Invisible Man

Posted on March 26, 2008 by admin

Aware that diamonds are a lot more than a girl’s best friend, Hobbs (Michael Caine) and Laura Quinn (Demi Moore) plot a heist in a seedy pub in 1960s London, in Flawless.

Flawless
Directed by Michael Radford
Written by Edward A. Anderson
Starring: Demi Moore, Michael Caine, Lambert Wilson, Nathaniel Parker, Shaughan Seymour, Nicholas Jones, David Barrass, and Joss Ackland
From UK

Just like the nameless “negro” narrator of Ralph Ellison’s classic novel of 1940s Harlem, Invisible Man, Hobbs (Michael Caine) is an invisible man in early-1960s, not-yet-swinging London. The aging nighttime janitor, a widower who labors for a multinational diamond corporation, moves unseen through the world he despises.

But Hobbs, highly overqualified for his job, is no fool, and he makes the most of his invisibility: He overhears confidential corporate conversations; he digs damning documents out of the garbage; and he knows more about what’s going on at London Diamond than chain-smoking, married-to-her-job Laura Quinn (an almost unrecognizable Demi Moore), the company’s sole woman executive.

Suggesting that the company’s being less than generous with his retirement package, Hobbs, using executive-caliber powers of persuasion, slickly manipulates Quinn to help him bring karmic justice to their filthy-rich and soullessly exploitative employer. Quinn, convinced that London Diamond has put an impenetrable glass ceiling between her and the promotion she craves, is more than susceptible to Hobbs’s wily influence and low-key charm.

The iconic sound of Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” sets the mood and rhythm, and the stylish direction of Michael Radford (The Merchant of Venice, Il Postino) sustains them throughout, so that Flawless, a thriller unmarred by gaping plot holes, proves to be that rarest of all gems—an intelligent and thoroughly entertaining heist flick with heart.

It isn’t quite flawless, but it comes close. —RR

Posted in Demi Moore, Flawless, Michael Caine, Michael Radford | Comments Off on Invisible Man

Joan Rivers: A Face-Lift in Progress

Posted on February 20, 2008 by admin

By Victoria Looseleaf

Can we talk? With a face that’s been stretched, plumped and rearranged to the point of making a Picasso cubist portrait look like a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover, 74-year old Joan Rivers is at least still able to physically move her mouth. And what a gleefully wicked, obscenity-spewing mouth it is! Starring in the autobiographical, Joan Rivers: A Work in Progress by a Life in Progress at Los Angeles’ Geffen Playhouse—a bastion of rich Westsiders also on cozy terms with big-time plastic surgeons—the septuagenarian should redub the two-hour semi-snooze fest, Joan Rivers: A Face-Lift in Progress.

Only succeeding when riffing alone onstage like the needy, obsessive comic she was born to be (nee Joan Molinsky of Larchmont, NY, nice Jewish daughter of a doctor and homemaker), the mouth-off diva makes the fatal mistake of adding three dreadfully dull actors in service to a contrived “story,” directed (if one can actually direct a legend), by Bart DeLorenzo. Written by Rivers, Douglas Bernstein and Denis Markell, the so-called action takes place in a ratty dressing room before the comic is about to do her Red Carpet celeb-schmoozathon with daughter Melissa (mercifully, only seen on video).

Adam Kulbersh as Joan Rivers’ assistant Kenny in A Work in Progress by a Life in Progress.

Already wearing more pancake than Aunt Jemima, Rivers is being made-up for the show by a faux Russian hottie/Christina Aguilera wannabe (Emily Kosloski). The stand-up’s patently gay, obnoxious assistant (Adam Kulbersh) gives homotown West Hollywood a bad name. And Rivers’ bitter recollections about her banishment from Johnny Carson’s late night kingdom and her husband’s suicide over her canceled talk show just don’t cut it.

For one thing, Rivers was having lipo the night hubbie Edgar Rosenberg died and for another—would someone really be so sorry a figure as to kill himself over that or was it over his wife’s frequent forays under the cosmetic cleaver? These tales come off, instead, as self-indulgent, begrudging pity-party prattle.

With so much Tinseltown dirt to cull from you’d think the nip/tuck goddess would get more down and dirty. Instead there are AARP sex jokes galore (sounds almost oxymoronic), which, admittedly are kinda funny…if you’re over 40. There are also obtuse vignettes about Mae West and Joan Crawford. But we just don’t care. She’s rich, she’s famous, she’s a happy bubbie (that’s Yiddish for grandma), so why is Joan Rivers so desperate to be on stage now, which also begs the questions: Where are Viagra and Sarah Silverman when you really need them?

Posted in GEFFEN PLAYHOUSE, JOAN RIVERS, JOHNNY CARSON, MAE WEST, PLASTIC SURGERY, VIAGRA | Comments Off on Joan Rivers: A Face-Lift in Progress

If He Builds It Will They Come?

Posted on February 14, 2008 by admin

By Victoria Looseleaf

Well, the $5 million I wished I had to lend myself obviously never materialized (and JAG that I am—Jewish American Goddess—I refuse to buy lottery tickets), but I do manage to find solace in a quote from my hero, Tony Soprano: “Whaddya gonna do?”

