After a fairly buoyant Saturday, the Festival seemed to be slumbering on Sunday afternoon. As I arrived at the Arclight only a trickle of people approached the check-in table, even the movie theater at large appeared to be sleeping off a wild Friday night. The de-peopled lobby felt looming and cavernous once again.

I went up to see "After the Sea," an Argentine film described in the program as "Fragments of a love story at the end of the world." And it was that. This was the movie that Carlos, the festival director, had circumspectly described to me yesterday "very artistic, if you like something artistic." Whether that was a review or a warning, it turned out to be correct. Before the film however, a couple of very lively animated shorts screened, "The Mantis Parable" and "Pulcinello," the stories of a praying mantis and drunken gondelier respectively. I poked my head into "The Chef" which seemed a competently made thriller set on a sea-going freighter, a backdrop which made me wonder why there weren't more films made on sea-going freighters. Off the top of my head, I couldn't think of any and if the movie-going public is anything like me, they could stand at least five freighter films a year.

I venture out on into the courtyard, which is still nearly empty by Arclight standards with a few lone people scattered around the concrete and glass chasm. On closer inspection however, there is something a little strange about the people out here — something stilted and nervous about their movements, they glace nervously about. I notice many are car rying either leather portfolios or FedEx envelopes. I realize I have walked unknowingly into an autograph hunters stake-out.

I approach one man sitting on the concrete ledge that wraps around the theater's exterior and ask who he is waiting for. "Dakota Fanning," he mutters, not looking at me. She is apparently, half-expected (no one seems to be absolutely sure she's coming) for the screening of the newly English-dubbed version of Hayao Miyazaki's "My Neighbor Totoro." I ask my new friend how much a Dakota Fanning autograph is worth. "I wouldn't know," he almost spits at me. "I don't sell them. I'm a collector." He tells me that he spends his weekends going out in search of celebrity autographs and the festival presents a rare opportunity where you're not behind a protective line, that is, if she doesn't go in through the secret underground entrance through the garage. "However," he concedes, "I can be a little weird running after a ten year old."

Proving his point, a few minutes later, I see from a distance a woman and a young blonde girl walking into the theater. All of a sudden someone yells, "Dakota" and pivoting on a spring action, ten middle-aged men leap half a step towards this little girl before they realize it is not Herself. The young girl and the woman, extremely freaked ou t by the moment, hurry inside.

After waiting a few minutes more, I walk up to a group of three twentysomethings, a slightly Goth-ish young man and two women in windbreakers. I ask if they are waiting for Dakota. "I don't give a damn about Dakota," the young man who later tells me his name is Kyle (and prefers to keep is last name secret). "I'm waiting for ----." I thought he said Brenda Fraser. "Who is she?" I ask.

"You don't know who Brendan Fraser is?" I am fearful we are about to come to blows when I assure him I do know but misheard him. Kyle tells me that he only collects autographs from two celebrities — Brendan Frasier and John Travolta. Kyle is here because the former is receiving a HFF award tomorrow night and he hopes he might show up at the screening (that hope will prove to be in vain.) He gives me a bit of insight into the various strata of signature/picture seeker society. "I'm not a collector," he says. "I'm a fan." Both collector and fan however, see themselves several rungs on the moral food chain above the paparazzi, a couple of whom they point out across the courtyard. "They are all garbage," Kyle says.

Melissa, one of Kyle's friends, points out that the inherent difference in what autograph seekers and paparazzi do is in the fact that celebrities mus t actively cooperate with, and therefore give tacit approval, of the autographing process for it to produce any results, whereas paparrazi just grab a picture without any cooperation or consent. Kyle points out, at another level, across the courtyard someone they call "Red Bull." "He's what we call a True Fan," I'm told. "He's at the premieres, the clubs, the restaurants. He's everywhere."

