Despite my admiration for all things Tony Gilroy, I still have yet to watch the seven-episode Andor. It is my solemn belief that doing so would be bad for my soul. Plus I don’t care for brown-and-beige color palettes.

If only failed or otherwise repudiated chiefs of state could be ejected this swiftly in the U.S. Here’s a N.Y. Times recap.

…and you’re almost late. The line stretches east on 57th Street and around the block to Sixth Avenue and down. I made it in but barely. Not cool, man! The film is The Good Nurse (Netflix, 10.19 theatrical, 10.26 streaming), which is good, I’ve been told.

I came across the above description of Todd Field’s Tar yesterday — an analogy between Cate Blanchett‘s Lydia Tar and Daniel Day Lewis‘s Daniel Plainview.

The seed appeared in Jessica Kiang‘s 9.19 Film Comment roundup of the Venice Film Festival ** (“Venice ’22: Women on Fire“), to wit:  “For over a decade I’ve wondered, off and on, when we would get a female movie character to equal the ferocity, charisma, and monumental destructive narcissism of There Will Be Blood’s Daniel Plainview. Though the two films could not be more different, I think I can stop wondering now. Lydia Tár would drink your milkshake without ever thinking it might not be hers to drink.”

Kiang’s month-old essay doesn’t mention “Girlboss” though.  (Before failing to note the URL, I thought I had read “Bosswoman” or “Bitchboss”.) It comes, I’ve just been told, from a 10.15 Letterboxd piece by Brenda Nowicz. Hats off. (And thanks to “LightInfa” for the heads-up.)

I know that the There Will Be Blood association opened something up. A little light bulb switched on. One could even make the claim that the final shot in that Asian ComicCon gathering in Tar is equivalent to Daniel Day Lewis’s final TWBB line — “I’m finished!”

Tar may be a “monster”, as Kiang calls her, but over the decades I’ve been in the orbit of several such headstrong egoists, male and female alike, and when you become a big, wealthy visionary cheese such behavior sometimes (but not always) goes with the territory.  Regrettable and possibly unpleasant for certain parties, but not evil.  Kiang is one of those who regards Lydia Tar”s third-act takedown by woke “robots” as a justified thing.  That, to me, is horrifying.

Tar is a piece of work, all right, and I wouldn’t want to get too close to a real-life counterpart for fear of stray venom pellets, but she’s not that awful — her behavior has been observed among many headstrong creators.  Nearly ever powerful person in world history, especially the creatively powerful and world-famous, has used his or her power to persuade attractive young people to fuck or pleasure them or serve as arm-candy. They’ve all done it. Lydia Tar is no different. Way of the big, bad, grown-up world. And after you turn 20 you have to figure that stuff out.

Plus I”m still bothered by the fact that Field doesn’t allow a single sexual vapor into the film — he asks us to supply our own imaginings.

**Thanks to “SlashMC.”

It’s not my fault that today is a slow one.

For decades I tried to catch the most highly-regarded Manhattan plays, and I’m very grateful that I made the effort. We all realize that the last Broadway era for great playwriting ended between 20 or 25 years ago. (It’s all musicals now, and damn the sappy tourists for making this happen.) For me the mid ’70s to mid ’80s was close to a golden stage era. Which isn’t to say it was the greatest by the measure of any Broadway-veteran perspective, but simply a time when I was living near or in Manhattan, or often flying there from Los Angeles. Things were happening and I knew I had to get what I could.

It was a time in which certain well-reviewed plays (and one glorious musical, Sunday in the Park With George) seemed to speak directly to me and my experience…written by the youngish lions of that era (David Mamet, Simon Gray, Harold Pinter, Tom Stoppard, Peter Shaffer) and focused on anxious, unsatisfied white guys whose situations seemed to echo my own…taunted by various urban anxieties, ambitions…by aloneness, sex/love, existential voids, “who am I?”, “what’s it all about?” and “will my life always seem this much of an uphill thing?”

