TORO! :: bull by the horns

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Archive for December, 2007

I was promised blood

Posted by rollinsloane on 31 December 2007

Nothing mystifies me more than film critics, and I say that because I’m one of them. The rapturous praise showered on Paul Thomas Anderson’s promising but ultimately unfulfilling There Will Be Blood like so much fawning tween girl admiration has me ready to take a shotgun to the next film reviewer who feels obliged to use an exclamation mark. Amid the hypefest, it’s always refreshing to come across a voice of reason, and so I present to you an admirably sober look at a film that actually didn’t realize its powerful full potential. Thank you Andy Klein of LA’s Citybeat street press. For this I will at least consider forgiving your positive reception of the travesty that was Across the Universe.

Sloane 

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man enough to let it all hang out

Posted by rollinsloane on 31 December 2007

So I’m sitting in the dark theater glow of I’m Not There watching a varied lot of Bob Dylans jockey elbows for screen time when all of sudden Heath Ledger exits a shower with his junk on proud display. I realize I’m a bit alone on this one — how many countless ventured to Beowulf just for a peek at Angelina’s 3D-animated nudity? — but honestly, truly, I hate big-name nudity in movies. Hint at sex all you want, but the moment an unnecessary set of nipples dips into view I’m watching Nicole Kidman get hot and bothered rather than Cold Mountain rurualites finally consummate their long-distance romance.

Even if my own sensitivity to such visuals is excessively Puritan, it can’t be argued that there’s been a definite growth in the Hollywood male full frontal of late. While women have long stripped down for the camera, cinema usually professes a decided discomfort with the male set of equipment, and that taboo is increasingly being ignored or, in the case of Walk Hard, blatantly mocked. The following list of recent examples isn’t meant as a list for pervs (please — I think we all know Mr. Skin is a far more enticing resource for cinematic nudity), but as an earnest accounting of a growing trend. That said, pervs, get your pencils ready:

Into the Wild — Emile Hirsch floats down a river under a bird’s eye camera shot

Last King of Scotland — James McAvoy strips down at the command of craaaaaazy Forest Whitaker (and looking quite bashful while he’s at it)

Eastern Promises — Viggo Mortinson (in one hell of a bathhouse fight scene)

Starting Out in the Evening — 69-year-old Frank Langella, getting out of a bathtub. I didn’t say these were all sexy. I’m just pointing out that they’re there.

Walk Hard — Some dude.

A piece in USA Today cited the brief nudity in Kinsey (Peter Sarsgaard), Sideways (Thomas Haden Church) and Alexander (Colin Farrell) as indicative of a growing trend back in 2004. MSNBC then noted The Dreamers as well, further listing Quills (Geoffrey Rush) and Wild Things (Kevin Bacon). There are a few serial streakers: Richard Gere (American Gigolo, Breathless), Harvey Keital (Bad Lieutenant, The Piano) and Ewan McGregor (Trainspotting, Velvet Goldmine)

Perhaps, in the all together, this is pretty much irrelevant anyway. After all, a survey of actresses who’ve gone topless and/or bottomless is basically endless.

Ollie

For a fuller re-cap of the year in dick, check out Vulture’s salute to the Year of the Wang.

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dr. strangewilson — what might have been; or, how mike nichols learned to stop questioning and love the film machine

Posted by rollinsloane on 30 December 2007

I’m tired of Hollywood’s political earnestness.

Let me clarify. Charlie Wilson’s War is not a travesty. That hyper-criticism would be totally unfair — it’s a pitch-perfect piece of enjoyable mainstream political comedy, calibrated for the lowest common mental denominator of the movie-going public. America = good. Kill those Russians!

Whatever. Has far as box-office-driven cinematic ethics go, it’s fair enough. Par for the course. The ‘mainstream’ construction of the film (strings, close-ups) isn’t as unsettling as the mentality behind it. Charlie Wilson’s War, the supposedly true tale of a congressman who enlists a socialite and a CIA unit to help arm Afghanis against Russian forces, comes off as part parable, part feel-good comedy. The rich and powerful collude and succeed in aiding the trod-upon and impoverished — whoopee! But why focus on how they do it? Why focus on bills and politician names and trade deals the aforementioned mainstream audience will never in a million years follow? Why take this true plot of stranger-than-fiction absurdity and not emphasize the inherent satire of its infeasible plausibility? Why set sights so low, especially when such hallowed surnames are taking gleeful part?

