Come on, Michael.
Michelle Malkin ditched that look weeks ago.
[via Reuters]
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Category: Shallow
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Am I Excited About This Film? Can’t Say.
From Done Deal:
Title: Unknown
Log Line: Being kept under wraps.
Writer: Darby Parker and Matt Waynee
Agent: Jon Huddle and Shaun Redick of ICM
Buyer: GreeneStreet Films
Price: n/a
Genre: Thriller
Logged: 3/8/05
More: Rick Lashbrook, John S. Schwartz, and Stronghold Entertainment’s Darby Parker will produce. Simon Brand will direct. GreeneStreet will handle foreign sales. Jim Caviezel, Greg Kinnear, Joe Pantoliano, Bridget Moynahan, Jeremy Sisto and Peter Stormare will star. This film will be independently financed.
Last week, low culture presented “Be Excellent to Each Other: A One Act Play,” in which fictional versions of the actors Keanu Reeves and Alex Winter discussed their lives and careers.
At the time of that writing, we had no idea that Missy Schwartz, a writer for Entertainment Weekly, one of the nation’s most respected and highly regarded weekly entertainment magazines that focuses on entertainment and comes out on a weekly basis, was working on a “Deal Report” column about Alex Winter (with additional reporting by Geoff Keighley, Michelle Kung, and Adam B. Vary):
Remember Alex Winter? He was Bill to Keanu Reeves‘ Ted. Now he’s set to write Napster: The Shawn Fanning Bio Project for Paramount/MTV Films. Winter penned a version of the script as a TV movie in ’03, but the story of the college dropout who developed music-file-sharing was so rich that Paramount decided to make it a feature. It’s about “a punk kid with a lightning-bolt moment,” says Winter, “who takes that dream into the shark-infested deep end of the big-business world and then has the whole thing blow up in his face.” Winter also plans to direct Acts of Charity, an indie political satire with Alan Rickman, this year. Excellent! (Entertainment Weekly, March 11, 2005.)
Had we known that Entertainment Weekly was working on this story, we would’ve instead focused on Curtis Armstrong, one of America’s greatest character actors who is back from his post-Revenge of the Nerds exile with roles in Dodgeball, Ray, and Man of the House. (The latter of which is out now.)
We would’ve written a gag intro hailing a familiar but semi-unknown actor who’s worked with “greats” like Tom Cruise, John Cusack, and Bruce Willis then thrown in Steve Guttenberg to be funny, before launching into a short, pithy piece that argued, far from being a relic of the 80’s (we’d mention Bronson Pinchot here), Armstrong’s been working more or less steadily since the days of Duran Duran (a slightly decontextualized reference that would nonetheless ground the piece in a certain time period). We would’ve concluded by suggesting that one day (god willing), Armstrong might be the first Oscar winner to ever have a character named Booger on his resume.
low culture regrets the error.
Earlier: New York Second;
Twentieth Century Fox, meet award-winning director Chris Cunningham.
Related: Paramount/MTV Taking a Napster
Being a choreographer isn’t all that bad, really. It’s being a male choreographer that gets somewhat awkward, at times. I mean, I like to dance, you know? And more significantly, I like to envision grand schemes in which others convey the motion of the human form, the ways in which our bodies can take flight while syncing to a hot, hot beat, or a sweepingly majestic orchestral hook…I’m versatile.
No, that doesn’t mean I’m gay. I get that a lot. Most men in this field are, of course, homosexual. To such an extent, really, that I felt at some point I’d need to hide my attractions for the female gender, just to get ahead. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, right? And sometimes a man’s got to do a man. (I’d use that line a lot more than I do, but, you know, I try to keep this heterosexuality thing quiet.) That was my younger-incarnation line of thinking, at least…Until I began to watch The O.C. every Thursday.