For me, all I can do is continue eking out a living by the written word, in this case, analyzing Haydn’s Maria Theresa Mass. Barring that, I take joy in Obamarama-land and in other divertissements, namely trekking to Los Angeles’ newest jewel in her rather lopsided cultural crown.

I’m talking about the 60,000 square foot Broad Contemporary Art Museum. Known affectionately (?), as BCAM, it’s an addition to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, with the whole kit and caboodle just down the street from that other sacrosanct destination point, the La Brea Tar Pits.

Eli Broad (foreground) with California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger.

In order to get a slice of that culture—and a free lunch (the braised short ribs were wonderful)—I, along with several hundred other select invitees, attended a press preview of the building that went up in a mere two years. Financed by billionaire megalomaniac Eli Broad (if he had his way, this town would be called Broad City, and should that day ever arrive, I decamp for Napa for good), the $56 million edifice was designed by Renzo Piano.

Who knew this 70-year old Italian/erstwhile starchitect (his greatest building, Paris’ Pompidou Center, was built in 1977), had an affinity for Target and K-Mart. Basically a three-story travertine-clad box, BCAM is accented with reddish-orange colored structural accents, including an exterior escalator (reminiscent of one of L.A.’s first great malls, The Beverly Center) and steel beams. Charles Ray’s life-size, flame red Firetruck also sits on the newly designed plaza, itself covered by a 15,000 square foot “canopy” held up by more of those orange-hued girders.

Beckoning (or not) from Wilshire Boulevard is Chris Burden’s Urban Light. An installation of 202 restored and fully operational vintage streetlights (cost unannounced but it’s gotta be high), the whole entrance thing is now a crowded, smooshed-together affair. The Burden piece, acquired by museum director Michael Govan, seems an afterthought, if only so Govan could assert his power in the face of the long rich reach of Broad.

In any case, landscape artist Robert Irwin is hoping for more magic with his palm garden (he did the lush foliage at the Getty Center, a decided notch up from most of the art, Van Gogh’s $53.9 million Irises notwithstanding), but who the hell doesn’t love a palm tree.

Also making use of the L.A. aesthetic (light, light, and more eternal light—God, we need rain), Piano has, to his credit, created rows of what can only be called fins, jutting diagonally on the roof as part of a system that brings natural illumination into two massive top-floor exhibition suites.

Prego for that, Signor Piano, now what about the $64 million question: How’s the art? No surprise that there’s nary a surprise in sight, with Broad lending 220 works for the inaugural exhibition, not donating his collection, as originally planned. But, like most covetous billionaires, Broad decided to hang onto his goodies, thus retaining total control while simultaneously giving the new institution yet another patina—that of egg on its face.

There’s a huge room devoted to Jeff Koons, with plenty of gawkers surrounding Michael Jackson and Bubbles, (happy 25th anniversary, btw, to Jackson’s masterpiece, Thriller), as well as Koons’ Cracked Egg (Red), the museum’s de facto logo that has sprouted all over the city touting, “BCAM—Born.”

From John Baldessari (his twin, oversize banners—52 by 55 feet—adorn the Wilshire façade), and Damien Hirst (his dead shark in formaldehyde is not here, but a pill installation is, reminding me that if I want meds, I go to my pharmacist, not a museum), to Jean-Michel Basquiat (the Warhol-mentored dude who OD’d on heroin in 1988), the show is definitely the greatest hits of way pricey art.

There’s also the quintessential Californian, Edward Ruscha, and the late East coaster, Roy Lichtenstein (he was my father, Fenton West’s fraternity buddy at Ohio State University, about whom Daddy recalls, “He was always drawing, but I remember his piano playing…”).

As to the remaining usual suspects: Sure, I love the stellar works of Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg, but 55, count ‘em, 55 pieces by Cindy Sherman? And all these works displayed in the same old, same old…way. As L.A. Times architecture critic, Christopher Hawthorne writes, “…the whole enterprise seems stalled in the late 1980s.”

But there is a marvelous Richard Serra sculpture, the 193-ton Band from 2006. Created for MOMA (click here for a video tour), it is, when you walk through it, like a funhouse ride. Too bad, then, that it’s on the first floor, where midget-size ceilings and poor lighting not only induce claustrophobia, but give short shrift to the steel’s otherwise gloriously morphable colors. I mean: What large glass windows, natural light and a truly elevated ceiling could have done for the sculpture’s textures and sheens we can only guess.

An antithesis to Picasso’s quote, “Art is the elimination of the unnecessary,” BCAM needs more than big bucks to prove itself. Nevertheless, come one, come all—the entrance fee is a measly $12 bucks for adults (compared to MOMA’s $20), with its opening weekend free and sponsored by—who else—Target.

Posted in ELI BROAD, JEFF KOONS, MICHAEL JACKSON, RICHARD SERRA | Comments Off on If He Builds It Will They Come?

The Big O’s

Posted on February 10, 2008 by admin

Cable Access Goddess Victoria Looseleaf and her father, Fenton West, enjoy a date with Oscar at L.A.’s Shrine Auditorium. Photo by Gary Leonard.

