Robert Downey Jr. is Iron Man

Titanium hands down, the coolest superhero alter ego is Tony Stark, who moonlights as Iron Man when he isn’t being who many red-blooded American males want to be.

Tony’s exorbitant wealth is surpassed only by his confidence that the world – including Maxim’s calendar models -- is his to enjoy. He is Bruce Wayne without manners, Clark Kent without conscience and Peter Parker’s id, able to pay for his indulgences plus generous tips.

Casting Robert Downey, Jr. as Iron Man puzzled people when announced since he isn’t a macho persona. All doubts should end now. The armored suit and CGI do all the necessary acting when things are blowing up. It is those times when Tony is being Tony – essentially the slick operator Downey excels at playing -- making Iron Man such a hoot.

Director Jon Favreau builds a sturdy foundation for a franchise, an origins story that isn’t as familiar as Batman’s or Spider-Man’s and unburdened by the angst of murdered relatives and messianic guilt. There isn’t a downer scene in Iron Man, only a shift in Tony’s priorities leading him to do something different, better with his life.

That’s where Downey’s casting pays off. There are faint parallels between his well-documented substance abuse and Tony’s addiction to manufacturing weapons of mass destruction for the U.S. military. Downey’s rehab and Tony’s change of heart – literally, with his new electromagnetic pacemaker – informs the performance at every turn.

Watch Downey’s final expression when Tony declares “I am Iron Man,” a marvelous mix of pride, uncertainty and defiance that may be what the actor sees in the mirror each sober morning.

Doing it for the kids

Princess Di and I had another wonderful time last night at the Beach Park School's annual spring auction in Tampa. It was held at the Tampa Letter Carriers union hall, which is nice enough to explain the last postage rate hike.

Two years ago, a Times co-worker asked if I'd serve as auctioneer, raising funds for this private Montessori school. I know it sounds kinda elite but far from it, and not just for the personalities. What I learned that night is that Beach Park has a reserve fund to assist parents of gifted children who otherwise couldn't afford tuition. I think we raised around $10,000 that night -- they told me it was a record -- and I'm confident it goes to a place where kids come first.

Last night's auction party had a Hollywood theme, with tables of donated items and services labeled by movie titles (Dog Day Afternoon for pet supplies, As Good As It Gets for luxuries, etc.). The final donation totals will be announced later.

I squeezed the crowd for around $5,000 for four lovely framed compilations of art work from the school's class levels, plus another few grand for a pair of vacations in Destin and Colorado, and a basket of two dozen bottles of wine. I only had to play the parental guilt card once or twice but it never fails. Great time, great folks.

This morning I got a call from my pal Tedd Webb for Newsradio 970, an avid karaoke fan -- he has full sight and sound set-up in his living room -- and his sing parties are legendary. Teddy organizes an annual karaoke show called Koncert for the Kids to benefit the pediatric cancer ward at All Children's Hospital. Last year I nailed Paradise by the Dashboard Lights with the help of my former neighbors (and karaoke/dj hosts) Alfred and Nina Stanford, something we've done at his shows for years.

"You ate that song up!" Teddy roars into the phone while I'm still waking up. "Everybody's asking me: 'Is Persall coming back?'" Teddy roars a lot, if you've heard him on the radio.

Well, the answer is yes and I hope anyone reading this will show up Saturday, May 17 at Ritz Theater in Ybor City. Tampa Bay Buccaneers WR Michael Clayton, local fave Belinda Womack and too many media folks to name are among the celebrity singers. American Fallen Idol Jessica Sierra sang last year -- and was miffed when Princess Di didn't recognize her stumbling around an elevator -- but I don't hold much hope for an encore.

Take a look at the ad, makes your plans and hold your ears. Until it's my turn, of course.

Now I have to go figure out why I'm being so nice lately.

Don't bogart those jokes, my friends

Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay is what stoners call a buzz-kill. At least that's what I hear from folks who know about such things.

Four years ago, the hazy, crazy adventures of two potheads on a quest for White Castle junk food was a pleasantly crude surprise. Now there's a mean-spirited sequel that's mostly junk.

Part 1 ended with Harold (John Cho) and Kumar (Kal Penn) satisfying their munchies and planning a trip to Amsterdam, to find Harold's passing fancy Maria (Paula Garces). They don't get far. Kumar's insistence to test his smokeless bong on the airplane gets them arrested as terrorists -- because "bong" sounds like "bomb" -- and transported to Guantanamo Bay.

Thankfully they don't stay long since the prison camp's only joke is that burly soldiers explicitly demand sexual favors from prisoners, making waterboarding sound humane. Harold and Kumar escape, hitching a boat ride with Cuban refugees to Miami, seeking help from a college classmate whose mansion teems with bottomless women. The classmate is also bottomless -- and extremely hirsute -- in a scene taking the fun out of frontal nudity.

Harold and Kumar borrow a car, taking a wrong turn into Alabama where stale gags ensue about the Ku Klux Klan and in-breeding. When the guys aren't perpetuating racial and cultural stereotypes, that duty falls to a federal agent (Rob Corddry) whose interrogation techniques include wasting grape soda to make an African-American talk, or spilling pennies before Jews, who scrape them up when his back is turned.

Ugly stuff, and unfunny.

Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg's movie slightly improves when Kumar tracks down a former flame (Danneel Harris) whose fiance has friends in high government places. Maybe he'll help them out of the jam. The comedy shifts from derogatory to political, with Harold and Kumar parachuting into the Texas White House and sharing their story -- plus a lot of marijuana -- with President Bush (James Adomian).

That late episode and an encore by Neil Patrick Harris playing an impossibly kinky version of himself are the only times that Escape from Guantanamo Bay rekindles the sick, surreal silliness that made part 1 so guiltily pleasurable. The rest of the movie is just a bad trip.

Harold & Kumar can't escape AMC Westshore 14

Even a mediocre movie deserves to be presented properly.

"Mediocre" is a generous assessment of Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay, unless I missed something worthwhile in the portion of the screen that was shaded by black masking for the entire movie. Seems that the staff at AMC Westshore 14 didn't know how to raise it (after starting with the wrong projector lens).

If I wanted that obstructed view, I'd buy a 19-inch TV, stick two strips of duct tape across the top of the image, and stay home.

Westshore's on-duty manager Erik -- no need for a last name -- told me after the show that I didn't understand the problem. I was running projection booths when he was just a gleam in his daddy's eye. Back then, management would at least announce to the audience that a technical problem would persist, apologizing for the problem. Otherwise, you leave the impression of a theater that doesn't care after you've spent your money at the concession stand. (This was a free screening. Everybody got what they paid for.)

