John Anderson‘s 12.21 Washington Post piece about the difficulty of selling nice Nazis reminded me of Marlon Brando‘s Christian Diestl in The Young Lions. It’s a 1950s “sell” job, all right — a sanded-down, somewhat romanticized but still tolerable idea of what a decent WWII German soldier might be like, one who believes at first in National Socialism and later not so much. But I like this scene for the quiet conviction Brando brings to the words “I would do it.” This scene isn’t bad either.

With President-elect Barack Obama having nominated Colorado Senator Ken Salazar for Secretary of the Interior, a 12.19 Public Policy poll revealed that Democratic Denver Mayor John Hickenlooper, cousin of film director George Hickenlooper and subject of a forthcoming GH mini-series called Hick Town, is a very strong contender against the top two potential GOP opponents. JH beats Bill Owens 54 to 40, and Tom Tacredo 54 to 37. So maybe he’ll be appointed to fill Salazar’s seat.

George Hickenlooper, Barack Obama during filming of Hick Town.

Martin Scorsese‘s The Last Temptation of Christ, perhaps the most fully and radiantly spiritual Hollywood-funded film about Yeshua of Nazareth ever made, opened 20 years and 4 months ago. I saw it on opening day at the Plitt theatres in Century City. I came out of the theatre moved and moist-eyed, and outside there was a raging mob of Orange County goons protesting the sexual-marital scene between Willem Dafoe ‘s Christ and Barbara Hershey‘s Mary Magdelene — completely missing what the last temptation meant, too fearful and ignorant to even see the film.

It was then that I fully realized what a haven for moronic thinking the Christian right represented and in fact was. I’ve never forgotten that experience and that lesson.

I just re-watched Last Temptation on DVD and it still blows me away, the last 20 minutes in particular, and double-particularly that magnificent death-and-salvation simulation with the leader running off the reel and the white, red, yellow and blue lights piercing through. I’m imagining a right-wing Christian zealot watching it and saying, “Jeffrey, this film is against the law that we believe in!” and my saying, “Then your laws are against my heart, and the art of Martin Scorsese.”

As much as I love and cherish Bottle Rocket, shelling out an admittedly reasonable $26 and change for a Criterion Blu-ray version doesn’t seem all that vital. It’s not like it’s renowned for its shattering, eye-melting visions of Dallas, Fort Worth and Hillsboro, Texas. Although I’ll probably spring for it anyway because of my Blu-ray heroin habit, which requires a fresh new experience every week or so.

Owen Wilson, Luke Wilson during the final scene in Wes Anderson’s Bottle Rocket.

…two days ago (which makes it the fourth time) and the only thing that’s been bothering me is that Leonardo DiCaprio ‘s Frank Wheeler tends to speak in cliches when he’s feeling awkward or emphatic — “don’t make me laugh!,” “you were swell,” “ain’t that somethin’?” and so on. And I don’t like the actorish way he always says “huh?” after every declaration or suggestion. But those are the only beefs.

Obviously the critics groups, SAG and the HFPA have greater concerns or there would be more awards love for Revolutionary Road than just that Golden Globe Best Actress nom for Kate Winslet‘s performance. What bothers me is the suspected banality of their reservations, which you can sum up as follows: “Go sell the hopeless emptiness of life someplace else — we’re all stocked up here.”

I abhor people who text in movie theatres with others sitting around them. Loathsome behavior. But if two guys are sitting in a den or living room and texting each other about a show they’re watching, who cares? That’s almost the way it was when Bill McCuddy and I texted each other through the last 60% of Seven Pounds as we sat in Sony’s seventh-floor screening room on Madison and 55th.

One, there was no one in our vicinity at all — we were in the rear seats, and the other two guys in the theatre were several rows in front of us. And two, sitting passively and open-pored while watching Seven Pounds was simply not an option. If this had been even a semi-absorbing, half-tolerable film, it would have been boorish and unacceptable to text…but we had to do something. It was Will Smith and Gabriele Muccino vs. poor little Jeffrey Wells and Bill McCuddy — we had to fight back and respond WHILE THE FILM WAS PLAYING. It demanded immediate action.

If anyone had been remotely near us, or if there was the slightest chance that our text screens might have provided even the slightest distraction for anyone, I would just sat there and taken it and suffered silently.