Word: biopic
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...their alcohol- and drug-dependency than he was (Hill sketches Southern as a functional "user" whose biggest weaknesses were drink and Dexamyl - used to complete manuscripts on short deadlines): William Burroughs and a far-gone Dennis Hopper on an adaptation of Burroughs' "Junky"; Larry Flynt and Hopper on a biopic of Jim Morrison; singer-songwriter Harry Nilsson, another "grand" soul, on the aforementioned "Telephone...
With all his concerns about legacy, you'd think Bill Clinton might choose a noted patriot and mythologizer like Steven Spielberg to direct his biopic. Instead he tapped WES CRAVEN, the man behind Scream and A Nightmare on Elm Street. Craven was enlisted to direct a hastily arranged White House shoot on Jan. 13 in which Clinton conducted a three-hour tour of the Oval Office, Cabinet room and residence. The finished product will be screened at Clinton's yet to be constructed presidential library. "Here I am, I've made some of the most horrific films...
...unlikely entry because you just don't see many musicals at this relentlessly arty independent film festival. But Hedwig and the Angry Inch, the biopic of a whacked-out East German emigre with Courtney Love's disposition and Farrah Fawcett's hairdo, seduced the selection committee. "It's burning with originality and energy," says programmer Shari Frilot. Hedwig always did. When it opened off-Broadway three years ago, critics raved about Stephen Trask's songs, and although the show's writer and star, John Cameron Mitchell, appeared nightly in drag (usually the fastest road to camp marginalization), his hilarious, moving...
...pretty much when his wife Lee Krasner (the excellent Harden) does: hanging around Greenwich Village in the 1940s, struggling to break away from his imitative work. Then we see him achieve his breakthrough and watch his burgeoning celebrity do him in. There has never been a more antiheroic biopic than this one. Or a better portrait of the artist as a hopeless mess...
...pretty much when his wife Lee Krasner (the excellent Harden) does: hanging around Greenwich Village in the 1940s, struggling to break away from his imitative work. Then we see him achieve his breakthrough and watch his burgeoning celebrity do him in. There has never been a more antiheroic biopic than this one. Or a better portrait of the artist as a hopeless mess. Harris' great performance has a kind of blank grimness; it contains not a single moment of charm or self-awareness. Harris never allows his exhibitions of Pollock's inexplicable gift to soften or redeem...