possibly believe this was the intended picture. Something must have gone horribly wrong out there in the woods and somehow this was what we ended up with.
It looked great. And the music is good. I must give it both of those. But that's all.
Here's hoping Ms. Seyfried and Ms. Hardwicke get right back into the swing of things and put this one behind them.
-Matthew J. McCue
The better to confuse you with, my dear.
I am a huge fan of Catherine Hardwicke. The "Twilight Saga" has ventured onward without her and has dragged in colossal sums -- who knows what kind of box office numbers the Breaking Dawn two-parter will do under Bill Condon. We're talking borderline Harry Potter numbers here.
The problem is, they've lost their edge. That handheld choppiness -- that borderline off-putting editing -- that slow it down/speed it up -- clear "direction" has left Forks. Eclipse and New Moon are clean and pristine -- about all they've kept in common with the franchise kick-off is their excellent soundtracks -- another Hardwicke signature. And this isn't to say Chris Weitz (my hero) or Hard Candy's David Slade didn't nail the follow-ups. But they've been smoothed down and polished beyond studio compare. Take one look at the directorial style of the Twilight "baseball game" and it couldn't be more clear -- the edge is gone -- then again, so is glittering in the sunshine -- you take what you can get, I suppose.
But this helmer of Thirteen and The Lords of Dogtown is clearly a director to be reckoned with (or for any of my students who happen to be reading this "a director with whom one should reckon"). I wonder what she'll do next and which film will be her signature piece. One thing is certain -- it shall not be Red Riding Hood.
I for one am overjoyed about Hollywood's current tip toward adapting and reinventing fairytales and folklore. It's always a nice recurring trend to ride through and the vampire - werewolf obsession spawned by Stephanie Meyer, Kristen Stewart, Taylor Lautner and Robert Pattinson makes Catherine Hardwicke the slam-dunk choice to lens it.
But the plot, my friends, the plot. And let me just say spoiler alert to the max.
What looked like it had the possibility of being a neat little film about a small town, a werewolf, a snow and some hot people turned into a muddled near laughable mess that made me re-evaluate my deep disrespect for The Village.
A small town is haunted by a werewolf to whom they sacrifice livestock each month. One month, the wolf kills the beautiful Amanda Seyfried's sister. How can this be? We've been giving that wolf goats and pigs on a regular basis and then he up and kills one of us? Murmurmurmur, watermelonbubblegum, elephantshoe.
Lukas Haas -- who still looks like he stepped off the set of Witness and who may well be the reason Leonardo DiCaprio produced the pic (or vice versa) -- is the local priest who insists they call in the big religious guns. And who else would be the worst possible priest to ring up? Well, Gary Oldman, of course. What was nice to see is that this was real Gary Oldman -- not watered down Sirius Black. This was the Oldman of the '90s who we all think could snap at any moment, torture folks, or just straight up kill them -- and he does. That was at least a pleasure.
But apparently -- according to this film -- the town is currently under a "Red Moon" wherein a werewolf's bite can turn anyone into an additional werewolf. This, of course, is long after multiple drifting, warning camera shots of a VERY white moon -- at least they were kind enough to keep the moon red once this brand-new piece of folklore was introduced.
Thus we're left with a love triangle between Seyfried unknown actors -- a woodcutter and a blacksmith -- both about 18 and great looking. Amazingly to us of the modern age -- a woodcutter is an absolutely unacceptable husband whereas with a smithy you've struck gold -- or you've at least met someone who can hammer it into the shape of something.
So the wolf obviously returns and starts killing people and no significant actor is ever on-screen while this is happening to keep absolutely everyone a suspect. And one night -- while the wolf is slash folks to pieces it corners Amanda Seyfried and speaks to her. Yes, the wolf speaks. And this is one of these modern day werewolves who doesn't take its lycanthrope form like good old Benicio del Toro in the highly underrated (seriously, rent it today) and now Oscar-winning Wolfman. No torn shirt and jeans here. This is one of these actual wolves that looks more like that bad-ass from The Neverending Story and yet it speaks. So it tells Seyfried to leave town and make a new life.
Of course, every single character in the movie has told Seyfried to do this one way or the other, so there's no telling who it could be. Amazingly, in my opinion, it's also a clear sign that Seyfried should indeed leave town -- wolf endorsement or not.
And here's where the holes come in. The questions.
What the hell is Julie Christie -- dame of Beatty-dom -- doing here?
Oh, she's the dad's mom?
If the wolf can't go on holy ground, why don't we all just chill in the church for the whole movie?
Aren't there like 15 people in this town? Wouldn't it be relatively easy to just take attendance?
Why are they killing every person who is "wolf bit" when the wolf itself claims its power can only be passed on to someone in its bloodline?
How are there locked guarded gates around the entire village and yet my dear Julie Christie -- granny who lives out in the woods -- can come and go as she pleases?
What is going on?!
I'm not going to spend time nitpicking over the remarkable contradictions of logic that persist through the rest of the film because frankly I'm in a storm of conflicting emotions -- I wish to hell Hardwicke had made a better movie and at the same time, it's so bad, I can't possibly believe this was the intended picture. Something must have gone horribly wrong out there in the woods and somehow this was what we ended up with.
It looked great. And the music is good. I must give it both of those. But that's all.
Here's hoping Ms. Seyfried and Ms. Hardwicke get right back into the swing of things and put this one behind them.
-Matthew J. McCue
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