Cinema Hype

Well, this is weird. A biopic of George W. Bush? While he’s still in office? That’s got to be some kind of a first. I dearly hope we get some kind of (minor) media coverage here. Please tell me we’ll get MST3K from the White House screening room. (”Heheheheh…gonna watch a movie. About me. Heheheheh.” [/Jon Stewart])

I guess the first question I have here—of many, obviously—is…this is a drama, right? (Or do biopics necessarily divide into the traditional comedy-or-drama bins in the first place? Could this be Dubya: The Dramedy?) The pointedness of the release date, just before the general election and just in time to remind the nation of exactly what’s gone on during this Administration, suggests that it could go either way, depending on Oliver Stone’s level of rage. Want to warn people away from four more Republican years? Denounce President Bush with a strongly worded political drama. Want to vent a carefully tended head of steam and inspire the admittedly already-convinced liberal voting base? Let loose with a scathing satire, Thank You For Smoking-style, only with better jokes. Either way, there’s no shortage of material.

And let’s discuss this nutty all-star cast, shall we? We’ve got Josh Brolin—Josh, not James, mind you—as the man himself, which makes a weird kind of Texas-y sense, except that Josh Brolin is badass cowboy Texas and George W. Bush is Southern Gentleman-meets-Skull-and-Bones Texas. Brolin was born in 1972, which indicates that much of the movie might be pre-Presidency (speaking of Skull and Bones…); also, Elizabeth Banks will play Laura Bush, which seems like an apt choice, considering neither of them has left much of an impression on my consciousness at all. The rest of Bush’s cabinet seem well cast (though disproportionally British), with one particularly hilarious choice standing out from the crowd: Rob Corddry as Ari Fleischer? That’s genius, plain and simple. He’ll make the movie; mark my words.

The concept of a major Hollywood film hitting so close to the White House—in ways that feel so obviously politicized—carries with it, in my mind, a tiny twinge of wrongness, like there should be some kind of divide between Movies and State. Gross sense of national discontent or no, should Stone and Emperor, the company making the movie, interfere with the political process, especially for a profit? On the other hand, why shouldn’t they? Stripping moviemaking of its political clout and its potential as a personal vehicle for free speech—seems like the worst and most obvious kind of censorship, or at least like relegating films to some kind of cultural vacuum. And neither of those are good options, either. So I guess we’ll see what Stone comes up with: sharp, relevant critique (or, who knows? An enthusiastic pat on the back?), or two of the most tedious and hope-quenching theater hours of all time. As someone once said, History will tell.

W, W., George W. Bush, George W. Bush movie, Josh Brolin, biopic

I’ve been trying to hold off making too much fun of What Happens in Vegas…, which came in second at the box office this weekend. I mean, does it look terrible? It does. Am I soured on the “romantic” “comedy” genre in general? Sadly, yes (but no need to worry— romantic comedies, no quotes needed, will always be sweet to me). It seems to me that any movie that admits in the trailer that it’s a bastardization of an existing film doesn’t really deserve to be in the top five for any weekend, ever. This is the kind of movie that attracts my righteous bloggerly wrath for no other reason than because it’s there, waiting to be either mocked or eviscerated. Or both.

But I’ve been keeping it together for the kids. You know, the kids: Ashton and Cameron. First of all, I’m not sure when or how I went from despising Ashton Kutcher to secretly thinking he was kind of charming to openly hoping he might someday emerge from the Kutcher-Moore Batcave having finished puberty and become a full-fledged man-actor. He’s just so natural—happy-go-lucky, really—onscreen, like he just happens to be having wacky adventures, and oh, look, there’s a camera! Who knew?! So even though he’s been busy as husband/eerily young stepdad, I’m strangely happy to see him. Keep walking towards the light, Ashton!

