It does have a brief, albeit extra-pulpy, synopsis of the story:

7 RED- Louis Hollander doesn’t believe in luck and for twenty years he cheated the system until he got cocky and got caught. Now, as a spotter under the thumb of a casino boss, he turns in the cheaters. He is sent to track a mystery woman who has been busting roulette tables across the country on seemingly impossible single-number bets. Hollander’s mission is to intercept her, crack the secret of her game, and stop her from being a threat…stop her hard, if necessary. Producers are Mace Neufeld (HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER, INVICTUS) and Robyn Shwer of Mace Neufeld Productions and Eryl Cochran and Branon Coluccio. Currently out to cast.

Why isn’t my name in there? Well, the only writer mentioned on any of these projects is a writer/director. Directors you can advertise. Directors are sexy. The point of these releases (as well as whatever presentation they bring to Berlin and subsequent film markets) is to give the projects some sex appeal while they raise the money. My name provides absolutely none of that. They could have put it in there just to fluff me, but there’s no business upside to it and, frankly, I don’t need it.

They’ll be doing plenty for me if they make the movie.

This article doesn’t mention who wrote 7 Red, but I’ll go ahead and spoil it: it was me

The company’s EFM projects include Midnight Sun from producers Eric Morris (Say Uncle) and Ben Smith (The Bourne Legacy); 7 Red from producers Mace Neufeld (Hunt For Red October) and Robyn Shwer of Mace Neufeld Productions and Eryl Cochran and Branon Coluccio; Rider from producers Arnold Rifkin (16 Blocks) and Damon Martin (Another Happy Day); and One Square Mile by Charles-Olivier Michaud (Snow & Ashes), which will begin shooting May 7th.

Sales and Production Unit Meyers Media Group to Launch with Four Films at EFM

Any allusions I’ve made to “the Vegas project” were about this screenplay. I really, really hope I get more news to share with you in the coming months.

It will be a couple more days before we’re on our feet and I can see how all of these different performers put these ideas into practice, because that’s what matters in the end. The relationship between thought and instinct is, after all, baked right in to the text. But each occasion I have had so far to be with this cast and crew has reinforced that it is a group I am excited to be with for the next couple of months.

Cinderella Man
Director: Ron Howard
Writers: Story by Cliff Hollingsworth, Screenplay by Cliff Hollingsworth and Akiva Goldsman
Producers: Ron Howard, Brian Grazer, Penny Marshall
Stars: Russell Crowe, Renée Zellweger, Paul Giamatti, Craig Bierko, Paddy Considine, Bruce McGill

When Ron Howard goes for overt style we can get an abomination like his version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. And when he goes for critical love we can get puffed-up frauds like A Beautiful Mind. The more restrained he is the better the movie ends up – Apollo 13 being the most prominent example of the merits of a no-nonsense classicist’s approach and his best film. He is an able craftsman, at his best when serving a story rather than trying to bark its virtues at us.

And for a great deal of Cinderella Man, this is the treatment with which we are blessed. Howard is respectful and cautious of sensation in dramatizing the unlikely story of Jim Braddock (Russell Crowe), a washed-up boxer who, during The Great Depression, made a captivating second run at glory in order to feed his family. While he does take full note of the way Braddock’s struggle against age, injury and destitution inspired many around the country, he does not sink into that Seabiscuit trap of mythologizing the hero to the extent that he seems to conquer the whole Depression by his lonesome.

Back in the Roaring 20’s Braddock is a rising contender with an underwhelming left but a devil of a right, and he and his longtime corner man Joe Gould (Paul Giamatti) can take home thousands from a successful bout. Braddock and his wife Mae (Renée Zellweger) have a respectable house for their three children, and more comfort than two New Jersey kids might ever have hoped for. But in seemingly the blink of an eye – or more accurately, in the course of one effective time-lapse pan – their wealth is wiped out, they are living in a single crowded room four months behind on the bills, and Jim has broken his hand again and lost his boxing license while trying to earn $50.

It concisely personifies the effect the Depression had on so many – a single crushing blow that changed their lives irrevocably. Though our focus is on the Braddocks we have the opportunity to glimpse how others dealt with the crisis – Mae pleads with a power company man not to cut off her electricity, and we can see the shame on his face but also the fear – if he doesn’t do it he loses his job, and two of his colleagues have been let go this week already.

