Sunscreen gets a shot of Hairspray

Just received this news release from the upcoming, up-and-coming Sunscreen Film Festival:

The Executive Producers of the Sunscreen Film Festival are pleased to announce that this March, actor and Florida resident John Travolta will join local filmmakers and film festival supporters for a reception celebrating the launch of the Film Festival's third season.

"People who know me know that I am a great believer in the creative process, and I am excited to be a part of something that is honoring the next generation of film makers," Travolta said. "I love living in Florida and want to see more films made here – this is what Sunscreen is working toward and I support what they are doing."

The Sunscreen Film Festival shows selections of films made by Florida filmmakers. This year it received 47 submissions for the Florida category among 240 entries.

The Festival will be held in St. Petersburg March 19 – 22 at the Renaissance Vinoy Hotel and at the Baywalk Muvico, a short walk from the Vinoy. Tony Armer, Executive Director of the Festival, said that the support of Mr. Travolta and others is taking the Festival to a new level. "Each year Sunscreen grows and attracts more attention," he added.

"We are extremely grateful and honored by this support from Mr. Travolta, an accomplished artist and an industry leader. He is making a tremendous contribution."

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Anyone wishing to attend the March 4 reception will need to do the same. Attendance is limited to festival organizers, filmmakers and assorted VIPs, although a limited number of seats are available for a $500 donation to Sunscreen coffers. Call Harry Chittenden at (727) 420-0566 for information.

Joe Bob Briggs says check this out

You may remember my push to get the original splatter film Blood Feast included in a made-in-Florida sidebar at the upcoming Gasparilla Film Festival. Well, kiddies, it's gonna happen.

Not only that, but director Herschell Gordon Lewis and producer David Friedman are also attending, and I'll be going all James Lipton on them in a Q&A after the show. Big thanks to the Andys at Film Ranch, Tampa Bay's premier horror filmmakers, for arranging the appearance of these godfathers of gore and ballyhoo.

I e-mailed the esteemed drive-in movie critic Joe Bob Briggs a couple months ago asking him to spread the word to engender support for the Blood Feast idea. Woke up this morning to find his reply, which I'm honored to share with you, followed by the poster art for the evening:

Steve!

        "Blood Feast" has always been dishonored in its home country! That's terrible. Of course they should honor it in Tampa. I'll spread the word to the faithful, and maybe we can make a difference.

        Thanks for the nice words and the reminiscences, bud. Do me a favor and send me your postal mailing address so I can make sure you're on the propaganda list.

Hang in there,

Joe Bob

Julian Schnabel's butterfly moment

Artists may look inside their souls or at the outside world, seeking what they will create next.

In 2004, Julian Schnabel needed only to look upstairs where his father lay dying to know he wanted to turn Jean-Dominique Bauby’s book The Diving Bell and the Butterfly into a movie.

Bauby’s memoirs of entrapment inside his paralyzed body while striving to communicate literally hit close to home.

Schnabel had read Bauby’s remarkable memoir, “written” by blinking his left eyelid in coded alphabet, painstakingly transcribed by others. Ronald Harwood’s screenplay adaptation coincidentally reached Schnabel around the same time Jack Schnabel, suffering with prostate cancer, moved in with his son’s family.

During the Telluride Film Festival, Schnabel candidly spoke about the convergence that led to The Diving Bell and the Butterfly on film, and now his Academy Award nomination for best director.

The film opens Friday at Tampa Theatre, and Feb. 15 at Beach Theater on St. Pete Beach.

Schnabel, an acclaimed painter turned filmmaker, recalled a close relationship with his father, and how he had planned a trip to Germany to exhibit his neo-expressionist art. A few days before departure, Schnabel came face-to-face with the inevitable:

“One night, I was getting ready to travel, my wife was in bed and she said: ‘I don’t think your dad is going to be here when you get back.’

“I said: ‘Do you think he looks that bad?’ She said yes. So I went upstairs and put him in the bathtub like usual and said: ‘Dad, don’t (defecate) in the tub. But he did, like usual, and he was happy doing that.”

The next morning, Jack Schnabel’s caretaker called the son upstairs. “I think he wanted me alone with my father one last time,” Schnabel said.

“Bile was coming from my father’s mouth and his eyes were flickering and he looked scared. There was this fear in him that I wished I could’ve taken away. I really wondered what he was seeing while he was dying.

“What I wanted to do (with The Diving Bell and the Butterfly) was to show what that looks like from the inside.”

Read the rest of Schnabel's comments Friday in Floridian.

Over Eva Longoria's Dead Movie Career

Over Her Dead Body is a neat title for a horror flick and darned if it isn’t one.

It is scary to think anyone would pay $9 plus gas, snacks and maybe a babysitter to see this alleged comedy anywhere except someone else’s cable TV. That way, they wouldn’t have to pay for it, just bring a snack.

I would spend the bucks to see Alien, Predator and the Hostel guys taking a chainsaw to the projection room showing this thing, filmed way back in 2006 when Paul Rudd wasn’t a cultish comedy favorite yet and Eva Longoria was hot.

Okay, Longoria is still hot in some desperate housewife sense and Rudd (Knocked Up) always makes something out of nothing, which is what he’s paid for here. But this is the kind of movie that will be buried in future production notes for their better roles -- or possibly, mercifully, forgotten altogether.

Longoria plays Kate, who is primed for marital bliss with Henry (Rudd) when a wedding day ice sculpture conks her on the head. She dies, awakening in an ethereal limbo straight out of Heaven Can Wait. In this case, heaven should hurry to claim her soul and end the movie. Instead, Kate re-appears as a ghost with the kind of supernatural presence that Ghost Dad made stupid 18 years ago.

The funniest part of Over Her Dead Body occurred off-screen, where studio-hired security guards watched for “pirates” videotaping the movie. Such precautions happen all the time but guards don’t usually sport handcuffs and black gloves, sharing updates on walkie-talkies and scanning the crowd with night vision goggles as often.

I laughed aloud at my private joke: Who in the world would want to steal this movie?

