"I'm just saying that you're a beautiful woman, and I would, like, that, the bath, I mean, your, the way you made....What I'm trying to say is.... you were drawing a bath for yourself.... and I was thinking.... that's awesome" — news anchor Brian McFayden forgetting his capacity for speech after Christina Hendricks mentions taking a bath
"I’m not sure what you get from shifting the whole thing to the world of Los Angeles private equity, not a field that is world famous for its air of intellectual brinkmanship; or from giving the lead role to Paul Rudd, who happens to be one of the most affable, easy-going invertebrates on the planet. “That’s messed up,” he protests when he first hears about the scheme; and just in case we miss his principles the first time, here they are again: “that’s messed up” says his girlfriend Julie, who is played by French-born actress Stephanie Szostack, presumably on the principle that if you are to ransack a country’s most venerable farceur traditions you may as well grab their most winsome, button-nosed actresses while you’re at it. Once a new job is waved in front of him as bait, Rudd succumbs, thus turning the film from a story of comic deliverance visited on a snob who richly deserves it, into a story of comic deliverance visited upon someone who isn’t a snob but pretends to be one, although really — truthfully? — he should know better. Now, I am not the biggest fan of Hollywood’s insistence that everyone on screen be the proud recipient of a gleaming character arc, leading them from the error of their ways and into a well-lit, carefully irrigated world of moral beneficence, but even I could tell you that if you start introducing characters who should know better into the equation, all the fun goes out of the thing. Driving down the street one day, Tim run his Porsche into a sad sack in a windbreaker called Barry Speck (Steve Carrell) who dusts himself off — Carrell actually brushes his palms, as if getting up from press-ups — and takes the occasion to show off his collection of stuffed mice dioramas. Tim has his idiot. Or does he? Steve Carrell’s movie career has been so fitful of late that his fans have been forced into rare, retrospection, revisiting the delights of The Forty-Year-Old Virgin as the film that both minted and perfected the Carrell persona — a fortysomething late-starter with a streak of old-fashioned gallantry behind his collection of comic-book figurines. Alone amongst the current crop of comedians, he doesn’t play stupid — he’s way too quick, a venal schemer in The Office, whose fine features twitch with intelligence — so I would be fascinated to learn what thinking lay behind casting him as a stone-cold dumbkopf. Carell dons some rabbity false teeth and a pudding-bowl wig, the same worn by Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber, but Carrell has not, thus far, modeled his career on the plasticine antics of Carrey, so why start now? “He’s a tornado of destruction,” says Rudd and you think: no, he’s not. Carrell is and always will be the guy standing in the path of the tornado, his hand raised and a stapler attached to his tie." — from my review of Dinner For Schmucks for Slate
So I recently went back and worked out my top ten movies for each year that I've been alive. The results were sobering, inducing a few mild intimations of mortality, an increased awareness of the swiftness of time's Winger chariot and all that, combined with a renewed determination not to miss the gems under my nose. Did I know, for instance, when I staggered out of Blue Velvet, smoking furiously, that it would create such a long wormhole in space-time? It still feels like something I dreamed last night. I found myself agreeing with the Oscar winners for Best Film seven times out of 43, which seems about right (Chariots of Fire, Ghandi, Out of Africa, Rain Man and Driving Miss Daisy: all toast. How satisfying to rectify that particular imbalance in the force.) With the beasty Brits-in-white-linen gone, Spielberg is free to take his rightful place, topping the list five times; Coppola does twice, Scorsese twice, and everyone else — Eastwood, Mann, Mallick, Kubrick, Lynch — once. The real revelations: just how fond I am of the short-story perfection of Five Easy Pieces; the irresistable case Halloween made for itself (it was up against The Deer Hunter: I've never rated Cimino as highly as some. There's a self-pitying, masochistic streak I find unbecoming an artist of his ambitions. Same with Stone, only more so.); the enduring tonal strengths of The Right Stuff; Back to the Future's peppy ingenuity; the slinky feel for period in Dangerous Liaisons (Pfeiffer comes out strongly in this list); the still soulful glow of The Double Life of Veronique; Nil by Mouth's haggard intensity; the sheer number of great performances in The Contender (Oldman's best plus Bridges plus Allen plus a perky, calculating Kathryn Morris); the sweet-sour companionability of Knocked Up; the operatic mysteries of Birth. I've thought a lot about Pauline Kael's comment about great movies often not being perfect, something I've always taken to mean, 'don't mind my griping, I just can't turn it off.' I take her point: some of the very best movies have very bad movies inside of them, like Apocalypse Now. Equally, I think Badlands is as close to perfection as the movies get.
