Month: June 2021

Jeymes Samuel‘s The Harder They Fall (Netflix, later this year) seems to be a harmless, ultra-violent, all-black fantasy-revenge western — a gang of African-American desperadoes (Jonathan Majors, LaKeith Stanfield, Regina King, Idris Elba, Zazie Beetz, Delroy Lindo, Danielle Deadwyler, Edi Gathegi, R.J. Cyler, Damon Wayans Jr., Deon Cole) holdin’ up trains, settlin’ scores, blowin’ holes in a bunch of white guys, etc.

No harm, no foul…and it’s probably about as good as Antoine Fuqua‘s The Magnificent Seven (’16), which I called “cheap dogshit.”

For me the stand-out element is Zack Sharf’s IndieWire story about same — ‘The Harder They Fall’ Trailer: Netflix Western Unites Majors, Elba, King, Beetz, Lindo, Stanfield — which posted this morning at 8:15 am. At no point in Sharf’s story is there an acknowledgement that this is a western about an all-black gang (or gangs). Sharf notes that Netflix is calling this a “new school Western,” but that’s as far as he’ll go. The implication is that it’s somehow racist (or racialist) to acknowledge the basic shot here. Weird.

Synopsis: “When outlaw Nat Love (Jonathan Majors) discovers that his enemy Rufus Buck (Idris Elba) is being released from prison he rounds up his gang to track Rufus down and seek revenge. Those riding with him in this assured, righteously new school Western include his former love Stagecoach Mary (Zazie Beetz), his right and left hand men — hot-tempered Bill Pickett (Edi Gathegi) and fast drawing Jim Beckwourth (R.J. Cyler) and a surprising adversary-turned-ally. Rufus Buck has his own fearsome crew, including ‘Treacherous’ Trudy Smith (Regina King) and Cherokee Bill (LaKeith Stanfield), and they are not a group that knows how to lose.”

Brian Wilson: Long Promised Road premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival in June 2021. It follows Brian and Rolling Stone editor Jason Fine as they drive around Los Angeles and visit locations from Brian’s past. The Rotten Tomatoes rating is currently 100%.

Here’s a tale of a brief encounter I had with Brian in ’74 — originally posted on 9.9.14:

I was living in an upstairs one-bedroom apartment at 948 14th Street in Santa Monica, doing nothing, working as a tree surgeon…my lost period. (I began my adventure in movie journalism the following year.) Right below me lived a guy named Eddie Roach and his wife Tricia. At the time he was working with the Beach Boys as a kind of staff or “touring” photographer. Dennis Wilson fell by two or three times and hung out a bit, and one time I was part of a small group that played touch football with him at a local high-school field. Dennis mocked me that day for being a bad hiker, which I was. (But Dennis was a dick… really. Insecure machismo, didn’t like him, felt nothing when he died.)

Anyway it was a cloudy Saturday or Sunday afternoon and I was lounging in my living room when I began to hear someone tooling around on Eddie’s piano downstairs. It sounded like the beginnings of a song. It began with a thumping, rolling boogie lead-in, complex and grabby, and then the spirited vocal: “Back home boogie, bong-dee-bong boogie…yay-hah…back home boogie, bong-dee-bong”…and then he stopped. One of the chords wasn’t quite right so he played a couple of variations over and over, and then again: “”Back home boogie, bong-dee-bong boogie yay-hah!” and so on. Then another mistake and another correction.

Then he stopped again and started laughing like a ten year-old drunk on beer: “Hah-hah, heh-heh, heh-heh!” and then right back into the song without losing a beat. Really great stuff. Who is this guy?

I grabbed my cassette recorder and went outside and walked down the steps leading to Eddie’s place, and I laid it down on one of the steps and started recording. I must have captured two or three minutes worth.

Then I decided to knock on Eddie’s door and pretend I needed to borrow a cup of milk or something. I had to know who the piano guy was. Eddie opened the door and I said “hey, man,” and in the rear of the living room stood a tall and overweight Brian Wilson. He was dressed in a red shirt and jeans and white sneakers, and was cranked and excited and talking about how great some idea might be, gesturing with his arms up high. Then he saw me and almost ran over to the doorway.

I suddenly knew who it was and it was a huge internal “whoa!” Wilson looked like a serious wreck. His hair was longish and sort of ratty looking. His unshaven face was the color of Elmer’s Glue-All, and his eyes were beet red. I didn’t mean to disturb the vibe but a look of faint surprise or shock must have crossed my face because Wilson’s expression turned glum. It was like he suddenly said to himself, “Wow, this guy’s some kind of downhead…everything was cool until he showed up.” Eddie spotted it too and said, “Sorry to disappoint you.” I said everything was cool and retreated back upstairs.

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Way back in ’83 or thereabouts, I was acquainted with a pair of youngish film producers (man and woman, probably married) whom I’d met at an industry gathering or screening. Their names escape…sorry. But we were moderately friendly, on good terms. They lived in a beautiful, old-world, high-ceilinged apartment inside Harper House, a pre-war Spanish building at 1134-1336 No. Harper Ave.

And I distinctly recall that in their living room Marlon Brando‘s Royal Navy uniform and bicorn hat, from Mutiny on the Bounty, was on display. Made of seemingly authentic materials, it rested upon a white, Brando-sized mannequin. I was deeply impressed, and asked if I could sniff it. I was hoping it might have retained the aroma of Brando or Tahitian sand or coconuts or some organic remnant of that 1962 film. Alas, it smelled like Holloway Cleaners.

In any event here it is on iCollector — it sold in December 2019 for $10K. How much had my producer friends paid for it in the early ’80s? Maybe one-tenth of that. Who knows? Or maybe it’s a scam — maybe dozens of would-be Brando uniforms have been made and sold as Real McCoys.

