Sunday, April 15, 2018


"Walt Whitman once said, 'I see great things in baseball. It's our game, the American game. It will repair our losses and be a blessing to us.' You could look it up." -- Annie Savoy (Susan Sarandon) in Bull Durham

Bull Durham, Ron Shelton’s beloved ode to the piquant ambience and perhaps more elusive spirituality of baseball, especially the minor league variety, is staring down its 30th anniversary—the movie debuted on June 15, 1988, and upon its release almost instantly entered among the ranks of the best movies ever made about the game. (My own choice for top honors would be Michael Ritchie’s The Bad News Bears, and even among Shelton’s own work I prefer the soured fury of Cobb, the writer-director’s great rumination of the nature of heroism, a movie which worms its way toward daylight out of the curdled soul of its subject, Ty Cobb, an undeniably great player who was broadly recognized, by his contemporaries as well as historians, as a despicable human being.)

One of the things that made it seem so fresh in 1988, and why it doesn’t seem date or stale even now, is that Bull Durham dismantled over a decade of post-Rocky expectations as to what audiences wanted out of a sports movie—there are no big-game, all-or-nothing scenarios played out on the field, just comedy, disappointment, and a dash of poetry here and there; the most well-known, oft-quoted speech in it is only marginally related to the game; and the moment when one of the main characters gets called up to “the show” is played out not with cheers and orchestral bombast, but as it would likely play out in real life, with a sense of slowly digested disbelief (on the part of the one being called up) and a dazed and disoriented stewpot of mixed emotions for everyone else who gets to watch him go.

Seeing the movie again recently, I realized just how well, despite a nit to be picked here and there, and just how much of the essence of the game it manages to capture. Yes, Tim Robbins’ form on the mound is unconvincing as the hard-throwing AAA pitching prospect Ebby Calvin “Nuke” LaLoosh, but Robbins effortlessly accesses the kid’s cocky, know-nothing character, located somewhere between the sandlot and a vague awakening of adulthood, and every pitch, wild or controlled with pinpoint accuracy, conveys the nonchalant, raw energy of talent flailing in search of focus. That famous laundry list of convictions trotted out by Costner’s world-weary catcher Crash Davis in response to Annie’s question, “Well, what do you believe in then?” (you know Crash's answer), is overwritten in a way such that a naturalistic actor like Costner can’t make it sound natural, organic-- though Annie does provide a nifty auto-critique later when she responds to another of Crash’s proclamations with a audibly annoyed “Oh, Crash, you do make speeches!” And even the Whitman quote that Annie closes the movie with isn’t exactly a quote, but instead a niftily paraphrased distillation of some of Whitman’s thoughts on the game parsed out over time. (Worry not, Ms. Savoy— Brian Cronin in the Los Angeles Times did indeed look it up.) However unreliable Annie might be as a factual source—she self-admits getting her authors mixed up more than once and professes the stabilizing quality of breathing through one’s eyelids—the spirit of Whitman is what is at stake, and that is something the movie, however improbably, gets right. It’s almost a perfect affirmation of Annie’s character, and the movie’s, that even through misquotation the endgame is a specific, tangible truth.

Those are the nits. But in the spirit of celebration, and presuming everyone who has read this far will be familiar enough with the movie that a perfunctory regurgitation of Bull Durham’s “plot” will be unnecessary, I’d like to proceed in listing nine points of pleasure I take from Ron Shelton’s thoroughly wonderful movie, nine answers for nine innings, my own sort of answer to the question Annie Savoy poses to Crash Davis. In the matter of Bull Durham, well, what do I believe in then?

I believe in the Bulls mascot.
The at-first wildly ineffective Nuke LaLoosh gets two shots at the man in the full-body bull outfit—the first one sails perilously close to his head, causing him understandably to hit the deck, the other plunks him right between the horns, dropping the poor bastard like a bad date. And the perfect timing and editing of the shots elevates the plunk from potential concussion-or-worse tragedy to great high-low comedy.

I believe in a subtle reference to baseball movie history.
In what must be a nod to the bed-ridden boy asking Lou Gehrig to hit a home run just for him in The Pride of the Yankees, a batboy approaches Crash, who has been battling the voices of doubt in his head as he approaches a minor-league home run record, with a new piece of lumber. “Get a hit, Crash,” the boy offers in support. “Shut up” is the response, followed by an almost-too-quick-to-notice “just kidding” slap on the kid’s chest by Crash’s batting gloves.

I believe in the cleansing power of a player-umpire dust-up. It all starts with a misunderstanding. The ump says, “Did you call me a cocksucker?!” The player, Crash again, says, “No, I said it was a cock-sucking call.” Not words to de-escalate a situation, to be sure. The face-to-face shouting and spittle inflicting begins: “You want me to call you a cocksucker?” “Go ahead! Try it!” “’Pretty please!’ Beg me!” “Call me a cocksucker, and you’re out of here!” And then the masterful quiet before the storm, Costner’s decision to have Crash eschew further histrionics and go low for emphasis, the way he drops down to a whisper, never breaking gaze with his opponent, to deliver the payload: “You’re a cocksucker.”

I believe in musical deliverance.
The movie opens with a woman vocalizing the emotions of gospel music before we first hear Annie’s voice professing her own belief: “I believe in the church of baseball.” Underneath Annie’s elaboration of this profession the singer continues, joined by a church organ, which will later be echoed in composer Michael Convertino’s score and, of course, by the subtle omnipresence of the stadium organ, a beautiful nonverbal synthesis of one of the movie’s central ideas, the possibility of the profane being elevated by the spiritual.

I believe in a man’s right to believe.
The measure of respect Shelton holds in reserve for Jimmy, the Christian player who tries to drum up interest in locker room bible study, is notable (especially when placed against the cynical rain endured by representatives of faith in a movie like North Dallas Forty). The players aren't interested in religion much, and they dole out the raspberries for this obvious hayseed, but among the razzes Jimmy is allowed a good moment, a moment to be taken seriously. "I know y'all think I'm pretty square,” he says, barely audible above the general locker-room cacophony, but I believe what I believe." A movie which honors Annie’s polytheistic stabs at enlightenment does right by allowing its minor characters similar opportunities for self-expression. And I do love the moment when the players bring out Jimmy's wedding cake in the locker room reception after he improbably marries Millie, who makes a hobby of sleeping around with the other players. There's a plastic figurine of the bride and groom screwing atop the cake, and the actor, William O'Leary, manages to pull off the most charmingly embarrassed "Oh, my Lord!" in movie history.

