EROTICISM AS SOFT PORN HATE SEX (Segue of the Day: 11/28/17)

NOTE TO SELF; There. That oughta make me go viral….

Last Tango in Paris (1972)
D. Bernardo Bertolucci

The Executioner’s Song (1982)
D. Lawrence Schiller

NOTE TO READERS: Spoilers included.

After I finally caught up with Last Tango in Paris over the weekend–because what else would you watch when you’re existentially depressed?–I found myself wondering (as I often do with these “edgy” films of yesteryear) what all the fuss was about.

I thought I’d give Pauline Kael a try and her contemporary essay is worth reading, if only so you can have an idea of what such debates were like in Last Tango‘s day, a day when “eroticism” was still going to rescue the day in poor old American Life and Art.

Not surprisingly, her essay is mostly about Marlon Brando. Brando had made himself the point of every film he had ever made to that point. Once or twice he stooped to interpret a character, but this wasn’t one of those times. No matter how hard the intelligentsia rooted for him, he could never quite get out of his own way. All of which means, neither Pauline Kael nor anyone else was likely to explain what Brando himself failed to deliver, which is any reason a young woman as lovely, charismatic and, yes, erotic, as Maria Schneider, about to be engaged herself (to a dweeb, which might have been it’s own explanation if it was say, Paul Newman’s or Alain Delon’s bones she wanted to jump if he just happened along, or if the most erotic scene in the movie weren’t her and the dweeb’s “Oui/No” argument over who is proposing to who), would stoop to anonymous hate sex with anybody as creepy and dessicated as Brando’s “Paul.”

Kael took the position that Brando’s, and, perhaps, “Paul’s” as well, was a tragic character, a sensitive Americano, led on to his doom by a Euro-trash Cookie. We’re supposed to be really sad when she shoots him.

I thought she was about a day late. I was rooting for her to off him right after he anally raped her (in the film’s most famous scene and one which Schneider was not prepared for by either Bertolucci or Brando). Evidently, they didn’t think enough of her acting skills and figured they could only get what they wanted by “surprising” her with a little improv.

They might have been wrong about that, because Schneider’s lovely, lethal and unaffected performance is the only thing time hasn’t burned away in a film that promises to drown you in Art from the first frame.

Why all this put me in a mood to finally re-watch The Executioner’s Song, which I hadn’t seen since the eighties–and certainly hadn’t forgotten–I don’t know. But perhaps Schneider’s presence/performance (and reading about her subsequent reluctance to take her clothes off for the camera) was bound to call up Rosanna Arquette some way or other.

Arquette expressed a similar reluctance to shuck her clothes after her experience with The Executioner’s Song, and she was able to at least cut back on–though not eliminate–the fantasy nude scenes until her real-life encounters with Harvey Weinstein reduced her to taking anything she could get to keep working (whilst being given all kinds of grief from Kael’s natural inheritors–Greil Marcus, Charles Taylor, et al, for tanking her own career). One can respect her choices, but it’s easy to see why male directors became a little disoriented.

Arquette’s Nicole Baker–the real life girlfriend of murderer Gary Gilmore (played in a  very Brando-esque turn by Tommy Lee Jones, who, to be fair, was at least channeling a real-life narcissistic sociopath and was operating with a script that managed to flatten actors as gifted as Eli Wallach and Christine Lahti)–is never so alive as when she’s either got her clothes off (“You and seven other motherfuckers!”) or is trying to scheme her way out of them.

She’s still trying when the only place she and Jones/Gilmore can get it on is the conjugal visit room next to Death Row in the State Pen, where she must have known she was likely to end up all along, even when she, Arquette/Baker, was pulling guns on Jones/Gilmore himself and withholding herself, maybe, just maybe, with thoughts of driving him to murder.

It’s a lived-in performance and should have had more screen time. It’s also a short, but significant, evolution beyond Maria Schneider in Tango: Yeah, I might have shot him, just like that chick in Last Tango, but he was bound for the firing squad anyway so why bother? Especially when we could get in on right there in the Big House while his lawyers were exhausting his appeals and it won’t even matter if they won’t let me take my clothes off in there. Might even work a double suicide attempt–in which neither of us will quite manage to die–while we’re at it.

One wonders if Nicole Baker had seen Last Tango.

Hard to believe Rosanna Arquette–along with everybody else involved with The Executioner’s Song–hadn’t.

In which case it doesn’t matter what Baker knew. Once Rosanna Arquette got hold of it, with Maria Schneider’s ghost at her back, it wasn’t Nicole Baker’s story anymore anyway.

It wasn’t even Gary Gilmore’s.

But, to Baker’s credit, even Rosanna Arquette never had a better one.

Story, I mean….

