It’s been reported that later this year Richard Linklater will direct an adaptation of Maria Semple‘s “Where’d You Go, Bernadette?,” with Annapurna’s Megan Ellison producing with Nina Jacobson and Brad Simpson. Semple’s book, which has been adapted by Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber (500 Days of Summer, The Fault in Our Stars), is about an outspoken architect mom who disappears and an attempt by her 15-year old daughter to find her. My first reaction to this summary and to the book’s Amazon page was that this premise doesn’t seem very interesting or engaging. Why should I care about a intelligent mom with passion and responsibilities who takes a powder? If there’s one thing I don’t want to pay to see it’s the story of a hider or a quitter. (It’s a different story if the hider/quitter is childless, and if the hiding/quitting is presented in a take-it-or-leave-it, existentially cool way, as Mike Figgis did with Leaving Las Vegas.) I don’t know anything but my instinct is that Linklater’s film, presuming it gets made, is going to tank commercially (it’ll play mainly to older upmarket urban women) and be met mostly with indifference by guys like me. I’m sorry but that’s my first reaction. The situation could change, of course, but right now this almost sounds awful. On top of which it would be the second Linklater film title to use a proper name that starts with the letters “B-E-R-N.”

I’ve been through this. You always get right up and continue like it’s nothing, but two or three hours later you start to bruise and feel stiff. 12 years ago Jett and I were barreling along on a scooter on a summer evening in Paris. He was driving. We were approaching Place Bastille when I mistakenly yelled out that we’d gone through a yellow light, which meant nothing. But Jett got riled and slammed on the brakes, and the bike went down and I with it. I got right up and wheeled the bike off to the side of the boulevard. I felt a little sore right away but the serious stiffness kicked in three or four hours later. The next morning my left thigh was colored green and grey and I was hobbling pretty badly.

When I was 12 or 13 I had no tolerance for math and was flunking algebra, and so my parents sent me to a math tutor, an old guy who really smelled old and occasionally acted old. Which is to say he was rigid, autocratic and even scolding from time to time. He made me write down algebraic equations until they came out of my ears, and these late-afternoon sessions were so painful that, unfair as it sounds, I gradually came to hate the tutor as much as the math. When the sessions finally ended after a few weeks I put them in a little box and the box in a drawer, and after a decade or so I’d completely forgotten about the whole mathematical agony of it all. Algebra, trigonometry and calculus were torture, and I never once used any of my arduous math lessons in any kind of practical way. If I need to add, subtract, divide or multiply I use my iPhone calculator. The people who made me study math all those years in high school were sadists.

In any event yesterday I saw Ethan Hawke‘s Seymour, An Introduction, a documentary portrait of retired classical pianist and present-tense teacher Seymour Bernstein, who’s now 87. God help me but I almost hated it. Not because it’s badly made or uninteresting, though I wouldn’t exactly call it riveting. It’s because the more I watched Hawke’s film, the less I was able to handle Bernstein the man.

I admire Bernstein’s passion and skill and delicacy as he instructs and plays — don’t get me wrong. And I marvelled at various pearl-like insights that he passes along. He explains that the order of music reflects the order of the cosmos…love it…and that “most people don’t tap the God within” and that his most profound joy as a teacher comes when “I pour it into you,” as he says to a longtime student. Awesome. But Bernstein’s persistent and gently domineering manner reminded me of my math tutor from 7th grade, and I’m sorry but as loving and impassioned as Hawke’s film is it mainly re-ignited my rage. I started to clench up early on. Bernstein is so needling and exacting, so interruptive and particular. It made me nervous just watching him put a female student through the wringer. If I was one of Bernstein’s piano students I would go absolutely nuts. I would get up and say “thank you for your time, Mr. Bernstein” and walk out and never return.

You’ve got your lean cuisine and fatty, high-calorie meals, some nutritional and some less so, and then your salads and fruits and fine desserts, and finally the icing and sugar fizz and whipped cream. Glenn Ficarra and John Requa‘s Focus, a superficially alluring but dismissable February programmer about a couple of con artist thieves (Will Smith, Margot Robbie) with a marginal interest in sex when the greed impulse ebbs, is almost all sugar fizz. The lady I saw it with last night gave it a 4 out of 10 but at the same time insisted she had an okay time. There’s a place in the world, she believes, for gliding emptiness and sexy time-wasting.

I’ll tell you what there’s no place for, not in my head at least, and that’s a climactic scene in which…nope, not going there. But I almost did out of spite. I can at least tell you that the Focus finale (i.e. the last 15 minutes) delivers the exact opposite feeling you had when you experienced the finale of The Sting for the first time. Everyone in the theatre was silently going “They’re kidding, right? This is how they’re ending it?”

The game behind all con-artist movies is, of course, to try and fake the audience out, which is naturally difficult with everyone constantly looking for the card trick. And so you have to resort to extreme if not absurd bait-and-switch tactics that defy belief. The audience naturally assumes that Smith and Robbie are constantly lying or conning or hiding some key piece of information and that Ficarra and Rerqua are doing the same thing so nobody trusts anyone or anything. So why am I watching this damn thing?   