By Victoria Looseleaf

While we at The Looseleaf Report Blog are spewing our thoughts on Oscar season—be they rants, chants, whatthefuckever—I love the notion that the heat of an amazing election year seems to be surpassing all things Hollywood (and yeah, I’m thrilled to say, I’m on the Obamarama train; as to the botoxed Ms. Hillary, I only wish that I had $5 million to lend to myself). But from my perch in Tinseltown-adjacent, I feel that I, too, must weigh in, letting out a long, low Looseleaf howl on my picks and pans from the past year.

Daniel Day-Lewis, even though his five-year hiatus honing cobbler skills could have resulted in his surpassing stiletto king Manolo Blahnik, once again rules the thespian roost with his ridiculously brilliant portrayal of Daniel Plainview in Paul Thomas Anderson’s magnificent Let There Be Blood. I also bless him for dedicating his S.A.G. award to Heath Ledger (more on the Heathster in a bit). Kudos, as well, to P.T. He’s the son of “Ghoulardi,” a late-night horror host from my hometown, Cleveland (who unfortunately moved from that unfairly maligned town to the Valley of Los Angeles, where he spawned P.T. and where he also died), for making a film so hot, so visionary, and so, well, surreally real that it is a fabulous testament to the art of filmmaking.

I also am insane for the following: those fucking genius Coen brothers and Tim Burton (even if Johnny Depp’s Sweeney Todd crooning is more like Rex Harrison’s vocalese in My Fair Lady). Those robbed of nods include Ridley Scott (Denzel’s spot-on portrait of Frank Lucas in American Gangster is enough to make needlephobes of everyone) and Sidney Lumet. The latter, still going strong at 83 (much like Daddy, my longtime Oscar date, as witnessed by the above photo), manages to bring freshness to a familiar genre in the decidedly downer flick Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead. Which brings me to the amazing Philip Seymour Hoffman, who was nominated for the entirely wrong picture, Charlie Wilson’s War—and don’t get me started on Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts—instead of Devil, where he cavorts in all of his rotund nakedness with Marisa Tomei, also fabulously nude, but not when I bumped into her at Whole Paycheck, er, Foods: There she was, in sunglasses and sweats, hair casually pinned up in Hepburn—Audrey—mode, munching on a croissant and filling her cart with overpriced juices, veggies, and all too often bland-tasting foodstuffs.

And speaking of full frontal nudity, Viggo, Mr. Mortensen (a fan of The Looseleaf Report), takes the babka for his menacing turn in Eastern Promises. But as for Viggo snagging the golden statuette, let’s just paraphrase Brando’s glorious soliloquy in the cab ride scene in On The Waterfront and imagine the Vig bemoaning, “It ain’t my night.”

As for Juno, hey—remind me to be a stripper for a year (the pole thing is my forte, fersure), change my name (huh, again?), then pen a pic too hip for the room. Yeah, Ellen Page is fine, but Allison Janney needs to remain on the small screen along with that Law and Order guy, J.K. Simmons. Phooey!

I love George Clooney but still feel a bit miffed he wouldn’t dine with me and shooter Gary Leonard when we had our food column, “Out of the Frying Pan.” It ran for two years in the local rag The Studio City Sun and was the reason we scarfed free meals and downed a bunch of booze in a myriad of Valley restaurants, all in which the hunk ostensibly wined and dined as well. But he won’t win, so harrumph.

And lest we forget, Cate Blanchett was one of only two reasons to pay any moolah to see the abysmal, poorly titled I’m Not There, the Dylan disaster helmed by Todd Haynes. (Once again, The Looseleaf Report was way ahead of the curve—being one of the first to broadcast Haynes’s short film Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story, totally enacted by, er, Barbie dolls). Cate, however, was phenomenal, which, for me, cancels out her histrionic Kate (Hepburn) in The Aviator, a performance that was, in my opinion, overrated and un-Oscarworthy.

The only other reason to spend 135 minutes with Haynes’s misguided vision? Heath Ledger—gloriously bare-assed, brooding, and seriously mumbling—and who, we just learned, died of a polypharmaceutical overdose, like Elvis, Marilyn, and numerous others, specifically friends from my checkered past. Their deaths, while more predictable, were still senseless and will never stop hurting.

As for the tox report, while not exactly a laundry list of fabulous highs, it’s still an odd one. Why would our boy take an over-the-counter sleep aid, Unisom, when he’s got Restoril (which is nothing compared to oldies like Tuinal or Seconal). Xanax is on every Hollywood A-list and while it’s true it doesn’t go well with Woodford Reserve Bourbon shots, it shouldn’t kill ya. Valium, again, is way old-school. Then we come to Hydrocodone (aka the eternally popular Vicodin), Oxycodone (the hillbilly opiate of choice, OxyContin), and Percocet (not nearly as good as its predecessor Percodan).

In other words: Quel fucking waste. TMZ may have been a tad slow on the uptake of this, but hopefully we can find closure, especially since Heath was laid to rest in Aussie soil over the weekend.

A final note: For you culture vultures, please check out my Los Angeles Times feature on the high priestess of fouettes, Diana Vishneva, and my program notes on the Los Angeles Master Chorale’s latest concert at Walt Disney Concert Hall. For those wishing to make an armchair visit to the Netherlands, check out my review of the Holland Dance Festival in Dance Magazine.

