(Barbara) Broccoli on the side

Agent 007's best "Bond girl" doesn't have a naughty name like Pussy Galore.

Barbara Broccoli is femme without being fatale, entrusted with the legacies of James Bond and her late father, the franchise's mastermind, Albert R. ("Cubby") Broccoli. Alongside her half-brother Michael Wilson, Broccoli has steered the longest-running movie series (22 films and counting) since GoldenEye, coincidentally written by St. Pete Beach's Michael France.

I spoke with Broccoli during a recent trip to Miami where she helped promote the new Bond flick, Quantum of Solace, opening Nov. 14. The full interview will be published Sunday in Floridian and on tampabay.com sooner.

We talked about how and why she preserves her father's vision, and the hubbub about casting Daniel Craig as Bond, a choice that set the Web on fire with protests before production of 2006's Casino Royale even began. Broccoli was confident that the casting was spot-on. Convincing the masses was another story.

"We make these movies for an audience. We don’t make them just for ourselves," she said. "You always have some anxiety about how an audience will accept a movie. But Michael and I saw the director’s cut and told (director Martin Campbell) this is a terrific film. We were going to be proud of that film whether the audience embraced it or not."

Of course, Casino Royale did blockbuster business, grossing more than $400 million worldwide. It also got some of the series' best reviews (Entertainment Weekly named it the best movie of 2006), especially for Daniel Craig's take on 007, less debonair and more deadly.

"It did so magnificently well that we sat down and said, oh my god we’ve got to make a follow-up and it has to be as good if not better."

The result is Quantum of Solace, the shortest (106 minutes) and most action-packed entry in the series, in addition to being the first bona fide sequel, beginning an hour after events ended in Casino Royale. Even though Craig is firmly supported by Bondophiles, Broccoli said selling Quantum of Silence isn't any easier.

"It’s a different pressure," she said. "We didn’t have a Fleming book, so it seemed like a continuing story was the way to go. We got the writing team together, got a draft script and we wanted a director (Marc Forster, The Kite Runner, Monsters Ball, Finding Neverland) who would push the emotional story and make it visually exciting; different but within the kind of world that has been created."

The way we were, are and will be, all in a day

Everyone could use a day like the past Saturday was for me. Maybe you don't realize it -- surveys suggest that most people who read blogs aren't old enough yet -- but it's true.

Saturday morning I joined Times pop music critic Sean Daly for a tag-team presentation at the Festival of Reading, as we joked and waxed seriously about our beats and the ways we handle them. As much as I love ribbing Sean about the size of his head or the lascivious slant he'll often put on his writing, I can honestly say it was an honor sitting next to him on that Poynter Institute stage. He's that good.

Even more gratifying were the readers who attended, asking great questions that at least once -- when a gentleman inquired about why Into the Wild drew such an emotional response from me, that I shared in my review -- felt like a psychotherapy session. All ages, all tastes and all reminding me that what I do for a living somehow touches people. We can all use that once in a while.

Later Saturday, Princess Di and I went through the time tunnel to New Port Richey, where I grew up. Hundreds of other Gulf High School graduates gathered for the first-ever Buccaneer Alumni Invasion, two days of multi-generational memories and, as importantly, fundraising to set up five new scholarship kitties for Gulf's student-athletes. I wrote a Pasco Times column advancing the event, that the Bucs' head coach Jay Fulmer told me he read to his unbeaten (now 7-0) team for inspiration, which for a former jock and prep coach is more satisfying than any professional award.

We raised around $25,000 that will assist deserving Gulf grads. If you don't believe that feels good then you've never tried anything like it yourself.

Bill Phillips, class of 1975, organized this ambitious endeavor and flattered me by asking if I'd serve as emcee for Friday's pep rally and Saturday's pregame and halftime events. I used to block for Bill when he played quarterback. He has known for a long time that I'm a ham always seeking a new deli in which to show off. (I wasn't voted "most spirited" and "class clown" for nothing.) I introduced myself to a packed stadium as the Times movie critic "but tonight I'm prouder to be a 1974 graduate of Gulf High School."

New Port Richey is a big small town that never forgets its own. It's a place that plenty of us couldn't wait to leave upon graduation but can't stay away from now when something like Bill's idea offers the reason. I ran into people who were supporting Gulf's programs when I was in school, classmates whom the years haven't stripped of fun, and people I taught, coached or worked alongside for 16 years before this gig. Hundreds of memories and twice as many laughs.

