The couple that I most want to see go south is Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce. Please — I want their love affair to die of malnutrition by Labor Day if at all possible, or certainly before the end of ‘24.

Only a lunatic would marry Swift — even a lughead like Kelce surely understands this.

Ben and J.Lo divorcing is…okay, I’m sorry. Clearly she’s driven him to madness with hyper frustration and career anxiety and whatnot. Key insider quote: “[Ben] wants a life with serenity and peace, and escaping this roller coaster will be a relief.”

A little more than eight years ago (4.14.16) casting maestro Juliet Taylor sat down with an AMPAS moderator to talk about her 50-year career and particularly the 42 films she cast for Woody Allen.

The session was entitled “Perfect Choice: The Art Of The Casting Director”. It happened at the Samuel Goldwyn Theater on Wilshire.

Sasha Stone earlier today: “Why would the Academy omit Woody Allen’s name from Juliet Taylor‘s bio? That would be like omitting Alfred Hitchcock’s name when honoring Grace Kelly. Or Frank Capra’s name when honoring Jimmy Stewart. You can’t do that and pretend any sort of validity in preserving, celebrating or honoring film history.

“Who made the call? Was it the Academy or was it Juliet Taylor’s people? We’ll never know because these are questions no one is allowed to ask. Partly they’re afraid to ask why. And they’re afraid of the shitstorm eruption soon to follow in its wake.

“The last thing they seemed to be concerned about is whether or not they look ridiculous. My dudes, here’s the answer to that question, YES. With all due respect, YES.”

Bill Maher had a girlfriend when he was 16? I didn’t do the deed until I was 18, and that was because a girl had put the moves on me, not vice versa. I was so beset by insecurity and low-self-esteem in my teen years I could barely function socially. Movies had been my only escape from the time I was eight or nine, and then I coupled that with serious weekend drinking (100 proof vodka!) when I turned 15 or thereabouts.

I didn’t feel even half-confident in a sexual sense until I was 22 or 23, but once I knew how to turn that key I became a shameless hound. (Not a predator but a hound — there’s a difference.) Before long I was batting .400 or better, and that streak lasted throughout the rest of my 20s and into my 30s, and then re-ignited in the ’90s after Maggie divorced me.

“Entirely Natural and Inevitable,” posted on 10.1.22: HE’s big office romance…I’m sorry, I meant to say the emotionally devastating extra-marital affair that I fell into during my time as an in-office freelancer at People magazine and which continued until her husband found out a couple of years later…it was almost the emotional death of me. (The actual span was between early ’98 and the early fall of ’00…call it 32 months.) No relationship had ever brought so much heartache, hurt or frustration. Graham Greene and Tom Stoppard had nothing on us. I was a man of almost constant sorrow. I was so upset by one of our arguments that one afternoon I made a reckless left turn on Pico Blvd. and got slammed by a speeding BMW, and for weeks I told myself it wasn’t really my fault — it was the married girlfriend’s. Definitely a form of insanity.

I can only feel puzzlement about all the love for Richard Linklater‘s Hit Man. Strange love = Strangelove. I didn’t hate it or anything, but I was certainly underwhelmed. Part of my problem was that Glenn Powell didn’t seem to radiate a lot of charisma. His eyes are too small and his voice is too reedy. I decided that the similarities to Stakeout were fairly significant, and that Richard Dreyfuss‘s cop character “Chris” was more likable that Powell’s “Gary Johnson”.

HE commenter “Adam L”: “I genuinely think Dreyfuss deserved a Best Actor nomination for Stakeout. There’s significant range in what he’s asked to do and he nails absolutely every single aspect of that character. I can’t imagine anyone else doing it as well.”

I’m presuming HE regulars have seen Hit Man by now (it’s been streaming on Netflix since June 7) so I’m asking two questions. One, what is the big likable deal with this film? I wasn’t glaring daggers but I was mainly going “this is just okay…people have been overpraising it.” And two, when’s the last time a Powell-like guy — a dude with tiny beady eyes and kind of a shallow vibe or mentality — became a big movie star?