Because it was a freebie, that means New Line Cinema paid several hundred dollars to rent the auditorium. The company should demand a refund, just like a bride should ask a caterer for money back when the cake is salty. Or at least cancel the checks for the security personnel New Line hired, who spent the movie outside the auditorium or guffawing at H&K's lame jokes rather than looking for video pirates and disturbances, which is their assignment.

Honest to Spielberg: The only moviegoer any of these security folks approached was New Line's screening representative, sitting behind me with a lighted pen to take notes for her report to the distributor. Either she didn't make herself known well enough in the hour or so before show time, or they weren't paying attention when she tried.

I'm not sure who was more frustrating; Erik and his staff or moviegoers who sat there without caring enough to disapprove.

Or maybe the parents who took young children to an R-rated movie containing pervasive drug use, male and female frontal nudity and strong profanity. Hey, it's a free movie. You can afford a babysitter.

Those children were the only ones who benefited from part of the screen being obscured.

My American Idol... Fred Knittle

You have phone interviews, and then you have conversations that happen to involve a telephone.

I had the latter this afternoon with Fred Knittle, the Young@Heart chorus member whose breathtaking version of Coldplay's Fix You is available a few posts back on this blog.

Fred didn't make the trip to L.A. with the other chorus members, set up by the distributors of Young@Heart (opening May 2). His heart won't take the trip these days. But he had a nice day with ROMEO -- which puzzled me, too, until he told me that ROMEO stands for: Retired Old Men Eating Out.

They meet every Tuesday for lunch and chat. Fred said the group's motto is: "If you don't have anything nice to say, join our club."

Checked my e-mail and found this message, which made my day:

Dear Steve:  I just went to your blog and it was great…  thank you for the kind words…  It also gave me a picture of you that will help me recognize you when you come North for a visit to Northampton (Mass.).

Thanks for the phone call today and for being outgoing and warm during the interview.  I felt relaxed throughout your in-depth questioning.

Seriously, my new found friend, I look forward to getting a copy of the article in the St. Pete Times.

Fred

It'll be there, Fred. Wish I could hand-deliver it.

Tina Fey can be my Baby Mama

I'd love to marry a woman as smart, funny and eyeglasses-classy as Tina Fey.

Oh wait, I did.

That's okay. Princess Di completely understands my crush, even mock-cringes when Fey says something sounding like her. She really loves it. Except that time when "Tina" slipped into our pillow talk.

Anyway, there’s no business like “lady business” for Fey, who coined the term in a Saturday Night Live commercial for the Woomba, a robotic feminine hygiene product.

Like much of Fey’s humor, the joke made men blush while women felt as if someone read their minds. Switch the genders and you’d have caveman comedy like Knocked Up and Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Fey is the anti-Judd Apatow, reversing the curse of penis raunch with naughty lady business.

Baby Mama isn’t officially Fey’s idea like her lauded screenplay for Mean Girls or her sitcom 30 Rock. She obviously hijacked Michael McCullers’ movie with SNL’s Amy Poehler as an improvising accomplice. Watching Baby Mama is akin to witnessing gender reclassification, something born of maleness realizing feminine comfort. The transition isn’t easy but the results beat what would have been.

Without a solid female perspective, Baby Mama could simply be The Odd Couple in Lamaze class with cervix jokes and breaking water (as preview trailers suggest). Fey and Poehler polished McCullers’ script into something more substantive with jokes speaking from experience that men can’t know. Now it’s our turn to wonder: “Do they really think like that?”

John Waters is no cry baby

Spent a few highly amusing minutes on the phone with John Waters this week, in advance of his April 26 appearance at the Salvador Dali Museum in St. Pete. Waters will lecture on "This Filthy World" as part of the continuing Dali and Film exhibit.

I won't make the show, sorry to say. Months ago, I committed to hosting an auction that night for a private school in Tampa. Waters had a laugh when I said I had to choose the deprived over the depraved.

The interview will be published April 25 in Floridian, but here are a few morsels: Waters has visited the Tampa Bay area numerous times (I caught his act at Tampa Theatre sometime last century) but can't pin down a favorite place to spend time.

"I don’t know (Tampa Bay) well enough," he said. "I always look for the underside. I always like redneck bars where irony doesn’t exist. But I never go to those places to feel superior. I look up to those. I don’t condescend in any way as people would do who are really offensive.

"I hate hot weather. I would rather be naked in the Alps. My only problem with Florida is that it’s just too f------ hot."

We spoke about a week before Waters' 62nd birthday, closely followed by the Broadway debut of Cry-Baby, based on his 1990 flick starring Johnny Depp.

"That’s a scary week," he said. "A birthday is always scary at my age but then you add an opening on Broadway two days afterward. Opening a show is always scarier. I only celebrate my birthday every 10 years now when I throw myself a big party.

"I had my 30th birthday in a punk rock club when a stripper jumped out of a cake and broke her leg. I had my 40th in an old age home I rented in Baltimore and the invitation had walkers on it. My 50th was at Pravda restaurant in New York before Pravda even opened, and my 60th was at a glamorous nightclub in New York. So maybe I should have my 70th in Paris or something. You have to pay for it yourself and do it for yourself so it isn’t a burden on anybody else."

I agreed, telling him that's what I did for my 50th, with a Big Lebowski theme. "Oh, that sounds like fun," he said. "Just a lot of people getting stoned and saying 'f---' a lot."

Funny, I didn't see him there.

Hindus to Mike Myers: "Oh, behave!"

Woke up this a.m. to find an interesting e-mail headlined: "Resentment against movie The Love Guru spreading rapidly."

It appears that Mike Myers' portrayal of a Hindu guru in a comedy opening June 20 is ruffling the robes of that faith's believers, and supporters from other religions. Here's the text, minus one thick paragraph listing 11 more multi-denominational protesters (a priest, a rabbi and a civil rights activist included, and that's no joke):

Censure of the upcoming Hollywood movie The Love Guru over the signals of its denigrating Hindu traditions is broadening quickly among both Hindu and non-Hindu circles.

Supporting the movement spearheaded by prominent Hindu and Indo-American leader Rajan Zed, various Hindu and non-Hindu organizations and leaders have been coming out expressing concern about the possibility of the film hurting the sentiments of Hindus worldwide and urging filmmakers to be more responsible when handling faith related subjects. Zed has been saying that from the information available about the movie, it appears to be lampooning Hinduism and Hindus and using Hindu terms frivolously.

