Archive for Nicole Kidman

Antony Dod’s Mantel

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , on June 26, 2009 by dcairns

antichrist_willemdafoe_charlottegainsbourg

Cinematographer Seamus McGarvey (THE HOURS) is interviewing colleague Anthony Dod Mantle tomorrow at Edinburgh Film Festival. I already have a question worked out.

As reported in this very organ, McGarvey has Nicole Kidman’s nose on his mantelpiece. She gave him the prosthetic proboscis at the end of THE HOURS, since the thing was such a nightmare for him to light.

My question, for Mr Mantle: who’s got Charlotte Gainsbourg’s clitoris?

Please don’t tell me it was swept up with the cigarette butts at the end of the day.

Incidentally, I don’t mind if anybody else puts their hand up first and asks this. It just means that when/if they come round to me, I’d say “That was my question too,” which might also raise a chuckle. And we need to laugh, in these troublous times, what with films like ANTICHRIST out there.

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The Obituary Mambo

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 8, 2008 by dcairns

No Moe

Reading Paul Donnelley’s Fade to Black, A Book of Movie Obituaries leads one to wonder, wistfully, how the film greats of today will eventually meet their doom.

Come on, it’ll be fun!

George Lucas. Crushed to death under a huge pile of money. Last words: “More!”

Lindsay Lohan. Crushed to death under a huge rock of crack.

Javier Bardem. Crushed to death under his own face.

Werner Herzog. Perishes of heat prostration while hiking into the heart of the sun.

Kate Beckinsale. Just quietly forgotten to death. Last words: unknown.

Tim Roth. Inner vileness.

Luc Besson. Sudden crushing sense of inadequacy.

Arnold Schwartzenegger. Eaten alive by own bicep. Last words: ironic quip.

Dario Argento. Raped to death by his own shadow. Well, it makes as much sense as anything in INFERNO.

Nicole Kidman. One of these days that face is going to snap like an elastic band. God help Keith Urban if he’s standing nearby. Last words: “Ow.” Age: no man can say.

John Hurt. Chestburster. Either that or he makes the mistake of going to sleep lying down.

David Thompson. Already dead. We just haven’t told him. Last words: that book about Nicole Kidman.

Stanley Kubrick. Faked his own death in 2000. Will be discovered hiding in a tea-chest, strangled by his own untrimmed beard and fingernails.

John Travolta. Finally goes supernova, before collapsing in on himself.

Tom Cruise. Thetans. Last words: “I was right!”

Sharon Stone. Karma.

Oliver Stone. Shock, after making good film. Age: 104.

Mel Gibson. Fractures skeleton during a botched attempt to induce the Rapture.

Lars Von Trier. Smugness. And giant scorpions.

Eli Roth. Ass-eating virus.

Michael York. The heat death of the universe. Age: still 35.

Meg Ryan. Smirking.

Tom Hanks. Passive smirking.

Martin Scorsese. Will finally descend to sub-atomic level — no wait, that’s THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN. Scorsese will probably ascend to heaven without actually dying, like Elijah.

Michael Bay. This one’s mine.

The Wages of Sin

Feel free to suggest your own.

But keep it clean!

Dead Means Very

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 21, 2008 by dcairns

The Skull 

It’s like being in a bloody war. No, wait, we ARE in a bloody war.

But I meant the way the prominent figures of British films have been keeling over this week. Paul Scofield is the latest one I’m aware of, and I feel like putting on LONDON or ROBINSON IN SPACE to hear his majestic voice again, and because those beautiful Patrick Keillor film-essays are the kind of thing I can drift through in a dreamy cloud of pleasure, bewildered when the film ends and I wake into sluggish reality.

R Hobart

Also today we heard of the decease of Brian Wilde, a fine character actor and comic turn, with a long long track record. Back in in 1957 he played Rand Hobart (no relation to Rose), the crazed devil-worshipping farmer in NIGHT OF THE DEMON for Jacques Tourneur, uttering the classic line “It’s in the trees — it’s coming!” before his memorable self-defenestration (the line is repeated in Kate Bush’s song The Hounds of Love, but revoiced by another actor).

The Window

Previous to that, Arthur C Clarke shuffled off, and my blog received about fifty hits from people typing in variations of the query “Arthur C Clarke pederast” due to a casual statement I made in an old Euphoria post. Oops.

The big shock was Anthony Minghella’s too-early death. He wasn’t a filmmaker whose work affected me particularly, but it was tragic to lose him so suddenly and so young. His latest film, THE NO 1. LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY, from a novel by Edinburgh writer Alexander McCall Smith, and photographed by Edinburgh-based ace cameraman Seamus McGarvey (the man with Nicole Kidman’s nose on his mantelpiece, grisly souvenir from THE HOURS) airs on the BBC very shortly.

These are the WRONG PEOPLE. I’m basically opposed to the whole idea of death, though I admit it has its uses: it’s important to know there’s something out there worse than THE COTTAGE, for instance. But if we have to have a bunch of film industry deaths, why can’t it be the people ahead of me in the queue for film funding? Not that I wish them any harm, but if SOMEBODY’S got to go…

The Fog

(Explanatory note on the title of this post: in Scots vernacular, for some reason, “dead” means the same as “very” — one might say, “That was dead good,” or “He’s dead nice-looking.” Or, presumably, “He’s dead dead.”)