I think it was watching Marissa and Alex share that first lesbian kiss on the beach a few weeks back that really got to me. I mean, yeah, the raging heterosexual in me started getting all lascivious, like, “Hey, you fucking prudish censors, don’t pull away now,” but the part of me that hooks up with guys like Mark Morris in order to get continued work just flat-out cringed. Like, I was disgusted with myself. Was I pulling a Mischa Barton, and making out with the wrong gender just to advance my goddamned career? I’m so above and beyond that.
When I work with my dancers, I try to instill a sense of pride in the art form in the way in which they approach their evening’s endeavors. I try to get them to think about the rich history and tradition of dancing as a mode of expression, to get them to open their eyes to the ways that a graceful, limber body can convey a range of emotions heretofore untapped by the limitations of language. And I think they listen, and understand it, which makes me feel good about my role in propagating this grand pageantry of dance.
In that vein, that commitment to the craft, some of my dancers, though, are hard to get through to…like on this Faith Evans video I worked on yesterday, for instance. The motif? It was a high-school cheerleader-themed video shoot (I think the director was ripping off “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” just between you and me) and there was this one girl who kept complaining about her toes hurting. As you can imagine, this happens a lot with dancers. And while lesser choreographers may readily insist that gout is the classic big-red-toe disease – and I’m not naming any names, there – I myself am prone to thinking sometimes a girl just stubbed her toe. Simple as that.
Necole, that’s her name, is this totally sweet, pretty young babe. Sophisticated and not at all naive. Given her character, I insisted that she handle the distribution of props to the other dancers. Wait, let me explain. So as part of the routine I had drafted, various dancers congregate on the simulated playing field and toss lightsticks and batons to and fro. It may sound asinine, but, I swear, it really works well with the source material. Faith Evans, right?
This other dancer, a guy named Bradford, whom I had put in charge of managing a difficult baton-twirl/hip-flipping manuever, starts freaking out about how heavy and weighty the baton prop is. And, I swear, he was right. The prop department had whipped up some gargantuan lead-based relic. But we were on deadline, so I insisted Bradford work with what we had on-set. And the motherfucker challenged me! Said, “OK, give it a try, and see how difficult it is!” I’d show him.
So I stand up straight. Curl my toes. Bring my elbow perpendicular to my ribcage, and…a problem. I was dismayed to find that I could no longer control the mighty baton between my legs. It was just too heavy, too dominating, too physical…and Necole, Necole was looking at me. And it hit me, just like that, like that moment on the beach between Marissa and Alex, but from a different angle: I’d had enough of the gay-choreographer charade that was my life. I wanted to fuck Necole. Right then and there. I could see she had it in her, as well. Though I’m no semiotic genius, and am just a fabulously gifted choreographer, I could tell it was the whole baton thing that was getting her attention. This girl, this dancer, wanted to get avant-garde, you know? And engage in some very public, though very intimate, frolicking with the dancemaster. I motioned Bradford over…I had fucked him the week prior, I mean, despite my suspicion that he, too, was straight (It’s a sick fucking business, yeah?), so I knew he had no problem with sex, or physicality, or anything of that nature. I clutched Necole’s shoulders, and explained to Bradford that he needed to get the photographer’s light-deflecting umbrella, and hold it to the side, so as to shield the intense round of fucking that was about to ensue from the rest of the crew. Gaffers can’t handle impromptu sex, you know?
Bradford just smiled, and said cryptically, “Farnsworth Bentley is the original personal umbrella holder, that lucky bastard.” And I knew then, I had to put on the show of all shows, even for this audience of one. Biggie would’ve wanted it that way.
Actually, I’ve never seen The O.C.; I’m sure it’s pretty good.
The O.C. airs Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX.
Earlier: O.C.-centric entries, serving as exercises in hating the player, and not the game.
How’s the low culture shop doing? Amazingly, thank you very much! Soon enough we’ll be able to afford a wheelbarrow for the piles of cash we’re making.
Here’s our latest sales report. Read it and weep, bitches!
I know we did.
