I’m posting this out of boredom. My tank feels empty now. That review of Ocean’s 8 took it out of me. Plus I have stuff to do this afternoon.

Earlier this week Indiewire‘s David Ehrlich posted a survey piece titled “The Best Movie Plot Twists of All Time.” Various critics had passed along their favorites, etc.

Allow me to start my own conversation about same, and to begin by noting that far too many screenwriters are convinced that third-act twists are essential components for a strong commercial script. What they’ve become, in fact, is a kind of pestilence. The third-act switcheroos on the parts of Woody Harrelson and Emilia Clarke‘s characters in Solo (i.e., “You thought I was an ally but I’m not”) are but one example. That bullshit twist in Adrift is another.

People also need to understand the difference between a twist and a striking third-act plot development. Revealing that the young Charles Foster Kane‘s sled was called “Rosebud” is not a twist — it’s simply a revelation. Ditto Kevin Spacey telling Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman that he visited Pitt’s wife, Tracy, and cut off her head and then sent it special delivery in a box. That’s not a twist — that’s a stunning macabre occurence.

The coolest, most satisfying, top-ten twists in own moviegoing experience, and in this order: 1. M. Night Shyamalan‘s The Sixth Sense; 2. George Roy Hill‘s The Sting; 3. Bryan Singer‘s The Usual Suspects; 4. Gregory Hoblit‘s Primal Fear; 5. Irvin Kershner‘s The Empire Strikes Back. 5. Franklin Schaffner‘s Planet of the Apes; 6. Alfred Hitchcock‘s Psycho; 7. Alejandro Amenabar‘s The Others; 8. Alan Parker‘s Angel Heart; 9. John Ford‘s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. 10. Neil Jordan‘s The Crying Game.

I purposely didn’t read a slew of Ocean’s 8 (Warner Bros., 6.8) reviews before seeing it Wednesday night. (All the way out in Burbank, by the way.) I wanted to just go in clean and ready for whatever. And honestly? It doesn’t deliver much but it’s not that bad.

This being a chick flick of sorts, I was afraid (and I know how sexist this sounds) that it might lean too much on emotional content. Hugging, crying, hurting…that line of country. But to my profound surprise it doesn’t get into emotional stuff at all. It’s like “emotion who?” It deals almost nothing but dry, droll, mid-tempo cards. And I kind of liked that. Was I knocked out? No, but I felt oddly placated.

The strongest emotional current in Ocean’s 8 is one of revenge on the part of Sandra Bullock‘s Debbie Ocean, a great-looking, zero-drama 40something with an almost icy composure. The revenge is directed at a former male colleague who did an uncool thing, resulting in considerable discomfort for Debbie, and so he must be paid back. But beyond this issue, Ocean’s 8 is almost purely a technical or logistical exercise film.

It’s about Bullock commanding a team of six ultra-confident, super-poised women with no hangups or behavioral issues of any kind (Cate Blanchett‘s Lou, Rihanna‘s Nine Ball, Sarah Paulson‘s Tammy, Mindy Kaling‘s Amita, Awkwafina‘s Constance, Helena Bonham Carter‘s Daphne). The goal is to steal a $150 million, six-pound Toussaint diamond necklace. The job will happen during the annual Met Gala, and the mark will be Anne Hathaway‘s Daphne Kruger, a flush, big-time celebrity.

Ocean’s 8 is also about wallowing in wealth and fashion porn in midtown Manhattan, and about the importance of always keeping your cool and being one or two steps ahead of the other guy. I half-enjoyed the fact that the team looks great, and that their makeup and hair are perfect in every scene. Hell, everyone looks good. Even the late-arriving James Corden, playing an insurance investigator, has been buffed to the max.

That wasn’t a typo about Bullock having six partners for a total of seven. They only become a crew of eight in the third act, and that’s after the job has already been pulled.

Director and co-writer Gary Ross, co-scenarist Olivia Milch and producer Steven Soderbergh knew exactly what they wanted to do, which was to stay on a mellow and even keel. And so Ocean’s 8 just glides along in second or third gear for the most part. Nothing crazy happens, and certainly nothing dark or startling (like, for example, a 2018 equivalent of Richard Conte dying of a heart attack on the Las Vegas strip in the original 1960 Ocean’s 11) or ominous or even a bit sad. It doesn’t get into drama at all. Start to finish, the whole thing is cool, calm and collected. It’s not even that complex or tangled. You can actually follow what’s going on.

Marlon Brando‘s Emiliano Zapata is suddenly seized with self-doubt. He’s become the very thing he once fought against. He’d begun to circle the name of Henry Silva‘s Fernandez, whom only a few seconds ago he’d regarded as an irritant or an enemy. Then the feeling spreads. Joseph MacDonald‘s camera dollies in as a key light hits Brando’s eyes and cheekbones and for 32 seconds — 2:08 to 2:40 — the realization sinks in. Joseph Wiseman places his hand on Brando’s shoulder, conveying a shade of concern but not much comfort, and the score by the great Alex North underlines and obliterates.

