Actor Charles Nelson Reilly dies at 76

Posted by Jim Emerson at 10:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I don't know how I missed mentioning David Bowie's 60th birthday in January, but I did. On a plane to LA recently I experienced my best-ever experience listening to "Hunky Dory" (1971). You know how that happens sometimes: You reconnect with something you haven't listened to in a while (no matter how familiar you are with it) and you rediscover it as if you were really hearing it for the first time? ("Changes" spoke directly to me like nothing else on the radio when it came out, and I was a confused pubescent 13.) Anyway, that's what a good close listen (iPod, passive noise-cancelling earphones, eyes closed, window seat on a plane) can do for you.

And, when I got home, I found this on YouTube, from a 1973 "Midnight Special." A belated happy 60th to The Artist Formerly Known as Ziggy -- and an early 61st birthday greeting to Lucy Jordan!

Posted by Jim Emerson at 3:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

View image How many movie references can you spot in this image from "5-25-77"?

Most of this is true. The rest is even truer.
-- Opening disclaimer, "5-25-77"

"To everybody else, movies are something to do when you're tired of living real life. To you, real life is something to do when you're tired of watching movies."
-- from Patrick Read Johnson's "5-25-77"

View image How about this one?

In James Bridges' "September 30, 1955" (1978), Richard Thomas (then best-known as John-Boy Walton on TV) played an Arkansas college student devastated by the death of his idol James Dean on the title date. In Patrick Read Johnson's "5-25-77," John Francis Daley (best-known as the great Sam Weir in "Freaks & Geeks") plays, basically, Patrick Read Johnson, who visited his idol Steven Spielberg on his spring break in 1977 (while Spielberg was finishing up "Close Encounters"). As the story goes, Johnson got to see an early screening of "Star Wars" (which opened on the title date 30 years ago) while there were still dogfight scenes from old WW II movies in place of the spaceships, and proclaimed himself the world's #1 "Star Wars" Fan. In his semi-autobiographical movie -- "from the producers of 'Star Wars' and 'American Graffiti'" (Fred Roos and Gary Kurtz) -- Johnson tells a version of his own story, about growing up in a small Midwestern town and trying to make it to a showing of "Star Wars" on the first day of its release. Teaser trailer here -- at least for the time being. (BTW, Anybody else remember with fondness the episode of "That '70s Show" in which Topher Grace and pals were smitten with "Star Wars" mania? It captured the now-bittersweet utopian euphoria the movie inspired at the time.)

And here?

Twitch had some sympathetic ruminations about "5-25-77" and the "Star Wars" phenomenon last year that I'd like to share with you on the 30th anniversary of that Portentous Day:

I've learned the hard way that there is a basic generational gap involved with "Star Wars" fans. There is the current crop for whom the prequel trilogy was their first exposure, and then there are the rest of us.

While I'm not quite old enough to have seen "A New Hope" on its first run it is no exaggeration at all to say that "Star Wars" populated the landscape of my imagination like nothing else at least until I hit puberty. The "Star Wars" universe is where I lived out my childhood. [...]

No comment.

The current crop of "Star Wars" fans can't seem to understand why us older lot are so bothered by the over-digitization of our childhood dream-world. But Patrick Read Johnson does. And how. "5-25-77" is his loosely autobiographical film about the impact of "Star Wars" on his own life as a teenage geek in love with the movies. We linked to an early, very rough teaser a while back but we have just been sent the full length trailer and if the film comes anywhere close to living up to this Johnson has made one of the most loving odes to geekdom ever. It is simply fantastic.

Posted by Jim Emerson at 4:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

QT: Back in flack mode.

Dave Kehr points out errors in the New York Times story about the future of 3-D by Sharon Waxman (the Judy Miller of showbiz reporting), which Kehr describes as "riddled with errors and misperceptions, to the point where it is actively misleading." Not the first time for Waxman, and it won't be the last. (I had to stop reading her "Rebels on the Backlot" book because it was likewise riddled with factual errors and such gross misunderstandings of how the movie business works that it led her to draw preposterous conclusions about what she witnessed or was told.)

There's a classic line in the Waxman article from Springsteen/"Titanic" producer Jon Landau: “The screen has always been an emotional barrier for audiences. Good 3-D makes the screen go away. It disappears, and you’re looking at a window into a world.”

Yeah, that damned screen. If only it weren't there to present an emotional barrier for us. (Maybe if we removed it -- and the back wall of the theater -- the projector could just show the movie into 3-D "reality" and allow us to really feel the emotions the movie is trying to convey!) It's like the way those blasted audio speakers get in the way of our emotional involvement in recorded music. Gotta get past that...

DK also refers us to a hilariously profane (i.e., Tarantinoesque) account of the "Death Proof" press conference in Cannes by Rob Nelson of the Minneapolis/St. Paul City Pages. Excerpt:

Not that I don't appreciate the privilege of seeing a longer "Death Proof"—I positively adored it at 87 minutes on the bottom-half of the ill-fated "Grindhouse" double bill. But whoever encouraged the Cannes Film Festival to advertise its new cut at "2h07" (i.e., 127 minutes)—director Quentin Tarantino, perhaps, or (more likely) the Weinstein Co.'s Stuntman Harv—is practically begging for a long ride on the fuckin' roof of the white Dodge Challenger, sans straps. I mean, the goddamn thing is no fuckin' longer than 113 tops—I fuckin' timed it—but that didn't stop Stuntman Harv from bum-rushing the Death Proof press conference yesterday to say that "you're missing the essence of Tarantino" at 87 (pffff...), and that the new cut, when it's released internationally, "will dwarf Grindhouse—trust me." Fuck, man. Does anyone, even Tarantino, trust Harvey Weinstein at this point?

Near the end of the press conference, which had QT literally sweating with enthusiasm for his movie and its many sources, a journalist asks Monsieur Grindhouse how he feels about writers having been requested by Harvey's crew to pay $1,500 apiece for a seat at the Cannes "Death Proof" junket. [...]

... As you might've guessed, gorgeous Butterfly (Vanessa Ferlito) finally does her big Texas Chili Parlor lapdance for Kurt Russell's icy-hot villain in a scene that QT invests with as much meta-movie passion as a fuckin' car chase or shootout or samurai showdown. Butterfly's tailfeather-shakin' shit is ridiculously, hilariously hot—even, it seems, for the lady from Uzbekistan who pipes up during the press conference to thank QT for his kick-ass female-empowerment movie on behalf of "all the women of Central Asia."...

Posted by Jim Emerson at 2:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

View image Mr. Pink, about to break out the world's smallest violin.

