By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Amy Nicholson
By Chris Packham
By David Kipen
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Caira LaVelle
Director Howard and writers Ganz and Mandel are at their sharpest when they draw the ways Ed's family and the public initially react to True TV. His mother (Sally Kirkland) turns theatrical (she sets visions of Blanche Du Bois spinning in DeGeneres' head), his frail stepdad (Martin Landau) remains determinedly down-to-earth (he tells Ed he'd yell for Ed's mom himself, but he'd die), and his mystery dad (Dennis Hopper) suddenly shows up at his door. At one point, someone pushes a promotional CD into Ed's hands and says his band has a blind guy in it and is called Not All of Us Can See. For a while, the ensemble resembles the giddy everyday grotesques from a Preston Sturges movie.
Pundit-mania heats up: Harry Shearer, who performed a similar function in The Truman Show, hosts panels with the likes of Arianna Huffington and Michael Moore. And polling goes into overdrive. The videophiles who rooted for Elfman's Shari to dump Ray for Ed soon tell USA Today that she isn't good enough for him -- they prefer Jill (Elizabeth Hurley), a glamorous aspiring actress. You can see why Shari, a strapping UPS gal without airs or illusions, finds Ed attractive and why she hooks up with him after Ray cheats on her.
It's too bad that their bond obstructs the comedy. For one thing, Ray ceases to be central to the action. And if that USA Today poll is one funny idea, it's also a dire turning point. Soon after it appears, Shari beats a retreat; Ed loses his bearings; his mom, dad and stepdad grow nuttier; and the movie instructs us on what we already know about the wages of fame. Shari begins to symbolize unspoiled, media-free humanity.
Howard, Ganz and Mandel have a Three Bears view of comic ingredients: nothing too cold, nothing too hot. (Even Shari learns to compromise.) So the director and his writers ultimately reduce the drama to Ed clearing his head and cementing his love with the people closest to him: Shari, Ray and -- because father-son rapprochement is key to family entertainment in the '90s -- his stepdad, Al.
EDtv sets up Ed as a man of the people, then flirts with portraying him as a victim of the people. It's the same sort of dead end Capra ran up against in Meet John Doe. Howard is a lot more deft at depicting the onlookers than Peter Weir was in The Truman Show; this movie's fluctuations mirror the fleeting allegiances of our media-permeated life more acutely than that pristine fantasy. But Howard still has a hard time persuading us that the TV masses will react positively to his film's happy ending.
To me, the film makes sense -- perhaps inadvertently -- as a fable about privacy in the era of Kenneth Starr. The True TV czar (Rob Reiner) decides he hascontinued on next pagecontinued from previous pageunlimited access to Ed's life. His cameras uncover one family scandal after another, most of which come about by way of video entrapment. The public maintains a strained devotion to Ed even after he proves to be a hapless lover. The only way Ed can regain control of his life is with some Larry Flynt-like scandal-mongering of his own. The resolution leaves the House of Pekurny standing. By the end, the movie audience, like the electorate, is less satisfied than strung-out and exhausted.
Opens March 26.
-- Michael Sragow
COLUMBIA PICTURES 75th ANNIVERSARY FILM FESTIVAL
The history of what has come to be known as "the classic Hollywood cinema" (a period lasting roughly from 1910, when a handful of filmmakers set up shop in Southern California, until the late 1950s, when the competition of television, a steady increase in independent production and a series of antitrust rulings combined to change the way movies were made) is by and large the history of the film studios. At their most powerful, the major studios controlled every detail of the making of a film, from the initial development of an idea to the casting of the smallest bit player, from the advertising campaigns to the theaters in which it played. Theirs was a factory system that, in its heyday, churned out hundreds of features, serials, newsreels and shorts every year; produced hit songs; made stars and starlets out of ordinary young men and women; and somewhere along the way had time to create a few masterpieces like Bringing Up Baby, King Kong, Singin' in the Rain and Out of the Past.
Though the studio system ceased to function in any meaningful way some 40 years ago, the studios themselves live on as shadow versions of themselves, modern media conglomerates that dabble in everything from publishing and cable TV to hotels and ski resorts but still thrive on the mystique of their earlier glory. Although their film libraries -- that warehouse full of films eternally ripe for repackaging, repromoting and occasionally remaking -- help preserve their images, it's the names themselves that solidify them. We continue to recognize their logos -- the roar of Leo, the Paramount mountain, the Fox fanfare, even the long-defunct RKO radio tower -- though the empires once signified by these images have fallen.
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