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TIME 100: The People Who Shape Our World(转载)
A story this size isn't enough for this man. It's hard to convey with brevity the extraordinary experience of knowing and working with J.J. Abrams. First of all, is there anything in a name—J.J.? Look at the Jays we have now—Jay Leno, J. Lo, Jay-Z—but he's got two Js. He was born to impinge and invade pop culture. Any person who has been exposed to his TV creations Alias or Lost has felt the rapture of his storytelling. He is a story dealer. He delivers what could be called the Lay's of yarns: you can't watch just one. I watched all of Alias' first season in two days, pushing all aside to the near destruction of my personal and business life. I had to tear myself away. They harken back to the classic cliffhangers of early cinema serials, with the bravado of my favorite pulp-fiction novels—the adventure, the characters, all of it. I just couldn't get enough. And in spite of the trepidations of many and sundry movie executives, I knew it was a no-brainer to hire him to direct the third "Mission: Impossible". I couldn't wait to work with the Double J. From the very beginning, there was an insouciance that promised anything was possible. He's a creative juggernaut and someone who recognizes the joy of creating. We had great fun laying waste to the specious barriers and the each-person-does-his-own-job structure of filmmaking. J.J., who is just 39, even did three Industrial Light & Magic special-effects shots in the movie personally. He is an actor, writer, director, closet cartoonist, a composer, puppeteer, puzzlemaker, humorist, modelmaker, loving husband to his beautiful wife (can you believe this coincidence?) Katie and father of three glorious children. Gotta give it up for that J2.
(Cruise is the star of Mission: Impossible III, which opens May 5)
Posted Sunday, Apr. 30, 2006
Some handsome men are like diamond bracelets. They show up on some woman's arm, and you admire them, but they never really seem worth what you'd have to pay. Others are like Swatches: cute, disposable and interchangeable. In this taxonomy, George Clooney is a family heirloom.
First, he has the elegant patina of age. Second, as man and movie star, he's more of a talking point than a bauble. Third, and most crucially, if he's not yours already, short of murder, he never will be.
Onscreen (and by many reports off) Clooney, 45 and Hollywood's hardiest bachelor, is one of those guys who's charming to everyone and close to few. If that is deliberate, it's genius. Nothing makes a star plummet to earth quicker than overfamiliarity. It's no accident that many of Clooney's most successful roles are men with a history. He plays a lot of ex-cons (Out of Sight; O Brother, Where Art Thou?; Ocean's Eleven; et al.), and won an Oscar for his portrayal of the controversial spy Robert Baer in Syriana. This is a guy with secrets. Secrets the right woman—whom every woman in the audience thinks is she—could unpack.
Frankly, with that air of mischief (which he earned) and those looks (which he didn't), he could coast. But he seems driven to do more. To direct. To fight poverty with the One campaign and one.org. Thus he gains that final thing heirlooms have over other gems: gravitas. Makes him almost worth killing for.
Natalie Maines' 15 words can't top George Bush's 16—the ones about uranium in Niger—for political effect. But when the Dixie Chicks played London in 2003, 10 days before the Iraq invasion, and Maines said, "Just so you know, we're ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas," the tremors in the conservative country music scene were seismic. The Chicks, whose previous two CDs had hit No. 1 on both the pop and country charts, lost album sales and radio play. Some fans stomped their discs to bits.
Maines, 31, Emily Robison, 33, and Martie Maguire, 36, didn't cringe and curtsy. On their tart, tasty new album, Taking the Long Way, they make stands and take hostages. The title song sets a defiant tone ("Wouldn't kiss all the ass that they told me to") that peaks in the CD's first single, the power-pop Not Ready to Make Nice. Maines' vocal intensity counters that of fans whose doting curdled into death threats, including "a letter/ Sayin' that I better shut up and sing/ Or my life will be over."
The Chicks, bless 'em, don't just carry a macrochip on their shoulders. There's instrumental virtuosity and a songwriting range that spans regions and decades. One country and one form of music aren't enough to contain them or stifle their passion. They'll sing but they won't shut up. That seems downright American.