And then there’s Cameron. I worry about her, you guys. I never know what to make of her—was Being John Malkovich some kind of massive fluke, or is she hiding some kind of Meryl Streepian greatness underneath that extremely tanned exterior?—but I look at what Meg Ryan seems to have been through in the past half-decade or so and I hope that she’s not headed in the same depressing, identity-addled direction. Because what will happen to the universe if Cameron Diaz can’t give us that huge grin and shake her booty and make everything better? It’s not that particle collider in Switzerland that’s going to suck the galaxy down into its depths and obliterate us all; it’s the day that Cameron Diaz begins to age out of her usual roles. Mark my words. And I just want everything to be okay, you know?

On the other hand, MAN. That looks terrible.

What Happens in Vegas…, Ashton Kutcher, Cameron Diaz, Meg Ryan, Meryl Streep, Being John Malkovich

All right, I’ll admit it. If the monthlong gap between Project 501 posts hasn’t been enough of a tip-off, you should know: I’ve been putting off The Life of Emile Zola. In the long parade of Best Picture winners, French writers’ biopics are like the local-business floats: you know they’re coming, but you’re not really all that excited about them. Luckily for me—and I really should learn this lesson someday—Zola easily surpassed my expectations. This is no insurance company banner. We’re talking high-school drill team, at least.

The most striking thing about Zola is how relevant it is, even—or especially—today; it’s full of dialogue that could easily come straight from current American news footage. Public discourse on the acceptability of torture? Deep animosity between a shady government and an inconveniently nosy press corps? A military bent on denying responsibility, headed by a leader blinded by his own personal authority? Any of this sounding familiar?

As a biopic, Zola isn’t all that complete or all that effective: aside from his ascent from starving writer to national voice and his touching friendship with his artsy roommate, some guy called Paul Cezanne, director William Dieterle glosses over Zola’s personal life. As a courtroom drama, however, it’s pretty fantastic: the retelling of the Dreyfus affair, in which Zola purposefully had himself arrested and tried in order to clear the name of a Jewish soldier wrongly exiled, is far more interesting than anything going on in the Zola household. The coverage of Zola’s trial is long and loving, complete with plenty of corrupt and politicized judicial action, some truly hilarious judges’ uniforms, and an appropriately satisfying final speech by Zola (Paul Muni) himself. The crowd in the courtroom is rowdy, hooting and hollering and crying out when anything happens, but they’re a great representative of the real-life audience: this is dramatic and emotional, the kind of thing that deserves the attention and the buy-in of the people. Even considering the few cheesy touches Dieterie works in (personal favorite: the camera panning from Zola’s face to an enormous painting of the crucifixion of Jesus), the movie is enough of an emotional force that it works.

Good on you, 1937 Academy voters.

Next up: You Can’t Take it With You (1938)! For more on Project 501, click here; to read past Project 501 posts, click here.

The Life of Emile Zola, Project 501, Best Picture winners, Oscar winners, You Can’t Take It With You

Cinema Hype: Thanks for coming in to speak with us today. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about Speed Racer?

Andy Wachowski: Car chases. I loooooove car chases. On the racetrack, off the racetrack, burning rubber, twisted met—

Larry Wachowski: Inner strength. Courage. Family. Self-esteem. In remaking Speed Racer for a new generation, we wanted to foster the kinds of positive forces that teach young people how to be strong on the inside and loving towards their fellow human beings. We believe we’ve made a film that exemplifies all of those things.

CH: Yes, you’ve made Speed Racer into a family film. What was it like making a film aimed at young people, after the extravagant violence of the Matrix movies and some of your other work?

AW: BOOOORI—

LW: Well, it was just such an honor to create something to inspire and encourage young minds, you know? Andy and I believe that the racetrack in the film represents life and the desire to accelerate and experience as much as possible in the short time that we have. Don’t we, Andy?