I believe in righteous sexual innuendo.
Annie lays on the bed and writhes with pleasure as, just out of camera range, Crash is doing something she really likes. The camera pulls back to reveal he’s painting her toenails. And then they jump in the tub and do what nature intended, all to the strains of the relatively obscure 1951 R&B crossover hit “Sixty-Minute Man” by Billy Ward and his Dominoes:

“Lookee here, girls, I’m telling you now, they call me Lovin’ Dan
I rock ‘em, roll ‘em all night long, I’m a sixty-minute man…
There’ll be 15 minutes of kissing/Then you’ll holler ‘please don’t stop’
There’ll be 15 minutes of teasing and 15 minutes of squeezing
And 15 minutes of blowin’ my top…”

I believe in the power of a lesson learned.
There is no better moment of comedy in Bull Durham than the one which occurs when Nuke attempts to shake off the signs Crash is using to request pitches during the closing outs of a potential shutout win, an event which would be a milestone in confidence-building for the young hurler. “This son of a bitch is throwing a two-hit shutout, he's shakin' me off. You believe that shit?” Crash complains. And then, addressing his opponent: “Charlie... here comes the deuce. And when you speak of me, speak well.” Nuke delivers his pitch, not Crash’s, and the ball is hit squarely for a home run. When Crash heads to the mound, Nuke confirms that Crash revealed the pitch to the batter. “Yep,” Crash, the teacher, says to his student. Then a pause to reflect: “Man, that ball got out of here in a hurry. Anything that travels that far oughta have a damn stewardess on it, don’t you think?”

I believe in clarity. For all of Annie’s florid self-expression (and Shelton’s), the moment when she reflects upon Nuke having been called up to the major leagues is her brand of observation at its most crystalline: “The world is made for people who aren’t cursed with self-awareness.”

I believe in the power of forlorn revelation.  I wouldn’t trade the sense of melancholy that settles in on the last 15-20 minutes of Bull Durham for 90 straight minutes of adrenalized, “Gonna Fly Now”-induced excitement. Not that the movie is some sort of soul-searing bummer at its conclusion-- of course it finds its own way to the upbeat. But Ron Shelton figures a dramatically cogent way for his characters to deal with having to process loss and dissatisfaction and self-disappointment, and that’s not what I or any viewer could have expected after exposure to a decade of sports movies that were, to paraphrase a friend of mine writing about Bull Durham, so fiercely dedicated simply to naming the winners of the world. Part of the power of Shelton’s unexpectedly rich comedy is that there is room in the world for losers too.


If you have Netflix and are of an inclination to have your mind bent by a genuinely disturbing horror film, I cannot recommend the entirety (unless you have 90 minutes just aching to be slaughtered) of the recent anthology film Holidays (2016), which as you may have guessed, consists of segments from up-and-coming writer-directors, as well as the well-established likes of Kevin Smith, which riff of holiday-centric themes-- perennial slasher favorites like Valentine’s Day and Halloween, of course, but also ones relatively untouched as yet by the genre, like St. Patrick’s Day. But I can encourage you to seek out, between the beginning and end of Holidays, writer-director Nicholas McCarthy’s contribution to this omnibus, Easter, a smashingly effective mood piece, a grim and disturbing meditation on the strange comingling of religious and secular iconography that the holiday encompasses. McCarthy, the writer-director of The Pact and At the Devil’s Door, imagines a scenario in which a young girl struggles to reconcile the images of the Easter Bunny and the risen Christ, with her nonplussed mother no great font of illuminating information. Later that night, when the girl accidentally spies the Easter Bunny delivering his nocturnal goods, she’s forced to confront the synthesized significance of those images, as well as a terrifying possible future, head on.

McCarthy’s movie thrums at a much lower frequency than much in the horror genre these days (especially as represented by Holidays), yet it burrows much deeper under the skin than, say, the admittedly effective jump scares of A Quiet Place. And its surface “sacrilege” reveals a much more resonant, sympathetic nature, encompassing unaccountable belief and horror in the same framework with the beginning of a young girl’s journey toward adulthood, toward reconciling those conflicting images and influences for herself in a way that means cutting all ties with the familiar world. All within about 10 minutes. And all while retaining the capability of freaking an unsuspecting viewer completely the fuck out. Don’t search up details on the Internet—just fast-forward three segments into Holidays and see McCarthy’s terrifying movie for yourself.


Anyone remember Flip Wilson’s great comic bit about the go-rilla? I thought about it more than once during Rampage, the new CGI-soaked action thriller about George, a rare and quite good-natured albino ape, resident of the San Diego Wildlife Preserve headed up by top-drawer primatologist Dwayne Johnson, who gets exposed (as do a lone wolf and an already cranky crocodile) to a pathogen which re-edits his genetic composition, causing him to grow outrageously and become, shall we say, irrationally impatient. Newly inspired by science, this is a gorilla who really goes, and when all three are lured to Chicago by a powerful sound wave generated by the evil brother-sister team who created the pathogen (Malin Akerman and Jake Lacy, who I’d almost swear is doing his best Eric Trump), awesome monster battles and destruction ensue.

The key to Rampage’s success is, as is true of most movies the guy stars in, is Johnson, who establishes a credible, funny, sympathetic relationship with George which not only gooses the plot but generates an unexpected surge of emotion throughout. (Dino De Laurentiis was right—I cried when monkey… Well, no spoilers here!) The script hammers a little too hard on Johnson supposedly not being “a people person,” especially for an actor who radiates such a genial presence, but that’s a minor flaw. And it’s nice to see an action star who is able to sell his apparent invincibility the way Johnson can—here’s the real man of steel.

And he ably anchors a game cast, including Naomie Harris as a disgraced biologist who helps him track George and the other, much scarier mutations, and Jeffrey Dean Morgan, channeling Robert Downey by way of R. Lee Ermey, as the mysterious FBI agent who dogs all their trails and who may be less sinister (but no less disarmingly imposing) than he appears.

My only expectations for Rampage were for a Saturday-afternoon diversion, and it was gloriously that. But at the risk of exposing my inner yahoo, this one delivered the unpretentious goods right from the start and held me from exciting sequence to exciting sequence and all points in between, all the way through the end credits and a hip-hop repurposing of the Smashing Pumpkins’ “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” (“Despite all my rage/I am still just a rat in a cage”). And speaking of repurposing, this movie manages a far more satisfying evocation of the Toho kaiju aesthetic than either of the Pacific Rim iterations did, and it’s loaded with humor and emotion and moments, like Akerman dropping into the jaws of her most monstrous creation, that made this 58-year-old goofball hoot and cheer with abandon. I had a great time, and at the end I happily joined with my fellow multiplexers in a round of applause for a rampage well done.


