Out of Focus

I solemnly swear to say nothing more about last-night’s Oscar-cast. It would be pointless since the review-to-end-all-reviews is here! Thank you, bunsen. I have learned so much. (via TMFTML)

Has the grande damme of them all (I’m sure she appreciates that, especially since I don’t fall under any of the three groups of people in her post) had the only site she did update on a semi-regular basis permanently removed from the Blogosphere? It was the great mystery of the day (it is only Monday for Mel’s sake!) … for a good 20-30 minutes. Apparently, this was just some big conspiracy hoax rumor like Scott Baio’s death. Of course, this one I’m happy to hear is (as of today … who knows about tomorrow) not true. During her days editing Gawker, and again now at The Kicker (of course, they are still experiencing “technical difficulties”), I would chuckle and guffaw enough to sigh, “No, I’ll never write one of these. What’s the point?”

Should The Kicker, in fact, drift off into the west with Frodo, she could do worse than be eulogized by TMFTML, Gothamist and her Gawker successor.

The ubiquitous Gothamist disagrees with me on the Joe Roth appreciation, and reliving the show through the recap almost makes me agree. However, I maintain that the damn show will always be boring, yet like that one last glass of whiskey that pushed us over the edge of the gleaming porcelain, we’ll keep coming back for more.

I can’t exactly keep my mouth shut about the Oscars even though I talked more than enough about them yesterday, and there is this sort of post-traumatic-stress-disorder that accompanies the aftermath of the awards each year. But I’ll try to keep it brief. Especially since I could never compete with Uncle Grambo’s, minute-by-minute recap.

I’ve already exposed my deep appreciation for The Lord of the Rings, but I definitely didn’t expect it to win all 11 categories. While accepting the best foreign language film prize for The Barbarian Invasions, producer Denise Robert quipped her thanks for the New Zealand-based production of Rings not being eligible in this category, and I’m sure a few Master and Commander winners were thinking the same thing. Peter Weir, looked resigned to his also-ran fate from the first time he showed-up on camera.

Leaving aside any comments on the Sweep of the Rings, here are a few other random notes on this year’s Oscar night:

Continue reading “My Bologna Has a First Name, It’s O-S-C-A-R”

I’m not big on the Oscar pre-show stuff, but for the record, I want to put my prognosticator hat on and do my best picking the winners. Usually, I do pretty well, but if anyone reads this and loses lots of cash … oops.

I’ll give more commentary after the show, but for now, here’s who will win, who should win, who got screwed, and who got lucky in the top categories:

Continue reading “SCREW BARBARA AND JOAN”

Tonight, the night before the Oscars, as has been the custom for the past 18 years on the night before the Oscars, were the IFP Independent Spirit Awards which honor the year’s best in independent film. Lost in Translation was the big winner, as expected, but other worthy films were honored as well. The IFP (Independent Feature Project) is a national organization that provides assistant and support to indie filmmakers. I consider myself very fortunate to be a member of this fantastic organization. The prerequisites are quite demanding: you have to give them $100 (tax deductible) every year, and then … oh right … there is no “and then.” That’s pretty much it.

The first film to win Best Feature was Martin Scorsese’s After Hours in 1986. I attended the Spirit Awards in 1992 while I was still at UCLA . Just six years old, they weren’t a big deal outside the film community. The ceremony was held under a circus tent covering the parking lot at Raleigh Studios in L.A. It was a really cool, low-key, informal event, hosted by Buck Henry with no TV coverage.

Continue reading “WHOLE LOTTA SPIRIT GOING ON”

I have to play a bit of catch-up:

• What happens if you’re this big-name director adapting this big-name prize-winning novel with the help of three big-name movie stars, and it turns out that your male and female leads, who are supposed to experience the strongest possible love at first sight — enough to propel the entire story — have absolutely no chemistry? Welcome to Cold Mountain. I must admit, I have yet to be bowled over by Anthony Minghella. I think Truly, Madly, Deeply might still be his best film. The Talented Mr. Ripley was above average, but I’ve never been a fan of The English Patient, and this movie is really just plain average or slightly above. But nothing is worse than the fact that Nicole Kidman and Jude Law are like oil and water.

• I can’t believe this freakish “Sex and the City” backlash over the fact that Big’s name is revealed to be “John.” I have long loved Alex Richmond’s recaps of the show at Television Without Pity, but she’s off on this one. Personally, I found the finale to be one of the most satisfying series finales in recent memory. The choice of the name “John” for Big was in fact a perfect little wink at the audience. The writers gave us a name for the first time, but they gave us the most average, almost non-specific name possible. Would people have really been more satisfied if his name had been Chase or Austin or Brad or Ron? There’s no name they could have given him that wouldn’t have made people say, “Aww, that’s stupid,” so instead they named him while basically not naming him, and Carrie walks away from the camera into the City that she loves with her man on her phone. It’s a visual antonym for the opening credits, and I think it was great.

