[sic]

Last Thursday I told about my 26-year-old, off-and-on search to see the film True Confessions. From reading various critiques both of the film and the long-awaited April release of its DVD, I wasn’t sure if it was worth such a long wait, but that didn’t stop us from popping it in the player and putting an end to the quarter-century delay Saturday night.

In the aftermath, I see the film as a product of three competing elements here. The first is the way the film wonderously captures the visual essence of Los Angeles in the 1940s. The second is the all-around perfect performances. From top to bottom the cast of actors deliver marvelous portrayals. The third is the actual plotline. While the first two dovetail quite nicely, the telling of the story never falls in line quite right and is what keeps it from being a truly great film.

It may be a cheap and easy shot to take but my theory for its shortcomings is one along the lines of the studio having final say about the film’s cut, primarily because its 1:48 runtime makes it seem like stuff got left on the cutting room floor for the sake of keeping things short.

There’s the subplot shoehorned in and centering around Burgess Meredith’s character that seems like something’s missing because as it stands it could have been excised entirely and comes off as almost inconsequential save for the fact that the desert parish exile Meredith’s character endures foreshadows what ultimately happens to Robert DeNiro’s.

Then there’s the late-inning revelation in the film’s final act to the disbelieving and unaware DeNiro when he’s told that he actually had previously come in contact with the murdered “virgin tramp” (the movie’s version of Black Dahlia victim Elizabeth Short), which just doesn’t fit given his character’s drive for power and attention to detail. With the sensationalized murder putting the poor girl’s picture all over the papers it’s just hard to believe he wouldn’t have recognized her as having been in a vehicle that coincidentally picked her up hitchhiking. It makes far more sense that he would have and then subsequently attempt some sort of damage control to prevent that connection from becoming public and threatening to destroy his ambitions… which it ultimately does.

And frankly for a film that’s about two brothers and the roads they took — Duvall’s into law enforcement and DeNiro’s to the church — I was left wanting to know more about how such disparate decisions came about.

Lastly, with the film bookended by a scene from the future and thus told entirely in flashback and wrapped up with something of a shoulder shrug at the end… all I can do is shoulder shrug at that cliché device as well.

Having not read John Gregory Dunne’s book from which the film is based I should shut up and put the title on my list (done) and read it before blaming any United Artists bigwigs for what may or may not have been included. But whether bad editing decisions are to blame or there were just storytelling depths that went umplumbed in the source material, the brilliant visual and performance aspects of True Confessions still make for very compelling viewing.

As to the DVD itself… very disappointing. There’s not a single feature to be found on the disc. No commentary track. No “making of” short. Not even the theatrical trailer. On top of that the transfer looks like it was made from a faded old print and the soundtrack’s in mono. I don’t have to read any book to know the ball was dropped big time for what was certainly a much-anticipated release.

There aren’t many movies that I’ve waited 26 years to see, but True Confessions is one of them. Released in 1981 starring Roberts De Niro and Duvall apparently to somewhat less-than-critical acclaim and based on the infamous Black Dahlia murder case, for reasons lost to me I never saw it during its run in the theaters. Then I never caught it on cable — if it even played there. Then when I got my first VCR in the mid-80s a cassette of it either flat out wasn’t made available or somehow managed always to stay out of my reach or beyond my recall.

With my first DVD player in 2000 interest in seeing it renewed… surely the film’s distributor wouldn’t fail to take advantage of this new format, right? Nope. In fact go figure: the DVD of the noir classic wasn’t released until this past April 17 (again with somewhat less-than-stellar reviews). But whether or not the long-sought film meets my expectations or fails in the attempt thanks to moving it up to the top of my Netflix queue, I’m finally going to be able to screen what I’ve been missing all these years.

My fellow Blogging.la contributor David Markland is psyched for the Star Wars Celebration beginning this Friday at the L.A. Convention Center, and wrote that he can track his desire to be a filmmaker back to when he saw the film and then the landmark “Making of Star Wars” special that aired on CBS back in 1977.

Which reminded me of the 2005 posts I wrote during the frenzy building for the release of the series’ much-anticipated final chapter about me actually being in that TV special. So climb aboard my flashback machine and let’s relive that glory:

April 7, 2005

With all the overblown obsession of all the people in line at the Mann’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood planning to wait the 43 days until the next “Star Wars” film opens (but at the Arclight, not the Chinese), it got me kinda nostalgic for those good old days back in the summer of 1977 when my friend Luis DeJesus and I cut summer school at Le Conte Junior High to go see C3P0, R2D2, and Darth Vader get their feetprints enshrined in concrete in the famed theater’s forecourt.

