EW's 100 movie classics of the past 25 years

All morning long, my nose has been buried in Entertainment Weekly's new issue, the magazine's 1,000th in a consistently fine history. Pretty impressive streak, there.

The issue is chiefly dedicated to listing the "new classics" of the past 25 years in music, television, books and, of course, movies.

*** 8 p.m. update ***

I'm still looking for The Big Lebowski, and the numbskull(s) who left it of the list. How can a movie that created a legitimate cult following be neglected while Crumb is Mo. 14 and Rushmore (RUSHMORE!!) is 22, right behind Schindler's List?

On second thought, ignore this list.

Can't argue with Pulp Fiction at No. 1 ("opened a new universe of mainstream storytelling... recast the future of movies by living so thrillingly, in the moment"). But it doesn't take long to reach one that will ruffle some fathers: Titanic at No. 3.

But debate is what such lists are all about. Scan through the photo gallery of Nos. 1 through 100 (South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut) and let's discuss what EW got right, or horribly wrong.

[AP photo]

AFI lists are SOT (same old thing)

The first five or six American Film Institute lists of all-time greatest film whatevers were fun. Now they're just the same clips from the same movies recycled ad nauseum.

I know the TV ad revenue for these specials and public awareness of what the AFI accomplishes with film preservation and education are important. But these specials are creeping closer to a telethon vibe.

I'm hoping that last night's show -- which I TiVo'd because I was stuck watching The Love Guru (a movie contradicting everything the AFI stands for) --  will be an exception when I get a chance to view it. After perusing the list of top-10 movies in various genres, I'm not confident.

Anyway, here's the rundown of AFI's selection, picked by a few hundred film industry professionals including some movie critics. My ballot hasn't been filled out since Dueling Banjos wasn't eligible for the top-100 movie songs list a few years ago, because it didn't have lyrics. Yeah, like the listed Gonna Fly Now from Rocky does.

ANIMATION
1  SNOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN DWARFS  1937
2  PINOCCHIO  1940
3  BAMBI     1942
4  THE LION KING   1994
5  FANTASIA     1940
6  TOY STORY  1995
7  BEAUTY AND THE BEAST  1991
8  SHREK     2001
9  CINDERELLA     1950
10  FINDING NEMO     2003                          

FANTASY
1  THE WIZARD OF OZ            1939
2  THE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING      2001
3  IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE      1946
4  KING KONG    1933
5  MIRACLE ON 34th STREET       1947
6  FIELD OF DREAMS      1989
7  HARVEY      1950
8  GROUNDHOG DAY       1993
9  THE THIEF OF BAGDAD    1924
10  BIG    1988

Who are the one-hit movie wonders of all time?

I'm working on an article and really could use your help.

I commented in a recent review of The Happening that writer-director M. Night Shyamalan's breakthrough movie The Sixth Sense is looking more like one of the biggest flukes in modern film history. That got my editors wondering about other filmmakers who opened with a bang then fizzled out. When editors wonder, reporters write.

Anyway, I'm compiling a list of directors who fall into that ignoble category, people who had breakthrough hits and never reached that level of accomplishment again.

First, we need to qualify what is a hit. It could be a box office smash, or an artistically exemplary film that apparently used up the director's potential. It could be both, like The Sixth Sense, that earned money ($293-million in the U.S.) and acclaim (six Oscar nominations including best picture).

Keeping with Shyamalan's example, don't consider The Village ($114-million) or Signs ($227-million) as box office hits. Their ticket sales were markedly lower than The Sixth Sense, and Signs had the Mel Gibson factor going for it, before Gibson went bonkers and became b.o. poison. Good will residue from The Sixth Sense surely helped, as fans kept hoping Shyamalan could pull another rabbit out of his hat.

Remember that the $100-million mark that slow learners still consider as the measure of a hit, isn't anymore. Higher ticket prices -- not to mention production and distribution costs -- pushed that break-off point to somewhere around $150-million. If you're considering a filmmaker from before the 1970's when blockbusters became imperative, box office totals don't count much at all.

One name that immediately comes to mind is Orson Welles, who reinvented American cinema with Citizen Kane -- arguably the greatest movie of all time -- and never matched himself again. certainly there are academics who will advocate The Magnificent Ambersons, and Touch of Evil has its share of brilliant film noir moments. But Citizen Kane set the bar too high for anyone to clear, which Welles often admitted as his career became a joke.

