The Havana Film Festival, celebrating its 10th year, has run into a big problem. It isn’t censorship, the State Department, a Castro, or even overzealous Cuban nationals — it ran into Plumm. Actually, the idea was to run into Plumm and have a great closing-night party there this Thursday. My readers know that Plumm was padlocked by a not-overzealous landlord who not so shockingly wanted to actually collect rent from his tenant Noel Ashman. The Plumm situation will sort itself out in a few weeks with either a new tenant or Noel somehow returning. But meanwhile, my old pal Ed Steinberg of Rockamedia fame needs a new venue to host his closing night soiree.
This uber-hip event — which had screenings at the Quad Cinema, New York Directors Guild Theatre, King Juan Carlos I of Spain Center, the Ida K. Lang Theater at Hunter College, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art — needs a club to step up and save the day. It will be approximately 175 intelligent and cultured adults this Thursday from 9:30 to 11:30 p.m. You’ll have guaranteed coverage here and a great early crowd. (My favorite film description is for La Edad de Oro or “The Golden Age,” which documents a soccer league from Corona, Queens (my old hood), made up of former world champion soccer players who are now middle-aged men.) If you can help, contact Ed at www.rockamedia.com.
Anyway, I picked up my friend Donna at the employees’ entrance of Madison Square Garden after the Rangers game last night. I wanted to hang with fans in blue jerseys as they celebrated a predicted home victory that would put them 3 up in their playoff series against the heavily favored Washington Capitals. I don’t follow hockey, and indeed I haven’t seen a game in over 20 years — although I once went to a boxing match and a hockey game broke out — I know, sorry. I made the 23-block trek from a meeting at Matt Isaacs’ office through a cold driving rain that reminded me of that scene from Moby Dick when mad Ahab is taking them around Cape Horn, and he looked up to see the miracle of Saint Elmo’s fire, just as I looked up to see the digital news scroll telling me that it was Capitals 4, Rangers 0.
I knew there would be no joy in Mudville as I trudged through the New York City sludge, and I was met with sad faces as I folded my sad umbrella and entered the Garden. I joked “we will need an ark” to get to the bar across the street, The Local. I then noticed the distinctive smell of large animal poo, and I was told that the circus had recently left, but the smell still lingered. We dashed to The Local, which is the place to hang after a game — but not on this night. The glorious roof deck was a lake, and the sad fans dressed in true blue were trying to keep a stiff upper lip as they chugged Jameson and other tried-and-true remedies. I had a Heineken to fit in. The waitstaff — world champions on any other night — offered a smile as they served my beer. They obviously never worked in a club.