Just moments ago I posted a confused blast of impatience directed toward the Festival in Rio that will be showing "City Island". In the post (which I've left up and can be viewed below) I offered to eat my hat if I were wrong about them backing out of showing the movie.
I hearby direct you to this link, which shows the many showtimes and lovely theaters our movie is showing in, in that great city named for the month of January, Rio De Janeiro. May the good citizens of Brazil accept my humble thanks and apologies for ever doubting your fabulously good instincts on world cinema. And I may I take this opportunity to convey my thanks for the music of Antonio ("They called him Tom") Carlos Jobim, who I included in the previous post? And what of all the wonderful Brazilian food and drink we have? I can't think of anything specific, but I'm sure I've enjoyed a Brazilian cocktail and probably a heavily spiced and salted hunk of meat prepared according to some ancient Brazilian recipe at some point along the way. And just think--if not for Brazil, we wouldn't have the name "Copacabana". And without that name, we wouldn't have that glorious work of art by Barry Manilow!
This is getting weird. A month or two ago I was told that we were part of the Rio De Janeiro Film Festival. They wanted to bring me, Andy Garcia, Steven Strait, Emily Mortimer, Julianna Margulies and my producers Lauren Versel and Zachary Matz. Then Andy couldn't make it on the date they'd suggested screening the film and giving a big gala for him. They didn't offer any alternative date. He passed on the festival. Emily couldn't make it for personal reasons. Julianna Marguiles, in case you haven't heard or noticed, is currently the hard-working star of a major network hit series, "The Good Wife" (and very good in it too, by the way). So it's me, the producers and the wonderful Steven Strait who are attending.
I'll be the first to eat a healthy portion of my hat if its all a big misunderstanding and I wind up writing to you next from the Copacabana. I've never been to Brazil and was counting on this glammy (and free) trip to introduce me to this much beloved part of our earth. So come on guys. Get your shit together and officially invite "City Island". We're a goddamn hit at every festival we play, so why pussyfoot around? And if you don't want us for some reason, leave a comment telling me to go away.
Meanwhile, some Antonio Carlos Jobim--father of the samba and friend of Sinatra's--to hopefully rekindle the good Brazilian vibes.
Dig the above photo--a lovely grouping capturing literally ALL of us who attended at Deauville. The handsome little boy is my son, Lorenzo De Felitta. The beautiful little girl belongs to our executive producer Militun Gatsby. This was taken the night of our premiere.
I'm having trouble locating the French press on our movie--is it because the language eludes me? If anyone can turn up reviews or feature pieces (and I know they exist) I'd love to have the links forwarded to me...
And finally--mega-bigtime thanks to the indespensible (and mysteriously named) JC--a faithful reader who turns up stuff that eludes even I, the Phillip Marlowe of Youtube. CLICK HERE TO SEE OUR PRESS CONFERENCE. Yes, I agree JC: too short and the French translations a bit long. But we were in the midst of a heavy press day so the the somewhat abortive end came as something of a relief. Most importantly, this video captures the professional show-biz debut of my son. Watch as they announce Andy Garcia and a five year old walks out instead of the star of our movie. Then Andy shows up and picks him up for the world paparazzi to get a good, long look.This cameo was a last minute inspiration on Andy's part--and I'm afraid it might have been one of those never to be taken back moments where somebody's life changes forever: later that night, I told Andy how much my son loved being on the stage being photographed and he said: "I'm like the neighborhood pusher--giving the kids a shove down the wrong path". My son was marvelously unfazed by this experience and, I fear, rather liked it: later that night, at the premiere, he watched the movie and kept casting sideways glances over to Andy who sat next to us. It was as if he was asking: "There he is on the screen...there he is in person...how the hell does this movie stuff really work?"
"City Island" got another big-time ovation at our screening at Deauville and plenty of nice French press (those three words don't always go together--the French can be nasty when the mood strikes them). I'm sharing some photos that I took and a few on-line links as they become available. Cheers...
Photo call at Deauville--Andy Garcia and Dominik Garcia-Lorido...
As I write this, a bunch of no doubt sleep-encrusted, wine-soaked, coffee-seeking, ashtray-reeking journalists are sitting down to watch "City Island" at the ungodly French hour of nine AM. This is our press screening--the screening that will decide, one way or the other, how the film will be reviewed critically in this most critical of cinema-obsessed countries. Am I worried? No. Why, you ask?
Because, thanks to you youtube, I just found the goddamned niftiest bit of period footage of this lovely French beach resort, showing the place in 1936 in beautiful black and white which appears to have been struck from an original nitrate print of the footage (you'll see how sharp the quality is). It's coverage of the first Deauville Grand Prix auto race--was there a second, a third?--and included in its short one minute length is a genuine auto fatality. An Italian, of all things, is the victim of the deadly crash--and I believe it happens just a few feet from the hotel I'm staying in--the Royal--which can be glimpsed briefly at 11:00-13:00 seconds.
So how can I worry what the French will think of my film, sitting here as I am just feet (meters? cubes?) away from the place where one of my paisans--one Giuseppe Farina it sounds like--wiped out, ending his life? As long as I don't get hit by a car crossing the street, I'll survive whatever happens here in Deauville--which by the way is a wildly attractive part of this charming country, much less hypey and overbuilt than the South of France, home of a certain "other" festival...
In answer to a comment asking what's going on in Paris with the movie? NOTHING! Just hanging here.