Swami Pooja Saraswati, a well respected spiritual leader, in a declaration, said, “I watched the trailer for the movie Love Guru and was shocked that any respectable movie producer would so blatantly ridicule a great world religion, a culture, spiritual path and sincere way of life, portraying it as farce.”

“Hopefully, Paramount Pictures would agree to make changes suggested by Rajan Zed and other Hindu leaders, during the prescreening of this insulting film before millions of Hindus, yogis and people of high spiritual consciousness around the world feel hurt, offended and outraged,” she added.

Reverend John J. Auer, Pastor of First United Methodist Church in Reno, in a statement, said, “…with reference to the film The Love Guru, I respectfully request the creators and producers and their investors to grant the Hindu community a respectful way to respond and make any suggested amendments to the film…”

“Neither Mr. Zed nor I has any interest in censorship…However, it is crucial that every faith tradition be given the chance to be heard in response to any portrayal in popular culture of elements of that tradition that might be easily misrepresented and/or misunderstood,” Rev. Auer added.

Hindu Jana Jagruti Samiti and Sanatan Sanstha, through their spokesperson Bhavna Shinde, in a release today, demanded removal of the trailer and making changes to the movie The Love Guru, so that it will not hurt the feelings of the many spiritual seekers and the religious sentiments of devout Hindus worldwide.

Shinde further said that if the trailer is an indicator of the content of the movie, then we feel that this movie is not only likely to hurt sentiments of seekers from various paths of spiritual practice, but will also contribute to the misunderstanding about the sacred concept of the ‘Guru’. We are registering this protest, in support of Rajan Zed’s protest against the denigration indicated in the movie The Love Guru, she added.

Alison Pratte, a yoga leader, has stated, “I was surprised to find myself offended after watching the trailer The Love Guru…the depiction of the main character in the movie seems more than a harmless spoof. It is loaded with an ignorant stereotype of a culture and religion that is already misunderstood and stigmatized…This movie The Love Guru will only cause more ignorance and bring shame to a beautiful tradition that has existed for thousands of years.”

Andrea Forman, Founder of Shanti Shanti, only Sanskrit rock band in the world, in a statement, said, “…it should be noted that the portrayal of a Guru depicted in this movie, is entertaining, but not an accurate portrayal of the austere and revered spiritual guides that are so dear to the practice and continuation of Hindu and Buddhist teachings.”

Paramount Pictures, through its Senior Vice President National Publicity, Jessica Rovins, has earlier stated, “It is our full intention to screen the film for Rajan Zed and other Hindu leaders in the U.S. once we have a finished print."

It may be recalled here that advance screenings of Mel Gibson’s 2004 movie The Passion of the Christ were held for clergy and others.

The Love Guru; a comedy starring Mike Myers (of Austin Powers fame, who is also the co-writer and co-producer), Jessica Alba, Justin Timberlake, Ben Kingsley; and directed by Marco Schnabel; is set to release on June 20 next. In it Myers, an American, raised in an ashram in India, moves back to US as Guru Pitka to seek fame and fortune in the world of self-help and spirituality.

Hinduism, oldest and third largest religion of the world, has about one billion followers. Moksha (liberation) is the ultimate goal of Hinduism.

Paramount Pictures Corporation is a global producer and distributor of filmed entertainment.

We should all grow so old, so youthfully

My lord, what a movie I saw last night.

What a future I hope I saw for myself and loved ones.

I'll be writing much more about Stephen Walker's documentary Young@Heart, opening May 2 in a limited number of theaters (hey, this isn't Iron Man). But let me say just a little now, setting up this YouTube clip.

Young@Heart follows 24 senior citizens in New England making up a chorus with a steady concert date calendar. Ages range from 72 to 92 (at least in 2006 when the movie was filmed). The catch is that the Young@Heart chorus only sings rock, pop and R&B songs, from David Bowie to Sonic Youth to the Bee Gees to the Ramones.

Watching these seniors gone mildly wild is one of the most exhilarating movie experiences I've had in a long time. Anyone planning to grow old, or anyone who doesn't want to, needs to see this movie. Of course there are health issues that interfere, including the deaths of two key singers just before a big concert.

Walker never makes a maudlin issue of it, and these feisty folks wouldn't allow him to, anyway. The show goes on in true trouper fashion, including the return of former member Fred Knittle, whose congestive heart disease made him stop singing. Fred is supposed to do a duet of Coldplay's Fix You with another member, Bob Salvini, who dies days before the show. Fred goes it alone for his pal, in a scene that left me smiling through tears that are welling up again as I type this.

Where in the World is Osama bin Laden?

Morgan Spurlock pulled a nifty switch with his breakthrough film Super-Size Me, selling it as one man’s tilt against junk food windmills while delivering a lecture on obesity that wouldn’t attract attention without his masochistic gimmick. The same ploy works with a different topic this time, in Where in the World is Osama bin Laden?

Spurlock doesn’t seriously believe he’ll find the world’s most sought-after terrorist. If he had, we would know by now. What he does discover and wittily passes along is that wherever bin Laden is, he’s better off not being found by some Middle Easterners he violently claims to represent.

From Morocco to Palestine and Afghanistan, Spurlock meets with citizens trapped in fearful poverty between politicians. They bemoan the image of Islam being defined by suicide bombers and the killing of innocents. He doesn’t make much of the fact that his harshest reception comes from Hasidic Jews in Israel, whom the U.S. historically supports.

People and places get blurry with Spurlock’s breakneck pacing, or perhaps that is his point. National boundaries shouldn’t separate peaceful ideals. Where in the World is Osama bin Laden isn’t a Michael Moore-style rant against anyone; it is a movie summed up by Elvis Costello’s end credits song What’s So Funny (‘Bout Peace, Love and Understanding?)

Spurlock's movie opens Friday. Check out the full review in Thursday's Weekend.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall

Forgetting Sarah Marshall is a comedy never forgetting that “screwball” is a compound word. It reminds you with endless variations on the first half and several glimpses of the second, courtesy of writer/actor/exhibitionist Jason Segel. He’s one to watch in the future, when you aren’t covering embarrassed eyes.

Segel has more going for him than pot jokes and leering at women. His first screenplay displays uncommon respect for the DNA of romantic comedy, making the genre’s conventions modernly crude with old-fashioned sweetness.

