Greed never left. Also, it's legal. But is it still good?

by Jillian Butler, Ampersandology

If anyone is still wondering why I'm making such a fuss about Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps -- a fuss that is is, I'll clarify, two parts irony  and one part rampant enthusiasm, with just a sprinkle of schadenfreude --this piece in Vanity Fair by Michael Lewis will brighten all the dark corners. 


An excerpt: 

What [Oliver Stone] wanted to do, it appeared, was to prosecute the values underpinning American capitalism. He cast Michael Douglas as a diabolical money manager named Gordon Gekko, and Charlie Sheen as a young stockbroker named Bud Fox, who, seduced by this devil, abandons his ideals, betrays his family, and is destroyed.

As social documentary, even as art, the original Wall Street was a great success. It did well at the box office, won Michael Douglas an Oscar for best actor, and remains one of the very few financial movies ever made in which financiers see anything like a realistic version of themselves.

As a vehicle for social change, however, the movie was a catastrophe. It did not show Wall Street in its best light, yet Wall Street was, by far, the movie’s most enthusiastic audience. It has endured not because it hit its intended target but because it missed: people who work on Wall Street still love it. And not just any Wall Street people but precisely those who might have either taken Stone’s morality tale to heart or been offended by it. To wit, not long before hedge-fund manager Seth Tobias was found dead in his Florida swimming pool, with an unlucky mixture of cocaine, Ambien, and alcohol in his bloodstream, he gave an interview for Wall Street’s DVD bonus reel, in which he said, “I remember when I saw the movie in 1987. I recall saying, That’s what I want to be. I want to start out as Bud Fox and end up as Gordon Gekko.”

Read Greed Never Left at Vanity Fair.

Loves it. 

Trailer: Wall Street 2

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology


IT IS FINALLY HERE. The trailer has arrived, and by GOD, it is splendid.





Oh, I have waited for this day for too long: the trailer for Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps has answered a number of enduring and BURNING questions for me:

Will Gordon Gekko coin a new catchphrase to rival the former glory of "Greed is good?" ANSWER! Yes, and it is even bitchier: "Someone reminded me I once said that greed is good. It seems now it's legal." SLAP, haters!

Will they make fun of the fact that jokes about the 80s are never far from our lips? Oh, who could resist another jab at the mobile telebricks and quaint velocipedes of yesterday? I know that I've been known to take a shot or two.

Will Shia further his career of playing cocky, motorcyclin', kind of annoying but in a vaguely charming way brat slash misunderstood wise aleck, pushed unknowingly into extraordinary circumstances by powers far greater than his compact, but well-muscled body? Yes. 

James Lipton owns me.

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology

Inside the Actor's Studio used to be my favourite guilty pleasure. It had actors! INSIDE THE STUDIO! Talking about their roles! CANDIDLY! I love candid. It's so real and stuff. 


I particularly dug the singular approach of host James Lipton: the way his bottom lip quivers with excitement as he listens; the way his questions usually took longer than his subjects' answers; that beard. One word, ladies: endearing! Way back on the first episode, when my beloved Paul Newman was its first guest, you could tell he was a little intimidated by how much this man knew about him. That's Lipton's greatest strength: his overbearing research tic. He's like a stalker-- only hilarious and elderly! It was amazing, because Lipton's charming OCD researching skillz were not the pop culture legend they are, SO NO ONE WAS WARNED. 


It didn't hurt that he's proven to have an amazing, bordering on Damon-esque sense of humour about his pompous rep. He was on Arrested Development! That's like solid GOLD for the cool kids table! 


But then, as they always do, things got silly. The guests on this once beloved cultural touchstone began to get a little unorthodox (Billy Bob Thornton? Oh, okay, yeah, sure I guess...) to questionable (has Tim Allen ever actually acted? Since when does 'aping' count? Aw, did I miss the vote again?) to unfortunate (wait, wait, wait-- Jennifer WHO-pez?). Then the once veritable Studio, that had nurtured such talents as Marlon Brando, Montgomery Clift and Sidney Poitier dove straight into implausible with just two words: Bon. Jovi.


