The boys and I were standing in front of the Eiffel Tower nine years ago this evening, as ’99 gave way to ’00. This was easily the most dazzling New Year’s Eve fireworks display of my life. It began three minutes before midnight (“Wait…it’s only 11:57…who cares!”) and continued to erupt like some Krakatoa volcano three minutes after.

The metro shut down an hour later and tens of thousands had to walk home. It took us the better part of two hours to get back to our Montmartre studio, but the...

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A friend and a p.r. guy who works in midtown Manhattan offered an interesting Milk post earlier today:

“After recently seeing Milk last weekend i was struck by its thematic/plot similarities to Braveheart, to wit: (a) both are about a revolutionary figure who finds his calling mid-life; (b) this figure unites a previously persecuted group to fight for change (gays and Scots; (c) in so doing, said figure naturally upsets certain status quo political place-holders (Anita Bryant and John Briggs in Milk, the monarchy in Braveheart); (d) said figure is a great motivator and public speaker, leads troops into battle/marches and protests; (e) said figure is ultimately killed but his legacy lives on and inspires a new generation to challenge ruling authority

“I realize that these themes are common to a lot of Hollywood biopic inspirational pics,” he concluded, “but this comparison really leapt out at me.”

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It appears that the comparison between Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich and Wile E. Coyote has come from author Eric Dezenhall (“Damage Control“) in a 12.31 piece on Medio. “The people who get themselves into these messes are like Wile E. Coyote…people who are in love with their own cunning who end up driving themselves off a cliff,” Dezenhall says.

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I need to stay in the city until sometime in the early morning, despite the intense cold and wind. I live below a family of animals — Hispanic party elephants — who stomp around and play music so loud that the building throbs and the plaster cracks. It’s a fairly safe bet they’re going to lose their minds tonight so I may as well just huddle down in the city and bounce around from bar to bar.

I won’t go near Times Square, of course. New Year’s Eve is the emptiest holiday ritual of the year, and an opportunity for shallow under-30s to act like assholes.

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Joaquin Phoenix and Brett Ratner the night before last at a Miami hotspot called Liv. I just sense a great caption waiting to happen. An impressionistic Daily Mail story by Mark Coleman, more or less based on this and other pics, describes Pheonix’s appearance as “bloated” and “disshevelled.” I think it may just be, in part, an attempt to look like Joaquin-the-musician instead of Joaqin-the-former-actor. Still, he does look a little polluted for a 34 year-old. The beard, of course, is identical to the one Bruce Willis wore in Barry Levinson‘s What Just Happened?

Here’s a

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In France Revolutionary Road is called La Noces Rebelles, which translates as Rebellious Weddings. If you’ve seen the film you’re aware the person who approved this title is a moron. HE pop quiz: come up with a better substitute title for Sam Mendes‘ film (i.e, one that relates to the movie in a way that makes a modicum of sense), go to Babelfish and translate it into French, and report back here. Not in English.

Here’s one I just came up with: Egouttement lent d’enfer suburbain.

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I honestly think that Hotel for Dogs (DreamWorks, 1.16) is a truly great title for a (presumably) cheesy movie — the best since Snakes on a Plane. Because as soon as I heard it I wanted to see this stupid-looking thing. On top of which it’s got Don Cheadle and Kevin Dillon in it. It obviously fits right into the besieged economic depression mentality that led to the success of Marley & Me, minus the death element. If I don’t get a screening invite I’m going to pay to see this.

The director of Hotel for Dogs is a guy named Thor Freudenthal.

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Possible ways for Jeremy Piven to redeem himself: (a) return to Broadway in a sharp, well-reviewed play (not a revival) and stay with it to the end of his contact; (b) swear off poon by way of a Leonard Cohen celibacy at an ashram in eastern Oregon, (c) deliver a strong performance in a first-rate film that expands his range (i.e., nowhere near Ari Gold ); (d) buy some work boots, strap on a utility belt and help build low-income housing in some economically hurting area, a la Jimmy Carter, or do a Sean Penn and go to Iran/Iraq, braving bullets and shrapnel.

Because right now (and especially with the publication of this Ben Widdecombe story)...

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Matt Dillon was pulled over and arrested last night in Vermont for driving 106 mph on Interstate 91 near Newbury. The only people who drive this fast are (a) so late for something they’ve lost their minds, (b) sociopathic or rage-filled or (c) drunk. But the story doesn’t mention a DUI so that’s out. This is Vermont, remember — trees and hills and dips and curves. It’s not the Utah salt flats. There’s a huge difference between driving 90 mph and 106 mph. The first is “wow, look how fast I’m going…I didn’t realize”; the second is “fuck this, fuck me, fuck the rules.”