DON’T WORRY FOLKS, IF YOU WANT THE SCOOP, JUST….YADDAH, YADDAH, YADDAH

Goodness. The off-hand points I made in the immediate wake of the Harvey Weinstein mess/scandal/implosion/pity party are still turning up as freshly switched-on-light-bulb thought balloons over the heads of various and sundry Good Thinkers:

Here’s the New York Times, today, finally catching up

I didn’t mention Annabella Sciorra in my original piece because she hadn’t yet told her story. I did say “and that’s only the ones we know about.” I don’t doubt there are quite a few more, including some we will never know about. But I’ll just add that the Times is not only trailing me by nearly two months (understandable…perfectly understandable). They’re also trailing Dana Stevens and Mark Steyn by a month-and-a-half.

For that, there can be no excuse. Know your George Clinton folks….It ain’t illegal yet.

 

DON’T WORRY FOLKS, IF YOU WANT THE SCOOP…(Segue of the Day: 10/16/17)

….Just check in here first.

Last week (10/11/17) I wrote about the psychic damage Harvey Weinstein, as the man who, for two decades plus, controlled access to more plum “prestige” parts than any other ten producers combined, had likely done to a generation of first-rank Hollywood actresses.

For those who understandably don’t want to plow through the whole thing again, here’s the salient passage (The Round Place in the Middle: 11/11/17):

So read the names: Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Ashley Judd, Mira Sorvino, Rosanna Arquette, Rose McGowan. That’s just from those we know about.

And just from those who were attacked by Harvey Weinstein, who exactly no one thinks was a lone wolf.

Even by itself, that’s a gaping hole blown in a generation’s worth of top tier talent.

This week, the idea has taken hold across the big-name spectrum.

Here’s Dana Stevens, checking in from the left (Slate: 10/13/17):

THE SEX FIEND AND THE DAMAGE DONE…

(Warning: Spoilers for the Lee Daniel’s movie The Paperboy included.)

One of the questions that’s been swirling around the Harvey Weinstein revelations is why, after all these years, his enablers at places like the New York Times suddenly turned on him. (The notion that they were scared of being scooped by The New Yorker, the weekly which had decided to run with Ronan Farrow’s piece here seems a little thin on the ground, as does the notion that he had become too “pro-Israel.” But I confess I haven’t heard anything better, at least not anywhere but my own head.)

My best guess is that Weinstein is a sacrificial lamb, something Hollywood has been good at since the Fatty Arbuckle days,** and modern day Wall Street has turned into an art form (see Michael Milken, Jordan Beltran, Bernie Madoff). He’ll now be the poster boy for all the things a corrupt system surely doesn’t do anymore because it has learned the profit-margin-eating error of its ways (“Look what happened to that guy! We wouldn’t dare do such a thing again!”), while said system rolls merrily along.

We’ll see.

My bigger interest right now is in looking into what Weinstein and his ilk have cost the culture.

This is not to diminish the personal damage done to the lives and careers of the many women–most of them not famous–he molested in one form or other, likely up to and including rape. Of course, for them, any damage to the rest of us is secondary and rightly so.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t all have a stake.

I confess my take was sharpened by just having watched The Paperboy, a southern potboiler (I ordered it because I’m trying to work up a post about Florida movies…might be a month or two as I have some holes to fill), which features Nicole Kidman in a Nympho Southern Belle role that’s very similar to Rosanna Arquette’s brilliant turn in The Wrong Man.

Kidman’s a fine actress, of course, and she catches the outre aspect of the character expertly. But she misses the barely disguised vulnerability. The script allows her to reach for it and she does…she just doesn’t quite grasp it. So it’s sad what happens to her (she dies) but not as sad as what happens to Arquette in The Wrong Man (where she has to watch her meal ticket die while his possible replacement is riding down the track on a train that’s already going too fast for him to jump off).

So, the only time these two played on the same turf, Arquette won and it wasn’t even close.

But Kidman is the much bigger star and the far more “respected” actress. I don’t say she didn’t earn those things. Oh no, far from it. You can’t fake talent. But what the Weinstein revelations have called into question is just how tilted a never-very-level playing field was to begin with.

Arquette is one of the prominent actresses who is now telling her story. She’s one of those who said no (like Mary Weiss, she is who we thought she was…let us not hold our collective breath waiting for the mostly male critics who impugned her “choices”–hardly without interest in any case and now cast in an entirely different light–to apologize). And she clearly paid a price.

Not as much of a price as Rose McGowan, who has basically quit acting. But more of a price than Gwyneth Paltrow or Angelina Jolie (and I’m not saying the price they paid was small, just that they didn’t have their careers entirely derailed).

