05.29.08
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 8:42 am by Gregory
I took a few photos and of course recorded the whole thing, plus ran into a Venerable Hollywood Celebrity, however since my return from Cannes to the States I have been working my slave job, about which I genuinely don’t care (it’s not the people, it’s the CRAZINESS and POOR COMMUNICATION), thus — much like a prom night kerfuffle — here’s a brief entry.
Hollywood is still a toilet; it’s now a polished toilet — but it’s still a toilet.
Unless you count hearing a few weird notes from the security queue, I missed “opening act” “Elvis Costello” entirely; allegedly, he and his band went on at 7:26. Who does that???
The Police energetically performed their Greatest Hits album from the mid-’80s. There were no surprises whatsoever. It was gratifying to see them, but being an Honest Critic (which most editors are too lame to handle), I must report that the show was delivered 100% as expected. Nice. Not thrilling — but nice. But a rock concert shouldn’t be merely nice. Thus the low rating.
I have never smelt more marijuana at any concert — nay, anywhere — in my life. What’s wrong with you people?
The band gave nothing personal of themselves, and “Sting” even gave a sort of “Vegas grin” in the middle of “King of Pain.” Most people were probably too stoned to notice, but I noticed. Mean it, or get off the stage.
Best songs came early: “Walking on the Moon,” “Demolition Man” and “Invisible Sun.”
Afterward, I met a nice woman who was stalking “Sting”; that was pretty fun.
A FREE “Elvis Costello” concert was announced (by the man himself) at El Rey at midnight — however my trudging and missed buses did not allow me to attend. I’m sure — beyond question — that this would have been the best part of the evening — but I was so tired from my recent travels and hideously draining day-job that I nearly fell asleep sitting on a wall outside a Carl’s Jr. waiting for a bus. At that point, I decided that my dangerous delirium outweighed even the best “Elvis Costello” could deliver.
The Police have much merchandise for sale; they even have “The Police” disposable plastic shopping bags into which you can put their merchandise.
~Gregory
P.S. Maybe a fuller report later.
P.P.S. Despite the lacklustre approach to the material, Stewart Copeland’s drumming is still The Greatest Thing In The Universe.
P.P.P.S. HILLARY CLINTON FOR PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA; SHE IS THE ONLY PREPARED AND QUALIFIED CANDIDATE.
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05.27.08
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:00 am by Gregory
MUCH JOY TO MR. AND MRS. LEE!
Gitte and Christopher Lee in Monaco, 14 November, 2007.
Now let us be concise:
CHRISTOPHER LEE IS THE GREATEST — AND MOST UNCOMMON — ACTOR OF WHAT IS COMMONLY CALLED THE TWENTIETH CENTURY!
Christopher Lee in The Wicker Man, 1973.
…AND BEYOND:
Christopher Lee as Muhammad Ali Jinnah, in Jinnah (1998) — apparently the role of which he is most proud.
And to absent friends:
Christopher Lee, Vincent Price, John Carradine, Peter Cushing.
And let us not forget the good times:
And the really good times:
And the really-really good times:
Christopher Lee with the life-alteringly yumsies Caroline Munro.
And the really-really-REALLY good times:
Christopher Lee as Captain Zandor, on Space: 1999
Whilst also, of course, celebrating moments to make one go: “Huh?”
Christopher & Gitte Lee (w/easygoing friend, L), fairly recently.
But mainly, let it be said, and known:
Christopher Lee has done more, before and beside the camera, to evolve, inspire and unify the state of Global Cinema, than any individual, and thus — even (especially!) considering Starship Invasions and Howling II: Stirba - Werewolf Bitch — is hereby, by Gregory and ÜberCiné, dubbed:
SIR CHRISTOPHER LEE: GREATEST ACTOR…EVER.
Hell of a Singer, too!
And, truly, a lovely individual. I interviewed Mr. Lee in 2001 — just prior to the massive resurgence of appreciation he received for the Lord of the Rings and Star Wars movies — and he went beyond the call of duty, and it’s great material, and soon I’ll let you enjoy the dialogue as much as I have.
Christopher Lee, as has been stated previously, is also among my elite group of Honourary Grandfathers — and, since my proper grandfathers were gone before I arrived, I offer Birthday Wishes in a similar, and kindred, spirit.
(Every year I send a card, too — I wonder if he gets them!)
Again, here’s to Christopher Lee! And to his fine mind, refined presence, stunning voice and stellar body of work!
To more! And to Mr. & Mrs. Lee!
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05.26.08
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 4:51 pm by Gregory
Hi. Basically a bunch of foliage in Pennsylvania emits nerve-toxins because humans are destroying the planet, and the “twist” is whether it’s the “bad pollen” or Marky Mark’s unspeakably terrible performance causing everybody to kill themselves.
Great. More reasons for dipshits to hack up the pretty green stuff.
Sounds outrageously terrible. Worse than Signs. Heck, I’d rather watch What’s Happening!!