Clearly, the Studio had cross-examined all the real actors and was busy chipping its way through anyone marginally eligible for the moniker of "thespian." It's more like "Inside the People Who Have Uttered Words in a Public Venue's Studio." And to be quite honest, it was embarassing to heard Lipton apply his special brand of hyperbole to the ouvre of Queen Latifah. Look, I sekritly like Last Holiday as much as the next guy, but come on. It's no Center Stage, people. 


But losing streak be damned...this clip brought the magic back. Damn it Lipton; I just can't quit you. 

A Thin Line Between Homage and Knockoff: A Question in Three Parts

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology

At what point does an homage become a rip-off?

That's a question on my mind amid all the hype for the new Quentin Tarantino film, Inglourious Basterds—if this is the first you’ve heard of it, congratulations: you’re the first human being to successful survive without food or water under a rock for nine months.

My relationship with Tarantino’s work has always been a mixed bag—I can watch his films, enjoy them even, but something’s never quite right. The line between rip-off and homage has always been very thin, and it's one that Tarantino seems happy to stomp over time and time again. The question is difficult to answer: at what does a loving tribute transform into uninspired shorthand?

But this is a fact: films reference films. It's a visual medium, and therefore, it quickly becomes difficult to pull off a shot that is unlike any other shot in over 100 years of examples. There are really only so many ways to set up a shot; so many ways to portray a character. Sometimes, an homage becomes a shorthand to conveying to your audience certain themes, dilemmas or times of social upheaval (see: Christ figure, Cool Hand Luke); other times, it seems the lazy way to let someone else's work telegraph the hard parts (see: any Scary Movie film, ever).

This is where the tricky part with Tarantino comes in: anyone who has heard him speak at length can sense the man's deep love of films. But it doesn't take much investigation to find how just how deep that love goes: he has taken his favorite scenes from his favorite movies and reproduced them wholesale. Many sequences are an elaborate game of 'pin the film reference.' He even references himself. My problem with this is that I can't help but think: is that even making a film? It's the Dr. Frankenstein method of directing.

Or, when it comes to Tarantino, is homage the whole point? The man’s a rip-off artist...but with an emphasis on rip-off or artist? To solve this, you’ve got to look backwards to see where he came from to understand where I'm going.

Part One: The Birth of the Loving Tribute

Blame it on the 1960s.

Late in the decade, a new school of thought was stepping in on traditional studio-era film making, thanks to the newly minted graduates of the industry's first formal film schools. Hailing almost exclusively from the East Coast, these cats were one of the first generations that had been raised by movies --kids in the 1930s and 40s, when American film making had transformed from an amusing fad to an art form, they had grown up worshipping the silver screen and its infinite possibilities.

Their names are big nowadays –Scorsese, Coppola, Spielberg, Bogdanovich and Beatty, to toss out a few---but back then they were just kids who had gotten into the business not for the fame, or for the perks—by and large, they had been lured in by a simple love of movies.

The 1970s also marked an incredible freedom of control for the people behind the camera—the director was the thing. Studios turned out creative control and gave artistic freedom—mostly because they sensed the change a-comin’ and feared losing the box office receipts of counterculture kids who were uninterested in lining the pockets of the Man.

The decade had been a long battle to win viewership away from the newly-popular television, which was both free and surrounded by the comforts of home. Hollywood first tried to go big, trying to imitate past successes--showboat musicals (like Hello Dolly! and Doctor Doolittle) and historical epics (Cleopatra) were churned out in an effort to provide an experience that the audience could find nowhere but the big screen. But the formula fell flat and these films were by and large flops--the audience wasn't interested in the same old thing. A new wisdom was born, mostly out of desperation: give the pictures over to those same long-haired kids who thought their stories were going to change minds, and stay in business.

