Sandra Bullock Gravity

REVIEW: ‘Gravity’ Soars

I’m still not sure if it was the three beers I had before the screening or the raw influence of Alfonso Cuarón’s filmmaking that made me list bodily about thirty degrees to the left during the last half of Gravity (I pat myself on the back for the foresight of booking an aisle seat). When they were serving me, both the bartender and waiter of the restaurant at the Arclight Hollywood scanned me with that singular American Puritanical opprobrium, you know, that pursed look they get when they’re thinking you might be better off at an AA meeting or preferably in rehab than at sneak screening of what everyone knows is an instant classic;

Hollywood Drowns in Its Own Crap, Vanishes. News at Eleven.

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

I didn’t watch the Golden Globes last night, not only because I don’t have a TV, but because Tuttle and I had something of a PFC editorial meeting about this blog’s new format, after which Kimball and ten others come over for a potluck dinner.  I believe I drank three bottles of wine, so if I sound as unfunny and needlessly venomous as Ricky Gervais in this piece, you know why.

If I were an Academy member, Brad Pitt would have my vote this year. Photo: Robert Wilson.

We did half-heartedly keep up to date with the awards via a live blog from the Guardian on my laptop, but nobody was really interested.  I barked out winners every now and then to almost zero interest, which is notable because we were in Hollywood and half the party was involved in The Business to one degree or the other—okay, one guy shoots porn.  Details.

I, Monster

I check my look in the mirror I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face. — Bruce Springsteen, Dancing in the Dark [caption id="attachment_746" align="alignright" width="237" caption="The caption for this photo on the site I poached it from said, "Springsteen made it acceptable for men to wear bandanas around their heads." ...