Leos Carax’s Annette (7.6.21, France) is an English-language musical set in Los Angeles that will feature original music from the ’70s rock band Sparks. It’s a love story about a stand-up comic (Adam Driver) and an opera star (Marion Cotillard). Completed in November 2019, pic will be told almost entirely through song, in classic rock opera tradition — all singing, all of the dialogue (or 95 % of it), “but in a way that’s stylistically true to Sparks’ sensibility, so if you can imagine that, Adam Driver doing Sparks, that’s what we have.”

The architect, the construction foreman…somebody will have to swing for this.

The just-announced competition jury for Cannes ’21 (7.6 thru 7.17): Jury President Spike Lee + actors Maggie Gyllenhaal, Mélanie Laurent, Song Kang-ho (Parasite chauffeur guy) and Tahar Rahim, plus actor-director Mati Diop + Austrian director Jessica Hausner and Kleber Mendonça Filho (Bacarau). Singer/songwriter Mylène Farmer is also on the team.

Update: This nine-member jury promises to be one of the most miraculous, heart-stopping, ultra-restorational and soul-tingly in the 74 year-old history of the Cannes Film Festival. I love these members…all of them! Perfect! Glorious! I’m so excited that I’m almost having an anxiety attack. Somebody hand me a small brown paper bag,

The four-men, five-women composition seems reflective of what the usual progressive suspects would probably prefer. Rest assured that once the festival kicks off there’ll be incidents and accidents, hints and allegations.

Who’s predicting an Annette win besides myself? Perhaps an acting trophy for Adam Driver or Marion Cotillard? And don’t forget the anticipation factor favoring Wes Anderson‘s The French Dispatch.

The Cote d’Azur gathering will have fewer top dog journalist-critics in attendance — that’s for sure.

The anxious accountant is played by Trent Moore. The way his character attempts to explain to Anton Chigurh the motive embraced by his just-murdered boss…”he feels…uhm, he felt that the more people looking…”…is perfectly delivered. I was wanted to say that in case nobody else has.

There’s no question that I saved my life when I embraced sobriety on 3.20.12. A growing sense of calm, moderation and spiritual clarity began to manifest within a year or so (certainly by early ’14), and I shudder to think of where my life would be if I was still slurping down the old Pinot Grigio on a nightly basis, not to mention the likelihood that my face would have acquired the shape of a saggy beach ball.

But if I’m being really honest, bathing in a nightly buzz-on used to be a fairly enjoyable thing. It always delivered a “wow, this feels good and I’m happy” attitude…a sense of excitement, good humor, irreverence, When I was younger, that is. In my 20s, 30s and 40s that settle-down feeling of warmth and fun and laughter that wine and the occasional mixed drink used to provide…that felt like a fairly blissful thing.

A friend told me six or seven years ago that I was funnier when I was drinking…that I laughed more, etc. I don’t doubt it.

Pete Hamill‘s “A Drinking Life” led me to sobriety, but it also contained eloquent passages about what a joy it was to drink with friends and share in that spiritual mirth.

I’m mentioning my history as a way of saying that I understand why Errol Flynn (1909-1959) ruined his life with spirits. He drank himself to death because he had a good time along the way. Alcohol allowed him to behave like…what, a reckless horndog, an elegant teenager, an international bon vivant? He liked going there.

Sometime in the mid ’40s Flynn was told by a doctor that if he didn’t cut back on his drinking he wouldn’t last the decade. Well, he made it to ’59.

Presumably Richard Burton, Peter O’Toole, Richard Harris, Robert Mitchum, Tallulah Bankhead, Humphrey Bogart, Spencer Tracy, Peter Finch, John Barrymore, Montgomery Clift and all the other legendary Hollywood drunks had just as good a time getting bombed on a daily basis. Or maybe they were stuck in a rut and didn’t know how to get out of it, or they figured the bad moods and headaches would go away or something.

All I know is that drinking is a young man’s game, and that you have to think about cutting back if not winding down by your early to mid ’40s, and certainly with the arrival of the big five-oh.

HE took exception to last year’s trashings of statues of generally admired, relatively benign historical figures like Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Ulysses S. Grant, et. al. But I agree 100% with the American Museum of Natural History’s Theodore Roosevelt statue (the one facing Central Park West) being removed because of odious symbolism — the horse-mounted Roosevelt, a believer in white superiority and eugenics, flanked by a Native American and an African American on foot.

The statue is toxic and needs to be retired — no question. But what would Robin Williams say if he were still with us? Not to mention Brian Keith? And what about the possibly vulnerable reputations of the Night at the Museum guys (director Shawn Levy, producer Chris Columbus, star Ben Stiller)? They didn’t mean any harm by having fun with Roosevelt’s manly rough-rider + conservationist legend, but now they’re absorbing a certain amount of…what’s the right term, “shade”?

6.22 N.Y. Times story, reported by Laura Zornosa: “The New York City Public Design Commission voted unanimously at a public meeting on Monday to relocate the statue by long-term loan to a cultural institution dedicated to the life and legacy of…former president Theodore Roosevelt.

“The vote follows years of protest and adverse public reaction over the statue as a symbol of colonialism, largely because of the Native American and African men who are depicted flanking Roosevelt on a horse. Those objections led the museum in June 2020 to propose removing the statue. New York City, which owns the building and property, agreed to the suggestion, and Mayor Bill de Blasio expressed his support.”

Okay, Jill Biden didn’t say the word “assholes” when she addressed the Nashville booers, but that’s what she meant — trust me. The bumblefuck factor has resulted in Tennesseeans lagging behind the national vaccination average — only three or four in ten have been vaxxed. Jerks.