Mar 1, 2007
No valium required: reading The Departed
This is the end, my friend: Scorsese's Oscar backstage scrum
[source]
King of the movie world: profiling Departed's producer
The Observer's Craig McLean takes the measure of "the biggest Brit in Hollywood" and apparently it's not Sacha Baron Cohen. "I'm a film producer. How do you define a film producer? Wow... my job is to find screenplays, 
Academy Award: Digital Nation
As surely as night follows day, Oscar-hype season is subsumed by Oscar-second-guessing season. Thank goodness, one is decidedly shorter than the other. [source]
Yes, this Academy Awards ceremony was every bit as tiresome as everyone says was, and feared it would be. How could it not have been awful? No one in charge of AMPAS would ever loosen the stranglehold long enough to allow anything truly provocative or stimulating, and, indeed, no one invited to the Kodak Theater cares to see themselves or anyone else in the industry embarrassed in public. Their reason for attending is completely different than our’s is for watching.
No one with a vested interest in the outcome of the night’s events pays much attention to the quality of the skits, dance numbers and orchestral excesses. They love the Chamber of Commerce video presentations, which serve to extol the virtues of an industry that otherwise is content to turn out dozens of crappy titles for every one worthy of Oscar consideration. The celebrities are there for one specific reason … to be handed an Oscar by one of their own … or, failing that, to be photographed being magnanimous in defeat. If they can keep the gratis gowns and jewelry, so much the better.
Heck, if this were 1957, most of the nominees in the Best Performance categories wouldn’t even have bothered to show up. Why bother? Helen Mirren, Jennifer Hudson, Forest Whitaker were the "free spaces" in everyone’s Oscar pools, and only Alan Arkin and Eddie Murphy were given serious consideration in the supporting-male contest. The Best Director and Best Picture winners remained in doubt until the end, but most viewers in the Midwest or East Coast had surrendered.
Today, there’s some evidence to indicate that as many as a million more Americans tuned into all or part -- key distinction, there -- of the ceremony than were counted last year. No big deal, really, considering the competition. Even HBO and BBC America elected not to counter-program this year.
Still, the willingness of nearly 40 million Americans to sample the ceremony is nothing at which to sneeze, especially considering how few had bothered to visit the local multiplex more than once or twice last year. Oh, and the baloney about a worldwide audience of a billion viewers … I thought that nonsense was laid to rest five years ago, when a reporter actually did the math. Unless everyone with a TV in China and India was tuned in, the total would barely top 400 million.
But, it’s AMPAS’ party, and we’ll cry if we want to. I’d tune in to see who won, even if one of the dancing penguins co-hosted with the newly beatified former vice president, Al Gore. And, the Monday-morning quarterbacks in the press would trash them, as well.
It’s an odd game, isn’t it? In the lead-up to the ceremony, the media treats the Academy Awards as if they were God’s gift to mankind, and every nominee deserved the attention usually reserved for Nobel Peace Prize honorees. The studios exploit the press’ sudden willingness to pander to their every desire, by providing access to celebrities who might otherwise only talk to Vanity Fair or the New York Times. The actors and filmmakers agree to schmooze until the cows come home, while AMPAS keeps its collective lips close to ABC’s collective ass, in fear of alienating its closest ally.
Monday morning, ashamed of the complicity in this fiasco, the nation’s editors sic their critics on the producers of the ceremony. Agents and studio brass lick their wounds, and ABC executives count their money. By Tuesday, most of the 40 million souls who watched all or part of the ceremony can’t recall who won, let alone those who were nominated.
Sadly, even fewer will bother to check out the splendid documentary finalists, or the two or three foreign-language candidates that inarguably were even better than The Departed … which was a pretty damn good movie. (Water, The Lives of Others and Pan’s Labyrinth all succeeded in elevating the medium to places Hollywood hasn’t been in decades.)
It explains why AMPAS allows ABC to pitch the parties, fashions and frivolity associated with the Academy Awards over the products of its member studios, just as NBC pimps the Golden Globes as if it were spring break in Cancun. As long as the network doesn’t decide to put Jimmy Kimmel and Sarah Silverman on the red carpet, live mic in hand, no one’s gonna get hurt.
I won’t offer any suggestions for sweeping reforms, except, perhaps, that AMPAS forces ABC to sell less advertising inventory. This would serve not only to shorten the show, but also to keep audiences from deciding the cutesy-poo commercials are more entertaining than the film clips.
