The Martin Scorsese Experience

Dear Marty-

Forgive the informality of addressing you in such a familiar fashion, but in interviews, you seem to give permission it's acceptable. Besides, after nearly six decades of watching your films-the great, the good and those not to my liking (you're incapable of making a truly bad movie)-I feel I've earned the right. If we ever meet, you may call me whatever you please. A mook, even.

I've recently plunked myself into a local cinema to take in your latest, KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON and nearly didn't make the leap. To be frank, the running time held me back. Between you and Christopher Nolan, I've spent six and a half hours watching your recent efforts-over seven if count trailers and theater ads, but you have nothing to do with that. But the lure of the filmmaker as well as the material itself, having been previously riveted by David Grann's source material, proved to be too great a lure. 

Still, three and half hours with no intermission? In my long cinematic journey, a midway break never seemed to intrude on the experience itself. Many of them I can recall to this day. When I was a young 'un, my sister and I went to see GONE WITH THE WIND and left when the lights came up after Scarlett O'Hara declared "As God as my witness, I will never go hungry again!" Being dumb ass kids, we thought the movie was over. Took me almost ten years before I saw the whole damn thing. Intermissions are an affectation of the past, with the exception of revivals, though some are asking them to be reinstated if the three hour plus mark is to continue. 

You, sir, have flat out refused to allow theaters to allow intermissions and those that have, you and your editor Thelma Schoonmaker have claimed are violations, demanding the cease and desist. (Under threat of what? Pulling the film and replacing it with FIVE NIGHTS AT FREDDY'S?) You also said in an interview:

“People say it’s three hours, but come on, you can sit in front of the TV and watch something for five hours. Also, there are many people who watch theatre for three and a half hours. There are real actors on stage — you can’t get up and walk around. You give it that respect; give cinema some respect."

In rebuttal, I would say the TV experience is a weak argument. You can't compare the two effectively, much as you can't equate restaurants with eating at home. Cinemas and live theater have their own set of parameters that don't allow for the weapon of choice that no home can do without-the remote control. 

I get it, completely and absolutely. My love for the cinematic experience has helped shape how I've lived my life. I've made no secret that I consider a movie theater to be my cathedral and thus, a religious experience. (I've never been to a multi-plex church however, but that seems a swell idea to me.) And there is no one who has done more for cinema itself, through preservation and appreciation as well as your own work, than you, Marty. If you wish to take a hardline stance, more power to you. Someone should be especially when both the entire industry and artform itself are so fragile. Therefore, above any filmmaker alive today, you've earned the right to have your films presented however the hell you want them.

This week, since I had some time off, I found that I had four hours to spare (there's traveling time involved, m'kay?) and made KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON a priority and, just as I said after I hemmed and hawed before I caught OPPENHEIMER this summer, I am the better person for doing so, mainly because I saw it on the big screen. Not to lump the two films together, I can only collate them by how immersive they are. Nolan's went for the sensory route, utilizing techniques that engaged sight and sound almost relentlessly. KOTFM had been equally involving, though with more a deft touch in its unfolding of this horrific saga in American history, laying it out patiently one step at a time reeling in the viewer until the coil is taut enough to almost snap until the very end. It is an astounding piece of work. Leonard Di Caprio has never been so weasely, an absolute dope who has no clue where his loyalties lie, not with the wife he supposedly loves that's for sure since he decides to pick his wretched family and race above all else. Robert De Niro totally embodies one of the smarmiest bastards of his career, a character type that unfortunately has not died out over time. And Lily Gladstone as Mollie Burkhardt is so quietly powerful, a real welcome and refreshing screen presence that I wish she didn't spend half the movie sickly or in mourning, even though that's how the story plays out for her character. I wish the screen story revolved more around her as opposed to Leo's since  the film itself is much like she was and as portrayed by Gladstone. This sprawling epic could have a lumbering brute of a film, but in your hands, it becomes a symphony. And the epilogue is flat out brilliant. Bravo. If I were to quibble which I have be known to do, I would your own self-serving intro, Marty. It's a totally unnecessary distraction, adding nothing and dampers the opening. I felt as though you were going the Walt Disney route when he used to introduce shows on The Wide World of Color. The fact that you make an appearance at the end is more than enough. Don't belabor the point and let the film speak for itself which it does , loud and clear.