So there’s your recipe: take one crop of green, eager filmmakers, mix in plenty of freedom and cash, and watch Hollywood become one massive inside joke. It was awash with people who knew each other socially and planned their movies over a long evening of wine and dope--a far cry from the wheel-deals of the studio. Most of these well-educated film buffs were looking overseas for their inspiration, and it’s written all over their films, most explicit of these influences being the French New Wave. The French New Wave, an admitted small term for a very big subject, was an informal movement in Europe that was all about self-conscious film making that rejected traditional cinematic form. In other words, no more tidy Hollywood maxims about films unfolding in a certain way. Try instead: abrupt and jarring jump cuts, bizarre and lengthy montages and vague story lines.

So for the fresh faces suddenly ruling Hollywood, referencing their favorite New Wave and European films and directors became a kind of insider shorthand. In other words, a visual or thematic reference to the films of Francois Truffaut or Jean Luc Godard (or even each other) was an easy way of communicating that this film, too, spoke a different language than the ones that came before it. This film, unlike its ancestors, was now tapped into a new wave of thinking about the way that films were watched and discussed. It was a loving tribute by empowered fanboys, and in a Hollywood still yet to outgrow the rigid studio system, it had a long way to go.

That was a long precursor to a simple idea: the birth of the film buff, and the idea of homage in film would never be the same.

Next: Part Two, A Breakdown of Onscreen Shorthand

Oliver Stone is going to reinvent the concept of film.

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology

Word on the street is that Wall Street 2 hits the pavement of New York to begin filming this very day, and the signs are aligning for Oliver Stone to decimate everything you thought you knew about Wall Street, the recession, unnecessary but well-timed sequels and Michael Douglas' hairline, not to mention the abstract concept of film.

The film has collected quite the enviable cast--for the record, Michael Douglas, Shia LaBeouf, Carey Mulligan, Frank Langella, Josh Brolin, and Susan Sarandon have all signed on, somewhat inexplicably (Javiar? Javiar, where did you go?). But more importantly, it has gained the crucial element of any truly successful sequel: the subtitle. This monolith of cinema is now known as Wall Street 2 COLON! Money Never Sleeps. Ominous! And now, with forboding subtitle securely in place, Wall Street 2 is well on the way to becoming a blight---er, beacon on the resumes of all involved.

According to this spoiler-city report from The Playlist (what lucky eyes to have read the actual script!!), this new sequel is poised not only on the edge of my hopes and dreams, but also promises to deliver the kind of preachy, sensationalist spin on the recession that only Oliver Stone can give us, even if we didn't know we needed it, and quite frankly, think we'd be happier without it. Kind of like the clap.

And the script apparently doesn't disappoint (I didn't read the above entry too closely; I want to be surprised on opening day, like a virginal bride on her wedding night). As Andrew Hart report, we'll see lots of Shia being a cocky brat, the 'ripped from the headlines' non-shock that Stone so loves, and, best of all, "plenty of I-told-you-so monologues" from the man himself, Gordon "Don't Muss the Upholstery, I Just Had it Sleezed" Gekko. So. Many. Flavors of outstanding!

But dear readers, I withheld the MOST CRUCIAL PIECE OF INFORMATION. I only did this to protect you, because it nearly blew my mind. So I suggest you stop reading now if you want to remain pure of heart for this orgy of cinematic rebirth, because while this is the best news in the world, I can only guess the power of my reaction, had I waited.

Yes, Virginia. Charlie Sheen WILL be reprising his role as Bud Fox. Eh, who cares that it's a small cameo? What does size have to do with anything? After all, the Ewoks killed Darth Vader (...right? That's how that went down, right? I'm sorry, I was so upset after they digitally imposed Hayden Christensen's face on Anakin that I struck most of Return of the Jedi from my memory). You can't keep Bud Fox down forever, you oppressive law men! Because money never sleeps, you fools. Money never sleeps. Oh my God, I just got it. Wall Street greed has something to do with the recession. Oliver Stone, you canny wizard man. You know us better than we know ourselves.

Oh, To Redesign the Past...

In a nutshell: I owe TCM all my babies. Again. Honestly, I don't know how this keeps happening.

