Hey, everyone. "Moriarty" here with some Rumblings From The Lab.
As always, we love hosting the work of Frank Bascombe, our man prowling the bookshelves, looking for things to recommend to you. Seems he’s on a Hollywood kick right now... check it out!
Strangely I’ve found myself diving into more books about the movie business, or at least books inspired by the movie business. Focusing on The War, and The Dummy is just plain old boring. Spending quality time with my books and my DVD player is far more important. Hollywood is in the dumping season, this is where they lay there unwanted step children, pre Oscar’s and pre-summer. Fine. I don’t care. The Hunted is one flick I’m looking forward to. If William Friedken is reading this, can you possible give us a release date on the DVD of To Live and Die in L.A. ? Teasing the viewers at the screeding of The Hunted in Austin was just wrong. Drop me a line. Until then,
IT’S NOT A SECERET IF I DON'T TELL ANYONE
THE TICKET OUT by Helen Knode
Harcourt, 340 pages
Lets put this right out front; hell it was on the press material that came with the book. Helen Knode is married to James Ellroy. That’s right. That guy has a wife. Incredible. A documentary about this man came out a few years ago and it’s called James Ellroy; Demon Dog of American Crime Fiction. I saw that at the Film Forum in New York City, you know the place that smells like dirty laundry, there wasn’t anyone else at the matinee I saw. In that movie Ellroy goes over everything that happens to him growing up. His life is so fucked up, so weird and bizarre. I’ve heard he writes wild things for inscriptions in his books at signings, like “go fuck your mother, love James Ellroy.” That man has a sense of humor. I picked this book up because anyone who is close enough to that genius has to have some smarts. Helen Knode has by some miraculous force of will absorbed her husband’s talent for the crime game. The Ticket Out is not a masterpiece, but its’ a damn good first book. My job would be incomplete if I didn’t inform you of this relationship.
This book stands on its own, and I’m glad there are almost no traces of her husband’s hands on this gritty Hollywood tale. Ann Whitehead, obviously Ms. Knode’s Tyler Durden, spins out of control from the very first pages. Crime story’s start with a body, and work backwards, and this one is no exception. Just before her demise, a dirty around the edges, troubled cautionary bombshell, blonde Lori Singer ‘esque California dame stalks our Heroine at an industry party, telling her of all things, ‘not to give up’. Ann knows this woman from a hole in wall. She gets to know her better the next morning when she winds up dead in Ann’s bathtub taking the long dirt nap. Ann is a lost soul in a business that survives by not having one. She writes movie reviews for a paper, a tabloid, exploitatively filled with social commentary, meant for the police. The last article that’s gotten her paper The Millennium a boat load of press, is an article about a super cop on his lunch break at Burger King, who ends up saving the lives of everyone in that restaurant, all but one, a bad man, but not in The Millennium’s eyes. Suddenly, after a change of heart, which strangely coincides with Ann’s decision to stop writing reviews for a business she holds in contempt, she decides to trail Greta’s killer to the end. Along the way, and at every turn, some one is trying to lie to her, kill her, beat her, coerce her or just plain old confuse her.
A few words about our Heroine; she’s great. I loved her. Really. Ann Whitehead possesses all the good qualities of the strong leading male role models normally found in other like-minded noir fiction. Tough on the outside with a past that’s sticky. She’s even a looker, but plays it off like it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t. She’s pursuing a life of justice because she’s come from a childhood where her own mother killed herself, and a father who sat by drunkenly, never lending a hand. She’s got a sister who’d rather be a punching bag for the old man, who’s spending their inheritance faster than you can pour a shot of tequila. Internally she processes this, and externally deals with it, one demon at a time. This stuff isn’t cookie cutter, these things are torn from the headlines, and Oprah won’t talk about this. Knode writes character descriptions, especially Whiteheads with a flair for honesty, pain, and fear. Ann loves movies, and names are dropped through out, you don’t need them, but they ground the story in the now.
Knode works her dramatic license too, she doesn’t waste it with silly one-liners, or cardboard cut out serial killers. She builds up the goodies, bakes them to perfection and then halfway through the story opens the oven door and fills the room with more red herrings and wild twists than can be expected in three novel’s this size. We trail an aging producer who most likely killed a young starlet, back before there was electricity. We discover an underground city, room after room, which only a select few in the Hollywood underside seem to know about. We meet the city too, and it’s nice to see it from a perspective this clear and fresh. The alleyways, the turn of the century houses, the restaurants with the flair for the fifties, Knode knows her city, Whitehead seems to relish in it’s possibilities. If I have to punch a hole in this balloon, it’s with her detail, her story tightens up down the backstretch, and we get lost in the quick switches, and wild chases. There’s a part of this story which felt a little like Peter Bondurant in American Tabloid, but that’s ok, I eat that stuff up. Helen Knode will branch out, stretch her legs and hopefully this book is a sign of things to come.