John Rambo's close Burma shave

Land mines are a popular weapon in Rambo, but nobody sets them off like Sylvester Stallone’s ultra-violent 1980’s action hero.

Everyone else’s mines blow off body parts or release blood gushers. Post-traumatically stressed Vietnam vet John Rambo sets off a single booby trap to nearly nuclear effect, completely with mini-mushroom cloud and a blast wave toppling trees for a hundred yards.

Why does that happen? Because the mine knows it was set by Rambo. Not even Chuck Norris can compete with his intimidating reputation.

After creating a suitable swan song for Rocky Balboa, director and co-writer Stallone does the same for Rambo. Keep in mind that this character isn’t as interesting, so “suitable” doesn’t mean the movie is as good. But after seeing horror flicks cornering the gore market for years, it is vaguely refreshing to see mutilating violence used for insanely justified good.

Rambo has been laying low since 1988’s part 3 in Thailand’s jungle, making ends meet by wrangling cobras for snake shows and bow fishing. He still hasn’t acquired any social skills, so Christian missionaries asking to be taken upriver into genocidal Burma get the cold, muscular shoulder. Then Rambo accepts a crucifix from Sister Sarah (Julie Benz) and away they go.

The Samaritans are dropped off then captured by homicidal Burmese troops, some killed and others offered to wild boars as snacks. Rambo gets the grisly news and joins a pack of hired guns in a rescue mission: mercenaries saving missionaries. “When you’re pushed, killing is as easy as breathin’,” may be Rambo’s longest spoken sentence, summing up the rest of the movie.

Hoo, baby, this is a violent mission, laced with lacerations, decapitations and enough Rambo arrows shot through heads to make Steve Martin an unofficial technical adviser. When no weapons are handy, Rambo simply rips out the throat of someone planning to sexually assault Sarah. That’s how a brute shows that he cares.

Rambo’s close Burma shave has no intentions of being topical. First Blood and its sequel at least had something to mumble about treatment of Vietnam veterans, and part 3 battling Russians in Afghanistan predated the fall of the Berlin Wall.

This one is entertaining strictly for the cheese factor that Stallone denied two decades ago and now seems comfy with. But Rambo isn’t merely cheese; it is a muddy, bloody brie.

A striking screenwriter's Oscar acceptance speech

It occurred to me today that the Writers Guild of America strike will probably end in time -- or at least get a no-picket waiver -- for the 80th annual Academy Awards to proceed as usual.

Why not? They can appear to be sympathetic to a public audience jonesing for celebrities after the Golden Globes tanked. Plus, two members of the union will win Oscars for best original and adapted screenplays, allowing them an international TV audience to deliver their negotiation pitch to millions of viewers.

Here's what a screenwriter winner might say:

"I will not spend my 45 seconds of on-stage time before the orchestra plays me off thanking my significant other, parents or God for what I wrote. They can divvy up my Oscar swag bag later. I hear God hasn't spent a spa weekend in Cabo San Lucas since Ecclesiastes.

Instead, I would like to thank all the writers who have joined me on the picket lines, who held American entertainment hostage for the past three months -- at least on TV because Hollywood stocked up the canned beets of quality. Without your fortitude, even with the concessions allowing me this platform, our current labor stalemate would be much less effective.

I know those Ramen noodles have been tough to chew for writers whose film and sitcom ideas have been unsold during negotiations. When the strike is over and my next, Oscar-emboldened screenplay offer comes in, perhaps we can have a "cookout to help out" (a nice news release title but, hey, I'm a writer). Just don't pee in the pool.

I would like to remind producers whose unawareness of unfairness -- I'm on a rhyme roll -- in compensation to writers whom multimedia fortunes are built upon that our cause is just.

(Orchestra begins playing 20 seconds early.)

But only just as long as we can hold out for the big Kahuna, the pay-by-letter clause that Diablo Cody is pushing for.  But, you know, this red carpet stuff is pretty seductive. Keira Knightley looked at me. ME!

(Orchestra music swells.)

We gave up defending reality show TV writers -- I honestly didn't know they had any --  in order to let the Grammys go on without picket lines. To those writers, I apologize and wish them luck on Monster.com when we cash in without them. We had to concede the Grammys because (a.) it's the only time anyone can catch up with what's happening in pop music 10 years ago, and (b.) without music I'd never score with the chicks.

(Orchestra stops playing in bewilderment, wondering why Keira Knightley didn't look at them.)

But giving the Grammys a pass enabled us to get to this place in time, when someone like me who is just like you except for the development deal, could stand in front of millions of television viewers -- perhaps not as many because few people saw the Oscar nominees -- and speak for all others.

(Orchestra, still confused, begins playing the next best song nominee from Enchanted.)

We are the writers. We are the source of everything derivative and downright stupid making those fortunes we want a fairer piece of. If not for the occasional artists like me and the other four, unfortunate nominees who didn't win crafting words and scenarios that are truly original (for some audiences), there wouldn't be a bounty to argue about dividing.

We are your Mediterranean mansions, your Botox treatments, your next luxury rehab tab.

We can't deny the fact that you like us! Right now, you really like us!"

(Orchestra conductor tosses his baton in the air. Keira Knightley smiles.)

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

The opening minutes of Julian Schnabel’s The Diving Bell and the Butterfly are unsettling, to say the least. The camera is tilted at odd angles, blurred where it isn’t completely shaded and seldom pointing where it logically should. Faraway voices speak to and about someone who doesn’t seem to be there.

We are inside the comatose but slowly awakening body of Jean-Dominique Bauby, whom we learn he was a bon vivant editor of Elle magazine, an incorrigible ladies man and often a louse. There is tragedy in the fact that such a vivacious human being should be so debilitated, and a trace of karmic justice, too.

Schnabel – an Academy Award nominee for best director -- ingeniously immerses viewers into Jean-Do’s (as he is known) bewilderment and frustration. Although unable to speak, we hear his thoughts – never self-pitying and often morbidly humorous -- while doctors probe and muse, making tiny signs of life sound like breakthroughs.