Focus is basically selling two ideas. One, the life of a professional thief can be cool and smoothly attractive if that life is happening within the realm of phony Hollywood escapism, which of course isn’t serious escapism if the director-writers insist on reminding you how fake and fraudulent it is, which this film does in spades. And two, the relatively recent premise that U.S. moviegoers will pay to immerse themselves in this kind of emptiness if it’s a January, February or March release. They know Hollywood always saves the costliest escapism for the summer and the quality stuff for the fall and holiday periods, etc.

To me Focus is mainly an advertisement for wealth-porn lifestyles. Which is more or less what Fifty Shades of Grey was. The wealth-porn aesthetic is an atmospheric, quarter-inch-deep mood drug that has become the end-all and be-all among the clueless classes when they go on vacations and stay in Cancun or Vegas or wherever. Easily impressed, marginally educated, Taylor Swift-worshipping peons, I mean, who seem to want nothing more than to immerse themselves in faux-opulence to the exclusion of all other experiences and environments, and who wouldn’t know old-world class or gentility or a moment of quiet spiritual serenity if it snuck up and bit them in the ass.

The wealth-porn aesthetic is spreading like a virus across much of the culture these days. It has all but engulfed the travel industry. (When they travel to Mexico or the Greek islands or Phuket, faux-sophsticates want nothing more than to stay in the exact same kind of upscale McDonalds five-star hotels.) And it’s certainly defining cheap-gloss glamour rides like Focus. Somebody tell Dooley Wilson — the fundamental things no longer apply.

There are three main locations in Focus — New York, New Orleans and Buenos Aires. And they all feel pretty much the same. Okay, you’ll notice some atmospheric touches in the South American sections (Spanish-language store signs, a low-rent bar with an ancient TV showing a sports event) but it’s all about living flush and flash. 

It’s also about the fact that I can’t relax with Will Smith. He’s such a con-artist actor in the first place, such a slick salesman. He walks into a room and right away my guard goes up. No way I’m suspending my disbelief. I started giving up on the guy after he made Independence Day. The last time I was half-engaged was when he costarred in Enemy of the State. And I have to say that Margot Robbie’s Wolf of Wall Street allure is fading after this and Z for Zachariah. I’m starting to realize that she doesn’t have a lot of moves.

The Hollywood Reporter‘s Todd McCarthy has written that Focus “is no Trouble in Paradise, House of Games or The Grifters.” It’s also no Pickpocket but the trailers have been assuring us of that for weeks now. I’m recalling how much fun I got from David Mamet‘s Games, and at the same time gulping at the fact that it opened over 27 years ago.

The technical adviser on Focus is Apollo Robbins, a security expert and former criminal who claims to have picked the pockets of more than 250,000 victims. There’s no way anyone’s ever going to get my wallet or iPhone, I tell myself. Or maybe I’ve just been lucky. I know that my wallet and phone are always snugly tucked inside my breast pockets or, better yet, in a tight front-breast pocket. I’m extra-watchful and guarded whenever I’m in a dense crowd. If someone comes near me I duck away or elbow them aside or whatever.

I’m a day late on this but was there any Oscar-telecast viewer in the entire world who didn’t assume that Imitation Game screenwriter Graham Moore was gay after that moving acceptance speech? Anyone? After the Oscars Moore told reporters he’s straight. Okay, fine…but he had to know how his words would be interpreted, especially after referencing the sadness of Alan Turing as he began. The important thing, of course, is that he said a good thing. Kids who feel weird or strange or different (as I definitely felt when I was 15 and 16) should own that and not worry. But Moore’s speech was a bit odd itself.

Five days ago I booked my Cannes Film Festival flights. Fares go up and down all the time but I had a vague suspicion that the Charlie Hebdo massacre plus general fears of ISIS might bring them down. (One of the first things I did after 9/11 was purchase a dirt-cheap RT to Paris.) On 2.19 I went on Expedia and bought a triangulated trip — New York to Paris on Thursday, May 7th (I like hanging in Paris for two or three days before taking the train to Cannes) and then Prague-to-New York on June 1st. The whole thing only cost $1050 — pretty good. I’ve definitely paid more in the past. That’s not counting my Virgin America LAX to NYC RT, of course, or the train fare or the flight from Nice to Prague so I’m not getting away with murder, but you have to watch fares like the stock market. I just went online to re-check prices and the same trip now costs $1300.

It would appear that Ryan Gosling and Guillermo del Toro recently visited Disneyland as a way of cementing their bond. Based on what exactly? Well, Guillermo is a fan of Gosling’s Lost River, which I understand and agree with, and they’ll be doing a panel discussion of Lost River together at South by Southwest (3.13 to 3.21). But why Disneyland of all infernal places? Why not drive out to the desert or fly to Italy or something? I haven’t been to Disneyland since taking the kids there 17 or 18 years ago. Never again.