I'm also considering these directors of Academy Award winners for best picture, who never sniffed an Oscar again: Kevin Costner (Dances with Wolves), Bruce Beresford (Driving Miss Daisy), Hugh Hudson (Chariots of Fire), and Michael Cimino (The Deer Hunter).

Those are just off the top of my head. Now tell me what's in yours.

[Getty Images]

OMG! Marky Mark just spoiled The Happening on TV!

Right there on the CBS Early Show. And he said more about whatever's forcing people to kill themselves in The Happening than I did on this blog and in my print review. So, all those folks who have groaned on the phone or keyboard about my noting it's a case of nature's revenge can chill.

"It's a little message-y," host Harry Smith said of the eco-terror plot.

"I'm a faith-based guy and that doesn't waver," Mark Wahlberg said. "But (M.Night Shyamalan) gave me so much information about the honey bees and the fact that they're disappearing and there's no chance of them coming back (which is in the preview trailers, too)... and the primordial bacteria off the coast of Australia, and the next thing you know I'm completely convinced this could happen.

"Certainly I haven't jumped on the green wagon but we do our part at home. You look at the climate today and what's going on in the world. It's possible that this could happen."

Thanks, bud. The only thing better would be if you made those statements on a TV show people actually watch. I doubt that the show's ratings made Wahlberg bolder about revealing anything. If it was such a big secret, he'd be teasing it to sell more tickets.

The problem is that Shyamalan is widely known as a filmmaker who depends upon last-minute twists to thrill audiences -- Bruce Willis being dead in The Sixth Sense, or a superhero in Unbreakable, or that The Village is actually set in modern times. He doesn't pull a late switcheroo in The Happening, probably because he thought that would fool viewers expecting him to employ the usual strategy.

Apparently the movie's above-the-title star didn't think it's a big deal to reveal.

But some viewers -- who haven't seen the movie yet -- think I spoiled it.  After 15 years in the job, I'm very careful to avoid doing that to any movie. Heck, even someone at Tampabay.com lost faith, adding "Spoiler alert!" to the entertainment page tease without asking me if it may be necessary. Maybe they should've asked Wahlberg.

As I've conveyed to complainers: I didn't spoil Shyamalan's movie. He did that himself.

Big Lebowski documentary achieves

In the parlance of the Dude, new s--- has come to light about the long-awaited documentary on the most devout disciples of The Big Lebowski, the 1998 comedy written and directed by Joel and Ethan Coen. These fans call themselves "Achievers," taking the nomenclature from the big, rich Jeffrey Lebowski's charity program for underprivileged children.

I'm an Achiever and darn proud of it. Got the t-shirt and everything, as you've seen in outtakes from my photo shoot for a new Times ad. Princess Di and I pose wearing them each time we go to Telluride or somewhere otherwise cool, adding the photo to Lebowskifest.com's collection of Achievers' world travels. I'm proud to say that my 2005 feature on visiting Lebowskifest in Los Angeles is part of the site's media collection, too.

As such, I get irregular e-updates from organizers Will Russell and Scott Shuffitt on the comings and goings of Achievers worldwide, and plans for the next Lebowskifest.  They've been held in New York, Las Vegas and, of course, L.A. but originated in (and returns July 11 and 12 to) Louisville, Ky. This year's lineup includes musician Mike Doughty (whose Bustin' Up a Starbucks and 27 Jennifers are two of my favorite ear worms).

The schedule also includes the world premiere of The Achievers: The Story of Lebowski Fans that documentary filmmaker Eddie Chung was shooting in 2005 at Lebowskifest in L.A. I'm gonna contact Chung and see if I can get a screener for review, and maybe suggest it to local film festivals for inclusion. Take a look at the preview trailer, and note that the title has changed from Over the Line (a line from the movie) to The Achievers. Enjoy!

Sex and the City, microphones in the frame

Woke up to this e-mail from a reader, conveying a problem I have written about numerous times over the years. Had to explain it again during a TV interview the other day:

"What's the story? Hundreds of folks saw Sex and the City at Tri-City AMC and there were many scenes where the microphone and/or boom mic was visible. How could a major studio release such a badly edited film to the public? There is some word about this on the Internet. You're the expert -- what's the story?

MJ Gruskin
Clearwater, FL"

My reply:

I guarantee you that's a problem with the teenager assigned to run the projector. He/she didn't have the film properly framed (in this case, too high so too much at the top was showing). It's the same as going to see a foreign movie and the subtitles might be cut off because the film is framed too low.