They might also consider attaching a semi-permanent host to the proceedings. Unfortunately, no one seems as willing to shoulder such a load as were Johnny Carson and Bob Hope, and that was back in the day when attendance was optional, the "best" movies never won, and reporters weren’t invited to the after-parties. It’s entirely likely that such a person -- Steve Martin and Billy Crystal come to mind -- wouldn’t wither under the heightened expectations of jaded viewers and critics, nor fear repercussions from a controversy-phobic ABC and AMPAS.
One thing that hasn’t been tried, and might relate to lovers of professional sports, competitive ice skating and real-time blogging, is for ABC to add a play-by-play announcer and expert analyst to the broadcast. They need not be as potentially scathing as Lewis Black or Kathy Griffin, but who wouldn’t tune in to hear Bill Maher and Arianna Huffington, for example, comment on what’s transpiring before viewers’ eyes. Heck, I’d settle for Bill O’Reilly and Jenna Jameson.
Then, at least, we might be able to glean the names of people whose faces are shown when a winner is announced: Ellen’s blond girlfriend, Portia; Melissa’s "wife"; Celine’s parasite husband; whoever came with Jack. The narration provided as the winners approached the podium, last night, was at once inane and intrusive. Wouldn’t Vin Scully have been a better choice?
Absent anything that earthshaking and improbable, though, wouldn’t it be swell if the media -- mainstream and alternative -- declared a moratorium on all Oscar speculation until Thanksgiving or, better, New Year’s Day? If nothing else, by curbing the avalanche of hype, the annual disappointment over the lameness of the ceremony would be reduced, in kind.
This much, I suggest, we in the entertainment media can sacrifice for world peace and cultural discourse. That, and exiling Mary Hart and Pat O’Brien to the Aleutian Islands for the period between Oscar nominations and the ceremony.
February 26, 2007
- Gary Dretzka
Norah Jones Lingers Atop Charts, Britney Nearly Diagnosed, New Ryan Adams Gets Release Date
Someone do something about this Norah Jones situation. The piano princess is enjoying another week at Number One on the charts. Admittedly, this week was not a good one for record sales (Fall Out Boy sold 79,052 copies of Infinity On High, a 33 percent drop since last week, and still managed to earn the Number Three spot). Jones only had to sell 99,825 copies of her album Not Too Late in order to score the top spot, but still. Everyone: Buy Arcade Fire’s album next Tuesday.
* Britney Spears is reportedly in treatment for Post-Partum depression, or bipolar disorder. We were wondering what the official culprit behind her zany behavior was. Now we almost know.
* Kelly Osbourne freaked everybody out when she announced — at an AIDS charity benefit — that one of her family members has H.I.V. Now her cousin Terry Longden, has reportedly outed himself as the one suffering from the disease.
* Oops. All those in attendance at a Valentine’s Day bash celebrating Beyonce’s cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue (like Leo DiCaprio) should see a doctor, pronto. The event was catered by Wolfgang Puck, one of whose employees was recently diagnosed with Hepatitis A. Eew.
* Ryan Adams has announced a release date for his new album, Easy Tiger. We’ll be halfway into 2007 by the time this album comes out on June 1st. Could everyone’s favorite tormented troubadour be slowing down? Maybe he’s just taken the time to make Easy Tiger really awesome. Though the final sequence of tracks if not yet finalized, these songs will appear on the album: “Goodnight Rose”, “Everybody Knows”, “The Sun Also Sets”, “Halloween Head”, “Off Broadway”, “Two Hearts”, “Tears Of Gold”, “These Girls”, “Two”, “I Taught Myself How To Grow Old”, “Oh My God, Whatever, Etc.”, “Rip Off”, and “Pearls On A String”.
* According to TMZ Paris Hilton may spend 90 days in jail. The heiress was allegedly arrested last night for violating the terms of her probation (she was arrested on September 7th for DUI in Hollywood) after cops stopped her speeding down Sunset sans headlights.
-- Elizabeth Goodman
*Rollingstone.com
Awards Season Isn't Over Yet: RTS Awards, Oscar Parties
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Sick of seeing and hearing about Helen Mirren? Don't tell me you're suffering from awards fatigue just yet! That's the great thing about being international: we have all those British awards to cover, like the Royal Television Society awards, which had their nominations announced last night. And yes, Dame Helen rears her head again, as she's up for Best Actress for Prime Suspect.