AW: Yeah, Larry’s right, life is like a racetrack. And sometimes you make it to the finish line all in one piece, but sometimes you end up rolled over along the rail somewhere with your wheels up in the air, and sparks are all flying out behind you, like—you know—errrrrr! And you’re hanging from your harness and you wonder whether that was the car making that crinkling sound, or if it was your—

LH: Andy. [Under his breath] We talked about this.

AW: Sorry.

CH: …Now, who do you consider your greatest influences?

AW: Oh, you know. Steve McQueen, Bullitt, Gone in Sixty Seconds, Smokey and the Bandit, The Fast and the Furious…

LW: He means William Gibson, Ghost in the Shell, Robotech, and Simulacra and Simulation. RIGHT?

AW: Right. That Gibson guy.

CH: I…I see. Now, with that in mind, what would you say is the main point—the thesis, if you will—of Speed Racer?

LW: Love.

AW: Love. And car crashes.

LW: …and car crashes.

Speed Racer comes out today, May 9, 2008.

(This is a work of fiction; I do not know and have not met the Wachowski brothers.)

Speed Racer, The Wachowski Brothers, Larry Wachowski, Andy Wachowski, The Matrix

So, here’s the thing: I love The Office. And along with everyone else, I love Dwight Schrute, weapon-hiding, beet-farming, Battlestar Galactica-and/or-bears-loving doof that he is. I mean, tell me: Did Dwight or did Dwight not steal the show last week, what with his “Five! Four! Three! Two! One! It’s gotta be now! Do it now! Do it! Do it! Do it!” trick? (Note: Remind me to try this technique in meetings at work from now on. I will rule the world in six months or less, or Dwight’s middle name isn’t Kurt.)

Anyway, I love Dwight, and I appreciate Rainn Wilson’s commitment to acting like a complete nutjob, but the trailer for The Rocker begs one pretty important question: Can Wilson carry a feature film?

We’ve seen him around before; he sneaks into the first few minutes of Juno, and then there was that movie last year with the kids and the aliens—you know what I mean?—but somehow holding that one against him seems downright cruel. Other than that he’s got a slew of TV guest-star stints (including a half-season of Six Feet Under), and….yeah. I’m trying not to have so many doubts, but it’s not working.

Maybe the problem is Dwight, the very outlandishness of him—maybe we can’t get beyond the aviator glasses and the tie with the short sleeves. Maybe it’s Wilson himself. Maybe his screen presence is too much; maybe he can’t contain the weird. It’s the kind of thing that’s either a great benefit (like when there’s a character like Dwight hanging around) or an ultimate career-killer (like when there are only characters like Dwight hanging around). Maybe he’s just too self-conscious onscreen to pull it off. Or maybe he’ll surprise me and blow us all out of the water. Maybe it’s just me. It’s hard to say.

Readers, what do you think?

(Also: Jason Sudeikis at a theater near me! Don’t ever leave me, Floydster.)

Rainn Wilson, The Rocker, Jason Sudeikis, The Last Mimzy, Juno, Battlestar Galactica, The Office

This just in: If your superhero movie does well, plan for sequels. (Who knew, right?) After a $99 million opening weekend for Iron Man, Marvel Studios has announced the greenlighting of Iron Man 2, set for release in 2010, in addition to Thor (as in, “by the hammer of”; how very Liz Lemon!) the same summer and both The Avengers and Captain America for 2011.

Surprise! Except…not. The bonus scene after the credits for Iron Man features Samuel L. Jackson as Nick Fury, leader of the Avengers, so it’s not like some studio exec just woke up this Monday morning with a yen for many, many sequels. In fact, the comic-book version of Ultimate Nick Fury (as opposed to just plain Nick Fury; it’s complicated) is intentionally modeled after, and looks just like, Samuel L. Jackson. How weird! How meta! How…obviously intended for film adaptation!

