So how do we talk about Brittany Murphy now?

In the final years of her too-short life (which ended with cardiac arrest late Sunday) Murphy was all saucer eyes and nervous energy, a toothy grin on the arm of one shady movie industry boyfriend after another. After multiple called-off engagements, she settled on Simon Monjack, the screenwriter husband and accused con man now raising eyebrows for trying to block her autopsy. Celebrity publications charted her weight fluctuations, speculated about eating disorders and drug use, and documented red carpet disasters and plastic surgery slip-ups.

There was a time, though, when Brittany Murphy's headlines were all about her promise—and until the bitter end, she fought to get back into the lead actress fold that had once seemed a given. After conquering regional acting circuits, Murphy and her mother threw themselves at the feet of Burbank's pilot season free-for-all, and the little girl from Edison, New Jersey scored one role after another, from the short-lived Drexel's Class to Blossom to Melrose Place and her breakout role in Clueless, where Murphy proved herself a talented comedian. The nervous energy was charming; the saucer eyes sweetly endearing.

But it took four years for her to deliver a successful cinematic follow up with small roles in darkly comedic Drop Dead Gorgeous and critical darling Girl, Interrupted, where Murphy demonstrated dramatic range playing an eating disordered incest victim.

One part of that character became prophetic: Shortly after Girl, Interrupted Brittany underwent a transformation from roly-poly brunette to a whippet-thin leading lady with the requisite blonde hair, heart-throb boyfriend (Just Married co-star Ashton Kutcher), and rumors about drug use and eating disorders. She steamrolled through a series of moderately successful (if generally forgettable) comedies, including Uptown Girls, in which Roger Ebert pinpointed Murphy's "divine ineptitude" (in the manner of "Lucille Ball") as the otherwise light movie's strongest suit.

It was a fine career, but it didn't sit right, and Murphy again changed tracks with roles in 8 Mile and Sin City—and a Maxim-approved "troublemaker" makeover—but her agent suddenly dropped her at what should have been a career turning point. Murphy was described as "hot and cold" and "difficult." She became a voicing staple (with leading vocal roles in Fox's King of the Hill and penguin movie Happy Feet) even as she fought for screen time in acting roles she eventually lost due to "creative differences" and being "problematic on set."

So how are Brittany's sometime detractors memorializing her now?

The Guardian's obit opens with potential unrealized:

It has become something of a Hollywood formality that any young woman actor fresh on the scene is pencilled in to play Janis Joplin sooner or later. Brittany Murphy, who has died aged 32 from cardiac arrest, was one of many performers over the years who were attached to some Joplin biopic or another.

In this case, it was Piece of My Heart, for which Murphy auditioned successfully in 1999, but which was never made.

E's Joal Ryan remembers a "rare," "erratic" career defined by what it was not: easy.

She was different. ... Different can mean "extremely difficult," as in the Murphy of a 2008 New York Post item. (According to the paper, Murphy required a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich-diagonally cut, no crusts-on the hour, every hour on the set of the just-released, if barely, thriller Across the Hall.)

Or it can mean "erratic" (per a 2004 MSNBC report on Murphy's behavior at a press junket for Uptown Girls), and "barely there" (per The Wrap on Murphy's behavior during the recently completed shoot for another thriller, Something Wicked.) ...

Or it can mean unique. As in uniquely talented.

CNN takes the euphemistic route:

Brittany Murphy, the bubbly, free-spirited actress who appeared in such films as Clueless and 8 Mile, died Sunday, apparently of natural causes...

The Atlantic's Alyssa Rosenberg remembers Clueless as a bittersweet high point:

The girls of my generation may have grown beyond their fleeting desire for knee-highs, and overalls are nowhere to be found in my wardrobe. But in a sense, Murphy never grew beyond her performance as Tai. To watch her in Clueless is to see her at her most joyful and at her funniest. ... Onscreen or off, she never quite surpassed the role that launched her career: the endearing and genuine newcomer...

But Brittany's most memorable postmortems will likely be of the tabloid variety: grisly details from the scene of her death, "sources" who come forward to say they saw it coming, speculation about "self-destruction," "enablers," and the price of fame. And so Brittany Murphy, it seems, will die as she lived: ambivalently, a public figure that no one ever quite figured out how to pin down.