The fact that some folks are complaining online about this with regard to that movie says two things: Sex and the City is bringing out people who don't go to theaters enough to know how sloppily many are operated, and the problem of poorly trained employees who don't care what happens as long as they get paid is everywhere.

What ticket-buying customers need to do is get off their butts, complain immediately to management and have them make that very simple adjustment. Nothing gets done if you just sit there and complain to yourself.

Sex and the City, Suburb, Beach, Borough and Mexico

My best friend T-bone and I go back a long way, through thick, thin and downright skimpy. We know each other's past and present, and plan on taking care of each other in the future as long as it doesn't cost too much.

I honestly thought I knew T-bone. Tonight I learned something I never suspected, something that truly stunned me.

T-bone has watched every episode of Sex and the City. Some (*sob*) twice.

I didn't know when I invited T-bone to a screening of Sex and the City: The Movie (that is composed and performed exactly like the TV show, only bigger). He broke it to me during the ride to Tampa.

After taking a sip of Monster and mixing it with bile, I listened as a friend should. I felt like Carrie Bradshaw in the movie when someone she trusts confesses a hurtful, long-held secret. Then something happened. The more he explained, the more it all made sense.

Digging up bones with Indiana Jones

I should have a sandwich board sign hanging off my shoulders today. The front would read: "Yes, I've seen Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull." The back would answer the unavoidable follow-up question: "Yes, I mostly enjoyed it."

Then I'd hire a platoon of Short Rounds to follow me carrying banners explaining why I did and didn't. It's already getting redundant, speaking to everyone's curiosity.

The undeniably positive stuff is easy: Harrison Ford still has his iconic swagger at age 65, Steven Spielberg can still shove the pedal to the metal in action set pieces, and Karen Allen's "Marion Ravenwood," resurrected from Raiders of the Lost Ark, remains one of the pluckiest -- if now puffiest -- adventure heroines in movies.

The undeniably negative stuff is a talky patch of exposition between Indy's first escape from Area 51 and the clutches of Cold War Commies to his next escape astride a motorcycle steered by a minor irritant, Shia LaBeouf's "Mutt Williams," a concession to the teen market buying most tickets these days, unborn when Indy released his (next-to-) Last Crusade 19 years ago.

There's a point when Indy and Mutt careen into a college library where Prof. Jones is asked a source question by a student. Scrambling to make a getaway, Indy refers him to another expert's work, adding: "If you want to be an archaeologist, you have to get out of the library." LaBeouf doesn't immediately convince me that he belongs anywhere else; the movie spends too much time sorting through the archives.

Then there's the stuff that entertained me, that some Indiana Jones fans may not appreciate as much.

Eddy Arnold, Mom and me

My mother used to joke that she would pack her bags and leave us in a heartbeat, if Eddy Arnold asked her.

At least I think she was kidding.

Eddy was her favorite singer of all time -- with an occasional exception for Ray Price when he sang Crazy Arms. It had something to do with the tuxedo he wore like a second skin, that baritone voice that Dinah Shore memorably described as "warm butter and syrup poured over wonderful buttermilk pancakes," and the lush, Sinatraesque violins he added to traditional country music, becoming a successful crossover act before crossover was cool.

The news this week that Eddy died at age 89 deeply saddened her. When Mama's not happy, nobody's happy.

When we get together for Mothers Day dinner today (yes, it's Saturday but that's how Persalls roll) I'll probably sing a few lines from Turn the World Around or Make the World Go Away into her ear while I'm hugging her. I'm sure we'll reminisce about the two occasions when we went to see Eddy in concert.

The first time was when we lived in Alabama and I was about 12 years old. We drove an hour to Birmingham for the show, stopping beforehand at an appliance store so I could get one of those new-fangled cassette player/recorders that seemed like something from a Jules Verne novel at the time. I got an eight-pack of blank tapes, Dionne Warwick's greatest hits (my initiation to the wonders of Burt Bacharach) and Eddy's, too.

That night, I carried the shoebox-sized contraption into the theater, planning to capture the concert for later replays. "Bootlegging" only referred to 'shine in Alabama at the time, so it didn't seem like a big deal.

The show was classy, as I recall, and so was Eddy afterward, sitting at a table signing autographs for anyone standing in line long enough. Of course, we did. When we reached Eddy, I placed the cassette recorder and its plug-in microphone on the table while shaking his hand. Eddy asked what that thing was, so I told him, proudly adding that I was able to record his show. He looked a bit concerned.

