Retard

Going The Distance, by Geoff LaTulippe.

Another pussified movie, where the men are all basically girls and the girls are young women, but not women. What I can't understand about modern, presumably young writers (this is Miss Tulip's only credit), is their fear of germs. There is much too much made over the fact that the dork to the left and Drew Barrymore, (who needs to start being more selective, or switch to theatre), begin to have sex on the dining room table of her sister's home. The sister, Christina Applegate, behaves in the script as if some sort of nuclear device scattered radiation on the table. She gets into full combat cleaning gear and starts scrubbing the table, and with her heavy latex gloved hands, removes a possible pubic hair and almost pukes. 

These sorts of gimmicks are supposed to be funny, but they're only funny to people who laugh at anything that's put in front of them. This got a 6.5 on IMDB which is pretty good for how actually bad it is.

Well I haven't written a movie review in a long time, so what shall I tear apart for my first day back in the Blogosphere (a.k.a. useless writing storage place).

I think what I'm going to tear apart is all the people who hate the director Roman Polanski.

Almost no one understands that the entire Polanski story (the murder of his wife by the people in the picture, the sex with the young teen girl, his flee from the country, then his recent arrest in Switzerland and subsequent release) was about fame and the truly sick obsession America and her people have with it. Maybe it's because so many years ago Emerson wrote that biography was going to be the only American form of literature, and somehow that has turned into "Fame is the only form of American literature."

Polanski actually made the story better and more famous by doing what he did. He actually extended the story, so that it still has relevance thirty or forty years later.

Oh. Yes. Everyone calls him a coward because he didn't want to face his sentencing. What they don't know is that he had already been sentenced by the corrupt judge who was in charge of his case and had already served out his sentence in jail. The judge and his bailiff used a subtle illegal tactic to put Polanski in jail "for observation," for up to forty days. Polanski's lawyer, the prosecutor and the judge, and the family of the victim had all agreed that this would be enough and, especially important to the victim, it would end all the coverage. Well the judge decided, after the fact, that he wasn't satisfied and wanted to punish him some more, so he pulled the prosecutor and Polanski's lawyer into his chambers and told them what he was going to say and what they were to say in response. The judge planned to jail him, and then start deportation proceedings, which seems oxymoronic.

The judge held press conferences with the Hollywood press and loved seeing his picture in the papers. He was an ass-sucking viper, just as bad as the papparazzi, and he didn't want to let the Polanski fade, because the case was his ticket to the front pages. A more recent example of a judge that loved the media attention was Ito, in the OJ case. That case would never have taken a year if it had not been televised.

The victim, who is now a middle aged woman, said in the documentary that the judge ruined her life. Polanski said at the start of the documentary, that he fled the country because of the corruption of the judge, and for no other reason. And I believe him. The fact that he voluntarily went to jail for "psychiatric observation" shows that he didn't want to leave the country, or stop making movies. For fuck's sake, his wife is buried in L.A.

Everything points to the corruption of the judge. But here in America we don't believe that judges are corrupt, or have the freedom to do almost anything they want, or that corruption exists outside Washington D.C. Law & Order has persuaded us that judges are sensible, reasonable, arbitrators of good law. Even when they're making terrible decisions or decisions that are based on personal feelings, they hide those decisions behind the obfuscation of law.

But they aren't saints, and we need to find a way to remove them from their positions of power. We cannot have simpletons and vanity cases in the position of sentencing people to death, or, in the case of Roman Polanski, jailing them and then start deportation proceedings at the same time.

So Polanski jumped bail. Hopefully whoever put it up got their money back somehow. And the victim, whoever she was, has moved on, from an encounter that her mother forced her to do and changed the course of her life, because Polanski thought she was "just" a young pretty girl and could give her the same drugs that everyone else was using.

The only thing I question are two things: In Bugliosi's book about the Manson killings which is called Helter Skelter, I think, he said that Polanski went into the crime scene and retrieved some "sex movies" he had made with Sharon Tate. Why was he allowed to do that? And after having your wife and baby killed by a demented bitch with a knife, why would you give drugs to a young girl, whether she looked 18 or 25?

But this could be the same question asked of those parents who sent their kids to "play" and "sleep over" with Michael Jackson.

Hollywood SUCKS!

The Edge of Darkness

Edge of Darkness, by William Monohan and Andrew Bovell

To be paid six figures for screenplays that use lines from your other screenplays kind of makes me sick. Enough with "You gotta decide which side you're on. Hanging on the cross or banging in the nails." Mr. Monohan has used it twice by my count and it's a little irritating. For one thing, what if you don't believe in Christ?