Suddenly the Universe is a very cold and empty place.

• Apparently we are not a nation of people waiting for Amanda Woodward to return to Melrose Place. Heather Locklear's trip back to the series did little to ease its struggles, lifting its gruesome ratings by a mere 15 percent to a 0.8 rating in the 18 - 45 demo. [Hollywood Reporter]

• Meanwhile, just as the world was sending its mocking obituaries to the printers, guess who's having a good week? Jay Leno is up five percent this week, "matching its highest ratings in six weeks." [Hollywood Reporter]

• With two and a half months to go, the Super Bowl's ad space is almost sold out. CBS reports a 90 percent sell-out rate thus far, meaning only six slots are still available. Like everything else these days, Super Bowl ad sales are being viewed as a barometer of the nation's economic health. [Ad Age]

• A Writers Guild report of diversity among its ranks finds "little if any improvement" for the prospects of women and minority writers. Variety writes that the report "found that women scribes remain stuck at 28% of TV employment and 18% in features while the minority share has been frozen at 6% since 1999." [Variety]

• Jennifer Hudson will play Winnie Mandela, the ex-wife of the ex-South African President Nelson Mandela in Winnie, a biopic to be directed by Darrell J. Roodt, maker of Cry the Beloved Country. [Variety]

• Roger Ebert may be off the airwaves, but his influence lives on, remarkably, as the online buzz king. A survey by Nielsen of which critics dominate the internet reveals that Ebert remains a goliath online, crushing all the competition combined. [thehotblog]

• Making 2012's grosses look like the change fallen under the cushions of your sofa, the video game Call of Duty : Modern Warfare 2 reported sales of more than $550 million in the first week of its release. The LA Times puts production costs on the game in the $40 - $50 million range (a fraction of 2012 or Avatar), putting its total budget including marketing somewhere around $200 million. Who's in the wrong business now, movie people? [LA Times]

• Lovely Bones director Peter Jackson told a reporter that, despite his PG-13 rating he had upped the violence in his upcoming film after early test screening audiences "were simply not satisfied" with the depiction of a character's death. [Hitfix]

• Nikki Finke reports that investor Carl Icahn has been snatching up MGM bonds like "A bat out of hell." [Deadline]

• The LA Times reports further on Disney's heroic decision to pull the plug on McG's attempt to America's memories of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea with his remake. The paper writes that execs saw the project, scripted by novelist Michael Chabon as "too dark" and that they will take another stab at it somewhere down the line. [LA Times]

Overheard at a press screening. Well-known but little respected TV critic whose son is also a well-known but little respected TV critic, trash-talking highly respected older critic who was replaced by his son.

He called the older replaced critic a "pathetic old putz," and suggested he should be thankful he still has his print column. As well, he suggested that the older critic's original show wouldn't work anymore because nobody wants to watch "two geeky guys." He glowed about how successful his son was at 27, appearing on at least six different networks. And that he didn't understand all of the anger directed at his son because it's only film criticism and that's nothing serious (even though that's what he does as well).

Arrgh. We did have it pegged as a Jeffrey Lyons/Ben Lyons/Roger Ebert love-in — until that part about "six different networks." The Facebook group I Have a Photo With Keira Knightley!!! is not considered an actual network, is it? Any other 27-year-olds with bad-critic fathers we've overlooked?

I keep forgetting about the Phantom of the Opera. Yes, what is it like to resemble him, since I am what is now described as having Facial Differences? To begin with, I must make this clear: Many people have problems much worse than mine, and at a much younger age, and sometimes joined with other disabilities. I may seem tragic to you, but I seem fortunate to myself. Don't lose any sleep over me.

I am so much a movie lover that I can imagine a certain (very small) pleasure in looking like the Phantom. It is better than looking like the Elephant Man. I would describe my condition as falling about 17% of the way along a graph line between the handsome devil I was at the ripe tender age of 27, and the thing that jumps out of that guy's intestines in "Alien."

