The Screengrab : randy quaid

Fat Actor Watch at New York Times: Paper of Record Alleges That When Russell Crowe Sits Around the House, He Really Sits Around the House

Phil Nugent — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 15:00:00 GMT

Always looking for a fresh angle on the really important movie news of the day, Michael Cieply uses his perch at Thew New York Times to ask" what's with all the male movie stars who are porkers? Who does he have in mind, exactly? Russell Crowe and Jeff Daniels, sharing a screen in State of Play ("Two men. One notebook. Four chins."); Denzel Washington, going "cheek-to-jowl with the bulky John Travolta" in the trailer for the remake of The Taking of Pelham One Two Three; Hugh Grant; and "Even Leonardo DiCaprio, the young heartthrob from Titanic"--Photos from the set of Shutter Island, a thriller on tap from Paramount Pictures and the director Martin Scorsese in October, show a little bit more to love." Oh, snap! Are they handing out chocolate bunnies to whoever can be the biggest bitch at the Times these days?

Cieply briefly notes that there's a gender-based double standard regarding the weight and age rules in Hollywood so far as leading players are concerned, but after dropping Kathleen Turner's name, he seems to feel that he's discharged his duty, as if the subject bored even him. He seems more taken with the idea that this is an utterly new phenomenon, but despite the historical examples he digs up, that may be a non-starter. "Photos of midcentury stars — Humphrey Bogart, James Stewart, Clark Gable and others — show them to have remained rather gaunt at an age when many of the current crop are anything but." Good thing those photos are handy, since it's not as if movie actors left behind filmed records of their performances so we'd be able to remind themselves what they looked like. That said, it seems a little callous to drag Bogart, one of the best-known victims of cancer sticks ever to go down coughing, into a discussion of how movie stars used to keep themselves svelte. (One well-circulated story has it that, when illness had left Bogie too weak to handle the stairs in his own home, he used to navigate from one floor to another by stuffing himself in the dumb waiter.) It's also worth remembering that Gable, who died of a massive heart attack after completing his last film, The Misfits, had lost 35 pounds on a crash diet to get his weight below 200 before shooting began. If there's any less of that sort of thing going on nowadays because more stars feel comfortable about appearing in public looking something other than whisper-thin, surely it's for the better.

It's also true that, as Cieply would have known if he'd put down the "photographs" and spent a couple of days watching Turner Classic Movies, there have always been counter-examples one could offer to his role call of manly waifs. Wallace Beery never looked as if he'd had trouble locating the desert cart, Spencer Tracey rolled into his onscreen middle age looking as if he'd swallowed a tether ball, James Cagney was getting pretty squared-off by the time of Yankee Doodle Dandy, Robert Mitchum often had an amorphous mass surrounding his midsection that he used to abruptly suck up into his chesticological region whenever he was required to take his shirt off, Gene Hackman's weight always flunctuated, sometimes wildly, depending on just how regular his latest "regular guy" character was supposed to be, and as for Jack Nicholson, in his mid-forties when he more or less officially entered his "middle-aged" period with Terms of Endearment--please. Of course, with movies as with everything else, memory can be a great deceiver. Lawrence Turman, "a veteran film producer who is chairman of the Peter Stark producing program at the University of Southern California’s School of Cinematic Arts", told Cieply that "“John Wayne always looked a bit portly." I find it disturbing that the Peter Stark producing program at the University of Southern California's School of Cinematic Arts can do no better for its chairman than a guy who's never seen Stagecoach. It may be a tribute to the lingering effect of the image that Wayne cast from around the mid-1950s until his death in 1979 that even some professionals think he always looked like that, but I would propose that, unlikely though it may seem, that if Wayne had looked in his youth like a guy who was fated to someday look the way he did in True Grit, he never would have gotten the chance to grow into that later incarnation--at least, not on movie screens.

