The final shootout from Bonnie and Clyde gets me every time.
“In 1971 I wrote and shot a scene for Annie Hall involving the Knicks and Earl The Pearl. I was extolling the concept of the physical over the cerebral, so I wrote a fantasy basketball game in which all the great thinkers of history – Kant and Nietzsche and Kirkegaard – played against the Knicks. I cast actors who looked like those philosophers to play those roles and they played against the real Knicks. We used the players on the team at that time including Earl, Bill Bradley and Walt Frazier, and we shot it inside Madison Square Garden after the last game of the season. Of course the Knicks were smooth and beat the philosophers easily; all their cerebration was impotent against the Knicks. But I cut the scene from the picture, not because it didn’t come out but because I had to keep the picture moving and it was too much of a digression. It didn’t break my heart not to use it in the film. I always feel that anything I cut out of a film is always a mercy killing.”
— Woody Allen, The Observer Sport Monthly
She has an underlying vocabulary of about nine favorite words, which occur several hundred times, and often several times per page, in this book of nearly six hundred pages: “whore” (and its derivatives “whorey,” “whorish,” “whoriness”), applied in many contexts, but almost never to actual prostitution; “myth,” “emblem” (also “mythic,” “emblematic”), used with apparent intellectual intent, but without ascertainable meaning; “pop,” “comicstrip,” “trash” (“trashy”), “pulp” (“pulpy”), all used judgmentally (usually approvingly) but otherwise apparently interchangeable with “mythic”; “urban poetic,” meaning marginally more violent than “pulpy”; “soft” (pejorative); “tension,” meaning, apparently, any desirable state; “rhythm,” used often as a verb, but meaning harmony or speed; “visceral”; and “level.” These words may be used in any variant, or in alternation, or strung together in sequence—”visceral poetry of pulp,” e.g., or “mythic comic-strip level”—until they become a kind of incantation.
by Steve Dollar
Some roles make crazy demands on a performer. In the new movie “Janie Jones,” Brooklyn actor Alessandro Nivola plays Ethan Brand, a rock musician in the throes of a midlife crisis. He suddenly finds himself in charge of a 13-year-old daughter (Abigail Breslin) he never knew. Although the combustible character gets punched and bruised up in several scenes, the job wasn’t a terrible stretch.
Mr. Nivola, who is 39 years old, has had a guitar within reach most of his life, and is raising two kids with his wife, the British actress Emily Mortimer.
Stage diving is much easier than some acting gigs he’s scored.
And this happened…
Superstition would dictate that it’s not the best idea to step into a packed elevator and joke, “This is overloaded. We might die tonight,” particularly four days before Halloween. Of course, no one ever believes said elevator will then plummet four stories and get stuck. Until … it does. Which is exactly what happened to a merry band of revelers, including Josh Charles and Alessandro Nivola, exiting last night’s premiere party of Tribeca Films Janie Jones, which was hosted by American Express on the sixteenth-floor rooftop terrace of the Gramercy Park Hotel.
Abbie looking beautiful on the Jimmy Fallon show last night!