A couple weeks ago, I was tossing and turning in my bed, per usual, thinking about something inevitably inane. I was probably trying to think about the efficiency of euphemisms. Or something. All the sudden, something struck me. No, not "struck me" -- came hammering down on me like a ton of Anna Karenina-sized bricks.
What I remembered was that it was mid-September and: Yesterday was the third anniversary of Paul Newman's death.
If I'm honest with myself, and you, my lone reader, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about Paul Newman. Maybe I'll watch a movie of his (my first born will be named Lucas); someone will joke about my love for PN, thereby reminding me; I'll glance at my a/c and see his handsome face smiling at me from an autographed still from Cool Hand Luke -- doesn't matter. Each and every day, something comes up where I'll stupidly reference a phrase from his movies or dote on him, just because.
Now. I’m wiping the sleep away from my beady eyes and jolt upright in shock. My lips start to quiver, my jaw starts trembling – and it happened. I cried thankless, shameless tears as I sat there on my little air mattress in my new room (which is finally coming together, by the way).
I’ve joked a thousand times about how I’d cry when PN died. I wrote about it on this silly bloggle (and jinxed it? Believe you me, that was the first reaction I had … Hell hath a place for me now, I’m sure) but I didn’t think I actually would workout the old tear ducts, like some love-stricken fan who wanted to impale themselves after the loss of a Beatle.
It takes some pretty heavy things to make me cry; and it just made me realize how much I really did, and do, admire PN – everything from his early career and movie choices, to his lifestyle, and – perhaps most selfishly – how handsome and righteous his roles most often were. He will be an everlasting love.
Today is the second anniversary of Paul Newman's death. Crestfallen.
I'd been thinking about this day all month, ever since I visited a friend in Westport, CT for a few days, where Paul Newman lived until his death. As we drove from the train station to my friend's home, he pointed out the window through the trees to the Westport Country Playhouse, where Newman's wife Joanne Woodward was artistic director and where Newman himself was part-owner of the restaurant next door.
It took a dozen swallows to loosen the knot in my throat.
And, now it's year 3 of no more Paul Newman. "Just passin' time, Boss."
Just when I think that my existence sounds depressing enough on paper, I manage to push it just a little bit further. This weekend, I deigned to see four films in the theater on one bright (and thunderous) day, and I succeeded. A quadruple feature! It really loses its ring after "triple feature," I fear.
The day started like any other. I clumsily smacked at my face in the morning to make sure it was still there; I looked out my un-curtained windows to see if others were stirring across the building (always a good measure of what time it is in the morning); I yawned heavily, scooping any residual drool off my chin -- and thought: "Wait, no work today! Wonder what time the first movie starts?!" (10:45 a.m.) The West Village likes old people, or those who eat and sleep like they're old (me).
Now. Mama G wonders where she went wrong with me. Why, say, didn't I think -- let me go shopping! Or, I bet there's a great exhibit at _______. That Borders is going out of business, how 'bout some new books, Grice? Nope. Just movies. Can't change what we are, I s'ppose.
So, I saw: Final Destination 5 (yup); One Day (Nick Sparks knock-off); Harry Potter 77k (should've watched the last one again right before this one ... those names are so hard to keep up with); and, Clash By Night ('52 at Film Forum -- got to keep up with the hipsters).
Final Destination 5. Well, what can I say? After I saw the flick, I went to Best Buy and bought the four preceding films; I figured that if I were going to write anything about the movie, I might as well do my research since my knowledge had some gaping holes since my 16-year-old dreamy girl's crush on Devon Sawa in Final Destination (one), ca. 2000.
In this latest iteration on the same take of the first film's premise, a bunch of young 20-somethings are headed off on a corporate retreat; once they reach the suspension bridge that holds their wilderness-bonding in its grips, our protag, Sam Lawton (Nicholas D'Agosto) has a vision, err, a premonition, a feeling, a sense, a notion that something's off? Well, he sees the traveling bus toppling into the ether, his friends not spared by gut-splintering boat masts or neck-breaking falls -- all delightfully depicted on-screen. Perhaps it's his imagination. We don't know! We haven't seen any Final Destinations before this one!
I will say that this was the most enjoyable FD since the first one; I actually almost wish I'd seen it in 3D - the opening credits, which consist of a series of shattered glass pieces, cigarette butts, pieces of trash, etc. lobbed at you, probably would have been neat - and, there was one set of projectile lower intestines that clearly would have looked cooler in 3D than on my thankless 2D eyes.