Representing the best of British TV in 2006, the list included several BBC AMERICA shows. In fact, for us, it's like picking favorites among children: I don't envy the people who have to choose a winner among Doctor Who, Life On Mars, and The Street in the Drama Series category. The biggest controversy of last night's nominations is the absence of Eastenders for Best Soap (ITV's Coronation Street, Emmerdale, and The Bill are the contenders).
Here are select nominees:
Actor - Female
- Julia Davis - Fear Of Fanny
- Susan Lynch - Soundproof
- Helen Mirren - Prime Suspect
Actor - Male
- Jim Broadbent - Longford
- Philip Glenister - Life On Mars
- Michael Sheen - Kenneth Williams: Fantabulosa!
Comedy Performance
- Kevin Bishop - Star Stories
- Stephen Merchant - Extras
- Catherine Tate - The Catherine Tate Show
Drama Serial
- Low Winter Sun
(coming soon to BBC AMERICA) - Prime Suspect
- Terry Pratchett's Hogfather
Drama Series
Presenter
- Jeremy Clarkson, James May, & Richard Hammond - Top Gear
- Bruce Parry - Tribe
- Gordon Ramsay - Gordon Ramsay's F Word
Situation Comedy and Comedy Drama
Soap
Writer - Drama
- Peter Morgan - Longford
- Simon Donald - Low Winter Sun
- Abi Morgan - Tsunami, The Aftermath
Get the complete list of nominees here.
Oscar partying, British style: according to those party crashers The Sun, Helen Mirren scarfed a burger and joked that she wants to play Camilla (at least, I hope she was joking...I thought she was sick of playing dowdy); Elton John kissed and made up with Simon Cowell over Cowell's dismissal of Elton fave Jennifer Hudson; Simon and Sharon Osbourne apparently had a row that included a "F*ck you!"; Daniel Craig almost smiled but not quite; and Peter O'Toole shakes off his Best Actor loss by diving into Cate Blanchett's cleavage.
The Daily Telegraph also presents a UK take on the Oscars: writer Tom Leonard ran into Billy Connolly who said the parties were "s*** - people just eating cheese straws, talking rubbish, getting drunk, and complaining about being stared at." Welcome to Hollywood!
James Christopher of The Times regurgitates my post from yesterday: Mexico triumphed, and Brits were big losers at the Oscars. Except his article is racist, natch: "no speak English equals trim speeches."
In other news
- I'm sorry, I think Daniel Radcliffe is adorable, but with facial hair he looks like an FTM transsexual who just started hormones. I'm just sayin'. (Daily Mail)
- Can I read an article in The Sun that doesn't inform us that Beth Ditto of The Gossip is "15-stone"?
- Turns out, ABC doesn't like Heather Mills so much either now that she's no longer a "Lady." Regarding her name change for Dancing With the Stars, a source tells The Sun, "It was a bombshell for ABC. Getting a Lady who was married to a Beatle was almost like signing royalty to them. They are gutted they had to drop the title."
- Oh, and disabled people hate her, too: From Digital Spy: "Campaigners argue that the estranged wife of Sir Paul McCartney should refrain from using her blue disabled badge to park her Mercedes four-wheel drive if she is mobile enough to compete on the celebrity dancing contest."
- Good Heavens: That "Beckhams in America" reality show is being talked about as if it were a done deal. They forget that no one other than the most devoted of Anglophiles gives a flying crap about them here.
- Now here's a reality show I want to see: "Supermodel Naomi Campbell is to star in an MTV reality TV show following her recruitment of a new personal assistant. "
- Sophie Ellis-Bextor praises the new crop of female British pop stars: "I'm glad to see the emergence of people with a brain and personality in pop like Lily Allen and Amy Winehouse."
- Catherine Tate is the patron of the Young Writers Festival in London, in which first-time playwrights have professional stagings of their works. Tate talks about her own writing style in the Telegraph: "I'm interested in the way people speak. I don't write gags; I wouldn't know how to. My comedy isn't about saying funny things, it's about saying things funny." P.S.: is it me, or is CT morphing into Cynthia Nixon before our eyes?
- Portishead has debuted a new song. (Gigwise)
- The Good, The Bad, and The Queen are set to play the final show ever at Hammersmith Palais. (Gigwise)
- Arctic Monkeys have recruited Dizzee Rascal to rap on their new album.
- Badly Drawn Boy has commenced his British acoustic tour of local chip-shops. It's all about preserving tradition, ya see. (Telegraph)
- American tycoons are snatching up British soccer teams. Is British football in danger of losing its identity?
- Jonas Armstrong, our own Robin Hood, is today's Hunk du Jour.