Extreme? Perhaps. But sometimes when I switch them on, and catch a glimpse of their unbelievable marketing materials makes me feel as though I have unknowingly entered into a tangled Faustian bargain with them. Unfortunately, I didn't even need the bargain, as I would willingly hand over whatever they demand of me (including firstborn children) as long as they keep being brilliant.

You can travel down any avenue of their marketing--TV spots, print ads, even their online portal--and it all evokes the same nostalgia for old Hollywood, a kind of joyful cleverness that could be cloying but instead comes across as wildly, touchingly sincere. These wonderful people, whoever they are, really love old movies.

Every summer TCM runs a special month-long feature called 'Summer Under the Stars.' It's fairly straightforward: every day in August, they pick a new star and run their movies all day long. Don't worry; TCM is known for this kind of almost cutesy thematic programming (they celebrate the birthdays of old studio big shots). As I said, this happens every year, and it’s always fun to see who gets an Augustan welcome.

So, imagine my reaction when I log onto for my monthly rundown of what will be playing this month and happen across the most perfect thing I will ever know.

See, the bright stars at TCM thought this year they'd do something a little different. Namely, make all my dreams come true. For each day in August, they remade the posters of old Hollywood films, updating their marketing to modern standards.

What? Why aren't you excited? I'm sorry, maybe you didn't hear me: THEY REMADE OLD MOVIE POSTERS. LIKE, FOR FUNSIES.

The results? Marvelousness. If you ever wanted to see The Magnificent Seven realized as a Tarentino-esque revenge flick, or Roman Holiday as a cheery Euro-romcom, you came to the right place. Not only are they breathtaking, but damn if they don't prove what I've been saying all along: these films may be technically old, but their themes, characters and stories are universal.

There are 31 to pick from, so naturally, I weeded through to find my standouts:

Jailhouse Rock (1957)

The Story: Elvis Presley is Vince Everett, an ex-convict working in the music industry. After going to jail for a fight he didn't start, he meets and bonds with Hunk Houghton, a washed-up country singer, who teaches Everett to play an old guitar, and to sing a few songs. He later shoots to super stardom and begs the question: will success spoil Vince Everett?

This film is notable for being one of Elvis' best, as well as cementing his bad-boy rebel image. Perhaps one of the most heart-breaking things about Elvis is how badly he wanted to be Marlon Brando. But it was not to be, and the studio only put him in teenybopper-friendly fare. Brando dreams=dashed. After all, how many musicals do see Brando in? Uh... don't answer that. I'm still trying to repress.

The 2009 Result:

Ohhh, so THIS is why Elvis is awesome. I totally get it now. Rock and roll, baby.

This poster (unlike the old version) really captures the exuberance of a true rock and roller at his baby-faced prime. He's gotta dance, baby, and ain't nobody movin' like that boy could move. Look at that face: he's trying to act like he doesn't know exactly how charming this little rebel play-acting is.

To Catch a Thief (1952)

The Story: John Robie (Cary Grant) is a notorious but retired jewel thief, nicknamed "The Cat," who now leads a quiet life tending to his vineyards in the South of France. A rash of robberies that closely resemble his old style lead the police to believe that the Cat is up to his old tricks again.

If To Catch a Thief was only notable for bringing Cary Grant out of near-retirement, then we'd owe it forever. But add to that the ravishing locales, international intrigue, not to mention the unbelievable diameter of Grace Kelly's waistline, well...to that, I must tip my hat.

The 2009 Result:

HOT DOG. Well, first of all, I want to see THAT movie. I mean, I have, about twelve times, but it practically reinvents the film. Edgy intrigue with an international flair, it's this kind of sexy, urgent imagery that drives the cinephile wild. If one little snapshot can conjure up this much possibility, imagine what a whole film could do...

The Letter (1940)

The Story: On a moonlit night, Leslie Crosbie (Bette Davis), the wife of a British plantation manager in Malaya, shoots and kills a man whom is identified as Geoff Hammond (David Newell). She says it was to save her honor, as the brute tried to force himself on her. Everyone celebrates Leslie as a hero...until a letter emerges that threatens Leslie's alibi and hints at a piece of the story left untold...

