32 years ago, and the cultural minutiae contained in this Leonard Maltin report feels as exotic and ancient as Egyptian heiroglyphs. “Virtually indestructable”? Laser rot was a common term ten years later.

From a just-posted Atlantic essay called “How Michael Clayton Presaged 2017,” by James Parker:

“Michael Clayton is a great film because underneath the stylishness, the performances, the dialogue, and the closed-circuit plotting, underneath everything that got it nominated for seven Academy Awards, is the mute, heaven-pummeling, gaping-like-a-baby unformed vowel of a human soul crying out.

“In the gray light, Clayton (George Clooney) climbs the pasture. Halfway up the slope, three horses are standing: sculpturally still, casually composed in a perfect triptych of horsitude. Clayton stops, wobbles slightly. The horses watch him, three velvety dinosaur heads scanning this end-of-his-rope man with a balance of priestly inquiry and animal indifference. They breathe, they nod, incense of horse-exhalation in the cool air. He breathes, he nods. Something is exchanged. Something is understood. Something is absolved. Something is released.

“Behind him, in a gassy wallop of flame, his car explodes. The horses wheel and take off, with the air of having suddenly remembered a superior engagement. And Clayton, understanding after a few seconds of confusion that somebody just tried to kill him, blunders back down to the blazing vehicle and clumsily, hastily, tosses into it his watch, his wallet, whatever is in his pockets.”

Wells interjection: When the cops investigate the blackened vehicle, they’ll naturally assume that Clayton was in the car despite the absence of skeletal remains or teeth.

Back to Parker: “The law does its work, finally, in Michael Clayton. It mops up the corruption. The system functions. Society holds. But for the individual, for Michael Clayton, there has been a reckoning. Conflagration, transformation.

HE salutes The Hollywood Reporter‘s Seth Abramson for tweeting what appear to be apparent facts about the alleged but still unconfirmed pee-pee incident between Donald Trump and “a group of women” at the Ritz Moscow in November 2013. Abramson’s understanding is that “the FBI has made contact with a former Trump Organization employee who confirms there was a fracas in the lobby of the Ritz during the second week of November 2013,” and that “multiple media outlets” and “certain political operatives” are aware of this, etc. Said outlets aren’t reporting because the information “can’t be triple-sourced or confirmed for attribution,” Abramson says.

Read the whole message here.

…and put ’em where the sun don’t shine. Consider what Jason Aldean tweeted just after the Las Vegas massacre. Not a word about looney gun culture, bump stocks, small dicks, universal background checks, how nobody needs an automatic weapons for anything, etc.

HE’s own Svetlana Cvetko has been making the film-festival rounds with her short, Yours Sincerely, Lois Weber, which was exec produced by Elizabeth Banks. Weber (1879 – 1939) is commonly regarded as “the most important female director the American film industry has ever known“, and certainly was the industry’s most prolific director in the silent-film era.

Last night the doc screened at the Mill Valley Film Festival; it next shows at Arkansas’s Hot Springs Documentary Festival on 10.12, and then the Savannah Film Festival on 10.24. I’ve seen it — it wakes you up to the life of a major pathfinder and makes you want to know a lot more. Weber’s life should be made into a feature…hello? Here’s the film’s Facebook page

Svetlana Cvetko, director of Yours Sincerely, Lois Weber, following last night’s screening at the Mill Valley Film Festival.  (Photo by Allison Levenson.)

Tatyana and I watched Robert Redford‘s Ordinary People last night. It hit me that there’s a vague parallel between it and Sean Baker‘s The Florida Project in that (a) both focus on emotionally destructive mothers and (b) they both conclude with Evil Mom, to the audience’s great relief, finally being defeated and prevented from doing further harm.

Tatyana’s main take-away from the Redford flick, which she’d never seen, is that life is nothing without love. She based that on the fact Timothy Hutton‘s Conrad character seemed to be as much restored or healed by his budding relationship with Elizabeth McGovern as by his therapy sessions with Judd Hirsch.

