A Better Life

If ever there was a performance deserving of accolades plugged into a movie that in spite of its good intentions doesn't quite rise to the level for which it yearns, it's Oscar nominee Demián Bichir's expressive and humane work in Chris Weitz's drama "A Better Life." Bichir is Carlos, an illegal alien up from south of the border, uneducated, determined to provide for his young son Luis (José Julián) and who in the very first moments of the movie we realize sleeps beneath a thin blanket on the living room sofa all so Luis can have the tiny home's lone bedroom. This is characterization to the highest degree.

He works as a gardener's assistant, landscaping expansive and scenic California yards. His boss Blasco (Joaquín Cosio) explains he plans to sell his truck and return home to Mexico, thus he offers to sell the vehicle to Carlos as an opportunity to continue the business and perhaps make an even - ah? - better life for himself. After acquiring the necessary money from his kindly sister (Dolores Heredia) he does indeed purchase the truck and, in turn, all the tools and all the landscaping jobs.

The film is at its best in these early scenes, melding a relaxed pace with a distinct tension as we see Carlos go about his endless daily routine with an amazing and unforced dignity even as he knows at any second the little that he has could all so easily slip away. And that's why he is at first hesitant to buy the truck. No license, no papers, what if something happens? Of course, it's a chance that must be taken, and the warm pride that encapsulates his face when he pulls up at his son's school with a gift is a moment of subdued marvelousness. Alas, the truck is not merely a symbol of "the American dream", it is also a plot device and, thus, within that very first day of purchase, as drama dictates, it is stolen.

There is quite a bit of Italian neo-realism at work here with less-than-subtle nods to the famed "Bicyle Thief", a father and son on a crusade to track down that which rightfully belongs to them, traversing their way from the Latino neighborhoods they inhabit to the frightful den of, yes, South Central and back again. Credit must go to screenwriter Eric Eason for refusing to use this set-up as an opportunity to preach politically, eschewing long-winded diatribes on America's immigration policy and, even more thankfully, not taking the obvious route for which he seems to be angling throughout in having young Luis cave in to the frightful gang culture that forever surrounds him.

By not scaling these heights "A Better Life" never gets out of control, but even so there still must be scenes of Carlos and Luis scaling barbed-wire fences, swelling music to occasionally choose our emotions for us and Candy Cane lines such as: "Good for you." "No, good for us." (Head in hands.) But despite those rigid mechanics, Bichir invests you so much in his understandable desperation that he truly transforms into one of those cinematic characters for whom, as they say, you root. He's not asking anyone to root for him, mind you, and his rock solid principles are not something gifted to him from a noble mountain top, they are a teaching tool for his son.

While the end will likely leave a certain sort of viewer up in arms and calling for heads, he/she will likely miss how the film has built to it by character and, thereby, eclipsing all - ah? - pesky borders and recalling the film's opening and how Carlos gave Luis their home's lone room. The child comes first. It brings to mind a certain word...universal.

The Rooney Mara Bandwagon: Proud & Headin' Home

You might have heard Meryl Streep won a Lifetime Achievement Award...er, Best Actress Oscar at Sunday's Academy Awards. You might have heard Meryl Streep instantly, cleverly cut off the inevitable Twitter-y backlash at the pass in her speech. (Hey, I got no problem with Meryl. If I'd had my druthers - which I never do - she would have won an Oscar back in '06 for "A Prairie Home Companion." Alas.) You might have heard some Viola Davis supporters were shocked, chagrined and rather confused that their gal lost. You might have even forgotten that Michelle Williams, Glenn Close and one Rooney Mara were nominated too! Were they really even 'nominated' or were they just for show? Like the three people you put in a charity 100 Meter Dash opposite Usain Bolt to get their clocks cleaned? Whatever.

The Rooney Mara Bandwagon holds its heads above the fray.

The Rooney Mara Bandwagon knows she wasn't robbed because The Rooney Mara Bandwagon knows she didn't need to be validated.

Let the Hollywood glitterati bicker. Let the gossip columnists write their columns with their gossip. Let the Streep-sters and the Viola-ites hurl dirt clods.

The chairperson of The Rooney Mara Bandwagon will never forget how one Friday he went and saw "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" entirely out of obligation, because he felt like everyone was talking about it (whether for good or bad) and he didn't want to be left out of the loop, and suddenly found himself being transported to that spellbinding place only the movies can take you entirely on account of a performance.

Oscars can be stolen or (in a little known rule) taken back by the Academy.

The performance? That lives forever.

Logging The 84th Academy Awards

There has been talk of just how much relevance the almighty Oscars have or have not lost over the years and how much the excruciating foregoneness of this year's race has caused the whole ordeal to seem so meaningless. Maybe this is true, maybe it isn't, maybe it's a little of both, I don't know. What I do know is that I gave myself the perfect Oscar Sunday Afternoon present in the form of a second theatrical viewing of "The Descendants" and that my 2:00 showing was packed. Absolutely packed. And I dare say the majority of people there with me had not already seen it once and that scenes just like this were taking place all over the country, and if this was specifically on account of its Oscar nominations - and that's very likely - then Go, Oscars, Go!!! They got people out to see a film I do/will relentlessly champion. Good enough for me.

The crucial part of the traditional Oscar Night Entire Bottle Of Wine will be played this year by a 2009 Bridlewood Pinot Noir, gifted to me by my Dad at Christmas as payment for our bet on who would win last year's Nebraska/Iowa football game. (Speaking of which, Iowa friends, you did remember that Nebraska won 20 -7, right? Just making sure.)

Greatest.Meal.Ever.

I am currently sipping on my first glass while having a dinner of a Potbelly's sandwich and oatmeal chocolate chip cookie (and I'm sure Miles Raymond would want to hit golf balls at me for pairing a Pinot with a Wreck) while watching Seth Rogen's opening monologue at the Independent Spirit Awards on DVR (which I recorded for a very specific reason to revealed in just a bit). His jokes are mostly amusing and some have honest to goodness bite - "You say a few hateful things, they don't allow you within a hundred feet of the Oscars. You could literally beat the shit out of a nominee, they invite you to perform twice at the Grammys." Think Billy Crystal'll be that edgy? Roll the tape!

7:30 - Billy Crystal. Movie Montage. It's as comforting as going on vacation to some place you've never been and having a Big Mac and fries at McDonald's.

7:33 - Justin Bieber is there for the 18-24 dynamic? Really? 24 year olds like Justin Bieber? I find this information faulty.

7:39 - Brad Pitt forces a smile at Billy Crystal's "Moneyball" joke. Angelina smiles too, but it's not forced. It's real. And it says: "Laaaaaaaaaaaame." I'd like to imagine that if some guy ever gave Angelina a rhetorical "good morning" she'd punch him right in the face.

