in 2005 i posted that sean connery performed a major stunt at the end of The Man Who Would Be King. though there was some dispute about whether it was he or a stuntman, i trusted a special feature on the DVD. later reading even more fuzziness on the subject, i removed the post. in a recent book, connery’s co-star michael caine asserts, while apparently bungling details on the padding used (“foam and mattresses”, versus the difficult-to-fake cardboard boxes from the DVD special feature), that joe powell performed the famed stunt.
whoever did it [spoiler warning], click here to see the king of kafiristan go south for the week+.
at a theater years ago, after the fourth or fifth time a woman behind me kept talking, i turned around and shined an LED flashlight in her eyes, not stopping until she agreed to STFU. she and her husband were pissed. hmmm. sounds familiar.
the slop may slow your appreciation of Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: Take One, but ya gotta recognize the genius, especially since it was made in the 60s. “reality TV”? ha. blow symbiopsychotaxiplasm. onion AV club:
On paper, William Greaves’ art-film Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: Take One sounds like the kind of storm-the-doors-of-perception “happening” that made going out to be entertained such a drag back in 1968. Greaves, an accomplished documentary filmmaker and acting coach, shot a badly scripted conversation between a squabbling couple in New York’s Central Park, and simultaneously shot himself shooting the conversation. At one point, his crew went off on their own and filmed themselves debating whether Greaves knew what he was doing. Greaves cut all this together, with split-screens and snippets of muffed audio tracks, in order to explore the point where artifice ends and reality begins. […]
despite the pervasive 03:00 dorm room numb-o-argument tone, stunning intelligence sometimes emerges. one of my favorite “characters”, during a filmed secret meeting excluding the director, ostensibly held to complain about him: (more…)
that unctuous dink, by avenues unknown, wrote and directed an almost perfect movie. a miracle. most moviegoers know The Sixth Sense as the film which convinced me — easily, it turns out — that toni collette should be the first movie star i fuck when i get to heaven, assuming of course that she looks exactly as she does in the movie. (i’ll ask jesus claus to include olivia williams, if i’ve been nice, not naughty.)
however, the powerhouse, as in many movies, is the man. let us pray.
it’s official. i will watch anything with rachel mcadams in it. have never seen an RM movie i wished later i hadn’t, even as close as Wedding Crashers came to that cliff (after which i swore off new movies with owen wilson or vince vaughn).
i dare ms. rachel to make a movie i won’t slobber over. just try it, you big-assed getting-better-yearly piece of mouth-watering goodness.
Following Seberg’s death, the Los Angeles Times, the key instrument of her torment, issued a statement by the FBI.
“The days when the FBI used derogatory information to combat advocates of unpopular causes have long since passed. We are out of that business forever.”
a quick vid i put together of Pickup on South Street (1953), showing the unusual clobbering of a 50s starlet (no stunt double, good for her), then her later appearance that shocked me into near drool. NB: major spoilers, including the end of the movie:
In June of 2002, I read an article in the New York Times stating that the NYPD was opening a reinvestigation of the Central Park Jogger case. The reinvestigation was prompted by a claim by Matias Reyes, a convicted murderer and rapist, that he alone had raped the Central Park Jogger. The story, written by William K. Rashbaum, was on page B2 of the Times, indicating the hesitance with which the Times was playing the story. […more]
watched it again for the first time in a couple of years. so much more in this movie than seen on the first view — subtleties from the writing through the acting. it has camp humor plus no-prance deadpan multilayered blasts when you don’t expect. fuck all who watch D.E.B.S. and don’t get it or its superior soundtrack. fuck you all!
c’mon; lucy diamond saying she never really wanted to be a criminal anyway, but rather a pirate? looks like a stupid line, but jordana brewster just throws it away, playing it true. there if you want it.
and it isn’t just the chicks. watched it again yesterday because i’d just learned that melanie lynskey (my honey) married jimmi simpson, who’s one of the best parts of D.E.B.S. and lip sync nirvana.
after overdosing on The Cable Guy, i put it away for years. now i’m back spinning it a few, and this is just a quick “fuck you” to all who panned this superior movie. jim carrey gets annoying with too much exposure, but he has art running through every muscle. i’d see this movie again just to watch him assert his perfectionithm in a perfect 15-second bit of movie history.
if you haven’t seen Me, Myself & Irene, it’s another strong JC gig wrongly pissed on. i watch it plenty, despite its generally fizzling movement and my admire/hate relationship with the farrelly brothers.
thinking most end music for movies sucks, this was a grab by the balls. perfect ending to an enjoyable slow movie that peeked into my childhood somehow. ignore the visuals, and don’t listen if you’re not ready to kick back and close your eyes for a few.