The Reviews Are In for Daniel Radcliffe's Stage Debut
Daniel Radcliffe's controversial foray into theater has been met with mostly positive reviews, reports the BBC. Stars like Christian Slater, Stephen Fry, and Graham Norton were on hand for Radcliffe's debut as demented stableboy Alan Strang in Equus. For a 17-year-old whose penis has been making the rounds on every sex blog and message board on the Net, the poised Harry Potter star has very little to be ashamed of today. He's legitimized by the critical reaction to his role. But the praise is far from the unanimous awe that reality star Connie Fisher garnered for The Sound of Music.
Some reviewers are smitten nonetheless. Charles Spencer of The Daily Telegraph gives Radcliffe the most ecstatic praise: Daniel Radcliffe brilliantly succeeds in throwing off the mantle of Harry Potter, announcing himself as a thrilling stage actor of unexpected range and depth.
Michael Billington of The Guardian also raves about Radcliffe, giving the play itself four stars mostly on the strength of Radcliffe's performance: The revelation of this revival is that Daniel Radcliffe really can act, proving that his screen appearances as JK Rowling's boy-hero are no flash in the magic pan.
The Independent's David Lister seems to think Radcliffe shows promise but stops short of calling him "revelatory": In the event, Radcliffe acquits himself well. He is not the most expressive of actors, and his stage presence will take time to evolve; but from the moment he enters the psychiatrist's office, shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed, and singing advertising jingles to avoid questioning, he cuts a compelling figure. As the evening goes on, there are moments when he touches, even if not tugs at, the heart strings. One feels for this boy because one senses from his performance a repression hiding a reservoir of feelings desperate to burst.
The Times' Benedict Nightingale is lukewarm and even a bit critical of Radcliffe's interpretation of the difficult role: Radcliffe proves an assured actor and makes a perfectly able equimaniac. He can do aggression and pain, and, oddly, is lacking only in the sense of magic and wonder the part demands...
The notoriously discerning Evening Standard theater critic, Nicholas de Jongh, gives Radcliffe a near-pan:
...Radcliffe has only one obvious weakness. His Alan is pale, vulnerable, defensive, surprisingly tough; but he's supposed also to find an exhilaration bordering on religious ecstasy in the company and, especially, the secret riding of horses. This, Radcliffe misses."[P]layed by Radcliffe with an air of pathetic, small-scale belligerence...[his] touching, little-boy lost Alan never convinces you he is wild with desire for horses or girls.
Hey, don't let de Jongh get you down, Danny. You can always rely on those world-renowned intellectual giants, Peaches and Pixie Geldof, to offer fresh insights: Peaches Geldof said: "I think Daniel acted brilliantly. I wasn't shocked by the nudity."
In other news:
Younger sister Pixie gasped: "I was so shocked! I love him, I think he is beautiful."
Blogging “American Idol”: Everyone Loves a Southern Boy
Congratulations, Sundance! After you sang “Mustang Sally” on last night’s American Idol, Paula proclaimed, “That’s like the best vocal I think we EVER HEARD!” Well put, Paula. She’s crazy, obviously, but it was a whole lot better than “Nights in White Satin.” Sundance has learned what side his bread’s buttered on, and he took the lead last night by giving the old ladies at home what they want: a nice husky Southern boy with good manners (he even calls Ryan Seacrest “sir”), lots of Bo Bice winks and a King Tut beard. The other dudes are still struggling, probably realizing it doesn’t matter since Lakisha Jones is going to roast them all. Howard Jones look-alike Blake Lewis did his “vocal turntablism” on a version of Jamiroquai’s “Virtual Insanity,” but he was more fun last week with his blatant Morrissey imitation. (Request for Blake: “I Know It’s Over!”) Chris Sligh, still doing the Jack Osborne class-clown shtick at 28, revealed he’s married to an apparently real nice girl, but he’s still grating. A.J. Tabaldo’s voice is like a lard bath, but it’s never going to win him a date with Antonella. So who’s going home?
1. Brandon Rogers. After singing a colon-unloadingly terrible version of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time,” he patiently explained to the judges that it couldn’t possibly suck, since (a) his grandma was very nice, (b) it was his dad’s birthday and (c) “I was trying to feel the song and give it to you.” Eeeewww.