We sense his horror when a now-worthless eye is sewn shut to prevent infection. We laugh when his good eye seeks a nurse’s cleavage and his mind still concocts come-on lines. By the time Schnabel shifts into more traditional third-person imagery, showing us Jean-Do’s ravaged, paralyzed body (Mathieu Amalric), we understand his severe condition better than any film managed before.

But this isn’t a typical medical drama. There won’t be a miraculous recovery or some excessively noble death. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly defies such melodramatic clichés, even when Jean-Do finds a way to communicate and “dictates” his memoirs with coded eye blinks to an incredibly patient nurse (Marie-Josee Croze).

Schnabel, an acclaimed painter turned filmmaker, has a bit of louse’s reputation himself in art circles. He relates Jean-Do’s story as he might appreciate his own told under similar circumstances, with painterly flourishes, revealing flashbacks and understated emotion. Schnabel reaches beyond sympathy to project empathy, confident that the difference makes a more lasting impression.

I've been waiting to tell this story

But I was worried about jinxing myself. Now that Oscar nominations have been announced and my Telluride wager is decided, I don't mind.

While vacationing at the Telluride Film Festival last Labor Day weekend, Princess Di and I were invited to a  late dinner at a tres chic French restaurant called La Marmotte. That worried me a bit because I thought "marmotte" only meant some kind of rodent, plus the Ratatouille stink was still on me. I have since learned that La Marmotte is also a famous bicycle race in France. Not that I'm crazy about bicyclists, either.

Anyway, we ended up sitting across from writer-director Stefan Ruzowitzky whose film The Counterfeiters we had tickets to see the next day. Very nice gentleman, with an ingratiating shortage of English language skills. Still, we had great conversation for nearly two hours, laughing at each other's misunderstandings, drinking some mighty fine wine and chowing down on grilled hanger steak with some kind of frou-frou shrimp and whatnot.

Then this guy comes up, sits down and starts talking business with Stefan, who didn't seem to fully appreciate the interruption. Since he didn't say anything, I figured the interloper was just another publicist trying to get him to mingle for his film's sake. Stefan left with him for about two minutes then returned. A few minutes later, the guy -- Tom somebody --  also came back to the table where we began talking about  films at the festival.

Tom was raving about Persepolis, an intersting movie I had watched about 45 minutes of the first night after a long day's travel, so I didn't make it all the way through. Tom was predicting Academy Award nominations for the French/Iranian project based on graphic novels, including best adapted screenplay. "It's golden," he claimed.

No way, I said. Certainly best animated feature (which it earned Tuesday) for the unique style. Maybe even best foreign language film with its political topicality. But best adapted screenplay? No way.

Tom seemed genuinely insulted that anyone would contradict him. He offered a bet on Persepolis getting that screenplay nod. Knowing I was from Tampa Bay, and since he's a hockey fan, he suggested  Lightning playoff tickets vs. New Jersey Devils playoff tickets. The wine won and we shook on it. Stefan hid a slight smile behind his hand.

When the hanger steak was served, Stefan asked what part of the cow or whatever it comes from. Tom, apparently still feeling testy, jerked his thumb toward me and said: "Ask this guy. He knows everything."

A tense but tasty entree, to be sure.

Later, I pulled out the business card -- one of mine since Tom didn't have one -- that he scribbled his name, e-mail and phone number upon. Turns out he is Tom Bernard, co-president of Sony Pictures Classics and recently named with his partner by Variety as the sixth-most powerful person in independent cinema. At least I could count on him affording to pay up.

That was almost five months ago. Tuesday morning when the Oscar nominations were announced, I did a Macaulay Culkin fist pump when Persepolis wasn't among the adapted screenplay nominees. I also cheered a bit when Stefan's film The Counterfeiters earned a well-deserved nomination for best foreign language film.

So, I dashed off an e-mail to Tom today, congratulating him on the nominations and reminding him of the wager while letting him off the hook:

"The good news for you," I messaged, "is that the Lightning don't have a snowball's chance in hell of making the playoffs this year, although those Devils are tearing up the ice. The better news for me is that I'm not really big on hockey but I'm HUGE on being right."

I'll let you know if he gets back in touch.

First Oscars odds are posted online

The betting handicappers at bodog.com quickly laid odds on the major Academy Award categories, with No Country for Old Men an odds-on 10/11 favorite to win best picture. You can find the proposition bets listed about halfway down the page, right after the Grammy award betting lines.

Best actor nominee Daniel Day-Lewis for There Will Be Blood is an equally strong bet (so far) at 1/2, same as Javier Bardem (No Country for Old Men) in the supporting actor voting.

Of course, we don't advise anyone to use an online gambling site for anything but entertainment purposes.

But it's just the start of all the Oscars fun.

What if they gave an Oscars show...

... and nobody cared?

Oscar organizers are justifiably concerned that the Writers Guild of America strike may turn the Feb. 24 telecast into a starless non-event like the recent Golden Globes.

But even if the strike ends and celebrities attend, how many mainstream moviegoers will tune in for an awards show refusing to reflect their tastes?

On Hollywood’s own Super Tuesday, millions of moviegoers realized their box office votes didn’t count: No nominations for 2007’s top-grossing film, Spider-man 3, or the runner-up, Shrek the Third. The year’s third-ranked movie, Transformers, earned three nods, in special effects and sound categories.

Not exactly the way to make an Academy Awards show into must-see TV. It isn’t coincidental that two of the event’s highest-rated telecasts were dominated by Titanic and The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, the leading money earners of their release years.

You have to scroll down the 2007 box office rankings all the way to No. 9 before finding a hit that Oscar voters found worthy of major nominations: Disney/Pixar’s Ratatouille ($206.4-million) that made the short lists for best animated feature and original screenplay among its five nominations.

In fact, Ratatouille’s box office performance is only a few million dollars behind tickets sales for the five best picture nominees combined.

