Some Came Running

"I'm obviously not a Communist..."

So said Steven Soderbergh, director of Che, at the press conference following the screening of his four-hour-plus epic on the revolutionary leader. "There isn't even a place for me in the society [Che] was trying to build."

Then why make the film?

I'm not asking that, mind you. Those asking that are those who are also concerned about Che's putative lack of "human drama," its refusal to drop many "emotional beats," and other entirely boring things. It's practically a given that once the film sees release, a lot of the usual suspects in the right-wing blogosphere will be wailing that this is "Hollywood's" "valentine" to Guevera, and no amount of objective evidence will change that. But what we're getting now, from the film-fest covering wing of the blogosphere, is grumbling over, as far as I can gather, the fact that the film is not more of a valentine to Guevera, and/or his ideas.

Having now seen the picture a second time, I'm even more impressed by its simultaneous detachment and engagement, its "you-are-there (but then again, you're not, really)" quality. As I wrote at Cannes for indieWire, the picture is "a meticulous examination of process," in which Soderbergh depicts Che as ever "alone in his own vision...without resorting to literal psychologizing." Silly me, I imagined that such an approach constituted a statement sufficient unto itself, but apparently not. In the war on cliche, apparently what's really wanted is...more cliche. Just so long as it's "Our" cliche, of course.

Who Loves You?

Seriously. I know there's a lot of film bloggers out there, who, um, blog about, um, film, and, um, stuff.

But how many of those film bloggers will bother to compose a villanelle for your delectation?

You don't know what a villanelle is? Go read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man again. Or the Wikipedia entry on Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Hudson Street Bar," or what have you.

Or...just check out this screen cap...

and follow this link...

Also over at Auteurs' Notebook, part two of my consideration of the "lesser" Berkeleys.

Newman

There was a time—and a fairly long one—when he was the most beautiful man in film. And he didn't make a big deal of it. Seemed rather to relish passing that mantle on to Redford. After which he was only, of course, the coolest guy in the room—always.

We won't see his like again.

Consider this an open thread—your favorite Newman moments, recollections, and even raves about his lemonade (which is truly excellent)—if you will.

UPDATE: Joseph Failla chimes in, via e-mail, as is his wont:

"HOMBRE means man! Paul Newman is HOMBRE!" So proclaimed the copy on the movie's poster

.

The first Paul Newman film I remember seeing theatrically was COOL HAND LUKE, at the time I was too young to know what he was all about. But he was one of the first movie stars I came to recognize and watching that film helped me understand just how important an individual's talent, appeal and charisma was to a single film's success. CHL boasts a tremendous cast of supporting players, solid direction and enough of an outcry for social reform to fill a dozen other movies. Above it all was Newman himself, holding everything together, seemingly on his own. What I didn't realize is, I was watching an actor of the caliber of Dean, Brando and Clift, being sold as a matinee idol.

Get "Lucky"

A bunch of pictures are opening today, most of them likely to be overshadowed by that Shia-Le-Bouef-jumping-out-of-a-building-when-he's-told thingie, so I wanted to do what little I could by encouraging you not to let The Lucky Ones, a story of three Iraq war soldiers' eventful return home, pass you by. I am not an entirely objective observer—a couple of the film's producers are good friends, and writer/director Neil Burger is a friendly acquaintance—but I do think the film is a lovely, engaging piece that's best appreciated as a road movie/fable, because that's really what it is. As has been chronicled in The New York Times, Lionsgate, thoroughly terrified (and I must say with substantial justification) of putting out a film in which the word "Iraq" is even mentioned, given the dismal box-office results of the likes of Grace in Gone, Redacted, Rendition, et. al., sat on the film for some time. But politics is not this picture's bag; to the extent that it's possible to make a non-ideological work (and I know that universities across the globe teem with postmodernists who insist that it's not), I think Neil has. Instead, it's a study of characters, and the vicissitudes of fate; although it doesn't have quite as prominent a twist in its tail as Neil's previous films, The Illusionist and Interview With The Assassin, did, its story is quite cleverly shaped, and the performance are wonderful. Tim Robbins is stolid and understated as a smart, by-the-book guy who discovers that doing the right thing doesn't always pay off in the way you might presume; Rachel McAdams is wonderfully disarming as a seemingly cocky soldier still trying to find his her center. Michael Pena, who's never made too much of an impression on me before, is funny and moving as a fellow distraught at what his recent war wound will do to his love life.

This release is so under-the-radar that I haven't even encountered complaints from the ranks of right-wing bloggers who regularly condemn films they haven't seen. Thing is, I think a lot of such folks might actually like it. As might you. It's the kind of intelligent and entertaining mainstream filmmaking that's increasingly rare these days.

Condonmania

I generally refrain from weighing in, whenever possible, on all things Oscar, given that, on a certain level—to put it ala Stephen Malkmus—I don't care, I don't care, I really don't care. I mean, I care when I have to, which generally involves remuneration, but as I'm footing the bill on this bit of internet real estate, no. Thank you. Also, the beat seems to receive substantial attention from many others, including the President of the He-Man-F.W. Murnau-Haters Club, Mr. Tom O'Neil, who this morning spread the glad tidings that Dreamgirls director Bill Condon and his producing partner Laurence Mark would be taking the reins of the long largely-moribund Oscars ceremony for 2009.

