Deux textes intéressants qui pourraient vous occuper en ce week-end glacial.
Vanity Fair publie dans son présent numéro Madness in Morocco, un extrait du nouveau livre de Peter Biskind, Star : How Warren Beatty Seduced America, qui se penche sur la douloureuse production d’Ishtar (1984), une comédie mettant en vedette Warren Beatty et Dustin Hoffman. Le film est considéré comme un des majeurs fiascos de l’histoire d’Hollywood, tant d’un point de vue créatif que financier.
Un passage qui illustre bien l’absurdité de l’entreprise :
Ah, the camels. One saga instantly became the stuff of Hollywood legend: the hunt for the blind camel, called for in May’s script. Actually, the hunt was for a blue-eyed camel that would register blind on film. (Or blue-eyed camels—the producers figured they needed four, in case one broke a leg.) The first stop was the camel market in Marrakech, where the animal trainer, Corky Randall, and his assistant found just the right camel, for about $700. But being shrewd traders, they didn’t want to buy the first camel they stumbled on—they thought they could do better. So they told the camel trader, “Thanks a lot, we’ll get back to you.” But, as it turned out, blue-eyed camels were a rarity. None of the subsequent camels Randall came across measured up to the first. As was reported at the time in New York Magazine, “The humps would be too large or too small. The facial hair would be beige or brown. It was always something.” Finally, the trainers gave up and went back to the first dealership to buy the perfect camel. “Remember us? We’d like to buy that camel of yours that we looked at the other day.” “Sorry,” the dealer replied. “We ate it.”
- D’autres textes de Biskind – notamment sur Heath Ledger; la lutte aux Oscars entre Coming
Home et The Deer Hunter; le tournage de Reds de Beatty; ou Woody Allen – se trouvent ici.
Pour demeurer dans le thème de l’absurde, mais du côté fictif de la chose, je propose Udder Madness, un récit signé Woody Allen paru dans le New Yorker de la semaine dernière qui
raconte le désir d’une vache de tuer un réalisateur pompeux à lunettes…
Un extrait :
As the accumulation of single malt took its toll on his capillaries, he slurred invective against the New York critics for failing to consider his last movie, “Louis Pasteur Meets the Wolfman,” for honors. By now he had begun eyeballing the comelier types, and, clasping some actress’s hand with his rodent’s paw, whispered, “Little minx, I sense by those high cheekbones that you have Cherokee blood in you.” Tact personified, the woman somehow resisted the impulse to grab his nose with her fist and give it several turns counterclockwise till it made a ratcheting noise.
- D’autres textes de Woody Allen dans le New Yorker ici.