Hancock: The fat lady loses weight

I met Will Smith when he was still a fresh prince, before July 4th marked Big Willie Weekend at theaters.

New York, 1996, at the New York media days for Independence Day.  Cigars were popular then, and I figured buying a few Ybor stogies would help me fit in with those urbane, urban types. Coincidentally, when I saw ID4 that weekend, Smith had a running joke about smoking victory cigars after kicking alien butt, and that's not over "'til the fat lady sings." Not very original but that's Dean Devlin and Roland Emmerich for you.

Anyway, I ended up in an elevator with Smith after his interview session. Lots of floors.  I complimented Smith on the movie and said something casual about being a movie star now.

"Do you really think so?" he asked, with an expression I'll never forget, or fail to appreciate. It was sincere, quizzical, a little pessimistic, and genuinely seeking confirmation from a stranger about what he hoped was true. This guy already was a music and TV star yet still had a level of insecurity that makes me feel better in insecure times.

"Let me put it this way," I said, reaching into my jacket pocket to hand him one of those cigars. "The fat lady's singing."

Smith took it, laughed loudly and clapped me on the shoulder. The elevator doors opened. I went one way and he became the Fourth of July's movie king.

The fat lady lost a few pounds between now and then, judging from Hancock, a great idea going in too many needless directions for a 90-minute movie to handle. I laughed during the first 30 minutes at what tickled me for weeks in preview trailers, was intrigued/confused for the next 20 with the darker angle director Peter Berg was fashioning, then wondered if someone slipped 21 Grams into the projector when nobody was looking.

This isn't a summer kind of movie, except for starring Smith. The action sequences are standard stuff Berg attempts to make exciting with needless camera motion. There's no nemesis for Hancock except himself, which could and should be extended longer than the screenplay's attention deficit permits.

There is, however, a twist involving Charlize Theron's character that muddles the plot and reminds me of one of last year's worst movies (or at least movie titles). I won't spoil it by saying which one but when a movie trying to be serious reminds you of something ridiculed, there's a distinct problem in tone.

Great character in Hancock, a boozy, antisocial superhero. Nice performances under the circumstances by Theron and Jason Bateman. Smith is as bulletproof as the character he plays, although what made the final reel of I Am Legend disappointing surfaces again here. He'll win a cigar at the box office but the fat lady's kinda hoarse.

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

"This is the Army," and my wife

Princess Di and I have this Name That Tune kind of thing when it comes to movies. She gets mad when I can name a movie in one note of soundtrack music, or the production company credits. Sometimes I cheat by looking ahead on the program guide, just to crank her up. I just typed too much.

Anyway, she's in the kitchen out of sight, rolling chicken tenders in Hooters sauce. I'm channel surfing and see Stripes starting now on a station and figure I'll test her. Nothing said, just flip to the channel.

First sounds after the old-school Columbia Pictures logo: a brief fanfare and the words "This is the Army," from a TV ad Bill Murray's watching.

"Stripes," Princess Di yells while chopping celery. The right side of my brain kicks in again.

Hooters (kind-of) wings and Stripes smarts. Can't get that with a coupon.

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!

Adam Carolla nails The Hammer

If you're like me, you only know Adam Carolla from his overtly sexist humor alongside Jimmy Kimmel on The Man Show, or his irreverent approach to Terpsicorian (is that a word?) talent on Dancing with the Stars.

If so, you'd be a surprised as I was by his performance in The Hammer, an independently produced romantic comedy/boxing movie that somehow doesn't have any distributor with enough faith in a wider release. Carolla came up with the story idea based on his experiences as boxer, and for an old dude he still has skillz. Carolla was also a carpenter, which makes his character Jerry Ferro a dual-pronged example of role intimacy paying off.

Jerry gets fired from a job he didn't like anyway, working off his aggressions at a boxing gym. He gets taunted by a title contender (St. Petersburg's former IBF champ Jeff Lacy) and responds with a knockout left hook. A trainer putting together the U.S. Olympic Team sees it and convinces Jerry that at age 40 he can finally be a contender, if he'll work hard enough.

"You're just one of those 95-percenters who never gives everything he's got," the trainer tells Jerry.

"No, I'm a 75-percenter but I'm giving you and extra 20 percent," Jerry replies, with Carolla's knack for dribbling sarcasm from the corner of his mouth like beer foam.

Jerry falls in love, faces his challenges and becomes one of the most endearing lugs I've seen on screen in a while.  The Hammer should be in every megaplex but without a distribution deal (it got some play in L.A. and other western states where Carolla has a radio following) it looks like home video will be your best chance.

That is, unless you visit Muvico Centro Ybor 20 this Friday, June 6. The Hammer will be shown twice at 8 and 10 p.m. Tickets are $10 with all proceeds going to the Tampa Bay chapter of the American Red Cross. Lacy will be there hosting the shows.

Why are we so fortunate? because the executive producer of The Hammer is Carrollwood resident and clinical psychologist Gregory Firestone, who I'll profile in a column Friday on the Etc. page 2B.

Good movie, great cause.

Arrivederci, baby

Got a little less bounce to my step today, and for 10 days to follow. Princess Di is leaving on a jet plane and although I know when she'll come back again that doesn't make being apart from my baby any easier.

