Last night, at around 8:10 pm, a little girl of maybe 9 walked out onto the stage of the house that Carnegie built, her mother standing in the wings, watchng. When she got to the mic, she introduced herself: "My name is Harley Quinn Smith. My dad wanted me to say some curse words, but instead, I'll leave it to the master." And for the next three hours, Kevin Smith held court in Carnegie Hall.
If you've never been to one of the hundreds of Q&As Smith has done around the world -- or seen any of the Evening With Kevin Smith DVDs -- the format is simple: The writer-director gets on stage, does about 20 minutes of warm-up, and then fields questions from the audience. And the stories that get woven into the answers are what draws people to these Q&As by the thousands (the Carnegie Hall show was sold out). Smith is a born raconteur, able to spin the barest of questions (like, "Will you ever act again?") into 30-minute seminars on how his Catch and Release costar Jennifer Garner has the sense of humor of C-3PO ("Goodness gracious me!") despite being married to Ben Affleck, who tells tales that make Smith sound like a choir boy.
On stage at Carnegie Hall, he spoke of being overruled by Bruce Willis on the set of A Couple of Dicks ("When Bruce talks, you listen...especially when you're making a movie with a cop or a gun in it"), the late George Carlin's dream role ("I wanna play a clergyman who strangles six children -- I think I can pull that off"), and his legacy ("Longevity kills specialness: If I'd made Clerks, rode that for five years, then disappeared, they'd have built monuments to me"). Provided you don't mind torrents of foul language, sex described in pornographic detail, and arcane pop-culture references -- he even dropped a Doug Henning joke last night -- it's a good time had by all.
Adam B. Vary: So, John, it's a day after the end of E3, i.e. the annual videogaming expo where companies like Nintendo, Microsoft, Sony, EA and Ubisoft show off their newest games, gadgets, and wave-of-the-future hooziewhatsits. And I have to say, between all the giant video screens, booming speakers, gaming pods and mobs of eager gamers with only a cursory appreciation for other people's personal space, I'm still in recovery. How did you take to your very first E3 experience?
John Young: I still feel abused by it all. It's a complete sensory overload that initially seemed really impressive in an oh-this-is-probably-what-the-future-will-feel-like-50-years-from-now way. But after eight hours of being exposed to the rattling bass and the retina-searing displays, it starts doing things to your brain. But I did get to check out some very promising games. The 12-year-old version of me would have had the best time of his life.
Adam B. Vary: No kidding! I think the 12-year-old me would have especially lost his friggin' mind over what's become the biggest story out of E3, Microsoft's possibly-revolutionary Project Natal camera system, which you covered so well earlier this week. But let's face it, the 12-year-old me is so often also the 29-year-old me, and both, um, me's were stoked by the games, man: Nintendo announced a sequel to the crazy-fun Wii game Super Mario Galaxy and demo'd the long-awaited follow up to Wii Sports called Wii Sports Resort. EA presented Mass Effect 2, a sci-fi adventure that blurs even further the lines between playing a game and participating in a choose-your-own-adventure feature film. And Sony showcased the epically aggro God of War III, which had equally epic lines of people waiting to play it on the show floor.
John Young: You're right, it is ultimately about the games, and boy did they look sweet. Unfortunately, most of the ones that totally knocked my socks off weren't playable yet. I'm talking about Star Wars: The Old Republic, a massively multiplayer online role-playing game (MMORPG) that could genuinely compete with World of Warcraft; Avatar, based on James Cameron's upcoming sci-fi movie, with its breathtakingly realized alien planet called Pandora (Jeff Jensen gushed about the game earlier this week); and Uncharted 2: Among Thieves, which made the audience at Sony's press conference literally gasp when they saw just how beautiful it was. Speaking of press conferences, who do you think came out on top: Nintendo, Microsoft, or Sony?