I was once Conrad, I told her, except the villain in in my situation was my alcoholic dad, and work (i.e., gradually becoming a respected film journalist) was my salvation, and not love from this or that girlfriend or wife. 

Because for years and years I was hidden and conflicted, mainly because I felt held back by a little barking man in my chest who didn’t like who I was or approve of anything I did. The only way I was able to gradually smother that little fucker was to do well in journalism. He finally started to lose his voice in the late ’80s, when my two sons were born. The little man was further subdued when I stopped vodka in ’96, and was weakened all the more when I embraced full sobriety 5 and 1/2 years ago. **

I’ve never had a great deal of faith in the the idea of a relationship making my life whole because work is the only thing that has led to any feelings of accomplishment or peace or security. I’ve tried to be a reliable, full-hearted boyfriend or a loyal and supportive husband, but I’d be lying if I said I’ve been a radiant success in that department. 

How am I doing right now? The more important question is “how is Tatyana doing?”  Sometimes I feel inspired and carried aloft and other times not so much. I’m not doing too badly, I guess, but marriage is a day-by-day thing. Two steps forward, one step back, a half-step forward, etc. That said, I’m very happy to be with someone as tough and loving and demanding (in all respects) as Tatyana.

Getting eight and 1/2 hours (as opposed to the usual five or six) does wonders for your basic outlook upon life. It’s almost Halloween, November is just around the corner, and it feels like July here. The sky is radiant blue and everyone I see seems to be in a great or at least an easy mellow mood. I had the car washed this morning, and as I drove out of the lot it seemed as if all of West Hollywood was just as gleaming and squeaky clean. Ridley Scott‘s Blade Runner milieu, a portrait of a poisoned Los Angeles in 2019, was absolute bullshit. Blade Runner 2049 is, of course, a prophecy of ecological run to come, and that’s where we’re definitely heading with criminals like Scott Pruitt running the EPA, but BR49‘s idea of what Los Angeles will look like 32 years hence is almost surely just as ludicrous as Scott’s.

Is she in the shower? What’s she doing, snapping her fingers or snorting cocaine out of a small spoon that we can’t see? One of the two.

In the comment thread for last night’s “Save Idris Elba“post, I was beaten up for saying that Kate Winslet‘s performance as a photojournalist in The Mountain Between Us (which of course is composed of her own personality and psyche) was not, in my estimation, an attractive component in the midst of the life-of-death survival struggle in the Rocky Mountains. I said that it seemed ill-advised for Idris Elba‘s surgeon character to fall for an obviously contentious and difficult woman under such circumstances. I expanded upon this a couple of hours ago:

“I’m sure Winslet is fine and gracious and ‘attractive’ when you get to know her, but to me she seems, under the guise of her photojournalist character, like a stressed and prickly lady with all the usual issues and baggage that any 42 year-old, Type-A personality has acquired, and that in the middle of a survive-or-die ordeal in rugged snowy mountain terrain THE LAST THING you’d want to add to your already-heavy backpack is a romantic relationship with a woman who is clearly a hive of thorns and contrary opinions and anxieties and skittish mannerisms and so on. NO DAY AT THE BEACH. Life is short, survival in the mountains is hard enough…later.

“I’m married to a ravishing 40-plus woman who has her particular issues like anyone else, but she doesn’t exude those jagged-edge anxiety vibes. I have enough of those on my own, thanks.”

Last night Deadline‘s Anthony D’Allesandro posted a financial obituary for Blade Runner 2049. At a suspected cost of $170 million plus p & a, it might make $35 million by Sunday night…maybe. “An awful start…kerplunk,” says D’Allesandro. And it’ll be lucky to hit $100 million by the end of its domestic run. And European returns aren’t so hot either….phfffft.

D’Allesandro quote: “One financier remarked that they weren’t impressed by Friday’s early European B.O. results, and that it’s now up to Asia to save Blade Runner 2049.” Asia! We’re dying! Please save us!

Before this toxic gloomfest disappears with its tail between its legs, please share what you thought and felt as you sat through it last night or earlier today. If you hated it, fine. If you hated watching it but respected it anyway (like me), fine. But please post something from the heart or the head before it becomes a dead issue.