She's traveling with her Mom to Italy for a tour of Rome, Venice and Florence, one of those If It's Tuesday This Must Be Belgium kind of bus things where Di will bring down the median age considerably. I'm jealous, even if it would mean road tripping with my mother-in-law.

Actually, we get along very well, especially after a Thanksgiving story I always love telling: Mom-in-law is a stickler for propriety at the dinner table on such occasions. She kept reminding the large group to pass everything to the left, to the left, to the left. She sounded like Kevin Costner going over the Zapruder footage in JFK.

Anyway, during the second round of helpings, the giblet gravy must've caught up to Mom, who let slip a dainty little fart. Everyone froze because nobody mocks Mom.

Except me. I broke the silence by asking her: "So, Mom, should we all pass gas to the left now?"

We've been closer ever since.

Anyway, Princess Di has been doing her research of touring Italy, in typically weird Princess Di fashion. Sure, she checks out Fodors and Zagat and all those conventional sources. But I've been coming home to her watching movies like Hannibal and The Omen just to note where grisly scenes took place. I love that side of my sweetie. Or at least I love knowing she has it, just for self-defense.

Have a great time, baby, come back safe, and stay downwind of your mother.

O Sole Mio!

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.

 

In defense of Ashton Kutcher

It is time to give a fair shake to Ashton Kutcher, as if enough cool things haven’t happened in his life. From his irrationally perfect genes to marrying Demi Moore, Kutcher’s fortune almost demands to be despised.

Those haters should lay off. Anyone paying attention after That 70’s Show and Dude, Where’s My Car? notices how Kutcher cannily parlayed fame as a producer: deflating celebrities on MTV’s Punk’d, punking paparazzi with Pop Fiction and turning the potentially degrading Beauty and the Geek into a sweetly empowering reality show.

Kutcher jumps into acting now and then, usually over his head in dramatic roles that his pretty-boy image won’t allow viewers to accept. Which brings us to What Happens in Vegas, and the role making Kutcher into a bona fide romantic comedy star.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

What's The Deal with William H. Macy?

Academy Award nominee William H. Macy’s fifth visit to the Sarasota Film Festival next week won’t be as leisurely as before.

In past years, Macy touted TV-movies that already had network slots, picked up a career achievement award then watched his wife Felicity Huffman awarded the same.

Macy also made friends who helped finance The Deal, an inside-Hollywood satire opening the 10-day festival on April 4. Tickets for that event and others are available at the festival Web site.

Investors and friends they wish to impress will attend opening night, in a social scene where impressions are everything. Nearly half of the film’s $8-million budget was raised in Sarasota and Manatee Counties (plus Chicago and New York), from well-heeled silent partners adding a touch of Hollywood to their lives.

“There’s an astounding amount of money in that part of the state,” Macy said during a telephone interview. “People would give us their cards and say: ‘If you ever want to make a movie, maybe I’d be interested in investing.’

“Well, the joke was on them because we kept the cards.”

Macy co-wrote the screenplay for The Deal with director Steven Schachter, ironically starring as a conniving movie producer desperately seeking a hit. Macy approached his first hands-on producer’s credit with humility and transparency his film character wouldn’t understand.

“For the first time, I was the one looking people in the eye, saying: ‘Give me your money and I think we’ll get it back,’” Macy said. “That comes with a heavy responsibility. My reputation and my word are on the line.”

On the phone, Macy sounds like the kind of guy I'd trust with a few thousands of my dollars, if I had any to spare. Read the rest of his interview Friday in Floridian, advancing the Sarasota festival opening next week.

Better jump on those Sarasota Film Fest tix!

Anyone making the trek to Sarasota's cinema showcase -- and it is worth it, I assure you -- should visit the festival Web site muy pronto and stake your claim for seats. The 10-day festival begins April 4.

Over 200 films are included this year, many of them accompanied by their creators and other celebrities. This year's guest list includes Oscar winner Charlize Theron, should-be Oscar winners Stanley Tucci and William H. Macy, and indie film fave Steve Buscemi.

Gov. Charlie Crist hasn't starred in a movie yet but he'll be there, too.

Complete information and sales are available on the Web site, or your can call the ticket and information line at 1-866-575-FILM or 1-941-366-6200. Or, you can drop by the festival box office in Sarasota Main Plaza, adjacent to Hollywood 20 (where most screenings occur)  at 1991 Main Street, Suite 108.

Single film tickets are $9, except for opening and closing night shows that are $20. Parties and special events are various prices and worth every penny. Don't be shut out!

Oscar winning director Anthony Minghella dies

From MSN.com comes this sad news:

LONDON -- Anthony Minghella, who won an Oscar for The English Patient and directed such hit movies as The Talented Mr. Ripley, Cold Mountain and Truly Madly Deeply, has died. He was 54.

Minghella's death was confirmed Tuesday by his agent, Judy Daish. No other details were not immediately available.

The English Patient, the 1996 World War II movie that won nine Academy Awards, was one of a series of literary adaptations directed by Minghella. Others included The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999) and Cold Mountain (2003). Minghella was recently in Botswana filming an adaptation of Alexander McCall Smith's novel The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency.

In addition to his best-director Oscar for The English Patient, Minghella was nomina