If you're already following 5,000 to 10,000 people, I'm guessing you're probably not following me because you think I'm swell. 7 hours ago
@BrianFarrey Cleaning things? Not sure what sort of fancy dentist you go to... 8 hours ago
Whenever I have the 1st dentist appointment of the day, my dentist is late. I suspect she's held up by back-alley dice games and stabbings. 8 hours ago
@KDuBayGillis Thanks Kelly! Though it's marketed that way, I wouldn't call my book dystopian. Speculative? Science-Fantasy? Magical-Realism? 10 hours ago
I have taken a vow of silence. A week back, I received a ticket to attend an advance screening of a big Hollywood film that premieres later this summer. I went to the film and signed some piece of paper saying I wouldn’t release information about it and I plan to hold true to that pledge. I know first hand how advance reviews can occasionally sour enthusiasm. All I will say is that during the screening, people cheered and clapped and I was absolutely flumoxed. It wasn’t the worst film I’d ever seen, but it was, to put it lightly, rather awful. And yet clapping. Cheering even. For one liners and kisses and such.
I’m going to attribute it to peoples’ excitement at being the first to see something. They were so invested in believing that they saw the next colossal hit, that they whooped and whistled their doubts away and went home and updated their Facebook profiles with something along the lines of “Guess who went to a big Hollywood premiere? I probably won’t respond to any messages for a while, cause I’m guessing I’ll be grabbing cocktails with Matthew Lillard and Eddie Furlong later. So suck it, zeroes.” Now consider this. No one was cheering when I went to see Avatar, and that movie’s box office dwarfs the GDP of many a nation. The Navi need not get their braids in a twist. I doubt the film I just saw will challenge their record.
Then again, maybe I’ve completely lost touch with the public. Maybe it will be the hit the world’s been waiting for. I’ve been wrong before. There are a few things I was sure would bomb, but went on to be wild successes:
Middlesex by Jeffrey Euginedes – I read this book months before it was released and while I could appreciate the scope, I was sure it would derided for being a blatant rip-off of Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children. Homage is one thing, but I felt Euginedes took the ideas, the form, even certain plot points of Rushdie and transplanted them with far less elegance and wonder to Greeks in the upper Midwest. I didn’t think Euginedes would be run out town with pitchforks, but I thought more than a few critics would wag a finger at him. But no. Oprah pick. Pulitzer winner. Modern classic. And no Greek equivalent of a fatwa to deal with. Go figure.
The Big Bang Theory - Not the actual theory, which I knew the kids would love. I’m talking about the television show. I think I watched the first episode or two of this sitcom and wrote it off as formulaic tripe. Virgin nerds fumble around a pretty lady while trading Star Wars metaphors. Insert laughter. I figured it would last a couple seasons with a “well, nothing else is on,” viewership, but it has become a verified hit. And critics dig it. I’ve poked my head back in to see if it’s changed. It hasn’t.
Communism – My buddy Karl assured me he was onto something. I thought it was some hippie BS. “Go back to the drum circle, Karl. Go date a girl who wears skirts and jeans at the same time, Karl.” But one toppled tsar, a shining path, and an arms race later, and it’s still kicking around. Even in our White House, at least according to my most trusted news source: Victoria Jackson.
I know someone who had dinner with Andre. A friend of mine, through some art world connections, found himself across the table from the man, chatting between mouthfuls of pasta or sushi or some such. My apologies if this bombshell has caused you to drop your mug of coffee or to fall down a well, IPhone in hand, mouth agape. It is shocking, but I assure you it’s true.
If you aren’t shocked, it’s only because you’re thinking, “Andre? Andre Agassi?” Heavens no. This wasn’t some binge of crystal meth and Oedipal rants. “Andre the Giant, then?” Sadly, that glandular wonder is dead, and even if he was alive, I suspect a dinner with Andre the Giant would involve massive turkey legs and troughs of gravy as opposed to the stimulating discussions for which the Andre I refer to is famous. “And which Andre, pray tell, is that?”
In the 1980s, if you wanted to make a joke about intellectualism, Louis Malle’s My Dinner with Andre was always a good place to start. It was a film featuring Wallace Shawn, most famous to the masses for his “inconceivable” role in The Princess Bride and now for his joyously goofy part on Gossip Girl. In the film, Wallace (or Wally, as he’s known to pals) eats dinner with theatre stalwart Andre Gregory. They talk about art retreats and existentialism and all things well-heeled and white. And that’s it. Roll credits.