The prize of the show was third-billed Miles Fisher, who plays the business-jerk kid amongst his friends, Peter. He's the guy who slaps you on the back and says "Good job!" all the while telling your boss that you're a lout. It's not giving anything away to say that he sticks around for a good 95% of the movie (such is the formula for FD), but, his charm and ability to channel a multitude of personae is very apparent here. I'd dare say, he's one to watch.
Most people on the gods' green earth have seen him here alreadyas Patrick Bateman in American Psycho; or, here as Tom Cruise, the Crazy
And there's a newer installment of Mr. Fisher's inimitable charades: Saved by the Bell, Final Destination-style. Here's "New Romance," a studio-funded track that let MF and cohorts kill each other in a very Final Destination-way, while acting out our favorite themes of SbtB. Very catchy.
More on the yes-I-have-feelings, sigh. "One Day" later.
After about a week and a half of a most awful illness, my Friend took me to the Union Square cinema to celebrate my return to the world of the living. On the agenda were two films I'd had no real intention of seeing, certainly not at the cineplex for fourteen bucks a pop: Rise of the Planet of the Apes and, much (much!) more unfortunately, Conan the Barbarian.
Rise of the Planet of the Apes features actor/oddball James Franco as the idealistic geneticist dead-set on beginning human trials for his Alzheimer's-curing drug, after it's proven to stimulate previously deteriorated parts of the brain in chimpanzees--or enhance healthy apes' brain power without any side effects whatsoever. Of course, as with any movie miracle drug, we learn early on that there may be a few latent side effects after the star experimental chimp bursts into a board meeting, in which Franco is wooing greedy investors to green light the next stage of the drug's development.
After exterminating all remaining apes and closing down the trials, we find that a tiny baby chimp is still alive; Franco takes the little guy home, where he lives with his Alzheimer's-afflicted father (John Lithgow), names him Caesar, and begins to raise him as his intellectually accelerated son. Cute scenes ensue as Father Franco bonds with the baby and for a while, the three are a pretty happy, functional family unit. It's all relative.
The film wastes no time watching Caesar go through his nascent years, and we fly through the first three years, then five years, until the tyke is a ripe 8 years old--though, it's clear that ape-years are something equivalent to dog-years because Caesar is now at least an adolescent if not something of a testosterone-filled, volatile young man of his early 20s. He's beginning to ask questions (he can sign words with Franco, of course), he doesn't want to be treated as a pet, and he evinces some feelings of jealousy when Franco strikes up a relationship with the beautiful veterinarian, played by Freida Pinto of Slumdog Millionaire.
After a particularly egregious show of protectiveness, Caesar lands himself in the ape pound (a thinly veiled ape prison), where he faces bullying by the other apes (who don't like that he wears human clothes--how un-apelike!) and faces some torture at the hands of the ape-prison's sadistic floorwalker, played by Tom Felton (aka Draco Malfoy). And, then the movie follows its few storylines, incorporating the sentimental, the sad, the humorous, the somewhat scary, and, of course, the utter ridiculous.
I must say that my friend and I both giggled the moment we saw a stern-looking Mr. Franco in his white lab coat in the first minutes of the movie. While I think he is a fine--and at times, great--actor, I was unsure if I'd be able to take him seriously as a genius geneticist, albeit in a summer blockbuster about an ape revolution. But, after a while, I got used to Franco, that slight condescending smirk he typically wears replaced with a lot of furrowed brows and angst-ridden faces.
Though she doesn't say too much or steal too many love-romance scenes in the movie, I have always thought Freida Pinto is so gorgeous that it's almost distracting; she doesn't disappoint here.
And, the CGI was extremely impressive. I was very skeptical going into the film, imagining a bunch of apes whizzing around the trees a la Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (admittedly Apes would be spared the ever-annoying presence of Shia LaBeouf); but, the scenes of apes scaling massive redwoods and flipping about were quite stunning. There is a scene of a score of the beasts swinging about the Golden Gate Bridge that is particularly pleasing to watch.
Though the film is ultimately choppy and sometimes a bit emotionally hollow, I had a great time and the movie made me want to sneak into the Bronx Zoo and free all the monkeys, or at least listen in on their conversations.
Conan the Barbarian was one of the worst movies I have seen in a long time. Period.
As the eight or so of you remember, Papa Grice has had the mind to pass on to me some of his film reviews; they're better-written, have a better historical take on film v. society, considering he's old [Happy recent birthday, again, Pops!], and are typically more viewed than my own. So, he's sent me his take on "The American."
