Last May the understanding was that Apple + had chickened out of releasing Antoine Fuqua and Will Smith’s Emancipation, the fear being that Smith’s Oscar slap incident would overshadow the film, at least in terms of award-season recognition.

But yesterday’s THR report about yesterday’s screening in Washington, D.C. strongly indicates that the Apple team has changed its collective mind. Sounds good to most of us! Bring it on, boys.

Delaying this film for a year wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference, damage-control-wise.

In a 10.1 Air Mail piece about Italy’s newly elected Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni (“They’re With Her”), George Pendel laments three warning signs — “conspiracy theories about immigration” (whatever that means), Meloni’s “perpetual use of anti-Semitic dog whistles” (obviously odious if true) and “her screeds against political correctness” (what’s wrong with that?…more power!).

The best thing about the article, however unfair or malicious it might be, is Harry Greb’s illustration of Meloni as the evil queen in Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937).

Paul Schrader’s The Master Gardener, the final chapter in his “lonely haunted man with a certain history writing his thoughts in longhand while sitting at a clutter-free desk” trilogy, is a “Southern fable,” as Schrader put it earlier today.

It’s actually a redemption-seeking love story. Redemption by way of acceptance, submission, renunciation, devotion and violence.

The only truly difficult part for me was Joel Edgerton’s “Hitler youth” haircut — absolutely no one looks good with one of these godawful things. They smell of fear and repression and a form of cowardice and self-loathing.

I’ll leave it there and tap out an HE review sometime tomorrow as it’s 8:34 pm and I’m standing in line for a 9 pm viewing of Triangle of Sadness (which I saw in Cannes last May) at Avery Fisher Hall.

The common consensus is that whatever you may think of Noah Baumbach’s White Noise, a dryly farcical ‘80s period drama set in an Ohio college town, the final sequence — an ambitiously choreographed dance sequence featuring shoppers at an A & P supermarket — is the highlight.

The sequence affirms the film’s basic theme about nearly everyone turning to all kinds of distractions (including food) to avoid contemplating their own mortality.

Though brilliantly staged, the dance number is undercut by Baumbach’s decision to use it as a closing credits backdrop. Here’s how I put it to a friend:

“The LCD Soundsystem ‘New Body Rumba’ finale could have been great if Baumbach hadn’t decided to overlay it with closing credits. I almost shouted out loud ‘Oh no!! He’s blowing it!!’

“I’m saying this because once the credits begin we instantly disengage as we tell ourselves ‘okay, the movie’s over so the aisle–dancing is just a colorful bit, a spirit-picker-upper…whatever.’

“If Baumbach hadn’t given us permission to disengage, the dancing could have been wild and mind-blowing in a surreal Luis Bunuel-meets-Pedro Almodovar way. It could have been a mad slash across a wet-paint canvas…a Gene Kelly consumer-orgy crescendo.

And then it could have segued into a closing credit crawl. Alas…

This morning a Geek Squad tech guy was visiting the condo. Problems resulting from competing internet systems (Optimum vs. eero) were being addressed.

The first thing the GS guy did was call an Optimum agent about establishing a bridge connection. (Don’t ask.). The street address and account # had been verified, but the Optimum agent also needed to verify the name of the account holder (Joanne Jasser) and the corresponding phone #.

The latter was provided but I told the rep that the principal’s first name was a colloquial Jody rather than the more formal Joanne. Her response: “We don’t have an account holder by that name.”

It was soon after explained that Jody and Joanne were one and the same, but until that moment of clarity the Optimum rep was ready and willing to stop exchanging info. Everything but the first name had synched. The Optimum rep was being extra precise, of course. It could also be argued that she wasn’t the brightest bulb. I’ll let it go at that.

Out of 40something films he’s made since the mid ‘80s, Tom Hanks has said that only four cut the mustard. And that doesn’t even mean that the un-named four are great or A-level films — Hanks is only allowing that they’re “pretty good.”