Hearing from her appearances on talk shows that Ellen DeGeneres considers me an influence in her early stand-up fills me with a great deal of pride. When I was starting out in stand-up, many people influenced me, including Jack Benny, George Gobel and the duo Bob and Ray. When you first do stand-up, you tend to hide behind someone else, so that it isn't you dying out there, until you develop your own voice and become confident. DeGeneres, 48, has certainly done that in a very short time, as embodied in her "Camping and Hunting" routine, my personal favorite. Benny once shared an old saying with me: A comic says funny things. A comedian says things funny. DeGeneres says things funny.
Benny was the bravest comedian I have ever seen work because he wasn't afraid of silence. He was also the most honest comedian I've ever seen. DeGeneres is the bravest and most honest female comedian I have ever seen work because she publicly announced she's gay. That revelation could have ended her career, as she had to be aware, but she also knew she had to be honest. Thank God for Ellen DeGeneres. And it isn't often you see the name of a gay person and God in the same sentence these days.
(Newhart, the stand-up comedian, will have a new book, I Shouldn't Even Be Doing This, out in the fall)
He's often called a designer's designer and compared to Yves Saint Laurent in his ability to feel and shape fashion. As the creative director for the iconic house of Balenciaga, French-born Nicolas Ghesquiere, 35, has spent the past nine years shaping his own fashion vision as well as that of the greater global fashion business. His ability to wow the front-row crowd with a heady blend of street style and historical reverence is unparalleled. His signature silhouette of skinny pants and blouson jacket, a vestige of Ghesquiere's obsession with the '80s (think Bow Wow Wow), is a virtual staple in fashion's contemporary market. His is that rarest combination of talents: untethered creativity plus commercial savvy.
The son of a golf-course manager in the small town of Loudon, France, he liked to sketch images from his mother's glossy magazines. By age 15, Ghesquiere had obtained an internship at agnes b. in Paris and at 21 was working for Jean Paul Gaultier. But his big break came in 1996 when the owners of the then unfashionable house of Balenciaga hired him to design a line of uniforms for a Japanese licensing partner. He was quickly promoted, and by 2000 his clothes were coveted by the likes of Chloe Sevigny, Nicole Kidman and the Olsen twins. It seems the label was a particularly good fit for the soft-spoken Ghesquiere. Just like Cristobal Balenciaga, he has a relentless sense of innovation. He knows what you're going to want to wear before you do.
Not since—well, ever—have the numbers 1 to 9 been so popular. In less than a year, sudoku, the numerical logic puzzle with the funny name (pronounced soo-doh-koo), has swept the globe. Nearly every major newspaper in America has now started a daily sudoku, as have a multitude of papers abroad. Sudoku books rule the puzzle and game best-seller lists, beating out crosswords, poker and everything else. And it's not just on paper. Handheld electronic devices, capable of generating a seemingly infinite number of original sudoku puzzles, sell briskly.
The man responsible for the mania is Wayne Gould, 60, a mild-mannered New Zealand puzzle enthusiast, formerly a judge in the criminal courts of Hong Kong. In 1997 he spotted a sudoku volume in a bookstore in Tokyo. He fell in love with the game. During the next few years he wrote a computer program for generating sudoku puzzles and—just as important—rating their difficulty. In November 2004 he persuaded the London Times to print them. The rest, as they say, is history.
While Gould didn't invent sudoku (credit goes to Howard Garns, an Indianapolis architect, in the 1970s; the puzzle eventually made its way to Japan, where it got its modern name), Gould had the genius to recognize its elemental, addictive appeal. He also had a brilliant if counterintuitive marketing model: give the puzzle away. More than 400 newspapers worldwide run his Pappocom sudoku puzzles free in return for promoting Gould's computer program and books. The results must be lucrative, as sales of the books alone have passed 4 million.
Sudoku lovers, be happy. Like the crossword, sudoku shows every sign of being here to stay.
