er…are we allowed to discuss other (ahem) cultural items other than movies on this list or will that endanger its purity? I spit on your rules! since I live in out in the woods now I rarely see any movies except on DVD–and the movies I have seen lately at the cineplexes overrun by teenagers have run to the likes of Blade: Trinity, National Treasure and Aliens vs Predator rather than all this high-toned consequences of irresponsibility stuff I keep hearing about (by the way, the Predators win–apparently because they have cool dredlocks like Bob Marley and secretly dig humans. me, I’d rather have 3 sets of fangs and acid for blood. baby, then somebody would pay! since when did the predators become such sell-outs?). Anyhoo, I have been watching last season’s 24 on DVD, thanks to Netflix….and, er, I don’t know what point I have to make, except it’s cool when the helicopter blows up. oh wait, here it is, I think–it is a weird combination of slick dense overplotting with remarkably blatant “holes” in it–it makes me think of us and the dinosaurs. apparently they died when they became too specialized in evolution–then the slightest change became lethal because they were so adapted to current circumstances. a giant edifice of knowledge with a spot of stupidity, small but of stunning vulnerability. make cultural hay out of that! jesus, I’m tired…..

The topic of Scorsese’s “Aviator” has prompted me to add this title to our slowly-growing list of underrated films. My favorite scenes: Tucker’s meeting with Senator Ferguson (played by Lloyd Bridges) and his late-night rendezvous with Howard Hughes (played by Dean Stockwell) in the Spruce Goose hangar. No one plays the naif more charmingly than Jeff Bridges (”Starman,” “Tucker,” “The Big Lebowski”).

Arnab told me to post this. Probably so he can comment meanly about it, or more to the point me. Boo hoo.

Is this the blog yet? I was going to right you all [right after complaints about “Sideways” started zipping around via email], to share some of my opinions, but my child–whom I call Eugene, although his name is allegedly Max, but whom I call (as I mentioned) Eugene as a part of an experiment, to test a theory of mine [My theory is: Kids are stupid. So far, this has been borne out, by the constant jabbering of gibberish and the tendency to fall down.]–my child was running around with an axe, and I had to protect him. This anecdote may also count, for those in need like Bruns, as teaching tips: no axe-running. Call ‘em all Eugene.

Three–no, let’s say four–of my favorite films of last year were about men grappling with the consequences of their irresponsibility… or maybe it’d be better to say that their irresponsibility was not the object of scorn nor the subject for didactic rehabilitation, but in true generous comic spirit, each film is about the more complex pleasures of taking responsibility. (Even as we get–hurray!–the simpler vicarious joy of watching them behave really, really badly.)
(more…)

Those Palestinians just don’t appreciate Hollywood–see this story about Richard Gere.
I think you’ll enjoy the views of the soap factory worker.

I saw this last night, and I enjoyed it. Enjoy: relished the sweep and spectacle, rocked gently in the film’s tight staccato rhythm, and dug the performances, the production values, the anachronistic tinted coloring of the shots….

… and was reminded how damn good DiCaprio can be. But maybe he has to play someone disabled to really sell a part.

Yet I still feel disappointed, sort of. Why wasn’t it great? More complex? C’mon it’s Scorsese, and he’s a genius, so…
…and then I pull back and look at how often conversations/writing about films falls into scolding directors for not being what they ought to be. To wit: Wes Anderson & Alexander Payne currently getting slammed, for being “hip” and detached and even (for Payne) cruel. Scorsese — hell, the normally-razor-sharp A. O. Scott has a witless idea that Scorsese so wants to be loved by the Academy that he made a sloppy-dog of a movie, a bit of cheap-seat psychoanalysis as melodramatically obvious as the bad-mother-washing-nude-son that is the germ [ahem] of Hughes’ madness in the film. Jane Campion getting savaged for “In the Cut,” which is at least interesting if not good. Spike Lee always taking shit, for every film, for not being as good as he “ought” to be. Same goes for the current objects of scorn, all intriguing films from idiosyncratic filmmakers. (And a couple other folks always get a pass, despite weaker films, because they’re well-liked–Michael Mann, Eastwood.)

What gives? Why is so much contemporary film criticism so dully focused on assigning blame? I’m trying to think of reviewers who struggle to convey something about the experience of seeing a film… and Elvis Mitchell is the only one who really comes to mind.