7:42 - Tom Hanks just paid tribute to seat-filler. I think. Or was that Mickey Rooney? Is Mickey Rooney getting one of those honorary Oscars they give out three months earlier at an event that's not televised forcing the Academy Awards telecast to give them 7 seconds of screen time in a broom closet in the basement?

7:43 - "Hugo" wins Best Cinematography and Best Art Direction. Thus, the classic The-Movie-That-Doesn't-Win-Best-Picture-Gets-All-The-'Little'-Awards faithfully emerges.

7:47 - Was that the Oscar House Band? Is there an Oscar House Band? Is that an actual thing? Could Arcade Fire be the Oscar House Band next year? Please?

Next year's Oscar House Band?

7:54 - J.Lo's area situated directly between her neck and waistline has made its first appearance of the night.

7:55 - Costume Design goes to "The Artist"! Yes! I'm 0-3 (read: 3-0) on my Totally Unreasonable, Completely Legitimate Oscar Predictions!

8:06 - Best Foreign Film. "A Separation." Even The Hollywood Idiot Factor couldn't prevent that one.

8:12 - Best Supporting Actress. And now it's time to go to the DVR which I have cued up for the bestowing of the Best Supporting Female at the Independent Spirit Awards yesterday so that I can watch Shailene Woodley win. (I will regret this if Melissa McCarthy for "Bridesmaids" somehow upsets Octavia Spencer for "The Help." Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!) Shailene's not even wearing a dress. Respect. And her speech is quick and gracious with just the right degree of sincere. Good.For.Her.

My favorite 'Oscar' moment.

8:22 - Tina Fey up to present with some dude. Okay, seriously, how long before Tina Fey hosts this whole Academy thing? It's gonna happen, right?

8:25 - First Rooney Mara sighting! Each member of The Rooney Mara Bandwagon in the CVS Parking Lot twelve blocks away just shotgunned an Oppigårds Amarillo!

8:25 - Watching the two editors flee the stage - "Let's get out of here" - was poetry to an introvert. I hope they just run right past the press waiting to ask questions and straight to the bar for some champagne.

8:26 - "Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" for Best Editing and "Hugo" for Best Sound Editing and Sound Mixing. I have one right so far. One! I'm so proud! Try and do worse than me!

8:35 - Cirque del Soleil? This is so not my glass of sangria. Time to cue up Bruce Springsteen performing "We Take Care Of Our Own" at the Grammys on my DVR. And since we're on the subject, do you what my favorite part of that performance is? That two seconds right at the start when the camera catches Lady Gaga - despite wearing a body-length fishnet - getting her groove on. (Imagine Nick making 'Devil Horns.')

8:41 - Billy Crystal makes an 'old guy' joke at Christopher Plummer's expense. Odds in Vegas have immediately gone off at 9-1 that Plummer shivs him at the Vanity Fair Party.

8:42 - Robert Downey Jr., up to present by pretending to film a documentary called "The Presenter" ("what I'm doing is called bleeding edge"), might have just made Gwyneth Paltrow sort of likable. If so, I think he has more talent than all five Best Actor nominees combined.

8:46 - Chris Rock's hair makes him look kind of handsome. Is that too much? Yes? No? (Insert obligatory Malin Akerman reference here to even things out.)

8:54 - Emma Stone might be a semi-comedic genius. She and Downey Jr. tie for Presenter of the Night.

8:59 - Christopher Plummer. Best Supporting Actor for "Beginners." Rightfully. Respectfully. Great speech. That speech is why I still love the Oscars.

9:15 - "The Artist" for Best Score. I think I got that one right. Didn't I? I have no idea. More wine, did you say? Don't mind if I do. Stay with me, readers.

9:18 - Instead of paying any attention to Best Original Song (read: Worst Category Of The Night) let's all watch this instead. After all, they're going to be the Oscar House Band next year.

9:26 - Seriously? They have to trot Angelina up there in that dress showing that leg that could kill a man to introduce the screenwriting awards? As if writers already don't have anyone paying them any attention. Cut to people across America tomorrow morning. "Wait, they gave out writing awards? I thought those were faked to give the stage to Angelina's leg."

9:28 - "The Descendants." Best Adapted Screenplay. In yo face, hatas.

You probably didn't notice these three win for Best Adapted Screenplay because you were distracted by Ms. Jolie's leg.

9:30 - The Woodman wins Best Original Screenplay for "Midnight in Paris." He's not there, of course, and I'm hoping and praying Angelina then says: "Woody Allen couldn't be here tonight so guess what, old man? I'm givin' this statue to Asghar Farhadi! Viva la 'A Separation!'"

9:42 - "The Shore" wins Best Live Action Short. It's good and all but, seriously, if you have a love of sports and tire of people telling you sports aren't important, check out "Pentecost" if you have a chance. Great piece of work.

9:44 - Jackie Q. ... er, I mean, Rose Byrne just chugged vodka. That is so hot.

9:50 - Best Speech Of The Night: William Joyce & Brandon Oldenburg for "The Fantastic Flying Books Of Mr. Morris Lessmore." for Best Animated Short. "We're just two swamp rats from Louisiana and this is incredibly grand." Fast, uber-passionate, and they both spoke without stepping on each other's toes. Those two made my night.

9:55 - Michel Hazanavicius. Best Director for "The Artist." Wouldn't you like to imagine a Best Director Club in, say, Santa Monica (envision the smoking room on the Titanic) and Kevin Costner comes in and he looks longingly toward the table with Marty and Steven and Clint and they all stretch out so there's no room for Kevin to sit down and so Kevin shrugs sadly and trudges over to the table with Tom Hooper and Michel Hazanavicius.

10:12 - Jonah Hill: "You're fighting with every ounce you have to make sure that you love it forever. And when it doesn't turn out that way, it's painful. And that's why people are weird who make movies. It's because they care more about their film than themselves."

10:13 - Nina Sayers in the hiz-house!!!

10:18 - Jean Dujardin. Best Actor for "The Artist." Didn't you worry there for a second he was about to go Benigni all over everybody's asses? Don't lie.

 10:26 - Cinema Romantico's Best Dress Of The Night Goes To Rooney Mara. Why? Because. That's why. ..... Oh, right. What's her name.....uh, Meryl-something. She won Best Actress. But it totally wasn't a 'Lifetime Achievement Award' in the guise of Best Actress. Okay? So stop telling people that is. Because it isn't.

Cinema Romantico's Best Dress Of The Night goes to Rooney Mara because this blog doesn't hide its biases.

10:35 - Best Picture goes to "The Artist." Did you notice the way Harvey Weinstein and his cocksure grin high-fived the film's producer? As if to say, "don't forget, you owe me."

10:36 - And so next year's Oscar race begins. (The aforementioned Mr. Weinstein will be skipping sleep to go straight from Elton John's party to pre-production on Meryl Streep's Mamie Eisenhower biopic which he hopes to have ready for release by Christmas.) Early Prediction: Liam Neeson is wrongly nominated in the Supporting category for "Battleship" even though everyone knows he totally carried that movie.

