Well, the reviews are in on “This Is It,” the Michael Jackson rehearsal footage that has been put together as sort of a special feature film. (In two weeks it’ll leave theaters and head for a DVD package near you.)
So, is it the greatest movie ever made, per Elizabeth Taylor’s overwrought, over-the-top tweets, or is it closer to the mess of Lou Lumenick’s devastating New York Post review?
Probably somewhere in between and much depending on how you felt about Jackson when he was more or less alive. His rabid fans will love it, and like Miss Taylor, feel cinema history has been made. (I wish Elizabeth cared a little bit more about her own legendary career and less about Michael Jackson’s legacy. But that’s La Liz, loyal to a fault.)
Sony will make a bundle, no matter what.
Mr. wOw is being – gasp! – judgmental. He hasn’t seen the movie and is not likely to plunk down 11 bucks for the pleasure. We have very little interest in the final gasps of Mr. Jackson. Just wasn’t a big fan. As soon as MJ started looking like a tranny version of Diana Ross, all interest ended. I mean, we had Miss Ross. How much more tranny could we go? As an artist, he just wasn’t Mr. wOw’s shot of vodka. Millions of other disagree.
I do have sympathy for Michael as a person, but he chose his own path. Like Judy and Marilyn, his constant cries of “I had a terrible childhood, I can’t help myself!” wore thin. Even if those childhoods were terrible, people need to grow up and deal. Especially if they are on the receiving end of adulation, wealth and the opportunity to seek the best therapy.
Big P.S. Will people please stop paying attention to Joe Jackson? Maybe he will go away. Though I suppose that’s impossible with the likes of Al Sharpton calling the dysfunctional patriarch a great person. “Imagine anybody criticizing a man for being a stern father!” exclaimed the Rev. Al recently.
Uhhhh … Michael said Joe beat him, which goes beyond “stern.” The Rev. wants it both ways. He lauds Michael, but essentially calls him a liar.
Michael hated his father. And he’d be disgusted to see Joe Jackson praised now, as some beacon of good parenting. Though he’d be not at all surprised to see how the elder Jackson has profited from his son’s death.
Cheers to Ivanka Trump. She didn’t look like Grace Kelly — as some insisted — in her fabulous Vera Wang wedding gown, but she looked good enough. She is lovely, for sure, and would have a terrific figure even without the implants.
Good luck to Ivanka’s groom Jared Kushner. He has The Donald to contend with as a father-in-law. Go with God, Jared.
Miss Trump — I doubt she’ll opt for Mrs. Kushner — is an interesting young woman. She turned out considerably more assured, savvy and work-oriented than might have been expected, as the daughter of a self-obsessed gazillionaire. She is no spoilt child of privilege. Well, she is, but she’s no Paris Hilton, let’s put it that way. (Her many titles are associated with her dad’s business, but from all accounts, she doesn’t coast.)
I like her a lot, from what I’ve seen. But marriage is going to be a hell of a journey, for her and Mr. Kushner. Did I mention her father?
One tip. Stop Tweeting, honey. You are too smart for such foolishness. Please, I don’t need to know what you two had for breakfast the morning after.
I saw the story in USA Today on cemeteries dying out. There’s just no room on any lawn anymore. And it’s so pricey. Mr. wOw, who hates a confined space, has never quite understood the appeal of burial, if appeal is the proper word, and I know it’s not. Burials date back to the Paleolithic era, so yes, we’re used to it. Still, why take up space on this crowded planet — didn’t you get in the way enough when you were alive? And why the headstone? Unless you are Elvis or Marilyn or Michael Jackson, nobody’s gonna care if you were ever here or not. (Or an Egyptian. I have to say, the pyramids are a great way to go.)
Live on in the hearts and minds of your loved ones. Keep the ashes if you must, but cremation really is the best way, especially in these environmentally challenged times. And it is cheaper. Don’t tell me that doesn’t matter.
Oh, and what you’re thinking right now is correct. Mr. wOw, that selfish, heartless beast, has no family to consider, so of course he’s all for a bonfire and a future as fertilizer.
Drew Barrymore’s directorial debut: the teen-angst, mom vs. daughter, roller-derby film, “Whip It.”
Mr. wOw has to state upfront he has a weakness for most things Drew. Years ago he interviewed the actress. We were seated in a dark corner of a dark hotel bar. At some point, the interview — for whatever she was doing at that time — was over, and we began to talk about childhoods and loss and life: that crappy/wonderful thing called Life. I cried. She cried. It was lovely. She is genuine and beyond mere movie-star charm. Drew is a real person who has suffered stardom and crazy parents and has come out the other side OK. (If only somebody could deliver Lindsay Lohan into Drew’s hands!)
But beside my sentimental memory, “Whip It” is very fine. The star, Ellen Page of “Juno” fame, is superb. And I have long adored Marcia Gay Harden, who plays Ellen’s beauty-pageant-winning mother, who (natch) assumes her daughter will want to continue the superficial thread of what it means to be significant as a woman. Or at least not get into a business where being beat up by other gals is just a day at the office!
“Whip It” also brings Juliette Lewis back to the screen, as a character named Iron Maven. I love Juliette, who patented the psycho/killer-nymphet. Mr. wOw caught Juliette on Chelsea Handler’s show recently. Miss Lewis wore red gloves and silly shoes. She was promoting her music, in which she is quite invested, even if the rest of us want her to get back to making movies full-time. She still looks like a psycho/killer-nymphet, so there’s hope for film fans.
By the way, check out Chelsea Handler’s “Chelsea Lately” show. Handler is the utterly profane take-no-prisoners/screw-the-Hollywood-establishment comic that Kathy Griffin once was, briefly. (And never will be again.)
Back to “Whip It.” It’s great, it’s empowering, and it’s the only female roller-derby film I’ve enjoyed, other than Raquel Welch’s “Kansas City Bomber.”
What’s distracting Mr. wOw from paying full attention to what Maria Shriver is saying? Continue reading “Mr. wOw’s Hair-Raising Shriver Report” »