2. Sanjaya Malakar. We love him — he’s the Indian El DeBarge — but the best thing he has going for him is his hair, and last night he hid it under that Michael Jackson fedora. His version of Irving Berlin’s “Steppin’ Out With My Baby” was his way of pleading, “Let me go home, America. I miss my sister. And I left school and got my GED but maybe it’s not too late to try the SAT’s again?”
-- Rob Sheffield
*[source]
Movie Review: "Days of Glory"
Photo: The Weinstein Company
Jamel Debbouze, Roschdy Zem and Sami Bouajilain in "Days of Glory."
I've never seen a picture quite like "Days of Glory," which not only illuminates a forgotten patch of history, but also broadens and enriches the idea of what it means to be both a patriot, in the best sense of the word, and a citizen of the world. French President Jacques Chirac, after seeing the picture last fall, was so moved by it that he took action to make sure that veterans who had once been disparagingly referred to as indigènes -- veterans from France's former colonies, who were receiving minuscule pensions in comparison with their French counterparts -- would begin receiving back payments of those pensions. It's remarkable that "Days of Glory" has affected policy. But even if it hadn't, its dramatic power has enough value by itself. This is a supreme example of how a filmmaker can make a work of fiction based on fact that, without didacticism or heavy-handed moralizing, leaves us feeling more connected not just with history but with what makes us human in the first place.
To tell this story, Bouchareb and screenwriter Olivier Lorelle use four central characters (fictional characters, but ones based on interviews and research done by the filmmakers). Abdelkader (Sami Bouajila) is a corporal who hopes to be promoted to sergeant, but not simply out of blind ambition: He's anxious to prove his worth, to his country as well as to himself, and also to be recognized for his contributions. Messaoud (Roschdy Zem) is a private and an ace marksman, who, when his unit arrives in Provence, is amazed by the warm welcome the locals extend to the soldiers, particularly by the attentions of a beautiful Frenchwoman, Irène (Aurélie Eltvedt). Yassir (Samy Nacery) is a Berber peasant who enlists chiefly for the money -- he needs it, in part, to marry off his younger brother, Larbi (Assaad Bouab), who also enlists. But even he becomes a dedicated fighter. And Saïd (Jamel Debbouze, whom American audiences may have seen in "She Hate Me" and "Amélie"), a Moroccan peasant who leaves his mother to fight, as his own father did in World War I, because he feels it's his duty.
The narrative here unfolds as a series of vignettes, a network of small scenes (and some big ones) that give us a sense of these soldiers' experiences, not just in battle but in how they relate to their commanding officers (particularly the stern, sharp-featured Sgt. Martinez, played by Bernard Blancan), to the people they encounter as they trek through Provence and the Rhône Valley, and to one another. Bouchareb stages the battle sequences with clear-eyed confidence and conviction; they're not particularly graphic, but they hold you.
But like all good filmmakers, Bouchareb knows that the greatest power lies in the details, in the small gestures rather than the grand ones. Sometimes his methods are so understated that we're not entirely sure what certain scenes mean until afterward, when we've had a chance to think about them. He shows us the African soldiers, exhausted but exhilarated after vanquishing a German battalion in the mountains; a car carrying a group of French officers, applauding the victory as if they'd been the ones to earn it, breezes by. To them, the soldiers who actually fought so valiantly are invisible.
Yassir and Larbi have been making money by removing watches and medals from dead Germans and selling their finds. At one point they enter a French church, to them an odd and mustily exotic place, and Larbi promptly begins emptying a collection box. Yassir stops him, scolding him for taking money from the house of God, even if it's someone else's God. And as the men travel through cold, snowy mountains, we see Yassir stop to warm the feet of his brother: All they have to wear are their sandals, which would be fine at home but are useless in this cruel climate.
Bouchareb trusts his actors to carry the weight of the movie, and they don't fail him. (The cast, collectively, took the prize for best actor at last year's Cannes Film Festival.) Bouajila, as Abdelkader, gives us a strong sense of a man whose sense of duty is matched by his intolerance for injustice, although his crude attempts to fight for it often get him in trouble: He brings a great deal of rough vitality to a scene in which he fights for (and wins) the right of all soldiers to have tomatoes with their dinner -- previously, these treats had been reserved only for native Frenchmen.
Zem's Messaoud, the marksman, has a wonderful scene in which he waits for the Frenchwoman he's just met, Irène, in her bedroom. He lifts a pillow from her bed and holds it to his face, taking the measure of its scent and its softness -- it’s not so much a symbol of luxury as a curious foreign object, an anthropological specimen that tells him something about the way other people live. When Irène enters the room, having stripped down to her slip, he gazes at her beauty in disbelief. In the movie's vision, she's the foreigner -- we have come to care so much for these soldiers that this lovely Frenchwoman is something of an alien ballerina.