This still leaves the question of whether some of these stars, heavier though they may undeniably be, are as hideous to behold as Cieply seems to be implying they are. I will confess that when I saw Travolta, say, in the trailer for Pelham, I did not catch myself thinking, "Here comes Wide Load." (I did catch myself thinking, "Get a load of Weird Hairline with his Fu Manchu mustache. Each of us has his issues.) One possibility worth considering is that such stars as Travolta, Washington, and Hanks, who came up in the 1980s, when a perfect storm of society-embraced body issues and new technology in the gym led to a new species of Americans who seemed to be armor-plated in their own skin and muscle, some of whom hastened to show off their new packaging on the covers of magazines, such as that infamous shot of Travolta on the cover of Rolling Stone to promote Stayin' Alive, looking as if his abs were about to jump out of his torso and his brains had already leaked out of his ears. Maybe, having fallen for that when you had the energy and free schedule to pursue it all the way, you have to let yourself go a little later on or else you'll explode. But then, in the interests of full disclosure, I should concede that I am from The South, where we deep fry our veggie plates and the lost causes that we love to get misty-eyed about include our own arteries in their pre-clotted state. Because of my own cultural conditioning, if I had my way, every other movie made since 1984 would have starred Joe Don Baker, and the others would have been divided between Randy Quaid and the late Dub Taylor, with the result that Michael Cieply would be even more confused.

April Fools: The 35 Funniest Movie Characters Of All Time (Part Three)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 21:00:00 GMT

WILL FERRELL AS RICKY BOBBY IN TALLADEGA NIGHTS: THE BALLAD OF RICKY BOBBY (2006)

Will Ferrell’s Anchorman may be more absurd, but Talladega Nights is still the SNL alum’s greatest big-screen achievement to date, a NASCAR-set bit of lunacy that mocks American culture while simultaneously exhibiting fondness for it. Via the character of Ricky Bobby, a nitwit car-racing star, Ferrell manages to send up our national gluttony and materialism, as well as Southern political and social conservatism, with a no-holds-barred goofiness that’s nonetheless underscored by affection for his redneck milieu and its inhabitants. To keep things evenhanded, Sacha Baron Cohen’s aggressively homosexual French F-1 champ Jean Girard provides a hilarious caricature of liberalism. It’s Ferrell’s titular clown, however, that truly embodies the film’s fair-minded attitude, his Ricky Bobby an egotistical good ol’ boy whose jingoism is as inane as his predilection for saying grace to the baby Jesus – an extended bit that gets funnier with every subsequent viewing – and yet whose me-first ridiculousness is laced with a childish kindness that makes him both an embarrassing and endearing personification of 21st century southern America. (NS)

CHEVY CHASE AS CLARK GRISWOLD IN CHRISTMAS VACATION (1989)

While the original remains the most popular, and European Vacation is probably the funniest, the Vacation series’ most heartwarming entry was 1989’s Yuletide saga, in large part because its holiday setting provided Chevy Chase with the best opportunities to convey not only Clark Griswold’s buffoonery, but to root that silliness in his deep, abiding love of family and tradition. In this second sequel, Clark’s homestead is invaded by parents, in-laws and the clan of Cousin Eddy (Randy Quaid), and this raft of supporting players – which also comes to include the Griswold’s prissy Yuppie neighbors (Nicholas Guest and Julia Louis-Dreyfus) – helps take some of the comedic burden off of Chase. Despite surrounding him with talented co-stars, however, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation’s spotlight nonetheless remains squarely on its headliner, whose pratfall skills are in fine form, and whose sympathetic embodiment of his well-intentioned doofus patriarch – aggravated by his kin, disappointed over not receiving the work bonus he was counting on, and tormented by a squirrel let loose in his abode – lends the manic, messy proceedings real warmth. (NS)

PAUL REUBENS AS PEE-WEE HERMAN IN PEE-WEE'S BIG ADVENTURE (1985)