Sunday, April 01, 2018


The Scarlet Empress (1934), starring Marlene Dietrich, John Lodge, Sam Jaffe, Louise Dresser and “a supporting cast of 1,000 players,” is director Josef von Sternberg at his most grandiose and excessive, which is just another way of saying "at his best," at the height of a state of expressive delirium no other director has ever really matched. (Though many have, either consciously or subconsciously, tried-- I wonder if Ken Russell ever admitted envy for von Sternberg or this film.) Von Sternberg paints his pictures with gasp-and-giggle-inducingly broad strokes, but his approach is no joke. There’s an exhilarating strain of claustrophobia in the director’s films which is given its freest rein here. His frames are burdened with grandeur, luxury and horror closing in, and he achieves a genuine sense of epic sprawl and decadence, despite the orchestrated sense that the whole of Russia, royalty as well as the entirety of its oppressed, terrorized subjects, exist in a subterranean network of grottoes shot through to the dankest corners with spiritual rot.

Not an element of the film is misplaced from von Sternberg’s apparently obsessive zeal; the story of the innocent and eventually calculated ascendance of the Prussian princess who would come to be known as Catherine II, “Russia’s most powerful and sinister empress,” whose presence, initially meant to temper “the madness of the holy Russian dynasty,” soon becomes its corrupt fulfillment, is its own particular journey into a purple heart of madness. (The quoted descriptions are taken from the intertitles von Sternberg uses liberally throughout his film, which in concert with his rapturous imagery, do much to link The Scarlet Empress to the history of silent film, which at the time of its release was a mere five years in the rearview mirror of history.) I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a movie which so absolutely feels like the fulfillment of its director’s intentions, indeed his entire career, but if that movie exists this is surely it-- if anyone can point me to any accounts of the production of The Scarlet Empress, I would greatly appreciate it.

In the meantime, I will avoid ever seeing The Scarlet Empress with a hip, modern audience who would certainly pounce upon its eccentricities and indulgences, its Elbrus-heightened performances, with the fury of a thousand Satellites of Love. Know-it-alls prone to poses of superiority toward a film style which doesn’t ring true to their experience wouldn’t know what to do with John Lodge, as Count Alexei, royal emissary and ladies’ man to the court, lustfully curling his lip toward the under-age and under-experienced Catherine from beneath mountains of sable, or Louise Dresser as the callously impatient Empress Elizabeth, who commissions young Princess Sophia to her royal fate, a vicious monarch played in the flat, unaffected style of dust bowl-era Jane Darwell, constituting a contrast of style Armando Iannucci might appreciate which results in a delicious clash with Elizabeth’s ornately royal carriage. And God prevent us from their assessment of the pleasures of Sam Jaffe’s lunatic grand duke, Peter III, who even invokes Harpo Marx, eyeballs clacking furiously in their sockets, as he spins off toward his doom.

As for the great movie star, there’s a particularly dirty frisson in watching Marlene pop her own orbs as she’s first exposed to the dirty secrets of the royal house, then continuing the hypnotic gaze as she slowly, seductively morphs into the monstrously self-aware Catherine of history, one refracted of course through a more familiarly diffuse lens of Hollywood Dietrich. Catherine seems unhinged in her own way from the start, which of course makes her the perfect addition to this Russia house, as Dietrich slowly exposes her heart and soul, the tarnish of evil visible through scrims of gauze and lit by the most exquisite, quivering candlelight. The Scarlet Empress is, on its own terms I think, just about a perfect movie; it’s gloriously, royally deranged.

Saturday, March 24, 2018


The title of Julia Marchese’s testimonial documentary on the history of Los Angeles’ the New Beverly Cinema, Out of Print, began, as her film did, as a way of suggesting the dark future which lay in store for the prospect of 35mm film distribution and exhibition in the early stages of this decade’s industry switch-over to digital projection. Marchese’s movie sprung from efforts to rally behind not only the viability of the film format in the face of the movie business’s growing infatuation with all things ones-and-zeroes, but also the viability of theaters like the New Beverly Cinema, the city’s longest-surviving repertory theater, which in 2013, around the time the film began production, saw the availability of 35mm prints, the bread-and-butter of the few independent revival houses across the country still in business, dwindling. These theaters were given a simple, expensive choice: cough up perhaps hundreds of thousands of dollars to pay for the conversion to digital, or close up shop. The industry itself, it seemed, would soon be out of prints.

(The theater in my hometown, staring down exactly this choice, boarded up in March 2014 and, current vigorous community efforts notwithstanding, remains shut down four years later.)

Out of Print slowly came together over the course of about a year, evolving from its origins as a love letter to 35mm and into a sort of oral history of what Marchese, and many others like her, loved even more than images on celluloid—the New Beverly itself. She rounded up a who’s-who of high profile fans of the theater, like directors Joe Dante, Rian Johnson, Edgar Wright, Stuart Gordon and John Landis, and also made room for a passel of below-the-line New Beverly regulars to tell their tales as well. My favorites: the wistful considerations of New Beverly mainstays like actor Clu Gulager, who had a plaque with his name on it installed on his favorite seat; and Freddie Gillette, former limo driver for Orson Welles, who has more stories than he could ever possibly tell (which, of course, will never keep him from trying); 

and the quick-witted and entirely charming Gariana Abeyta, former projectionist at the Cinefamily who proclaims, deadpan tongue in cheek, that her relationship with the New Beverly is “primarily sexual.”  (The fate of the Cinefamily itself, another Los Angeles specialty cinema now closed for reasons having nothing to do with exhibition formats, gives Abeyta’s wisecrack an unintended frisson of irony to go along with the laugh.)

All of these folks are united by their mutual love for what amounts to a treasured Los Angeles institution, and they supply rich veins of impassioned observation and amusing anecdotes, as well as some emotionally charged remembrances of the revival theater’s humble origins under the loving care of its original caretaker, Sherman Torgan, who died unexpectedly in 2007. Those who don’t know the theater or who are only marginally interested in the enthusiasms that are the meat-and-potatoes of Marchese’s tribute, which started screening for festivals and began its streaming life in the latter part of 2014, may find the plethora of talking heads on the indulgent side. But those for whom the New Beverly is more than just another theater will find plenty to enjoy here, and plenty to be saddened by as well.

