Flickgrrl

Used to be that artists in films were the likes of Vincent van Gogh (Lust for Life) and Michelangelo (The Agony and the Ecstasy), suffering and starving for their art.

Today's artist is the chef (see: Babette's Feast, The Big Night, Spanglish, Ratatouille and the forthcoming No Reservations, the English-language remake of Mostly Martha -- that's Aaron Eckhardt and Catherine Zeta-Jones above) suffering and savoring for theirs.

Have foodies taken over the movies? Or is food is such an elastic metaphor that it can embrace everything -- from art to cannibalism, from capitalism to spiritual communion, from aphrodisiac to colonialism? Yes. And yes.

Nelson Pereira dos Santos' hilarious political allegory How Tasty Was My Little Frenchman I depicts Brazilian Indians who resist colonization by eating the colonials. In Luis Bunuel's sly The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie gourmet food suggests capitalist consumption. Gabriel Axel's sublime Babette's Feast (based on a story by Isak Dinesen) is about food as agent of religious revelation. And then there's Juzo Itami's Tampopo, a heroic quest for the perfect noodle. And in Alfonso Arau's Like Water for Chocolate, food is at once revolutionary, sensuous and emotional. These five -- plus Ratatouille -- are my nominations for tastiest food films. Yours?

And am I crazy to read the subtext of Ratatouille as Pixar -- the rats in the house that Mickey Mouse built -- reaffirming the true mission of Walt Disney as Remy the rat reaffirms the values of chef Gusteau?

With the rollicking Hairspray in theaters Friday (that's Michelle Pfeiffer, left, as slithery villainess Velma Van Tussle) now may be the time to ask the question. What is it about musicals that sends otherwise intelligent and secure hetero men into sexual panic? When readers complain to me, as YT does in his comments below re the AFI 100's inclusion of Singin' in the Rain, that the musical is dead or that they don't "get" the convention of characters bursting into song, I always suspect that the real subtext of the complaint is this: Real Men Don't Sing. Tough Guys Don't Dance.
Whenever I hear this, and it's almost always from those who identify themselves as het males, there is a swagger to the disdain. It's as if their manhood would fall off if they admitted that they enjoyed Dreamgirls or Moulin Rouge. Guess what, guys? Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin made musicals and they're the manliest men I can think of. For me, musicals -- whether they're of the Travolta or Traviata variety -- enable characters to sing things they couldn't say in mere words.
Are you a musicals lover or a hater? Any thoughts? Defenses? Fave films?

You might not recognize the name of Laszlo Kovacs, the gifted cinematographer who passed away in his sleep on Saturday at the age of 74. But generations of movie geeks recognize his indelible images, such as his work on Paper Moon (that's Tatum O' Neal pictured), evocative of the Depression-era portraits by Dorothea Lange and Walker Evans.
From Easy Rider (1969) and Five Easy Pieces to Shampoo (1975) and New York, New York (1977) to Ghostbusters (1984) and Say Anything (1989), Kovacs was a painter of light responsible for an immodest number of classic movie moments. Neon, fluorescent and streetlamps were important figures in the comedies and dramas he shot. What you remember about a Kovacs image is not just its stunning beauty, but how it underlines the emotional exchange between characters.
The Hungarian-born lensman began his career as a guerrilla cinematographer on the streets of Budapest, chronicling the anti-Communist revolt of 1956 by hiding his camera in a paper bag and smuggling the footage into America with his buddy Vilmos Zsigmond.
Paper Moon and New York, New York show Kovacs at the top of his game.
Do you have a favorite Kovacs film? Do you even notice the cinematography? Is there a lensman/woman whose work you admire? For me, the guys every bit as great as the Hungarians of the '60s and '70s are the Mexicans: Rodrigo Prieto (Brokeback Mountain, Babel, Frida) and Emmanuel Lubezki (Children of Men, Y Tu Mama Tambien and Great Expectations).

Like the astronomers say: The bigger the star, the shorter the lifespan. But I would have bet you the price of a movie ticket that the prodigiously talented Lindsay Lohan, so delightful in The Parent Trap, Freaky Friday, Confessions of a Drama Queen and Mean Girls would have twinkled longer than nine years before imploding. From accounts of her latest suspected DUI looks like the the troubled 21-year-old, who did a stint in rehab after being picked up for a suspected DUI in May, is committing staricide.

Few child stars survive their youth. For every Elizabeth Taylor and Jodie Foster who navigates the perilous passage from child performer to mature actor, there is a Mickey Rooney or River Phoenix who gets beached or overdoses. Many of the young actresses who want to stay the course have followed Foster's fine example of going to college and developing an inner life and resources. (I'm thinking Natalie Portman, Julia Stiles, Claire Danes, Anne Hathaway.) If I were Lindsay's aunt, after she came of of rehab I'd drag her shapely rump to school. Then again, if she's convicted of two DUIs, mandatory sentencing demands incarceration. And more than likely no Hollywood studio will pay the insurance premium on an actress whose after-hours antic could sink a multimillion dollar production.

This is what Martin Sheen, himself the parent of a troubled young star (Charlie), publicly said to Lohan's estranged parents: "Get in there and fight for her life. You get between her and the grave and you say…I won’t allow it.”

What intervention do you recommend?