Picture Pages: ‘Sex and the City 2′

NewNowNext is right, it looks like Carrie & her pals are touring in the road company of ‘Mamma Mia!’ If only this were a spoiler.

Screenings: ‘Monty Python: Almost the Truth (The Lawyers Cut)’

The problem with a red carpet event in New York, in October, is that the vagaries of the weather might actually make the temps feel closer to that of a December evening, and it is likely to be windy, and there will probably be rain.  And so now some sort of water-repellent tents have to be erected around the check-in table, and guests are queued up umbrella to umbrella, and some poor publicist’s expensive shoes are likely to become soaked.

That fairly represents the scene outside the  Ziegfeld Theatre for the screening of the new documentary “Monty Python: Almost the Truth (The Lawyer’s Cut),”  being presented by IFC and coinciding with the 40th anniversary of the troupe.  The Pythons were also on hand to receive a special BAFTA award for Outstanding Achievement in Film and Television.

Celebrity arrivals were photographed in the plush lobby, while attendees were ushered upstairs and proffered free concession stand staples:  popcorn and soda.  Which, yum.  Unless, say, you hadn’t had dinner, and on your trip to the bathroom you snagged a second bag of overly-salted popcorn.  Then it could be a tad sick-making!

Besides the honorees, comedian Steve Coogan, who is interviewed in the documentary, was present.  As was Jeremy Piven and two cast members from Mad Men.

An abridged, two hour version of the six-part series was shown to the crowd.  While the examination of comedy rarely yields laughs,  the documentary succeeds when it focuses on the absurd, groundbreaking material  rather than the gushy remembrances of fanatic talking heads.  The film doesn’t shy away from addressing the internecine squabbling, and took a touching turn in the  section devoted to the funeral of Graham Chapman.

The six Pythons (with Chapman represented by a cardboard cut-out) took the stage to a standing ovation for the Q&A portion.  Which, thankfully, questions were submitted beforehand, to minimize the awkward moments when a trembly kook of an audience member might, presented with a microphone and a captive crowd,  take the opportunity to meander on about labor strikes and grain prices in something not quite phrased as a question and only tangentially related to the proceeds at hand.  (There is always one guy!)  Not that there were not some awkward moments.  But mostly is was dry, droll banter and quippy interplay. (Perhaps you caught the live stream of that portion from the warmth and solitude of your living room?)

The question session wrapped with Eric Idle singing  “The Galaxy Song,” after which each member was  presented with their BAFTA award.  Cleese deadpanned  to the audience upon receipt, “If you want to get a better view, this will be on eBay tomorrow.”

‘Oh You’re Gonna Get a Big Love Touch’

I’ll just be upfront about this:  as as kid I really, really liked the movie Legal Eagles. I don’t know why!  It was not in the same way I liked Outrageous Fortune, which seemed sort of naughty and taboo, what with the swearing and the chair sex.  (Though in the film there is a quite good blowjob joke I never picked up on as a youngster.)  As Legal Eagles is now on Hulu I watched it again and nope, still don’t know why I liked it.  I did not want to be a lawyer when I grew up, and I had not an interest at that age in art world crimes.  But I remember vividly that I did, and kinda still do.  (Though Daryl Hannah’s performance art piece is so awful.  “Put out the fire!” Uh, yes please do and let’s never speak of this moment again, okay?)

I was struck though by the realization that I might, might have also been too fond of the Rod Stewart song from the film, “Love Touch.”  In my defense, in my preteen years I had zero, I mean zero, taste in music.  It was not something I sought out, it was just something that happened, when riding in the car or on the bus to school, just songs playing.  Too, I like how more often back then films had just one signature song, rather than now, where it’s just a grab bag of indie bands that anyone could curate by hitting shuffle on their iPod. (I’m looking at you, Amanda Scheer Demme.)

That was a long way around to explaining why if you click the video above you’ll be subjected to a terrible quality video of the Rod Stewart song.  (We won’t even bother to parse the lyrics, we’ve all got better things to do, like flossing or changing a lightbulb, which would be more edifying than a deconstruction of the sentiments in the song.)  So, then!  You’re welcome/I’m sorry.

Josh Olson Will Not Read Your F*cking Script, So It’s Best Not to Ask

Oh boy.  Here is a cautionary screed from screenwriter Josh Olson, in the service of neophyte film scribes, entitled “I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script.”  If that doesn’t offer some insight into how the piece might unspool, here’s the beginning:

I will not read your fucking script.

That’s simple enough, isn’t it? “I will not read your fucking script.” What’s not clear about that? There’s nothing personal about it, nothing loaded, nothing complicated. I simply have no interest in reading your fucking screenplay. None whatsoever.

If that seems unfair, I’ll make you a deal. In return for you not asking me to read your fucking script, I will not ask you to wash my fucking car, or take my fucking picture, or represent me in fucking court, or take out my fucking gall bladder, or whatever the fuck it is that you do for a living.

Harsh.  But not untrue (your mileage  may vary depending, I guess, on whether you view screenwriting as an art, a craft, or just widget-making).  So then this is the meat of Olson’s argument:  “Screenwriting is widely regarded as the easiest way to break into the movie business, because it doesn’t require any kind of training, skill or equipment. Everybody can write, right? And because they believe that, they don’t regard working screenwriters with any kind of real respect. They will hand you a piece of inept writing without a second thought, because you do not have to be a writer to be a screenwriter.”

You are probably rushing to your paper shredder now, right?  Rending your fifth revision of Vampire Dentists on Meth to scraps.  Or worse, praying you could unsend that email to you aunt’s college roommate’s cousin’s half-brother who reads scripts for Alan Thicke.

Alex Cox’s ‘Repo Chick’ Sounds All Kinds of Bad. I Can’t Wait to See It!

So Alex Cox has scraped together a sequel to Repo Man (an Ephemerist favorite), which was shown at the Venice Film Festival and which Variety has reviewed. It’s called Repo Chick. (Is that sort of sexist?  Should we be bothered that it’s not Repo Woman?  Or Repo Lady?)  Apparently the film, about a spoiled debutard who ends up in the repossession trade,  is not great, though it’s not altogether bad.

A wacky blend of leftist, anti-establishment politics, eye-searing colors, outre costumes and manic overacting, “Repo Chick” could be likened to what you would get if Michael Moore directed an episode of Nick Jr.kiddie series “Lazy Town.” In other words, it’s fun but all over the map, an oddity that will prove an acquired taste for some, but way too annoying for others. Only in glimpses do the sparkle, snap and dry ironic wit that made “Repo Man” such a pleasure shine through in helmer Cox’s self-penned script.

There is no Harry Dean Stanton (boo!), but the cast does include Karen Black,  Chloe Webb (where the hell has she been?) and Rosanna Arquette.  It does sound like some kind of campy awful, this Repo Chick, meaning I am wanting to see it RIGHT NOW.