Then there were today's Buccaneer students, a bright, boisterous bunch who reminded me why I loved teaching. They didn't really know the lively old guy crammed into his letterman's jacket at the pep rally, or why he was so concerned with keeping Saturday's events running on time. But they knew I was like hundreds of others giving back to their alma mater. I'm confident they'll carry on that example.

The five scholarships were named in honor of people who've been there for the Bucs for decades: Brian Singletary, a four-decade Publix store manager who has donated materials and hired student-athletes all along, working around their class and practice schedules; Paul Girardi, who was my coach and now is the dean of Pasco County athletic directors; Lucy Decubellis, class of 1948, who served as the principal's secretary and everyone's second mom at Ridgewood High when I taught there; Jerry Young, a 35-year Gulf coach whose teams I covered as a Times stringer; and finally Bill, although he didn't know it until I called his name. (Good job keeping it hush-hush, Bill's wife Joy.)

In a single day I felt as if I'd gone through five of Shakespeare's seven ages of man. I wouldn't have been out front Saturday night if not for the opportunities the Times offers that Saturday morning reminded me of. I realized again that using whatever I have going for me to benefit others is what I'll do until I die. And I'm certain I'm not the only one who felt that way.

Maybe you had to be there to understand. Not just Saturday at Poynter or Des Little Stadium but everywhere I've been throughout the years. Not even Princess Di completely understands, and she knows me better than anyone. I sincerely hope you'll enjoy a day like that, to realize in the midst of everything else just how lucky we are.

 

Halloween Horror Picture Show this weekend!

There will be blood at the Beach this weekend. Beach Theatre, that is, as the Gasparilla Film Festival and Rick Danford's Enigma Films present three days of more gore than you can shake a chainsaw at, plus a few campy horror classics tossed in for laughs.

I'm checking out one of the weekend's grislier offerings right now: Live Evil (Sunday, 8:15 p.m.), produced by former Clearwater resident and Saint Leo University basketball player Mark Terry, who was kind enough to send along a screener. It's definitely a cut -- excuse the pun -- above the usual splatter flicks. Check it out.

The fun starts today at 1:30 p.m. with FREE SHOWINGS of four vintage flicks (and tamer than what the nights bring). Robot Monster (1:30), Son of Godzilla (3 p.m.), I Bury the Living -- with a great Richard Boone performance -- at 5, and William Castle's classic House on Haunted Hill at 6:30. Beach Theatre owner Mike France promises a few of Castle's ballyhoo gimmicks, including a "Coward's Corner" for timid viewers and a nurse, in case anyone faints.

Friday night is devoted to a pair of films from Sam Raimi's Evil Dead series: Evil Dead II (8:30) and Army of Darkness (10:45). Dress as your favorite "Deadite" and you'll have a chance to win prizes. Oh yeah, Bloody Marys will be sold at the concession stand. Tickets are $7 per show or $10 for the double feature.

Saturday's lineup begins with more FREE family-friendly thrills: Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein (10 a.m.); Munsters Go Home (12 noon); Gremlins (with audience participation!) at 2 p.m.; Ghostbusters (4:30); and Castle's The Tingler (7 p.m.) starring Vincent Price.

Then things get messy again with a zombie costume contest celebrating Night of the Living Dead (9 p.m.), followed by the Beach's popular Rocky Horror Picture Show featuring live in-sync performances by Interchangeable Parts at 11:30. Toast and squirt guns are encouraged. Again, tickets are $7 per movie or $10 for the double feature.

Sunday afternoon is family-friendly and FREE again with encores of Ghostbusters (10 a.m.); Gremlins (noon) and The Tingler (2:15 p.m.).

Danford's Halloween Horror Picture Show takes over Sunday afternoon. Tickets are $7 for the whole shebang. A collection of short horror films -- several locally produced -- begins at 4:30. Titles include The Reaper, Frankenstein vs. the Wolfman, Side Effect, Lamp Post Lake, In Darkness and Alarum.

The festival wraps up (with a tourniquet) with three adults-only shockers: A Gothic's Tale (5:45), Live Evil (8:15) and Shadowland at 10 p.m.

Be there and scared or be square.