Another writer who did this was Lawrence Kasdan with Raiders of the Lost Ark and some other flick I've forgotten where he had the woman kissing him in one spot then another until he finally reached the lips.

It wouldn't surprise me if Mel Gibson asked that the line be added even though it was in another screenplay because from his body of work, it's clear that he thinks of himself as Christ, or wishes he could have been. In this movie everyone's a martyr and the body count is about twenty or so -- I wasn't going to count but there were so many it started to feel absurd. A cop out of control, totally abusing his authority in trying to find out who killed his daughter. Eh. Whatever. The movie felt strangely dull and emotionless, although tense at times. Body of Lies, the other movie to use the cross/nails choice metaphor was better but there you had an actor/artist who does not have an agenda. Gibson's agenda is to portray himself as victim/martyr and it dulls the ability to feel for the character.

His homophobia makes it a strange choice to fist a puppet in his latest movie, but perhaps he just thought of it as fisting a beaver. I can't believe they allowed that movie to be called The Beaver. And I can't believe there aren't more jokes going around. Go figure.

Oh by the way

In case you thought the death of Agatha Laurents, I mean Arthur Laurents, was a sad occasion, let me just tell you the shrimp was a bitch. I put up all the front money for what he called "his greatest and most public flop" and obviously, I lost all the money I had put up for it. When I was invited to a private performance by Richard Maltby, Charles Strouse and Arthur Laurents in Charles's apartment, the three of them started screaming as soon as Charlie Strouse was out of the room. The apartment was on Central Park South (Charles Strausse's apartment) and as soon as the "performance" broke up, Arthur Laurents walked up to me and asked me what I thought. And he knew I was the primary investor so maybe this was my fault. But all I said was that the show needed a second act. He turned around and walked away from me like the sad little midget he was. I hated him. The other guys: Richard Maltby and Charles Strouse were cool in a certain way, but as soon as Arthur Laurents looked up at me and said, "What do you think,"I knew he was fishing for praise. He had also previously trashed a play I had semi-financed called "Mountain," and he said "Len Cariou is in it, so it can't be good."

The big problem with Nick & Nora is that there was never a writer. Arthur Laurents said that he always hated the Nick & Nora movies, so why did he agree to write one? He never wrote a second act, but tried to imitate Hal Prince in creating a sung-through musical, which is basically a form of musical theatre opera.

He died recently, as we all will do, and he said that Nick & Nora was his greatest and most public flop. I'm glad I got to pay for it.

Water For Elephants

Water For Elephants by Richard LaGravanse.

I love Mr. R. G. He was born 15 days before me. We're both Scorpios of 1959, and every movie and adaptation of his that I've seen I've loved. So maybe I was being a total queer for wanting to love this movie, but it's only because I've wanted to be fucked by R.LG for just about ever.

This movie got really bad reviews which I didn't know because I had no intention of spoiling my experience with reviews or movie vs. book comparisons. The first time I saw it, I thought it was spellbinding and sort of gorgeous. The second time I saw it, I had a lump in my throat that I thought was going to come out in the form of tears, but I was with someone, so I swallowed it down. I finally read the reviews after the third time I saw this and I have still not read the book, but I thought for a movie to convey what it was able to convey (movies can never completely capture a book, so to compare them is not really fair, IMHO), it deserved way better reviews than it got. You get the sense of what it must have been like for "entertainment" to come to town, (the circus); you understand how frustrating it must have been to be a struggling Ringling Bros. competitor (Cirque du soleil and the Big Apple Circus are the only remaining ones.) And what you really get a great sense of is the absolute desperation and poverty that these people (1931-1936) lived in. There was no one to take care of them. If they failed at their job they were thrown off the train. The beautiful GORGEOUS Reese Witherspoon is absolutely willing to give up her fantasy relationship with the Vampire guy. And he is too. (Robert Pattinson). The romance doesn't actually resolve itself until the last frames of the movie, which is a brilliant move, in my opinion, kind of like finding out what Rosebud means at the end of Citizen Kane. Oh and the elephant is one of the most extraordinary characters ever. I loved this movie from start to finish, and I love Richard LaGravanese. Living Out Loud. The Fisher King. and other great movies. He is a great writer.

Borrowed

Well I can't find a photo to accompany this almost worthless piece of trash movie, but any romantic 'comedy' that manages not to make a man cringe is worth talking about. Women, especially single women, love this stuff. I don't know why, but i think it satisfies the Cinderella or Barbie fantasy, while men hate it, because almost every RC reduces men to gas station pumps. Good for one or two babies, but not much more than that.

