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How not to blow your Oscar speech

Jim Emerson

Water Music From Big Pink: Gwyneth’s Oscar meltdown.

From my handy guide on how to avoid making yourself a laughingstock during your Oscar speech, at MSN Movies:

The main thing to remember when you win your Oscar (and you know you will win your Oscar one day — admit it, you’ve even practiced your acceptance speech) is that you are immediately faced with 45 seconds during which you can either display grace under pressure or make a complete ass of yourself.

Contrary to Academy legend, Sally Field did not do the latter when she gave the most parodied and ridiculed acceptance speech in Oscar history in 1985. “I haven’t had an orthodox career, and I’ve wanted more than anything to have your respect,” she said. “The first time I didn’t feel it, but this time I feel it, and I can’t deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me!”

Now, that last part, which came out a bit squeaky, wasn’t as bad as many later made it out to be. It wasn’t, after all, “You like me! You really like me!” My theory is that the repetitive phrase was memorized in advance (it sounds a bit canned) and that she simply oversold it in the excitement of the moment. Instead of making it sound more spontaneous, her delivery underscored (genuine though the sentiment might be) that this was, in fact, another performance, which felt kind of embarrassing to watch. And audiences can really resent it if you embarrass them, to the point where they respond defensively with scathing sarcasm and mockery.

Don’t let this happen to you. Here’s some advice for giving your Oscar speech, when the time comes.

1. Get a Grip

Why is it that the only people who really appear to lose control when they accept their statuette are the actors? Why don’t the art directors and sound editors sputter and wail as if they’d just been spared from lethal injection? If anything, you’d think the actors would be better able to control their emotions than most people.

And you’d be right. You see, actors dig emotional meltdowns, on screen and off. They do it on purpose. It’s almost a form of noblesse oblige — a generous Acting Gratuity (more than 20 percent), if you will: “I will now treat you to an extraordinary demonstration of how deeply I am moved!” And, at the same time, it’s a form of grandiose self-inflation and self-abasement: “I scrape and bow to acknowledge how much YOU have honored ME!”

Of course, Gwyneth Paltrow (Best Actress, “Shakespeare in Love,” 1998) just stood there and squeaked like a broken drip-irrigation node, but at least she had the decency to be horrified and humiliated about it later, claiming she’d put her Oscar at the back of a bookcase because it brought back painful memories of her big, pink weep-down.

One of the most divisive Oscar speeches of recent years (some were moved, some were appalled) was the tornado of tears Halle Berry whipped up around herself when she won Best Actress for “Monster’s Ball” in 2001. Berry’s Interminable Moment-of-Special-Pleading was a gale-force ego storm that threatened to suck up the entire universe. It was like the Big Bang in reverse: “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I’m sorry. This moment is so much bigger than me,” blubbered Berry, trying desperately to make the moment big enough for her.

The Halle Berry Best Actress of the Future: “And the Oscar goes to… Nonameo Whatsherface!”

“This moment is for Dorothy Dandridge, Lena Horne, Diahann Carroll,” she continued, in a name-dropping paroxysm that cried out, instead, for Lloyd Bentsen. “It’s for the women that stand beside me, Jada Pinkett, Angela Bassett, Vivica Fox. And it’s for every nameless, faceless woman of color that now has a chance because this door tonight has been opened.” Yes, because now all nameless, faceless women of color have a much better chance of becoming Best Actress Oscar winners, just like their universal idol, Halle Berry! The odds have suddenly improved from roughly 3,000,000,000:1 to maybe as close as 2,999,999,999:1. Good news for nameless, faceless women of color everywhere!

“Thank you. I’m so honored. I’m so honored,” Berry further honored herself. “And I thank the Academy for choosing me to be the vessel for which His blessing might flow.” Which brings us to our next piece of advice …

Full story at MSN Movies.

Simply the worst

Jim Emerson

View image No comment.