Juno, a saucy comedy about a pregnant teenager (best actress nominee Ellen Page) seeking suitable adoptive parents for her baby, is closest to being a popular hit. Best director Jason Reitman’s film has earned $88-million at North American box offices. The boost that usually comes from major Academy Award nominations should soon push it over the coveted $100-million mark.

That isn’t likely to happen with the other four best picture nominees, although Michael Clayton ($39.2-million), starring best actor finalist George Clooney as a conscience-stricken insurance fixer, will soon be re-released to try. Michael Clayton is the second-highest grosser among best picture nominees.

Nomination leaders There Will Be Blood ($9-million) and No Country for Old Men ($45-million) – currently in theaters with eight nods each – will need an Oscars windfall and maybe a couple miracles to reach the $100-million plateau. The British World War II drama Atonement ($32-million) has about the same chance, which is to say none.

Why is there such a discrepancy in tastes between Academy Awards voters and regular moviegoers?

Certainly the subject matter of this year’s top Oscar contenders is a key reason. Juno is the lone best picture candidate that could be considered “light-hearted” entertainment although its comedy is darker than, say, Will Ferrell or Adam Sandler’s. The other nominees deal with murder, corruption, period-era deceptions and other topics unappealing to moviegoers seeking pure escapism.

But it precisely the artistry and originality inspired by such topics that the academy seeks to reward. Nobody should fool themselves into thinking that a movie deserves a best picture nomination simply because it sold millions of tickets. Oscar voters are doing what feels right in their hearts, and so will Joe and Josephine Moviegoer. Even if that means switching to another channel on Feb. 24.

Oscar nominations announced!

Atonement, Juno, Michael Clayton, No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood are best picture finalists after nominations for the 80th annual Academy Awards were announced today.

No Country for Old Men, a violent crime drama set in 1980 Texas, and the oil industry drama There Will Be Blood tied for the most nominations with 8 nods each

Best actor finalists include George Clooney (Michael Clayton), Daniel Day-Lewis (There Will Be Blood), Johnny Depp (Sweeney Todd), Tommy Lee Jones (In the Valley of Elah) and Viggo Mortensen (Eastern Promises).

Best actress nominees: Cate Blanchett (Elizabeth: The Golden Years), Julie Christie (Away from Her), Marion Cotillard (La Vie en Rose), Laura Linney (The Savages) and Ellen Page (Juno).

Best supporting actor nominees: Casey Affleck (The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford), Javier Bardem (No Country for Old Men), Philip Seymour Hoffman (Charlie Wilson's War), Hal Holbrook (Into the Wild), Tom Wilkinson (Michael Clayton).

Best supporting actress nominees: Cate Blanchett (I'm Not There), Ruby Dee (American Gangster), Saoirse Ronan (Atonement), Amy Ryan (Gone Baby Gone), Tilda Swinton (Michael Clayton).

Best original screenplay: Juno, Lars and the Real Girl, Michael Clayton, Ratatouille, The Savages.

Best adapted screenplay: Atonement, Away from Her, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, No Country for Old Men, There Will be Blood.

Best director: Julian Schnabel (The Diving Bell and the Butterfly), Jason Reitman (Juno), Tony Gilroy (Michael Clayton), Joel and Ethan Coen (No Country for Old Men), Paul Thomas Anderson (There Will be Blood).

Best animated feature: Persepolis, Ratatouille, Surf's Up

Not all of the academy's 25 categories were announced live on TV. You can click here to view a complete listing of this year's Oscar nominations. If Web traffic among movie fans is too heavy, try clicking here for the list.

Tuesday's nominations were announced today before sunrise in L.A. at the Samuel Goldwyn Theater at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

Check back later at this blog for my take on today's nominations announcements: Who got what they deserve and who didn't? What kind of trends emerged in this year's balloting? What films and performances appear to have the inside track to Oscar gold?

The 80th annual Academy Awards will be presented Feb. 24 at the Kodak Theater on Hollywood Blvd. The show will be broadcast at 8 p.m. EST on the ABC network. Hopefully it won't be another starless, joyless "news conference" like the Golden Globes were compelled to air due to the current Writers Guild of America strike. Oscars producer Gil Cates insists the show will go on.

If the strike continues through Feb. 24 and picket lines are announced for the Kodak Theater, actors and directors that refused to cross them at the Golden Globes could take the same unity stand with the writers union at the Oscars.

Check this MSN.com/Associated Press rundown of the strike's effect upon Hollywood award shows, and Cates' vow to make the show happen in some form (3 hours of Oscar show highlights? Puh-leeeze).

Shakin' 2008's moneymakers

Need a little help with a feature running Friday in Floridian. It's risky but the sudden gumption around here makes me think you folks are clever enough to help.

Indiana Jones and James Bond wouldn’t risk this mission. Harry Potter might but he has magical powers to do anything. I’m going where Batman and the Narnia kids fear to tread, where no Star Trek captain has gone before:

Predicting 2008’s biggest movie hits, in order and with estimated box office receipts.

There won’t be blood but sweat and tears are likely.

I'm composing the list using a precisely calibrated formula of factors, proportions and ratios, confirmed by renowned industry analysts and…

Just kidding, folks. I’m guessing all the way.

That's where you come in.

Pick a few 2008 movies you're high on seeing and predict how much money they'll gross domestically. Maybe rank your picks for the top 5 or 10 hits of the year.

Discuss among yourselves.

Clover and over

OK, let's get some perspective on both sides of this "my-generation-is-better-than-yours" thing. The Friday b.o. results for the latest shiny object look good if you want them to. But not if you're old enough to watch things happen over time (an advantage of old age).

Cloverfield grossed $16.9-million on Friday when all the fanboyz and girlz would be in theaters. That breaks the all-time record for an opening Friday in January, a historically dead month for new releases. Cloverfield got the audience that immediately complains about anyone not liking the movie since they had a lot of trouble getting there first.

Yay.

The weekend total will be around $42-million, another January record, of course. It doesn't matter that January is a dump-off month for studios while the Oscar push is going on. It will still be enough for Paramount  flacks, J.J. Abrams, his minions and anyone driven to the theater by hype for hoke to claim victory over infidels like me dissing the movie.