And wouldn’t you know, the website of those geeks who are currently lined up there has an image posted of that very same event:

I kid you not, Luis and I were standing in the area indicated by the arrow, perhaps 12 feet or so from where the coolest droids and the bestest villian ever showed up to smoosh their tootsies in the Ready-Mix. We were in 13-year-old heaven!

The cool thing was Luis’ mom was working at 20th Century Fox at the time and had scored us each an authentic film crew tee with the distinctive logo on the front — which of course we both wore.

Later, after the ceremony was over and the crowd had dispersed Luis and I were trying to figure out a way to sneak in to see the film when a guy near the box office with a video camera called to us as we stood beneath one of the posters on the right side of the courtyard. We both looked over at him and he held the camera on us for a few seconds before saying thanks and moving on.

We thought it was just a local cameraman grabbing footage, but we later found out it was much bigger than the six o’clock news. Shortly thereafter, to capitalize on the fever the film induced, we heard of a “The Making of ‘Star Wars,’” a documentary that aired about a month later on TV — just after 8th grade had begun.

Of course I watched it, having no idea that near the end when the doc was wrapping up with an exploration of the merchandizing phenomenon the movie had become, all of a sudden there I was with Luis onscreen standing under the poster in our matching “Star Wars” t-shirts. In a blink we were gone, but it was enough for me to come to school (in the shirt, of course) and wallow in some short-lived celebrity from a steady stream of schoolmates who throughout the day would yell at me, “Hey! I saw you on TV last night!”

Man it would be so cool if I could get my hands on a copy of that old doc… but maybe I already have it. I should dive into the special features discs of the “Star Wars Trilogy” that Susan got me for Christmas… perhaps it’s in there. How cool would that be!?

Turns out four days later, bad back not withstanding,
it would be very cool, after the jump.

(more…)

Susan and I are back from our trip to Orange County where we had lunch at the dim sum palace known as Sea Food Paradise in Westminster, at the entrance of which I found this concrete truth:

 And inside I had plenty of this:

 I had incorrectly called the above “butter encrusted shrimp” in the post below. It’s actually mayonnaise encrusted shrimp and if I ever find it closer to home I’ll be most ecstatic, but until then I won’t be waiting years to go back to Westminster’s Little Saigon and getting me some more.

Afterwards we journeyed furthur south to Newport Beach’s Fashion Island, site of the Newport Beach Film Festival where we saw my friend Billy Savage and watched the screening of Klunkerz, his  excellent documentary on the origins of mountain biking and the gawds who created it.

Here he is beforehand (center), talking with a bunch of the sport’s and film’s enthusiasts:

Way to go Mr. Savage. Now maybe one of these days you’ll be able to get back on your mountain bike instead of just talking about them!

In just a short bit, my baby and I are going to venture south of the L.A. County Line into Orange County to go see my buddy Billy’s mountain biking documentary Klunkerz on tap this 3:30 p.m. at the Newport Beach Film Festival. As such I suggested to Susan we lunch at the magnificent Sea Food (two words) Paradise restaurant in Westminter’s “Little Saigon” district. This place has some of the best dim sum around (I’ve been craving their butter encrusted shrimp for a looooong time now) and was introduced to me by my Huntington Beach-dwelling friend, former Times Community News coworker Orange Coast magazine editor and now college professor Nancy Cheever back when we were seeing much more of each other and  playing far more tennis and golf together than either of us are playing now — or at least me.

My patient and beloved Susan can attest to the annoying habit I have of barking out “Hey I know where that is!” at the TV when we’re watching a show or a DVD and I recognize wherever in Los Angeles a scene’s been filmed.

Never moreso were the opportunities for Susan to deal with such disruptive behavior than when we watched  The Prestige this weekend (No, not The Illusionist, the other one… the better one).

It’s one thing to see a car commercial that shows a young urbane couple miraculously navigating from downtown to Pink’s hot dog stand on La Brea in a matter of a few turns and a trip through the 2nd Street tunnel under Bunker Hill. It’s another to be watching To Live And Die in L.A. and pretty much be able to chart a turn-by-turn course of that movie’s infamous car chase. And still another to see Cheaper By The Dozen and recognize the supposed suburban Chicago house as actually being located at 4th Street in Hancock Park.

But it’s something else entirely to be watching a period film set almost entirely in England and have Los Angeles location after location pop up before us. There were so many I’m not sure I can remember them all.

If I were really good I’d have snapped
representative stills from the DVD for illustrative
purposes and to help refresh my memory… sorry.

