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In a recent edition of The Sound of Young America, Jesse Thorn interviewed Barry Gordon, who starred in A Thousand Clowns in its Broadway and Hollywood incarnations (1962 and 1965, respectively) as a young man. The play ran for years in New York, and the film was a big hit that won a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for Martin Balsam. (It was also nominated for Best Picture, among other categories.)

Nowadays, it's a fairly obscure film, not in print in any home video format. Its general availability has hovered between "not" and "barely" for the last 30 years or so. Every now and then, you can catch A Thousand Clowns on Turner Classic Movies, although if you blink you might miss it.

Listening to the interview with Gordon reminded me not only of how much I love this movie, but of how I first heard of this film: My longtime obsession with Jean Shepherd, who himself was obsessed with A Thousand Clowns, though in a not-quite-healthy way.

Some quick background for those in need of it (those who don't, feel free to skip ahead a paragraph or two) Jean Shepherd is best know for writing and narrating A Christmas Story, but my love of him has more to with his radio show, which aired on WOR in New York from 1955 to 1977. It's hard to encapsulate exactly what he did on the radio; something in the Venn intersection of improvised monologue, storytelling, and sardonic commentary on the day's events. It was done completely off the top of his head, with no notes, outlines, or anything. It is better experienced than described, so I'd encourage the curious to check out some of my Shep-related posts, or The Brass Figlagee, a podcast that makes available hundreds of his old shows.

When he came to New York in the mid-1950s, Shepherd had an overnight show that garnered a huge following among jazz artists, writers, and other Night People (a phrase he claimed to have coined, and just may have). By his definition, a Night Person was someone who probably had a day job to get up for in the morning but preferred to stay up into the wee hours, just brooding, because they were "bugged" about some inexplicable something. His monologues were a stab at trying to get at that something.

At that time, among his many pals in the nocturnal, creative set was the future author of A Thousand Clowns, Herb Gardner. They appeared together in neo-vadevillian revue, Look, Charlie: A Short History of the Pratfall (which also featured another erstwhile Shepherd BFF and fellow Chicagoan, Shel Silverstein). The exact content of the show has been lost to the mists of time, but peep this page from its program, in which both Shepherd and Gardner are listed with their respective credits. (Also, note the illustrations by Silverstein.)

Shepherd used to promote Gardner's "Nebbishes" cartoons on his WOR show, embellishing the spots (as he often did to those who dared advertise on the program) with his trademark rambling. Shepherd did not have many guests on his show--he preferred to work solo--but Gardner was one of the few, and he came on the program to promote Nebbishes in person. Gardner in turn wrote the liner notes to Shep's second LP, Will Failure Spoil Jean Shepherd?

Shortly thereafter, the two men had a falling out, and the reason was almost certainly A Thousand Clowns.

Sex and the City 2 has now been unleashed upon the world. Judging from general public opinion (i.e., people I follow on Twitter and Facebook), the backlash against this movie is so enormous, I wonder if anyone is going to see it in either a non-ironic fashion or without the express purpose of pissing themselves off.

Personally, I have no plans to see it and, god willing, never will. Then again, I always swore I would go through life without seeing an episode of Two and a Half Men, but a flat tire and a Strauss Auto Parts waiting room conspired to break that vow. But even with this willful ignorance, I'm sure that all of the negative reviews/reactions are completely on the mark. Particularly this hilarious, Haterade-drenched review in The Stranger.

It's not the woman-y-ness of the SATC franchise that bugs me. I object more to the City part of the title, because the New York on the show resembles no reality known by 99.9% of New Yorkers. It's the perfect Giuliani-era show, because like Rudy's administration, it has no use for anyone who makes less than seven figures a year (or anyone of color, either). In SATC, New York is a glittery playground full of cosmotinis and obscenely priced shoes and gourmet cupcakes, where the non-rich only exist at the peripheries as nannies, waiters, and fuck-toys.

(I also don't understand why the show has such a huge gay following when all of its gay characters are outdated, flamboyant, queeny stereotypes. But that's not really my battle to fight.)

However, as Julie Klausner points out here, I'm clearly not the market for this entertainment. It's meant for lady-types, and I'm not a lady-type. I can criticize it all I want, but I'm not sure doing so is useful in any way. It's almost as pointless as going to a restaurant and judging the steak served to the guy at the next table.

And is SATC really any worse than most popular culture, which is overwhelmingly aimed at guys? Truth be told, the Dudertainment out there is every bit as lame and infuriating. Just look at this small list of phallocentric glop and tell me it's any worse than SATC. Go ahead, I dares ya.

