#also you can tell this happened before Scott joined the Champions because that cast would be covered with signatures and drawings for him

[kalinara]

As whump fan, I am very fond of this issue and the one preceding it. I always enjoy a good coma.

The art in this issue is lovely overall, but I'm not utterly sure those glasses are the best idea for a coma patient. I feel like they could be very easily dislodged. Also, this is probably a time for a gown rather than scrubs, as I don't think scrubs are supposed to go UNDER the cast.

As much as I've enjoyed Krakoa on a whole, I am a bit frustrated by the way so many plot threads got dropped to accommodate it. It makes a certain amount of sense, of course. Krakoa was such a big deal, a sanctuary where, flawed as it was in SO many ways, mutants could finally feel like they had a future. It makes complete sense that all the old grudges and pain were temporarily buried. But I am actually rather glad that From the Ashes seems to be at least something of a return to form. Even if Scott's name is infamous for other reasons, and there might be a new justification for a Schism, it gives me some small hope that some of those discarded plot threads might actually get resolved.

(Mostly I just really want a lot of people to realize that they've been a dick to Scott Summers, and give him an honest apology. But I'm biased.)

(All-New X-Men #08, 2016)

[oscopelabs]

Elvis, Truelove and the Stolen Boy: The Tragic Machismo of Nick Cassavetes’ ‘Alpha Dog’ by Amy Nicholson

[Last year, Musings paid homage to Produced and Abandoned: The Best Films You’ve Never Seen, a review anthology from the National Society of Film Critics that championed studio orphans from the ‘70s and ‘80s. In the days before the Internet, young cinephiles like myself relied on reference books and anthologies to lead us to films we might not have discovered otherwise. Released in 1990, Produced and Abandoned was a foundational piece of work, introducing me to such wonders as Cutter’s Way, Lost in America, High Tide, Choose Me, Housekeeping, and Fat City. (You can find the full list of entries here.) Our first round of Produced and Abandoned essays included Angelica Jade Bastién on By the Sea, Mike D’Angelo on The Counselor, Judy Berman on Velvet Goldmine, and Keith Phipps on O.C. and Stiggs. Today, Musings concludes our month-long round of essays about tarnished gems, in the hope they’ll get a second look. Or, more likely, a first. —Scott Tobias, editor.]

A decade before the presidency that elevated insults like “betacuck” and “soyboy” into political discourse, Nick Cassavetes made Alpha Dog, a cautionary tragedy about masculinity that audiences ignored. Time for a reappraisal. Alpha Dog is about a real murder. Over a three-day weekend in August of 2000, 15-year-old Zach Mazursky—in reality, named Nicholas Markowitz—is kidnapped and killed by the posse of 20-year-old San Fernando Valley drug dealer Johnny Truelove (Emile Hirsch) with a grudge against Zach’s older brother. No one thought the boy would die, not his main babysitter Frankie (Justin Timberlake), not the girls invited to party with “Stolen Boy,” and not even the boy himself, played with naive perfection by Anton Yelchin, who played video games and pounded beers assuming that his new captor-friends would eventually take him home.

Cassavetes’ daughter went to the same high school as Nicholas Markowitz. The murderers were neighborhood kids and he wanted to understand how fortunate sons with their whole lives ahead of them wound up in prison. The trigger man, Ryan Hoyt—“Elvis” in the film—had never even gotten a speeding ticket. Prosecutor Ron Zonen hoped the publicity around Alpha Dog would help the public spot the real-life Johnny, named Jesse James Hollywood, who was still on the lam despite being one of America’s Most Wanted. So the lawyers gave Cassavetes access to everything: crime scene photos, trial transcripts, psychological profiles, police reports, and their permission to contact the criminals and their parents. Cassavetes even took his actors to meet their counterparts, driving Justin Timberlake to a maximum security prison to get the vibe of the actual Frankie, and introducing Sharon Stone to Nicholas Markowitz’s mother, a broken woman who attempted suicide a dozen times in the years after her son's death.

Alpha Dog, pronounced Cassavetes, was “95 percent accurate.” Which was part of why it got buried, thanks to Jesse James Hollywood’s arrest just weeks after the film wrapped. Cassavetes hastily wrote a new ending to the movie, but his problems were just beginning. Hollywood’s lawyers insisted Alpha Dog would prevent their client from getting a fair trial, and used the threat of a mistrial to force Zonen off the case. “I don't know what Zonen was thinking, handing over the files,” gloated Hollywood’s defense team. “It was stupid.”