Expect you to die? No, Mr. Bond, we expect you to talk.

And Daniel Craig certainly does that, at two miles a minute, fueled by a pot of espresso and a whirlwind travel schedule. If it was Wednesday, it must've been Miami.

Unlike his taciturn portrayal of James Bond, Agent 007, Craig is a surprisingly chatty and amusing bloke, sometimes talking faster than his brain can form the proper words.

You wouldn't know it's the same guy, except for Craig's Newmanesque blue eyes, McQueenish rugged looks and an impeccably tailored suit with matching arm sling, the chic result of recent shoulder surgery.

"I would be lying to you if I said it wasn’t (a tailored sling)," Craig said. "I got a couple of these things rather nicely made and this one seemed to fit (the suit). Hopefully it’s subtle, or else I’d be wearing my arm in a cast, saying (waves hands and raises voice a couple pitches) everything’s fine."

We laughed loudly, leading me to comment that such gregarious conversation is surprising after Casino Royale revitalized a ruthless streak in 007 that Sean Connery perfected but couldn't fully explore 40 years ago.

"Hopefully that’s because I’m an actor and that’s my job," Craig said. "This is who I am and I definitely don’t cross the two over. I just generally try to put people at ease and let’s talk normally, you know? Not raise it to a level that we don’t need to."

No problem. At one point, Craig casually stammered for an answer so long that he asked me to repeat the question: "How chatty am I?" he asked rhetorically, laughing and lifting his voice again: "Wind him up and he’s off!" More laughs.

We covered a lot in 15 minutes, thanks to both of us being fast talkers: How he manages to balance Bond fame with smaller, artsy films like Infamous and the upcoming Defiance; what it's like to be considered one of the sexiest men in the world ("As soon as someone tells me: ''You're rather sexy,' I wish I could disappear."); how he became convinced that Bond fans who criticized his casting had been won over; how he handles the celebrity spotlight ("If I go all Greta Garbo and say I want to be alone, what's the barking point?") and this choice comment about why he took the role with such pitfalls in store:

"The idea of regretting not doing this just seemed insane to me: Sitting in the corner at a bar at age 60, saying: ‘I could’ve been Bond. Buy me a drink.’ That’s the saddest place I could be. At least now at 60 I can say: ‘I was Bond. Now buy me a drink.’"

Quantum of Solace opens Nov. 14. Check back on tampabay.com, Weekend and Floridian for the full interview with Craig, a chat with producer Barbara Broccoli about keeping her father's franchise vital, and maybe something with the new, gorgeous Bond girl, model Olga Kurylenko, although my heart was jammed so far into my throat that my ears clogged and I won't know what she said until the recording's transcribed.

(Photos from AP, Internet Movie Database)

Cast your vote for favorite movie president

Friday's release of Oliver Stone's W. got me thinking about other presidents portrayed in movies. Well, the movie plus an editor who thought it would be a good idea if I would think and write about them.

Anyway, I did, and it turned out fun, and streamlined since Hollywood mostly gambles on the Roosevelts, Kennedy, Nixon and Lincoln. Not too many movies about James K. Polk and Rutherford B. Hayes out there, you know? Other chief executives were notably played once, maybe twice (Charlton Heston as Andrew Jackson in The Buccaneer and The President's Lady; Alexander Knox in (Woodrow) Wilson).

But I picked 10 presidents with ample representation in feature films and TV movies. No, I didn't include Morgan Freeman in Deep Impact or Jeff Bridges in The Contender although I'd vote for either, if they weren't fictional. Then I chose the best portrayal of each president, and their running mates, err, runners-up.

The list will be published on Etc. Page 2B in the next couple days. But I'm opening to your suggestions for the best presidential performances right here. Whaddaya think?

East meets West... but not in a name

You know, my only consolation is that apparently others have the same mental block I do.

The former Syracuse University football player mentioned in the previous post about The Express (and today's Etc. page) is Dick EASTERLY, not Westerly.

And there's a story behind that.

I knew I had directional problems from the get-go. While tapping out the feature story on EASTERLY (not Westerly) and his former teammate Patrick Whelan, I occasionally, mistakenly had Dick's name on the wrong side of the compass. Caught it, too. Just didn't correct all of the references before turning in the story.