How good, or bad, does a movie have to be in order to make an impression — enough of one, anyway, so that you can remember it, or even still feel like talking about it, 15 minutes after you’ve seen it? Inspired by “The Hottie and the Nottie,” Joe Queenan suggests criteria for The Worst Movies of All Time (“From hell”) in The Guardian.

Among the movies he considers: “Futz!” (a 1969 satire, based on a hit LaMaMa Broadway production, about a man who marries a pig), Marco Ferreri’s “La Grande Bouffe” (1973), John Huston’s “A Walk With Love and Death,” Pier Paolo Pasolini’s “Salo: 120 Days of Sodom,” Roberto Benigni’s “Life Is Beautiful” (“as morally repugnant — precisely because of its apparent innocence — as any film I can name”), Kevin Costner’s “The Postman,” Martin Brest’s “Gigli” and Michael Cimino’s “Heaven’s Gate.” Queenan writes:

A generically appalling film like “The Hottie and the Nottie” is a scab that looks revolting while it is freshly coagulated; but once it festers, hardens and falls off the skin, it leaves no scar. By contrast, a truly bad movie, a bad movie for the ages, a bad movie made on an epic, lavish scale, is the cultural equivalent of leprosy: you can’t stand looking at it, but at the same time you can’t take your eyes off it. You are horrified by it, repelled by it, yet you are simultaneously mesmerised by its enticing hideousness….

E-mail from Roger

Jim Emerson

I’m very happy to report that Roger Ebert has sent his first public e-mail about his recovery. The full text is at RogerEbert.com, but here’s an excerpt:

I have always believed in full disclosure. When I announced that I had a recurrence of salivary cancer that required surgery, I had no idea when I went into the hospital on June 16 that I would still be here on August 16.

On June 16 they removed the cancer in my right jaw area, including a section of my jaw bone. It was successfully reconstructed. On July 1, I was packing to leave the hospital when my blood vessel ruptured. We have since learned that the rupture was caused by a break down of tissue surrounding the artery as a result of radiation treatments I had three years ago.

I had a particularly intense form of radiation called neutron beam radiation, which is more effective for certain cancers, but which is also more debilitating to healthy tissue than conventional radiation. Finding a solution to protecting the arteries is what has kept me in the hospital, and in bed, since July 1. As you can imagine, it is no fun being hospitalized this long. Fortunately for me, I have received excellent medical care at Northwestern Hospital led by Doctors Harold Pelzer and Neil Fine. This is a unique situation and the doctors are moving cautiously, but they are enthusiastically optimistic about my recovery. I have also had the loving support of my bride Chaz, and good friends and colleagues. I am a lucky man.

(Continue reading…)

The real drama of W.

Jim Emerson

Oliver Stone’s movie doesn’t begin to approach this level of character insight or emotion. This genuine drama took place in Tallahassee, after the 2006 mid-term election. Notice the phrases over which the former president stumbles and weeps when talking about his son, Jeb, who served two terms as governor of Florida and was prevented by term-limit laws from running for a third:

Racial Purity, Part II

Jim Emerson

Angelina Jolie as Mariane Pearl

“A Mighty Heart,” Michael Winterbottom‘s film based on Mariane van Neyenhoff Pearl’s book about her husband Daniel, a journalist who was kidnapped and executed in Karachi, Pakistan, opens this weekend. I’ve had my say about the casting of (Czech / Haudenosaunee / American) Angelina Jolie as (Dutch / Cuban / French) Mariane Pearl. And so has Mariane Pearl, who told Newsweek: “This is not about skin color. I wanted her to play me because I trust her. Aren’t we past this?”

Marianne Pearl as Marianne Pearl.

Well, some people are. And some aren’t. Like, I guess, the people who hired Halle Berry to play white Nevada schoolteacher Tierney Cahill in the upcoming “Class Act.” (Berry’s at least as much white as she is black. But will she wear “whiteface” in the movie? Do you care?) Or, perhaps, the ones who hired John Travolta to play a woman in “Hairspray.” Or even those who think it was just wrong for Marriane Pearl to have married a white Jew in the first place. (Miscegenation!) Let’s take that logic to its inevitable extreme. Some people are sticklers for racial, cultural and gender purity. If only race, culture and gender were really that monolithic and clear-cut…

And we’re talking about actors here. I’m not advocating blackface or whiteface minstrelsy (that implies bad acting, doesn’t it?), but these people are supposed to be able to play characters other than themselves. That’s what they do.