I always found The Letter fascinating for its treatment of its central conflict, and how it ultimately resolves Leslie's crime (no, you won't be spoiled here). Obviously, on one level, you have a wounded, defensive woman who has been through a nightmare--as the tagline goes, "With all my heart, I still love the man I killed." So tragic. But on the other hand, you cast Bette Davis. She ain't no victim, let me tell you. It's part of the reason I find Now, Voyager (1942) and Bette's initial cowing to her overbearing mother so hilarious: seriously, nobody puts Bette in a corner. Why are you even trying?

The 2009 Result:

BADASSNESS. Check out Bette, guns ablazing! She is taking names, everybody! I always knew you ought not to mess with her, and now I have proof. I love how this poster evokes the same sort of helpless passion of its protagonist, as well as start developing the film's central mystery even before the first reel.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? (1967)

The Story: A young woman (Katherine Houghton) brings her new fiancee (Sidney Poitier) home to meet her liberal, upper class parents (Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn). Unfortunately, she's white...and he's not. Oh, and it's also 1967. Uh oh! I sense a conflict.

This film is a bittersweet success because beloved Spencer Tracy died just 17 days after filming wrapped. In fact, both Hepburn and director Stanley Donner had to take pay cuts to ensure the movie was made, because no insurance company would touch the ailing Tracy.

The 2009 Result:

It all boils down to black and white. Stanley Kramer crafted Sidney Poitier's character, Dr. John Prentice, to be virtually without flaws-- he is a young, handsome doctor who is accomplished, honorable and respectful: the only possibility objection could be the color of his skin. I like how this new poster (unlike the neon-orange scream team of the '67 version) better paints a picture of what awaits the viewer: a simple, straightforward parlour room drama, with impeccable manners.

(For more Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, pick up up Mark Harris' Pictures at a Revolution. DO IT. It's amazing.)

The Big Heat (1953)

The Story: A cop takes on the crime syndicate that controls his city after the brutal murder of his beloved wife. And hey, look, Lee Marvin showed up!

The Big Heat marked not only a new kind of noir (thanks to German-born director Fritz Lang), but also a new take on crime on film: in the 1950s, with the gradual realization that crime in America had become an empire, that corrupted nearly every facet of society--including those who thought they were immune, the all all-important typical citizen. So, noir pictures start to focus on the lonely hero taking it on himself to buck up and bring down the bad guys--a stand-in for the average American citizen.

The 2009 Result:

Noir gold. Remember all those other movies, that pretended to be noir but really just landed somewhere around 'lame potboiler'? Let those lesser movies fall to their knees before the real deal. If you try and tell me Gloria Grahame isn't everything a woman is meant to be (and then some) I will laugh directly in your face. Directly. You will feel a fool.

Grahame was considered the Hard Luck Dame--so many of her characters fell to tragic fates. More often than not, she wound up slinknig through a noir picture, as the sullied, hard-luck but still ravishing femme fatale. It was a typecast that, for me, was best served in It's A Wonderful Life, wherein she plays Violet, who finds herself in non-specific 'trouble' that George (Jimmy Stewart) can't help but try to save her from. But it wasn't all bad; as a Lady Noir, she got to drop gems like, "I've been rich and I've been poor. Believe me, rich is better."

Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)

The Story: General Jack D. Ripper (Sterling Hayden) is a delusional commander of a United States Air Force base who initiates a plan to attack the Soviet Union with nuclear weapons, hoping to thwart a Communist conspiracy to "sap and impurify" the "precious bodily fluids" of the American people with fluoridated water. Yeah. No, it's meant to be ludicrous and funny. I'm, like 95% sure, anyway.

Kubrick didn't even intend to make the film into satire until the studio insisted on casting Peter Sellers (whose work on Kubrick's Lolita was thought to be responsible for its European success). Not only that, Columbia wanted Sellers to play multiple roles...perhaps hoping for each billing to increase the mathematical chances of success? Who knows. Studios have come up with less plausible strategies.