From Nick “Action Man” Clement: “Not a fan. Yes, it looks amazing, and it felt like a Denis Villeneuve movie in construction and aesthetic design and I still absolutely love this spellbinding filmmaker, but the 2049 narrative offered zero surprises, far too much bloat (there’s no valid reason this should have been close to three hours), and nothing of any serious engagement other than some really nice shots of the spinners flying around and Ryan Gosling giving a nice Ryan Gosling performance.

“I found it rote, stunningly predictable (I could have written this movie), and stodgy where it should have been gripping. The musical score is unmemorable, offering nothing but annoying BLLLAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMM on the soundtrack, often times drowning out the dialogue.”

A few years ago I chatted with Billy Crystal for 70 or 75 seconds at a Sundance Film Festival party. My sense was that he’s a bit of cold-eyed prick, or at the very least is indifferent to social graces when it comes to inquiring journalists. But many comedians are like that so no biggie — goes with the territory. In any case I forgot this when I watched last night’s Real Time chat with Bill Maher, and particularly after he told his “honor the president” bit. Perfect.

Appearances to the contrary, The Mountain Between Us (20th Century Fox, 10.6) is not Touching The Void with a love story on the side but a love story with Touching The Void on the side, except it’s not as good as Touching The Void. Plus it’s a love story from hell, or certainly one afflicted with crabby vibes

Photojournalist Alex (Kate Winslet) and Ben (Idris Elba), a mild-mannered surgeon, decide to share the cost of a chartered small plane after their commercial flight is grounded at some airport in Idaho. Their older, overweight pilot (Beau Bridges) suffers a mid-flight stroke and they wind up crashing atop a mountain. They both survive, but after two or three days it’s clear they’ll have to hike their way down to civilization. Various threats manifest (predators, foul weather, hunger, a near-fatal fall, thin ice) but you knew that going in.

The best kind of hetero love story is one in which (a) a profound connection has occured and you’re dying for the would-be lovers to make something out of it, but (b) they don’t due to some overriding expectation or previous commitment or third-act tragedy. The worst kind of love story is one in which the woman is obviously a high-strung, Type-A ballbuster (Kate) and the guy is too thick to understand what he’s run into, and then he falls for her and they fuck and so on, and your feelings for him are torn between pity and contempt.

I saw The Mountain Between Us at the Toronto Film Festival, and you could just feel the “oh, no” current in the room. Everyone knew that Idris had made the wrong move. I was telepathically screaming “fuck, dude…you have a life and an honorable profession and many responsibilities back east, and you’re becoming romantically interested in a woman who’s obviously no day at the beach on top of trying to survive amid snow and icy temperatures and mountain lions?….what are you doing, man?”

I believed in Winslet as an object d’amour 20 years ago in Titanic, but that’s the glow of youth. Now she’s 42 and a bit weather-worn. She’s been through this and that with kids and a divorce and a house fire and everything else, and you can just tell by her anxious, fretful expression in those stills from Woody Allen‘s Wonder Wheel that she’s a stressed-out, high-maintenance handful.

A 49% Rotten Tomatoes score, and a 47% rating from Metacritic…do the math.

I didn’t hate The Mountain Between Us, but I certainly wasn’t disappointed when it ended.

I can’t say I “enjoyed” watching Blade Runner 2049 last night, but I can honestly say this morning that it’s gained upon reflection.

I’ve sat through my share of futuristic jizz-whizz fantasy flicks — nutrition-free wanks that you don’t respect the next morning. Denis Villeneuve‘s 30-years-later sequel to Ridley Scott‘s 1982 Blade Runner is no cheap-high ride — it’s a grim dystopian dream-trip, ruinously “beautiful” but soul-draining — but if you just surrender to the toxicity and allow it to pollute your system and your soul, you’ll probably realize the next morning that Villeneuve has deepened and expanded the overall tale. He’s made a serious film to which attention must be paid.