(Shortz is the crossword-puzzle editor of the New York Times)
The warm consonants of his name and my daughter Natasha Richardson's excited reaction when I told her that Philip Seymour Hoffman was cast to play Jamie Tyrone to my Mary Tyrone in Long Day's Journey into Night stoked my imagination. I didn't know his work when we first sat down to read the play, and I didn't know the man when the Tyrone family took its last bow on Broadway in August 2003. But I saw this conjuror bring Jamie Tyrone out of the obscurity that embeds the greatest of scripts. No, I didn't see the conjuror. That's the whole point. I never saw the conjuror. Jamie Tyrone appeared. When? I don't know. The desperate, accusing eyes of the drunk looked hard into the eyes of his mother the morphine addict. A thousand horrible and tender memories pierced through the addictions, demanding appeasement at all costs. All this long before costume, hair and makeup. Harold Pinter writes of the great Irish actor Anew McMaster's King Lear and Othello. You see the old man in his 60s; you see and hear the actor's greatness. I can convey only a faint impression of Hoffman. If he had maintained his tousled hair and rehearsal trousers, he would still have been Jamie. Seven times a week, Hoffman propelled himself with one deep groan into the darkness of the stage, and as Pinter says of McMaster, "He got there." And he has stayed there; Hoffman, 38, won the Best Actor Oscar this year for his portrayal of Truman Capote. I hope I get to see him play King Lear when he's 50.
(Redgrave won a Tony Award in 2003 for her portrayal of Mary Tyrone in Long Day's Journey into Night)
I first met Arianna in 1995 at the White House Correspondents' Dinner. We had both been invited by the Washington Times, and I insisted on sitting next to the striking Greek-born redhead (though not, strictly speaking, redheaded-born Greek). We hit it off. Arianna introduced me to her friend Newt Gingrich. I told her the Gingrich revolution was a fraud. Arianna had signed on for the part of the revolution that wanted to unravel the social safety net and replace it with faith-based programs. She took the mission very seriously but soon discovered that the Gingrich Republicans did not. "Effective compassion" was just a fig leaf for closing down the Department of Education, cutting Medicare and getting rid of the Environmental Protection Agency. A disillusioned Arianna took to bed—with me—in our "Strange Bedfellows" segment on the TV show Politically Incorrect. No doubt because of my (persuasive) prowess and Arianna's intellectual openness, she switched, becoming a lefty. With her indefatigable persistence, resourcefulness and good humor, Arianna, 55, has gone from ambitious project to ambitious project with varying degrees of success, finding herself the proprietor of the widely read, hugely influential liberal blog Huffington Post. None of this would have happened were it not for me. And it seems oddly ironic that it is Arianna, not I, who has been named one of TIME's 100 most annoying (sorry, influential) people. Arianna should be writing about me.
(Franken is a humorist and an author as well as a talk-show host on Air America Radio)
Because of Ang Lee, so many more people know about Chinese filmmaking and about Chinese films. "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", a Chinese-language movie, mesmerized Western audiences in 2000. And last year, with "Brokeback Mountain", yet another unimaginable success, both with critics and audiences, he captivated the entire world and reached the pinnacle of moviemaking.
Lee's ability to be such a huge cross-cultural influence is, I think, unique. His Taiwanese upbringing, which kept him deeply rooted in the Chinese way of being and living, combined with his well-informed understanding of Western mores and filmmaking techniques have allowed him to speak to those two worlds in a way no other director has.
It's as if when Lee, 51, makes a film, he is able to erase the cultural lines and have its profundity understood at a universal level. He creates characters that draw in an audience no matter what language they speak. His insight into the human heart crosses all boundaries.
I know he is also making a huge influence in the lives of younger filmmakers and actors. I, for one, will be forever indebted to him for casting me in "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon". When I went to audition for him, I had made just one film (The Road Home) and had never done any martial arts. I was 20 and didn't feel up to any of it. He still gave me that chance. Why? He saw what I could be capable of and was willing to let me have a go at it. How great is he?
I love that he never limits himself either. He's a good role model for all of us. Director Ang Lee lives in the future.
(The Beijing-born Zhang starred most recently in Memoirs of a Geisha)
Renzo Piano is an absolute master of light and lightness. He has a fantastic understanding of construction and the scale of pieces. I don't think there is anybody like him. He's the son of a builder who was very close to his father and very proud that he was a builder; it gives him tremendous roots. The unusual thing about Piano, 68, is that he works from small to big. I had never met an architect like that before.
