My goal is to do some actual blogging during my upcoming trip to China. So WATCH THIS SPACE for dispatches from the Inscrutable East!
Okay, I’ve HAD it with the rampant and inexcusable mispronouciation of these two words!!
Listen carefully. You won’t believe how often the words “photographer” and “familiar” are pronounced as if their first syllables end in the letter “r”.
This must stop immediately.
Carry on.
There are plenty of successful things in pop culture that I understand I’m simply too old to understand. Torture porn films, like SAW and its ilk, for example. Text messaging. Lucky Brand jeans.
But, for whatever reason, I’m completely on board with this whole graphic-novel-into-movie thing.
I’ve always felt that traditional superhero comic books were not a good fit for movies, because the world of a comic book is so artificial and fanciful, whereas movies tend to be very literal.
However, with the BIG exception of ROAD TO PERDITION, I have loved every cinematic graphic novel adaptation I have so far seen.
I just got back from seeing 300 at the huge, iconic Grauman’s Chinese theater, I have to tell you I loved every minute of it.
I believe two things are true about movies. One, movies are dreams. Two, movies are about telling stories with pictures.
Movies like 300 score big in both departments. The story is obviously Frank Miller’s fever dream of the Battle of Thermopylae, and the wildly overheated visual style of the film is very definitely an exciting new way to tell stories with pictures.
Everything in 300 is dialed up to eleven. No one speaks, but rather pontificates or just simply shouts. There’s an exclamation point at the end of everything.
From the decadent splendor of the Persian God-King Xerxes and his armies to the stunning battle landscapes to the straining muscles of the Spartan fighters, the movie is a visual feast.
So after enjoying FROM HELL, AMERICAN SPLENDOR, SIN CITY and now 300, I say bring on the graphic novel adaptations!!
I know there’s an old tradition of not speaking ill of the dead. Sorry, but I think that rule should only apply to people we know.
Celebrities shouldn’t be covered by this courtesy policy.
Since the Trash Queen’s death at 39 last week, I’ve been shocked at the huffy and self-righteous reactions I’ve gotten to my A.N.S. cracks. It’s as if Princess Diana has just died.
Let me clear this up. Anna Nicole Smith was a grotesque celebrity whose life was a parody of everything dignified, classy and intelligent. For god’s sake, the father of her baby might be Zsa Zsa Gabor’s husband.
I get to make fun of her and I don’t want any grief about it, okay?
One of the nicest things about living in a city like Los Angeles is that I get many opportunities to see older movies on the big screen. On Saturday night I braved the rain to make my way to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art’s screening of Roman Polanski’s classic chiller.
For those of you who might not be familiar with this wonderful movie, the plot concerns a young couple, Rosemary (Mia Farrow) and her actor husband (John Cassavetes) who move into a creepy old New York apartment building (actually, the famous Dakota). Their noisy and peculiar neighbors (Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer) appear excessively interested in Rosemary’s pregnancy. It had been many years since I’ve seen this movie, and the first thing that struck me was how amazingly good Ruth Gordon is. Thirty-eight years after the movie was made, it is clear that the Oscar she won for the performance had little to do with sentiment. She is on fire as the dotty Minnie Castevet.
And whatever you may think of Mia Farrow as an actress, she’s absolutely tremendous as Rosemary. Her physical frailty only emphasizes her steely determination to keep a suspected coven of witches from getting their claws on her baby. And what can I say about Mr. Polanski that hasn’t been said? He is a master at finding the creepy in the everyday. Rosemary’s comfortable Upper West Side life becomes more and more frightening with very little overt cinematic tricks or gimmicks. Polanski understood that the unknown is the most frightening thing and that the more banal and humdrum evil is portrayed, the more frightening it is. There were a few members of the audience sitting near me who were clearly seeing the movie for the first time, and I really enjoyed their increasingly alarmed reactions as the noose of the fiendish plot grows every tighter on poor hapless Rosemary. It’s interesting that Frank Sinatra, Farrow’s then-husband, absolutely hated that she was making a movie like Rosemary’s Baby. He visited her on the set and made scenes. The iconic Vidal Sassoon short-short pixie haircut she gets halfway through the film was probably the last straw for him. He served her divorce papers on the set. What a nice, supportive husband.
Mia, it was worth losing Frank to make this movie. It’s the performance of your career. While I don’t approve of watching movies on television (I don’t want to hear about how great your home theater setup is, not interested, blah blah blah blah I can’t hear you), since not everyone who reads this blog has the opportunity to see great films like this on the big screen, I recommend that everyone go out and rent this movie immediately. See how horror films are supposed to be made.
This image pretty much sums up what should be happening in Washington.
http://img.villagephotos.com/p/2003-10/446384/perpwalk.gif
There’s an old (and thankfully, largely obsolete) phrase that was once frequently used to describe homosexual men: “Women Haters.”
Happily, that term is now far more frequently (and accurately) used to describe heterosexual men who hate women.
However, if anyone has any doubts about how gay men feel about women, they need go no further than Pedro Almodovar’s current film, Volver.
Almodovar is 1) Spain’s unquestioned master of cinema and is 2) widely known to be gay.
Just sit down and watch this movie and you will realize that few men on the planet love women more than Pedro Almodovar does. He creates an earth goddess out of Penelope Cruz, celebrating her body, her spirit and her brains in equal measure.
There’s an amazing shot in the film taken while Cruz is washing dishes. The camera is placed directly above her, so the audience is staring straight down at her (remarkable) boobs. How many other gay directors, I wonder, would put together such a shot? (I mean, besides John Waters . . . and then the boobs would be on a man.)
And as Penelope’s indominatable character, Raimunda, struggles with simultaneous challenges involving murder, ghosts and possible financial ruin, Almodovar allows her to be something rarely found in American movies: a woman who’s a complete person, not simply a plot device or a reflection of a male character’s needs or quirks.
(By the way, those of you who have only seen Penelope Cruz in American films may be unprepared for how fantastic she is in Volver).
Volver is no fluke, either. Celebrating womanhood is a theme that runs through all of Almodovar’s films, from Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988) to All About My Mother (1999).
Watching the wonderful movie reminded me of an amusing moment I had recently while playing the online game World of Warcraft. I’m quite “out” in my online life, and a fellow player expressed mild surprise after hearing me compliment a woman. “Oh, didn’t you know, WolfKiller, ” I said nonchalantly, “that gay men adore women?”
Once again, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has soldiered forward and made their feeble nominations. It’s such a lot of wasted effort when all they needed to to was ask me which movies were naughty and which were nice. Alas.
The Good
The Bad
The Ugly
As with every year, I have to try to take joy in the nominations they got right and ignore the ones they got wrong. Nurse, please turn up the morphine drip.