Most likely a blend.

Strictly carry-on for tonight’s (and tomorrow morning’s) LaGuardia–to–Montrose journey. No liquids, no sprays, no weapons…I can do it! The agony of an overnight nap on the floor at Reagan National awaits. Here’s hoping American Airlines allows me to catch that final Dallas-to-Montrose hop. Thanks in advance, fellas!

Diana, the former Princess of Wales, died on 8.31.97 — exactly a quarter-century ago today.

When I noted the 20th anniversary of her car-crash demise five years ago, the over-saturation of her legend (largely by way of Emma Corrin’s Diana in The Crown and Kristen Stewart’s in Spencer) hadn’t yet happened. And it still ain’t over — the final two seasons of The Crown (focusing on Elizabeth Debicki’s version) will begin their extended journey in November.

Anyone who says at this point “no, I’m not Diana’ed out…I want to re-immerse over and over and will probably never be satisfied”…anyone who says this with a straight face is someone most of us would probably want to avoid, no offense.

Posted on 8.4.17: I was attending the Montreal Film Festival when the news broke. I remember talking it through with colleagues and then retreating to my hotel room and tapping out a reaction piece for my L.A. Times Syndicate column. Given my haste and the late-hour fatigue, the piece was too long.

The next day Rod Steiger, a guest of the festival, delivered a rant about how the papparazzi had killed her. Which they did in a way. But the primary villain was Dodi Fayed, the millionaire asshat whom Diana had been intimate with for a few weeks.

I was working at People when Diana began seeing Fayed in July 1997. Two or three of us were asked to make some calls and prepare a file on the guy. Within three or four hours I’d learned that Fayed was an irresponsible playboy, didn’t pay his bills on occasion, lacked vision and maturity and basically wasn’t a man.

And yet Diana overlooked this or didn’t want to know. And that’s why she died. She orchestrated her demise by choosing Fayed for a boyfriend.

Fayed was just foolish and insecure enough, jet-setting around with his father’s millions and looking to play the protective stud by saving Diana from the paparazzi, to put her in harm’s way. It all came to a head on that fateful night in Paris. Fayed told his drunken chauffeur to try and outrun a bunch of easily finessable scumbag photographers on motorcycles, and we all know the rest.

Three and one-third months ago I was watching and listening to Charlbi Dean during the Triangle of Sadness press conference in Cannes, inside the Grand Palais.

She was sharp and attentive, and obviously beautiful. Plus her performance as Harris Dickinson‘s girlfriend and a social-media influencer was, I felt, above average. I was saying to myself, “She’s got something.”

And now she’s dead from a “sudden illness”? This is devastating. People Dean’s age don’t fall seriously ill as a rule — forget sudden death.

Charlbi was two months younger than my younger son Dylan, who turns 33 in November. I’m terribly sorry. Awful.

Neon will open Triangle of Sadness on 10.7.22.

Mikhail “glasnost” Gorbachev, the Russian leader who gradually liberalized the Soviet Union between the mid ’80s and early ’90s and thereby paved the way for further democratic reforms, has died at age 91. Respect and condolences.

First and foremost a skilled politician and consensus builder, Gorbachev was in my eyes the first moderate-minded Russian — the first Soviet commie with whom I felt a vague kinship. I loved his kind dark eyes. They told me “this man is essentially decent.”

In August ’91 Soviet hardliners ousted Gorbachev in a coup, but it failed hours later and within two or three days he was back in power. But the courageous Boris Yeltsin had become the new big dog, and before you knew it the Soviet Communist party was no more and the Soviet Union was dissolved. By the end of the year Gorby had resigned.

I was sorry that he gained a ton of weight about ten years ago, perhaps due to some medical condition or whatever. All I knew was that suddenly his face had become a beach ball, and he was such a handsome man during his heyday.

Standing in the foyer of Chris MacNeil‘s Georgetown hime, Dr. Damien Karras and Father Lankester Merrin are discussing the gulf between critics and ticket buyers.

Karras: There are many contentious issues that separate them. The principal…
Merrin: There is only one.
Karras: Pardon?
Merrin: Sometimes opinions are similar or in synch, sometimes not. But there is only one constant that separates the two groups. Critics will always be kind to woke films of any kind…they will always bend over backwards to give such films a positive response. Especially if they write for IndieWire or The Daily Beast. Ticket buyers, not so much. If a film is good or agreeably diverting in some way, they might give it a thumbs-up. But if it’s woke, they’ll be much more discerning or stand-offish.