Todd Gilchrist finds himself dangerous close to having a critical opinion about Scott Pilgrim Versus the World over at Cinematical. He starts out okay.
"Even though I can't help but pre-emptively understand if some of my colleagues argue that it's too generationally narrow or even attention-deficient to leave a lasting impression, I really, really liked Scott Pilgrim, and think that it's one of the most technically astounding and yet personally resonant movies of the year."
"Michael Cera plays Scott Pilgrim, a dubiously-employed 22-year-old who entertains rock star fantasies as the bassist of The Sex Bomb".
"Michael Cera has played a variation of this character before – several of them, in fact – and he sometimes fails to provide the resilience and indefatigable determination (instead contributing his trademarked Charlie Brown-style feckless optimism) that Scott needs to see his romance with Ramona through to the end."
Oh Sweet Jesus. No! You mean he's a fey, passive-aggressive pencil neck who couldn't act his way out of a chip packet? No! Surely not! Quick. What to do?
"But what's most surprising is how the movie sneaks up on you, and how it seems to know that these are its shortcomings, particularly at the beginning of the story. That I was initially bored by his dating life with Knives feels intentional in the context of the film's ending, and that he is sort of infuriatingly inactive becomes an integral part not only of the character but his eventual journey, both physical and emotional, as he navigates adversaries and obstacles of both varieties."
So Cera's infuriatingly inactive but it's integral to "his journey," and the dating scenes are slow as a setting cement but it's "intentional." For crying out loud. It's not Francis Ford Coppola we're dealing with here and even Coppola might just be able to hold himself together if Cinematical let slip with the occasional frown. But no, apparently Edgar Wright is so sensitive a creative flower that every comment must come sugar-coated, ever criticism soft-pedalled, every barb softened and proferred atop a bed of pink fuschia petals as the critic backs out of the room, blushing, curtseying and promising absolute fealty to his liege. What are these guys so terrified of? Why are they even reviewing? I want to smooth the matted hair from their troubled foreheads and tell them 'it's okay, you know. They're called opinions. It's perfectly natural to have them. It's a great idea, in fact, especially if you want to review movies. I think Cera is a little over-used myself. There, see? That wasn't so hard was it....'
Many years ago, I covered the most amazing, most consequential first-half curtain-dropper. The two-time World Series Champion New York Yankees — the Bronx Zoo Bombers of Billy Martin, Reggie Jackson, Lou Piniella, Thurman Munson — pulled into Anaheim Stadium to face the upstart Angels.
Those Angels had five modestly winning seasons in their 18-year existence, but held a 1 1/2 game lead over Texas in the American League West.
Game 1. Nolan Ryan is no-hitting the Yankees with one out in the seventh inning. Jim Spencer hits a line drive to center on which Rick Miller makes a fantastic diving effort as the ball kicks off his glove.
In the press box, official scorer Dick Miller — no relation — rules “E-8.” Miller has an upcoming book on Ryan, and another no-hitter would spike sales. Angels GM Buzzie Bavasi storms into the press box and berates Miller, calling the situation a “national embarrassment.” The reporter’s act will signal the end of active media members acting as official scorers.
With one out in the 9th, Reggie Jackson lines a clean single to center to break up Ryan’s no-hitter. All the way to first, Reggie runs backwards, gesturing animatedly up at the press box.
Otherwise, it’s a routine 6-1 Angels win, except for the fact five of their runs were scored with two outs.
Game 2. The Yankees lead 6-0 after five. The Angels chip away, and tie it at 7 in the bottom of the ninth on a two-out, three-run homer by Don Baylor. In the 12th, Brian Downing doubles and scores on a single by Merv Rettenmund for an 8-7 walk-off.
Game 3, the last game before the All-Star Game break. The Yankees grab a 4-0 lead in the second inning behind Ron Guidry, in the midst of an 18-win season to follow up his 25-3 of 1978. With the Angels still trailing 4-3 in the bottom of the ninth, Tom Donohue draws a one out walk off Guidry and, with two outs, Bobby Grich homers over the right-center fence for a 5-4 walk-off.
I just spent a weekend that topped it, of course, with both Pirates walk-offs not only coming in extra innings, but after they trailed — three times — in extra innings,
Through Sunday, there have been 208,678 games played in the Major Leagues. This was the eighth instance of a team winning back-to-back extra-inning walk-offs. And it just might have been the first time ever a team did it from behind in both.
His hitting is spotty at best, and he is clearly a defensive liability. Time to lose him before the July 31 deadline.
Time for Pedro to enter the DH chapter of his career…. can anyone in The ‘Burgh spell American League?!