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The four best-written, most on-target paragraphs I’ve read anywhere about the performances by Revolutionary Road‘s Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, written by New York‘s David Edelstein:

“Unlike many child actors who’ve made the successful transition to grown-up roles, DiCaprio hasn’t evolved in predictable ways — there are no clear lines of demarcation. His boys were unusually centered, his adults unusually boyish. His wide face still carries some insulating baby-fat, like Elvis Presley‘s and Bill Clinton‘s (before the latest weight loss), and Mendes uses that insulation against him, sometimes cruelly: What was self-assured and spring-heeled in Titanic now looks...

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In this 12.30 posting, The Envelope‘s Tom O’Neil and Village Voice columnist Michael Musto dish on the likely Best Actress nominees. These guys are great at this because they’re glib and superficial and perceptive and blunt (at times to the point of being merciless) — surrender one of these qualities and it all falls apart! — and because Musto’s droll downtown urbanity meshes well with O’Neil’s eager-beaverness.

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Double-checking on the vivid cowboy hat, making sure it’ll be there when I arrive in Park City, intending to wear it around town during Sundance, etc.

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“A survey of sex therapists concluded the optimal amount of time for sexual intercourse was 3 to 13 minutes,” according to a 4.08 AP story by Megan K. Scott. “The findings, to be published in the May issue of the Journal of Sexual Medicine, strike at the notion that endurance is the key to a great sex life. If that sounds like good news to you, don’t cheer too loudly. The time does not count foreplay, and the therapists did rate sexual intercourse that lasts from 1 to 2 minutes as ‘too short.”

I wonder what the editors of the Journal of Sexual Medicine would have to say about Kate Winslet‘s two coupling scenes in Revolutionary Road — one with Leonardo DiCaprio, the other with costar David...

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It’s just a premise and a thin one at that, but this story from Poland contains the seed of a possibly interesting marital relationship movie. Americanized, I mean, but not in a dumb way. Have it be about some red-state redneck couple, perhaps, but as a straight drama. It begins at the brothel moment and then moves on from there. An economic downturn movie, I’m thinking. Maybe not. Maybe it’s a bad idea. But when I first read it, I perked up.

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All These Wonderful Things blogger A.J. Schnack argues persuasively that James Marsh‘s Man on Wire should break free from its category (as many are suggesting WALL*E should rightfully do) and be nominated for the Best Picture Oscar. Considering that it’s the best-reviewed film of the year and all.

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A nice video-clip appreciation of Billy Wilder‘s amusing, ascerbic and finally compassionate The Apartment by N.Y. Times critic A.O. Scott.

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You think some journalists and columnists are mean and critical and dismissive of this or that actor or filmmaker? You should hear what the big-studio suits say about their interest in hiring some of them. A filmmaker friend I had dinner with the other night ran down a list of actors who would be a good choices to fill certain roles in a certain film that’s preparing to foll film in ’09, and one after another, he said, have been turned down by the studio guys. Mainly, he said, because their names don’t sell tickets overseas.

“Nope…don’t want him…fuck her…no way…somebody else….her last movie died…nobody likes him…he’s red ink,” etc.

I know the project in question and almost every one of of the rejected actors sounded like pretty good choices in terms of how they’d fit the part and how good they might be. Of course, it isn’t my job to worry about overseas...

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Lee Siegel, writing for the Wall Street Journal‘s real estate section, takes a poke at Hollywood’s long tradition of of claiming spiritual death by station wagon in a piece called “Why Does Hollywood Hate the Suburbs?”

Siegel basically thinks that the industry’s view of suburbs as sedate soul-killing gulags, advanced in such films as Revolutionary Road, The Ice Storm, Far From Heaven, The Stepford Wives (both versions), No Down Payment, Strangers When We Meet and American Beauty, is somehow undeserved and over-baked.

The piece leads you to conclude that Siegel either (a) never grew up in a suburb as a teenager or (b) is kowtowing to the Journal‘s advertising interests. I grew up in the suburbs and I’m telling you they’re hell for young guys who hunger for...

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Tom Arnold is starring in this basketball-related CBS Interactive web series called Heckle-U, which will begin in February and run for ten episodes…fine. I met Arnold back in ’99 or ’00 at one of Jonathan Kaufer ‘s chinese-food-and-DVD parties, and I liked him right away for something that happened before we shook hands or said hello.

I had parked my car down the road and was approaching Kaufer’s home, which was located up in the hills inside this gated McMansion community, in the darkness. I saw a group of three or four people standing outside the black-iron gate. Usually you just push the intercom button and the owner buzzes you through and that’s that, but this group, which Arnold was a part of, was just standing around and murmuring to each other. (I had noticed them as I drove up so...

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In Leslie Bennett‘s Vanity Fair profile of Cate Blanchett, the actress talks about the Benjamin Button grim-reaper factor. Director David Fincher told her it would be “about death,” she says, “and I think that’s great.” And so do most of us, I believe. We alI think it’s pretty darn cool when a movie comes along and tries to get us to confront our mortality.

