James Gandolfini

With its more recent series taking them in period (Boardwalk Empire), fantasy (Game of Thrones), and youth-oriented (Girls) directions, HBO may be returning to the tried-and-true. Deadline reports that the premium cable network has ordered James Gandolfini's Criminal Justice pilot, written by Steven Zaillian and Richard Price. The series is based on a foreign drama (just like Showtime's hit Homeland!) wherein the accused person of the season journeys through the system, from law to order. Mr. Gandolfini is said to play a "disheveled jailhouse lawyer"--a different side of the chasm between do-gooder and wrongdoer than he's used to, at least.

The book, detailing the rise and fall of master builder Robert Moses, is lush with details, one of those books that feels at once made for the screen and yet impossibly adaptable. The Observer dying in anticipation for what could be the best or worst film by Mr. Stone, or even anyone. And who might play Moses?

In addition to assuming directorial duties, Stone will executive produce with former studio chief Peter Guber and Sopranos vet James Gandolfini.

Gandolfini's managers Nancy Sanders and Mark Armstrong are attached as co-executive producers, with Nicholas Meyer (Collateral Damage, The Prince of Egypt) on board to pen the telepic.

We have no idea if it will be James Gandolfini in the end, but can you imagine? He's got the build, the accent, the gravitas, that's for sure. Over on Gothamist, they've lined up a few of their favorites, and if those are our choices, The Observer would have to go with Stanley Tucci.

Hopefully it will not take Mr. Stone as long to make his movie as it did Mr. Caro his book.

mchaban [at] observer.com | @MC_NYC

It begins with a typical dead-end evening in the unhappy life of Doug Riley, who spends every Thursday night stuck in the same routine--poker, waffles and sex with the waitress at the Pancake House. Doug owns a plumbing supply business in Indianapolis that offers no respite from a life consumed with mourning over the death of his daughter, Emily, in a car crash. At home, he sits in a dark garage and smokes forbidden cigarettes while his wife, Lois (the always reliable Melissa Leo), locks herself away, works on her ceramics, stares at the walls and sees images of Emily dancing across her eyeballs. She's a tortured agoraphobic who hasn't been out of the house in eight years. They're polite strangers, occupying the same empty space but joined together only by mutual loss. The holes in their hearts cannot be filled, so Doug looks beyond their tunnel vision for outside help when he attends a convention in New Orleans and becomes infatuated with a tough 16-year-old runaway stripper and borderline crack whore (Kristen Stewart, from vampire fame in the Twilight series), who is as lonely and lost as he is. It never occurs to anybody in this movie to call in a psychiatrist. Why settle for easy when there's so much pain just waiting to be experienced, like eating broken glass?

As Doug's paternal interest grows and a reluctant, mismatched relationship develops, the movie drags on, piling on one preposterous situation after another. He closes his business back home and offers the girl $100 a day, no strings attached, just to let him move into her sordid house with no electricity and a filthy toilet that's been stopped up for years. If that's not implausible enough, Lois suddenly drives all the way from Indiana to Louisiana, breathing into a paper bag to keep from hyperventilating. Now all three of them are making beds, painting walls and dusting the dirt in a faux family pretense as dopey as it is bizarre. Trying to save the girl from drugs and prostitution by forcing her to brush her teeth and sleep on clean sheets with hospital corners, Mrs. Riley dispenses advice on venereal disease, and Mr. Riley docks her a dollar every time she uses the F word. It has just the opposite effect of compassion, and just seems simple-minded and, frankly, funny in all the wrong places.

What keeps this leaden freighter afloat is the acting. Melissa Leo, in another gallant entry in her gallery of oddballs, and Mr. Gandolfini, eons away from his role in The Sopranos, bring nuance to the task of toting Ms. Stewart out of decadence and sin, but the sexy squalor of the Big Easy wins every time. The cheap glitter of New Orleans is an ornamental contrast to the numbness of Indianapolis, but practically no use is made of the colorful ambience it offers. This movie could just as well have been made in Pismo Beach. The whole thing makes you feel like you're stoned. By the time Lois says, "She's not Emily," and the Rileys head back home, you're too tired to mumble, "What took you so long?" You just wonder what Jake Scott, the director son of Ridley Scott, and Ken Hixon, the confused and inconsistent screenwriter, were smoking. Whatever it is, I'll have what they're having.

rreed@observer.com

WELCOME TO THE RILEYS
Running time 110 minutes
Written by Ken Hixon
Directed by Jake Scott
Starring James Gandolfini, Kristen Stewart, Melissa Leo, Ally Sheedy

2/4

The theater denies any disturbance and it's tough to know what to believe. Gandolfini's very anti-paparazzi so we can't imagine him doing anything to draw attention to himself. Moreover, we've always operated under the assumption that the actor knows the value of ice. This turns our world upside down.