Who can’t like Peter Bretter (Segel), for whom life is an oversized bowl of Froot Loops? He’s dating TV star Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell) while composing her crime-lab show’s musical score (more accurately, sinister one-note tones). Sarah returns from a trip with news that’s she’s dumping Peter, who is too shocked to put on clothes, the first of numerous gasp-laughs to come.

Depression envelops Peter, ruining his work – Seinfeldian noodling isn’t appropriate for autopsies – and straining relations with his stepbrother (Bill Hader). He must escape, and where else but where Sarah always wanted to go: a lush Hawaiian resort. Thing is, she’s also there with her new lover, a British rock star named Aldous Snow (hilarious Russell Brand), possibly Spinal Tap’s groupie love child.

It is a classic triangle: hopeless romantic, object of affection and undeserving rival. Segel completes the screwball package with wacky sidekicks (30 Rock’s Jack McBrayer, Apatow regulars Hader, Jonah Hill and Paul Rudd) so the leads don’t need to carry the funny, and a procession of crises that can’t logically be overcome. Yet he makes us hope they will, which is what a screwball wannabe like Leatherheads doesn’t do.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall opens Friday. Read the full review Thursday in Weekend.

Sarasota stars and (too much) sun

After an hour on the beach that left me resembling Hellboy, the Sarasota Film Festival's tenth anniversary party at Longboat Key Club and Resort was like aloe vera lotion for the eyes.

Lots of pretty people in pretty clothes with pretty fancy cars. Quite different from the eco-friendly golf cart we hijacked to make it across the street.

Here are a few photo impressions, during a red carpet sashay and awards ceremony nearly drowned out by clinking glasses and dinnerware clatter, featuring two famous "Charlies:"

Charlize Theron (or "Charlie" to her friends but apparently not me) had arrived only hours before with live-in filmmaker Stuart Townsend, who is just handsome enough to make me give up the moonlit fantasy I described yesterday.

Stanley Tucci and Steve Buscemi arrived at the same time, befitting a friendship that Buscemi said began when they were part of a hiking trip that got too tiring and intoxicating to finish. They wound up hitching a ride down the mountain on the back of a septic tank servicing truck (motto: "We're No.1 in the No. 2 business). The filmmakers share ownership of a production company now. "If anyone wants to invest," Buscemi quipped, "We'll take you down with us."

Buscemi added in his funny remarks that this was his second trip to Sarasota for the festival: "You know how much I love the sun," the perpetually pallid actor dead-panned.

Florida's Charlie Crist -- who reminded everyone that Theron's pals call her Charlie, too -- became the first governor to visit the Sarasota festival, along with his girlfriend-in-chief Carole Rome.

Crist touted the Florida film industry's $3.9 billion a year money flow into the state, contributing thousands of jobs. With that, Crist suggested, comes responsibility: "All of you who work in this industry, I say: America is the world leader in film and we need to continue to stay that way. Whatever you do when you make a film, promote something good. It matters."

Veteran film star Norman Lloyd looked sharp on the runway, still as lively as anyone in their 90's has a right to be.

Also caught former New York Times film critic Elvis Mitchell -- one of my personal faves -- on the red carpet.

Speaking of awards: Here are the winners from this year's Sarasota fest. You may never hear of them again but there's always that chance. Keep in mind that the spotlighted films -- Tucci's Blind Date, Theron and Townsend's Battle in Seattle and Who is Norman Lloyd? weren't entered in competition.

Saturday night, Tucci picked up the festival's Renaissance Award for his work as an actor, writer and director; Theron received the Career Achievement Award, Ted Hope (The Savages, American Splendor) grabbed the Producers Award and director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck won the festival's Breakthrough Award for his Oscar winning forign film The Lives of Others.

The following were jury prize selections:

Narrative feature: Munyurangabo; documentary feature: Stranded: I Have Come from a Plane That Crashed on the Mountain; special jury prize for documentaries: To See if I'm Smiling; Independent Visions: The Pleasure of Being Robbed (which also won the Heineken Red Star prize for innovation and originality).

Audience award winners included:

Narrative films: Fugitive Pieces; documentaries: Of All the Things; world cinema: Christmas Story; short film: La Corona.

Night of 1000 Stars; morning of equal hangovers

Don’t know how anyone could be expected to retreat to a dark movie theater on a sun-splashed morning like this in Sarasota. Especially after a hazy, crazy Night of 1,000 Stars where at least that many celestial objects were circling everyone’s Bombay Sapphire-stoked heads.

Michael’s on East is the hoi polloi chuckwagon where the Sarasota Film Festival sets aside one of its social gatherings each year. I’m sure the lunch and dinner crowds don’t scrape against fire code standards like this shindig. I tried to take a head count but kept getting distracted by the  handiwork of cosmetic surgeons who must rank high among Sarasota’s industrialists.

I swear when one gem-drenched sabertoothed cougar smiled at me, her toes curled backward from the skin tension.

Stanley Tucci squeezed into Michael’s around 10:15, fresh from a sold-out screening of his new movie Blind Date, co-starring Patricia Clarkson. The overheard consensus among folks who made it inside the theater wasn’t complimentary. Tucci’s bravely polite smiles for photographers seemed to confirm that. “Boring” was the most common description I heard. I’ll have a chance later to see if that’s true.

Grabbed a few seconds with Tucci before he was hustled to the roped-off VIP area, sitting at a table reserved for Blind Date personnel and friends. I kept the chat brief and off the screening vibe, just to be polite. He had bigger crab cakes to fry since most of the VIPs appeared to be festival sponsors and Sarasota moneybags; the kind of folks who chipped in for William H. Macy’s opening night film, The Deal.

Variety recently named Sarasota as one of the top festivals where artists may find financial support for projects, while other festivals are either shopping centers for distributors buying rights to completed movies (Sundance, Cannes) or kicking off awards hype for movies with everything else lined up (Telluride, Toronto). You gotta start the process somewhere and it usually has something to do with someone else’s bank account.

Tucci’s pal Steve Buscemi – who’ll introduce him at tonight’s awards gala at Longboat Key Club and Resort – also worked the VIP lounge crowd. He didn’t mind smiling (or something like it) for cameras clicked by fans on the non-business side of the ropes.

Princess Di and I took off around 11:15 when the body crunch factor approached agoraphobic levels. We have tickets to a couple screenings (Helen Hunt’s directorial debut Then She Found Me and the Harry Potter mania documentary We Were Wizards) and owe it to ourselves to catch some of these ultraviolet rays before dressing for tonight’s gig.