And remember: Yes. We. Can.

Posted in ELVIS, Heath Ledger, MANOLO, OBAMA, Oscar, VICODIN | Comments Off on The Big O’s

Oprah’s the One! Win With Winfrey!

Posted on February 5, 2008 by admin

By Adam Nadler

With the Oscar race growing as tight and unpredictable as the political one, has anyone noticed the brazenly one-sided nature of celebrity endorsements? Sure, Hollywood’s upper crust has long thrown its support behind a variety of candidates, but why don’t the candidates return the favor? Where are the candidates when it comes to the Oscars?

The silence is deafening. Barbra Streisand has come out strong for Hillary Clinton, but where was Hillary when the Academy snubbed Yentl? Oprah has put her eggs behind Barack Obama, but have you heard a peep from him about her voice-over work as Judge Bumbleton in Bee Movie? And while Chuck Norris has never been a serious Academy Award contender, wouldn’t you think Mike Huckabee would at least utter a prayer for a Lifetime Achievement Award? By the power of Grayskull, I would.

It’s high time Washington stop taking our celebrities for granted. Deft dodges like “I leave that up to the American people to decide” and “There are many issues I didn’t take a stand on as governor of Massachusetts” just don’t fly anymore. Come Oscar night, the voters have a right to know where the candidates stand. After all, if John McCain wants to hold onto that Florida vote, he’d be wise to say something nice about Old Men.

Adam Nadler is a writer-filmmaker living in New York City. His film Shoot George, a satire about gun violence, is available at Bside.com.

Posted in candidates, celebrity endorsements, Oscar | Comments Off on Oprah’s the One! Win With Winfrey!

10 Oscar-Related Questions for Insomniacs

Posted on January 31, 2008 by admin
Cate Blanchett as Bob Dylan in I’m Not There.


By Mary Lyn Maiscott

1. Could Cate Blanchett play Queen Elizabeth I playing Bob Dylan? If so, would she be nominated twice for that?

2. In choosing the music for Juno, could director Jason Reitman have misunderstood a request by Ellen Page, keeping in character as a pregnant teenager with strange cravings, for moldy peaches?

3. Will Diablo Cody and Ricki Lake start a trend in snarky home births? (Midwife: Just relax into the birthing tub, this is so beautiful and empowering! Pregnant woman: No jet sprays in this thing? Is that the best you could do? Would you send the doula out for cheeseburgers?)

4. Could Bob Dylan in whiteface (he’s done it before) play Cate Blanchett playing Elizabeth? If so, would he get a nominated song out of it—“Virgin Queen Revisited”?

5. Speaking of nominated songs and sequels, can we expect Twice?

6. Has Julia Roberts, of Charlie Wilson’s War, ever stuck herself in the eye with a safety pin? If so, was this a punk thing or a grooming thing?

7. Could Cate Blanchett play Meryl Streep playing a rabbi? Oops, wrong year, wrong medium.

8. Who the hell is Michael Clayton? What the hell is a diving bell?

9. When actor Daniel Day-Lewis and wife director/screenwriter Rebecca Miller converse, is it dialogue? Does this make them scabs?

10. Will there be blood? Oh wait, we know that one—with Johnny Depp around, absolutely.

Posted in Cate Blanchett, Daniel Day-Lewis, Johnny Depp, Juno, Oscar | Comments Off on 10 Oscar-Related Questions for Insomniacs

A Shout Out to All of You and An Achingly Heartfelt Goodbye to Heath

Posted on January 29, 2008 by admin

By Victoria Looseleaf

Greetings, cheers and a gigabyte’s worth of hellos to you, our ardent followers, contributors and fans who have been loyally reading, posting and being such a cool, vital part of The Looseleaf Report cyber community—our blog—since its launch last April. Please allow me, then, to take this opportunity—albeit a belated one—to at long last welcome you to The Looseleaf Report Blog.

(DIGRESSION: Last June I intended to make my entrance with thoughts on the final episode of The Sopranos, but since I was addicted to the HBO show and suffering from major withdrawal, I instead fled the country for Cuba, France, Greece, Spain, Holland and Argentina, where I covered a coterie of arts festivals. But hey, I loved the ending, it was sheer fucking genius and am thrilled the cast got its due at the Screen Actors Guild Awards.)

In any event, recapping for new peeps out there, our Tribeca film coverage by New Yorkers, Robert Rosen and Mary Lyn Maiscott, was without peer. (Who knew, btw, that Sarah Michelle Gellar had such passionate fans?) For that I say muchas gracias and do faithfully swear to contribute regularly from now on from my base in Beverly Hills…Adjacent. Seriously, as the online counterpart to our hip, late-night, bicoastal television show on the arts, The Looseleaf Report (catch us in New York, Los Angeles or streamed over the web), this blog will serve as another outlet for Mr. Rosen, Ms. Maiscott and me, Victoria Looseleaf, straddler of high and low culture, to not only shed light on happenings in the worlds of arts and entertainment, but to dialogue with you.

