Being There 30th Anniversary Edition

Warner Home Video has released a 30th anniversary of director Hal Ashby's Being There, based on the Jerzy Kosinski novel. The film represented Peter Sellers' last cinematic triumph and earned him an Oscar nomination. Sellers gives an unusually understated performance that gives credence to the notion that sometimes less is more. The story centers on Chance, a dapper but dim-witted gardener who has been kept in complete isolation for his entire life by his benefactor, an elderly millionaire. Deprived of a social life or formal education, Chance is totally satisfied with his daily routine of presiding over an elaborate garden. His only vice is an obsession with television, which he watches without the slightest regard for a program's content. Like a parrot, he learns to mimic the actors he witnesses on the boob tube and the entire level of his intellectual capabilities is limited to statements about gardening and television. When the old man dies, Chance is evicted from the house - but is too stupid to realize the implications of his dilemma. When he is injured by a limousine belonging to Shirley MacLaine, Chance is brought back to her mansion to recuperate. It turns out she is the wife of one of America's most influential industrialists and power brokers (Melvin Douglas, in his final triumphant role which won him the Oscar for Supporting Actor.) Through a complex series of events, Douglas and the intellectual yes men in his circle mistake Chance for a great philosopher, feeling that his elementary observations have meaning regarding the economy and political scenarios. Before long, even the President (Jack Warden) is using the hapless man as an adviser. The film hints that Chance has a political future ahead of him -despite the fact that he can't read, write or relate whatsoever to the world around him.
The film is not only hilarious, but prescient in foreseeing the day when a charming personality is all a candidate needs to rise to the top. The brilliant screenplay also takes aim at intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals whose obsession with being considered deep thinkers allows them to read meaning into the most innocuous of statements. The film presents Peter Sellers as he had never been seen before. He rarely utters more than a few words at a time, instead relying on a gentle demeanor and disarming smile to impress those he encounters. In one hilarious scene, MacLaine tries to seduce him and mistakes his statement that "I like to watch" as a reference to a sexual fetish. In fact, he is simply referring to the cartoon playing on the TV in the bedroom. MacLaine then engages in a liberating mastubation session in front of the oblivious Chance, who is mesmerized by the TV program. Sellers' great performance is matched by a superb supporting cast, with Melyvn Douglas having the kind of role that every actor dreams of for a cinematic farewell. There is also yeoman work from Jack Warden and Richard Dysart. The film is a reminder that Hal Ashby was a major talent whose work is not as widely discussed as it should be.

This special edition is somewhat meager on extras but includes a trailer and an interesting featurette in which Melvyn Douglas' grandaughter Ilena discusses her memories of visiting the set as a young girl. She also reminds us of her grandfather's long and distinguished career. It's an informative and bittersweet documentary produced by David Naylor.

80 years of Oscar best picture

From the Australian newspaper The Daily Telegraph, the hair removal brand Veet joined in the loud chorus of 'goodbye and good riddens' with this special AD and sold a few more tubes of hair removal cream at the same time. Brilliant. No more Bush indeed.

Hedda Hopper

Hedda Hopper (May 2, 1885 – February 1, 1966) was an American actress and gossip columnist, whose long-running feud with friend turned arch-rival Louella Parsons became at least as notorious as many of Hopper's columns.

Hopper began acting in silent movies in 1915. Her motion picture debut was in Battle of Hearts (1916). She appeared in more than 120 movies over the following twenty-three years, usually portraying distinguished-looking society women.

As her movie career waned in the mid-1930s, Hopper looked for other sources of income. In 1937, she was offered the chance of a lifetime and embarked on a career doing something she was quite adept at: gossip. Her gossip column called "Hedda Hopper's Hollywood" debuted in the Los Angeles Times on February 14, 1938. After years of struggling as an actress, she had finally found her niche. She christened the home she purchased in Beverly Hills "The House That Fear Built." She then had a notorious feud with the long-established Louella Parsons, who had been friendly to her in print and to whom she had sometimes passed information. Hopper and Parsons became arch-rivals competing fiercely, and often nastily, for the title "Queen of Hollywood", although those who knew both declared that Hopper was the more sadistic.