This kind of thing is, though, the very reason that I—in spite of/because of my complete ignorance about comic books—appreciate Marvel Studios and their attempt to seize their characters from the jaws of unaffiliated filmmakers. Adapting work they already own (and, ostensibly, respect) gives them the freedom to be as good and as accurate as they want to be, and even better, to build their movies as they have their comic books: as a continuous and self-referential universe. Continuity, the feeling that the events of a story matter somewhere outside of that story, win big points with me personally and doesn’t seem to hurt in terms of building a fan base, either. So although I have no nostalgia for Iron Man or any other Marvel character, I am wholly enthusiastic about getting to know their universe. Well played, Marvel Studios.

Iron Man, Ironman, Thor, Captain America, Nick Fury, Ultimate Nick Fury, Samuel L. Jackson, Marvel Comics, Marvel Universe, Iron Man 2

It seems to me that May 2 was a perfect, and perfectly metaphorical, release date for Iron Man. Aside from rescuing us all from the movie wasteland that was spring of 2008 (and thank goodness for that), this is a movie that’s trying to have things both ways: character and action, exposition and explosions, hero’s journey and summer blockbuster. Maybe, in the end, the movie can’t have it all, but it sure makes a good effort.

If anything, the movie errs a little on the side of seriousness: the first half of the film is almost pure plot and character, with surprisingly little of the flying and shooting we’ve come to expect. Director Jon Favreau starts things off with a bang, literally (to stave off Ang Lee Hulk-itis), and then hits the brakes, cutting back in time to introduce the audience to Robert Downey Jr. as our hero, Tony Stark. It’s not boring—electromagnet in the heart, terrorists, some fancy work with an iron forge, etc.—but there’s a lot of set-up; Iron Man as we come to know him doesn’t even appear until somewhere around the halfway point. It’s a risky move, exposing us to all that careful narration and character development (!), but it works because Favreau knows what he has in Downey: a stellar alter ego. Tony Stark is the kind of role Downey was born to play, and has played so well in so many movies over the years. He’s snarky and mildly tortured, with a heart of (electromagnetized) gold beating underneath, and just watching him and his pitch-perfect line delivery makes the delayed gratification of the Iron Man suit totally worth it. And after that halfway turning point, well, all bets are off: let the clanking, zooming shoot-em-up begin!

It’s not just the Iron Man movie that’s straddling a few fences. Iron Man himself is a bit of an amalgam of some of his more famous super-buddies, combining Batman’s wealthy-playboy alter ego and reliance on a suit (i.e. no actual super-powers) with Spider-Man’s philosophy regarding great power and great responsibility. The latter is, in fact, the backbone of the movie—Iron Man has always been political (he started out as an anti-Communist superhero in 1963) and he’s now been brought into the 21st century, specifically post-9/11 Afghanistan. In the end, Tony Stark is the kind of guy we all wish were really behind the U.S. weapons trade: a patriot with a passion for truth and transparency, somebody who embraces both the perks and the ultimate weight of his position. The movie does an interesting job of combining the comics’ tradition of patriotism with the postmodern Hollywood tendency towards pacifism (except, of course, where urban action scenes are concerned).

Iron Man is only one of several comic-book movies in the last decade to attempt something deeper than pure escapist entertainment (see Batman Begins), but it’s certainly a role model for future adaptations, especially if audiences get used to a certain level of sophistication. And, well, it really is a little bit of rocket science.

Iron Man, Iron Man reviews, Ironman, Robert Downey Jr., Jon Favreau, comic books, comic book movies, Marvel Comics, Marvel Universe

Hollywood, as we know from the terminology of the WGA strike, is full of what they call hyphenates: writer-directors, director-producers, writer-director-producer-actor-stuntmen. Multi-talented folks, these. But there’s a particular brand of hyphenate that seems especially risky, especially prone to ridicule (and especially visible outside of the L.A. basin, where people might actually notice): the actor-musician. It sounds like a great idea, right? An all-around performer, like the time when men were men and women were women and all of them could dance, regardless! Offscreen, though, it all becomes a little bit dicey. Remember Keanu Reeves and Dogstar? Do you see where I’m going with this?