So to return to my opening question, what does it feel like to resemble The Phantom of the Opera? Not like much of anything. I rather avoid mirrors. I do not dwell on my appearance. I have bigger fish to fry. Nor do I mope about fearing that my cancer might return. If it does, it does, and that's what she wrote. At Pritikin they have a truism: "If you don't die of anything else, sooner or later you will die of cancer." We all nod thoughtfully.

The rest of the piece is filled with warm anecdotes about his "fat one" appearance vis-a-vis Gene Siskel, wherein Ebert reminisces about a life enhanced by their playful, back-and-forth banter. We certainly don't wish harm on Ebert usurper Ben Lyons, but we can only imagine the comparable essay he'd write someday; instead of recalling a complicated, full life marked of ups, downs, and wonderful movies, would it be utterly populated with starfucky photos of him with Jessica Alba or Heidi from The Hills?

• Siskel & Ebert & the Jugular [Roger Ebert's Journal]

Nearly all of Ebert's rules seem like common sense to our minds — "Provide a sense of the experience," "No freebies," "A trailer is not a movie" (though the "Avoid trailers" rule seems a little dire for even our purist sensibilities) — but one in particular stands out toward the end:

No posing for photos! Never ask a movie star to pose with you for a picture. No movie star ever wants to do this. They may smile, but they're gritting their teeth. [...] Remember, you are a professional. You are not a friend. You diminish yourself by asking for a snapshot. [...]

On the other hand, treasure real photos of you really with a movie star. Photos taken at a real event by a real other person unknown to you who didn't ask anyone if he could take it. My favorite such photo shows Jason Patric and me assisting Peter O'Toole as he makes his way from a reception at the Savannah Film Festival. I have appended this to the left as a sample of a permissible star photo. Such a photo can be distinguished from the other kind because they represent star-f***ing practiced with abstinence.

And we've appended Ebert's photo above. We were worried this counsel might fall under the "No Freebies" rubric, but really, advice of such value can only be given away. Keep it close, young Lyons.

• Roger's little rule book [Chicago Sun-TImes via Spout Blog]

Why do you wish you hadn't published the review? It sent a wrong message. If I had seen the entire film, a review, however negative, would have been appropriate. But in reviewing the first eight minutes, I was guilty of too much affection for my prose. I finished the review and liked it. My editor was awaiting the review. I sent it in. Many writers are loath to see any of their immortal words be, as we quaintly say in the newsbiz, shit-canned. They should be less loath. Laura Emerick flagged it. She was correct.

Was the review unethical? No. I made it clear I had seen only eight minutes, and that the star rating applied only to those eight minutes. If I had concealed that fact, I should have been fired.

What is the key lesson from all of this? I will never, ever, again review a film I have not seen in its entirety. Never. Ever. Laura was right: That sort of thing is seized upon as a practice, not an exception. Already you can learn here and there on the web that I support Creationism. (See my blog entry, "This is the dawning of the Age of Credulity.") Soon, I am sure, you will be able to read, "Ebert reviews movies after only watching eight minutes of them."

Amusingly, Ebert has since watched the entire film and appended his original article with a new review that is, if anything, even more vicious. For a critic who's handed out four-star reviews like candy in recent years (Lakeview Terrace? really?), it's a bracing change of pace. We're kind of digging this new, unhinged Ebert — now, Rog, when are you finally going to fill in that notable gap in your recent reviews and dig into Beverly Hills Chihuahua? Bet you wish you'd saved your eight-minute card for that one, huh?

• Definitely Read Me Second [Roger Ebert via MCN]

Over at Hollywood Elsewhere, Jeff Wells titled his post about the matter "Not Supposed to Say," claiming that "movie critics haven't come within 20 feet of mentioning this [unremarked-on interracial marriage] in their reviews." We're not sure what critics Wells is reading, but a boatload of the ones we've looked at mention exactly that — and they do it in a way that seems to beg for someone to bestow an aura of au courant hipness on their courageously un-PC observations.

