So, the answer to the trivia question "did Elvis and Mary Tyler Moore ever make a movie together?" is yes. And it came out fifty years ago this month. Yep, Elvis and MTM, the latter playing a nun. If you don't remember this gem, don't fret. It was a world class bomb. Thankfully, in just a few short months, Mary would start production on her legendary TV series. Gee, I wonder if something as bad as "Change of Habit" is in theaters this weekend. My answer to that trivia question is probably yes. You know the drill, folks. I'll sift through the LA Times entertainment pages and give you my gut reaction to what's playing in the cinemas this weekend. With the Oscars= nominations out, a lot of those award-worthy films are still floating around. And, if you are so inclined, keep checking your TCM program guide for their next showing of "Change of Habit." Given what Hollywood is turning out these days....well....it might be time for a revisit of Sister Laura Petrie. Les Miserables: No, not the Victor Hugo novel or the Broadway musical. This is about Paris youth riots about ten years ago. How do I know? For some inexplicable reason, I got a screener. Pain and Glory: Blog review coming. Surprisingly engaging for a movie with subtitles. 1917: Oscar nominated WWI epic. Also the title might refer to the ticket price at premium theaters. Little Women: Blog review coming. Surprisingly engaging for a movie that is designed primarily for teen age girls. Parasite: Still hanging around based on Oscar nods. As I think back on 2019, this might be my second or third favorite films of the year. Knives Out: Recently reviewed here. Entertaining but way too long for a comedy of this ilk. Star Wars - The Rise of Skywalker: Geeks hated it. And I have dragged my feet on this one, so a big "meh." JoJo Rabbit: Recently reviewed here. A very ingenuous tale that somehow makes Hitler a comedic character. A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood: And apparently a mediocre one at the box office. Clemency: A female prison warden carries out death row executions. Or not. Sounds like it could have been a vehicle for Ida Lupino back in 1952. The Two Popes: Blog review coming. Felix and Oscar Go To Mass. The Irishman: Reviewed here just the other day. So, apparently, Jimmy Hoffa is not buried in the end zone at the Meadowlands. Marriage Story: Reviewed here last month. This 2019 version of "Kramer Vs. Kramer" sports incredible acting and a sure Supporting Oscar for Laura Dern. Uncut Gems: Blog review coming. Adam Sandler overacting. Hard to believe? Bombshell: Blog review coming. Talk about being a little fast and loose with the facts. Like a Boss: I'm setting up a Go Fund Me to prevent Tiffany Haddish from ever making a movie again. Who's in? Cats: Neutered. Just Mercy: Does Michael B. Jordan ever make a movie that doesn't have a "meat tenderizer to the head" message attached? Bad Boys for Life: Will Smith, Martin Lawrence, and Me Nowhere in the Vicinity. Disturbing the Peace: An outlaw biker gang. Well, the title does make sense. Dolittle: This time, Robert Downey Jr. is the one talking to the animals. And that's without drugs. Feedback: A late night radio host in London has his studio hijacked by armed assailants. And now you know why Sean Hannity has a lock on his door. The Host: A London banker on the lam. Hmmm. Maybe he can hide in the radio studio above. Intrigo - Death of an Author: I will bet that the plot is about a dead author. Troop Zero: A Girl Scout talent competition. Just sell the damn cookies. VHYes: A 12-year-old boy records late night TV shows. The sequel will be about how he erases all the tapes. The Wave: A lawyer takes drugs. Well, that explains everything. Dinner last night: Leftover meat loaf.
I'm late to the fair on this one. "Succession" has already blown through two seasons on HBO and I just now caught up with it, courtesy of rave recommendations from friends. They are now people I worry about. Don't get me wrong. I pretty much got engrossed in the series which has sported ten episodes for each of the first two seasons. You can binge them quickly and you want to see what happens next. So, what's the problem with that, Len? Well, I keep tuning in because I can't wait for each of the main characters to die. I want to see the worst possible ending for each of them. It's because every character on this show is completely and utterly hateful. "Succession" is a drama loosely based on the Rupert Murdoch family. Here it's the Roy family and no only do they own a cable news network but also a theme park operation. So, maybe it's a little bit Murdoch and a little bit Disney. Whatever, it's the same dynamic. Hateful Dad is getting older and a little crazy. His four kids (all from different women) are jockeying for the top spot in the company. And they have all taken after Papa. Yep, they are hateful, too. That's the main reason my review of "Succession" is a bit skeptical. While I am watching it, I have no character to root for. They all are terrible, rotten folks. In truth, it makes me worry about human nature. I mean, it's getting an audience and obviously has its fans. Have we all grown that much meaner? Are our worlds now that dark? Someone countered my thoughts on "Succession" and told me that "The Sopranos" provided the same villainous dynamic. I would argue back that the latter did provide me with a lot of humorous moments from characters that, despite their murderous capabilities, you could enjoy. Even though it tries to be inject some comedy into the proceedings, "Succession" remains at its core...grim. For instance, one of the Roy kids (played by one of the Culkin boys) is written to be sarcastic and get some levity into the program. But, again, he is ultimately unlikable and you want to snap his neck in two. Yet, I keep watching because I want to see bad endings for all these terrible people. So, in summation, I'm no better than anybody else. I'm going to end today's blog entry right here and go into a corner to weep quietly. Dinner last night: Breaded chicken cutlets.