The publicity, and the delays, dragged out the pain for Markowitz’s family, especially when they heard Cassavetes had paid Hollywood’s father an, er, consulting fee. “Where is the justice in that?” asked the victim's brother. “This just goes on and on, and I’m spending my whole life in a courtroom.”

The film, too, was pushed back a year from its Sundance premiere. Despite casting a visionary young ensemble—Alpha Dog was my own introduction to Yelchin, Ben Foster, Olivia Wilde, Amanda Seyfried, Amber Heard, and the realization that Timberlake, that kid from N*SYNC, could actually act—no one noticed when it slid into theaters in January of 2007. It wasn’t just the bad press. It was that audiences couldn’t get past that Cassavetes’ last film was The Notebook. No way could the guy behind the biggest romantic weepy of a generation make something raw and cool.

But he had. Alpha Dog is a stunning movie about machismo and fate, two tag-team traits that destroy lives. Think Oedipus convincing himself he can outwit the oracle of Delphi. But Sophocles’ Oedipus telegraphs its intentions, elbowing the audience to see the end at the beginning. Greeks sitting down in 405 BC knew they were watching a tale that came full circle. Every step Oedipus takes away from his patricidal destiny just moves him closer to it.

If you map Alpha Dog’s script, instead of a loop, it looks like a horizontal line that plummets off a cliff. For most of its running time, Alpha Dog could pass for a coming-of-age flick where a sheltered kid with an over-protective mom (Sharon Stone) taps into his own self-confidence, right up until the scene where he tumbles into his own grave. Audiences who’d missed the news articles about the case weren’t clued into the climax. Cassavetes doesn’t offer any hints or flash-forwards, not even an ominous “based-on-a-true-story.” (The film might have been more successful if he had.) Instead, he lulls you into joining the kegger, watching Zach crack open beer after beer as though he expects to live forever. “There’s a movie sensibility that the film doesn’t conform to,” said Cassavetes. “You don’t watch this film. You endure it.”

As Zach, his eyes red-rimmed from bong rips, not tears, is shuttled between party dens and wealthy homes, he’s given several chances to escape. He’s even revealed to be a Tae Kwan Do blackbelt who can jokingly flip his captor-buddy Frankie (Justin Timberlake) into a bathtub. But Zach stays put—he doesn’t want to get his big brother Jake (Ben Foster) in more trouble, not realizing that Johnny is too busy making nervous phone calls to his lawyer and his aggro father Sonny (Bruce Willis) to get around to asking Jake for the $1200 in ransom money.

Zach’s death is disorienting, almost as if Psycho's Marion Crane got murdered in the second-to-last reel. In a minivan en route to his execution, he innocently tells Frankie he wants learn to play guitar. “It bugs me that I don’t know how to do anything,” he sighs. Meanwhile Johnny assures his dad that there’s no need to call off the killing. “These guys are such fuck-ups, nothing's gonna happen,” he shrugs, a rare example of cross-cutting that defuses tension in order to make the shock of the gunfire even worse. Up until the last second—even after Frankie binds him with duct tape—a sobbing Zach still can’t believe Frankie would hurt him, and honestly, Frankie can’t believe it himself. And Yelchin’s own early death makes you ache for him to get a happy ending, which Cassavetes dangles just out of reach.

This is how evil happens, says Cassavetes. Masterminds are rare. Instead, people like Frankie can be basically good, but can also be panicky and passive and selfish. Shoving Zach in Johnny’s van was an idiotic impulse by upper middle-class kids, who flipped out when they realized the snatching could get them a lifetime sentence. There’s no honor or glory in the violence. Johnny, the cowardly ringleader, talks tough, but orders his most craven friend, Elvis (Shawn Hatosy), to pull the trigger while he and his girlfriend Angela (Olivia Wilde) get drunk on margaritas. And after the murder, one side effect is that Johnny can’t get an erection. When Angela tries to get Johnny in the mood in their hideout motel, the walls close in on him, suffocating the mood.  