The young Saïd is the movie's most heartbreaking character, a kid so green he coughs and sputters when he's offered a post-victory glass of whiskey by Martinez (who, after initially disciplining Saïd somewhat cruelly, has taken a liking to him). Debbouze has an unusual, unforgettable face: With his heavy brow and alert, questioning eyes, he's a mix of scrappiness and innocence -- part pugilist, part putto. When Saïd and his comrades finally arrive in France, he pulls a leaf off a tree and tastes it. He scoops up some soil and breathes in its scent, remarking on how different it is from the earth at home. He and his comrades have been looking forward to this day since they shipped out from Morocco. (Somewhat confusingly, they keep asking their superiors when they're going "home"; what they're really asking is, "When will we finally reach France?")
Saïd can't read. When a German plane drops a flutter of propaganda -- sheets of paper with a message, written in Arabic, promising that if the African soldiers will only cross over to Germany, they'll be warmly welcomed as equals -- Saïd nestles close to Abdelkader to find out what the words say. Abdelkader explains to him and then crumples the page, throwing it to the ground in disgust. Saïd picks up the flier and stuffs it into a hole in his boot: It's good enough only for that. As he proudly tells one of the villagers who welcome his unit in Provence -- a pretty young girl who's clearly interested in him, although it doesn't even occur to him to pursue anything -- "I free a country, it's my country. Even if I've never seen it before." What does it mean to belong to a country, even when you're made to feel you don't belong in it? That's the potent question "Days of Glory" asks, although it's humble enough to know it can't provide an answer. The best conclusion we can draw is that the search for a sense of belonging can fill up a lifetime, and beyond. [source]
Britney's postpartum blues? Peretz sells shares
Beyoncé exposed (to hepatitis A): Celeb chef Wolfgang Puck scored a nice gig catering the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue bash earlier this month, but the coup has turned into a P.R. nightmare after Los Angeles health officials announced that one of the workers preparing food may have exposed people at the event to acute hepatitis A.
Reuters writes: "The Los Angeles County health department recommended on Tuesday that anyone who ate uncooked food at the sports magazine's party on Feb. 14 get treatment by Wednesday to avoid developing the serious liver disease." Yikes! Cover girl Beyoncé Knowles was at the party, as was "Borat" costar Ken Davitian, but officials are trying to reassure people that the risk of infection is "quite low." (Reuters via Yahoo News)
The new New Republic: Marty Peretz is owner of the New Republic no more -- Canadian media giant CanWest Global Communications announced Tuesday that it purchased Peretz's remaining 25 percent share in the magazine to become its new full owner. Editor-in-chief Peretz, who has been with the magazine for three decades, told the New York Observer, "It feels like a burden has been lifted from me." The magazine also recently announced it's undergoing a redesign, and it will be going from a weekly to a biweekly starting March 19. (New York Observer)
White noise ... No more watching Seinfeld's Oscar bit on YouTube. On Tuesday, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences asked the Web site to remove all unauthorized posts of Academy Awards clips -- and YouTube quickly complied. (Variety) ... Is Nicole Richie getting engaged? She and new boyfriend Joel Madden were seen looking at engagement rings in Los Angeles last week. (The Scoop) ... 
Talker
Buzz Index
- Most e-mailed New York Times story: "Honeybees Vanish, Leaving Keepers in Peril"
- Most viewed story on Yahoo News: "Asian, European Markets Drop for 2nd Day," Associated Press
- Top entertainment story on Digg: "Matt Groening on the Simpsons Movie and Return of Futurama," CraveOnline
- Top search on Sphere: Cheney Target
Judgment
Mmm, stripper steaks: Heading recently to the Penthouse Executive Club in New York to sample the steaks served among strippers at Robert's Steakhouse, critic Frank Bruni tries to overcome the stereotypes about strip-club food: "You can find bliss in the soulless cradle of a strip mall. Why not the topless clutch of a strip club?" Distractions aside -- a dancer asks, "Is there anyone I can get naked for?" -- he finds the rumors about the place's steaks are true: "As it happens, Robert's has some of the very best steaks in New York City ... no matter what your appetite for the saucy spectacle accessorizing these steaks, you'll be turned on by the quality of the plated meat." He gives the restaurant one star. ("Where Only the Salad Is Properly Dressed,"[source]
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