For just as the movie started to become widely available, another chapter in the history of the New Beverly Cinema abruptly began to unfold. After ably taking over in the wake of his father’s death, hands-on shepherding the theater for seven years, Michael Torgan, who booked the films and dealt with almost every aspect of the theater’s day-to-day, night-to-night operation, was summarily replaced by the landlord, Quentin Tarantino, who had himself years earlier saved the theater from being sold off and turned into a Supercuts by buying it himself. Tarantino was self-installed as the ostensible new heart and soul of the New Beverly, sending waves of shock and surprise throughout the Los Angeles film community, who knew the Torgan family’s history as one of the city’s most important forces in the preservation of the revival theater experience. The new uncertainty about the New Beverly’s future, and especially the unceremonious handling of Torgan’s position which precipitated the “transition,” cast an entirely new light on Out of Print and what the existence of the movie as a document of the New Beverly might suddenly mean. (You can read my thoughts on what happened, with links to several outlying news stories and interviews with Tarantino himself, by clicking here— and be sure to stay for the comments.)

Approximately three-and-a-half years after what amounts to the repertory cinema equivalent of a palace coup, the New Beverly is still around. But in that time, Tarantino’s tastes as a programmer and the reliance on his own vast collection of film prints have turned the theater into something akin to his own personal grindhouse. When they are even featured, the appearance of eclectic double bills of classic Hollywood and foreign staples and deep cuts, once the New Beverly’s bread-and-butter, now feel more like token nods to the theater’s past than a vital element of its programming, having been pushed aside in favor of Italian gangster, western and horror obscurities, cheap kung fu thrillers and 90’s mall-plex nostalgia. (The theater recently segregated those musty Hollywood classics into a Wednesday afternoon programming showcase.)

As a result, Out of Print, in what feels like only the time it takes to pass 24 frames past a projector lamp, has gone from a celebration of a family legacy to a sad remembrance, and perhaps it is that sense of loss which gives the movie even more resonance that it might otherwise have had. As regards the heart of the format debate, Marchese, a fierce defender of 35mm herself, had to refashion her film to recognize that the digital revolution had already been won even before her production wrapped, that film vs. digital would never be an all-or-nothing affair, that both formats could and should co-exist, a sentiment that the old New Beverly had already acknowledged.

 Though currently (and apparently indefinitely) closed while undergoing renovations, business has reportedly been robust for the theater under the Oscar-winning filmmaker’s tutelage, while the refusal to acknowledge the digital revolution in any way still fuels the theater’s overriding sensibility. However, after almost four years the new New Beverly’s 35mm-or-bust attitude seems to have also limited the scope of the programming in ways that have nothing to do with whether or not 35mm is a superior format over digital. Of course, one cannot love revival cinema, in Los Angeles or anywhere else, without wishing the current gatekeepers of the New Beverly Cinema well. But seeing Out of Print now makes painfully apparent, for those who once did and still do call the New Beverly home, the demarcation which exists between the theater’s past and its present, the suspicion that though the theater still thrives something perhaps intangible, like dissipating light from a projector beam cast on dust and smoke, has indeed been lost. 

In the interests of full disclosure (in case it wasn’t already plainly obvious), the New Beverly Cinema has meant a great deal to me for a long time. In fact, I am one of those below-the-line folks interviewed in Out of Print. Though I’d had a DVD copy for a couple of years, I had put off seeing the movie until last weekend because I didn’t really relish seeing myself in it, and also because I suspected it would be an uncomfortable experience in light of what happened just after it was made. 

But for me the sadness was leavened considerably by seeing my kids in the movie as well—I took them along with me frequently to see everything from Modern Times and The General to pictures like Ace in the Hole, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, Fiddler on the Roof, Kansas City Confidential, The Lady Eve and dozens more, and their history with the theater has ended up well documented here as well. There’s a great still in the movie of Nonie out in front of the theater, plastic fangs in place, getting ready for a double bill of Dracula Has Risen from the Grave and The Fearless Vampire Killers, as well as a shot, which brought tears to my eyes, of the drawings Emma made depicting herself, me and Michael outside the theater that were displayed at the entrance past the box office for years after she gave them to him. So, I thought for me the best way to expand upon Marchese’s history of my New Bev, as well as the theater itself, would be to share some of the stories about what the theater has meant to me, stories which I originally posted when the theater’s future was very much in doubt. I’ve only been back three or four times since Tarantino took over, but I scan each monthly schedule nonetheless, looking for more reasons to head back. In the meantime, allow me to return in my own way.


ERE…  Less than a year after I graduated from college, a friend and I ventured south from Oregon to Los Angeles with vague hopes of trying to find work in the movie business-- #1 piece of advice: Don’t try to break into the movie business during what amounts to an extended two-week vacation. Though we did manage to wrangle an audience with producer Mary Anne Fisher at the old Venice location of Roger Corman’s New World Pictures (we even showed her some super-8 movies we’d made), the trip was basically a chance to screw off and see movies. And the first ones we saw were a double bill of Night of the Living Dead (1968) and Eraserhead (1977) at— where else? —the New Beverly Cinema. Especially for two hayseed boys from small-town Southern Oregon, the theater had a strange, sinister run-down vibe that was, of course, exacerbated by the skeevy terror of the films themselves, and I remember being constantly aware of my surroundings, as if I seriously questioned whether we’d make it out of there alive. We did. But if you’d have told me in the spring of 1982 that I’d be taking my own daughter to see movies there some 37 years later, I might have suggested driving to the nearest hospital for an emergency vasectomy. Especially after seeing Eraserhead.

UPON RETURNING TO LOS ANGELES FOR GOOD IN 1987, the New Beverly became a favored destination for me and my best pal Bruce, as well as other friends I would quickly make. I remember a screening of Nicolas Roeg’s Eureka (1983) during which Bruce and I discovered the one section in the middle of the auditorium from which the foul reek of stale piss was inescapable. The fact that the house was packed (Packed! On a Wednesday night! For a notorious Nicolas Roeg flop! This place must be some sort of heaven!) meant that we had to sit tight and stick our heads in our popcorn bags for any hope of relief. Avoiding that section in the future, I saw greats like Once Upon a Time in the West (1969), Manhattan (1979), Red River (1948) and Ride the High Country (1962) with other friends, including the woman who would soon become my wife. And one night I faced up to one of my major bucket-list fears and bought a ticket for Salo: the 120 Days of Sodom (1975).  Like the horrific stench of stale piss, there was no escape from Pasolini’s tortured vision either. (Fear not, motif hounds—I shall return to the urine theme a bit later, though, believe it or not, in a much happier context. And by the way, just for the record, that smell has long since been vanquished from the auditorium!)