He doesn't approach a building from the point of an idea; it grows out of the ground. He's also one of the most elegant architects I know. He's elegant in person, but also his structures are very elegant, very humanistic. They aren't pieces of abstract sculpture. They grow out of understanding how buildings go together and how light comes through them; he designs roofs that pull light in. Piano has moved on from the massive machine—like the Pompidou Center in Paris, which we designed together and which is full of people, like a big climbing frame—to very beautiful museums and libraries. Each one is a bit more elegant. Piano has terrific range. I love the San Nicola football stadium in Bari, Italy, which is a massive statement—big petals of concrete that come out of the ground. Then there is the Beyeler building in Switzerland that is as light as anything. I won't say which of his buildings is my favorite. I will say he's my favorite architect. He's one of the supreme modern architects of his generation. He's also a fanatical sailor. He designs his own boats. When we were first friends, almost 40 years ago, he designed a concrete sailing boat. And actually it worked very well.
(Rogers designed London's Lloyd's Building and the Millennium Dome)
Rain is big—big!—in Japan. The South Korean king of pop also fills seats in Beijing, Pusan and Bangkok. In Hong Kong his concerts sell out in 10 minutes, and across much of Asia, fans snap up pirated videos of his soap operas. Thanks to his angelic face, killer bod and Justin Timber— like dance moves, Rain, 23, has ridden the crest of hallyu, or the Korean wave, the Asia-wide obsession for that country's pop culture. But the ambition that lifted Rain (real name: Ji Hoon Jung) out of a one-room house in Seoul won't be sated by simply conquering the biggest continent on earth. Rain is looking east to the U.S., studying English day and night. He sold out two shows at Madison Square Garden's smaller venue in February, and that could be just a few drops of the deluge that some think will follow the release of his English-language debut album this fall. Yet even if Rain, whose style virtually clones American pop, fails to make it in the U.S., the trend he represents is here to stay. Rain is the face—and well-muscled torso—of pop globalism. Before he visited the U.S., Rain already had a fan base, thanks to Internet music sites, satellite TV and DVDs of his soap operas. Those are the same media that make it easier than ever for growing numbers of Americans to get their fix of Japanese anime, Bollywood films and Korean music—and vice versa. Pop culture no longer moves simply in a single direction, from the West to the rest of the world. Instead, it's a global swirl, no more constrained by borders than the weather. Rain, after all, falls on everyone.
In fewer than five years, Rachael Ray, 38, has radically changed the way America cooks dinner. Her perky-girl-next-door swagger, her catchphrases for techniques and her dinner ideology of simpler, less expensive and just in time have sold billions of books and placed her at the top of the talent love heap at the Food Network, which has changed its focus from information exchange to helpful encouragement. Dinner at her house with my kids is tastier than I could have imagined. My boys went wild for the veal, meatball and pasta stoup, as she calls it, and, like her audience, were quickly softened to putty in her kitchen-confident hands, disarmed of their usual ingredient suspicions by Ray's "just try one" allure.
At book signings and public appearances, I have seen her fans faint, tremble, mumble, moan and ultimately hit the front of the line and embrace their food hero, repeating her mantras such as "let's run a knife through it" and "easy peasy" like Catholics at Sunday Mass. Mass—mass appeal—is the message. Ray dresses like a suburban American—not a chef (that is key)—and her ease with basic kitchen techniques and a simple-to-find-in-Topeka ingredient list does not challenge viewers but entices them to join her in the famous "carry the stuff from the fridge to the counter" move with her anti-food-stylist packaged groceries. The promise of a meal in less than 30 min. is delivered every day and is calculated to hit all those who ever had a family or thought of having one, coaxing them to eschew the trap of fast-food facility and truly cook—even the easy fast stuff—at home.
(Chef Batali has a line of cookbooks, restaurants and food products)
Two things about Jeff Skoll: he wants to make the world a better place, and he didn't found eBay. I first met Skoll, 40, at an abandoned mental hospital in the Maryland countryside. He tells me film can change the world. He tells me you can build companies based on trust. He speaks softly. His company, Participant Productions, has just relieved Warner Bros. of half the budget of my film "Syriana". That seems sort of risky, and I'm very curious about Jeff. His last company was eBay—perhaps you've heard of it? He was its first employee, its first president. He tells me eBay's secret. "It's a community," he says, "and communities are built on trust." He tells me that he believes people are basically good, and if you give them the opportunity to be good, they will be. He tells me eBay's competitors believed the opposite, so they erected barriers to community, created escrow agents, credit checks, vouchsafed repositories of Social Security numbers—all predicated on the fear of being ripped off. "If you look at our track record, what we proved is that people are good," he says softly. "And that's pretty cool."