Away from his boys, Johnny is weak. Surrounded by them, he's the king. Alpha Dog sets up a culture of animalistic dominance. Johnny’s rental house is basically a primate cage at the zoo, only decorated with weight benches and Scarface posters. All of Johnny’s boys jockey to be his favorite and tear each other down in order to bump up their own rank. Kindness is weakness. When a fellow dealer with the ridiculous nickname Bobby 911 cruises by to negotiate a sale, he snarls at a guy who vouches for him: “You don’t need to tell him I’m good for it, man!”

Elvis, the future shooter, is the lowest member of the pack. He can’t ease into the group without Johnny ordering him to go pick up his pit-bull's poop in the backyard. Why do they pick on Elvis? He owes Johnny a bit of money, but the source of the scorn is simply group think. No one wants to be nice to the outcast, and Elvis is just too sincere to be taken seriously. When Elvis offers to get Johnny a beer, the guys tease him for being in love with Johnny. When he says sure, he does care about Johnny, they twist words into a gay panic joke. Elvis can’t win—they won’t let him—so he literally kills to prove his worth, and winds up sentenced to death row, where the real boy, just 21 at the time of the shooting, remains today. Another life wasted.

Cassavetes humanizes the killers because he wants us to understand how their micro decisions add up to murder. Not just the gunmen. Everyone’s a little to blame. The kids who got drunk with “Stolen Boy” and didn’t call the police. The girls who told Zach that being kidnapped made him sexy. Even Zach’s older step-brother Jake, an addict with a twitchy temper who escalates his war with Johnny to a fatal breaking point. Neither boy will back down over a $1200 debt, and there’s an awful split screen call when Johnny dials Jake intending to bring Zach home, but Jake is so boiling over with anger, his Bugs Bunny voice shrieking with outrage, that Johnny just hangs up the phone.

The opening credits, a montage of the cast’s own old home videos, underline that these were young and happy children—the kind of kids people point to as examples of the suburban American ideal. Over a treacly cover of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” we watch these real life boys being cultured to be brave: riding bikes, falling off dive-boards, running around with toy guns, going through the rituals of young manhood, from bar mitzvahs to karate lessons. Yelchin—recognizably dark-eyed and solemn even as a toddler—grins wearing plastic vampire teeth.

It takes another ten minutes for Yelchin’s character to sneak into the film sideways in a profile shot eating dinner with his parents, played by Sharon Stone and David Thornton. His Zach is barely even visible as brash Jake barges into the scene to beg for money. They say no, Jake stomps out, and Zach finally makes himself seen when he runs after his brother, begging to go anywhere less suffocating. Zach’s mom loves him so much that she watches him sleep. “I’m not fucking eight!” he yelps. He’s 15—practically a man, in his own imagination—and desperate to get away, even if it means mimicking Jake, a Jewish kid who’s so scrambled that he has a Hebrew tattoo on his clavicle and a swastika inked on his back. Jake starts to say that he wishes his own mom cared about him that much, but as soon as he gets vulnerable, he spins the moment into a joke. “Boo for me,” Jake grins, and takes another swig of beer.

“You could say it’s about drugs or guns or disaffected youth, but this whole thing is about parenting,” grunts Bruce Willis’ Sonny Truelove. “It’s about taking care of your children. You take care of yours, I take care of mine.” He’s half-right—his parenting is half to blame. Sonny and his best friend Cosmo (Harry Dean Stanton) taught Johnny to bully his friends. Cosmo, looking haggard and hollow, mocks Johnny for having one girlfriend. “You gotta plow some fucking fields,” he bellows. “Men are not supposed to be monopolous!” Not that “monopolous” is a real word, and not that Cosmo fends off women himself, except in his own big talk.

Cosmo and Sonny’s own posturing gradually emerges as being more dangerous than Johnny’s because it's more integrated into society. They’re the type of creeps who rewrite the rulebook to suit them, and attack journalists who try to tell the truth. When a fictitious documentarian asks Sonny about his son's drug connections, the father shrugs, “Did he sell a little weed? Sure.” But when the interviewer presses him further, Sonny snaps, “I’m a taxpayer and I’m a citizen and you are a jerk-off.”

