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Unlike De Niro, cineastes have been kinder to Pacino. According to our wonderful friends on Fametracker, which, sadly, is still on hiatus, the reason for that is simple. Read on:
How many actors of Pacino's stature still work so hard to entertain you? Wait a second -- how many actors are there of Pacino's stature, period? Only three Method giants survived the '70s unhobbled: Pacino, De Niro, and Duvall. All inarguably brilliant, each now following his own path. For Duvall, that means writing, directing, and starring in his own small, interesting films, such as The Apostle (with the occasional paycheque cameo in Gone in 60 Seconds). For De Niro, that means Rocky and Bullwinkle -- i.e., a long and leisurely retirement spent doing the same tics and twitches in about fourteen films a year, his rent-a-behind now firmly situated on his laurels.
Pacino, however, is working harder than ever. He works so hard, he spits. Think about it -- he's actually ramped up the energy since he started. His breakout role was as the near-somnambulant Michael Corleone, a guy who barely raised his voice. Fifteen years later, the older Pacino was tearing through every part like the hyperactive love child of the Tasmanian Devil and Cosmo Kramer.
I, for one, continue to hold out the hope that precisely because he works so hard, eventually good old Al will eventually come around to producing quality stuff. Till then, we ought to sit back and relax. He might not be hitting a very high percentage, but one of the hardest working actors of his generation remains one of the singular entertainment acts of all time. Let me leave you, therefore with another excerpt from our sadly inactive friends at Fametracker:
One of the more curious footnotes to the career of Al Pacino is that he was offered, and turned down, the part of Han Solo in 1977's Star Wars.
Now take a moment to imagine this: the young, pouchy-eyed Pacino reclining in the captain's seat of the Millennium Falcon, enjoying a moment with Chewie. Or the young, pouchy-eyed Pacino shouting "Hoo-wah!" as he zips like a frenetic elf up the ramp of the Falcon, trading blaster shots with attacking stormtroopers. Or the young, pouchy-eyed Pacino flying in like the cavalry in the film's climactic battle and, just before sending Vader's TIE fighter spinning madly into space, screaming, "Shay jello to my wittle vrend!"
Now, we're not saying that this would have been a better movie. But it sure would have been a more interesting one.
Which, really, is the best thing you can say about the very, very great Al Pacino. Or this: If you had to choose the films of one modern actor, and only one, to take with you into desert-island exile, whose oeuvre would you choose?
We submit Al Pacino. Here, you get cinematic art (the first two Godfathers; Dog Day Afternoon); you get high quality, high-satisfaction treats (Glengarry, Glen Ross, The Insider, Donnie Brasco) and you get delicious, delirious cheese (Scarface, The Devil's Advocate, City Hall). What more do you and your volleyball companion need? And, though we haven't seen every single Al Pacino movie, we are confident in asserting this: There's not a boring frame among them.
Enjoy!
My good friend Ella Ampongan mailed me an article in the Los Angeles Times which chronicles the thespic fall from grace of both Robert De Niro and Al Pacino. Now, much like many Filipinos' morbid fascination with vehicular accidents, the descent, by two of the finest actors of their generation, into crass commercialism and unbearably ponderous vanity projects, is something I can't stop writing about. Before I embarrass myself by asking if longtime readers of this blog remember the times when I lamented the fate which these fine gentlemen seem to be hurling themselves to, let me just move on and provide links to fellow cineastes who can't help themselves as well. Here's an oldie on from the wonderful people at Fametracker on Robert De Niro:
When did Robert De Niro stop acting? And when did he start saying yes to everything?
Granted, he's never terrible. In fact, that seems to be his biggest problem. He can show up, do his schtick (the squinting, the shrugging, the head bobbing from side to side), collect his check, and head home.
But when was the last time he surprised you? We don't mean surprised by his choice of role - as in, "De Niro's in Rocky & Bullwinkle !?!?!? Really!?!?!" - but surprised by what he did with the part.
Sam Rothstein in Casino was just an echo of Jimmy Conway in Goodfellas -- which was itself an echo of better work in Raging Bull and The Godfather Part II. Ditto for his parts in Cop Land, Heat, and Jackie Brown. He was intense as Dwight Hansen, the menacing stepdad in This Boy's Life, but hardly revelatory. How about Max Cady, the tattooed psycho in Cape Fear? Or maybe Stanley of Stanley & Iris?
Folks, those roles were more than ten years and twenty-five films ago. Yes, you read that right. Twenty-five films.
Or have you forgotten Backdraft, Sleepers, Night and the City, Mad Dog and Glory, Analyze This (and, while you're at it, That) Heat, The Fan, Great Expectations, Men of Honor, Meet the Parents, 15 Minutes --
15 Minutes (!?!) --
The Score, Ronin, Showtime --
Showtime (!!?!!)
City by the Sea, Godsend, and, finally, the just-opened Shark Tale.
Excuse us. We need to sit down and catch our breath.