The Rooney Mara Bandwagon: Destination Hollywood!!!

The Rooney Mara Bandwagon rolls on.

The Rooney Mara Bandwagon is set to arrive at the Red Carpet 'round about 2 PM PST this afternoon. Well, not at the Red Carpet. We haven't received clearance to be at the Red Carpet. In fact, we've been ordered to stay away from the Red Carpet. Apparently they were frightened some members of The Rooney Mara Bandwagon might try to paint the Red Carpet black, decorate the giant Oscar statues with nose rings and parade to and fro with picket signs reading: They Say We're Insane. Don't Worry. You Can Nod. We Are Insane. (Only two of those were true!) So be it. We don't want to be near your exclusive, puffed-up, wrong-headed gala anyhow! We plan on staking out an empty parking lot, drinking black-dyed beer and repeatedly hacking Tom Sherak's email.

This is an image of an Academy Member who wrote to tell us he would not be voting for Rooney Mara.

It should also be mentioned I recently received a letter from an Academy voter explaining he refused to cast his Best Actress vote for Ms. Mara because - and I quote - "She is a fanboy's fantasy. A computer hacking Coca-Cola addict who can also kick ass real good and ride a motorcyle. I'm voting for Meryl Streep. Even though I didn't actually see 'The Iron Lady.' But don't tell anyone that."

Is she a fanboy's fantasy? Probably. Maybe even positively. But hey, Lisbeth Salander is not my fantasy (my fantasy is Malin Akerman in fashionable boots dancing badly to Yelle at Coachella - I'm just a hipster doofus, not a hipster fanboy) and I didn't form The Rooney Mara Bandwagon because she's like a ninja that attended the Ramona Flowers School. I formed The Bandwagon because of the way Rooney Mara...

1. Graphically wipes her nose on her sleeve on the elevator as she disembarks to go spew gathered information to her employers. This half-second sets the table for her character better than any 2,200 sentences Stieg Larsson could have written. It was the single finest bit of actorly characterization in a movie in 2011.

2. Displays hilariously utter confusion (and minor anger) at the extroverted audacity of Mikael to barge into her apartment and try to - gasp! - decently offer her coffee and a muffin.

3. Releases that shriek in the subway after she's beaten up the moron who has thieved her laptop. Yes, she overtly declares herself as "insane" because the scripted dialogue tells her to but the terrifying release contained in this shriek tells us the same thing.

4. Reacts when the sadistic lawyer of her estate gets up from his chair and comes around to the front of his desk. What follows is, as we know, several shades of pale beyond graphic and yet this reaction, this little recoil that says "Please be wary of my personal space" is more graphic than any of that souped-up awfulness to follow.

5. The detached way she tosses the gift-wrapped jacket for her new "friend" in the trash can when she sees her new "friend" with his lady friend. As if she was expecting this to happen all along.

And thinking about that last one makes me realize Lisbeth Salander wouldn't want that piddly dink Academy Award anyway. If she won, she'd probably just toss it in the trash and ride off into the dark of the moon, The Pride Of The Introverts. And that's how The Rooney Mara Bandwagon would want it. We're the rare fanbase that knows it would be more in character for her not to win and for her not to give a big speech. All we really want is during Billy Crystal's flop sweat drenched opening monologue for her to stand up, declare "You really need to learn to stop talking" and then walk out.

That's our gal.

Shailene!

Shailene Woodley, the giver of Cinema Romantico's Favorite Performance Of 2011 1(A) as Alex King in "The Descendants", earned an Independent Spirit Award this afternoon at the most radical tent on the California coastline for Best Supporting Female. Oscar snub? Floscar phlub. Your loss, Academy.

Can I get a whoop WHOOP???!!!

The Original Middle Finger

"Adele’s finger wasn’t a random moment of naughty provocation, calculated to get attention. It was, as a good flip-off should be, a wordless expression of genuine irritation, a thoroughly rock and roll gesture that predates rock and roll itself. Amazingly, one finger can still stun the world. And sometimes, the suits need to be reminded of that." - Mary Elizabeth Williams, Salon

Adele's finger may have been thoroughly rock and roll but let us please not forget that in the long history of rock and roll-esque demonstrations of Giving The Bird, there is only one Elvis Presley. It may not have been "first" but it was FIRST and, of course, as we all know, it happened on April 14, 1912.

Rose Dewitt Bukater. O.M.F.

Motifs in Cinema 2011: Loneliness & Misanthropy

Perhaps because it’s one of the youngest artistic forms, cinema is often assessed in a much different manner than literature, or the visual arts. We discuss it in terms of genre, not in terms of thematic offering. Comparing, for example,Corpse Bride and Up because they’re both animated leads to some dubious discussion especially when – like any art form – thematic elements examined in cinema and the way different filmmaker address them make for some stimulating discussion. Motifs in Cinema is a discourse, across eleven film blogs, assessing the way in which various thematic elements have been used in the 2011 cinematic landscape. How does a common theme vary in use from a comedy to a drama? Are filmmakers working from a similar canvas when they assess the issue of the artist or the family dynamic? Like everything else, a film begins with an idea - Motifs in Cinema assesses how the use of a single idea changes when utilised by varying artists. - Andrew K., Encore Entertainment, Motifs in Cinema 2011 Blogathon Host

Loneliness & Misanthropy

Certain events that transpired recently, events involving a terribly unfortunate if terribly inevitable end of a fairly famous diva with a once-upon-a-time full throttle voice, made me think of the infinite "Melancholia" of Kirsten Dunst's Justine in Lars von Trier's latest bit of painterly nihilism. Not the operatic opening or the cataclysmic closing - no, I'm talking about the moment during the reception of the "happiest" night of Justine's life when she flees to be all on her lonesome by......soaking in the tub. One of the film's many iconic prelude stills is an ode to the painting of Shakespeare's Ophelia drowning, but this shot of her wasting soaking away on her own wedding night evokes that same sensation much less sensationally. But what pushed her away from the cake and champagne to this lukewarm water? Was it the idiocy of those surrounding her? The Sister who seems more insistent than even the Bride on making this night PERFECT? The Boss who uses the platform of matrimony as a harsh training ground to better her job skills? The scatterbrained Father? The rancorous Mother? The new Husband and his asinine apple orchard dreams? Or was it Justine's clinical and massive depression that skewered this whole ceremony to look like the prelude to the end of the world?  In other words, is it the world itself that pushes her to the point of unrelenting loneliness and misery in the second act? Or does she instigate this tailspin herself? Or is it both? Does the world so piss her off that she wills this other rogue world to life to cure her of her ails? And does she find a modicum of peace in that "magic cave" made of sticks because of the presence of her Sister and Nephew? Or has she already found it all on her own?

