Sunset Gun

Soul Survivor

Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jackie Wilson, Curtis Mayfield, my beloved Ike Turner…they are all gone dammit. Gone.  How any self respecting (or self flagellating) Christian thinks I should believe in God is beyond me. Not that I need God necessarily and yet, when I hear that true soul Survivor, Al Green, I start thinking…Jesus Christ…maybe I do. Green, one of the greatest soul singers ever placed on this God-forsaken planet is (yes, thank God again, apologies Christopher Hitchens) still living, still putting out records and still performing live. One of the last real soul singers blessing our landscape -- especially a musical landscape populated by lip-synching video vixens, pop punk whiners and the very allowance of Kevin Federline cutting a rap record, Al Green will make you believe.

The Arkansas–born, Michigan–raised, Memphis-living Green made brilliant albums during his Hi Records heyday (Al Green Gets Next to You, Let’s Stay Together, I’m Still in Love With You, Call Me), his live performances (which I’ve fanatically collected over the years) were something to behold -- sexy, inspirational, transcendent experiences that weren’t simply swoon-worthy (though the ladies love Al Green), but genius examples of tightness and improvisation. Al Green can riff out of the margins, break from his sensuous midrange to talk to the audience and then lift to falsetto only to bust into a goose-bump–inducing raw growl that comes from a place so deep it’s nearly impossible to describe its power.

To use simpler terms, Green performs with raw, soulful intensity in its purest form. And where do you see that anymore? Excuse the easy takedowns, but seriously, Beyonce, Rihanna? Give those girls some Al Green Midnight Special performances simply to remind them not, what only a real singer is, but a real entertainer, and a real interpreter of song.

And Green’s realness can be achieved anywhere, from the soundstages of Soul Train to still-packed concert halls to his Full Gospel Tabernacle where the soul icon remains the residing reverend. If you’re ever in Memphis, don’t miss the chance to possibly catch Mr. Green presiding over worship -- an experience that, years back, one of my atheist-leaning friends caught and was so significantly inspired by, the tough guy was moved to tears. If you’ve ever watched Green perform the baptism-by-orgasm “Take Me to the River,” you’ll completely understand my friend’s reaction.

And further, if you’ve ever suffered through many of our current pop stars, you’ll feel a little sadness that performers like Al Green barely exist anymore in popular entertainment. I mean, really. What the fuck happened? There’s plenty of gritty soulful artists out there (thank you Andre Williams, thank you T. Model Ford, thank you Black Keys -- and thank you for almost recording an album with Ike Turner) but gone are the days when you could actually turn a large clunky dial and see these kinds of geniuses on the five channel boob tube. I hate to say this, but our parents were lucky. No wonder my father went through that leather vest, leather cap, butterfly collar phase. I always thought it might have been some Charles Bronson Death Wish nervous breakdown situation. (Remember when Bronson remodels his apartment all swinging '70s garish in the movie? That's what divorce did to some men, even without the murder and vigilantism -- but I digress.) Anyway, it was probably all that Al Green in the 8-track. That’s some potent stuff.

And I do mean stuff, since Green makes me want to pop a doll and worship God at the same time (must have something to do with Jesus via hot grits in the tub and a handgun...). Especially when he sings the sexy haunting “Jesus Is Waiting” -- and with a sling!  You can interpret this Soul Train performance as pure holy or holy high-high (check out Green's eyes) or whatever kind of godliness you apply to your Green, but one thing’s for sure, it’s on a holy high mountain of silky hot brilliance. That's religion.

You Can Never Write Fast Enough...

My newest writing gig, (in my humble, auto-centric opinion) might be one of the coolest opportunities I've ever had -- Garage Magazine. The eternally bitchin' hot rod mag asked me to pen a column that combines two of my favorite things -- cars and movies -- so there was no way in hell I could say no. I struggled with just what to cover in my debut column -- my head spinning like my Torino doing cookies in the desert. And yet, the same movie continued to surface -- Two-Lane Blacktop. It was so obvious, too obvious, I wondered, but on final ponder, I put my brain in park and told myself: It's my favorite car movie, I've written about it numerous times, and I love it enough to expand, explicate and worship further. Why not christen my column with the best of the best?

An added bonus was my magazine photo session with the incredibly talented artist/badass LA photographer Estevan Oriol. He's snapped everyone from Ice Cube to Forest Whitaker to Dennis Hopper to Rob Zombie and more and created some gritty, gorgeous work concerning street life as well. I was in more than able hands (also, he loved my car, so naturally he's one of my favorite people). The issue is on newsstands now, so make sure to pick it up. Dita Von Teese graces the cover and centerfold, while other stories include a look at the great Hollywood/cheesecake photographer Bernard of Hollywood, a prison interview with famed skater Jay Adams and a look at DC based punk rock motorcycle couriers from the 1980's. You will not be disappointed. And stay tuned for my next Garage column which will cover famous cinematic mental breakdown car moments. (If you scroll down to my Bette Davis homage, you'll see one of the greatest).

So with that, I've dipped into my archives to feature again, my favorite car movies -- something that wouldn't have fit in the magazine and something Garage readers can enjoy, disagree or challenge me over (as long as those challenges don't involve a chicken race). On second thought...

Anyway, here's my look at the 10 greatest examples of car cinema (not entirely in order, not the greatest cars, or greatest car chase sequences, though many of these pictures feature both), proving that autos can make not only a genre, but compelling characters as well. For these films, it's not star but car power. The Torino is calling...

10. Dirty Mary Crazy Larry (1974)

OK, so the film itself leaves something to be desired in the deep-meaning department. And the director dips into the cheap-thrills cookie jar one too many times. But Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry is lots of messy fun -- especially when involving automobiles. Peter Fonda is (crazy) Larry, a would-be NASCAR driver who, with his mechanic Deke (Adam Roarke), pulls off a heist and runs for a new country. But they also take Mary (Susan George), a nutjob wild child (who's really the "crazy" one here, anyway?), who makes the getaway a little more, well, interesting. Filled with all kinds of terrific chase sequences starring lust-worthy hotrod "characters" such as a Dodge Charger, a Chevrolet Impala and a Dodge Polara. This one's muscle-ri-fic.

9. Duel (1971)

Before he struck fear in the heart of every beach-loving, ocean-swimming New Englander, Steven Spielberg crafted one of his supreme films with Duel, a movie that struck fear in the heart of every traveling salesman just trying to get down a California highway. Dennis Weaver is the nebbish, Joe-Blow salesman whose life becomes a vehicular nightmare when a mysterious, ominous truck will not stop following him. But why? Well, we assume the truck wants to kill him (or just completely mess with his head) in some kind of sanity test the poor schlub did not need that morning. Or maybe the truck really hates his car -- a Plymouth Valiant. Whatever the case, the deranged semi vs. Plymouth makes for a superbly tense 90-minute chase film that's a lot more disturbing and so-called "bad to the bone" than Christine.

8. Vanishing Point (1971)

Can you get from Denver to San Francisco in one night? Check out Vanishing Point, in which Barry Newman's mysterious speedster, Kowalski attempts just that. Hired to deliver the white Dodge 440 1970 Challenger in less than 15 hours, he's in the exceptional predicament of being pursued by cops, while a blind DJ named "Super Soul" (Cleavon Little) helps him along his way. Informing the driver of his progress via radio show, Super Soul also makes Kowalski something of a folk hero ("the last American to whom speed means freedom of the soul"). Taut, enigmatic and chock full of pursuits (a memorable one involves a Jaguar), the film skids and scoots and speeds to a kind of infinity. Who really wants to get out of their car?

7. Gone in 60 Seconds (1974)

You gotta love a movie in which the car is such a major character, she's given a name ("Eleanor"). You also gotta love a movie in which the writer, director and stunt driver also stars (H.B. Halicki), mostly because he's such a die-hard gear-head that he surely couldn't imagine anyone else leading the proceedings. Car thieves must steal 48 cars in a short period of time, including a 1973 Mustang Mach 1 code-named Eleanor. When Halicki (as the amusingly named Maindrian Pace) gets his hands on Eleanor, the film kicks into epic high gear, with a 40-minute chase scene that passes through five California cities and leaves nearly 100 cars totaled. The movie was re-made (badly) in 2000, proving you don't need big stars (Nicolas Cage and Angelina Jolie) or extra extreme effects when you already had the real deal in the first place. And Halicki was the real deal; he died in a stunt accident while making this film's sequel

6. The Driver (1978) 

Walter Hill proved that he knew his way around a car by writing the screenplay for Sam Peckinpah's supreme The Getaway (another great car movie) and directing the auto-centric The Driver. An unyielding, enigmatic thriller, the film stars Ryan O'Neal, known simply as The Driver, a man constantly chased by, yep, The Detective (a fantastically creepy Bruce Dern) in a seemingly endless game of cat and mouse. The entire film involves obsessed pursuit; the viewer's point of view is often inside the car as the Driver maneuvers without any discernible emotion. O'Neal is almost literally a driving machine, as he shifts, swerves and speeds his Trans Am through parking structures, alleys and oncoming traffic. This is no giggling Smokey and the Bandit; this is Le Samourai on high octane.