So, I'm wrong, right? Wrong.

I don't write for p.r. folks, producers or moviegoers sold on whatever studio suits (who are nothing like us except wanting to live in comfort) are cagey enough to sell. I also don't pretend -- as Cloverleaf lemmings will --that something is cool because previously mentioned, invested factions say it is.

The January record some will cherish as vindication -- and remember that publicists create new records whenever it benefits clients -- was set last year by Snakes on a Plane. That piece of, um, art had the same aggressive Web push and gullible audience I'm griping about.

Are drones getting wiser by paying even more money with little else than someone else's clever and self-gratifying urging? I don't think so.

Will Cloverleaf be a memorable screen experience for some moviegoers? There's a very good chance it will. Heck, even David Spade's movies have someone who'll swear by them. Does that make Joe Dirt a better comedy than Blazing Saddles or even Night at the Museum? No way, just like McDonald's selling 47 quintillion hamburgers doesn't make them fine dining.

But at least Ronald McDonald doesn't sell Big Macs as the greatest eating experience you'll ever have. And if they did most people have enough sense to consider that maybe, just maybe, it isn't.

Yet some people have never eaten anything except fast food, so a McRib is a five-star culinary delight. Those are the marks I'm talking about.  The folks I respect will consider Cloverleaf as a McRib with a couple extra pickle slices, if you don't mind hydroponic pickles.

There are too many who won't -- thereby dumbing down movies to be made, if dumb ideas sold to easy targets make fortunes. I love this stuff too much to sit by and not provoke them to reconsider, as anyone should who sees movies as a longtime means, not an weekend end.

Anyone I pissed off is collateral damage.

If Cloverleaf came out before Blair Witch Project, I might applaud its psuedo-cinema verite style and hope someone could refine it to chilling effect. Since it didn't, I see something that looks derivative in execution and exploitative in its delivery to a young audience making pickpocketing too easy.   

Crimson and Cloverfield

Got some people seeing red and that's always fun. One more reader eloquently objected to my thoughts on Cloverfield, the young viewers likely to make it a hit and why. I'm not budging but have to admire the gusto shown by defenders of their beliefs like Christian Marble:

Mr. Persall,

While I appreciate your opinion as a professional, I just wanted to say that I found your (Jan. 25) review of Cloverfield to be insulting, specifically because you took a direct shot at my "gullible YouTube generation."

How old are you, sir? Because it seemed that you entirely missed the point of everything in this movie, and failed to even grasp one of the many aspects of it that will make J.J. Abrams' project probably one of the biggest hits of this decade among people my age (I'm 19). If you don't understand the "YouTube" generation, if you don't understand our language or our social behavior patterns or the way we see the world or act or think, then obviously you won't get the movie. And that's fine, you don't have to. But what I seriously object to is the complete condescension with which you treat not only the film, but also my age group.

As a generation that has been producing "wishful doodles" in our notebooks for years, we certainly appreciate seeing the sort of nightmarish, and nothing short of awesome, effects in the movie and the adrenalizing pace with which we experience the film's events. I for one am glad to have seen what looked like a montage of some of my most epic and amazing dreams, and as a college student, I identified with the characters a great deal.

Another aspect that you, and undoubtedly many other movie reviewers across the nation, missed about this movie and a great number of other films, is the fact that it wasn't simply a 90 minute monster flick that came out of nowhere. Internet marketing is what has driven the film, the sort of user-generated hype that was propelled by mysterious websites like slusho.jp and tagruato.jp as well as all sorts of YouTube clips and rumors about the film. The internet is what drives my generation, and it will make movies profitable. Not to mention that it's already boosting a number of presidential campaigns.

You're entitled to your conventional opinion that seems to be largely based on the old rules. That's fine. But when you see something that you obviously don't understand or grasp in its generational context, please try not to call it irritating or anything like that, and for the love of God don't insult my age group just because we're into something new, because we live by different rules and we like different things out of our movies. Every once and a while, it's okay to have a movie that makes obvious 9/11 references and scares us senseless without being a grand masterpiece of thoughtful literature. Although, I will add that my 52-year-old, Fine Arts Major mother thought the movie was gripping, convincing, cutting edge, and a very accurate mirror of my generation specifically through the camerawork and dialog.

Basically, as a reader, I just wanted to say that I'm tired of movie reviewers acting like my generation is full of senseless morons that will "believe anything we could shoot by ourselves is awesome." If you don't get us, fine, but don't be so condescending just because you have different tastes than the rest of us. A D- for the movie was more than a bit extreme.

Finally, your contempt and mockery for the members of my generation who enjoyed the hype and loved the movie couldn't be more obvious, and it offends me. I do not like being told that I as one of the "fanboyz" am some kind of a moron who is deluding himself about the movie. I didn't pretend to be thrilled, I was thrilled. I'm going to see the movie again, probably repeatedly. And I would appreciate it if you would try to be a little less insulting to a movie's fans the next time you make a review.

Sincerely,
Christian Marble

Roll me over in Cloverfield and don't do it again

All those yahoos who still give me grief about admiring The Blair Witch Project need to see Cloverfield. Nobody else, just them.

Cloverfield is the Internet phenomenon that for nearly a year has been teasing fanboyz and whatever girlz are lonely enough to hang with them. Shot with the same exclusively home video shakycam effects that made Blair Witch so innovative at the time, yet without any of the ingenious restraint in terms of shocks (which created pure, delicious tension).

The conceit loses something when people don't have any good reason to be videotaping intimate moments (with proper lighting and decent framing at all the non-crucial points) while a giant some-kind-of-creature is leveling Manhattan. The camera is turned on at a goodbye party for someone dull with the most vapid friends this side of, well, Friends. It doesn't get turned off soon enough.

Cloverfield is the first monster movie that ever made me pull for the monster to pick up the pace and kill everybody.