Not long after Oliver (Ewan McGregor) in "Beginners" has Met very, very Cute with Anna (Melanie Laurent), the kind-hearted if sad-eyed Arthur the Dog advises his new owner: "...the darkness is about to drown us unless something drastic happens right now." This might have been 2011's cinematic mantra. He is afraid the darkness is going to drown them both on account of Oliver's pop having just passed away from cancer. His mom is deceased too, and he's the kind of guy who even when both his parents were still around would be closed off and shut down and a cosmopolitan hermit, pushing away anyone who dared to try and enter his insulated world. His father, in the film’s intermittent flashback structure, tells him a parable about a giraffe and lion – “You've always dreamed of someday getting a lion. And you wait and you wait and the lion doesn't come. Then along comes a giraffe. You can be alone, or you can be with the giraffe.” Oliver explains he’d wait for the lion. This is meant, of course, to illustrate Oliver's philosophy when it comes to women - as in, he's not settling. Of course, when it comes to isolationists and introverts and misanthropes it's not necessarily that they (we?) are waiting for the lion, it's that the lion is a fine excuse to avoid having to deal with the giraffe because the giraffe is not to their (our?) tastes and/or the thought of the giraffe scares us out of our wits. (Or maybe it's that they - we? - just don't want the giraffe because we find giraffes ungainly and useless. Okay?! IS THAT SO WRONG?! LEAVE US ALONE, YOU DICTATORS! STOP PRESSURING US!)

Consider Mavis Gary, the Charlize Theron-played protagonist of "Young Adult" taking the matters of acute social withdrawal to new heights by simply making her high school ex (Patrick Wilson) who is now married with an infant daughter her lion in flannel shirts. Is the film as much writer Diablo Cody's reaction to her sudden and intense fame in the wake of her Oscar victory as it is, as has been noted and/or alluded to, a working out of her possible failure to grow up? As Cody herself said, "There’s probably no experience more alienating than fame." And thus she has her protagonist make her one shining beacon unattainable, thereby essentially damning herself to isolation. Of course, there can also be perverted pleasure in isolation, wrapping yourself up in a KFC and Kardashian cocoon.

A "Me Party" one might say, which is what Mary (Amy Adams) pledges as her personal anthem midway through when, sure enough, her Muppet-crazed ten year boyfriend Gary (Jason Segel) has gone and forgotten their anniversary dinner. Oh, this tale of the redemption of Jim Henson's much beloved age-old characters was ceaselessly championed for its optimism and gladness in the face of this present day misanthropic world but, hey, they all had to pull themselves up and out of some mighty epic depths. Heck, it's all right there in the supposedly joy-infused opening number when Gary and his Muppet brother Walter keep telling us over and over that life's a happy song when you've got someone by your side to sing along. But then midway through here comes Mary sounding awfully disconsolate as she sings "Everything's great, everything's grand, except Gary's always off with his friend." So, uh, everything's not great and everything's not grand. Right? Especially when she imagines him riding up on a steed to propose to her. Good grief. Once you start imagining your ten year boyfriend finally climbing off the easy chair and getting down on one knee, well, you know something's rotten in Smalltown. Is Mary too reliant on the relationship? Gary and Walter are certainly portrayed as being over-reliant on their relationship and only when they break apart, so to speak, does the story's arc reach its conclusion. Yes, Gary proposes to Mary, as he must, but despite its kid-friendly stylings "The Muppets", believe it or not, is emblematic over and over of how isolated a person can feel even when he or she is surrounded. 

Take Curtis, Samantha and Hannah, the father, mother and daughter of Jeff Nichols' truly for-our-times "Take Shelter" are in names only a typical small town Ohio family. In fact, Hannah is deaf and Curtis is suffering from disturbing and sometimes apocalyptic visions, which may or may not be the same product of his own mother's schizophrenia, and that ultimately threaten his steady paycheck and, in turn, his family's future, financial and emotional. And as his existence slowly unravels in the most ordinarily spectacular way imaginable, he and his wife and daughter find themselves alienated from the community, crystallized in an absurdly terrifying rant Curtis unleashes at a communal potluck. This leads to one of the strangest and most strangely affecting single shots of the year, a family gathered together in a bomb shelter, united by their gas masks. They may be alone, the darkness may be about to drown them, but at least they are together.

Then again, if there's a flip side to that coin (and there always is), it's my homegirl Alex King in "The Descendants." Her mom's in a coma, her dad's distant, her little sister can't always think quite right for herself, and, yes, I suppose she asks that kindly knucklehead Syd to tag along for their familial (mis)adventures. But she also knows, like Dunst's Justine, in one particular scene involving one particularly lovely, harpoon-to-the-heart shot also cast in the water, that sometimes - no matter what anyone says - it's just better to be alone.

Oscar Best Score/Song Re-Imagined Pt. 5: And The Winner Is...

Brandon (Michael Fassbender) and his Stinson-y boss go to this posh nightclub to hear Brandon's little sis Sissy (Carey Mulligan) belt out a tune. The tune is "New York, New York" and rather than belt it out she delivers a quivering, reluctant version of it. And here's the thing - director Steve McQueen and his editor Joe Walker decide to present the whole song to us. This has been much commented on and much disliked - the fact the film presents the whole song. And this is precisely why I like it.

This scene is the movie. "Shame" is a film of brutally long takes that affords the audience and the characters no place to hide. Here we and Brandon are, stuck together for every last syllable Sissy coos. We have to face it. We have to take it. Not that we have to necessarily deal with it. No, we just sit and listen. And throughout it all Brandon has this strange detached expression and sensation. Why? For what reason? Does this dredge up memories of the past? Is "New York, New York" is his favorite song 'ever' and he thinks Sissy is ruining it for all time? He never says. The movie never says, just like the movie never says much of anything about how Brandon got to be where he is and become what he is. All we get is that one single tear right at the end, quickly wiped away, dismissed, forgotten.

And then there's the song itself. As sung by Ol' Blue Eyes in his famed version it is a defiant anthem. As sung by Sissy it is a distressing question mark. In fact, listening to it clued me into something I'd never realized. The lines: "If I can make it there / I'll make it anywhere / It's up to you, New York, New York." It's up to YOU, New York, New York! Not up to ME! Up to YOU!!!!!! As if to say that any addict (sex, drug, alcohol, ect.) never really grasps that it's up to them. It's up to some other entity beyond their control, even though it's not.

Cinema Romantico's Best Movie Song/Score Of 2011 goes to Carey Mulligan's "New York, New York." And if anyone thinks it's too long then they have every right to go watch a Michael Bay movie and his .000473 second long scenes.

Oscar Best Score/Song Re-Imagined Pt. 4

If you've seen "Attack of the Block", you KNOW what this is all about. If you haven't, then you don't, and you need to so you do. ASAP.

Oscar Best Score/Song Re-Imagined Pt. 3

Please, Lady Gaga, for the love of everything sacred and holy, cover this.

What was that? You don't think she can? Think again.