Maybe Jolie is terrible and totally miscast in the part. I don’t know, I haven’t seen the movie yet. But a commenter at the site concreteloop.com succinctly summarizes my own feelings about the matter at this stage:

At first it does seem a bit odd, because I am sure there are women of African American or Afro-Cuban descent who could play that role but I would not say this is modern day black-face. If it were some blond-hair, blue-eyed non-talented actress, I would really have a problem. However, I do think Angelina is a great actress and as a matter of fact Mariane Pearl wanted Angelina to portray her in the film. So shouldn’t her wishes be respected?Producer Brad Pitt, who hired his honey for the part, said he was nervous about doing it, but he felt it was the right decision for the movie: “I knew the part had to be played by someone with Mariane’s strength and understanding of the world, but I didn’t know how to broach the subject. It feels a little like Wolfowitz trying to get his girlfriend a job. […]

“I know that people are frustrated at the lack of great roles (for people of color), but I think they’ve picked the wrong example here.”

Halle Berry plays Tierney Cahill (pictured — either the one on the left or the one on the right) in an upcoming movie. You see the resemblance. Gotta problem with that?

I guess it also depends not only on whether you think Mariane Pearl has a (moral? contractual?) right to approve who plays her in a movie made from her own book, but whether you consider Angelina Jolie an actress or just “Brad’s girlfriend” — you know, half of “Brangelina.” (Or even whether women are capable of making such important judgments, since those who cry “racism” here insist that Jolie and Pearl do not have the personal or professional credibility or authority to make such decisions for themselves.)

And whether you consider the fact that both share Northern European / Caucasian heritage. Much of the criticism I’ve seen has focused on the tabloid “Brangelina” phenomenon (as if that were real anywhere beyond the supermarket checkstands), or has tried to tie this casting into the history of racist portrayals of African-Americans in Hollywood movies. (In that regard, I recommend Donald Bogle’s book, “Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies & Bucks.”) But is that really an appropriate conclusion to draw in this particular instance?

I agree that actors of color should be offered more and better roles — including those that weren’t originally written to be one race or another. (Sigourney Weaver played a man’s role in “The TV Set” without changing a word. Other parts have been re-written for the actor selected for the part.) But is the problem really one of casting people with the same racial make-up as their characters? Or is it more significant that writers and directors and casting directors are not making films with enough characters of color?

On the practical side… well, a star is a star. Angelina Jolie and Halle Berry are Oscar winners, marquee names, not struggling unknowns. (Not that struggling unknowns or semi-knowns don’t deserve a chance, but they’re unlikely to get one in such a high-profile project.) Mariane Pearl wanted Angelina Jolie to play her, sought her out, and sold the rights to Brad Pitt’s production company. Based on this “package,” the film was able to get a greenlight from Paramount Vantage, with the expectation that they would make a profit. The question becomes: Is the only form of “good casting” to make sure the racial balance of the character matches that of the actor?

Is Beyonce really too light — or too dark — to have played a character based on Diana Ross in “Dreamgirls”? Is Denzel Washington really too dark to have played light-skinned, reddish-haired Malcolm X? Was it racist to have cast Chinese actress Gong Li as a Japanese woman in “Memoirs of a Geisha”? Were Al Pacino — or Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio or Robert Loggia — terrible in “Scarface” (1983) because they are not Cuban? Was it wrong for Benicio Del Toro (Puerto Rican-American) to play a Mexican cop in “Traffic“? If these actors were good or bad in those movies, was it because of their racial background, or because of the roles and their performances in them?