• Please, someone tell Peggy Noonan to SHUT-UP! I’ll never understand why Chris Matthews puts up with her. Her condescending tone is bad enough, but when she starts spewing nonsense about how the cultural divide in this country is between a vast majority of people with conservative values and a teeny, tiny minority of leftist liberals who make-up a media elite trying to impose its will upon the country, she must be off her anti-psychotics. Peggy, you’re part of this media elite. Everyone on the major cable news channels is constantly bitching about this media elite … who the hell is it then? Her suggestion that one can easily view this cultural divide by first standing outside a theatre showing Mel’s opus and observing the awe-struck, genuinely moved faces of the exiting moviegoers and then running across the street to pick-up Time or Newsweek who have nothing but hatred for Mel and The Passion. Yeah … I must be part of the media elite then, but if that’s the case, why does Peggy have more money than I do?

Yeah yeah … Mel and Jesus, a new form of buddy picture. I’m sure everyone is sick of all the media attention placed upon the film, and the stoned looks on all the faces of audience members around the country being interviewed by Deborah Norville or Aaron Brown minutes after walking out of the theatre who might as well be saying, “It was better than Cats, I’m going to see it again and again.”

Give Mel some credit … all you have to do is torture Jesus for a while, and suddenly you’ve got all the right-wing, ultra-conservative, and religious folks who live in that part of the country that I tend to fly-over more than visit, and who constantly berate the “media elite” and “Hollywood” for damaging our children with too much violence—right after giving Timmy a shotgun for his fifth birthday—throwing money at box-office windows. $26 Million its first day? On a Wednesday? (Thankfully, Hobbits still beat Jesus in Wednesday openings $34.5-$26.6.)

Well, if you’re a good, secular Jew like me (damn, just outed myself), move on from feeling guilty about Mel’s version of history by remembering to pick up the just-released issue #5 of Heeb Magazine. If you haven’t heard of it, it’s not your grandmother’s Jewish Bulletin, and their controversial cover (hey, their PR flack quit on them … that’s a controversy, right?) takes Mel to task with the headline; “Back off, Braveheart.” The release date of February 25, 2004 was certainly coincidental.

Now I do have to withhold judgment until I see the movie, but if Doug Resin’s review is true, sounds like it rocks. (Doug Resin’s Joint: King of the Spews [Link Inactive])

As usual, I feel the need to explain myself. Depending on how much you prefer to overthink and overanalyze everything like I do … (Oh … not so much? Good for you! Must save you tons on the pharmaceuticals. Oh … not so much?)

First things first … pilot episodes usually suck, and I make no claims for a pulitzer. (There is a blog category now, right?) But as with most new television series, the pilot is really rough, maybe even awful. It may not even truly show the qualities that could make it a good show, even though that’s its express purpose. Yet with a little nurturing and massaging, the kinks slowly work themselves out, and the series will blossom, developing into a miraculously consistent form of entertainment.

Or more often … not.

Yeah, my pilot might have been cancelled, but hey, if this, this and this could get originally picked-up, and this could last a whole season … well, I feel OK about my odds, especially since I’m my own network exec.

So really, does the world need another blog? I mean there are thousands … tens of thousands … hundreds of thousands … (I could do this all day) … millions … point is, whatever the number, there are way too many out there already. This blog is actually my own prescription for my love-hate-hate-love-hate-hate-hate-love-hate relationship I have with writing. Due to my addictive behavior, I anticipate this little space forcing me to get all the shit out of my head, and since my therapist doesn’t think my issues are worthy of actual medication, I’m forced to create my treatment.

My need to vent and rant (I hope that’s not a dirty word now that Mr. Miller has lost his mind) has been the one thing that ever made me feel truly close to greatness. Back in 1992, when I was at UCLA (notice the word “studying” is conspicuously absent) and writing for the Daily Bruin, I had the pleasure of interviewing Spaulding Gray (a moment of silence, please … thanks) before the release of his film Monster in a Box. It’s the only in-person interview I did during my three years as an entertainment journalist that I remember vividly. Sitting across from a small desk in a tiny office of some notable (at-the-time) PR flacks, he wouldn’t put down my tape recorder, saying it made him feel “in control.” More importantly, I’ll always remember what he told me about why he writes: he didn’t enjoy it, he said. But he had to do it. Every day. If he didn’t, he would no longer be able to think. His mind would become too confused. And he would, quite simply, “explode.” Writing was obviously his therapy … I wonder if it simply stopped working.

Continue reading “Why a Blog, and What’s in a Name?”