5. Le Mans (1971)

Le Mans is about exactly that: the famed French auto race that runs for 24 hours. And not much else. In true car-noir fashion, it takes a good half-hour before we hear the film's protagonist utter a line of dialogue. That protagonist, Delaney, is played by Steve McQueen in a film so stripped of plot that it often feels like a documentary. We simply watch the auto race on the world's hardest endurance course as our hero goes more than 24 hours on 14.5 kilometers of cordoned country road. There's a duel between Delaney, in his Gulf Team Porsche 917, and a Ferrari 512LM that tests not only the driver's technical abilities, but also his personal will. Filled with terrific racing sequences galore and impressive wrecks, the spectacle is thrilling even if the narrative, not so much. But who cares...

4. Bullitt (1968)

What -- you thought I'd get through this list with only one McQueen film? Not likely, especially since this film is so firmly implanted in car cinema, it's tough not to combine the car and driver as one super being. Bullitt, Peter Yates' too-cool-for-school-actioner, boasts the greatest cinematic drive through the streets of San Francisco. But there's more than that legendary pursuit. There's the car -- a sweet 1968 Mustang GT 390 (the best-looking Mustang ever) -- and the driver -- McQueen (the best-looking guy ever to drive a Mustang). McQueen, who helped re-vamp the bitchin' green Ford, is the James Dean of car culture, indelibly linked with the lure and lore of the automobile. Bullitt actually makes me think Mustangs are not the most obvious "muscle" car you can own. Still (sorry Steve), the villain's car, the 1968 Dodge Charger was much, much cooler.

3. Smokey and the Bandit (1977) 

Many remember 1977 as the year Star Wars became a national obsession. But while some of you played with plastic light sabers and (now priceless) action figures, there were others who busted out their Dad's CB radio ("Sheriff ... do the letters F.O. mean anything to you?") and prayed he'd buy a black 1977 Pontiac Trans AM just like the one Burt Reynolds (a.k.a., The Bandit) drives in Hal Needham's classic Smokey and the Bandit. And yes, I did just say classic. A charming, laughing Reynolds teams with trucker pal Jerry Reed to transport 400 cases of Coors beer across state lines, with an apoplectic, hilarious Jackie Gleason (as Sheriff Buford T. Justice) in pursuit. Loads of light fun filled with clever, excellently edited and just plain stellar car-chase sequences, Smokey and the Bandit is, as the infectious Jerry Reed song proclaimed, "loaded up and truckin.'

2. Mad Max (1979)

Mad Max gives new meaning to the term "playing chicken." After super-studly, leather-clad cop 'Mad' Max Rockatansky (played by Mel Gibson in a star-making performance) explosively wins this game with an escaped criminal named The Nightrider, thug-in-arms biker-gang leader The Toecutter (oh, how I love these names) seeks vengeance, killing not only Max's partner but Max's family as well. So now Max is, as the title states, mad. Very, very mad. As directed by George Miller, this dystopian vision of violent recklessness and ultimate revenge is wonderfully paced, beautifully textured and even quite emotional at times. It also, in terms of ingenious car chase, crash, smash and explode sequences, is incredibly, punk-rock badass. And it features one of cinema's coolest cars: The Interceptor, a 1973 Ford Falcon XB GT, the auto-erotic fixation of the petrol set. Where can I get one?

1. Two-Lane Blacktop (1971)

If Jean Paul Sartre had directed a drive-in movie, he might have crafted Monte Hellman's existential, car noir Two-Lane Blacktop. The stoic central characters are stripped down to their basic handles -- James Taylor is known only as the Driver, Dennis Wilson the Mechanic, Laurie Bird the Girl and the late great Warren Oates, in one of his most unforgettable roles, is GTO. All players drive and drive and drive, seemingly to challenge other cars and race cross country, but is that really what they're seeking? The characters don't even know themselves. But they do love their cars. Taylor and Wilson drive a seriously souped-up '55 Chevy that's all muscle and speed, no frills, while Oates rolls a yellow 1970 Pontiac GTO -- something Taylor scorns as right off the lot. What makes this film unique is its absolute auto-centric vision (the continual purr and hum of the engine makes even the viewer feel at one with the car) mingled with art-house beauty. And it's one of the few movies in which the Driver can state with extra, ambiguous meaning, "You can never go fast enough." A masterpiece.

And here's some Johnny Cash singing an ode to stealing/assembling his "Psychobilly Cadillac"...

Mr. Widmark Knocked...

With Richard Widmark and Marilyn Monroe on the brain (the sex tape! The gentleman!), I'm re-running my piece on "Don't Bother to Knock," a movie that not only boasts one of Monroe's greatest performances, but a wonderfully nuanced role for Widmark as well.

Oh Marilyn. I know, I know, we all love Marilyn Monroe (or we're supposed to) but I’m not going to stray from her simply because she’s so damn popular. The tragic heroine princess to every aspiring starlet or little girl or grown woman is our coffee mugged goddess, so ubiquitous that, I think, we sometimes take her for granted. Especially in her early and later roles (my two favorite periods for Marilyn). From the fresh faced, sublimely natural starlet sporting jeans in Fritz Lang’s Clash By Night to the methody, tired, tragic and lonely lady of John Huston's The Misfits, I find Marilyn’s first and last hopes at proving herself on screen immensely powerful.

Such is the case in Monroe's first starring vehicle, 1952's Don't Bother to Knock. There’s a prophetic sadness permeating her nuanced, fascinating performance, and for a picture of this period, her delusional babysitter (freshly released from an insane asylum) is surprisingly sympathetic. Knowing all we do about the troubled star, it most likely wasn't a stretch for the then-relative newcomer to understand the pathology and despondency of her character Nell, a beautiful young woman burned by love who can't handle the breach between reality and fiction. A film noir of sorts, director Roy Baker's part-thriller, part-character-study is a tense tale with plenty of pathos geared toward Marilyn, who wasn't the full-blown MM superstar yet. As Nell, a mysterious girl who takes on a babysitting job in a hotel where her creepy, sad-sack uncle (Elisha Cook Jr. — who else) works, Monroe enters the picture in plain clothes, dark blonde hair, and little makeup. Though she's no plain-Jane, she looks like a "nice girl" — nice enough for hotel guests the Joneses (played by Jim Backus and Lurene Tuttle) to allow a stranger to watch over their cute little daughter Bunny (Donna Corcoran). After quickly putting the girl to bed (clearly she's not interested in the kid), Nell plays dress-up in Mrs. Jones' fine silk robe, perfume, and diamond jewelry.

Meanwhile, cocky, self-absorbed airline pilot Jedd Towers (a very layered, and sexy Richard Widmark) is stinging from rejection after the hotel chanteuse (a young, gorgeous Anne Bancroft) dumps him.  Spying the beautiful Nell from his window to hers (which is damn hot) he finds some new action when the lonely Nell signals him from her room. He comes over for a good time, likes what he sees, and basically puts up with her strange behavior until it gets a little too freaky; a little too desperate. When she comes on strong, he exclaims: "You bother me! I can't figure you out! You're silk on one side and sandpaper on the other!" To which MM answers, "I'll be whatever you want me to be!" This is too much, especially from a woman this beautiful and he answers perplexed: "Why?" Indeed. A man, even Richard Widmark, can only take so much, and when Nell hangs Bunny out of the hotel window, he really starts thinking she might not be worth the tumble. But here’s the poignant part—Nell doesn't really mean any harm. She's just disturbed and frequently suicidal. And here’s a novel idea—she desires a man to take care of her without hitting or hollering at her desire to look gorgeous. She should be normal dammit!