Too much fun in a porn theater may have destroyed Paul Reubens' career – and, consequently, the life of his iconic Pee-Wee Herman character – but his 1985 big-screen debut, helmed by first-time director Tim Burton, stands up as a perfectly realized idiosyncratic original. In this fanciful, carnival-esque saga, Reubens' strange-talking man-child Pee-Wee embarks on a cross-country odyssey to recover his beloved red bike, which he believes was stolen by his rich, spoiled, nasty neighbor Francis (Mark Holton). Even on his first feature, Burton’s flair for crafting strange, wild, wondrous visions was in full effect, as was Danny Elfman’s aptitude for offbeat scores. Nonetheless, it’s Pee-Wee who cements his place in the film-comedy pantheon. From the colorful, gadgety confines of his home (where he chows down on some Mr. T breakfast cereal), to the Alamo (whose basement he foolishly hopes to investigate), to a roadside bar where he famously displays his dance moves while surrounded by a horde of nasty-looking bikers, Pee-Wee proves himself a one-of-a-kind weirdo whose irrepressible cheer is infectious, and whose childlike innocence is endearing. (NS)

ALBERT BROOKS AS ALBERT BROOKS IN REAL LIFE (1979)

Albert Brooks has built a career – and a pretty fine one, if you ask us – out of portraying himself as a complete jerkoff. Even when he’s not playing a fictional character who’s kind of a schmuck, he’s kind of a schmuck: the “Albert Brooks” he plays in his films is a rampaging egomaniac who’s completely oblivious to how he comes across to people. Nowhere is this better realized than in his first full-length feature as a writer and director, 1979’s Real Life. This criminally underseen comedy, which brilliantly anticipates the reality-TV craze of 20 years later, sees Brooks playing himself as a desperate-to-please filmmaker who decides to film a normal, average American family; the comedy lies in the fact that he quickly assesses that the moviegoing public will be bored stiff by normality and averageness, and immediately sets about interfering with their lives for entertainment value. Unsurprisingly, this ruins the experiment, and starts to ruin the family’s life as well – but right up until the very end (where he hits upon the brilliant idea of burning their house down in order to provide his disastrous movie with a suitably exciting ending), Brooks is completely blind to the fact that the only thing wrong with his movie is that he’s the one making it. “Albert Brooks”, as portrayed by Albert Brooks, is so fine a portrait of a self-absorbed Hollywood phony it must have made Robert Evans blush.

CHICO MARX AS BARAVELLI IN HORSE FEATHERS (1932)

Although we’ve chosen his role as Baravelli in the campus comedy Horse Feathers as representative, it’s really just a stand-in for any Chico Marx performance. In the Marx Brothers’ films, Groucho’s role was to be the anarchist, the fly in the ointment, the wild card who refused to play by society’s rules and hilariously wrecks the smooth running order of things; Chico’s role was to do the same thing – only to Groucho. Often stereotyped as the dimwitted punster, Chico’s roles went far deeper than that: he was a true comic foil to his younger brother, reminding him that he couldn’t always win, that there was always someone there who could outhustle even the great Groucho – even if it was by playing dumb. Groucho was the subversive riddle that brought down authority, and Harpo was the dynamite bomb thrown right in the middle of the room, but Chico was a Chinese finger puzzle: it looked so simple, but once you were caught in it, no matter how smart you were, you couldn’t get out. Nowhere is that more clear than in the famous “Tutti Frutti” scene in Horse Feathers, where a supremely confident Chico prevents a slow-burning Groucho from betting on the horse he wants to win. It’s one of the greatest examples of pure comic timing ever captured on film.

Click Here For Part One, Two, Four, Five, Six, Seven & Eight

Contributors: Nick Schager, Leonard Pierce

When Good Directors Go Bad: Goya's Ghosts (2006, Milos Forman)

Paul Clark — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 19:30:00 GMT

Note: Two weeks ago, I promised that I would be posting my latest Reviews By Request column this afternoon. However, due to circumstances that can best be summed up by the expression “Netflix issues”, I wasn’t able to obtain a copy of the requested film, Three on a Meathook, in time to view and review it. Apologies to requester “Cameron” and all fans of Reviews by Request. With luck, the review should run next Friday afternoon at the usual time.

