Word: ishness
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...season I try to work out pretty regularly, and sometimes end up at the MAC at weird off-hours when there aren't many people there. Pretty late one weeknight I needed a spotter for the freeweights, and the only people there were this old-ish guy on the treadmill and some chick on the treadmill. She looked great but I didn't want to ask her, and this other guy who looked like he could handle it, so I asked him and he said he'd do it. I put on a couple extra 45 lb. plates, hoping...
Harvey didn't stick around to clear things up. Besides a few side projects with interesting talents like Tricky and John Parish, she attests to having grown nervous with her growing fame and unconfident in the kabuki-ish performance art she was creating in concert...
...Stan and Ollie here are Tucci and co-star Oliver Platt. Tucci, incapable of a gross moment even in the slapstick, seasick exertions of shipboard burlesque, nicely approximates Laurel's high, piping whine as counterpoint to Platt's unctuous exasperation. They are two actors stowed away on a '40s-ish ocean liner, ever scurrying from a British stage star who wants them arrested, gelded, dead. Also onboard are a deposed queen (Isabella Rossellini), a gay tennis player (Billy Connolly), a Teutonic chief steward (Campbell Scott) and a suicidal, sub-Sinatra crooner (Steve Buscemi, in the film's funniest turn...
...Citizen Kane (inquiring reporter seeks the secrets of a pop star) and the legends of David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Brian Eno and Roxy Music, Haynes fashions a fresco of seductive grotesques--notably the Iggy-esque Curt Wild, whom Ewan McGregor inhabits as a writhing punk- sprite. The Bowie-ish star, Brian Slade (Jonathan Rhys Meyers), is consumed by success, whereas the real Bowie always looked in control of his eminence. But, hey, you go to a musical for the numbers, which are brilliantly conceived and played. Does the milieu seem starched, grandiose, fake? Why, sure. "The whole film is faux...
...light when you arrived; when you got here it was still before nightfall, and the New Jersey sky was the flat bluish-gray of an old fluorescent light. Riding in your car in the half-light, you came to a comfortable brick house on a comfortable, suburban, Truman Show-ish street; walking up, the door wasn't locked, it wasn't even closed, and it creaked open wider when you knocked. This ain't Compton, this ain't the Queensbridge projects, but this is where hip-hop lives in the 9-8: this is the home of Lauryn Hill, rapper/singer/actress...