Oscar Best Score/Song Re-Imagined Pt. 2

When this song appeared at the New Year's Eve party I attended, I immediately snagged a nearby toothpick and struck my version of "The Ryan Gosling In 'Drive' Pose", which is to say it looked an awful lot like a hapless Jesse Eisenberg attempting to be Ryan Gosling in "Drive". "I drive. Okay? That's what I do. I, like, drive. You've got me for five minutes and whatever happens on either side of those five minutes, you're on your own. In a manner of speaking. We could make that five minutes ten or fifteen. It's open to interpretation, I suppose. I'm pretty flexible with those rules. They're not really rules so much as guidelines. Guidelines might not even be right. It's just things you say as part of the negotiation and then you adapt on the fly. Also, I prefer not to run any red lights."

In fact, let's go ahead and greenlight a "Drive" remake with Eisenberg as Driver, Kristen Stewart as Irene, David Cross as Shannon, Nick Offerman as Bernie Rose, Meat Loaf as Nino, Rob McElhenney as Standard, Tara Reid as Blanche....have I taken this too far?

Oscar Best Score/Song Re-Imagined Pt. 1

All my traditional festive Oscar week posts will be up over on Anomalous Material this year and so Cinema Romantico will focus on re-imagining the Oscar category of Best Score/Song as if it was one combined category and I and I alone was judge and jury in regards to the five nominees. And so on a daily basis this week I will treat you to one of the "nominees", the fifth and final entry doubling as the "winner".

Enjoy! I hope.

I love this theme for "Beginners" because it's melancholy and hopeful at once and can be just a bit more of one or the other depending on the context and your mood, which, in a way, is how the whole film - this wonderful, wonderful film - feels.

Friday's Old Fashioned: The Gold Rush

The 1925 film for which its distinguished creator Charlie Chaplin said he most hoped to be remember is technically a silent film and while there is no dialogue it forgoes intertitles to instead offer the film's creator himself reciting both narration and the varying characters' lines himself, his stately, booming English accent decidedly at odds with the famous appearance of his protagonist on the screen, The Lone Prospector. He tramps into the harsh, frightful Yukon territory at the tail-end of the 19th century in the hopes of striking gold, his obligatory bowler, bum's suit and oversized shoes at odds with the landscape and men around him doused in fur, and finds himself stranded in a cabin with a fellow prospector, Big Jim (Mack Swain), who has struck it big, and a fugitive, Black Larsen (Tom Murray). He survives the storm despite the company and then hoofs it to a nearby gold rush town where he falls for dance hall hostess Georgia (Georgia Hale) who pretends to fall for him as a way it would seem to provide herself entertainment on the edge of nowhere. Eventually he re-encounters Big Jim who has, as he must, developed amnesia and now needs The Lone Prospector's help in re-claiming his cache of gold.

I confess I turned to "The Gold Rush" not long after seeing "The Artist" as a way to compare something from the original days of the silent medium to this modern offering. Perhaps it is unfair to compare a classic to one that doesn't particularly strive for "greatness" (even if it is on the verge of scoring a Best Picture win at the Academy Awards) but that's the way the cran apple muffin crumbles. Andrew wrote a typically thoughtful piece on "The Artist", lamenting: "I have nothing against simplicity when fully realised...but what robs Hazanavicius’ skill with his cast and his impeccable direction from making this film soar is the lack of follow through in the screenplay. It’s not that I want The Artist to be about something 'bigger' but I want it to be about something more complete than its concept." His words in many ways mirrored my own feelings. "The Artist" felt to me very loving with the best intentions in all the world, a film that never meant to be a great triumph, something that can often lead directly to great triumphs...just not in this case. Of course, the inestimable Chaplin made "The Gold Rush", deemed historically significant by the Library Of Congress, with only a story outline and no actual script and, in a way, creating the movie as he shot the footage. This certainly causes the narrative to feel threadbare and not so much the point as the setpieces and interactions.

Some of these setpieces are spectacular, like Chaplin desperately attempting to evade the aim of a rifle being fought over by Big Jim and Black Larsen and eternally failing. Some of these setpieces are less successful, like the cabin dangling over the side of the cliff which to these eyes in this era is just too quaint. The most famous sequence of the film is probably Chaplin, hungry and desperate, cooking up and chowing down his shoe, forking up a bit of shoelace like linguini, and for as familiar as it is it still succeeds because of the warmth with which it is presented. For all his antics, Chaplin was such a sentimentalist and, rest assured, around these here parts that is a mighty high compliment.

The story of "The Artist" is so intent to be an homage it never cracks open to find a deeper layer. In contrast, contained amidst all the pratfalls of "The Gold Rush" is a nifty little commentary on how love can't be bought and genuinely great moments of both elation and pathos. The closest "The Artist" ever comes, I think, to settling down and really paying attention to its characters as opposed to characters locked into a ready-made story is in that scene when Peppy finds herself alone with George's suit. Even then, though, it's really nothing more than......cute.

In "The Gold Rush" when our Lonely Prospector finds himself at the saloon all by his lonesome off to the side as the various men swirl about the lovely Georgia, Chaplin brilliantly sets the shot so we can't see his face. And this is because we don't need to see his face. He doesn't want us to see his face. The situation and the body language tell us all we need to know. And despite having been some eighty years ago, from then 'til now, across the sands of time, that shit still hurts.

2/21/2012?

The Mayans have long predicted the end of the world would occur on 12/21/2012. Is it possible the Mayans got it right save for one digit?

Cinema Romantico has long predicted the end of the world would occur when Tonya S. Holly's (sort of) remake of the landmark 1967 masterpiece (and one of my favorite movies) "Bonnie and Clyde" starring Hilary Duff finally entered production.

Hilary Duff, as is known, was released from the film, possibly preventing the apocalypse. However, upon in-depth and exceptionally scholarly consultation of my cinematic astrological charts, I have confirmed that unfortunately Lindsay Pulsipher's presence in the role originally intended for Hilary Duff does not negate this ultimate cataclysm.

And next Tuesday, 2/21/2012, "The Story Of Bonnie and Clyde" as directed by Tonya S. Holly is set to begin principle photography.

The end is nigh. Prepare accordingly, and thanks for reading.

An Open Letter To Hollywood

This is the first true guest post in the history of Cinema Romantico and is written by my friend Daryl who has an affection for a certain director the way I have an affection for Sofia Coppola. In regards to a few recent Hollywood, uh, decisions he needed a forum to vent. I have provided it. Enjoy!

Dear Hollywood,

Let’s say I win the lottery. After the press conference and after the money is deposited into my checking account (because that’s what you do with that much money, right?), let’s say I take my winnings and I go to an art auction and purchase “Nude Descending a Staircase No. 2.” After the jealous congratulatory handshakes from the others at the auction, I take my purchase home and start working.

The first step is to schedule an appointment with the press, and when interviewed, I’ll point out how much I love Marcel Duchamp and all of his work. I’ll give a short speech about how influential he was. How his willingness to take on Cubism and the modern art movement in general made him a genius. How his well-founded arrogance has earned him a place in history as one of the Modernist juggernauts.