"Umm, how about you taking that over to my manager and tell him what it is," I recall him saying, pointing to someone that I immediately sensed I didn't want eye contact with. Okay, I said, grabbing the recorder before anyone else had a mind to, tucking it under both arms and heading for the exit. I felt like I'd just robbed a Brink's truck but did it for Mom.

Later, I discovered just how lacking the technology was, straining to listen to Eddy's show through a tiny, single speaker and hearing mostly applause between muffled melodies. I never tried listening to the concert again but I don't doubt for a second that my pack rat mother still has it stored somewhere. I know I threw away the recorder after the next big breakthrough -- 8-track tapes -- became the rage.

About 20 years ago, I was writing for Players magazine, a local music/entertainment rag, when news came that Eddy Arnold would appear at the old Bayfront Center a few days after Mom's birthday. Somehow I wrangled a couple tickets and, even better, after-show backstage passes so she could meet him again without the long line or rushed greeting. I kidded her that I wouldn't be the one telling Dad if she decided to not come home.

Eddy was gentlemanly as expected, Mom was thrilled as planned and I didn't bring up the recording incident during our conversation in case the statute of limitations hadn't expired. After all the celebrity brushes I've had over the years, that one remains special, especially now.

Happy Mothers Day, Mom. Rest in peace, Eddy.

Oscars schmoscars, I want my MTV awards

Serious Film Critics consider the annual MTV Movie Awards to be a chance for junk cinema to get props because that's about all the MTV audience demands from cinema. Cynicism becomes me.

Then comes the announcement of this year's MTVMA nominees. While there are some movies that shouldn't be anywhere near an award show (Rush Hour 3, Jumper, Pirates of the Caribbean: At Wit's End, and I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry), I'm very impressed that the nominations list also includes three of my top-10 film choices for 2007: Oscar winner Javier Bardem (No Country for Old Men) for best villain, four nods for Juno and one for Sweeney Todd (although I doubt many MTV voters sat through that much opera but Johnny Depp is tooooo cute for this crowd to overlook).

Either I'm going through my second juvenile delinquency or the kids are wising up.

The list is still slanted toward sophomoric comedy (Superbad leads with five noms), geeks they can relate to (Michael Cera's two nominations), celluloid video games (Transformers) and whoever's pin-ups are gracing bedroom walls (Jessica Biel, Zac Efron, paparazzi terrorist Chris Brown).

Perhaps the best example of the MTV Movie Awards' silliness is a new category: Best Summer Movie So Far. Keep in mind that voting ends May 23, one days after the nominated Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull opens in theaters. Sex and the City: The Movie won't debut until a week later. That gives an advantage to Speed Racer (but not much when you see it), The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian and Iron Man.

Check out the link to nominees and post your choices for the best and worst honorees. I'll be watching  June 1 to see if  Briana Evigan and Robert Hoffman win Best Kiss for Step Up 2: The Streets. That is, if I can figure out which channel they'll be broadcast on.

 

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.

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.

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.

The last night of Dalihoo

Shameless plug alert: Tuesday night at Studio@620 in St. Petersburg I'll have the honor of contributing to the Salvador Dali Museum's lecture series in conjunction with the current Dali & Film exhibition.

Honest, that plug sounds more uptight and academic than I plan to make the presentation. My idea of a night at the museum is either a bad Ben Stiller flick or a ticket to Madame Toussaud's.

The topic is Dalihoo: The Twisted Art of Selling Movies, from Kroger Babb to Cloverfield. We'll be breezing through the golden era of ballyhoo, when theaters sold sizzle when the steak wasn't there. Babb was a pioneer of schlock marketing with his "scared straight" films of the 1940's and 50's that were public services on the surface and prurient peek-a-boo thrills at heart.

Changing times mean we're not as curious about sex, drugs and general immorality anymore but the same selling principles to a gullible public remain, hopped-up on Internet power.

Dali's concept of critical paranoia -- the benefits of allowing yourself to be deluded  -- figure prominently in this psychology.

We'll see some of the tricks employed by Babb, prankster-producer William Castle and others. We'll also look at the role of exhibitors like my father in corralling interest. It should be a lot of fun and, what the heck, it's free. If you're not completely satisfied I'll give your money back.

Studio@620 is located at 620 1st Ave. S. Showtime is 7:30 p.m. Hope to see you there.

Fewer Blood Feast photos (not for the squeamish)

Here's the now-infamous fake blood splatter on the Channelside Cinemas screen. That's the two Andys fretting  about scrubbing it off before the multiplex police caught us; me bidding the crowd adieu; and cleaning up the carnage. Click on the photos for larger images.

