what did matthew modine ever do to me?
But for nevertheless for some reason I find the dude absolutely intolerable.
While his cinematic crimes are many, the most significant and obvious one is this: his total dullness. Hes bland looking, bland sounding, I imagine he even smells bland. And his acting: beyond bland. He is absolutely without weight or resonance. And he has the range of a paper airplane with one wing. And he just bugs me. Just rubs me the wrong way. But I think the thing that pisses me off most about the guy, is the fact that wonderful directors seem to really like him. Granted, he doesnt work all that much these days (his next movie stars Scott Baio, Im not kidding) and his box office pull is currently somewhere equal to mine, but he seems to continue to be tapped by quality directors to waltz in and fuck up their movies with his Wonderbread presence.
From Stanley Kubrick to Robert Altman to Oliver Stone (Oh, he just shines in Any Given Sunday, baby. Shines!)
This weekend I was flipping channels and caught the end of a film by the talented Tom DiCillo, called The Real Blonde. Id already seen it, but for some reason when I see Modine, I have to watch. Like a house fire. Like a street fight.
This probably could have been a fine film (and in many ways it still is), were it not for the somniferous presence of Matthew "Wind" Modine. What DiCillo stupidly stupidly does (aside from casting Modine in the first place) is to cast Modine as an actor. The climax, therefore, takes place at an audition where Modine, sick of all the shit hes had to put up with in the course of the film (much like the viewer!), delivers a fantastic monologue from Death of a Salesman; the Happy monologue. So Kathleen Turner, and two other guys sit in the audience watching Modine act his bland little ass off and are overwhelmed. To tears.
Of course in reality, Modine sucks, so the ending sucks so youre just pissed and taken totally out of whats supposed to be a semi-serious ending. And then he goes out drinking with Elizabeth Berkley and youre forced to watch him not only pretend to be drunk but pretend to be attracted to Elizabeth Berkley. And with her on the screen I began to wish Screech would do a walk-on and save me, but alas he did not.
Modine? No, I say Less-dine. Thank you.
Ive been in a soul fever lately, just wacko. Totally wacko. But good wacko. Productive wacko. Ants in my pants and I needs to dance wacko. Better than being comatose, which Im familiar with. You know that scene in Fight Club when Ed Norton is less-than listlessly flipping channels, head slumped against the couch arm, mouth agape, drooling. I been that.
So last night we played poker. I wished I hadnt invited people over for poker because I was in no mood for poker, but rather in a mood to go climb on the H in the Hollywood sign with a bottle of Thunderbird and then set it on fire.
So poker happened, but I was restless, not good for poker playing. I usually play fairly seriously, as seriously as one can while seated with a group of funny people, but last night I just couldnt concentrate.
It started when for some reason I said: "Remember when people used to talk like: Aces Johnny. Aces!" No one remembered. "No, in the forties. People would lean against a lamp-pole flipping a coin and be all: Aces Johnny. Aces!"
It took me a half hour of that before it started to catch on, but for the next three hours, there were six guys in my apartment talking like they were wearing fedoras and packing a six-shooter:
"I bet a deuce."
After way way too long, Todd and I finally finished our screenplay. Third draft, actually. Were gonna have a reading soon. We drank beer as it printed out, then went to a party and got fucked up out by the pool. Heavy drinking: see, just like real writers!
The Larry King Happy