Neither did some Times editors. When the story passed to our final vanguard of accuracy -- in this case, a great editor named Dawn Cate -- "east" was still "west" in a couple of places. I was surprised when the newsfeatures honcho (whose name won't be given because he's a Red Sox fan) sent a humorously firm message to me and my direct editor (whose name won't be given because she has enough to worry about these days):

"You can only change direction like that on a football field," the honcho typed, urging both of us to adhere to the Times' high standards of getting stuff right. Thanks to Dawn's leaping, diving, over-the-shoulder catch, we did.

So, while quickly pounding out the previous post yesterday about the Syracuse/Express situation, I slipped in a few "Westerlys," just for old times sake. Wish it had been that inside-jokish but it was just plain dumb. Nobody reads this blog much, anyway.

Except someone putting together today's Etc. page, who didn't notice the change of direction is EASTERLY'S (not Westerly's) name. The blog post was printed untouched and inaccurate (although now I have corrected the spelling). For that, I sincerely apologize to Dick EASTERLY (not Westerly), a great guy who'll probably laugh it off.

But he may wish to consider all capitalization on his surname in the future.

The Express runs off-track after Times story

You never know when a story will make a splash somewhere else. Or at least a little ripple.

My recent interview with Dick Easterly and Patrick Whelan -- two members of Syracuse University's 1958 national championship football team -- ended up making them temporary media stars. Easterly and Whelan took offense at dramatic liberties taken in The Express, the biography of their late teammate, Ernie Davis.

Davis was the first African-American recipient of the Heisman Trophy, a landmark for racial equality, but apparently didn't face the kind of bigoted backlash the movie depicts. An early death by leukemia before Davis could play in the NFL was one factual aspect of his life that the movie shortchanged.

One sequence Easterly and Whelan strongly disputed involves a Syracuse game at West Virginia where fans and players shower the team with racial epithets and garbage. Due in part to the Times story getting around, even the governor of West Virginia is demanding an apology from the film's producers.

The day after the interview ran in the Times, I got a call from a West Virginia reporter asking for help contacting Easterly and Whelan. No problem. Today I got message from the men, marveling at being contacted by nearly a dozen media outlets including USA Today and a Wall Street Journal blogger, who were nice enough to mention and link to the Times article. ESPN interviewed Easterly. Even Bob Costas raised the subject on his HBO show while interviewing former Syracuse great Jim Brown, who served as technical adviser for The Express.

Easterly said from the start that The Express was really more about Brown than Davis, with regard to the racial angles in the script.

Anyway, Easterly and Whelan called to thank me for getting out the accurate story about Davis, his relationship with head coach Ben Schwartzwalder and racial themes raised by the movie. They've been contacted by other alumni who wanted to pass along the same.

My pleasure, folks.

When Harry Talked Really Dirty to Sally

Just finished screening Kevin Smith's new raunchfest, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, and it's hilarious. Not just funny but choke-on-your-Goobers-spit-'em-on-the-floor funny. Who knew that gutterspeak smut and gratuitous nudity could be so doggone romantic?

Yes, I said romantic. Not that candy-and-flowers stuff but comedy that grabs you by the privates -- never gently -- while the other other hand is tugging your heart strings. I thought that Forgetting Sarah Marshall was about as far as effective romantic comedy could go without an NC-17 rating but I forgot that Smith was snowballing through scatalogically sexual humor when Judd Apatow and his merry band of perverts were still playing Army tent with girlie magazines.

Smith borrows Apatow's poster boy Seth Rogen for this one, uncovering facets of his horny lug persona that I didn't think possible after tiring of his overexposure. Rogen plays Zack, the usual loser with a jovial attitude about it, whose roommate Miri (Elizabeth Banks, I'm in love) is equally busted. In order to pay the bills they decide to produce a porn movie in the coffee shop where they work, recruiting a cast of eager beavers including Smith stalwart Jason "Jay" Mewes and adult movie legend Tracy Lords.

First they need a title, which as any porn aficionado knows must be based on a real movie, so Smith rolls out a laundry list of possibilities: Edward Penishands and Lawrence of a Labia are the only ones I can get away with printing (I think). Finally they settle on Star Whores, with obscene twists on characters names that makes me wonder why George Lucas isn't suing (the movie's sound was processed at Lucas' Skywalker studio, so he must be aware).

