Before I begin, let James Mason make a toast to your health [courtesy of my friend Ted].
The cinetrix loves the Internets in part because she's not much for crowds. Perhaps that's one reason why I admire but could never replicate the lively commenter culture that virtual salonistes the Self-Styled Siren and Girish cultivate at their respective spots.
The Siren certainly touched a nerve with her recent revelation of Ten Movies the Siren Should Love... But Does Not. Of the ten, I've seen more than I usually can claim in posts on her site. I'll admit to an adolescent fondness for the original Where the Boys Are. Even though I agree that Yvette Mimieux's character is ill-used, Jim Hutton is so cute!
Then there's The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956). Doris Day and Jimmy Stewart "just basically hate one another," says the Siren. Eh, they are going through a rough patch in their marriage, and that, not the mystery, is what makes it superior to the Brits-abroad sportiness of the 1930s version. Day's character gave up a career as a singer, and Stewart is intent on limiting her voice's circulation to the domestic sphere, full stop. Which is what makes her Albert Hall scream and "over-the-top" singing of "Que Sera, Sera" in the embassy where Hank's being held so thrilling. That voice has so much power and agency we "see" it in the series of shots outside the salon, ascending the stairs, and finding her son.
I encourage you to read the whole list and the oodles of comments, but I need to ride to the defense of Welles' The Trial (1962) first. It's by no means loveable. It's prickly, but also gorgeous and a weirdly cabalistic approach to both story and mise-en-scene, rearranging the original elements again and again to come up with a midrashic interpretation of Kafka, Tony Perkins' post-Psycho star persona, the sick soul of Cold War Europe.... that's forever paired in my mind in a grim double feature with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1965).
Both films were ones I've still only seen on shitty VHS, which brings me to Girish's recent post on Netflix's streaming service. I find it a godsend, living in the sticks as I do, and one that better replicates the odd sense of discovery and taking a chance one experienced by lingering in the well-curated video stores of yore. My queues for DVDs and Roku-enabled streaming are both nearly maxed out, externalized manifestations of my movie memory and ambitions. But you shouldn't listen to me -- I still have two fully functioning [to the Fesser's abiding chagrin] CRTs, so I mightn't be the best judge of quality. But, again, pristine quality is a relatively recent innovation, and I came of age during the UHF, VHS, pan-and-scanned, beat-to-hell Swank rental 16s era.
Although, our projector just arrived, so I may change my tune.
Which currently is one of lamentation, complete with gnashing of teeth and rending of garments, owing to this tidbit gleaned from Karina Longworth's Twitter: "The "James Franco options Zeroville" story was the first Variety Breaking News alert that I actually clicked and read in maybe a year." I don't begrudge Steve Erickson the ducats, but noooooo, not Zeroville!
While we're on the lamenting tip, there are so many reasons to love Looker's Lawrence Levi, but his recent post "Sob Story" may trump 'em all:
I had also recently learned that there was something called the Academy Awards, and that you could see them on TV. March 30, 1981, was a Monday, the last day of my fifth-grade spring break. That night I was going to watch the Oscars for the first time. I was ecstatic. That afternoon I was home with my friend Kingman, and we were watching my parents’ black-and-white TV when the news of the assassination attempt came on. The slo-mo images of Reagan waving, grimacing, and being pushed into his limo have stayed with me, but Kingman and I were unfazed. (Maybe that had something to do with the horror movies we had begun seeing, like The Fog. I remember staying up late around this time to watch Psycho on TV. Alone.)
There was a rule about TV in my house. My parents allowed me and my brother to watch TV only on weekends and during school breaks. That evening, when we tuned in to watch the Oscars, an announcer said that the ceremony would be postponed for one day out of respect for our hospitalized president.
I was devastated.
Read it and weep.
Another destination on the Internets that may bring on the waterworks is this man's Quixotic quest "for the most '90s movie of all time." One category in each candidate's write-up deals explicitly with "technology/cultural relics" -- a.k.a. "Could the plot reasonably occur with current technology?" StarTAC-tastic! [via the Awl]