In other words, please talk to us, post your comments and tell your friends to visit us (and for a hoot, check out The Looseleaf Beauty Report on YouTube by plugging in the word, “looseleaf.”)

Now, though, I write simply to express my profound sadness at Heath Ledger’s passing. Heath(cliff) Ledger (named for the stable-boy-turned-faux aristocrat in Emily Bronte’s only novel, Wuthering Heights), we hardly knew ya. But, oh how you were loved…and fantastically brilliant. You’re gone now and way too soon. (I’m not pointing fingers but even without my UC Berkeley crim degree I’d be pissed and puzzled about the masseuse calling Mary-Kate Olsen, not the brightest etoile in the sky—not once, but twice before dialing 911…)

Fortunately, though, we shall have your celluloid self to cherish forever: From your conflicted, repressed cowboy (“Jack, I swear” —who hasn’t felt like that, huh?), to your insanely lovable Cassanova (what’s better, really, than sex in a gondola?)—with forays into surfdom, teen lust and even a wry Bob Dylan portrayal—you gifted us with your luminous presence. But will I be able to handle your turn, Heath, as “The Joker” in the upcoming Batman sequel, The Dark Knight? Perhaps, but only with a big bottle of bourbon and a box of Kleenex. Farewell, sweet prince…and plant a big one on James Dean for me, puhleeze.

Posted in Heath Ledger | Comments Off on A Shout Out to All of You and An Achingly Heartfelt Goodbye to Heath

Caliquivocation

Posted on October 1, 2007 by admin

Transplanted New Yorkers Karen (Natascha McElhone) and her ex-partner Hank (David Duchovny) contemplate their new life in Los Angeles, with shades required.

Californication

By Mary Lyn Maiscott

I like the new Showtime series Californication, but I’m not sure why. At the beginning, Hank Moody (subtle!), played by former X-Filer David Duchovny, was so pricky that one wondered what the creators were up to. Anti-hero: sure, but it seemed clear that we were supposed to like him (and that women, including his ex, for all her protestations, couldn’t resist him). And then there were all those breasts jiggling above him in medias coitus. Was this just an intellectual soft-porn show for pricky men? Hank delighted in insulting his sex partners, saying weird, almost old-fashioned things like “Consider yourself defiled” (or was it “violated”?). And then he blindsided a blind date, a friend of his agent’s wife, by derogatorily sizing up her background, based on nothing but a pleasantry or two from her (and you got the feeling that he was supposed to be, somehow, spot-on).

Which brings me to another problem with the show: it keeps stealing from movies. Hank’s instant character assassination of that unfortunate date has to derive directly from the scene in Annie Hall in which Alvy Singer (Woody Allen), nervous before his stand-up act at Columbia University, takes a look at Allison Portchnik (Carol Kane) and does the same kind of synopsis, only without the snideness and with an admission that he’s acting imbecilic. (“No, that was wonderful,” she replies. “I love being reduced to a cultural stereotype.”) Also, unless it’s common in L.A. for women to stand naked in front of men and ask for a sober appraisal of their body—in Californication this happens twice—the writers have borrowed from Nicole Holofcener’s Lovely and Amazing as well. Moving along, in the third episode, Hank’s agent (played by the ever reliable Evan Handler, Charlotte’s Jewish love on Sex and the City) gets an S&M thing going with his assistant—or should I say Secretary?

The show’s rogue protagonist also gets away with some ridiculous antics, such as stealing an extremely valuable painting—hello, Hank? Does the word larceny ring any bells?

All that aside, there’s something very engaging about the show. For one thing, it holds good writing in esteem. We’re constantly told what a genius Hank (currently suffering from that famous disorder writer’s block) is, and though the passages we hear—from a blog he reluctantly agrees to do for an L.A. magazine, as though blogs had not become an accepted form of expression for writers from James Wolcott to Jane Smiley (and, hey, me!)—aren’t exactly brilliant, they’re occasionally evocative and even moving.

Also, lately Hank has become more of a good guy (focus groups unhappy with the anti-Christ?). I was glad when the maligned blind date reappeared, in that TV way where people always run into people, and Hank offered a true apology and started seeing her (with nary a breast in sight for what Nancy Franklin, in The New Yorker, called the ta-ta cam). In addition, despite his own transgressive ways (his ex tells him he’s drowning “in a sea of pointless pussy,” a phrase deemed so good Hank resurrects it for us in voice-over), Hank attempts to save his agent/friend’s marriage—in the only way he knows, by suggesting maybe his wife is as much a “dirty girl” as his assistant (and within another episode or two, she is). As perhaps a safety catch, Hank has an adolescent daughter, an aspiring rocker with gothic bangs, that he is crazy about and always tries to do right by; and his ex’s pompous fiancé appears to have no redeeming value other than making Hank seem great in contrast, even to the man’s teenage daughter (whom, oops!, Hank has slept with before learning of her age and paternity). Also, Hank is played by Duchovny, whose slightly off good looks (the lower lip and short chin somehow bespeak both poutiness and detachment) and innate intelligence and in-on-the-joke-ness prevent him from being truly villainous.

So this is the balancing act the show now seems to be trying to perform: How far can this contemporary Ginger Man—an allusion Hank would need to explain to most of his young conquests—go while still remaining lovable as well as edible?