I wonder what happened to a sense of proportion here. This isn’t exactly Mickey Rooney playing a grotesque caricature of a Chinese guy in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Doesn’t the performance itself count for anything — or is it all about appearances? (OK, if Jennifer Aniston had been cast as Pearl, I’d be a lot more skeptical. Even though she’s only two years younger than Pearl, while Jolie is seven years younger. But if Jolie is playing Pearl in 2001-2002, then she’s just about the perfect age, no?)

Fassbinder or NPR?

Jim Emerson

View image From “The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant” — one of the best movies, and movie titles, ever. Say it five times.

Back when the New German Cinema was colonizing America, my friends and I liked to transform our favorite actor-names, especially those from Fassbinder movies, into exclamations. “Ulli Lommel!” we would exclaim. Or, “Gottfried John!” (with a W.C. Fields inflection). Or, “What the Harry Baer was that!?!” The moniker-musik of Fassbinder’s cinematographers alone still fill me with joy: Michael Ballhaus, Dietrich Lohmann, Xaver Schwarzenberger, Jürgen Jürges…

My dream was to hear the complete cast and credits of “Berlin Alexanderplatz” read by a National Public Radio on-air personality. Sure, every name sounds great when pronounced on NPR — and especially “Sylvia Poggioli” or “Corey Flintoff.” (I love how the second syllable of “Flintoff” falls off, like it’s going over a cliff. Say that last sentence out loud. It’s fun.) But what if you put the two together? It could be like peanut butter and chocolate.

What follows is a list of very, very good names for your enjoyment. They are best when you speak them with impeccable diction. And don’t forget the umlauts, where appropriate. While you’re doing that, can you also figure out which ones are from NPR and which are from Fassbinder? After scrambling the two lists of my favorites I’m not sure I can anymore. I will, however, say this: Rüdiger Vogler. (He’s a Wim Wenders actor, not a Fassbinder vet, but he’s a damn fine one with a damn fine name and I wanted to get him in here somewhere.)

UPDATE: You want to hear how it’s done? Our Man In Istanbul, Ali Arikan, reads some Fassbinderian names with poetic precision here.

Before the jump, here’s a few to get you started — but beware, there are three tricks!

1 Kai Ryssdal

2 Kurt Raab

3 Peer Raben

4 Mara Liasson

5 Ulla Jacobsson

6 Annabelle Gurwitch

7 Elisabeth Trissenaar

8 Ira Flatow

9 David Folkenflik

Roy Scheider (1932-2008)

Jim Emerson

View image Roy Scheider in “If I Didn’t Care” (2007).

From the Associated Press:

Scheider was nominated for a best-supporting actor Oscar in 1971’s “The French Connection” in which he played the police partner of Oscar winner Gene Hackman and for best-actor for 1979’s “All That Jazz,” the autobiographical Bob Fosse film. […]

“He was a wonderful guy. He was what I call ’a knockaround actor,”’ [Scheider’s “Jaws” co-star Richard] Dreyfuss told The Associated Press on Sunday.

“A ’knockaround actor’ to me is a compliment that means a professional that lives the life of a professional actor and doesn’t yell and scream at the fates and does his job and does it as well as he can,” he said. […]

View image A few moments before Scheider utters the now-famous line that he must have known would be quoted in his obituaries.

Dreyfuss recalled Sunday a time during the filming of “Jaws” when Scheider disappeared from the set. As the filming was on hold because of the weather, Scheider “called me up and said, ’You don’t know where I am if they call.’

“He’d gone to get a tan. He was really very tan-addicted. That was due to a childhood affliction where he was in bed for a long time. For him being tan was being healthy,” Dreyfuss said.

What they say and what they mean

Jim Emerson

“I much prefer the kind of story where the reader is left wondering who’s to blame until it begins to dawn on him (the reader) that he himself must bear some of the responsibility because he is human and therefore infinitely fallible.”

— Richard Yates

“Madame Bovary, c’est moi.”