Good morning, PopWatchers. How is everyone today? Have we all slept off our Idol hangovers? I like to picture you out there in your sleepy stupor, Kris fans conked out with lampshades on their heads and party streamers around their necks, Glambert fans just starting to rub the guyliner from their tear-stained cheeks. It's my honor to bring you the final On the Scene report from American Idol 2009, a report that will be kept fairly direct for a variety of reasons, not least of which being the fact that my seat at the Nokia Theater last night was located somewhere just north of Fresno, resulting in my experience of the finale being something akin to watching the show on a very small television situated very far away. The people down there were so small, like ants! And the jumbotron sometimes defaulted to funny patterns instead of the onstage action! And the sound was bad, and easily overruled by the screams of thousands of euphoric teenage girls! And Cory the Warmup Comedian didn't do anything Cory the Warmup Comedian hasn't done thousands of times before! But what a night, PopWatchers, what a majestic, majestic night, in which, really, there were no losers, except for maybe Rod Stewart, Bikini Girl, and at least two out of the four Black Eyed Peas.
If you'll be so kind as to follow me after the jump this one last time, I promise to share with you my thoughts on those performances and many more, as well as all the action outside the Nokia, where I'd been stationed almost literally around the clock since Monday. And then, because it is what we do, I will open the comments up to you, the Idol Nation, to share as many thoughts as you want on the broadcast and the results. I don't know if you've heard, but Kris Allen is Your.Next.American.Idol. The underdog! The dark horse! The kid who auditioned at Churchill Downs and, like Mine That Bird in the Kentucky Derby, overcame impossible odds to win! Me, I wasn't so shocked -- I'd been calling it for Kris all day. But hey, I just work here. Need a scapegoat? Might I suggest Danny Gokey? Get him!
Maybe it was the bright, sunshine-y day that basked the Nokia Theater in downtown Los Angeles with a warm, welcoming glow for yesterday's American Idol Top 2 performance finale extravaganza. Maybe it was the way Top 36-ers Casey Carlson, Kendall Beard, Kristen McNamara and Hollywood week washout Emily Wynne-Hughes all hugged each other outside the Nokia like they were the best of besties. Maybe it was the way the aforementioned foursome attracted a small mob of onlookers content to grab a photo and autograph from anyone involved with American Idol at all. Maybe it was the gaggle of well-dressed youngsters I saw happily packed like cattle just inside the Nokia's glass facade as they patiently waited to be transformed into Swaybots and herded to the lip of the Nokia's stage. Maybe it was the Idol swag being hocked both inside and out of the Nokia, including an Adam Lambert T-shirt with his first name in an '80s metal rock font and a Kris Allen T-shirt with his first name in a '70s disco boogie font. Or maybe it was the guy wearing the yellow T-shirt with "WHO'S YOUR MAMBA" in purple lettering, standing on some kind of raised platform smack in the middle of the massive lines of people waiting to get inside the Nokia, proselytizing at the top of his lungs not about the L.A. Lakers' impending playoff game next door at the Staples Center, but...wait for it...the Ten Commandments.
Whatever the reason, by the time I got to my seat way back in the wayback -- literally in the far right, rear corner of the indescribably massive Nokia Theater, so far away that wee Kris Allen was dwarfed by my outstretched pinkie -- I was in such a wide open-minded mood that even as I type this, I just can't get on the last-night's-performance-finale-was-a-serious-disappointment bandwagon. Yeah, "No Boundaries" was a melody-free, word-clogged blob of a song, but haven't we all come to expect our Idol finale songs to be uninterestingly bad? Sure, Adam and Kris were apparently forced to sing songs we'd heard from them before, but they still both managed to get me all with the goosebumples, and I don't think I've ever heard a better version of "Ain't No Sunshine" than Kris' last night. And, OK, "A Change is Gonna Come" and "What's Goin' On" aren't the hippest, most current songs in the pop music canon, but both our boys handled them with style to spare, and I daresay Lambert's achingly felt, blisteringly sung rendition of his Civil Rights Era classic was pretty damn interesting (not to mention quite moving) given all the buzz surrounding Adam's sexuality and recent advances in gay rights.
