Sunday, May 12, 2013

Scrub

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Beantown back in the day, groups of moneyed white kids of college age would stand on sidewalks in places like Harvard Square, beg passerby for change 'for a new Maserati' or 'for bullets, so I can kill myself, cuz I'm depressed'. I could only surmise this was a new and strange form of performance art which both baffled and infuriated me at the time (being an embryonic PR straight out Da Bronx), and I said to a particularly aggressive and insouciant gang once, 'You should try that in Harlem, see how long you last'. Those 'kids', no doubt, are lawyers, politicians (redundant?), corporate execs now. And perhaps ex-TV actors turned film auteurs.

By all accounts (which include techie folks I've both overheard and spoken to directly), Zach Braff is a mensch. To this eye, he was thoughtful writer/performer, bona fide blue blood celeb 'for the people', jokester, fellow OCD sufferer. But he obviously didn't, doesn't, and probably never will realize the implications of this offense.

It belied a lack of commitment, imagination, artistic character, appreciation for his clearly devoted fans, respect for his filmmaking peers. 

I've artist friends literally sell their bodies - on streets and in labs - to fund projects. Mr. Braff believed in his piece so much, he should've invested his Oz the Great and Powerful paycheck, mortgaged one of his homes, sold his share of a bar, called in favors to close friends, colleagues, associates (which include Natalie Portman, Heather Graham and Mandy Moore), perhaps pooled Scrubs residuals with bff Faison.

Mr. Braff doesn't strike me as a greedy, manipulative dude, just a lazy, ignorant one - a Capitalist believes himself an Artist. 

The argument that his fleece possibly brought attention to and promoted crowd funding sites is irrelevant - the average Joe will not donate dough towards a New York street story or a doc on human trafficking, but to her or his favourite TV and/or movie star or glamorous famous-for-being-famous celeb (same way over four million people voted Schwarzenegger in as Governor of California a decade ago - an unprecedented electoral landslide). 

It's not about us commoners thinking Mr. Braff was able to reach into his L.L. Beans and pull out two mil (though he had no qualms about paying at least that to procure and remodel a 'legendary' second home for himself and supermodel Taylor Bagley in New York City - see here). Or his disregard for those starving, hungry artists lack both his monetary means and inside connections. But the possible ripple effect of this kind of white collar panhandling. Crowd funding sites jacking up their percentage fees and/or nixing 'little' projects based on the popularity of those involved (via social media data mining). Tween millionaires Kickstarting stars on Hollywood Boulevard. Brian Grazer on RocketHub for Ron Howard's latest. Spielberg on Indiegogo for Indiana Jones 5 (6?). 

For the record, I am not envious of Zach Braff (I'm a far bolder writer, director, and performer, for one). Speaking personally, however, this is indeed incomprehensible. For moi, the work is everything. I live in a bunker two steps below hovel. I have no things, other than some boxes of DVDs. But unlike Mr. Braff, I did not grow up with things. Again, for me, the work is THE thing. I've sold blood and cum and aforementioned DVDs to facilitate the work - short films, Off Broadway readings, photography equipment, time, space. However, our experiences and how we relate to the work isn't what this is about. With perspective: this was a smooth sell robbery, a Wall Street trader asking a blind man in a wheelchair for cash from his can to procure a caramel macchiato. 

And ultimately, it was a wholly unnecessary act - with powerhouse producers Stacey Sher and Michael Shamberg (Pulp Fiction, Django Unchained, Erin Brockovich, Get Shorty) in tow, it would've taken decidedly less than the three days it took on Kickstarter to make his two-plus mil.

That said, he did not hold guns to 'investor' heads. We are all enablers of the celebrity mindset and culture. 

Alas, the facts are moot. As is my meager opinion. The world turns. The film will be made. It will garner acclaim. Investors will be pleased. Zachary Braff will reign supreme. And if not, well, he'll bounce back.

I wish him only continued success.  


Zach Braff is a Genius. 


Zach Braff is a Winner. 



Zach Braff is just like us. 


Zach Braff is Badass. 


Thursday, April 4, 2013

Gene, You Ignorant Slut...



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SiskelEbert was my lifeline as a kid. And, on occasion, as an adult (via YouTube). Few 'celebrity' passings affected me as deeply as Gene Siskel's. Until now. 