Blog visitor SteveS (father of Daydreamer screenwriter Adam Sigal), posted: "Hahaha. This was the talk of the Festival yesterday. Persall got nominated for a special effects award afterwards. (not)" Thanks, pal.

Princess Di (or "that other woman" as described by an editor who asked me to take down a couple pix) is always there to make mutilation more fun. Thanks to my Juno-like pal Hope for the pix!

Gasparilla Film Festival closing night winners & fotos

Just got back from the closing night party for the Gasparilla Film Festival, and those folks have something to celebrate. The final numbers will be forthcoming but executive director John Rosser told me they're looking at three times last year's ticket sales -- a nice leap from practically nowhere.

Looks like Tampa (and ...Bay by extension, if you don't mind traffic) has a solid foundation for future film festival success.

The shindig at Florida Aquarium was packed, a bit pickled and proud of the past five days.

Lots of nice people to chat up, including "rising star" award winner Brittany Snow (Hairspray, the upcoming Prom Night update) and Shane West (ER, League of Extraordinary Boredom uhhh, Gentlemen) who earned a special acting prize for What We Do is Secret, in which he plays Darby Crash, lead singer of the 70's punk band, the Germs. (Snow and West share a laugh at right.)

Awards were presented to Gunn Highway for best locally produced film, young filmmaker Nadia Samova (twice for Oneiric), and The Flock, a Richard Gere thriller that needed chairs moved into an auditorium Saturday night to accommodate the overflow crowd. The Flock is produced by Bauer-Martinez Studios -- which has offices worldwide including right here in Largo. BMS president Phillippe Martinez (at left) accepted the award.

Other winners included American Fork (grand jury prize), the trucker documentary Big Rig (grand jury special mention), Fly Boys (audience choice, best narrative),  Tocar y Luchar (audience choice, best documentary)  and Ariel Kiebble with a special mention acting prize for Daydreamer.

BTW: Daydreamer is written by Adam Sigal, who reminded me that we once conversed in a St. Petersburg College film studies class about the works of Stanley Kubrick. The former Clearwater resident is doing well in L.A. now, regularly playing poker with roommates Paul and West. He's sending me a DVD screener of Daydreamer since I couldn't make the Sunday screening.

What? No award for the Blood Feast retrospective? Hey, we cleaned up the screen. (photos to come when Hope ships 'em to me.)

Big props go to Rosser and festival prez Eric Odum, who came up with this great idea last year and just needed someone savvy like Rosser to make it happen.

Blood on the screen

I hadn't told many people that Blood Feast director Herschell Gordon Lewis planned to slit my throat last night. Just enough for a conviction if the stunt went wrong.

The gash-gag was the two Andys' idea -- Andy Lalino and Andrew Allan of Film Ranch Intl., a local horror flick production company. They figured having the Godfather of Gore killing me would be a great finish to last night's Blood Feast screening and Q&A with Herschell and producer David Friedman at the Gasparilla Film Festival. My editors have thought the same about any number of events.

Anyway, the Andys rigged me up with a fake blood tube with a plastic syringe I'd push slowly, releasing a stream of red, red krovy (Clockwork Orange fans know what I mean) at my throat. Kind of like Sweeney Todd without the singing. Herschell would be "goaded" by a bogus question about critical dismissal of his movies then give me a too-close shave.

The evening was wonderful, with around 175 horror fans gathering at a pre-show reception -- excellent job of turning a stairway landing into a great party site, GFF gurus -- and laughing at all the right places during the movie. Herschell and David were delightful during the Q&A. Everyone seemed to be having a ball.

When time came to give Herschell his cue question, I fumbled with readying the blood rig, trying not to be noticed by the audience. Herschell made a slashing motion with a plastic Egyptian knife and I started pumping the plunger, screaming bloody murder. The audience cheered but I barely noticed since the plunger was jammed.

I pushed harder and it came free. Too free. The fake blood missed my throat and splashed onto Herschell standing behind me.  He reflexively ducked backward. The spray continued onto the screen, creating a perfect kill-splash pattern for CSI training. I heard the crowd that time, a blend of grossed-out groan and admiring moan that must be why folks like the Andys make their movies.

The screen cleaned up faster than Herschell.

I immediately recalled Herschell telling me last week about wanting to deck a fan in Baltimore who splashed fake blood on him as a surprise. He was incredibly gracious, accepting my gushing apologies and the two Andys giving him a damp paper towel bath (see photo).