I couldn’t help but imagine this movie re-framed with that signature black-and-white wide-angle of Dr. Strangelove, a camera style that communicates a larger context for a depicted interaction and, in effect, the preposterous-ness of the situation. Kubrick’s 1964 imagining of world politics is a fiendishly spot-on send-up of world leaders, and Charlie Wilson could have transplanted its cynical ethos into modern-day Washington with hardly a change to Aaron Sorkin’s lively script. Charlie parties hard in hot tubs. He likes his whisky and, it seems, occasionally, his cocaine. He salaries a staff of entirely young, nubile females, whom he collectively hails with “Jailbait!” like it’s a job title. And the film merely plays him off like a lovable scoundrel.

My criticism isn’t merely Puritan, so don’t you go hating on me for raising a doubts against a man who likes his booze, drugs and promiscuity. That’s not my complaint — hell, I’m a marginal partaker in the Charlie Wilson lifestyle my own damn self. But the film doesn’t comment on his in-office dealings; instead, it too takes a tracking shot of his assistant’s comely ass (Amy Adams, with sadly nothing to do but fawn) as she strides down the hallway. It embraces the cleavage with Charlie’s own aplomb while all the while lacking entirely any sense of aesthetic joy. In other words, titillation without commentary and therefore sanction. The gaping lack of opinionated visual camera play that might give a broader view of the characters’ carefree hedonistic behavior leaves the movie’s storytelling a flat, practically judgment-less narrative.

Sure, by the end of the film, Charlie Wilson (the perpetually affable Tom Hanks) realizes the impossibility of extending his foreign efforts to the education or infrastructure of the nation whose war efforts his country has just assisted. The Iraq parallel is clear — don’t forget the citizen needs of the states whose military you target. But Nichols’s film is at heart a story of American triumph, and the irony of powerful men routinely cracking on attractive fems or even of Texas socialites assisting with fairly careless ease in world politics is underplayed so much it’s practically taken for granted. Charlie Wilson revels in its privledged world of unheard-of power and excess, rather than setting up the truer fact of its utter ridiculousness beside normal society.

Julia Roberts, in the role of that Texas socialite, is additionally silly; her performance all but ensures the entire production stales into cardboard. As an actress, she’s certainly demonstrated plenty of flair in the past, but her Joanne Herring amounts to a single facial expression and one woefully flat Southern accent, and she comes off more as Julia Roberts going stony glam blonde than an actual flesh-and-blood character. Add to that the character’s instinctual bitchiness (ordering around professional political assistants like so many cocktail waitresses, for one), and you’ve got a plot supplement of romance and influence that only might have been. I’d have gone with Diane Lane instead. Maybe even Susan Sarandon.

Thankfully, Philip Seymour Hoffman’s acerbically rational CIA agent contributes a dose of reality’s outlandishness (Charlie asks why more hasn’t been done about the hundreds of thousands of Afghan refugees, and Hoffman acknowledges that “me and three other guys” are working hard on it), although even he’s left largely to the wayside when the narrative arc’s push comes to climatic shove. The Afghani plight, after all, isn’t really the point of the tale. This is a film about the twin American keystones of individual ability and governmental power. Nichols does indicate the awkward post-coital of such uncomfortable bedfellows, but he’s more interested in putting them between the sheets than examining the sleazy battle of their courtship power play.

Sloane

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movies and marketing: the savages

Posted by rollinsloane on 17 December 2007

Why are the critics heralding this movie as the story of two siblings confronting the problem of their aging, distant father? The Savages is about Laura Linney’s Wendy dealing with her father’s death, her dead-end playwrighting career and her (somewhat married) boyfriend. Philip Seymour Hoffman’s brother Jon is a glorified supporting role — we only ever see him through Wendy’s gaze. His Brecht research project and his Polish girlfriend and his half-masted teaching career remain aloof mysteries, ornaments upon a man we only glimpse as crusted academia incarnate.

