Snoozy but sumptuous, Benoît Jacquot’s quasi-historical drama Farewell, My Queen isn’t going to set the world aflame: The experience of watching it is something like lounging on a satin divan, being fanned lazily with a bouquet of ostrich plumes. But maybe that’s part of what you want in a picture about the last days of Marie Antoinette’s rule: The languorousness of Farewell, My Queen recalls the last days of summer, though in this case the air is quivering not with the chirping of crickets but with a whisper of foreboding. The picture coasts along quite nicely on the strength of its contemplative sensuality, its macaron colors, and the exquisite beauty of its three chief actresses, Léa Seydoux, Virginie Ledoyen and Diane Kruger. Oh, and there’s nudity in it too, not to mention lesbian undertones – or are they overtones?
I knew that would get your attention. Kruger plays Marie Antoinette, and in our first glimpse of her, she’s just awakened from what must have been a hell of a beauty sleep: Bedecked in a cream-colored nightie and sitting up in her bed at Versailles, she looks fresh and creamy and glowing, like a prized blond peach. One of her servants, the quiet but astute Sidonie Laborde (Seydoux), has come to read to her. Shall it be a novel or a fashion magazine today? It quickly becomes clear that Sidonie harbors a special fondness for her mistress and seeks to protect her from the gossip of the court — or worse. Meanwhile, the queen lavishes attention and worry on her own special favorite, the regal and somewhat icy Gabrielle de Polignac (Ledoyen). Sidonie hopes that someday the queen will single her out; but her hopes are dashed when she learns that her mistress has a special task in mind…
I was deeply saddened yesterday to hear of the death of Andrew Sarris, a passionate critic and elegant writer who didn’t just change the landscape of criticism; he changed the way many of us think about movies, challenging, with gentle humor and lots of grace, everything we thought we knew.
Sarris was at the vanguard of film criticism in the ’60s and ’70s, along with Pauline Kael and Manny Farber. Over the years, there’s been plenty of fuss made over the Sarris/Kael feud, and movie lovers have often felt pressured to choose one camp or the other. But why? As I’ve said elsewhere, criticism isn’t about consensus – what’s most valuable is a critic’s ability to open your eyes, to make you see things that wouldn’t have occurred to you otherwise.
The challenge isn’t just part of the bargain – it’s the whole bargain. And especially as we move further into an era of critic-proof big-budget movies – abetted by newspapers and other publications that happily repackage studio hype even as they’ve decided that professional critics are relics – Sarris’ contributions to the tradition and craft of film criticism have come to seem even more precious. In fact, they’re immeasurable.
I knew Andrew only a little, but he and his wife, the extraordinary film critic Molly Haskell, have shown great kindness and generosity toward me. It would have been enough for Andrew Sarris to have been a fine critic. But in the end, it’s how you treat people that matters, and Sarris, who was a teacher as well – he was beloved by his students, and I can only imagine he was wonderful – led by example. Those of us who care about film – who continue to care about its guts and innards as an art…
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Robert Hegyes, mostly known for playing Sweathog Epstein on Welcome Back, Kotter, is entertaining the angels with his Chico Marx impersonation this morning, because he passed away of cardiac arrest at a hospital in New Jersey yesterday. Robert was only 60. John Travolta, this is your cue to take that dead papillon off of your head, put on an afro wig and mourn the loss of your TV friend.
Newsday says that Robert was in a bad way for a long time and he was taken to JFK Medical Center in Edison, NJ after he started complaining about chest pains. Those chest pains turned out to be a full cardiac arrest and Robert died at the hospital shortly after.
Robert was born and raised in New Jersey and started his acting career by doing theater in NYC. A quick second later, Robert got cast in Welcome Back, Kotter and the rest is Nick at Nite history! Robert later retired from acting and spent his time teaching and writing screenplays.
Rest in peace, Epstein. Your legacy will live on when the Welcome Back, Kotter movie FINALLY gets made with Phoebe Price in the role of lead extra.
Signed by, Epstein’s mother
Jane Russell, one of the last jewels of Old Hollywood, died at her home in Santa Maria, CA today and is now ogling at the biceps on angels up in heaven. Jane’s daughter-in-law tells Reuters that she died of respiratory problems. Jane was 89 years old.
Reuters says that Jane got her big break when Howard Hughes put her in his movie The Outlaw, because of her magnificent 38-D chichis. The Outlaws wasn’t released until 3 years after it was shot, because censors just wouldn’t let Jane’s breasts be great. Jane went on to star in a bunch of westerns including Belle Starr. But Jane is best known for the movie that I used to watch on AMC every time it came on: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. After that, Jane was in something called Gentlemen Marry Brunettes! I have never heard of this shit before, but now it’s sitting in the middle of my Netflix queue.
And while searching for quotes about Jane’s life, I came across this story about how she once proudly declared that she’s a “mean-spirited, narrow-minded, right-wing Christian bigot.” On that note, rest in peace, Jane. And thanks for this:
But this isn’t supposed to happen. Jack LaLanne is supposed to outlive every single one of us. This is definitely a cold glass of freshly juiced sadness. Jack LaLanne, the fitness guru of all fitness gurus who still makes all of us feel like fat lazies, is juicing oranges with his bare hands for the angels up in heaven today. Jack died of respiratory failure due to pneumonia at his home in Morro Bay, CA this afternoon. Jack was 96.
Jack was not only an infomercial star who entertained me in the middle of the night with his juice talk while I devoured a bowl of nachos, but he also hosted his own workout show for a million years and opened a chain of gyms.
Jack’s wife of 51 years, Elaine LaLanne (that’s really the perfect name), released a short statement to The Associated Press about the loss of a legend:
“I have not only lost my husband and a great American icon, but the best friend and most loving partner anyone could ever hope for.
Rest in peace, Jack…. We’ll all put on our black spandex jumpsuits and juice something in your honor (Can you juice a Twinkie?).
