Ebon Moss-Bachrach? No offense but he’s not good-looking enough. If I was a girl or a gay guy I wouldn’t be interested. He looks like the best friend of the bad guy. Am I allowed to say this? Of course not. I’m still looking forward to seeing Tokyo Project, which lasts all of 32 minutes.

Offer American moviegoers a chance to try something a little different, a film that’s a bit more complex and fibre-rich and challenging than the usual bowl of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes, and they will lunge at Tony the Tiger every time. That is who and what Americans are for the most part — lazy, pleasure-seeking, popcorn-munching toads.

If you were paying any attention to the online conversations from Toronto over the last several days, you knew that Darren Aronfosky‘s mother! was something you had to see this weekend. It might not be your cup of tea or it might thrill or levitate you, but if you had the faintest interest in the latest topic du jour and keeping up with the Joneses in terms of cafe chatter, mother! was essential viewing. 

Well, Joe and Jane Popcorn didn’t even show up yesterday. mother! made around $3 million and will nab just under $8 million by Sunday night, but it earned a relatively rare F from Cinemascore.

(l.) Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali’s L’Age d’Or, released in 1930 to great controversy; (r.) Darren Aronofsky’s mother!, released yesterday by Paramount Pictures.

Yes, Paramount sold it as a conventional horror film, which mother! certainly isn’t. But content doesn’t seem to have been a factor. It would be one thing if a sizable nationwide crowd paid to see mother! yesterday and decided they didn’t like it….okay, fine. But they didn’t even show up. It was like they could smell what mother! was selling and just said “nope!” When people don’t want to see something, you can’t stop ’em. But Jennifer Lawrence can be proud — she really put herself out there and scored with a difficult, leap-of-faith, swan dive of a role

Obviously we’re looking at two Americas in terms of horror-film fare — one that loves cheaply superficial, teen-friendly, empty-headed horror films like IT (which I hated and which has made $274,310,619 worldwide so far) and another that savors the idea of smart, occasionally metaphorical, ahead-of-the-curve horror flicks like mother!, The Babadook, The Witch and that line of country. 

I’m a mother! kind of guy, but then you knew that.

You know what mother! is? It’s the new L’Age d’Or. Luis Bunuel‘s 1930 surrealist film, which opened on 11.29.30 at Studio 28 in Montmartre, also got a kind of F grade from conservative audiences of the day. It was attacked, spat upon, banned and withdrawn from circulation. It too was regarded as too arty or too perverse. All to say that Aronofsky and Lawrence are in good company, and that they should be proud for having made — no exaggeration — a disruptive, socially reflective masterpiece.

Earlier today the great Harry Dean Stanton left the planet. He was 91. HDS’s greatest role, no question, was Bud, Emilio Estevez‘s sardonic father figure and spiritual guide, in Alex Cox‘s Repo Man. There’s a good reason why I bought Criterion’s Bluray of that landmark 1984 film, and that’s Harry Dean.

His second best performance was in Ulu Grosbard‘s Straight Time (’78), in which he played Jerry, an amiable thief and old friend of Dustin Hoffman‘s Max Dembo. Jerry’s luck runs out following the robbing of a Beverly Hills jewelry store, but it’s really Dembo’s fault for taking too long after the alarm had sounded and for choosing Gary Busey, a junkie and a weakling, to drive the getaway car. I believed every word, every line that Stanton said in that film. 100% genuine, absolute real deal. Jerry to Max: “Get me outta here…get me outta here, man.”

Stanton’s third best wasn’t a performance but a wordless cameo. It happened at the very end of David Lynch‘s The Straight Story (’99). Richard Farnsworth finally completes his journey to his brother’s (i.e. Stanton’s) home, and HDS steps out and stands on the front porch and looks at his brother and just kind of quietly melts, almost imperceptibly.

And that’s it, really — just those three performances. No, wait…one more.