So I have issues with the witty trailer (including, like Juno, all the film’s best lines, as well as a skewed emphasis on comedy) and indie image campaign dually painting this picture as one of humorously squabbling siblings arguing incompatibly in front of their humorously cranky parent. It’s not. The Savages is well-timed but lopsided, favoring heavy sentimentality rather than rueful (but meaningful) snark. The poster, meanwhile, beams QUIRKY at high-voltage:

the savages poster

A brief synopsis, to get you going, and this courtesy of Manohla Dargis of the New York Times (not my favorite, and guilty of some harsh condemnations, but serially published due to a deserving gift for the ribald):

One night, Jon, a college professor who lives and teaches in Buffalo, is awakened from a deep sleep (Ms. Jenkins has a nice way with metaphor) to discover that his father, Lenny (a fine Philip Bosco), has gone around the bend and has begun finger-painting with his feces. The bearer of these unfortunate tidings is Jon’s younger sister, Wendy (Laura Linney, sharp and vanity free), a self-professed playwright whose greatest, perhaps only creation is the closely nurtured story of wounded narcissism and family wrongs unwinding in her head.

Dargis goes on to reference a random Philip Larkin poem to which writer/director Tamara Jenkins was surely not referring, but her set-up remains apt. Hoffman’s Jon is rather distanced from the situation; Linney’s Wendy is overly creative. The fact that we never get an understanding of the former relationship between these two semi-estranged siblings and their profoundly estranged father leaves the drama of the latter’s nursing home incarceration somewhat lacking. We need footing to understand the stakes — precisely what has led these two accomplished thespians to the depicted trough of familial relations?

* OK. So there might be some spoilers ahead. *

Perhaps Carina Chocano of the Los Angeles Times hits on it: “They are living in a state of arrested emotional development that hints at serious childhood trauma, though not serious enough perhaps to qualify as tragic, which is tough in its own way.” ‘Hints at’ is the key phrase here, and not pounded into the pavement as soundly as Chocano is normally keen. The Savages needs more of Hoffman and Linney’s dynamic duo. When EW‘s Lisa Schwartzbaum declares that the two “are in peak form, and together they play off each other with the unfettered, joyous collaboration of great chamber musicians,” she isn’t exaggerating — watch when one nursing home director simply hands them paperwork. They both reach for it, but Hoffman grabs it first, and gives Linney the sort of doleful glare only real siblings could muster. These two riff with the veer and timing of master stage vets, so why not let them play with and linger in their shared history? Forget the gauzy flashbacks of childhood trauma (Hollywood Reporter‘s Kirk Honeycutt claims abuse), because obviously such cinematic devices would not suffice in a film as committed to realism and regularity as this. But stories, at least. Shared jokes, memories. Let them banter over the breakfast table over the year they moved or the time Dad threw this. Why did they both become theater people (he a marginal PhD, she a failed playwright)? Why are they both middle-aged and unhappily single? Why make the audience ferret it out when you have two prime performers willing and eager to go to friendly combat?

the savages, philip seymour hoffman, laura linney

There’s such a variety of possible appreciation here that it’s too bad ‘high-and-mighty’ ends up becoming its key requirement (Chocano: “Not surprisingly, it’s Jon who does most of the notable crying in the film. In one of the movie’s most beautiful scenes” [ummmmm — you mean average, dude-driving-in-a-car scenes?] “he drives to work high on pain medication for a neck injury shortly after his girlfriend’s departure, listening to Lotte Lenya [who?] sing “The Solomon Song” [what?] from “The Threepenny Opera” by Brecht and Kurt Weill.” [ahhhhhh, I see…I need, like 95% of film-goers, to actually be familiar with Brecht to appreciate this moment’s beauty] “In that moment the bleak, wintry Buffalo streets, with their denuded trees and their sneakers dangling from phone lines, are transformed into something beautiful and mysterious.”) [Listening to Hoffman sing? Not so much].

Chocano declares the resulting bru-has of the siblings’ disaffection to be a sort of “hilarious humiliation…run-of-the-mill, bad but not-so-bad-that-Oprah-is-going-to-want-to-hear-about-it suffering,” and it’s an underhanded insult which Wendy herself foresees. When she befriends one of the nursing home’s staffers and then tentatively asks him to read her play, she’s quick to make sure he doesn’t think it’s too much “middle-class whining.” (“No,” he answers. “I thought it was sad.”) Jenkins’ screenplay sticks the story as both without acknowledging that a little backstory can make the former totally legitimate. It is to her credit that the hows and whys pulse so urgently in this movie. But it’s utterly distracting that they never come to even half-fruition.