Romantic comedies always make me question female sexuality and in this one, there is Goldie Hawn's daughter (who is finally starting to look pretty), and Ginnifer Goodwin, who has a single way of acting in every single series or movie she has been in. Kate Hudson is the slutty active go-getter, and Ginnifer is the woman who holds the coats. The men (there are 3, and the 3rd is the only reason I went to see this stupid movie) are xxxxyyyyxxxxyyyxxxyyy (I can't remember his name but he is as bland as white bread), another guy xxxxyyyyxxxxyyyyxxxx (I also can't remember his name because he is as bland as white bread, toasted), and finally Jon Krasinski, who gets shafted.

What impressed me about the movie in the overall scheme of things is that not everyone ended up happy, not all friendships were renewed, no plots really came to a happy ending, including the pregnancy of one and the marriage or the other. But if Kate Hudson wants to save her career she needs to start playing really bad bitches. Like Joan Crawford like villains. I know she loves her blond hair, but when she gets angry on screen, it's almost frightening.

Valentine's Day

by these assholes.

Katherine Fugate		(screenplay)
Katherine Fugate		(story) and
Abby Kohn		(story) &
Marc Silverstein		(story)

Those horrible writers (for some incomprehensible reason, Katherine Fugate gets top writing credit, when the movie is clearly written by the assholes who wrote "He's Just Not That Into You.") wrote a movie that could destroy the careers of every actor that was in it, except that every actor that was in it, was a better actor than the characters they were supposed to inhabit. This movie is truly an expose of what actors are able to bring when they have nothing to work with. There is almost no writing in the movie that helps us understand the characters --- even the minor ones. Every single fucking moment of this movie is a cliche. Really, this is the worst movie-writing that I've ever encountered. I wanted to puke.

The Eagle

The Eagle, by Jeremy Brock.

This was actually good and very engrossing. There were a few cringe-worthy lines, but otherwise it's on par with the writer's other credits, such as Her Majesty Mrs. Brown and the rewritten Brideshead Revisited.

Channing Tatum, pictured in a face off with a fellow hottie in a completely different movie, teams up with his slave Jamie Bell, who I've admired since his role in Jumper, to go north of the Hadrian wall and retrieve a gold eagle totem his father lost to some savages in battle. Once in unfamiliar territory, Jamie becomes the owner and Channing becomes the slave.

The complete absence of women made me think this was a primitive love story between two men of different classes. But I don't think it's necessary to conclude that they're lovers. The relationship between develops nicely. It's believable.

Just Go With It

Just Go With It, by Allan Loeb and Timothy Dowling

Once upon a time, about fifty years ago, there was a French play called Fleur De Cactus which was re-written as an English stage play by Abe Burrows, and then turned into a movie starring two famous people and a newcomer from television. The newcomer won an Oscar for her performance and her name was Goldie Hawn. The leads of that movie were Ingrid Bergman and Walter Matthau. The director was Gene Saks and the screenwriter was I.A.L. Diamond.

They were all stellar, first rate talents, the likes of which we'll probably never see again.

The plot of the original movie (I don't know anything about the plays) was that a "swinging single" (Matthau) wanted to get out of marrying his girl-toy (Hawn) so he persuaded his plain jane secretary (Bergman) to pretend to be his wife. She agrees, but suddenly becomes exciting and attractive and Matthau realizes that she is as much of a beauty as his plaything. Thus the title: Cactus Flower.

Cactus Flower was entirely rewritten and renamed, "Just Go With It," which is a hostile and bitchy title, totally representative of Adam Sandler and his not so hidden anger. It should be called "Just Go With It Bitch and Shut The Fuck Up." Somehow, Adam Sandler has found a way of finding writers and projects through his "Happy Madison" company that allow him to express his rage without ever confronting it. He allows himself the freedom to hate without ever explaining why he hates. I could never figure out why P.T. Anderson, who is a great film writer, thought that Adam Sandler was a genius, but after seeing this movie, I think I understand. He is a genius of hidden rage.

Anyway, to get to this pointless remake, the plot is that his secretary is somehow not his subordinate but his equal. He wants to "date" (a.k.a., repeatedly fuck) a twit, but needs to pretend he's married in order to pretend he's getting a divorce. The entire plot hinges on a fuck on the beach (in Malibu, I presume, where people aren't allowed on the beach) behind a large boulder where somehow Happy doesn't take off his shirt but does take off his pants, sleeps with his girl under a blanket pulled from thin air, and then in the morning tells her to look in his front pocket for a business card, whereupon she finds a fake wedding ring and, after this one beach-night stand, becomes outraged that he's "married."

Being gay is so much easier.