Earlier this year, I had the good fortune to attend a talk given by director Milos Forman at Columbus’ Wexner Center for the Arts. The talk followed a screening of Forman’s first American film, Taking Off, and as Forman addressed the crowd, I marveled at how much his personality was reflected in his films. As he spoke, I sensed kindness, generosity of spirit, and a tendency to be amused by the possibilities of life. These qualities come through clearly in his best films, most particularly Taking Off, which has equal empathy for both sides of the generation gap, and Amadeus, which makes Mozart human-sized while giving his “murderer” Salieri a fair shake. However, none of these traits are apparent when one watches Forman’s most recent film, Goya’s Ghosts, an uncharacteristically dour and lifeless film from a filmmaker to whom one wouldn’t normally apply such terms.

From the 1980s onward, Forman has specialized in giving period pieces and biopics a unique flavor that’s a far cry from the extreme reverence afforded most titles in the genre. Look at the way he transformed the potentially tawdry story of Hustler founder Larry Flynt into a seriocomic tale of a most unlikely spokesperson for freedom of speech. Or look at Valmont, a perfectly fine take on Les Liaisons Dangereuses that feels almost humanistic, and which suffered greatly in comparison to Stephen Frears’ earlier version of the material. Forman’s work has always been distinguished by its unconventional point of view, and it was tantalizing to imagine what he would make of the life of Francisco Goya.

It helped that, like Mozart, Larry Flynt, and Andy Kaufman, Goya had a unique life worth recounting in cinematic form. Goya rose to prominence as a painter to Spain’s ruling class, eventually rising to the rank of First Court Painter to King Charles IV. As he grew older, his work became darker and more sinister, a development that coincided with the onset of deafness and a subsequent physical and mental breakdown. After Napoleon’s army invaded Spain, Goya’s work depicted the savagery of war and the internal conflicts of his homeland, especially in his series called Black Paintings and a group of prints referred to as Disasters. But no matter who was in power, Goya’s had an antiauthoritarian streak, something that’s just as apparent in his surprisingly unflattering portraits of the royal family as it is in his macabre portrayals of the wars that consumed his homeland. It was this combination of genius and mischievousness that made Goya an ideal subject for a Milos Forman film.

Unfortunately, there are very few traces of this Goya in Goya’s Ghosts. Oh, Forman’s version of Goya (played by Stellan Skarsgård) has the occasional tendency to defy authority. However, Forman and co-screenwriter Jean-Claude Carrière don’t really bother to examine Goya as a person. In a highly unfortunate miscalculation by the filmmakers, Goya’s Ghosts focuses less on its title character than on his relationship with two fictional characters- the opportunistic Inquisitor Brother Lorenzo (Javier Bardem) and a merchant’s daughter and model named Ines (Natalie Portman, with a bizarre accent). The film is so concerned with this plot that it finds little time for the artist himself, to say nothing of his art.

One big problem is that Forman and Carrière barrel through their story like a rampaging bull, trampling all over anything that might potentially make the film, or the people in it, interesting. Consider an early scene in which Goya unveils his latest portrait of the Queen. As Goya proudly shows off his new work, the royals are somewhat less than impressed by the portrayal of Her Majesty as a frail, unattractive old woman, but Goya himself seems fairly amused by what he’s done. Finally- the Goya we came to see! However, after the King (played by Randy Quaid- yes, really) calls Goya to his chamber, he doesn’t even have time to dress him down before a messenger comes bearing news that the French Revolution has killed the King’s cousin, the French King Louis XVI. Then Forman cuts to a black screen bearing the words, “15 Years Later.” What happened in the mean time? Does Forman even care?

Another question I kept asking myself was “what is this movie about?” Clearly, it’s not about Goya. Perhaps Forman and Carrière saw the primary theme of the movie as the human costs of chaotic times. Ines spends fifteen years as the prisoner of the Inquisition, and during that time is impregnated by Brother Lorenzo, who sends the child to an orphanage. After the Inquisition turns on him, Lorenzo reveals himself not to be the true believer he makes himself out to be, but an opportunist who’s quick to join the winning team. It’s a theme that should be close to Forman’s heart, as someone who escaped Czechoslovakia just as the Iron Curtain slammed shut, but if he saw any of himself in the film’s story, I’ll be damned if I can find any evidence of it. In the end, Forman is less concerned with having any kind of stake in the story than with unnecessarily dramatic plot developments like when he reveals that Napoleon’s special counsel in Spain is no other than… Brother Lorenzo! Dun-dun-dunnnnnnnnnn!!!

