Film – Page 5 – Don't Gel Too Soon

Art Imitates Life and Dr. Horrible’s Nemesis Is an Author!

I'm not sure who's on first, which chicken chased which egg or even how to tell you about this. See this book cover? It's a real book – and Entertainment Weekly says it isn't even bad. But the author – well, the author isn't real!!! He's a character on an ABC TV program called – guess what — Castle!

Played by Dr. Horrible's own Biggest Enemy Captain Hammer — aka Nathan Fillion – he's a debonair, wealthy mystery writer with an actress mother and a typically New-York-wise daughter with whom he has a refreshingly healthy relationship (Mom too, actually.)

So there's nothing wrong with the show; it's slight, sweet and kind of funny although it could certainly be better written. In fact, from the reviews I've read, it might be better if Richard Castle (who remember, doesn't exist – really) wrote the scripts as well as his books.

Yes books because apparently this is the first of many. And you can get it on Kindle and Castle even has a brief (equally fictitious) bio on Amazon "Richard Castle is the author of numerous bestsellers, including the critically acclaimed Derrick Storm series. His first novel, In a Hail of Bullets,
published while he was still in college, received the Nom DePlume
Society's prestigious Tom Straw Award for Mystery Literature. Castle
currently lives in Manhattan with his daughter and mother, both of whom
infuse his life with humor and inspiration."

Got that? Fillion/Captain Hammer (this guy) also plays a fictitious writer on a lightweight TV show and somebody – whose name isn't anyplace and as far as I can determine hasn't played anyone (other than a ghostwriter) has written a novel in his name.

This isn't a scandal or a crime – it's just so damned funny. Fillion seems like a fine fellow and Castle is certainly likable enough. But it's hard to get books published these days – especially fiction.

So all you struggling writers out there — now you know how to sell your novel. Make it into a TV show and your literary career is assured.

As my mom used to say, "Only in America!"

Oh No! Say It Isn’t So!!

OK I know. The world is ending, the climate is cooking, the economy is crashing and God only knows what else is happening in the "real world." Even so – Twitter and Facebook and all points in between are so so sad. This break up is just not fair. Susan Sarandon and I are the same age and I once spent time with her (well, twice but both times in an elevator in our building where friends of hers lived and we DID talk…) and in some crazy way felt more in common with her than with most shiny people. The politics of course didn't hurt either. And Bob Roberts may be my favorite political movie and so Bush-prophetic.

Because of all that, I too feel a floating sadness – nothing heart=wrenching – just sad. These two have always done what they believed and made us all happy. And they deserve to be happy too. Whatever it takes to get there.

So Long Patrick, and Thanks

Does anybody not love Dirty Dancing? At least for the many of us who were the darling Frances “Baby” Houseman, the idealistic, embryonic 60’s activist, Daddy’s girl for her brains, not her looks, the film is a misty, wonderful time capsule. And so, it may be, in essence, a women’s film – so romantic and sexy in a new-at-sex kind of way. But it wouldn’t have worked without the sweet, gifted Patrick Swayze, who died today. Although as Johnny Castle he gave us a young man who tried to present a weary, streetwise persona, he also brought us a man as idealistic as the rich girl who fell for him. The perfect first lover. Swayze, with grace and generosity, was all that and more.

This was a class story and coming-of-age story and a Times They Are A-Changin’ story, evocative in ways that are difficult to express. Baby, like us, was riding the cusp between the 50’s end of the 60’s and the Sixties that were to come. Her relationship with Johnny was the bridge between those times, and so he meant even more than his lovely self. I’ve always thought Swayze underestimated anyway but as I decided to write this I began to realize just how underestimated. Without the right Johnny, Frances would not have mattered.

I, at least, could look at her and know her future. Because it was mine. Like Baby I never hated my parents. Most of what I did that they wouldn’t have liked, I hid. Defiance was never a goal because I loved my parents and they loved me. We just didn’t see things like love and sex the same way so I decided just not to tell them. There were many other things we saw differently too, but they changed their minds because they listened to us as often as we changed ours by listening to them. We respected each other.

So I did all my overnight disappearing on campus and kept my mouth shut about it. And went home as the Cindy they knew — more political and determined, but with no desire to blow up the neighborhood or leave the people I’d loved — and still loved — behind. Like Frances, I responded to the Civil Rights movement and President Kennedy and longed to be part of what was to come. Like Frances I had a “Johnny” though mine didn’t dance.