Marty Scorsese is one of those few directors who can get away with making a three-and-a-half hour movie. As long as it is, "The Irishman" is never boring and the time surprisingly flies by. When every scene is shot with as much as style as Scorsese, you don't find yourself checking the watch as much as you thought you would. That said, "The Irishman" is one of those new breed movies that play simultaneously in theaters and on Netflix. In this case, I would advise you watch it at home where you can at least insert the intermission of your choice. Even watching a film with style, bladders need to be emptied and knees need to be stretched. Whether you see it, "The Irishman" is well worth the Oscar nominations it received. In reality, it's one more variation on the "Goodfellas" template that Scorsese seems to be focus on in lots of his movies. And his usual acting repertory is firmly in place with Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, and an amazingly subdued Joe Pesci in lead roles. "The Irishman" tells the tale of one Frank Sheeran (DeNiro) who comes to be the top hit man of an Italian crime family run by Pesci. Eventually, they go into business with famed union boss Jimmy Hoffa (Pacino) and the rest of the movie sets out to give you one scenario of what ultimately happened to Hoffa. FYI, he did not get buried in the end zone of the Meadowlands Giants Stadium as urban legend would have it. Scorsese lays out his story meticulously and every scene gives you something or somebody (Ray Romano as a Mafia lawyer!!) to savor. Additionally, Marty works in a welcome soundtrack of 60s and 70s music that would be on any New Jersey diner's juke box. If there is a quibble with "The Irishman," that would be with its length. Specifically, Scorsese seems stumped on how to end his story. As a result, the last twenty minutes meanders around helplessly and could easily have been done in a more time efficient manner. Nevertheless, you'll be hearing a lot about "The Irishman" come Oscar night, so check it out. But, as I said, do it from the comfort of your living room sofa with a bathroom nearby. LEN'S RATING: Three stars. Dinner last night: Pizza at Eataly.
Today's title comes with apologies to Mariah Carey for her now #1 All Time Christmas Song. I couldn't resist. It happened the day after I hosted Christmas dinner. My stomach and colon became virtual sieves. All in, all out. Since none of my guests suffered at all, it wasn't something I had cooked or ate. It just happened. In reality, it was gone within two days, albeit very tiring ones. I am one of the lucky ones. I never get the flu. Indeed, this marked only the second time since freshman year in college. My resistance is so strong that it prompts the same dialogue every winter when I go to my internist for my annual physical. Doctor: "Do you want the flu shot?" Me: "I really don't get the flu." Doctor: "Never mind." Over and out. On the rare occasions that I am flu-like, I think back to the last time I really, really really had the flu. It was New Year's Eve in freshman year at Fordham. That, too, came out of the blue. And I remembered being out of circulation for a while. And hated it, too.
Because, let's face it, being sick was only "fun" when you were a kid. You had parents waiting on you hand and foot. And, of course, you were missing a spelling test or a math quiz. Sweet. Illness then had its perks.
It always started the same way. A scene that was repeated countless times on multiple mornings. I'd wake up feeling shitty. And I would subject myself to my mother's careful examination.
Hand on the forehead. Hot or cold?
A peer down the throat. Red or scratchy?
Two hands feeling both sides of my neck. Glands swollen?
If I scored two of the three, I was home free. Literally. I could stay home from school. And, as an added bonus, I was ordered to get out of bed and move to the living room couch.
In front of the television, as you see me above.
Yes!
First, I'd have to choke down a bowl of some H-O oatmeal, the "official breakfast of being home sick from school." Then, I'd flip on the TV and settle back for a day of some really tough recuperation.
In those days, daytime television was more fun. You had a bunch of game shows and sitcom reruns that I had never seen first run. All stuff I never got to watch at any other time.
And the fun started early. Er, cough, cough. There were odd cartoons on in the pre-breakfast hours. It was almost like the minor leagues of animation. They weren't good enough to make my prime cartoon time, which was after school. I remember Channel 7 in NY ran silent cartoons with this farmer and all these crudely drawn animals early in the day. Goofy stuff. Purchased off the back of the movie truck at a discount no doubt.
After that, a-choo, a-choo, there was the Little Rascals AKA Our Gang. They were my absolute favorite comedy shorts. I disconnected a bit on Spanky and Alfalfa, but the earlier ones with the likes of Farina, Jackie Cooper, and Wheezer were brilliant. I still watch them via DVD to this day. Forget all the allegations over how racist they were. This was a group of kids playing together, regardless of skin color or nationality. Just like my neighborhood. And I always enjoyed the great product placement for such wonderful household staples as castor oil, limburger cheese, and tabasco sauce. At the time, I had no idea what any of them were.
