What’s behind Scott Feinberg‘s bizarre insistence upon listing Tim Fehlbaum‘s September 5 as the most likely Best Picture contender of them all? It’s a good film but not top-of-the-list good. I’m not irked or angry or fuming. I’m not slapping my forehead. I just honestly don’t get it.

I’m somewhat interested in catching My Name is Alfred Hitchcock (Cohen Media Group, 10.25), a two-hour “virtual essay” fom director-writer Mark Cousins.

The reason for the “somewhat” is that I’ve been spooked by a portion of the trailer, specifically Cousins’ decision to use an image of a young, pale, rather plain-looking Asian woman early on. The instant she appeared I muttered to myself “who the hell is this, and what could she possibly have to do with the late Alfred or anything Hitchcockian or whatever?” Right away I sensed something was off, some kind of loose screw.

Kevin Maher’s London Times review, posted last July, has also given me pause.

“Any new film from the whispering cineaste and critical savant Mark Cousins is worth celebrating,” Maher wrote. “And this deep dive into the complete 52-title oeuvre of Alfred Hitchcock is worth it alone for Cousins’s analysis of the first cut in Rope, the opening doors of Spellbound and Hitch’s penchant for omniscient overhead shots.

“The central storytelling device, however, is that it’s narrated by Hitchcock (actually the impressionist Alistair McGowan) from beyond the grave. This is amusing for at least five minutes, until McGowan’s impersonation slips into a phlegmy Admiral Ackbar from Return of the Jedi and you start to crave the comforting tones that Cousins normally brings to his material.

“He has one of the most singular, soothing and mellifluous voices in non-fiction filmmaking today; that he would sacrifice that for a cheap one-note gag from Saturday night telly, beaten to death over two hours, is baffling.”

The inane recording studio chit-chat before the Swingin’ Blue Jeans kick into gear with “Hippy Hippy Shake“…somehow it all works better this way.

I’m genuinely embarassed to admit I have a curious soft spot for this puerile, super-synthetic tune. Originally written and recorded by 17-year-old Chan Romero in ’59. It charted at No. 3 in Australia. The Beatles recorded a crude, garage-bandy version sometime in mid’ 63. The flashier, superior Swingin’ Blue Jeans version was recorded in December ’63, and wound up charting stateside in early ’64.

Where is she now?

“In Paris. She’s a member of a bizarre, sado-masochistic sexual order…whips, chains, hot candles, that sort of thing.”

Three Chris Walken scenes from Paul Mazursky‘s Next Stop, Greenwich Village. Hot candles begins at 1:18. Abortion anecdote at 2:08. Ezra Pound at 2:08.

HE interview with Sofia Coppola, discussing the excellent Somewhere (2010) but also this and that. Early on Coppola mentions my resemblance to Walken.

A recent Emerson College poll, conducted between 10.14 and 10.16, has shown that among undecided voters (dumbshits, none-too-brights, slowboats) who decided on their presidential pick within the last couple of weeks, 60 percent voted for Harris while 36 percent decided in favor of Bloated Orange Fatass.

Why is this election (only two weeks left) looking like such a squeaker? Give me a sensible centrist candidate who hates wokesters and is dedicated to rolling back DEI, and I’ll vote for him/her at the drop of a hat.

But how rock stupid do you have to be to say “I think it’ll be better all around if we return the absolute worst president in U.S. history — a criminal authoritarian sociopath — to the White House”? The man is an animal, and his cult members are cool with that.

Speaking of elderly singers losing their vocal game, here’s a study in Frank Sinatra contrasts — the Pal Joey version of “Bewitched“, recorded at age 41 and easily one of Sinatra’s greatest vocal performances (especially starting at the 2:30 mark), and then shoot forward to an episode that happened in ’92 when a weakened 78-year-old Sinatra, three years younger than today’s Joni Mitchell and less diminished than she seemed the other night as he was singing standing up and holding his own solo. Yes, I’ve posted this before but it’s a great story.

Emilia Perez “possesses the profound ability to change the world”? This guy is riding the back of the tiger…triumphant trans progressive bandwagon ho! The gay mafia may not be calling the shots (that’s Lisa Taback‘s job), but they’re certainly pulling strings. Either way the fix is in.