But even a West Side-based coalition of famous names--including the Sopranos star, a Mad Man, and Ben Affleck--aren't having much luck getting the city to dump its plans for a West Side garbage garage. The Times finds the situation about the same as it always has been, with the stars pushing an airy alternative called Hudson Rise--with a rooftop park, of course--and the city responding that it's probably just going to build the one it's already planned, no matter how many Emmys are lined up against it.

I’m the first to admit that I went into Where the Wild Things Are with perhaps too high expectations. I blame part of this on the most excellent trailer—remember that teaser, released back in March, full of sumptuous, wondrous images set to that infectious Arcade Fire song? It seemed (regardless of the chatter over delays and studio clashes that has followed this project around) to be a perfect combination of parts: Maurice Sendak’s classic children’s book; director Spike Jonze, the wacky mind behind Being John Malkovich and Adaptation (not to mention some of the best music videos around. And hey, remember music videos?); co-writer (with Jonze) Dave Eggers, author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and co-writer of the charming Away We Go. Plus, have you taken a good look at this Max Records kid, who plays Max in this movie? He has the most sweetly melancholic face—one can’t imagine him just walking into an audition. It seems more likely that the twee trinity of Wes Anderson, Sofia Coppola and Mr. Jonze all joined forces to cook up his genetics, Gattaca-style.

The film starts off pitch-perfect. Young Max, just like in the book, is a mischievous boy who gathers snowballs to pelt his older sister and her friends, makes forts, throws tantrums, etc. But Mr. Jonze is also able to capture how long those childhood afternoons can drag, and how lonely being a kid can be. The rage that gets Max sent out of the room without dinner is more dramatic than it is in the source material (of course, it’s impossible to make a 100-minute movie to match a book that takes somewhere between one and three minutes to read), and is borne of a new backstory about a divorced mom and her new boyfriend (oh hi, Mark Ruffalo!). Suffice it to say, it’s not a mysterious forest that grows out of Max’s bedroom (bummer) but a fantastical journey that Max takes, which involves a seafaring passage that would make the Losties proud. And there, finally, is where we meet our Wild Things.

So here’s the thing: This movie looks so damn perfect. The sunshine filters beautifully through insanely tall trees, and those giant puppets are great-looking and move with a balletic grace that is fascinating to see. Yet once Mr. Jonze and Mr. Eggers depart from the bare-bones text, allowing the Wild Things to speak (it’s a little hard not to think of Tony Soprano when you hear James Gandolfini’s voice, even if it’s coming from a giant puppet), things get a little strange. The gang (which includes effective voice portrayals from Lauren Ambrose, Catherine O’Hara, Paul Dano and Chris Cooper) is less wild than they are unhappy, and there are some very adultlike gripes and resentments running through the creature community when Max arrives. Which is not to say there aren’t some truly inspired moments within the film (just wait till you meet Bob and Terry). But something doesn’t quite jell, and no matter how gorgeous each set piece is, it doesn’t always entirely add up to a complete and satisfying narrative. I couldn’t help but think, from time to time, how on earth were these guys allowed to make this movie?

This one is certainly not going to be for the Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs crowd. I can’t imagine any young kid seeing it, not just because parts of it are dark and kind of scary, but because I can’t imagine any small fry having the attention span to stick with it. Perhaps the target audience can be identified through the line of Where the Wild Things Are clothes, key chains and decorations available at … Urban Outfitters. 

svilkomerson@observer.com

I noted that there's an article explaining how Gandolfini first intended to play the role of mayor more like Rudy Giuliani, but after reading the script, decided the character was more like Bloomberg.

Bloomberg was slated to have a role in the movie version of Sex and the City last year, but he wound up on the cutting-room floor.

I noted that there's an article explaining how Gandolfini first intended to play the role of mayor more like Rudy Giuliani, but after reading the script, decided the character was more like Bloomberg.

Bloomberg was slated to have a role in the movie version of Sex and the City last year, but he wound up on the cutting-room floor.