Howard casts the picture very well and the frame is filled with hardened, weathered faces trying to preserve some light in their eyes. Braddock wants to believe he can work his way out of this hole without having to send the kids away to well-off relatives, but getting picked for a shift at the docks is rare enough, and he has to cover the cast on his hand with shoe polish, hope no one notices, and do as much work as he can with his left arm.

What compels us is how we first see his pride, then we see how selflessly and unquestioningly he will swallow that pride for the sake of his children – applying for federal assistance and even begging (in tears) the members of the boxing commission for a handout. We are seeing a man who would break himself open if he thought it would help keep his family together and fed. Boxing is the right sport for him.

And it’s at that moment, by twist of fate, a last-minute replacement is needed for an undercard fight at Madison Square Garden. Braddock isn’t supposed to last two rounds, but his left arm has been tempered by the dock work and is now a dangerous weapon. He begins a second career and, as he says in a press conference, it’s easy to be motivated when you are fighting for milk. Soon he is being talked of as a contender for the heavyweight crown held by Max Baer (Craig Bierko) – who is described as having killed two men during matches* (*this is historically dubious, and Baer’s estate has fiercely protested his depiction in this film). And though this portrayal of Baer behaves as a fearsome showoff and bully, he is genuinely reluctant to face the creaky Braddock, since he is sure that two will inevitably become three.

It’s effective to contrast the business of boxing with Braddock’s straight-ahead decency. The promoter (Bruce McGill) who essentially controls his fate will not be distracted from the goal of putting paying customers in chairs, which is why Braddock needs a hustler like Gould to advocate for him. Paul Giamatti has paid enough membership dues to enter the Character Actor Hall of Fame, and we must simply wonder which role will get him the awards he already earned in American Splendor, Sideways and a host of other films. Here, as Gould, he is the key to our understanding the psychological gamesmanship of boxing both in and out of the ring.

He curses, he entreats, he wheedles, he boasts, he baits, he explodes at referees, all the while encouraging Braddock, spurring him on, striving to make him feel invincible and his opponent vulnernable like a good cornerman must do. It’s an orchestral triumph of calculation disguised as manic extroversion, and Giamatti’s gift to us is his ability to slyly let us in on it while also showing his genuine loyalty and affection for Braddock.

Crowe and Zellweger both demonstrate how they have managed to bridge the world of acting and movie stardom – they are called upon here to be virtuous and larger-than-life yet not appear false and they do so. Crowe, particularly, achieves another one of his transformations-that-never-looks-like-one – compare his darting, searching eyes here to the confident gaze of Maximus, or the wounded and suspicious narrow stare of Detective Bud White. All vastly different, and yet all are roles he has made definitively his own in his rise to fame.

The boxing is competently and excitingly filmed by rising cinematographer Salvatore Totino, which is to Howard’s credit here even as he stands in the long shadows of others (like Scorsese in Raging Bull) who have captured brilliant cinema in the boxing ring. His focus is more on tracking the mood – who is setting the pace, who really believes they are winning, and who is just luring you in for the knockout. Since the emotional premise is that it is Braddock’s near-hopeless circumstances that gave him lethal focus and stamina in the ring, it’s a wise choice.

The screenplay is co-written by Akiva Goldsman, who never met a formula he didn’t like and never found a page of dialogue he couldn’t water down so it served nothing but that formula. A few of his trademark groaners survive, thankfully his influence is not as noticeable here as it was in A Beautiful Mind. Cinderella Man can be effectively described as a movie that steps right at many of the places and moments Mind stepped wrong, largely by trusting the power of the story itself.

Unleashed
Director Louis Leterrier
Writer: Luc Besson
Producers: Luc Besson, Steven Chasman, Jet Li
Stars: Jet Li, Morgan Freeman, Bob Hoskins, Kerry Condon

The prolific Luc Besson attempts with many of his films to strike a balance by presenting an outlandish scenario, then taking it a step or two more seriously than you’d expect, though not so seriously that you feel constrained from a grin. Producing and writing, he assembles a good mix of ingredients in Unleashed, not pandering or shortchanging in his depiction of the awkward process by which a tortured and repressed soul starts to discover itself, but also keeping the violence and style coming and giving each performer room to do what they do best.

For Jet Li, playing “Danny the Dog” (the movie’s title outside of North America), it means adding a new wrinkle to his already legendarily-malleable martial arts repertoire. Compare the serene, fluid grace he showed in Hero with the savage intensity he conjures here. For Bob Hoskins, as his loan shark owner/master/“uncle” Bart, it means calling on the crazy intensity which has immortalized him in the circles of the British crime films even as American audiences have mostly known him for affable supporting roles.

