Nicole Kidman and Javier Bardem, both in their 50s, are too old to play Lucille Ball in her early 40s and Desi Arnaz in his mid 30s in Aaron Sorkin‘s Being The Ricardos (Amazon, sometime in late December). I’m sorry but they are. Human biology and all that.

Kidman and Bardem can be de-aged with makeup and CG, of course, but will the audience buy it? Or will I be the only one carping and nitpicking while everyone else says “whatever”?

It’s one thing for an actress in her mid 50s to play 15 years younger, which is what Kidman will be doing when she portrays Ball in the early 1950s, when I Love Lucy was hitting its stride and she was in her early 40s. That’s presumably doable with makeup and careful lighting.

But a couple of days ago Sorkin mentioned to TCM’s Ben Mankiewicz that the film will include a scene of rehearsing for Too Many Girls, the 1940 George Abbott musical that Ball and Arnaz costarred in. (And which occasioned their first meeting, which led to their marriage later that year.) That will require the 52 year-old Bardem to play 30 years younger, as Arnaz was 22 or 23 when Girls was shot. Likewise Kidman will have to attempt to look 29 for this section of the film.

From EW summary of Sorkin-Mankiewicz interview: “Sorkin [reveals] that the film focuses on three points of ‘friction’ between Ball and Arnaz that really occurred but that Sorkin has condensed into the timeline of a single week.”

To the best of my knowledge there was one point of friction between Ball and Arnaz — Desi’s infidelity.

“Unregenerate Desilu Hound,” posted on 9.20.21: “As Lucy and Desi prepare over the course of a single week to shoot an episode that will go down in history as having some of the funniest and most memorable scenes to grace television, we will be enthralled to peek into why despite all of that passion and success their world-famous relationship could never be.”

“Cutting to the chase: Arnaz’s Cuban upbringing taught him that catting around outside the bonds of marriage was perfectly acceptable or at least workable.

I don’t know what I doing on the night of Friday, 6.25.93, but I was probably drinking my second or third vodka and lemonade of the evening and watching a laser disc movie in my living room. Maybe the kids were visiting that weekend….can’t remember. But for damn sure I wasn’t watching the final airing of Late Night with David Letterman — Dave’s last night on NBC before moving over to The Late Show on CBS.

It’s been 28 years, and all this time I’ve never watched this clip of Bruce Springsteen, teamed with Paul Shaffer & The World’s Most Dangerous Band, playing fucking “Glory Days.” That might be the best rock performance I’ve ever seen on a regular TV show, including Saturday Night Live.

Otherwise it’s the same grim, shadowy, rain-soaked, Gotham City noir shit…the same bowl of foreboding, the same Batman ghoulash…re-heated and re-served and re-garnished for brawny, strapping, grown-up Zoomers and clinging-to-youth Millennials, who are gradually panicking about approaching middle age and desperate to hang on to classic mythologies.

Q: “Who are you under there?” A “I’m vengeance.” Yeah, we figured that out over 30 years ago, back in the good old dawning days of 1989. And now it’s 32 years later and we’re wading through the same marsh.

Absolute respect and admiration for Matt Reeves, whose films HE has admired going back to Let Me In (’10). I just don’t get this one. I don’t see the need. I dont think anyone does. I think it’s just a cash grab. And I say that with full props for Reeves. He went for the money, and there’s nothing “wrong” with that.

Randy Newman said it 20 years ago: “I have nothin’ more to say / I’m gonna say it anyway.”

Two weeks shy of Halloween and it’s beach weather — 85 degrees in West Hollywood. People in easy moods, shuffling around in T-shirts and flip-flops, basking in the warmth and no loud, coarse workmen singing their hearts out to ranchero music. And the cloudless sky is a pure bright blue.

Why am I seemingly the only person in WeHo wearing a high-thread-count T-shirt, faded slim jeans and Beatle boots? I can’t answer that, but I can state without hesitancy that it’s 68 degrees in Manhattan, 49 degrees in Paris and 67 degrees in Hanoi. Life is good if you turn your mind off and float downstream and forget about people like LexG and Glenn Kenny.

“If Chappelle was white, there would be no dilemma…he’d be cancelled full stop, and The Closer would be taken off the air”…well?

Jump to https://hollywood-elsewhere.com/2021/10/sage-words/2/

Smiling faces and two-faced enemies. Or, in Marlon Brando terminology, one-eyed jacks. Some actual friends or “friendos,” of course (and thank God for those few) but mostly fair-weather types, transactional allies, etc. Like any other big-city racket. Grow up.

Ridley Scott‘s The Last Duel (20th Century, 10.15) is a good, sturdy feminist film, and there’s one person who carries it — not Matt “mullet” Damon, not Adam “horseface” Driver and not Ben “Blondie” Affleck. The carrier is Jodie Comer, and I’m telling you that she’s Grace Kelly in her prime…skill, class, poise, passion, refinement.

The guys are fine but Comer (26 or 27 when the film was shot) is the keeper. Best Actress or Best Supporting Actress…whatever works. She’s got it within, and she looks great besides.

Repeating: We all understand that Duel is a medieval #MeToo yarn about conflicting recollections of a brutal rape.

Two depictions are shown, one from the perspective of the victim, Comer’s Marguerite de Carrouges, and a second from the perspective of the rogue perpetrator, Driver’s Jacques Le Gris. A third account from Marguerite’s husband, Damon’s Jean de Carrouges, is passed along but not visualized as he wasn’t there.

But there’s another sexual assualt scene that really throttles you, and it’s between a mare and a stallion. A white mare “in season” is in a corral, bnd suddenly a black stallion races into the paddock and mounts her like that, and Scott offers a fast glimpse of his 20-inch black baseball bat…God! Now that‘s a savage rape scene, I told myself. The neighing steeds have it all over the heavy breathing humans in this respect.

I was disturbed by Damon’s mullet hair all through the film — in every Damon scene it was a problem. Why did Scott insist on his lead actor wearing a rural Pennsylvania, Trump-supporting mullet in this thing?

And I didn’t care for the muted blue-gray color scheme — it bothered me start to finish.

It’s 2:45 pm and I have to leave for two or three hours. I’ll pick up later on…

There’s a Latino apartment renovation crew working in the building next door, three or four guys, and they’re being (what else?) obnoxious — shouting to the extent that their voices sound like sonic booms, playing loud sombrero ballads and singing along and occasionally going “whooo-whooo!” And it’s awful to listen to. It’s hell.

I asked myself if I should walk over to the worksite and ask these guys to consider the fact that this is West Hollywood and not East L.A. and would they mind giving the neighborhood a break with their awful Tijuana border crossing music, etc. But that wouldn’t accomplish much.

I’ve been all around the block with coarse Latinos so don’t tell me. My battles with the Hispanic Party Elephant in North Bergen. The “Loud Latinos” piece that I posted from Brooklyn in June 2010, and got in trouble over.

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Getting older is not a felony but this OK! cover shot of Tom Cruise threw me. An occasional bad photo is par for the course, but I froze in my tracks when I saw this last night in a WeHo Pavillions checkout line. What am I seeing? Facial filler? Cruise has sturdy features — he’s a handsome dude and the “worn and weathered” thing (the Jerry Maguire look + 25) is the way to go. And he should grow his hair out a bit. “Barry Nerd” short hair can work against you, depending on the particulars.