End times . . . White moisture from a hurricane in California and gray smoke from the NW wildfires. Plus, the Los Angeles area just had an earthquake.
In the freshly uncorked trailer for Focus Features’ “The Holdovers,” we see the wine-rich reunion of director Alexander Payne and his muse of ‘Sideways’ fame, Paul Giamatti. But don’t raise your glass just yet. Whereas “Sideways” swirled with notes of bitter introspection and merlot-infused comedy, this upcoming affair seems, at first glance, to be a lighter pour, a nuanced blend of the idiosyncrasies of New England prep life and the velvety undertones of human connection.
As the camera pans, there stands Giamatti, with his signature hangdog demeanor, playing Mr. Hunam — a prep school professor who seems more suited to a Truffautian world of contempt than a snow-covered New England haven. He’s the instructor you avoid eye contact with, the one whose reputation precedes him, manifesting in the subtle tightening of the lips of both students and faculty alike. His winter sentence? Babysitting the left-behind students during the break.
Yet, as the snow blankets the old school grounds, so too does a potential warmth creep into Hunam’s heart. When Angus, a young ember glowing with a rebellious spark from a turbulent home, and Hunam find their lives intertwined, it becomes an almost Dickensian exploration of two souls converging in the frosty twilight. “I find the world a bitter and complicated place,” Hunam intones, every syllable dripping with Payne’s brand of weary wisdom. “And it seems to feel the same way about me. I think you and I have this in common.” Ah, a seasonal brew of Yuletide redemption.
For those expecting another Payne-esque cynical jaunt, “The Holdovers” promises something more — not just a road trip through vineyards but a journey of spirits amid the winter snow. One can’t help but anticipate a tale that, like a good wine, balances its bitterness with notes of unexpected sweetness.
What’s The Holdovers About?
In the freshly unspooled trailer, the school’s waifs and strays left behind during the Holidays get tagged as “the holdovers.” Isn’t it just the aptest term? Those leftovers of society, of family gatherings, those uncorked and unfinished bottles left on the periphery. Mr. Hunam, played with a gnarly gusto by Giamatti, is a kind of holdover himself – perhaps not so much left behind as consciously avoiding, a self-imposed exile from yuletide cheer. The prep school, usually a bustling Eden of education, stands bleak and desolate during Christmas, and here we find Giamatti’s character, grumbling and stumbling in his solitude.
But Payne, ever the alchemist of human relationships, doesn’t let the man wallow for long. Enter Angus, a tempest in the teapot of a 15-year-old, played with raw, frenetic energy by the fresh face, Dominic Sessa. The lad’s fire juxtaposes deliciously against Giamatti’s ice, and one can’t help but be reminded of a moody New England landscape, painted in chiaroscuro. Thrown into this mix is Da’Vine Joy Randolph, the school’s head cook, marinating in her own tragedy — the loss of a son to the distant lands of Vietnam.
There’s an art to blending flavors, both in cuisine and in life. This film, it seems, will dish out both — sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter, and always richly layered. Would it be too cheeky to expect a cinematic feast? One waits with bated breath and a palate piqued for intrigue.
Details
Last year, Focus Features, with their discerning eye, clinched the distribution rights at the celebrated Toronto International Film Festival in an expansive deal with the mighty Miramax.
Payne, the maestro of nuanced human tales, draws from the inkwell of David Hemingson’s script, an undoubtedly robust foundation. And one can’t discuss the film’s genesis without tipping their hat to the powerhouse troika of producers: Mark Johnson, Bill Block, and Hemingson himself, with the keen oversight of executive producers Andrew Golov, Thom Zadra, and Chris Stinson.
Mark your calendars and prep your critique, darlings: “The Holdovers” graces select theaters in the culture hubs of New York and Los Angeles come October 27. If you’re not in those epicenters of art, fret not. A limited release is set for November 3, crescendoing to a nationwide curtain rise on November 10. While waiting, satiate your cinematic appetite with the latest trailer just a click away.
Two things of note I spotted today: a pitchfork someone left on the sidewalk and a metal yard flamingo.
Last night, I had the pleasure of catching a local performance of Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure put on by the talented folks at Ophelia’s Jump. It was a display of professional theater at its finest, making for one of the most memorable Shakespeare-under-the-stars experiences I’ve had. So glad I didn’t let this one pass me by.
Experience the mesmerizing beauty of our vast sky with today’s captivating 30-minute visual journey. Despite the sweltering heat, we were graced with the fleeting presence of a few clouds painting a picture across the azure canvas. The highlight? A high-altitude aircraft leaving a stunning contrail. Watch as this ephemeral artistry slowly unfurls and spreads across the sky, creating an awe-inspiring tableau that blends the power of technology with the natural world’s effortless grace. So sit back, relax, and lose yourself in this celestial ballet that marries the mundane and the extraordinary.
The view from our side yard was fantastic! Sandy and I stand out on our side porch every year and watch the show put on by the local rock quarry company.
Contrails from the airplane buzzing around the golf course in Los Angeles. An irritating soundtrack to the U.S. Open. I shot this from my driveway.
Picture this: Sinclair Lewis, the hard-hitting word slinger of the American novel and playwriting scene, so intertwined with his portable typewriter that he hauled the damn thing with him on his honeymoon in 1928. It’s like the guy couldn’t leave home without it.
You’d think his fresh spouse, the razor-sharp journalist Dorothy Thompson, would’ve called foul. But no, she just shook her head and laughed. Love’s strange like that, I suppose.
Despite the romantic allure of newlywed bliss, our man Sinclair managed to sneak in a little keyboard time. Yeah, he’d hole up right there on the steps of their caravan, a custom-built beast that stretched seventeen feet from bumper to bumper. They’d packed this metallic cocoon with all the amenities of a cozy bungalow—think snug living room, a fully-stocked kitchen, all the usual stuff. They were, after all, embarking on a summer-long odyssey through the rolling green landscapes of England and Scotland. Sounds like a dream, doesn’t it?
The caravan, it seems, was designed with everything a wanderlust-struck couple could need for a three-month tour. Well, almost everything. In a comedic twist of fate, the architects seemed to have missed one critical detail—no damn typing room! But when you’re Sinclair Lewis, anywhere can be a writing den. And that, folks, is how you churn out magic in the face of life’s charming absurdities.
Now, imagine this: You’re Sinclair Lewis, hunkered down on the steps of your caravan, churning out literary gold on your portable typewriter. And, let’s be honest, maybe these sessions were a welcome breather from the euphoria of newlywed life. A bit of solitude to refocus, reaffirm your commitment to the written word. Sounds like a slice of nirvana, doesn’t it?
Just as things were starting to get comfy, a curveball. A letter from a female fan lands in your mailbox, and boy, she’s got an offer that’s hard to ignore. She’s throwing herself at your feet, promising to play the role of your secretary. And she’s not just talking about typing up manuscripts and fetching coffee. No, she writes, “I’ll do everything for you – and when I say everything, I mean everything.” Now that’s dedication. You can practically hear her batting her eyelashes through the page. (One might speculate that her interpretation of “everything” might extend as far as topping off his whiskey glass.)
Dorothy Thompson’s response to the wannabe stenographer:
My dear Miss:
My husband already has a stenographer who handles his work for him. And, as for “everything,” I take care of that myself — and when I say everything, I mean everything.
Dorothy Thompson (Mrs Sinclair Lewis to you.)
And so it goes.
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