LA Weekly

Cyd Charisse has died in Los Angeles.

This scene of her as Fiona with Gene Kelly from Singin' In The Rain gets to me every time.

As does this one...

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By Ella Taylor

I caught a lot of flack, most of it out of New York, for my negative review of Sex and the City. Outraged fans of the show and the movie accuse me variously of being “morbidly obese” (just pleasantly plump, I swear) and style-retarded (well, one does try); too young to appreciate the four shopaholics and a sexist, ageist cheap shooter for calling them middle-aged (I’m closer to assisted living than all four of them put together, as my comparisons to The Mary Tyler Moore Show will attest ); a bit angry (too right); and (did I dream it, ‘cause now I can’t find it?) a real bitch.

None of which has changed my assessment of the movie as a flabby shadow of its TV that reeks of disingenuous mixed message. Still, attention must be paid to the passion with which its fans defend SATC the show and the movie. I think one of the reasons is that, like Bridget Jones’s Diary (a movie I defended), The Mary Tyler Moore Show (which I loved as uncritically as today’s fans do SATC) and, in its retrograde way, Our Miss Brooks, SATC expresses the loneliness of urban single women, a potent contemporary theme in an age of hooking up. Only it glamorizes, and so trivializes that loneliness by gussying it up with endless partying and designer labels few of its audience can afford. That’s not cultural commentary — it’s pandering through advertising.

Read Ella Taylor's review of Sex and the City, with comments, here.

Her review also appeared in our sister paper, the Village Voice, with more comments, here.

Photo Craig Blankenhorn/New Line Cinema

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In 2007, LA Weekly film critic Scott Foundas was asked to contribute an essay about Sydney Pollack's early television work to an Italian-language book about the director published in connection with a retrospective at the Alba Film Festival. That essay appears below, for the first time in English.

There is little outwardly remarkable about the 1961-66 American television series Ben Casey, unless you count novelty: It is one of the earliest models of that now-familiar TV staple known as the medical procedural, in which there is no health emergency too great for a team of brilliant doctors (here led by the eponymous, fresh-faced resident) to solve in an hour of screen time (save, of course, for the occasional two-part episode). But there are moments when Ben Casey transcends the ordinary and enters into a realm of deeply humanistic grace, and a great many of them can be found in the episodes — 15 of them — directed by Sydney Pollack. On this, you will have to trust me, for these shows are not easily seen, and indeed to consider Pollack’s TV career is to be reminded of how, even in this age of DVD saturation, so much from the early years of the medium remains trapped in limbo.

I am thinking, in particular, about the Ben Casey episode entitled “A Cardinal Act of Mercy” (1963), in which the great diva Kim Stanley delivers a searing performance as a morphine-addicted trial lawyer; another, “For the Ladybug…One Dozen Roses” (1962), where Cliff Robertson is a battle-scarred fighter pilot who has lost the ability to fly and, with it, the will to live; and the enormously moving “Monument to an Aged Hunter” (1962), in which Dr. Casey must choose which of two patients to save using an experimental antibiotic — a legendary writer and philanthropist (played by Wilfrid Hyde-White) or a younger man of no particular importance. These are hours of television in which the medical drama may be resolved by the time the credits roll, but the moral and ethical questions weigh heavy into the night.

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Sydney Pollack died over the weekend at age 73. Three years ago, Pollack spoke to LA Weekly's Scott Foundas about his career, the costs of making films, and his production company Mirage, which recently put out Michael Clayton, nominated for seven Oscars.

In this interview from April 2005, Pollack talked to Foundas about his latest directing effort, The Interpreter, in which he also acted. Pollack's production partner in Mirage, Anthony Minghella, died in March.

Declaration of Independents
Sydney Pollack is all for lowering costs, raising IQs
By SCOTT FOUNDAS
Thursday, April 21, 2005

The company is called Mirage Enterprises, but there is nothing illusory about the career of its CEO. For 40 years now, Sydney Pollack has been making movies in Hollywood, and for the past two decades Mirage has been the base from which he’s overseen production of his own films, as well as those of a Who’s Who of distinguished peers (including Anthony Minghella, Pollack’s partner in the company since 2000). It’s also been a launching pad for auspicious young talent like Steven Zaillian (Searching for Bobby Fischer), Steve Kloves (The Fabulous Baker Boys) and Ira Sachs (whose Mirage-produced Forty Shades of Blue won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance this year). All told, movies produced and/or directed by Pollack have earned some 80 Oscar nominations, with Pollack himself collecting Best Picture and Best Director statuettes for Out of Africa (1985). Not bad for a kid from Lafayette, Indiana, who started out wanting to become an actor and, in his spare time, has managed to work in that capacity for the likes of Robert Altman, Woody Allen and Stanley Kubrick.