Matthew Cullen‘s London Fields “was selected to be screened in the Special Presentations section of the 2015 Toronto Film Festival, but it was later pulled from the festival roster after Cullen sued the film’s producers, accusing them of fraud and using his name to promote a cut of the film he does not support.”

From Kaleem Adtab’s 9.17.15 review, published by The Independent: “Images of a world in chaos flash throughout the film, which is told from the perspective of an American writer who has come to London to seek inspiration for a new novel.

The reason I visit Starbucks is partly the coffee, of course, but mainly the wifi. And yet I never just squat — I always order something. Because it’s rude to just stroll in and plop down and suck up their wifi like a hobo. They’re trying to run a business and they only have so much space for customers. I figure the least I can do in exchange for the good wifi is order a black coffee and perhaps even a large cappuccino with an extra shot.

If I’d arranged to meet someone at Starbucks I would definitely order a tea or a coffee before sitting down. It’s just good manners, and who can’t spare a couple of bucks?

Those Philadelphia dudes who got escorted out of a Starbucks six or seven weeks ago were probably targeted because of their skin shade, but they would’ve been free and un-hassled if they’d simply ordered something. Starbucks isn’t a public library or park or airport lounge — it’s a business.

I’m totally down with the idea of Starbucks exec chairman Howard Schultz, an actual billionaire, running for president against fake billionaire Donald Trump in 2020. Yesterday Schultz resigned as exec chairman, effective 6.26, with his eye on new challenges. He’s obviously pondering a White House run. Schultz has the Starbucks brand recognition. He’s obviously innovative, practical minded and not insane, and he could pull away from the pack. And the rural dumbshits would’t feel threatened because he’s white, albeit half-Jewish.

Nobody really believes that Bernie Sanders can beat Trump. Everyone likes Joe Biden but he has a certain yesterday’s-news aura (not to mention that horrible neck wattle). And Oprah Winfrey has made it clear that she lacks the character and cojones to run. Somebody has to step up and start making noise about replacing Trump. If not Schultz, who?

When it came to mastering The Big Country for Bluray, MGM technicians were both the bad guys and the good guys. They incorrectly mastered the 1958 William Wyler film eight years ago so that their 2011 Bluray appeared to have the mumps, but they also fixed the problem when Kino Lorber bought the video rights last year.

KL told MGM they would pay to fix the mumps problem, but MGM did it on their own dime, I’m told, while at the same time removing dirt, enhancing the color, deepening the black levels, etc. So the just-released KL Bluray looks a lot better.

Plus the extras are either new or new-to-Bluray (audio commentary by Sir Christopher Frayling, “Directed by William Wyler”, a 60-minute documentary; Wyler doc outtakes with Gregory Peck, Charlton Heston and Billy Wilder; interviews with Catherine Wyler, Cecilia Peck, Carey Peck, Tony Peck and Fraser Heston; “Fun in the Country” featurette; and Larry Cohen on Chuck Connors.

Whoever cut this Star Is Born teaser is highly skilled. The timing, the touch, the vibe, the glancing moments…it feels just right. It also indicates that there might be something to the heated buzz about the film itself, even if it came from the likes of Sean Penn, Barbra Streisand, Robert De Niro and Jennifer Lawrence. (Never listen to actors’ opinions about anything.) The performing feels assured, confident, real. Director-star Bradley Cooper seems to know a thing or two.

Remember hearing last year about how Lady Gaga wanted to be billed by her actual name, Stefania Germanotta? Obviously that’s out the window.

Lady Gaga: “Everyone tells me they like the way I sing but not the way I look.” Bradley Cooper: “You mean because of your nose?” Gaga: “Yeah, partly.” Cooper: “Don’t worry about it. You’re beautiful. You think I worry about having a ruddy, sunburnt face, which kinda makes me look like a wasted, gone-to-shit alcoholic? I don’t. I just get out my guitar and sing the song.”

Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom (Universal, 6.22) is just another serving of idiot-brand dino sausage. Same software, same template, aimed at popcorn rabble. Did I hate it? No and yes. But we all know what the shot is. Universal continues to push the same dino buttons because millions of easy-lay types have paid good money to see the sequels. The Jurassic franchise is downswirling, and Chris Pratt is devalue-ing himself. No good can come of this except to the benefit of Universal stockholders.

There’s a single, stand-alone moment that gets you — i.e., the sight of a long-necked, cow-like dinosaur moaning in despair, all alone as volcanic lava bombs rain down upon Isla Nublar as the last ship departs. The island is being consumed by the Mount Sibo volcano and this poor sad dinosaur is stuck on the pier, awaiting a fiery death. It’s the only formula-free bit in the whole film.

It’s very dispiriting to see director Juan Antonio Bayona, whose sublime crafting of The Orphanage (’07) made it one of the finest horror films of the 21st Century…it’s very dispiriting to see such a gifted director succumb to by-the-numbers, corporate-format, hack-level filmmaking.

I regret that Bayona felt obliged to begin Jurassic Park: Fallen Kingdom with an action-teaser sequence — the exact same strategy (i.e., a promise of gorey thrills) that so many other films in this realm have gone for.