“We’ve enshrined the purity, sanctity, value, and importance of bringing children into the world,” says Blanchett, “[and] yet we don’t discuss death. There used to be an enshrined period where mourning was a necessary part of going through the process of grieving; death wasn’t...

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The Envelope‘s Tom O’Neil is taken aback that Village Voice columnist Michael Musto doesn’t see Leonardo DiCaprio being Best Actor nominated for Revolutionary Road, especially since Leo was nominated the year before last for Blood Diamond “of all things…c’mon!” And Musto says Leo was better in Blood Diamond. No, he wasn’t. And he was nominated for that Ed Zwick film because he used a South African accent. That was it. That was the whole thing.

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This is my last and final post about the emotionally vivid cowboy hat, which connects to an item I ran yesterday. Which you need to read along with the comments in order to understand the context. Okay? Do that first and then come back to this.

The Star hotel is a b & b — not a hotel. I stayed there in ’07 and ’08 and was very content to do so. Carol Rixey, who’s been managing until this year (when her son took over), runs it quietly and efficiently but with a kind of personal touch. She makes you feel as if you’re staying in someone’s home back in 1962 or something. My mother would love it if she was still getting around. So would have Gary Cooper , I suspect, if he...

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“Out of all the guys who could be nominated, don’t we all want to see Mickey Rourke win? How great would that be to see this guy shamble up to the stage, tears flowing — it’d be amazing. And I’m not even a huge fan. I like the ‘idea’ of Rourke maybe more than the man himself. But the way he really puts it all out there in this film is pretty great. I don’t even think he was acting. So maybe, somehow, he doesn’t deserve it over some other guy who really is ‘acting,’ but it’s still a performance, and it might be the best thing anyone’s done this year (except for Ledger, of course).” — HE reader “Mindless Obamaton,” posted at 5:53 am.

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Updated with comment added: Daily Beast contributor Gerald Posner reported today that yesterday (12.28) “a Los Angeles entertainment honcho shared a text message with [him] that Mickey Rourke had sent him about Sean Penn: ‘Look seans an old friend of mine [but] i didnt buy his performance at all — thought he did an average pretend acting like he was gay besides hes one of the most homophobic people i kno’” [sic]

Needless to say, it’s extremely scummy of Posner’s anonymous “Los Angeles entertainment honcho” to pass along a privately-sent text message with the idea that it might possibly turn up in a Daily Beast story. It’s craven and low. I posted the item because Posner is a highly...

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Two Lovers (2929 Prods., 2.13.09) is a very decent…no, better-than-decent blue-collar drama from director-writer James Gray. It plays in the vein of Paddy Chayefsky‘s Marty, and has very fine performances from the entire cast, but especially from Joaquin Phoenix, Gwynneth Paltrow and Vinessa Shaw.

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The ten biggest-grossing films of the year, two of which — WALL*E and The Dark Knight — were serious knockouts. A third — Jon Favreau‘s Ironman — was a very satisfying commercial fanboy flick. The other seven represented varying grades of muck and disappointment.

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“If you’re looking for definitive proof of how our culture (and particularly our film culture) is steadily devolving and dumbing itself down, check out the Ben Lyons-Ben Mankiewicz version of At The Movies, which premiered a few days ago. This is not a TV show about how good or bad the latest movies are. It’s a show about the End of Civilization as some of us have known it. If the Eloi of George Pal‘s The Time Machine were to produce their own movie-review show, this is how it would play.” — originally posted on 9.16.08 in a piece called “Forget These Guys,” and re-posted to contribute to the current pile-on, as evidenced by today’s riff by Mark Graham of New York/Vulture.

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Two weeks ago I met Revolutionary Road costar Michael Shannon, whose brief but quite breathtaking performance in that film ought to win him the Best Supporting Actor Oscar. It happened in Tribeca. I was told by his publicist that photography couldn’t happen, and then we sat down in a restaurant that was too noisy for the recording of our chat to be of any value.

Michael Shannon, snapped at a Revolutionary Road party last month at 21.

Not having anything to work with prompted a bit of a delay in writing this piece, but at least I’ve gotten around to it. It certainly wasn’t for a lack of enthusiasm or fascination with Shannon, who’s a very intriguing piece of work.

I’m a bit angry that none of the critics groups or kiss-ass groups (BFCA, HFPA, NBR) have...

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The reasons for the disappearance of Jennifer Seitz, the 36 year-old Florida woman who went over the side of a cruise ship off the coast of Cancun last Friday night, were speculated upon by an MSNBC guest commentator a few minutes ago.

The one that got me was the Titanic scenario — i.e., an allegation that lots and lots of drunken cruise ship passengers over the years have gotten bombed and then staggered out to the bow section and done Leonardo DiCaprio’s “I’m the king of the world!” routine (standing on the rails, beating their chests and screaming) and then lost their balance and fallen over.

If I had done that in a state of total drunkenness and fallen into the sea and been fished out and lived, I would’ve called my attorney...

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