I have a headache from the experience and don't feel like thinking anymore about it tonight. Read my review Friday on page 2B and believe it: This is an egregious exploitation of the YouTube generation's gullibility when it comes to anything that someone tells them will be cool, the people whose fingertips are calloused from tapping on keyboards searching for clues about Cloverfield's cryptic ballyhoo and what the monster looks like.

Heck, at least Snakes on a Plane was occasionally schlocky fun.

I'll tell you what the monster looks like because I saw it on the way out of the theater: It looks just  like The Water Horse: Legend of the Deep. The only thing scary about it is how many pinheads will pay money this weekend for the chance to fake appreciation instead of admitting they were duped.

Golden Globes, leaden show

Do you know what Sunday night’s bizarre Golden Globes awards telecast needed?

Long-winded acceptance speeches, silly dance routines, redundant film clip tributes and appearances by accountants who tallied votes. Anything usually sending viewers to the bathroom, refrigerator or bed.

Stripped of star power by the Writers Guild of America strike, the Golden Globes suffered a case a reverse alchemy, turning into lead.

Celebrity nominees stayed away from the traditionally raucous dinner party, showing solidarity with writers pushing for a larger cut of Internet and new media profits. Actors and directors also have their own unions readying negotiations for new contracts with studios and producers.

For once, Golden Globes organizers can’t feel proud of being considered a precursor to the Academy Awards. Unless a settlement is reached between writers and producers before Feb. 24, the Oscars will likely be as starless and joyless.

The surest winners Sunday night were the upcoming Screen Actors Guild and Film Independent Spirit awards shows. Both events have been granted waivers by the writers union, meaning there won’t be picket lines to cross and writers will be allowed to script all that “impromptu” banter.

The actors union gets a break because its membership supported the writers’ cause all along. Independent filmmakers aren’t unionized but know how greedy/stingy producers can be, and unlike studio suits they are genuinely grateful for good writing.

Fans seeking a celebrity fix or fashion primer will get their chance with those two self-congratulatory award shows. The SAG awards will be simulcast Jan. 27 on TNT and TBS. The Spirit awards air live Feb. 23 on the Independent Film Channel with a cleaned-up version - because that Santa Monica beach party gets crazy - later on American Movie Classics.

Both will be more entertaining than Sunday night when the Hollywood Foreign Press Association rolled out the dead carpet.

Appropriately, Sunday’s first Golden Globe went to Cate Blanchett for the movie I’m Not There. She wasn’t, and neither was anyone else except entertainment reporters flushed with being the best-dressed people in the room for a change and studio publicists clapping for their clients.

Keep in mind that NBC’s hour-long (not so) special wasn’t even the official announcement of winners. That duty was given to twinky entertainment reporters who passed the information to the even twinkier Access Hollywood duo of Billy Bush and Nancy O’Dell for the telecast. NBC spruced up the proceedings and it was still deadly dull.

How bad was the telecast? Consider the fact that NBC News on Monday preferred using footage of the first twinks opening envelopes rather than the ones the network hired. Five Globes winners -- including Eddie Vedder’s best original song Guaranteed from Into the Wild - weren’t even included in the telecast.

How honored can those artists feel, knowing they weren’t important enough to be mentioned during a lousy show?

Fallout from the writers strike doesn’t change the fact that the Golden Globes are an overrated aspect of Hollywood’s award season. The Hollywood Foreign Press Association has less than 100 voting members, many of them freelancers working for international publications you’ll never read. They’re great at attending and throwing parties, and never met a celebrity they didn’t fawn over. They even split their categories into drama and musical/comedy choices to squeeze more stars into the ceremony.

As their organization’s name suggests, nominees who aren’t American, or have international appeal like best musical/comedy actor Johnny Depp (Sweeney Todd) - who lives in France -- gain an advantage. That may explain wins for England’s Blanchett and Spanish import Javier Bardem (No Country for Old Men) in the supporting actor races. It certainly helped Julie Christie (Away from Her) and Marion Cotillard (La Vie en Rose) in the best actress competitions. Englishman Daniel Day-Lewis won best dramatic actor for There Will be Blood while the Parisian-theme Ratatouille was named best animated film.

Even the best picture winners, Atonement among dramas and Sweeney Todd in the musical comedy category, are set in England.

Only Vedder, screenplay winners Joel and Ethan Coen (No Country for Old Men) and best director Julian Schnabel (The Diving Bell and the Butterfly) saved the day for American-born artists.

Winning a Golden Globe won’t boost anyone’s chances of an Academy Award since nomination ballots were due Saturday. Any of Sunday’s winner could make the cut, or none of them. The only certain Oscar prediction coming out of this year’s Golden Globes is that unless the writers strike is settled, Hollywood’s most glamorous night is in serious trouble.

Nanny nanny boo boo

I knew my brief summer fling with Scarlett Johansson would come back to haunt me. It wasn't long after I finished with her that I felt dirty, guilty, and told myself I never wanted to speak of what happened again.

And now my embarrassing mistake has been outed, so I'm compelled to spill it all for you.

For reasons that can't be justified, I liked The Nanny Diaries on first viewing. It was a semiprivate morning screening (always more comfy than nighttime cattle calls), I think I had a Starbucks buzz going and nearly everything else I'd seen lately had more obviously sucked. Nanny Diaries was sitting there like a mascaraed barfly at closing time and I didn't resist.

I immediately shared the indiscretion with Princess Di, who understood. What a woman.

Weeks later when the Nanny Diaries DVD arrived, I couldn't wait to show her what led me on. Immediately after the end credits rolled, I turned to Princess Di and said: "Well, I really overestimated that one, didn't I?" Confession is good for the soul. We returned to life as usual, our trust and commitment to each other firmer than ever.

Now Erik Childress from eFilmCritic.com has dug into my garbage can, pulling out shameful evidence of my Scarlett letter-grade A mistake. Childress annually composes a hilarious list of the top-10 blurb whores; film critics whose overheated reactions to mediocre movies become selling points in print and TV ads.