I go inside for the "Totoro" screening. Neither Dakota, nor her younger sister Elle who also provides a voice for the film appears. The screening is to a full house. Of the four Miyazaki films I've seen, I rate this second, which is to say it was totally engrossing. (The newly dubbed version is being released on DVD next year, with no theatrical run planned.) In the Q and A afterwards, I learn about what sounds like an agonizing process of trying to write translations of Japanese lines where the English will match the mouth movements of the animated characters and then making the actors read them at the same speed. Makes me glad I'm not an animation translator. I also hear from the producers that Miyazaki now prefers that his films be dubbed rather than subtitled, saying that people miss too much r ead ing sub-titles. And, according to the director, Elle Fanning was a "real pro."

In the after party, where some sticky but not-bad-at-all pecan bars were going around (along with still-good-but-a-tier-below lemon bars and chocolate-and-raspberry bars). I meet Josh Staub who made the animated short I saw earlier, "The Mantis Parable." Josh is carrying around a oversized HFF golden trophy that must weigh close to 20 lbs. having won the festival's Best Animated Short Award. He tells me of his journey on the festival trail having won awards recently in Seattle, Winnepeg, Rhode Island and Palm Springs. A Seattle-based Art Director for Cyan Games, Staub spent 18 months creating "Mantis" at nights on his home computer. He says that for the maker of an animated short, to get into 15% of the festivals to which you submit is generally your hope. When "Mantis" was accepted to all of the first five, he trimmed back his list, only submitting to the 30-45 festivals, which, if you win, qualifies the film for the best animated short Oscar, the career making nomination for an aspiring feature film animator. Having won a serious number of awards now, up against people with gigantic budgets and huge credits behind them, Staub now awaits word of the Oscar category short list, to be announced in a month or so, while, traveling budget depleted, h e'll be sending the film onto festivals without his personal escorting of it.

And thus ended the final screening night of the Festival. Tomorrow — it is on to the Gala Awards Banquet. My tuxedo stands at the ready.
Posted by Richard Rushfield at 06:13 AM | Comments (0)

October 23, 2005

Turkey and Doritos? Count me in

After a fairly slumbering Friday night, the Hollywood Film Festival
roared or at least shimmied back to life Saturday afternoon with a
full, diverse and sporadically well-attended daylong slate of
screenings.

In describing what is the focus of the Hollywood Film Festival, Fest
Director Carlos De Abreu, a hyper-charged, Portuguese transplant who
looks something like a Euro-jet-setting version of Eugene
Levy, speaks of the HFF as a meeting of worlds: European cinema meets
commercial Hollywood movies meets shoestring DIY indie films. Going
through the schedule with me to point out his favorites, Carlos’
recommendations frenetically veer across these chasms. “This one is
very artistic,” he tells me pointing out an Argentine romance, “I
don’t know if that’s what you like. Now this one,” he points out a
local indie production, “This is more a fun film. And then maybe you
like horror…”

The all-over-the-mapness of the HFF makes for an interestingly hard-
to-get-a-feel-for-what-exactly-it-is vibe during the Saturday
screenings. On the upper deck of the bustling Arclight cinema, three
screens become a little HFF village with this hodgepodge selection.
Shuttling between them, and pushing through the “Shopgirl” crowds, I
feel a bit like I’m pin balling around through the electric currents
of Carlos’ kinetic impulses.

I arrive a bit after 2 PM; the Arclight already doing its Grand
Central station impersonation. I head upstairs and catch a couple
foreign shorts: “Last Days” an earnest German WWII remaking of the
“Enemy Mine” theme, and BV-01, a five-minute show-off of some CG
effects of a robo cop running around and shooting things.

Out in the hall, “24” star Reiko Aylesworth (head of CTU in the
second half of last season), has just emerged from a screening of her
indie film “crazylove” and signs autographs for a long line of fest-
goers. Back down in the lobby, a massive crowd has formed by the HFF
check-in desk. I push through and see the cast of the shortly-to-screen
indie film “A Couple of Days and Night s” posing for a group
photo while no fewer than nine photographers snap them. I wonder if
staging a group photo shoot in mid-Arclight lobby is their cunning
plan to create buzz for the low-budget film. If it is, I am clearly
Sucker No. 1 as, drawn in by the hype, I head up to their screening.
On the way in, I stand behind one of the film’s stars on the candy
line, very personable actress Allison Munn, who tells me that she
will be playing Tequilla, a rich girl/wanna-be Latina rapper. I
note, impressed, Allison’s candy order: large Diet Coke, popcorn and
black coffee. “You don’t want to come to my house for Thanksgiving,”
she tells me. “You’ll end up eating Doritos with your turkey.”