Entourage: I have seen no more than 15 cumulative minutes of this show, almost all of it in YouTube clips. Nevertheless, I feel qualified to say this: It is one of the worst things human beings have ever made, right behind the hole in the ozone layer and the BP oil spill. I can't fully divulge what I want to do to everyone associated with this show, because it might be considered prosecutable hate speech.

The stakes for this show could not be lower or more homicide-inspiring. Rich, famous assholes want to get richer and more famous. There is not a single person on this show that I would cross the street to piss on if they were on fire. The fact that Entourage is exclusively aimed at men is perhaps the biggest argument against penises ever made.

THERE'S A GUY NAMED TURTLE ON THIS SHOW! I DON'T KNOW WHY THAT PISSES ME OFF, BUT GOOD LORD, IT PISSES ME OFF!

Just look at this. Look at what these people did with cameras and lights and bajillions of dollars. Look at this and tell me these people don't deserve to be waterboarded. 


Transformers: I don't know what's worse: the movies themselves, or people who complain that their suckitude has somehow retroactively ruined their childhood. Transformers was never any good, you guys. It was just on TV when you were a kid. Don't confuse nostalgia for quality. Most of the things you liked when you were 8 are not any good. That's why you don't have fluffernutter sandwiches for lunch everyday anymore. At least I hope you don't.

Comic Book Movies: Yes, there are many lady-types who like comic books. But the recent spate of movie adaptations are clearly aimed at the BOOM! POW! Dude Audience. This trend has resulted in one masterpiece (The Dark Knight) and two entertaining movies (the first two Spider-Man flicks). All the rest of these movies are thoroughly expendable. You could have not made any of them and the world would have kept on spinning just fine. They either eschew any kind of story so stuff can get blowed up real good, or they try to cram way too much back story and exposition/origin tale in a vain effort to woo the Nerds (who will hate it anyway).

Like how The Avengers movie has been setup/teased in the last slew of films based on Marvel comics. A large chunk of Iron Man 2 involves Nick Fury trying to woo Tony Stark into The Avengers. And by the end of the movie, he's still thinking about it! It's okay to stretch out resolution across five or six issues of a comic book. It's NOT okay to do that in a movie. That's like if George Lucas devoted huge portions of the Star Wars prequels to discussions of trade tarriffs. Oh, wait...

Ultimate Fighting: Take boxing, add kicking, subtract the troublesome rules and sense of fair play, and voila! All sports are, in one sense or another, a form of combat. Ideally, they are a sublimated form of combat, where man's desire to kill and maim is channeled through a proxy (the team you root for). They shouldn't be televised bar fights, which is what ultimate fighting, for all intents and purposes, is.

So before you take a big dude-dump all over Sex and the City 2 (which it probably deserves, mind you), just think of all the Pure Garbage aimed at your own nutsack.

Part 1   *   Part 2

For part one, click here.

I had an old Uncle Morty who used to be in show biz. He represented small-time acts--dog tricks, plate spinners, head thumpers, that sort of thing. Oh, the stories he could tell!

When Uncle Morty passed away, he left me about 40 years worth of copies of Variety (along with a bunch of bills and unsettled paternity suits, but that's a whole other story). His will stipulated I could not recycle them or throw them out, so I flip through them now and then.

Earlier this week, I came across a fascinating story about a biker movie Frank Sinatra tried to make in 1966/67 that eventually fell apart. Here's the article from when the deal was first announced. I'll post subsequent articles as soon as I can scan them.

The tweeting of bigplastichead alerted me to this awesome video. Someone took the immortal opening sequence to 2001: A Space Odyssey and substituted the soundtrack with a school band's attempts at Strauss. Result: hilarity.

Harrison Ford is a movie star in the classic mold. He is not a method actor in the vein of Brando or Deniro. He's more like the old-timey matinee idols of yesteryear, like John Wayne, or Cary Grant, or Clark Gable. None of those guys ever acted. Their job was to appear in a movie, recite their lines, and just be whoever they were. They'd play extremely slight variations on the same character over and over again, because that was all the studio--and the public--demanded of them.

The same goes for Harrison Ford. The movie-going public does not want to see Harrison Ford in a gritty indie drama, or a quirky comedy, or a costume piece. They want to see Harrison Ford, successful man whose family is threatened somehow. Again. And again and again and again.



Thanks to philvsthemayor, whose tweeting alerted me to this gem.

Oh no, I'm not gonna let the last thing I post today be that screeching harpy hose-beast. Let's end this Wednesday on a positive note, eh what?