But, why? Why must women have to be so normal? Though suffering from deep seated psychological problems, I sense that it’s this type of "normal" pressure making her crack (the punishing and smarmy Cook Jr. doesn't help either). Monroe portrays these ideas beautifully, so much so, that I wondered how much of her real life was seeping into her performance, it plays so real. I kept wishing that she could just get out of that hotel, doll herself up and have some fun with a man who might understand her. Widmark isn't really the one, even though underneath his smirk and swagger, he’s essentially a good heart.  Interestingly, however, the moral of the story comes at Nell's expense — Widmark’s Jedd becomes a better, more decent man by not giving into temptation with a supposed psycho (which, in Widmark's strong, able hands, is entirely believable). Poor Nell, and poor Marilyn. In real life, most men wouldn't so sensitively resist.

Happy 100 Bette Davis

Bette Davis would have been 100-years-old this Saturday April the 5th and I just wish (I wish) I could have met her in my life. I wouldn't have cared if she hollered at me, made me pull her anti-aging tape straps under her wig, blew cigarette smoke in my face or crisply informed me that my apartment was a "dump" -- whatever -- I'd take abuse from Ms. Davis just to listen to that voice. And maybe, perhaps more than likely, she would have been nice. (After all, I'm nothing like her back-stabbing, ungrateful daughter B.D.) In any case, I would loved to have solicited some advice from that woman. Bette Davis as life coach. That could work for me.

For if there is or was any female figure to whom others should turn to in times of crisis, loneliness and despair, it is Miss Bette. Why? Because Bette Davis is every woman (and some men) wrapped into one: ugly and beautiful, sweet and biting, honest and deceitful, classy and vulgar. There isn't a side of Bette that every woman doesn't see in herself. Her face -- those buggy eyes flickering with homeliness and yet an odd beauty (never forget how uniquely gorgeous Bette was as a young starlet), sadness, insanity, malevolence, rage and finally, strength. And her little body -- coiled up and ready to strike (as in Another Man’s Poison) or sloppy and cruelly casual (like in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?: “Here’s your lunch” she announces to Joan before promptly serving her a rat) or lovely and wary (as in All This, and Heaven Too) or brassy and swishy (as in Jezebel) or an elegant liar (as in The Letter) or mousy turned gorgeous (as in Now, Voyager) or just plain gloriously melodramatic then vulnerable (as in All About Eve) or heart-breakingingly desperate (as in The Star). There are moments when Bette seems almost turned inside out, as if she’s revealing the innards of the female psyche --  which is exactly why she can appear so damn terrifying at times.

But she had her soft moments (watch her opposite Charles Boyer in aforementioned All This, and Heaven Too and you'll see what I mean). In later years Bette recalled, "Christ, I was always bitching about how I hated my face in those days. Compared to what I look like now, I was an absolute living doll!"

She was a doll -- a doll that could easily contend with Chucky, but a doll nonetheless. God knows she had those famous, buggy-beautiful eyes, silky skin and an ample chest, but Davis, like most women, lived with numerous imperfections. But she didn't harp on these flaws or engage in diva delusions, instead she gleefully, sometimes perversely played up her problem areas. And it sometimes made her all the more attractive. In All About Eve, she's supposed to be an insecure, aging star, yet even when a young Marilyn Monroe walks on (who looks like a peach, even after undoubtedly consuming numerous benzos and splits of champagne), you can't take your eyes off Bette. And it wasn't just her looks -- it was her way. Everything Bette did -- walking (in minced steps), talking (with exacting enunciation), smoking (in circular jabs) -- she did with a flourish. Like Joan Crawford, Marlene Dietrich, Greta Garbo and the great Tallulah Bankhead (who really should have made more movies) Bette was her own unforgettable invention, an unconventional glamour-puss, who stands the test of time. Unlike sanctioned beauty, Bette's particular magic is something that never fades.

Neither did Bette's ballsy view of life and relationships, so wonderfully expressed on (and frequently off) the big screen. For instance, what to do when dumped? Go out in a blaze of glory. Though her demise was devastating in Of Human Bondage, she pulled off a stunning, final fuck-you to poor Leslie Howard. Bette, who insisted on looking the damaged strumpet against director John Cromwell's wishes was not only one of the first actresses to choose looking this bad on screen but also appeared like some kind of riot girl/punk rock proto-type (young Courtney Love must have studied this scene). Sitting in a flophouse, emaciated and dying, but still snarling all ugly/sexy in her revealing slip, bleached blonde hair and runny eye makeup -- all it took was a few withering looks to leave Leslie Howard's passive-aggressive club footed doctor with an image to smolder for a lifetime. In a very un-Camille like performance, she seemed to be saying: "Here I am, warts and all. Can't handle it? Your loss. Now go live your boring life with you new girlfriend."

And what about giving someone the cold shoulder? Bette showed women how to deal with the delicate situation of the brush off (or tease) by sparing him the psych-speak and exiting with a baffler: As Ms. Davis' Southern belle character drawled in Cabin in the Cotton, "I'd love to kiss you, but I've just washed my hair." (Try this one out). And along these same lines, she also reveled in showing that not all women want marriage and babies. In Beyond the Forest (a movie she didn't want to make but was brilliant in nonetheless), Davis' character is married to Joseph Cotten -- not a bad catch by any stretch of the imagination. But she grows bored and becomes critical of what marital bliss and good living are supposed to be ("What a dump" she bitches about their house). Though cast as an evildoer in the film, I've always felt sympathy for her Rosa Moline --- she was limited, in love with another and then, dear God, pregnant. So how to remedy this situation? She hauled herself off the side of a mountain, pregnant belly in tow. Sure, it wasn't the nicest, safest move (and it certainly wasn't as glamorous as Gene Tierney’s tumble down the stairs in Leave Her to Heaven), but perhaps through the dictates of the Production Code, this was the only way she could not have that baby. And she wanted to move to Chicago -- high-tail it out of that stifling, small town where everyone talked shit about her. Who can really blame her?

And yet, as much as women and men say they love the feisty ladies, it often simply comes down to the bitch. What a bitch. And I think a few women are even worse regarding this insult (sit down and act like a nice little lady). Bette would say bullshit to all that (and then call Joan Crawford a bitch: "I wouldn't piss on her if she was on fire." But I digress...). Her motto? "No guts, no glory." Like other gutsy women, she made men's heads spin: Is she a bitch? Or an assertive fox? This is the continuous (and exciting) inward query (and you know hubby Gary Merrill got all hot and bothered by that alluring combo). Like a lot of strong women, she had a Napoleon complex, but we love that in men (Pacino, De Niro). We get a thrill watching Joe Pesci shove a pen in someone's eye. But Bette? That would scare the shit out of us. Just imagine what Bette could do to an attacker -- the carnage a maniacal Bette would leave defending herself -- all that flying fur (real of course), red scratching fingernails and a lit cigarette to the face. I honestly can’t see Bette Davis successfully getting mugged.

And I imagine that if Miss Davis couldn't win a physical fight, she could reign victorious via a verbal arsenal of movie lines that were nearly as lethal. No, she didn't write them, but it sure sounded like she did. Take, for instance:

Marked Woman: "I'll get even if I have to crawl back from the grave."

It's Love I'm After: "You're going to have love for breakfast, love for luncheon and love for dinner. Sweet, sugary, sticky worship. You're going to have a steady diet of it till you're ready to scream, you billy goat!"

And the more subtle diamond dagger from The Little Foxes: "I don't ask for things I don't think I can get."

Finally, some real life advice from Bette Davis herself (and before sad-sack Miles in Sideways): "Never, never trust anyone who asks for white wine. It means they're phonies."

Bette, Bette, Bette. She didn't act the Diva, she was the Diva. But strangely down to earth too. She hated airs, which contributed to her dislike towards Joan Crawford (that, and something to do with Franchot Tone) and one of the reasons she slammed poor co-star Celeste Holm from All About Eve -- bemoaning perky Holm's on set salutations, Bette snarled, "ugh manners." As artificial as her carefully constructed lips were (that line!), Davis detested fakes, and forced, silly sentiments, things that would, as Bette said, “provoke anyone of sensibility to nausea.” Of her legendary All About Eve character Margo, Bette stated: "Margo Channing was not a bitch. She was an actress who was getting older and was not too happy about it. And why should she? Anyone who says that life begins at forty is full of it. As people get older their bodies begin to decay. They get sick. They forget things. What's good about that?"

