Here are a few scattered thoughts, more diary-like
than most of the posts on this site have actually turned out to be:
First, it was delightful to start the
post-Oscar movie-going season with Wes Anderson’s THE GRAND BUDAPEST
HOTEL. The picture’s opening scene, in
which a tweedy Tom Wilkinson attempts to spin a yarn with some decorum but is
pelted by his pea-shooting son in a fashion reminiscent of the Marx Brothers
and “Our Gang,” gives viewers license to laugh.
Such permission is important because the design of the film is so
artful, its plot so filled with unexpected twists and its balalaika score by
Alexandre Desplat so original that one might feel too overwhelmed to guffaw as
she or he should.
Part caper movie, part screwball comedy
and part buddy picture, GBH is brilliantly performed by Ralph Fiennes, F.
Murray Abraham, newcomer Tony Revolori and a shockingly star-studded cast that
includes Wilkinson, Willem Dafoe, Jeff Goldblum, Harvey Keitel, Tilda Swinton,
Adrien Brody, Jude Law, Bill Murray, Jason Schwartzman, Owen Wilson, Bob
Balaban, Edward Norton and a host of less well-known but equally capable
character actors. (Fisher Stevens, Wallace
Wolodarsky and Saoirse Ronan are among those who deserve to be more recognized.)
The narrative unfolds like the cinematic
version of a Russian nesting doll-- as a story within a story within a story. Bob
Yoeman’s rapidly moving camera always hits its mark perfectly and contributes
as much to the movie’s breakneck pace as Barney Pilling’s taught editing.
Adam Stockhausen’s sets capture the
grandeur of an exclusive hotel in the Dinaric Alps on the eve of World War II
while also emerging as works of art in and of themselves. An elevator
reminiscent of Matisse’s “Red Studio” shares screen time with intentionally primitive
looking funiculars, hilarious paintings, Agatha Christie-inspired train
compartments, impossible bakeries, Andersonian servants' quarters and a façade
that makes the Grand Budapest look like a dollhouse.
There’s a model of Stockhausen’s hotel on
display in the lobby of the Arclight cinema in Hollywood, and the rendering is eye-popping and fun. But it’s also a reminder of the depth, complexity
and hilarity of Wes Anderson’s story, not at all a relic of a
movie overwhelmed by its own scenery. One takes it in while exiting the theatre and
wants to turn around and watch film again.
The pleasure of seeing THE GRAND BUDAPEST
HOTEL at the Arclight – moving on to the next random thought -- brings to mind
what a great city Los Angeles has become for motion picture viewing. Not only
does it still have grand movie palaces (The Vista, El Capitan, The Egyptian and the main auditorium at Mann’s Chinese Theatre), its “repertory cinema” is at a
level of quantity and quality I haven’t seen since I lived in New York in the 1980’s. There, on any given night,
I could watch great European and Asian films, old and new, as well as vintage
Hollywood pictures, at such venues as The Thalia, The New Yorker, The Carnegie Hall and
Bleeker Street Cinemas, at Cinema Studio
and at the venerable Film Forum. Only Film Forum, as far as I know, survived
the crushing blow of real estate development, which has made it nigh impossible for
a single screen theatre with low admission prices to turn even a modest profit.
But in L.A. today, Cinefamily, The New
Beverly, The American Cinematheque, (at The Egyptian and The Aero) and The Los
Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) all have excellent World Cinema and
Hollywood “golden age” programming. On March
1, the night 91 year-old Alain Resnais passed away, I watched a restored print of JE
T’AIME, JE T’AIME at Cinefamily. (Resnais’ 1968 film also played that night at Film
Forum in New York). This month LACMA
will present an evening with Ennio Morricone (THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY,
THE UNTOUCHABLES, DJANGO UNCHAINED) and interviewer/collaborator Quentin
Tarantino. Later in March, the
museum will screen the Hollywood classics MY MAN GODFREY, GOING MY WAY and
MOROCCO.
It would seem, then, that all goes well
for Los Angeles movie lovers. But I must end on a much darker random note: I was deeply saddened to hear that director
Scott Kalvert died on March 7, apparently by his own hand. I worked with Scott on DEUCES WILD (2002),
which featured a remarkable ensemble cast. Matt Dillon, Stephen Dorff, Brad
Renfro, Fairuza Balk, Debbie Harry and a then-unknown James Franco were all
eager to work with Scott because of his stellar direction of Leonardo DiCaprio,
Mark Wahlberg, Juliette Lewis and Lorraine Bracco in a 1995 adaptation of Jim
Carroll’s THE BASKETBALL DIARIES.
I have no special knowledge of what made
Scott despondent. But it often seemed to
me he never recovered from lawsuits alleging that murderers at high
schools in Paducah and Columbine were inspired by a dream sequence in THE
DIARIES. The fact that the suits were
frivolous – that they ignored the fundamental sociopathy of the killers – and
the fact that they were consequently dismissed, didn’t especially mitigate the
damage they did to Scott. Filmmakers who
excel at their craft must be unusually sensitive. And any sensitive person would be devastated by
the suggestion, no matter how wrongheaded, that his work led to the killing of
innocent teenagers.
Blaming Scott Kalvert’s adaptation of Jim
Carroll’s memoir for the shootings was as preposterous as asserting that The
Beatles’ “Helter Skelter” caused the Manson murders or that J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye is the reason
Mark David Chapman shot John Lennon. No
doubt, the British band and the reclusive author were affected by news stories linking
them to heinous crimes. But neither the
fab four nor Salinger were sued by victims.
And both had bodies of work so extensive and esteemed as to insulate
them from ludicrous accusations. THE
BASKETBALL DIARIES was Scott’s first feature film; he was all but defenseless.
My deepest condolences to his loved ones.
Rest in peace, Scott Kalvert.
