Movie |
Politics | Hotel
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7/10
IMDbEnsemble of the Year | 2006 | Joy
Top Independent Films | 2006
NotSoObviously Worst Film | 2006
Breakthrough Actress | 2006 | Lindsay
Breakout Performance of the Year Behind the Camera | 2006 | Emilio
2006 | Emilio
2006 | Emilio
Outstanding Performance by a Cast in a Motion Picture | 2007 | Elijah
Original Song | 2007
Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Motion Picture | 2007 | Harry
Best Sound Editing for Music in a Feature Film | 2007 | Lee
Best Music Original Song | 2007 | Mary J.
Choice Movie Actress Drama For | 2007 | Lindsay
Choice Movie Actress Drama | 2007 | Lindsay
Outstanding Motion Picture | 2007
Outstanding Director Motion Picture | 2007 | Emilio
Outstanding Screenplay Motion Picture | 2007 | Emilio
Best Picture | 2007
Main Competition | 2006 | Michael
Best Screenplay | 2006 | Emilio
Most Overrated Film | 2006
Best Picture | 2006
At one point during the script development, after developing a case of what writer and director Emilio Estevez called "paralyzing writer's block", Estevez set the script aside. Later, he checked into a remote hotel on the Central California Coast, near Pismo Beach, to work on the script. When he checked in, the woman at the desk recognized him, and asked what he was doing there. "I'm writing a script about the night Bobby Kennedy was killed", he told her. Tears instantly welled in her eyes. "I was there", she replied. Estevez interviewed the woman, who had been a volunteer for Robert F. Kennedy in 1968. He turned her personal story, which included marrying a young man to keep him out of Vietnam, into the Diane Howser character. Estevez said, "She really helped me crack the spine of the story and give it a beating heart. After that, it just started to flow."
A few scenes were filmed at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, California, the real-life location of the Robert F. Kennedy assassination, during its demolition. The wing of the hotel they were using hadn't been touched by the demolition crew yet, in order to preserve items from the pantry where Kennedy was shot.
The scene of Miriam Ebbers cutting her husband's hair was not in the script. Sharon Stone was supposed to pantomime cutting the hair, but she actually snipped his hair. William H. Macy's visibly tense reaction was real.
In many ways, writer and director Emilio Estevez felt that he was fated to make this movie all of his life. Just six years old when Robert F. Kennedy died, Estevez vividly remembers that night through a child's eyes, and seeing the horrific announcement that the Senator had been shot on television, and rushing to awaken his father, Martin Sheen, a long-time Kennedy supporter, with the shocking news. Soon after that, Sheen took his son to visit the spot where Robert F. Kennedy had delivered his final speech at the Ambassador Hotel, a heartfelt, impromptu call for American unity and action in the face of escalating rifts and violence. Estevez recalled: "I remember my dad holding my hand as we wandered through those grand halls, and I remembered my father talking about what we had lost."
Several years later, after the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy, the loss would continue to weigh heavily on Emilio Estevez. Like many, Estevez began to see R.F.K.'s assassination as the shot that had stopped in its tracks the idealism and optimism of an earlier generation of Americans, and ushered in the later times' much harsher world of cynicism, apathy, and disenfranchisement. Robert F. Kennedy's legacy of refusing to be silent in the face of injustice, of advocacy for the downtrodden, and of speaking plainly about what he believed was wrong in America seemed to have far too few successors. Estevez said: "From that moment of June 5, 1968 on, it seemed we became more and more cynical and resigned, and I think it's a big part of why we are where we are at culturally today. It's heartbreaking."
"Robert F. Kennedy: [voiceover] This is a time of shame and sorrow. It is not a day for politics. I have saved this one opportunity, my only event of today, to speak briefly to you about the mindless menace of violence in America which again stains our land and every one of our lives. It is not the concern of any one race. The victims of the violence are black and white, rich and poor, young and old, famous and unknown. They are, most important of all, human beings whom other human beings loved and needed. No one - no matter where he lives or what he does - can be certain who will suffer from some senseless act of bloodshed. And yet it goes on and on and on in this country of ours. Why? What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr's cause has ever been stilled by an assassin's bullet. No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of reason. Whenever any American's life is taken by another American unnecessarily - whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of the law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence - whenever we tear at the fabric of the life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded. "Among free men," said Abraham Lincoln, "there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet; and those who take such appeal are sure to lose their cause and pay the costs." Yet we seemingly tolerate a rising level of violence that ignores our common humanity and our claims to civilization alike. We calmly accept newspaper reports of civilian slaughter in far-off lands. We glorify killing on movie and television screens and call it entertainment. We make it easy for men of all shades of sanity to acquire whatever weapons and ammunition they desire. Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach non-violence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them. Some look for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much is clear: violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleansing of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul. For there is another kind of violence, slower but just as deadly destructive as the shot or the bomb in the night. This is the violence of institutions; indifference and inaction and slow decay. This is the violence that afflicts the poor, that poisons relations between men because their skin has different colors. This is the slow destruction of a child by hunger, and schools without books and homes without heat in the winter. This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all. I have not come here to propose a set of specific remedies nor is there a single set. For a broad and adequate outline we know what must be done. When you teach a man to hate and fear his brother, when you teach that he is a lesser man because of his color or his beliefs or the policies he pursues, when you teach that those who differ from you threaten your freedom or your job or your family, then you also learn to confront others not as fellow citizens but as enemies, to be met not with cooperation but with conquest; to be subjugated and mastered. We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers. Yet we know what we must do. It is to achieve true justice among our fellow citizens. The question is not what programs we should seek to enact. The question is whether we can find in our own midst and in our own hearts that leadership of humane purpose that will recognize the terrible truths of our existence. We must admit the vanity of our false distinctions among men and learn to find our own advancement in the search for the advancement of others. We must admit in ourselves that our own children's future cannot be built on the misfortunes of others. We must recognize that this short life can neither be ennobled or enriched by hatred or revenge. Our lives on this planet are too short and the work to be done too great to let this spirit flourish any longer in our land. Of course we cannot vanquish it with a program, nor with a resolution. But we can perhaps remember, if only for a time, that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we, nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can. Surely, this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen once again."
"Edward Robinson: You've got... shit to offer. You've got no poetry, you've got no light. No one looking at you going, "Damn... look at that Miguel. I want... some of what he's got." All you have is your anger."