Jordan Hoffman Dot Com

Did a good job of writing last night. Act II is over. Called Kerry this AM to talk about some specifics that needed ironing out at the top of Act III. (In the outline we had we basically left a gap at this point in the film, saying “and we’ll figure out how this works later.” Now is later.)
Kerry comes up with a good solution and says he’ll email me the minutes of our conversation. In the meantime I dig up last night’s work because I thought of an extra line of dialogue. (Oy, just what it needs — more dialogue!) Anyway, I call up the file and 8 pages are missing! 8 pages are just not there!
Now, I may not be the most computer saavy person, but there’s one thing I know how to do — and that is to save a file. I commence searching for it. It is gone. I call Kerry. I know Kerry can’t do anything, but I call him anyway. “Where could the file be?” Kerry humors me. “Do a search.” “I searched!” He does the right thing — he splashes cold water on my face. Don’t freak out, just re-write it. Do it now. Stop what you are doing and do it now.
He’s right. I look at my outline. It’s two medium-sized sequences and one small sequence. I can do it. I start. But I’m pissed. Can’t concentrate. How did this happen? It makes no sense. I grab a beer. It’s 10:25 AM but I grab a beer. Then I remember, last night I did a “Save As” instead of just a “Save” (before I emailed the work to two different email accounts, which I always do.) Then I experience some bipolarity. I click “Save As.” I see the document wants to save in my Dictionary and Thesaurus folder. (Of course!) So it’s alive! The work is alive!
I drill down. It’s not there. Okay, Hoffman, I say, just accept it. It’s dead. I start work again. One last hope — I “open” the Dictionary and Thesaurus folder from the Final Draft program — not by drilling down. It’s there. HOOOOORAY!!!
I rename it, save it in three places and email the correct document to myself at two different addresses. Pen and paper might be easier.

Richard Clarke, a Republican, refuses to perpetuate lies. Richard Clarke, a war hawk, sees the stupidity of invading Iraq when we should have been focusing on Afghanistan. Richard Clarke gets criticized by Condoleeza Rice who refuses to testify to the 9/11 commission depsite being repeatedly asked to. Richard Clarke, who took one for the team ’cause his bosses asked him to and he spoke on background for a news briefing, has had his words twisted around by “Fair and Balanced” Fox News.

But his testimony today, which I watched in full on C-SPAN 3 without any CNN or Fox (or NPR) spin, showed him as an honest man. He is also the only political figure I can think of who apologized for the failure to prevent 9/11. Bob Kerrey, a man who, I think, really wants to be genuine (and is looking spectacular for an ‘08 candidate should the other Kerry fail) took a deep breath and quickly realized that no one in the public spotlight has used the word “apology” before.

Richard Clarke has jumped past John McCain and Michael Bloomberg on my short list of Republicans who aren’t vile scum.

(And meanwhile G.W. Bush makes lame “where are the WMD?” jokes at the correspondence dinner. “F” W.)

Former Senator Bob Kerrey blasts apart Bushies and Clintonites alike during the current hearings. What was the story about him cutting off ears in Vietnam?

Awful. Awful. It wants to be an updated “Sunset Blvd.” with a twist. It is, though, absurd, laughable and filled with plot holes the size of Ted Kennedy’s head. The only thing even remotely of merit is, surprisingly, Mick Jagger’s performance in a side role. His dialogue is appaling but, maybe ’cause I didn’t expect it, he can actually act. I rented this because Julianna Margulies was in it — and she doesn’t even wear sexy outfits.

The late Hamas spiritual leader was a man of peace to some, vile terrorist monster to others. I don’t know too much about him personally (but know that anyone associated with Hamas which, yes, built one or two hospitals, but also spends most of its time blowing up buses and, thus, should be placed in the latter camp) but I can tell you that in this picture he simply looks like Sid Caeser doing an impression of a Muslim Cleric.

I always found “The Philadelphia Story” a little overrated, but this musical remake is pretty damned awful. The scenes with Sinatra aren’t too bad (Frank does a good “Frank” here) and the musical numbers (Cole Porter) are pretty good. But the stretches between songs seem never ending, and Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly are not Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn. Also, Louis Armstrong delivers one of the more embarrasing Uncle Tom performances in history. Even by 1956 standards it is stomach turning.

Ann held in her hands two tickets to Trenton. She always knew I’d be taking her places. . .but did she ever dream it was Trenton?

Jordan can not contain his excitement at seeing a sign for Trenton.

The Jumbotron at the Soverign Bank Arena in Trenton, NJ.

We were there to see the Trenton Titans battle it out with the Atlantic City Boardwalk Bullies. It was pretty similar to the movie Slap Shot. Drunks, fighting, swearing. Good stuff. And as somebody who doesn’t know too much about hockey, it was just as good as the NHL. We were right up front — but everytime some action (banging up against the boards, brawling, a face-off) was directly in front of our nose I forgot to take a picture. My father would say, “Take a shot now!” and I’d grab my camera, but it would be too late. Finally I said, “I don’t work for Associated Press — my pictures don’t have to be perfect!” Then I was able to relax a bit. Anyway, here are some decent shots I took during the game.