Then, I’ll really think about the painting. Sure, it was a hit in 1912, but that was a century ago. Times have changed. Tastes have changed. What was visionary is now yesterday’s news. In order to make this pop, I need to get a fresh take on this.

So I find an artist in his thirties. Old enough to be trusted with the keys to the car, but young enough to appeal to “the kids.” He’s produced a couple of good paintings that made a shitload of money, so I know he’s the guy. Our first meeting goes great. He seems to love Marcel Duchamp as well, but not so much that he actually reveres his work. That could end disastrously. We’re re-making history here!

Our first idea for collaboration is that Duchamp was working before the advent of helicopters. Who doesn’t love helicopters? No one, that’s who. Fucking helicopters rule. If Duchamp had ever seen a helicopter, it would have been in his painting. So my artist paints a helicopter in the corner. Sweet.

Also, have you heard of Henri Matisse? He did shit with collages and stuff. So let’s cut some stuff out of magazines and paste it on the canvass. Oh man, the painter just cut out a picture of an actual nude woman WALKING DOWN A STAIRCASE and duct-taped it to the canvas. This shit is gonna make me a trillion dollars.

Let’s not forget, though, that the revolutionary thing about “Nude No. 2” (which is what I’m renaming it – wait, unless that seems like it’s talking about poop. I’ll get a focus group on this), it wasn’t just the explosive power of the imagery. It was also that it forced people to see the world in an entirely different way. You could see the woman’s front, back, and sides all at once (it was a woman, right? Yeah, it must have been). It was like you were a god, viewing mankind through a lens of omnipotence. So I grab a black brush and write along the top, “See the world different – YOU’RE A GOD. THAT’S THE POINT OF THIS PAINTING.” The so-called artist I hired is a little mad that I’m sticking my brush in, but hell it’s my painting. It’s my money that’s paying for this after all.

Okay, we’re almost done. We just need something for the teenage boys. Oh, wait, the painter just added a bikini-clad woman firing a laser gun. Done.

Okay, now I order 75 million prints of this sum-bitch, which I’m gonna sell all over the world. This isn’t just art, baby, this is commerce! I love destroying beautiful things while making myself rich!

Now, if I actually did all of this, I wouldn’t technically be doing anything wrong. It’s my painting; I can do whatever I want with it. If someone liked the old version better, there are plenty of prints and posters out there. I’m just taking something beautiful and destroying it because I’m not creative enough to make something myself. So while I’m not doing anything wrong, I shouldn’t be surprised if true art fans walk up and punch me in my stupid face.

I’m writing this, Hollywood, to explain my feelings as you prepare to re-make the three greatest science fiction films of my generation, all of which were made perfectly by the same genius, Paul Verhoeven. “RoboCop,” “Total Recall,” and “Starship Troopers,” (which despite their disparate source material, I have determined all take place within the same universe at different points in a schizophrenic timeline, but that’s a subject for another letter). You don’t understand the nuance or subtlety contained with these bombastic, garish gems. You can’t fathom the tiny moments that make these films amazing. You’re going to ruin everything. That may be your right, but don’t be surprised if one day I walk up and punch you in your rich, stupid face.

Love,
Daryl

Official Cinematic Crush Update: Pitch Meeting

When it was announced that DC Comics planned to put into production "Watchmen" sequels, which would likely include Silk Spectre who was played in the film by my official Cinematic Crush Malin Akerman, this, as it must, got me to thinking about how nearly everyone I've encountered since her ascension to the throne has criticized her actress-ing skills by listing two films and two films only: "Watchmen" and "The Proposal". This, of course, is like judging a quarterback's skill set completely on two games that were both played in incessant sleet. Ease off my lady.

Malin owns some comedic chops, as evidenced by her extravagantly dry wit on the Rob Cordry show "Children's Hospital" and her insane shenanigans in "The Heartbreak Kid", a fairly awful film of which she was the only redeemable part. Her range may not be Winslet-esque but she can do some things.

That said, the Akerman-bashers still have a point. Her choice in roles hasn't been, shall we say, robust. But she needs something more than just being the no-dimensional girl waiting around for that idiot Ryan Reynolds to make up his mind. Thus, I turned to the infamous Hollywood Black List version 2011, the list naming the most liked unproduced screenplays of the year and found one to my liking.

"Two Night Stand', written by Mark Hammer, is described thusly: "After an extremely regrettable one night stand, two strangers wake up to find themselves snowed in after sleeping through a blizzard that put all of Manhattan on ice. They’re now trapped together in a tiny apartment, forced to get to know each other way more than any one night stand should."

Yeah, yeah, I sense the eye rolls out there. But I tend to side with Richard Lawson of The Atlantic Wire who named it one of the best of 2011 Black List, writing: "Sure the title might be a little hokey, and the concept a little twee, but cast correctly it could be a more lighthearted 'Weekend', kind of a bottle episode on the big screen." Exactly. A little craft, a little acting and you can this thing soar like a bald eagle on an LCD TV indoors.

So here's my proposal: I'll purchase this script with the money I don't have to put into production through the studio I don't own. We'll get Mike Cahill to direct. No, no, no, no, no, not that Mike Cahill, the "Another Earth" Mike Cahill. He's a fine Mike Cahill, certainly, but I'm talking about the severely underrated "King of California" Mike Cahill. That's my dude. With that brilliant little film he walked the tightrope of quirky and sweet without wobbling and offered a restrained visual prowess, one that would be perfect for a big screen bottle episode. He could keep things interesting but wouldn't go off the rails trying to ensure its limited situation was all CINEMATIC!!!

Imagine, ladies, that you just had a one night stand with this guy.

We'll get James Franco to star as the guy because I like the James Franco Confused Face and that could be utilized to great effect here and because he can ably manage genuine and dickish at the same time.

And, of course, we'll get Malin for the girl.

Granted, I haven't read this screenplay. The Black List can be hit or miss. Sometimes you get Diablo Cody's "Juno", sometimes you get Liz Meriwether's F***Buddies (i.e. "No Strings Attached").

But let's take a risk, what do say? After all, it's my fake money, not yours.

Happy, Happy

When you think of a place "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" you, of course, think of Judy Garland in black and white on a Kansas farm with a cairn terrier looking on and she, in turn, makes you imagine a lilting place where "skies are blue and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true." But sometimes when you hear the same song, as you do at a particularly delicate moment in Anne Sewitsky's first feature film, you don't think of any of those things. Sometimes you think of endless snow banks and forced socializing and repressed emotions and infidelity and, of course, Greek choruses. Yes, the action in "Happy, Happy" (2011) is punctuated throughout by four men in dapper suits singing old spiritual numbers which as odd as it first may seem actually is quite appropriate when considering at the end of each stanza our various characters need a bit of that old time religion to wash their sins away.