Hoping to get more photos -- perhaps some video -- of the whole messy affair posted later.

Time to resurrect the spirit of Ishtar

No, not Warren Beatty/Dustin Hoffman's debacle. But it makes sense that the Egyptian god revived by cannibalized body parts in Blood Feast was named Ishtar long before the movie Ishtar became cinematic road kill.

This is the day I've been waiting for, as have the smartest of you. Tonight we unleash the groundbreaking gore film Blood Feast at the second annual Gasparilla Film Festival. They even named the event GASParilla for the evening in honor of our esteemed guests, director Herschell Gordon Lewis and producer David F. Friedman. These two ballyhoo legends will accompanying the 45th anniversary screening at 9 p.m., and take questions from yours truly after the show.

This is going to be one for the scrapbooks, folks.

Before that extravaganza, though, the festival has plenty of films slated including an assortment of short films at 5:30 p.m. in honor of National Womens Month. I had a chance to preview one titled Loose Ends, directed by Rachel Gordon, and it's a delightful story of a woman who is the victim of identity theft -- both financially and personally -- who gets one of those problems straightened out in briskly humorous fashion.

Check out today's events at Channelside, or one of three showings of the shark documentary Requiem at Florida Aquarium just down the street. The Gasparilla Film Festival wraps up Sunday with a full day of films and the closing night gala at the Big Fish Tank.

Before the fun, though, Princess Di and I will join hundreds of others at the celebration of life for our dear, departed friend, WTSP-TV weatherman Dick Fletcher. Godspeed, bud.

The Susan Lucci of Academy Awards

Just one final Oscars story, and I don't even have the oomph to write it. But it's a nice one.

Kevin O'Connell isn't a household name but he's a sound mixer who was at the Kodak Theatre Sunday night with his 20th Academy Award nomination, this one for Transformers. T-w-e-n-t-y.

How many Oscars does Mr. O'Connell have on his mantle? Zero. Z-e-r-o.

Is he bitter? Not at all, for a very nice reason that Ray Richmond of the Hollywood Reporter posted today on his blog. Check it out then tell me you won't be pulling for this guy next year.

Oscar morning hangover

Just got in from Elton John's post-Oscar party and, boy, are my lips tired.

Wanted to thank everyone for stopping by last night. Sorry I wasn't a better host but the cupcakes were burning, if you know what I mean. I haven't had that many blog visitors since the test results came back positive, or ever since the doctor told me the results weren't mine.

Thanks to Daly and Spears -- a good firm if you need your taxes done -- for keeping the fire kindled while I steamed. Sorry to everyone in the office for that. You know how temperamental we artistes can be.

Banged out an Oscar autopsy column for tomorrow. Here's a sampling, after which I'll be knocking out a Gasparilla Film Festival advance, an interview with opening night film producer Jeff Balis and an interview with Blood Feast creator Herschell Gordon Lewis that was the most fun I've had on the phone since Princess Di blocked 900 numbers.

Enjoy, and thanks again.

Choosing Marion Cotillard as best actress reinforced a recently noticeable Oscar voting codicil: lovely young women ditching all vanity to play unattractive characters deserve Oscar gold.

Without wearing a severe fake nose, Nicole Kidman (The Hours) wouldn’t have an Academy Award. Charlize Theron (Monster) plumped into serial killer Aileen Wuornos to win. Hilary Swank posed as extreme tomboys in Boys Don’t Cry and Million Dollar Baby to get the academy’s attention. Renee Zellweger (Cold Mountain) won by channeling Grizzly Adams.

That trend is becoming nearly as fool-proof for winners as playing mentally and physically challenged characters. Cotillard had both factors in her favor.

In case you didn’t notice, Cotillard is a stunningly beautiful woman with an ooh-la-la accent that could charm the killer in No Country for Old Men. Her role model, singer Edith Piaf, was a withering hag with a memorable voice. Makeup artists who won Oscars for transforming Cotillard into a convincing crone deserve lifetime achievement awards.

The academy cheers when such attractive women dial it down for their art.

But that still doesn't explain Tilda Swinton's best supporting actress win for Michael Clayton.

Wakin' up like it's Christmas morning

Merry Oscars to you! Can't wait to see who gushes, who blushes and who flushes their careers down the toilet tonight. Hopefully it won't be me, dealing with working the event outside my comfort zone (i.e. at the office rather than at home or in L.A.)

We'll have a live blog rolling here, thanks to Sean Daly and Princess Di. I understand *The Joose (my more polite nickname for it) is also joining in. You can never have enough snark at times like these.

