…and allow us to carefully explain the gist of the humor in Mel Brooks‘ Blazing Saddles. Without which some of you might take to Twitter to scream about systemic Hollywood racism, etc. 1974 audiences didn’t need a tutorial, but you do. What does that tell you?

Yesterday it was hot all across the Southwest, Los Angeles included. Hot and somewhat humid. I showered quickly around 5 pm, and despite the air-conditioned living room climate I had to wait and wait for my hair to dry. I needed a drive on the rumblehog. I went downstairs, turned the ignition key, revved the engine. I then decided on the spur that it was too hot to wear headgear. So I took off with my white helmet under the seat….”fuck it.”

With my faintly damp hair getting whipped around as I motored north through quiet, tree-lined streets, it was one of the most glorious sensations I’ve felt in months.

The angel on my right shoulder was saying “okay, you’ve had your fun, now pull over and put the helmet on.” But the devil on my left shoulder said, “No, don’t…this is way too pleasurable, let’s keep going.” Block after block, slowly cruising, my eyes peeled for the bulls. I became braver and braver. I crossed La Cienega and ducked into another side street. I was ecstatic about the wind fluttering through my Prague follicles; the feeling of coolness and the scent of this and that…absolute heaven.

After a while I began to think that getting a ticket might not be so bad. Well, it would but I was so delighted to re-experience a portion of what it was like to be 16.

It used to be okay to ride around without a helmet. California’s mandatory helmet law kicked in on 1.1.92. Warren Beatty rides his Triumph without one in Shampoo.

I’m fairly certain that the Will Smith and Kevin Hart remake of Planes, Trains & Automobiles is going to disappoint on this or that level, and may even generally suck eggs across the board.

The 1987 John Hughes original is about the uncomfortable pairing of a sardonic, somewhat snooty advertising executive (Steve Martin) and an overweight, irritatingly folksy shower- curtain-ring salesman (John Candy) on a miserable, zig-zaggy trip from New York to Chicago just prior to Thanksgiving.

A flush, well-dressed sophisticated elitist vs. a fat, amiable, hand-to-mouth vulgarian who smokes.

Smith, I’m presuming, will take the Martin role and Hart will play Candy. Is Hart up to playing a coarse vulgarian? And who will play Dylan Baker?

Favorite Martin Line: “You can start by wiping that fucking dumbass smile off your rosy fucking cheeks. Then you can get me a fucking automobile. A fucking Datsun, a fucking Toyota, a fucking Mustang, a fucking Buick…four fucking wheels and a seat!”

2nd Favorite Martin line: “It didn’t occur to you so I get to sleep in a puddle of beer.”

Variety‘s Dave McNary reports that pic “will be a modern update of the original”, blah blah. Hart’s HartBeat Productions and Smith’s Westbrook Studios are developing the remake, blah blah.

This is what I’ve been talking about. Last night (i.e., Sunday) some rowdies from the Portland BLM brigade, which has persisted night after night with The Street Protests That Peaked Over Two Months Ago and Everyone Is Sick To Death Of, punched and kicked a white guy who may have been driving his pickup truck aggressively near the crowd.

The protestors were probably presuming that the guy was somehow in league with that guy who killed a woman in Charlottesville by backing his musle car into a crowd of protestors.

N.Y. Post account: “A series of clips on social media shows the victim being surrounded in his white Ford truck at 10.30 p.m. Sunday as others attacked a woman he was with, who was punched and even tackled to the ground during the violent melee. The unidentified driver eventually sped off, with the mob chasing him — with some heard loudly laughing when he crashed into a tree and then a building, according to the clips.

“He was dragged from the truck and tackled to the ground as he begged for help, getting repeatedly punched as he tried to call his wife while pleading with his attackers as he sat on the ground.”

BLM supporters need to double-down on this stuff. This is exactly the king of thing that could possibly persuade swing voters to hold their noses and painfully vote for Trump. You can bet Team Trump will be using this footage for a campaign ad. Brilliant, hats off, etc.

Oh, and Joe and Kamala? Don’t say a word. You don’t want to criticize the BLM movement or progressives might not support you. BLM-ers need to keep trashing cities, keep looting, keep beating up crackers in pickup trucks. This is the ticket, the true path…what the Biden-Harris ticket needs more of in order to lose.

