You know who should host the Oscars? BANE. Fucking Bane should host them. No jokes. No attempt at currying the audience’s favor. Just the constant threat of death and hostile takeover.
Notes from the Golden Orange
EppsNet Archive: Movies
This movie is getting killed on Rotten Tomatoes — 34 percent as I write this. Granted, it’s not in 3-D, doesn’t have robots or aliens or other really fake-looking bullshit, and despite being set during World War II, has only a minimal amount of violent action.
An unlikely World War II platoon is tasked to rescue art masterpieces from Nazi thieves and return them to their owners.
IMDb rating: 6.3 (18,022 votes)
Oscar-winning actor Philip Seymour Hoffman was found dead Sunday of an apparent drug overdose at his Manhattan apartment.
Police responded to the 46-year-old’s apartment in the West Village shortly after 11 a.m., police sources told FoxNews.com.
A friend found his body in the apartment and phoned police. Hoffman was alone in his bathroom when he was discovered with a heroin-filled needle in his arm, law enforcement sources said.
I am really shocked to hear that. People are shooting up heroin first thing in the morning?! To me, a shot of heroin — like a nice, warm bath — is best enjoyed in the evening, to unwind after the travails of the day.
This is yet another blow to a theory that most Americans believe, which is that wealth is synonymous with happiness.
Philip Seymour Hoffman, he’s in every movie, it seems like. He’s a Top 1 Percent wage-earner for sure. We hate the Top 1 Percent! They’re so rich and smug and happy.
“Oh,” people think, “if only I had a lot of money and I could do anything I want. Then at last I could be happy too.”
Wrong. Not only would you not be happy, you’d be even less happy than you are now, because you’d no longer have lack of money to blame for your unhappiness.
Frankly, I’m surprised that more actors aren’t overdosing themselves on a daily basis. It’s such a minor art form. Someone writes things down for them to say and they say those things. Sometimes a bit of business is written down for them to perform while they say the things that were written down for them to say.
The adulation that actors receive is so wildly out of proportion to the triviality of what they do. Some, like Hoffman, have the limited amount of self-awareness required to recognize this, to their eternal detriment.
P.S. I just saw this:
The “fearless choice of roles” meme with reference to actors has always stuck in my craw.
“So let me get this straight . . . if I take this role, I’ll have to read the script, learn my lines and pick up a check? Nope, sorry. Too scary.”
RIP Philip Seymour Hoffman.
We saw Singin’ in the Rain on Netflix this weekend. Why this film is so beloved is a mystery to me. It feels thrown together, like someone took a bunch of unrelated songs and wrote a plot around them. Which in fact is what they did.
And the songs aren’t that great either. In particular, “Singin’ in the Rain” is not a great song . . . the melody is boring and it’s not a great lyric.
The Cyd Charisse sequence seems to have been dropped in from a different movie.
The Wizard of Oz is better, but I’m not sure that counts as a musical.
Great dance numbers though.
Well I hope you come and see me in the movies
Then I’ll know that you will plainly see
The biggest fool that ever hit the big time
And all I gotta do is act naturally
The world's greatest pinup model and cult icon, Bettie Page, recounts the true story of how her free expression overcame government witch-hunts to help launch America's sexual revolution.
IMDb rating: 7.0 (144 votes)
I’d have a lot more respect for the president if he just came out and said, “As Otter so cogently observed in Animal House, ‘You fucked up … You trusted us!’”
When you are young, your potential is infinite. You might do anything, really. You might be Einstein. You might be DiMaggio. Then you get to an age where what you might be gives way to what you have been. You weren’t Einstein. You weren’t anything.
That’s a bad moment.
Chuck Barris was way ahead of his time in recognizing how many Americans are willing to make an ass of themselves on television.
The tone of the movie is inconsistent — is it a comedy? a thriller? a tragedy? — but it’s entertaining.
An adaptation of the cult memoir of game show impresario Chuck Barris, in which he purports to have been a CIA hitman.
IMDb rating: 7.1 (60,372 votes)
We rented Mother from Netflix. As I explained to my family before screening it, the movie’s about a crazy Asian woman and her devotion to her mentally challenged son.
“You can see why it resonated with me,” I said. “It’s like someone made a movie about our lives!”
“You are not a nice person,” my wife said. “Our boy is not crazy.”
“No, you’re crazy,” the boy corrected her. “I’m mentally challenged.”
That said, I enjoyed the movie, although it contains a lot of profanity, which I don’t like.
You work your side of the street and I’ll work mine. — Frank Bullitt
Look at this — before Jackie Robinson, they didn’t let black guys play major league baseball!
Right . . . that was 70 years ago, in the 1940s. Let’s move on already.
You know what else they did in the 1940s? They rounded up Japanese Americans, just took them right out of their homes and their jobs, and stuck them into “relocation camps.”
When’s the last time you heard a Japanese person talk about relocation camps? They don’t talk about relocation camps because they’re too busy being engineers and doctors and businessmen and raising their families and sending their kids to top universities.
You can focus your mind on what other people did a long time ago or you can focus your mind on what you’re doing right now.
Let’s move on already.
Footnote: We’ve come full circle on blacks in baseball. The defending World Series champion San Francisco Giants don’t have a single black player on their current roster (although some of the Latin players are pretty dark). Black men can play baseball if they want to but they don’t want to.
After we watch Ocean’s Thirteen, we’re planning to rob a bank.
The Chronicle of Higher Education reports this story under the headline “Falling Diversity of Provosts Signals Challenge for Presidential Pipeline, Study Finds.”
FALLING DIVERSITY! LOOK OUT BELOW!
Ha ha . . . but seriously, who even knows what a provost is? I don’t. I’ve vaguely heard of it as an academic job title but that’s about it.
I know that Jon Provost played little Timmy on the Lassie TV series. I know that Marie Prevost was a one-time Mack Sennett bathing beauty and leading lady in the 1920s whose screen glory had faded by the time she died of acute alcoholism in a small Hollywood apartment at the age of 38.
By the way, I notice that Asian students are continuing to excel, even in the absence of Asian provosts. Go figure.
But we’ve always had guns. Since the country was founded July 4, 1776, Americans have had guns, and for most of that time, we’ve managed to live with each other without a mass murder a week.
It can’t be just the guns.
One of the most appalling things to me about modern American society is the way increasingly graphic violence is peddled as entertainment. Turn on the TV: mass murder is entertainment. Grotesque, violent death is “great television.”
Serial killers in movies are the heroes. They can’t be killed off because they’ve got to come back and kill more people in the next sequel.
I know John Wayne used to kill people in movies, but when the Duke shot people, they just grabbed their gut and toppled over. It couldn’t possibly have been more fake. Now when someone gets shot in a movie, they have to be shot in the head. Shooting someone in the head is horrific. And there has to be blood spatter on walls or bystanders or both. And this is entertainment.
It diminishes humanity. It’s bad karma to pretend to kill and be killed for public amusement. It’s bad karma to trifle with death.
My favorite poem of the week — again from Modern & Contemporary American Poetry – was “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” by Bernadette Mayer, especially the final image of the stressed-out new mother reading The Wild Boy of Aveyron, about a feral child raised by wolves.
A colleague says, “Are you talkin’ to ME?” Oh, and he showed up at work this morning with a shaved head.
“Who’s Jack Elam? Get me Jack Elam. Get me a Jack Elam type. Get me a young Jack Elam. Who’s Jack Elam?”
R.I.P. Nora Ephron