"I don't tip because society says I gotta. I tip when somebody deserves a tip. When somebody really puts forth an effort, they deserve a little something extra. But this tipping automatically, that shit's for the birds. As far as I'm concerned, they're just doin' their job.... The words 'too busy' shouldn't be in a waitress's vocabulary."
-- Mr. Pink (Steve Buscemi), from the opening scene of "Reservoir Dogs" (1992)

Sunday night I had dinner with some friends at an Italian joint called Mi Piace in Pasadena, where we encountered Bad Waitress. (Yes, you may use that as the name of your next band or movie if you like.) You've probably met her yourself: She knows nothing about the food -- what's in it, how it's prepared -- or the drinks (like what the bar scotch is), or what constitutes a martini (olives are the default; a lemon twist makes the drink into something else that is not a "martini," and should be a special request). OK, that last one is really the bartender's fault, but she was so clueless I didn't even bother to say anything. I just drank the thing, and it was fine.

But, you see, that's what passive-aggressive workers do to customers: They attempt to make us feel guilty for expecting the minimally acceptable service we're supposedly paying for when we spend money in a public establishment. As is the habit these days, Bad Waitress made herself scarce for most of the evening, and was nowhere to be found when it was time -- and long past time -- to pay the bill. Perhaps because we were a party of eight (we'd made reservations), she figured she didn't have to do anything because, as the fine print on the menu explained, her tip was automatically added to the check. But Bad Waitress didn't deserve a gratuity -- even though one was required. I guess we just have to chalk that up to the cost of eating in this mildly upscale joint. (I have an idea: How about if they put taxes and tip amounts alongside the prices of each dish on the menu, so you can see your total price for that particular item? Kind of like the tax and shipping calculators used on shopping sites like Pricegrabber.com?)

Anyway, that's what got me to thinking about Mr. Pink...

I have many friends who have worked in the food service industry (and still do), and yet I agree with Mr. Pink that a tip should be given as an expression of appreciation for a job well done -- and nothing else. Bad service is epidemic, and perhaps bad tippers are, too. Maybe there's a correlation there, though I couldn't say which is the chicken (free range) and which is the egg (cage-free, scrambled). And I don't understand why we deem some workers worthy of tips (taxi drivers, doormen, pizza deliverers, baristas, barbers, hotel/motel housekeepers) and others unworthy (cooks, garage mechanics, movie concessions and ticket sellers, dental hygienists, customer service people at Home Depot...). I know I tend to leave a higher percentage tip at little mom-and-pop places and dives (my preferred haunts) than in overpriced trendy places (which I nearly always avoid) where I know the wait staff is raking in hundreds or thousands a night in tips anyway.

But the last time I checked, eating out is not a charitable activity -- at least not for people who work for a living. Mr. Pink is right. We shouldn't tip because we feel social (or economic) pressure to do so. Now, I feel bad that people are working for low wages, even in some pretty fancy joints. And those people should not be underpaid. What really makes me feel bad, though, is knowing that by tipping I am supporting a system of coerced noblesse oblige that allows businesses to underpay their workers and deprive them of benefits. Customers are expected to pick up their moral and financial slack in the name of de-facto charity -- a system I find corrupt and insulting to both workers and patrons.

This is not unlike the significant numbers of Wal-Mart workers who are so grossly underpaid that they have to go on public assistance of some kind (food stamps, etc.) to make ends meet -- so that taxpayers are subsidizing the largest retailer in the world, allowing them to continue to shaft their own workers while we as a society keep giving them money to keep getting away with it. We think the money is going directly to the workers who need it to buy food and pay the rent, but in reality it's underwriting the company's costs of doing business at the expense of their employees. And that's wrong. Any for-profit company that needs to rely on public charity to stay in business shouldn't be in business. Somebody else will come along who can compete in the real free marketplace.

In the immortal words of Mr. Pink: "When I worked for minimum wage, I wasn't lucky enough to have a job that society deemed tipworthy.... [Working at McDonald's is hard, too] but you don't feel the need to tip them. They're servin' ya food, you should tip 'em. But no, society says tip these guys over here, but not those guys over there. That's bullshit...."

Posted by Jim Emerson at 12:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

View image Corporate branding at its very finest.

I have another new essay at MSN Movies now, on How Star Wars Changed the World. Yes, it was 30 years ago today (well, Friday, May 25, to be specific) that the Death Star blew Alderaan into space dust, contributing to galactic warming and allergy problems throughout the GFFA. An excerpt:

What "Star Wars" did best was combine corny stock characters and "Amazing Stories" plotlines with state-of-the-art Industrial Light and Magic visual effects and Dolby (later replaced with Lucas's patented THX) Surround sound. No more rockets made out of cardboard toilet-paper tubes with sparklers stuck in the rear for thrusters. Mix that with a wisecracking, almost postmodern sense of humor (more gung-ho earnest than the arch self-awareness William Goldman pumped into the Western in "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" eight years earlier) and an old-fashioned Hollywood military-symphonic score by John Williams, and you have a rousing, roller-coaster space adventure for children of all ages, as the marketers like to say.

Sure, the movie was criticized for being infantile, but that misses the point. It's aimed at a sensibility somewhere between infancy and the second year of college (or high school). A space fantasy with the emphasis on interstellar swashbuckling (and with romantic mush kept to a minimum), "Star Wars" appealed to the 3- to 12-year-old boy in all of us -- and still does.

But although all those things may have contributed to the "Star Wars" phenomenon, they don't explain why it "changed everything", or what accounted for "the mania" (as George Harrison used to call that unaccountable epochal thing that engulfed him and three other lovable mop-tops). Because it wasn't really the movie itself that shook the world (not like the Beatles' music shook up pop/rock music, anyway); it was the popular response to the movie, and the motion picture industry's response to that response. [...]

To see "Star Wars" in 1977 was to experience a moment in pop culture that seemed universal. This may have been the last such unifying landmark for the boomer generation -- with the Beatles at one end and "Star Wars" at the other.

Unless you remember what it was like in the summer of 1967 -- the so-called "Summer of Love," when "Sgt. Pepper" was simply in the air, everywhere, or the summer of 1977, when lines for "Star Wars" seemed to last for months (and people waited in lawn chairs with coolers full of beverages) -- it's hard to describe the feeling, because it's not likely to happen again.