I was asked by the folks at WTSP Ch. 10 (where I do movie reviews each Thursday during the 4 p.m. newscast) if I might be available to handle red carpet interviews of Buscemi and Oscar winner Charlize Theron, whose film Battle in Seattle closes the festival tomorrow. Looks like that won’t happen, which is a shame.

I had envisioned chatting with Theron then saying something like: “Well, I have to ask you the obligatory red carpet question.” Before she could say which designer she’s wearing I’d say: “What am I wearing?”

In my fantasy, she’d laugh, charmed by my wit. Then we’d head back to the hotel beachfront and gaze at the stars until daybreak.

In reality, she’d say: “A cheap suit.”

Scarface memories and Sarasota redux

Big day. Gotta get some things cleaned up for work, get packed and get down to Sarasota for the closing weekend of the Sarasota Film Festival. Check back this weekend because I'll be (fingers crossed) blogging and posting photos from various events, and shots of some of the visiting celebs.

One of the last things on today's to-do list is polishing off a story running Monday that was born out of serendipity. Twenty-five years ago, a Miami amateur photographer named Bill Cooke was in the Ocean Drive neighborhood when gunfire erupted and two bloodied men faced off. One walked away alive.

Cooke kept on snapping photos.

Don't worry. It wasn't real, but a scene being filmed for the 1983 cult classic Scarface. That was Al Pacino as future drug kingpin Tony Montana still standing, after his buddy got chainsawed inside a hotel room.

Cooke kept those photos stashed away all this time. When he found them, the Times bought these previously unpublished artifacts from what many feel is the quintessential Florida movie.

Thing is, most of Scarface was filmed in California, after the production was chased from Miami by Cuban-American complaints -- and reported threats -- aimed at the movie.

I spoke with Scarface producer Martin Bregman, who said he has never talked about what happened behind the scenes in this matter. Monday, we'll run several of Cooke's photos in Floridian, along with Bregman's recollections. Here's a taste:

“The problem started when I had some Cuban expatriates, I guess, that called me and wanted to meet with me (in 1982),” Bregman said by telephone from his Manhattan offices.

“They were from Union City, N.J., right across the river," he said. "They told be that it would be very unsafe for me, my family and everybody involved in this enterprise to make this film. They said they were aware – and they used the word ‘aware’ – that (Fidel) Castro was financing this film to embarrass the good Cuban community.”

Bregman called that claim “pure, absolute stupidity.”

Those Union City emissaries also expressed displeasure with associating Cuban-Americans with drug trafficking, according to Bregman.

“They said over and over: ‘There’s no Cuban drug people. No Cubans are involved with that,’” Bregman said.   “Now, I had just gotten back from Miami with Oliver Stone and we spoke with nothing but Cubans and they were all in the drug business. Not all Cubans but the people we talked to, the big guys in the drug trade.”

It gets better. See for yourself Monday.

Jennifer Ehle and T.M.I.

I happen to think that a measure of any cultural, social or political critic is the occasional willingness to admit that he or she doesn't know what they're talking about.

Maybe that's just self-defense.

Anyway, I was offered a few phone minutes Tuesday with Jennifer Ehle, a guest of the Sarasota Film Festival, whose screen career -- she has won two Tony awards for Broadway excellence but I live in Florida -- has mostly escaped me except for a solid reputation among big-city critics who see her best movies.

I like these situations. Really. I have to scramble for question ideas and (in this case ) she has to realize that I haven't seen her film Before the Rains (playing today and Thursday at SFF), that she isn't a household name (pronounced EE-lee) and any publicity for the movie from a top-flight publication (even a blog) is better than a poke in the eye.

Sometimes, as with Ehle, that kind of crunch brings out the nicest in people. Some examples from our impromptu 4:34 on the phone:

I started with inquiring about how she likes Sarasota.

"Oh, my goodness, we love it," Ehle said. "We got here yesterday afternoon and last night we loved it so much that we called my parents, who live in North Carolina, and said: ‘We think you should come down.’ So, they arrive in about 10 minutes. Isn’t that great? It’s really lovely here."

Ehle's mother is Rosemary Harris, also a Tony winning actor and best-know to movie masses as "Aunt May Parker" in the Spider-Man trilogy. They played young and old versions of the same character in two movies, including Istvan Szabo's Sunshine. Since Mom made the leap (or took the fall) to popcorn cinema, and since Ehle is a lovely woman, why doesn't she play a few frothy, fluffy Bullock/Roberts/Hathaway kinds of roles?

"I don’t know why," she said laughing. "Talk to my manager. I guess people don’t think of me as frothy but God knows I have my moments.

"You know, I actually, really enjoy escapism. I’ve probably seen more escapist movies than any other kind, not that I see a lot because I’m a very happy homebody.

"(My mother) adores being part of (a blockbuster series). I don’t yearn for it. I’m sure the financial security would be lovely. But I actually know lots of people who have been part of those kinds of movies that haven’t given them that financial security. It’s not always the actors who make the most amount of money from those ventures. Sometimes they make enormous amounts. But I don’t yearn for that kind of fame.

"Maybe when I’m 70 I’ll get one of those parts, too."

Because nothing says "Presidents Day"...

... like a movie about Nazis (which weren't around in World War I, in case you didn't know).

The release date for Tom Cruise's movie Valkyrie, based on the true story of a plot to kill Adolf Hitler, has been moved back. Again.

Originally slated for June and the summer blockbuster season, it was shifted to October when the awards season hasn't kicked up yet, and now it's set for February 2009 on Presidents Day weekend, when Hollywood traditionally dumps flotsam into theaters that won't interfere with real Oscar contenders' marketing.

Of course, United Artists (part-owned by Cruise) will try to put a spit-shine on this flip-flop. That's why I'm here, so you'll pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

Who is Norman Lloyd?

Who is Norman Lloyd? is a fascinating documentary and a darn good question.

At age 93, Lloyd is someone old enough to have played tennis daily with Charlie Chaplin and young enough at heart to charm Cameron Diaz in 2005’s In Her Shoes.   Lloyd performed on stage with Orson Welles’ Mercury Theater, made movies with a portly legend he still calls “Hitch,” oversaw the autistic dream that was TV’s St. Elsewhere and couldn’t prevent the end of the world that George Clooney produced in a remake of Fail-Safe.

If Kevin Bacon can be connected to anyone in Hollywood in six degrees, Norman Lloyd could probably do it four.