The 2009 Result:

Hilarious. Somebody sure did their homework on this one. Phallic symbol, check. Suggestions of male virility, check. Scribblings of a crazy fluid-guy, check and check. I guess that makes you awesome, Poster.

I don't care what anyone says: Sterling Hayden is kind of hot. He's got that whole 'surly Viking' thing cornered.

Find it here: TCM Summer Under the Stars.

The Keys to the Kingdom: Hollywood Tell-Alls

I’ve got a new buzz in my brain: Mark Harris’ Pictures at a Revolution. It was only published in the last year or so, and I can remember going to purchase it but being coldly informed by Amazon that this title had not yet been released. Since then, I’ve almost ordered it a dozen times, but given that my apartment is a glorified walk-up with nowhere to leave packages, my love of online shopping has waned.

And then today, it was there at the bookstore, winking at me with its white on orange, sans-serif type: the picture of Dunaway and Beatty on its cover seemed to be smiling at me in joyous anticipation: we will finally be together.

(...what? You guys don’t carry on imaginary conversations with books you’re about to buy slash already own? Well, let me tell you: you are missing out! Of all the inanimate things I talk to on a regular basis, I find that future or current books in my possession are the most forthcoming.)

Pictures at a Revolution takes the Best Picture nominees of a pivotal year in cinema—1968—and examines those five pictures. Which, trust me, is the only way that Doctor Dolittle will ever be mentioned alongside The Graduate, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?, In the Heat of the Night and Bonnie and Clyde. The format is designed around one central concept: that after 1968, the game had changed for Hollywood, as the generational gap became yawning and more than ever in Tinsel Town, the old guard was being edged out by the ways of the new.

[There’s one moment in particular, at a party thrown at Jane Fonda’s beachhouse that’s particularly poignant. Fonda, being the Hollywood royalty that she was, was the bridge between the old and the new, inviting her father Henry, and old family friends like William Wyler and George Cukor to a party attended by her (stoner) brother Peter, Jack Nicholson, Sidney Poitier, and Andy Warhol (miserable bastard). A moment frozen in time, commemorated on a cosmic plate somewhere, almost unbelievable.]

In my mind, the history of film is an abstract form that makes the most sense to me in the written word: combine movies with words, that’s a two-for that makes me smile. Sure, documentaries have the added bonus of being able to directly reference the films they talk about, but seeing the hi-jinks of my film heroes on paper adds a delicious layer of divorced narrative, an element of the fictional to the real. So what better list to make than of the film books that inspire me?

There are many industry tell-alls, but few that really marry the investigation of biography with the comprehensive critique of film history better than these:

Easy Riders, Raging Bulls: How the Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll Generation Saved Hollywood by Peter Biskind
Hands down my favorite film history book. Why? Because it’s basically 700 pages of gossip about the most screwed up people on the planet: filmmakers. I learned things that simultaneously blew my mind and comforted me like an old security blanket about the crucial New Hollywood moviemakers in the late 60s/early 70s. This isn’t even touching on how brilliantly it traces the rise of this new movement to its death at the hands of the summer blockbuster, or how it paints cunning portraits of people who I thought I already knew (Spielberg as the nerd who finally got a girl and became a jerk? Scorsese as the twerp who turned to drugs to keep his creative high? George Lucas as the bizarre voice of reason?!?). If you want anecdotes, you’ll find them here. (see also: The Kid Stays in the Picture by Robert Evans)

The Film Snob’s Dictionary by David Kamp and Lawrence Levi

At first glance, it's just a reference guide, but the more I reference it, the more I realize it's basically a history book, and a pretty bitchy one at that. Just read the entry on Ingmar Bergman or Jean Renoir. Me-OW!

