Before it stumbles into a bit of narrative miscalculation toward the end, Crazy, Stupid, Love is one of the year’s funniest pictures, cleverly structured, perfectly paced (for the most part), and enlivened by a cast that’s pretty well unimprovable.

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Steve Carell is Cal, a California suburbanite long and happily married to his high-school sweetheart, Emily (Julianna Moore). Driving in their car one night, out of nowhere, Emily tells Steve that she has slept with an amorous coworker (Kevin Bacon), and that she wants a divorce. Cal is devastated, but he dutifully moves out of the house they share with their two kids and into a soulless bachelor apartment. Beset by loneliness, he makes a few feeble attempts to pick up women at an upscale singles bar. His hilarious lack of success at this draws the attention of an observant pickup artist named Jacob (Ryan Gosling). Jacob is strictly into one-night stands—actual romance is never on his menu—and he volunteers to give Cal a studly makeover, starting with his clothes (“Be better than the Gap”) and especially his footwear. (“Are you in a fraternity?” he asks, checking out his new protégé’s puffed-up Nikes.)

Soon Cal is scoring—most uproariously with a love-starved high-school teacher named Kate (Marisa Tomei). Meanwhile, back at Cal’s former home, his 13-year-old son (Jonah Bobo) is lusting after the family babysitter, an endearingly gangly 17-year-old named Jessica (Analeigh Tipton). But Jessica is in turn crushing on Cal, who’s still making occasional household visits. At the same time, a young law student named Hannah (Emma Stone, sharp as always) is slowly submitting to the come-ons of the chick-magnet Jacob, who for the first time is feeling the stirrings of something other than lust, in a place other than his pants.

(more…)

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Tonight’s gunna be fun.

Any more bar name ideas, please leave here.

There will be an update on how the project is coming. I want to thank all the interest in investment, and will have the plan together very soon! (more…)

…we can end this bad trip.

a timely excerpt of a Charles Bukowski poem

This weekend, on the recommendation of a friend, my wife and I went to see “Dear John”.  I know, I know… I’m a little late to the game.  It seems this is the movie that briefly unseated the mighty “Avatar” (then in its 8th week) from the #1 slot a few weeks back.

Yeah, it’s a “chick flick” and I’m sure the film did most of its initial box office due to the popularity of its male lead, Channing Tatum.  The ladies love them some Channing Tatum.  He seems like a nice enough fellow; he’s a believable actor.  Aside from the fact that, watching him, I’m constantly reminded that I really need to work my core (we actors are a generally insecure and superficial lot), what’s not to like?  I first saw him in the excellent “A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints” and the guy impressed me.

In “Dear John,” Tatum plays Staff Sergeant John Tyree, a Green Beret who meets and falls in love with Savannah Curtis (played by Amanda Seyfried), while home on leave.  

Savannah is a pretty and intelligent young woman with a solid set of values.  She doesn’t drink, smoke or sleep around and seems at ease in her own skin.  She is confident, compassionate and gives freely of her time and energy to her friends and the larger community. (more…)

Haven’t you heard? The GLSEN (Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network), founded by Obama’s Safe Schools Czar Kevin Jennings, was caught teaching middle-school students the sexual art of “fisting.” One has to wonder, considering how in the tank the folks in tinseltown have been for this administration, would these kinds of shenanigans even bother them?

It’s no secret that Hollywood considers themselves to be much more “open-minded” about sex than the average bear. I’m sure they’d have no problem with the GLSEN endorsing the act of inserting one’s fist into a partners orifice to a group of 14-year-olds. Afterall, everybody does it… Right?

As a matter of fact, Hollywood rarely ever gives the evil eye to any sexual practice, no matter how freaky it may be. It seems that to the Sean Penns of the world, the more perverse the sex, the better. They’ve sauntered so far down the “freaky sex dungeon” trail that “fisting” has literally been left in the rearview mirror as mere child’s play. (more…)

Yours truly first laid eyes on my wife, Karen, when we were both nine-years-old, students in Yeshiva of Flatbush elementary school. Thus began a love affair that defined and continues to define my existence.

The time has come to introduce Karen to Akira Kurosawa. The time has come to introduce Karen to the single most important movie in my life, the film that shaped my consciousness, the film that turned me from a directionless yeshiva student into a rabid film fanatic, a screenwriter.

Yes, The Seven Samurai is playing at The Thalia, New York’s’ classic movie theater on Broadway between 94th and 95th Streets. I’ve invited Karen to see it with me. Keep in mind, this is 1976, ancient days. There are no videos, no DVD’s, no personal computers, and hard to imagine, no internet. To see a classic film, you must rush to Manhattan, to one of the revival houses, and hope that the print they screen is half-way decent. And with Japanese films, the biggest problem is the subtitles. Frequently, they are illegible.

As we stand on line to purchase tickets, Karen quizzes me about the film. (more…)