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When you’re making an animated film, one of the big differences is that you can add scenes, change dialogue and re-write as you’re going along because you only shoot a little bit of the movie each day. Mr. and Mrs. Fox “on set” shooting a scene in the supermarket. So, with Fantastic Mr. Fox , about half-way through the shoot, I had this idea for a scene between the two characters played by Jason Schwartzman and my brother, Eric Anderson. I thought one place to start was with something I grew up with: bunk beds. My initial sketches for how the scene in Ash’s (Jason Schwartzman’s character) bedroom would be shot and acted In this case, Jason Schwartzman’s character does not allow the bunk beds to serve their usual purpose of sleeping two. So, his foreign cousin is forced to sleep underneath the train set. This train set is particularly miniature, because the puppets themselves are only probably about 7 inches high and the train set is very easily the smallest I have ever seen. Throughout the film we all traveled back and forth between France and England a lot. So, we thought it might be fitting that the electric train would actually be something in the vein of a Eurostar. It’s actually labeled ‘High Speed French Train’. One unusual fact is that the model train is actually the same train that we use for most of the full scale shots of the train. I don’t know, but this is probably an unusual alternative in the movies. The bunk beds themselves are based on the Gypsy Caravan after which Dahl named his house, and it’s still there in Great Missenden. Artist Turlo Griffin’s concept artwork for Ash’s bedroom, showing the use of the Gypsy Caravan motif And also on the set, we have the white cape comics which are drawn by our story board artist Christian De Vita, and which are Ash’s (Jason Schwartzman’s character) sole reading material and the inspiration for his wardrobe. Jason and Eric give two of my favorite performances in the film, and this scene more or less encapsulates their entire relationship. I hope you’ll enjoy watching it as much as I did making it.

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Wes Anderson: Behind The Filming Of One Of My Favorite Fantastic Mr. Fox Performances

It’s almost impossible to translate Lil Wayne’s lyrics into the written word. With nearly every syllable on every one of his nearly 1000 songs of this past decade, Weezy is surly and snarly, croaking and crawling, urgent and erstwhile. But there are no accent marks for ” Someone should’ve warned you/R-E-L-A-X like fuckin’ California/Or get cornered, or get tortured, or get slaughtered/In that order .” The words out of Wayne’s mouth somehow sound like an artist beyond his time, even if the words on a page are about as non-sensical as they come. In the thrillingly intimate documentary, “Tha Carter” (DVD in stores today), director Adam Bhala Lough however finds a way to make Lil Wayne’s lyrics translate into actual words. By subtitling entire mixtape verses–DJ drops sometimes included–the New Orleans lyricist is put on a pedestal that was once reserved only for Bob Dylan and John Lennon. And why not? Lil Wayne was one of the three most important rappers of the ’00s, a decade where hip-hop inherited and then maintained its place atop the music world. It’s a lofty declaration, but the Quincy “QD3″ Jones III-produced film has the artistic and integrity-filled chops to make the premise a compelling one. Whether Wayne’s lyricism is spelled out over grainy black and white photographs from live performances or in a quiet hotel room like the video below, “The Carter” keeps the focus on the music and away from the scandals and constantly retold…kind of. The “kind of” comes about because of the honest way in which Wayne’s surreally serious addictions–drugs, recording and himself–are shown in the film, and in turn will be the easiest to sensationalize. (No doubt, the very reason why Lil Wayne pulled his support from the project at the last minute.) Lough’s camera is given an unparalleled pass into Wayne’s guarded world, one that the many journalists shown interviewing him can only hope to glimpse in 15 minutes slots. But Lough, and certainly with the aid of DVD-Mixtape luminary QD3’s co-sign, gets weeks with Wayne in at least a dozen locations. The camera gets a guided tour through backstage worlds, tour bus sleeping quarters, endless press junkets, and sleepy-eyed viewings of “Sports Center.” Even more impressive, is the tour through Wayne’s omnipresent Louis Vuitton bag, whose contents include a six inch stack of cash, a container of liquid codeine cleverly camouflaged in a grape Vitamin Water bottle, and a coffee-table book praising the form of the naked female body. It’s the most physical example of the trust Lil Wayne bestowed upon the process, but perhaps not the most telling. That example isn’t even allowing his daughter to be interviewed–and her rap about “stuntin like her daddy” may be one of the film’s most precious moments–but it’s the access to the New Orleans rapper’s recording process. While it’s not discussed at any length in “The Carter,” it’s hard not to think about Wayne’s impending prison sentence when watching the film. The only time that Lil Wayne doesn’t seem to be recording in his travel studio–which literally goes everywhere he goes–is when he’s in a proper studio. He sets it up in hotel rooms and on the tour bus and puts in hours and hours every single night. It’s what the man does. And while he has an affinity for the liquid codeine charmingly known as “syrup,” it’s easy to imagine that he’ll be okay without it when he serves his time. And a little infliction of the real world might help tame his ghastly addiction to self…but this man is going to go insane without a studio. His passion for the process borders on a physical addiction and he says in the film that he has to record so often just to release the pressure in his head from all the rhymes building up throughout the day. While the quotables and memorable scenes in “The Carter” are endless–from grouchily ending an interview after only 90 seconds to Cortez Bryant’s tears recounting the story that got the embittered manager kicked off the tour bus–it’s Lil Wayne’s commitment to his art that truly resonates. And that “The Carter” found a way to translate that beyond the headphones makes it one of the top-five greatest hip-hop documentaries of all-time.