But after I stumbled on the New York Times review of Volume One, the debut album from pop-folk duo She & Him—also known as Zooey Deschanel backed by Portland indie guy M. Ward—I knew we were meant to be. Did somebody say “lovely, bittersweet melodies about hook-ups and break-ups”? I love lovely, bittersweet melodies about hook-ups and break-ups! OMG!

Thankfully for all (Times, don’t think I wouldn’t have changed my homepage), the review I read got it right. Deschanel wrote most of the songs, and she comes across as a girl who grew up with the oldies station turned up loud (as I myself did; KFRC, represent!)— someone who really loves pop music, and just happens to have the skills to produce it herself (unlike some others we might name [ahem, Lindsay]). Volume One is eclectic, comprised of lots of modern songs that sound like the past and a few songs that really are from the past (covers of Smokey Robinson’s “You Really Got a Hold on Me” and the Beatles’ “I Should Have Known”). We got a taste of Deschanel’s clear, torchy voice in Elf, and will apparently be hearing more from her in a biopic of Janis Joplin; here she sounds at various points like Linda Ronstadt, Tammy Wynette, Dusty Springfield, and, well, herself, which is probably the point. The album isn’t too pointed and it’s not too ironic; it’s just good, smooth, pleasant music, the kind of thing it’s easy to like, and maybe even to love. Not bad for a hyphenate, no?

She and Him, Zooey Deschanel, M. Ward, celebrity bands

Call me crazy, but I’ve never really gotten the appeal of Uma Thurman. She’s nice-looking, I guess, and seems like an okay actress. I like a girl who can handle a sword. But the weird, strangely long-lived “Uma’s the best performer and the most beautiful woman EVER OF ALL TIME” cult movement has pretty much escaped me (Ladies, confirm or deny: Men love Uma. Women…don’t. Y/N?). But it seems clear that a) nobody asked me, and b) somebody in Hollywood (okay, someone besides Quentin Tarantino) must be into her; she’s got not one, but two movies coming out in the foreseeable future:

The Accidental Husband

I think this trailer, aside from illustrating the state of the postmodern romantic comedy, brings up the crux of the Uma issue for me: Does she seem like the kind of woman who might be able to pull off a radio show about relationships? Sure. I’ll buy that. Does she seem like the kind of woman who deserves to have two good guys chasing her? Yes. Do I want to be friends with this woman? Not at all. And that’s key to a good chick flick: if the chicks in the audience don’t identify or even want to identify with the chick on the screen, something’s amiss (see also: Swank, Hilary). And anyway, are we really to believe that Colin Firth should be the loser here? I don’t buy it.

The Life Before Her Eyes

A friend of mine said recently of Michael Moore, “He’s one of those guys that you wish you disagreed with.”

It’s true. In Sicko, Moore’s reputation precedes him (one person in the film, when denied coverage by Cigna HMO, mentioned his name in a letter and mysteriously received treatment shortly afterwards). Ironically, Sicko is probably his least intrusive movie so far. Moore has done his homework and offers plenty of film and textual evidence to make his points, but stays away from the hounding and ambush tactics we’ve seen from him before. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t need to follow anybody around: plenty of people approached him with their stories.

That’s the thing about Michael Moore: he’s annoying personally, but like Moore himself, his movies don’t take no for an answer. The barrage of examples in Sicko, both of the failure of American health care and of the successes of national health care abroad, is constant, fascinating, and heartbreaking. Like any sensible and determined documentarian, Moore clearly edits footage to suit his own message, but what makes it into the movie (people whose children died after being refused care at an HMO emergency room; Ground Zero volunteers with respiratory problems who can’t get proper treatment; the elderly and indigent removed from Los Angeles hospitals and dumped on Skid Row wearing only hospital robes; the list goes on and on) is impossible to ignore, and it’s right there on film, as plain as day. It’s the audience’s job to be savvy and to make a decision: How much salt needs to go down with this movie?

