FLICKERS

from L.A. Weekly (2003) RYAN & TATUM AT THE VISTA

Luna Vista

Thursday, August 28, 2003

One hundred and fifty or so movie geeks, including myself, have come on a mercifully cool summer night to Silver Lake’s Vista theater for a 30th-anniversary screening of Peter Bogdanovich’s 1973 black-and-white comedy, Paper Moon. But first there is a handprints-in-cement ceremony for its director and two of its stars, Ryan O’Neal and his daughter, Tatum, who at age 10 won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for the film (beating out her genius co-star, the late Madeline Kahn, as well as The Exorcist’s limber-headed teen, Linda Blair).

Ryan and Tatum are late, so the three-man handprint crew continually refresh their work, muttering apologies as they push a wobbly, cement-dripping wheelbarrow back and forth through the crowd. Bogdanovich, who hasn’t abandoned his 30-year predilection for striped shirts and ascots, has been here awhile signing autographs. With the surprisingly large contingent of flash-popping paparazzi all to himself, he has already been photographed sinking his hands into the Vista’s own eclectic Walk of Fame, right above those of stop-motion animator Ray Harryhausen and the cast of Swingers.

Unexpectedly, Griffin O’Neal, wayward son of Ryan, is center-carpet, looking tanned, fit and hyperactive. Like his sister, he was a child star (sorta, kinda) but is best remembered for youthful brushes with the law and rehab. Tonight, he’s remarkably attentive to the clutch of frenzied autograph hounds, several of whom will shriek in astonishment a half-hour from now when Griffin offers to take their 8-by-10 Ryan O’Neal glossies inside to be signed by Dad.

A black stretch limo glides into view, and Papa Ryan bounds out, alone, and is immediately encircled by the insistent faithful, who thrust one-sheets and vinyl soundtrack albums at him. O’Neal, who is reportedly in remission from chronic myeloid leukemia, has shed the puffy face of illness and looks terrific. Watching him deftly scrawl his name with one hand while holding an Evian bottle with the other is another kind of reminder: Once a movie star (remember Love Story, What’s Up Doc?, Barry Lyndon?), always a movie star.

Entertainment Tonight reporter Bob Goen — E.T. at the Vista! — quickly snags O’Neal for a “How does it feel 30 years later?” soundbite, and ends by asking where Tatum is, as if hoping for a whiff of scandal. O’Neal waves the query away, “Tatum’s always late,” then darts into the lobby, Bogdanovich at his side.

There’s a pause, then a stir as the autograph freaks turn and take flight, for there is Tatum O’Neal, brilliantly blond, half a block down, getting out of an SUV with her three teenage children. A brief signing frenzy ensues, right there next to the car, and then she’s under the marquee, looking slightly bewildered but lovely nonetheless in a black pantsuit. Just then, a taut, 40-something woman blocks Tatum’s path (there’s zero security here), hands her a small pink-wrapped package, and when the actress thanks her, the woman shakes her head. “Oh, no. Thank you,” she says, and locks O’Neal in a gaze of such alarming telepathic intensity that I think: That’s what John Lennon saw.

Suddenly, Ryan is at her side, his bearish arms wrapping around her, and as her forehead falls forward to rest briefly on his shoulder, I hear her say softly, “Daddy.”

Soon after, star and co-star, along with Paper Moon cinematographer Lazslo Kovacs, are kneeling, legs ungracefully akimbo, as they sink their outstretched palms deep into the Vista’s pavement. Flashbulbs blind, photographers shout, and those of us standing just behind the stars take a half-step back, stunned a bit by the force of those flashes.

Inside the theater, the O’Neal clan settles into one row, and Bogdanovich sits between his two stars. Griffin splits early, Ryan holds court for well-wishers, and Tatum heads for the lobby, her eyes rolling as her son calls out, “Mom! Get me a hot dog!” The lights finally dim and the movie begins, preceded by its original trailer. On cue, the audience applauds the director’s name, cheers Ryan’s, and claps firmly at the credit for Madeline Kahn. And maybe we’re thrown into sudden grief for Kahn, because no one applauds the words “Introducing Tatum O’Neal.” There’s an awkward silence, until her father exclaims, loudly, “Yeah!” and throws his newly immortalized hands together, initiating a swelling round of praise for his daughter, the Oscar winner.

