Jada Yuan‘s Vulture profile of Stevie Nicks reminded me that my ex-wife and I lived next to her in ’87 and early ’88. Our homes were way up in the hills on Franklin Avenue, and I presume this was during one of her coke periods because I remember she used to sing late at night, and with a heavily amplified system that was loud enough to disturb our slumber. One night it was so loud that I said “eff it” and walked over and knocked on her door. It was something like 1:30 am, and as I approached her home I was thinking of a phrase that some rock journalist had used to describe Nicks: “The epitome of the pampered hippie princess.”

There are two statements in Richard Brody‘s short appreciation of the recently released Cleopatra Bluray that I more or less agree with. One, that it offers “a nearly microscopic revelation of the fanatically crafted sets and costumes.” (Due, naturally, to Leon Shamroy‘s cinematography.) And two, that “the ear-tickling clarity of the hyper-literate text” is a pleasure. (Cleopatra: “I’ve rubbed you the wrong way.” Ceasar: “I’m not sure that I want to be rubbed by you at all, young lady.”) Otherwise I find it mystifying that Brody would fail to point out that by today’s pacing standards Cleopatra is very slow-moving, not to mention oppressively talky. That’s not an opinion — it’s fact. Another is that the two-hour making of Cleopatra doc is far more dramatic and involving than the film itself.

An imagined but likely conversation from Vanity Fair‘s Josh Duboff:

For the most part feminist-minded artists and critics of whatever persuasion agree that guys, however intelligent or supportive of feminist consciousness, can’t and don’t really get it. You need to have lived as a woman and endured sexism in all its male-generated forms to really understand and embrace what feminist-minded artists and critics are on about. (Which is mostly true.) That especially includes any basic understanding of what it means for a woman to love another woman. Guys can appreciate lesbians from their their side of the fence, fine, but any films they might want to make about lesbian lovers will be frowned upon to some extent, and that goes double when it comes to hot lesbian sex scenes. In fact, don’t even go there.

Every day I wake up dreading the idea of posting something on Discriminator. I just can’t seem to make myself get into the groove of it, whatever that may be. The idea is to briefly highlight movies, topics, trends, failures, realizations and turns in the road accompanied by pithy, smart-ass commentary or analysis. I love the idea but I’m just not feeling it like I expected to. On some leve I almost hate it. (Almost.) Last night Sasha Stone told me to dump Discriminator because “nobody reads it” plus there’s no comment-feedback option. To my surprise I wrote back and said “you’re right.”

But I can’t junk it. Not yet. Not before trying one last thing.

The only problem with David Jones‘ brilliant screen adaptation of Harold Pinter‘s Betrayal (’83) is Patricia Hodge, who plays Ben Kingsley‘s unfaithful wife. She’s a fine actress but she’s just not hot enough to ignite desire in the mind of the viewer. And given that she inspired Kingsley’s best friend, played by Jeremy Irons, to lead her into an affair that lasts roughly seven years, she should. There’s no trouble believing that Irons is smitten (his declaration of unquenchable love at the finale is classic) but Hodge couldn’t be less arousing. She seems a bit brittle. Too sensible and practical to be good in bed. Not to mention that long pointy nose and those odd watery eyes.

I was hugely irritated at the get-go by Channing Tatum looking at his daughter for two or three second stretches while driving through downtown D.C. (No parent does that! No responsible driver does that!) But then the trailer (third in a series) kicked in, and I was re-persuaded that Roland Emmerich‘s White House Down (Sony, 6.28) is going to work. As Like Father Like Son (’87), 18 Again! (’88) and Vice Versa (’88) were to Big, Olympus Has Fallen is to White House Down. I can tell.

The above title is an actual quote from a 1974 Norman Mailer essay about Last Tango In Paris. A week or two ago a Rolling Stone interviewer was looking to correct this ignorance by asking the cast of This is The End how they unload, so to speak.

If I was an End costar and had been asked this question, I would have said “my response, which I could elaborate upon big-time, is too important to be trusted to someone like yourself, no offense. In fact, there are dozens of subjects that I won’t discuss with you. It’s not personal. It’s just a strategic decision I’ve made.”

Talk about your farts with your friends, family, co-workers, parents, next-door neighbors and your local police but never, ever with a journalist and certainly never during a press junket round-table.

Jonah Hill’s response — “I’m not answering that dumb question! I’m not that kind of person! Being in a funny movie doesn’t make me have to answer dumb questions. It has nothing to do with who I am” — isn’t as good as mine, but it’s pretty good. I agree with it 110%.

Two months ago I noted that Filth looks very much like “a Scottish Bad Lieutenant only a lot crazier, crossed with the sensibilities of Trainspotting‘s Irvine Welsh by way of direction and a script adaptation by Jon S. Baird and a lead performance by James McAvoy. Will the film include the dog scene in Welsh’s book?” Nothing whatsoever has changed except that a new trailer has popped up. Pic will be at Toronto, I’m guessing.

Listen to the tone of the questions Mike Wallace throws at Twilight Zone maestro Rod Serling in this 1959 interview. He all but accuses him of whoring out by making a commercial TV series, of not trying hard enough as a writer, of running away from conflict with nervous advertisers, of going for the dough. Over and over he says to Serling: “You made your bones as an award-calibre writer on live dramatic TV in the ’50s, and now you’re writing below your potential because there’s big money in a network series…how big is your swimming pool?” And Serling was on the brink of becoming a legend.

Scott Walker‘s The Frozen Ground (Lionsgate, 8.23) is based on the real-life hunt for serial killer Robert Hansen (John Cusack) during the ’80s. Nic Cage (is it possible for him to play “normal” any more?) plays real-life Alaskan detective Glenn Flothe (but called St. Jack Holcombe in the film) Hansen “murdered between 17 and 21 young women, kidnapping them and taking them out to the Alaskan wilderness where he shot and buried them,” it says here. Pic costars Vanessa Hudgens, Katherine LaNasa, Radha Mitchell and 50 Cent, who also produced.

Five and a half weeks between a theatrical release (7.12.13) and the DVD/Bluray street date (8.20)…hmmm. Plus the hand of director Mark Steven Johnson (Grumpy Old Men, Simon Birch, Daredevil, When in Rome, the two Ghost Rider pics)…yeah. Plus a title that SCREAMS American Film Market lowlifes hustlin’ ’round Santa Monica in their alligator shoes. Plus Robert DeNiro, the King of Paycheck Performers**, in the lead. I’ll see it nonetheless because it has John Travolta playing a hell-bent Bosnian madman. The more foam-in-the-mouth, the better.