tom noonan Tagged Articles at Cinematical

MTV snagged an exclusive photo from the mysterious Where the Wild Things Are, which they spotted at the New York Licensing Expo. Click on the tantalizing photo on the right to see the whole thing over on MTV. It isn't very big, but it is one of those evocative images that makes you absolutely crazy to see this movie. It really is perfect -- from the wolf suit down to those mysterious monster paws.

The rumors still abound about it. The fact that it is appearing at the Licensing Expo gives one hope that we will see it, and that they won't actually recast a child they have featured on the advertising. To catch you up, Kim talked to Tom Noonan at Cannes. He thought the film would be released as Spike Jonze and Dave Eggers had intended it to be.

Yet, as Monika reported at the beginning of June, Warner Bros is prepping a month of reshoots. It was unclear how much was being changed, but new casting calls went out for various stand-in roles. That suggests that it is more than a few pick-up shots, and that all the whispers of unhappiness and drastic alterations are true. The silence from all involved (with the exception Noonan and Forrest Whitaker) doesn't help. At least we can enjoy the picture and wonder.

[via Empire]

Synecdoche: n. A figure of speech in which a part is used for the whole (as hand for sailor), the whole for a part (as the law for police officer), the specific for the general (as cutthroat for assassin), the general for the specific (as thief for pickpocket), or the material for the thing made from it (as steel for sword). -- American Heritage Dictionary

The directorial debut of screenwriter Charlie Kaufman (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Adaptation), Synecdoche, New York is a sprawling, messy work of inspired brilliance and real humanity, a film that enthralls and affects even as it infuriates and confounds. Kaufman gives us parts, and the whole; he gives us the general and the specific. The plot is, on the surface, about a theater director, Caden (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), whose work, and life, in upstate New York have both fallen into a state of stasis relieved only by hints of slow decay. His marriage to Adele (Catherine Keener) is a qualified success: somewhat supportive, somewhat loving, somewhat successful, sustained in part by their daughter Olive (Sadie Goldstein). And just as Caden's life falls apart personally -- Adele, a painter, takes Olive to Berlin for a gallery showing and never comes back -- he also earns a "Genius" grant, and embarks on an ambitious, immersive theater piece that'll be his masterwork.

But that meat-and-potatoes synopsis does not, and can not, fully explain what Kaufman covers and examines and explores and offers in the film -- partially because of the fluidity of time and space and art and reality in the story, and partially because of how Kaufman wedges every frame full of set design, side notes, visual tricks, subtext, deadpan jokes, prosthetic makeup, voice-over, post-modern inventions and old-fashioned melodrama. Synecdoche, New York veers away from reality fairly early in its journey; indeed, there's a question of if it even starts anywhere near there to begin with. Caden's obsessed with the decline of his physical body as he ages, poking at bumps, examining anomalies, concerned with disease.

With each picture since his 2000 debut George Washington, David Gordon Green has taken at least a small step backward. That gradual regression becomes a full-fledged precipitous decline with Snow Angels, a film in which the director (working from a novel by Stewart O'Nan) flails about in search of poetry, and comes up with only trivial stylistic flourishes that compound his story's overwrought faux-naturalism. Considering the lyrical grace of his heralded first feature, Green's devolution from one of American cinema's most promising talents to his current status as just another middling indie lightweight is tough to fathom. Yet with his latest, Green misses the mark in so many respects -- from a multi-strand plot devoid of insight, to performances that are generally overcooked, to a mise-en-scène that comes up largely empty in the department of inspired grace and beauty -- that it makes one wonder if his upcoming foray into director-for-hire work (with this summer's raunchy stoner comedy The Pineapple Express) isn't a shrewd attempt to escape his own increasingly faulty auteurist instincts.

My friend Paul never looked at me the same way after I convinced him to see Wolfen rather than the latest James Bond adventure in the summer of 1981. I was planning my first trip to New York that fall and was utterly enthralled by the apocalyptic views of a burned-out South Bronx, looking like an exotic urban wilderness -- or Dresden after the fire bombings. I gloried in the long, gliding, low-angle Steadicam shots, enjoyed the tension generated, and tolerated the blood and guts on display. My soon to be ex-pal hunkered down in his seat, hating every second and throwing daggers at me with his eyes.

As the years have passed, I have nursed an untoward affection for Wolfen. Many horror fans have concluded that it is, at best, the weak cousin to the two other superior entries in the unofficial and unrelated "wolf vs. man" trilogy of 1981. Admittedly, An American Werewolf in London and The Howling rip Wolfen to shreds as far as style, pacing and dark entertainment value are concerned. Yet buried within the often lugubrious storytelling of Wolfen lies a gem of an idea and a radical approach to the traditional Hollywood fantasy of werewolves.

How did Michael Wadleigh, the director of 1969's landmark documentary Woodstock, come to direct his first fiction feature more than a decade later? And why adapt a novel by the notorious Whitley Strieber? One must first be disabused of the misconception that Wolfen is actually about werewolves or is a horror thriller; in a literal sense, it is more an environmental tract, a plea for man to live in harmony in nature, than it is any kind of supernatural fable.