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Brandon Perkins: New Lil Wayne Documentary: One of Hip-Hop’s Best

The list of Roger Corman protgs is amazingly long and stuffed with goodies of all persuasions. There are the famous men: Scorcese ( Box Car Bertha ); Demme ( Caged Heat, Crazy Mama ), Nicholson ( Little Shop of Horrors ), Joe Dante ( Cockfighter ), Francis Coppola ( Battle Beyond the Sun ), Ron Howard ( Grand Theft Auto ) Sylvester Stallone ( Death Race 2000 ), Bruce Dern, Robert De Niro ( Bloody Mama ) Peter Fonda ( The Wild Angels ), Peter Bogdanovich ( Saint Jack ) Curtis Hanson ( Sweet Kill ) and Jonathan Kaplan ( Night Call Nurses ) and those are just a few of the guys who wrote to the Motion Picture Academy to advocate for the award that Corman is finally getting this weekend. Corman with Jonathan Demme. They said, “it is virtually impossible to separate our various entries into the film industry from Roger Corman and his obsession with working with newcomers.” Or how about the European auteurs whose films might not have been seen in the United States without his advocacy: Bergman, Fellini, Kurosawa, Schlondorff, Truffaut, Wenders? Or The Intruder, The Wild Angels and The Trip — three films that took on tough, important, politically charged subjects? Fonda in “Wild Angels.” Shatner in “The Intruder.” The weight of the world should have been on his shoulders . But the beauty is: It never was. Instead, he is the unbearable lightness of being a director, producer, actor, mentor. He is the most effervescent of gentlemen, one who has that gene for making it all look easy even though we know how hard he worked, on what a shoestring, how hard he made them work, on an even shorter shoestring, and how they are eternally grateful. Many of them are talented and one presumes they would have been in the firmament. And yet. Corman movies had their very own silk-purse-from-sows-ears ethic. And Roger led the way. If he could make Little Shop of Horrors in two days, well, then anything was possible. Genre, exploitation, first time directors, imports, call them what you will: He was absolutely fearless and seems to have had a good time doing it too. I lobbed a few quick questions at the honoree: CZ: You practically invented the lemonade-out-of-lemons school of filmmaking. Directors talk about the famous lunch they have with you before they go to work–apparently once a couple of hours and then about ten minutes, where you gave them speed film school. Would you tell a young filmmaker now to go toward the Internet or would you advise learning how to make movies the old fashioned way? RC: I believe young filmmakers should learn the basic techniques of filmmaking so that they can adapt them either to motion pictures or to the Internet. CZ: Women-nurses, teachers, mothers, prisoners, molls and swamp creatures have all been given the traditionally male roles in your films. You have a strong and independent wife and two accomplished daughters. You have also launched the career of a few female directors — Penelope Spheeris and Katt Shea among others. How is it that women still seem to be so lost in how to make Hollywood work for them rather than the other way around? RC: Women are fighting against thousands of years of subordination. Their battle is being won but it will not be won quickly or easily. CZ:Your wife Julie has given the high concept of Roger Corman as conservative meets outrageous . You seem to have made peace with living the life of a gentleman, cherishing school ties, encouraging your children to do well academically with a down and dirty way of getting work done. Wouldn’t Freud have had a field day with you? And hey, maybe is there an idea for a new movie in there? RC: An educated rebel can accomplish more than an uneducated rebel. CZ: I last heard you were making a film called Dinoshark . What’s the status of that? How active are you in producing and are you ever planning to step behind the camera again? RC: Dinoshark is in the final stages of post production for the SyFy channel. I remain active as a producer but after all these years I would only return to directing if i found a project that truly interested me. CZ:You are someone who is passionate about liberal politics who has supported the causes you believe in. Is it possible for creative people to still have an impact in a country faced with such pervasive Washington gridlock? RC: I believe that creative people can have only a slight impact on Washington gridlock but a slight impact is better than none. The Motion Picture Academy is long overdue in giving Roger an award. I tried to think why this might be. I ‘m sure I know. It’s because he’s a different kind of tentpole — one that’s not just about money but also about the long view. The Academy tends to honor its own, and Roger is not one of its own, but rather our own, a maverick. Someone who has given to audiences — without constantly looking over his shoulder at what the other guys were doing. That thing about marching to your own drum? Roger has been marching to his own symphony. Okay, I’m calling him Roger and so I have to say, Roger’s a friend not a colleague and my vantage point is one of friendly fan and not objective journalist. But to see directors smile and tell their ” how I got my start with Roger ” stories is a genre unto itself: basically, you take the ball, or whatever thing is the room at that very moment, or the set or location that was left over from yesterday and you go ! Ron Howard calls him a businessman and audience advocate. He says Roger’s thrill came from how far he could stretch a production dollar. Shooting 10 days or 18 days, can you make it happen? Can you find a formula that makes sense but still keeps it fresh? Can you put real people in a movie beside actors and make it work? Can you work backwards from the last scene of a shooting script because the light is better? Can you go non-union? Can you write, produce, direct and act in the same film? Can you do it for a price? Robert Towne once apparently said to Roger, “Making a film is not like a track meet, it’s not how fast you go.” But maybe it is. Because clearly we see that sometimes taking your time and fretting and adding layers of stuff you don’t need doesn’t work either. Restriction breeds creativity. I would like to get a PhD in the Corman women and I’m sure somebody has. Roger, who has a fiercely independent wife and two talented daughters, has delved into the psyches of teachers, nurses, molls, swamp creatures and big bad blood crazy mamas. They should seem exploited. Instead, they rock! Mothers who say things like “A mother still got some rights in this country,” and a voice over narrator who says, “Enter the female jungle where bodies behind bars ache with hunger for a man, any man,” and just about every iteration of the female condition in between. Gale Anne Hurd says she was shocked when she left the University of Corman and found out that the rest of Hollywood did not champion women in quite the same way. And it’s not just behind the camera. Actresses too found something they could sink their teeth into: Jane Asher ( Masque of the Red Death ), Nancy Sinatra ( Wild Angels ), Shelley Winters ( Bloody Mama ), Charlotte Rampling ( Target: Harry ). Roger is legendary for his penny pinching, for his generosity, for his martinis, for his courtly manner, for his sense of humor, for his ability to vamp. The model for filmmaking that we have today in Hollywood is working for only very few films. Certainly it is not bringing new young people with fresh ideas into the business. And in the down economy, it’s getting even worse. Is there no one out there who can be the Roger Corman of today — for the next generation, for posterity? Hey Roger?! More on The Oscars