— Gustave Flaubert

A follow-up to my previous post on “Revolutionary Road”:

I’m reading Blake Bailey’s 2003 biography of Richard Yates, whose “Revolutionary Road” and “The Easter Parade” are among the novels I hold dearest. It’s called “A Tragic Honesty,” and I think Yates would hate the title. But maybe there are layers to it that I haven’t yet discovered. I’m only up to 1959 and, despite a lifetime of alcoholism, emphysema, bipolar depression and a host of other physical and mental troubles, Yates survived until 1992. Perhaps the notion of “tragic honesty” is illustrated below, in Yates’ sharp observations about the interplay between story and character in his own work and that of artists he admired. They’re applicable to just about any narrative form:

“Another thing I have always liked about [“The Great Gatsby”] and [“Madame Bovary”],” he wrote, “is that there are no villains in either one. The force of evil is felt in these novels but never personified — neither novel is willing to let us off that easily.” […]

Chasing the image: Barred

Jim Emerson

View image: “Vertigo”: The bar

View image: “Vertigo”: The hand.

View image: “Munich”: The bar(s).

View image: “Munich”: The hand.

Both movies begin with a close-up of metal barrier at night. A hand grabs it, and a man pulls himself up into the frame, suggesting a transgression of some kind is occurring. In “Vertigo,” the man is a criminal suspect on the run from a policeman (and, we soon learn, James Stewart); in “Munich,” he is one of the Palestinian Black Septemberists, climbing over the gate into the Olympic Village where he and his terrorist cohorts will murder 11 Israeli atheletes — the event that sets the movie’s story in motion.

More on both these movies in future Opening Shots. Just wanted you to see the effective way Spielberg begins his movie with a visual quotation from Hitchock’s. I’ve heard from people over the years who don’t think critics should mention other movies in reviews — like it’s just some kind of arcane “film geek” thing. (I got an e-mail just last week, scolding me for mentioning Spielbergian suburban-myth movies — “CE3K,” “E.T.,” “Poltergeist” — in my review of “Lady in the Water”; I don’t see how you could review that movie without mentioning predecessors like those in the work of a filmmaker who has spoken publicly about Spielberg’s influence on him. That’s a critic’s job — to offer context and analysis.) Artists in all fields borrow and comment upon each others’ work all the time. (You don’t have to know, for example, that Nirvana thought “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was just their Pixies rip-off — but you may hear it with new ears once you do.) In this case, Spielberg is grabbing an image that has resonance, for him and the audience, even if you don’t consciously notice it when you see it. It has impact, some of which reverberates all the way back to “Vertigo” in 1958 and the way that movie made you feel in its opening sequence….

Bergman: Sawdust and Tinsel?

Jim Emerson

View image Harriet Andersson in Ingmar Bergman’s “Summer with Monika” (1953). US tagline: “A Picture for Wide Screens and Broad Minds.”

Jonathan Rosenbaum puts another nail in Ingmar Bergman’s coffin in today’s New York Times (“Scenes From an Overrated Career”). As important as Bergman was to the rise of European “art film,” especially in the 1950s and ’60s, Rosenbaum says, Bergman — who was more a theatrical director than a cinematic one — wasn’t really adding anything new to the art of film, and his work hasn’t held up over time:

Sometimes, though, the best indication of an artist’s continuing vitality is simply what of his work remains visible and is still talked about. The hard fact is, Mr. Bergman isn’t being taught in film courses or debated by film buffs with the same intensity as Alfred Hitchcock, Orson Welles and Jean-Luc Godard. His works are seen less often in retrospectives and on DVD than those of Carl Dreyer and Robert Bresson — two master filmmakers widely scorned as boring and pretentious during Mr. Bergman’s heyday.

What Mr. Bergman had that those two masters lacked was the power to entertain — which often meant a reluctance to challenge conventional film-going habits, as Dreyer did when constructing his peculiar form of movie space and Bresson did when constructing his peculiar form of movie acting.

The same qualities that made Mr. Bergman’s films go down more easily than theirs — his fluid storytelling and deftness in handling actresses, comparable to the skills of a Hollywood professional like George Cukor — also make them feel less important today, because they have fewer secrets to impart. What we see is what we get, and what we hear, however well written or dramatic, are things we’re likely to have heard elsewhere.