The screening is nearly full, although many to most present seem to
be associated either with the film or the short that screens before
it, “Crown Heights” a pantomime about racial tensions in a Brooklyn
grocery store. “Days and Nights” director Vaughn Verdi intro’s his
film, calling it a tribute to Billy Wilder. While he speaks,
the “Crown Heights” cheering section behind me argues that someone
should go up and say something on behalf of their film. Apparently,
the director is not present and his brother is “seeing another
movie.” A young man finally gets up and strides to the front, taking
the mike from Verdi and explaining the Crown Heights director
couldn’t be there because he is out shooting another short. “Go USC!”
he says before sitting down.

After these films, I poke my head into “Champion” a documentary which
tells the story of character actor Danny Trejo, (whom you have seen
as the really scary looking Latino gangster in every movie of the
last ten years that has needed a really scary looking Latino
gangster) and his fall and rise from drug addicted San Quentin inmate
to the hardest-working character actor in showbiz/mentor to legions
of screwed up young men. As the movie ends, I see the younger
generation of Britzes there, Juliene (who informs me I’ve been
misspelling her name) Dawn and Robert Jr., now joining the group.
They again offer big thumbs-up to “Champion,” citing its
inspirational message. “I hope it gets shown more,” Juliene says.
“I think this would be a wonderful movie for a lot of kids to see.”
They also tell me that Robert and Sharlene have taken the night off,
worn out by the week of hard festival going, but they’ll be back on
the circuit tomorrow.

MY final film of the night is “The Sisters,” shown in the smallish
but festive, alcohol-permitted Cinema Nine. The film is a modern
adaptation of Chekhov’s “Three Sisters” starring Maria Bello, Erika
Christensen, Mary Stuart Masterson and Rip Torn. The crowd coming in
looks strangely much too shiny and polished to be mere theater goers
looking for a good modern Chekov-retelling, but then I am informed
that one of the film’s co-stars, Eric McCormack, is a “Will and
Grace” star and the cast of the show, including Grace herself in a
Black-and-white leopard-patterned wrap, are on hand to support him.
Thanks however, to the TV rif-raff filling up the theater, it looks
like the young Britzes are unable to get tickets for this screening.
Without offering too much opinion on the film, I will only say it was
tremendously well-received by the crowd and the kind of
stagey-languaged film you don’t see much anymore these days.

I consider moving on to the screening in the after-hours horror
festival, but with two days still to go, I decide t o preserve my
energies for the hard days of theater sitting still ahead.
Posted by Richard Rushfield at 01:58 PM | Comments (0)

October 21, 2005

We Interrupt This Programming...

Your Hollywood Film Festival blogger was forced to miss one night of the excitement. Thursday night's screening, "Bullets Over Hollywood," was a documentary about depictions of the mafia in Hollywood and Richard reports having a terrible, uncurable gangster phobia.

Your humble blogger will return tomorrow with all the lastest from the Festival.
Posted by Richard Rushfield at 09:46 AM | Comments (0)

October 20, 2005

If it's Angelina, hold all my calls!