Big Fan hits (some) theatres next month. A trailer for it was just released yesterday, and it makes the film look every bit as amazing I thought it would be the first time I heard about it.

Why will this film be awesome? Because it's written and directed by Robert Siegel, the scribe behind The Wrestler and a former writer for The Onion. Because it looks like the first film to fully plunge the pathetic depths of sports talk show callers and obsessive sports fans in general. Because it portrays a blue-collar slob with a dead end job and a sad life but doesn't plumb his predicament for yuks.

And because that slob protagonist is played by Patton Oswalt. If Ratatouille was Patton's break-out role, he must've gone back to jail, because he's ready to bust out all over again.

In other words, I have no reason to think this movie will be anything other than brilliant. But you don't have to take my word for it. That's why God invented high-definition trailers.

I met up with a friend for some post-work drinks last night (it was two-for-one choco-tini night at our favorite spot!). He told me that, on his way to the bar, he saw Jim Jarmusch "on the sidewalk" in the Tribeca.

First, I asked if he was okay. The phrase "on the sidewalk" implied that maybe he was passed out drunk, or injured, or down on his luck and begging for change.

But once it was established that the man was okay, I asked if he was being approached by strangers and critiqued. Much like the mighty buffalo once roamed the plains of this great land, so is Manhattan overrun by uber-hip cineastes. The type of people who, despite a professed love of movies, have a dismissive opinion of every single film and director that's ever been.

So I had the mental image of the famous indie director being mobbed by effete artsy types who couldn't wait to tell him how little they thought of his work. People literally lining up to prove how sophisticated they are by giving him faint praise and back-handed compliments.

"Mr. Jarmusch, wow, really great to meet you! I just want to say, I love Down By Law even though it's completely overrated!"

"Hi, Mr. Jarmusch. I've always wanted to ask you this: What was the deal with Coffee and Cigarettes? I mean, the RZA/Bill Murray sequence was funny and all, but is this type of fluff the best use of your talents?"

"Wow, Jim Jarmusch! You know, when I was in college, Mystery Train and Stranger than Paradise were, like, my two favorite movies. Of course, my tastes have progressed far beyond that point by now..."

Yes, these are the little playlets my brain devises to amuse itself. If you don't like it, you'll have to take it up with the brain.

Esteemed rocker/filmmaker Nick Cave wrote a sequel to Gladiator, apparently at the behest of fellow Aussie Russell Crowe. A synopsis/assessment of the script was posted to the intertubes not too long ago. It is, as you might imagine, fucking insane. In the best possible way.

I know what you're thinking--hey, Maximus died at the end! Mr. Cave is way ahead of you. In his script, Maximus has been damned to gladiate (if that's a word) for all eternity for his sins. The screenplay is rife with supernatural hoodoo-ery, like people rising from the dead. Several times. Oh, and there's a closing montage in which the deathless Maximus is shown fighting in the Crusades, World War II, Vietnam, and, curiously, working in the Pentagon.

Still not hooked? How 'bout a climactic speech in which an anti-Christian leader screams CHARGE THIS FISH! How 'bout the movie's climactic battle scene, which takes place in a flooded Coliseum with battleships and alligators.* Tell me that itself isn't worth the price of admission.

* The ancient Romans actually used to flood the Coliseum and stage naval battles there, so this last detail is plausible. But still nuts.

Though the assessor of this script noted that "Cave's writing, the storyline, the dialogue...it's Grade-A material through and through," he/she still rejected it. Why?

-...I'm not really interested in seeing a sequel to Gladiator featuring elements of mythology and the supernatural. They weren't present in the first film and they simply feel out of place here.

-The script renders most of the original film moot...

-I love it as a standalone screenplay but hate it as a sequel to Gladiator.

To all of these criticisms, I say, So fucking what?!

First of all, despite all the Oscar nods, Gladiator was nothing more than a better-than-average popcorn movie. You're not going to "ruin" or "dilute" it with Nick Cave's interpretation. And the first movie was a big enough hit that, as long as Russell Crowe stars in the sequel, you're pretty much guaranteed a certain box office number. Take a chance, Hollywood assholes!

Second of all, look at any movie franchise: the second movie is always the crazy one. And it's always the one that cineaste snobs say is the true masterpiece. Think The Godfather Part II. Think Dark Knight. Think 2 Fast 2 Furious!

If this is how a wonderfully mad potential masterpiece is assessed by Hollywood, I'd love to see the synopsis for some market-researched piece of total junk like Ghosts of Girlfriends Past. "Reading this made a small piece of my soul shrivel up and die. Greenlight immediately!"