Plus I hate it when anyone says to anyone else, “I guess I’m just your fantasy.” I hate that fucking line!

From my 5.31.24 post: In general terms, Richard Linklater‘s Hit Man (Netflix, 6.7) is about Gary (Glenn Powell), a 30something guy who works for a big-city police department (New Orleans) in an undercover capacity.

The story kicks in when Gary falls in love with Maddy (Adria Arjona), a beautiful Latina woman who’s been involved with a not-so-nice guy named Ray (Evan Holtzman), and who is also kind of a target of the police. Except Gary can’t tell Maddy for procedural and security reasons that he’s with the fuzz.

The story tension is about when and how Gary will come clean with Maddy, and how her troubled relationship with Ray will be resolved (i.e., come to an end) so that she and Gary will have some kind of chance together.

Without divulging what I felt about Hit Man, I need to mention how much it reminded me, in certain ways, of John Badham‘s Stakeout (’87), which was a kind of cop sitcom thriller with a strong emotional pull.

The lead character was Chris (Richard Dreyfuss), a 30something detective who works for a big city police department (Seattle). He and partner Bill (Emilio Estevez) are assigned to spy on Maria (Madeleine Stowe), a beautiful Latina woman who’s been involved with a not-so-nice guy named Stick (Aidan Quinn). Stick has recently escaped from prison and, cops suspect, may be visiting Maria soon.

The story kicks in when Chris falls in love with Maria, but can’t tell her for procedural and security reasons that he’s with the cops. Plus he’s doubly deceived her by pretending to be a phone company technician so he can plant a bug in her phone.

The story tension is about when and how Chris will come clean with Maria, and how her troubled relationship with Stick will be resolved (i.e., come to an end) so that she and Chris will have some kind of chance together.

The storylines of Hit Man and Stakeout don’t line up precisely and diverge in significant ways, but the above described similarities are legit.

Bill Forsyth‘s Local Hero opened on 2.17.83. I caught a long-lead screening (early or mid December ’82) at the old Warner Bros. screening room at 75 Rockefeller Plaza. I was beaming when it ended around 9 pm or thereabouts. The final scene got me deep down; I was half teary-eyed and so jazzed I walked straight up to Cafe Central (75th and Amsterdam), the actors’ hangout bar. I felt too good to submit to an IRT local — I walked the 26 or 27 blocks in a half hour.

Believe it or not Peter Riegert, 35 at the time, was standing at the bar. I knew him slightly from previous Cafe Central inebriations, and was overjoyed to see him. I told him what a great film LH was and what a high I was on, etc. “And that pay phone ringing at the very end…that’s Macintosh calling!”,” I said after my second Jack Daniels and ginger ale. Riegert, perhaps wondering if I was a little drunk or just a bit slow, smiled and nodded “yeah.”

“Bill Forsyth, Peter Reigert and the Truth About Movies,” posted on 3.28.15. In a More Intelligent Life piece about Bill Forstyh‘s Local Hero (’83), star Peter Riegert is quoted by Jasper Rees as follows:

“Bill [Forsyth] understood that moviegoers are not interested in what the actors are feeling. They’re interested in what they’re feeling.”

Precisely! This is a perfect distillation of the entire Hollywood Elsewhere approach to reviewing movies and performances. This is the sine qua non, the emerald, the whole magillah…words in passing that give the game away.

I’m always perfectly aware of the feelings that an actor is attempting to generate with his or her personality or application of technique or whatever, but all I care about is what I’m feeling as I sit slumped in my seat, tripping happily on the film or the performance or trying to make heads or tails of either one. I might “respect” what a filmmaker has tried to accomplish with this or that approach, but all I care about and all I’m going to write about at the end of the day is if this approach works for me.

For I am King Solomon…the ultimate arbiter, the one-man jury, inspector of the final product, giver or denier of the HE seal of approval.

A performance or a movie, in other words, is not about the idea or theme or cultural undercurrent propelling the filmmakers, but about how I fucking feel as I contemplate the finality of it.