He tells me his new business is a movie company that asks of every project, How is this film going to make the world better? We're eating lunch on set, the abandoned mental hospital, which is perfect because nobody in Hollywood talks like that. It's too straightforward, too idealistic, not bottom-line oriented and certainly naive. In Hollywood people would rather be dead than naive. Skoll wants to change the world right now and believes film can help to do that. And how is he doing? Well, in less than three years he has made, among others, these films: Syriana; Good Night, and Good Luck; Murderball; North Country; and the soon to be released "Fast Food Nation" and "An Inconvenient Truth", Al Gore's documentary about global warming. So far his releases have—incredibly—garnered 11 Academy Award nominations. Both Truth and Nation are being screened at Cannes, and the former looks to be a massive hit in the U.S. More important, as Jeff says, "This Al Gore film, whoa—this movie may save the planet. That's pretty cool."
(Gaghan is the director and Oscar-winning screenwriter)
In the face of an era (now more than 25 years in duration) dominated by appropriation over invention and innovation, what are we to make of the career of Kiki Smith? Her work is the epitome of innovation, invention and unique personal vision. While many artists, especially sculptors and installation artists, are steadfast members of a "slacker" generation, Kiki, 52, embraces craft, the dreaded C word of the art world. In myriad materials such as glass, fiber and beads (some associated more with amateurs and craft-show practitioners than with professional artists), she has embraced a dizzyingly diverse vocabulary of the demoted, debased and despised—and she makes you like it. All this she does while putting her unique and personal stamp on everything—thrilling audiences from the most sophisticated art-world insiders to the casual gallery goer. She is one of our greatest artists.
As children, Kiki and her twin sisters often sat at the feet of their father, minimalist sculptor Tony Smith, fashioning small cardboard models for his giant iconic sculptures. She also often mass-produced small modular units from cardboard, which would be used to incrementally build his larger more complicated pieces. It is tempting to assume that her penchant for keeping her hands busy with repetitive activities stems from her association with her father. It seems to me, however, that it could also derive from the women in her life. She has a real connectedness, in my opinion, to what used to be called women's work—quilting, crocheting, knitting—activities in which small units go together to make bigger pieces. This is an interest I share with her. I recently had the privilege of exhibiting next to her at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. It was thrilling to see so much of her work in one place. Always diverse, it was by turns magical, quirky, sexy, humorous, poignant, scatological and mesmerizing. Her work informed mine, and mine benefited by its association with hers. It helps to hang next to a great artist.
(Close is the American painter, photographer and printmaker known for his distinctive photo-realist portraits)
作者：未且未且 回复日期：2006-5-14 13:21:25
Will Smith
The Smart Mouth with a Sweet Heart
By RICHARD SCHICKEL
Posted Sunday, Apr. 30, 2006
He has become our designated Wise Guy—the cool dude confronting aliens, villains and wary, foxy chicks while armored in nothing more than a knowing attitude and an enviable wardrobe. But Will Smith, 37, is something more than clothes and quips. What we always sense about the Wise Guy is that he's essentially a Sweet Guy, eager to learn, eager to please, eager to be heroically helpful and romantically obliging. He may be our most insinuating movie star and, amid all his studly competitors, the one with the lowest profile. Mostly he lives quietly (with wife Jada Pinkett Smith and his three kids) and works hard.
It could have been otherwise, for he began his public life as a rapper at age 12 and was TV's Fresh Prince of Bel-Air when barely in his 20s. Youthful stardom can be toxic to a performer, but his ambition for better things paradoxically kept him centered. His performance as a kid pretending to be Sidney Poitier's son in the movie version of Six Degrees of Separation made him an actor to be reckoned with, while such roles as the smooth street cop opposite Martin Lawrence in Bad Boys and the edgy rookie to Tommy Lee Jones' seen-it-all alien chaser in Barry Sonnenfeld's great Men in Black, made him a star. Last year's megahit Hitch, in which love—and Smith—conquered all, even the critics, proved his durability. He once said he wanted his career to be both "dazzling" and "eclectic." It's a goal he has pretty much achieved.