FOR TEN YEARS FROM APPROXIMATELY 1997 to 2007, I FELL OUT OF THE HABIT OF GOING TO THE NEW BEVERLY CINEMA. But I had a pal at work who was becoming a regular and who was constantly encouraging me to attend the occasional Grindhouse Night with her, those special sojourns into the scurrilous world of low-rent genre cinema that would soon become a twice-monthly staple of New Beverly Tuesday nights. I was constantly begging off, having recently had two daughters of my own and experiencing firsthand the life- and scheduling-altering effects of parenthood. I’d been writing this blog for three years when she finally talked me into it. The first Grindhouse Festival, designed by Quentin Tarantino as a simultaneous homage to the trash classics he loved but also as a cross-promotional opportunity for the upcoming Grindhouse (2007) double feature, got under way in March of 2007. I seized the chance to write about the event for this site, specifically about the two double features I managed to attend-- John Flynn’s Rolling Thunder (1977) and Charles B. Pierce’s The Town That Dreaded Sundown (1976)and then a few weeks later Roger Vadim’s Pretty Maids All in a Row (1971), starring Rock Hudson and Angie Dickinson, doubled with Richard Lerner’s Revenge of the Cheerleaders (1976)-- in a piece entitled "Sex and Violence x2: Grindhouse Report 2007." And I was off, again, and running.

IF WE’RE LUCKY, WE GET TO HAVE A HANDFUL OF GREAT THEATRICAL EXPERIENCES IN OUR MOVIEGOING LIVES, and during that stretch from 2007, when I started my habit anew, to this year, 2014, the New Beverly has afforded me seemingly more than my share. There was the night, during Edgar Wright’s second “Wright Stuff” festival, when John Landis, who replaced Wright at the last minute, hosted a screening of National Lampoon’s Animal House (1978) and, to my initial horror, called me out during his introduction to talk about my experience as an extra on that film in front the whole house. (He asked if I thought he’d been a nice guy to work for, and when I answered in the positive he proclaimed, “Well, then I can reveal now that you’re the main reason for the movie’s success!”)

During that stretch I also had the chance to see several of my favorite Robert Altman films projected, including Brewster McCloud, Thieves Like Us and The Long Goodbye. Most thrilling, however, were the exquisite prints I saw on a M*A*S*H (1970)/California Split (1974) double feature about three years ago, bested only by the chance to see Nashville (1975) again last fall, just prior to Criterion’s gorgeous Blu-ray release, after a long period of not seeing it theatrically. It was even more exciting because I saw the film with two friends who had never seen it before. And yes, we spent some time in the lobby afterwards, with Michael, talking about just how astonishing the movie remains nearly 40 years after it was released, and how even more prescient it seems in the current light of day.

I’ll never forget seeing Haxan: Witchcraft through the Ages (1922) on a double feature with Carl Theodore Dreyer’s Day of Wrath (1943) a few years ago, just weeks before Halloween. The hallucinatory brilliance of the double feature (how many more programs like this can we reasonably expect without Michael Torgan’s influence?) was capped perfectly when I made my way out into the lobby afterward, only to see Julia stumbling down the stairs from the projection booth, a dazed look on her face. When she saw me she muttered, “That’s the freakiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Did you like that?!” Equally memorable, the transcendent Sansho the Bailiff (1954; Kenji Mizoguchi), which I’d never seen before, and which unspooled in its haunted splendor before me and about 10 other paying customers on a Friday night. When I stopped to thank Michael for showing it, he could not hide his disappointment that so few patrons, even among the New Beverly faithful, seemed willing to give the movie a chance.

AND THERE WERE THE GREAT, LO-O-O-O-O-O-O-ONG SITS that made me forever grateful for the theater’s seat replacement program, in which the tiny, beat-up fold-down seats were replaced by much nicer, cushier, back-friendly ones—with cup holders!— in 2008.  It was a real privilege to spend my first riveting and unforgettable experience with Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1976; Chantal Akerman) in the company of my pal Maria, on whose urging I decided to finally come to terms with this unique and brilliant film myself. 

Slighty longer than that, though considerably more action-packed, was a midnight screening of Tarantino’s own personal answer print of Inglorious Basterds (2009), hosted by the loquacious director himself, which started a half-hour late and was preceded by 45 minutes’ worth of WWII movie trailers also brought in by the director—which meant that the nearly three-hour feature didn’t get started until about 1:00 a.m. The usual gathering in the lobby to hash out the experience got under way at about 4:00 a.m., and I didn’t leave for home for another half-hour, remembering all the way to my car and all the way home how I used to do this sort of thing all the time in college, and it never seemed as devastating to my system, or my need for sleep, as it did in this moment. 

However, easily the longest and the most pleasurable of all was the opportunity I took a couple years ago to avail myself of a New Beverly pre-New Year’s tradition: a seven-hour (with bathroom break between features) double bill of The Godfather (1972) and The Godfather Part II (1974), perhaps the most devastating and thrilling of all American epics. To see it unspool in such close proximity, at full attention, was a singular thrill. I’d pulled this stunt once in the VHS days as a particularly perverse Thanksgiving treat to myself, but there’s nothing like the power of Coppola’s films unleashed in a theater, sans distractions—not even a peep from a cell phone, as I recall-- to make you appreciate their true, unforgiving power.

BUT AS GREAT EXPERIENCES IN A MOVIE THEATER GO, whether at the New Beverly or anywhere else, it’s hard to beat these three in my personal book. In April of 2008 I topped off the first of two interviews with director Joe Dante, who has always been one of my favorites, with a cornucopia of treats he offered at his first “Dante’s Inferno” Film Festival at the New Beverly. There were several highlights, of course, including Dante’s superb Matinee (1993) and his hilarious, politically astute satire The Second Civil War (1997), but nothing could possibly top the first screening in 40 years of Dante’s legendary, lunatic masterwork The Movie Orgy (1968), compiled with producer/friend Jon Davison during their college days (and featuring an extended with Andy Devine and his gang, seen above). The screening was free thanks to the multiple rights violations within the program itself, making it illegal to charge admission, and it was packed to the gills, taking on the feel of a true underground phenomenon. More an experience than a movie, The Movie Orgy almost defies description, which as you’ll see in my piece "Joe Dante's New Beverly Movie Orgy" in no way stopped me from trying.  (This was the evening during which I was first introduced to Michael Torgan as well. A big night indeed!)