It’s been a long time since Unbreakable, Shama-Lama-Ding-Dong. Would you like to wash my car? (Ha-ha; just kidding; I don’t own a car!)
Incidentally, I’m delighted to have pubic hair; people who shave theirs off are totally stupid.
“Life goes by pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while — and do whatever you want all the time — you could miss it.” - Cartman
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05.25.08
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 10:42 am by Gregory
Word has it that Sydney Pollack is not looking at all well. This is a surprise. He’s always been a hale and hearty presence.
Although I had the opportunity not long ago to encounter Mr. Pollack at a Q&A for They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, I opted not to go, because it sounded totally depressing.
Mr. Pollack and I hail from the same region, where he ranks as Fourth Greatest Director — after Myself (forthcoming; 2009); Daniel Waters (Happy Campers); and Larry Karaszewski (Screwed). He hated it there; whereas I only vaguely disliked it.
I cannot honestly name my fave Sydney Pollack film, however, in this solemn moment, I am a bit regretful about mocking the shit out of Random Hearts (although I’m still kind of proud of mentioning that Harrison Ford looked like a bull-dyke in it; because he did).
I suppose that the obvious (Tootsie — who doesn’t like that? Eat shit, Mrs. Doubtfire) and the not-so-obvious (Three Days of the Condor — I actually had the promotional t-shirt — way, way back when I wore t-shirts) comprise my tip-top Pollack list.
As far as I know, I only encountered Sydney Pollack once — but it was memorable: He slammed into my knees really hard at the American Cinematheque’s tribute to Nicole Kidman at the Beverly Hilton, 14 November, 2003. He had just given a speech (and watched as a mortified Kidman attempted to corral her adopted kids out of the room during dinner-inappropriate scenes from Eyes Wide Shit), and he was making his way around the tables at the back, where I was sitting. All of a sudden: HOLY-SHIT-POLLACK-OWWW!!! Pollack’s spirit was an aggressive and intense one, and thus I took our knocked knees to mean: “Wake up! This doesn’t last long!”
Indeed.
Thank you.
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05.23.08
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:42 am by Gregory
I’m having such an incredibly happy time in Cannes that “blogging” seems like some nightmare that happened to somebody else — however I’m checking in to assure readers that they are still (at least) as loved and respected as other humans.
Well, perhaps not quite as loved and respected as these gypsies outside Le Motel 6! The sweet strains of their balalaikae have greatly complemented my wooing process as — just for a giggle — I have decided to skip all of the boring movies and concentrate on boinking every single actress currently in France. The amusing part: It’s been easy! (Although, admittedly, it’s also almost as boring as their movies.)
ME: Wanna do it?
ANY ACTRESS, ANYWHERE: Okay.
ME: *Yawn.*
Meanwhile, it has cost approximately $700 million U.S. on the motel’s computer (thus far; they keep billing the room next door, which Henry Jaglom is using as promotional headquarters for his fascinating new movie, Pooping), but in between marathon sessions of using and discarding the dumbest, shallowest female humans on the planet (remember last year?), I have managed to read some reviews of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull — and as the movie is somewhat “critic-proof” (nothing is genuinely critic-proof; I could pan Existence itself — and you’d believe it — if I wanted to) — I find the overall process illuminating: It’s like the blind men and the elephant; each one has an ostensibly differing perspective on something that simply is what it is.
This process is also an exercise in something I find unbearable, which is: People who don’t put any effort at all into thinking for themselves, instead parroting what they think will sound “clever” or “intelligent” to whoever accidentally receives their blab. In this case, lots of critics (both Wannabe and Paid — often, unfortunately, the same distinction) are lazily taking the “let’s talk CG” route — which is mostly boring and pointless. (Effects are effects; tools are tools; engage me and tell me a story, or fuck off.) Plenty more are taking the: “Whew! At least it’s better than Temple of Doom!” route — as if they’ve even fucking bothered to watch Temple of Doom in the past couple of decades. (Subtract one very unfortunate plane-crash escape — Why not just shoot Indy on the tarmac in China? Why go to all the trouble of attempting to crash him in the middle of India??? — and dial down Spielberg’s screechy wife about ten notches, and Temple of Doom is a very exciting and surprising classic. I’d rather watch Temple of Doom than Casablanca. Deal with that. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is better than Casablanca. [Raspberry sound.]) (Thus, despite Casablanca being very nice, it goes without saying that Raiders is better than it, too. But cheer up; Casablanca is definitely superior to Last Crusade.) And then we’ve got the “Welcome back, Indy, you’re our friend!” thing vs. the “Harrison Ford is old but still sexily wry” thing (the latter mostly from fat, chronically unlaid female critics with zits and cats) vs. the predictably boring “They should have left well enough alone” thing. The shocking thing, to me, is that hardly anybody has anything ORIGINAL to say about this strange, zany, manipulative, unabashedly convoluted but ultimately extremely fun and engaging movie.