Cassavetes, of course, understands growing up with a father who left a giant footprint to fill. His father, John Cassavetes, the writer-director of Shadows and Faces and A Woman Under the Influence, was one of the major pioneers of independent cinema. He died when Nick was 30, before his son attempted to take up his legacy. “We never really talked film theory,” said Cassavetes. “My experience with my dad was more along the lines of how to be a man, how to be yourself, how to free yourself from what society tells you to do, how to release yourself as an artist.”

It makes sense that Cassavetes would make his own ambitious, and maddeningly singular film. And perhaps it even makes sense to him that fate has yet to give him the reward he’s earned. Alpha Dog deserves to be acknowledged as one of the most incisive examinations of machismo and the banality of evil. But like his fumbling criminals, he knows he’s not really in charge of his life. Admitted Cassavetes, “I'm not smart enough to really have a master plan for my career.”

[frustratedcastingdirector]

This article is a perfect example of the kind of expectations those of us who were blown away by Mark Ruffalo’s performance in “You Can Count on Me” had for him and his career.  Those expectations are still there for many of us, waiting to be fulfilled by directors willing to take a chance on Ruffalo, and willing to push him to his limits. - Jamaica (FrustratedCastingDirector)

Becoming a Thoughtful Woman's Idea of A Leading Man Part 1

By CATHY HORYN NOV. 9, 2003

On a cloudless day between the rains this summer, Mark Ruffalo, the 35-year-old actor, took his John Deere tractor out of the barn and began to clear brush on his 50 acres in Sullivan County, not far from where the Delaware River runs between New York and Pennsylvania. He had on jeans and a faded blue shirt that flapped around his thin torso, and his hair was still damp from a swim in the pond that lies at the foot of a grassy hill and a short walk from his two-story Swiss chalet-style house. A patio umbrella and several weathered lawn chairs were set up along the edge, and there was a dock with a wooden diving board that Ruffalo and his younger brother, Scott, a hairdresser in Beverly Hills, built last summer. When the brothers were growing up in Kenosha, Wis., they built many tree houses in the woods near their family's house -- Scott guesses they built one every 10 feet -- and they called themselves the Foresters. Two years ago, when Mark was recovering from surgery to remove a benign tumor in his brain, and thinking that his film career had ended just as it was taking off with his widely praised performance in ''You Can Count on Me,'' he designed the large sleeping porch at the back of the house. Constructed from hemlock, with open beams, it has double-high screened windows, many comfortable old chairs and beds and a closeness with the outdoors.

As Ruffalo positioned the tractor on the far end of the pond, his wife of four years, Sunrise Coigney, a lithe, attractive French woman in a bikini and a straw hat, sat on a blanket near the dock with their 2-year-old son, Keen. Her father, Joel Coigney, who was visiting from Los Angeles, had spent the morning policing the grounds with a chain saw and now joined Ruffalo on the hill. In a moment of perception that took in their voices, the water and the valley below, you couldn't help thinking that Ruffalo had everything he needed here and that there was no place he'd rather be than here.

It was also the perfect place to observe Mark Ruffalo the actor, for few performers possess their characters with more natural grace. Not only does Ruffalo make it look easy, he also manages to access emotions with a freedom unavailable to many of his better-known contemporaries, making him closer to the older generation of actors -- especially the young Brando -- for whom anger or sexual tension could often be registered with astonishing stillness. That Ruffalo has appeared in only a handful of big-budget films, usually in supporting roles that have limited him to playing the same type of emotionally conflicted men -- and thus kept his real powers under wraps -- has not prevented him from being noticed by first-rate directors like Jane Campion. But after the release of Campion's heated sexual drama, ''In the Cut,'' co-starring Meg Ryan, followed soon by films in which he stars with Jim Carrey and Tom Cruise, Ruffalo is certain to find a wider audience.

''In the Cut'' is based on the novel by Susanna Moore, and despite its problems as a film, Ruffalo, as a New York City homicide detective named Malloy, stands out. On every level his performance is a major turn-on, and maybe because, for the first time, we are seeing him as a man -- without conflicts, without boyish tics. In a bedroom scene early in the movie (slightly altered by the censors from the director's version), Ruffalo takes Ryan's character, Frannie, on such a bend, using every word and orifice available to him, that many female moviegoers will most likely regard their own mates with mild disappointment.

