I may have to go and see Che. Not because I am obsessed with the t-shirt (waking up hung-over every morning for two weeks Groundhog-Day-style in a hostel in Budapest with his wonky, stencilled face looming over me cured me of that) but because the review I read on the weekend made Soderbergh’s approach sound so ornery. No close-ups. No swelling music to cue heroism. No voice-overs or narrator characters to bear witness and guide the viewer to frame those moments of historical import, or even to hint at motivations.
And there’s Benicio, who I’ve been attracted-repulsed by since his star turn as the Samoan attorney in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. He wiped the floor with Johnny Depp – if you’ve ever taken too much acid and had that heart like an alligator – the one that might burst out of your chest any moment so you are careful not to look down: well, you’ll recognise the bellowing, gnashing del Toro trying to find the edges of his cerebellum in the bathtub, waiting for White Rabbit to peak. He made himself truly repulsive and frightening. Not very Hollywood.
Hey, check out Hunter giving Depp a gift during the making of the film. He’s almost as hard to understand as Robert Evans. That coca plays merry hell with diction.
Soderbergh is wildly inconsistent as a director, but I forgive him almost anything for Out of Sight and for my introduction to James Spader in Sex, Lies and Videotape.
I was talking with my friend Simmone the other day about the regrettable effect working with William Shatner on Boston Legal has had on Spader. Firstly, Boston Legal is utter shite, and secondly, Spader is now as blunt-looking and trussed as Shatner, kind of carved from mortadella. Hammy. Like a dog breeder grown to look like their pet.