BEFORE I BEGIN MY FINAL ON-THE-SCENE RECAP FROM THE AMERICAN IDOL THUNDERDOME AT CBS TELEVISION CITY, CAN I JUST TELL YOU THAT -- oh, wait, sorry. My ears are still filled with what I can only describe as the Emergency Broadcast System tone turned up to 11 thanks to all the squeals, screams, and shrieks that buffeted the Idol Thunderdome's walls for pretty much the entire tension-packed hour, and that's including the commercial breaks. So let's start again: Can I just tell you that after last night's results show was over; after Ryan told Kris Allen he had become the first Idol cannon fodder to have a real shot at winning the whole shebang (as opposed to, you know, Diana DeGarmo); after Danny Gokey learned his fairy tale story -- i.e. going from true tragedy to the fleeting "triumph" of becoming a judges' favorite on a reality singing competition show -- had ended in third place; and after Simon caused viewers everywhere to make a bumble-fuzzed "wuzzah?" face when he called next week's finale a "big ding-dong," I witnessed one of the sweetest things I've ever seen in my three years of covering this infuriating, invigorating national obsession. The moment the show was off the air, Kris Allen's mother raced over to Adam Lambert's mother and the two women gave each other pretty much the biggest Proud-Mamas hug ever. I could've sworn my snark demon Smirkelstiltskin had a tear in his eye, although that probably was just because he'd no longer have the pleasure of watching Danny Gokey "meditate" by placing a single finger upon his stubbly chin.
ANYhoo. When I arrived at the Thunderdome, it was my first time there since The Incidents -- not to be confused, of course, with "The Incident," last night's off-the-hizzy Lost season finale, which I'm beginning to think has conspired with last night's nail-biter Idol results show to give me my first ever pop-culture ulcer -- and I gotta say, the Idol stage looked somehow...emptier, more foreboding, since I'd last seen it. This probably has something to do with the fact that the band was banished back to the top level, and that Idol's thumping behind-the-scene's heart Debbie the Stage Manager was still MIA. (Though I'm given to understand that she's mending well. Feel better Debbie!) But still, that ominously wide open stage set my mood for the rest of the hour, which wobbled from slow-burn anxiety to all-consuming dread to mordant bemusement that I can still care so deeply about this show.
Well, so that happened. I mean, what do you want me to say, PopWatchers? I know. I know. You want righteous indignation. You want fireballs. You want to hear about how I desired to throw up on Kara DioGuardi's face when she was spazzing out during Allison Iraheta's gutsy final performance as though she'd ever given that girl more than the most cursory compliment over the course of the season. (EDIT: As many of the commenters have pointed out, however, those cursory compliments were often the only ones A.I. got.)
Whatever. We're in a recession. There's swine flu. The Taliban is taking over Pakistan. Santa Barbara is on fire. And tonight was one of my best friends' birthdays, and I could only pop in at her party because I had to come home and write this silly recap about a silly talent show that attracts silly voters who wouldn't know real talent if it hit them with the mic stand that it carries around because it's trying to look "rock." I get it. It's not such a big deal. Allison went home. Adam Lambert's gonna win. Or Danny Gokey. Or Kris Allen. (?) And I guess we'll go on, unless we die broke and sneezing and on fire while subject to hardcore Sharia law. It's fine. I'm fine. You're fine. This...is what happened tonight at American Idol.
I entered the American Idol Thunderdome last night in a breathless rush -- more on why in a second -- so I almost missed a funny (and kinda prophetic) moment during the pre-show preparations. With 40 minutes to show time, the crew was still putting final touches on the lights, and the band was milling about in their civvies, Rickey Minor sporting what I believe was an especially choice Asian-tinged bowling shirt. Just as I took my seat, a bunch of the band decided to warm up their instruments and/or jam out for a bit. The song they chose? "Hit the Road Jack." A pretty hilarious song choice for the American Idol band to play on a results night, no? Especially since it turned out to be the night that Matt "Actually, It's More Like Three Lives" Giraud was finally and definitively cut from the show. (Due respect to Matty G. fans, of course, but you gotta admit the dude managed to make lingering into an art form.)