Like the picture? That's me with less weight and more hair 10 years ago in the fan stands at the Shrine Auditorium. The tux was rented but mandatory for media Joes, while the Josephines had to wear evening gowns. Cross-dressing wasn't as big back then. I was visiting Princess Di and her new friends made during their overnight wait in the bleachers -- Di's second time doing that. They couldn't leave after entry 36 hours in advance, so I'd use my media credentials to sneak in snacks and fresh undies, after a comfy night sleeping in a hotel room and Pina Coladas at Trader Vic's.

Of course, the whole process changed after 9/11, so that slumber party atmosphere is gone.

The Academy Awards have been my Christmas since 1968, the first time I really paid attention to them at age 11. (Well, there was that Mary Poppins year a few before but I fell asleep.) My dad had a drive-in in Alabama and each year he and the other theaters' managers would meet for breakfast and decide which best picture nominee they would book for the weekend, hoping to pick the winner and reap the ticket sales.

Everybody else was jumping on The Graduate, Bonnie and Clyde and Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. Nobody believed in Doctor Doolittle, with good reason. My dad wanted In the Heat of the Night for reasons he can still count down for you. Of course, he won that "bet," and I was a proud kid that he did.

Fast-forward 25 years or so and I'm in L.A. at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion for my first of four Oscars visits. I knew it was going to be cool when I opened the back door where media was supposed to enter and Bruce Springsteen walked out after rehearsing Streets of Philadelphia, that night's best song winner. He thanked me for holding the door open.

By the end of the evening I had learned that a.) you shouldn't ask a serious question of a prepubescent Oscar winner like Anna Paquin, b.) Tommy Lee Jones really is that grouchy, and c.) always hit the restroom as soon as you can after the last envelope is opened. I was a couple urinals away from Harrison Ford, who said "Jesus, four hours without a drink," and Clint Eastwood, who replied: "Yeah." I don't think they washed their hands on the way out.

I still have one of Wolfgang Puck's gold-chocolate Oscars in the freezer but it turned green. I have all four access badges and a still-sealed bottle of official Academy Awards purified water from the 67th year. I have bootleg t-shirts sold by street vendors with lettering that started rubbing off before the show ended. I have that Jack Nicholson story I told on Spears' podcast last week. I have a swag bag of Oscar memories, in person or just as a not-so-innocent onlooker.

Tonight I get to open another present around my loved one and friends at work and on this blog. Hope you'll join in.

Lindsay Lohan gets Razzed to a record

Lindsay Lohan's I Know Who Killed Me set a new Golden Raspberry Awards record Saturday, "winning" eight Razzies that are presented -- but usually not accepted -- by creators of the worst films of the year. John Wilson and his crew have done this for 28 years and I'm glad to be on the ballot mailing ist.

Lohan was named worst actress in a tie with herself, playing a dual personality stripper/student searching for who may or may not have killed her, in a movie whose title claims she does know. Lohan also won the Razzie for worst screen couple. I Know Who Killed Me was dishonored as 2007's worst remake ("of Hostel, Saw and The Patty Duke Show.")

Norbit was voted three Razzies, all for Eddie Murphy as worst actor, supporting actor and actress in another of his latex-driven roles.

Spirit Awards semi-live blog now!

If anyone's out there and interested: I'll post here with some comments along the way.

Sorry I'm late. After a Cracker Barrel breakfast (what's up with the hash browns?) and a Dillard's gift card (thanks Mom)  shopping spree to get something to wear in  comfort Oscar night, I took Mojo to get his shots and ran into Anne Murray ("Spread your tiny wings and fly away") who did a show at Ruth Eckerd and was unwinding. She likes her shots as much as Mojo.

No, just kidding. I'm just late.

Let's see what's happening on 10-minute TiVo.

I drink your milkshake, home skillet

No, Daniel Day-Lewis isn't threatening Juno McGuff. I've just been concentrating on this year's Oscar nominated screenplays for tomorrow's Weekend spread and they're starting to run together in my head.

For the first time in Academy Awards history, writers will be the stars of Sunday night’s telecast. Without them, the show wouldn’t go on. Neither would the movies.

The writers strike is over, the Oscars will proceed. More importantly, the cinematic process has resumed in Hollywood. Nobody can believe anymore that “it all starts on the page” is just an acceptance speech cliché.

It isn’t coincidence that all five of this year’s best picture nominees are also finalists in the adapted or original screenplay races. The two categories regularly go hand-in-hand. Only four of 45 best picture nominees this decade didn’t also have screenplay nods: Ray, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers and Moulin Rouge.

