NY Mirror


ANOTHER MAN'S POSEIDON
On the big screen, very young disaster queen Emmy Rossum ran from chunks of hail in The Day After Tomorrow and from bad music in Phantom of the Opera, and now she's got water in her lungs in Poseidon, the remake about an ocean liner turned topsy-turvy by a "rogue wave" or maybe just an upside-down camera. Just like the original version, this one introduces a bunch of starlets, B actors, and Oscar winners (well, one Oscar winner—RICHARD DREYFUSS), then makes them battle the waves while tying up their messy personal problems. It's like a Carnival cruise filled with Applebee's customers. There's about 10 minutes of backstory, and then the water becomes the star, destroying some good sense in its path, though it's interesting to see Dreyfuss play a gay architect with a diamond ear stud who's been dumped by his lover and has decided to end his life with $5,000 bottles of champagne. Sad? Pathetic? Maybe, but at least unlike so many screen gays he had a lover.

(By the way, United 93 probably would have been a hit if they'd only gone for the kitschy, all-star, IRWIN ALLEN approach, with a romantic subplot and a lounge singer. Nah, maybe not.)

Staying in the wet zone, every critic clobbered JULIA ROBERTS's dual-role performance in Three Days of Rain, many rhapsodizing about how much better the admittedly fab PATRICIA CLARKSON was or must have been in '97. But I did some research and it turns out PETER MARKS's Times review back then said Clarkson was effective in Act One, "but less convincing" in the second half. So there. (P.S.: I wouldn't be surprised if Julia signs on to the movie version; stage actors whore out for Hollywood all the time.)

In other Broadway news, someone on "All That Chat" heard that JUDY KAYE might follow PATTI LUPONE in Sweeney Todd. A gorgeous choice—but can Kaye play a tuba? Meanwhile, a certain new leading man with his own lovely instrument has reportedly been sleeping his way through Broadway—well, half of Broadway, namely the male half. "Gay guys are so hot!" as KATIE HOLMES exclaimed in Go.


YOU CAN CALL ME AL
I'm hotter than Faye Dunaway's breath these days—if I can steer the conversation back to myself—but while I get recognized all the time, unfortunately it's not always for being Mikeypoo. (Don't you know who I am?) Thanks to my nebulously nebbishy face, panting folks have been convinced I'm either AL FRANKEN, EUGENE LEVY, MICHAEL RICHARDS, TONY KUSHNER, ELVIS COSTELLO, or the guy from NY1. A woman was near tears last year as she told me what Caroline, or Change meant to her, and the more I assured her I didn't write it, the more she was convinced I was either a painfully shy genius or a shameless liar. Others have absolutely adored me in projects ranging from Seinfeldto American Pie, despite my shrieking protestations that I've never even seen those things, let alone been in them. By the time a scary guy was chasing me down the street and squealing, "Mr. Franken!" I just went along with it so as not to disappoint one more person (and to not get killed). "Yes!" I said, still running, "that's me!" But when the freak kept chasing me, begging for an autograph, I demurred, not thrilled at the prospect of forging Franken's name. "You asshole!" he shouted. "I tried calling in on your radio show and I couldn't get through—and now you won't even give me a fucking autograph? You suck shit!" Sorry, Al, you now have one less fan—but he was rather psychotic anyway. Now everyone leave me alone. I'm really fed up.


musto@villagevoice.com

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