Perhaps not in a way that will matter all that much in the general realm and yes, you might feel a little sick from all those residual poisons, but a few hours later you’ll be glad you submitted. Because as much as I disliked sitting through it, Blade Runner 2049 stays with you, and that’s always a mark of something profound or at least high-fibre-ish.

It lasts an eternity — I checked my watch at least five or six times, and my muttered mantra all through it was “I don’t give a shit about any of this, I don’t give a shit about any of this, I don’t give a shit about any of this” — but it’s certainly a major vision thing. Pay your $16 dollars and sink into a thoroughly gloomy realm of super-holograms (including ones of Frank Sinatra and Vegas-era Elvis Presley), rot, ruin and industrial scrap, a toxic shithole populated with grim-faced characters you would just as soon squash as look at, a world of hair-grease and sprayed sweat and impassive, cold-death expressions, and all of it blanketed with rain, snow, sludge and chemical mud-glop.

And oh, yeah, for a story that you won’t give two shits about. A dingleberry doodle plot involving memory implants and oscured lineage and a secret no one must know (no one! just ask Jared Leto!) and a little wooden horse with a date (6.10.21) carved into the base, and some shit-hooey about original replicant creator Eldon Tyrell having given Rachael, the experimental replicant played by Sean Young in the ’82 original, the organic potential to reproduce and blah blah. And a narrative pace that will slow your own pulse and make your eyelids flutter and descend, and a growing need to escape into the outer lobby so you can order a hot dog and check your messages.

BR49 should have run two hours, not two hours and 44 minutes.

Do yourself a favor…seriously. Before seeing it this weekend, read the Wikipedia synopsis. Doing so will remove the irritating, hard-to-follow story tease and allow you to just concentrate on the visuals, which is all this thing is about anyway. It doesn’t matter anyway — nothing does, it’s all shit and distraction, you’re all just contributing to the Warner Bros. bottom line, to Ryan Gosling and Harrison Ford‘s wealth while you subtract from your own. We’re all punks, fools, suckers, knaves. Warner Bros. pours a little whiskey onto the plastic floor, and like Ford’s Blade Runner wolf dog we lick it right up.

Fuck the story, fuck the lineage factor, fuck it all. Just sink into the chilly murderous vibe and Gosling’s impassive, glazed-over robot eyes, and Ford’s subtle emotional delivery (has he ever cried before on-screen?). Nobody cares and it doesn’t fucking matter if RG or Ford or Kevin Tsujihara are replicants. I’m a replicant with the capability of siring children and writing a daily column. What difference does it make if I’m an android or not, or if I dream of electric sheep? Nobody cares, nothing matters, it’s all bullshit.

What of the virtual-reality ho chick, the homicidal super-bitch and the brittle, tough-cookie supervisor played by Ana de Armas, Sylvia Hoeks and Robin Wright? Smart women will not be pleased. (After the show a friend was listening to a whipsmart feminist deploring these characters and the phony, piss-poor writing.) For these are cardboard, non-dimensional figures (women acting like men or fulfilling men’s fantasies) who would never be hatched by a woman screenwriter. Grow some soul and awareness, Hampton Fancher and Michael Green.

How important is Gosling’s little wooden horse, and how does it feed into everything else? I’m still scratching my head about that, but I’m sure someone will explain it later today. Is Gosling’s “Joe” the replicant son of you-know-who? I didn’t give a shit. Is there any kind of emotionally satisfying undercurrent in any of this? Fuck no.

There’s one moment — one! — that made me sit up in my seat and say to myself “wait, hold on, this is semi-poignant.” But the spoiler whiners will kill me if I get specific. It involves Ford and a younger woman — I’ll leave it at that.

I knew this wouldn’t be a glorious, all-around triumph. I knew it would be brilliant but problematic. I knew not to trust those rave reviews written by balding, bespectacled and/or heavyset dweebs. If they’d written “it’s a bear to sit through and it makes you feel like shit, but it’s a masterpiece,” okay, but too many of them just wrote “it’s a masterpiece!” This is why people don’t trust critics. They live in their own world.