I’m annoyed that Jeff Goldblum accepted a fat paycheck to shoot a windy Congressional testimony scene — one that boils down to an editorial warning about disturbing the natural order of things.

I hate that the first time we see Pratt’s Owen Grady, he’s building his own home — singlehandedly! — in some remote wilderness location, and I hate that he’s singing to himself when Bryce Dallas Howard‘s Claire Dearing first approaches with the expected proposition — i.e., returning to Isla Nublar to transport the dinos to a new island. And I hate the fact that no one mentions financial compensation for either Dearing or Grady as part of the deal, etc.

I was annoyed by the predictable p.c. flavor in the screenwriting and casting realms — Daniella Pineda playing Dr. Zia Rodriguez, “an ex-Marine who’s now the Dinosaur Protection Group’s paleoveterinarian”, as a blunt-spoken, tough-as-nails type, while Justice Elio Smith squeals and cries and all but weeps with panic as Franklin Webb, the Dinosaur Protection Group’s systems analyst and hacker.

Last night I tried to catch a 7 pm all-media screening of Jurassic Park: Fallen Kingdom (Universal, 6.22) at the AMC Century City, but I almost didn’t make it. It happened in theatre #2, where two previous screenings had occured at 10 am and 3 pm. I arrived around…oh, 6:50 pm but all the seats seemed to be taken. I asked a Universal staffer if I should leave and she said, “No, no…we’ll figure it out.” Things didn’t look at all hopeful.

On top of which the crowd looked kind of mongrelish to me — overweight, T-shirts, jeans and sweat pants. There were a lot of kids there, and they all seemed to be wolfing down popcorn, candy and super-size soft drinks. A typical mall mob, the kind you’d see at Magic Mountain or Disneyland or Knotts Berry Farm. A thought went through me — “Do I want to sit with these awful-looking people? I don’t see any of my critic friends here. This is not my kind of scene.”

But I shook myself out of that mindset, manned up and decided to do my job, even without a seat. After a while I walked up the left-side aisle and sat down on the steps.

Ten seconds later a nice 30ish woman said, “We have a seat here.” It was five or six in from the aisle. “Oh…thank you so much!,” I said. I shuffled my way in and sat down, and right away felt a twinge of concern. On my right was a 20something woman of no particular distinction, but to my left…good God…was a Jabba-sized Latina who was sitting with a similar-sized friend. And Jabba #1 was eating, eating and eating. The movie began and she kept chowing down like someone who hadn’t eaten in days.

Her first course was some kind of chicken salad, tomato and cucumber dish inside a deep plastic container. Then came the second course — a butter-soaked tub of popcorn and a big slurpy drink. Then she opened up a bag of Doritos.

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t give her the HE stink-eye. I just sat there like a sphinx and tried to concentrate on the film. But every now and then I snuck a peek.

I couldn’t ignore the fact that Jabba #1’s reactions were extremely coarse and downmarket. I was reminded of those close-ups of Collisseum cheap-seat serfs watching Christians get eaten in Cecil B. DeMille‘s The Sign of the Cross. Every time a person got eaten by a dinosaur, Jabba #1 went “oooh, hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!” Movies like Fallen Kingdom are obviously made with this kind of person in mind. She really loved the huge alligator-like dino that leapt out of the sea to eat a squealing 20something guy who was trying to climb into a hovering helicopter — “Eeeeee-hee-hah-hah!” Anything and everything that happened of a stupid or low-rent or pandering nature, Jabba #1 was in movie heaven.

Yes, I focused on the film and took mental notes all through it, but I couldn’t completely divorce myself from the Jabba #1 factor. I mostly pushed it aside but I kept twitching when she laughed. I’ve said this dozens of times over the years, but hell is truly other people.

Guys like Jeff Sneider don’t understand the concept of owning Blurays, and to be honest half the time I question it myself, given the excellent quality of high-def streaming these days. But I’ve just ordered Kino Lorber’s 60th anniversary Bluray of William Wyler’s The Big Country, and for two good reasons: (1) It’s been newly remastered in HD (the last Bluray version surfaced in 2011, from MGM Home Video) and (2) it’s been completely de-mumpified.

Besides removing the horizontally-stretched “mumps” effect, this upgrade process also pulls in extra visual information from both sides of the frame.

But the mumps taffy-stretch effect that afflicted The Big Country‘s 2011 Bluray wasn’t a CinemaScope issue, as William Wyler‘s 1958 western was shot in 8-perf Technirama and then printed down to 35mm.

The problem was caused, rather, by the MGM Home Video geniuses who transferred the film, which had been restored in 2007 by the Academy Film Archive with support from the Film Foundation, to a high-def Bluray format.

I reached out Tuesday evening to Kino Lorber’s senior acquisitions vp Frank Tarzi, hoping to discuss the technical particulars. (Tarzi had previously helped with factors leading to Kino Lorber’s decision to issue their Marty Bluray in 1.37 rather than the dreaded 1.85.) But it was late by the Manhattan clock, and Tarzi didn’t respond.

Comparison images stolen from DVD Beaver review of Kino Lorber Big Country Bluray.

Mumps above, no mumps below