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Patricia Zohn: Culture Zohn Off the C(H)uff: Roger Corman and His Oscar

Some bad movies you slag off gleefully. Their awfulness inspires you to reach high for insults as witty as the film is terrible. Others provoke a certain disappointment at their failure, a kind of mourning at the difference between the film’s ambition and its execution. Richard Kelly’s The Box is such a film. Kelly is a trippy, sometimes loopy filmmaker whose Donnie Darko is one of the great cult films of this century. In that film, his far less successful Southland Tales and now The Box, Kelly creates mind-twisting tales in which everyday conundrums unravel into conspiracies and plots of cosmic proportions. He’s like Robert Towne with an overlay of Rod Serling. But Kelly spins paranoid fantasies with so many threads that he can’t quite keep track of them all – or make them connect in a meaningful way. That’s the problem with The Box : a great set-up leading to a muted, unsatisfying conclusion that doesn’t really pay off. His film, taken from a short story by Richard Matheson, is set in 1976, to tie it to the Mars landing program that produced the first photos from that planet’s surface. Arthur Lewis (James Marsden) is a NASA scientist who worked on that program and who is awaiting approval to join the astronaut program. His wife Norma (Cameron Diaz) teaches English at a private school near their Richmond, Va., home, which their son attends. Portentously, she is teaching Jean-Paul Sartre’s “No Exit.” One day before Christmas, a box arrives on their doorstep, a polished wooden object with a locked glass dome covering a button – like a panic button – of some sort. The box includes a note informing them that Mr. Steward (the name, of course, has significance) will be there that afternoon to see them. Mr. Steward (Frank Langella) is a pip: a distinguished older gentleman in a homburg and cashmere coat, who happens to be missing a large chunk of his face. He looks like a well-dressed escapee from an early Sam Raimi film, his teeth peeping through the exposed gristle of his disfigured lower jaw. He tells them that, if they push the button in the next 24 hours, someone they don’t know somewhere in the world will die – but they’ll receive a million dollars in cash. Everything that happens subsequently flows from the decision they make. Continued… For the rest of this review, click HERE to reach my website: www.hollywoodandfine.com.

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Marshall Fine: Movie review: The Box

Christopher McDonald admits it: “I love to work,” says the 54-year-old actor, who turns up in Splinterheads , opening today (11.06.09) in limited release. Then he shrugs and adds, “Terms like ‘ubiquitous’ are not good. I think I’m one of the only actors who’s had two films opening against each other on the same weekend, like, five different times. But hey, I don’t choose the dates. I just like great parts.” Or parts he can convince himself might be great: “I don’t say yes to everything,” he argues. “I do turn things down. But I do look for ways to say yes. “For me, it’s got to be a good story, or I’ve got to like the character. It might be about who’s directing it or who else is involved. It might be the economics of it. Or it might be a great location. I mean, I’m going to Montenegro at the end of the month – I’ve never been there. I get to work with Janet McTeer – and play the secretary of defense of the United States. And the money isn’t terrible either.” If McDonald’s name isn’t familiar, his face must be – the Internet Movie Database lists almost 150 different credits since he made his film debut in The Hearse in 1980 (after an appearance in a 1978 TV movie) – and that figure only counts TV series once, though he did multiple episodes of several shows. It’s the face – and his imposing, ramrod 6-foot-3 physique – that makes him distinctive. His eyes have a certain twinkle that can imply mischief, mayhem or monomania. His smile can be smirky or sharklike – and his delivery frequently has the tang of sarcasm, which can be particularly funny when he’s playing characters who aren’t as smart as they think they are. Those characters – bullying, fatuous, petty, egotistical – have become a stock-in-trade for McDonald, most famously as a strutting professional golfer named Shooter McGavin in Adam Sandler’s Happy Gilmore . That character still gets him recognized, almost 15 years after the fact. “Last night, I was in a bar,” he says, sitting in a Chelsea office, “and it was packed with Marines who were off that ship, the U.S.S. New York, that’s docked by the Intrepid. When I walked in with a friend, they gave me a standing ovation and were chanting, ‘Shooter! Shooter!’ One of them said they’d watched it, like, 100 times.” Continued… For the rest of this interview, click HERE to reach my website: www.hollywoodandfine.com.

