Jeffrey Wells

To me anyway. In Saltburn, I mean. I’m sorry but when I came upon this photo…bingo. The gremlin vibe. In every scene he’s the evil leprechaun ogre you need to keep tabs on. A Bond villain waiting in the wings.

…but if you over–splooge without restraint, readers will naturally pull back. I’m a sincere, serious fan of American Fiction but not to this extent.

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HE has posted a stinging retort to the nagging pestilence known as “Seasonal Aflac Disord” after he ignorantly stated that George Clooney’s The Boys in the Boat (MGM/Amazon, 12.25) was, in a manner of speaking, superfluous to the cultural conversation.

This was a coded way of saying this 1930s Olympic sports saga is of no interest to under-40s because it doesn’t reflect our 2023 reality, in part due to the non-diverse cast.

HE to SAD: It’s NOT a “snoozefest”, you woke ayehole. It’s engrossing, nicely paced, attractively shot, well-performed by an engaging cast, etc. And it’s set in 1935 and ‘36, not “WWII.”

Repeating: Certain critics on your side of the cultural divide are apparently dismissing The Boys in the Boat for racial reasons — i.e., the cast being entirely white.

They’re not saying this in so many words, of course, but it’s a very safe assumption, trust me.

This is no different than certain critics hypothetically dismissing, say, The Color Purple or Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom over ethnic identity signage.

Racism is racism.

The Boys in the Boat feels familiar and conventional, yes, but it’s very nicely done in every category and is emotionally affecting. It’s Clooney’s best directed film since Good Night and Good Luck.

Imagine being honestly, sincerely persuaded that May December is 2023’s finest film…imagine.

It is HE’s solemn opinion that anyone arriving at this conclusion is in the grip of a serious aesthetic fetish or an obsessive imbalance of some kind.

HE is earnestly supportive of Fallen Leaves (#4) and half-heartedly supportive of Showing Up (#2), Killers of The Flower Moon (#3) as far as it goes, Pacifiction, Anatomy of a Fall, Afire and The Zone of Interest (#5 through #8).

Immediately after Matthew Perry‘s passing a friendly narrative began circulating — Perry was no longer using, and was clean and on the mend. Well, not so much.

What an absolute bummer life was in late 2020 — a feeling of dull suffocating horror enshrouding the country in every corner…masks, masks, masks. In December we threw caution to the winds by flying to NYC for four or five days. It helped a littie bit.

First came the Bell’s Palsy episode, which has thankfully receded. Now it’s the damn bronchial hacking cough. And this isn’t my style, man. I don’t do “under the weather” as a rule. I bound up the IRT stairs two at a time.

…and am fully expecting, in fact, that the Oscar preferences of those with very little soul, depth or reflection will prevail early next year…the nearly empty Coke bottles, the shallowest minds, the supermarket hors d’oeuvres mentality of SAG-AFTRA…

But at least, thank God, we’re not looking at another end-of-the-world Best Picture debacle like EEAAO.

HE faves…well, who knows? But I know which ‘23 films stand at the top of the staircase, and Past Lives is not among them

How many times has Universal drawn from this well? It’s embarassing.

Pickleball, I mean. I hate it (shudder), and if anyone ever suggests a friendly game of pickleball I’ll almost certainly say “thanks but no thanks.” It’s not the activity but the sound of it. I think I can safely say I’ll never, ever play this game. And I don’t want anything to do with pickles either. I’m serious. It’s a very strong feeling.

…and you’re basically Jeft with a pinker, smirkier, glossier, sexually averse Poor Things. Don’t get me wrong —Barbie is fine but but compared to the sumptuous banquet of Poor Things it’s fast food.

Thank you, God, for pulling cosmic levers and bringing about changes that are helping to restore our shared cinematic soul. Tears streaming down my cheeks.