So about the length. (yeah, I have to get back to it) I didn't feel it until the last half-hour which quite honestly did not drag. It's a personal thing and could have been the time of day since I falter in late afternoons when I attended Ye Olde Moviehouse. And like OPPENHEIMER, I had to take a comfort break (aka go to the can) at, ironically enough, the halfway point. All in all, I am pleased to admit that I still have the stamina to attend a long-ass movie like yours. Unfortunately, my bladder has another agenda.

So, Marty, my ol' pal, keep fighting the good fight even if you do get all curmudgeonly in the process. If you can make films as compelling and vibrant as KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON and champion film as only you can do, please do. After all, you are Martin Fucking Scorsese and I think now you damn well know it.

Cinematically yours,

Scott 

The Mook

I Know What I Did This Summer

The change of the seasons is almost like the changing of the guard as we transition, with a vengeance

here in the Pacific Northwest, from summer to fall. I have a fondness for autumn, especially since my life has lined up with it, giving a last of gasp of mortality before turning into the dead of winter. (That's a cheery goddamn thought, isn't it?)  Fall equinox is a death knell! Huzzah!

The summer of '19 had its ups and downs, the former making in the the final throes of August which suited me just fine. It gave me something to look forward to as opposed to peaking too early. (Insert your joke here) Going out with a bang (watch it) leaves more a lasting impression especially since my memory has begun to buffer on a regular basis. Lately I find myself lost in the wilderness searching for the right word only to realize I'm headed in the wrong direction, a scary experience for someone who considers himself a writer.  I become obsessed over it to the point of pure stagnation.The other day, I found I couldn't recall the word "accountability", though, it wasn't really my fault.

I managed to treat myself to a trip to an honest to goodness cinema to catch the only movie I gave two craps about this summer, ONCE UPON A TIME IN HOLLYWOOD. I've told others that there are films I feel were made especially for me and this certainly fits the bill.  Because I am becoming more and more jaded over time thanks to the deluge of, well, everything, i almost took a pass on this, actually believing I would end up disappointed and more pissed off the world than I already am. Had the great Tarantino lost his touch? His previous messterpiece, THE HATEFUL EIGHT, seemed to lean in that direction, so in love with his own voice that he couldn't hear anything else like an objective criticism. I almost didn't make it through that one and was actually sorry I did. So when this film was announced, it seemed that QT might be in an endless meta-loop of nostalgia and no substance except a bauble here and a bauble there.

I was wrong. Sorry. Let me emphasize that point.

I WAS FUCKING WRONG!

Tarantino's wacky, revisionist Valentine to Hollywood and the Stars is undoubtedly his most heartfelt work, a film pulled right out of his bone marrow. Over indulgent, almost blissfully so, ONCE UPON A TIME is all over the place and laser focused at the same time. As someone who gets probably 98% of the references contained within, I didn't mind the construct of this movie and in fact, reveled in it because this is my wheelhouse as well as Quentin's. His vision of 1969 Hollywood is fact and fiction, not fighting each other, but teamed up like Leonardo DiCaprio's Rick Dalton and Brad Pitt's Cliff Booth, in the best buddy movie tradition. When it all culminates in a uber-violent slapstick melee, transitioning into a fairy tale happy ending no one has thought possible, Tarantino made me a believer again, making ONCE UPON A TIME IN HOLLYWOOD something I will revisit and relish again and definitely again.