As much as people were baffled that this could be a movie, there were critics such as Roger Ebert, and plenty of turtle-necked philosophy majors, who ate the junk up. I saw it when I was green and impressionable and while I can say it wasn’t an entire bore, I definitely didn’t buy into it. Just like I didn’t buy into Waking Life or I Heart Huckabees or similar exercises in navel-gazing cinematic blather. That said, should I ever be invited to a dinner with Andre Gregory, I would be honored and humbled. Because it is the equivalent of winning the culinary/conversation lottery.
Really, it is. Think about it.
Let’s say Andre eats dinner every day, a safe assumption. Let’s also say he eats at home most often, but regularly goes out with his wife or friends, and occasionally dines at art openings and parties and business functions. From this, we can make a generous guess and assume that, on average, Andre eats dinner with a person he has never met once every five days. Now you can’t count any person who happens to be in the room while he cuts a t-bone. Having a conversation with Andre is essential to having dinner with him. So all things told, for each year of his life, Andre has had about 73 new dining companions. It’s been almost 30 years since the film. In that time, it multiplies to 2,190 folks.
Now let’s round the number to 2,000 for the sake of calculations and Andre’s expanding ego. There are approximately 6 billion people in the world. 6 billion divided by 2,000 equals 3 million. So one out of every 3 million people can at one point in his or her life brag, “Guess what I did last night, dude? I had dinner with friggin’ Andre?” Mugs of coffee are dropped. Wells are fed with the awestruck.
For perspective, consider this:
You’re 3 times more likely to have won an Olympic Gold Medal in the last 30 years (about one in a million)
If you’re a woman,you’re 12 times more likely to have gotten sweet with Warren Beatty (one in 250,000)
And watch the skies! Cause you’re about 15 times more likely to die from an asteroid impact (one in 200,000)
Was my friend lucky? As you can see, he was, and his luck didn’t stop there. After his dinner with Andre, they moved on to a bar to grab some drinks. And what did Andre propose? “I should call my friend to join us,” he said. “You would really like Wally.” Inconceivable.
A lot of people pity Zac Efron. They assume his mother must have smoked during pregnancy, maybe even taken a headlong dive into a vat of DDT. Because the man is a hideous spectacle. Disney has foisted him upon us as an example of equal opportunity run amuck and what saddens people most is that soon, someone will have to explain to Efron that his career is essentially a cruel joke played one of Earth’s most deformed human beings. The only thing that might serve to comfort him is the knowledge that there are at least a few other creatures in the world that are uglier than him. Unbelievable, but true, and some of these beasts have even starred in movies!
WARTHOG
Pumbaa, the singing warthog from The Lion King, has proven that a furry hunk of ham is a bigger box-office draw than Efron, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the species is more attractive. It’s difficult, but pull your gaze back from those bedroom eyes and you’ll notice something a little unconventional about the warthog. Tusks. Last time I checked, Efron didn’t have tusks. While tusks can be extremely useful for opening bottles of wine, they don’t do much in the heartthrob department. And you can’t exactly hakuna matata your way out of any manslaughter raps that result from the combination of overly enthusiastic necking and razor sharp cheek appendages.
BATHYNOMUS GIGANTEUS
Not many people know about this isopod, because it lives on the floor of the ocean. I’m sure that Efron has encountered his share of bottom-feeders in the music industry, but what makes the bathynomus unique is its slavish devotion to sunglasses. Yeah, shades are rock-and-roll, but even Corey Hart and the guys from Timbuk3 set them on the nightstand when they hit the hay. This crustacean, he has them fused to his skull, wears them 24-7, which means he obviously has something to hide. My guess? Pink-eye. Good thing Efron has access to antibiotics.
BLIND MOLE-RAT
In defense of the blind-mole rat, it has no way of knowing how ugly it is. Even if it miraculously gained the ability to see, it lives in complete darkness, and couldn’t possibly afford a decent mirror. Beauty pageants don’t make exceptions for poor girls who live in dimly lit homes, and I won’t make exceptions here. Some orthodonture and a trip to St. Croix might change my opinion, but for now, I’m saying Zac Efron looks better than a blind mole-rat.
THE KRAKEN
Not the one from the new Clash of the Titans. That Kraken is a smoldering bad boy who may not win the battle of strength with Sam Worthington, but certainly wins the battle of snarling sexiness. I’m talking about Harry Hamlin’s nemesis in the 1981 affair. It’s not that he’s awful looking. He has a gilled sophistication and a chest you could do skateboard tricks on. It’s his herky-jerky movements that put him a rung below Efron. Blame animation if you will, but I have my suspicions that Efron might just be a clever bit of computer graphics. At least he doesn’t act like he’s constantly suffering from delerium tremens.