— Sloane

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maybe anyone cannes

Posted by rollinsloane on 9 December 2007

What do recent films Elephant, L’Enfant and 4 Months 3 Weeks 2 Days have in common other than official prestige, arthouse pedigree and meager following?  The Palme D’Or, for one, highest prize of the Cannes International Film Festival.  And, perhaps uncoincidentally, a certain style.  They’re all day-in-the-life set-ups, quietly following a small cast of regular people in the middle of an individually dramatic but relatively innocuous personal crisis.  They favor minimal background music, no-name or unprofessional actors and long, lingering shots that are less scenes than advancements in an on-going situation.   If you want to stretch this observation to its thinnest (and I suppose I do, so I suppose I will), 1967 victor Blow-Up, 1974’s The Conversation, 1984’s Paris, Texas, 1989’s sex, lies and videotape and 1996’s Secrets and Lies fit various aspects of this general understated bill — perhaps the style is simply a long-term favorite of the Festival.  But the last few years have been leaning so heavily towards this style of drama (when not pandering to Michael Moore) that were I an independent filmmaker, hell, I’d take note.

— Ollie

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sunday focus: the many faces of the modern movie male

Posted by rollinsloane on 9 December 2007

modern Hollywood male

The cover story of this Sunday’s Calendar section in the LA Times is a feature think-piece on the modern Hollywood male. While I applaud the initiative – gender studies in the morning paper! – author Peter Rainer’s tangled web of analysis reads more like a roll call than an argument. Screen test(osterone)” indeed — pun-tastic periodical headline included.

 

But how valid are such periodic appraisals of media culture’s current social formulations – gender, race, class – anyway? Movie stars and celebrities are indeed significant social presences, being somewhat democratically elected to their zoo-cage pedestals by ratings, box office tallies and tabloid sales, but the Hollywood galaxy is a vast one. You can pick out specimens that prove any thesis. Consider just any brief analysis of the ever-popular topic of women in media for proof.

Rainer, however, acknowledges that fact of analysis by avoiding it — basically, he displays the stable without backing a horse. He points to the resurrection of “industrial-strength machismo” implied by the revival of Die Hard and Rocky and Indiana Jones as a return to the atavistic brute male of the Reagan era, then uses “throwback” actors like Russell Crowe and George Clooney to demonstrate the continued popularity of the “uncomplicated male mystique.” “It can be deeply satisfying to watch these actors preen,” Rainer admits, in a reminder that an alpha male can draw on style rather than brawn, but there’s little verve behind the observation that audiences go for Rambo and Bogart alike. Well, duh.

It’s only when Rainer gets down to the strange “satyr’s pansexual appeal” of Johnny Depp that the true texture of current masculinity begins unraveling the article’s Manhood-in-crisis cover line. Here’s the modern age’s addition to the Hollywood pantheon: the feminine male, metrosexual or fine-boned, lean and sensitive and not so quick to punch. Johnny Depp, whether or not you happen to be a teenage girl with a suppressed pirate fetish, is an unlikely A-lister, with a delicateness to his square jaw and a decidedly fey affect around his most famous character — and he’s an overall favorite nonetheless.

Rainer can bandy about Rambo and Lt. John McClane all he wants, but the biggest name in action stardom of this Hollywood era is Captain Jack Sparrow, and it’s impossible to imagine Harrison Ford, Bruce Willis, George Clooney or Russell Crowe ever conceiving of such an anti-male hero. There’s a long cinema tradition of anti-heroes (Clint Eastwood, Tony Montana, etc. ad infinitum), but they’re still classic male heroes, exuding strength and smarts and confidence like musk. Captain Jack maintains traditional anti-heroism (being an outlaw, rascal and generally selfish), yet at the same he’s willowy and cowardly, accident-prone, finnicky — leagues from the strong-silent type. Harrison Ford, Bruce Willis, George Clooney or Russell Crowe as Sparrow, anyone? They bring large-esse and brooding where Depp’s touch is comic and light.

 

As such, Captain Jack achieves near universal appeal. He’s flippant and rebellious enough that guys can think he’s cool. His physical comedy is big enough that little kids think he’s funny. And even with those rotting teeth, he’s sexy enough to adorn college dorm rooms nationwide. He’s a man of personality rather than masculinity, and a new (not necessarily dominant) model of male movie presence.

Rainer touches upon but doesn’t probe the steady increase of feminine pretty boys like Zac Efron and Orlando Bloom in his analysis, and seems to be missing the true significance of the changing male tide. Bruce Willis and Denzel Washington and George Clooney and their general breed of male suaveness aren’t on their way out — their place in the pantheon of masculinity is as secure as their hold on People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive title. They just have to make room.