Roger Ebert's intelligence, wit and humanity will be sorely missed. 

The balcony is closed, and the aisle seats are now yours to argue in (with both vitriol and affection) for all time. 




Siskel and Ebert and The Movies and The Asshole. (@2:20)



An unfortunate aberration... (see also: 
https://www.facebook.com/RogerEbert/posts/484053061607698)


Bette Midler and James Caan as lizards. (Part 2 here)


Friday, February 1, 2013

Citizen K

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Ed Koch was a lunatic. And what was needed in the wake of riots, David Berkowitz and the entire country turning its back on us. 

Fellow Bronx boy with cartoon-character features (he looked like my alkie abuelo), he wrote a book called Giuliani: Nasty Man in 1999 (which I read in one sitting, a smile on my kisser), and when movie ticket prices skyrocketed to a whopping $7 in 1987, he led a protest of one - replete with picket sign urging boycott - in front of two uptown Loews. 

Years later, he'd write newspaper movie and restaurant reviews, murder mystery novels (in which he was the hero, a New York City Mayor-cum-sleuth) and a children's book, host popular radio shows, appear in fifty-plus films (including a 2013 doc bears his name), and take over for Wapner on TV's The People's Court

He was spat on at the funeral of Yusef Hawkins, had the door of the chapel slammed in his face before the service began. And who remembers Mayor, the Off-Broadway musical based on his life? 

Genial by appearance, by all accounts passionate, authentic and infuriating, he was as much a circus-style self-promoter as oft-time opponent Reverend Al. 

A bona fide celebrity Noo Yawk icon - if you lived in Sandusky, Ohio, you knew 'Citizen Koch' - and witty, wily protector of both Jewish and Catholic faiths, the moviegoing public and New York Fuckin City, he will be missed. 

Rest in peace, Edward I. Koch. 

And fuck you, Bloomberg. 










Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Scott Free


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Pretty pictures betray brutality. Orchestrated chaos cut to Hans Zimmer. Bruckheimer bombast. Alumni include Michael Bay, Dominic Sena, Joel Schumacher – the bastard sons of Peckinpah writ capitalist. Ridley’s brother was there first – he laid template in the coke/booze/sex Don Simpson days. Excess, testosterone-infused. ADD editing. Pounding synth score. Carnage composed, gorgeously shot – angles, lenses, smoke, light.

But what Tony had that Michael missed is conscience. Current climate of superheroes, Mr. Scott still dealt in antiheroes. Flawed masculinity (The Last Boy Scout’s Joe Hallenbeck is John McClane's id, the median between John Wayne and Snake Plissken). He was as much a chronicler of the contemporary (usually American, supposedly hetero) male psyche as Scorsese, Schrader, Eastwood, or juniors PT Anderson and James Gray.

Also seldom mentioned with regard to the cinema of Mr. Scott is emotion – rage, ecstasy, grief, melancholy, regret, desire. Characters in his films love furiously, obsessively – from the ostensibly redemptive love of Creasy for Pita in Man on Fire to the fatally fanatic love of Gil for The Game in The Fan (@:45).

I skipped Top Gun (to this day), but mainlined Beverly Hills Cop II more times than a tadpole should.

The Hunger, too, bit me – Bowie, Bauhaus, New York City when it was New York Fuckin City, Ann Fuckin Magnuson, ‘Little Suzy’ Sarandon (bi alternapunk doc) bumping into ‘Little Willy’ Dafoe at that telephone booth (a decade prior to co-starring in Paul Schrader’s transformative, likewise New York-set Light Sleeper).

The Last Boy Scout and Enemy of the State had sharp, subversive scripts (by Shane Black and David Marconi, respectively), and remain underrated gems. The former – thoughtlessly maligned upon its Christmas '91 release – is still the last word on The Obsolete Hero (‘D-Fens’ should have seen the film before going on his rampage in Schumacher’s Falling Down). The latter, flippantly dismissed as ‘empty’ and ‘implausible’ action fodder fourteen years ago, slyly had our besieged heroes (including Gene Hackman, riffing on his own Harry Caul antihero from Coppola's The Conversation) ultimately playing the U.S. government against itself - and the Mafia (the final shootout sequence between these two agencies as bravura as these things come) - in the name of liberty. Both films had their cake and ate it, too.