So where did the outsized reputation of Mr. Bergman come from? At least part of his initial appeal in the ’50s seems tied to the sexiness of his actresses and the more relaxed attitudes about nudity in Sweden; discovering the handsome look of a Bergman film also clearly meant encountering the beauty of Maj-Britt Nilsson and Harriet Andersson. And for younger cinephiles like myself, watching Mr. Bergman’s films at the same time I was first encountering directors like Mr. Godard and Alain Resnais, it was tempting to regard him as a kindred spirit, the vanguard of a Swedish New Wave.

It was a seductive error, but an error nevertheless. The stylistic departures I saw in Mr. Bergman’s ’50s and ’60s features — the silent-movie pastiche in “Sawdust and Tinsel,” the punitive use of magic against a doctor-villain in “The Magician,” the aggressive avant-garde prologue of “Persona” — were actually more functions of his skill and experience as a theater director than a desire or capacity to change the language of cinema in order to say something new. […]

It’s strange to realize that his bitter and pinched emotions, once they were combined with excellent cinematography and superb acting, could become chic — and revered as emblems of higher purposes in cinema. But these emotions remain ugly ones, no matter how stylishly they might be served up.

Michael Atkinson, who I quoted earlier in the week, makes some similar criticisms, yet comes to a different conclusion: “[N]owhere… is there a lazy, unambitious or unoriginal directorial moment.”

I think there’s some truth in both Rosenbaum’s and Atkinson’s assessments, but Rosenbaum seems more interested in asserting his own personal pantheon than in evaluating Bergman’s oeuvre. Yes, the reputation of Bergman’s work, and its former sense of vital importance, has undeniably receded. After all, it had practically nowhere else to go, given Bergman’s overwhelming stature in the ’60s and ’70s. (On a personal note, I haven’t felt compelled to watch or re-watched any of his films in years — except “Persona” — although I still treasure “Fanny and Alexander,” and have fond memories of his early, funny pictures like “Smiles of a Summer Night” and “The Devil’s Eye.”) That’s why, honestly, I haven’t been able to write about Bergman myself this last week: He feels like an indistinct memory to me, safely enshrined as “classic” but almost taken for granted. Nevertheless, I’ve put some of his films at the top of my Netflix queue (“Shame,” “Hour of the Wolf”) in hopes of getting reacquainted.

Mourning (and assessing) Bergman

Jim Emerson

View image

Some of the best things I’ve read about Ingmar Bergman’s place in cinema, written since his death (UPDATED 8/01/07):

E-mails to Roger Ebert from filmmakers and writers including David Mamet, Paul Schrader, Sally Potter, Haskell Wexler, Paul Theroux, Richard Linklater, Gregory Nava, Studs Terkel, David Bordwell, David Gordon Green, Paul Cox…

Gregory Nava: This was not the escapist fare of Hollywood, or the pat spirituality of Biblical epic films where God spoke in hallowed tones from a burning bush. With Bergman, God was a spider that lived in the upstairs closet! A shocking and necessary jolt to my Catholic sensibilities. Yes, these films changed me forever — they cemented my dream to become a filmmaker because if film could do this — then surely it was the greatest art form of our time. I will never forget the first time I saw the horses standing in the surf against a setting sun, and death with his black cape raised approaching the world-weary knight.

“I hope I never get so old I get religious.” — Ingmar Bergman

Peter Rainer, Los Angeles Times:

He worked out of his deepest passions and, for many of us, this made the experience of watching his films seem almost surgically invasive. He pulled us into his secret torments. Looking at “The Seventh Seal” or “Persona” or “Cries and Whispers,” it’s easy to imagine that Bergman, who died Monday, was the most private of film artists, and yet, no matter how far removed the circumstances of his life may have been from ours, he made his anguish our own.