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Marshall Fine: Interview: Christopher McDonald plays guys you love to hate

Big changes are on the horizon for publishers and writers, we’re told almost every day, and I’d like to offer a few (admittedly selfish) suggestions. Writing might be more fun if we did it in offices. Not newsrooms — too much pressure. Just big, busy, offices. With cubicles. And Cathy cartoons, and pictures of people’s dogs. And donuts. You guys have donuts, right? Sure, it’s maddening to be around people. But you can ask them for raises. Plus, focusing on Malign Others — “That woman never stops jiggling her foot,” I’d huff to my cute male secretary — might make me more productive. And saner. While working from home, I have been known to fly into a rage at a vase. It’s hard to avoid clich?s when you’re writing about writing; my fantasy about office culture just rehashes the stereotypical writerly anxiety that, in the real world, people are doing things indescribably more vital than writing in sweatpants. Which they are. The People Dressed in Fabrics that Don’t Stretch see patients, close deals, and send emails more purposeful (and much shorter) than the ones writers send to agents, editors, and readers. I can’t call them fans, a word that conjures the enormous, humiliating chasm that separates writers from movie stars. Because while writing can be difficult and isolating, that doesn’t make it glamorous and filmic in the way being, say, a tormented pianist is. Unless you’re Keats. And that’s why movies about anything at all — even food — are better than movies about writing. The protagonist stares at her computer, face scrunched in concentration, tapping out the words to the voiceover — It’s even boring in movie trailers, where everything, including The Wedding Planner , somehow seems compelling. Except the phrase, “In a world … where every word counts.” If only writing involved guns. Of course publishing as we know it may end soon; I have it on good authority that starting tomorrow we’ll “share” our content on our iphones for no advance. People will say things like “I guess I’ll write a book” and no one will find it unusual, or disrespectful of writers. No one will understand why I growl, “I guess I’ll go perform brain surgery. Because I want to.” Until that sea change renders everyone a writer, I’m one of the lucky ones. I don’t toil in all-consuming desperation thanks to my husband’s work, and his indulgence of my so-called career. These allow me to take my time researching and writing my books while failing to build a platform from which to sell them. Other writers write for women’s magazines, where the editorial back and forth feels a lot like tennis — a sport I hate; they blog on topics that others care about enough for the writers to actually have sponsors (my husband would love that, so let’s not tell him); or they teach (exhausting if you’re tenure track — how can you think about anything else? And exhausting if you’re not tenure track; the only thing more abject than being a non-bestselling author is being an adjunct. I should know). And that’s why I took up Taekwon-Do. Because I could — remember my husband? And I felt I should. What better way to feel part of the world, like I’m doing something real, than dedicate myself to a martial art alongside others so underemployed they can exercise for an hour in the middle of the day? I went three times a week for months, learning to count to ten in Korean, to bow, to say “Yes sir” and “Yes ma’am” to black belts, and to process the baffling directives and observations about life made by the master of the school, a ninth degree black belt who inspired me to do more push ups than I had previously believed feasible. I learned to tie my white belt, and then my yellow belt, and then my green striped belt, correctly. Eventually, I broke two boards at a time with my kicks. But book promotion and motherhood intervened; I took a six-month Taekwon-Do hiatus. Everyone was nice when I came back. And then, right as I was getting into it again, disaster. I wasn’t kicking a board, sparring with a black belt, or even running. I was just hopping on a nice, spongy mat. And I broke my foot. “You should drink more milk.” “Wow, you must have really twisted it.” “How do you break your foot on a nice spongy mat?” People think they’re so smart. But I think I’ve made my point. Which is that writers aren’t born; we are made. And until all those Big Changes happen, we are made to sit in our sweatpants, staring at our computer, face scrunched in concentration, our left foot in an Ace bandage and a big, ugly, Velcro boot from the orthopedist, wondering, Now what?

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Wednesday Martin: Why Did the Writer Break Her Foot?

How do you get republicans, who take such pride in their talent for “supporting the troops” and “defending America”, to vote against a defense bill in the midst of two wars? Make it a defense bill that defends gay people! That’s right — 35 republican senators voted against the defense bill because it contained a provision called the Matthew Shepard & James Byrd, Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act , which would make it a federal hate crime to assault someone based on sexual orientation, gender and gender identity. This legislation has languished in Congress since 1998, the year that Shepard, a gay Wyoming college student, was kidnapped, tortured and killed by two men because he was gay. That same year, Byrd, a 49-yr-old black man, was chained to a pickup truck and dragged to death by white supremacists. Republican-controlled Congresses during the Clinton and Bush Jr. administrations (along with the threat of a Bush Jr. veto) kept this legislation from a presidential signature, which still had to be attached to this year’s defense bill to ensure it wouldn’t be blocked by a republican filibuster. Why do repubs hate this hate crimes bill so much that they would risk their “I support the troops!” credentials by voting against it? Their justifications have ranged from the hypocritical ( abuse of Senate procedure ) to the nonsensical ( being gay is a choice, whereas religion is not ) to the irrational (the bill will prosecute “thought crimes” ). But the main reason is because hatred/fear of gays is running neck-and-neck with hatred/fear of government for the most defining, unifying characteristic of the “modern” republican party. Gay marriage or anything that would lead to increased acceptance of gay people is considered unacceptable and a danger to America. This was perhaps best exemplified by Rep. Louie Gohmert (R-TX) who claimed that the Shepard/Bird hate crimes bill would lead to legalized necrophilia, bestiality, pedophilia, and somehow, Nazism (though Gohmert is not the first republican to make these comparisons). It has been the repub party’s go-to surefire way to energize their base and get them to the polls. That’s right — as this latest vote proves, republicans now hate gays more than they love militarism and love pretending they give a damn about soldiers . How did the republicans get this way? Don’t they have any gay friends or colleagues who could set them straight (no pun)? As Kirby Dick’s excellent 2009 documentary Outrage shows, they probably do, whether they be gay staffers, members of the media, or even fellow repub congressmen. But as the film points out, many of these gay republicans are so profoundly closeted that they attempt to disguise their sexuality by fighting against every piece of legislation that could be construed as helping gay people, from gay marriage to gay couples being allowed to adopt to the Shepard/Bird hate crimes act. By doing this, these closeted repubs effectively distort the debate on gay rights because their votes have little to do with justice or sound policy analysis and everything to do with their own shame, hypocrisy, and the GOP’s desire to pander to their homophobic base. Watch my ReThink Review of Outrage below. For more political movie reviews, visit ReThinkReviews.net . More on Glenn Beck