Let’s see… first up was Pico House near Olvera Street whose internal courtyard masquerades as a London prison. After that we’re shown the cavernous lobby and grand staircase of the Park Plaza Hotel next to MacArthur Park all prettied up and pretending to be the Royal Albert Hall (and later on one of that hotel’s ballrooms is used for a scene that takes place in Colorado Springs). From there we’re taken inside the Los Angeles Theater on Broadway downtown and after that several scenes were filmed at the old Doheny estate, Greystone Mansion, in Beverly Hills. I’m pretty sure one of the mausoleums at Hollywood Forever Cemetery was the site of a funeral, too. And there were several outdoor scenes in the Rocky Mountains that I can only guess were filmed either in the Santa Monica or San Gabriel ranges.

Of course, ID’ing these places is made infinitely easier having been in them. Aside from Greystone and that specific space at the cemetery, Susan and I have had the distinctly enjoyable opportunities of exploring together Pico House, The Los Angeles Theater and the Park Plaza Hotel… the latter two with permission, the first one trespassingly without.

As to the movie itself? Not to much to say there. Wonderful cast of Christian Bale, Hugh Jackman, Michael Caine and Scarlett Johannsen (with extra special bonus of David Bowie As Nicky Tesla!) in a nice bit of fantasy filmmaking from Christopher Nolan (maker of Memento) with a couple interesting twists that are almost more of a relief  rather than revelation when they finally arrive at the end of the film whose runtime felt about 20-30 minutes too long.

I was pleased a couple days ago to find a comment to my post on Will Ferrell in Stranger Than Fiction from my cross-country friend Timothy Hughes who was enthused to find what’s become a rare film review from me, and expressed interest in hearing what I might have to say about 300, which Susan and I saw a couple weeks ago in the theater. He saw it earlier this week in Manhattan unfortunately with a bunch of poo-smells-like-flowers hipsters who I suspect shook many a shaggy head and clucked many a pierced tongue as the movie unspooled.

For comparison purposes, we left all the hipsters to stand in line at the Vista below Los Feliz Village or swarm Hollywood’s Arclight. Instead, Susan and I saw it in the No. 1 theater in the all together seedy but nevertheless beloved underground bunker that is Laemmle’s Grande fourplex downtown on Figueroa near 4th. Basically the place is in the Marriott Hotel’s basement, has small screens, less-than-stellar sound systems, seats missing armrests, rather lax clean-up crews, but it’s $8 a ticket and we can leave the house pratically 10 minutes before showtime and be in our seats before the last trailer drops and not even breathing hard.

As to what I thought of 300? I freakin’ looooooved it. Let’s put it this way; the moment I got just barely a whiff of the film through the first seconds of the first commercial I saw for it, I was sold. I didn’t care if it was good, bad, or beyond, something about it made it a must-see for me — no waiting for the DVD. And the desire wasn’t because I knew about the historic battle. In fact, I’m ashamed to say that before this film’s marketing campaign landed I didn’t know a single thing about it. I vaguely recall one of my History of Western Civilization classes 100 years ago at Santa Monica College concerning itself briefly with Sparta but nothing as specific as the monumental battle of Thermopylae.

I was so eager for it I even hopped onto Amazon and ordered Frank Miller’s graphic novel from which the film is not only derived but stylistically emulates throughout. And when the book arrived I gobbled it and all the liberties it took up with glee. It made me want to see it even more, irregardless of the poor critical reception it was garnering.

What I’m trying to say is that there’s no way I can’t be comprehensively objective here. I was brainwashed by the Matrix-meets-Sin City look of the film and irrevocably taken in by the us-versus-them underdog story. That it was based on true events was a bonus. That the film played fast and loose with those events didn’t matter one bit — and this is coming from someone who’s willing suspension of disbelief often dangles by the thinnest and most frayed of threads.

There’s a moment in the film that illustrates how deeply I was drawn in. It occurs at the moment of the first charge when the vanguard of Xerxes’ Persian forces first attempts to overrun Leonidas and his warriors. The camera moves in claustrophobically and chaotically close, showing Spartan feet being shoved backward in the sand against the crushing numbers of their enemy until eventually they hold fast and then push back against the hordes to regain some ground and engage them in battle. When they finally did get some breathing room I caught myself exhaling strongly and realized during that shoving match not only was I pitched forward in my seat but I had been holding my breath and pushing back as if I was No. 301 right in the thick of it.

Since I just mini-ranted about 24 in my previous post, I want to take part of my lunch hour to mini-rave about the absolutely marvelous Stranger Than Fiction that apparently came and went last year just long enough for me to read a brief good review in Entertainment Weekly or the L.A. Weekly and put it on my Netflix list.

I need to admit that I had huffed and puffed after the last Will Ferrell comedy I’d seen (Anchorman, I believe) and swore never to bother with another one (disclosure: Talladega Nights is somewhere down deep on my Netflix list).