Unbeknownst to Rainer, the small article set beside his in eternal front page matrimony extols the leading man virtues of Grey’s Anatomy‘s McDreamy, the ultimate B-male. Class clowns are in (the Wilson brothers, Vince Vaughn). Insecure geeks are getting some (Steve Carell, Seth Rogen, and doesn’t Ben Stiller keep churning out romantic comedies?). Even cynics are having their day (Jon Stewart, Ryan Gosling, House‘s Hugh Laurie). While Beowulf and 300 dutifully continue the line of beefcake movies and broad shoulders like Clive Owen brood through modern dramas, slender James McAvoy wins over Jane Austen (Becoming Jane) and stuttering Michael Cera wins his best friend’s heart (Juno).

Rainer confesses to an out-of-place nostalgia for the arthouse males of the 70s, as if today’s morality tales can’t grapple with masculinity like Altman or Scorsese, and perhaps he’s pining for an era rather than an era more willing to question the style and sexuality of a leading man. Last year I passed a side-by-side set of billboards that paired Casanova with Brokeback Mountain. Heath Ledger as insatiable ladies’ man or Heath Ledger as hermitically closeted homosexual cowboy? Well, the viewing public made its decision – and just guess which film made heaps more money.

There’s plenty of wiggle room in Hollywood masculinity. Rainer himself finally admits it in the final paragraph: “In the end, there can’t be all that much of a masculinity crisis in the movies if Clooney and Carell can co-exist in the same eco-system.” Crisis? Far from it. The modern movie male has never had so many directions to turn.

Ollie

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ollie’s showbiz question of the week: delusion and the deluxe treatment

Posted by rollinsloane on 9 December 2007

A message to the owners and operators of cine-palaces nationwide: yes, there is such a thing as too much service. The new wave of deluxe theaters geared towards turning movie-going into an ‘entertainment experience’ is preposterously out of touch with the isolationist appeal of actual movie-going. Last time I checked, people go to movies to avoid interaction.

And I’m not just talking about the un-optional reserved seating business going on in LA’s upscale ArcLight and Landmark theaters. That’s annoying enough — at 11:15 on a weekday morning, does anyone really think the eleven people filing in to see Margot at the Wedding actually need some teenage usher to show them to their seat? I’m parking my keister wherever I damn well please, thanks much, because I’ve got 800 chairs to choose from. Save the reserved seating for crowd control on an opening weekend.

But the Landmark remains hellbent on making every movie an occasion and every customer a VIP. Yesterday, at the Landmark’s Westside Pavilion location, I experienced a rare first in my 20 years of rigorous movie-going. At an early screening of Atonement, one usher stepped to the front of theater and made the sort of welcome-to-this-establishment intro you resent enough on an airplane. “If you have any concerns about the theater, or you just want to talk, don’t hesitate to come see any of us,” he offered cheerily. One elderly patron immediately took him up on the offer and demanded a little more heat; the rest of the theater promptly booed. Therein lies the problem of touchy-feely VIP treatment — movie-goers are a mob, not individuals, and democracy rules.

So, yeah, I have a concern. Shut the hell up and roll film already.

Ollie

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great opening lines: iris’s ocean

Posted by rollinsloane on 8 December 2007

I’m a sucker for a head-turning opening line, and Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea delivers a first-page paragraph that sucks you effortlessly into her tome-sized psuedo-memoir novel.  I’d be an asshole to wax poetic on the very subject she so painterly sets up, but suffice it to say I’ve got my own nostalgic soft spot for the gunmetal grey of a northern sea:

The sea which lies before me as I write glows rather than sparkles in the bland May sunshine.  With the tide turning, it leans quietly against the land, almost unflecked by ripples or by foam.  Near to the horizon it is a luxurious purple, spotted with regular lines of emerald green.  At the horizon it is indigo.  Near to the shore, where my view is framed by rising heaps of humpy yellow rock, there is a band of lighter green, icy and pure, less radiant, opaque however, not transparent.  We are in the north, and the bright sunshine cannot penetrate the sea.  Where the gentle water taps the rocks there is still a surface skin of colour.  The cloudless sky is very pale at the indigo horizon which it lightly pencils in with silver.  Its blue gains towards the zenith and vibrates there.  But the sky looks cold, even the sun looks cold. 

 — Rafe

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blog round-up: why the heigl hate?

Posted by rollinsloane on 6 December 2007

Yeah, that’s right, she said it — Knocked Up was a little f-ing sexist. So what if Katherine Heigl also starred in it?