Because watching a film in an actual cinema is normally the biggest event of my pathetic life, I am pleased as punch to tell you that it didn't make the top spot this year. For a change, we took a much needed and appreciated trip to the Oregon coast for a few days, thanks to the overly generous and loving efforts of our family to celebrate my wife's landmark birthday. Nestled in the warming embrace of this family reunion, these few days in the sweet little coastal town of Lincoln City felt like two weeks and gave us a renewed lease on life without raising the rent. When the foundation of such an event is built on pure love, one only had to submit and soak in the joy.

There were a few defining moments. For myself, as I gazed longingly at the surf while standing on the beach that lay right across the street, a realization hit me in the noggin like a misdirected seagull. Where the hell have I been? I love the goddamn beach, ocean, sand, the whole megillah. Why have I denied this pleasure to myself when it is only a little over an hour away from where I love? Because I'm a dope. When I first arrived in Oregon twenty years, we took a trip to Seaside and I remarked in the snottiest of all snotty tones, "Well, it's not like California. The waves don't crash and the surf is constant. It's just white noise." Guess what, idiot? You don't live in California. You live here.  So what if it's different? Who are you-Sheldon Cooper? This ridiculous stipulation has kept me from enjoying life as I should. I've visited quite a few times since that first trip, but not often enough and certainly not in the last five years. What a jerk. It was quite refreshing to pull my head out of my ass at that moment. The view's better.

The main takeaway was the cluster of grandchildren, basking in their youth and exuberance as only youth can> The one year old, Athena, our fiercely adorable warrior child, sitting in her high child, lording over us all. At one point I fed her a small piece of naan bread and she returned the gesture, feeding me as well. That was an eye-soaker, that's for sure. The two older cousins, Sebastian the Eldest and Aefa the Brave, were inseparable from the moment they saw each other again. On our last evening, we lit a fire on the beach. The two of them walked toward the surf at sunset, hand in hand, an image forever chronicled by Aefa's paparazzi papa. These darn kids made me understand that maybe we're not headed into the abyss after all. We may strive, but we're going to thrive. The future looks bright in their hands, held tightly to one another as they headed down the beach.

Saying goodbye the next day was difficult, but inevitable. Lots of hugs and kisses and platitudes of gratitude until we all went our separate ways, the end of an incredible time with the best people I know or ever will know.

After they pulled away, I hopped into our VW Beetle and started the engine...or did I? Nope. The check engine light came on and here we were, the last to leave and now stuck.

Of course. The universe giveth, the universe taketh...

No. Not this time. I tried the ignition again and it turned over. Yes, the CE light stared me in the face, but I took a chance and took us home. It turned out to be minor, however nerve-wracking. It's called life, pal. For a change, I rolled with this punch that, fortunately, turned out to be merely a glancing blow.

If I get out of my way, maybe I can grab life by the hand and walk into the sunset. And that's what I intend to do.

Oscar's Big Boner

 Well, hoo-ray for Hollywood!

The biggest event of the year in the entertainment capital of the world known as the Academy Awards was quite the hoot this go around. This shimmer has dimmed on Oscar, the Golden Boy in recent years thanks to an non-stop onslaught of awards shows, all of them televised to drive the point home that YES, MOVIES STILL MATTER. That is, despite the fact that cinemas are on the endangered species list with the massive swift toward home entertainment and that currently, TV rules the roost in the current Zeitgeist. (No, no the sequel to Poltergeist).

This year's circle jerk was more entertaining than usual thanks to the efforts of new producers Michael De Luca and Jennifer Todd who took a page from the Golden Globes and gave this old chestnut some much needed life with more of a party atmosphere. It began with a bang with Justin Timberlake's nominated song "Can't Stop the Feeling", a rousing little ditty that brought the crowd to its feet for the first time. While not one of my personal faves, JT did kick the show off quite nicely. This led to Jimmy Kimmel's entrance as this year's host and, quite frankly, he owned it. They have been looking for a more permanent host for awhile and Kimmel fit the bill near-perfectly, nearly as smooth as Bob Hope and Billy Crystal back in the day.

The general celebration actually muted the political posturing with less speechifying than I expected, which I was getting ready to dread due to political fatigue. When points were made, they were appropriately placed for the most part and carried more weight as a result, perhaps with the exception of Gael Garcia Bernal's ham-handed two cents on the Trump wall. It was awkward and unnecessary as he preached on before giving out the award for Best Animated Feature. Bad timing. Much better was the letter written by Iranian filmaker Asghar Farhadi (read by Anousheh Ansari) upon winning Best Foreign Film for THE SALESMAN, a strongly worded statement on the Trump travel ban.  The other Trump digs during the night were more teasing in nature, especially Kimmel's Tweet to the Donald "Meryl says hi." but it was obvious that knives were sharpened and ready to be drawn at a moment's notice.

As though Blake Edwards ran the show, this seemed to be a slapstick affair from the start with poor adorable Aul'i Cravalho getting smacked in the back the head during her otherwise quite excellent rendition of the nominated song from MOANA, Then Seth Rogen bonked his noggin climbing out of the Delorean with Michael J. Fox. And the usually somber In Memoriam segment (aka The Death Parade) included a tribute to Australian costume designer Janet Patterson. Well deserved to be sure, except they showed the wrong Australian- producer Janet Patterson who is alive and well at this writing, but I haven't checked today, Janet, you alright, sweetheart? Sorry the Academy killed you prematurely.

But it was still all fun and games until we hit the three and a half hour mark when the Best Picture was finally about to be announced by Hollywood icons Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway when...WHOOPSY-DAISY!

You know the story. LA LA LAND was mistakenly announced when MOONLIGHT was the actual winner.

Conspiracy theories have abounded hither and tither over this major gaffe, one including Leonardo DiCaprio, the other involving the Academy itself attempting to amp up the drama and prove they are good Liberals after all by taking the trophy out of the hands of LA LA's white privelege and handing it over to MOONLIGHT to prove without a doubt the BLACK LIVES MATTER. (But not as much as THE MOVIES.)

But that's not what I believe happened at all.

The Russians were behind it all. They hacked into Pricewaterhouse and successfully sabotaged the awards to denigrate this beloved American institution in front of the entire world. And Warren Beatty was in on it the entire time. Hold on a second. Isn't he like a  Tinseltown Liberal god, second to none except maybe Babs Streisand herself? Well let me ask you something in return, Ivan, Didn't Warren Beatty write, direct and star in a movie called REDS? Hmmmmm? Look it up, comrades! The Russkies probably paid off the enormous debt accumulated by his recent flop RULES DON'T APPLY for his "cooperation". And the cherry on top of  the entire shit sundae, President of the United States Donald Jabroni Trump, masterminding the entire debacle to humiliate those he hates just as much the Fake News organizations...and that is THE HOLLYWOOD ELITE. (On the other hand, Putin preferred FENCES. He loves him some Denzel.)

I rest my case. (Don't have a mike, so I'll just drop my pen)

So ends another fairy tale evening in LA LA LAND while basking in the MOONLIGHT.

See you next year!

And I Smell Like One Too

Some musings on this year's birthday extravaganza (aka CherneyFest 2013)

In my new guise of societal vigilante, I have taken it upon myself to change the moronic phrase that never pays "At the end of the day" to the more aesthetically pleasing  "In the middle of the night". For one thing, it's more specific. "At the end of the day" is vague and ultimately lazy. At the end of the day-when? Sunset? Bedtime? Midnight? Last call? As an eternally nocturnal creature, "In the middle of the night" suits me just fine. It must be my Hungarian roots. We're basically night people, don't you know. And "In the middle of the night" is sexy. Again, it's the Hungarian in my blood.  We're basically sexy, don't you know. "At the end of the day" is bland, suggesting a warm glass of buttermilk. Bluch.