Only about six months later, it was time for another one of those “I never thought I’d ever see this” kinds of nights that the New Beverly was becoming very generous in providing. Staged in part as a tribute to actress Wendie Jo Sperber, who died in 2005 from breast cancer, and a fund- and awareness-raiser for WeSpark, the breast cancer foundation, the New Beverly staged a double bill of epic proportions featuring Sperber and many, many others-- I Wanna Hold Your Hand! (1978) and one of my favorite films of all time, Steven Spielberg's unjustly maligned 1941 (1979), both of which were written by Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale. (The former was also Zemeckis’ first directing gig.) The stage was packed with veterans of the Zemeckis/Gale stock company, including Gale himself, actress Nancy Allen and actor-director Perry Lang, who staged a great Q&A before 1941 that was worthy of its own DVD audio commentary track. I was especially thrilled to be able to participate in that Q&A and express my unalloyed love for both movies, but Spielberg’s in particular. In my piece "Fire At That Large Industrial Structure: A 1941 Postscript," I talk about the night, which had both an unexpected beginning and a transcendent grace note of a finish.

Those were brilliant nights to be sure, but I don't think anything could match what my friend Don Mancini and I managed to pull off two years later, just before Halloween 2010. The one and only time the name of this blog was ever attached to a movie event was this one, and it was a real honor to have had a hand in making it happen. We commandeered two nights on the New Beverly schedule for what, in our eyes at least, was a terrific double bill— Jaume Collett-Serra’s genuinely frightening Orphan (2009) coupled with Don’s very own misunderstood orphan, Seed of Chucky (2005). The first night was dedicated to the cast and crew of Orphan, including the film’s screenwriter David Leslie Johnson and the unnervingly self-possessed and talented star of the film, Esther herself, Isabelle Fuhrmann, all featured in a Q&A hosted by Don. Night two was dedicated to the spawn of Charles Lee Ray, with Don, actors Jennifer Tilly, Steve West and Debbie Lee Carrington, and producer Corey Sienega all on stage for a Q&A moderated by Face/Off screenwriter Mike Werb. It was a chance to stand up for a couple of horror movies that are much better, more frightening and, in the case of Seed more deliberately funny and satirically sharp than they are usually given credit for, and I think we took 100% advantage of the opportunity to kick-start the buffing-up of both their reputations with this event—and I got to meet (and sit down for dinner with) Jennifer Tilly! Read all about it, and see the Q&As themselves, in my piece "The Seed of Chucky/Orphan Q&As."

OVER THE PAST SEVEN YEARS I’VE MADE MUCH IN THESE PAGES ABOUT THE NEW BEVERLY FAMILY AFFAIR, and though it might sound like a sentimental cliché it really is true, in a couple of different ways. I’ve never felt the sense of bonding over movie love as strongly anywhere else as I have at this theater, and that has everything to do with seeing the same engaged, excited faces at screening after screening, ready to soak up whatever unknown or happily familiar sights and sounds that would be spilling off the screen on any given night. And I’ve met so many people who have become an important, indispensable part of the Los Angeles filmgoing scene that I’ve been welcomed into since 2007. I introduced myself to Anne Thompson for the first time at a screening of Richard Brooks’ Wrong is Right in 2008— astoundingly, she knew about my blog already and has been an ardent supporter of my writing ever since. 

Among the other people I’ve become acquainted with at the New Beverly include fellow writers Peter Avellino, Jeremy Smith and Jen Yamato, filmmakers Brian Crewe, Joe Dante, Matt Dinan, Marion Kerr, Julia Marchese, Peter Podgursky and Edgar Wright, extraordinary and erudite film fanatics like John Damer, Marc Edward Heuck, Cathie Horlick, Jeff McMahon, Brian Quinn and producer/classic film specialist Michael Schlesinger, film archivist Ariel Schudson, as well as all-around good souls and New Bev fixtures like Corky Baines , Freddie, and of course Clu Gulager. If ever one needed and coveted a family of like-minded filmheads, this is a pretty glorious group with which to start.

And as I stated earlier, Michael and the New Beverly always found a way to make my family feel as though the place was our second home. One evening we found ourselves on the way home from the Westside and my youngest daughter Nonie, as often happens to young kids, was seized by an urgent need to take a whiz. We just happened to be passing the theater on Beverly Boulevard, so I whipped around, pulled in front of the theater and asked if she could use the pottie. While I waited for her to finish, I talked with some of the staff and Michael even gave Nonie a hot dog for the ride home. Try pulling that off at your local AMC mall-tiplex. (See how I returned to that urine motif? Told you I would.)

BUT FOR US THE FAMILY CONNECTION GOES DEEPER than the well-timed availability of the ladies’ room. Round about 2008 I began making a concerted effort to encourage my kids’ interest in classic films, and the New Beverly played a hugely important role in that time and aspect of their young lives. As a dad hoping to instill reverence and love for all sorts of movies in his kids, the theater provided an opportunity that was just too rich and varied to pass up. I started them both off with a kiddie Halloween matinee of Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948) and The Ghost and Mr. Chicken (1966), and we were off to the races. Nonie joined us on occasion, but more often it was Emma accompanying me for a wide variety of great double features, including Kansas City Confidential (1952) and 99 River Street (1953), during which she cultivated a short-lived Jack Elam impersonation,  Sullivan’s Travels (1941) and Christmas in July, (1940), The Fearless Vampire Killers (1967) and Dracula Has Risen from the Grave (1968), from which Nonie’s popular head shot was cultivated, Modern Times (1936) and The General (1926), Two Mules for Sister Sara (1970) and  Coogan’s Bluff (1968), and other great movies like Ace in the Hole (1950), The Blue Dahlia (1946), The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966), Never Give a Sucker an Even Break (1941), Fiddler on the Roof (1971), and The Palm Beach Story (1942).

Emma had a personal revelation with the hilarity of the Marx Brothers when I took her to see a double feature of Duck Soup (1933) and Animal Crackers (1931)—I wrote about it in a piece entitled "Duck Soup-- Funniest Movie Ever?", and another one when director Rian Johnson, working on a theme of cons in the movies, introduced her to the ostensibly strange but beautifully modulated double bill of The Lady Eve (1941) and The Adventures of Baron Munchausen  (1988). (I thanked Johnson, and received a nice response back, in a post entitled "An Open Letter to Rian Johnson.")