Who is Norman Lloyd? is director Matthew Sussman’s answer to that question, a brisk chronicle of an extraordinary Hollywood life. Lloyd will introduce the film at two Sarasota Film Festival screenings, Thursday (5:15 p.m.) and Friday (7:15), and probably top it during after-show discussions of places he has been and celebrities he has known.

“It is true that this business is based on relationships,” Lloyd said Monday from his Los Angeles home. “I’m very proud of the people with whom I’ve worked. It’s an amazing collection that just by happenstance happened. Chaplin, (Alfred) Hitchcock, (Jean) Renoir, Welles, even in more modern times (Martin) Scorsese.

Pick any famous name and Lloyd can spin an astounding true story. For our brief conversation, I chose Chaplin, which led him to these memories:

“Charlie and I would play tennis four times a week, especially in the summers. I can still see him saying to me one day: ‘If you ever want to do (a film project), let me know and I’m in for half (of the financing).”

Lloyd had just the project in mind, a movie based on Horace McCoy’s novel They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, set in a Depression-era dance marathons where desperate souls struggled to survive.

“Charlie knew about marathons from A to Z,” Lloyd said. “He would pretend he knew nothing about them but he was a magnificent smokescreen. He pretended not to know much about them until we got talking then he knew everything about them.”

Lloyd purchased the rights from McCoy for $3,000. Chaplin wanted to produce the movie with Lloyd directing in the early 1950’s as a starring vehicle for his son Sydney, and a newcomer named Marilyn Monroe, who was having an affair with both Sydney and his brother Charlie, Jr.

While the deal came together, Chaplin took his family on a European trip. During the vacation, Chaplin learned that he wouldn’t be allowed back into the U.S. unless he faced a morals charge related to an earlier lover and accusations of being a Communist sympathizer during the McCarthy era.

“Charlie said he would never make another movie in America. And he never did.”

As often happens with Lloyd’s anecdotes, the story twists into itself with another layer of Hollywood serendipity:

“There was a bookstore with an owner I knew quite well,” Lloyd said. “He told me about a girl who always came in to buy books by Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, saying I should meet her. I told him: “I don’t want to meet that kind of girl.'

“He insisted and gave me her phone number, writing down the name ‘Marilyn Monroe.’ I’m here to tell you -- and this may be the most important information for your interview -- I never called her.”

Stanley Tucci gets what he deserves

Stanley Tucci is a dedicated actor and filmmaker who can’t believe he deserves a career achievement award yet.

Tucci is also a shrewd guy, so he won’t decline the Sarasota Film Festival’s offer, either. He’ll pick up his honor Saturday night at the festival’s tenth anniversary gala, after finding a loophole that won’t compromise his creative integrity.

“They didn’t say lifetime achievement, which is nice. Then they’re just opening the door for you to quit,” Tucci, 47, said in a telephone interview from New York. “It’s a nice way to be embarrassed.

“Whether you deserve it or not, part of the embarrassment comes from feeling like you don’t deserve it. I always feel there’s so much more for me to do. What I’ve done is certainly not enough for me. I’ve only just gotten started.”

That’s bad news for any aspiring character actors out there. Tucci is currently the go-to guy when Academy Award winning filmmakers such as Steven Spielberg and Sam Mendes require someone with ordinary looks and extraordinary range. He might have a few Oscar nominations himself by now, if he didn’t play each character so effortlessly right.

Tucci is also a fine writer and director, revered in the independent film world. During our conversation, Tucci intuitively found a link between the rawness of his latest film, Blind Date, the gentle culinary charm of Big Night (1996), the Laurel and Hardy madness of The Imposters and the true-life falsehoods of Joe Gould’s Secret (2000).

“They’re all about identity and the role of the artist in society, whether it’s chefs, actors or journalists.” he said. “That’s sounds pretentious, and maybe is. That’s what all those films have in common. They’re all sort of the same film over and over again in a different genre.”

Each film is marked by Tucci’s practical nature. He doesn’t enjoy not working, and he doesn’t like waste when he works.

“If you have any amount of extra drive (as an actor) you’ll want to start generating your own work,” he said. “If you wait for people to give you a job, you could be waiting for a very long time, and it has nothing to do with whether you’re talented or not.

"I like to prepare. I don't like to waste money and I don't like to waste time. A lot of people seem to want to believe that creativity and practicality can't go hand-in-hand. I actually think they can."

Hooray for floating Hollywood

Had a ball Saturday at the Chasco Fiesta Boat Parade, a chance to visit old friends in my hometown New Port Richey including Skip Maslowski (at right with Princess Di, me and the trophy for best float design in this year's Hollywood theme).

Skip has helped judge the event for years, hence the cheesy sash and top hat that made him look like Mr. Moneybags in Monopoly after winning $20 in a beauty contest. Decades ago, movie stars such as Gloria Swanson called New Port Richey home, so the theme is appropriate and brought out a fun creative streak in each entrant.

Saturday's Grand Marshall was Tampa Bay Buccaneers legend Mike Alstott, who sneaked into the pre-show party at Hooters, dodging dozens of fans seeking his attention. Mike was gracious to the private party guests, though. On the return trip up the lovely Cotee River, Mike was dropped off at one of the many lawn parties -- this one at speedboat racer Steve Miklos' mansion -- where d.j.'s, musicians and steel drums played for, ummm, indulging guests.

Di and I floated with Chip Wright, a fifth-generation Cotee River rat and my kind of grouch when it came to dumb kids swimming in the channel where boats were passing, and a pontoon boat captain who almost rammed us because his passengers wanted some beads we were tossing. The river means as much to him as a movie theater does to me when cell phones and crying kids go off.

We rode with NPR city council reps Marilyn Dechant and Rob Marlowe, who coincidentally double-dated with me at a Gulf High prom then disappointed his date so much that she fell for me by the end of the evening. I ended up losing my virginity to that girl. Funny, that didn't come up in conversation.

Loved the floats, including one resembling The African Queen cleverly sponsored by a sheriff's candidate named Bogart. Don't  know the judging results but the best one I saw was a local plastic surgeon's take on Pirates of the Caribbean, shown at left.

Wrapped up the day with our best friends T-Bone and Aschell at Jilly's, where beer has made country boys dance better for decades. Heard about their gonzo trip to California wine country, and T-Bone's strategy in picking players for coaching his son's Little League team -- something he calls "drafting parents" that pisses off other managers drafting over-driven star players. T-Bone's team is tied for first place. You can see why we get along.   