Kaja (Agnes Kittelsen) lives with Erik (Joachim Rafaelsen) and their young son, Theodor (Oskar Hernaes Brandso), in the middle of Norweigan nowhere. Their lives take a seemingly innocent twist when a couple from the city, Sigve (Henrik Rafaelsen) and Elisabeth (Maibritt Saerens) and their adopted Ethiopian son, Noa (Ram Shihab Ebedy), rent the house next door.

In these early scenes Sewitsky and writer Ragnhild Tronvoll take great care in painting an indelible portrait of each person. Kaja is cheery nearly to the point of a potential migraine - the sort who forces the playing of board games on others whether they like it or not - and perhaps this cheeriness is what has caused Erik to be so shut-off that his first six or seven lines are nothing beyond grunted "Yeahs." Elisabeth and Sigve both seem to have permanent smiles attached, though they are of much different varieties. His is a bemusement at their situation and next-door neighbors, hers is a confusion tinged with sad regret. Kaja ecstatically explains their houses are so close they can flicker the lights at one another to say "hello" or "come on over" and while Elisabeth's response is politely appropriate the viewer can easily glean her unease with all this......cordiality.

Everyone, as they must, is harboring some sort of secret, varying in Shock Factor on the Cinematic Secret Scale. Before long it is revealed that Sigve and Elisabeth have escaped to this remote outpost in the face of her affair, since broken off. Her husband seems oddly unaffected by it, until Kaja, her optimism inevitably shown to be shrouding great loneliness and depression, triggers an affair with him. Erik is so out of touch - routinely escaping to a wooden teepee he has constructed in the backyard and disappearing on hunting trips - he has no inkling of this romance born of desperation and revenge.

And both couples are so out of touch with their own children they fail to note the slightly militant Theodor makes the Ethiopian Noa - gulp - "play slave." This is diabolically uncomfortable, and an evocation of the film's theme - despite not being handled with quite as much nuance as necessary - that shows everyone as being slaves, slaves of their own lives and of the union of marriage.

"Happy Happy" is so comically bleak that even a side trip to the local church for choir practice winds up in an extra-marital crotch grab, which is to say the third act might seem like a cop-out that lives up to the film's title in the wrong way. To these eyes, though, it came across quietly daring, a film unafraid to say that, hey, contrary to an oft-perpetuated belief, sometimes divorce is more saintly and heroic than re-pressing fake smiles to your faces, pitifully clinging to those age-old vows and taking the happy with the sad and vice-versa. Kaja's got (figurative) balls. She says I'm gonna be happy happy. Ya best deal, suckas.

My Heart Hurts

When I saw Ra Ra Riot at the Metro back in November I was explaining to my friends John and Kristin in my typically calm, understated way that we were about to see "the best live band on the planet." "The planet?" Kristin repeated, egging me on to scale more dramatic heights. "The planet!!!" I declared to such a degree I could see the girl standing directly behind John and Kristin get a look in her eyes dismissing me as a hyperbolic idiot. Not that I minded since, hey, I am a hyperbolic idiot. Need I remind you of my motto? Life Is Short - Be Hyperbolic. And anyway, Ra Ra Riot is the best live band on the planet, which you know full well if you've seen them. To express the sensation via word is a worthless enterprise, but to be there is to feel a joy so palpable it leaves you with one of those glorious shit-eating grins that spreads so wide your face actually hurts a little bit. Their energy is boundless and the way they effortlessly and passionately interact and bound about together on stage resembles an indie family, born in Syracuse, New York but raised on the buses in which they criss-crossed this  country to come of age night after night after night in dimly lit concert halls in random cities.



That night we saw them in November they were fresh off having to postpone several concerts on account of lead singer Wes Miles losing his voice. There was, in fact, a worry the Chicago show would be cancelled, too. All thanks to God that it wasn't and when they stormed the stage they did so in the manner of a group of pals (which they are) that love playing together (which they do) that had not been able to play together for several days (which they hadn't) and were now finally being let free. My friend Dave and fellow Ra Ra Riot devotee who has seen them with me more times than anyone looked at me a few songs in and exclaimed, "Man, they are on tonight." Truer words had never been spoken.

My favorite Ra Ra Riot show, though, was unquestionably at Schubas in September 2009 which I idiotically (read: correctly and triumphantly) attended in spite of my seriously inclement health. That was the same show where as Dave and I and our friends John & Cindy and Matt & Trish were watching the opening band we came to the realization that Ra Ra Riot's comely cellist, backup (and occasional lead) singer and all-around effervescent stage presence Alexandra Lawn was standing about five feet away from us. It's important to note that Dave has a crush on Ms. Lawn the way I have a crush on Malin Akerman and so we all stood there urging Dave to take his 'move.' Alas, this 'move' (the specifics of which were never decided) never took place.

I take a lot of pride in having at least assisted in converting a number of my friends to this band I adore so much, but my friend Dave has truly become my primo RRR accomplice. We saw them at Wicker Park Fest when no one else seemed to have any idea who they were and we saw them a year later at noon in 100 degree temperatures at Lollapalooza. We even seriously discussed catching a train to go to Milwaukee to see them once. So naturally the first person I contacted in the wake of the mind-numbing news yesterday that Ms. Lawn had decided to leave the band was Dave.

Arrivederci, Alexandra.

Members of bands leave all the time. That's the nature of the biz. Wilco's lineup is essentially a revolving door. Back in the day The Rolling Stones went through guitarists like Obama goes through Chiefs of Staff. Pearl Jam's drumming situation was no different than Spinal Tap's. Even Ra Ra Riot has been forced to utilize numerous drummers. I've seen them in action with four different dudes providing a backbeat. But upon seeing them in concert you realize all the action is at the forefront between Milo (guitar), Mat (bass), Allie (cello), Becca (violin) and Wes (mic). Now skilled musicians can utilize their talent to spackle over their newness and/or unfamiliarity with a band in order to still make a set sound really, really good. What you can't fake, however, is camaraderie and joy and those are the two things in which Ra Ra Riot runs rampant and that's what sets them apart from absolutely anyone else in concert. During this last show at the Metro there was a remarkable moment between songs when you could see Becca and Milo exchange words and then break into wide smiles and gigantic laughter. The band got its start playing in basements and such around their Syracuse campus and this moment, frankly, aside from the swirling, sweating crowd didn't look much different. They could have been in an empty basement just playing for themselves. It was an unforced but forceful intimacy and it wasn't something you could just invent by plugging any old soul in there - no, it had to be earned.

Maybe Alexandra Lawn leaving the band won't change anything, but my head and my heart both tell me can't possibly be true. There was something in the way she played and something in the way she moved and something in the way she and the other four all existed together. You might say I'm crazy, though that's probably because you never saw them live. And now it appears you never will. Dammit, why didn't Dave and I go see them in Milwaukee?