Serving Suggestion: Dumb shirts for smart people, and vice versa
Ever since we took that Learning Annex course on maximizing your brand through cross-promotional marketing (taught by Fonzworth Bentley of P. Diddy’s umbrella-handling fame), we’ve been trying to figure out a surefire way to extend the mighty brand that is low culture.
At first, we considered branching out into television, but honestly, any moron can get a show on TV nowadays. Next, we thought about a line of children’s multi-vitamins, but the damn Flintstones have that market locked. Also, our bodies aren’t available in easily-swallowed shapes.
Then it hit us: Poorly made T-shirts, undergarments, and mugs with clever slogans: those would sell, right? Heck, even halfway clever slogans might sell.
So we went with the halfway clever slogans. With that in mind, we present to you lowculturemart, home of our new, excessively large line of overpriced, crummy products.
Buy our crap, please: Fonzworth will be so proud.
Title: 2 Million Dollar Baby
Log Line: Sequel to the Oscar winning film. A female boxer from the wrong side of the tracks fights her way back from heaven to kill the man who snuffed her out.
Writer: Brian Helgeland
Agent: CAA
Buyer: Warner Bros.
Price: n/a
Genre: spiritual boxing drama
Logged: 2/28/05
More: Clint Eastwood will direct, star, and score. Oscar winners Hilary Swank and Morgan Freeman will reprise their roles
8:43pm: Fuck, I am so, so late. Supposedly this shit started at 8pm, right? But then there were all these issues with the express A-train lingering between stops in the tunnels under Manhattan for what seemed like forever. So I finally show up, and the hostess is all, “Hi, you’re early…only a few people are here yet.” I totally should have taken the C-train. It makes local stops.
8:44pm: The handful of attendees who have shown up thus far are dressed, shall we say, excessively well. Like, ties, and coats and shit like that. Apparently, there was a dress code of sorts? My t-shirt neglected to actually read the invite. Or rather, Evite. That’s probably related to the fact that I fucking hate Evites.
The hostess, meanwhile, looks great in a sleeveless knit top and dark pleated skirt, and her boyfriend is wearing a magnificent outfit by D&G. I ask her who she’s wearing, and it’s clear she’s already drunk as fuck, because her response is something along the lines of turning to the boyfriend and saying, “By the end of the night, him.” Not so funny, and slightly dated, but, damn, the boyfriend’s shoes really do work well with the slacks.
8:57pm: People have begun arriving in disparate groups of ones and twos and threes. We watch them as they stroll down the hallway into the living room, and pepper each new arrival with questions: Your name? Did you find the place OK? Did you fill out your Oscar ballot? You already missed the best original screenplay award, did you know that?
9:25pm: Everyone is talking about how great Cate Blanchett looks, you know, for a Brit. One guest makes a joke about British people’s teeth that’s met first with a chorus of laughs then several examples of British people with good teeth. Everyone agrees that Jude Law is very good looking and was robbed this year, maybe twice. Also, the pretzels bowl is getting dangerously empty.
9:54pm No one can name a single Sidney Lumet film before the montage begins. Man, the hostess’ cat is so cute. He rubs his head into my ankle and even lets me pick him up.
10:20pm Cat’s still in my lap! I can’t believe it. Everyone is cooing at him, saying he’s so cute. I sense some jealousy over how quickly the cat has taken to me. “I’m just a cat magnet,” I say. “Like Jack Nicholson!” one of the guests says. When no one laughs, he explains that he meant “‘Pussy magnet’—Nicholson’s a pussy magnet.” Groans all around. Penelope Cruz is on stage for some reason.
10:35pm People start taking photos of themselves. Someone says that Natalie Portman looks good, but I’m busy looking for the cat, who ran away a little while ago. It was my fault for shifting my weight in my chair.
11:03pm One of the guests makes fun of Sean Penn for his trip to Iraq. Another thinks he’s brave. I go to the fridge and get another drink. How many has this been? I lost count around the second Beyoncé song. Damn, only hard ciders. ‘Whatever,’ I think, and twist the cap off.
