World of Warcraft addict arrested.
Blu-ray gets slightly cheaper.
It’s an mp3 player and a zipper.
The solar powered handbag.
Pay for your Happy Meal with your cell phone.
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Three is a magic number, bet on lucky number seven, and beware of unlucky thirteen. Twenty-three is now the new number to keep an eye out for.
Conspiracy theorists unite in the theatres showing this weekend’s new thriller, The Number 23, a film about how obsession and paranoia can take over a man’s life and the lives of his loved ones. The man in question is Walter Sparrow (Jim Carrey). Walter works for Animal Control, which makes him a glorified dogcatcher. When someone has a lingering canine around their restaurant or a snake in their sewage system (hey, it could happen), they call Animal Control, which in turn radios Walter. He goes home everyday to a beautiful wife, a teenage son, and an average life that anyone can be proud of. This all changes when he’s kept late at work on is birthday (February 3rd or 2/3…it’s a theme) making him tardy to pick his wife Agatha up from work. His wife grows bored with waiting and wanders into a bookstore after a bright red book catches her eye. This book, titled The Number 23, proves to be a great birthday present for Walter for he has an easy and immediate relation to the main character, maybe a little more than he wanted. His new way to burn time eventually consumes his every waking moment, creating an obsession with both the similarities of his life and Fingerling’s (the book’s main character) and the number 23 itself. Read on »
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Will Ferrell apparently has something to prove. After box office success with such modern classics as Old School and Anchorman and the soon to be TBS Christmas fixture Elf, Ferrell takes the Jim Carrey route and goes for something a little more dry and a little more serious. Very little.
Stranger Than Fiction is not your average narrative film. Usually narratives involve the main character’s story being told by a relative, close friend, or often by themselves in flashback fashion. Sometimes narratives involve a deep, commanding voice from the likes of James Earl Jones or Morgan Freeman to give the film an underlining serious tone. These narrators (or ‘hosts’ as I like to call them) weave emotions and events together to create tales of triumph or tales of despair that are worthy of our viewing. In Stranger Than Fiction, our host is English novelist, Kay Eiffel (embodied by Emma Thompson). She’s been working extremely hard to tell us the saga of a fictional New York resident by the name of Harold Crick (Will Ferrell). Eiffel created Crick with plans of revealing to us a life-changing moment in his existence, along with a new girlfriend, and eventually his death. The only thing standing in the way of finishing her career-defining novel is ironically Harold Crick himself. What Eiffel is unaware of is that the character she is planning to kill is no character at all. He’s as real as you or me and he can hear everything Kay Eiffel says, including his own demise. Unfortunately for Eiffel and her publishing company, Harold Crick isn’t ready to die.
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Yes, yes… Marty won a shiny statue. We’ve had a day to absorb that and do our little happy dance for one of Our Greatest Living Directors™. Now remains the hard work of assessing the behemoth that was the rest of the ceremony.
And, man, did it feel more like a ceremony than ever – a Catholic mass, to be specific, something I know all too well. All the requisite parts were there: the obligatory standing and sitting at designated times, the long, boring speeches, the odd (some would even say pointless) rituals, somber-ish remembrances of the dead, and the complete and utter lack of surprise. This was, in spite of featuring “the most wide-open contests in recent memory” according to the so-called experts, one of the most predictable Academy Awards in a long, long time. Apart from Eddie Murphy, all of the favorites won, and even Eddie lost to the acknowledged favorite to beat Eddie. Yawn.
What we need is drama! You’d think that professional entertainers would know a thing or two about the subject, but clearly the details escape them when it comes to their awards shows. Why not transform the Oscars into an American Idol-type show where the audience in the theater votes for the winner via buttons on their armrests? Or let the (theoretically) billion people watching vote via text message? Hell, just let the winners duke it out, and whoever makes it to the stage first gets the prize. Anything but this!
But, alas, this will never happen, because Academy producers’ sphincters are far too tight, and this is serious business, not entertainment!
Other low-lights of the evening: Read on »
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Used to be, singers only had two options when it came to fame:
Fortunately, movies like Ray and Walk the Line have opened up a whole new career phase for performers: the reverential biopic. This serves to remind audiences of why they liked the artist in the first place, selling a few million copies of the greatest hits album and even a few thousand of that awful duets album they just released.
Still, I just don’t know how well the formula is going to play out on this generation of performers. You can wring a lot of drama out of a rural youth filled with tragedy, but growing up in the suburbs and being plucked out of the Mouseketeers by some Svengali? Not so much. Look at it this way: Janis Joplin led a short, colorful life cut short by alcoholism. Joss Stone, her supposed heir, stars in Gap commercials. Sooner or later, we’re going to run out of worthy subjects for these kind of movies.
Of course, inevitably, a few similar movies make some cash (or win some awards), and the world rushes to cash in on the “trend,” leading to a series of poorly executed knock-offs, at which point the trend crawls off to a disused video store shelf to die. Right now, we’ve got biopics in the works for Keith Moon, Dusty Springfield, Janis Joplin, and even Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliot, who’s not even dead!
Is it just me, or should we nip this thing in the bud before we have to endure The Greatest Love of All: The Whitney & Bobby Story?