Friday's Old Fashioned: The Misfits

This 1960 film is, above all else, probably most famous as being the final film of both Clark Gable and Marilyn Monroe who, eerily enough, share the film's final scene together with her wondering "How do you find your way back in the dark?" and him replying "Just head for that big star straight on...it'll take us right home." Two days later Gable had a heart attack, eight days after that he was dead, and a year later Monroe was dead from an overdose. Like I said, eerie.

The film was written by Arthur Miller specifically to be a vehicle to show off the dramatic chops of his wife, Ms. Monroe, but by the time filming commenced their romance had spiraled into an all-out war careening for divorce that permeated the set. The maverick John Huston directed and was supposedly as interested in gambling during the shoot as shooting. A pain and drug-riddled Montgomery Clift co-starred and while he still had a couple more films in the tank he was in the words of Monroe "the only person I know who's in worse shape than I am." It's a miracle then that "The Misfits" not only was completed but that in spite of some rather glaring flaws it still manages to capture something very beautiful and essential amidst the insane chaos of its creation. In fact, I dare say the chaos of its making contributed to making its best qualities stand out.

Monroe is Roslyn, living in Reno, not unlike Fozzie Bear, fresh off a divorce ("If I'm going to be alone I want to be by myself"), when she and her pal Isabelle (Thelma Ritter) encounter a couple cowboys, Gay (Gable) and Guido (Eli Wallach). They like whiskey, free-living, mustanging, and what they decidedly don't like is "working for wages." They have a ranch out in the country and invite the ladies along.

Roslyn: "Once I walked to the edge of town. Doesn't look like much out there."
Gay: "Everything's there!"
Roslyn: "Well, what do you do with yourself?"
Gay: "Just live."

This is the prevalent theme of this band of Misfits - adhering to a life code ("better than wages") but ultimately realizing this code may have done them in. A particularly startling sequence shows a drunk Gay at the rodeo attempting to introduce Roslyn to his two grown children only to realize his two children have fled the premises on account of his drunkeness. He calls out for them. They don't respond. We never see these children, of course, they are only referenced. His way of life has caused his ceaseless ignoring of his own flesh and blood. Guido had a wife, too, but she is long since gone. And Perce (Clift), the rodeo rider that joins their gang, is a broken down soul that seems all too enamored with the inevitable beatings he takes from bucking broncos, as if he deserves them, getting thrown to the dirt with a concussion and then saddling right back up soon afterwards.

Eventually the direction of their lives will be crystallized symbolically when they take to the mountains to dramatically round up 15 Nevada mustangs to sell them off to be turned into dog food. Seeing these sleek creatures tied up and held down much in the same way a payer of the wages would do to them, they understand the wickedness of their particular cowboy ways and at the very risk of their livelihood must set them free. Gay knows the score. He says: "It's like roping a dream now. I just gotta find another way to be alive, that's all. If there is one anymore."

All the men, as men are wont to do, seek solace in the lady, taking turns falling in love with her, though she primarily only reciprocates that love with Gay, most likely because he was, you know, played by Gable. But she's a delicate flower (read: minor to moderate headcase) and the cruelty these cowboys display toward innocent animals set her off. One of the sequences intended to be a show-stopper for Marilyn The Actress involves her breaking down in the midst of the desert when she learns what will become of the mustangs. It is done in an extreme long shot and one has to wonder if this was intended by Huston or if it was used in the end to disguise its weakness. Marilyn The Actress is adequate, though sometimes less, and often you can see her straining to act. Then again, Marilyn - just Marilyn - turns up now and again when she stops all the exertion and simply exists before the camera, and when she does......oh, dear reader, she makes Michelle Williams look like a cut-rate imposter panhandling in the alley. Did she steal scenes because she didn't realize she was stealing them or was she so crafty she stole them while appearing to not know she was stealing them? It's an answer we'll never receive, and I prefer that way.

The film takes its cues from that Marilyn, which is to say it is flawed - particularly in a too long second act that hits a wall and trips me up every time - but rising above those flaws in many ways because of the baggage brought to the project by its stars and because of the many stories that surround its troubled filming. I don't know if it's quite right to judge a film based on its ju-ju but occasionally cinema transcends the rules of criticism.

A few Hollywood misfits gathered together to make a movie about a few "Misfits" making one last defiant stand before their walls came tumbling down. And there's something terrifically, terribly poetic about it.

Breaking My New Girl Vow

I made a promise to watch every episode of Zooey Deschanel's sitcom "New Girl" and blog about it. But as one of the wisest sages of the 80's proclaimed: "Promises made are promises broken. Promises made always cause pain."

It was probably destined to end this way.

Let's be honest, this promise has caused me pain, particularly with the most recent episode of "New Girl" - "The Landlord" - which was on the level of that one "Big Bang Theory" episode I watched solely because it was about Nebraska Football which was a disgrace to Nebraska Football, Leslie Knope, and humanity. Yet in the face of this half-hour monstrosity I still wasn't about to renege on my promise. And then I read Josef Adalian's article for Vulture, "How TV Pilots Looking For Stars Are Benefitting From The Zooey Effect."

He writes: "...industry types we spoke to said (Deschanel's) smashingly successful move to the small screen in New Girl underscores just how dramatically the TV casting dynamic has changed in recent years." Smashingly successful?! This is partially MY fault! I've aided in making "New Girl" smashingly successful by tuning in to every single episode! Yet the article only became more troubling.

Adalian continues: "So which buzzworthy young 'uns are showing up on casting radars this pilot season? One agent source says he's heard many mentions of Malin Akerman." RECORD SCRATCH!!! That's my official Cinematic Crush you're talkin' about here! Key word: Cinematic. Look, I know she's great and dry and funny on "Children's Hospital" but this isn't what we want from Malin full time, is it? It can't be! Please! Tell me it isn't! She's a silver-screenster! If Ms. Akerman winds up on some TV show where she has to film an episode as noxious as "The Landlord" that would be too much to bear! It would be one thing if she landed the lead on, say, a Showtime original with a no b.s., hard-charging role with a creator who played by no rules but his own, but this article makes it sound like we're talking Big Four Network and that is "Sleepaway Camp" frightening (unless she lands a recurring role on "Community" as Britta's apolitical nemesis, except "Community" has basically been cancelled).

Save Malin. Stop The Zooey Effect.

In the face of this I can't continue to knowingly aid and abet The Zooey Effect. I made a promise, yes, but I also have principles. And to adhere to this promise in the face of these new revelations would be a severe soiling of my principles. Thus, my promise made must be broken. I'll feel bad abandoning Lizzy Caplan but it's a necessary sacrifice. And besides, now I can spend that half-hour writing or watching something on TMC or seeking out unreleased Lady Gaga tracks or reading Lady Gaga on Twitter or reading my book or going for a jog or cleaning my oven or staring at a wall or counting all the sheets of fabric softener I have left.

Au revoir, Zooey. I'm gonna get along without you now.