And we had a great time together as a family for two Halloweens running, with me dressing up in totally white vampire egghead mode the first year for The Invisible Man (1933) and The Wolf Man (1941), and then the next year working a subtle variation on the bald, totally red-headed Satan, Nonie as his unaccountably lovely daughter/minion, for a double feature of Island of Lost Souls (1932) and Them! (1954). The second year’s bonus is that we entered the New Beverly Halloween Costume Contest, judged by the audience and emcee Joe Dante, and Nonie and I kicked ass, taking first prize, a pass card worth 16 free admissions! It was worth the brutal Lava soap scrub-down I had to endure to get myself clean when we finally made it home.

But Michael and the New Beverly saved the best for a couple of birthday celebrations. For my 50th birthday in 2010, Michael generously offered to let me program the double feature to be shown on my birthday date that year, and the pairing I chose—You Only Live Twice (1967), my favorite of all the Bond movies, alongside Ken Russell’s Billion Dollar Brain (1967), the third in the Michael Caine/Harry Palmer series, which I’d never seen projected, was the perfect combination. 

And earlier that same year, through Michael’s seemingly endless generosity, we threw Emma’s 10th birthday party in the theater on a rainy Saturday morning, with a magician, free popcorn and sodas, pizzas hauled over from Domino’s by Michael and myself, and a screening of Emma’s movie choice, Cats and Dogs (2001). To this day I can’t think of this party and how much it meant to me and my family without getting emotionally overwhelmed. We carved out a one-of-a-kind memory for my movie-crazy daughter that day, and I will be forever in Michael’s debt for facilitating such an amazing experience for her. You can read all about it in my post entitled "Wanna Be the Daughter of Dracula..."

Thank you, Michael, and thank you, New Beverly Cinema, for some of the most memorable, meaningful experiences my family and I have ever had in a movie theater.


The DVD of Out of Print is available through and can also be seen on Amazon Streaming and several other streaming services. As they used to say, check your local listings.


Saturday, March 03, 2018


God bless Bonnie and Clyde.

One year ago, the already well-blessed Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty found themselves onstage at the Academy Awards, together again to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the release of the Arthur Penn-directed movie that pretty much ignited about eight years of what many consider the last “golden age” of American movies, to read the name of what would be coronated Best Picture of 2017. They were handed an envelope, having no idea that the name of the winner inside was that of Emma Stone, who moments before had been awarded the Oscar for her performance in La La Land. When Beatty broke the envelope’s seal after intoning those momentous words “And the Oscar goes to…” there was a brief hesitation (suspense!), followed by an uncomfortable extension of that hesitation (what’s going on?), followed by Beatty turning to Dunaway and muttering, “Read this.” Had Beatty said to Dunaway what he probably meant, something on the order of “Take a look at this”—or even if he’d glanced off-stage and asked someone in the wings to do the same—it’s likely that one year later you wouldn’t even remember the names of the movie royalty who announced the name of last year’s winner. But he didn’t, and as a result landed himself and Dunaway front and center into one of the biggest, if not the biggest flapdoodle in the 90-year history of the Academy Awards. (A delicious oral history of the circumstances leading up to the moment when “They got the wrong envelope!” can be read here.)

Recently, I mused to some friends that what Oscar ought to do is invite Beatty and Dunaway back to read this year’s Best Picture winner, not as a moment of redemption (it wasn’t their fault they were handed the wrong information in front of a worldwide audience), but instead as an act of goodwill and a juicy bit of publicity. But who would have ever expected that the famously mercurial Dunaway and the famously guarded Beatty would accept such an offer?

Well, they have, and it’s a development that has lent even more unexpected tingle to an Oscar ceremony which looked a few weeks ago like just another anticlimactic night packed with prescribed, overanalyzed winners and precious little surprise. The four acting categories may still be top-loaded with award-season favorites that all may well trample very rich competition on their way to the stage. (I have my suspicions that one of them may be the occasion for an upset—more on that in a minute). 

But suddenly, thanks to the effect of a preferential ballot, expansion of Academy membership to include a newer, younger cadre of voters, and the prevailing winds of change throughout Hollywood and the country in regard to matters of diversity, equality and the often repugnant behavior of people (usually men) in power, Academy voters may be beginning to reflect a range of different perspectives and motivations behind the way they fill out their ballots, and they’re already tending to be more vocal about those perspectives. A declaration such as the one made by one voter interviewed in the Vulture piece linked above-- “My joining the Academy is political, so I will never overlook that who I nominate is driven by my agenda”—may be cause for either celebration or alarm, depending, I suppose, on whether you presume art to be more instructional than grounded in the interplay of conflicting emotions and ideas, the better for the viewer to reach her or his own conclusions.

But that’s an argument for another time. As far as Oscar goes, art has always been subjugated to entertainment, and the tension between a new, “fresh” sensibility and the old guard of the Academy has ended up making the evening’s ultimate moment, the crowning of the Best Picture winner, even more fraught with suspense and multiple possibilities than any in recent memory. Those of us who thought in November that Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri was a sure thing, or that The Shape of Water couldn’t possibly lose after winning the prestigious honors from both the Producers and the Directors Guilds, are going into Sunday night having to consider at least two other reasonable scenarios which would place the words Dunkirk or Get Out into the mouths of Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway… unless those two rapscallions decide, at least momentarily, to play the moment for all it’s worth and blurt out “Moonlight!” or “The Magnificent Ambersons!” instead.

Whatever happens, you’ll probably be watching. I know I will, just as I have since the very first Oscar broadcast I saw in 1969, my pizza and nachos and beer-stained office Oscar pool ballot in hand. I’ve long since given up any emotional stake in the Oscars having a lot of meaning beyond the buzz of the moment and the occasion to get together with friends and crack wise at the TV— the Oscar certainly has only the remotest connection to artistic achievement or the “best” of anything. (It’s easier to go to sleep after the typical Oscar show if one keeps this in mind.) But every year I do enjoy playing the game of trying to guess what “Oscar,” intangible intellectual entity that he stubbornly remains, might do. And so it is this year. Please join me then as I stroll along and engage in every movie fan’s early-spring game of folly, predicting the outcome of the Academy Awards. What follows is not analysis but mere guesswork, and I have refrained from predicting outcomes in the Documentary Short, Live Action Short, Animated Short categories due to 90% ignorance of the films nominated—go, Heroin(e)! You choose to follow my choices in filling out your own Oscar office pool ballot at your own risk.