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Jonathan Kim: ReThink Review: Outrage — One Reason Why the Bird/Shepard Hate Crimes Act Took So Long

A few weeks back a number of my friends sent me the same article from the New York Times Magazine section, The Holy Grail of the Unconscious , by Sara Corbett. It was about Carl Jung’s long-suppressed “Red Book,” finally to be published. The article explains how Jung’s family kept the nearly 100-year-old book under wraps because it was written while Jung was having what could best be described as a nervous breakdown, something the family worried would tarnish or perhaps even ruin his reputation. My friends sent the article to me because they know of my fascination with dreams. The article is delicious reading if you are interested in the strange world of past and present psychiatry with its bewildering politics and personalities, but what caught my eye most was a dream that the journalist (more or less off-handedly) reported to have had while covering this story. This dream was about an elephant — a dead elephant with its head cut off. The head was on a grill at a suburban-style barbecue, and I was holding the spatula. Everybody milled around with cocktails; the head sizzled over the flames. I was angry at my daughter’s kindergarten teacher because she was supposed to be grilling the elephant head at the barbecue, but she hadn’t bothered to show up. And so the job fell to me. Then I woke up. What struck me first was the response from the Jungian analysts surrounding her as she wrote this piece: At the hotel breakfast buffet, I bumped into Stephen Martin and a Californian analyst named Nancy Furlotti, who is the vice president on the board of the Philemon Foundation and was at that moment having tea and muesli. “How are you?” Martin said. “Did you dream?” Furlotti asked “What do elephants mean to you?” Martin asked after I relayed my dream. “I like elephants,” I said. “I admire elephants.” “There’s Ganesha,” Furlotti said, more to Martin than to me. “Ganesha is an Indian god of wisdom.” “Elephants are maternal,” Martin offered, “very caring.” They spent a few minutes puzzling over the archetypal role of the kindergarten teacher. “How do you feel about her?” “Would you say she is more like a mother figure or more like a witch?” Giving a dream to a Jungian analyst is a little bit like feeding a complex quadratic equation to someone who really enjoys math. It takes time. The process itself is to be savored. The solution is not always immediately evident. In the following months, I told my dream to several more analysts, and each one circled around similar symbolic concepts about femininity and wisdom. One day I was in the office of Murray Stein, an American analyst who lives in Switzerland and serves as the president of the International School of Analytical Psychology, talking about the Red Book. Stein was telling me about how some Jungian analysts he knew were worried about the publication — worried specifically that it was a private document and would be apprehended as the work of a crazy person, which then reminded me of my crazy dream. I related it to him, saying that the very thought of eating an elephant’s head struck me as grotesque and embarrassing and possibly a sign there was something deeply wrong with my psyche. Stein assured me that eating is a symbol for integration. “Don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “It’s horrifying on a naturalistic level, but symbolically it is good.” So for a few months after the dream she had worried that this it was a “crazy dream, (that) there was something deeply wrong with her psyche.” But Dr. Stein seemed to put that to rest with his conclusion that it was “symbolically good,” buttoning up the whole episode as something soothing. Which is nice. Except…these were, yes, pretty “horrifying” images, as Dr. Stein admits. Imagine them as a movie: a dead elephant with its head sizzling on a suburban BBQ while everyone else wanders around the backyard obliviously sipping cocktails. Move over David Lynch. Not to mention… that the very thought of eating an elephant’s head struck me as grotesque and embarrassing and possibly a sign there was something deeply wrong with my psyche… Okay. Let’s not overdo this. It’s only a dream. Most of the world has long since understood there is little value in putting stock in dreams. Even our journalist who goes to dream experts gets little more than a potpourri of archetypical references, a metaphorical pat on the head and an explanation that eating in one’s dream is about integration and therefore “good.” On the other hand, this woman had been at least somewhat haunted for a few months about this, even feared that the dream might indicate some craziness, perhaps not so unlike some of Stein’s associate fearing the Red Book might prove the same of Jung. Now, I’ve made a couple of movies and – taken as a movie – I think this dream is pretty cool. First there’s the anger, always good in a movie. And it never hurts if the anger is directed at a female authority (a witch or a mother figure?, asks the Jungians), but far more interesting (and dynamic) is the filmmaker’s invention of a dead elephant head on a suburban-style BBQ. At this point the Jungians go no further than to point out some rather obscure and soothing references, but what if the filmmaker (so to speak) were simply drawing on the far more obvious theme of “there’s an elephant in the room.” (Let’s not forget our “extras” with their cocktails milling around the backyard seemingly oblivious to the mess on the grill.) Frankly, I’m not sure our “filmmaker” could have gotten much more obvious with her theme, except if she had put her dead elephant in some room with a bunch of people milling around ignoring the mess, except then the dream would’ve had to have shown the massive elephant head cooked on a suburban stove or inside an oven, both too small. Take two. Make it a backyard with a nice, big suburban-style BBQ. Too Hollywood? Okay. Let’s try something more scientific and turn the whole thing into an equation. Make the kindergarten teacher X and the elephant Y. Start simply. Substitute kindergarten teacher for the obvious authority figure that teaches and takes care of children and brings out plenty of emotion: Mom. Substitute elephant with “a problem in the room that no one wants to face.” The equation then reads: the problem in the room that no one wants to face has had its head cut off and the daughter is being forced to cook it and eat it. She’s angry with her mother for not showing up to do this for her. Interesting. For the fun of it let’s add Dr. Stein’s soothing interpretation that this is about integration. The equation would then read: I am angry that (by myself) I am being forced to integrate the problem in the room that no one else wants to face. We might footnote that Dr. Stein believes this is a good thing. Of course to confirm any of this we would need to approach the journalist. Were there any aspects of her life that her mother might want ignored or forgotten (let’s not forget “memory” as an elephant association, as in: “she had the memory of an elephant”), but, of course in this dream the head of that memory has been cut off, is being cooked, etcetera. But let’s skip an intimate discussion with our journalist and simply recall what happened the morning after her dream as she encountered the Jungians with their tea and muesli: clever talk (”more to Martin than to me,” she notes) of wisdom, feminine symbols, the Indian God, Ganesha – but who among them actually took in the cinema of a sizzling decapitated elephant’s head on a BBQ? Who allowed themselves to feel the betrayal that had unfolded and the ensuing anger? Who actually experienced the elephant in the room, aside from our dreamer? Which perhaps brings us to another elephant. For if all these Jungians were so wrapped up in their world of archetypes and symbols, if to them someone telling them a