And how long will it take for Hank and the series itself to find a unique voice?

Posted in Californication, David Duchovny, Evan Handler, Natascha McElhone | Comments Off on Caliquivocation

Sex Slaves: We Deliver (Esclavas Sexuales: Servicio a Domicilio)

Posted on September 27, 2007 by admin

Adriana (Paulina Gaitán) and Jorge (César Ramos) in their Mexico City home, in Trade, before the Russian mob snatches Adriana off the street.

Adriana (Paulina Gaitán) y Jorge (César Ramos) en su casa en Ciudad de México, en Trade, antes de que la mafia rusa secuestrara a Adriana en las calles del barrio.

On occasion, when the situation warrants, The Looseleaf Report
will run articles in Spanish as well as English. The review of Trade, below, is the first article to run in both languages.

En ocasiones, cuando la situación lo amerite, The Looseleaf Report publicará artículos en inglés y español. La crítica de la película Trade, abajo, es el primer artículo publicado en ambos idiomas.

Trade
113 minutes
Directed by Marco Kreuzpaintner
Screenplay by Jose Rivera
Story by Peter Landesman and Jose Rivera
Starring: Kevin Kline, César Ramos, Alicja Bachleda, Paulina Gaitán, Marco Pérez, Linda Emond, Zack Ward, Kate Del Castillo, Tim Reid, and Pasha D. Lynchinkoff
From Germany
In English and Spanish with subtitles

By J.C. Malone

Children who disobey their parents will suffer serious consequences, but love of family and religious faith will always prevail over impossible odds. These are among the central themes of Trade, a well-crafted and highly emotional blend of fiction and docudrama, based on a New York Times Magazine article, “The Girls Next Door” by Peter Landesman.

The film focuses on the brutality of the Russian mob, which operates out of Eastern Europe and Mexico City. Their business: kidnapping young women, girls, and boys, beating them, drugging them, and smuggling them from Mexico into the United States for a life of forced prostitution.

One of their victims is the virginal 13-year-old Adriana (Paulina Gaitán). Living like Eve in a Mexico City-slum version of Paradise, her original sin is to disobey her widowed mother. Suspecting that the bike Adriana’s brother, Jorge (César Ramos), gave her for her birthday was stolen, and believing that the neighborhood is too dangerous anyway, the mother forbids her daughter from riding it.

As Adriana takes her first bike ride through the barrio, the vicious Russians promptly kidnap her. Brother Jorge, like Don Quixote, then begins an improbable quest to find and rescue his sister. Along the way, in Juárez, Mexico, he meets Ray Sheridan (Kevin Kline), an American cop specializing in insurance fraud, who, for mysterious reasons, freelances in tracking down kidnapped children.

Offering perhaps the most panoramic view to date into the black holes where forced prostitution operates, Trade straddles the difficult-to-distinguish border between art and reality. Though director Marco Kreuzpaintner did his best to overcome the technical and conceptual problems of this delicate balancing act, sometimes his best wasn’t good enough.

Jorge, for example, performing a feat that would make a Toyota hybrid jealous, drives a hotrod 1,200 miles, from Mexico City to Juárez, without refueling. Then Jorge and Ray blast across the U.S.A, covering almost 2,000 miles, from Laredo, Texas, to New Jersey in 24 hours—which might be possible with Neal Cassidy behind the wheel, popping amphetamines. And Mexico City, as compelling and diverse a megalopolis as you’ll find anywhere, is portrayed as a one-dimensional crime-ridden hell-hole, where desperately poor and marginalized Mexican kids, like Jorge (who are in the business of ripping off gringo tourists with a prostitution scam), have learned to speak perfect English. “I’ve got many brains,” he tells his mother when she asks about his language skills.

Trade’s worst sin, however, is to inflame the current anti-immigrant bias, and reinforce the stereotype of Americans and the United States as the helplessly innocent victims of evil, heartless foreigners who run their forced prostitution rings as ruthlessly as any drug cartel.

Mexicans and Russians team up with lowlife Americans to smuggle their human cargo across the border and “store” them in the suburban New Jersey home of Laura (Kate Del Castillo), a Latino woman who runs an online global auction which offers wealthy pedophiles the opportunity to buy the flesh of their choosing. It’s through such an auction that Jorge, using Ray Sheridan’s life savings, is able to buy Adriana, bidding against a South African man who drives the price to over $30,000, because the girl is a virgin.

A middle-aged man who flies from Malaysia to Laredo to pick up an Asian boy he bought at auction and Mickey Mouse American cops who transform themselves into heroes and show up just in time to save the day are among the other stereotypes parading through the film.

Not surprisingly, Trade also delivers a strong message of Roman Catholic propaganda, establishing the theme early, with children singing the traditional Mexican religious birthday song, “Las Mañanitas,” and carrying it through to the end. In one scene, one of the kidnappers, Manuelo (Marco Pérez, who played Ramiro in the Oscar-nominated Amores Perros) stops to pray before a giant cross; in another, Adriana saves herself and Ray by spiritually blackmailing Manuelo; and—SPOILER ALERT—finally (and miraculously) Adriana’s mother, a faithful church-goer, prays in a cathedral as the lord delivers her kidnapped daughter, as if by Federal Express, directly to her pew.

