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 were all so excited, we barely suffered from the culture-shock of observing most Parisians (including children and dogs) smoking and/or urinating in public (see: Le Cinéma Français des ’90s) whilst all of the other French people filmed them. Weird, but…Oh la la!
Obviously, because we have no sugar-daddies and the studios don’t care about us, we couldn’t afford to land at l’Aéroport Cannes-Mandelieu like all the tabloid bitches and media freak-a-zoids do, so we decided to transform our inconvenience (Cannes is quite a long way from Paris, especially in flip-flops) into a Holiday — like Mr. Bean’s Holiday!

How we got here.
Yep, since Mr. Bean’s Holiday was absolutely one of the finest (and most beautifully-lensed) Motion Pictures of last year — wherein Rowan Atkinson essentially steals the concept of “Monsieur Hulot” and bumbles his way (natch-urellement) to Cannes — we decided to retrace his steps (and errors, and pratfalls, and general idiocy) all the way to The Greatest Movie Event In The World (Except For, Let’s Face It, Toronto).

Nous arrivons à Cannes!
Arriving even more slightly weary at the outskirts of Cannes where the gypsies dance until dawn, we got lost ninety-four times but finally found our way to the only Motel 6 in all of Europe — where we were smart enough to book ahead.
Mind, in France the concept of the “non-smoking room” causes people to laugh — much like the concept of the “quiet American” or the “actress who isn’t merely a slut who got lucky” — so we quickly grew accustomed to the notion of our breathing passages sealing themselves closed through the night, as well as all of our clothes and belongings quickly smelling like holy hell. This is Cannes! We’re going to have a good time if it kills us (and, if we’re all really lucky, if it kills Shia LaBeouf, too).
Since ÜberCiné is world-renowned for having the absolute best coverage of news, stock reports and pop culture on Planet Earth, we were greeted this morning with fifteen (!) oversized gift-baskets from the likes of Jean-Luc Godard, Rupert Murdoch and Pauly Shore (ever notice how the ladies never spend centime #1 on gifts for other people?) — and these we immediately had Fed-Exed to our P.O. box in Winnipeg, because some of the Blu-Ray Special Editions enclosed might be totally worth something someday (possibly even Son In Law — suddenly thinking: “Why didn’t they cast Pauly Shore as “Mutt Williams”? — but I digress…)

Pauly on the Shore (right, with half-boner)
Arriving at the Festival proper, we immediately flip-flopped straight to the middle of Cannes and walked up to the Media Accreditation Table and begged like pathetic little girls for our laminates — which are pretty cool, really, and feature a picture of Pepé Le Pew to signify ” Online Journalist – Restricted Access – DO NOT ADMIT!!!” (This, of course, is a joke — but nonetheless I’m not going to publish a photo of our badges, so that some unscrupulous types don’t bogart it and try to crash the best parties.) The P.R. Women in France are extra-nice, actually, and gave each of us a beret and bottle of champagne by way of welcome.

A Typical French P.R. Woman
And then it was off to our first screening of the day — a brilliant new drama from director Peter Weir called You Only Lick My Daughters! — which was preceded by an introduction by Mr. Weir himself, wherein he confirmed his latest epic as “a sort of spiritual sequel to Witness, only nowhere near as good.” Indeed! In this film, Bobcat Goldthwait stars as a multihyphenate Terrorist-Sexual-Predator-Republican-Senator who accidentally gets caught in D.C. terrorizing and predatoring and Republican Senatoring, and thus steals an inconspicuous purple HumVee and speeds out to the wastelands of Northern Indiana to attempt to tuck himself away amongst the simple, rural folk. Concealing himself in what, at first, appears to be a giant, decrepit barn caked in owlshit, he discovers himself inside a particularly unfortunate caricature of an Amish house, and embraced by a family of twenty-three children (half boys, half girls, and one undecided, played by Shit — oops! — Shia LaBeouf), all of whom he takes prisoner even though they’re, like, totally nice to him. (In a surprise bit of stunt-casting, Larry “Lana” Wachowski plays one of the daughters.)

Larry “Lana” Wachowski (left), with brother Andy
Meanwhile, their father — a short, bald, angry widower who is bald and short (Ben Kingsley) — attempts to kill him with antiquated farm implements.

Sir Ben Kingsley
I won’t give away the twelve surprise endings of You Only Lick My Daughters! (which is altered slightly from the forthcoming Jane Smiley novel, Yet More Cows, upon which it is based) — but basically its title hinges on an agreement wherein the bald, short, Amish widower — whose politics are far from progressive — eventually agrees to allow the Goldthwait character to molest his daughters, but not his sons, because, “the Lord sayeth that’s icky and wrong.” I don’t think it’s a spoiler to add that, by the end, everyone has learned a little something, and grown as a human being. The ghost of short, bald Kingsley’s dead wife is played, of course, by Cate Blanchett.
The audience at Cannes loved You Only Lick My Daughters! — affording it the customary fifty-minute standing ovation — and since it’s the first and only movie we at Team ÜberCiné have viewed at Cannes this year, we unanimously confirm that it’s the very best movie we’ve seen here thus far.
Of course, we’ll be attending the Kung Fu Panda panel on Friday and the Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull panel on Saturday, but, as serious cinéastes (some might say ÜberCinéastes), we’re actually hoping to find even more significant and important cultural and socio-political events to explore.
Case-in-point: Mud, the new film from actress-turned-documentarian Hillary Swank.

Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank,
wearing Polish tablecloth, post Sno-Cone.
Like most fuckin’ actresses who screw and screw-over a bunch of people and become rich and famous and then pretend like they give a shit about suffering people in other countries, Ms. Swank (a former Karate Kid; rhymes with “wank”) was sitting around watching TV one night and suddenly…well, here’s a treat: We at Team ÜberCiné actually ran into Ms. Swank over by the Sno-Cone cart in Cannes, and conducted an impromptu interview re: Mud:
ÜberCiné: Hi. You’re Hillary Swank, right? Make that two “red” ones, merci. So what’s Mud about?
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: Well, back before I screwed and then screwed-over Chad Lowe, we were doing it in front of the TV, and there was this totally depressing show on, about, like, Southeast Asia and how, like, there’s, like, a big storm there every few days, and then everybody drowns, except then the people who don’t drown are all covered in mud, and I was all: ‘Aha!’
ÜberCiné: But the people who drown are also covered in mud, right? Gardez le changement.
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: What?
ÜberCiné: What?
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: No — what did you just say?
ÜberCiné: Oh, it was French.
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: Why the fuck are you speaking French here?
ÜberCiné: Forget it. How’s your Sno-Cone?
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: Cold and conical — much like me.
ÜberCiné: I don’t even know how to respond to that.
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: Check out that family over there! They’re urinating!
ÜberCiné: And smoking.
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: When I saw Elisabeth Shue urinating in Leaving Las Vegas — and then she won an Oscar for it — I was all, “My destiny is sealed.”
ÜberCiné: What about Mena Suvari in Spun? She actually takes an on-screen dump.
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: No Oscar, though, right?
ÜberCiné: Nope.
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: Well, that says it all. Obviously, dumping isn’t where it’s at.
ÜberCiné: Anyway, let’s get back to your amazing new documentary, Mud — which is narrated by Cate Blanchett and Samantha Morton. So tell me–
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: Wait — who do you represent again?
ÜberCiné: ÜberCiné.
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: What the fuck is that?
ÜberCiné: It’s an extremely popular and powerful website with millions of visitors each day. It’s also a way of life. I could teach you.
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: Okay. My room’s, like, right there.
ÜberCiné: Wanna do it?
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: Sure.
ÜberCiné: Look, I sat through The Affair of the Necklace; I feel like you owe me something in return. Wait… “Sure”? That’s it?
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: I’m an actress. Bang me. Whatever. But can I finish my Sno-Cone first?
ÜberCiné: You’re an actress. You can walk and eat at the same time…can’t you?
Actress-Turned-Documentarian Hillary Swank: Rad!
Obviously, we at Team ÜberCiné were even more slightly weary after doing it with a two-time Oscar-winner who isn’t as pretty as her ex-husband but boxes better — but in fact that’s a total lie, because we’re way above doing it with actresses, and in fact all we did was walk Ms. Swank back to her hotel, stand her next to some failed Eurotrash rock star with guaranteed magnetism for her limited sensory capacities, and then run away with our tape-recorder, giggling insanely. At this point — perhaps due to the mixed effects of three-days’ sleeplessness, slight weariness and drinking champagne from the bottle, we ran into acclaimed funnyman and pedophile Woody Allen, who toppled into a fountain and abruptly drowned.

French Mourners
Allen’s daughter, however — who is also his wife — was heard to say, “Oh, it’s okay — we were all getting sick of him making a mediocre new movie every year anyway,” and, feigning mourning whilst examining the contents of dead Allen’s wallet, offered us their free passes to the evening’s V.I.P. Opening Gala Event: A special advance screening of the remake of The Fat Boys’ immortal Disorderlies — starring Ryan Phillipe and Shit — whoops! — Shia LaBeouf in digital blackface as two of the Boys (the inferior actors perhaps taking their cue from Robert Downey, Jr. in this summer’s August dumper, Tropic Thunder), as well as Cate Blanchett and Samantha Morton alternating as “The Human Beatbox” — with Eddie Murphy playing all of the remaining characters. Truth be told, we didn’t even consider attending the screening — but we did go to the special Cannes Opening Gala V.I.P. Disorderlies buffet for something like five hours, and we brought large, insulated plastic cartons for transport of entire serving bowls of pasta and lots of mysterious deep-fried things back to our Motel 6. There was also something in there which appeared to be snails (!) — but these we gave to the gypsies in trade for a dance each with their women, and now — although it wasn’t as much fun as watching The Apple at midnight at the Nuart — I must say of today — Day One for Team ÜberCiné at Cannes! — simply “C’est magnifique!” — and, head full of ridiculous balderdash and tummy full of French grease, I hastily eye the ten-Euros-per-minute counter on the Motel 6 computer and bid you adieu! this lovely evening.
~Gregory
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Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 10:42 pm by Gregory

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Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 8:42 am by Gregory
Alas, no “time” to ponder.
Funny posts: Next!
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