   

Remembering Charlton Heston

Before any juicy gossip bloggers shovel dirt on Charlton Heston's long life and career -- because aging, you know, is kinda creepy to those who won't -- allow me to praise the man, not bury him, unlike what his Marc Antony did to Julius Caesar in 1950.

Actually, we shouldn't worry about pop guns taking aim at Heston. Celebrities with dignity, convictions (not the jury kind), decades of marriage to the same person and enduring accomplishments aren't their bag, baby.

You didn't need to agree with Heston's political beliefs to defend his right to express or change them. His baritone voice was commanding on screen or a public podium. His screen image playing historical and Biblical heroes -- and later sci-fi harbingers of where were were sinking as a society -- was carefully structured to project a larger-than-life authority that couldn't easily be refuted.

Did he misuse that unshakable posture? Only if you didn't happen to agree. Heston didn't mind being politically incorrect long before that phrase began irritating people.

His knee-jerk support of gun control after the murders of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King was directly at odds with serving three terms later as president of the NRA, protecting gun ownership. Was he hypocritical?  I don't think so, just sensitive to the damage guns were doing to America's future in the 1960's then equally aware that so much damage had been done by the 90's that packing heat might be a smart idea.

Heston had marched in Washington D.C. with King supporting civil rights. Later he would resign from Actors Equity because a white actor wasn't allowed to play a Eurasian in Miss Saigon. Was he inconsistent in matters of race? I don't think so, just convinced that ideally equality is for everyone and not at anyone's expense. Barack Obama is considered a visionary these days for espousing the same idea.

Heston was a staunch Democrat until the ideals he joined the party to support were watered down in Vietnam rice paddies. He became a Barry Goldwater Republican which was about as right wing as any could be in 1964, when the end to a senseless war could either come through surrender or by thorough retaliation that leaders from both parties were too invested to support. Picking your poison to America's global image sounds a lot like what's happening today.

Of course, it is the latter, conservative years of Heston's life that made him symbolize what liberals dislike about a nation that slipped through their fingers in the 1960's. As much as I admired and agreed with Michael Moore's anti-gun documentary Bowling for Columbine, I was disappointed with his ambush interview of Heston when the actor obviously wasn't mentally there, a few months before he publicly announced that Alzheimers disease was stealing his faculties. It seemed like a cheap shot at a straight shooter when his aim was irretrievably off.

But as often as Heston divided opinions, it was his videotaped farewell in 2002 that made him the same as everyone and better than those who couldn't face oblivion with as much grace and humor.

"If you see a little less spring in my step, if your name fails to leap to my lips, you'll know why. And if I tell you a funny story for the second time, please laugh anyway," he said.

Heston concluded his withdrawal speech from the limelight with a slightly inaccurate quotation from William Shakespeare's The Tempest: "We are such stuff as dreams are made of (sic), and our little life is rounded with a sleep."

Rest easily, sir. Don't listen from the ether at those who'll gloat that another dinosaur has died off and call that cultural evolution. The idea that a mere actor could represent something dangerous to any side of a political debate is silly but also a testament to Heston's impact with and without a script.

The gun has been pried from his cold, dead hand. The tempest of railing against wrongs -- even other people's rights -- has quieted. All that remains is the memory of an actor able to fill any monumental role -- Moses, Michaelangelo, presidents and pioneers. We should all be so fortunate to leave such an indelible legacy.   

Nice "Deal" in Sarasota

Princess Di and I spent Friday night at the opening of the Sarasota Film Festival. Always a good time except everyone thinks Di is Tina Fey (which is neat) and they're wondering what she's doing hanging around Paul Sorvino (which isn't).

A packed house at Van Wezel Hall genuinely seemed to enjoy The Deal, an almost-too-inside Hollywood satire co-written, co-produced and starring William H. Macy. You'll remember this as the movie Macy -- a frequent Sarasota visitor -- peddled to investors in several cities including Sarasota, looking for investors. These rookies in filmmaking got their money's worth in status enhancing, if not returns yet.

Before the show, the "Dealmakers" as investors were dubbed were asked to stand for a round of applause. Only a half-dozen or so people rose, and some must have been riding family tuxedo coattails. The end credits thanked 16 investors ((or so, since one was a group endeavor) from Sarasota, Chicago, New York and Toronto. That's an average of 4 checkbooks per city, so Sarasota is pretty much on par.

Never found any of the Dealmakers after the show to ask what they think of the process and Macy's movie. I'm sure they wouldn't say "mud" if they had a mouthful.

The Deal is a pretty good effort, genuinely hilarious at times and frustrating at others, even to someone like me with a decent idea of how the industry works. It wouldn't play well in Peoria, I imagine.

The best part about The Deal is that Meg Ryan -- who I've ragged on for a few years now -- has her best role in ages and flies with it. She plays a studio project developer being duped by a suicidal producer (Macy) into financing a script written as an art house historical epic then warped into a cheesy action flick starring an African-American Bruce Willis (LL Cool J). Ryan finally acts her age while the cosmetic tinkering she has undergone to maintain that illusion perfectly fits the character.

Di and I briefly stopped by the after-show party to see if any Dealmakers were around. You'd never find them in the human mass crowding the courtyard at Ringling Museum. People in Sarasota love their parties.

I did run into Macy, who thanked me for the interview and is just as nice as you'd expect him to be. Bill (he told me to call him that) was visibly pleased with the response to The Deal:

"That audience got the movie better than the one at Sundance," he said. "Sometimes when you make a movie about the movies, people turn up their nose because they think they know it all. This crowd laughed at the right places.

I suggested that he had a bit of a home field advantage with Dealmakers and their friends in the theater. "Yeah, a little bit I guess. But this was very encouraging. We're close to selling this thing (to a distributor) and this should help."

Sarasota bound, and boating with the A-Train

What's the emoticon for "embarrassed?" I'm still pissed about rushing through the Leatherheads review Tuesday morning, and nobody noticing a glaring mistake until it was published.

Yes, folks, I know there weren't Nazis in World War I. Doesn't mean I can't type it. The correction ran today on 2B (no, it wasn't part of the no-gossip-day plan) but the gloating e-mails and phone messages haven't stopped. I made some insecure people's day.

So, after kicking Mojo (just kidding!) and cranking out more closely scrutinized stuff for next Weekend, I'm off to pick up Princess Di and head to Sarasota for the film festival's opening night screening of The Deal. I'll post some impressions later, and before Saturday's shindig that will make this week worth slogging through.