Given Ruffalo's previous screen roles, Campion admits he wasn't an obvious choice to play Malloy, who looks at every woman as a potential score. But, she says, ''the thing that interested me about his character in 'You Can Count on Me' was that he was such a flake-off, a loser, yet he was riveting. You couldn't stop watching him.'' In ''In the Cut,'' which takes its name from street slang for sexual intercourse, his presence is so commanding that it can make you forget the film's flaws, notably its jarring end. ''I think it's incontestable now that he has brought to life a different quality of performance,'' Campion says. ''And not like Pacino, or De Niro or Keitel, who have each opened up a new way to think about performance. Mark is a visionary with his work.''

Ruffalo seems genuinely surprised by her comments when I see him in Sullivan County. By then, we are fairly along in our conversation, so I am used to his way of speaking. He does more than look you in the eye. He quickly establishes intimacy by allowing himself to lower his guard. Many actors will let you know, directly or indirectly, that they have nothing riding on the outcome of a situation. But Ruffalo has no such obstructions. He is lightning present in the conversation. And though he has little in common with the characters he has played, if he is close to one of them, it is Malloy. Like him, Ruffalo doesn't hide his manliness under a bushel.

''I don't know what to say about that, babe,'' he says when I tell him what Campion said. He laughs, and his eyes glow with warmth. ''That's flattering. I mean, what do you say? Thank you, thank you, Jane Campion.''

While Ruffalo readily cites Brando as one of his two greatest influences (the other is Marcello Mastroianni, of whom he says, ''It's the whole package of Marcello -- the great life in an art form''), he seems uncomfortable being compared with a legend. Kenneth Lonergan, who directed Ruffalo in ''You Can Count on Me,'' says he should relax. ''First of all, he looks a teeny bit like Brando,'' Lonergan says. ''And I'm sure he can't mind too much if people compare him to one of the greatest American actors of the last 50 years.'' Ruffalo does bear a resemblance to the young Brando, especially around the mouth, but the real point of reference, Lonergan says, is how specific Ruffalo's performances are and how freely he enters and remains in the moment. ''He's sort of an open channel to his characters,'' he says.

The question is why we haven't seen more of Ruffalo before. He began acting in 1989 in small theater productions in Los Angeles. His parents, a painting contractor and a beautician, had moved Mark and his three siblings (he has two younger sisters) from Kenosha to Virginia Beach, Va., where Mark would become a state wrestling champion in high school, and then to San Diego, where his parents separated. After an aimless period spent mostly surfing, Ruffalo enrolled in the Stella Adler Academy, where Benicio Del Toro was a star pupil. He remembers Del Toro giving a monologue based on the song ''Light My Fire'': ''He was so sexy and had so much charisma, I thought, I'll never be that.''

In those years, Ruffalo says, ''it was all about urban for me.'' He lived in rough neighborhoods like Alvarado and Sixth, in downtown Los Angeles. But as much as he hankered for that kind of experience, and brings a similar instinct to his work, he is no fan of Method. ''Two things have happened to acting in America,'' he says. ''One is that actors think they have to live the character, which is a huge mistake. Because what they do is put the character on top of themselves and thereby kill anything spontaneous. The other is that someone introduced the idea that less is more, so that actors stopped doing anything at all. They just say the words.''

By the mid-90's, Ruffalo had appeared in some 30 plays, earning good notices. But Los Angeles theater, at its best, is not Broadway, or even Off Broadway, as Ruffalo discovered when he arrived in New York for the first time. ''I thought, I'm a swan, not a duck,'' he says. ''What am I doing in Los Angeles? I don't belong there.'' In 1996, after a decade in California, Ruffalo made his New York stage debut in Lonergan's ''This Is Our Youth.'' ''He did one play in New York,'' says his friend the actor Christopher Thornton, ''and it changed his life.'' It wasn't the only change. On a Monday during the play's run, he took his savings, about $10,000, and made a down payment on a house in Sullivan County.