Coming Soon: A piece about other movies that "changed everything" -- from a few years before "Star Wars" ("Nashville," "Jaws") to "The Phantom Menace," the movie that (for many, including me) was so dull and misconceived that it tarnished the luster of the "Star Wars" mythology forever, by reducing it to something purely technical and mundane. (It began with a crawl about the taxation of trade routes and a blockade of shipping to the tiny planet of Naboo, fer cripes sake! As the opening was paraphrased -- and demolished -- on "The Simpsons": "It is a time of uncertainty: The empire's ambiguous tariff statutes mandate close reexamination of galactic export quotas. Interim Princess Agoomba has co-chaired a subcommittee to draft amendments to existing trade policies.")

Whaddaya think? How did "Star Wars" change your world, and why? What other movies changed everything? What did they change -- and how?

Posted by Jim Emerson at 4:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (16)

Closed 6/11/07

Posted by Jim Emerson at 2:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

View image A graffito on Norah Jones.

It's confession time again here at Scanners: I've never gotten into Wong Kar-Wai (aka -wai, aka -Wei). I watched about half of "Chungking Express" and it seemed like better-than-average Tony Scott, but that didn't particularly interest me. (I guess I was hoping for something more like the hilariously deadpan first segment of Jim Jarmusch's "Mystery Train," which is what various descriptions had led me to expect.) So, while humming Peggy Lee ("Is That All There Is?"), I turned it off and vowed to give it another shot at some future date. Never happened. And I wanted to see "2046" (despite my, er, reservations), but when I found out it was a semi-sequel, I felt like I should first see its predecessor, "In the Mood For Love" and (although I have both saved on my TiVo -- in HD, no less) I've never gotten 'round to either.

Now my friend (and MSN Movies Editor) Dave McCoy, who's disliked more Wong than I've even seen (but likes "In the Mood for Love"), writes about the shade-sporting hypester's English-language "Blueberry Nights" from Cannes. This would have been ideal for the Contrarianism Blog-a-Thon:

I'll admit it: I don't get Wong Kar-Wai. I don't get his movies, I don't get his silly dark glasses that everyone else finds chic and cool, and I especially don't get the universal adoration heaped upon him. It's one of those things I know I should probably appreciate more. Like Björk. Or Thomas Pynchon. Or golf. Or brussels sprouts.

When the Hong Kong (by way of China) filmmaker burst on the international scene with "Ashes of Time" and, more prominently, "Chungking Express" in 1994, he immediately became both a critical darling and cult fan favorite. I found both films boring stylistic exercises. Friends told me his next film, "Fallen Angels," would turn me around. "It's got multiple story lines; you like Altman!" they said. I couldn't make my way through it. "Happy Together," an emotionally brutal gay love story, won him Best Director at Cannes in 1997. I fell asleep during it. His last film, "2046," an experimental sci-fi/time-travel thingy was so pretentious and infuriating and laughable to me that I walked out of the press screening. Of course, it topped numerous critics' top 10 lists in 2004 and that's when I started referring to the director as Wong Kar-WHY? But what about "In the Mood for Love," you ask? OK, I'll give you that one, in that he toned down the "look at me" cheap theatrics and for the only time made me feel something for Kar-Wai's tragic characters. And Tony Leung's performance killed me. [...]

But here's the thing: I always give WKW another chance. I always feel like, yes, this is the one that will turn me around! [...]

Look folks, I tried ... but "My Blueberry Nights" flat blows.... It's atmospheric ... it looks cool, man. And all of his other showy, decorative tricks made the trip to America, as well: the lingering slo-mo shots of actors looking into space (soooo deep), the claustrophobic framing, the melancholy soft focus -- everything, we suddenly realize, to take our mind away from a thin story about lost love and shattered souls that we've seen hundreds of times.... It'll probably win the Palme d'Or.

My one consolation happened when I was sitting in a movie theater before the next screening. Two prominent critics were talking to one another. One asked how the other was doing, and he replied, with lovely sarcasm, "I just flew in today and had Wong Kar-Wai inflicted on me." Right on, my brother. You don't by any chance hate brussels sprouts, too?

1) Brussels sprouts are my favorite green vegetable. Steamed with butter, garlic and a little lime juice. I'm telling you...

2) Although Dave is perfectly correct to characterize lead actress Norah Jones as "the pleasant singer whose CD is found in every soccer mom's gas-guzzling SUV" (and, yes, she's probably been the subject of as much fashionably middlebrow hype as the Great Wong), she has achieved one moment of sublimity, a year or two before her rather bland debut album. Listen to her sing Roxy Music's "More Than This" on Charlie Hunter's "Songs From the Analog Playground." It's heaven.

3) Read the whole piece, with Dave's specific observations about "Blueberry Nights" (is that a wine spritzer?), and please feel free to rise to Wong's defense with your comments.

4) My advice: Beware of films bearing Natalie Portman, the Julia Ormond of the 00's. Or at least approach them with trepidation. (OK, I did think she was good in "Closer." So good I forgot it was her.)

5) Anybody feel similarly about other much-ballyhooed contemporary sacred cows (and Cannes winners) like, say, Abbas Kiarostami, or Lars von Trier, or Theo Angelopoulos, or Quentin Tarantino, or... ?

Posted by Jim Emerson at 1:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (19)

No they didn't. Did they?

Oh, those ignorant Brits! The Guardian recently published the results of its public poll for the "40 Greatest Foreign [sic] Films of All Time." Of course, we love these silly consensus games because they offer such a terrific opportunity to express outrage. Like this fellow, who denounces his limey countrymen (and -women) for their cretinous taste in a letter to the editor:

Your list of the top 40 greatest foreign films, voted for by readers (Films and music, May 11), serves only to expose the paucity of foreign-language films in the UK, together with a chronic loss of knowledge or appreciation of cinema history. What we get is a hotchpotch of well-worn classics and recent international hits of dubious merit. Your film writers chide the voters too gently. There is only one silent film ("Battleship Potemkin"): no "Napoleon," "Metropolis," "Passion of Joan of Arc" or "The Last Laugh. " Only one other title from before 1945 (Renoir's "Régle du Jeu)"; and no room for Dreyer, Lang, Murnau, Gance, Vertov, Mizoguchi, Rossellini, Antonioni or Visconti (where is "The Leopard"?). Then to find Roberto Benigni's inane and offensive "Life is Beautiful" included is the final insult.
Clyde Jeavons
London

Posted by Jim Emerson at 5:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

... mostly about movies and music -- and with a shout-out to Scanners in the middle! The band is lo-fi is sci-fi, the song is "The Script You Wrote is Terrible" (great line: "The script you wrote is terrible/But I like you anyway"), and the video is clever and funny and magnificently deadpan (as is the one for "March to the Sky"). It would make a good Opening Shot contribution. After all, it's just one shot. I love the way it starts, with a white screen -- and just a little piece of black (the edge of the white background) in the upper left corner. Perfect.