She was noted for her hats, considered her trademark, mostly because of her taste for large, flamboyant ones. She was known for hobnobbing with the biggest names in the industry, for getting a "scoop" before almost anyone else most of the time, and for being vicious in dealing with those who displeased her, whether intentionally or not. The columnist J.J. Hunsecker, played by Burt Lancaster in the film Sweet Smell of Success, is said to have been inspired partly by Hopper.

Hopper courted controversy as well for "naming names" of suspected or alleged Communists during the Hollywood Blacklist. Her frequent attacks against Charlie Chaplin in the 1940s for his leftist politics and love life contributed to his departure from America in 1952. After publishing a blind item on Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy's relationship, Tracy confronted her at Ciro's and kicked her in the behind. A similar incident occurred when Hopper leaked info about the extramarital affair between Joseph Cotten and Deanna Durbin. She tried to "out" Cary Grant and Randolph Scott as gay lovers, but Grant was too big a star even for her to touch. 

She also spread rumors that Michael Wilding and Stewart Granger had been intimate (Wilding later sued Hopper for libel and won). ZaSu Pitts compared Hopper to "a ferret", and pointed out that she should not have been surprised her (Hopper's) own movie career did not pan out. Joan Fontaine sent Hopper a skunk on Valentine's Day with a note reading "I stink and so do you".

Roberto Fonseca ZAMAZU

1º parte EPK ZAMAZU

2ª parte EPK ZAMAZU

a PATRICK MCGOOHAN tribute

Mike Malloy remembers Patrick McGoohan

Most movie-star hopefuls enter the entertainment industry knowing full well they will have to scratch and claw out a career for themselves in ways that compromise their previously held values. This is not to say they’ll necessarily cheat and backstab to make it in The Biz (it often comes to that), but they certainly won’t turn down precious advancement opportunities on moral grounds.

Recently deceased, thoughtful thesp Patrick McGoohan (“The Prisoner,” Ice Station Zebra, Braveheart, “Secret Agent”) found a different route to stardom, one that reflected his very principled beliefs. And because he made choices detrimental to his fame—he could’ve been 007, after all—and yet became an international film and TV star nonetheless, one would like to believe his was an irrepressible talent that shone through despite the actor’s lack of career-mindedness.

The eponymous role in Henrik Ibsen’s play Brand was considered the definitive role of McGoohan’s 1950s career. He played the part both on the London stage and, fortunately for posterity, for a BBC broadcast that has been released as a PAL DVD. It’s little wonder that the character—a priest who took his principles to new heights and extremes (“Unless you give all, you give nothing!”)—fit the actor like a glove; he was soon proving that he too lived according to a distinct personal code. Shortly thereafter, McGoohan declined the role of James Bond, reportedly citing moral objections.

McGoohan’s passing on the 007 part came as the franchise’s first feature—1962’s Dr. No—was being developed, and almost all accounts had him disliking the spy’s brutish use of force and sexual promiscuity. This version of events is certainly reinforced by examining McGoohan’s 1960s television breakthrough of “Danger Man” (which was actually two different British shows of the same name, the latter of which ran as “Secret Agent” stateside). McGoohan’s spy character, John Drake, was a more-brains-than-brawn agent who wasn’t seen to carry a gun or kill a man (although each episode had its requisite fistfight) and wasn’t caught bedding a woman onscreen.

Even if Drake was the sanitized version of Bond, McGoohan cut a suave, intelligent figure—and one with the ability to summon up a tremendously forceful dialogue delivery when needed (the American-born, Irish-raised actor perhaps possessed the small screen’s most intimidating bark of toughguyspeak). It was therefore little surprise that McGoohan was reportedly offered the Bond role again, sometime in the late ‘60s and/or early ‘70s (which certainly fits with the Connery-Lazenby-Connery tumult the film series was undergoing). A second refusal of 007 has even more significance, as McGoohan would have then certainly understood the extent of riches and fame he was forgoing (even if the Bond series was at its shakiest point, being terribly out of step with the era’s counterculture).