Another explanation for Ruffalo's belated recognition involves the vagaries of Hollywood casting. Ruffalo estimates that before he landed the part of Terry in ''You Can Count on Me,'' opposite Laura Linney, he went on 800 film and television auditions. This is probably not a Hollywood record for rejection, though Ruffalo gives it some comic perspective when I observe that George Clooney remained under the noses of casting directors for years before someone realized what a leading man he was. ''If George Clooney was under their noses, then I was, like, under their knees,'' he says with a laugh. For all his dead-ending, Ruffalo sounds remarkably unembittered when he adds, ''In Hollywood, none of those people can make a decision. They can only say no. I'd go to casting directors, and they'd say, 'You are the best actor of your generation, but -- you just haven't grown into your face yet, your face hasn't grown into your soul.' I had insane things like that said to me all the time. 'You are one of the greatest actors I have ever seen, but -- .' I'd get this great feedback, but I could never get a job.''

Still another explanation is that, in the summer of 2001, as he was finishing ''The Last Castle,'' a prison movie starring Robert Redford, the brain tumor was diagnosed. He underwent a 10-hour operation, complicated by an allergic reaction to the anesthesia, and spent the rest of the year recovering in New York and Sullivan County. His wife, whom he met in 1997 when she was an actress, had just given birth to their son, and as Coigney told me, ''You don't expect a year into a marriage -- through sickness and health -- for sickness to come upon you so quickly. It's been quite a journey.'' He experienced facial paralysis, memory lapses and, perhaps worst of all, a complete loss of confidence. ''I had stopped worrying -- I just believed that my career was over,'' he says. ''No one would take a meeting with me or anything. I was damaged goods, babe. That's what was in the back of my mind, damaged goods. Can't fit the American-male leading hero. A hero does not have a brain tumor.''

It was in this vulnerable, if fully recovered, state that Ruffalo first met Jane Campion in Los Angeles to discuss the part of Detective Malloy.

Anyone who has read Susanna Moore's 1995 novel has no trouble recognizing its difficulties as a movie. For one thing, ''In the Cut'' deals with female grief and loneliness -- specifically, that of a smart, emotionally walled-off writing teacher whose obsession with language serves as a rendering of her engulfed spirit; she's so aware of the shape of her consciousness that she could diagram it like a sentence. And for another, you don't really buy the sexual liaison with the cop, which develops as he investigates a gruesome murder in her neighborhood. As Moore herself says: ''The book is a little cold, a little nasty, a little flippant. It's about language and ideas. And it's not about love. It's about violence. But Jane found a way to make it about love.''

Ruffalo says he had serious doubts going into his meeting with Campion about his ability to play Malloy. ''I had read the script a couple of days before, and I thought, I don't even know where to begin with this guy,'' he says. ''I know he's just a man, he's such a man. But I had never played that kind of guy, and it just terrified me. I thought, I'm the wrong actor for this part.'' Who did he think was right? ''Sean Penn or Russell Crowe -- tough guys, you know. Guys who were really closer to Malloy than me.'' Indeed, as Moore conceived him, Malloy is actually a composite of four or five New York policemen she met while writing her book. She says: ''They were worldly, tough, a little bit over the hill. Much less pure than Mark. They were corrupt emotionally and, in some cases, corrupt professionally.'' In her mind, she saw ''an older Tommy Lee Jones, puffy eyes, a little flabby. Mark was quite an unexpected choice.''

At the end of the three-hour meeting, Campion, who had seen several big-name actors, offered the part to Ruffalo. ''We just clicked,'' he says. ''Jane's ideas about the script were well formed, but she was confident and experienced enough as a director to allow a discussion to take place. A lot of our differences about the character were just semantics.'' Despite his trepidations, he says, ''I had never come to a part so consciously aware of what we were after, down to specifics like what Malloy did when he woke up in the morning.''

One thing that may have allowed Ruffalo to reach Malloy is his penchant for severe self-criticism. Christopher Thornton says: ''He attacks himself harder than anyone. In 'In the Cut,' he used those worries and fears. Everything that Mark was going through I'm sure in some way fueled that performance.'' During rehearsals, when he was still unused to Campion's intensity -- ''She's out there, man,'' he says. ''It's a contained chaos'' -- Ruffalo went home and got drunk. ''Jane and I had some bristling experiences in the beginning,'' he says. ''There's an enormous allowance for people to be wrong in her presence, even her. But the great thing about her is she's not invested with being right.

''So I was wasted drunk, really depressed, and I set up the video camera,'' he continues. ''I was, like, I don't know what I'm doing, I'm totally lost. . . . A couple of days later I was logging something from the tape and I saw it -- I saw Malloy, a shadow of Malloy. My tearing apart and hitting rock bottom was kind of like the birth of him.''