Another way to put this is that Bergman — despite the high-toned metaphysics that overlays many, though not all, of his greatest films — was a showman first and a Deep Thinker second. His philosophical odysseys might have been epoxied to matters of Life and Death, of God and Man, but this most sophisticated of filmmakers had an inherently childlike core. He wanted to startle us as he himself had been startled. He wanted us to feel his terrors in our bones. A case could be made that Bergman was, in the most voluminous sense, the greatest of all horror movie directors.

“If Jesus came back and saw what’s going on in his name, he’d never stop throwing up!” — Bergman actor Max von Sydow, in Woody Allen’s “Hannah and Her Sisters”

View image Woody Allen’s “Love and Death”: A Bergman (and Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy…) parody from someone who loved Bergman.

Roger Ebert, RogerEbert.com:

What he saw as God’s refusal to intervene in the suffering on earth was the subject of his 1961-63 Silence of God Trilogy, “Through a Glass Darkly,” “Winter Light” (a pitiless film in which a clergyman torments himself about the possibility of nuclear annihilation) and “The Silence.” In his masterpiece “Persona,” (1967), an actress (Liv Ullmann) sees a television image of a monk burning himself in Vietnam, and she stops speaking. Sent to a country retreat with a nurse (Bibi Andersson), she works a speechless alchemy on her, leading to a striking image when their two faces seem to blend.

So great was the tension in that film that Bergman made it appear to catch in the projector and burn. Then, from a black screen, the film slowly rebuilt itself, beginning with crude images from the first days of the cinema. These images were suggested by a child’s cinematograph which his brother received as a present; so envious was Ingmar that he traded his brother for it, giving up his precious horde of 100 tin soldiers.

close-up: a critical essay / dream sequence (rescued, restored)

Jim Emerson

This is my favorite of my own video pieces so far because it’s the most personal and spontaneous — really a stream-of-consciousness memory-movie captured and strung together over a weekend for the House Next Door’s Close-Up Blogathon. I pretend I now know what every image, every sound “means” here (though much of that was discovered just in the act of dreaming it up and putting it together — or didn’t occur to me until I actually saw it), but that’s not the point: Just let it sink in and see what dreamy associations it might conjure for you…

Original illustrated notes on “a free-association dream sequence” here. Originally posted here.

Crix Nix Kix Flix (Part I)

Jim Emerson

“I will smite thee for being a dunderhead.”

Or: That’s Entertainment Reporting!

Have entertainment industry “reporters” lost all touch with the reality of the business they’re supposedly covering? In a world where… “Entertainment Tonight,” Entertainment Weekly, Variety, the New York and Los Angeles Times, the Star, the Inquirer, People, Gawker, Defamer, Perez Hilton and anybody else with a blog all recycle the same trivial non-stories, is there anything more overdone and superfluous than another entertainment reporter writing another trite, misconceived “trend piece” about (of all things) box office results?

OK, I’m being facetious. Kind of. Peter Bart, the editor of Variety — who, it appears, has lost or at least misplaced his marbles — started this latest round of “oh, the critics are out of touch” speculation (a non-story that will outlive all remaining film critics, just as it has the dead ones) last week with an inane diatribe worthy of, say, David O. Russell. (See how this stuff keeps getting recycled?) Bart wrote:

In reviewing “300” last week… A.O. (Tony) Scott of the New York Times, said the movie was “as violent as ‘Apocalypto’ and twice as stupid.”

That comment reflected the consensus among critics not only on “300” but also on “Ghost Rider,” “Wild Hogs,” “Norbit” and the other movie miscreants unleashed on the public since Oscar time.

The situation underscores yet again the disconnect between the cinematic appetites of critics vs. those of the popcorn crowd. The kids who storm their multiplexes to catch the opening of “Night at the Museum” don’t give a damn what the critics think…

Bart is four paragraphs into his piece and he’s already writing in circles: The critics, he complains, don’t like the big “popcorn” movies that are attended by kids who don’t care what the critics think. So, the point is… what? What has changed over the last 80 years or so? Did the kids storming the multiplexes — er, ornate movie palaces — suddenly stop basing their moviegoing decisions on the New York Times reviews? (Bart neglects to mention that “300” got mostly positive reviews, and currently has a 61 percent favorable rating on RottenTomatoes — and a 50 percent split decision among its “cream of the crop” critics, including those who write for the New York Times.) So, is Bart saying the disconnect is due to the fact that today’s modern young a-go-go people don’t read newspapers much anymore? Or that they used to pay attention to film critics, but now they don’t?