dream is a “bit like feeding a complex quadratic equation to someone who really enjoys math” and not one of them even explored the almost too-obvious reference of an elephant in the room, then what does it say about the entire Jungian enterprise? Of course, I may be wrong. On the other hand, like a classic movie or a correct equation, is it possible that this little dream reflects on more than just our journalist’s possible issues with her mother? For instance could it possibly be shedding some light on what our journalist was writing about, i.e.: the Red Book and the surrounding fears that the book’s publication might prove its writer (Jung) to be (at least a little bit) nuts? That would be quite an elephant in the room, or rather a dead elephant that needs to be cooked and eaten with no help from an authority figure that teaches and takes care of children. And if Jung were (more or less) nuts, it might explain why these doctors who have taken him so seriously all these years wouldn’t be all that capable of teaching and taking care of the less mature (i.e. psychological doctoring), leaving our journalist to deal by herself with the anxiety about her psyche that (perhaps) had been forced to cook and digest the decapitated memories that no one in her life wanted to face. Too many leaps? Okay. But (once again for the fun of it) let’s just go one last round. Jung wrote his book (and had a major break from reality, everyone agrees with this) after working with Freud. He felt Freud was wrong (nowadays who doesn’t – Oedipus Complex, etc?), so it might be said that another elephant in the room is that Freud was wrong, maybe a little nuts too and maybe not all that capable of teaching and taking care of the anxieties of his less mature student, Jung. Not much of an “elephant,” though. Every well-bonused-out executive in his high-powered pharmaceutical company would agree. After all, their answer to any anxiety big (or small) is one or more of their products. But aren’t there some potential problems here? For instance: however nuts Freud was, however uncaring and incapable “a kindergarten teacher who didn’t show up,” he did come up with one great discovery that is now (pretty much) universally accepted – that an unconscious exists – that this unconscious is hidden from us like the lower part of an iceberg in the sea, that it is extremely powerful. Jung postulated that it was the repository of all one’s memory. He even discussed something called the collective unconscious. Interesting. So the unconscious could certainly be termed big (at least in comparison with the conscious). It has to do with memory. It’s hidden. Sound anything like an elephant in the room? Except the elephant’s head has been cut off. One final leap: Is it possible that this seemingly insignificant dream has even shed light on what has gone wrong with psychology? Okay, a big leap. I agree. But forget about these images as a dream. Take them as poetry or as, yes, a David Lynch short film, something that has been (more or less) consciously crafted to shed light. Now let’s revisit Freud and Jung before the break, before the Red Book. Freud taught Jung about the existence of the unconscious. He showed him the “elephant in the room,” so to speak, made him experience it. But is it not possible that Freud then cut off the head of Jung’s unconscious” by applying the (now laughable) concepts of the Oedipal complex, etc? Wasn’t Jung then left to fend for himself, attempting to “integrate” this decapitated head (now handed to him) with the spatula of his own invention, i.e.: symbols and archetypes, which when applied to our journalist’s dream left her to fend for herself as well? In other words, is it not possible to consider that not only has this journalist’s mother kept her from seeing those things which no one wanted to face (its decapitation, then integration making the journalist fear that there was something wrong with her psyche), but so too Freud, Jung and that parade of analysts in Zurich and environs – all of them leaving our dreamer to fend for herself, – to cook, then do her best to integrate the mess that comes when we cut off the head of our unconscious? But we are now getting as nearly abstract as Freud and company. Let’s roll back the “film” for a second viewing. This dream was about an elephant — a dead elephant with its head cut off. The head was on a grill at a suburban-style barbecue, and I was holding the spatula. Everybody milled around with cocktails; the head sizzled over the flames. I was angry at my daughter’s kindergarten teacher because she was supposed to be grilling the elephant head at the barbecue, but she hadn’t bothered to show up. And so the job fell to me. Then I woke up. I am more than willing to accept the fact that my logic has been more than a little forced here, that I too have made a mess out of the thing and that others, more capable, will uncover deeper truths in this dream. What I find harder to relinquish is that this dream has as brilliant, insightful and perfect an inner structure as a Mozart minuet, a Van Gogh painting, or the concept of E=mc2. A quadratic equation? Sure. But not something simply to be enjoyed and “savored, the solution…not always immediately evident” – it is a powerful (and quite obvious) tool of insight that must be faced like the nightmares and misery that so many of us wrestle with, something with the potential of, say, the discovery of nuclear power (as long as its head isn’t cut off and we are forced to cook it and eat it alone). And if I am only just one-tenth right, then one might at least want to try to consider the possibility that dreams are indeed the real “elephant in the room,” still generally ignored or (almost worst) noted, played with, then beheaded – some version of Freud and Jung’s counterparts who traveled to Africa in that century to bag an exotic animal or two to bring back and hang its head on a library wall, as proof of manhood. Finally, for what it’s worth, I would agree with Dr. Stein, in that this is “a good dream,” only not in the sense Stein meant because this dream might well be delivering the difficult medicine of what’s wrong with his field today, a field so woefully confused that it has become somewhat aware of the elephant but – a bit like those blind men feeling the various parts but not seeing the whole picture – they have chopped off its head, allowing the Pharmaceutical Industry free reign to sweep into our backyards where we have had to fend for ourselves as these profit makers bring us the easy, sleepy (though expensive and with side effects) answer of “cocktails”. And yet, aside from getting through the day, what has a cocktail ever done to solve a single problem? And God knows there are plenty of problems that need solving: the economy, our own misery and fears, global warming and so on. And if, in fact, this little elephant dream has shed some light on the field of psychiatry, Jung and his Red Book (in short the subject that our journalist was writing about – not to mention her own life), could not other dreams shed light on other problems? Even this little dream — doesn’t its structure also bring into focus (to some degree) some of the larger issues of our time? For instance where we now stand as a people, facing what has happened to our country? Once massive, powerful, and filled with deep memory and hope, with an almost incomprehensible reserve of resources and manufacturing capability – haven’t we also had the head of our elephant chopped off and handed to us? Aren’t we now being forced to cook and eat its dead head? And where are those that did the chopping – the supposed teachers and leaders who have had enough expertise to scoop up the government bailouts, tax breaks and bonus? Haven’t they abandoned us exactly as our dreamer’s kindergarten teacher, leaving us to try to figure out how to digest the mess with little more than a spatula? But this is only a question and that was only a little dream.