"Hi-fi" version here.

Thanks to Mike for passing this along.

Posted by Jim Emerson at 3:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

View image

I don't usually do this (and have no intention of making a habit of it), but I wanted to share a couple of appreciations of Roger Ebert, on the occasion of his first public appearance (at his Overlooked Film Festival, aka Ebertfest) since complications from surgery last July. I know Roger doesn't want me to turn this or RogerEbert.com into a big bouquet of flowers for him -- but let's just take a moment to celebrate his return to public life (and more reviewing!). Over the last ten months or so, many have written, in public and private, about what Roger and his writing have meant to them, and two recent notes struck me as especially eloquent.

The first is from Ted Pigeon, whose blog The Cinematic Art is a favorite of mine. (Check out his piece about critics and blockbusters, too.) Ted begins by observing:

Like so many young film lovers, I first discovered my love of film criticism through Roger's engaging and intelligent movie reviews. His work showed me that film criticism is important, that it can be the source of great feeling and knowledge of cinema, and that criticism is essential to the advancement of cinema as an art form. It is a necesary companion to the experience of watching films for those who care deeply about films.

To know Ebert by his TV show is not to know him at all. You have to read him. He was the first film critic to be awarded the Pulitzer Prize, and one of only three ever to have been so acknowledged. He is the only American critic to review virtually every film in major release. His essays, while without the crabby flashiness of Pauline Kael’s, are marked by the groundedness of a Midwesterner, exacting writing, deep insights, and more than that, deep compassion. More than any critic, Ebert seems to understand that the movies are made by people who, with all their flaws, were trying to make a good film. He is a tireless champion of small movies of worth, and no critic has done more to leverage his influence in order to bring those films to the attention of America.

The rest of Peter's report (lightly edited) below...

Ebertfest: A Fan's Notes

by Peter Noble-Kuchera

When you drive down Neil Street in Champaign, Illinois, in April, you’re likely to see a billboard for Roger Ebert’s Overlooked Film Festival. And there he is, Roger Ebert, twelve feet tall, wearing a black suit and a bemused smile, giving the “thumbs up”: to the festival; to his home town and his alma mater; but most of all, to the experience of movie-going itself.

I’ve learned from many film critics, from Pauline Kael to Graham Greene, Harlan Ellison, David Denby in the New Yorker (an ex-Paulette), and Manhola Dargis, first at the L.A. Weekly, now at the New York Times. But most of what I know about film criticism – and a large portion of what I know about movies, period – comes from Ebert.

Ebert has said that you should do your writing as soon as possible after an experience, because while factual memory is durable, emotional memory tends to fade. I’m writing this shortly after the shock of seeing Ebert at the 9th Annual Ebertfest. He came right through the doors of the Virginia Theater without any to-do -- slowly, carefully, supported by his wife, Chaz, to whom he was married in 1992. His neck was bandaged. His mouth hung slack. But most of all, he was minus those big, dorky glasses that seemed to magnify his eyes, that seemed an integral part of the pugnacious scrapper who could stare down a film giant and say, “Your movie sucked.” He no longer resembled the picture on the billboard.

The local and national news had been covering the story of Ebert’s festival, and especially his health, all night; no fewer than four camera crews were present. Ebert’s eyes seemed very small as he navigated through the paparazzi, as if he were looking far into the distance.

But then the audience saw him. His audience; the 1,600 people packing the sold-out theater were there as much for him as the films. The standing ovation roared from the back of the theater in a wave (it would be Ebert’s first of four that night alone). He took the stage. For the last eight years, at this point, he would make his introductory remarks. That was not possible this year, as his vocal chords had been disabled while he awaits another surgery to correct the complications following an operation on his salivary cancer, and the subsequent rupture of the carotid artery that nearly killed him Instead, Ebert gave the gesture for which, despite his frequently spoken frustrations about it over the years, he had become most identified. He gave the “thumbs up”. No Roman emperor ever got a more appreciative response. And his eyes no longer seemed small at all. In fact, they shone.

How did a film critic, of all people, come to be so loved? I can assure you that it’s not just his hometown that feels this way; it’s his national audience, too. And more tellingly, it’s the movie people themselves. Even when Ebert is highly critical of their work, he is so perceptive in his comments, they have to acknowledge that he’s right, or that he at least has a point. They want to please him. Adam Sandler once told Ebert, “I hope some day to make a movie that you’ll like.” With Punch Drunk Love, he finally did.

To know Ebert by his TV show is not to know him at all. You have to read him. He was the first film critic to be awarded the Pulitzer Prize, and one of only three ever to have been so acknowledged. He is the only American critic to review virtually every film in major release. His essays, while without the crabby flashiness of Pauline Kael’s, are marked by the groundedness of a Midwesterner, exacting writing, deep insights, and more than that, deep compassion. More than any critic, Ebert seems to understand that the movies are made by people who, with all their flaws, were trying to make a good film. He is a tireless champion of small movies of worth, and no critic has done more to leverage his influence in order to bring those films to the attention of America.

***

Downtown theaters like the Virginia are getting to be as rare as the generation that first packed them. Once, you could see Groucho Marx himself on stage at the Virginia. Champaign has been working to restore the theater, in fits and starts, for years; except for the odd chunk of plaster missing from the proscenium, she was looking fine. There was room for you to stick your legs out a bit. The floors were immaculate, and more importantly, so was the giant screen. Colored lights through cookie cutouts made a red and black spray of the ceiling. With its Wurlitzer sounds, a pipe organ rose up as if from the depths. It was put there in the ‘20s to accompany silent films, which were never silent at all. The organ, and the aged organist, seemed like an animatronic sculpture at Disney World, stiff and of a piece.

We were in good hands during the festival. One of our two union projectionists had been flown in from Chicago. If the film ever became even slightly out of focus after a reel change, it was fixed literally within seconds. The sound was fully digital, and when there was a feedback problem, that was fixed in just moments, too. The lamp house bulb behind the projector was bright, the matting around the edges of the screen carved out a razor-sharp rectangle.

(Compare this to our experience, in Bloomington, Indiana, at Kerasotes theaters. Full disclosure: because I write about movies for WFIU public radio, Kerasotes lets me see movies for free, for which I am very grateful. But because I have told them of these problems every time they occurred for the last two years, I feel free to at least nip the hand that feeds me, and say that the state of projection in our town is abominable. I used to keep track, but have long lost count, of the focus problems, the aperture plates out of alignment, the dim bulbs, the crooked projectors, the missing cueing tape, the scratches, the blown-out surround speakers, the hairs in the gate, the film breaks, and the bad splices. I sympathize with the folks at the theater: the films are often built and projected by ushers making $6.25 an hour, who are expected to be downstairs selling popcorn and sweeping floors minutes after starting a movie. For your $8.50, you are entitled to perfect projection; but only if you’re willing to get out of your seat and demand it. And because you have missed part of the film, you should see the manager afterwards for a rain check, to see your next movie for free. They’ll give you one, and eventually, they’ll start listening to us. These things can be changed.)