Bow down to Babs

Jim Emerson

“You’re certainly a funny girl for anybody to meet who’s just been up the Amazon for a year.”

If you are in Chicago the next few weeks, and you feel like taking in a weekend matinee, then you are fortunate indeed because the Music Box Theatre is presenting a centennial celebration of the toughest, sexiest, smartest, snappiest dame ever to sashay across a cinema screen. By that, of course, I mean none other than Sugarpuss O’Shea, Phyllis Dietrichson, Lily Powers, Lora Hart, Stella Dallas, Jean Harrington, Jessica Drummond, Leona Stevenson, Sierra Nevada Jones, Martha Ivers, Thelma Jordan, Norma Miller Vale, Mae Doyle D’Amato… in other words, Barbara Stanwyck.

View image Sugarpuss presents the ball of her foot in “Ball of Fire.”

Stanwyck is my favorite movie actress. Ever. I built a virtual shrine to her in 1998 (complete with a gallery of rare images and Babs’ Foot Fetish Page), in which I wrote:

Stanwyck could make you believe she was part of the everyday world we all live in, not just a fantasy on the silver screen. She could easily be the woman down the aisle in the supermarket, driving that car in the next lane, or working in the office down the hall. While other stars went for the “larger than life” roles, Stanwyck — as an all-American working girl or a cunning seductress — generally kept her feet planted firmly on the ground. In fact, she enters “Double Indemnity” feet-first, sauntering down the staircase wearing an anklet that snags Walter Neff (MacMurray) by the libido. (The anklet may be the hook, but she’s the bait.) Stanwyck used that foot to lure Gary Cooper and Henry Fonda, among others. It’s a peculiar erotic pattern in her work (see Babs’ Foot Fetish Page for more details and images), but men who stooped to take her foot in hand found themselves on their knees before a passionate woman, not an unapproachable goddess — and they fell, instantly and irrevocably, under her spell. (Fonda almost faints when she gets him to slip a pump over her tootsies!)

View image Will this plan provide full coverage?

In both “The Lady Eve” and “Ball of Fire” — two of her most dazzling and endearing comic performances, from the same year! — Stanwyck acts as a leveling life-force, puncturing all pretensions and knocking her co-stars’ bumbling intellectual noggins out of the hazy cerebral clouds. What she achieves is not unlike what a much ditzier, flakier, upper-crust screwball heroine, Katharine Hepburn, does for/to bespectacled paleontologist Cary Grant in “Bringing Up Baby.” But Stanwyck brings salvation from the streets rather than the penthouse. Jean Arthur in “Easy Living” (1937) — written by Sturges — is a delightful working gal, but Stanwyck is far more streetwise. Tough, strong, and smart, but no less feminine than some of her screwball sisters, she has learned to survive in a cut-throat world, living by her wits. She’s at her best when she’s in control, and she usually is. In many of her most famous movies the unspoken truth of any given scene is that she knows exactly what she’s doing — until, perhaps, her emotions sneak up on her and overthrow her instincts, by unexpectedly allowing her to fall head-over-heels for her (relatively) naive and helpless male prey.

Stanwyck slices right through class conventions and social formalities, immediately addressing Gary Cooper’s Professor Bertram Potts by the more casual nickname of “Potsy.” Likewise, Fonda’s Charles Pike, heir to the Pike’s Ale fortune, becomes “Hopsie” (after a key ingredient in the family brew). The very notion of someone with such a direct, spontaneous, and unrefined disposition masquerading as a blueblood is, as Preston Sturges realized, a terrific premise for comedy.