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Stephen Gyllenhaal: An Elephant in the Room?

Certain cinema always seems to get the spotlight in the States, be it French or Polish or whatever is in vogue at the moment. At the same time, a lot of other national cinema gets overlooked. In this month and in November, Czech cinema will no longer seem overlooked. One independent programmer Laura Blum has not only become quite expert in the cinema of the Czech Republic, but in putting together The Ironic Curtain for the Film Society of Lincoln Center, she has managed to offer through its filmmakers an enlightening look at a country that has taken on a new life in the wake of the Iron Curtain’s collapse 20 years ago. During a relatively peaceful and bloodless six-week period of demonstrations– between November 17 and December 29, 1989 — the former Czechoslovakia saw the overthrow of the Soviet regime that became known as the Velvet Revolution. Explains programmer Blum, “Americans tend to think the Velvet Revolution happened far away, without any connection to us, but leader Vclav Havel was in New York on April 4, 1968, the day Martin Luther King was assassinated. He says he was influenced by the non-violent philosophy he heard at the rallies honoring Dr. King at Central Park – which he would ultimately bring to the Velvet Revolution.” In fact, The Ironic Curtain opens with the North American premiere of Pavel Kouteck and Miroslav Janek’s intimate documentary about the private and public life of playwright turned president Citizen Havel . The film captures the life of the man who emblemizes the Velvet Revolution as well as the individual and collective yearnings of recent Czech history. Czech Consul General Elika igov introduces the film. And the film is preceded bya special video of the former president, exclusively made for this series. A later tragedy in 1968 inspired The Ferrari Dino Girl (Holka Ferrari Dino) by New Wave enfant terrible Jan N?mec. The docudrama recalls the filmmaker’s rush across the Czechoslovak-Austrian border to deliver footage of Soviet tanks ramrolling through Prague. Though Soviet propaganda later claimed the Czechs welcomed Warsaw Pact troops, N?mec’s footage — which will ring a bell for anyone who saw The Unbearable Lightness of Being — provided visceral refutation of such a thought. This deliberately timed 68-minute film shares a double bill with Ji? St?echa and Petr Slavk’s The Kind Revolution (N?n revoluce) . Cinema is at its verite best in this chronicle of the Velvet Revolution when riot police quashed a peaceful student rally in Prague, the popular protests that followed sacked Czech Communism. Czech film history also appears in four classics from the ’60s and one from the ’30s in this series. Gustav Machat’s Extse offers the first nude scenes in cinema with a quick glimpse of the young Heddy Lamar skinny dipping; Voyage to the End of the Universe is a sci-fi gem that was an influence on the makers of Star Trek ; Milos Forman’s Loves of a Blonde is an early example of the New Wave as seen through Czech eyes. The New Wave influenced a younger generation of filmmakers–for instance, director Bohdan Slama –who made the acclaimed Something Like Happiness (which is also screening during the series) says Forman’s Black Peter was among his biggest influences. Also included in this fest is a 19-minute sneak preview clip of Czech Peace (?esk mir ), Filip Remunda and Vit Klusk’s “pre-war comedy” about recent US plans to install a radar base on Czech soil. These two did a fabulous mockumentary called Czech Dream that debuted at 2005’s Tribeca Film Festival. And there are two Dostoevsky-inspired films, including Saa Gedeon’s The Return of the Idiot (Nvrat idiota) with top starlet Ana Geislerova, who sadly had to cancel an appearance here to introduce it, as well as her starrer Something Like Happiness . Variety singled out its director Slama, as among the top 10 directors to watch in 2009. The series closes on October 29 with the North American premiere of Petr Zelenka’s Karamazovi . The Dostoevsky classic is currently in the news with Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s praise, in Moscow, for the book’s attack on dogma. Similarly, New York will soon see the Czech attack on certainty in The Ironic Curtain. For more information go to: filmlinc.com