Instead of Bond, McGoohan launched another television project in the late ‘60s—this time of his own conception. In the 17-part mini-series “The Prisoner,” he not only starred but also occasionally directed and wrote (usually pseudonymously). Often described as “television’s first masterpiece,” the show boasted a plot—about a spy who tries to resign but who is instead whisked away to a secret island where a bizarre society tries to break his spirit and crack open his head full of espionage secrets—that functioned as a brilliant allegory exposing the dangers of conformity and group culture. Some of the episodes, including the absurd finale, were too nonsensical (it was the hippy-dippy late ‘60s, mind you), but the better ones rank right up with Ayn Rand in their power to promote the idea of individualism. McGoohan had used the Bond-fueled fluffy spy craze to create something of importance.

A bit of negative personal information regarding McGoohan came from the set of the 1979 Clint Eastwood vehicle Escape from Alcatraz, when the joke was born that McGoohan, who was boozing during production, couldn’t be doubled in a hand close-up, because director Don Siegel couldn’t find another actor who had the shakes that bad. It’s been suggested the actor was drinking to protect against the bitter cold, but we fans rationalize that any drinking resulted from the burden of genius of the man who created “The Prisoner.”

“Genius” is not a stretch, but “principled to the point of career injury” is rock-solid certain. Circa 1997, a fan-made Patrick McGoohan webshrine existed, containing reprints of rare interviews with the generally reclusive actor. Although your humble writer was then new to the Internet, he quickly zeroed in on the site and checked back regularly. Then one day in the late ‘90s, the site bore a message that it would cease to operate, as McGoohan himself had contacted the webmaster and requested the removal of all content. This was possibly another instance of McGoohan’s preference for privacy, but it’s not hard to imagine the actor having a disdain for idol worship of pop-cultural figures too.

On a more personal note, your writer got a phone call from McGoohan in 2002, in response to an interview request for an “almost 007” article—in fact, the only returned phone call received in connection with the piece. Sure, it could’ve been the sturdy Irish name of Mike Malloy that prompted McGoohan to phone (he declined to comment about “events that happened 40 years ago” but graciously accepted my nervous, short-of-breath praise of his career), but the actor didn’t have to bother with some journalist writing a spec piece. But he did, and it’s nice to imagine a returned phone call out of courtesy (and general obligation to one’s fellow man) was his standard operating procedure.

Maybe it’s just as well that he shuffled off this mortal coil earlier this week. Today’s world is such that a crass, shallow fame anthem like The Pussycat Dolls’ “When I Grow Up” can instruct tweens to aim at stardom for the spoils of “nice cars and groupies.” There’s little room for understanding a Patrick McGoohan, who acted because he excelled at the craft but who accepted projects with guidance from his personal convictions. And if AMC TV’s remake of “The Prisoner” serves ultimately to dilute the power of the original when it airs later this year, it’s best that Patrick McGoohan departs dearly now.

Laurence Olivier in MARATHON MAN (1976)

In Memoriam : Ricardo Montalban (1921-2009) - Patrick McGoohan (1929-2009)

Billy&Otto

T H E F A L L

Tarsem's "The Fall" is a mad folly, an extravagant visual orgy, a free-fall from reality into uncharted realms. Surely it is one of the wildest indulgences a director has ever granted himself. 

The story framework for the imagery is straightforward. In Los Angeles, circa 1915, a silent movie stunt man has his legs paralyzed while performing a reckless stunt. He convalesces in a half-deserted hospital, its corridors of cream and lime stretching from ward to ward of mostly empty beds, their pillows and sheets awaiting the harvest of World War I. The stunt man is Roy (Lee Pace), pleasant in appearance, confiding in speech, happy to make a new friend of a little girl named Alexandria (Catinca Untaru).