Well, you could be alive Miss Davis -- and with all of your grit and gusto -- even at 100. I certainly wish you were. Like that Oscar statuette you placed on the dashboard during your dipsomaniacal drive through Hollywood in The Star, I'd love to ask just once: "Come on Bette, let's you and me get drunk."

Happy Birthday Bette.

Richard Widmark: 1914-2008

And just after my tenth (eleventh?) viewing of one of my favorite film noir, that daylight ménage à trois (or rather, ménage à trois by way of intimidation, which only makes the picture all the more fascinating and kinky) -- Road House -- just when I was really wrapping my head around my obsession with both the movie and that hot blonde laughing lunatic of menace and twisted sex appeal, he ups and leaves me.

One of motion pictures greatest actors, an icon of film noir and an intelligent, decent man in real life has left us. Richard Widmark died Monday at the age of 93-years-old.

An actor who stunned audiences (and earned his one and only Oscar nomination) with his film debut as the giggling psychopath Tommy Udo in Henry Hathaway's Kiss of Death, a character who, in the film's most notorious scene, pushes an old woman in a wheelchair down a flight of stairs, Widmark worked a long career filled with intriguing, daring roles that left a permanent impression on the movie-going public. So much, in fact, that Tommy Udo clubs formed around the country at various colleges, honoring the maniac for not taking any guff from women, men or life itself -- no matter how venal and self destructive he was. But that was part of Widmark's power and subversion -- you enjoyed his lunatics, you almost wanted to be near them, if only for a moment, just to witness that all that live wire insanity and bad seed evil.

But his career wasn't all about scumbags and sadists hassling little old ladies, he also helped create some of noir's most immortal characters including, in my mind, two ultimate existential noir anti-hero icons in two ultimate film noir masterpieces --  Skip McCoy in Samuel Fuller's Pickup on South Street, and Harry Fabian in Jules Dassin's Night and the City. 

There was also The Street with No Name, Panic in the Streets (where he made the smart career move by playing the good guy and allowing Jack Palance the role of creepy heavy), the stunning aforementioned Road House (with Ida Lupino and Cornel Wilde), Don't Bother To Knock (with Marilyn Monroe), No Way Out (playing such a convicing racist, that the real life and very passionate liberal apologized to young Sidney Poitier after nearly every take), Judgment at Nuremberg, How the West Was Won, Madigan, The Alamo, The Bedford Incident (co-produced by anti-nuke activist Widmark) and more and more and more.

His presence was always missed once he stepped away from the screen but it was nice knowing the man, one of the last men standing of all the noir legends, was still alive and kicking. That he was enjoying his very non Tommy Udo-like life away from the spotlight in Connecticut, critical of  modern movies and soul baring celebrities and the general dumbing down of cinema while keeping his life in healthy perspective. I've got so much more to write about one of my absolute all-time favorite actors, but to put it simply -- he was a rare one.

Rest in Peace Mr. Widmark. We’ll always have Jefty’s. And, here's your famous push...for old time's sake.

Sing You Sinners: Bing Crosby

There’s a wonderful moment in the musical High Society during which Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra sing an especially rousing version of Cole Porter’s “Well, Did You Evah!” Midway through the charming, inebriated song, in which two “swellegant” party pals swap banter, dish on guests and form a dipsomaniacal camaraderie, Crosby croons to Sinatra with his distinctive “ba ba ba boom” and Sinatra jokes, “Don’t dig that kind of crooning, chum.” “You must be one of the newer fellows,” Crosby answers back.

The idea of Sinatra being one of the “newer fellows” is amusing since, in 1956 (when the picture was released), the big-band, and balladeer musical style of crooning was already on the wane. Sinatra was well on his way to becoming the elder-statesman Chairman of the Board, Elvis would be anointed the King of Rock ’n’ Roll and Bing would be … Bing.

Not that anyone would ever forget Bing Crosby. The crooner, born in Tacoma, Washington, had been cinema’s number one box-office draw from 1944 to 1948 and was an enormous, multitalented star -- radio, recordings and motion pictures all earning him legions of adoring fans. And like another famous crooner who would count him as an influence (Dean Martin), Crosby had his own cinematic comedy team, making the frequently funny (and underrated) “road” movies with wise-acre Bob Hope. He even won an Academy Award (for Going My Way) and received another nomination for his alcoholic role in The Country Girl.

There’s no denying that Crosby was and is big time. And yet … why does he feel just a little slighted through the years? Like the only moment we enjoy his music is once a year, when we roll out “White Christmas” from our holiday collection of old standards?

Perhaps it’s just how antiquated his music sounds today -- beautifully, mysteriously antiquated, like something emerging from a dream….or a nightmare. In either moody reverie, when listening to the brilliant baritone sing “Pennies From Heaven,” “Ol’ Man River” or “Swinging on a Star,” you feel the music form around you, as if you’re riding on an ethereal echo chamber of air coming from a million miles away. It’s spacey, creepy and charming all at once. Which perfectly explains how effective the song “Mairzy Dotes” becomes in David Lynch's Twin Peaks, when daughter-murdering, Bob-haunted Leland Palmer crazily sings it in the midst of his meltdowns. And then there was that pairing of the two Thin White Dukes -- Bowie and Bing dueting “Peace On Earth/Little Drummer Boy” -- ideal.  These were two sexy space aliens keeping Christmas a little bit Christian and a little bit…pagan. As much as I love Frank Sinatra, this kind of cross generational extraterrestrial-ness could have only been created with Crosby.

All of these elements of Crosby are so marvelously powerful, that his music remains (particularly his earlier recordings) ever haunting, ever romantic and, in some instances, ever celestial. As musicologist J.T.H. Mize put it, Crosby could “melt a tone away, scoop it flat and sliding up to the eventual pitch as a glissando, sometimes sting a note right on the button, and take diphthongs for long musical rides.” In short, Crosby could send you. He still can. And not only at Christmas time.

Happy Birthday John Garfield

Though I frequently discuss actors I love/am in love with, I've never delved into that simmering, gorgeous genius of masculine menace, charm and vulnerability -- John Garfield. He's one of my favorite actors (among a top three that alternate, but Garfield always remains), and an actor who almost literally knocked me for a loop when I first saw him on screen (in The Postman Always Rings Twice). All that sensitive masculinity, intelligence and intense, noir sex appeal and I was a goner. Forget Jessica Lange and Jack Nicholson's furious fornication on the kitchen table in the steamy re-make (which I do enjoy and find erotic), John and Lana need only to simply look at each other and...that's it. You know what they're up to later -- and the wondering is part of the picture’s tremendous turn-on (not to mention Lana's lipstick).

But Mr. Garfield...perhaps like poor Priscilla Lane checking out all your tough guy artistry, smoking that ciggie while playing the piano in your unforgettable 1938 film debut (Four Daughters) you're just too much for me.  Like Joan Crawford’s wide-eyed attraction and anger during your virtuoso "Flight of the Bumblebee" interlude in Humoresque, I just can’t function properly when thinking about you.  I'm all gob smack and tongue tied and, aw nuts...let’s just hitch-hike away from that depressing roadside diner. I don’t care if my white suit gets dirty. And unlike Ms. Turner, I'll knock him in the head with a bottle if you want...whatever it takes. See, I can’t think straight when regarding Garfield’s formidable big screen sway.

But since today is his birthday, I had to discuss for recognition alone. Why isn't he supremely famous? A household name? Why isn't he better recognized (he wasn't even listed in the featured Birthday section of IMDB, though thank goodness TCM honored him). For reasons I cannot decipher, this brilliant, brooding actor, though well respected by those who know better, isn't considered the legend a la Bogart, Clift, Brando or Dean. Why isn’t he better appreciated? This massive talent with genuine bad-boy street cred (he was born Julius Garfinkle and raised tough on New York's Lower East Side) was a huge star in his day, so much so that his 1952 funeral was attended by more folks than Rudolph Valentino's ceremony.  So why have too many forgetten him? Where's his damn box set?

If you've never seen a John Garfield performance, you have been (in a supreme understatement) missing out. If you've only watched one or two, you're sorely behind. If you need to catch up, check (among many other pictures) his intense, oftentimes roughly romantic and edgy performances in movies such as Gentlemen's Agreement, They Made Me a Criminal, The Postman Always Rings Twice, Body and Soul, Force of Evil, The Breaking Point, Nobody Lives Forever, Humoresque, Flowing Gold, Between Two Worlds, We Were Strangers and (my favorite) He Ran All the Way -- his last film and a quite fitting one considering how he left this world. 