So with little real knowledge of Stranger Than Fiction’s subject matter or plot I put my faith and hope in its atypical Will Ferrell-starring title and Susan and I spun it in the DVD player this weekend with fingers crossed that it wasn’t the same stuff that it seemed Ferrell was more than happy to poop out again and again (Blades of Glory anyone?).

And it isn’t. Far from it. Quirky and smart and touching and wholly original and to me very Charlie Kaufman-esque, the film (written by Zach Helm and beautifully envisioned by director Marc Forster and cinematographer Roberto Schaefer) affords Ferrell a chance to put away his usual one-note affable shtick and deliver a brilliant and marvelously nuanced performance as a seemingly ill-fated and lovestruck IRS auditor, well aided by a fantastic supporting cast that includes Dustin Hoffman, Emma Thompson, Maggie Gyllenhaal, and Queen Latifah (even a goofy cameo by a basically unrecognizable Tom Hulce).

What’s tragic about Stranger Than Fiction is that the boffo box office’s worth of ticket buyers* who always seem to support his redundant and one-dimensional comedy stylings (however amiable and goofy they are) didn’t really care to look underneath all that silliness and find not only a fine and intelligent film but Ferrell proving he is one terrific actor who can make reign it all in and make you laugh and cry at the same time.

*According to the Rotten Tomatoes website  Anchorman
made $84 million and, while Stranger Than Fiction
only brought in $40 million.

It was a welcome relief that Ferrell could reverse engines and bring out such a restrained and memorable performance. And whenever I get around to watching Talladega Nights ($148 million) I’ll be doing my best to remember it and hope for more.

Susan and I watched “Quinceañeara” over the weekend. The tiny indie film that garnered critical acclaim and some good buzz after it won awards at Sundance is centered in Echo Park, and I’d very much been looking forward to it mainly for the reason that I’d heard our neighboring hood to the east was so prominently featured. And indeed a lot of the local landmarks and landscapes between Silver Lake’s Sunset Junction to Elysian Park get screen time and so from that aspect the film does not disappoint.

But other aspects of it do disappoint — not so much the overarching teenage-girl-comes-of-age story so much as how it examines the underlying impact of gentrification. But I think my main problem with the movie isn’t its plots or subplots, but that they were written and directed by two gay white guys — in essence what I’m being shown is a Latino culture filtered and interpreted through their gentrified prism.

Not they don’t achieve a level of authenticity, they do (I wants me some champurrado now, that’s for sure). But the truth the film finds is undercut by some pretty trite and contrivial plotting and characterization. The father of Magdalena (of course that’s her name), the girl for whom the picture is centered, is a preacher and therefore monochromatically strict, domineering and unbendingly faithful, which of course provides the easy setup for how effortlessly he’s able to condemn his daughter when he finds out she is pregnant and how easily he accepts her running away. And granted, how Maggie gets so immaculately conceived statistically could happen, but as a plot device it’s pretty weak, too. Then there’s the initially stand-up boyfriend who’s ready to do the right thing and stand by his lady only to suddenly disappear two-thirds of the way through, with his about-face barely explained. And don’t get me started on Magdalena’s misunderstood street-tough cousin with 213 inked across the back of his neck who hops into a homosexual menage a trois at the first opportunity.

But by far the biggest kicker is that whether coincidental or biographical there just so happens to be two gay white guys who drive the undertow current of the film. They’ve bought an Echo Park home, renovated it, and along the way they seduce the above-mentioned cousin who happens to live in the back house on the property with his great-great uncle (who also happens to be the person Magdalena runs to and who gives her shelter and support). Then when that lust triangle inevitably breaks down of course they serve (illegal) eviction papers on the lovable old champurrado street vender who’s lived there from almost 30 years, with catastophic results that are then spun into a forced happy ending of redemption and reconnection replete with a moving eulogy from the person least likely to ever give a moving eulogy. Ever.

I guess I just find it ironic and ill-fitting that such a pertinent and timely tale of a Latino family struggling to maintain its culture and tradition while both their bond and their neighborhood disintegrates had to be told by the very invaders the film should be disdaining, but doesn’t really.

So in this case, my shaky practice of adding unknown films to my Netflix list based on some positive reviews paid off. Susan and I spun The Matador last night. Starring Pierce Brosnan and Greg Kinnear and Hope Davis as Kinnear’s wife the film came and went in 2005 and it’s too bad because it is surprisingly funny, touching and life-affirming for being a film about a burnt-out international assassin and the unlikely man he befriends who helps him get his groove back. Wonderfully and efficiently written and charactered and directed and acted all the way through, I highly recommend it.