Roy tells a story to Alexandria, involving adventurers who change appearance as quickly as a child's imagination can do its work. We see the process. He tells her of an "Indian" who has a wigwam and a squaw. She does not know these words, and envisions an Indian from a land of palaces, turbans and swamis. The verbal story is input from Roy; the visual story is output from Alexandria.

The story involves Roy (playing the Black Bandit) and his friends: a bomb-throwing Italian anarchist, an escaped African slave, an Indian (from India), and Charles Darwin and his pet monkey, Wallace. Their sworn enemy, Governor Odious, has stranded them on a desert island, but they come ashore (riding swimming elephants, of course) and wage war on him.

Roy draws out the story for a personal motive; after Alexandria brings him some communion wafers from the hospital chapel, he persuades her to steal some morphine tablets from the dispensary. Paralyzed and having lost his great love (she is the Princess in his story), he hopes to kill himself. There is a wonderful scene of the little girl trying to draw him back to life.

What you see in the title sequence for Tarsem’s “The Fall” is a director’s absolute control over his vision. To view it after seeing the film is a gift; a rare and beautiful thing. Surreal, extravagant and a world I’d like to step in to, not to bear witness, but to sense things in such a way.

Scored to Beethoven’s Symphony No 7 In A Major, Op.92 (2-Allegretto), the visuals hit their money notes in quick succession. The bridge becomes a stage and the caballus curtain rises as the sequence concludes.

From Tarsem’s DVD commentary, out on January 26, 2009 : “It is hard to define…I wanted chaos without energy.”

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Home at last - we're in! 4 - kitchen

What is Brazil?

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THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE INDEPENDENT BOOK STORE

Remember when a hallmark of big cities was the large numbers of distinctive, independent book stores? They were often cluttered, musty places run by tweedy eccentrics with an almost surrealistic knowledge of virtually every book ever published. Browsing through such stores used to be one of life's small pleasures, but it's a pleasure that is rapidly vanishing. In recent years, behemoth book chains have taken over the landscape and systematically targeted smaller independent stores and put them out of business. The larger chains are certainly impressive in many ways: they stock a huge number of titles, provide comfortable settings where you can sit and browse through volumes at your leisure, and often discount titles. The smaller shops simply couldn't compete. However, as writer Hugh McGuire of The Huffington Post points out, a tradeoff for the benefits of the big stores was that we've lost an important part of our heritage. The major chains are cookie-cutter carbon copies of each other and lack the intimacy that the small shops provided - not to mention knowledgeable staff. It's virtually impossible to imagine having a prolonged conversation about the title you are buying with some of the pimple-faced kids who run many of the giant book stores. More importantly, the book business is increasingly in the hands of a relatively few companies that exercise enormous clout with publishers. The stores shake down publishers for fees in order to ensure certain titles received prominent placement, and they issue draconian demands in terms of pricing and return policies. From a book store's standpoint, the business is risk free. Stores can stock up on as many copies of a book as they would like in the knowledge they can be returned to the publisher at any time without penalty. Meanwhile, the publishers bear the burden of the entire risk of publishing a book. With the increasing clout exercised on publishers by big chain stores, it can influence what types of books are published. If major chains say they are less-than-enthusiastic about stocking certain genres or authors, it leaves the publisher in a quandry about where to sell these books if the chain stores turn them down. Even worse, the large chain stores are now devoting more of their real estate to secondary types of products, squeezing out books at the expense of DVDS, electronics and giftware. 

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In memoriam: Donald E. Westlake 1933-2008

Donald Edwin Westlake (12 July 1933 – 31 December 2008) was an American writer, with over a hundred novels and non-fiction books to his credit. He specialized in crime fiction, especially comic capers with an occasional foray into science fiction. He was a three-time Edgar Award winner, one of only two writers (the other is Joe Gores) to win Edgars in three different categories (1968, Best Novel, God Save the Mark; 1990, Best Short Story, "Too Many Crooks"; 1991, Best Motion Picture Screenplay, The Grifters). In 1993, the Mystery Writers of America named Westlake a Grand Master, the highest honor bestowed by the society.
He was also an occasional contributor to science fiction fanzines.

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