Before the start of every press screening, there’s always at least one bigmouthed sociopath who’s determined to “perform” for everyone else. A person, I mean, who regards a quiet screening room occupied by 25, 30 or 35 colleagues as a kind of Comedy Store venue…as an opportunity to do a little stand-up…a chance to broadcast each and every banal, eye-rolling opinion that comes to mind with a loud, close-to-bellowing voice.

The douchebag usually “performs” with a partner who acts as the straight man — a sitting guy who always says “uh-huh,” “yep,” “oh, yeah”, “hah-hah, yeah” and so on. The sitting journalist audience (i.e., people silently scrolling through Twitter on their smart phones) have no choice but to sit and listen to this ayehole go on and on about how he feels about this or that upcoming film or about how his junket interview went with Taron Egerton or Ben Mendelson. Or whatever.

These guys will talk and talk about anything and everything. What matters most to them is that others are paying attention.

The offending party is almost always a 40ish or 50ish guy wearing dad jeans — I’ve never seen women or gay guys pull this crap.

If the venue happens to be a large theatre (used for all-media screenings) and it’s not as easy to be heard, the performer will stand in front of his straight-man and lean against a row of seats — facing the rear of the theatre, back to the screen — so that every journo facing the screen is obliged to stare at him as he chats away.

They may not be able to hear every word, but they know he’s got stories and opinions — lots of them — and that he’s quite the gadfly and sharing like a motherfucker.

“The punchlines fly in Mindy Kaling’s script, sometimes too cleanly and quickly — it’s sharp and funny, yes, and also very clearly the work of a TV-trained writer. But that’s not always a bad thing: Late Night is wonderfully sharp when targeting (not infrequently) the cringe-inducing play-date nature of the most successful late night shows at the moment (summarized, most succinctly, as ‘Kevin Hart on a Slip ‘N Slide’), and those who’ve read Jason Zinoman’s excellent David Letterman biography will recognize the logistics of working for of a talk-show host who’s grown so disengaged and isolated, they haven’t ever met some of their writers.” — Jason Bailey, Flavorwire, 1.28.19.

Amazon will release Late Night on 6.7.19.

Early Friday morning “embattled” Warner Bros. CEO Kevin Tsujihara sent a letter of apology to WB staffers about the Charlotte Kirk thing, which has prompted everyone in town to yawn and shrug their shoulders.

The Hollywood Reporter‘s Kim Masters and Tatiana Siegel reported this tale of sexual intrigue and resentment on 3.6.

If I was Tsujihara’s speechwriter and he’d asked me to rough out a statement that explains this mess, here’s how I’d put it:

Warner Bros, CEO Kevin Tsujihara.

Warner Bros. friends and colleagues,

By now, you’ve read that irksome Hollywood Reporter hit piece. You’re therefore aware that I’ve behaved in a somewhat embarassing manner, albeit not unlike each and every studio head and hotshot producer who has ever worked in this town, going back to the days of Jesse L. Lasky and Samuel Goldfish.

Please understand that I’m not proud of this — the applicable terms are actually “furious” and “mortified”. But you also presumably know, being adults, that hotshot executives like myself enjoy succumbing to certain behaviors during our all-too-brief periods of privacy. Because we have the money to throw around, because it’s easy to get away with stuff, because guys like myself are generally insulated from touchy consequences.

As long as we’re not being cruel or committing felonies or dancing naked before bonfires while wearing animal-head masks or, God forbid, being shadowed by our significant others, most Hollywood executives like to do what they like to do in the company of trusted friends and colleagues. Right? We’re all familiar with this syndrome or attitude. It’s called “kicking loose”, “letting our hair down”, “setting free the libertine.”

Presumably other Warner Bros. employees besides myself have sampled said behaviors.

The concept of privacy used to have some currency in our culture. Once upon a time journalists actually believed that persons like myself were entitled to sample forbidden fruit in their off hours — to behave in technically “sinful” but harmless ways, to cavort like less-than-perfect human beings, to play around like JFK did in the early ’60s, or like Roy Scheider‘s “Joe Gideon” did in All That Jazz. Those were the days!

I deeply regret having brought pain and embarrassment to the people I love the most, yes, but mostly I regret having been busted and publicly shamed by Kim Masters and Tatiana Siegel. What did I do, really, that was so terrible? I catted around with a pretty English actress, knowing full well I’d probably have to reciprocate with some casting favors. And so what? This kind of thing happens all the time.

I thought the somewhat negative critical word on Captain Marvel would diminish ticket-buyer enthusiasm. I thought once the thumbs-down reviews from the cool kidz (David Ehrlich, Jim Verniere, Rodrigo Perez) and discerning female critics had sunk in, that the Brie Larson superhero flick would…well, not fizzle as much as underperform.

And yet Captain Marvel earned $20.7 million last night in U.S. theatres, and will probably end up with $125 million by Sunday night. It has so far hauled in $78 million worldwide.

So all these people buying tickets are…what, not paying attention to Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic aggregate scores? Don’t they understand what’s happening here? In my world Captain Marvel is a pre-ordained stiff…except so far the numbers say otherwise. Can someone explain the discrepancy?

Yeah, I’m half-kidding. I know that spandex superhero fans live in their own realm, for the most part. I realize that Captain Marvel will slow down significantly after the opening weekend. It will, won’t it? Hollywood Elsewhere will be…well, somewhat disappointed if it turns out to be a hit.

Hugs and condolences on the death of poor Jan Michael Vincent, 74. But to be honest, my first thoughts when I read of his passing this morning were (a) “Jesus, I thought he died a few years ago” and (b) “I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did.” Vincent rose from charismatic supporting roles from the late ’60s to mid ’70s, and then into levitational surfer-dude sainthood in John Milius‘s Big Wednesday (’78) and then exalted mega-success as the star of the mid ’80s action series Airwolf (for which CBS paid him $200K per episode).

But for the last 30-plus years the poor guy was known primarily as a drunk and a druggie who was aggressively ruining his life. A walking disaster zone, a cautionary tale, constant turbulence. Drunk driving charges, assault charges, cocaine possession arrests, restraining orders, car accidents, probation violations, assaulting girlfriends, jail time, etc. It never stopped. Now it finally has. What a waste.