Read the rest of the Foundas' article on Pollack here.

Also, LA Weekly contributor Chuck Wilson has a nice appreciation of Sydney Pollack on his own blog Flickers. Click here to read Wilson's piece.

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A to Z and Everything in between as Film Forum celebrates the living legend
By Scott Foundas

Jean-Paul Belmondo and Anna Karina in Godard's Pierrot le Fou (see: C, K)
Film Forum/Janus Films

Given that a mere six months ago, J. Hoberman wrote in (the Village Voice), "From Breathless (1959) through Weekend (1968), [Jean-Luc] Godard reinvented cinema," what more is there to say about a retrospective devoted to precisely those 10 years from the work of the most analyzed, debated, effused-over, and influential filmmaker in the history of cinema? The short answer: Everything and nothing. Herewith, a hopefully handy index to Film Forum's five-week series, "Godard's '60s":

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To Scott Foundas:

I'm Not There is such a knock off of Palindromes and Palindromes is a much better film. I'm Not There is so often called original and I'm so surprised that no one, especially L.A. Weekly, ever stated anything about Palindromes or Todd Solondz's truly original filmmaking.

This paper was too busy making a huge cover story hailing I'm Not There and Todd Haynes, when in fact his so called originality was stolen from a film that didn't have as much money put into it. I find it hard to believe that no one within L.A. Weekly, especially the film reviewers, ever made this connection as the Todd Solondz film was only released in 2004, so it couldn't be considered an homage.

Give credit where credit's due and Todd Haynes' horrible film should certainly be excluded.

-Reggie, Venice

Dear Reggie:

Actually, it could be argued that both Todds—Haynes and Solondz—”stole” their approach from Luis Bunuel, who used two actresses interchangeably to play the same character in his 1977 film THAT OBSCURE OBJECT OF DESIRE. Beyond which, Haynes widely acknowledged both this precedent, and that of Solondz’s film, in interviews while promoting I’M NOT THERE.

The novelty of Haynes’ film is that he uses this technique in the context of a biography, rather than a work of fiction. But just because someone has used an aesthetic device once, twice, or ten times before doesn’t mean it can’t—or shouldn’t—be used again. Novelty and originality are overrated (and lazy) evaluative criteria where films, books, plays are concerned anyway. Something can just as easily be unoriginal and good as it can be original and bad.

Kind regards,
Scott Foundas

Got a film question? Email askfilm@laweekly.com

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GO PATHOLOGY Crank creators Neveldine and Taylor — who apparently no longer require the luxury of first names — scripted this tale of deranged young doctors in the L.A. coroner’s office who test each other to come up with ever more elaborate murders in hopes of stumping their colleagues as to the cause of death. The duo bring their crazed, anything-goes sensibility to the table, but they aren’t a perfect match with German director Marc Schoelermann, who seems to like his horror more brooding and artsy. So while our main characters engage in plenty of gratuitous sex, violence, and combinations of both, Schoelermann will be damned if he lets the rather obviously named Dr. Grey (Milo Ventimiglia) look like he’s enjoying a second of it. As the new kid who gets swept up in all the madness, Ventimiglia is morose from the start, and not exactly the portrait of seduced innocence this story really needs. Nonetheless, when a movie opens with the diner scene from When Harry Met Sally as performed by cadavers, and later proceeds to sex scenes involving scalpels and needles, the actual plot is inconsequential. Fans of hard-R exploitation will love this; everyone else will likely be appalled. Screw ’em. (Citywide) (Luke Y. Thompson)

Click here for the rest of this week's reviews.