Don't worry, I'm not on that dishonor roll. I do my best to avoid cliches like "a rollercoaster ride" that p.r. flacks love. I take pride in not writing for ad quotes, unlike blurb whores who'll say anything to see their names in ads and keep getting invited to free junkets. But apparently Weinstein Company publicists lifted a couple remarks from my Nanny Diaries review to lure people into buying tickets (since nobody else had nice things to say). I formally apologize to anyone I misled.

Childress did note these regrettable quotes of mine (and the hyperventilated exclamation points added by the studio) in his recently posted rundown of 2007's most laughable critic slips:

"A better movie this summer is hard to find!" (Although after last summer's letdowns, that isn't too much of a stretch.)

"One of the year's nicest surprises!" (Well, I don't have an excuse for that one.)

Childress also listed my comment that Into the Wild "is my favorite movie of the year." If he had seen me joyfully sobbing after a Telluride screening, or read my top-10 list and notes, that one wouldn't seem so hyperbolic. I might have not minded an exclamation point there.

At least I didn't make the list of 2007's 15 dumbest quotes, topped by Gene Shalit's assertion that Death at a Funeral was "a comedy to die for... It reminds us that the first three letters of 'funeral' are F-U-N. Fun."

I'm in good company (Roger Ebert, A.O. Scott) and bad (anyone who only opines on TV or self-reverential blogs). Childress humorously handles everyone as an equal opportunity ego deflater. God knows folks in my profession need that on occasion.

I invite everyone to check out Childress' exhaustive rankings and excerpts justifying them. If you think you have it bad with me, you ain't read nothin' yet.

This is kinda cool

Do me a favor and don't post any comments. That way, I feel freer to do what I want and just have smartly snarky fun here (as opposed to kids who don't know the meaning of the word "snark" and abuse it). I'll have fun watching the hit totals rise or lower from 30th place in the Times blogsphere to 29th or 31st.

Had to knock out reviews today for two of the best-reviewed films of 2007 but not by me. I like being the voice of reason when junket whores and easy followers looking for their names in ads go overboard. That's the kind of thing making real people distrust film critics when the Pied Piper raves lead to misspent money. I'm sure I've been part of that problem, too, but I'm righter than most.

Some quick impressions of There Will Be Blood and The Savages, both opening locally Jan. 18:

The first hour of There Will Be Blood had me believing I was watching the best film of 2007. The second hour kept Paul Thomas Anderson’s epic as a top-10 candidate before the final 30 minutes – essentially one long, talky scene with possibly the dumbest closing line ever – eclipsed much of its greatness.

How appropriate that a movie about creating the oil industry and all its greed should erupt like a gusher then settle into a steady flow before running dry.

////

The Savages is trapped in no-movie’s-land, between the seriousness of its subjects and writer-director Tamara Jenkins urging us to laugh at them. Some things are simply too serious to joke about.

But are these really jokes that Jenkins delivers about two aggressively neurotic siblings dealing with their aged father’s dementia? I’m not convinced although Philip Seymour Hoffman’s performance as the nastier of the two was nominated in the comedy/musical best actor category.

He doesn’t sing, so The Savages must be considered funny by somebody.

Hoffman plays Jon Savage, a college professor sweating an ill-advised book on Bertolt Brecht, as Steve Carell’s character pined to define Marcel Proust in Little Miss Sunshine. Literary academia is a sign of unbalanced personality is movies like these. It allows writers like Jenkins to have Jon say “Oedipal rage in Beckett,” referring to a class he needs covered but actually describing his condition.

The Savages is full of such obviousness: glib lines and musical cues announcing what viewers are smart enough to notice on their own.

Both reviews will run in Weekend on Jan. 17. Read 'em if you can.

Extras! Extras! read all about it

There's a movie being partially filmed at Eckerd College called Misconceptions, which at least isn't one of the zombie flick productions that usually crosses my voice mail. This one sounds promising, and they need extras looking for possible screen time without pay (so all you folks who think you're entitled because you were an extra on Hulk Hogan's nondescript action TV series need not apply, or complain).

Not Punisher promising, or even Cop and a Half. But something that locals can have a little fun with, and follow like a T-ball player who might make the majors someday.

Misconceptions is billed as a drama-comedy about people with problems conceiving children. The synopsis contains all kinds of buzzwords for an election year such as "red states, blue states", "surrogate mother," "legally gay couple," etc. No telling at this time what they'll do with such topics.

Anyway, there's a shoot Friday at 12:45 p.m. at Eckerd's Bininger Theatre on campus that needs extras. The scene(s) are for a ballet performance inside the theater, so dress for such an occasion. Don't wear red or white because the experts say they don't show up well on camera (ask the kid from Schindler's List, or Jessica Lange in All That Jazz). Don't wear anything that will attract attention because Orlando Jones (Mad TV, Evolution, 7-Up commercials) is the star and that wouldn't be polite.

Anyway, it'll be a chance to feel part of something that someday could be some kind of big. Contact Katharine Johnson at johnsoke@eckerd.edu for information.

There will be a news conference Friday that I'll attend, to see what this thing is all about. Stop by and say hello. I'll be the one wearing a red and white, frilly lace top hat.

I don't know your name, stranger...

... but your face is familiar.

Anyone recognizing that line from Hawkeye to Trapper in the movie (not lame sitcom) M*A*S*H gets extra credit.

Hey, everybody (or at least you). I've been on the truest thing to vacation that I've taken since 11th grade, before SATs, finals, school board posers and editors prevented me from doing so. I felt guilty for the first 2 weeks or so. Got over it for the final few days and my first day back at work.

Did you miss me? Didn't think so, but I thought of you often, wondering if the next handsome blogger about bicycle nerds or IRA funding would steal you from me.

You little minx.

I knew you couldn't stay away.

Anyway, I have a few thoughts piled up, a few passes to a cool advance screening, an unusual rash on my torso, and sundry collisions of mind and splatter to pass along on my own time schedule.

There won't be a full-court press for posting at lunchtime because that's when folks supposedly log in. There won't be a tie-in with anyone whose blog has the built-in comfort of sucking up to generations that don't have much better to do because they never had to work hard. There won't be serious journalism because that's not how I roll, or that my beat usually deserves. There also won't be any punctuation when I'm really feeling feisty.

