Kevin Spacey is back at Cannes. Not many people seem to care

The actor received a lifetime achievement award from the Better World Fund at an event with little fanfare and few recognisable guests Kevin Spacey’s Cannes comeback is a discreet, low-key affair. The promenade is home to a gaggle of evening sunbathers while the steps to the beach club contain neither fans nor protesters. It is what is known in the trade as a soft relaunch. Spacey is guest of honour at the Better World Fund’s gala dinner, where he is receiving a lifetime achievement award for “excellence in film and television”. It marks a return to the limelight for the two-time Oscar-winner, whose career stalled after allegations of sexual assault and misconduct by more than 30 men. This is the actor’s first visit to Cannes since 2016, one year before the #MeToo movement began. Continue reading... from Film | The Guardian https://ift.tt/WFOrqQd via IFTTT

‘I’m not a saint’: Abel Ferrara on his wild career, rehab and nightclubbing with Donald Trump

The last time our writer interviewed him, the drugged up director dozed off then asked for coke. Now sober, he reflects on #MeToo, Italian fascism and his fight for the final cut

The last time I met Abel Ferrara, he dozed off in the middle of our interview then woke up and asked me to score him some coke. It was 1996, and he was in the UK promoting his gangster drama The Funeral – which the actor Vincent Gallo alleged Ferrara had been too blitzed on crack to direct properly – and his vampire horror The Addiction. He was on a roll, his reputation fortified by King of New York, starring Christopher Walken as a flamboyant crime boss, and the gruelling Bad Lieutenant, with Harvey Keitel as a bent junkie cop. Ferrara was the scuzzball Scorsese: no matter how celebrated he became, he never shed the patina of grime from his early days as the star and director of porn film The Nine Lives of a Wet Pussy and the infamous “video nasty” The Driller Killer.

“You were the guy I fell asleep with?” he gasps now from his bright, high-ceilinged living room in Rome. He is calling via Zoom, his laptop resting on a shelf so he can pace around as he speaks, drinking from a bottle of San Pellegrino that he clutches by the neck. “You’re the guy? I’m sorry, man! Really, really.” Then he switches tack. “You let me down! You were 24, living in London, and you didn’t know where to score?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “All right. So where could we get some now?” A sandpapery cackle fills the air as he rocks on his heels. His hunched posture and jutting jaw make him the spit of the cartoon dog Muttley. He laughs like him, too.

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