Which films could he be referring to? I’m guessing Big, Philadelphia, Forrest Gump and Saving Private Ryan.

“Road to Perdition Was Hanks’ Last Big Serious Score,” posted on 4.23.16: I would say that Hanks peaked from Splash (’84) to Road to Perdition (’02), or a run of 18 years. Okay, 14 years if you feel that Hanks’ career really took off with Big in ’88.

And yes, I would say that since Perdition luck was not really been with him except in the case of Charlie Wilson’s War (’07) and Captain Phillips (’13).

Once your cards have gone cold, it’s awfully hard to heat them up again. There’s nothing more humiliating than for a man who once held mountains in the palm of his hands having to push his own cart around the supermarket as he buys his own groceries and then, insult to injury, has to wait in line at the checkout counter. Then again he’s stinking rich.

Hanks’ finest early-career-building films: Splash (’84), Dragnet (’87), Big (’88), Punchline (’88).

Hanks’ amazing six-year, nothing-but-pure-gold period: A League of Their Own (’92), Sleepless in Seattle (’93), Philadelphia (’93), Forrest Gump (’94), Apollo 13 (’95), Toy Story (’95), Saving Private Ryan (’98), You’ve Got Mail (’98), Toy Story 2 (’99).

Hanks’ first big-time stinker — a movie I’ll hate with every fibre of my being for the rest of my life: The Green Mile (’99).

Commendable:  Cast Away (’00)

Hanks’ last, best serious role after his ’90s kissed-by-God period: Road to Perdition (’02).

I was walking back to the car after visiting a shoe repair place on Van Sant Street in East Norwalk when all of a sudden this ruddy-faced, shaved-head guy wearing long baggy shorts is right next to me and saying the following in quick succession, like a Gatling gun: (1) “Whassup, Elvis? “, (2) “I like your shoes” and “put it there.”

A voice told me not to shake his hand, and I knew I’d made the right call when he said a second later, “Don’t wanna be friends, huh?”

I’ll shake hands with a stranger over a point of mutual agreement (i.e., “You don’t want a trans person with monster elephant boobs teaching your five-year-old? Put it there, pardner”) but I’ll never shake hands just to shake hands, especially with a skeezy guy.

This really actually happened around 3:15 pm today.

** He didn’t actually say what I said he said. He actually said “whass goin’ on there, Elvis?” I didn’t like how that looked as a headline so I shortened it. Then the lie began to burn through my soul.

Since glimpsing this college film-course chart, I’ve been reading about the influential Dziga Vertov. who was very close to Vladimir Lenin. But before this morning I had never heard of the guy. At least I’m willing to admit it.

Eric Clapton and Van Morrison earned their disrepute for Covid-ignoring, mask-refusing obstinacy. But Roger Waters has outdone them by becoming a Putin admirer, or at least a supporter of Russki slaughter in Ukraine.

To me the Nuart has always been the West Los Angeles version of the Cinema Village — a certain storied, neon-marquee, down-at-the-heels atmosphere but never a theatre to get excited about attending, much less write home about.

If you ask me it peaked in the ‘70s and ‘80s, which many regard as the summit of L.A.’s arthouse era (Fox Venice, Beverly Canon, LACMA’s Bing, the varied Laemmle westside showplaces).

From a presentational or impressionistic viewpoint, the Nuart has always been a bowling alley-slash-quonset hut with a smallish screen.

My last viewing at the Nuart was the restored Becket (Glenville + O’Toole + Burton). The quality difference between that subdued, somewhat murky-sounding presentation and what this 1964 film undoubtedly looked and sounded like in big-city, first-run bookings, not to mention the first-rate Bluray….forget it, man.

The best aspect of the vaguely grubby Nuart is still the pinkish-red neon marquee, and even that isn’t what anyone would call spectacular. Okay, maybe I’m being too harsh.