Category: Entertainment

Tom Hiddleston, You Ignorant Slut!

Tom HiddlestonFirst of all, I think Tom Hiddleston is a brilliant actor.  He’s played Cassio, Coriolanus and Henry V.  After his portrayal of Loki stole the Avengers’ franchise out from under the good guys — Tony Stark and Captain America — he became the Internet’s  boyfriend.  After The Night Manager, he literally kicked Idris Elba off the top spot in the Who’s The Next Bond Sweepstakes.  In some circles, Q had already given him the keys to the Aston Martin.  Wow!  What a difference a couple of months make!  As of today, Hiddleston’s screen cred is lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.  What happened?  Taylor Swift.

For some unknown reason, Hiddleston dropped himself into the Taylor Swift propaganda machine, and from the looks of things, he’s not exactly struggling to get out.  Tom! Tom! Tom! What were you thinking?  Taylor Swift has built a multi-million dollar business out of dumping boyfriends and then selling the soundtrack to the emotional carnage, in a fauxmance frenzy worthy of Zsa Zsa Gabor.  (FYI, it took Ms. Gabor 99 years to amass 8 exes.  Swift has 7 and she’s only 26!)  The brutal truth is Ms. Swift is either the Humpty Dumpty of love or there’s something very cold and calculating going on here.  My money’s on B.  Swift’s life reads too much like a season of The Young and the Ruthless to be anything but fake.  My God!  Calvin Harris’ side of the bed wasn’t even cold when Swift’s Promo Team started feeding “improv pix” of Tom and Taylor to social media under the newly-coined #Hiddleswift.  I know romance never sleeps, but even Bluebeard took a day off, once in a while!

Of course, celebs change partners the way the rest of us change our socks, so it’s no big deal … but…  the problem is Hiddleston would have made a really good James Bond.  Unfortunately, Bond is suave, he’s smart, he’s sophisticated, he prefers women and would never even consider dating the Queen of the Tweenies — no matter how coldblooded her marketing plan was.  Swift’s persona is just way too Barbie for Bond — half the sexy/twice the plastic.  But more importantly, Bond wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a dickie “I ‘HEART’ T.S.!” tank top.  That’s the fashion equivalent of an Adam Sandler fart joke.  Nothing is ever going to erase that image from the retinas of Bond fans.

So you blew it, Tom! You’re never going to be James Bond now.  But think of it this way: in six months or so, the whole world’s going to know what a bastard you are.  You see, Swift hasn’t put out an album in over two years, so she’s about due to release her next “kiss and yell” recording.  And I have a feeling you’re going feature prominently in it.

Good luck with that.

Netflix, You Ignorant Slut

netflixThere’s no way in hell Adam Sandler should be Adam Sandler.  He should be that guy you meet in Vegas who’s sellin’ patio furniture and Amway breast implants.  The same guy who wants to get together with “you and the Mrs.” to talk about franchising opportunities, and whose business card has ‘Notary Public’ printed on the back — ’cause he’s got that goin’ on, too.  In other words he should be just another cheap hustler who, once upon a time, was in some movies.  But he isn’t.  He’s Adam Sandler and, for no apparent reason, he’s still making movies. And he’s worth a boatload of money.  WTF?

It’s not as if Sandler was a good actor (comic or otherwise.)  Basically he’s got one, and only one, comedy shtick — Bad Little Kid.  The rest of his cinematic career is based on yelling, fart jokes and blatant product placement.  His production company, Happy Madison, makes terrible movies. That’s what they do; they don’t do anything else.  These horrors are too numerous to name but That’s My Boy, The Cobbler and Jack and Jill immediately come to mind.  Actually, Jack and Jill is considered one of the worst movies ever produced (in all of history) and what Sandler did to Al Pacino in that piece of trash oughtta be illegal.

The thing is, though, a lot of people go to Sandler’s movies.  They actually pay money — millions and millions of dollars — to see Sandler and his buddies yell, fart, drink Coke™, and eat KFC™.  I don’t know why, but they do.  In fact, Grownups (a study in very bad slapstick) was such a roaring financial success Sandler made another movie just like it — with the imaginative title Grownups 2 — and it made tons of money, also.