In this Oscar year of the writer we’ll highlight all 10 nominated screenplays in Weekend, with background and excerpts of their quality.

Wonder what Michael Clayton would say to those twits in Atonement?

A Flash of Green gets a rare screening

Most folks think of Sunshine State or Cocoon when naming a Florida-themed movie. Old schoolers may go back to The Cocoanuts with the Marx Brothers, that still works today with its spoofing of our state's growing pains.

One that has been overlooked is A Flash of Green, based on John McDonald's novel of corrupt Florida developers, politicians in bed with them and a reporter (Ed Harris) sorting it out. It was a PBS production in 1986 that was good enough to get a bit of a theatrical release. Like a lot of fine movies, the box office wasn't there.

Nobody knows Florida and conveys it clearer on screen than Victor Nunez (Ruby in Paradise, Ulee's Gold). A Flash of Green is as good as either of those movies but isn't even available on DVD, which is about as obscure as it gets these days.

Roberta Whipple from the St. Pete Beach Library, in conjunction with the Florida Humanities Council, is bringing A Flash of Green in a where-did-they-get-it print to the Beach Theatre, Monday morning at 11 a.m. Best of all, it's free of charge and producer Sam Gowan will lead a panel discussion. Nunez planned to attend but has a directing gig that popped up.

Check it out.

Hear ye! Hear ye! Oscars podcast is on!

Stuck in the 80's guru Steve Spears is stuck with me in this week's podcast, available by clicking here or through some kind of iPod contraption that the kids like these days. I was sitting in for Sean Daly during his paternity leave (which worked out better than the paternity suit a few years ago).

We had a great time going through his fave decade's Oscar winners, from Ordinary People to Driving Miss Daisy, and giving props to movies like Raging Bull and Raiders of the Lost Ark that should've won. I also get to tell my favorite Jack Nicholson story from the Oscars.

I had so much fun, I'm hoping Daly procreates again soon.

Remembering Roy Scheider

Everyone remembers Roy Scheider as the guy who needed a bigger boat in Jaws, or Popeye Doyle's partner in The French Connection. I always preferred him in the late Bob Fosse's 1980 film All That Jazz as Joe Gideon, a self-destructive, womanizing Broadway genius a lot like Fosse himself. It was a volcanic performance that should've won the best actor Oscar instead of Dustin Hoffman in Kramer vs. Kramer.

It was 1999 when my affection for that movie led to an interview with Scheider in Tampa when he visited his All That Jazz co-star and Fosse's former lover Ann Reinking's Broadway Theatre Project for young stage talent. Watching him watching them was delightful. Chatting with them about Fosse and the film was everything I could hope for as a fan. Now Joe Gideon's death scene -- longer and more dazzling than any on film --  won't be the same.

But what I want to do is replay the last part of the story I wrote in 1999, an anecdote that says everything necessary about an actor devoted to his craft, and who'll be missed:

"Look at the amount of performance that was in what we saw out there," he gushed. "We saw several kids in there who could audition tomorrow in New York City and get some work. "Besides the music and dance, every one of those kids were so damn sincere. They had so much feeling for what they were doing. You couldn't help but be touched."

That was especially true for the session's final question, posed by Paddy Heusinger, 18, of Jacksonville. Heusinger appeared nervous when he asked Scheider to identify a moment in a movie or play that deeply moved him. Scheider's intuition prompted him to turn the question around, asking Heusinger for his most memorable dramatic experience.

Heusinger was coaxed into reminiscing about a scene from Neil Simon's Broadway Bound. "I don't like Neil Simon much, because there's no subtext to his work," Heusinger said. "But he's won Pulitzers and everything, so ..." Scheider smiled at the teen's boldness.

Late in the play, Heusinger said, the mother of the play's hero Eugene wonders if she has ever done anything right for her son. "You birthed me," he softly replies, and they reach out to each other for a farewell dance. Heusinger's voice cracked, and he wiped tears from his cheeks. The scene, he sobbed, reminded him of his own parents' support.

Scheider didn't say a word, or try to relieve Heusinger of that emotional response. When Heusinger was seated again, Scheider's voice, more solemn than before, rose above the audience's sniffles for his closing comment: "This is why we do what we do. We must do it. We have to communicate. We have to touch each other with our art."

Somewhere in the hereafter, Bob Fosse smiled, flicked his cigarette ash, and called it a wrap.

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, toppe