Moore’s sensibility helps and hurts Sicko in equal-ish measure. His reputation for rousing rabbles certainly helped the movie at the box office, which is what Moore wants—increased attendance means increased money for him and an increased awareness of his message. In a sense, people are heading to the theater to see Moore himself, and he knows it, which is why his movies tend to be so determinedly first-person. On the other hand, watching Moore almost requires listening separately with each ear: one ear for the message of the film and one ear for Moore himself, his tactics and his (fairly shameless) editing tricks. The two cross paths in a sliver of combined sensitivity and common sense. That’s where, with any luck, the audience will end up as well.

It’s hard to say whether Sicko could have existed outside the realm of Moore’s body of work. Plenty of filmmakers could have taken an interest in the health-care industry; most probably couldn’t have made as a big a splash as he did. And for somebody who likes the splash, who thrives on the splash as much as he does, that’s what counts.

Sicko, Michael Moore, documentary

In only semi-film-related news, it seems that Sarah and I aren’t the only ones tracking the lives of men with great hair. Liz over at The Park Bench points out (via Defamer) that the chain of late-night host succession is worthy of a spot in The Golden Comb-Pass. I think we can all be happy about this.

See, Jay Leno’s set to retire, or possibly just move on to other ways of annoying people, in 2009. And I’m not saying the man doesn’t give me hives, but who am I to knock a great head of effortless-ish hair? Look at this:

Who could compete with such follicular fabulosity? Maybe…oh, CONAN O’BRIEN, Giant Leprechaun and Friend to All Who Like Funny Things? NBC agrees, apparently: O’Brien’s leaving Late Night with Conan O’Brien to step behind the Tonight Show desk when Leno jumps ship. Now, actual humor and interviewing skills aside (after all, we at CH like to focus on what’s really trivial important), O’Brien’s hair is hard to beat when it comes to personal statements. See?

It’s like Elvis meets Silvio from The Sopranos meets a teenage girl from New Jersey in 1989. Whether or not it’s effortless, exactly, is kind of hard to say, but I’m guessing the pompadour/wave thing takes…oh, four minutes, tops. So he counts, right? One interesting-haired man replaces another. Now, what’s beautiful here is that Jimmy Fallon (of Fever Pitch fame; also the ex-SNLer who isn’t Chris Kattan but might be mistaken for him in a police line-up) will apparently take over O’Brien’s Late Show duties when the time comes. Whether Fallon’s up to the job seems to be up for some debate, since he reportedly doesn’t really write or act or actually get his lines right, but come on! Look at his hair!

That’s some nice standy-uppy indie-boy hair he’s got. There’s lots of it, but not too much, you know? This means somebody over there is paying attention to these important details, and for that, we salute them.

Conan O’Brien, Jay Leno, Jimmy Fallon, The Late Show, The Tonight Show, Chris Kattan, The Golden Comb-pass, guys with great hair

1. Fistfight, Bridget Jones’s Diary
Rarely has a single scene given me so much joy so many times over—after seven years, you’d think the honeymoon would be over, but by now I think we can pretty much assume that Hugh Grant and Colin Firth flailing at each other out in the street (with “It’s Raining Men” blaring in the background, naturally) will never not be funny to me.

2. Launch party, High Fidelity
This is a scene of such relief and contentment—for one thing, Jack Black sheds his metal-band persona, belting out a killer cover of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” as part of Barry Jive and the Uptown Five—that it’s nearly impossible to not be happy. Everyone’s swaying, everyone’s worked things out for the moment, and Black can actually sing. Wouldn’t it be great if, at some point in our lives, everybody got to live this moment, or something like it?

3. Wedding/football match sequence, Bend It Like Beckham
I’m not sure when I last saw a musical montage work as the climax of a movie, but Bend It Like Beckham may have been it. Watching Jess and Pinky do what they do best, respectively, with some kind of crazy aria playing in the background? It’s one of those utterly triumphant movie moments, where everybody wins (well, not everybody. Somebody’s got to lose the game, after all). What great treatment of two great characters.