Of course, Swayze went on to make Ghost, which I think was at least as successful and even more of a fairy tale. He appeared in gritty films like Road House and, as a tribute to his fellow dancers, many of whom died of AIDS, in drag in To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar. And which role we choose to remember most probably depends on gender, and even more on age.

But for me, gratitude for the gift of memory, of the same sense of romance, in a way, that Twilight offers another generation, that’s tough to beat. And the gift, the reminder of the girl I remember and the hopes and dreams she took with her to college, that gift was from Patrick Swayze too.

One More Day!

We’re Here – London Is Home for a While

Just in case you wondered if we were really here, I took this photo. Kind of weird to see phone booths all over London since they’re almost completely gone at home. Hardly profound but there you are.

It’s been an exciting, exhausting day. We landed at around nine this morning, moved into our flat on Broad Court just off Drury Lane and near Covent Garden, and did our usual forced march to check out the neighborhood. Lunch, a quick nap and now we’ve returned so I can write this before I go offline for Shabbat.

Oh – and if you’re like me, one of your favorite memories of Covent Garden aren’t even of the “real” one. Take a look. See you Sunday.

Norman Lear Reminds Us Why We Love Music (and Why We’re Right)

Leave it to Norman Lear, founder and early funder of People for the American Way and creator of All in the Family and Maude, two of the most successful sitcoms in American television history, to produce the remarkable Playing for Change. Musicians – street musicians, from all over the world, recorded and filmed separately and combined into a multi-national, multi-ethnic concert, recorded (with high-tech equipment) on city street corners and the red dirt of townships, Congo, New Orleans and right in front of the White House.
The message, as Lear freely admits "sounds like claptrap" but somehow it can't help but sink in: music, the universal language, reminds us how much we have in common across the barriers that separate nation and race, faith and gender. It won't change anything by itself, certainly, but it's a lovely reminder of what could be.

Hey Oscar? You Have Some Explaining to Do!

SWhen I was a kid on Oscar night, my parents made me go to bed way before the show was over, but my dad always kept a winners list for me on a shirt cardboard so I wouldn't miss anything. It seemed so important then. Without the entertainment shows like ET and Access Hollywood, the unedited Oscar acceptance speeches were one of the few times we got to see celebrities revealed. It was thrilling.

Of course, the mystique – and the Oscar TV audiences — have eroded since then. It will be interesting to see if tonights "new" Oscars – which do look better and at least are doing things with a little more wit and humor – make a difference. I'm watching as I write this – amazed that Jessica Biel, the wayward daughter from the sentimental but sweet Seventh Heaven, got to present alone – even if it was the tech awards. Who would have predicted that?

I think I'm out of touch, or I've gotten crotchety in my old age. Why? First of all, though I'm a real, loyal Woody Allen fan, I did NOT like Vicky Christina Barcelona. . Penelope Cruz was fine, but not the best. It's so sad when two nominees (like those in Doubt) are set against one another and split the vote. I'm assuming that's how Cruz won. The two women from Doubt - – Amy Adams and and Viola Davis - especially Davis, were just astonishing. Their bad luck to be opposite one another in the same category.

Meanwhile, I'm struggling to figure out how to talk about the presenters in the "best supporting"category. Goldie Hawn, whom I've always loved, just made me sad. We're nearly the same age, and she certainly looks better than I do. BUT tonight she looked so over surgeried, overstuffed into her dress, over everything. It was like she had been blown up with a bicycle pump – all swollen. BUT tonight she looked so over surgeried, overstuffed into her dress, over everything. It was like she had been blown up with a bicycle pump – all swollen. The toughest thing of all, though, is how many of this year's most honored movies were movies I really didn't like.

I've written before about Slumdog. I probably should have known I wouldn't love it; I wanted to see it too much. It's sweet and explores the poverty and misery in India, but it just didn't do it for me. Too neat, too pat, And, to me, terribly manipulative. As I said, Vicky Christina Barcelona was disappointing too, shallow and silly. I'm also ornery about the show itself. I actually loved the musical numbers- long or not, even though everybody on Twitter was complaining about them. Probably showing my age.

Anyway, the show was way too long but I'm not sure what I would have cut. I loved the five veterans honoring the nominees too. Beyond that I'm not sure. What I am sure of is that at least now I don't have to wait until I wake up in the morning and get the Oscar results from a shirt cardboard on the kitchen table.

Artists for Obama: A Few of the Many

I’ve been kind of out of it all week. Post-Inaugural ennui, worries, lots of appointments… whatever it was, it really sort of shut me up. But when I saw the Obama video I’ve posted just below here, I started thinking about all the creativity that the campaign, and this presidency, seem to have engendered.

