Hip to Be Square


by James  Tuttle

Gentle reader,

Okay, so don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been watching Smash on NBC from the very first episode.  That surprised me because I hate musicals, aside from Cabaret and Chicago, both of which are among my favorite films, but that’s because the songs are integral to the plot; they’re largely about singers and dancers.

Tyson Paige in Hipster-with-a trust-fund swimwear. (Ph: Steven Chee)

My Fair Lady gets a pass, too, because Audrey Hepburn was so beautiful and Cecil Beaton’s Ascot scene was so brilliant, but if I hear so much as the first two bars of “Seventy-six Trombones” or “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top” I will claw my way through the fucking wall to get out of there.

Crazy Girls and Sharp‑Dressed Men


by James Tuttle

Gentle reader,

The year 2012, much maligned by the ancient Mayans, has finally arrived and right along with it the highly anticipated second season of VH1’s Mob Wives.  Maybe the Mayans’ idea of the end of civilization was that Mob Wives would get another season so, even though the Earth hasn’t imploded, they might have been right on track.

My friend Nick Oliva: Heartthrob of the Staten Island Ferry (Ph: Rick Day)

Unfortunately, this first episode was less of an earth-shattering event and more of a bunch of tough talking, no-class tramps looking for things to get upset about.  First off, linebacker/drama queen Renee is offended that Carla didn’t come visit her in the hospital after her liposuction surgery had gone horribly wrong.

Ring Around A Volcano


by James Killough

I know, I was supposed to post on Tuesday, but I’m not sure that properly speaking I had a Tuesday.  Well, I had sort of one, but it was in Delhi, which wasn’t really a Tuesday in the West, and we’re on a PST time schedule at PFC.  I worked flat-out all day, wrapped my last shoot a half hour before I travelled for twenty-eight hours home, eighteen of which were on a non-stop flight from Dubai to LA.  We had to skirt the volcano in Iceland and fly south.  The journey would have been more of a bitch than it was had it not been for the fact I was able to lie down and get a good night’s sleep, and gurgle when I was awake like a stupefied baby at the gazillion channels of entertainment on Emirates.

I would even be willing to endure a knee-lift like Demi if I thought I stood a chance with Kutcher.

I was going to blog from forty thousand feet, but I felt more inspired to watch inflight Hollywood crap.  Most of the plane was watching inflight Bollywood crap, which just goes to show that even when given the choice, Indians would rather keep it real with the caca; we will never prevail over them with our cinematic pablum.

Most inflight entertainment is crap that has just been released on DVD, which sort of justifies this mash-up of reviews.  In the case of Virgin Atlantic, which is more prone to have a selection of quality films side by side with the crap, they will often screen a British film that has yet to be released in the States, or an American one that hasn’t been released in the UK.  That’s what you get when a former entertainment company owns an airline: better contracts with the film companies.