In the genre of police movies, Ruffalo's portrayal of Malloy seems startlingly realistic -- how you imagine detectives to stand and smoke and put their hands in their pockets but rarely do in the movies. There is a scene quite early in the film, when Frannie encounters Malloy and his partner, Rodriguez (Nick Damici), in a bar, that is almost unbearable to watch for its vulgarity. Ruffalo doesn't just talk in the unholy language of cops; he projects the psychological dynamic in keeping emotions at a distance. Campion, ever alert to the tiniest sign of weakness in Malloy, occasionally caught him, he says, reverting to old habits. ''She would say: 'You see that thing you're doing right there? Don't do that in this movie. Don't nod your head. No apologies, Mark. This character does not apologize. Straightforward stillness.' She made me aware of things. Who calls you on your stuff?''

The film's reviews have been mixed (though Ruffalo has been held out as its strongest element), but critics and box-office results aside, no one knows better than Ruffalo what the film -- and Campion -- have done for him. ''What I do in the next 5, 10 years will be mostly based on my choices,'' he told me. ''And it starts now. It wasn't after 'You Can Count on Me.' '' He's at work this fall as an undercover agent in Michael Mann's thriller ''Collateral,'' with Tom Cruise and Jamie Foxx, about a killer who lures a cabby on a shooting spree. Next year, he'll appear in ''Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,'' a comedy written by Charlie Kaufman and starring Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet, in which Ruffalo plays a lab technician operating a memory-erasing machine. ''It was sort of a chance to play light and stupid,'' he says with a laugh, adding, ''Jane'll kill me when she sees it.'' On Campion's advice, he also did John Curran's drama ''We Don't Live Here Anymore,'' with Naomi Watts and Laura Dern, about the divisive nature of marriage. And sometime next spring, he'll direct Thornton in a dark comedy called ''Sympathy for Delicious,'' from a screenplay Thornton wrote, about a self-centered paraplegic who acquires the gift of healing but can't heal himself. ''He basically starts Healapalooza, where he's healing people in the mosh pit,'' Ruffalo says. ''It's kind of an allegory about fame.''

You sense that Ruffalo has used his craft profitably enough over the last decade not to feel he has to make up for lost time. He turned down the role of Brick in the current Broadway revival of ''Cat on a Hot Tin Roof'' in order to return to L.A., where his wife has opened a store with a friend to sell jewelry and decorative objects. And Scott Ruffalo notes with pride and dismay that his movie-star brother still drives around in a white 1974 Volkswagen camper. ''He loves that thing,'' Scott says, adding, ''There's almost this essence of obliviousness going on around him.''

I know what he means. During my visit to Sullivan County, I casually mention that Ruffalo is probably not yet in a position to think about massive fame. He looks at me critically and smiles. ''When will I ever think about that?'' he says. ''What will my thoughts possibly be?''

Still, the rest of us can't help watching. Susanna Moore told me recently that female friends of hers are already having dreams about him. ''Isn't it interesting,'' she muses, ''to be witness to someone who is absolutely on the edge of being hurtled into a greater and, in some ways, less lovely world? He's going to be a very important actor. He's just now tipping into fame and riches and women chasing him. I think he'll be O.K.''

[thisiskristin]

Ice skating fascinated me at an early age. I remember stopping whatever I was doing so I could sit down to watch it with my mom whenever it was on. Scott Hamilton’s back flips were always my favorite. When I was about 11, my cousin had a birthday party at the Miami Ice Arena (which no longer exists). I was so excited to get out there and glide gracefully across the ice like Michelle Kwan, Tara Lipinski and Kristi Yamaguchi. Sadly, that did not happen. As soon as I put one skate on the ice it all went downhill & I spent the entire birthday party, by myself, holding onto the wall as I attempted to make my way around the rink. It was a complete disaster. I also recall overhearing my aunt telling someone that paying for me to attend the party was a complete waste of money. Luckily, I’ve since learned how to “skate”–if just making your way around the rink without falling or holding onto the wall is considered skating.

