I could do Sundance ’20 without breaking a sweat. I could wangle tickets from publicists like I did last year, and without a single care about wearing a Camp Woke press pass around my neck. And I’d have a good time doing the usual social whirlygig and wearing my black cowboy hat and so on.

But you know what? Fuck Sundance. The films simply aren’t vital or necessary enough — they’re for people in the greater Sundance community who may or may not tell their friends to stream this or that festival favorite down the road, and that’s all.

Yes, they screened Lulu Wang‘s The Farewell last year and that was certainly a good thing, but the classic Sundance glory days are over. The era of debuting Oscar favorites like Manchester By The Sea and Call Me By Your Name is almost certainly drawing to a close. Because Sundance is no longer a launchpad — it’s become a self-absorbed instruction chamber for woke Stalinism and the perpetuation of Sundance movies that say the right p.c. things.

I’d like to go because I’ve been attending for 25 or 26 years straight and it’s in my January blood, but it’s just not worth the money and the hassle any more. The usual five or six standouts will screen and stream in good time. On top of which money is a little tight this year so maybe next year or maybe never again…who knows?

Or maybe not until independent film culture shifts into another mode and instructive representational wokesterism is no longer the dominant tune being played on the bagpipes.

Say what you will about Hollywood Elsewhere, but let no man dispute that (a) I am a Reality Fortress, and (b) I’m almost never a go-alonger when the critical community loses its collective shit mind over an auteurist favorite of a dubious caste.

For when it comes to difficult films I am a slice-of-pepperoni-pizza kind of guy and an all-around “man of the people.” Not when it comes to masterpieces like Cold War or cop films like Les Miserables, but in the matter of irritating, eccentric, frenetic-style-for-its-own-sake films.

Case in point: Josh and Benny Safdie‘s Uncut Gems, which I was appalled by when I saw it at last September’s Telluride Film Festival, but which 93% of elite critics dropped to their knees for. Well, compare their Safdie worship with the current Uncut Gems situation: (a) 55% Rotten Tomatoes audience rating and (b) C+ CinemaScore rating.

It’s almost as if critics and Joe Popcorn saw two different films, no? Translation: Many if not most critics live on a secular planet that orbits around Betelguese.

And you know what? The Safdies are going to keep making “crazy Safdie” films. They’re not going to learn from this. Because they live in their own Manhattan echo chamber. And that’s par for the course.

Fairly or unfairly, Paramount’s Clifford the Big Red Dog is generating Cats-type advance buzz. I don’t know why this would (allegedly) be. A dinosaur-size Irish setter living in an urban apartment building sounds like money…great fun for the whole family.

Near the peak of Marin County’s Mt. Tamalpais. My breathing is labored in a Wheezy Joe sort of way, and my heart is thumping and chugging like piston rods inside the engine of the RMS Titanic. Pike Bishop: “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Received this morning from HE friendo: “It bugs me that people are charging the Hollywood Foreign Press Assocation with sexism. Vulture tracked down their members, and at least 50% of the membership is female” [after the jump].

There are few things in modern life that I despise more than slow elevators. Okay, there are dozens if not hundreds of things I despise, but slow elevators are near the top of the list. Particularly those that take 20 or even 30 seconds to settle into position before opening the doors on a given floor.

Now that Cats has been seen by at least a portion of the HE community, is there anyone besides myself who feels a bit sorry for this poor film…this widely despised, universally-shat-upon Tom Hooper musical? It’s not awful, just miscalculated and therefore unsatisfying. I’ve had more painful times with many other films, and I got through it without dozing. And I didn’t walk out. This means something.

Sue Lyon’s iconic portrayal of the impudent and vaguely teasing Dolores Haze was enough to give her a certain allure or erotic topicality or something in that realm. Lyon was 15 in ‘61 when Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita was shot, and the buzz from that film was enough to land her a supporting role in John Huston’s Night of the Iguana (‘64). Things gradually diminished after that. John Sayles‘ Alligator (‘80) was her final film.

Lyon passed on 12.26, at age 73. Condolences to fans, friends, comrades, acquaintances, etc.

HE respects that casual, gum-chewing, faintly lewd quality she seemed to radiate under Kubrick’s guidance. Whatever it was or wasn’t, Lyon’s “Lo” had a certain poise or attitude (not “sexuality” exactly but a kind of ownership of that without seeming to care one way or the other) that I never got from Dominique Swain’s performance (no offense) in Adrian Lyne’s Lolita.

Will Lyon occupy a slot in the Oscar telecast death reel? She should. Kubrick’s Lolita was quite the thing in the Kennedy era, and Lyon’s teenaged take-it-or-leave-it aroma or otherness was more or less what that thing was about.