The Fan was uncomfortably accurate, and True Romance – well, it’s been awhile.

Mr. Bay = soulless product. Mr. Scott = deceptively substantive cinematic powder kegs. Smart. Exuberant. Taken for granted. Not subtle - but then explosions of emotion never are.

No more Tony Scott, no more Tony Scott Movies ©. Alas, the work endures. Burgeons, even. He saw to that. 

Rest in chaos, Mr. Scott. 






Wednesday, July 6, 2011

'That one with Rebecca DeMornay...'



Excerpt from Let Me Take You Down, an hour-long piece I produced, directed, shot, edited at 17, 
about a young man pays for college by dealing drugs in the ghetto he grew up in. 



We were babies then. We were scarred but didn't know it. I wanted to make change. Or help facilitate it. Wanted to shock, cajole, incite, poke holes in your belief system. Prod you from your comfort zone. Revolution, baby. Don't be a sucker. Film was a means to an end. We don't need no stinking booms or lavs. Fuck the lights. Just gimme that camera with the gray duct tape holding the viewfinder and battery from falling off. The cast sometimes showed up high. I remember being disappointed. Got to be alert trying to stick a knife in The System's gut. A month later, the first beloved face you see in this excerpt would die of an OD. We shot during Christmas season. The blitz. Few years later, I'd see Allen Baron's Blast of Silence and it would make me smile. 
We all came at this as subversive black comedy. I believe it still works on that score. I start watching, I think, how silly. Then find myself engrossed. Which makes me smile again - not for myself, but the babies who made it. Folks have told me: 'raw', 'honest', 'intense'. A photographer friend said she thought it was about 'misplaced anger'. I'll take it. Alas, this was all before sickness and realization. Today, I lack self confidence and means. To the point of needing metaphoric crutches. And: all the folks I know in 'the industry', I don't think there's any I can call up and say, 'Let's start a fuckin revolution. Like, right now'. Tide's changed. But the need - in myself, and The Way We Live - hasn't. 

Notes: Ironically, tragically, we'd lose cast member/tech advisor Rob Spangenberg (my bff at I.S. 145 and my guardian angel) to an overdose a month after shooting. Transferred from 3rd generation VHS (that's http://wikipedia.org/wiki/VHS, kids).
Originally dedicated (in end credits) 'To all the slaves of New York...and all the non-New Yorkers - especially the whiteys', it was shot in 4 days, in Queens (underneath the #7 el and in the James Bland housing projects near Shea Stadium - now Citifield) and all over (and under) Manhattan. If nothing else, it's an accurate portrait of where and how we grew up.
I think we predated Man Bites Dog (U.S. release), which it resembles in spirit, if not quality (I was all about 'natural' sound and light then; I was a lunatic child). Also 'reality TV', which it resembles down to overactive camwork and mix of fact and fiction.
@9:30, my Abuela, on the left.
@5:50, Metropolitan Museum of Art, smuggled shot.
@1:43, my aunt.


Monday, July 26, 2010

Chameleon Street: 'I think, therefore I scam'


Wendell B. Harris, Jr.'s Chameleon Street is one of The Great Films of the last twenty-five years, and in my top ten. Hilarious, harrowing, exhilarating, relevant, and a crowd-pleaser besides, I saw it for the first time at American Museum of the Moving Image in 1992 and the sold-out audience laughed and cringed and oohed and gave a standing ovation soon as end credits began, afterwards engaging in conversation with strangers sitting beside and behind them.

No films get me to a public movie theater these years, but this one did. A July 6th screening at BAM in Brooklyn, NY was followed by a discussion with Harris and Armond White. Shot on fly with trusty, versatile hand-me-down police brutality capturer, so please excuse shoddy quality - did my best to punch up/down picture/audio.





These also uploaded to youtube, for those sans Flash:


Also check out...
Wendell B. Harris on Spielberg's Catch Me If You Can, the term 'post-racial', and the history of Chameleon Street (also, the comment by that young woman in the audience is particularly relevant to this venue of blogspot, as well as facebook, and what we all do on these sites):
"If you are in any way empowering the masses, giving the masses more tools, then you are circumscribed."
- WBH


Clips from the film...





Other links: