IncredibleShrinkingCritic

While I interpreted Jerry Seinfeld's joke-a-thon intro to the documentary awards as play for Oscar host next year, John Sinno saw it differently. And he has a point.
Sinno, whose "Iraq in Fragments" didn't win, has sent an open letter to the Academy (and to the press) to protest Seinfeld's disrespect of this traditionally undervalued category. Before you say boo-hoo (as I was initially inclined, since at least Seinfeld was a respite from all the trumped-up sobriety of the slick show), consider that nearly every other awards category was treated with awe and dignity. (Except maybe those child actors being forced to make badly scripted jokes about the "shorts" categories.)
My problem isn't with Seinfeld introducing the nominated docs as "incredibly depressing" -- because that was rather funny, and rather true. It's that somehow everything else in the show has gotten so serious and pompous that Seinfeld's ribbing stood out in the midst of a politically correct, essentially boring evening. The other awards were positioned as momentous events worthy of suspiciously glistening eyes.
Sinno goes on to protest that there wasn't any mention of Iraq. Here I disagree. It's tedious when celebrities use the Oscars as a podium to go all noble over world events. So, again, it wasn't the lack of a mention of Iraq that was the problem, it was that this year's Oscars were an informercial for the eventual doc winner, "An Inconvenient Truth." Now, I'm all for fighting global warming (or "global warmings" as Will Ferrell pronounces it in one of his hilarious riffs on President Bush speaking to the nation; Google it and you'll see). But between all the Gore-boosting of the evening and the trio of Spielberg, Lucas and Coppola waiting to welcome long-overdue Martin Scorsese into the Oscar fold, it looked like the fix was in. (Can you imagine how humiliating it would have been for Marty if someone else had trotted up to accept the directing Oscar from his three amigos?)
So I'm not necessarily in favor of making Sinno et al whole by enshrining documentaries as they do other categories. I'm for taking it all down a peg, or at least getting a grip. You know more ink has been spilled about Jennifer Hudson's silver bolero jacket than about anything else Oscar night, and that the real power of the Oscar show is in its ratings, so stop trying to overcompensate. The only part of the evening that truly merits those glistening eyes is the so-called Parade of the Dead clip reel, the only time the audience understands the true value of things.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 01:21 PM | Permalink

I mean, I've always loved Alan Arkin, but his performance in Little Miss Sunshine was pretty much what we've come to expect of him, his patented, deadpan codger. Whereas Murphy tried something wholly new in his career, and it was quite sensational, not only for being unexpected.

Meanwhile, Peter O'Toole's badly lifted face seemed to fall, as if realizing this was his last chance at an Oscar. But for Forest Whitaker, this truly was a role of a lifetime, probably the greatest showcase of his talents any movie will offer him. I'm glad (and rather surprised) the Academy didn't just go for the sentimental vote (as I think they did in Arkin's case).

Posted by Jami Bernard at 09:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I especially enjoyed when Pilobolus formed itself into Ellen DeGeneres' crimson velour tracksuit.

Other trenchant observations:
Helen Mirren is sexier at any age than any woman with a facelift.

Jack Nicholson is starting to look like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now.
The actresses all seemed to have strangely symmetrical, erect nipples.
Big attempt to make the Oscars "relevant" to "today" by name-dropping YouTube, MySpace, other Internet buzzwords.
Stop giving child actors "cute" things to say.
Loved seeing Nicole Kidman and Gwyneth Paltrow in a Japanese-hair-straightening-technique smackdown.
Jennifer Hudson, for all the time she had to prepare for this night (if not her whole life), gave a less than stirring speech.
Jerry Seinfeld used his time onstage to audition for next year's host.
Celine Dion's lips pursed up at the end of her song into something out of a horror movie, like an upward-migrated vagina dentata.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 09:27 AM | Permalink

“That Celine Dion, she scares me, my balls just retracted into my body”

Posted by Jami Bernard at 12:25 AM | Permalink

I went into my lunch with Hanna-Barbera expecting to hate them, but after a bottle of wine and Joe and Bill's loud, unembarrassed rendition of The Flintstones theme song, I was won over.

That's Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera, the lifelong friends and animation partners who gave us Tom and Jerry, Scooby Doo, The Jetsons, the Flintstones, Yogi Bear, and too many more to mention. Barbera died yesterday at age 95. (Hanna died in 2002.)

They had taken me to lunch at a fancy Italian restaurant on Central Park South, back when they were spring chickens -- 77 years old apiece -- and launching their own home-video company. I expected to dislike them for the very reason they were so long-lasting and successful in the industry: they invented "limited animation," a time- and money-saving way of making cost-effective animation for television by reducing the number (and quality) of animation cels per second of running time. The effect on the eye is of less lush, less fluid animation, although kids raised on it probably don't see or know the difference.

Yes. But. The genius of Hanna-Barbera was in adapting the medium they had worked in for so long, but which was dying, to the medium of the future -- television. It was their flexibility, foresight, and risk-taking that gave them staying power in an industry that was gradually phasing out Old School animation anyway. Legendary mogul Harry Cohn himself had canned the duo after walking out of a "pencil test" of their animation, bellowing: "Get rid of 'em!"

"At the height of our careers, we were out in the cold. What were we going to do, work at a hamburger stand?" said Barbera, working up a lather worthy of a cartoon character, let alone someone born in Little Italy and raised in Flatbush. "We had kids in school. We went to every agency, every studio. TV had no money. The entire industry was out of work."

That's why these feisty guys turned out to be more Jetson than Flintstone, imagining and even creating a future where none existed, leaving behind the safety of Bedrock. And look at today's TV animation -- the deliberately sketchy, ragged-looking South Park and The Simpsons are the hip grandchildren of Hanna-Barbera's prescience.

The two men were full of life in a way you can only wish for fellows who built their reputation on the Oscar-winning, feral chases of Tom and Jerry. "Flintstones, meet the Flintstones, they're the modern Stone-Age family," boomed Barbera, who wrote that ditty. Hanna, with a less outsized personality, nevertheless chimed in, trying to recall some of the stickier lyrics: "Through the courtesy of Fred's two feet ... no, no, that can't be right ..."

"I'll never forget this humiliating evening," Barbera joked, pretending to slump dejectedly in his chair.

Actually, I'm the one who'll never forget it. I went in ready to chide these mavericks on "ruining" animation, only to come out, a bottle of wine and a song later, chastened to have met two guys were were, like another character we know, smarter than the average bear.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 08:58 AM | Permalink

Hate is such a powerful emotion, don't you think? That was one of the running lines in Gilda, thrown back and forth like acid in the face between Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford, who died yesterday at age 90.

The trick in that movie was for Ford's character to maintain what I call (when it pertains to my cats) the Big Tail. When cats know they're confronting a challenge much bigger, stronger, and scarier than they are, they puff up the fur on their tail to look thick and menacing, as if to say -- I've got connections in the Attorney General's office, y'know! (I once caught Buzz making the Big Tail at the dishwasher when it chunked into the rinse cycle unexpectedly.)

Rita Hayworth, as you can imagine from seeing her striptease to Put the Blame on Mame, was the dishwasher to Glenn Ford in Gilda, and Ford gave the Big Tail throughout that strange, perfervid movie, playing a character so at war with himself over loyalty, lust, honor and humiliation you thought he'd explode even before the little bigamy subplot.

I can't say Gilda was Ford's best work, but it was certainly the most fun. An actor who could stand up to Rita Hayworth in her prime, and pretend to hate hate hate her ... ah, but hate is such a powerful emotion, no?

Posted by Jami Bernard at 09:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Pluto was downgraded from planet to tiny ball of ice around the same time Tom Cruise slipped from star to ... cosmic dust? As the universe gets reclassified, it's possible that certain stars will no longer be the center around which all things revolve.

Tom ("You can't fire me; I quit!") Cruise has had one public-relations disaster after another, all of them avoidable if he had just understood that his power came from a slick veneer of unknowability. Cruise needed that aura of mystery because, as we can now see, every time he opens his mouth something distressing drops from it. Mel Gibson merely suffers from garden-variety paranoia and anti-Semitism, but Cruise's brain blips are so weird they're scaring the customers. (Has he chained Suri to the radiator? Is he really going to refuse to take that baby out to the park until someone pays him more for her photo than they did for Shiloh?)

According to Box Office Mojo, Cruise is Hollywood's 5th-ranked star (Harrison Ford is No. 1) by total box-office take. A guy like that should be worth a lot of money to a studio, sure. But Carrie Fisher is No. 13. Why? Because she happened to snag a role in what went on to become a powerfully successful franchise. Doesn't mean she can open a movie today (although I wish she could), and therefore reminds us that "star power" is not a stable, predictable, heavenly body.

Pluto was a planet -- of this we were certain -- and now it's not. Tom Cruise was a guaranteed star, and now Paramount has reclassified him as nothing more than dark matter.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 11:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Another audio files from my interview with Spike Lee on his HBO documentary When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts:

Where were you when the levees broke?

Posted by Jami Bernard at 12:58 PM | Permalink

I interviewed Spike Lee about his powerful, important new HBO documentary, When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts, about Hurricane Katrina and its shameful aftermath. The doc debuts Monday and Tuesday nights on HBO (there's a giant premiere tonight [Wednesday] in New Orleans), and my story appears this Sunday in the TV magazine of the New York Post. Meanwhile, here's a foretaste, one of several audio snippets from that interview.

Despite amassing 500 hours of footage and 100 interviews, edited down to a four-part, four-hour tapestry of human misery and government incompetence (if not worse), Lee regrets not being able to locate the woman who had the balls to shame Condoleeza Rice as the Secretary of State was blithely trying on pricey shoes at Ferragamo while, as Lee puts it, "people were drowning."

Listen to Spike's one regret ...

Lee was kind enough to agree to this interview, even though he and I have been, uh, on the outs for about 15 years. More on this and other simmering celebrity grudges in future posts.

Photo by Jami Bernard

Posted by Jami Bernard at 04:10 PM | Permalink

The TomKat baby has yet to be unswaddled, but there's plenty of baby Shiloh to go around. And there'll be more of her if the temperatures stay as high as they are. Tomorrow (Wednesday), the Madame Tussauds waxeteria in Times Square will feature its first celebrity baby, pouting waxenly in her bassinet alongside the doting faux figures of her parents, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.

The Brangelina duo is made of wax, while Shiloh is pure silicone -- perhaps in homage to the nip 'n' tuck Hollywood scene in which she'll one day come of age.

The museum will donate $1 to charity for every photo taken. They should also donate $1 to Shiloh's future analysis bills for when she grows up to find that every tourist in America has an intimate-looking picture taken with her while she appeared to be sleeping. Where were her parents when all these strangers used her as a photo prop?

Waxing philanthropic.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 07:35 PM | Permalink

I interviewed Mel Gibson many years ago in London on a morning when he was clearly hung over. After arriving an hour late, looking like Christ dragged to the cross of media interrogation, he nursed cappucino after cappucino, a black cloud hanging over him through the whole dispiriting session. I can't blame stars for hating interviews, but since it's usually part of their contracts to help promote their movies, or at least it fosters good will with their studio employers, and since their profession makes them perfect for at least acting like they're actors who enjoy talking about their work, I have no sympathy.

This particular interview was for Bird on a Wire, and whether it was bird or dog or turkey, you didn't see Goldie Hawn showing up late and scowling. Known for her professionalism, Hawn was perky, engaged, and wearing a Lycra top that flirted with areola territory. At least she was making the effort.

The film community has long known of several biblical commandments Gibson was prone to breaking. Now that he's confessed his alcoholism -- the lesser of two evils on display during his recent arrest for drunk driving -- it's almost a relief to be able to state the obvious: that the vehemence of The Passion of the Christ has always been as much about the strident zeal of the newly reformed addict as about Gibson's guarded anti-Semitism.

Think of ex-smokers who won't tolerate others lighting up, not even outdoors, or those nouveau vegetarians who examine the meals of complete strangers with disgust. At some point, Gibson gave up (or tried to give up) his hard-partying ways, and the result is the kind of intolerance people often exhibit when they struggle to keep themselves in check. I haven't followed closely the timeline of Gibson's turnaround -- his embracing of religion as part of his atonement for years of bad behavior -- but TPOTC was clearly part of his own, personal detox program. Once you're on the wagon, you can't proclaim it loudly enough, and TPOTC was not just a movie about Jesus, it was an attempt to rewrite history according to the narrow view of one particular religious sect, one that is as rigid in its views (toward Jews, for example) as reformed alcoholics are rigid on the topic of booze.

But ex-drunks fall off the wagon. Why? Because they're human, not divine. All the addiction literature makes note of it. As Gibson observed in his statement, it's a good thing he was arrested before he hurt someone.

The anti-semitism he betrayed from the bottom of the bottle is something else. Alcohol is a chemically proven disinhibitor, and Gibson apparently spun himself like a top as he spewed his bile at the arresting officers, demanding to know if they were Jews, blaming the Jews for all the wars in history. (Hmm, where do the Crusades fit into that theory?) His published "apology" mentioned alcoholism but not the anti-semitic remarks, or at least not specifically. Just as he's never distanced himself from his father's crazy, Holocaust-denying rants, Gibson still refuses to pin down just what it is about the statement "Jews are to blame for everything" he doesn't believe.

But I'm surprised anyone's surprised. TPOTC is an anti-semitic screed. I'm not saying that in an accusing way, simply as a matter of fact, like saying The Awful Truth is a screwball comedy or Oliver Stone's movies are blunt. I received thousands of e-mails after my initial review of TPOTC, the majority from those who believed that a movie can't be "anti-semitic" if it's "true."

Where to begin to refute such a Moebius strip of incomprehension and illogic?

For the most part, I'm guessing the problem is that people don't know how to "read" a movie. They can't see how Gibson, as writer, producer, and director, created his own "truth" through the magic of movie composition, editing, casting, lighting, and words. What went into TPOTC, what didn't, the litany of choices he made, the calculated variables of the moviemaking process itself, all this contributed to saying on film what Gibson said to the arresting officer the other day.

What part of "Jews are the devil" does Gibson not believe? He's sorry he fell off the wagon, embarrassed himself and his family, broke the law and endangered others. He wasn't sorry for the hole in his heart.

And why should he be? After all, he's said it all before, on film, and he must have known what he was doing, because it went down millions of gullets as smoothly as a nice cold beer.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 11:21 PM | Permalink

Actor Barnard Hughes is dead at 90. I’d like to tell my Barnard Hughes story now; it’s a small story, but it reminds me of why I always thought he’d live to a ripe old age.

Many years ago, Elle Magazine asked me to write a piece on New Year’s Resolutions of the stars. They wanted 50 “fabulous” celebrities. No problem, I said.

It was a problem, of course. Rule No. 1 for freelancers: Never agree to do a “roundup” story involving celebrity quotes unless you personally have the home phone numbers of said celebrities in your PalmPilot (or, back then, in your handwritten scrawl on a piece of paper). Even when you have their home numbers – I dialed Susan Sarandon while she was in her kitchen making dinner and she chewed me out in a most Oscar-worthy way – these need to be home numbers of celebs who will take your call.

Getting a celeb on the phone is hard. Getting a “fabulous” celeb is harder. Getting 50 of them on deadline? Impossible. I tried night and day, hounding publicists, calling in chips. I didn’t have any chips, but I called them in anyway.

Then I widened the net. I couldn’t get Mick Jagger, but I got Judge Reinhold, briefly buzz-worthy for Ruthless People. Brooke Adams, already fading from sight after Days of Heaven, would only cooperate if I also used a quote from her (less fabulous) sister; I agreed.

Then there was Barnard Hughes. Not only was his home number listed, but he answered his phone, seemed honored that I had thought to include him, was delighted to help. His movie credits included Midnight Cowboy, Hamlet, and Tron. He was an Emmy winner for Lou Grant. Really, he was more of a theater actor, starting out at New York’s Shakespeare Fellowship Repertory and developing into a Broadway and Off-Broadway institution. He worked steadily, reliably, never making it to People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive status, but never lacking for work or respect either. And still answering his own phone. I don’t remember what his New Year’s resolution for 1987 was, but I like to think it was that he’d continue to be at one with himself.

I’m not saying actors should get off their high horses and take my phone calls. Far from it. I think actors and “stars” and “celebrities” should strictly enforce boundaries to afford themselves a private life, since the media and public certainly won’t do it for them. But I can barely recall today the other names on my list of 50 -- only Hughes, who was gracious, charming, generous, and seemed so at home in the world that he’d likely live to 90.

Which he did.

Elle Magazine killed the piece. “Not fabulous enough,” was their assessment of my 50 celebs.

Barnard Hughes, dead at 90. Not fabulous enough for Elle Magazine, but fabulous enough for me.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 09:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

The android head of Philip K. Dick went missing recently after its creator, roboticist David Hanson, mistakenly left it behind while changing planes. These things happen.

The lifelike Dick head, which was able via computer chip to conduct semi-coherent conversations in the voice of the late, great author of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, which morphed into the movie Blade Runner, was being used to help promo the new Richard Linklater film, A Scanner Darkly, opening July 7. The android's body was found, but the head has gone to a place even America West cannot fathom.

Warner Independent's Laura Kim told the New York Times that it was a shame to lose the talking head, since she'd been thinking of sending it out on junkets or pitching it to Letterman. Even Philip K. Dick's headless body would be an improvement on the usual brainless zombies you find on the interview circuit; I doubt, somehow, that it would spout such wisdom as "I was attracted to this project because of the script" and "Film is a collaborative effort."

Posted by Jami Bernard at 06:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Tonight's Springsteen concert at Madison Square Garden was a radical political protest accomplished through the agency of America's musical heritage. And while Springsteen was using his ferocious interest in musicology to entertain, educate, and raise up the crowd, it occurred to me: Bruce Springsteen loves America.

OK, he didn't do his E Street Band stuff, and I can't say I wasn't hoping for I Came for You. (Like that would happen.) But he repurposed the folk songs of Pete Seeger and resurrected the musical glory of New Orleans with a backup band so potent you could smell the beer on Bourbon Street. He panned for the gold of America's frontier days, retrieving haunting, fervent nuggets of social protest.

Springsteen expresses his patriotism through musicology. And if that sounds fusty, there was nothing fusty about the roaring crowd that ate up Seeger's Bring 'Em Home, written in 1965 during the Vietnam War, and just as chillingly apt today.

And it didn't hurt that I had a skybox ticket courtesy of Seth Rosenthal, a senior account executive at the New York Post.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 11:21 PM | Permalink