Six months ago Rose McGowan did a podcast chat with “Catch and Kill” author Ronan Farrow, and in so doing mentioned a sexual misconduct episode (technically statutory rape) that happened, she said, between her 15-year-old self and an unnamed director who was then in his late 20s.

Last night on Twitter she identified the alleged misconduct guy — director-writer Alexander Payne. If (and I say “if”) this happened, the term “statutory rape” definitely applied. She says Payne showed her a softcore Showtime film he’d directed before they allegedly had sex.

McGowan isn’t calling for Payne’s death and dismemberment, but an acknowledgment and apology. Payne and his reps have been contacted about this. They can agree and apologize, totally deny everything, dispute this or that assertion, etc. But they should quickly respond.

The quizzical part is McGowan’s claim that after their alleged intimate encounter in Payne’s Silver Lake apartment, he dropped her off at Cafe Tropical on Sunset Blvd. The implication (and please dispute if I’m wrong) is that Payne decided not to take the ride-less McGowan where she wanted to go but dropped her off at a cafe near his home because he couldn’t be bothered. That would be ungentlemanly.

McGowan was 15 between September ‘88 and September ‘89. The omnibus sex films that Payne contributed to were produced by the Playboy Channel, and were titled Inside Out (’91 — Paynee’s short is titled My Secret Moments) and Inside Out III (’92). The IMDB page for the latter names ten directors, including Payne and Bernard Rose. Payne apparently landed the gigs when he was 27 or 28 and enrolled at UCLA Film School.

The 29-year-old Payne graduated from UCLA Film School with a Masters degree in May/June 1990.

Here’s a 7.8.90 L.A. Times profile by Patricia Biderman, titled “A Reel Hit: After a screening of his student movie, The Passion of Martin, Alexander Payne was the talk of the town — now the UCLA graduate is learning to direct deals with agents“. The 50-minute thesis film , which took Payne a year and a half to make, had been shown to agents and industry types roughly three weeks before the Times article appeared..

Let’s say Payne finished Martin in April or May of ‘90, and began making it, let’s further assume, in the fall of ‘88.

Did McGowan see Inside Out or did she see The Passion of Martin, which has a sex scene or two? If it’s the latter, she couldn’t have seen much in the fall of ‘88 as Payne was only just beginning to work on it. Let’s presume that he showed her a rough cut of some kind, perhaps during the spring or summer of ‘89. Maybe.

I’d never seen The Passion of Martin before this morning. I haven’t actually watched all of it — only the first 15 minutes. But it’s sharply written and certainly well crafted, especially for a meagerly-budgeted student film. The only problem is the lead actor, Charlie Hayward, who strikes me as a bit creepy.

Yesterday (8.15) The Hollywood Reporter‘s Seth Abramovitch posted a piece about the old Pico Drive-In, which opened on 9.9.34 and could hold 487 cars. The very first California drive-in was located at 10860 Pico Blvd., which today is the address of Landmark’s Westside Pavillion (although not exactly at the same spot).

Between 1948 and ’85 the Westside Pavillion area was where the old Picwood theatre stood. The Picwood address was 10872 W. Pico Boulevard, just wast of the Pico and Westwood Blvd. intersection.

The most interesting detail didn’t make it into Seth’s article: Westwood Blvd. dead-ended on Pico in 1934, and so the Pico drive-in was built on a dusty patch due south of Pico (or where the neighborhoody, tree-lined, south-of-Pico stretch of Westwood Blvd. now sits).

After the Pico Drive-in closed in 1944, the postcard screen tower was moved to the corner of Olympic Blvd. and Bundy to become part of the Olympic Drive-In, which stood until ’73.

All the above and below comes from losangelestheatres.blogspot.

Looking south from Westwood Blvd. across Pico.

Looking north with Pico Drive-In located smack dab at the dead-end intersection of Pico and Westwood Blvds.

The early ’90s to early aughts were the heyday of director George Armitage, thanks to the critical huzzahs and decent box-office earnings generated by Miami Blues (’90) and Grosse Point Blank (’97).