For Morgan Freeman, playing blind piano tuner Sam, it means projecting the quiet dignity and homely wisdom with which he operates best. I have long appreciated the way Freeman seems to embrace his function in most Hollywood movies as the injection of gravitas. His dark pool eyes and rich syrupy baritone are like the garnish on the plate which makes your meal look more grown-up, whether he is calmly pronouncing the destruction of life as we know it via comet in Deep Impact, convincing us he really believes Keanu Reeves is an expert on cold fusion in Chain Reaction, or, here, teaching simple decency to a kung-fu master raised as a dog.

Unleashed is about the journey of Danny from Bart’s influence to Sam’s, and how in that process he re-discovers humanity and the secrets of his past. He also gets into a lot of bloody fights.

Bart runs his territory by simple rules – when you owe him money, he comes around each week with Danny (who he has raised and trained since childhood) in tow. Danny’s got a collar on and is docile as can be. If you do not pay, Bart takes off the collar, and Danny, without a twinge, will beat to death anyone Bart points out.

Danny has earned a reputation around the underbelly of Glasgow, and Bart is just becoming aware of the profit-making potential of finding new arenas to exploit Danny’s skills, like throwing him into underground death-matches and wagering on his victories. But a twist of fate separates them, and a wounded, confused Danny finds himself in Sam’s care.

The major turns of the story from here you can likely hash out for yourselves, but it is the details that will surprise you. Sam cares for a gawky but vivacious teenager (Kerry Condon), a daughter from a previous marriage by his now-dead wife – this convolution is likely meant to explain the racial difference between her and Sam but also reinforces that this family unit is more about love and reliance between people who fall into each other’s care than genetics. She is a piano prodigy and, while Sam is teaching Danny the grown-up things like decency and morals, she is introducing him to equally important life elements like ice cream, and having enough fun that you end up late for dinner. You might think you know where their relationship is going, and you will be surprised.

You will also soon learn not to get attached to particular plot strands, as many get dropped once they have served one particular purpose, while others appear with scant explanation. This is Besson and director Louis Leterrier’s sense of joyful abandon (also on display in the more-fun-than-it-had-any-right-to-be action throwaway The Transporter), willing to play loose with logic in order to relish more time in the grimy Glasgow underworld, or create another opportunity for Danny to scrap.

The fights are staged by Yuen Wo-Ping, whose work on the Matrix trilogy, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Kill Bill and other fight-heavy hits have made him arguably the first box-office draw from the choreographers’ ranks since Busby Berkeley. And once again he does not disappoint, providing clashes that do not merely expend time, but have shape and pacing and furious (but impeccably comprehensible) movement to them. One clash has Danny in a vicious one-on-one for several minutes inside a cramped and narrow bathroom, and you begin to think that neither participant is making any move to leave because it is too much fun to exercise their skills in this novel environment.

The joy is not right out on the surface in Unleashed – it has a serious story to tell, and much of the middle of the movie is carried not by Li’s martial arts skills, but by his tricky portrayal of a man of few words learning how to trust and express himself. It’s more winning than you would expect, and sometimes funnier, too. American audiences tend not to think of Jet Li as someone with comedic charms, but he gets to demonstrate them here.

That is where the joy lies; because everyone gets to take part in something which sounds quite preposterous in summary, but gives them room to exercise their talents to the fullest, and gets us to think beyond that summary and enjoy ourselves just by opening up our willingness to be entertained.

Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith
Director: George Lucas
Writer: George Lucas
Producer: Rick McCallum
Stars: Ewan McGregor, Natalie Portman, Hayden Christensen, Ian McDiarmid, Samuel L. Jackson, Jimmy Smits, Anthony Daniels, Temuera Morrison, Christopher Lee, with the voices of Frank Oz and James Earl Jones

By themselves the “prequels” in the Star Wars saga – The Phantom Menace, Attack of the Clones, and now Revenge of the Sith – are not a cohesive series. They serve primarily to lead us to Episodes IV, V and VI, the original trilogy which proved so major a landmark in movie entertainment, science-fiction and youth culture when they were released from 1977-1983. As entry points into this galaxy-spanning saga the prequels have been both overwhelming and obtuse, adequate appreciation of them depends on foreknowledge of which characters and events are key to the business at hand, and where said business is going.