WHAT JUST HAPPENED? by Art Linson
Bloomsbury, 181 pages
It goes with out saying that in Hollywood today you are judged only on your last movie. Kevin Spacey is beginning to get a better understanding of that concept. People tell me over and over that he’s finished, when in fact I really liked the Shipping News, so, who really knows. How long can someone in this movie business go on making bad movies? Stallone seems to be holding the current record, and several others are hot on his tail. Art Linson is producer, someone who puts the movies together, gets the studio’s excited about projects, and gets that script and talent together usually under very stressful circumstances. Whenever I see his name in the credits of a movie, I know I’m in for a treat. The guy is not a hack, he makes quality work, and it’s really that simple.
This book is a thumbnail sketch about the very movies he’s poured his heart and soul into. Here is a list of the some of the movie he’s produced:
Heist. Oh my God, this is a glorious, insanely wonderful movie, Mamet shines.
Sunset Strip. Undid his career, according to him. Shown in one theater, one weekend, and then the studio pulled it. Rent it if you can.
Fight Club. What more do I have to say? Only outdone by the book, which is hard for me to say. I’m so close to this movie/book that I don’t have an objective opinion.
Great Expectations. Take me to task for this one. I like it. “Whisper, whisper!!!”
The Edge. Oh my. This movie is a brilliant exploration into just how far man will go. Mamet, again, brilliant. “This guy, where is this guy”?
Heat. Greatest movie ever made. I’ll fist fight anyone who wants to challenge that. To the casual viewer Michael Mann movies look like everything else that’s ever been done, to the trained eye, it’s some of the finest storytelling, writing and filmmaking your lucky enough to see.
This Boy’s Life. Bobby again, brilliant, story was a little loose, but Linson pulls the right players together, and even snares Toby Wolff and his book as source material.
Pushing Tin. Umm… not great. Not good either. I don’t really have an opinion on this one. The ingredients were right. They paid $200,000 for the New York Times Magazine article, and still came up short.
Singles. People love this movie, Seattle rock scene, pre-Nirvana. Personally it doesn’t flip my nickel.
Dick Tracy. Make it now in the post Spiderman/Daredevil era, and pre Hulk; you might have something interesting to look at. Back then it was a thinly veiled Madonna vehicle.
Casualties of War. Woops! Sean Penn beats ass again! Even Michael J. Fox was passable. The movie was too gritty for the mainstream.
Scrooged. Murray is great. Reliving this tale is a nice way to endure the holidays.
The Untouchables. Beautiful picture. Mamet again. And the last time Costner was bearable. Who has the nuts to convince DeNiro to play Capone? Linson that’s who.
Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Wow! A landmark film. Changed the face of teen movies for the next twenty years! Linson, Heckerling and Crowe. Plus Penn steals the movie. Linson brilliantly puts together a wild batch of Americana. My generations American Graffiti.
Melvin and Howard. Not the greatest movie ever made, but certainly entertaining. Though I liked Tommy Lee Jones as Howard Hughes better than Robards take on it. But still it’s a neat little aside. Problem is Jonathan Demme directs. Yuck.
Ok. So that’s 15 movies that absolutely cement this mans career. This book covers most of the above-mentioned pictures. What it really talks about is just how hosed Linson gets by Fox and Rupert Murdoch. Fox was this up and coming studio that got behind some pretty ballsy pictures. You can thank Art Linson for producing them, but Bill Mechanic for green lighting them for Linson. We get a very brief description of Mechanic’s office during the pitch for The Edge, which at the time was called The Bookworm. Mamet flies in from Boston to picth this thing that he wrote for Linson, basically to get money to finance his own flicks. The pitch goes horribly, Mechanic nearly balks, but Linson tightens up his panties and forges on. What I’d like to know is where Linson met Mamet. How they became friends.
This book is short on the descriptive background, and that’s a problem for me. Sure, The Devil’s Candy goes into detail about Bonfire of the Vanities, but that wasn’t interesting. Making Heat with Michael Mann was, and I want details. The only shred we get is how Mann is such a perfectionist, and how the whole thing was shot on location. I know that from the American Cinematographer article that coincided the films release. Let’s hear some of the cool shit, like laying the thing out with Mann, getting the talent together. On the other hand we hear in gory detail how The Edge came about. I like the flick, but it’s no Heat. Fincher and Fight Club suffer the same problem with brevity as the rest of these stories do. The movie tanked in the theaters, that much we know. The marketing campaign that preceded it was horrific. They were lost with this one. It’s not Linson’s fault. It’s not. The movie is a homerun. The mash potato eating executives at Fox were so used to drinking all things diet, that when this 64 karat triple bypass comes along they don’t know whether to shit or go blind. Word on the street was that this flick ended Mechanic’s run. Which is too bad. Really, the movie is better than 95% of the flicks being made today. But I’ve just told you more about this movie than this book does. That’s not right.
Linson seems to have a finger on the pulse of what’s really happening and worthwhile out in Hollywood, one of the few guys’ left, so why not go into detail? How come you can’t give us the dirt, the stuff that counts? Why only 181 pages? You produced Heat, Fight Club, and Heist to name a few. You’re a producer, so produce. This book just begins to scratch the surface of Linson’s career in the movies. What Just Happened? could have easily been three times as long and I would be happier because of it. Not only selfishly, but, these stories need more room to breath. If Linson is reading this, Art, please, write a book that’s longer, fuller, more detailed and filled with stuff that really curls your hair. Please.
Here endeth the lesson.
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