Brando by Patricia Bosworth; Somebody: The Reckless Life and Remarkable Career of Marlon Brando by Stefan Kanfer.
Anyone who knows me knows that I pride myself on delivering a Brando story for every occasion. Well, I owe it all to the fact I’ve read many a biography and watched many a documentary on the man. He fascinates and repulses me. These two in particular are like two flip sides of a coin: if you want a healthy overview tracing Brando’s career, go with the Bosworth. It's largely devoid of the kind of damning anecdotal evidence that inflates Brando's legend...which brings us to Somebody, which in the title alone is already delivering the kind of grit I want to see in Brando bios . But as always, when it comes to Brando, you rarely have to embellish: the truth is usually juicier than fiction.

I Lost It At the Movies by Pauline Kael
My hero. Her ability to sum up not only a film, but also its cultural context and creative ancestors in a single paragraph never fails to astound me. She may have been a tough old broad, but damn if she didn't know what she was talking about.

Down and Dirty Pictures: Miramax, Sundance and the Rise of the Independent Film by Peter Biskind
The second and less salacious of my Biskind books. The man knows his stuff (but don't seek out his film reviews unless you're willing to put up with a little bit of datedness) and it's shown in the way he deftly weaves the rise of indie films into a self-contained narrative with foreshadowing, character development and hubris. I love his portrait of Robert Redford. Slightly kinder than Easy Riders--but only slightly.

Conversations with Wilder by Cameron Crowe

In a word, this book is a revelation. It's basically one massive, candid interview with frequent screenwriter, sometimes director and forever legend Billy Wilder as his career was winding down. Full of juicy behind the scenes stories with a mensch who's too old to pull any punches, his insight into the business he devoted his life to is at once touching, heartbreaking and terribly cynical. I re-read this often. (see also Hitchcock by Francois Truffaut for a more film-y approach to interviewing a legend)

You can stop holding your breath now.

CONFIRMED!

Chace Crawford set to star in upcoming Footloose remake. It's official!

Now maybe I can finally get a decent night's sleep! 

The Future's So Bright, We're All Going to Need Corrective Eye Surgery

You've played with kids before, right? You know how they do something cute once, and you laugh, and they get really excited and keep doing it? Remember how it's funny the first twenty times or so, and then you find yourself shifting uncomfortably while you try and come up with a way to tell the kid to go away without scarring them for life? 

Keep that metaphor in mind while you read this post. 

From what I've heard, advance buzz about the new Star Trek reboot is mostly positive--it's a lot of excitement from both fans and non-fans alike. But one other thing has surfaced about the new Star Trek, that has little to do with how good it is or isn't: it's probably GOING TO BLIND YOU. 

Director J.J. Abrams (Jabrams to those with the peculiar and temperamental relationship with him only a fan can have) proves himself once again intent on having the reviews of his film focused on one or two schlocky gimmicks instead of what's going on with the moving pictures. With Cloverfield, it was shaky camera angles. With Lost, it's the fact that no plot line can ever be tied up without three more growing in its place (the Hydra school of film making). And with Felicity, it was that no girl could possibly be that self-obsessed and yet so blithely unaware. 

He continues this proud tradition with: lens flare? 

Yes, lens flare. i09 interviewed the man himself on the abnormal amount of flaring lens in the advance screening of the film. And what did he say? Well, I didn't really follow, but the subtext was definitely along the lines of, "GUYS HOW AWESOME IS THIS?!?!one!!"

"I know what you're saying with the lens flares. It was one of those things ... I know there are certain shots where even I watch and think, 'Oh that's ridiculous, that was too many' ... There is something incredibly unpredictable and gorgeous about them. It is a really fun thing. Our DP would be off camera with this incredibly powerful flashlight aiming it at the lens. It became an art because different lenses required angles, and different proximity to the lens. Sometimes, when we were outside we'd use mirrors. Certain sizes were too big ... literally, it was ridiculous. It was like another actor in the scene ... So it was this ridiculous, added level of pain in the ass, but I love ... [looking at] the final cut, [the flares] to me, were a fun additional touch that I think, while overdone, in some places, it feels like the future is that bright.

I swear, sometimes he seems like an overgrown kid who still can't buy that the grown-ups are letting him house-sit. 

