West Hollywood Pavilions, three or four evenings ago: Sitting on a curb near the middle of the main parking lot, right next to the rumblehog and facing the market, wearing my bright red James Dean jacket. Mostly phone surfing but also people-watching. Because I was unusually situated or because of the jacket or whatever, three or four people spoke to me.

A 70ish woman whom I suspected of being a tad racist and certainly under-educated began to complain about some younger Pavilions employees who “are clearly not from this neighborhood” and who speak with difficult accents. I wasn’t about to touch this one with a 20-foot pole so I just said “uh-huh,” “yeah”, “I hear ya” and so on. She eventually ran out of gas and walked on.

Then a friendly-faced heavyset guy came along, pointed at the four-year-old Bernie sticker on the bike, and asked if I was a supporter. “No, that’s from ’16,” I said. “I’m actually a Pete Buttigieg supporter…see?” I pointed to a Pete sticker on the rear case. “And a JFK supporter,” I added. “Because the Bernie people probably aren’t going to vote for Biden,” he said. “Who says?” I said. “I haven’t heard that. It’s Biden or Trump. Do they want Trump to win? After Biden gets in they can start agitating for the right kind of candidate in ’24, but they can’t not vote for Biden…c’mon.”

Then a black security guy came over and asked if I was okay. “Yeah….what, I can’t sit here?” Security guy: “You’re sittin’ down, you could be sick or somethin’. It’s my job to ask.” Me: “I’m good. I’m just breathin’ the night air for a bit.” Security guy: “It’s my job to make sure.” Me: “Okay.” Security guy: “So you’re okay?” Me: “So it’s a really odd thing when someone just sits on a curb, huh?” Security guy: “Someone sits down, I gotta ask.” Me: “I’m good, I promise.”

The National Museum of African American History & Culture, an adjunct of the Smithsonian, has posted some instructionals about white culture and behavior vs. non-white culture and behavior. Below is a portion of a NMAAHC chart that explains some of the basics. After looking at it, I couldn’t help but think “hey, I’ve seem something like this before.” It hit me a second later. The NMAAHC chart is in the same general vein as a September 1972 National Lampoon article titled “Our White Heritage,” which was written by Henry Beard, Michael O’Donoghue and George S. Trow. Not exactly the same, but they do seem cut from a similar cloth, certainly in terms of listing white traits and characteristics.

Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra are in heaven and watching this colorized clip on a 77-inch Sony 4K HDR OLED.

Elvis: I obviously didn’t know when we sang this in ’60, but I only had another 17 years left.
Frank: Yeah, I know…sorry, chief.
Elvis: How long did you last?
Frank: I died in ’98, age 82.
Elvis: Shit, I was only 42.
Frank: Quality, not quantity.
Elvis: I had the quality until I went to see Nixon in the White House. That’s when it all turned sour.
Frank: You liked Nixon?
Elvis: He was against drug use, and I had to support him for that.
Frank: Isn’t that how you died?
Elvis: Yeah. (beat) If I’d played my cards differently I could’ve lasted as long as Jerry Lee Lewis.
Frank: When did he die?
Elvis: He’s still alive! 84 years old, and he was a crazy man in the ’50s.
Frank: Genes.

A couple of weeks ago I finally caught up with Kelly Reichardt‘s First Cow. I avoided it at the 2019 Telluride Film Festival and again when it opened theatrically last February, and you know why. I tried to write this review for days and days, but couldn’t. If I was to write a piece about composing this review, I would call it “I Died A Thousand Times.”

We’re all familiar with Reichardt’s minimalist, low-energy mise en scene (Wendy and Lucy, Meek’s Cutoff, Certain Women), and her longtime co-writing partnership with Jonathan Raymond (First Cow is an adaptation of his 2008 book “The Half Life“) and so on. I guess I was intimidated by the prospect of sitting through another under-lighted, fly-on-a-wall, watching-paint-dry flick, especially with an 1820s Oregon backwoods setting. The only thing I was looking forward was the boxy aspect ratio (1.37), which Reichardt always shoots with.

Alia Shawkat** appears in the first scene, which is set in the present-day Oregon woods alongside a large river with a cargo ship cruising by. Shawkat, who doesn’t say a word and disappears within two or three minutes, happens to discover a pair of buried skeletons lying side by side and apparently touching hands. How did this couple happen to expire at the same moment (were they killed? a suicide pact?). And why in the woods? And who were they?

Reichardt never answers the first question, but at least we get to know the couple, “Cookie” (John Magaro) and King Lu (Orion Lee), when First Cow flashes back to the 1820s.

Cookie is an inventive organic chef who’s been making meals for beaver trappers, and King Lu, an Asian immigrant, has killed a Russian guy or something and is hiding from authorities. They become friendly at some trading post, but not in a way that struck me as gay or even especially affectionate. They’re just comfortable with each other, mainly because they’re both unassuming and soft-spoken.

The only “plotty” thing that happens is when Cookie and King Lu, who are not larcenous by nature, decide to surreptitiously milk a skinny brown cow that belongs to a pompous rich guy (Toby Jones). Cookie uses the stolen milk to make tasty muffins of some sort, which they’re able to sell without effort to the local traders and miners (played in part by René Auberjonois, Ewen Bremner, Scott Shepherd, Gary Farmer).

All of a sudden the movie comes faintly (but only faintly) alive because they’re in business, and we actually care what might happen. Imagine!

We know, of course, that Jones will eventually realize where the milk is coming from, and then Cookie and King Lu will be in serious trouble. Do they deserve to be shot for milk theft? That seems to be the consensus among Jones’ pallies once the scheme is discovered, but all that really happens is that (a) Cookie suffers a bad cut on his forehead, which seems to make him weak and wobbly, and (b) an armed Jones ally or employee is seen hunting them in the woods.

This leads to a finale in which woozy Cookie needs to lie down in the woods, after which he appears to pass out and die. King Lu lies down besides him and…what? Wills himself to death for the sake of sympathy or friendship? King Lu: “If you’re going to die in the woods, Cookie…okay, your call. But you’ll need some company as you enter heaven, and maybe if I lie beside you my body will also get tired and give up the ghost? Worth a try. What have I got to live for anyway?”

Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg will hang on and keep going until at least 1.20.21. And presumably beyond. This, at least, is what we’re all hoping and praying for. She’s always been sharp, tough, tenacious. Character is destiny.