And God...what an exit Mr. Garfield. In my mind, one of the first method actors (he trained in the famed Group Theater and worked with Clifford Odets), he was also victim to one of cinema's darkest, most shameful moments when the left-wing, progressive actor (and patriotic actor, he helped created The Hollywood Canteen for heaven's sake) testified at the scabrous House Un-American Activities Committee, who suspected him and certain colleagues, Communist. Unlike many other actors, writers and directors (including one of his former directors, Elia Kazan), Garfield refused to name names. As both a once young street tough and a man of principle, Garfield would not rat. Not surprisingly, work was then harder to come by and at the young age of 39, Garfield died of coronary thrombosis. Many speculate an already present heart condition was worsened by the stress caused by the House's inquisition. I think this assumption is correct. His mislabeling and death is so tragic that it anger me to this day.

Another reason I find it tough to write about Garfield. But I’ll never stop watching his movies -- in many cases multiple times. Right now, in fact. He Ran all the Way awaits. Happy Birthday to this hot genius piece of work. And here's to dropping that lipstick. Lana was lucky.

Deep Dangerous Sexy Freeze

Is Lee Marvin the coolest man to ever walk the earth? Today, as I write this, directly after rewatching his detached though complicated, gloriously glacial though substantially obsessed badass gangster in John Boorman’s neo-noir Point Blank, I am saying yes. In my world, Lee Marvin is the grand master, the most deserving mac daddy, the top dog, numero-uno recipient in my own personal cool-cat contest. And he’s so cool that if he were alive to read this now, he would have cared less. Cool guys can’t be bothered with such silly, effusive honors.

Of course, I might change my mind tomorrow (after all, there are those other kings of cool swaggering through cinema --  Robert Mitchum, Steve McQueen, Alain Delon, Humphrey Bogart, Toshiro Mifune, John Garfield, Lee Van Cleef…oh Lee Van Cleef… and so on) and my purpose here isn’t ranking chill factor, it’s discussing Marvin as tough guy. But I can’t talk Marvin without regarding his late-’60s, early-’70s hep-a-tude, especially since Marvin’s deep freeze was what made him so potently formidable in 1967’s Point Blank  --  a movie that spins its tough-guy protagonist to the existential limit.

The story is simple, yet layered with all kinds of mystery. Marvin plays Walker, a man who was deceived, robbed and left for dead by his evil former bosses. Returning from the wreckage of his past, he storms through a slick, sick Los Angeles seeking payback for his money and his life, enacting all sorts of violent vengeance on any sorry sap getting in his way. That $93,000 his bosses owe will be met with blood, guts and an agenda that’s obvious but compellingly peculiar. Marvin is a hulking force of icy bloodlust, a man so filled with rage that he’s numbed himself  --  almost into a zombie. Inside, he’s half dead, and obtaining all that money (“I want my money!”) is the only way he might possibly reanimate the near-Frankenstein he’s become.

I say near monster because, in Marvin’s hands (and in his fantastic squinty eyes, his wonderful early-to-age white hair and his deep, rich voice), there’s a tortured, emotional soul underneath his frighteningly unflappable exterior. You can’t become tough without a little pain, and Marvin’s Walker has felt pain. And this deeply embedded despair heats up his thick-skinned reserve with a potent blend of savagery and sexuality.  When Marvin simply stands while hot-headed babe Angie Dickinson smacks the shit out of him with her purse and then her flailing hands and slaps, it’s a sizzling overload of detachment, violence and sexual aggravation that ends with an exhausted Dickinson simply giving up. Or giving in -- an angry lady orgasm in a heap on the floor. Why I find this both hilarious and hot only lends to the picture’s sometimes bewildering power and turbulent eroticism.

And what happens following her fit? He ambles upstairs and watches TV. Yes, only the imperturbable Lee Marvin makes handling the television appear almost as cool as a handling his gat. As a postmodern noir, Marvin sitting in front of the tube following Angie Dickinson’s fury, frustration and fever seems perfectly, absurdly appropriate. And unlike many modern films, one is actually excited (though a little terrified) for the make-up sex.

Tweaked and extended from my favorite tough guy at MSN.

You're All Forgiven

Apologies up front…I’m going to get all classic rock on you here. But it’s The Who and to me, The Who are evergreen.  Especially when it comes to a one-song performance (and not even a headlining performance) -- that moves an excites me and makes me all crazy in my bones. It’s their sonic slam dunk of “A Quick One, While He’s Away,” which they rocked to the hilt on The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus -- a live taping for an ill-fated 1968 TV special that was supposed to promote the Stones’ brilliant record “Beggars Banquet” as well as showcase friends and musicians like Marianne Faithful, Taj Mahal, Jethro Tull (ugh…flute) and the Dirty Mac group of John Lennon, Keith Richards, Eric Clapton, and Mitch Mitchell. (And then there was the freaky fantastic Yoko Ono, who, sorry, I love here -- Yoko’s caterwaul is worth watching if not for the hilarious expression of violinist Ivry Gitlis alone.) The special never aired, though thankfully, it did eventually make its way to video in 1996.

But why was the broadcast halted? Many (especially Who fans) speculate that the Who’s inventive, crazy, beautiful eight-minute “A Quick One” proved to be the proverbial straw that broke the rockers’ backs. They almost put the Stones to shame.

This isn’t to say that the Stones performed terribly; to be fair, they played last and were visibly tired. And I revere The Stones, early career to Mick Taylor to “Tattoo You” to…even “Undercover of the Night.” But in 1968, with Brian Jones on board, they were showcasing one of the greatest moments of their career (and damn they all looked good -- especially Mick in his maroon pants and red shirt ). And yet, next to the mind-blowing (and I almost hate to us this word but it applies) awesomeness of “A Quick One,” Mick Jagger and company -- even in their slinky, sexy, “pleased to meet you” decadence -- seemed a little … out-shined. One might say boring. And the Stones would all probably agree.

There was just something extra-inspired and particularly magical about the Who’s moment that sets it apart from anything they’ve done before or since (anything I’ve seen or heard, at least). The song has a lot to do with it: a mini-opera that tells the story of a woman who is touchingly forgiven by her lover after having a fling with an engine driver named Ivar. It moves in a series of wildly different directions that makes it feel like six tunes in one.

And every single element presented here is flawless. From Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend swapping roles of lead singer, to John Entwistle’s glorious falsetto, to Keith Moon’s riotous though perfectly timed crashes and rolls (ohmygod when he throws the floor tom! I love him!), to Townshend’s windmill guitar chops (when he stomps his foot and raises his arm -- I always think, this is why guitarists get laid), to the powerful “Dang, Dang, Dang, Dang” section (used so memorably in Wes Anderson’s Rushmore) -- the song manages to be almost insanely reckless and yet tight as a drum.

Even the band’s disparate personalities and mismatched clothes (Roger Daltrey’s tan suede fringe getup, Pete Townshend’s white bell bottoms and shiny vest, John Entwistle’s Prince Valiant-goes-S&M attire and Keith Moon’s glittery though oddly dingy jumpsuit -- you know he was wearing that thing for weeks on end) manage to heighten the sound (if that’s possible) and performance. Watching Daltrey swing that microphone in all his fringe-flying-future-Pinball Wizard glory is a quintessential rock-god moment. The entire performance is something from the deities, the perfect song for the show’s slightly demonic circuslike setting -- a complicated, exuberant work of breathtaking brilliance that makes me want to…I don’t know…do something very, very good or very, very bad. Like Max Fischer, Bill Murray and those bees. Ask for marriage or commit a murder. Kiss or kill.

With that, as Keith Richards said, “And now ladies and gentlemen, dig The Who.”

Oscar At 80

From My Oscar Best, Worst and Weirdest at MSN Movies:

To think that just a couple of weeks ago, this whole Oscar shindig might have been cancelled...

But the three-month-long Writers Guild strike was settled in the nick of time, so the biggest movie awards show in the world -- the American equivalent of a coronation -- could go on, and stars could gather to honor ... other stars. As host Jon Stewart quipped: "Having the Oscars helped end the strike ... before we spend the next four to five hours giving each other golden statues, let's take a moment to congratulate ourselves."