Both EW's Owen Gleiberman and New Yorker film critic Anthony Lane take great pains to mention the film's unmentioned racial diversity, though to hear Lane discuss it, it sounds like he'd rather be watching a blunt parable like Crash. "The wedding party is the ultimate guide to Demme’s benign vision: the groom is black, the bride is white, she and her bridesmaids are dressed in saris, [and] nobody so much as mentions race," says Lane. "I don’t know if there were any Republican voters involved in this movie, but, if so, it must have been a lonely time." Ok, yes, some Republicans are racist — but damn, Anthony! Are you really implying that conservatives can never be bred within a cultural melting pot?

Worse is Wells, who virtually calls Demme a fetishist of all things African, rattling off some of the black characters Demme has previously included in his oeuvre before concluding:

So it feels very Demme-ish that the union that's endlessly celebrated in Rachel Getting Married, his latest feature, is between a very alabaster lassie (Rosemarie DeWitt, playing Rachel) and a handsome Afrique-ebony guy (musician Tunde Adebimpe, playing Sidney the groom). It's also a very Demme thing that nobody so much as mentions this.

You can say "well, why would anybody mention it?" and I'd take your point, of course. We all like to see ourselves as color-blind. My point is that in real life someone in the wedding party would at one point or another throw some kind of slider ball — something anecdotal, flip, netural, whatever— into the proceedings. In the same way someone would say "oh, it's raining" if a cloudburst were to happen. My other point is that such a remark (which wouldn't necessarily be coarse or gauche ) is verboten in a Demme film because it doesn't reflect his values or sensibilities.

...If the blunt-spoken alcoholic played by Howard Duff in Robert Altman's A Wedding (1978) had been invited to Rachel and Sidney's wedding, he would have said something or other, trust me. Because he was the kind of wealthy middle- aged guy who didn't give a shit because he was always half in the bag.

Why, though, does it need to be said? One might think that by the time Rachel and Sidney had gotten married, their families would have gotten used to the idea that they were of separate races (in fact, Rachel's divorced father has since remarried a black woman, and screenwriter Jenny Lumet is the product of an interracial marriage herself). Are these critics really unable to set aside their apparent discomfort with the idea unless an on-screen surrogate points out the obvious? What if Rachel's family were Latin (imagine Penelope Cruz donning Anne Hathaway's smudged eyeliner instead) — would their non-white, mixed marriage suddenly become less of an issue for these older, Caucasian film critics?

Guys, there's plenty of actual criticisms to be made about Rachel Getting Married (won't someone address the interminable sequence that is the dish-washing competition?). Why don't you stick to film critique and leave the awkward investigation of racial dynamics where it belongs — at a Sarah Palin rally?

No kidding? While this doesn't sound like the guy who took down Sarah Palin a few weeks ago as the "American Idol candidate," we know from more than 40 years of reviews that he's a nuanced dude entitled to a range of complex opinions. Alternatively, Ebert's tongue may be so far in his cheek it'll leave a bruise, but a bit of digging by Defamer operatives yielded a series of exclusive, unpublished outtakes suggesting he might be keeping it real. After the jump, we pick up where Rog left off.

Q: Why would God create such an absurd creature as a moose?

A: In charity, we must observe that the moose probably does not seem absurd to itself.

Q: OK, but what about Ben Lyons?

A: That's not God's fault. Jeffrey Lyons fucked that one up.

Q: Do Creationists believe in the Big Bang?

A: It depends on how you choose to define "the Big Bang." If you mean some variation on Georges Lemaître's hypothesis of a primeval atom from which all matter came forth some 14 billion years ago (a theory later substantiated in part by scientists including Albert Einstein), then no. If you mean the buxom, oversexed environment epitomized by my screenplay for Russ Meyer's Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, then yes. Holy shit, those bangs were big.

Q: Let's go back a second. You mentioned that man showed up on Earth fully formed. What about scientific proof of Cro-Magnon or Neanderthal man?

A: Again, all surviving species and many others were created fully formed at the same time. Of human species, only Scientologists survived.

Q: So what are you and I?

A: Thetans. You didn't know that? Except for Lou Lumenick; I don't know what the fuck is up with him.

Q: And Creationism asserts that we really walked the Earth with dinosaurs?

A: Only a few people: Charlton Heston, Sumner Redstone, guys like that. Are we done here?