11:05pm There’s that cat. He’s crapping in the litter box. Best not to bother him now, I guess.
11:07pm Still shitting.
11:10pm What the fuck did this cat eat?
11:20pm He’s sitting on someone else’s lap now. There’s an opening next to her, so I go sit down. Cat seems to like me petting him better, but doesn’t move to my lap. Oh, so that’s what Charlie Kauffman looks like.
11:30pm Everyone chants along with Jamie Foxx. The cat runs from the room in fear. I’m getting a bit dizzy. Maybe the shrimp was bad.
11:36pm Maybe Dustin Hoffman had the shrimp, too. He looks bad. What? The room is practically spinning. Pretzel bowl empty.
11:40pm Everyone applauds and the girl next to me kisses me. Then I black out.
Monday, Feb. 28, 1:00pm What time is it? Where am I? Where are my pants? Who won what? And who is this next to me in the bed? Oh, it’s that cat! I told you I was a pussy magnet.
In the elevated, sanctimonious tradition of the inestimable Lloyd Grove, we issue this call to arms to pundits, writers, tastemakers, and (dare we say it) bloggers far and wide: Let us not speak of Paris Hilton again. Let us disregard those antics that would otherwise warrant so much fleeting press from so many fleeting media outlets. Let us divorce ourselves from her poisonous presence in American popular culture. Let us focus on more enriching enterprises, like rigorous discussions of the 17th season of The Apprentice, or Roger Avary’s screenwriting, or the career of Ben Stiller. Let us speak of steroids, of baseball, of horse racing. Let us embrace the Kentucky Derby with renewed vigor.
Let us look past Ms. Hilton’s three seasons of moronic reality-television output. Let us salivate no longer on the entity known as Paris Hilton: her casually-flouted nudity, her vapid imbecility, her patented pronunciations of “That’s hot.” Paris? Hot? You’re not.
Let us look forward to a day when this name will be synonymous with an endgame in the turning point of American culture, a utopian point at which we will have foregone such asinine documentation of these characters: the intellectually frail, the idiotically fulsome, and the irritatingly frivolous. Let us collectively embrace an era when we, the pundit class, can transcend such vile antics, and shall no longer forcibly parlay in matters of such juvenalia, such loathsome simplemindedness.
Paris? Ms. Hilton? We shall never speak of thee again. We are so much better than that.
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Office betting pools for the 2005 Oscar race are fast coming due, with the race for Best Actor seeming to pose a particularly difficult challenge for casual bettors and/or filmgoers. With that in mind, we’ve prepared this annotated list of nominees for Best Actor to help you make your picks this weekend…
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Leonardo DiCaprio Not honored for his role as Luke Brower in 1991’s Growing Pains Getting into character for this part required hours and hours of sleeping in a classroom closet. And being unbearably fucking handsome. Or is that unbearably fucking homeless? Aw, fuck it, look how goddamned cute this little street urchin is! First he stole our hearts, and then he fucked Katherine Hepburn. |
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Johnny Depp Not honored for his role as Officer Tom Hanson in 1987’s 21 Jump Street Yeah, that’s stubble on my chin. I haven’t shaved in like two weeks, you know. You can totally tell. I’m thinking of growing it out. What? Huh? Yeah, that’s a fucking gun in my backpack. It goes nicely with those drugs in your pocket, punk. You, against the lockers, now! |
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Clint Eastwood Not honored for his role as Philo Beddoe in 1978’s Every Which Way But Loose Because who doesn’t like to fuck monkeys? (This character was purportedly spun off to create the hit 1979 television series, B.J. and the Bear.) |
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Jamie Foxx Not honored for his role as Wanda the Ugly Chick in 1990’s In Living Color Being blind is one thing. But the foulest lay imaginable? |
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Don Cheadle Not honored for his role as Basher Tarr in 2001’s Ocean’s Eleven Getting into character for this part required hours and hours of listening to George Clooney and Steven Soderbergh’s pitching each other various TV series and film projects. All of which seemed like good ideas at the time. |