The genesis of my cinema love affair can be traced to two films: The Wiz and Serpico, both directed by Sidney Lumet (father of Jenny and Amy Lumet and son-in-law of the incomparable Miss Lena Horne) Despite being two decidedly different films, they share a lineage and many visual stylistic elements, which tends to make a double-feature of them oddly harmonious.
I feel geeky admitting that each major crew member of The Wiz had a corresponding Cabbage Patch Doll, imaginary friend or personal effect named in their honor. My typewriter was named "Joel Schumacher", my Fisher-Price record player, "Quincy-Vandross," (of course!), and my Fisher-Price camera was named after trailblazing film editor and personal bad ass chick hero: "Dede Allen". Allen died this past April, leaving a legacy of iconic film imagery and countless imitators.
Hollywood seems to reserve a special hell for female actors who do not play nice, and the most enduring example–for me anyway–is Sean Young. Young's performance in the 1982 Ridley Scott sci-fi classic Blade Runner left an indelible impression on me as a teenager and even more so when I saw the first of many "director's cuts" theatrically.
Even though we're three feature films away from the conclusion of the Twilight film series (Eclipse premiers at the end of this month), there's already talk of what the adaptation of Breaking Dawn, the final book in the series that is being broken into two movies, is going to include...or more specifically leave out, namely Bella's bone-breaking, blood-soaked, and almost-lethal delivery of her vampire baby.
The remake of The Karate Kid surprised many Hollywood insiders–worn down by under-performing overly hyped films (Robin Hood, Sex and the City, Killers) and the audience's reluctance to shell out upwards of $17 for gimmicky 3D summer releases–by ringing up an impressive $56mil over the weekend.
2. Even female action stars must submit to the Makeover trope.
The trailer for the hotly anticipated Salt finds Angelina Jolie rocking the mess out of a pencil skirt and taupe heels, only later to revamp her exterior with some snug black clothes and Miss Clairol's bluest black. While it certainly makes sense for a person to alter their looks when being chased by the CIA, I'm not sure if why the trailer evoked films like Clueless, Pretty Woman and 13 Going on 30. More importantly, it's possible the audience can take for granted that Jolie has altered her appearance without being shown every detail of her transformation. The makeover trope is utilized for men, but often–even in action films–it's played for comedic effect. Harrison Ford might have grimaced his way through an application of Just for Men in 1996's The Fugitive, but it was clearly meant to be an amusing respite from all that heart pounding action. Yet Jolie's transformation feels like a rite of passage rather than a necessary element of survival.
Whenever I opted to play "superheroes" with neighborhood kids, I was often assigned Catwoman, since other gals had already called dibs on Batgirl, Superwoman, Mary Jane (didn't realize she was a superhero) and Wonder Woman. Backyard rules apparently dictated there could only be one of each female superhero, but had no prescriptive on the number of Batmans, Supermans and Spidermans battling the faux forces of evil in one backyard at any given time. Initially, I would rebuff the assignment, opting instead to battle the forces of evil as Chaka Khan. While being a superhero in my own personal world, Chaka Khan was not recognized as such by the Neighborhood Children's Superhero Committee - a governing body with chapters all over the universe - and therefore was prohibited. Despite its rather sexist and draconian guidelines in the case of female superheroes, the Neighborhood Children's Superhero Committee was rather flexible with male superheroes. Anyone - and I mean anyone - could be Batman, Superman or Spiderman. Though the first one calling dibs on Superman was the leader and free to restrict the number of Superman also-rans under his/her command. As Catwoman I was tasked with reconnaissance and retrieval; as children we were well acquainted with the naughtiness of theft, but not acquainted with the concept of moral ambiguity. My job was to find object and information - by any means necessary, even a tap dance (the "sexiest" interrogation tactic we knew) - and report back to the primary Superman, who often ate cookies and stabbed holes in his spent Capri Sun drink.
Huffington Post blogger Scott Mendelson wrote an intriguing analysis of the Megan Fox/Michael Bay dust up which may or may not have been the catalyst for Fox's departure from the successful Transformers franchise. Buried in the largely astute criticisms of Fox's appeal and backlash from said appeal was this gem:
But the sheer outpouring of joy that greeted the allegation that Fox had been canned for trashing Michael Bay in public was more than a bit obnoxious. The same geeks and entertainment columnists who called co-star Shia LeBeouf honest and gutsy for criticizing Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull) were basically applauding the idea that Fox had been fired for basically doing the same thing. Why do so many people hate Megan Fox? Who do they even care?
Of Katherine Heigl's box office currency in Killers–the disappointing rom-com action flick now bombing in a theater near you–Time magazine's Richard Corliss had this to say:
[Katherine Heigl] has come close to the traditional definition of a star: someone who will get people to pay to see her in bad movies.
The article goes on to deconstruct why the derivative spy rom-com isn't performing up to expectations, which weren't particularly high to begin with. While some exploration of seasonal box office precedent–early June is the largely the time for gross-out comedies–is legitimate, Killers misses the mark for one specific reason: the filmmakers' failure to understand what constitutes successful use of the "So I married a secret agent" trope.