After the red-carpeted hoopla of the Hollywood Film Festival's opening night, Night Two is a bit of a return to Earth. This eve the fest offers two simultaneous screenings at Hollywood's Arclight Cinema, a "Special Screening" of Charlize Theron's upcoming sexual harassment drama "North Country" and a "Centerpiece Premiere" of "Fierce People" an independent film directed by Griffin Dunne, described in the festival schedule as a story about a troubled young man and his troubled mother (played by Diane Lane) who take refuge one summer at the estate of the mother's rich friend (Donald Sutherland), where "things spiral out of control when both see that wealth and friendships come at a price.&q uot;

Once again, even with glacial traffic on the 101, I arrived embarrassingly early. I am reserved to attend "North Country," but with time to kill, I watched the crowd checking into the two movies, trying to gauge which screening is the truly red hot ticket of Night Two. As I watch, hyper-watted festival director Carlos de Abreu swept across the Arclight lobby shouting into his cell phone at full furnace blast, "Yes, I understand if Angelina says yes..." Studying the entering crowds, I decide the "Fierce People" audience looks to be slightly higher octane than the "North"erners and that in screening lingo "Centerpiece" clearly must be superior to "Special" and trade in my ticket.

Before the film, there is a pre-party in the little balcony bar upstairs. Griffin Dunne and Diane Lane are greeting guests, posing for pics taken by a trio of photographers. I'll say this for the Hollywood Film Festival, while you don't exactly see celebs letting their hair down like they were in their private hot tub, the events do seem to give ticket holders pretty unusual proximity to our national treasures.

While I stake out the circulating hor'devours (little scoops of mashed potatoes and steak on tortilla chips, breaded chicken skewers and the inevitable but always welcome crabcakes), I chat with Joel Michaely, actor and noted fixture at any Hollywood party worth its name. Michaely, (who tells me he's been killed in three horror movies in the past three months) is at his second party of the night, having just come from Jamie Pressley's fashion show at Smashbox. (He still has one more to go before he sleeps.) Asked if he is on the Hollywood Film Festival circuit, he tells me he didn't make it to the screening last night, but did go to the after-party at Shane Black's house, which lasted until 4 AM and included a late-night pizza delivery and "dancing, dancing, dancing."

Tonight, he says he is here to support "Fierce" distributor Lion's Gate who "really treat people like family." We part as Donald Sutherland sweeps in, managing as few others could to pull off a black wool blazer with a red sweater tied around his neck.

The screening commences an embarrasingly close-to-on-time 15 minutes late. Before it starts, event staff fuss hugely about the red Xeroxed "Reserved for Lions Gate" signs which have been taped to about a third of the theater seats and are ripped off by helpful attendants before members of the Lion's Gate family sit down. Once again, I will refrain from offering my unworthy review of the film. I will merely mention that a plot twist about mid-way through the film veers us down a much darker path tha n the festive pre-party prepared us for. I suspect while watching, that the festival's bon vivant spirit might be a little tamped down post-screening, although the folks across the way watching Charlize fight off unwanted attentions are sure to come out ready to party.

After the film, a reporter moderates a Q&A session with Dunne, Lane, three of the film's young stars and novelist Dirk Wittenborn who wrote the script and the book upon which the film was based. Donald Sutherland, for reasons unexplained, does not participate. Dunne speaks likably about what drew him to the material ("I like sons of f-ed up mothers.") and the diffficulties of shooting on minimal budget, explaining that one of the key scenes was actually shot at two separate locations. Lane, who's participation we are told, got the movie made, says she liked that the film was "multi-layered in terms of the tapestry it creates." She also uses the word "insouciance" which is enough to win me over. The three young stars mostly stare adorably at their feet like kids forced to eat at the adults table. Wittenborn says he was inspired to write the film by growing up a poor kid hanging out with rich kids. He also warns, appropos of the film's theme, "The people who run America disseminate this fantasy that they are ineffectual but they are not. They are very smart and t enacious." We stand warned.

Coming out of the theater, I run into my visiting-from-Winetka friends from last night, the Britzes, who are coming out of "North Country" just as a Presidential motorcade-sized security cordon sweeps Charlize to the elevator. Once again, the Britzes reviews are extremely positive, all offering big thumbs up. "An amazing movie. Very nicely done," says Sharlene. Daughter Jolene, the lawyer, however, speaks out for her professional interest group and opines that the film skimped on its courtroom scenes. Robert, also weighs in that, as a business owner, while he doesn't approve of the way Charlize was treated, he can understand the mens' fears about losing their livelihood to female competetion. They also report that Charlize was charming, a true star, during the Q&A. But she also apparently showed a human side, joking when her mike picked up some interference that it was her stomach growling. Jolene weighs in that she seems like someone "you could see yourself going to drinks with."