***

A few words about the festival movies themselves. Most of the thirteen films were selected by Ebert because he felt they didn’t get the audience they deserved. "Moolaade’," for example, was picked by Ebert as the best film at Cannes in its year, but it never came anywhere near Indiana except as a worn-out VHS projected by our invaluable Buskirk-Chumley Theater. I saw the film there, and was powerfully affected by it. It indicts the barbaric practice variously referred to as “purification,” “excision,” or “female circumcision” – removal of the clitoris by a knife. The practice is still common in some regions of Africa, where it is mistakenly thought to be proscribed by Islam.

This description might make "Moolaade’ "sound like a film you wouldn’t want to sit through, but I promise you, Ousmane Sembene, the film’s director, the eighty-year-old father of sub-Saharan cinema, makes his point with gentleness. His picture has an even greater impact when seen as it was meant to be seen: on film. The colors of citrus and sand seduce you, the susurrations of gentle breezes, the pounding of millet, and the laughter of children put you into the rhythm of this tiny village in Burkino-Faso.

A panel discussion followed, as it did after each of the films. Fatimata Coulibably, who plays the heroine in the film, Colle’, took the stage. In the film, she reveals her body. Coulibably explained that this is profoundly shocking to Africans; the film has scarcely been seen there at all. In the nude scene, we see Colle’, who endured the mutilation as a child, having excruciatingly painful sex with her husband (that’s the life-long effect of circumcision, if the girl doesn’t bleed to death first). Coulibably, a ravishing woman of powerful personal presence, explained that she herself endured the procedure, and that sex scene mirrors her own experience.

Maverick directors, and great friends, Paul Cox and Werner Herzog were on hand to discus their films as well. Cox’s film, "Man of Flowers," is close in subject and tone to Chabrol’s film of Patricia Highsmith’s "Cry of the Owl." It concerns a mild and deeply lonely middle-aged man whose repressed desires are called into the open with violent consequences. The film is mysterious, with an almost surreal beauty: “Film has more to do with painting than with theater. Maybe we should trust our dreams more,” Cox said afterwards. He continued, “When we are children, we are totally scarred. We have to go to school. And by age four or five, education has conditioned us to forget who we are. I thought we had a future, and that the human race had a chance. I’ve seen the human race decline into something horrible. I am greatly disturbed by our lack of a future.” Addressing Ebert, who sat in the back of the theater in a La-Z-Boy carted in specially for him, Cox called him a hero: “You have inspired me and other independent filmmakers to keep fighting the good fight.”

Herzog’s film, "Stroszek," lightened the mood. The film is one of Herzog’s best, with a quirky and off-kilter sense of humor, though it's not commonly seen. ["Stroszek" is, however, available on DVD.] Like Cox’s film, it is largely about solipsism. Cox and Herzog took the stage together: “So, Werner, have you ever put a car chase in one of your films?” Herzog: “Not to my knowledge.” Herzog explained that "Stroszek" was filmed in twelve days; Cox’s film was made in three weeks. In both cases, nobody slept, and both men said that the experience was one of the best in their lives. Cox: “You have to remember to laugh at yourself, or you’ve lost it. Humorless people are awful.”

The protagonist of "Stroszek" is played by Bruno S., a man discovered by Herzog when S. was homeless. S. is the son of a prostitute who didn’t want him. At the age of three, he was put into a home for the insane and the developmentally disabled. Terrified, he did not speak until the age of nine, at which time he was put into a correctional facility. His bed-wetting, and subsequent public humiliation, depicted in the film were real. Herzog, who was driven half crazy by the ravings of Kinsky, signed up for another difficult ride with S. because Herzog is attracted to the very edges of the cinematic map, to bring forth what he calls “ecstatic truth.”. “It’s raw life,” he said that night, “nothing in between. That’s why the film doesn’t age.” He next spun a yarn about his own rock bottom experiences so fantastic that David Bordwell, the outstanding film scholar on hand to ask questions, was left speechless for fifteen minutes.

In the end, Herzog echoed Cox’s sentiments: “Our technological civilization will not last on this planet. Our existence is, clearly, not sustainable. We’re going to be the next ones to become extinct. And that’s okay. Let’s enjoy each other while we can; make friends; go to the movies.” After the discussion, I was fortunate enough to have a conversation with Herzog. Does he really believe that we are doomed to extinction – that mankind has no chance of turning it around? He said it’s not just the pollution. It’s that our many races have mixed genes so thoroughly that we now have a “monoculture,” putting us at great risk of a disease wiping us all out at once. Yes, he said, that’s really what’s going to happen.

On a brighter note, Joey Lauren Adams, the lead actress in "Chasing Amy," presented her film "Come Early Morning," her first as writer/director. It’s a lovely thing, with a luminous performance by Ashley Judd, as an alcoholic who holds it together at work but pushes men away. Adams was self-deprecating, giving all the credit for the film to her cinematographer, to Judd, and to the marvelous actor Scott Wilson, who was also on hand (Wilson didn’t let her get away with that). Adams explained how close Judd’s character was to her own life at the time. She hadn’t worked in years. The pivotal moment came at a bar, when someone said, “Hey, weren’t you in 'Chasing Amy'? What happened?” Adams, tired of the lack of roles for women that she could “do anything with,” decided to make her own movie. I hope she makes another one soon.

Two other highlights: "Sadie Thompson," a Gloria Swanson silent, for which she was firs nominated for an Oscar, was projected in 35mm and accompanied live by the Champaign-Urbana Symphony Orchestra. It’s a key film, coming right on the cusp of the sound era; it represents the mature achievement of the silents. The film is incomplete; the final reel is a patchwork quilt of still images and recreated intertitles. And yet it plays like gangbusters, funny and psychologically astute, with a great performance by Lionel Barrymore as the sexually-impacted heavy. Chaz Ebert, who introduced the film, said she could hardly sleep the previous night just thinking about the orchestra. Joseph Turin, the composer, and Steve Larson, the conductor, explained the challenges and rewards of syncing a live performance to an existing film. They did a marvelous job; what a way to see a silent! And then "La Dolce Vita," the greatest of all Fellini films, was shown in full CinemaScope (actually Totalscope), consuming every last inch of the Virginia’s screen capacity. Its three hours, packed with life in every frame, simply overload the senses.

