I’ve seen Susan Lacy‘s Spielberg (HBO, 10.7), a two-and-a-half-hour doc about the journey and the psychology of Steven Spielberg, and I’m telling you there’s more emotional revelation and honesty and cinematic punch in this thing than in many of Spielberg’s features, certainly the ones he’s made over the last 20-plus years.

It begins with a taste of Lawrence of Arabia and then a recollection from Spielberg about how he saw it repeatedly at age 16 and how it seemed so masterful that he nearly gave up his dream of becoming a movie director. Right from the start I was saying to myself, “I love this…this is about my church, my faith and all the movie dreams I’ve carried inside for decades…I love it already and it hasn’t even begun.”

Does Lacy shamelessly brown-nose? Yup, ‘fraid so. Does she sidestep, avert her gaze, emphasize the positive and avoid tough questions at almost every turn? Yes, she does. Is Spielberg, in fact, a 150-minute blowjob? Yeah, it is. But it’s a classy and beautifully assembled one. Spielberg delivers what most of us refer to as “the goods.” It offers balance, panache, love, perspective, open hearts, insight, joie de cinema and elegant editing and…oh, just a feeling of immense comfort and familiarity and fraternal bon ami.

I kind of loved it despite Lacy’s herculean determination to avoid telling the real truth about Spielberg-the-magnificent-and-bowed-down-to, which is that he’s a truly gifted lightweight, a very clever and hugely energetic guy who knows how to shoot the hell out of anything but has come to few conclusions and has next to nothing to say about the human condition or the state of the world, but has been insanely successful and that’s all that matters to most of the people in this town so what the hell…ass-smooch!

I take back that “nothing to say” stuff — Spielberg has often expressed his sentiments about how suburban family life is the greatest thing and how moms are generally more reliable than dads and that having an inner fantasy life can save you, etc.

The best parts are about Spielberg recalling his home life in a Pheonix suburb, his early discomfort about being a supposed Jewish outsider (a mindset that he profoundly reversed with the act of making Schindler’s List), his parents’ divorce (although he never explains why), the early feelings of inadequacy, how he had no life until his first son, Max, came along, etc.

Poor Anne Wiazemsky, the maiden of Au Hasard, Balthazar and star of Jean-Luc Godard‘s La Chinoise and Weekend, has died of cancer at age 70. She was married to the extremely thorny and difficult Godard for 12 years and went on to write 13 books, from “Mon beau navire” (’89) to “Un saint homme” (’17).

Wizaemsky was portrayed by Stacy Martin in Michel Hazanavicius‘s Redoubtable, which I panned after catching it at last May’s Cannes Film Festival.

It’s been reported that Wiazemsky was 17 when her affair with Godard began. I’m figuring more like 19. She was born in ’47, and was 18 when Au Hasard, Balthazar (released on 5.25.66) was shot in the summer or fall of ’65. In her book “Jeune Fille” Wiazemsky wrote that Bresson was obsessed with her and never let her out of her sight, so it seems unlikely that Godard was circling her then. The timetable indicates that the Godard coupling began in late ’65 or ’66.

In response to a N.Y. Times story cataloguing almost three decades worth of unsavory sexual intimidation and offers of pay-for-play sexual favoritism, Weinstein Co. honcho Harvey Weinstein has announced he’ll be stepping down from his perch in order to “learn about myself and conquer my demons…I know I have a long way to go but this is my commitment…I cannot be more remorseful about the people I hurt, and I plan to do right by all of them.”

Weinstein was not accused in the article of being a masher or a groper or of any kind of physically threatening, Roman Polanski-in-the-’70s behavior. The allegations basically boil down to various women having received unwanted icky attention and intimidation in hotel rooms (including nude-massage requests) plus corresponding payoffs or freeze-outs for women who refused or complained or threatened to go public.

