Obviously, I’m one of probably several million people who foresaw an early, tragic end for Amy Winehouse, I’m not claiming some kind of clairvoyant superiority here. But it doesn’t change the fact that it’s not fun to have “Man, that poor girl’s going to wind up dead” confirmed.

What is it about talent and addiction that so often seem to go hand-in-hand? Would everything from Rubber Soul on have happened if the Beatles had never discovered drugs? What about Alice in Wonderland? I’d never deny that mind-altering drugs can open gateways to new ideas and thus, new art. But are they necessary? Would Aaron Sorkin and David Milch still be in the company of David Chase, David Simon and Matt Weiner if they’d been clean and sober all their lives? (I am assuming the latter three do not have addictions in the AA sense – I’ve never read anything suggesting that they do, anyway.)

More importantly, how do you separate the survivors from the non? What makes Keith Richards different from Winehouse, not to mention Joplin, Cobain and Hendrix (all of whom died at the tender age of 27)?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. It’s something I think about from time to time, but I’ve yet to come to any conclusions. The most definitive piece I’ve ever read on the issue was from Baked Potatoes: A Pot Smokers Guide to Film and Video, which took the examples of Caddyshack, early SNL, Animal House and various other well-baked comedies of that era and compared them to, well, Caddyshack II, later SNL, etc. As you’d suspect from the title, the authors of the book were in favour of the effect of drugs on comedy, and using those examples it’s hard to disagree, although I’d argue that, say, Christopher Guest’s work is funnier than anything John Belushi ever did (both on SNL and in film) and so far as I know he’s never been a user.

(Can you even imagine what Chris Guest on drugs would be like? Worst. Trip. Ever.)

Anyway. The real tragedy of Winehouse’s death is that she wasn’t able to pull herself together enough to create more music. It’s possible she might never have surpassed Back to Black, sober or no. But we’ll never know one way or the other. This news means mourning not only the life snuffed out, but the art she might have created. “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been.’” Winehouse married a retro vibe with contemporary lyrics in a way that hadn’t hit the mainstream for ages – Harry Connick, Jr’s, Red Light, Blue Light was a forebear and Cee-Lo Green’s “Fuck You” was a descendant. Back to Black also introduced the Dap Kings to a wider audience, for which we should forever be grateful.

Rest in peace, Amy. I hope you’re happier now.

What prompted this post, though, was that my TIFF reminder package arrived today. Two years ago I had a press pass, last year I was just a fan – this year I’m likely going to be volunteering, for the first time in half a decade or so. While I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the perks a press pass provides, it’s still a thrill to be involved in the festival in any way possible. I’m hoping to get back in at Roy Thompson Hall; the remarks from the directors are usually fascinating, and getting a glimpse of the pretty people is a nice bonus. The TIFF Lightbox has got a Fellini exhibit going on right now and there’s a Grace Kelly retrospective coming up — of all the reasons to live in Toronto, TIFF has got to be at the top of the list.

Anyway, I have no idea what this is, but it rocks anyway: The Trailer Is Up.

The clip shown on The Colbert Report tonight didn’t do much to allay those fears. True, no one used the phrase “I am never, ever sick at sea,” or “I’m in the tall grass; I’m in the weeds,” and no one was pedeconferencing, but there was an awful lot of the patented Sorkin lather-rinse-repeat dialogue that sounds smart when you encounter it for the first time, and comes off as incredibly lazy when you realize every single thing he’s ever written sounds like this.

I give Colbert a lot of credit for the questions he asked. Aaron Sorkin has a sharp mind, but his verbal fencing skills don’t match those of his characters, and sometimes it felt like Colbert was just talking over him, which tends to be more Jon Stewart’s style. (Not that Stephen won’t run roughshod over guests sometimes, but they usually give way to him; this felt very much like a Stewart interview [except for the fact that Stephen was obviously more prepared than Jon usually is for his guests.])

But Stephen got to a couple of pertinent points, including the treatment of women in the film, which is often a weak point in Sorkin’s work, and he honed in on his guest’s dislike and distrust of the film’s subject. Sorkin actually said that internet relationships are to face-to-face relationships what reality television is to reality, which earned him a somewhat startled, even shocked, silence from the audience. Whether or not The Social Network‘s box office reflects its pre-release buzz remains to be seen, but I’m not sure the studio’s going to want Sorkin doing much more publicity for them.

Finally, c’mon, Aaron, you couldn’t have joined Stephen in his little Sondheim rendition? Way to be a stick-in-the-mud, dude.

Oh, it’s been awhile. But I got inspired to write tonight after coming back from The Girl Who Played With Fire. Please read my review here!

I maintain the point that got published in Entertainment Weekly a while back, that Kristen Bell should play Salander in the American version. She’s done nothing but crappy romcoms since she was killed off Heroes, but Veronica Mars, Deadwood and even the electric psycho she played on that crapfest are all proof that she can handle dark material. Plus, she and Noomi Rapace look a hell of a lot alike. To the point of distraction, almost.