I was all with the winded last night because of a promise I made to you -- to America -- when I last wrote up the behind-the-scenes results night action. That night I noticed that fans for both Mr. Minor and Cory the Warm Up Comic had brought signs proclaiming their fandom, but the woman without whom Idol would be a train-wreck of missing judges, wandering contestants and unruly audiences -- I'm speaking, of course, of Debbie Williams, Stage Manager Extraordinaire -- had exactly zero signs for her. So yesterday, en route to the Idol studios at CBS Television City, I swung by my local Rite Aid, picked up a sheet of premium-grade 99-cent posterboard, and huddled on the cement floor of the mall parking lot designated for Idol audiences coloring out the words "DEBBiE DOES IDOL GOOD!" The "i" in "DEBBiE" was dotted with a star. Obviously.
This isn't exactly going to thrill my editors, but I've gotta be honest, PopWatchers: Last night's "Rat Pack" performance episode of American Idol was, for me, for you, for Idol, for all of us, kinda like that episode from the second season of Project Runway where everyone was tasked with making an outfit out of fresh flora -- a bit precious in concept resulting in uniformly solid work from all the competitors and Nina Simon going kind of gaga over Daniel's Glambert's flowers theatricality. From a behind-the-scenes standpoint, however, it was a decidedly meh affair. How meh, you ask with your raised eyebrows? Put it this way: Towards the end of the night, Randy announced on Cory the Warm-Up Comic's mic that Paula's mother was in da house, and not once did anyone break into a spontaneous fit of cartwheels, crying-jags, or tortured, mixed metaphors. Instead, there was just a crush of warm hugs and smiles, causing my snark demon Smirkelstiltskin to scream, "Are you kidding me with this?!?" (Well, maybe not scream, per se. More like a tinny toot.)
For starters, the celeb count was quite low. I definitely caught 90210's Lori Loughlin, there with three adorable little girls all wearing matching American Idol baseball caps a few sizes too big for their moppet noggins, but that was it on the famous face front from my vantage point. I did keep thinking this one woman was Scrubs sweetheart Sarah Chalke -- only she wasn't. And there was this guy in a flopsy knit hat who could've been one of the Jonas brothers' bohemian, iPhone-addicted cousins -- except he (probably) wasn't. There was also a fleeting moment of euphoria when Cory stepped on stage to begin his warm-up routine and it looked like his mic wasn't working -- except, alas, it was only on mute.
So thank jeebus for Kara DioGuardi, who, upon entering the Idol Thunderdome after Randy, literally fell onto Mr. Jackson as he was working the Swaypit, and almost fell out of her form-fitting dress. It's exactly that kind of doofery from which hardy snark is born, and I was relieved to see at least one Idol denizen was in it to win it. For real, yo.
EW.com has two reporters covering the Tribeca Film Festival in New York. We thought it'd be fun to get the two of them together together to discuss what they've seen.
MISSY SCHWARTZ: Hi there, Adam Markovitz. Since we've been covering different stuff here at the 2009 Tribeca Film Festival, I figured we could chat about it via PopWatch. Exciting, right? This year's fest is all about quality over quantity: fewer films, but supposedly of a higher caliber. I like the smaller pool to choose from, though I'm bummed that I couldn't go to opening night last week. But you did! You bravely hit the red carpet and then stuck around to catch Woody Allen's Whatever Works. How'd that work out for ya?
ADAM MARKOVITZ: Well, I had a good time -- but I'm not sure I can say the same for Larry David, who stars in the movie. He was a good sport, but I honestly don't think I've ever seen anyone look so miserable fielding questions from reporters on a red carpet. Good thing there were plenty of other celebs there to share some of the spotlight: Woody Allen, Tribeca Film Festival co-founder Robert DeNiro, Uma Thurman, and Debra Messing, to name a few. I'll leave the reviewing to Owen Gleiberman and Lisa Schwarzbaum, but I will say the movie got some pretty big laughs -- especially when Patricia Clarkson showed up as a bible-thumping belle. She was a crowd favorite. Have you seen any other buzz-worthy performances so far?