All in all, for Miramax and Weinstein Co. female executives, interns, actresses and many others in between, Harvey’s unfortunate behavior resulted in “a toxic environment for women at this company,” as Lauren O’Connor, a former Weinstein Co. “creative executive” and book scout”, explained in a reported 2015 memo.

Paragraph #5: “An investigation by The New York Times found previously undisclosed allegations against Mr. Weinstein stretching over nearly three decades, documented through interviews with current and former employees and film industry workers, as well as legal records, emails and internal documents from the businesses he has run, Miramax and the Weinstein Company.”

This is the most damning portion of the piece: “’From the outside, it seemed golden — the Oscars, the success, the remarkable cultural impact,’ said Mark Gill, former president of Miramax Los Angeles, which was then owned by Disney. ‘But behind the scenes, it was a mess, and this was the biggest mess of all,’ he added, referring to Mr. Weinstein’s treatment of women.”

Perspective: The article claims that Weinstein was a sexually abusive boss in the ’90s, but nobody said anything back then. The piece lays out several allegations about his abusive ways having continued into the 21st Century, or roughly over the last 15 years. But nothing of serious force or blowback happened until today.

There are two reasons why. One, the power of the financially struggling Weinstein Co. has diminished to the point that people aren’t as afraid of Harvey now as they used to be. And two, a journalistic fuse has recently been lit about identifying sexual abusers and harassers and making them face the music, and today’s Harvey takedown piece is but the latest. More will presumably follow.

Is it appropriate for sexual harassers and abusers to be dragged before the court of public opinion and beaten with a cane? If they’re guilty, yes. What’s wrong is wrong, and cruel and/or abusive actions have consequences. But Harvey Weinstein is paying the current piper because he isn’t the economic titan he used to be, and because a general journalistic hunger for revenge is afoot right now, and it won’t be stilled any time soon.

Here’s Harvey’s response to the Times piece.

Dan Gilroy‘s Roman J. Israel, Esq. is “a whipsmart, cunningly performed, immensely satisfying film in so many ways. Such a skillful job of character-building on Gilroy’s part, layer upon layer and bit upon bit, and such a finely contoured performance by the great Denzel Washington. My only hang-up is that I wanted a different ending. Gilroy’s ending isn’t ‘bad’, per se, but I didn’t agree with it — I didn’t want it.

“Otherwise this is such a brilliant, invigorating and fully believable film for over-30s — milieu-wise, legal minutiae-wise, Asperger’s-wise. It’s my idea of pound cake topped with whipped cream and strawberries…give it to me. You can take a terrific bath in this film and never feel unsatisfied that the story isn’t quite delivering the way you want it to. Until the last 25 or 30 minutes, that is, but even then it’s not a fatal problem, just an air-escaping-the-balloon one.” — posted on 9.10.17 from the Toronto Film Festival.

As I noted last May, Robin Campillo‘s BPM (Beats Per Minute) (The Orchard, 10.20) is an impassioned, oppressively didactic period film (i.e., early ’90s) about Parisian ACT UP members battling bureaucratic indifference and/or foot-dragging in the battle against AIDS. It’s a tough, well-made, humanist thumbs-upper, but at the same time the relentless political-talking-points dialogue gradually numbs you out, and then drains you of your will to live.

At the risk of sounding insensitive or uncaring, Campillo’s hammer-focus on the French medical establishment’s slow-to-act response to the AIDS scourge is airless — it doesn’t breathe. BPM is a 144-minute gay agenda movie that says the right things, feels the right things and clobbers you over the head with its social-activist compassion and sense of life-or-death urgency. I for one staggered out of the Grand Lumiere theatre when it ended, gasping for breath and overjoyed that the lecture had finally ended.

I like my gay movies to feel swoony and speak softly — I want them to feel mellow and cultured and graced with the aroma of fine wine, fresh peaches and tall grass on a warm summer’s day. No offense but BPM is on the other side of the canyon, enraged and odorous and generally obnoxious. Thanks but no thanks.