The 67-year-old former Velvet Underground frontman, clad in comfy running shoes, jeans and a gray sweatshirt, and standing with wife Laurie Anderson, simply shrugged and turned back to a video presentation that was playing—something about a big smelly sanitation facility fouling up the neighborhood.

“Come on, you should film some of this!” Mr. Reed told the reporter, waving toward the screen.

Behind them, the actor James Gandolfini loomed large in a long-sleeved gray polo shirt. “Are you giving a speech?” the Sopranos star asked the diminutive Ms. Anderson. “I don’t want to give a speech.”

They had all turned out on Monday, March 23, at a fund-raiser for the Tribeca Community Association, a neighborhood group now suing the Bloomberg administration over its nearly $500 million plan to construct a massive, 118-feet-tall garbage-truck garage and 75-feet-high salt shed at the corner of Washington and Spring streets.

Mr. Reed, in particular, has been among the plan’s most outspoken critics, lashing out at Mayor Michael Bloomberg in recent interviews with NY1 and New York magazine. He and other opponents are pushing an alternative plan to build a park on the site.

The splashy event, which also featured a brief appearance by the Oscar-winning actress Ms. Connelly and her actor husband, Paul Bettany, took place in the corporate headquarters of Saatchi & Saatchi at 375 Hudson Street—a setting that some of the famous activists found rather ironic.

“An ad agency,” Mr. Reed remarked. “You never know who you end up with.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Mr. Gandolfini agreed.

Mr. Reed gave brief remarks on behalf of the A-list opposition, many of whom only sounded off during a short video played at the party.

“I mean, enough is enough,” protested the actress Kirsten Dunst on the video, drawing a few giggles from the audience. (Ms. Dunst did not attend, though her ex-boyfriend, Beatrice Inn DJ Matt Creed, was present.)

The room was packed with politicos and neighborhood gadflies, talking zoning variances and binding resolutions in the blue-lit room, munching bruschetta and salmon-stuffed cream puffs, with legendary DJ-turned-blogger Steve Lewis spinning in the background. A smattering of partygoers sported buttons and stickers in support of former Community Board 2 chair Maria Passannante Derr, who’s taking on Council Speaker Christine Quinn in the upcoming election.

Even 80-year-old neighborhood zoning maven Doris Diether made an appearance, airing opinions over a glass of white wine (the bar wasn’t serving Champagne, her preference).

Many grumbled about Councilman Alan Gerson’s remarks at the podium. Mr. Gerson abstained from voting on Bloomberg’s sanitation plan but still railed against it at the event, to some heckling from Soho activist Sean Sweeney.

Others grumbled about the glitz. “I just came here to see the hypocrisy,” said Carl Tyndall, 29, who lives in the Bronx. “If this were in the Bronx or Brooklyn or a poor community, they can’t do this—they can’t have famous people speak up for them. … It must be nice when you have money and you can do something like this. I wish everyone could.”

Still others didn’t want to talk politics at all.

“I’m not that concerned with the environment,” said waifish blonde Cat Marnell, 24, an associate beauty editor at Lucky. A friend had invited her, and the drinks were free. “I don’t understand, I think everyone’s too angry. But I support the parks!” She added, “Jennifer Connelly shows up to too many events.”

ldepillis@observer.com

Don’t get us wrong; we bow down to the altar of Mr. Fox’s portrayal of Jack Shephard on Lost. He’s made Jack a single-minded and egomaniacal opportunist who will do anything to get his own way. He’s such an anti-hero that, at this point, Jack has become more of a villain than anything else. This deconstruction has afforded Mr. Fox with a wide palette of human emotions to draw from, and he always delivers. He never gets the praise of an actor like James Gandolfini, or even Jon Hamm, but Mr. Fox has been every bit their equal since Lost began. He’s the quintessential television star. And that’s where he needs to stay.

The facts are indisputable. Mr. Fox is good looking, but not movie star good looking—no one would confuse him with Brad Pitt; he’s talented, but not movie star talented—if you have doubts about this, we would direct you to his performance in Vantage Point, where he gets steamrolled by a sleepwalking Dennis Quaid; and he’s got presence, but not movie star presence—there’s no way Mr. Fox could ever carry a film on his back, when he can barely manage to carry a television show without a call sheet full of supporting players. (Also, remember Haunted? We didn't think so!)

So do us a favor, Matthew Fox: find another series when Lost ends—something about a crooked cop or morally compromised lawyer. Maybe try putting your inherent skill at villainy to good use. We don't really care what you do just as long as it airs on television. We need to see the half-cry on a weekly basis!