Having seen this film a few weeks ago with a buddy of mine -- the two of us hoping that we'd appreciate the slow, dawdling nature of the film we'd both heard or read about -- I can say I almost wholeheartedly agree with Dad Grice on this one. It near-put me to sleep, and I didn't like seeing Clooney's "chicken-wings" -- as Pops puts it below -- enough to counterbalance the lack of original story.
I should say that when editing Pops' piece, I took out a small rant about Clooney's politics -- in short, my dad thinks his (Clooney's) Leftist inclinations cloud his film choices (to put it nicely). He didn't like "Men Who Stare at Goats," and he thought "Up in the Air" was overrated (as did I) -- soooo, I think that about covers it. :-D There has to be something left to argue about over Christmas.
On to the soapbox!
-----------------------------------------
In most of our pedantic pasts there exists a Big Book of Storytelling, planted over time. Be it by a series of English teachers or, simply, the intuit influence of common sense – likely a combination of both -- we learn from it what makes a good story.
It speaks to such things as "character development," "protagonists," "antagonists"; "plot development"; "conclusion." All things lead to caringabout the characters, discerning a coherent plot and, wonder of wonders, having a scintilla of interest and desire to know how to goad attention.
“The American” director Anton Corbijn must have missed those lessons.
"The American" starts nebulously with our hero and hit-man, Jack (George Clooney), engendering some real goodwill with us viewers as he shoots what appearsto be, as we are later tangentially made aware (kind of), a love interest in the head in some snowy, Siberian-esque landscape. Such is his need for remaining surreptitious as a couple of faceless thugs lay waiting to ambush. This leads to his escape into the wilds of Olde Italy, as Jack's wary of a double cross, possibly, for wanting “out”?
This theme, that of putting together a box of parts with directions written by an English as-a-fourth-language writer, becomes clear early on. [Editor's note: Perhaps this is why the movie is so conspicuously devoid of dialogue?] Jack makes some attempt at hiding, though not really...again, it would appear?Huge amounts of slow, slow moving footage intertwines all and, adding insult to injury, it isn't even set in an attractive part of Italy, so our scenic cinematography is lost on one vacant-seeming village upon another.
In watching the unfolding of one half-baked subplot after another – say, the footsy played with Jack's compadre hitwoman Mathilde (Thekla Reuten); a tangential brush with spirituality (?) via the start of a never-shaken-out relationship with the town's Good Father (Paolo Bonadelli) and his illegitimate son; the pursuit of those from Jack's last job now resulting in a shift to Jack-as-target based on probablysome good reason (that we're unaware of); Jack's noticing a “rare” butterfly, I guess, in shorthand to demonstrate his “sensitivity” -- we hope these ever-slow sideshows coalesce into the semblance of order and sense.
Alas, they do not.
One point that is finally made clear is that Jack wants out of his line of business.
This awakens our sensibilities like an alarm clock via the strangely, awkwardly juxtaposed red-hot love scene with local prostitute Clara (Violante Placido), with whom Jack has been dramatically smitten; he has found an urgency for his escape (this movie, clearly, could have used more Clara-facation). [Editor's note: “Zing!” And/or, “Gross,” if taken the wrong way.]
Without spoiling the end, Sensitive Jack, now with two feminine notches on his gun, and that rare, annoyingly symbolic butterfly, are faintly shown in the final scene to be sadly sympatico.
At least that is what I think I saw.
I was left with a couple of overriding observations.
George shows off his physique via push- and pull-ups, reminding me of the newly arrived football season – unfortunately not for muscley appearance, but because of the chicken wings. [Editor's “Zing!”] Body-double time approachin', Georgie.
George further cements his cinematic image as lady killer (though, also literally), seemingly to set him sail for James-Bond land. While this isn't all bad, I would hope he finds more introspective and/or eclectic roles where he can better utilize his gifts.
Finally, could the book upon which this is based possibly have been as bereft of essential story elements as was reflected here? Or, was the problem with the scriptwriting and direction?? It really should not have been difficult to spot the lack of coherence/dissonance. Next time, at the very least, Anton should send his scripts over to the local high school creative writing club for a second opinion before unfurling such a mess.
Editor's post-post-note, I should say that I doubt Papa G has seen Corbijn's awesome "Control," which is why I went into "The American" wanting more than I got. Know what to get Dad for Christmas, just to settle the Corbijn CV.