I note here the pecking order, of which Harvey Weinstein and all similar minded Hollywood big shots were keenly aware. Paltrow is the daughter of a famous producer/director and an even more famous award-winning actress. Jolie is the daughter of Oscar winner Jon Voight. Arquette is the daughter of two moderately successful actors who are more famous for their children than themselves but nonetheless, like Mira Sorvino, who has also come forward, “of the community.”

McGowan is a kid who showed up from Nowheresville.

Many others have come forward. But studying just these five–plus the even harsher fates of those lesser known, many of whom were driven out of the business–one can detect a pattern.

The more connected you were, the more likelihood Weinstein would forget and forgive if you turned him down.

The way you were defined as “connected” was if a) you were born into the club; or b) you were already a big star (which, for instance, Nicole Kidman was by the time she started working with him on a regular basis). In the case of the latter, it was likely you would be spared Weinstein’s bathrobe and potted plant routine, as Kidman, Meryl Streep and others of similar stature evidently were.

Again, what happened to them is between them and Weinstein and I don’t care if they choose to put it all behind them with a PR statement or send someone to put a horse head in his bed. They’re all quite capable of managing their own affairs without advice from me.

But I can’t help wondering how much all this cost–and, if I’m right about the transient nature of the outrage, will continue to cost–the world at large.

Any given generation only produces so much talent. We have trouble accepting this in our current State of Industrialized Egalitarianism, but it’s as true now as ever, and as true for actresses as any other group of artists.

The element that binds every single one of those who have accused Weinstein of harassing them and, either by threat or implication, making them fear for their careers, is that none of them ever reached their full potential. (Streep and Kidman have…but they were never threatened. And, to be clear, I have no respect for Streep or anyone else who stood up for the self-confessed-and-proud-of-it statutory rapist Roman Polanski over the years. Hollywood has earned its reputation for shameless hypocrisy, but that’s not the topic of this post.)

So read the names: Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Ashley Judd, Mira Sorvino, Rosanna Arquette, Rose McGowan. That’s just from those we know about.

And just from those who were attacked by Harvey Weinstein, who exactly no one thinks was a lone wolf.

Even by itself, that’s a gaping hole blown in a generation’s worth of top tier talent.

You can multiply it exponentially by adding the “chill” effect.

To all the jobs they were never considered for because Harvey Weinstein–the principal taste-maker of the age–either wouldn’t hire them, or would only accept them in minor parts (like Arquette’s scene-stealing cameo in Weinstein favorite Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction, a movie that, IMHO would have earned its rep if Arquette and Uma Thurman had merely switched places–and if Tarantino never let this occur to him because he knew how Harvey felt, then he’s even more of what I’ve always said he is: a coward), add all the roles they were never considered for by like-minded thugs because of the, Hey,isn’t she the one who turned Harvey down? factor. (In case Harvey wasn’t prone to talking about the ones who turned him down–some thugs do, some thugs don’e–all they had to do was look at who he wasn’t hiring.)

And then add in how many times they weren’t even considered for the next good part because they didn’t get the last one.

And then keep on adding all the factors we can’t even see. Maybe, for instance, the psychological damage done even to a reasonably secure Child of Hollywood like Gwyneth Paltrow, who has–for whatever reason–devoted much of her adult life to things she probably never dreamed of doing when she was putting in the hard, humbling yards required to be a go-to actress, the kind of trial-by-fire you could be forgiven believing one would only go through if coming out the other side was as important as breathing.

How many good or great movies did she–or any of the others–simply decide not to do because they didn’t want to deal with the Harvey Weinsteins of the world, knowing that, even if his sins ever did come to light, the first question asked would be why they didn’t out him sooner?

If, that is, they were among the few who decided it was worth coming forward at last, even if they knew that question was coming.

I’ll buy that Weinstein’s carefully chosen political beliefs bought him decades of cover. I’ll even suggest that he chose those “beliefs” for that very reason, or, at very least, chose to quell any doubts he might have had about those beliefs in order to get on with the pursuit of thuggery which is bound to be the only aspect of life that really excites a thug.

But you can bet there are others–perhaps many others–who are out there right now, lying low for the moment, holding their breath, cozying up to those very same Editors and Publishers, winking and nodding, waiting for the heat to die down.

So they can start on the next generation.

**Silent star Arbuckle was accused of murder in Hollywood’s first really earthshaking scandal. It was probably a pure scapegoating job. He was tried three times. The first two were hung juries. The third jury acquitted him and offered him a written apology for his ordeal. His career was ruined, however, and his reputation sufficiently blackened that, nearly a century later, one has to provide explanatory footnotes. His actual case is not comparable to Weinstein’s. The means to which the respective cases were/are put to use, likely will be.