My love and appreciation for ice skating was renewed during the 2018 Winter Olympics in PyeongChang. Watching Mirai Nagasu become the first U.S. woman to land the triple axel in the Olympics; Maia & Alex Shibutani (#ShibSibs) winning the bronze medal in ice dancing; Team USA winning the bronze in the team event; Nathan Chen’s redemption after a devastating short program to land SIX quads in his long program, and watching Adam Rippon’s flawless routines and hilarious interviews while welcoming him into our hearts was an experience I got to share with my mom and it reignited that flame for the sport.

So, needless to say, when I saw that Stars On Ice would be making its way down to South Florida, I just had to buy tickets–especially considering the fact that my birthday was the day after the show. It’s like the stars aligned!

The tour kicked off in Ft. Myers on April 6th, with a follow-up show in Orlando April 7th that was filmed for television (check your local listings for Saturday, April 14th). Skaters included Olympic Bronze Medalists Maia & Alex Shibutani and members of America’s Olympic Bronze Medal-winning team Nathan Chen, Adam Rippon, Mirai Nagasu, Bradie Tennell and Madison Hubbell & Zachary Donohue. Plus Olympic Gold Medalists Meryl Davis & Charlie White, World Silver Medalist Ashley Wagner and U.S. Champions Jason Brown and Karen Chen.

Our show was in Ft. Lauderdale/Sunrise, Florida on April 8th and it was nothing short of amazing. The lights reflecting off of the ice were mesmerizing, and the outfits sparkled like hundreds of tiny diamonds. (The only thing missing was Adam singing Rihanna’s “Diamonds,” but I digress.)

The show opened with a group number to P!nk’s “Raise Your Glass,” followed by individual performances from each skater. There were also mini performances sprinkled throughout the entire show with 3-6 skaters at a time. Adam joined the ShibSibs for one song; Zachary, Madison, Meryl, Charlie, Nathan & Ashley combined forces to Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You”; a beautiful performance featuring Ashley, Karen, Bradie and Madison; there was a girls only number, and an energetic boys only number to Portugal. The Man’s “Feel It Still.” You can also expect a brief 20-minute intermission in the middle of the show that returns with more individual performances and a group number that closes the show. Some of the other songs you can expect to hear during the show are “Remedy” by Adele and “Let Me Think About It” by Ida Corr (Adam Rippon), “Can’t Stop the Feeling” by Justin Timberlake (Jason Brown), “Elastic Heart” by Sia (Meryl & Charlie), “Never Enough” by Loren Allred (Karen Chen), “This Is Me” by The Greatest Showman Cast (Bradie Tennell), “Nemesis” by Benjamin Clementine (Nathan Chen), plus songs from P!nk (Ashley Wagner), Wicked on Broadway (Mirai Nagasu), Hamilton on Broadway and more.

Sadly, I missed Nathan Chen’s quad in person because workers at the BB&T Center kept walking down to stop people from recording videos on their phones and were blocking my view, BUT I know it happened because everyone went nuts. The atmosphere was amazing and it was nice to see people of all ages and backgrounds in one room–just don’t try to record video because it does distract from other’s experiences. There’s a strict policy against flash photography and video recording, so just don’t.

Since our show took place the day before my birthday, I splurged a bit and bought Meet & Greet tickets for my niece and I. When we finally made our way to the room where it was taking place, the skaters were all seated at tables waiting to sign their lives away. You have the opportunity to speak with each skater, have them sign autographs and take photos. It wasn’t like other “meet & greets” where someone is standing there rushing you through the process. You actually got to meet them, which was nice. Everyone was so kind. Taking into consideration the fact that they’d just completed their third show of the weekend and had to wait until the meet & greet was over so they could eat, I was surprised at the level of kindness they all had for everyone.

Stars On Ice is a show I highly recommend to people of all ages. The music was great, the atmosphere was so positive, and the skating was phenomenal. The entire event is put together so well. Meet and greet tickets are sold out for the remaining shows on the tour, but the show itself is well worth the money. You’re guaranteed to be in awe of the grace, beauty and talent of these skaters on and off the ice.

You can find more information regarding skaters, tickets and merch by visiting the Stars On Ice official site HERE.

You can also click HERE to help Adam Rippon on his quest to raise funds for GLAAD‘s youth program.

    STARS ON ICE 2018 Tour Review | #StarsOnIce #Review Ice skating fascinated me at an early age. I remember stopping whatever I was doing so I could sit down to watch it with my mom whenever it was on.