From then on it's just a bunch of sentimental and unrealistic schlock: kids speaking like adults and adults behaving like children. The movie is steeped with homophobic clowns: hairdressers, hotel clerks. And the female story-line is no longer about the joy of life, which was what the original movie was: it's based totally on the prominence of the pudenda, which you can actually see in one horrible slow motion-bikini take. I never thought much of Jennifer Aniston and I think now, her major Hollywood accomplishment will be The Girl With No Tattoo. And that WILL be an accomplishment.

After fifty years, this is what it's come to. Very sad. Sad Madison.

No Strings Attached

No Strings Attached

by Elizabeth Meriwether and Michael Samonek

Traditional Hollywood is slightly pornographic, which is probably why real pornography is so rampant there -- in the valley or wherever it's shot.

I was afraid that this movie was going to destroy Natalie Portman but thankfully, unlike most movies featuring the twit in the picture, it doesn't destroy its co-stars as well. I'm thinking of that dreadful movie where he fucked Anne Heche. Who?

Ashton Kutcher is probably the worst male actor to come along since... hmmm... I can't think of any male actor worse than this asshole... oh Burt Reynolds. Burt Reynolds perfected the irritating habit of winking at the camera, as if to say, "Oh yes we know this sucks but it's all good natured fun." It's pretty much the same as monster truck rallies, roller derby, demolition derbys and "Professional" wrestling. Get some beer (and some smokes in ye olden days), watch guys destroy things without risking a single thing. I don't understand it. But then I suppose the audience isn't taking any chances either. It's what separates those "activities" from their 'legitimate' counterparts. A real car race actually poses a risk for the drivers. Real wrestling is not pre-determined. And actors who actually act don't constantly wink at the camera or always keep one part of their mind behind on the other side of it.

In Hollywood, and now, unfortunately, most of the country, people are growing up with two points of view: they are always aware of the camera and that somebody is watching them, or has the potential to watch them. Why do people need to film themselves having sex (on cell phone cameras, no less), if they're not going to use it to masturbate later? What matters more to people these days is that they look right while doing anything. This is how porn has infected us. Facebook is pornography. Twitter is pornography. You Tube is pornography. Sex and The City is pornography. All over New York there are (maybe more "were" now) women running around trying to have Carrie Bradshaw type lives. That's not healthy.

This movie is fortunately well written enough that for brief moments, you can actually forget that a porno actor is one of the leads. The movie is about the fear of a woman to feel and I think it's because it's primarily about the woman's problem (the woman in this picture, has the harder journey), that we can overlook the smug, creepy I'm-so-famous acting of the male lead. But I'll never watch it a second time.

Usurper

This review is about a book.

Addiction memoirs fascinate me only because they are almost entirely about action and almost nothing about feeling. Bill Clegg's "Portrait Of An Addict As A Young Man," was interesting for about five minutes until I realized that his play on the title of James Joyce's first novel was simply an appropriation, and not actually relevant. Of course I finished the book, if that's what you could call it --- there is only one book that I have ever not finished and maybe someday I'll tell you --- but it's nothing but a single note, and only reinforces the fact that publishing is an insular dead party staffed full of pretty boys and girls who are, literally, going outside to smoke crack.

I used the title Usurper for this blog utterance because when I got to the end of the first chapter of Ulysses, I realized that I had been a very lazy reader all my life, and had to look up the definition of a word that I should have known. This is a lazy book and should have been called Usurper.

There is nothing in this book that warrants "borrowing" from James Joyce. Stealing that title is just another form of drug use. But he's not a writer and this is a memoir, so I guess you're allowed to.

Oh my, he spent seventy grand on crack. Who cares? We're supposed to be fascinated because he was a successful literary agent and had a Manhattan friends and so on. I have Manhattan friends, but I'm not successful. Yet if I told the same story it wouldn't be interesting, thanks to Warhol and our obsession with fame. That is all this book is about, is fame, so it's another entry into the anus, I mean annals, of American literature.

He basically paid no price for any of his doings. He was re-hired back into the industry after he got clean, and is apparently making money off of it (and his retelling of it). That 70,000 dollars he blew on crack was nothing compared to the money he has already gotten from the movie rights. You get page after page of monotonous drug taking and then finally, once he finally gets his boyfriend (Ira Sachs, left in the photo above, with his new partner) to leave him, by attempting suicide and failing, he turns things around. This memoir once again, like all addiction memoirs, (I haven't read Mary's yet), shows that addiction is simply a format, and offers no insight into the mysteries of human behavior.

I was very disappointed.

Something that has always bugged me about James Cameron movies is his liberalism. His liberalism always seems to be couched in the comfy nook of technology.