—Chuck Wilson

from the FLICKERS vault

Return of the Kid, or Mr. Critic Takes a Holiday 

I think it was somewhere in the second hour of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King that I sank down in my seat, pulled my jacket up under my chin and let myself be 12 years old again. Blessedly, I wasn’t there as a movie critic. One of the few benefits of being the second- or third-string guy in the film section is that you don’t always have to take notes; you can go and slouch down in your seat and just be yourself, or, rather, your truest movie self, which isn’t necessarily the exact same person who plays at being an adult in the sunlit world, or the self who takes half-legible notes at other movies, like a beauty-contest judge giving poise and elocution marks. Tonight, I was just a guy who sat down in the fifth row with one of his best pals (I’m lucky to have more than one) at his side, stared hopefully up at the screen and was granted the one thing he needed most in the world — a sense of wonder. And right after that, wonder’s adjunct — joy. Tears too, for balance, and because Frodo and Sam broke my heart and because, for those three hours and 20 minutes, my friend Jordan and I became those two hobbits, linked for all time by hardship and loyalty. Sure enough, afterward, saying goodnight at the car, we swore to each other (quite unnecessarily) that we would always carry one another up Mount Doom. And I drove home happy, because he’s got my back, and because this epic, aching film reminded me that I haven’t seen everything after all; that movies are miraculous; and that within me, still, is the kid who used to pull his legs up under him, to be taller, to see more of the screen, who wondered, “How do they do that?” and at the same time didn’t care, being grateful, simply, that there were shadow makers who knew the trick for taking him out of his body, out of his world. Which felt, then and now, like an act of salvation. (Chuck Wilson

Flickers flashback: October '03

The Station Agent

When four feet five inches tall Finbar McBride (Peter Dinklage) takes up residence in Newfoundland, New Jersey, it quickly becomes apparent that the townspeople haven’t seen many dwarfs. On his first day, Fin walks to the local convenience store, and just as he’s reaching for a carton of butter, the old lady owner snaps his picture, with a camera she appears to have ever at the ready, like a mini-market Diane Arbus. Fin pauses in surprise, and then continues shopping, seemingly nonplussed, a man long resolved to the inherent weirdness of the tall.

          Fin’s mentor at a Hoboken model train shop died a few weeks ago, and much to Fin’s surprise, left his assistant a tiny plot of land in Newfoundland, upon which sits the town’s now obsolete train depot. Neither Fin nor the actor playing him give much away, not at first anyway, but Fin is probably thrilled. He’s a trainman. Late at night, he lies on his bed (an old couch) and listens to the them roaring past his new home, heading for elsewhere. Their weight and clatter makes the sofa bed tremble, and although writer-director Tom McCarthy doesn’t linger, it seems likely that Fin doesn’t shut his eyes until after those cars have rattled past, until he’s sure the trains are still running on time.

          For Fin, there’s important restoration work to be done—a lifetime’s worth — and yet people — and who needs them? — keep knocking at the station door. First, and most persistently, like a gnat you can’t swat away, comes Joe (Bobby Cannavale), an adorable, can’t-sit-still, won’t-shut-up Cuban who parks his ailing father’s hot dog truck outside the depot everyday and who desperately wants a pal. Joe’s benignly hot for the haunting Olivia (Patricia Clarkson), who is so klutzy and distracted that she nearly runs Fin down, twice in the same hour. Initially, Fin isn’t any more forthcoming with her than he is Joe, but Olivia’s persistent too, and one night, over a bottle of apology wine (for almost running him over), she tells Fin that her little boy died two years ago. At the news, Fin stares, stunned (Olivia: “Could you not look at me right now?”), for here is someone with more of a right to sadness than he, and that, I think, is the moment Fin reengages with the world. Suddenly, he’s needed.

Despite a flurry of melodrama in the third act, not much happens in this movie, except that three people form a bond, for a lifetime, or maybe for just right now. Either way is fine. Joe, always talking, keeps trailing along behind Fin, pretending to love trains too, until, suddenly, he does. Olivia, whose husband has left her, keeps giving them rides home, and soon, they’re a trio, walking the tracks. And one day, to fulfill a dream of Fin’s, he and Joe take Olivia’s video camera and that lopsided tin can hot dog truck and go racing alongside a speeding train, like storm hunters pursuing a tornado. Fin, riding shotgun, proves to be a lousy cameraman and accidentally turns the camera on himself, forever capturing a glimpse of his own face — eyes wide, soul thrilled. Joe’s beside him, driving wildly, and whooping and hollerin’ like a cowboy roping his first steer. The pursuit is a rush, but mostly, Joe’s happy because he’s made Fin happy. They’re friends. It’s a quick flash of a scene, and yet, watching those two — so ecstatically engaged with life — I thought, Oh. This is what I’ve forgotten, and what Joe knows instinctively: Joy doesn’t just come. Sometimes you have to chase after it. You have to meet it halfway.

-Chuck Wilson