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GO THE RUINS If you turn the first page of Scott Smith’s The Ruins, a friend said astutely, you won’t put it down — but if you know what it’s about beforehand, you won’t pick it up. So let’s just say that if this reworking never approximates the abandon-all-hope ferocity of Smith’s hair-whitening source novel, it’s still a superior shocker with a mood-altering edge of hallucinatory madness. In an absurdist set-up that resembles Beckett by way of EC Comics, five tourists (four American, one German) are forced atop a remote Mayan temple, where they face two options: a quick death from the armed villagers who’ve surrounded the site, or a slow death from the snaky, insatiable tendrils of the ruins’ entrenched resident. What follows is a study in situational ethics, destabilized group dynamics, and existential panic, as each new choice between the lesser of two evils only brings greater evils. Though Smith adapted his own book, the briskly paced, neatly telescoped movie is too short to recapture its grinding psychological devastation, leaving a gory but strangely slight allegory of America’s dependence on creature comforts. But first-time feature director Carter Smith, working with resourceful cinematographer Darius Khondji, pulls off the neat trick of using the wide screen to claustrophobic effect. And the actors give such a convincing display of starvation-fueled fear that they deserve their own private craft-service table. (Citywide) (Jim Ridley)

Click here for reviews of the rest of this week's new releases.
Click here for L.A. area showtimes.

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SHUTTER Toshio, that malicious, pale little boy from The Grudge, will follow you home with his pissed-off mother in tow and maybe rip your jaw off. Ringu’s watery witch Sadako will reach out from your TV set and paralyze you with her stare of doom. Megumi (Megumi Okina), the roving angry spirit at the center of Shutter, will shoot you icy looks from afar and ruin your wedding photos. Oh, and give you a shoulder cramp. Scared yet? Jane Shaw (Rachael Taylor, the blonde-bombshell hacker from Transformers) sure is — so terrified that she occasionally forgets she’s supposed to have an American accent. And yet, if the ghost never actually hurts her, why should we care? A newlywed in Japan alongside jet-setting photographer hubby Ben (Joshua Jackson), Jane first encounters Megumi on a lonely country road, and in several visions and blurred photos thereafter... but nothing really happens until about an hour into the movie, by which point it isn’t long before the inevitable series of fake-out endings and obvious “twists” kick in. Ostensibly a remake of a Thai film — by a Japanese director with a Hollywood cast — Shutter plays more like a video copy of The Ring that’s become so degraded that all the good bits are no longer visible. (Citywide) (Luke Y. Thompson)

GO TYLER PERRY’S MEET THE BROWNS Prolific filmmaker-mogul Tyler Perry’s fifth feature since 2005’s Diary of a Mad Black Woman (his sixth is already scheduled for a September release) is surprisingly half-decent — surprising because Perry’s not about to switch up his hardly revelatory but consistently bankable box-office signature: African-American familial drama, complete with soapy romance, broadly farcical supporting roles, and motivational Christian principles. Finding a positive, progressive tone in what would ordinarily be played as woe-is-me melodrama, Meet the Browns is the story of single mother-of-three Brenda (Angela Bassett, the film’s soul and highlight), an inner-city Chicago woman of tireless integrity who remains strong even after being laid off: “One thing a black woman know how to do is make it.” Keeping her head up when she and the kids travel to Georgia to attend her long-estranged father’s funeral, Brenda makes earnest efforts to refuse handouts from the eccentric extended family she’s just gained — as well as romantic advances from the amateur b-ball scout (Rick Fox) who may or may not want to cash in on her talented son. Unlike Diary, the drama here is buoyant enough to handle the contrast of its too-silly slapstick; Perry’s pot-smoking granny Madea only turns up in cameo, fortunately, but David Mann’s leisure-suited buffoon Leroy may be too shrill for those Perry has yet to convert. (Citywide) (Aaron Hillis)

Click here to see the rest of this week's movie reviews including Drillbit Taylor and The Grand.

And click here for movie showtimes around L.A.

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"A year and a half or so ago, I pulled up to a stop sign in Los Feliz, California, a neighborhood near my house, and had to sorta hit the brakes because I’d realized almost too late that someone was about to step out into the street. I stopped short and a beat later a young man in pretty funky clothes — knee-high red stripped socks — who looked like he’d just come in from Haight Asbury, circa 1967, walked in front of the car. As he passed he turned to me and nodded, firmly, and with a tight-lipped half smile, as if to say, 'Thanks for stoppin’, man.' It was Heath Ledger."

More from the Weekly's Chuck Wilson at his newly-launched blog, Flickers, aptly described as "One Man's Notes on Movies, TV & Other Life Obsessions."

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