This morning The Playlist‘s Kevin Jagernauth reported that Lee Daniels‘ Richard Pryor biopic is a distinct (though far from guaranteed) possibility as far being a late 2015 release. Yes…another biopic of a genius whose life was destroyed by drugs and then died too soon. How many times has this story been told? Pryor’s widow Jennifer Lee has said during an “Alison Rosen Is Your New Best Friend” podcast that the biopic will roll in July. Mike Epps as Pryor, Kate Hudson as Jennifer and Oprah Winfrey “so far” attached as Pryor’s grandmother. Daniels rewriting Bill Condon‘s script. Jennifer says that Harvey Weinstein “would like it to be released for the Oscars…because, you know, Harvey is good at that shit.” Selma shot last June and couldn’t punch the screeners out in time. It sounds as if the Pryor pic would work out better as a 2016 release. Flashback: I met Pryor at a Comedy Store press event sometime in the mid ’90s, when he was in a wheelchair and a thin, frail remnant of his former self. Mixed feelings, to say the least. We spoke for a few minutes but I could barely hear his voice.

I’ve kind of settled into Togetherness. It’s well written and appealingly acted for the most part, and I’ve gradually come to feel relaxed and easy with Mark Duplass‘s Brett, Amanda Peet‘s Tina and Steve Zissis‘ Alex. The problem is Melanie Lynskey‘s Michelle, who is generally morose and draggy to hang with. (The exception to this rule has been the “Kick The Can” episode.) Brett and Michelle’s sex life is all but toast along with the marriage itself, but neither wants a divorce. On top of which Michelle has been falling for Jon Ortiz‘s David. I’ve read the synopsis of the latest episode, “Ghost in Chains,” with plans to see it later today or tonight, but Lynskey’s enervated let-me-out-of-here vibe makes me want to run for the hills. I’ve been there. Things can sexually flatten out in a committed relationship after a year or two, and unless that spark is truly crackling from the get-go getting things going can sometimes feel like an uphill hike. It’s very difficult for a longterm couple to open up and work through stuff and find new ways of trusting. Hard work. I’m basically saying that hanging with Lynskey brings all that failed-marriage stuff back, and I’d rather leave that shit in a box under the bed. Brett and Michelle should probably just cut the cord and figure out a custody arrangement with the kids. It all works out in the end.

Average Joes don’t care who’s running the big studios, but I do. Especially if the studio honcho isn’t some mushy corporate toadie but someone with a little passion and gumption and force of personality. In this sense Tom Rothman, who’s just been appointed Sony’s Motion Picture Group Chairman, or in layman’s terms the successor to Amy Pascal, is an intriguing fellow. The other contenders were Doug Belgrad and Mike Deluca. Rothman had been working as TriStar chairman. Before that he more or less ran 20th Century Fox’s film division with changing, increasingly powerful titles from ’96 through ’12, mostly as chairman and CEO of Fox Filmed Entertainment. True story: I vaguely knew Rothman back in the early ’80s through actor friends, all of whom seemed to live on the Upper West Side. I was also glancingly familiar with his actor brother, John. One night Tom, myself and a few others sat around and played a speak-along dialogue game as we watched Gone With The Wind. I can recite GWTW dialogue any hour of the day. Scarlett: “Sir, you should have made your presence known. You are not a gentleman!” Rhett: “And you, miss, are no lady.”

Wait…did I just make a mistake? In politically correct Stalinist circles and particularly in the wake of 12 Years A Slave, saying you’re down with GWTW can almost be interpreted as a tacit endorsement of its patronizing attitudes towards blacks and absurd characterizations of plantation slave life. It’s almost like saying you admire Birth of a Nation. Sorry! I hate GWTW! Not really. GWTW has always been a racist joke, except it’s really a film about the hard deprivations of life during the early years of the Depression and how gumption and survival instincts are what really matter in life. And the last hour of the first half (attending to dying men in Atlanta hospital to “I’ll never be hungry again!” in Tara) is about as good as old-school Hollywood filmmaking gets.

16 months ago I posted a riff about the Fox Home Video Bluray of Joseph L. Mankiewicz‘s A Letter To Three Wives (’49). I was discussing the film with a friend today, and as this piece didn’t get much action I figured I’d give it a slight rewrite (it wasn’t well shaped or carefully written enough) and give it another go:

“I first saw this…oh, sometime in my teens. Even in that early stage of aesthetic development I remember admiring the brilliant writing and especially the way it pays off. Nominally it’s a woman’s drama about marital insecurity. The plot is about three suburban wives (Jeanne Crain‘s, Linda Darnell, Ann Southern‘s) who’ve just learned before going on a kind of picnic that one of their husbands has “run away” with sophisticated socialite Addie Ross, who narrates the film from time to time (the voice belongs to Celeste Holm) but is never seen.

“But that’s just the story or clothesline upon which Wives hangs its real agenda. For this is primarily an examination of social mores, values and ethics among middle-class marrieds in late 1940s America.

I’m sorry but I felt myself disengage less than ten seconds after this trailer began playing. The mere suggestion of an “uneven but pleasurably mellow indie,” in the words of Variety critic Ronnie Scheib, puts cold fear in my veins. Alex of Venice is one of those sensitive life-transition dramas, Scheib warns, that “veer toward the understated and mundane” and which “will attract connoisseurs of the laid-back.” God…no!