As I said, this award, courtesy of that preferential ballot, could credibly shake out one of four different ways. But I suspect that new membership roster is going to make their influence felt right out of the gate, and what has emerged as the true movie of the moment may well hold court tomorrow night,  the historical corollary being as if, as a friend pointed out on Facebook yesterday, Cat People had won Best Picture in 1943.

WHAT SHOULD WIN: Phantom Thread


Despite the conventional wisdom of Frances McDormand being the front-runner here, I think this is the one acting category where an upset could well be brewing. And since I can’t just say that and then pick Frances McDormand…

PREDICTION: Sally Hawkins
WHO SHOULD WIN: Sally Hawkins


The case for an upset, based on that younger, more diverse Academy membership, could be made here as well (Timothée Chalamet, anyone?). But the winner will be the guy who best fits the Academy’s long-standing preference for portrayals of real-life figures with the help of heavy prosthetic makeup.

WHO SHOULD WIN: Daniel Day-Lewis


I have rarely rooted against an actress I like more than I am rooting against Allison Janney and her one-note gorgon performance in I, Tonya. But barring providential intervention (and the stage at the Dolby Theater in Hollywood would be a mighty strange place for something like that to start happening), a bet against the gorgon (and her parrot) seems like giving away money.

PREDICTION: Allison Janney
WHO SHOULD WIN: Lesley Manville (though I would cheer just as hard for Laurie Metcalf)


Again, a bet against Sam Rockwell, who I loved in Three Billboards, would seem unwise. But I think it’d be grand to see Christopher Plummer up on stage for the night’s most galvanizingly pointed moment of praise.

PREDICTION: Sam Rockwell
WHO SHOULD WIN: Sam Rockwell


This is Guillermo del Toro’s Oscar to lose, and if he does, especially to Jordan Peele, the suspense will leech out of that Best Picture moment faster than a trip to the Sunken Place.

PREDICTION: Guillermo Del Toro
WHO SHOULD WIN: Paul Thomas Anderson




One of the two oldest-ever Oscar nominees will make his way to the stage Sunday night.

PREDICTION: James Ivory, Call Me by Your Name


This category and its cluster of heavyweight nominees could provide the most significant indicator as to the eventual winner of the big prize.

PREDICTION: Jordan Peele, Get Out
WHO SHOULD WIN: Greta Gerwig, Lady Bird (though I would shout with happiness for Martin McDonagh)


The laser-intense focus of the evening for cinephiles. Will the 14-time nominated Deakins finally get his due, for what some regard as less than his best work? Or will he be the figurative bridesmaid once more, the award going to one of three likely spoilers, each of them first-time nominees?

PREDICTION: Rachel Morrison, Mudbound
WHO SHOULD WIN: Roger Deakins, Blade Runner 2049


The other oldest-ever Oscar nominee will make her way to the stage for this category.

PREDICTION: Agnès Varda, Faces Places
WHO SHOULD WIN: Agnès Varda, Faces Places


PREDICTION: A Fantastic Woman (Chile)


This category is usually a bellwether for Best Picture, but maybe not this year. Will Oscar go flashy 
and self-conscious, or radical and challenging?



I’m guessing here that radical and challenging will still hold court…



But flashy and self-conscious may have the edge here…

WHO SHOULD WIN: Blade Runner 2049


PREDICTION: The Shape of Water
WHO SHOULD WIN: Blade Runner 2049


Again, if we were talking about the most radical score, or the one most emotionally integrated into the film, then the choice would have to be Hans Zimmer or Jonny Greenwood. But that’s not what we’re talking about.

PREDICTION: The Shape of Water
WHO SHOULD WIN: Phantom Thread


PREDICTION: “Remember Me” from Coco
WHAT SHOULD WIN: “Remember Me” from Coco



PREDICTION: Darkest Hour


Based on its subject, you would think that Phantom Thread would be an easy winner here. But some Oscar voters have been heard to complain that the dresses designed by Reynolds Woodcock weren’t all that, presuming (arrogantly and erroneously, I think) that A) the dresses designed by Reynolds Woodcock are themselves the costumes that have been nominated for the Oscar, and that B) those dresses are intended as a representation of the be-all and end-all of 1950s London fashion, and not a reflection upon both their creator and those who covet them. That said, I still think the Academy will go for the obvious.

PREDICTION: Phantom Thread
WHO SHOULD WIN: Phantom Thread


I am not trying to be a wise-ass when I say that this is the year of the ape, as well as the orangutan.

PREDICTION: War for the Planet of the Apes
WHO SHOULD WIN: War for the Planet of the Apes


The Oscar show commences at 5:30 pm PST tomorrow, March 4, on your local ABC affiliate.

And one final word on 2017: the Muriel Awards, which I talked about last week, have completed their announcements, and you can click to their official website, Our Science is Too Tight, where you will find a handy list of winners as well as links to all the Muriels categories, which are accompanied by essays from The Usual Gang of Muriels Writers and some welcome newcomers as well. Here’s a taste of my piece celebrating the achievement of 2017 Muriel Award winner for Best Lead Performance, Daniel Day-Lewis:

“…(T)he height of (Phantom Thread’s) emotional pitch arrives in a moment so off-rhythm and cloaked in reserve that it might be easy to miss. Reynolds, beginning the long, measured process of unveiling himself to Alma during a phase of what could be described as mannered infatuation, turns his reticent, reedy voice to the subject of his late, revered mother, a persistent ghost whose presence is ever felt, yet never quite so much comforting as unsettling. Her eerie silence is, for Woodcock, a terrible barrier, a measure of unattainable perfection for the designer who fears his work will never fill the void created by her absence. To Alma he hints at secrets which he routinely incorporates into the very fabric of his clothes, invocations and bits of physical memory sewn into the lining which make them unique to their owner. He then reveals that a lock of his mother’s hair has been hidden in the breast of his own jacket, and in doing so he hitches and swallows, interrupting but for an almost-imperceptible moment the flow of the confession. It’s a perfectly modulated moment from the actor, one that barely moves the ‘Acting!’ needle but somehow still registers an earthquake’s worth of character truth and mystery, and it’s as moving as anything on Day-Lewis’s Oscar résumé.”

You can read the whole thing here.

Have a happy Oscar weekend!