Here’s the OMG-so-controversial quote in Vanity Fair‘s most recent issue:

“[Knocked Up was] a little sexist. It paints the women as shrews, as humorless and uptight, and it paints the men as lovable, goofy, fun-loving guys. It exaggerated the characters, and I had a hard time with it, on some days. I’m playing such a bitch; why is she being such a killjoy? Why is this how you’re portraying women? Ninety-eight percent of the time it was an amazing experience, but it was hard for me to love the movie.”

Wow. I know. So crazy. Like, cra-aa-zy. An actress taking a wider view at the mainstream summer comedy she strategically bagged in order to boost her career in order to not have to do mainstream summer comedy again. Nuts! The truly amazing part is that this is news at all, especially after the considerable couching of her criticism (“a little sexist,” “98 percent of the time it was an amazing experience”).

The blogosphere has nonetheless served up a tidy savaging for “hypocrite” Ms. Heigl. E! Online — characteristically disinclined to take a stance on anything other than someone’s borderline-garish red-carpet number — succinctly (and no doubt breathlessly) phrases the issue: “Should we praise her for being so honest and frank—or scold her for lashing out against what made her successful?”

AV Club’s resident Hater Amelie Gillette serves up this piquant witticism to put Katherine right back in her Judd-hating place:

“That’s a shame, Katherine. We can only assume that the other 2% of the time, Judd Apatow was holding a gun to your head while shouting, “Act more like a humorless killjoy, cause that’s how all women are and I’m going to prove it with this comedy that you’re starring in!” and laughing manaically.

Of course, not every movie is brave enough to look beyond female stereotypes and portray women as real, nuanced human beings, who, like, are always the bridesmaid and never the bride, you know? Your new movie should be called 27 Things I Noticed While Reading Betty Freidan, instead of 27 Dresses.”

Over-reaction, much? How do we go from “a little sexist” to Betty Freidan? I don’t remember the chapter of the Feminine Mystique that addressed cinema’s subtle chauvinism of likability. The fact is, even if the women in Knocked Up are successful in their careers and bedrocks of their families, in terms of personality, they’re indeed shrews. Apatow treats chicks as the straight man in much of his work, and it’s a different sort of sexism at play — mainstream-oriented comedies with guy-oriented sympathies.

The movies are still funny. They’re still successful. But when the boys bond over shrooms and Cirque de Soleil in Vegas and the girls over being rejected from a club, it’s hard not to argue that there’s a potent dichotomy in audience sympathy dictated by gender. Apatow didn’t need to hold a gun to her head — it’s in the script.

/Film does Gillette one better in the irrelevant criticism department, steaming off into a tangential diatribe demanding why no one complains that Jennifer Aniston fem-centered romantic comedies are sexist. A) That’s an entirely different issue related to neither Judd Apatow or Knocked Up and B) Of course they are. I’d argue that the Kate Hudsons and Sarah Jessica Parkers of the film world are doing the fairer sex a far greater disservice with their need-a-man-any-man conquest-driven comedies, but that branch of travesty is just another part of the dismal Men-Mars/Women-Venus general problem.

Knocked Up isn’t sexist, per se, nor is Apatow’s other work — his female characters just largely aren’t any fun. They’re flat, reduced to carbon copies of Sex and the City‘s shrill, club-craving Glamazons. The one stoner chick in Rogen’s on-screen circle of friends may giggle amusingly and get in a line or two, but she too is ultimately just a girlfriend, an appendage of one of his actual buddies. Superbad goes much the same goofy-boys, normal-girls way. Though Apatow’s females are arguably less cardboard than elsewhere in filmdom, they’re basically meant for sex and dating.

Gillette’s comment thread (generally pretty lively — the lady’s got an active readership) develops a compelling little journey down the rabbit hole of gender relations discussion. Go there if you’re really wanting more. My main contention with the anti-Heigl rush is, well, don’t we complain when starlets give nothing but glowing interview about how their director was just soooooo inspirational and honestly, like, a genius, and blah blah blah? All the news services remind their readers of Heigl hefty post-Apatow salary boost as if her statement’s an act of betrayal, but name me a single actor who hasn’t sold out to obvious schlock in the name of a payday. I for one am glad someone finally said something less than immortalizing, and the fact that this chick’s act of saying something was certainly contrary to her receiving another enviable paycheck in the next project of so-hot-right-now Apatow is testament to her personal integrity.

Suck it up, bloggers. Finally we’ve got an actress with a trap just as big as ours.

Sloane

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