Which is why this third episode feels like the movie writer/director George Lucas has been waiting to make all this time. At last he needs not hold back, delay or vamp his way through another movie, and can depict fully what was only spoken of in the first trilogy – the fall of the once-beautiful Republic, the extermination of the peacekeeping Jedi, the birth of the twins Luke and Leia to Anakin Skywalker’s secret bride Senator Padme Amidala (Natalie Portman), and the painful transformation of Skywalker (Hayden Christensen) into the Dark Side-serving half-machine Darth Vader. And the urgency and energy with which Lucas depicts it makes it closest of all the “prequels” to being the movie fans have waited all this time to see.

“War!” screams the traditional opening title crawl, and audiences are plunged right into a desperate mission by Skywalker and his Jedi mentor Obi Wan Kenobi (Ewan McGregor) to rescue the Republic’s Supreme Chancellor Palpatine (Ian McDiarmid) from the clutches of separatist leader Count Dooku (Christopher Lee) and his military enforcer General Grievous (voice of Matthew Wood). This involves flying tiny fighter craft through an indescribable tapestry of large-scale ship-to-ship combat, then infiltrating Grievous’ command ship and fighting through a legion of combat droids. The screen is filled and frantic as it often is in the new Star Wars, though undeniably impressive through this entire sequence.

Even for Jedi of Kenobi and Skywalker’s skill it is no small task, and it makes for a rollicking kickoff. Of course, if they knew Palpatine’s true intentions, they might have saved themselves the bother. We are now in the final phases of his master plan to seize complete power in the Galaxy, and all that is left is to force another vote expanding the “emergency powers” he so reluctantly accepted at the beginning of the Clone Wars, and eliminate the Jedi.

Key to both goals is the turning of Skywalker to the Dark Side of the Force, where his roiling emotions can give him power, but at the cost of his soul. Always more powerful than mature, he is already been blanching at the Jedi Council’s distrust of Palpatine and refusal to promote him through the ranks in line with his rapidly-growing skills.

Palpatine is as crafty here as he has been undermining the democracy of the Republic, playing on Skywalker’s fear for the safety of his pregnant wife and intimating that a true master of the Dark Side can even cheat death if he wishes. Skywalker, still wounded from his failure to save his mother, is dangerously curious.

This descending curtain of darkness envelopes the whole adventure despite its flashes of humor and excitement. Although Lucas is respectful enough of his family audience to keep a few of the more horrifying events off-screen, this is still the most bloody and grim Star Wars movie by any measure, not afraid to bisect bodies or show the full effects of a fiery disfigurement.

As always we bounce from planet to planet, this time to appreciate the rough and beautiful wilderness of the Wookie home planet Kashyyyk, and tremble at the intimidating heat of the volcano world Mustafar. We get dynamic action spectacles only made possible by the digital effects wizards at Industrial Light and Magic – capital ships the size of cities gliding by each other and delivering broadsides like an outer space Master and Commander, or the floating pods in the Senate Chamber being flung through the air like giant hockey pucks.

And another menagerie of new creatures and vehicles is paraded before us, in that Vegas buffet style where so much space is given over to so many varieties, the hope is at least a few will be worth our attention. But the time comes when yet another bizarre alien, yet another droid design, does less to inspire our imagination and more to pummel our ability to focus. For all these prequels Lucas has been mindful to a fault of merchandising, to the extent that characters get their second in the spotlight even at the expense of narrative momentum, and action sequences seem padded in order to better show their potential as levels in video games.

That is not as much the case here, Episode III has less fat on its epic running time than both its predecessors. Perhaps, again, it is because finally there’s so much to accomplish and so little time left in which to do it.

The movie’s greater intensity benefits its characters, who are otherwise flatly written and indifferently directed as usual. The most dynamic performance is once again given by an entirely digital character, Yoda (voiced, as always, by Muppet-master Frank Oz), who gets more chances to show off his lightsaber skills. Sadly, the preponderance of dialogue he has shows that his bass-ackwards speaking style is better suited for vague philosophical musings than for urgent exposition.

Grievous, too, is an interesting character; seemingly only eyes, a heart, and a set of wheezing lungs left behind thick droid armor. Apparently more is told of his violent history in the Cartoon Network’s Clone Wars series. I cannot help but think the only time Lucas really pays close attention to the flesh-and-blood actors is when he is wishing he could grab a mouse and yank their arm to just where he wants it. Again they are wooden and hesitant, as if unsure what is due to be painted over the blue box within which they are trying to emote.