Tomorrow I'll again be a dignitary at the Chasco Fiesta Boat Parade in New Port Richey where I was (as Daly would say) reared. Usually I'm a miscreant at Chasco events but "dignitary" will do for a day. Di and I will be riding on one of the boat-floats, waving at folks along the Cotee riverside. The theme is something like "Hooray for Hollywood" after making the trip last year as a hometown boy made semi-good.

Tampa Bay Buccaneers great (no matter what Daly believes) Mike Alstott is the grand marshal, and I'm looking forward to seeing him again at our Hooters pre-and-post parade gatherings. The last time was when I tossed the first pitch at a (then-Devil) Rays game against the Mets. Mike was sitting in a box behind us and signed the ball.

Should be fun, then we'll hit Jilly's, an NPR institution owned by friends. Hope your weekend rocks, too.

There's Hope for the Stones

I have a friend named Hope, who happens to be a bartender, 20 years old with a few face piercings, a couple tattoos, the fastest text messaging fingers east of the Mississippi and an eerie resemblance to Princess Di, the early years. (They get along famously, almost sisterly.)

Hope also happens to be as smart as a whip, funny almost to a fault and wouldn't be caught dead falling for Cloverfield hype or celebrity gossip too smug to allow any intended irony or humor bleeding through. She can smell an old fart trying to be hip a mile away. I take it as a compliment that she hasn't picked up that scent from me.

Neither did she pick it up from the Rolling Stones last night at an IMAX screening of Shine a Light, Martin Scorsese's brilliantly conceived concert movie with Mick Jagger and his mates. Hope didn't wait for celeb du jours Jack White or Christine Aguilera sharing a microphone with Mick to know the Stones can take any modern act to (old) school.

Hope gazed beyond character wrinkles blown up to IMAX proportions that scavenger snarks circle when the topic is the Stones. She now believes Keith Richards is the coolest deviant on the planet, that Mick is a miracle, and she would've jumped any of the Stones' bones when they were young, as Scorsese shows in judicious archival interviews.

Most of the playlist was composed before Hope was born but she lived and worked around enough jukeboxes, cover bands, free-ride radio and iPods to name most of those tunes. If they seem tired to ears by now through those mediums, Shine a Light gives them a fresh sheen, leaps and bounds beyond the band's earlier IMAX effort, At the Max.

Musical highlights? Buddy Guy joyfully tearing it up with Keith on Champagne and Reefer, with such brazen, ruthless fret work that both Keith and Ron Wood surrender their guitars to flabbergasted Guy at song's end; Keith making a 12-string weep on As Tears Go By; Ron stroking a pedal steel guitar while Mick drawls Faraway Eyes; any song giving Mick a chance to strut his stuff, especially Sympathy for the Devil when he practically channels Mephistopheles.

There's funny stuff, too, in the conventional-sized prologue showing Scorsese trying to get a final playlist settled but the boys don't cooperate. A lighting tech warns the director that if Mick stands more than 18 seconds in a particular design he'll get burned: "You mean, like, flames?" Scorsese asks in his clipped New Yawk accent. Yes, he is told. "We cannot burn Mick Jagger," Scorsese declares straight-faced, as if it were really an option.

The set list gets shoved before Scorsese only as the Stones take the stage. The old pro doesn't gripe, just announces: "First song," and the screen expands to its IMAX limits for Jumpin' Jack Flash, then Shattered, She Was Hot, All Down the Line then all bets are off.

Shine a Light will also be shown at conventional theaters but every effort should be made by fans to see it in the IMAX sight and sound formats. You'll love Scorsese's last shot -- a tracking stunt with neat CGI -- lending sly punctuation to his musical statement (or manifesto) that the Rolling Stones are the greatest rock and roll band ever, even in their AARP years.

A review will be published Friday, along with a Sarasota Film Festival preview that may keep page 2B gossip-free for a day. There's Hope.

Mr Holland and Steven Tyler's Opus

A decade ago, the Sarasota Film Festival was a blip on the city’s tony social calendar; one weekend, eight films and a wrap party. These days, eight movies and a shindig might be accomplished at the festival in a single day.

From modest beginnings, the Sarasota Film Festival has evolved into something worth the community bragging about. Now it is a 10-day event (Apr. 4-13) with more than 200 works from 30 countries, plus an array of special events. The guest list is more impressive each year. Film industry insiders regularly rate it among the nation’s top cinema showcases.

“It sends a statement that we’re here and we’re here to stay,” said executive director Jody Kielbasa who, along with keen programmer Tom Hall, has overseen the festival’s growth.

Kielbasa said the turning point was 2003 when Academy Award winner Richard Dreyfuss visited to pick up a career achievement award, and Aerosmith played at the wrap party.

“You just got a real sense that this was something special, something unique that was transforming our community in a lot of ways,” Kielbasa said. “Frankly, it was hard to miss. You don't get Aerosmith playing five songs at your wrap party -- free of charge, I might add -- and not make the (entertainment news) wires. That’s when our (attendance) numbers spiked dramatically. It began to take on a life of its own.”

This year's celebrity guest list includes Oscar winner Charlize Theron and her director/beau Stuart Townsend with their Battle in Seattle, William H. Macy (The Deal ), Stanley Tucci (Blind Date) -- who I spoke with on the phone recently and is just as cool and funny as you think -- plus Steve Buscemi and Liv Ullmann headlining a tribute to her collaborations with Ingmar Bergman.

Check out the Web site. You probably find something worth the gas to Sarasota.

George Clooney punts in Leatherheads

Leatherheads has many easy-to-like qualities going for it: George Clooney, football, terrific Roaring ‘20s designs, “Jim” from The Office, Randy Newman’s piano noodlings, even Renee Zellweger for a change.

On paper, Leatherheads looks like a sure winner. What’s on the screen is an entirely different matter. Replicating the classic screwball comedy spirit is tougher than anyone associated with this movie apparently wanted to believe.

Dialogue that should bounce between characters like a furious ping-pong game rarely does. The battle of the sexes seldom rises above a pouting match. Side characters who should handle funny stuff lack the material for it, leaving pretty folks at center stage distracted by a need to yuk it up.

As a director, Clooney should know better. He recalls little from working in a Preston Sturges vein with the Coen brothers on O Brother, Where Art Thou?, or viewing their textbook tribute to the screwball genre, The Hudsucker Proxy. Clooney doesn’t even seem interested in making a sports movie except that a uniform hugs his manly figure and the helmets look goofy.

As screwball comedy, Leatherheads is all wind-up and no pitch.

Clooney's fumble opens Friday. Read the full review Thursday in Weekend.