This rejection of Nick Cave's vision really puts a damper on my own screenplay hopes. I was just starting to get some meetings about my full-length adaptation of "O'Malley's Bar".

* The secret to clean coal technology is tattooed on Thomas Jefferson's bones. Can Nic Cage and a ragtag group of misfits rescue his corpse from the evil clutches of Greenpeace?

* Nic Cage is Wrecker Jones, the undead descendant of Genghis Khan. Can he defeat the Werewolf Pancho Villa in time to save his village?

* Nic Cage is a government-trained super-assassin with one mission: go back in time and kill Helen Keller.

* An underground kickboxing tournament is held by an international terrorist organization to determine the champion of the universe. Little do they know that ex-Marine Nic Cage has come to break up the organization's little party--and marry its leader.

* Nic Cage stars as some comic book character who hasn't been done yet.

* Accomplished jazz composer and bandleader by day, street vigilante by night. Nic Cage is: Duke Killington!

* A former matinee idol seems to make horrible movie after horrible movie with no quality control over his career choices at all. Little does the public know, Nic Cage has discovered the secret to eternal life hidden in pieces across some of the worst scripts ever written. So when the rest of he world dies off one by one, only he shall be standing. AND THEY ALL LAUGHED!

* Take diner scene from Reservoir Dogs, do find/replace: "Madonna" = "Andrews Sisters", "Like a Virgin" = "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree"

* Use big role in flick to revive career of one of the following: John Casale, Stacy Keach, Charles Nelson Reilly, Barbara Mandrell, Jim J. Bullock, Joey Heatherton, Peter Noone, Mitzi Gaynor

* Can Samuel L. Jackson play FDR? If not, must redo "Fireside Chat" scene, remove all instances of "motherfucker".

* Create pointless affectations for Brad Pitt's character: Southern accent? Pimp cane? Monocle? Infantry rifle covered in jewels?

* Just found out John Casale is dead; have Tina send flowers.

* For duration of film, Nazi will be pronouced Natt-see. Also, sandwich = sammich, toilet = turlet, and bird = boid. Hire Billy Crystal as a speech consultant.

* According to research, the Red Skull wasn't real. May affect climactic battle scene in enormous poison-filled zeppelin floating over LA.

* Look at old flicks; have I lifted anything from Dario Argento yet? If so, did anyone notice?

* Must cast Hitler as mincing and ineffectual as possible.

* At 90 minute mark, insert 20-page rambling story from my My Box of Speeches That Will Grind Film to a Complete Halt.

* Must make movie bad-ass enough to overcome retarded title for final chapter, "Revenge of the Giant Face."

When in Jupiter, Florida, be sure to visit The Burt Reynolds and Friends Museum.

I can barely get past the fact that "and Friends" is in the name of this place. When you see "and Friends" in a title, it should refer to either a 70s variety show or a badly edited collection of old cartoons with awful linking material (like those "holiday specials" that Warner Bros. cranked out throughout the 80s).

I'm not going to say anything more about this establishment. Just click the link, browse the site, and marvel.

Once again, hat tip to Patrick of Oregon on the FOT Forum for pointing out this cultural gem.

I felt kinda bad for posting that snotty multiple choice bit about Steve Martin yesterday, like I backstabbed an old beloved teacher or something. I mean, when Steve Martin was at the top of his game, he was awesome. The Jerk is still one of my favorite Funny Ha-Ha flicks. If you can find a copy of the criminally out-of-print Cruel Shoes, please do so. It is more than worth tracking down.

But damn it all, the man refuses to make a good movie anymore. Or to do anything remotely funny at all. What makes it even worse is that I don't think he's enjoyed selling out. At least now that Robert Deniro and Al Pacino have totally given up, they look like they're having a blast in the horrible, horrible movies they make. Maybe because they spent so many years being intense, they feel relieved from the burden of all that art and integrity they carried around for so long.

Conversely, every time you see Steve Martin, he looks miserable. Like there's some guy standing behind him at all times with a loaded gun pointed at the small of his back. "Yeah, see? You just keep makin' shitty remakes of stupid movies no one remembers and everything'll be just fine, see?"

He doesn't need the money, I hope. I don't think he requires an expensive operation, or has ex-wives whom he must support. But there has to be some reason he keeps doing these awful flicks, right?

Right! And the reason is: Banjo inspiration!

Martin says five of the songs on "The Crow" [his new bluegrass album]...date back to the late '60s and early '70s, while others are more recent. "Tin Roof" came along while he was filming 2003's "Cheaper by the Dozen," and "Pretty Flowers" was conceived while filming 2006's "The Pink Panther" in Boston.