In short, this blog is either gonna fly or fade. You can guess which side I'm betting upon.

After two sessions of blogging on festivals and features that nobody else covers around Florida and nobody comments upon, of raging against machines that the dimmer of us still believe are beneficent, and as much time fretting that my hits don't equal murder trials finished a year ago, or which junk foods taste groovy, I am - in the spirit of Mitch Ryder - letting it all hang out.

If you don't know who Mitch Ryder is, you're of the generation that this accursed blog format was created for. If you do know, check back to see how long it is before "the Man" sees what I'm doing and shuts it down.

We are the tail end of the greatest generation, disappointed by the one that followed. The freedom for them for which we paved the way has been wasted upon John Hughes, Rubik's Cubes, Styx reunions and Rick Springfield. We are the ones who are ****ed by the 80's and anyone worshiping them. Rather than seeking survival by the tools of their folly, I choose to use it against them and anyone who believes civilization began with Boy George.

Take my hand, walk with me. Then find your own way home.

Subtitles be damned

There's a very cool Spanish flick opening in a few theaters Friday called The Orphanage. Of course the previews have it looking like the usual cat-jumps-out-of-the-closet scarefest that anyone under 40 thinks is movie (or DVD or video game) terror. That's how their disposable income gets wasted, putting more of a strain on our hard-earned retirement plans.

Anyway, it is produced and presented by Guillermo Del Toro, one of the few under-40s we can trust because he's foreign and didn't see all the s*** go down in America. Otherwise he'd be Quentin Tarantino, a sub-boomer I trusted until he strayed from his pre-Spielberg roots and started catering to the kids subsisting on Mommy and Daddy's allowances by sticking his name on junk like Hostel.

Del Toro liked what he saw about The Orphanage and I don't blame him. It's subtitled, so I don't think you'll have many cell phones going off or feet kicking your chair after the blankest generation gets tired of reading. God help us if movie audio ever gets pumped through iPods.

Briefly, The Orphanage is genuinely creepy, smartly so. It's Spain's official entry into the Oscars' foreign film competition and I fully expect it to be nominated.

I'll post a bit of my review tomorrow after it's finished. Until then, I have five passes (for 2 people each) to Thursday night's 7:30 p.m. screening at Veterans 24 in Tampa. You want 'em? You got 'em. Call me at 727-893-8365 and leave your name and phone number. Sooner the better. The sooner, we'll arrange an easy pickup plan. The later, you'll drive to pick them up at our St. Pete office.

That's another thing I got over during vacation: Trying to do everything easy for everyone else.

Goodbye, (not really) old friend

I lost a close friend the other day. Not that she died but a little bit of me did.

Wilma Norton is a name that not many of you recognize but she's a big reason why you recognize mine. Wilma was Weekend editor the past couple years and an integral part of our well-oiled Times mechanism before that. She was my safety net when needed (which I may need now more than ever with the new blog attitude) but most of all, a friend.

Wilma is moving on to an executive job at St. Petersburg College. her last day was Friday and I already miss her. I owe her a lot (and she owes me a lot of anti-piracy watermarked DVD screeners that I'll get busted for passing around if they wind up on eBay).

We had a party for her Friday and, as tradition dictates, we made up phony stories for a fake news page (actually a Weekend cover and double-truck) in her honor. I was asked to compose a list of movies casting her in a lead role, just for laughs. It seemed to go over well, so I'm sharing it with you. One Times honcho said it's too bad sometimes the best work doesn't get published.

I said I do my best work on vacation. Give me 52 weeks off and I'll win 'em a Pulitzer Prize.

In honor of my friend, here's the Wilma Norton movie list:

Casting is everything in movies and fly fishing. Since I’m not Terry Tomalin, here are a few of 2007’s top films that would be quite different with Wilma Norton starring:

Into the Mild – An idealistic vagabond (Wilma) road trips cross-country before finding nirvana – a place where 5 p.m. means quitting time – just a few miles up the road.

No Country for Old Women – A tour de force for Wilma, playing three roles: a good ol’ girl who stumbles upon a $2-million cache of Neiman-Marcus gift cards, the sales clerk who lost them, and a deranged security guard chasing both with a cattle stun gun. Don’t miss the gripping finale at customer services. 

Sweetie Bod – Freed from newsfeatures snack temptations, Wilma struts her trimmer figure into St. Petersburg College singing: “I will have paaaa-tience, through orien-taaaaa-tion.”

Juno – Faced with an extremely unexpected pregnancy, Wilma seeks the right family to adopt the kids she already has. A happy ending occurs when the equally perplexed father (Pete Couture) takes everyone to Disney World, where the baby is born on Space Mountain.

Michael Clayton – Actually the same movie, though George Clooney keeps slipping on Wilma’s drool.

3:10 to Wilma – The title refers to Wilma’s peerless inability to make 3 p.m. start times for staff meetings.

The Procrastination of Wilma Norton by the Coward Sean Daly – Deadlines mean nothing to a pop music critic afraid that a Hot Ticket brief for American Idols on Ice won’t win awards. One brave editor declares that enough is enough… but only if you honestly think there’s nothing else to add and if there is, go ahead and take your time. 

I’m Not There Anymore – Forty-seven actors – including Oscar contender Danny DeVito – portray Wilma’s various life passages, from Kentucky bluegrass to greener pastures at St. Petersburg College.

Wilmatouille – Years of half-eaten desk lunches are blended by an adorable animated critter (Wilma) into a culinary mélange, charming jaded food critics voiced by Janet Keeler, Laura Reiley and Chris Sherman.

The F***-It List – Wilma deals with a bottomless in-box of dinner theater awards, eggshell art shows, stamp collecting mixers and coloring book signings. 

Disenchanted – Wilma appears in flashbacks (and an occasional happy hour rendezvous) as colleagues left behind cope with life after their Disney fantasy princess.

Steve Persall can be reached... but that would be risky.