Before leaving, I chat with Carlos, the festival director, who's enthusiasm for the event bubbles over. The mixing of people from Hollywood with people from the outside world is what it's all about he says: "To have Charlize in one room and these independent people across the hall." He tells the story of Director Craig Brewer who came to town years ago when a film he made was screened. "I got him an attorney. I got him a manager." And that Craig Brewer went on to sweep Sundance last year as director of "Hustle & Flow." I ask De Abreu if he is planning to make much of a speech at the black tie gala coming up on Monday but he shakes his head vehemently. "I hate speeches. When I see these other people making them, I get so tired. It's our guests night, not our night."

October 19, 2005

The Hollywood Film Festival kicked off with a giant screening at the classic Grauman's Chinese Theater that captured the magic of Hollywood premieres circa last weekend. The film was "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang" the return of notedly MIA screenwriter Shane Black, one time master of glib-talking buddy shoot ’em ups like "The Last Boy Scout."

Tonight, the Chinese sidewalk was the familiar throng of freelance Chewbaccas, Zorros and a Spider-Man in denim shorts posing for snapshots with tourists. I was shepherded to the side of the red carpet , stepping clear of a pair of not-even-slightly-familiar-looking celebs mugging for the photogs.

Entering the theater, thanks to my Hollywood Film fest badge, I was gifted with a coupon for complimentary VIP popcorn and soda. In the cavernous lobby, the V IP line to redeem these coupons stretched almost out the door. I stood and waited to cash in, noticing the non-VIP popcorn line was almost empty. The Zegna-quotient of the crowd in general was far less than at most premieres, with plain-clothed, casual, brazenly non-industry types running wild with the gaggles of hair-sprayed men in crisp, tailored black suits, colored shirts and no ties. After securing my heavily-buttered bounty, I attempted to loiter in the lobby, swearing not to leave until I spotted at least one celeb. A roving tuxedoed usher, however, announced repeatedly into a wireless mike, "Once you have your popcorn and soda, please take your seats." Translation: "Stop gawking like some tourist from the Arctic Circle, sit down and behave like the seasoned hanger-oner you’d be lucky to be."

I attempted to ignore him until he stood directly in front of me, and not making eye contact, made the announcement into the mike three times. Then I took my seat.

Sitting down at 7:05 PM, five minutes after the film was scheduled to start,I saw immediately that the theater was only a third full and cursed my naïveté for showing up on time.
In Hollywood, arriving at the scheduled start time for a premiere is like calling a woman, or worse yet, an agent the day after you get his/her number — the most desperate , pathetic mark of Cain. I settled in for the wait, my popcorn disappearing much too fast.

On my right, the most elegant, formally attired, older couple in the house pointed out a well-composed pair of young Hollywood damsels, and tut tuted in sympathy as the pair found their way to the worst seats in the house, fifth row, along the wall. I introduce myself. The couple is Sharlene and Robert Britz in town from Winetka, Illinois. They are there with their daughter Jolene, a local attorney, and sister-in-law, Dawn. Jolene bought the tickets after being emailed info about the festival. She is not sure why she is on the list, but thought it would be fun for her parents to attend a movie premiere and they flew out for the event. Just last Saturday, Sharlene and Robert drove to Sound Bend, Indiana to attend the USC/Notre Dame game. (They are SC alums.) I asked them if they expect this event will compare to that and they shake their heads, "It’s not fair to compare. This is fun, but that was once in a lifetime," says Robert.