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Brad Balfour: The Ironic Curtain –a Czech Film Series — Comes To New York

George Clooney brought his television hostess girlfriend Elisabetta Canalis to the London premiere of “The Fantastic Mr. Fox” Wednesday night. Clooney has been dating the Italian beauty, 31, for the better part of the year. He was spotted around Lake Como with her this summer and brought her to multiple premieres at the Venice Film Festival. PHOTOS: Get HuffPost Entertainment On Facebook and Twitter! More on Photo Galleries

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George Clooney Brings Lover Elisabetta Canalis To London Premiere (PHOTOS)

But Not Evil Just Wrong, is a new documentary film by Phelim McAleer and Ann McElhinney that explores the subject of global warming, concluding that the science behind it is flawed.

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New film debunks global warming; showing at Fortuna Vets Building (The Humboldt Beacon)

It’s probably just as well that Barack Obama’s magic touch didn’t work on the International Olympic Committee. The election of Obama has certainly reduced the number of globetrotting Americans who try to pass for Canadian. But he can’t just touch down for five hours and seal the deal. But the most interesting quote I read about Chicago’s drubbing in the Olympic hosting race was a question from an I.O.C. member from Pakistan. Syed Shahid Ali asked how smooth it would be for foreigners to enter the United States for the Games because as he put it, coming to the US these days can be “a harrowing experience.” I hope Obama noted that. This is a slap in the face reminder that the election of Obama has changed a certain style and the image but the levers of bureaucracy underneath have not necessarily changed course. It’s not just Olympic athletes from countries like Pakistan or Iraq. Scientists, artists, students are all facing the same hurdles getting into the US. And many of them just don’t want to come. Who wants the airport humiliation? A couple of years ago I remember the San Francisco International Film Festival complaining that many eminent filmmakers couldn’t get visas. The Iranian contingent was especially hurt by the visa clampdown. Tragically, Iran has probably the most illustrious filmmaking industry in the region. The very renowned director Abbas Kiarostami was denied a visa when he was coming to the US to debut his film Ten. A couple of other directors from other parts of the world also decided not to come as an act of solidarity. In 2006, a group of Iranian academics and scientists coming for the Northern California reunion of the prestigious Sharif Institute of Technology found themselves turned away from US airports even after they got the visa. Behnam Kamrani who lives in Sweden and works for a US company got to spend nine hours in the airport before being turned back. But he considered himself one of the “lucky ones” because he was not handcuffed. In 2004 for the first time since 1971, the number of foreign students enrolled in US colleges and universities declined thanks to the “war on terror”. Now the Census says for the first time in three decades the number of foreign-born Americans in this country tapered off slightly in 2008 . Nobody wants to be the visa officer that let in the terrorist. But instead of analyzing Chicago’s downfall in the IOC as a litmus test of Obama’s magic, it should be a wake up call for the US. The world didn’t reject Obama. It’s gotten the symbolism of his election. Now it’s time to go beyond the symbols. It wants to see the promised change in action. And five hours of Obama isn’t enough change. Rio, apparently was change the IOC could believe in. More on Barack Obama

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Sandip Roy: Guess Who’s Not Coming to The Olympics

NEW YORK — James Franco will guest star on ABC’s “General Hospital” for a lengthy story arc this fall. The “Pineapple Express” and “Spider-Man” actor will play a mystery person who comes to the soap opera’s town of Port Charles. The recurring role will begin Nov

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James Franco To Star In ‘Lengthy’ Arc On ‘General Hospital’

BEIJING — Tanks and other heavy weaponry rumbled across Beijing behind goose-stepping troops as China celebrated 60 years of communist rule Thursday with its biggest-ever military review – a symbol of its rapidly expanding global might. The elaborate ceremony for the founding of the People’s Republic unfolded on national television but behind tight security that excluded ordinary people from getting near the parade route through Tiananmen Square.

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China: 60 Years Of Communist Rule Celebrated With Elaborate Ceremony, Tight Security

The Official HD Trailer for “Michael Jackson’s This Is It”, aired on MTV Video Music Awards (VMA). Release Date: 28 October 2009 (USA) Distributor: Sony Pictures Entertainment (SPE) (2009) (USA) (all media) Director: Kenny Ortega Producers: Paul Gongaware, Randy Phillips Cast: Michael Jackson, Orianthi Genre: Music [IMDB.COM]

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Michael Jackson’s This Is It – Official MTV Video Music Awards HD Trailer [2009]

The 3rd HD Official Trailer for “The Twilight Saga: New Moon”, aired on MTV Video Music Awards (VMA). Release Date: 20 November 2009 (USA) After Bella recovers from the vampire attack that almost claimed her life, she looks to celebrate her birthday with Edward and his family. However, a minor accident during the festivities results in Bella’s blood being shed, a sight that proves too intense for the Cullens, who decide to leave the town of Forks, Washington for Bella and Edward’s sake …

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The Twilight Saga: New Moon – Official MTV Video Music Awards HD Trailer #3 [2009]