I approve for many reasons, not all of them journalistically pure. For one, Condon's a friend of a few of my friends, and at least one of my dearest. For another, the few times I've met him, he struck me as one of the most gracious, engaging, erudite fellows in the American film world or any other. I dig his movies—Gods and Monsters, which could have been a train wreck in less sensitive hands, is as graceful and moving as movies come; Kinsey has real balls, real wit, and real empathy; and Dreamgirls is one of the more ambitious screen musicals of any era—and for my money it hits more than it misses.

But truth to tell, the main reason I revere Bill (if I may call him Bill) is because he's one of the geniuses behind one of the greatest moments in tout le cinema: the party scene in 1981's Strange Behavior, directed by Michael Loughlin. Bill co-wrote the script, associate-produced, and co-starred, and yes, he cherishes the scene as much as I do. (Unless he was just humoring me when I brought it up.) Scored to Lou Christie's immortal "Lightning Strikes," it begins as a standard montage of kids dancing and busting each others chops, and gradually transmogrifies, for no "good" reason at all, into a fully choreographed number. I can't believe it hasn't made it onto YouTube yet, so here are some screen caps from the bit's climax:

If Bill can pull off a single Oscar segment a third as audacious as this one, it'll make the show.

Berkeley Buzz Be

Warner's recent box "The Busby Berkeley Collection Volume Two" is a cornucopia of wisecracking, crooning, dancing, and racial diciness. I examine its particulars in a two-part series at The Auteurs' Notebook, part one of which is up now.

Whittling away at the twelve: "Sands of Iwo Jima"

Wayne's Sergeant Stryker: Never felt so good in his life, apparently.

Having been compelled by meme to spill on twelve movies that I ought to have seen but haven't (a meme I was tagged on by bill, but which went back as far as here and here and here—apparently I'm not quite as familiar with all internet traditions as I thought), I am subsequently shamed into actively seeking out and viewing those movies. About which I will issue progress reports, as it were.

My not having ever seen the whole of Allan Dwan's 1949 Sands of Iwo Jima elicited the most shocked reactions, both in and out of the comments section. "You simply have no excuse, private," Cadavra's quip, summed up the consensus perspective. I should like to point out that sometimes things are just so in spite of the fact that one has no excuse for them. Part of what makes life interesting, I'd say.

One reason I didn't do too much about catching up with Sands over the years is that the picture's in the public domain, so if I were to put some effort into catching up with it I couldn't be sure as to how presentable a presentation I'd be eventually watching. The die having been cast, I bit the bullet (and, my friends, this is not so much a mixed metaphor as it is a linear double metaphor, and that's my story and I'm sticking to it), and got hold of what looked to be the best available disc, a Republic/Lionsgate issue. I would call it indifferent.

Yes, it's quite a film. Kent Jones points out that "Dwan's movies are inflected with little grace notes—sudden tiny shifts in speed and perspective or visual design that gives the film a humming beauty." During a crucial battle scene, one Pfc, played by Forrest Tucker, leaves a couple of his buddies to seek out ammo, which they're out of. On the way back he comes upon a couple of other soldiers who've managed to brew some coffee. Dwan lingers on his innocent and hard-earned enjoyment of the joe. This pause will have tragic consequences. But Dwan's no moralist. His mistake will tear this character apart...but we never blame him for making it.

In a sense, and despite all of the real tension it contains, this is one of the more relaxed war movies I've seen. The picture has real affection for its characters, and enjoys spending time with them. I'm always surprised, watching American WWII films, how unsentimental they are. Or rather, how unsentimental they are relative to how sentimental they're perceived to be, or painted as. Thus, I was rather surprised by a sequence in which John Wayne's tough-as-nails Sergeant Stryker is shown having liquored himself into near-unconsciousness. A convincing portrayal, too,

Okay, eleven to go...

More Panels About Critics and Food

Okay, not food. And okay, it's just one panel. I'm reading an Eno biography at the moment, whaddya want from me.

This Saturday the Film Society of Lincoln Center's having a panel on everybody's favorite subject, the future of film criticism, entitled "Film Criticism In Crisis?" on this Saturday the 27th, 1 p.m., at the Walter Reade theater. This panel, moderated by Film Comment's Gavin Smith, has a refreshing international perspective—in addition to its American contingent, the great Kent Jones, the great Jonathan Rosenbaum, the near-great Jessica Winter, and the mysterious Acquarello, the panel also features Emmanuel Burdeau, editor of the beleagured Cahiers du Cinema, Suung-hoon Jeong, one-time critic for the Korean film weekly Cine 21, and in a rare appearance in these parts, American-in-Berlin David Hudson of the estimable GreenCine Daily.

Should be fun. If you hear a guy heckling "Fuck you and Manny Farber" from the back of the hall, I'd expect that'd be Steven Boone. Okay. I really have to stop.

More info on the program is here.

UPDATE: A mutual friend of Mr. Boone and myself mildly chided my snark in an e-mail. He's right to. Truth to tell, Boone belongs on this panel; like it or not, he's bringing something new to the table, passionately. He'd get some sparks flying up there.

Saving "Jesus"

As promised, the now Tuesday-morning "Foreign Region DVD Report" is up at the Auteur's, this week a look at the Eureka!/Masters of Cinema disc of Dumont's La vie de Jesus and a contemplation of small DVD labels that are great, and small DVD labels that suck. (Eureka!/Masters of Cinema is one of the greats.) Check it out and start the conversation here.

Service Advisory

The Monday Morning Foreign Region DVD Report, having decamped over to The Auteurs' Notebook, is undergoing another change—in keeping with release schedules (which it otherwise ignores), it will become The Tuesday Morning Foreign Region DVD Report. Tomorrow.