Adrift in the middle of it all is Goya himself, an almost incidental player in a story that should have been his. As he and his interpreter searched all over for Ines’ long-lost daughter, all I could think of was about what he should have been doing instead. After Napoleon comes to Spain, we barely see Goya holding a brush, even though in actuality this was a prolific period for him. And did you know that Goya was married for almost forty years? You wouldn’t know it from watching Goya’s Ghosts. It’s a shame, because Stellan Skarsgård is quite good as Goya, and it’s easy to imagine him shining in a film that actually took the time to explore the man’s life. I don’t normally try to contrast the film I see to the one I wish I was watching, but Goya’s Ghosts is so dreary and uninspiring- and such a missed opportunity to boot- that I could think of little else.

Randy Quaid's Codpiece Deemed Too Enormous for the American Stage

Phil Nugent — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 19:00:00 GMT

For some three decades now, Randy Quaid has been a mighty force in film and TV, a character actor extraordinaire, and a performer renowned for his eccentricity and wide taste in roles. Quaid enjoys going for broad effects, but he can bring them off in a great variety of emotional flavors and contexts; perhaps the best attempt to sum up his acting range and the expanse of his career is this noncommital sentence from his Wikipedia profile: "In 2007, Quaid portrayed King Carlos the IV in Goya's Ghosts, a role for which he learned to play the violin, and he starred in the comedy Ball’s Out: The Gary Houseman Story (2008) alongside Seann William Scott." Now it appears that the actor will be having that much more time to concentrate on movies; he's been banned for life from working in live theater by Actors' Equity. (The union also hit him with an $81,572 fine.) The problem stems from a busted production called Lone Star Love, a musical based on The Merry Wives of Windsor but with a Wild West setting, in which Quaid was to headline in the singing role of "Colonel John Falstaff", who arrives in Windsor, Texas after being dishonorably discharged from the Civil War. The musical had a run off-Broadway three years ago (with Jay O. Sanders as Falstaff), but this production was headed to Broadway. The producers shut it down in Seattle and blamed Quaid for sabotaging the show by tinkering with the script and his blocking, back-stabbing comments about his collaborators, and that old favorite, "showing off his enormous codpiece."

Frankly, from the description of this show, you might think that if Quaid really was responsible for forcing it to close out of town, he'd be up for a Congressional Medal of Honor at the very least, but his frustrated theatrical collaborators feel differently. The ban came about as a result of charges brought against Quaid by all twenty-six members of the cast, who complained that he had "physically and verbally abused his fellow performers", as well as costing them work by allegedly causing the show to not go on. Quaid himself passed judgement on the quality of justice he expected to receive from Actors' Equity by resigning his membership in the union in January; he didn't attend the hearing (which went on for more than six hours), but his wife and manager Evi did, giving a highly vocal performance that reportedly inspired Equity to take out a restraining order against her. For his part, Quaid and his lawyers say that he is being made a scapegoat by producers who had a bomb on their hands and who were out to deny their star his contractually mandated right to creative approval, as well as his full financial rights. As for his whining co-stars who claim to have been alarmed by his behavior, Quaid has had this to say: "I am guilty of only one thing: giving a performance that elicited a response so deeply felt by the actors and producers with little experience of my creative process that they actually think I am Falstaff."

Trailer Review: 10000 BC

Peter Smith — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 20:00:00 GMT

Roland Emmerich makes noisy crap that's entertaining when it isn't being too noisy and crappy. Take, for example, Independence Day. Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum firing a nuclear missile into a spaceship the size of the moon and screaming "PEACE!" is awesome, but Emmerich ruins the moment with a screen full of yelling Randy Quaid heads ten minutes later. 10,000 B.C., unlike Emmerich's other movies, is Quaid-less all around, so it's off to a promising start. But this trailer is odd. It looks like Mel Gibson trying to remake Stargate. And why are all these cavemen so pretty? Only one movie is allowed to have pretty cavemen, and that's Encino Man. — John Constantine