STEVE BUSCEMI
I know what you’re thinking. Trees Lounge Steve Buscemi? Airheads Steve Buscemi? But he was so hot in the Lord of the Rings! Everyone’s entitled to an opinion and Buscemi may seem to some a modern day Peter Lorre, and as every fan of rap knows, Ladies Love Peter Lorre. But let’s be honest. Zac Efron beat him out for the lead role in High School Musical. That counts for something. If only barely.
Bad news came via a friend today. Michael Bay is planning a remake of Rosemary’s Baby. Yes, I know, the director of the original was Roman Polanski and Roman is a grade-A pervert, not to mention a criminal one, and for that he can’t be excused. But friends, that movie is brilliant in so many ways, I can’t even begin to describe them.
Now I could give a hoot about Bay sullying the good name of some cleverly hinged toys. Really, what were folks expecting from Transformers? Orson Welles? But for Bay to drown out the quiet legacy of Rosemary’s Baby with his orgy of smash cuts and tilted cameras and strike-a-match-on-it cleavage, well, that’s another thing entirely. The original is a study in atmosphere and tension, a metaphor for being trapped in a womb. It’s provocative and haunting and everything a thriller should be. Most of all, it’s subtle. Just check out the discussion of it in the 1992 documentary Visions of Light to see how Polanski’s subtle choices produced profound effects in the audience. Then check this out:
That’s right. Subtle don’t cut it anymore. A professor friend of mine recently screened The Shining for one of his classes and the kids practically fell asleep. Not enough guts. Not enough saws. As a youth, I enjoyed splatter flicks as much as anyone, but I hardly needed every scene to include a rusty auger bit and a head in a vice grip. I’ll bet dollars to donuts that Michael Bay will deliver a slam-bam gore-fest of a Rosemary’s Baby with an over-the-hill actress (you know, like Amanda Peet) stepping in for Ruth Gordon and an ingenue such as Amanda Seyfried sighing and heaving her way into Mia Farrow’s maternity dress. There will be a car chase on the way to the OB/GYN’s office. The devil will sport flaming wings and will vomit a fireball into the Chrysler Building. A black guy will say “Damn Rosemary, baby-makin’ is makin’ you hot!” 200 million dollars will be spent.
It’s sad, but I don’t have the clout to fight Bay on this. The remake is on its way to production, and I can only hope the original film will always be remembered. I will, however, throw down if he thinks of touching one of my lesser-known favorites. Consider yourself warned, Mr. Bay. Don’t EVER remake Paris, Texas:
Anyone who’s seen Paris, Texas should get a chuckle out of this notion. It is, in my mind, one of the greatest slow-burn films of all time, a languidly paced character study that enters softly and finishes on such a breathtaking note that I have spent my entire writing life trying to figure out how Wim Wenders, Sam Shepard, Harry Dean Stanton and Natasha Kinski pulled it off. The penultimate scene is perfection. Every time I watch it, I marvel at the lighting, the reflections, the editing, at how the crafts of storytelling and acting fold in on each other. I won’t say anything else about the scene or provide a link to it, but anyone who loves this film knows which one it is.
So while Michael Bay’s Paris, Texas seems unlikely, in a certain way, he’s already come close. Start typing up a petition and I implore all fans of Paris, Texas to watch this NSFW clip from Bad Boys 2. Tell me it’s not Bay’s subconscious nod to Wenders and Shepard. He probably saw the original film during his student days at Wesleyan. While absorbing that amazing exchange between Stanton and Kinski, he probably said to himself “this is great and all, but instead of a two-way mirror, they should have filled the room with a crapload of flat-screen TVs. And it could have used a few more erection jokes.”
I have taken a vow of silence. A week back, I received a ticket to attend an advance screening of a big Hollywood film that premieres later this summer. I went to the film and signed some piece of paper saying I wouldn’t release information about it and I plan to hold true to that pledge. I know first hand how advance reviews can occasionally sour enthusiasm. All I will say is that during the screening, people cheered and clapped and I was absolutely flumoxed. It wasn’t the worst film I’d ever seen, but it was, to put it lightly, rather awful. And yet clapping. Cheering even. For one liners and kisses and such.