Before you go gettin' cocky and assuming that they still haven't made a lens flare YOU can't whip, then watch the following brief scene. And imagine it ten times bigger and also brighter. 

Oh, I'm going. I'm just going to close my eyes against, Raiders of the Lost Ark style, because they can't hurt me if I don't see them. 

(via Vulture)

Greed is ALIVE AGAIN!

In a truly stunning turn of events, Oliver Stone is in talks to make a sequel to his 1987 ode to high finance greed, Wall Street (the origin, you'll recall, of Gordon Gecko's famous mantra "Greed is good."). Details are still sketchy, but this is the most excited I've been about an abstract concept in a long time. 

Let's face it: Stone has lost a lot of what little appeal he had in the first place. He really made his name taking already sensational headlines and simply adding more exclamation points: his projects are marked by the oversaturation of his subjects with sensationalism, migraine-inducing editing and loud noises until people started paying attention. So his decision to revisit what really made him relevant in the first place (Wall Street, and timely digression on the nature of the cynical, fast money designs of the 1980s) is not only a stroke of genius, but also a deliciously ripe hot mess waiting to happen. 

Because Wall Street has always seemed like one of those films whose influence is greater than its actual audience, as Gecko's strong advocacy of greed (and wish-fulfilling lawful prosecution as the credits close) came to represent the money-hungry, moral-lite version of the 1980s so rampant in pop culture. Three years after its release, its mantra was central to a 1990 Newsweek cover story that asked the counter to Gecko's assessment: "Is Greed Dead?" Most recently, Owen Gleiberman of Entertainment Weekly proclaimed that the film was an eerie foreshadow, as watched today it "reveals something now which it couldn't back then: that the Gordon Gekkos of the world weren't just getting rich -- they were creating an alternate reality that was going to crash down on all of us."

So, this remake/sequel idea is clearly outstanding, for several reasons (helpfully outlined below): 

Item 1: The timing is perfect-almost too perfect. Given that the germ of this recession was born in the self-centered and image-obsessed 1980s, History will look back on these days with an oddly comforting stance. It pretty much proof that history repeats itself, with a a built-in cross reference. The original has the delicious, tawdry feel of a morality tale that got caught up in its own vices,  and this sequel could potentially give many bruised consumers the cathartic growl they need. 

Item 2: It's being called a sequel, but everyone knows it will be more like an updated remake. Or at least it should be, if they're smart. Which instead of lame and unimaginative, is instead of AMAZING IN EVERY WAY. Think of it: what other somewhat forgotten 1980s movie is so ripe for a second life? (If you said Willow, you leave this blog. Leave it right now). So if they could only manage to keep the same themes, power struggles and stock characters, superficially updated to accommodate the recession, this will be brilliant. There is no way that film could fail. 

Item 3: I saved the best part for last but: not only is MICHAEL DOUGLAS returning as Gordon Gecko, but do you know who will reportedly take the role of the naive but quick to tarnish young financier? SHIA LEBEOUF! Yes, everyone, Shia LeBeouf once again proves himself the only working young actor by snagging this plum role. Originally filled by charmingly wooden Charlie Sheen, this role will give Shia the chance to use that smarmy baby-face to sarcastically fight the Man (AND MAYBE MORE?!?). 

It's unfortunate Shia doesn't have a father who is conveniently also an actor, thus sealing the onscreen father/son relationship with the rich layers that only quality stunt casting can accomplish. The father/son dynamic, with Martin Sheen acting as the ignored voice of reason to son Charlie, was actually one of the strongest parts of the original, with Gecko's counter influence acting like an incubus on the natural bonds of the American family unit. Or something! 

Early reports are promising--with writers on the project maintaining that the recently-released Gecko will appear to have reformed but ACTUAL QUOTE! "A leopard doesn't change its spots." That, random writer on the project, is a true thing.   

The possibilities are literally endless. If this turns out to come to nothing, I'll be very disappointed. I feel like this project is the last chance Olivier Stone to give his 1987 self an eternal high five.