The 80th Annual Academy Awards were not all just pats on the back, writer jokes and fantastic frocks (well, actually, there were a lot of fantastic frocks): Many of the nominated films, actors, writers and directors were (double gasp!) actually deserving, and two of the pictures -- There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men -- are bona-fide masterpieces. If there was any kind of theme this year, it was Oscar getting it almost right (I could hand them a list of misses, if I could)-- nominating interesting films and artists from all over the world (England, France, Ireland, Italy, Spain and Austria were all represented). And of the contenders, there was new talent (Ellen Page for Juno), older icons (Hal Holbrook for Into the Wild) and, for heaven's sake, Viggo Mortensen (perhaps one of the coolest men walking the earth -- at least he looks that way) for Eastern Promises.

Still, maybe it was all this good taste and worthiness that made the show a little ... staid. Boring? Not enough horrible moments? Don't get me wrong, there were some surprises and spirited highlights, like Stewart's opening monologue, some heartfelt acceptance speeches and one (or should I say Once?) musical performance. And there were also some lowlights, like Academy President Sid Ganis' attempts at humor, the uninspired video pieces and three musical performances from Enchanted.

So I'm here to hand out awards for the best, worst and weirdest of Oscar's 80th. (Wow, Mickey Rooney -- who was there by the way -- is older than Oscar? Maybe he should run for president) Anyway, ahem... the envelope, please:

Most Moving Acceptance Speech:
How does he do it? Picking up his Best Supporting Actor award for playing psychopath Anton Chigurh in No Country For Old Men, Javier Bardem managed to be likable, studly, humble, casual and touching all at once. Ambling on stage with his mussed-up hair and mischievous smile, he said, "I have to speak fast here, man" and then pointed out everything from how amazing the award was to his curious Dutch-boy haircut from the movie. But when he honored his "Mama" (entirely in Spanish) with nary a trace of sappiness, the charming Spaniard caught us off guard. And then he all but strutted off-stage. Hmmm... maybe it's not Viggo but Javier who's the coolest man walking the face of the earth. Nah, it was Lee Marvin...

Best Jon Stewart Joke, Part 1:
"Tonight we look beyond the dark days and focus on happier fare. This year's slate of Oscar-nominated psychopathic killer movies. Does this town need a hug? What happened? No Country For Old Men, Sweeney Todd, There Will Be Blood. All I can say is thank God for teen pregnancy."

Funniest Acceptance Speech:
Tilda Swinton. She is known for her edgy, serious work in heavy films like Orlando and The Deep End and as the famed White Witch from The Chronicles of Narnia so who knew she was so damn funny? When accepting her Best Supporting Actress win for Michael Clayton, the red-haired Brit hilariously capped her speech by mercilessly teasing co-star George Clooney: "George Clooney... you know. The seriousness and dedication to your art, seeing you climb into that rubber bat suit from Batman and Robin, the one with nipples, every morning, under your costume, on the set, off the set, hanging upside at lunch. You rock, man. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" Ever the class act, Clooney took it like, well, like George Clooney -- a man.

Am I Crazy Or...
Was seeing acclaimed filmmaker Spike Lee and his Jungle Fever star, recent tax evader Wesley Snipes, sitting together as essentially dates kind of heartwarming? And they looked fantastic. Maybe they'll make another movie together? I'm sure Snipes would be happy. The IRS is another story... Well screw them anyway. Team Snipes!

Edgiest Jon Stewart Joke:
"Julie Christie was absolutely amazing in Away From Her. Brilliant movie. It was a moving story of a woman who forgets her own husband. Hillary Clinton called it the 'feel good movie of the year.' "

Buzz Off:
Can Jerry Seinfeld please stop promoting that damn bee movie? We saw you on Oprah. We saw you on Letterman. We saw you on Larry King. We get it. You made freaking Bee Movie. And yes, we know it will be available on DVD this March. And showing the montage of great stinging film moments didn't make us want to rush out and buy (ugh!) Bee Movie. Seriously, we'd so rather watch that hilarious Bill Murray bee sequence from Rushmore over and over and over again over Jerry's entire animated (non) classic.

Bad in Black:
One would think black is basic -- that it flatters all who wear it. But the usually perky and lovely Jennifer Garner appeared downright dour in her dark frock, looking both unhappy and uncomfortable in such a gothic get-up. Helena Bonham Carter (where was she, anyway? I missed her.) she is not. (*I just saw that Gary Busey red carpet moment, now I realize why she looked so upset...I don't blame her.)

Ladies in Red:
Perhaps in the spirit of all the violent movies nominated this year, many actresses opted for bold red dresses. Helen Mirren, Anne Hathaway, a stunning Katherine Heigl channeling Marilyn Monroe, Heidi Klum and, uh, Miley Cirus all went primary. Wait, what the hell was Miley Cirus doing there?

Am I Crazy Or...
Is Amy Adams becoming really irritating? I don't dislike the supposedly lovable star, but her appearance this year left me with conflicted emotions. As she performed "Happy Working Song," one of the three nominated songs for her film Enchanted, I was both embarrassed and overwhelmingly annoyed by her Betty Boop/Snow White impersonation. Did she even want to perform this? And to make matters worse, little Miss Adams continued her cutesy, goody-goody act while presenting the award for Best Original Score. Typecast much? I hate to say this, but she needs to play a hooker/heroin addict/convicted murderer stat. That cuteness is starting to curdle.

Best Jon Stewart Joke, Part 2:
"There is a great variety in the nominated films this year. Even Norbit got a nomination, which I think is great. Too often the Academy ignores movies that aren't good."

Technically Speaking:
Why do Scientific and Technical Achievement Awards always have to be handed out by Hollywood's latest babe-du-jour? I know, I know. I'm sure all those guys slaving over their computers and gadgets and inventions more than enjoy the presence of sexy Jessica Alba (who looks terrific pregnant, by the way), but why not something new next year? How about Philip Seymour Hoffman presenting the award -- preferably as his Ned Beatty/Wilford Brimley-esque character of Charlie Wilson's War.

Ruffled Razz-Ma-Tazz:
Aside from an incredibly dapper George Clooney, who looked a cross between Cary Grant and Clark Gable with his slicked-back hair and perfect tux, this year's male attire was decidedly relaxed though strikingly attractive. Most everyone appeared a little unkempt (mussed hair, unshaven face, less-traditional tuxes) and yet not at all slobby. They were in fact elegant and eclectic. Viggo Mortensen looked extraordinary rocking a Vincent Van Gogh beard and knee-length dinner jacket. Daniel Day-Lewis' longer hair and more retro tux was fetching. And Javier Bardem, Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill and Harrison Ford all appeared with a little bed-head ... which was actually very sexy. I'm not even going to begin with Johnny Depp.

Least Surprising, Most Deserving Win:
I think he's a genius (sorry to all of you out there who think him a ham), so I was ecstatic when the entirely deserving Daniel Day-Lewis picked up his golden boy for his powerful performance as insanely ambitious oil-man Daniel Plainview in Paul Thomas Anderson's masterful There Will Be Blood. But come on -- everyone knew it was going to happen. As Tony Curtis said in Sweet Smell of Success, "The cat's in the bag and the bag's in the river." I'd add something about milkshakes but that's getting a little played out...

Best Jon Stewart Joke, Part 3:
"Democrats have an historic race going. Hillary Clinton vs. Barack Obama. Normally when you see a black man or woman president, an asteroid is about to hit the Statue of Liberty."

Diablo Disappoints:
Diablo Cody, beloved hipster-ex-stripper-screenwriter-goddess, wins Best Original Screenplay for the indie hit Juno, a movie soaked (and sinking) with quippy one-liners that either delighted or seriously exasperated audiences (I was one of the exasperated) -- and all she can come up with is, "I especially want to thank my fellow nominees." Or, "This is for the writers!" Diablo! Honest to blog! Where was your arsenal of smarty-pants wisecracks and pop-culture Soupy Sales-isms? This is the Oscars, Home Skillet. This is your time on stage. As you wrote, this is "one doodle that can't be un-did." But hey, you pulled off the leopard dress, tats and your Louise Brooks bob. So at least you looked great. But... another thing. What was with your glum exit offstage? Was Harrison Ford taking you to Oscar detention?