Q: Wait — what happens to us when we die?

A: It's complicated. But there are some tapes over there of me and the old lady ouijaing Gene Siskel a few years ago if you wanna have a look. It's pretty prescient, really: C-A-N-C-E-L A-T T-H-E M-O-V-I-E-S... that kind of thing. Heaven's real, I guess. Anyway, e-mail me any follow ups, will you? Neil LaBute is waiting for me.

• Creationism: Your questions answered [RogerEbert.com]

A few minutes later, says our source, "[Lumenick] stands up in the darkness and thwacks [Ebert] behind him with a big festival binder. He hit him so hard everybody could hear it. Everyone freaked out and turned around."

..."Apparently, Roger was just trying to tap Lumenick on the shoulder to signal him that he couldn't see the movie," surmises our source. "He was trying to ask him to move over a bit."

Though Lumenick seemed surprised to see whom he had struck, he offered no apology, according to another source.

Perhaps if Lumenick spent less time striking ailing film critics and more time fact-checking, he'd be filing TIFF reports with less inaccuracies (such as this one, which wrongly stated Magnolia was to buy Che — it was IFC — and misses the fact that Warner Independent picked up Slumdog in a negative pickup and sold it to Fox Searchlight). Hey, Lou: Ebert may still be recovering, but we have a feeling he can still do a lot of damage with no more than two strategically-jabbed thumbs.

• Critic goes Post-al on ill Roger Ebert [NY Daily News]

Dragon Emperor doesn't exactly beg for a sequel (neither did The Mummy Returns, for that matter), but it'd be fun to watch the filmmakers try to outdo this dizzy spectacle in the arena of sheer ridiculousness. — Nathan Rabin, The AV Club

Possibly the most fun Mummy yet — call it The Uber-Mummy. — Randy Cordova, The Arizona Republic

The film's best quality is that it continues the Mummy tradition of mocking its own big-budget gratuitousness. — Christy DeSmith, Minneapolis Star Tribune

It doesn't take itself too seriously but it takes the action scenes seriously and there are some great ones. — Nell Minow, BeliefNet

Now why did I like this movie? It was just plain dumb fun, is why. It is absurd and preposterous, and proud of it. — Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

And you know what? Universal will probably have that rave on its TV spots by primetime tonight. Thanks a million, Rog.

• The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor [Rotten Tomatoes]

"I am incredibly excited to be involved with such a prestigious show," said co-host Ben Lyons. "Reviewing films for a living is a thrill, and now that I will be a critic for At the Movies, it is an honor and huge responsibility that I look forward to."

"I am thrilled and honored beyond words to be joining the series," added co-host Ben Mankiewicz. "As a movie fanatic, this is my dream job. Without question, I certainly have very big shoes to fill."

Fine. It's not really the nepotism we mind — Lyons being the son of former At The Movies current Reel Talk host and syndicated hack Jeffrey Lyons (and grandson of NYC gossip Leonard Lyons); Mankewicz derived from his political-guru dad Frank Mankewicz and Citizen Kane-scripting grandfather Herman Mankewicz. That's not the kids' fault. However, the proliferation of Lyons' notorious quotewhoredom gives us pause, as does our fear that three generations of inbreeding within the critical gene pool will yield a monster that neither Ebert/Siskel/Roeper loyalists nor filmgoing kiddies want. But the guys come cheap, we suppose, and "Two Mutant Flippers Up!™" is kind of catchy, so we guess we'll reserve judgment until the Sept. 6 season premiere.

[Photo: Thompson on Hollywood]

• Lyons and Mankiewicz To Replace Ebert and Roeper [Thompson on Hollywood]

In an e-mail to The Associated Press on Monday, Ebert said Disney-ABC Domestic Television had decided to take the show "in a new direction" and he won't be associated with it.

In a statement, Ebert said, "The show was a wonderful experience," and added that he and Siskel's widow, Marlene Iglitzen, retain the trademark to the phrase, "Two thumbs up." [...]

His announcement came a day after Chicago Sun-Times columnist Richard Roeper said he was leaving the nationally syndicated "At the Movies With Ebert & Roeper."