Then a friend sent me this. I admit I’m a sucker for this kind of music, but it really is a combination of politics and joy that only such a campaign could have inspired.

We all remember Wil.i.am’s Yes We Can. And Ron Howard as Opie. And Sarah Silverman. And even Paris Hilton.

And this, one of my favorites, just for the discipline.

I guess Les Miz must really resonate, because here’s another one.

Of course these are only examples; there are dozens, probably hundreds more – and if you count the images, posters and paintings, many many more. If this kind of creativity goes toward solving our problems, we’re in good hands. Either way, it’s exciting (at least to me) to realize how many vocabularies came together to speak for this new president in the long journey that got him here.

This Is NOT (exactly) about Barack Obama – the Last Time for a While – It’s About Slumdog Millionaire (Hint: Not the Greatest Movie Ever Made)

Fair warning. I'm about to be contrarian, so if you're fond of Slumdog Millionaire, stop reading now. I've just come from the theater, disappointed and even angry. Granted, I don't read reviews before I see films; they give away so much that they spoil the impact of brilliant scenes and great dialogue. So it's my own fault that I didn't know about the torture scene and the one where the kid is blinded when molten lead is poured into his eyes. Just what you need in a fairy tale, right? I was with someone I'd leaned on to come, someone who is squeamish and subject to nightmares, and there we were, experiencing vivid and disturbing imagery in considerable detail.

Beyond that, even though, as far as I can tell, there aren't many who agree with me, there's much that seriously detracts from the enjoyment of this film. I'm going to risk my emotional and artistic credibility and describe some of it.

First, it's highly derivative, a mix of The Usual Suspects police station flashbacks and Oliver Twist. Especially Oliver Twist, complete with Fagin, street urchins in great numbers, mischief and loss. Beyond that, much of its emotional power leaches from political correctness. We always root for the underdog; that's fair, and anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm a sucker for a fairy tale. But there was something manipulative about this story: an unimaginably poor, dark-skinned street urchin in one of the roughest cities in India, facing down the establishment.

Despite the rhapsodic descriptions of handheld camera work that brought the slums of Mumbai live into the theater, they did not feel real. I know much of the film was shot in the city, and some of the scenes were OK. But I've been in neighborhoods like these in other countries and no matter how colorful and alive, they are sadder and more dangerous than these. Oh, and everyone had very good teeth. Not possible.

So why, on the eve of the most momentous Inauguration in the history of this country, am I complaining about a movie a couple of months old that will probably win many awards? I'm not sure. Like everyone else, I'm full of wonder at what is coming on Tuesday. It will dominate this space for some time. Today though, as we await the climax of this real story of triumph and ideals, the not-so-credible tale that is this film was a poor substitute.

Doubt – More than a Movie — Also a Time Capsule

This film, Doubt, is exceptional. Smart, funny, moving, intricate and remarkably well-acted, it is, without exception, a remarkable accomplishment. I grew up in Pittsburgh and nuns like Meryl Streep’s Sister Aloysius Beauvier were a staple in my life, not in Catholic school, but every weekend, at speech tournaments at Greensburg Catholic or Central Catholic or other parochial schools that so often hosted the competitions.

God help you if one of your judges was one of these sisters. They were the toughest and the scariest. Even in the cafeteria between Round 2 and Round 3, they wandered with the same “eyes in the backs of their heads” that Sister Aloysius demonstrates to her young protege. The teams they coached were the amazing. Practiced, smart, disciplined and resourceful, they did the sisters proud.

As I watched Meryl Streep as the principal of a Catholic elementary school where accusation and suspicion take over, all the memories of those scary Saturday mornings at the front of a classroom, giving speeches on labor unions or disarmament or the dangers of the Soviet Union came tumbling back. The nerves were unavoidable; when the sisters were among your judges, you had to be prepared, organized, well-spoken and committed. Or else.

Probably the familiarity of those nuns (weird for a nice Jewish girl to have access to, I suppose) and the memory of all the Sundays I went to Mass with friends after a sleep-over added to the film’s impact. I know I had a very personal reaction. But whether you grew up in Idaho, Arizona or the Bronx, the film is irresistible and won’t leave you alone just because it’s not on the screen any longer. I’m not going to talk about the plot because that will diminish the pleasure of watching it unfold, but if you respect great writing, great acting and excellence in film-making, you don’t want to miss this one.