Most Surprising Win:
Wow! No Julie Christie for Sarah Polley's heartbreaking Away From Her. I thought Christie was a shoe-in. But talented French hottie Marion Cotillard was the spoiler, picking up Best Actress for her performances as iconic French chanteuse Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose. I'm thinking all those mixed CDs Academy voters picked up at Starbucks (I'm only guessing these exist -- those International flavor collections) with that strange-voiced French lady actually compelled them to do a little Piaf research. Nevertheless, though we were rooting for Christie, it was tough not to be happy for Cotillard, who appeared definitely shocked and as she said, "speechless." She also looked wonderful in white. Jean Paul Gaultier does a gal good.

The Real Enchanting "Once" Upon a Time:
Glen Hansard (he of the Irish band The Frames) and Czech musician Marketa Irglova performed their soulful, beautiful song "Falling Slowly" from their charming, musical indie Once. She on piano, he strumming a battered old guitar he's had since he was a teenage busker (street singer) in Ireland. It was gorgeous (though why did the camera choose to end on orchestra conductor Bill Conti? It was their moment, not his.) Next to all of those painfully corny Enchanted songs, some of which played like ads for Clorox Bleach (I could have sworn someone sang "Mama makes brights, bright like the sunshine ..."), the two channeled the late great Elliott Smith (remember him in his white suit, standing next to Celine Dion ... And losing?!). But the refreshingly independent Hansard and Irglova won! And we cheered when Hansard stated, "Make art! Make art!" (Good luck). Jon Stewart extended their moment by allowing Irglova, who was cut off by the over-anxious orchestra, to movingly extend her gratitude.

The Dudes Abide:
Though some of us were also rooting for Paul Thomas Anderson's There Will Be Blood, Joel and Ethan Coen's brilliant No Country For Old Men was an entirely deserving winner for both Best Director (in their case Best Directors) and Best Picture. Their bloody, beautifully acted, poetic adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's novel was soulful, inventive, mysterious and truly horrifying. Though this is one of their best pictures, us Coen fans are also taking this as a win for Blood Simple, Miller's Crossing, Barton Fink, Raising Arizona, O Brother, Where Art Thou? and of course, The Big Lebowski. And you know, had No Country lost, don't think we wouldn't see Lebowski vet Walter Sobchak storming on stage screaming: "Has the whole world gone crazy! Am I the only one here who gives a shit about the rules?" (How could that movie never have won anything?) So with that, congratulations to the Coens.

Oscar Predictions (And Hopes)

So. Finally. I have to come to my carefully considered (and considerably annoyed) decisions regarding my full list of Oscar predictions. Also included are the movies I want to win, some of which might, shock of all shocks, actually take home a few golden boys this year.

The Academy almost got it right for 2007 (almost), unlike 1999, the year they snubbed Magnolia and Fight Club for Best Picture noms (um...The Cider House Rules was nominated over both of these modern classics...it's a nice movie but...what the hell?). But really, they've always been getting it wrong (Around The World in Eighty Days? Dances With Wolves?).

But this year: The Coen Brothers and Paul Thomas Anderson? Daniel Day-Lewis and George Clooney? Javier Bardem, Julie Christie and Mark Twain himself, Hal Holbrook? Right on Oscar. (Did I just write that? Should I be slapped?) That being said, in a very 1999-ish move, David Fincher's masterpiece Zodiac was ignored in every freaking category. And no love for The Darjeeling Limited (at least in art direction)? Nothing for Nicole Kidman's blistering passive agressiveness in Margot at the Wedding. And where in God's name is the man who brought sexy/'70s back, the magnificent Josh Brolin?

OK, I'm not going to dive into rant mode. I'm not going to get all crazy-eyed, rocking back and forth, muttering through my hair over how misunderstood Ashley Judd and Bug were... so...deep breath, I'm returning to positive thoughts for Sunday night. Here are my predictions and here are my hopes:

Best Picture:

Predict: No Country For Old Men

Want: There Will Be Blood (This was tough. I revere both movies and No Country is superb. But after rewatching TWBB, I've come to the conclusion that it's a masterpiece, perhaps the greatest movie within this decade.)

Best Director:

Predict: Joel and Ethan Coen, No Country For Old Men

Want: Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will Be Blood

Best Actress:

Predict: Julie Christie, Away From Her

Want: Julie Christie, Away From Her

Best Actor:

Predict: Daniel Day-Lewis, There Will Be Blood

Want: Daniel Day-Lewis, There Will Be Blood

Best Supporting Actress:

Predict: Ruby Dee, American Gangster

Want: Cate Blanchett, I'm Not There

Best Supporting Actor:

Predict: Javier Bardem, No Country For Old Men

Want: Javier Bardem, No Country For Old Men

Best Screenplay:

Predict: Diablo Cody, Juno (she's wearing million dollar shoes for fuck's sake. Does she already know she's got it?)

Want: Tony Gilroy, Michael Clayton

Best Adapted Screenplay:

Predict: Joel and Ethan Coen, No Country For Old Men

Want: Joel and Ethan Coen, No Country For Old Men

Best Foreign Film:

Predict: Counterfeiters (Austria)

Want: Not sure yet...Not enough films are officially released here and the Academy always misses the great ones that are.

Best Film Editing:

Predict: No Country For Old Men

Want: No Country For Old Men

Best Cinematography:

Predict: Roger Deakins, No Country For Old Men

Want: Robert Elswitt, There Will Be Blood

Best Animated Film:

Predict: Ratatouille

Want: Persepolis

Best Documentary Feature:

Predict: No End In Sight

Want: Not sure... and why the hell wasn't The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters nominated? Why must the Academy always screw up the documentary category?

Best Costumes:

Predict: Jacqueline Durran, Atonement

Want: Colleen Atwood, Sweeney Todd

Best Visual Effects:

Predict: Transformers

Want: The Golden Compass

Best Makeup:

Predict: La Vie En Rose

Want: La Vie En Rose

Best Art Direction:

Predict: Atonement

Want: There Will Be Blood

Best Score:

Predict: Atonement

Want: There Will Be Blood (OK. Not fair since it wasn't eligible but dammit! Johnny Greenwood's score is brilliant...and the movie did influence viewers to check out that Estonian genius Arvo Part...) Anyway... 3:10 To Yuma

Best Song:

Predict: "Falling Slowly," Once

Want: "Falling Slowly," Once

What are your predictions and hopes? And, I'm a gambling womans so...place your bets.

But more importantly, enjoy Sunday night. And most importantly, where the hell is Josh Brolin?!

There Will Be Love

Lest the below post of ten modern romantic movies I especially loathe cause readers to think I’m a grouch, a cinematic curmudgeon who sits in a retirement home muttering things like, “The Barkleys of Broadway, now that was a motion picture. They don’t make ‘em like they used to,” I’ve decided to discuss one of my favorite current romances, Paul Thomas Anderson’s Punch-Drunk Love. (And, to clarify, I really do like The Barkleys of Broadway).

But, to Punch-Drunk Love -- I was baffled by the picture’s lukewarm to mixed reception upon release (in 2002), and wonder why it remains misunderstood to this day. I know that even many Anderson lovers scratched their heads over the movie’s lack of epic heft, extra multiple storylines and large scale speeches. And then there was that Adam Sandler bias -- the knee jerk and unfair question of, why? Why, Happy Gilmore? (And to clarify, I also like Happy Gilmore). 

And I don’t just like Punch-Drunk Love, I love Punch-Drunk Love (or as Woody Allen would say “lerve”), an extraordinary unique picture that manages to simultaneously subvert and showcase the Sandler persona beautifully, while maintaining  Anderson’s singular éclat as a filmmaker. Anderson’s masterpiece, There Will Be Blood has proven the director can handle multiple genres, but he had proven his versatility earlier with Punch-Drunk. No long Anderson monologues, no interweaving subplots, no drugs, Punch-Drunk Love was a film we'd not only never seen Anderson create, it was (and still is) a movie we’d never seen anywhere.  And no matter how you feel about Sandler, he leaves a lasting impression as lonely, alienated Barry Egan, the Californian businessman and put-upon brother who falls for the ever-patient Emily Watson.