"Several months ago, Disney offered to extend my contract, which expires at the conclusion of the 2007-08 season," Roeper said. "I opted to wait. Much transpired after that behind the scenes, but an agreement was never reached, and we are all moving on."

Whatever Disney's "new direction" entailed—we're picturing the large-breasted Roeper Girls spinning a giant Thumb-O-Tron, which miraculously pointed to "TWO WAY, WAY, WAY UP!!!" every time a Disney release was up for review—we're dreading it. It's time to bring in the big guns, and re-animate Gene Siskel via the magic of XBox 360's RAW 2008 for some old-school Sneak Previews smackdowns like the ones we savored weekly in our youth.

• Ebert and Roeper leaving 'Ebert & Roeper' [CNN/AP]

Sex and the City was famous for its frankness, and we expect similar frankness in the movie. We get it, but each "frank" moment comes wrapped in its own package and seems to stand alone from the story. That includes (1) a side shot of a penis, (2) sex in positions other than the missionary, and (3) Samantha's dog, which is a compulsive masturbator. I would be reminded of the immortal canine punch line ("because he can"), but Samantha's dog is a female. "She's been fixed," says the pet lady, "but she has not lost the urge."

Ebert gets even friskier after the jump.

Samantha can identify with that. The dog gets friendly with every pillow, stuffed animal and ottoman and towel, and here's the funny thing, it ravishes them male-doggy-style. I went to AskJeeves.com and typed in "How do female dogs masturbate?" and did not get a satisfactory answer, although it would seem to be: "Just like all dogs do, but not how male dogs also do."

We're not so sure, Rog; we asked Jeeves the same thing and came up with a perfectly suitable reply. And really, if this is the most fruitful yield of our own Sex and the City experience, we'll feel like we got more than our money's worth.

• 'Sex and the City' [RogerEbert.com]

We at Defamer didn't think we cared — but until you've seen O'Neil having his way with a masterpiece, you might be surprised what piques your interest (spoilers after the jump).

I've seen [Best Production winner] Wings a few times and liked it OK. But now that I've viewed [Best Artistic Picture winner] Sunrise, I must concede: Wings soars by comparison. Sunrise is paper-thin, hilariously schmaltzy. All three primary characters are cartoonish clichés and their performances 3-inch slices of honeyed ham.

Mind you, I'm the kinda guy who'd normally side with the weepie. On my top 10 list of fave pix of all time are Peggy Sue Got Married and Titanic. But I just can't shed a real tear when the farmer in Sunrise decides that he just — by golly! — can't off his sweet, dimpled wifey-pooh, after all. Nor could I cheer the scenes of the couple back together, all giddy smiles and kisses, posing for photos like newlyweds, dancing a happy peasant dance, joyous once he decided not to wring her scrawny little neck and hurl her over the side of the row boat.

What corn pone! Smothered in Cheez Whiz! Wings ain't Shakespeare or Scorsese, mind you, but it's better than that!

"Corn pone"? "Smothered in..." Oh, fuck it. Look, we've all got opinions. O'Neil can cough out whatever he wants. Nevertheless, there are some incontrovertibly great films that got movies as we know them where they are today. The haunting, technically dazzling story-in-the-shadows of a simple man's basic struggle with modernity, F.W. Murnau's Sunrise, is one of them. See Roger Ebert's extraordinary review for in-depth reasons why, BUT: Film noir? Thank Sunrise. Psychological horror? Thank Sunrise. Hitchcock, Welles, Kubrick, Scorsese? Thank Sunrise. The short-sighted, star-fucking O'Neil could very well be the main character here, which may in fact signal its most objectionable quality to his Titanic-adoring eye.

So why even mention him? Because people actually read this guy — casual fans wind up browsing him and voting in his goddamned polls outlining the "best" of 80 years ago. They don't discuss; they avoid. They don't watch; they ignore. And while we can endure it with our industrial-size grain of salt every Oscar season, Sunrise and you deserve better. So write a letter, start a petition — anything to make him stop. At least until this fall, when it's not about cinema anyway.

• Was 'Sunrise' really Oscar's first best picture? [Gold Derby via MCN]