Though the photography is outstanding and features a striking high-energy opening montage of Mexico City, Trade, above all, may well be remembered as the movie in which César Ramos, who’s good-looking in a Tom Cruise kind of way, burnt himself into our consciousness with a brilliant and unforgettable performance.

***

J.C. Malone, author of Sammy Sosa in 9 Innings, is a columnist for El Listin Diario in the Dominican Republic. His new book, Reelección: Reto Nacional, will be released this fall.

Esclavos Sexuales: Servicio a Domicilio

Trade
113 minutos
Dirección: Marco Kreuzpaintner
Guión: José Rivera
Basada en una historia de Peter Landesman y José Rivera
Protagonizan: Kevin Kline, César Ramos, Alicja Bachleda, Paulina Gaitán, Marco Pérez, Linda Emond, Zack Ward, Kate Del Castillo, Tim Reid, y Pasha D. Lynchinkoff
De Alemania
En inglés y español con subtítulos.

Por J.C. Malone

Los niños desobedientes sufrirán serias consecuencias, pero el amor familiar y la fe religiosa siempre triunfan sobre lo más insalvables obstáculos. Estos estan entre los temas centrales de Trade, una bien armada mezcla de ducodrama y ficción con una alta carga emocional, basada en un artículo publicado por The New York Times Magazine “The Girls Next Door” (La Muchacha de Al Lado) de Peter Landesman.

La historia muestra la brutalidad de la Mafia Rusa que opera desde Europa Oriental y Ciudad México. Su negocio: Secuestrar mujeres jóvenes, niñas y niños, someterlas a base de golpes y endrogamientos, para cruzarlas a Estados Unidos para a una vida de prostitución forzada.

Una de sus víctimas es la virginal Adriana, de 13 años, (Paulina Gaitán). Viviendo como Eva, en su versión del paraíso terrenal en un barrio pobre de Ciudad México, su pecado original fue desobedecerle a su madre viuda. Ella sospecha que una biscicleta que su hijo Jorge (César Ramos), le reagalo a su hermana Adriana para su cumpleaños, fue robada. Y creyendo que el vecindario es peligoso, ella prohibe que la niña monte la biscicleta.

Cuando Adriana salió a dar su primera vuelta en biscicleta, los rusos la secuestran. Su hermano Jorge emprende la quijotesca labor de encontrarla y liberarla. En el proceso, en Juárez, México, el encuentra a Ray Sheridan (Kevin Kline), un policía texano especialista en fraudes contra compañías de seguros, quien, por razones misteriosas, trata de localizar niños secuestrados.

Ofreciendo quizá la perspectiva más panorámica hasta el momento, del agujero negro donde funciona la prostitución forzada, Trade cabalga sobre algunas dificultades para establecer la frontera entre el arte y la realidad. Aunque el director Marco Kreuzpaintner hizo lo mejor que pudo para resolver esas dificultades técnicas y conceptuale, manteniendo ese delicado balance, por momentos su mejor esfuerzo no fue lo suficientemente bueno.

Jorge, por ejemplo, conduciendo un auto que haría sentir envidioso a cualquier Toyota híbrido, conduce 1.200 millas, de Ciudad Mexico a Juárez, sin detenerse a echar gasolina. Entonces Jorge y Ray atraviesan Estados Unidos, cubriendo unas 2.000 millas entre Laredo Texas y New Jersey en 24 horas. –Eso quizá sea posible con Neal Cassidy al volante metiendo anfetaminas. Y Ciudad México como una gran megalópolis, es presentada de manera unidimensional, como un agujero infernal corroído por el crimen, llena de paradojas. En Trade los marginados niños pobres mexicanos, como Jorge (quien estafa turistas con ofertas de prostitución), hablan perfecto inglés. “Yo tengo varios cerebros” le dice a su madre cuando ella le pregunta sobre sus destrezas en el idioma inglés.

El peor pecado de Trade, sin embargo, es añadir más combustible al sentimiento y prejuicio anti-inmigrante del presente, reforzando stereotipos de que Estados Unidos y los Estadosunidenses son víctimas impotentes e inocentes de diabólicos desalmados extranjeros, que corren su netgocio de prostitución forzada; igual como con los carteles de drogas.

Mexicanos y rusos trabajan para introducir a su carga humana por la frontera y “almacenarla” en una residencia de un suburbio de New Jersey donde Laura (Kate del Castillo) una mujer latina, dirige las subastas globales. En ellas acaudalados pedófilos extranjeros compran carne fresca extranjera a un a venderoes extranjeros. En una de esas subastas Jorge, con el dinero de Ray Sheridan, compra a su hermana, compitiendo contra un rico sudafricano que elevó el precio pasado los $30.000 porque la niña era virgen.

Hay un hombre de edad mediana que viaja de Malasya a Laredo para recoger a un niño que compró en la subasta. Los policías americanos, como Mickey Mouse, llegan justo a tiempo para salvar a los protagonistas; esa es otra forma de propagar estereotipos en la película.