To explain the off-kilter, dissonant power of Punch-Drunk Love (aided by Jon Brion’s compelling, lovely, yet anxiety ridden score) is nearly impossible: So alien yet incredibly human is the movie, it frequently puts the viewer right into the uncomfortable, anxious mind of Barry  -- an unsettling, but to many, familiar place to be. We have no idea what will happen next (but with delight, and sometimes heartbreak). Sandler, who had displayed talent before this, has never been so fantastically abstract, utilizing his scared-yet-angry-but-violent-little-boy persona with a sublime darkness. This may sound ridiculous to some but Anderson's influence on Sandler is somewhat akin to Alfred Hitchcock's use of Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo (who had certainly played darker characters before Vertigo) --  pulling the dusky and misunderstood out of a popular American movie star and layering him with wounded depth.

Sandler’s verge-of-a-nervous-breakdown, yet deeply romantic Barry is so powerfully beguiling that when Anderson films his journey to Hawaii, it's a moment that's so overwhelmingly romantic, so remarkably special, it both swoons with gorgeousness and rattles your nerves -- all those deep seated raw emotions bubbling to the surface. Tuned to Shelley Duvall singing Harry Nilsson's enchanting and offbeat "He Needs Me" from Robert Altman's great, underrated Popeye (so perfect), Barry moves from work to airport to cab to phone booth, where he finally takes a stand against his sister (“You’re killing me!”), and then reaches Lena. In a beautiful touch, when she answers, the payphone lights up to her voice.  A musical sequence that plays like Anderson’s twisted version of the Arthur Freed unit (Barry’s Technicolor blue suit alone) it’s a masterful ode to vulnerability, fear and power, and something that seems impossible to replicate -- stamped with all that live wire, off the cliff Anderson energy and influence.

This might be why some respond so strongly to the picture, or just cannot wrap their heart or mind around the thing. There are those who don't understand a woman loving her man so much that she wants to "chew" his eyeballs, and there are those who do. Love can make you do and say crazy things  --  and can become so overwhelming  that when it enters the realms of violent thought – positive or negative – it isn’t so strange.  Anderson clearly digs this dynamic so, if letting your guard down leads to deception, (spoiler alert) you might kill that imposter in a rage a la There Will Be Blood’s Daniel Plainview, who dumps his faux brother into a shallow grave and shovels dirt over his dead body (a scene I completely comprehend). And if finally sleeping with your beloved makes you realize the strength of your love so much, you can easily confess: “I'm lookin' at your face and I just wanna smash it. I just wanna fuckin' smash it with a sledgehammer and squeeze it. You're so pretty.” Well, that’s just bloody fuckin' brilliant beautiful.

Roy Scheider: 1932-2008

Bye, Bye Roy…

Yes, he was 75 and yes, this is the way it happens, but the news of Roy Scheider's death made me so sad last night that his brilliant, sexy, grizzled depiction of the ultimate macho fey Joe Gideon in All That Jazz acquired an extra level of poignancy. Though the movie’s Dexedrine fueled refrain of Gideon facing his sinewy and handsome image in the mirror every morning with “It’s Showtime folks!” still made me smile (I rewatched it, at 3 AM this morning), it was with an even more curious blending of morbidity and freaky inspiration. Maybe it’s not so unhealthy -- maybe that’s how real life is supposed to feel -- self medicated and eyes blazingly alive. Revel in all your mistakes and regret! Fuck 'em if they can’t take a joke! "Bye Bye Life" indeed.

I’m sure this emotional reaction would have been to Bob Fosse's immense delight, and certainly to Scheider’s, whose gritty dose of razz-ma-tazz revealed just what an actor and entertainer he was --  just how much physical presence his ex-boxer, intelligent, malleable mug, body and voice commanded on screen.  And dear God that fantastic profile! I fear I’m being effusive but, sincerely, Scheider’s potent masculinity mingling with all those layers of sensitivity makes me so giddy that I can only become depressed.  Is there any man like Scheider? On screen or off?

One of the '70s greats (and he was terrific after the 1970’s as well), Scheider's best remembered by the movie-going public for his role as Martin Brody, the gentle yet undaunted police chief in Steven Spielberg's Jaws. I love this performance (would you see anything as natural and lived-in from a monster movie today?) and though his most memorable line is "You're gonna need a bigger boat" (reportedly created by Scheider), one of my favorite moments comes when he asks his kid for a kiss. "Why?" his young son asks. "'Cause I need it," he answers.  It's so off the cuff and touching, showing a sad-eyed paternalism that remains strong and healthy and brimming with real love dammit!  (Read an ode to Scheider's performance in Jaws at Acidemic, lovingly written before he passed away).

But there are so many brilliant Scheider performances that go a little unnoticed and underrated through time.  Sorcerer, The French Connection, Marathon Man, Still of the Night, The Seven-Ups, 52 Pick-Up, Naked Lunch and Klute (the film's greatest scene finds Jane Fonda's Bree staggering across a dance floor to the twisted, comforting arms of her pimp Scheider, who grabs her hair, looks into her eyes, then soothes her as only a predatory pimp/daddy figure can --  a genius scene of manipulation that didn't require one word of dialogue  -- it makes me insalubriously swoon) are among some of his most outstanding.   

Even with his dazzling, womanizing, pill popping triumph in All That Jazz and that iconic showdown with the world’s most famous shark, I can’t think of any bells and whistles and "I’m walking here!" moments associated with Scheider.  He typically wasn’t a scene chewer and chose to mark his territory with a unique, subtle (and uniquely subtle) power that was so world-weary and frequently moving (even when playing a psycho) that he resonated with a curious mixture of timeless recognition and absolute mystery.  Like how we know ourselves but…not really.

Whatever Scheider was processing when he gazed at our complicated, corrupt world, we’ve similarly attempted to handle (and still do), and like him, we often keep it a secret. He didn’t have to explain any further why he needed that kiss, it was as simple and complex and profound as he stated: "I need it." Everyone needs it.

Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

Here’s something film lovers need to be reminded of in our Kill Bill, Resident Evil, The Brave One and dear lord..Charlie’s Angels movie-watching times: Tough babes have been gracing the big screen for a long time. Though fewer furious femmes (or rather, more obvious furious femmes) saw the light of celluloid in the earlier days of film than they do now, they were indeed around -- some with more grit, gusto and attitude than their modern kick-ass sisters.

Examples? Try curvy hand-to-hand combat killer Tura Satana in Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! or karate-chopping Pam Grier in Coffy or beautiful crazy Tuesday Weld in Pretty Poison or tuff Babs Stanwyck in Forty Guns or Faye Dunaway’s iconic tommy-gun–wielding Bonnie Parker in Bonnie and Clyde. Even Bette Davis is something of a bad-ass in the spectacularly underrated Beyond the Forest in which she's an ace shot, knocking down an innocent little porcupine because, as she says: "porkies irritate me." But one of my favorites, a womanly wonder of big screen sexiness, came back in 1950 when the unforgettable Peggy Cummins shot her way through the classic film noir Gun Crazy.

With the more explanatory alternative title of Deadly Is the Female (Gun Crazy is a lot more hard edged and evocative, I think), Joseph H. Lewis’ seminal noir features a mild-mannered but gun-obsessed John Dall falling for ultimate bad girl Cummins after watching her sharpshooting skills at a local carnival. When you see this scene (which could also rank as one of the sexiest in cinema), you can’t blame his immediate infatuation. Clad in a cowgirl outfit, the mysterious blonde hits her targets, even, in the film’s most obviously erotic moment, between her legs. An ace shot himself, the lanky Dall challenges Cummins, and the two gun nuts fall swiftly in love, marry, and to their demise, go astray after the hotheaded babe convinces Dall to couple up on some robberies.

Though it certainly helps that the movie is so brilliantly filmed (that gritty back seat shot in the car after the robbery is stellar), is violently romantic, features nonstop action and, of course, loads of shooting, it's the presence of a female who, though toxic, asserts such authority, that's especially intriguing here. Beautiful femme fatale Cummins, whose affair with guns equals anger, sex and power, is a potent symbol of female frustration and eventual rage: you might not be able to beat a guy with your bare hands, but you sure as hell can fire off a round -- no muscles, no therapy, no self defense classes necessary. In this way, it makes more sense for a woman, and not a man, to feel enpowered by a gun. And at the risk of sounding like a typical turned-on man (which might sound strange coming from a woman -- but I often feel like a man or perhaps, want to be one), Gun Crazy oozes sex appeal. But not just from the kiss kiss, bang bang of guns, but guns in the hands of a troubled, possibly deranged woman. Cummins' character is complex and ultimately tragic but, oh...the crazy ones. I love a girl who goes out in a blaze of glory.