Finally, a note on the film "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. " I will say nothing of its plot or execution, except that it is dark, dark, dark. Coming back to my senses after screening it, I realized that my strongest emotion was anger. Anger that the critical community in America is obviously not functioning, or an alert moviegoer – I think I’m one, I’ll bet you’re one – would have known that there was a major work that simply has to be taken into account. Ebert, who championed the film at the time, can’t be expected to do it all by himself. It doesn’t matter what the film’s about, or even how it’s about; it’s not important whether you will like it. It is simply a film that must be seen by anyone who cares seriously about film.

This was a very special year for Ebertfest. With Ebert unable to help organize, or to host panel discussions, those who loved him pulled it together anyway. And his presence was everywhere. The festival is a marathon that totally wipes you out. It also leaves you exhilarated, full of hope for the future of the movies, because of those who cared enough to select the best and present them like they should be seen, and because of those who made the trek to see them, and gave back with their thunderous applause.

-30-

Posted by Jim Emerson at 3:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

My father died unexpectedly the first week of April, three days before I was scheduled to leave for the Conference on World Affairs. The day before I left, my dog Frances surreptitiously ate two containers of dog treats in my parents' garage and nearly exploded, but after an emergency trip to the vet she's now OK (and seven pounds lighter). At my mom's insistence I went to Boulder (with "Chinatown") and then we had the reception for my dad at their house (there was no funeral or memorial service -- he didn't want 'em) when I got back. Two days after that, it was off to Ebertfest, where I was greatly heartened to see Roger Ebert in such high spirits. So, that's what's been going on. Hope to get back to posting regularly now...

Posted by Jim Emerson at 2:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (23)

Rob Schneider (right) in "Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo."

A note from Roger Ebert:

A beautiful bouquet of flowers was delivered to the house the other day. A handwritten note paid compliments to my work and wished me a speedy recovery.

Who was it from? A friend? A colleague? An old classmate? The card was signed, “Your Least Favorite Movie Star, Rob Schneider.”

Saints preserve us.

It will help to establish a context if I mention that my review of Schneider’s latest film, “Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo,” contained three words which provided me with the title of my new book: “Your Movie Sucks.”

Continue reading at RogerEbert.com...

Posted by Jim Emerson at 12:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Frances and Edith have idiosyncratic licking problems, too. (Frances obsessively licks a hot spot on her foot and Edith obsessively licks Frances's face.) DISCLAIMER FROM DREWTOOTHPASTE (author of video): "The licking is not a serious medical problem. Charles is under regular veterinary care, and was not harmed during the making of the video. He is just a weird dog." In other words, Charles does not do this all the time. Evidently he is stimulated by the sight of something (tasty treats?) outside the frame.

Posted by Jim Emerson at 11:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

View image David Bordwell (who needs no introduction to readers of Scanners), Michael Barker of Sony Pictures Classics, and Werner Herzog discuss Herzog's "Stroszek."

"Stupidity is the devil. Look in the eye of a chicken and you'll know. It's the most horrifying, cannibalistic, and nightmarish creature in this world."
-- Werner Herzog

I could listen to Werner Herzog talk all night. And I have. (See this transcript from Ebertfest 2005, for example.) Watching the marvelous "Stroszek" (I think of it as Herzog's Fassbinder movie), with Werner, as everyone calls him, seated in the audience two rows behind me, the famous dancing chicken at the end reminded of the quote above. ("Stroszek" has one of the great final lines in movies: "We have a 10-80 out here, a truck on fire, we have a man on the lift. We are unable to find the switch to turn the lift off and we can't stop the dancing chicken. Send an electrician. We're standing by..." Those of us who are not waiting for Godot are indeed waiting for the electrician, or someone like him...)

View image The vibe you get from this picture perfectly captures what Ebertfest feels like. Here, David Bordwell shows off his midnight-hour chocolate-banana shake at the Steak 'n Shake (yes, there's only one apostrophe in that). Somehow, when he began drinking it, he got the banana and the chocolate to stay separate on either side of the plastic straw, too. These are the things that make life worth living. (You see, the chocolate represents the movies and the banana represents the people and Roger is the glass and Chaz is the whipped cream and cherry on top and...)

Later I asked Herzog if he had changed his mind about chickens, dancing or otherwise. "I only like eating them," he said. In response, I naturally quoted a great exchange from "Chinatown":

Noah Cross (John Huston), peering at a fish on J.J. Gittes's plate: I hope you don't mind. I believe they should be served with the head.

J..J. Gittes (Jack Nicholson): As long as you don't serve the chicken that way.

View image Writer Anna Thomas ("El Norte") interviews Prof. Samba Gadjigo (director of "The Making of Moolade"), actress Fatoumata Coulibaly, and actress/activist Marcia McBroom-Small ("Beyond the Valley of the Dolls") for "Moolade."

I also asked Herzog if he'd seen Michael Winterbottom's fantastic bio-comedy about the Manchester music scene, "24 Hour Party People" (perhaps second only to "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada" among my favorite films of the new millennium -- and the one I've enjoyed re-watching the most), in which the lead singer of Joy Division commits suicide with the last scene of "Stroszek" playing on television in the background. Herzog said he'd heard about it, but hadn't seen the movie. Well, he has something to look forward to.

View image Filmmaker Eric Byler ("charlotte sometimes") and actor Scott Wilson ("Come Early Morning") -- both Eberfest vets.

If you'd like to listen to part of the discussion between Herzog, David Bordwell and Michael Barker (a low-fi MP3 recording made on my Treo 680 -- have I mentioned how much I love my Treo 680, the life-changing "TiVo" of handheld gadgets?), click here.

It was remarkable to see how the Angry Young Herzog I remember from the '70s and '80s (in Seattle and especially Telluride) has evolved into such a congenial elder statesman. As his friend Paul Cox (who cast Herzog to play the father in "Man of Flowers," a film he described as being about "male loneliness") lamented technology (Cox is irrationally terrified of computers and cell phones), and proclaimed the imminent end of mankind's time on Earth, Herzog was more genial and philosophical. Yes, he said, it may be our turn to become extinct, like many species before us, but that's no reason to be "gloomy" in the time we have left: "Let's keep making films and treasuring friendships and drinking beers."

(When Cox, who spoke of women almost as if they were another species -- claiming they were "closer to the soil" in a way that made them sound almost bovine -- said that he couldn't think of any films about "female loneliness," Kristin Thompson came up with three masterpieces off the top of her head: Krzysztof Kieslowski's "Three Colors: Blue," Chantal Akerman's "Jeanne Dielman," and Carl Theodor Dreyer's "Gertrud.")

