Jeff Smith noon, March 8
Marks to appear in commercial for new Scorsese picture?
It's been a long standing dream to have a blurb from of one of my reviews appear on a movie poster. It's not as though I haven't given the studios ample opportunity.
The era of physical media is over. In one day, my desire for one-sheet immortality has been dethroned by the reality of a possible appearance in a television commercial promoting Marty's latest movie!
No, not The Wolf of Wall Street, although Paramount is free to use the following in any or all of their promotional material.
Last week Fox5 film critic, Josh Board, texted an alert: He makes an appearance in One Direction: This Is Us.
That's what makes Board beautiful!
Believe it or don't, I know every lyric to That's What Makes You Beautiful, but not until last week did I know the name of the band that performed it. The fascination began when I took the 3 Lickona girls to see Wreck It Ralph. The song came on the radio and Therese, the middle-sibling, let out an "Ooh-ooh! Turn it up. I love that song."
Glancing in the rear-view, I noticed then-3-year-old Winnie bopping along in her car seat. It was one of the cutest darned things I ever saw. The way that she flipped her hair on cue left me overwhelmed by a case of the giggles.
Needless to say, the song has become an anthem of sorts around the Lickona household. It is with a great deal of regret that I must report the family was on their summer vacation when the film screened last Saturday, forcing me to fly solo.
Saturday morning at 10 a.m. What an ungodly time to show a movie. If I took off my sunglasses I'd have bled to death.
The line of highly-excitable teenage girls and their mothers snaked around the side of the AMC Mission Valley. None of them looked old enough to have seen Taxi Driver or Casino.
This could prove to be the ultimate act of love for my cinematic Lord and Savior.
Signing an agreement with the studio not to review and/or social network about a movie until the day of its release has become a somewhat-frequent occurrence. This dotted-line had nothing to do with a review embargo: by affixing my John Hancock to this document, I agreed to have my likeness used in the promotion of the picture.
Where do I sign?
You've all seen the muddy green commercials of spectators leaping from their seats during a promotional screening of the latest horror offering? The camera crew's new task at hand was infinitely more terrifying. This safari into the multiplex jungle required the cameramen to focus their night vision lenses on hundreds of teenage girls worked into a frenzy at the sight of Simon Cowell's off-the-rack boy band. They're like The Osmonds, only with bad prison tattoos.
With the wristband tightly secured and a 'special' yellow ticket (for press seats) and delicious cupcake (who says this job doesn't have its perks?) placed in my hand, it was time to find a seat.
I arrived early to secure proper positioning. None of the taped-off press seat were in the center of the theatre. This could be my only chance in life to experience Marty's eyebrows in 3D. I needed a "sweet-seat." Carefully removing the 'PRESS ONLY" sign taped to one of the objectionable chairs, I repositioned it fourth row center and stepped out for a smoke.
Upon retuning, I noticed one of the security guards nervously speaking into her walky-talky while giving me the once-over. "The one who moved the press sign," she said, followed by an electronic squelch. "He's back."
Throw me under the bus, will you! A brief explanation to her boss detailing my passion of the Marty was so compelling that she not only fluffed-up my chair, but personally hand-delivered a pair of 3D glasses.
There were at least 5 or 6 guys on the clock for what was essentially a 2 camera shoot. Curiosity set in: how were they going to film in the dark? They attached what appeared to be light sticks to the top of both cameras. In a movie theatre, the light comes from above and behind, not a pair of sunlamps flanking the screen. Is this a movie theatre or a photo booth? Surely they weren't going to shine a light on the crowd throughout the entire picture.
To their credit (and my shock), once the houselights went down the six men became invisible. No light, no movement, no disturbance whatsoever; as professional a job as any I've seen.
Will I make it into the finished product? What better way is there to promote a film aimed at teenage girls than with a dour-faced, half-asleep old fart positioned center frame amidst a sea of squealing acolytes? I tipped one of the photogs a few bucks in exchange for an advance screencap.
Marty appears on-screen for approximately 30 seconds. A handler whispers, "Martin Scorsese" to the band just in case they couldn't put a name to the face.
"My daughter loves you and so do I," He says followed by one of His trademark forced staccato cackles. "I give her my music to listen to and she gives me hers."
That's what makes Him beautiful.
Since no review embargo was signed, I see no harm in announcing that a five-star review calling One Direction: This Is Us the finest concert film since The Last Waltz will soon be heading your way.
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