Trade también incluye una fuerte dósis de propaganda Católica Romana desde el inicio. La película abre con unas niñas cantándo “Las Mañanitas” y el tema sigue hasta el final. Uno de los secuestradores, Manuelo (Marcos Pérez, que hizo de Ramiro en Amores Perros) reza ante una cruz gigante; después Adriana salva su vida y la de Ray montándole a Manuelo un chantaje religioso. Y (CUIDADO, VIENE EL DESENLACE), vaya coincidencia, al final, como un milagro, la madre de Adriana, una asidua visitante a la iglesia, reza en la catedral y el señor escucha sus oraciones, enviándole su hija secuestrada (como si fuera un currier de Fedex) diercto al banco de la iglesia donde esta de rodillas elevando sus plegarias.

Aunque tiene excelente fotografia y comienza con un montaje de alta energia musical, gráfica y artistica sobre Ciudad México, Trade, por encima de todo, puede ser recordada como la pelicula en la que César Ramos, un jóven talentoso y aparente, tipo Tom Cruise, ingresó a nuestra consciencia con su inolvidable actuacion.

***
J.C. Malone, autor de Sammy Sosa en 9 Innings, es un columnista sindicato de periodicos en español de Estados Unidos y de El Listin Diario en República Dominicana. Su nuevo libro: Reelección: Reto Nacional, será publicado este otoño.

Posted in Alicja Bachleda, César Ramos, Jose Rivera, Kate Del Castillo, Kevin Kline, Marco Kreuzpaintner, Marco Pérez, Paulina Gaitán, Peter Landesman, Trade | Comments Off on Sex Slaves: We Deliver (Esclavas Sexuales: Servicio a Domicilio)

Soundtrack to the Tribeca Film Festival

Posted on May 6, 2007 by admin

Donovan: “Mellow Yellow” on a green guitar. (Photo by Scott Gries/Getty Images for Tribeca Film Festival)

By Mary Lyn Maiscott

“Music loves film, and film loves music.” I know, this doesn’t quite make sense, but what if I tell you Donovan said it? Then it kind of works, doesn’t it?

The musicians playing the wonderful Tribeca/ASCAP Music Lounge, held at the Canal Room May 1-4, sometimes felt the need to muster up a direct tie between the two art forms, but they really didn’t need to. People—often between movies—were just there for the songs, and many of the songs were great, especially as delivered in such an intimate setting (and with an open bar nearby). Nevertheless, Jon Auer, of the Posies and Big Star, introduced one song as “an audio version of a Douglas Sirk film”; Adam Schlesinger and Mike Viola performed Schlesinger’s über-catchy “That Thing You Do!” from the eponymous 1996 movie; and Donovan—elfin as always in striped pants and a black waistcoat—revealed that his friend David Lynch loves “Season of the Witch” (as did we, the audience).

Mary Gauthier: Hardscrabble lives set to music. (Photo by Scott Gries/Getty Images for Tribeca Film Festival)

Another recurring theme was the sad song, with which many of the artists identified: Folk singer Mary Gauthier, declaring herself the “anti-Donovan”—the ’60s icon was on the same Wednesday bill—said at one point that she should be playing a happy song for a change but that she hadn’t yet written one. Similarly, as a kind of disclaimer for a love song he’d written for his wife (“Angelita”), Jon Auer, whose new album is entitled Songs from the Year of Our Demise, asked rhetorically, “Who am I, fuckin’ Paul McCartney? Fuckin’ Ben Lee?” This was another inside joke of sorts: Lee had played only two sets before, and had wowed the crowd with his self-possessed charm (the David Lee Roth scissor kicks went over big), slightly askew tunes, and peace-and-love vibe (especially with “We’re All in This Together,” sung standing on the bar). John Doe and Exene Cervenka, founding members of the punk band X, reminded us of our current political situation with “Lonesome War” and “Will Jesus Wash the Bloodstains from Your Hands?”

John Doe and Exene Cervenka: X marks the spot. (Photo by Scott Gries/Getty Images for Tribeca Film Festival)

Which brings me back to Mary Gauthier. Her songs are indeed filled with gravitas, as befits a middle-aged woman who has seen some hard times. And now we’re all seeing hard times as a nation; I think that’s one reason that her eloquent “Mercy” struck a nerve. The wonder of art is that even when it’s evoking the terrible, if it’s good it lifts us up, and Gauthier’s music was truly transporting.

Another thing about art: even within one form, it comes in many varieties. For the Music Lounge, Loretta Muñoz and her crew at ASCAP put together an eclectic lineup. Besides the artists already mentioned, it included such diverse talents as songwriter legend Jimmy Webb, bluesy chanteuse Alice Smith, and, in a rousing finish to the four-day event, rock ’n’ roll idol John Rzeznik of the Goo Goo Dolls. To quote Donovan again (quoting Pink Floyd), “Shine on, you crazy diamonds.”

Posted in Adam Schlesinger, ASCAP, Ben Lee, Donovan, Exene Cervenka, Goo Goo Dolls, John Doe, John Rzeznik, Jon Auer, Mary Gauthier, Mike Viola, Tribeca Film Festival | Comments Off on Soundtrack to the Tribeca Film Festival