OK, now a few more pictures from Ebertfest 2007, after the jump...

View image Moderator and festival blogger Lisa Rosman joins Eric Byler, Joey Lauren Adams and Scott Wilson to talk about Adams' directorial debut, "Come Early Morning."

P.S. As for the dancing chicken, Herzog told the audience he doesn't know what it means, but that's not the point. You have to decide what it means to you, in the context of the film.

View image Michael Barker of Sony Pictures Classics delivers a rousing introduction for one of Roger Ebert's favorite films, Federico Fellini's "La Dolce Vita."

View image Kim Voynar of Cinematical visits Roger in his comfy recliner at the back of the Virginia Theater.

View image Organist Warren York plays between features at the Virginia.

View image Even dwarves started small: David Bordwell, Michael Barker and Werner Herzog are dwarfed by the mammoth curtain and cavernous (but warm and inviting) interior of the Virgina Theater.

Posted by Jim Emerson at 11:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

My review of "Red Road" at RogerEbert.com:

Vertigo, they say, is not really a fear of falling; it's a fear of jumping. The gap between the subject and the ground creates such strong psychological conflict in the afflicted that the temptation to eliminate it by leaping into the void is overpowering, and dizziness sets in.

A similar dynamic exists between the voyeur and the object of his or her scrutiny. In the chilling and dread-laden "Red Road," Jackie (Kate Dickie), a closed-circuit television operator in Glasgow, sits before a bank of video screens connected to surveillance cameras across the city. Her job at "City Eye Control, Division E," is to monitor the feeds for suspicious activities, and to report what she sees to the proper authorities. She scans some of the city's worst neighborhoods for signs of trouble, with an eye toward averting it before the victims need to call for help.

From the very first scene, we feel an ambivalent tension between Jackie and the people on her screens. She can't help empathizing with the overweight young woman who works as a night janitor, donning headphones and dancing to her MP3 player in an empty office building. Or the man who walks his old and ailing English bulldog. But Jackie remains at a distance. They have no idea she's watching.

We immediately sense that Jackie is harboring a darkness and despair that isolates her from everyone else. She uses the wall of video images as a buffer between herself and the outside world -- or between herself and her own life. Until she spots a red-haired man named Clyde (Tony Curran), and -- feverishly, compulsively -- penetrates the screen and, for reasons unknown, begins to insinuate herself into his life. It's an excruciating process, but she seems driven to forge ahead, even when she feels she can't go through with it.

Posted by Jim Emerson at 9:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

View image Bilious Bill.

I realized as I was posting this that I'd assigned it two categories: "TV" and "Journalism." Well, I haven't associated those two terms for years -- with the exception of "Frontline," last week's definitive and indispensable "Bill Moyers' Journal" ("Buying the War," which you can watch/explore here), "The Daily Show," "The Colbert Report" and the occasional "60 Minutes." An Indiana University School of Journalism analysis reminded me of what passes for "journalism" on TV these days -- particularly on the Fox Skews Channel. The study finds that Fox comedian Bill O'Reilly uses an insult on the average of once every 6.8 seconds during the "Talking Points Memo" segment of his TV show. (I, on the other hand, use a mere 1.5 insults per sentence when writing about O'Reilly.)

From a summary of the report, "Villains, Victims and the Virtuous in Bill O'Reilly's 'No Spin Zone'" -- which offers a hilarious chart tracking O'Reilly's use of various propaganda devices and rhetorical fallacies:

Bill O'Reilly may proclaim at the beginning of his program that viewers are entering the "No Spin Zone," but a new study by Indiana University media researchers found that the Fox News personality consistently paints certain people and groups as villains and others as victims to present the world, as he sees it, through political rhetoric.

The IU researchers found that O'Reilly called a person or a group a derogatory name once every 6.8 seconds, on average, or nearly nine times every minute during the editorials that open his program each night.

"It's obvious he's very big into calling people names, and he's very big into glittering generalities," said Mike Conway, assistant professor in the IU School of Journalism. "He's not very subtle. He's going to call people names, or he's going to paint something in a positive way, often without any real evidence to support that viewpoint."

Maria Elizabeth Grabe, associate professor of telecommunications, added, "If one digs further into O'Reilly's rhetoric, it becomes clear that he sets up a pretty simplistic battle between good and evil. Our analysis points to very specific groups and people presented as good and evil."

For their article in the spring issue of Journalism Studies, Conway, Grabe and Kevin Grieves, a doctoral student in journalism, studied six months worth, or 115 episodes, of O'Reilly's "Talking Points Memo" editorials using propaganda analysis techniques made popular after World War I.

A 2005 Annenberg Public Policy Center survey found that while 30 percent of Americans viewed Washington Post and Watergate reporter Bob Woodward as a journalist, 40 percent of respondents considered O'Reilly to be a journalist. [...]

Using analysis techniques first developed in the 1930s by the Institute for Propaganda Analysis, Conway, Grabe and Grieves found that O'Reilly employed six of the seven propaganda devices nearly 13 times each minute in his editorials. His editorials also are presented on his Web site and in his newspaper columns.

The seven propaganda devices include:

* Name calling -- giving something a bad label to make the audience reject it without examining the evidence;
* Glittering generalities -- the oppositie of name calling;
* Card stacking -- the selective use of facts and half-truths;
* Bandwagon -- appeals to the desire, common to most of us, to follow the crowd;
* Plain folks -- an attempt to convince an audience that they, and their ideas, are "of the people";
* Transfer -- carries over the authority, sanction and prestige of something we respect or dispute to something the speaker would want us to accept; and
* Testimonials -- involving a respected (or disrespected) person endorsing or rejecting an idea or person.

The same techniques were used during the late 1930s to study another prominent voice in a war-era, Father Charles Coughlin. His sermons evolved into a darker message of anti-Semitism and fascism, and he became a defender of Hitler and Mussolini. In this study, O'Reilly is a heavier and less-nuanced user of the propaganda devices than Coughlin.

Summary and full report here.

Posted by Jim Emerson at 1:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (46)

View image James Bond (Daniel Craig) in "Casino Royale." With every move he makes, another chance he takes. Odds are...