Armitage began as an exploitation-level director in the ’70s. Alas, the reception to Vigilante Force (’76), a crude and schlocky drive-in flick that he wrote and directed and which subsequently tanked, earned poor George a 14-year stretch in movie jail. Then, as noted, he was out and fancy free during the ’90s.

But then Armitage wrote and directed The Big Bounce (’04), which did so poorly — $50 million to shoot, $6.8 million domestic box-office — that he was sent back to jail, and that time they threw away the key.

Vigilante Force “was the creation of writer and director George Armitage, who saw his career temporarily derailed when Vigilante Force flopped. It would take till 1990’s Miami Blues and then 1997’s Grosse Point Blank for him to get back on track, and by then it was too late for him to establish himself as anything but a cult curio with film buffs wondering what he might have achieved with more opportunities.” — from a review in the UK-based The Spinning Image.

I appreciate the daringness and vaguely lewd flavor that occasionally characterized pre-code films, but I’ve never been able to watch them with much satisfaction. The squawky soundtracks and constipated acting styles, a general lack of camera movement, a feeling that you’re watching a filmed play, etc. Cecil B. DeMille‘s Sign of the Cross (’32) is nervy in certain ways, but it’s more than a little tough to sit through.

Only the monster and gangster flicks of this era (Dracula, Frankenstein, King Kong, The Most Dangerous Game, William Wellman‘s Public Enemy, Howard Hawks‘ Scarface) are still viewable.

I’ve never seen George Fitzmaurice and Greta Garbo‘s Mata Hari (’31), and to be honest I’m still having trouble with the idea. The trailer makes it seem like an eye-rolling drag. But I’d watch it if the all-but-disappeared uncensored version (which includes a mildly exotic dance number) could somehow be transferred to Bluray.

If there could somehow be a nationwide election-day referendum on the American Khmer Rouge…if each and every voter in every state was required to answer yes or no to the question “has the wokester, howling, cancel-culture left gone completely around the bend and totally over the waterfall?”, I would vote “yes, they have.”

If the ballot question is “which is worse — the rural, Trump-supporting right (i.e., bumblefucks, belligerent cops, Proud Boys) or the anarchic, relentlessly confrontational, store-looting, around-the-bend left?”, I would answer that the right is much worse because they’ve shown they’s shown very little concern about the racist, callous, Medicare-defunding, climate-change-denying, authoritarian drift of the Trump administration, but the loony Twitter left is almost as bad because they represent a truly dangerous thing — the New McCarthyism and the rebirth of the spirit of Maximilien Robespierre.

As a friend says, “I can handle almost anything except the stifling of art and free expression, and this is what too much of the progressive left is about today.”

Seasoned critic pally, received this morning: “I’ll admit I was a latecomer to the Hitchcock fan club. After The Birds, which came out when I was 13 (I was too young to see Psycho when it came out), I didn’t see another Hitchcock until Frenzy (’72) and Family Plot (’76), which I reviewed in release as a budding critic. I wasn’t really exposed to him again until the early-mid 80s, when Universal released five Hitchcock films that had been out of circulation for a while, including Vertigo, Rear Window, The Man Who Knew Too Much and a couple of others.

“I have to say that in those mid ’80s halcyon days when MTV was ascendant and the attention span was being shattered by the music video, Hitchcock looked pretty staid to my eyes. It took a few years and the advent of home video for me to develop a serious appreciation for his work.

“Your riff on Marnie made me realize I’d never seen that (or Torn Curtain or Topaz, all of which I recall as bombs from reviews of the time). I had no interest in so-called serious films, preferring (as teens do) comedy and action. Why watch Sean Connery in Marnie when there was Goldfinger?

“So I streamed Marnie the other day, and it sucked. Pure and simple. There is no revisionist argument you can make that can forgive that central performance, which blocks the sun and is the proverbial turd in the punch bowl. Tippi Hedren makes Sofia Coppola in The Godfather, Part III look like Ingrid Bergman.

“Not that the film’s psychology makes a whit of sense. I can’t believe, incidentally, this film hasn’t been cancelled because of the casual shipboard rape during their honeymoon.”