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I remember being really upset when Forrest Gump (a trite, manipulative film that did everything except kick a puppy to get you to cry) beat Pulp Fiction (which couldn’t have cared less if you cried or not) for the Best Picture Oscar of 1994. Who in their right mind couldn’t see that Pulp Fiction was going to be a landmark piece of film for the ages, and Forrest Gump was a special effect in search of a story? Well, duh, the Academy, that’s who.
Ever since then, I’ve vowed not to become emotionally invested in the self-congratulatory fellatio that is the Oscars. Because, as many have noted before, the Academy Awards have far more to do with politics than they do with actual artistic achievement. Not, obviously, politics in the sense that it’s usually used in the newspapers, but personal politics – the politics of being liked.
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As a minority, my review of a movie about the abolishment of slavery may be a little biased. However, the last time I saw a movie that received this much clapping was when Tinkerbell nearly died in Peter Pan.
It’s astounding how there were once people that actually needed convincing that slavery was disgraceful and inhuman. The English figured slavery was a necessity for gaining the upper hand on competing countries as they were engaged in the Revolutionary War with the Americas. William Wilberforce (Ioan Gruffudd from the Fantastic Four franchise) felt he could show them otherwise.
Nauseous at the thought of owning human beings, Wilberforce made it his personal mission to rid his homeland of it’s role in the slave trade and the sugar cane plantations in Jamaica. The film starts as an older Wilberforce is introduced, in blind date fashion, to a young woman by a close friend. As they are getting acquainted, she inquires about his past work in Parliament, specifically his failures in the abolishment of slavery. Through recounts of his passionate quest to make the world a better place as he felt his God had intended, Wilberforce is re-inspired to give his dream a final try. Read on »
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Finally, Scorsese has an Oscar. He always trotted out the old line that he wasn’t too bothered either way, but damn he looked relieved to finally get one. I actually cheered when they announced his name for Best Director, as if the Oscars were a sporting event and I was supporting Team Marty.
In fact this was my favourite Oscars in a long time. Not just the Scorsese win, or Ellen DeGeneres stand up job of hosting, or even those surprisingly good shadow puppet people. Not even because Dreamgirls didn’t win Best Song, which made me very happy for some reason.
The best thing about the 79th Oscars was seeing Francis Ford Coppola onstage, looking alive, well and not mental. I’ve really been worried about the old fella in recent years and had sort of assumed he was finished as a filmmaker, but seeing him on stage doing his Three Stooges thing with Spielberg and Lucas was very reassuring (especially the way they crowded out Lucas and his wobbly chin).
Other highlights included:
Jack Nicholson’s shaved head, and possible (probable?) on-stage drunkenness. Was Diane Keaton holding him up at the end there?
Helen Mirren’s toast to the Queen, which was oddly touching. Wonder if she was watching…
Forest Whitaker’s emotional speech. Emotional but not indulgent, plus I loved the way he strode off at the end with his statue. Well done sir.
Scorsese getting teary eyed when Thelma Schoonmaker won for Best Editing.
Ellen giving Spielberg cinematography tips.
Ellen wrongly telling everyone that Penelope Cruz was Mexican, but then having the good grace to apologise.
Clint Eastwood. The man is so confident. He completely screwed up Ennio Morricone’s honorary Oscar presentation, but then waved off the debacle with “I should have worn my glasses.”
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Rather like what Hostel seemed to be suggesting, once you leave America you’re going to be hacked apart. This is what will be happening to the upcoming Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino double feature Grindhouse. According to Variety, the film will be split into two separate, individual films in non-English speaking films. While there’s no info on which will come first, the films will be separated by a few months, and split into their individual titles, Grindhouse: Death Proof, and Grindhouse: Planet Terror. There’s also no word in terms of how the fake trailers that divide the two segments (directed by Edgar Wright, Rob Zombie, etc.) will be incorporated into the split. Personally, I wouldn’t mind seeing each of the film’s starting with a fake trailer.
The reason for the split, according to Glen Basner, president of Weinstein Co, is that foreign language countries are not familiar with the grindhouse double-bill system. Personally, that sounds like a load of crap. Foreign audiences lap up The Simpsons despite its U.S.-only references. And we’re living in a world of Wikipedia , where the comprehension of grindhouse showings are a simple click away. I believe the real reason for splitting the movies is to generate more profit in the foreign market. I suspect the Weinstein Co is in need of the enormous hit that Grindhouse is expected to be, and there’s no point giving any culture-friendly bull. That said, the benefit is that nations screening the separate movies will be treated to the extra footage shot to make both films feature-length.
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After numerous roles playing a foul mouthed, womanizing alcoholic (see: Bad Santa and Bad News Bears), Billy Bob Thornton fights the dreaded curse of typecasting with a film all about loving your family and chasing your dreams. An enjoyable version of a two-hour Hallmark card.
We’ve all been told as a child that we can grow up and be whoever we want to be. Whether it be President of the United States (or whatever country you live in), a fireman, a baseball player, or an astronaut. Charles Farmer (Thornton) was told the same so he chose to be an astronaut.
He studied hard, he entered all the school science fairs, he graduated from college, and he finally got into NASA. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always go according to plan. A family emergency forced Farmer (note the ironic surname) to withdraw from NASA’s space program and head back to the farm before he was able to make that first trip off the planet.
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