It almost makes me weep to reflect on that period, which for me began in ’76 and started to wind down in ’85. (I lived in Manhattan for a bit more than five years — ‘early ’78 to ‘mid ’83.) Film-wise and quite sadly for many of us, the last third of the ’70s marked the beginning of the end of the “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls” period, and the early ’80s would became known as an era in which “the bottom [had] fallen out of badness in movies,” to borrow from Andrew Sarris.

But the quality of the plays seemed wonderful; ditto the culture (mostly pre-AIDS) itself. Life was hard, of course (my finances were mostly a shambles until ’87) and the wrong people were in power and writers were stuck with typewriters and white-out, but compared to today it almost seems as if I was living a kind of half-charmed life. I could live and work and run around (my batting average was around .400, give or take**) and write without fear of wokester death squads, for one thing.

I wouldn’t say that my future seemed especially rosey or brilliant back then, but it certainly lay ahead. You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.

The Reagan-era play that lifted me up and melted me down like none before or since was Tom Stoppard‘s The Real Thing (’84). Sappy as this sounds, it made me swoon. Okay, not “swoon” but it struck some kind of deep, profound chord. Partly because I saw it at a time when I believed that the right relationship with the right woman could really make a difference. That was then and this is now, but I was in the tank for this stuff in ’84. The play used the Monkees’ “I’m A Believer” as mood music, and I pretty much was one at the time.

I’m speaking of the original B’way production, of course, directed by Mike Nichols and costarring Jeremy Irons and Glenn Close. My admiration for Irons’ performance as Henry, a witty London playwright who resembled Stoppard in various ways, was boundless. Close, whom I was just getting to know back then, was truly magnificent as Annie. N.Y. Times critic Frank Rich called it “not only Mr. Stoppard’s most moving play, but also the most bracing play that anyone has written about love and marriage in years.”

(I went to see the 2000 B’way revival and was bitterly disappointed by Stephen Dillane‘s uncharismatic lead performance, which wasn’t even close to what Irons had brought.)

I was also floored that same year by James Lapine and Stephen Sondheim‘s Sunday in the Park With George, which opened at the Booth theatre on 5.2.84. It was one of the few B’way musicals that really reached inside, and it still makes me choke up when I watch it on YouTube.

I’m just going to list some of the plays that really hit the sweet spot between ’76 and ’85…I’m bypassing a few but here we go regardless:

Peter Shaffer‘s Equus, which I saw in London in the early summer of ’76. The great Colin Blakely was magnificent in the lead role of psychiatrist Martin Dysart (and better, I have to say, than Richard Burton was in the Sidney Lumet film version). I saw Anthony Perkins play the role in a B’way production of Equus in ’77, and I’m sorry to say that he underwhelmed.

A Broadway production of David Mamet‘s American Buffalo in early ’77. Directed by Ulu Grosbard with Robert Duvall, Kenneth McMillan and John Savage costarring. Four years later I saw it again (twice) at the Circle in the Square with Al Pacino as Teach. Pacino wasn’t a robot — he played certain lines and scenes a bit differently at times…experimentally, if you will. I was in heaven.

Trump will respond this way, I mean. If and when he ever testifies, he’ll lie or dummy up. Standard operating procedure.

David Poland has written a frank recollection of the long, brutal, bruising relationship he had for years with the late Nikki Finke. It strikes me as one of the best columns he’s ever written.

And she wasn’t. But she was tough and tenacious, and she certainly left her journalistic mark in the ‘90s and aughts. Give the devil her due.

There’s more to the trials and tribulations of life than just being liked or disliked. Most people would dispute this, and I wouldn’t argue with them. Human warmth (friends, family, strangers) is worth its weight in gold, but a bit more credit is arguably due to to gifted hustlers, obstinate renegades, generals, pathfinders, pyramid builders, geniuses, inventors, etc.

That said, Finke was my idea of a very harsh and vindictive person. A serpent, a meanie. I’m not exaggerating.

“We’re here and then we’re not here. Somewhere else…maybe.” — Terrence Stamp’s “Willie Parker” in Stephen Frears The Hit (‘84).

Showbiz 411‘s Roger Friedman (filed at 12:54 pm):