Today we think of the 1970s as the heyday of the conspiracy thriller, but the reality is that the conspiracy genre flourished a decade earlier, before most of the disillusionment. And it did so in large part at the encouragement of none other than the President of the United States.
On the last day of shooting Lily of the Feast, a feature set in 1970s Williamsburg, Troy Garity, in a suit, sits on the edge of a bathtub, counting. The L.A. based actor, son of Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden, plays Santo Bastucci.
Though none of us could ever truly imagine the trials Nelson Mandela faced or the suffering he experienced, a number of filmmakers have used the power of cinema to present a window -- however narrow and skewed it might be -- into that struggle, or one like it.
Anger is a complex emotion. It can help us survive (the infant fought off the assailant with her bare baby hands!); it can lead us towards justice (no justice, no peace!); it can make us sick (after years of incarceration, now cancer). So it's only fitting that a play titled Twelve Angry Men.
What was he thinking? Was this just a pathetic attempt by an aging Hollywood icon to stay relevant? And did you catch the cutaway of Ann Romney during Eastwood's unscripted, meandering, 3-times-as-long-as-planned meltdown?
Dale was the voice of damage-control, the pen of Oscar campaigns, and the heart of a movement that cultivated compassion in modern Hollywood. Laughter and caring were Dale Olson's trademark, entertainment was his business.
While working on 'Cool Hand Luke' with Paul Newman, I would say, 'Good morning, Mr. Newman.' He never acknowledged my greeting. I continued that for two or three days until finally he said to me, 'I don't fraternize.'
It is unconscionable that extremist groups circulate letters which accuse me of horrific things, saying that I am a traitor. These lies have circulated for almost 40 years, continually reopening the wound of the Vietnam War.
It's interesting to be in a group representing so-called peers, which is the whole point of a jury, yet, looking around and listening to conversations, for the most part they're people with whom I have little in common. But maybe that's a good thing.
When I first saw Bondarchuk's "War and Peace," in 1968, in New York, it was presented in two parts and ran six hours. You went in the afternoon, broke for dinner, then came back for the rest. It was stupendous.