Around 9AM, my mother would pop in for another follow-up examination.
Hand on the forehead. A peer down the throat. Two hands feeling both sides of my neck. This was a key moment in my day. If two of the three were still persisting after the amazingly curative powers of H-O Oatmeal had been administered, I was sunk. And probably really sick. This could mean only one thing. My mother would head to the telephone. And I would hear three very scary words.
"Hello, Dr. Fiegoli?"
Yep, these were the days when a kid's doctor made house calls. The key to getting him was to call before 10AM before he started off on his rounds. My mother never seemed to miss the deadline. Dr. Fiegoli was a frequent visitor to our house. At the very least, I'd have a few more hours of TV nirvana until he showed.
In the mornings of my stay-at-home maladies, I still exercised the same brain power I would have used at school. By watching game shows.
There was "Concentration."
"Number four. And number nineteen." Sorry, not a match.
"Say When." And I remember little of that game except that it was hosted by Art James.
"Eye Guess." Hosted by Bill Cullen, who I never could understand why you didn't see him walking around on the stage. Years later, I discovered the reason. He had polio.
"The Hollywood Squares" with my favorite comedian Paul Lynde. "Abby Dalton, you're today's Secret Square."
Mixed in with all the game shows were the wonderful sitcoms from the 50s. Of course, "I Love Lucy." But, there were other programs that I had only heard tales about from my grandmother and grandfather.
"December Bride." With one of my grandmother's favorites, Spring Byington. And this had a spin-off show that was also repeated during the day. "Pete And Gladys."
"My Little Margie." With Gale Storm and some old hag named Mrs. Odetts living next door and a Black elevator operator played by Willie Best.
"The Burns and Allen Show." George, Gracie, Harry Von Zell, and that magic TV mirror which allowed George to control the action. Perhaps the most ingenious gimmick ever featured on a television situation comedy.
Depending upon my illness, lunch would be usually a can of Campbell's Condensed Chicken Noodle Soup. Just add water. No fuss, no muss. If my throat wasn't a problem, a sandwich was in order. Usually bologna or my beloved Taylor Ham. On the side, six green olives stuffed with pimentoes. Not five, not seven, not four. Six exactly. This was my usual midday repast in both sickness and in health. Having consumed the meal, I'd lay back down and settle in for some more great television. Except...
DING DONG!!!!!!!!
Our front door bell was always more ominous if I was home sick.
The dog barked wildly. My mother would bound down the stairs to open the door.
"Hello, Dr. Fiegoli!"
Crap.
Now, my pediatrician was a really nice man. But he couldn't help but be scary to a seven-year-old. He'd charge up the stairs like a bull out of a chute. Plus he looked just like that actor who was showing up on all those sitcoms I had just been enjoying. Frank Nelson. Very unsettling as my two worlds were suddenly mixing in a bizarre way. And his booming voice could be heard from Mount Vernon to New Rochelle.
"OOOOOOH AND HOW'S THE PATIENT?"
Gee, Doc, isn't that what you're supposed to figure out? Well, that's probably what Mrs. Odetts might have said.
Dr. Fiegoli then administered the same exam that my mother had already done twice. Hand on the forehead. A peer down the throat. Two hands on both sides of the neck. Hello, do you get paid to do this?
The bad news is that most of the time Dr. Fiegoli showed up, I really was sick. Chicken Pox. Measles, both German and regular. Ear infection. Gland infection. He'd spend five minutes with me, fifteen minutes with my mother, and two seconds dashing off a prescription, which would get immediately filled at Mr. Post's drugstore.
It seemed like Dr. Fiegoli would never leave, but he always did. I'd turn back to the TV, but...
"No television now. You really are sick."
Damn.
I'd feign a nap for several hours in the afternoon. By then, daytime TV was full of soap operas which were captivating Grandma downstairs but boring the shit out of me upstairs. Eventually, I would inch my way back to the television controls. Because, when it was three o'clock, it was time for...
Popeye the Sailor. My favorite cartoon character of all time.
WPIX Channel 11 ran these in the afternoon, usually hosted by Captain Jack McCarthy, who was not really a captain but definitely Irish. They used to throw in as the host every year when they ran the St. Patrick's Day parade. I much preferred the Popeye cartoons from the 1930s. He was talking under his breath all the time and you had to listen closely to hear the best lines. The later ones from the 1950s were terrible. My rule of thumb: if Olive Oyl's hairdo is more modern, the cartoon sucks.
"IS THAT TELEVISION BACK ON?!!!" Well, guess what I did when I had a case of stomach flu in the waning days of the last decade? I binge watched. The first season of my friend Marc Cherry's series "Why Women Kill." The first season of this odd show "You"about a murderer and psychopath stalking his girlfriend. A bunch of Netflix movies. There was nobody to tell me not to watch the TV. Life goes on. Dinner last night: Ramen noodle soup.