MISSY: I've seen a whole bunch of movies. I started things off with Rudo y Cursi, otherwise known as the reunion of Y Tu Mamá También's Diego Luna and Gael García Bernal. Very cute. Not nearly as raunchy as Y Tu Mamá. (Duh.) Both guys are in town and braved about a zillion blinding flashbulbs at the official after-party last night. I had a friendly chat with the very sweet Mr. Luna, who's sporting a shaggy, long-haired look these days. What else? I saw Moon, in which Sam Rockwell plays an astronaut stuck in space. I wasn't sure what to expect from this one, since I'm not a huge fan of so-called "space movies," but Rockwell is such a terrific actor that I was thoroughly engrossed from start to finish. Let’s see... Friday night, I caught the blaxploitation spoof Black Dynamite, written by and starring martial arts master-cum-actor Michael Jai White (Why Did I Get Married?). I'm quite sure my pal Jason Averett -- who took a break from producing the latest episodes of Idolatry to accompany me downtown -- will agree when I say it was a hilariously dyn-o-mite way to kick off the weekend. It's one of those movies that you have to see with an audience. And boy did this crowd love it. Kung fu! Conspiracy! Shrinking man-parts! Oh, how we laughed. Finally, Saturday night was back-to-back screenings of Cheryl Hines' directorial debut, Serious Moonlight, and the Johnny Knoxville-produced doc The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia. Yikes, I'm blabbing. What else have you seen?
ADAM: I haven't made it to as many screenings as you have, but I did catch the world premiere of Stay Cool, the new back-to-high-school movie from the Polish brothers (The Astronaut Farmer). Mark Polish was the lead, but the supporting cast -- Sean Astin and Josh Holloway as goofy buds, Hilary Duff as a teen queen -- definitely stole the show. And best of all was Winona Ryder, who skipped the premiere but was still the movie's MVP for bringing loads of charisma to her role as a high-school dream girl who's all grown up. And speaking of premieres, I'm off to see the debut of the Matthew Broderick drama Wonderful World. I'll let you know how it goes!
MISSY: Yes, please do. In the meantime, I'll look forward to tomorrow's premiere of Steven Soderbergh's The Girlfriend Experience and Wednesday's unveiling of the Eric Bana man-meets-car documentary, Love the Beast. Oh, and Adam: be sure to squeeze in a screening of the British-American political mockumentary In the Loop. Good times. PopWatchers, we'll be back with more Tribeca-ing later this week.
Sorry, Smirkelstiltskin, but you're going to have to sit this one out. Even though, during last night's American Idol results show, we were seated just two rows away from Cory the Warm-Up Comic's first ever pro-Cory-sign-brandishing fan club (i.e. his family); even though Danny Gokey kept making his hand into a heart and flashing it with a doofy grin to his friends and family in the audience, and they kept flashing it back; and even though the person sitting next to us was wearing an "I [heart] Kara" t-shirt with the word "Kara" in a font that made it look like the letters were literally on fire, my snark demon has packed it in for the night. It may not have quite seemed so on the TV, but when Matt Giraud sang his way to safety -- and, I assure you, in that room, it definitely came over that it was his singing that saved him -- it was such a rousing, moving climax that it simply proved far too genuinely emotional for poor Smirkel to handle. He simply exploded then and there on my shoulder in a cloud of sulfur and glitter paint.
Truth be told, much of the evening up until that moment was deadly dull. Both Jennifer Hudson and Miley Cyrus were pre-taped, so for much of the show, we simply sat in darkness and watched J. Hud let it rip (in spite of clear nerves and ear monitor issues) and Miley bleat like a slightly ill baby donkey (in spite of the painfully obvious fact that she wouldn't have made it to the semi-finals of Nashville Star, let alone Idol). During J. Hud's segment, neither the Idols nor the judges were even in the studio at all. But you know who was? That's right, the official American Matinee Idol, Zac Efron! Allllltogether now: Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
