Frost/Nixon
Saturday, May 23, 2009 at 4:37PM And in this corner...
In a gallant show of vengeful reciprocity, movie audiences should arise and demand that Ron Howard be put to sleep. Nothing painful or savage mind you, just a final comeuppance for the excruciating boredom and cinematic Ambien he has been producing and prescribing for decades.
If film is dry toast, Ron Howard is the butter that refuses to flavor it.
Or is Ron Howard the dry toast and talent is the butter that refuses to flavor him?
Two thing’s are certain, Ron Howard makes bland films and I’m not very good with food metaphors.
OPIEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You'd think that in a filmmaking career spanning over five decades you could point to more than an a handful of projects that ascend beyond pat mediocrity.
Not so with Ron.
He has directed twenty eight films now with his latest, Angels & Demons, and he has not made a decent one since 1985's Cocoon. Splash was bearable in places, Parenthood was uneven yet occasionally effective and Ransom had its moments, but let me list the crimes that offset any precept of goodness in his nature:
1.) Gung Ho
2.) Willow
3.) Backdraft
4.) Far and Away
5.) Edtv
6.) How the Grinch Stole Christmas
I'll put those up as the filmic equivalent of Nazi atrocities any day.
Ron Howard is the Paul McCartney of Hollywood. And without the legacy of at least having been in a very good band early on. Ron Howard is Wings.
However, he did produce and narrate (quite humorously) Arrested Development and, as the funniest show on television in recent memory, I am willing to suspend my call to rebellion and euthanasia.
Which brings us to Frost/Nixon.
Based on the play by Peter Morgan, the film essentially focuses on the buildup and preparation for the famous interviews which took place between the disgraced former President and British journalist David Frost in 1977. Frank Langella (in a film salvaging performance) plays "Tricky Dick" to Michael Sheen's Frost. Oliver Platt and Sam Rockwell tag along as the American political journalists who assist Frost's prep work and Kevin Bacon has an embarrassing turn as Nixon's militant handler.
Howard uses boxing metaphors ad nauseam and so overplays the fight promo angle that it appears he wasn't fully satisfied with the disrespect and laughter he received for his pugilistic disaster, Cinderella Man, in 2005. He seems determined to make another bad fight picture.
He incorrectly pumps up the bellicosity of the two men during the interview process. Taking a look back at the original talks, one sees nothing more than mild cordiality and respect between the subjects- a gentlemen's chat, prone to extensive bouts of civility and calmly dignified exchanges, with very little of the bluster and gamesmanship that the filmmakers would have you believe.
But that's Hollywood for ya.
You can't just have two guys sitting around yakking for two hours now, can you?
That would be... well... My Dinner with Andre.
And heaven forbid I would have to suffer through a movie that fucking brilliant again.
Reader Comments (4)
Get thee to a Cock-Suckery, vile assessor of the cinematic!
Ok, admittedly the guy’s a bit of a vanilla vagina…a Hollywood nebbish, if you will. His style emanates a clean, boyish enthusiasm which seems more suitable to the Presbyterian, softball games after church crowd rather than to the reprobate, damnation-deserving Catholic minions (Opus Dei, Opus Dei!). He’s the sixteen year old who borrows his dad’s 1982 Chrysler Lebaron for the first time and uses it to drive to his aunt’s house to mow her yard rather than peeling out in front of the Dairy Queen and doing donuts in the parking lot to impress the chicks (although I might want to reconsider that comment after watching his brilliant and groundbreaking 1977 offering, Grand Theft Auto).
But keep in mind that one man’s bland bowl of farina and cardboard is another man’s Baked Salmon Roulade, served on a potato galette in a creamy tomato butter sauce with just an ever so precocious whisper of cumin. Come on, tell me you didn’t like Nightshift? No, his film style doesn’t grab you by the balls and heave you over a dam that’s rigged with explosives and set to go off in t-minus 5..4..3…but have you ever given any thought to the fact that he may be just be the thinking man’s Michael Mann, Jan de Bont or even Wolfgang Peterson? Have you?
Nah…fuck it, you’re right. The guy makes boring films. And lose the ball cap, Ronnie. Embrace your patchy, male pattern baldness.
But for you to liken him to Wings, you sonofabitch…the sweet soundtrack of my youth?
Y’know, you’d think that people would have had enough of boring dialogue films. I look around me and I see it isn’t so…oh no. Some people want to fill the world with sleep-inducing, Louis Malle films.
…and what’s wrong with that?
Someone's Knockin' At The Door.
Somebody's Ringin' The Bell.
Someone's Knockin' At The Door.
Somebody's Ringin' The Bell.
Do Me A Favor,
Open The Door And Let 'Em In.
Sister Suzie, Brother John,
Martin Luther, Phil And Don,
Brother Michael, Auntie Gin,
Open The Door And Let 'Em In.
Someone's Knockin' At The Door.
Somebody's Ringin' The Bell.
Someone's Knockin' At The Door.
Somebody's Ringin' The Bell.
Do Me A Favor,
Open The Door And Let 'Em In.
(sigh) ugghh...point taken. You win. Boy, you sure don't see the vapidness of a song's lyrics until they stare blankly at you like a child with Downs Syndrome. But mark my words that I shall, ere long, find a way to tie the useless, cacophonous body of work of one, Don Van Vliet, to that of Mike Leigh's.
Spin the wheel, Raggedy Man!!!
Actually, I didn't realize how intellectually barren those lyrics were either until I saw them printed out. Wow. Just. Wow.
And don't get me started on the indecipherable thematic dribble of Jet or Coming Up.
Ringo starts looking like Dylan Thomas.