The reason I’ve always worshipped the Pepsi Cola boardroom sequence in Mommie Dearest (’81) is because in the space of two minutes it totally turns you around by making you root for Faye Dunaway‘s Joan Crawford. The scene arrives at the two-thirds mark, and up until that point Crawford has been portrayed as a fanatical perfectionist, disciplinarian and Kabuki-faced horror mom. And then she stands up to those Pepsi Coca sharks and it’s suddenly “go for it, Joan…we love you!”

Please name other gnarly or sociopathic or outright villainous characters who have suddenly become admirable or even heroic in the space of a single scene.

I don’t know from the histrionic ego shenanigans that have engulfed the Hollywood Critics Association over the last few days. THR‘s Scott Feinberg describes the contretemps between founder Scott Menzel and ex-president Scott Mantz (not to mention the ten members who’ve recently quit) as “a cross between a Christopher Guest comedy and All About Eve, featuring Hollywood strivers, showmanship and, in the views of some, possible swindling.”

I couldn’t care less how this shakes out, but HE has never felt much allegiance for a critics org that has long believed in applying DEI criteria to end-of-the-year film awards.

Why do I think this? Because films should win awards because they’re superbly crafted, emotionally moving and/or qualify as great art in ways that transcend regimented wokethink.

As Feinberg recounts, the HCA was co-launched in mid-2016 by We Live Entertainment web journalist Scott ‘Movie Man’ Menzel and then-Access Hollywood on-air correspondent Scott “Movie” Mantz. The idea was to create a critics group that, unlike most others, would be gender balanced and racially diverse.

What got my attention was a passage in Feinberg’s piece that passes along Mantz’s recollection about how George Tillman Jr.‘s The Hate U Give (’18) was chosen as the HCA’s Best Picture winner.

Mantz’s recollection of Menzel’s explanation: ‘Ashley [Menzel’s wife, who is now listed on the HCA’s website as its co-founder] and I were going through the final votes, and it was looking like Roma was going to win. I didn’t want us to be just like everybody else. So Ashley and I, when we saw which way the votes were going, voted for The Hate U Give.

“This movie speaks more to what our organization is about,” Menzel emphasizes, “so that’s why I thought that it would be good if we showed that this movie won.”

Mantz’s reply to Menzel: “Yeah, but if the members are voting and you are looking at the votes and you’re voting another way to give your preference, you are manipulating the vote. That’s voter fraud [which] ethically I have a very big problem with.”

Mantz tells Feinberg adds “that he didn’t and doesn’t believe that The Hate U Give actually came anywhere near that close to topping the voting.”

Menzel denies making any such admission to Mantz, though he does confirm that he and his wife voted for The Hate U Give. He also rationalizes that “we have a lot of people of color within our organization who really liked the movie.”

I found The Hate You Give somewhere between decent and tolerable. Humanistic, compassionate, tragic. But I wasn’t sufficiently intrigued to watch it all the way through, mainly because I could tell what it was up to (beware of demonic, hair-trigger white cops) from a mile away. I’m obviously okay with a film saying that, but if that’s all it it has to say I’m left with shrugs and whatevs.

Critic Mark Dujsiuk, 10.19.18: “There’s a clear difference between complex and heavy-handed, but it’s one of those things you have to see to know. Unfortunately, The Hate U Give falls into the latter category.”

Film Forward’s Kent Turner: “[It’s] about the slogans.”

“And I think what Kubrick did with his movies, he would take properties and literature and just say ‘I don’t care about this book…I’m gonna deconstruct it and make a movie based on this [deconstruction]’…he had this very specific idea about cinema.”

Just another wiggy, anti-MSM, “let’s go, Brandon” nutter on the road. With one significant omission on the rear window. Or should I say one significant newbie? (Snapped this morning on Route 7 at 9:15 am.)

…is one false move, one tiny screw-up, one small miscalculation, one slight misjudgment, one fumbled ball, one banana peel on a linoleum floor…and the bats of hell will be all over the place.

Possibly a super-defining, career-changing performance from Daniel Radcliffe? You tell me.

A 1930s Phillip Marlowe noir in the traditional vein of Dick Richards’ Farewell My Lovely (‘75) with none other than Liam Neeson in the title role? It won’t rock theatrical (strictly aimed at GenX and boomer types), but I adore the gesture of it all…the old-time vibe.