It's some kind of testament to De Niro's -- what? Longevity? Reputation? Savvy? Greed? -- that he's managed to make more bad movies in the last decade than most actors have made movies, period. And we know what you're thinking: Those movies weren't terrible, with the exception of Showtime, 15 Minutes, and a few others. Meet the Parents? Funny. Heat? Thrilling-ish. Ronin? Downright serviceable.
Yes, sure, fine. We concede that. We like to see an urn full of someone's mom's ashes smashed in the fireplace and then sniffed at by a fuzzy cat as much as anyone.
But don't you remember when Robert De Niro showing up in a movie was an event? When it meant something? We're not even talking about his heyday as a live wire in the '70s, when he crackled with such committed intensity that he fried every other actor on the set. (Joe Pesci has a made a whole career out of the simple ability to appear onscreen with De Niro and not get sizzled to charcoal.)
We're talking about the 1980s. Hell, even the early '90s. We're talking about a time not that long ago. Back when you'd hear about a film like, say, The Untouchables, and think, "Hmmm." Then you'd hear De Niro was playing Capone -- and packing on the pounds and shaving back his hairline to do it -- and you'd think, "Hey! De Niro! Now that's the stamp of quality!"
Robert De Niro is no longer the stamp of quality.
There's something undeniably ironic about the fact that a generation's most famously committed actor -- the guy who got fat for Raging Bull, the guy who'd self-inflict any physical degradation in the name of his beloved Method -- should spend his retirement as, arguably, the laziest and most formulaic movie star in Hollywood.
To Ate Cecile: yes, I realize that the picture above has nothing to do with the post. And yes, I'm doing Pacino tomorrow. Enjoy!
There are some actors who you simply can't watch, unless a misplaced sense of Catholic guilt requires you to do penance by sticking the metaphorical equivalent of a poniard into your eyeballs. Case in point? David Caruso. His heavy-handed, over-modulated, Ray-Ban driven delivery (and seriously, has any other actor relied so heavily on a pair of shades to fake gravitas more than this hack?) always makes me reach for the remote.
And then there is Steve Martin. Steve Martin too makes me want to reach for the remote, but in a different way. It's just too painful to watch the comedic genius who brought us so much joy with movies like "The Jerk", "All of Me", and "Roxanne" sully his reputation with sterile, soulless fare such as the sequels to "Father of the Bride" and "Cheaper by the Dozen", both of which enjoy maddeningly constant airtime on our cable movie channels. How could the author of "Shopgirl" stoop so low? Perhaps he suffers from De-Niro-itis, where, having established himself as one of the most gifted talents ever to grace the silver screen, he feels that it's okay to never say no. Even if it means having to do The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle.
Which is why, in the greater scheme of things, it was great to read the following excerpt from noted New Yorker critic Anthony Lane's review of "Baby Mama":
If you want to see scene-stealing turned into grand larceny, watch Sigourney Weaver, as the owner of the surrogacy service, or, better still, Steve Martin, as the presiding genius of Round Earth. Hand the guy a thick hank of ponytail, relieve him of the burden of a central role, aim him squarely at the bull’s-eye of eco-smugness (“I’ve toasted pine nuts on the edge of an active volcano”), and you find him happier onscreen than I have seen him in years. Who cares whose baby is inside which mother, when the laughs come from the grown man doing business with his inner child?
It's not exactly the Steve Martin vehicle that I want to see, but it's nice to hear that doing all those hack jobs hasn't blunted his skills too much. Now, if only we can stop him from doing the sequel to "The Pink Panther"...
Photo Credits:
Picture of Steve Martin and Tina Fey comes courtesy of About.com: Hollywood Movies.
Life has been so hectic lately that simply sitting around watching the world go by has assumed almost salvific proportions. Earlier, Tina asked me what my plans for tonight were. For the first time in weeks, I had no ready answer. No meetings. No hurried consultations under a cloud of industrial grade sawdust. No plans whatsoever. Typing this blog entry, in fact, constitutes the most work that I've done all day. Fantastic!
I can't help but feel an immense sense of peace. I'm home, and I can look forward to doing absolutely nothing with the people I love. Isn't life grand?
Now that the two most hectic, troubling, inspiring and enlightening weeks of my life, at least for the 1st quarter of 2008, is officially over and done with, I can finally blog again. Odd, though. I thought that my return to blogging would be accompanied by a deep sigh of relief, followed quickly by a quiet satisfaction at a job well done. My experiences however with Tim Hughes, Worship Central and the Singapore Alpha Conference have left me wonderfully scarred: I can't wait to get back to work!
As such, let me leave you with a glimpse of the uplifting work done by truly remarkable people by the Pasig River. I rarely indulge in posting more than one photo in any of my entries, but this is that rare occasion where I find my words unable to convey clearly what my fuzzy pictures express succinctly. Many thanks to Tent of Praise, Rommel Guevara, and the tireless missionary workers in West Rembo and Pineda. I hope to work with you guys again!