I'm not gonna rag on Martin's banjo playing, because I'm not qualified. I like to think I'm musically educated, but I don't think I could discern between good and bad banjo pluckin'. And it obviously makes the man happy, so let him play all he wants. Let him record 17 album-length banjo solos for all I care. Good for him.

But I wonder if Martin feels that his banjo playing is now his real art, that the whole "being funny" thing is just to pay the bills so he can pluck 'til his heart's content.

Because he cites some pretty awful flicks when pinpointing the muse for his banjo tunes. And not just flops, but totally venal, bottom-feeding, imagination-free remakes of crappy movies no one remembers (except Panther, of course). Maybe he wants to devote all of his creative energies to the banjo. And in order to do so, his day job must be as mindless and soulless as humanly possible.

The dumber, more pandering the movie, the better his banjo music. In exchange for his movies being mindless garbage, he gets to thrive at what he really loves. It's like the lamest variation on The Portrait of Dorian Gray ever.

That's how you wind up with a comedic genius making under-the-bottom-of-the-barrel junk like Bringing Down the House: Blame The Banjo.

The new Pink Panther movie is a hate crime against:

A) The French nation
B) The memory of Peter Sellers
C) The memory that Steve Martin once made good movies
D) Comedy
E) Humanity itself

Hot on the heels of The Wrestler, Mickey Rourke is now attached to star as Don van Vliet in the upcoming biopic Lick My Decals Off, Baby: The Captain Beefheart Story.

Clint Eastwood might be on the wrong side of 175 years old, but he's still hard as nails, brother, and he don't like the touchy-feely state of our modern culture.

We live in more of a pussy generation now, where everybody's become used to saying, "Well, how do we handle it psychologically?" In those days, you just punched the bully back and duked it out. Even if the guy was older and could push you around, at least you were respected for fighting back, and you'd be left alone from then on.

I don't know if I can tell you exactly when the pussy generation started. Maybe when people started asking about the meaning of life.

Yeah, you tell 'em, Clint! Searching for the answers to the imponderable truths of existence is for queers!

When Clint Eastwood tells you that our whole cultures too sissyfied for his tastes, you better listen. I mean, we're talking about the original brawlin', boozin', two-fisted, red-blooded he-man of them all. Clint Eastwood has never done anything remotely girly in his whole life...

/wacky muted trumpet

On Flushing, just past Metropolitan, I see a billboard on the side of a building for the soon-to-be-released He's Just Not That Into You. Having just watched the trailer, I assure you it's pretty much whatever you think it is.

My beef is not with the movie, but the curious placement of this ad. The building it was attached to houses an auto parts store. And not a Napa or a Pep Boys, but one of those dingy, oily places that sells used carburetors and wallpapers itself with centerfolds.

On one side of this building is another auto parts store--bigger and more well lit, but in the same spiritual ballpark.

On the other side is a yard of some kind. I can't tell what it houses--lumber, granite, sheetrock, construction equipment--because the yard is fenced in by a 15-foot-high brick wall topped with razor wire. For good measure, there's a black metal watchtower in the middle of the yard. Any resemblance between this and a prison is purely intentional.

The entire surrounding neighborhood is intensely industrial, full of the kind of businesses no one ever thinks about. Like truck tire patchers, or fake crystal chandelier suppliers. I would be shocked to find out that more than five women work in this neighborhood. And out of those five, four of them probably run the only bodega in a 20-block radius.

In other words, I'd like to suggest to the folks at New Line Cinema that their advertising budget would be best spent elsewhere.

/stirring orchestral music/

Oscar season is here, the buzz is brewing, and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is...well, it's one of those movies we should be talking about right now, right?

"I was really looking forward to Benjamin Button and...I don't know, I was looking for something, and I don't even know what it is. I don't even know why I'm disappointed, I just know I am. You know what I mean?"
-- Roger Ebert

The critics have spoken, and one thing you can say is that they have expressed themselves through the use of words.

"Look, it's not like I hated it, I just..I don't think there's a word...just...meh."
-- J. Hoberman

"Brad Pitt turns in his best performance to date." Did anyone say that? No? Then what did they say?

"Brad Pitt is, you know, he's okay. There's the makeup and the cgi and...I guess I can't say anything bad about his performance. It's just...man, it's on the tip of my tongue..."
-- Janet Maslin

Critics agree: they will probably bring themselves to vote for Benjamin Button for one Oscar or another.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, what, I'm gonna vote for Dark Knight? A superhero movie wins an acting Oscar, or, god forbid, Best Picture? Yeah, sure, that's happening."
-- Jeffrey Lyons