…standing stiff and strange like a department store mannequin, ignoring the music, smiling like a robot shot full of novacaine…this is not deepfake.

President Biden can’t even manage to gently roll with the rhythm like Doug Emhoff….Jesus.

Our congenial fellow has done a reasonably good job as President since 1.20.21 — the economy isn’t great but is more or less okay — but because of Joe’s arrogant insistence that only he can defeat The Beast, he’s almost certainly going to lose in November and will thereby condemn us all to four years of hell, starting on 1.20.25. We’re stuck in a slow-motion death dive. This will be Biden’s legacy — the man who condemned his countrymen to suffer through authoritarian MAGA rule.

Jeff Nichols‘ The Bikeriders (Focus features) will open on Friday, 6.21. Once again, HE’s 8.31 Bikeriders review, posted from Telluride:

As I was watching Jeff Nichols’ The Bikeriders, I was telling myself that it’s basically about the inability (or unwillingness) of costars Tom Hardy and especially Austin Butler, playing surly-ass, black leather biker types, to perform a scene without constantly inhaling gray-blue cigarette smoke.

Lit cigarettes are a sign of weakness, the ultimate crutch used by actors who don’t have anything really figured out and who need to hide on some level.

No honest assessment of The Bikeriders will fail to acknowledge that it’s basically a posturing, surly attitude genre flick about skanky vroom-vroom machismo…about sullen Midwest motorcycle lowlifes in the general mold of Marlon Brando’s “Johnny” in The Wild One, mixed with the nihilist biker hooligan aesthetic of the AIP ‘60s motorcycle flicks (The Wild Angels, The Born Losers).

Story-wise it’s about a battle for the soul of Butler’s Benny, a moody, cool-cat rebel straight out of the Shangrilas’ ”The Leader of the Pack.”

On one side is Jodie Comer’s Kathy, who quickly becomes Benny’s girlfriend and then wife in a possibly sexless marriage (nobody fucks in this film). Kathy wants Benny to be his own man and not submit to certain aimless bullshit rituals that come with membership in a motorcycle gang.

Pulling in an opposite direction is Hardy’s Johnny, who wants Benny to succeed him as the leader of the Vandals, a mythical local gang that gradually becomes huge with several chapters around the Midwest.

The Vandals are ostensibly a black leather outlaw motorcycle club in the vein of actual old-style OMCs like Hells Angels, the Outlaws, the Bandidos and the Pagans. The difference is that the Vandals aren’t criminals. They’re just ornery guys who occasionally beat the shit out of other ornery guys. Really — that’s all that happens. Scuzzy, nihilistic, no-direction-home guys snorting brewskis, sucking down cigarettes like they’re in a cancer contest while taking offense at this or that and kicking or pounding the crap out of each other.

The Bikeriders is basically about actors playing with machismo, nihilism, nothingness and swaggering around… about Hardy, Butler and costars Michael Shannon, Boyd Holbrook and Norman Reedus attempting to resuscitate (like I just said) the old AIP biker movie aesthetic except not in California but somewhere in Illinois…that surly, unshaven, leather-jacket-wearin’ thang, man…rumblin’ those noisy choppers, man..surly attitudes, beard stubble, greasy hair, tough-asshole posturing, leather jackets with “colors” and insignias, stinky T-shirts and no change of underwear for days on end.

Please see The Bikeriders!! Some of you out there, unburdened by taste, will have a raunchy good old time with it.

It’s somehow comforting to note the timeless backdrop in this 86 year-old Rita Hayworth photo, which was probably snapped on one of the upper Malibu beaches (El Matador, La Piedra, El Pescador). Because this location — trust me — looked and sounded exactly the same a thousand years earlier. Or 10,000.

Just ask the vacationing Roman elites who stood upon the beaches of Capri during the reign of Tiberius. Or ask Charlton Heston’s Taylor, the time-stranded astronaut in Planet of the Apes (‘68) — when his spacecraft splashed into a large body of water he thought the date was 11.25.3978, and the seaside location he rode upon at the very end of Franklin Schaffner’s film didn’t seem to argue with this.