Yet at the core of Zack and Miri Make a Porno is the theme that When Harry Met Sally proposed, that friends stop being friends after having sex. That movie made viewers swoon by proving it wrong. Smith has the same goal in mind with Zack and Miri, using smuttier jokes, frontal nudity and dirty pop culture references. Put it this way: Meg Ryan's faked orgasm in WHMS seems like a Saturday morning kid show now.

I like the way Smith keeps growing as a filmmaker, from the basement values of Clerks and Mallrats, to experiments in sappy emotions with Chasing Amy and Jersey Girl. He has learned how to move a camera and edit smartly, write with purposeful obscenity and lead actors to do more than recite lines. Zack and Miri Make a Porno opens Oct. 31 and mouths will be agape well into November.

Now excuse me, but I have to see if this Dutch Rudder idea really works.

City of Ember: Career in ashes

There's something wronnnnng here, something very, very wronnnnng. Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together kind of wrong.

Bill Murray isn't funny anymore.

He isn't even trying, not when it comes to choosing scripts and often not when chosen scripts offer opportunities for laughter. And Murray isn't doing serious movies like Lost in Translation and Broken Flowers that mined his comedic reputation for heartbreaking wistfulness because he wasn't wisecracking, or if he did it was brief, contrasting comic relief. We could sense that those characters wanted, even needed to laugh but couldn't.

Now we know how those characters felt.

Murray apparently intends now to be funny only in minute doses (his Get Smart cameo was fleeting fun) or not at all, in movies nobody is honestly expected to see (The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, The Lost City, The Darjeeling Limited).

City of Ember -- possibly the most depressing kiddie adventure ever -- is the latest Murray miscalculation. Somber to a fault, with an allegorical political/religious subtext that will sail over the heads of children suckered in by the PG rating. Suddenly, Murray sleeptalking through two Garfield movies as the voice of a cartoon cat looks pretty good.

Murray is miscast as the mayor of Ember, an underground city created centuries earlier when the above-ground world ended. For reasons some viewers will think are unclear -- and those who get it will shrug and think "so what?" -- the mayor doesn't want Ember to literally pull itself out of a catastrophic hole. It's a nothing role that any middle-aged actor gone to seed would wring for menacing mirth. Murray looks bloated and bored, only slightly more interested that cameras are rolling than he was in Charlie's Angels.

You know Murray doesn't care about his reputation when he reprises his getting-slimed scream from Ghostbusters in this mess, this time when a gigantic mole with French tickler lips rushes into his face.

This is precisely the kind of material that the old Murray would mock, practically daring producers not to pay him due to insubordination. The guy whose sarcastic bluster we'd wind up quoting for years. The Murray who could make you buy a ticket simply because he was in the preview trailer. Now that has become a red flag for moviegoers.

Rokki's humbler picture show

Wish I had a blog a few years ago when indie filmmaker Drew Sky (not his birth name) called, after I had the temerity to skip a midnight Saturday screening at Royalty Theatre of his movie Planet of the Pitts. You know, the sci-fi comedy about a planet populated by Brad Pitts. Or maybe you don't.

Anyway, Sky was at the airport, agitated and heading back to L.A. He felt the urge to heatedly express his displeasure with me, while hinting at a scrap sometime. Sky ended the mostly one-sided conversation by swearing that he'd never again talk to me or the Times on his way to the top.

Guess who called today? Twice, leaving the same message (gotta check that cold-call phone list closer).

Now Sky calls himself Rokki James, or Rokki James Hollywood on his Internet Movie Database bio and for his new movie, Andre: Heart of the Giant. It's the biography of pro wrestling legend Andre Roussimoff, aka Andre the Giant. Familiar tall guy Matthew McGrory (Big Fish, The Devil's Rejects) was originally cast as Andre but died shortly after production began in 2005. The role went to 7-foot-7 Daniel Gilchrist, a former bouncer and telemarketer, according to the IMDb.

Andre: Heart of the Giant will begin showing Thursday at Clearwater Cinema Drafthouse at the corner of Sunset Point Rd. and U.S. 19, starting with a 10:30 showing and Q&A with James/Hollywood/Sky.

I mention it because the filmmaker sounded genuinely apologetic when I called back to remind him of the previous conversation. "You know, in the past I was going through a tough time, with the death of my brother and everything," he said. "I've come a long way since then."

Fair enough, and good luck the rest of the way.