And as far as comment two goes, are you kidding? Leave technology behind? If a tree falls in the forest and there's nobody there...right? Well, if a blogger travels and fails to post...same thing. You dig?
Paris in the 1930's awaits. My suggestion for the following ten minute video of hypnotic views of the city from a lost time: go to full screen for the viewing, uncork a good bottle of wine and slap on some Charles Trenet. Glance away from the screen as often as you glance toward it. Act only half-interested--in other words, act French. Paris is its own best imitation of itself--you can't call the truth a cliche and every cliche about Paris is true. Cheers, baby...
A full day in Paris and tonight, after a lustrous (luscious? lushy?) dinner, I come home to my hotel room and start searching YT for the Paris stock footage. There is so much that I'll just throw up a sampler every day or so as a tribute to the city that is quickly becoming my second favorite (NYC first, natch).
Now dig this: though labeled "Paris in the 20's", I think this footage is more like at the dawn of the twenties--even, say the late teens. A few repeat watchings of it reveal soldiers still in uniform (which makes it like 1918 or shortly thereafter), horses and carriages in abundance on the streets and men wearing...are you ready? BOATERS. Yes, back when straw hats weren't period costume gear, people actually wore them to look hip and up to date. And here those people are, long dead, lives and trials and tribulations all flushed away by the toilet of time...and yet, thanks to the miracle of film (largely, like aviation, a French invention that the French somehow didn't get the full credit for) preserved here for us.
After just a day and half here I'm amazed: like New York, nothing really looks different when you check out the old movie footage--except the lousy clothing we wear now and the stupid cars that have replaced the lovely old ones. And as always with old stock footage, two-thirds of the fun is the ghostly nature of the captured events, sans sound, sans "meaningful" context...which only makes it more profound and meaningful of course Enjoy...
Tomorrow I leave for Europe. "City Island" will screen at Deauville on September 11th. (Later in September we'll screen in a festival in Rio and in October at the festival in Ghent, Belgium). Andy Garcia is, along with Harrison Ford, this years Major American star at the festival--there's a tribute to him, a dinner, screenings of his other movies all of which finally climaxes with a screening of "City Island". I'm deeply thrilled by all of it--Deauville has always been my favorite film festival.
My first experience with the high-flying international film festival circuit came when my first feature, "Cafe Society", was selected to be part of the Cannes Film Festival's "Director's Fortnight" in 1995. I had turned thirty, made my first film and gotten into Cannes. Whoopee. A goal/mission/dream accomplished. Alas, Cannes wasn't quite the lovefest of art, music an la friggin' vie that I'd always hoped it would be. Loud, crowded, filled with loathsome business types and impossible to navigate politics, my film had its screenings, got a mixed review from Todd McCarthy in Variety and quickly was shuffled out of contention for any major awards, sales or even good old fashioned notoriety. We were, in short, like most films at most festivals; simply one of the many that aren't one of the ones that "breaks out". Oh well. Boo hoo. Waaa. Pass the gin and vicodin. Did they even make vicodin then? Is that even how you spell "Vicodin"? (You'd think I'd have figured out how to spell something I use so much...like "coffee" or "MacBook"...)
Anyway, a few months later we were invited to Deauville with the film and I was delighted to find myself in the midst of precisely the experience I had thought Cannes was going to be and wasn't. The festival was chic, well-organized and attended by a mix of cinema loyalists, show-biz headliners and locals curious to get a glimpse of whoever that years special attraction was. I went with Peter Gallagher who starred in the film--and he brought his golf clubs and played quite a bit of golf with Patrick Stewart. Kevin Spacey was there with his movie "Swimming With Sharks". So, I seem to remember, was DeNiro--in fact there was a speial honorary dinner for him that we went to before winding up in a noisy club chatting it up with Valerie Kaprisky. (Hm. What ever happenend to her--she was in the Richard Gere remake of "Breathless" and was a charming, very bright lady as I recall...)
A few years later, my film "Two Family House" was invited back and that time I had the rather extraordinary experience of partying down with Bob Altman, Barry Levinson, Julie Taymor and Neil Jordan at the Mayor of Deauville's house. The "special guests" at the festival that year were the uneasy combination of Robert Altman and Dino DeLaurentis--two men who famously disliked each other, De Laurentis having fired Altman from "Ragtime" many years earlier. De Laurentis didn't show up at the Mayor's house for the dinner--I wondered if he was avoiding Altman. Finally, somebody who didn't understand the history between the two men innocently asked Altman if he'd be going to "the DeLaurentis Party later". Altman gave them a withering glare and answered, "No thanks--I've already been to the De Laurentis party."
Later that night we all wound up in a hotel lobby, drinking more..stuff. Gradually I became aware of the fact that the lovely woman I was sitting next to was Anouk Aimee, international iconic star of, among others, "A Man And A Woman". She was alone and as the party disbanded I realized that she was staying by herself down the beach at the other big hotel. Anouk had that certain look/style/carriage of someone who is used to be accompanied places--indeed she looked somewhat startled to suddenly not being surrounded by the others. We'd exchanged only a few words through the evening but I decided to gallantly offer to walk her back to her hotel. She was pleased and accepted. On the way down the beach, she said to me --a rueful laughter in her tone--"You know, thirty years ago the men would have been falling all over each other for this opportunity". What could I say? To disagree would be an insult to her celebrity and to agree would be to tacitly acknowledge that the parade had in fact passed her by. I settled for a ruminative nod and made a mental note to self: how frigging lucky was I to be strolling down a French beach one evening with a woman once considered one of the most desirable in the world?