So, here’s the problem.  Even though, philosophically, I don’t think Adam Sandler should be allowed within 10 kilometres of a movie set, I’ve got nothing against him making bad movies or tons of money.  Knock yourself out, Mr. Sandler.  My problem is Netflix has signed a four-movie deal with the guy.  Netflix!  These are the folks who gave us River, Occupied, The Bridge (in Swedish) Dicte, Wallander, Broadchurch and on and on and on.  Now, you’re paying Adam Sandler to make movies for our viewing pleasure?  I wish sarcasm had a font.  OMG! — Netflix Originals — Grace and Frankie, Orange Is The New Black, Jessica Jones and right up there on the same marquee Adam Sandler’s latest comic adventure where somebody gets nailed in the crotch with a garden rake.  My cup runneth over.

Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton (2016)

taylor and burton.jpgIt’s not very often I feel sorry for young people.  They’ve got tons of brilliant stuff going on — all the time.  They live in a wonderful age when anything is not only possible, it’s downright probable.  And they wear it well, in general.  They’re smart and way more polite than I ever was at that age, but they’re young yet.  However, for the last couple of days, I’ve felt sorry for them – oddly parental – protective, if you will.  Just as if they didn’t get that cool Christmas present, or grandma forgot their birthday, or they’re teenage sad with hungry love –the poor things.   I’m sad for them because they’re never going to sit in the dark and see Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton – the first time.  Liz and Dick are a forgotten cliché now.  They’re on television, Netflix, Yahoo and YouTube.  They’re gone.  They might just as well be Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks.

There’s no way to describe Liz and Dick to the 21st century.  In a world of 24/7 celebrity, they sound trivial — even trite.  They were not.  They didn’t soar above everyone else; they lounged there.  They simply did not share top billing with anyone, and only Marilyn was ever mentioned in the same breath.  There was never any debate.  It was Liz and Dick and then everybody else.  They were celebrities without even trying; to call them Hollywood Royalty or larger than life actually diminishes their stature.  In a time before regulated celebrity gossip, they made news — right alongside Kennedy, Khrushchev and Castro.

This isn’t just old man nostalgia either.  I was never a fan.  I didn’t follow them in Photoplay, for example, or tune in when they showed up on Carson or Cavett.  It didn’t matter.  Liz and Dick didn’t care because we were friends.  We, the three of us, shared their movies.  They were on the screen and I sat in the dark, watching them.  We were three consenting adults — together alone.  It just happened that the theatre was full of all those other people who were doing the same thing.

That was the magic of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.  They lived in a conjured world that was real, and they let us watch.  There’s no doubt that it’s Edward who tears his soul apart for Laura in The Sandpiper, but somewhere inside there, it’s Burton and Taylor.  When you see it the first time, it’s personal.  These are people you care about.  You want them to be in love, and in the end, they have such a majestic sadness.  It’s the same in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?  It might be Martha and George screaming insults at each other, but, somehow, you’re not sure it wasn’t Dick and Liz who invited Nick and Honey to watch.

But that wasn’t all they did.  They knew they were celebrities.  They didn’t deny it.  They flew to Friday night parties in Europe and flew home Sunday morning.  He bought her jewels the size of Easter eggs.  They drank and smoked and partied without any self-conscious leer at the waiting cameras.  They didn’t demand a normal life; they chose to be famous.  Remember, it was Dick and Liz who invented the paparazzi when they carried their half-hidden adultery across to Italy during the filming of Cleopatra in 1962.  It was a time before Rock Hudson was gay; when June and Ward Cleaver still slept in separate beds, every Thursday night.  And the Kennedy brothers kept their mistresses hidden behind the curtains of Camelot.  It was a time when scandals ruined people and careers — but not Dick and Liz.  They were splashed across every newspaper in the world and reviled by everybody but the public.  They didn’t care.  They did what they pleased.  And they kept doing it, brawling and beautiful, for two and a half decades.

Sometime I’m going to see their movies again, but even the biggest TV won’t do them justice.  Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor are special, beyond Hepburn and Tracy and even Bogie and Bacall.  You need to be alone with them — sitting in the dark.