Cultures don't clash in Zadie Smith's books. They arm wrestle, get in one another's faces and climb into one another's beds. Smith's precocious debut novel, White Teeth, published in 2000, just three years after she graduated from Cambridge, centers on two World War II buddies—a white working-class Brit married to a Jamaican Jehovah's Witness and a Muslim immigrant from Bangladesh who imports what he thinks will be a traditional wife from the old country. But it's also the story of their children, who grow up, as Smith did, in a post-postcolonial London where the old gentlemen's agreements about class and race are being shredded. The book earned lavish critical praise, was turned into a TV mini-series and established a model for how to make sense—and art—out of the complexity, diversity and pluck that have defined the beginning of this century.
Smith, 30, likes to work big. Her narratives sprawl with Dickensian swagger. Her cultural references leap the high-low divide from John Milton to Eminem. Plus she's funny. Refugees from the era of political correctness and others who are easily offended probably should stay clear. Last year Smith published On Beauty, a novel set in the hothouse of American academia and scheduled to be made into a movie produced by Scott Rudin, who has adapted such provocative works as The Hours and Closer for the screen. Like White Teeth and her second novel, The Autograph Man it is simultaneously intellectual and visceral, a panoramic view of the way we live now.
Even though I didn't catch on to the Stern craze till the mid-'90s, I still consider myself a hard-core fan. I was wrapping up my run on Saturday Night Live and usually slept in every day, so I missed his show. But I knew he was a big deal. I had heard people repeating bits he did, and they always made me laugh. He came in one day to meet with Lorne Michaels, and everyone was freaking out. That was the first time I met him. Way taller than I thought (who isn't?) and quieter. And nice to everyone. Which still shocks me.
Stern, 52, was the first guy to make it seem cool to be a loser. To a lot of us who stay at home in a dark room eating Hot Pockets, he seemed like a buddy. He would make fun of good-looking famous people and make girls show their boobs. What's not to like about that? I was sold.
After 10 years, he can still make me laugh and get me jealous when he thinks of something so fast that I don't see it coming. He's at his best when he's complaining—the FCC, George W. Bush, whatever. Being a guest on his show, I get to hear the good and bad of my so-called life and career. Let me tell you, it's a lot easier having Katie Couric tell me I look cute (as she did one day) than volunteering to go in and have Howard dissect every loser aspect of me that I would rather keep hidden. If I didn't believe he thought I was funny, I'd never go on. He doesn't do a lot of "Your movie's great."
He does a lot of "You're not good-looking. Girls date you only because you're on TV. Most of your movies suck. You probably killed Chris Farley. You're jealous of Sandler. I have a caller who says he hates you and another who thinks you're gay." Not exactly James Lipton. But because he makes me laugh, it's a lot (a little) easier to take.
The other day, I was pulling into the parking garage at my gym, listening to Stern. I did what I usually do if Stern is on a roll: I parked right before going underground so it wouldn't cut out. I turned to my right, and some guy in a Subaru was parked next to me laughing. I rolled down the window and asked, "Stern?", and he nodded. Two more fans out of millions having another laugh with the King of All Media. Or at least the Subaru.
(Spade is the host of The Showbiz Show on Comedy Central)
Meryl Streep is at once angelic and down to earth. She's perhaps the smartest actor I have worked with. She needed not one thing from me, and in any case, no guidance, direction or suggestion I could have given would have matched her flawless instincts. That made me feel blissfully inadequate. On A Prairie Home Companion she glided onto the set, her personal warmth transfixing us all and setting the tone for the day.
I have long admired the choices Meryl has made in her career. She's fearless. She navigates comedy and tragedy with equal ease and can move from one to the other in the blink of an eye. Working with her, you come to realize that her humanity off the set is no less remarkable. Meryl may be the most celebrated actor in the world, but she has never succumbed to the notion of celebrity. Her dedication to her privacy and family is fierce and rare.
Although Meryl, 56, chose to be an actor (a decision for which gratitude is the only response imaginable), I came to understand on the Prairie set why that might have been a terrible mistake. Because Meryl can sing. And I can't tell you how happy it will make you to hear her do it. When Meryl and Lily Tomlin sang Goodbye to My Mama, everyone on set was in tears. Moments like those make you suppose you might be doing something right. If only in choosing your actors. Meryl's one in a million.
(Altman's A Prairie Home Companion will be out in June) |
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