When I awoke this morning, I had a most unusual feeling -- one I hadn't felt in months: I really want to write today.
Considering my short stories from the past few years have all but fallen by the wayside, as I sink ever quickly into the acknowledgment that I may never be a real writer, I figured that maybe I'd unlock the old bloggle and toss some words out into the Interwebs.
But, still, it was curious that I had such a hankering. I've been seeing more movies than ever lately; the past couple of movie weekends have included triple features. First, there was "Machete," "Scott Pilgrim vs. The World," and "The American." Then, "The Town," "Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps," and "Easy A" (couldn't help myself on the last one).
And, a couple weeks ago, I wrote a few film reviews for Bloomberg, my old favorite place of employment. Yet, while I had -- as always -- much to say about the films, I thought maybe I'd outgrown the little bloggle (several of my jerk friends would be relieved!).
As I sat down to tip-tap away about how amazing Danny Trejo is in "Machete" and how I relished director Robert Rodriguez's racist treatment of my people (The Mexicans) -- and treatment of my other people as trigger-happy racists (The Texans); or, how disappointed I was with George Clooney for making me want to stick toothpicks in my eyes to stay awake during "The American"; or, how overrated "The Town" is, just as "Gone Baby Gone" (Affleck's directorial debut) was three years ago -- my Favorite Food Critic signed on and reminded me what today is.
Today is the second anniversary of Paul Newman's death. Crestfallen.
I'd been thinking about this day all month, ever since I visited a friend in Westport, CT for a few days, where Paul Newman lived until his death. As we drove from the train station to my friend's home, he pointed out the window through the trees to the Westport Country Playhouse, where Newman's wife Joanne Woodward was artistic director and where Newman himself was part-owner of the restaurant next door.
It took a dozen swallows to loosen the knot in my throat.
But, somehow I'd forgotten the significance of today this morning, or how I felt two years ago when Brother G called to tell me the news. I was in such a sad place at the time, that the blow of my One True Idol dying made me more depressed than I'd have imagined.
Now. I’m wiping the sleep away from my beady eyes and jolt upright in shock. My lips start to quiver, my jaw starts trembling – and it happened. I cried thankless, shameless tears as I sat there on my little air mattress in my new room (which is finally coming together, by the way).
I’ve joked a thousand times about how I’d cry when PN died. I wrote about it on this silly bloggle (and jinxed it? Believe you me, that was the first reaction I had … Hell hath a place for me now, I’m sure) but I didn’t think I actually would workout the old tear ducts, like some love-stricken fan who wanted to impale themselves after the loss of a Beatle.
It takes some pretty heavy things to make me cry; and it just made me realize how much I really did, and do, admire PN – everything from his early career and movie choices, to his lifestyle, and – perhaps most selfishly – how handsome and righteous his roles most often were. He will be an everlasting love.
Thankfully, I'm much happier than I was two years ago, but as my all-time favorite "Cool Hand Luke" plays in the background -- the beloved scene where Dragline beats poor Paul into a pulp, but he won't stay down ... because he's Luke -- I'm sure I'll cry a few quiet tears throughout the afternoon.
I never really thought of him as an actor. I regarded him more as an embodiment, an evocation, of something. And I think that something was himself. He seemed above all a deeply good man, who freed himself to live life fully and joyfully, and used his success as a way to follow his own path, and to help others.
And, of his third meeting with Newman, he writes:
Never mind what happened in 1969. I'll dig up the old magazine and put it on the web site. Let's move forward to 1995, and listen very carefully. When I walked into his room, he said, "Aw...it's you again." The point is not that he remembered me. The point is how he said "aw..." Imagine it in Paul Newman's voice. It evoked feelings hard to express in words. The "aw" wasn't "oh, no," as it sometimes can be. To me it translated as, "Aw, it's that scared kid, grown up." Whatever it meant, it put me right at home.
Oh, no, the tears. At least it gave me a reason to write. Silver-linings.
I'm a former Bloomberg News movie critic and Multimedia editor, research assistant at Popular Science magazine, and freelance writer. Four years ago, I re-entered the world of finance as a personal financial advisor. The early, embarrassing life as Harvard Crimson Editorial Chair rests here.
Nearly 10 years ago, I shattered my femur which left me somewhat hobbled and quietly resentful. Throughout my recovery, however, I got to watch a ton of movies, which was a considerable consolation prize.
I love movies and I live through them; so, this is my diary, as it were, about life through movie goggles.
Posts