At 7:30, we see stars Val Kilmer and Robert Downey Jr. finally enter. Jolene with remarkable acuity spots Corbin Bernson. Downey and Val (who not a year ago I saw on stage next door at the Kodak Theater as singing Moses in Max Azaria’s musical production of "The Ten Commandments") come up front to introduce t he film. Val attempts a very half-hearted bit of humor, hiding behind the curtain, and then leaping out, getting Downey to explain "He thinks he’s getting an award." Val then gives a completely awkward mock acceptance speech, saying "I’d like to thank Joel Silver. I’d like to thank..." and breaking into tears, until Downey intercedes, taking the mike back, and very briefly intros the film. Val breaks into a run up the aisle back to his seat. It makes me wonder what obscure corner of reality one’s self-image would be occupying when Robert Downey Jr. serves as your down-to-Earth straight man. I ask Robert Britz what he thought of the speeches. "Adequate" is his politic reply.

I will not comment on the film itself, leaving the official LA Times verdict to our august film critics to deliver in due time. I will, however, quote the reactions of the Britzes, who give every sign of being a tough crowd, speaking out vigorously against the last film they saw, "War of the Worlds." On "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang" however, the feeling amongst the clan is unanimously positive. Robert, for who Sharlene later notes that it says something if he stays awake for the whole film, proclaims it was "marvelous. It was unpredictable and that’s what I need to keep me interested." He singles out Downey&rsquo ;s performance as being particularly compelling. Sharlene agreed, "Very entertaining and quite funny." Her reviews however repeatedly note the flashes of nudity in the film which she approvingly says, "was just enough to be titillating."

Escorting the Britzes, I walk with the crowd across Hollywood Blvd. to the legendary-after-only-several-months-in-existence Tropicana Club at the Roosevelt Hotel. I explain to the Britzes that this poolside is the most fabulous nightclub currently going in Hollywood. "Don’t the people in those rooms mind the noise?" Sharlene asks, indicating the doors hovering inches above party central. "I think they come here for it," I tell her. She nods approvingly.
The crowd is packed closely between the bar and the pool. Walking in, I see a pair of Endeavor superagents holding a confab front and center. I recognize "Sideways" producer Michael London off to a side. The Britzes go in search of drinks and to find a little space out of the crush. I brazen my way through, observing the heroic efforts of a few event staff to save the central couches for the men of the hour, despite the crowd tumbling from the bar over the upholstery and trying to perch on every corner. "Sterling!" one calls to a suited-man across the room. He motions towards the couch. "This is for him. This is for HIM!"

Leaning against a covered pool table, I see Kilmer clutched in deep conversation with none other than Vincent Gallo. I ache to know what they could possibly be talking about but can’t get nearly close enough.

In another corner of the room, “Kiss-Kiss”’s legendary producer Joel Silver pontificates to a mob of people who gaze adoringly, looking like they want to lift his significant mass onto their shoulders and carry him around the room in triumph. Two waitress bearing trays of snacks are urgently diverted from their route and re-directed towards Silver, who moves away before the delicacies (crabcakes, California rolls, tandoori chicken skewers) reach him.

Back across the poolside, the Britzes are enjoying themselves but not overwhelmed by their first glitzy Hollywood party. "It’s not as wild as the party in the movie," says Sharlene referring to a bacchanalian fete depicted in "Kiss Kiss." Robert is more forgiving, commenting on the decent drinks and both agree it is a lovely setting, lack of orgy aside. "It’s a hotel party," he says. "It’s alright."

Jolene and Dawn, however, return from a rather unpleasant encounter with fame. Jolene had approached Downey’s couch and asked a woman in his entourage if she might get an autogra ph. Although Downey was, they say, barely inches away, the woman responded, "I’ll have to ask his publicist." The woman spoke to another woman, who whispered something to Downey and then returned declaring, "He’s not signing autographs tonight." Jolene and Dawn now mark themselves as somewhat less enthusiastic fans of the star than they had been an hour earlier.

Later, I notice the Britzes brush with greatness continues. Gallo and his entourage have taken up the empty seats at their table. Gallo is in deep mind meld with one young woman, while three others, all at once, unaware of the self-parodic target they are offering any photographer with his wits about him, scroll in unison through text messages on their cell phones. I try to explain to the Britzes whom Gallo is, but soon give up.

Looking around, I notice the superagents have largely vanished and bidding good night to the Britzes, reg retting that I will h ave to go through tomorrow night without their consol, I take my leave.