What accounts for the movies' fascination with gambling? That's a question I mull over in a survey of pictures (from "Gilda" to "Barry Lyndon" to "Casino" to "California Split" to "The Cooler") about the addictive alchemy of luck, chance, fate and skill at MSN Movies. Making a movie is itself a grand gamble. You never know how it's going to turn out, and the results have as much to do with circumstance as they do with talent or craftsmanship. An excerpt from "High Rollers":

Gambling does not rank among the "seven deadly sins." It doesn't have to. Just about all the capital vices can be found in the psyche of the gambler, and not just in the usual suspects, greed and envy. There's also plenty of room for gluttony (overindulgence, addiction, substance abuse); wrath (rage, vindictiveness); sloth (indifference, jadedness, existential apathy); lust (licentiousness, dissolution); and, the deadliest of all sins: pride (hubris, arrogance, usually expressed in the form of cheating, or a misplaced belief in a dubious "system" designed to beat the odds).

The grandest "Casino Royale" -- the ultimate gamble -- is, of course, the game of life itself: a series of cosmic wagers in which the stakes vary wildly from day to day, bet to bet. Some people seem to go "all in" all the time, some ante up just enough to get them through each hand they're dealt, and others are perpetual folders who try to opt out of the game entirely in order to avoid risking too much.

But since the time of Oedipus the central question has always been: How much of the outcome is governed by free will and how much by predestination? The answer depends on the (rigged?) nature of the game you're playing, and whether the winners and losers are predetermined, either by some higher interventionist power (appeased by superstitious rites, such as blowing on dice or disingenuously proclaiming the need for new footwear for one's tot), or by a simple calculation of the odds that invariably favor "the house."

Although one can only play the hand one is dealt, a poker or blackjack player retains a small degree of influence over his fate, as some game variables are subject to decision-making based on statistical knowledge and experience. Those who gamble on a roll of the dice or a spin of the wheel, however, rely on pure chance. Or, as it is known in gaming circles, "luck."

The odds of winning are never better than 50-50 (red or black in roulette), which is why most gambling stories -- and gambling movies -- are either about chance, or about cheating. As in the 1946 classic film noir, "Gilda," with Glenn Ford and Rita Hayworth, these tales are of the men and women who learn to "make their own luck."

The only way to increase your luck without trickery is with skill -- by learning to read the odds based on the cards that have already been played, or by learning to read the people who play them. In Curtis Hanson's new "Lucky You," hot-headed poker player Huck Cheever (Eric Bana) has to learn how to do both if he wants to woo songstress Billie Offer (Drew Barrymore). As his father, L.C. (Robert Duvall), tells him: "You've got it backwards, kid. You play cards the way you should live life, and you live life the way you should play cards."

That's the lesson movie gamblers are always trying to learn. Everybody has a "tell" -- a little unconscious tic that reveals when they're bluffing. In David Mamet's "House of Games," renowned psychoanalyst Margaret Ford (Lindsay Crouse) thinks she understands human behavior until she is schooled by Mike (Joe Mantegna) in the ways of gamblers and con men who avoid being understood. The big gamble comes down to a matter of pride -- and the skill and intuition to fool the other players.

In the most recent "Casino Royale" film, the hubris of James Bond (Daniel Craig) costs him a high stakes game, and nearly costs him his life. Every scene in the movie involves a bet, a bluff, or a calculated risk. Whether the game is espionage, romance, the stock market, or poker, the rules are basically the same: Outwit, outplay and outlast your opponents....

Posted by Jim Emerson at 10:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

View image Director and longtime Ebert favorite Werner Herzog ("Stroszek") visits with Roger before the noon Sunday screening of "Beyond the Valley of the Dolls."

An experience like Ebertfest 2007 is beyond my capacity to convey in words -- and I'm not just talking about the movies. At one point I asked Roger if he was having as much fun as I was. He wrote on his pad: "The time of my life!" Sitting in his recliner in the back row of the Virginia Theatre in Champaign, IL, (his customary spot -- but this time with cushier accommodations and more legroom) he sure looked like he was having a blast. The rest of us had a fine time, too, as I hope you will see from these photos I took...

View image Roger Ebert listens to Chaz's introduction at the opening night reception.

View image Chaz Ebert introduces her husband to the opening night crowd from the stage of the Virginia Theatre.

View image Roger with "Beyond the Valley of the Dolls" star Marcia McBroom-Small (Petronella, aka "Pet").

View image The crowd is in the house and all is quiet outside, just before "La Dolce Vita" hit the screen Friday night.

View image Werner und Ich. (photo by Eric Byler -- with my camera)

View image Ebertfest '07 begins with a bang -- on the front page of the Chicago Sun-Times. Enlarge to see Roger's note about Chaz's opening remarks -- which kicked off with the the immortal line from "BVD": "It's my happening and it freaks me out!"

View image To give you an idea of the scale of the Virginia Theatre, here's festival director Nate Kohn, actor Alan Rickman and blogger David Poland on stage after "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer." The 'Scope movies -- "Gattaca," "La Dolce Vita," "Perfume" and "Beyond the Valley of the Dolls" (in a newly struck print) -- looked especially ravishing on this screen, with the expert projection of James Bond and Steve Kraus.

View image Festival director Nate Kohn, University of Illinois President Joseph White, Webster, and Mary White at the reception at the president's house.

View image Nate with directors Paul Cox ("Man of Flowers" and Werner Herzog ("Stroszek").

View image Meet me at the corner of Roger Ebert and Park -- location of the Virgina Theatre.

View image What an audience! David Bordwell and Kristin Thompson, third row, house right. No, they're not blushing. That curtain is RED.

View image Roger and Chaz prepare to let the laptop version of HAL 9000 do the speaking for Roger before the matinee of "Holes."

View image Big and beautiful: For most of the filmmakers who attend Ebertfest, this is the single biggest audience with whom they'll ever see their movie. It's an overwhelming experience.

View image Scott Wilson gives Dusty Cohl, OC, a traditional Steak 'n Shake massage.

View image Lady Joan Cohl holds down the fort in the last row.

View image The Champaign-Urbana Symphony Orchestra (or select members thereof) under the direction of Steve Larsen, perform Joseph Turin's 1986 score for Raoul Walsh's 1928 "Sadie Thompson," starring Gloria Swanson and Walsh himself. The 97-minute score is written for 18 musicians: two flutes (piccolo double), oboe, two clarinets (bass clarinet double), two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, two trombones, two celli, string bass, piano, and percussion.

View image David Bordwell, Chicago Tribune critic Michael Phillips, Kristin Thompson, conductor Steve Larson and composer Joseph Turrin on stage after "Sadie Thompson" (introduced by her distant cousin Kristin). Note the thumb statuettes on the floor. These are the new models, cast from Roger Ebert's hand and made of the same material, and by the same company, as the Oscar statuettes.

More to come...

Posted by Jim Emerson at 5:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)