Critics should not be cows; or sheep.
Anyway, I’m sick of everything sucking, so I don’t mind telling you that Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is a movie I happened to enjoy very much (with great thanks to filmmaker and writer Terry Keefe, for being excellent company on the adventure).
And since we’re talking summer movies (alas, beloved Warner Bros., I find very little appeal in The Dark Knight and The Clone Wars), we may as well talk Summertime — and being over here in France and up to my neck in bimbo poontang (”Yes, darling, of course I have a role for you…”) has reminded me that I don’t even like Los Angeles — especially the ghastly, toxic oven Los Angeles becomes from approximately May until October (tourists: Los Angeles is always a ghastly, toxic oven — but it’s a lot more noticeable and debilitating during this half of the year), and, thus…
I’m gonna Escape from L.A.
Why?
The women in L.A. are useless lying whores (with all their dogs, at least I’ve finally figured out why the supermarket is always running low on peanut butter), the traffic is suicide-contemplatingly punishing (check out the 10 at rush hour; if your optic nerves don’t fry at the truly hideous sight), the Movie Guys (with scant but enormously appreciated exceptions) make terrible friends (”Hello…this is how you dial a telephone; hello…this is how “Reply” works on this newfangled email process…you navel-snuffling schmucko.”), and if indeed Los Angeles does not actively attract assholes from all over the planet (which it does), then it most certainly turns people into assholes once they get here.
Plus I’ve fucking had it with the silverfish eating my books.
Oh, and: Since the self-appointed “royalty” who own and control L.A. all head for the Hamptons in the summer months, leaving their beaten and broken slaves to mind the shop, I can’t see any reason to loiter here during the pointless season.
I’m almost forty and my life is mostly empty (apart from whores and schmuckos), so I’ve decided to tell stupid L.A. where it can shove it — and shove off, myself.
To where? Well, that’s my business, isn’t it?
It’s funny — I feel affection for the iconic institutions in Hollywood (which introduced me to the Industry) — and a simultaneous repulsion toward a place where the rudest, stupidest people succeed and where anything remotely resembling actual comfort and happiness is essentially illegal. (Try being nice to a woman in L.A., if you dare [L.A. radically redefines “No good deed goes unpunished”!!!] — and this only if there are even any straight males left in the city to consider this challenge.)
But I never considered L.A. to be a real place, anyway. From the very hour I returned in 1995, I made the decision that I would never believe in Los Angeles — because that’s how it gets you — and ruins you.
L.A. is an ugly joke.
I was only there because my presence was completely irrelevant anywhere else.
So, yeah — I’ll be doing better work than ever, and I’ll be present (as it were) for my peeps — but the ugly joke is over; I’m going to have an amazing Summer.
Unless you’re a useless lying whore or a terrible schmucko, I hope you have a satisfying Summer, too.
Cannes reports will continue as soon as I find a spare moment to take a shower.
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05.21.08
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:42 am by Gregory
…because she’s the best candidate. She understands the process, and has earned an ability to lead. Don’t let the media’s slant contort the reality.
Despite the gung-ho enthusiasm of her Democratic opponent’s loosey-goosey “Hopeful!” types, he simply isn’t ready to walk his talk; this is obvious to anybody with eyes, ears and a brain. (In four or eight years, maybe.)
The Republican option, meanwhile, is purely ghastly.
I repeat with sincerity: Hillary Clinton for President.
Incidentally, I’m still in Cannes, and it’s fun. More fun than you’re having, ha-ha. Yesterday, while Harrison Ford was stoned off his ass, I accidentally boinked Calista Flockhart (it was her idea). I said, “Calista, honey, you’re that old guy’s arm candy, and I don’t even watch TV; I really don’t care who you are.” But she insisted. It reminded me of what Vonnegut said, during his boinking-everybody-at-first-blush-of-fame phase: He equated boinking modelesque women with “sleeping with a racing bicycle.”
My own Tour de France, yo.
Anyway, it won’t happen again, um, Crystal Skull is really good (Stoner Skull, more like), and I’ll post up the recent daily reports as soon as they’re fully baked.
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05.16.08
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:42 am by Gregory
Apportez-moi une chaussure avec fromage sur cela, et je veux masser votre grand-mère!
It’s non-stop sexiness here for Team ÜberCiné!
The next two reports from Cannes: SOON!
P.S. “The Wrath of Cannes”? That’s pretty funny, but no, actually — we were just imitating Mr. Bean.
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05.14.08
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:42 pm by Gregory
I’m in France!
Les mots ne peuvent pas exprimer comment heureux je suis!
They named this guy after the airport.
I’m not even gay, and yet I’m thrilled to be in France!
Team ÜberCiné landed yesterday at Charles de Gaulle, slightly weary from Priceline’s seventeen-hour layover in Newark, but otherwise chuffed to be back in the City of Light! We wer