CSotD: De Niro, spelled “dinero”
Skip to comments
Real Life Adventures, on Hollywood's tendency to wring every last nickel out of any concept that seems to work.
As someone who assigns book reviews to young writers, I'm very much aware of how book publishers pile on a successful theme to attract the teen and preteen market.
It's as though they send dump trucks to the bookstores to off-load mountains of Harry Potter knockoffs and vampire lovestories cashing in on "Twilight" and dystopian adventures attempting to grab the coattails of "The Hunger Games."
And then they make movies of them.
And the kids seem to like all these originals and sequels and photocopies, so I guess it's not a bad strategy.
But before you dismiss the kids as easily-led teenyboppers with saggy jeans and no minds of their own, take a look at the last X-many films Robert De Niro and/or Al Pacino have made.
Maybe you need to re-orient yourself to appreciate it: You can stream "Panic in Needle Park" to get a look at Pacino when he burst on the scene, or "Serpico." Then you can appreciate his work in "The Godfather," and … well, actually then just watch the next two in that series to see him fade from playing roles into playing Al Pacino.
But don't go straight from "Needle Park" to "Godfather III." It would be like taking a hot glass from the dishwasher and filling it with ice water.
Ditto with De Niro. Try to catch the moment he stops playing characters and starts playing himself.
They're not the only ones, but they will let you see, not just a pair of incredibly talented actors sinking into self-parody, but also a descent of the cinematic portrayal of blue-collar Italian-Americans from viable character roles into Badda-Bing Baddies. You gotta problem wit' dat? Fuggedaboudit!
Brian Fies has noted that the difference between "Star Trek" and its sequels is that Roddenberry created the atmosphere of the first series based on his experiences as a young man serving in the navy, while subsequent writers based their adaptations on their experiences as little kids watching "Star Trek."
The poster boy for all this is John Wayne, who turned out wonderful performances until he got hip to what it was like to be John Wayne, which sadly coincided with John Ford arriving at a level of success where he could pretty much get green-lighted to shoot whatever the hell he wanted.
So, after awhile, he stopped having John Wayne play a cowboy based on the memories of old cowboys, and just had John Wayne play John Wayne playing a cowboy based on John Wayne cowboy movies.
And if you want to watch John Wayne play John Wayne playing a John Wayne cowboy, it doesn't matter, just as it doesn't matter if you want to watch Bobby De Niro (we call him "Bobby") play Bobby De Niro or Al Pacino play Al Pacino or any of a number of other interchangeable Hollywood types play interchangeable Hollywood mobsters. Or Hollywood cops. Or Hollywood whatever.
Anyway, there is a very subtle distinction between beef Wellington and crescent dogs, too, but only food snobs can really detect it. If you go by total sales, the crescent dogs are at least as good a representative of just how tasty meat wrapped in bread can be, and probably quite a bit better.
It's not anything personal. We always liked the cinema. It's just business.
Meanwhile, speaking of why you shouldn't judge art by gross sales or by how well it cleaves to the predictable and expected, "Watch Your Head" continues to be one of the most interesting and certainly the most unappreciated strips in syndication.
I guess Cory Thomas probably would have discontinued it quite a while ago if he didn't still have interesting things to say, and, if you're not following this strip, you're missing out not just on an inventive and often wickedly funny comic, but one that brings up topics not normally talked about.
Some time ago, we learned that uber-African Omar, the humorless college student obsessed with his black identity, black politics and black culture, was adopted as an infant and raised by an Asian-American family.
Now the poor guy has learned that he's probably not African-American after all, but Samoan.
Lord knows how he'll manage to over-compensate for this, but I can't wait to find out.
And, finally:
Harry Bliss sparks a suppressed memory.
I was editor-at-large for a monthly regional coffeetable magazine back in the late 70s. It was, quite literally and I'm not exaggerating, a case of "title in lieu of raise."
It ain't that I wrote any better, but the new name sure gave me a charge.
Comments 1
Comments are closed.