4. Road-trip diner scene, When Harry Met Sally
Not to be confused with the more famous Katz’s Deli “I’ll have what she’s having” scene—you know the one I mean. This one starts with Meg Ryan explaining how “women are very practical, even Ingrid Bergman” as she uncaps and lets loose with an enormous can of Aquanet, and it ends with the famous “you know, of course, that we can never be friends” theory. And in the middle? Days-of-the-week underpants. What could be more perfect? This scene is a dialogue triumph, useful in all situations. Learn it. Love it. Make it your own.

5. Flood, O Brother, Where Art Thou?
There are many, many things I love about the Coens’ geekiest comedy, but if I’m going for atmosphere, the flood scene never fails to give me tiny, tiny goosebumps—the way you hear it coming, the scene it (fortunately) interrupts, the little tins of Dapper Dan. And then there’s the roll-top desk at the bottom. After all the intricate twisty-turny Coen-style storytelling, the grand gesture of the flood seems refreshingly complete and nonverbal.

What about you, readers? What scenes bring joy to your heart and a smile to your face?

*Right now.

Top Fives, Top 5s, Bridget Jones’s Diary, Hugh Grant, Colin Firth, fistfight, High Fidelity, Jack Black, Marvin Gaye, Let’s Get It On, Bend It Like Beckham, When Harry Met Sally, diner, O Brother Where Art Thou?, Coen brothers

Let’s face it: spring hasn’t been much of a theatrical-release season. Each weekend I’ve been checking the listings, and…well, you can see how few new movies I’ve written about lately. The
last movie I saw in the theater was Leatherheads, which was an eon and a half ago, and it’s not like much has been slipping through the cracks. It’s like the Death Valley of release schedules out there.

But it looks like we’re finally getting somewhere. Barstow, or Twenty-Nine Palms, at least. The next three weekends—count ‘em, three!—mark the releases of movies I’m planning to see, or at least pretending to plan to see.

April 25: Baby Mama

I’ve accepted the sad fact that Baby Mama may, in fact, be terrible. But I so want it to be good, and I have a such a hard time saying no to the Fey/Poehler one-two punch, that I think I have to see it. It’s either that or The Life of Emile Zola for Project 501. Which would you choose? (Don’t answer that.)

May 2: Iron Man

I’m sorry. Did you think I wasn’t a geek? (…she says, hopefully…) Because I’m pretty sure my absurd love for this trailer—and my hyperventilating about the movie, and about Robert Downey, Jr. as anti-hero hero—proves otherwise. I just think it’s going to be so good. Even the trailer has great comic timing, plus general bad-assery. There can only be fun ahead.

May 9: Speed Racer

…I know, right? Keep repeating to yourself (as I do to myself), “It’s based on 1960s anime. What can you do?” and maybe you’ll feel better. And maybe the Wachowski brothers like their overblown identity/emotional angst, but they also like ridiculous car chases, and I like Matthew Fox’s face, and there you have it. (Note: I reserve the right to change my mind now that Lost is back on my TV. Why buy the ticket when you can have the Fox for free?)

Who’s with me?

Baby Mama, Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Speed Racer, anime, Matthew Fox, Mach GoGoGo, Iron Man, Robert Downey Jr.

I tried not to put off watching The Great Ziegfeld, the Best Picture for 1936. After all, I’d just gotten back my momentum after quitting and starting again hiatus, and I do love a musical with large, expensive song-and-dance numbers. But then Pauline Kael had to go and say mean things about it—”It goes on for a whopping three hours, but through some insane editing decision Fanny Brice is cut off in the middle of singing ‘My Man’…a lavish, tedious musical biography,” she said—and it languished by the DVD player for a few weeks before I finally summoned the strength to watch it.

