Man, another doozy of a day. To be completely honest, this is exactly why I left New York. But, on the other hand, this is why New York is so fucking great.
First off, let me say--with 100% seriousness--that I will be genuinely shocked, and truly disappointed, if Sacha Baron Cohen isn't nominated for Best Supporting Actor at next year's Oscars. His performance in TALLADEGA NIGHTS is one of the most brilliant things I have ever witnessed, comedy or otherwise. If Johnny Depp's Keith Richard's impersonation earned him a nomination, Cohen's Jean Girard more than deserves to be nominated--he deserves to win.
Or, to put it slightly more bluntly: if Sacha Baron Cohen doesn't win next year's Best Supporting Actor for his role in TALLADEGA NIGHTS, I will buttfuck the Academy with a plunger until it begs for bloody mercy.
The film itself is a comic masterpiece. Whereas ANCHORMAN disappointed me by feeling like a series of funny, but unrealistic, sketches, TALLADEGA NIGHTS had that miraculous air of believable absurdity, even at its most raucously outlandish. Even more miraculous is its constant barrage of pop culture references, which work smashingly well about 95% of the time (Don Shula, Rue McClanahan, Tawny Kitaen, HIGHLANDER, the list goes on). On paper, this film should not work. But in execution, it's nearly flawless--or at least as flawless as this type of film can get. Around the hour mark, there's a segment focusing on Ricky Bobby that leaves Cohen and Reilly behind, which makes the film drag a tiny bit. But overall it's one of the funniest comedies I've seen in years. I highly recommend you go check it out. I actually can't wait to see it again.
Then Gebert and I went to Paul's for a burger, where we heard a radio commercial in which Of Montreal had rerecorded "Wraith Pinned to the Mist" to help sell a product of some sort. Maybe I'm making this up, but I don't think so. Note to self: call Kevin tomorrow to confirm/deny this. Note to readers: I don't consider this selling out, I support it in every possible way.
Here comes today's most painful lesson. I am telling you this now and I mean it: I WILL NEVER GO TO THE ANGELIKA AGAIN, NO MATTER WHAT. Even if my film is premiering there and that's the only place it will ever show in New York City. Every time I go there, I leave in some state of frustration and/or disappointment. Usually it's just the sound, but there have been other issues. Today's problem was sound-related as well. As in, there were no previews, so when the lights dimmed and the projector started running, THE PUFFY CHAIR came on right away. Only music continued to burst out of the speakers. Something didn't click over. I rushed out of the theatre and shouted to the kid at the concession stand, but he looked like he'd just emerged from a double shift of shock treatment. I don't know, man, is it just me or does the Angelika suck sour cock? For all of you who are planning to go see HALF NELSON this weekend (which you so totally should), go see it at Lincoln Plaza. FUCK THE ANGELIKA!
As usual, PUFFY was inspiring, so much so that Josh and i came up with a potentially brilliant short film idea by the time we'd walked outside. It's called FED UP. I'm determined to shoot this and finish it in time to submit to Sundance, just to see what happens. Seriously, this shit could be unexpectedly profound. It'll at least be fun to make--which is the most important thing, after all.
And then I rushed over to Piano's to catch JT's set at 8 o'clock. But here's where the night gets trippy and our lives seem cosmically brilliant. Since no one was there at such an early hour, John began chatting with the guy who was headlining tonight. In the course of chatting, John asked this fellow, Mike Patrick, where he's from. He said Maryland. John perked up and said his cousin was from Maryland. Mike asked him where. John said Mt. Airy. Mike said he was from right around there. It turns out I went to high school with this guy! I actually graduated with his sister, while he was two years below me. Of course, I decided to stick around and support him, fearful that it would be crushingly bad. Well, whaddya know? It turns out Mike Patrick is actually good. Like, really good. Listen for yourself...
Here is a picture that I like to call "Mikes From Linganore"...
But here comes the best part. After JT wrapped up, a pretty girl approached him and I overheard her say, in an English accent, "I'm your cousin." It turns out this is our Uncle Mark's daughter Lucy, who actually stayed with me a few years ago. She moved to the city with her boyfriend for the summer and perhaps beyond. They're both really, really great. I hope to see a lot more of them before they head back to London.
This world is small. This world is wonderful. This world is small and wonderful. At the moment, in my life, there is something that could make it wonderfuller, but for now, it's pretty damn wonderful already.
Tonight is a very, very, very big night. Ireland occupies the Lower East Side. Go to The Living Room at 7pm to see my cousin, JT Songs, followed by Niall Connolly at 8pm. Spread the word, it'll be fun.