Does it say “Goal” or “Go Al?”

Ann talked about getting popcorn for about an hour, then finally got some.

The Two Titans. George Hoffman and Ellen Donahue outside the Soverign Bank Arena with their new Trenton Titans hats. If you click on the above photo and look closely at the larger version, you’ll see that my father still has the price tags on his, a la Minnie Pearl.

Here’s something we discovered. Trenton is beautiful!! To get from the train station to the arena is, basically, a two-block walk. (We didn’t know this at first, and going there we spent an ungodly $6 making a 40-second cab ride. I’m not exaggerating. The cabs had a flat fee of $3 per person. And, like a shmuck, I gave a $1 tip. This is $7 of what my father calls Rebbe Gelt.) Anyway, we found fantastic buildings on the two blocks to the station on the way back. Here is block one.

On the second block we discovered giant mansions ca. 1860. They were just sitting there, obviously unused (but not quite abandoned.)

As Ann and I are snapping photos, walking around private property, a man with a beard comes out of one of the empty houses. I speak pre-emptively “These are great houses. We’re on our way to the train station.” “Where are you from?” he asks. “New York.” “What the heck are you doing in Trenton?” he asks. We tell him we’re here to see a hockey game, and really dig these old buildings. Then he rubs his eyes for a minute, takes a deep breath and says, “Come inside. I’ll show you something.”

Now — for a minute — a chill went through my entire body. This man was going to kill us. He was soft-spoken, bearded and he was living in a haunted house. And he kept rubbing his eyes a lot. Anyway, we went in the house for a few minutes. He told us the history of the house and very abruptly said, “You better go. You’re going to miss your train.” Maybe he was fighting inner demons that wanted to kill us? I didn’t get a photo of him, but got a few of the interior. Notice how tall the door is next to Ann.

Finally, we made it back to the station, which we both agreed looked like an old R.E.M. video.

Sen. Kennedy socks it to Bush again on Meet the Press. Anyone with half a brain — one quarter of a brain — one EIGHTH of a brain — listening to Sen. Kennedy this AM (to HALF of Sen. Kennedy, to one EIGHTH of Sen. Kennedy) would want Bush’s head. Sen. Kennedy, aged 73, 74, whatever, is kicking ass more than ever.

Here’s a photo of George Hoffman and Jake Vetrini from over 6 months ago that, for some reason, I am only discovering now.

Max in the kitchen.

Max on the couch.

107 minutes of mental masturbation. As one who likes to mentally masturbate, I found this quite a delight. (And although it doesn’t happen until the last scene, there is some trademark von Trier cruelty-to-women. . .in case you wore worried.)

We have a UPC code.
More on this — much more — as we get close to 5/25.

What’s amazing is that, independent of one another, Ben Warren, Dr. Garrett Koren and I have all wondered about the body politics of this album. (Especially seeing as how the earlier “Run For The Hills” shows off songwriter Steve Harris’ liberal cred.) Feminist issues aside — this kicks fuckin’ ass.

This 18 year old letter from Harvey Weinstein to Errol Morris kinda speaks for itself. Click it for a larger view.

The more I think about this movie, the more amazed I am by it. It is 100% engaging — and yet nothing happens. It’s two hours and ten minutes of buildup, followed by thirty seconds of action. The movie is just plot plot plot. Keep it moving. No time for character depth, yet by hiring good actors and having clever dialogue the movie hints that it COULD have character depth if it wanted to, it just chooses to stick with the procedure. This is also fascinating as a house of mirrors period piece — to see how 1973 portrays 1962. This would make a great double bill with “Black Sunday.” (They are basically the same film, but since this is about France it feels a little classier.) What’s also interesting is that you aren’t watching “The Jackal” plan his crime — we’re just watching him move around, kinda discovering things. He isn’t all that great of a planner — he just has the will. This movie is the polar opposite of “In The Line of Fire.” Same subject matter, but that’s all about characters being clever and “human.” Here, they are just making connecting trains. Lastly, The Jackal would never have been caught if the OAS had a heavy donor to put some cash in the kitty. It was robbing the banks to pay Jackal’s price that tipped the cops off.

It’s coming.
Click here to see what wholesalers are looking at.

I don’t normally listen to techno — but I find the minimalist funk of The New Deal to be a terrific aid when writing. It keeps me focused, energetic. I hardly hear the music at all.

Fun to watch, but I think this movie wants to be important and weighty and Shakespearian and it doesn’t quite succeed on that level. Also, Eddie Izzard, who I think is great, is kinda miscast as Charlie Chaplin here. Edward Herrmann as Hearst is terrific, though.