Kael gets the salient points right: lavish, musical biography, three hours, Fanny Brice cut off mid-song. As for the “tedious” comment…maybe, but to be fair, nothing here is either more or less compelling than any other overlong biopic. If anything, The Great Ziegfeld (the story of Broadway producer Florenz Ziegfeld, of The Ziegfeld Follies fame) is probably more the granddaddy of movies like Ali and The Aviator than anything else. Nothing really happens, per se, but then that’s sort of the problem with a lot of biopics: people with interesting lives don’t necessarily adhere to the kind of beginning-middle-end sequencing that we’re so used to. Aren’t all biopics at least a little boring?

Then there’s the catch-22 of the musical numbers. The Great Ziegfeld is three hours and six minutes long, and punctuated by examples of Ziegfeld’s famously extravagant musical numbers. By fast-forwarding, the impatient viewer can shorten the running time by twenty minutes, easy (by “musical numbers” we’re not talking “They’re Doing Choreography”; more like enormous, round parade floats rotating onstage). But fast-forwarding here is a little like munching on raisin bread and eating around the raisins. If you’re going to watch three hours of this guy’s life, shouldn’t the musical numbers sweeten the deal? I suppose it depends on the crowd and the crowd’s affinity for ladies singing under parasols. I’ll leave it up to you.

As for Kael and the Fanny Brice complaint, I’ve got to agree, and extend it to the supporting cast. William Powell doesn’t do much to distinguish himself here as Ziegfeld, but he’s surrounded by apparent geniuses doing what they do best. First, there’s Ray Bolger, who played the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz three years later, practically dancing holes in the stage; then there’s Luise Rainer, who won the award for Best Actress (and won again the next year), as Ziegfeld’s star-struck first wife. And finally there’s Brice, who’s like watching Gilda Radner’s grandmother, and who’s like a jolt of comic energy in the middle of all the languid chorus girls and their parasols. Fantastic.

With 82 years of hindsight since the 1936 Academy Awards, it’s fairly obvious that The Great Ziegfeld had to win Best Picture. It was MGM’s most expensive movie to date—production cost $2 million—and the investment paid off in terms of spectacle and later in terms of box office success. Maybe it wasn’t the best picture of the year (surely also-ran My Man Godfrey beats it for plot and dialogue?), but it sure was the biggest.

The Great Ziegfeld, Florenz Ziegfeld, 1936, Academy Awards, Project 501, William Powell, Luise Rainer, Ray Bolger, Fanny Brice

I finally saw The Notebook this weekend. Do you think they’re going to take away my Girl Card and my pearls, since it took me so long? It’s just one of those movies that’s supposed to call to women like some kind of subliminal siren: if you’ve got a pair of X chromosomes, get thee to a theater! You will not be allowed in without a full box of tissues.

I hadn’t seen it, I think, because its reputation preceded it. Have you Googled “sappy movie” lately? Check it out and see how many Notebook-related hits come up. I like sad movies as much as the next girl, but it’s a certain type of sad that I go for—it’s got to be the sadness of regular life, a particular shade of blue, or it always seems vaguely masochistic to me. I don’t go for that kind of thing, especially with my $10 ticket price.

But—SPOILERS AHEAD!—here’s the thing. That was not the saddest movie I’ve ever seen. Not even close. If you want to know the truth, I didn’t even cry. I mean, come on! She ends up with the “right” guy! They end up so much together that they die together, hand in hand. And after a long and apparently happy life, that doesn’t seem like such a bad way to go, you know? The truly sad version of this movie would have ended with Rachel McAdams, James Marsden (who, poor guy, can never seem to get a date, which is absurd; look at him!), and their life of regrets and misery. I’m just saying. They’re going to have to come up with something better than that to melt my (apparent) heart of stone.

The Notebook, Nicholas Sparks, Rachel McAdams, Ryan Gosling, sad movies, sappy movies