ABC's new food competition show THE TASTE is a waste, both of air time and my time. Normally, I would just write this off without another thought were it not for the unfortunate participation of Anthony Bourdain. Sad. This is the kind of show he would have torn a new asshole. Now the asshole's on the other foot. The major networks can't mange to make a decent food related show. it's all about the cable. THE TASTE may not be as putrid as that bottom feeder known as THE CHEW, but for someone I admire as much as Bourdain, this is a kick in the reputation. Hopefully, the rest of his career won't be reduced to a series of snarky sound bytes like this. It won't negate his previously excellent work, but it doesn't make for smooth sailing into the sunset. Sure, everybody's a whore, but I hold Bourdain up to a higher standard because he's basically responsible for raising the bar in the first place.

(UPDATE 6/6/13: Bourdain rebounded with his new CNN show PARTS UNKNOWN, just a retitle of  NO RESERVATIONS. This is what he does best. Unfortunately, THE TASTE has been inexplicably renewed for a second season, even though its ratings were in the toilet. Hopefully, Tony will not return. This ain't for him and frankly, leaves a bad TASTE in the mouth of one his biggest supporters, namely me.)

FOX's THE FOLLOWING was one of the best pilots I've seen in quite awhile, genuinely creepy and downright jump out of your seat scary. I wonder about its limited premise and how it can extend into a series. Too many shows like this are getting green-lit and when the major selling point reaches a logical conclusion, it flounders. (example: last year's Ashley Judd show MISSING or even AMC's THE KILLING) Why not just make it a limited-series and be done with it? Of course, it could end up like the second season of Ryan Murphy's show, AMERICAN HORROR STORY: THE KITCHEN SINK.

(UPDATE 6/6/13: A good pilot does not a series make. This show grew stupider with each episode and made me angry at myself for recommending it at all.)

A birthday gift for myself is a trip to the movies, an annual tradition I've kept for the past twenty years. This year's film was none other than Quentin Tarantino's bugfuck crazy-ass spaghetti western/blaxspoitation mix tape DJANGO UNCHAINED. Here is a list of why this was made for yours truly: The retro Columbia Pictures logo, the stylized opening credits, NEW Ennio Morricone music, Christoph Waltz. Jamie Foxx, Jim Croce's "I Got a Name", Big Daddy and his gang of "hoods", Leonardo Di Caprio and Samuel L. Jackson at his Samuel L. Motherfucking Jacksonest. Sam has been unjustly overlooked by most critics and this awards season even though he is as compelling as either Waltz or Di Caprio in this film. I can only assume that this is a casualty of the PC backlash DJANGO is receiving. his portrayal of a duplicitous house slave must have really upset the rank and file. Calling tarantino and his film irresponsible is missing the point. He's working with two bastardized genres to begin with and then propels everything so far over the top that it lnds on the other side. There's another perspective from that angle and if you're not tall enough for this ride, you shouldn't try to take it. He's dealing with themes within this framework that are otherwise getting swept under the rug. The end result tries to fulfill a revenge fantasy and there's no sensitivity involved in that sort of conclusion. At least it's an attempt to right a wrong, however cartoonish. That's his canvas or are you dopes unaware that Tarantino's been around for the last twenty years? Wake up and watch the blood spurt. Or don't. DJANGO has some drawbacks including a clunky final third and the lack of decent female characters, but this was a birthday present for me and I thank Quentin for it.

I want to give myself major props for meeting my own personal deadline (with hours to spare) in completing the final draft of my first new book for this decade. Hooray for me. It's only about goddamn time. But, instead of kicking my ass for procrastination once again, I think I'll just kiss it instead. Well done, me bucko. Smooch. More info to come on said book du Chern,so stay tuned. I won't start the pimping here. Besides, I'm at the end of the blog. I'd be burying the lead.

So happy stinkin' birthday to me.

Just how old am I? Nunya. Let's just say that I went to high school with dirt. I was a senior when he was a sophomore.