There is ignorant fraudulence to his romantic dialogue and lazy contradiction elsewhere. “Only a Sith deals in absolutes! Kenobi spits at Skywalker when his pupil wheels out the old you’re-either-with-me-or-against-me bit, but minutes later Kenobi is arguing “The Chancellor is evil!” without a hint of irony. Yoda, too, has a bit of flim-flam about how Jedi aren’t supposed to miss loved ones (since it’s a path to the Dark Side – everything is a path to the Dark Side with him), then watch later as he tells a couple of Wookies how much he is going to miss them.

Of course as an audience member I wouldn’t be so moved to nitpick, so yearning for these easy little problems to be fixed, if this movie, and the cumulative effect of the now six-movie Star Wars cycle, had not so profoundly inspired and entertained me over the years. Revenge of the Sith is the worthiest addition to the canon to come along in a generation, an explosive and expansive pop space opera deserving of its brand, and I know just how good an Episode III it is by how eager I was after viewing to get right on to Episode IV

3. You file a fraudulent return; keep records indefinitely.

I wonder if anyone has ever fallen for that.

I feel really good at this weight – can’t be confused for athletic but I feel healthy, able to indulge in food occasionally and with an energy and flexibility I truly appreciate, remembering what it feels like when I was in worse shape. My thought this year has been that I will try to knock off another 6-8 pounds while adding a little muscle; but honestly, if all I do is maintain the shape I’m in, it’s going to be pretty good.

I’ve worried that without that “stop being so fat and ugly” whip at my back, I might not be able to make progress. After all, these pounds will be much more difficult to lose than the early ones, and so I’ll have to get my motivation from somewhere else. I find myself really enjoying physical activity in a way I can’t ever remember, except maybe as a kid at recess. I’m curious to see if that enjoyment can be channeled towards the gym habit.

I’m managing two visits a week right now rather than three, but has more to do with illness and a spell of back pain. I had to face that what I had been doing at the gym had obviously done all it could for me in terms of improving my state, so I’ve changed up the routine. I’m going after work instead of before – without having to worry about clocking in, I’m able to rest more between activities, and add more weight exercises. Before, the cardio/sweating took up 80% of my time there. The split’s closer to 60/40 now, and I think I’d like to make it dead even.

And I’ve left my beloved elliptical behind in favor of the stair climber. I burn a few less calories, but from the first time I felt the fatigue it put in my legs, and the core work that was happening, it felt like the right trade. I still haven’t managed to do it three times in a week – twice a week has those muscles complaining plenty, but I’m sticking with it.

This morning, after a few weeks’ worth of these changes, I had a breakthrough – my weight had dropped a couple of pounds below that equilibrium, to a number I hadn’t seen since the Dracula days. Any single-day result could be an outlier, but this feels like a promising sign that my body has responded to my new expectations for it and is starting to adjust. As I’ve said, it’s not far to my goal; but I did need a slight course change to be sure I’d get there.

I think it comes back to breaking out of that scrum of 350+ contenders. They culled about 90% out and I was still there when it was done. As with the “roomful of strangers” auditions of which I’m most proud over the past year, it gives me a lot of confidence that my work not only stood on its own but made a worthy noise. Even for the best work, that’s no guarantee with the inverted taste pyramid that mass contest reading can create, and the subjectivity of the small number of people who will read/evaluate your work.

Breaking through is a powerful affirmation of the work. It makes me think about what Stephen King said about why he published those books under the “Richard Bachman” alias – that restless, wondering itch as to whether he had made it due to talent or luck, whether he could DO IT without the strength of his name to backstop him.

I have no such name strength, but I am constantly wondering if I can DO IT. So that explains the balance of the satisfaction, I think. Whether I win or not, someone thought I was good enough that I might be worthy of winning, and the difference between that and zero response at all is amazing.

I know, proportionally-speaking, this is in a far different league than anything I’ve got happening, Hollywood-wise. Even if I was one of the 10 winners to be staged, I’d probably win about $30 and some pictures from the production. Going to SEE it would set me back hundreds since it’s halfway across the country.

But as I said not long ago, I’m at the very beginning of my efforts to let the world know I’m a playwright, too. And I am fueled by any opportunity for an audience to really see my work realized, which is so rare in screenwriting.

Plus, this was the first submission I made, and there are a couple others still floating out there right now. That’s a confidence booster. After all these years there is still a voice inside me suggesting that the moment I show work to anyone, I’ll be found out as a total fraud. So now the delusion can continue!