My friend Pam and I were discussing who else we’d put in the film, now that Daniel Craig is confirmed as Kalle Fucking Blomkvist. Craig’s a good choice – he’s in better shape than Blomkvist is supposed to be, but he’s got that craggy, weatherbeaten face, and a sense of both world weariness and passion about him that will work in the role. For Berger, I am hereby suggesting Vera Farmiga. I’m not a huge fan of hers, but again, she’s got a toughness that the Berger character needs, and she’s about the only actress I can think of who’s of even a vaguely appropriate age whom men will still want to see naked onscreen. (Diane Lane, who is more appropriate age-wise, for whatever reason just doesn’t have enough depth for me.)

Also, Salander is my new hero. There’s a lot of frustrating things about Steig Larsson’s books, and about Salander herself, both as a “person” and as a literary creation. I’m hoping to do a “book bundle” (sorry Deborah!) review of them once I’ve read them all again. But goddamn, can Salander kick some serious ass. She’s so tough, and so smart, and her particular method of revenge is incredibly appealing. Short of having a magic wand, having a Salander on one’s payroll might be the most satisfying possibility offered by pop lit in some time.

First, of course, there’s the cast: William H. Macy, Joan Allen, J.T. Walsh, Jeff Daniels, and Reese Witherspoon and Tobey Maguire doing possibly the best work they’ve ever done.

Second, there’s the gorgeous cinematography. John Lindley isn’t Roger Deakins, and he’s aided by the fact that movies look better in black and white (as Billy Wilder well knew) but he’s able to find the beauty in what’s meant to be a flat, three camera TV world and mixes the colour with black and white brilliantly.

But the real genius is the way the story’s structured. Of course it’s the teenagers who first set out to explore, and of course it’s the women who follow. Betty Parker’s sexual awakening is played for laughs, but it would have none of the same resonance if it happened to a man. (Skip Martin’s first time actually sets off the colour changes, but his experience is instigated by Jennifer/Betty Sue.) The scene where David/Bud explains the plot of Huckleberry Finn, set to Brubeck’s “Take Five,” is a masterpiece of societal change compressed into a bare two minutes, and David’s date with Margaret, shot through crab apple blossoms and set to Etta James’s “At Last” is one of the most beautiful in recent cinema.

The presence of James brings into sharp relief the major flaw of Pleasantville, of course: it’s an allegory about “coloured people” starring no people of colour. African American Hollywood was annoyed about the whitewash and rightly so; Whoopi Goldberg made fun of the whole proceeding during the 1998 Academy Awards. It’s hard to imagine a world with no black people where you can also find Etta James on the radio. As Anthony Lane’s recent piece in the New Yorker points out, the world without black music is a colder, duller, less groovy place, and the societal upheaval the film alludes to would be impossible without Duke Ellington, Chuck Berry and Robert Johnson, never mind Rosa Parks and Dr. King.

But if you can get past that significant stumbling block, or at least put it out of your mind while you watch, the film’s worth revisiting. If nothing else, it’s an example of the kind of movie making that, within the last decade, has largely disappeared, to everyone’s detriment.

Reasons for moving to New York just keep piling on by the day.

Far be it from me to dictate anything regarding the romantic lives of others, but I can think of better ways to deal with the fact that your ex married one of the sexiest women on the planet than to get hitched to what looks like an early-nineties version of Vanilla Ice. Nevertheless, I wish them happiness (and hope that any collaboration between the two of them is confined to their offspring and doesn’t spread to the studio).

I’ve been enjoying Glee a lot since I caught it in the fall – it’s wonderfully campy, the cast is super-talented and of course Jane Lynch is awesome.

But I’ve had a big problem with the Will character, practically from the beginning. Matthew Morrison is damn cute and I don’t wish him off the show or anything, but the writing has been inconsistent and his performance isn’t quite doing it for me.

Let’s look at what we know:

• He remembers Glee Club as being one of the only times he was really happy in high school.
• His cheerleader soon-to-be-ex-wife told him the only reason their relationship worked was because he felt bad about himself.
• The current Glee Club seems to be the only thing he’s really enjoying in his current work.

And yet:

• He goes after Emma basically the minute his marriage breaks up
• He makes out with the coach of Vocal Adrenaline
• He lets himself be talked into a sleep-over with Kristen Chenoweth.

All these things might indicate an emotionally messed-up guy, which Will is. So far, not a big deal, although he also comes across as stupid.

But my biggest problem is that, while the kids are able to act their performances, Morrison stops being Will and starts being himself as soon as he starts singing. The guy described above doesn’t sound like someone who’d routinely break out Vanilla Ice or Young MC at the drop of a hat (which he’s done). He doesn’t sound like someone who’d sing “Thong Song” unironically (which he’s done). It feels like a lot of his numbers are being chosen to fit Morrison’s tastes rather than the character’s.

I understand you have to keep your stars happy, and God knows, Morrison makes more sense as a sex bomb than a dork. I just think the character would have been better served if he hadn’t been written as such a sad sack from the beginning.

Also: Go Emma Pillsbury. It’s time someone pegged Will as a man-whore.