In Frank Perry‘s Rancho Deluxe (’75), HDS played a glum but romantically susceptible ranch hand named Curt. Curt is always hanging with his best friend Burt (Richard Bright), and of course their names are a running gag. And of course a young woman whom Curt falls for, a niece of Slim Pickens‘ bounty hunter called Laura (Charlene Dallas), has a hard time recalling if his name is Curt or Burt. Her affections, in other words, are less than 100% sincere. I think it’s allowable to mention that Rancho Deluxe has a great (if brief) blowjob scene between HDS and Dallas. Amusing and curiously erotic at the same time.

I could never quite invest in Wim Wenders‘ Paris, Texas (’84), in which Stanton played Nastassja Kinksi‘s ex-husband, Travis. HDS was just shy of 60 when he played the part, and he could never generate even a hint of a sexy-older-guy vibe — it just wasn’t in him. Kinski was 22 or 23, and there was just no buying them as a couple. I therefore watched Paris, Texas with a certain detachment. I’ve never even thought about re-watching it.

20-plus years ago I went down to The Mint to hear Stanton and his band play a couple of sets. He was a reasonably decent vocalist. The band was mainly performing top-40 soul and blues standards. At one point Harry announced that they were about to play “Mustang Sally,” and I remember wincing and saying to myself, “Oh, no…don’t do that..please. I hate that song, mostly because it’s been played to death for decades.” But they did, of course. That tore it for me. I left 15 or 20 minutes later.

Most filmgoers don’t associate the terms “horror flick” and “intriguing social metaphor.” They just go for the shocks and shrieks. But with the arrival of Darren Aronofsky‘s mother!, this dynamic is about to change.

It’s a film about dark, malicious things happening to a home and more particularly to a shaky marriage between Jennifer Lawrence and Javier Bardem, but it’s not some primal, oozy, goo-gloppy horror flick but — surprise! — a nervy, wild-ass provocation that actually qualifies as “thoughtful”. Really. Five or six people can see mother! and come out with five or six different takes, and all of them valid.

Obviously all horror flicks are signifiers of subterranean cultural undercurrents, but most stand and deliver as visceral experiences. The best ones slip into your bloodstream and before you know it you’re them. Or they’re you. mother! is visceral as hell, but you can’t watch it and not think “uhhm, this is about more than what I’m seeing on the screen…this might actually be about everything that’s happening on the planet right now.” Or not. Up to you. But it begs to be grappled with.

What happens in mother! is not entirely pretty or pleasant, but the movie is obviously a social or mythical allegory of some kind. I regard it as a portrait of the rancid, poisonous currents in our culture invading and ruining an oasis of purity and simplicity, or maybe as just a simple re-telling of the Adam and Eve saga. Some are seeing a reflection of what celebrities often go through with overly aggressive fans. The other day I called it “the single most profound explanation or dramatization of the saying that ‘hell is other people.'” Others are detecting an oblique confession of what Aronofsky may be like as a husband (i.e., self-engulfed in his artistic process, susceptible to mood swings).

Reactions are so intense and all-over-the-map that there’s only one thing to derive: mother! has to be seen.

The reaction of N.Y. Times critic A.O. Scott is one of respect and even amusement (“Don’t listen to anyone who natters on about how intense or disturbing it is — it’s a hoot!”). At the same time National Review‘s Kyle Smith has called mother! “an exercise in torture porn” and possibly “the vilest movie ever released by a major Hollywood studio.” Fantastic! Agitated French conservatives reacted with similar disdain when Luis Bunuel‘s L’Age d’Or opened in Paris in 1930, and look what happened with that one.

I should’ve posted this All The Money In The World trailer yesterday. Gut reactions requested. Kevin Spacey‘s transformational make-up is exciting in itself. I’m sensing an undercurrent, ramped-up energy… something along those lines. Obviously a strong…make that an interesting cast: Michelle Williams first and foremost, plus Spacey as J. Paul Getty (nobody plays disdainful pricks with his panache) as well as Mark Wahlberg, Romain Duris, Charlie Plummer, Charlie Plummer (playing kidnap victim John Paul Getty III) and Timothy Hutton as an attorney.

I’m currently on a United flight back to Los Angeles, somewhere over Ohio or Indiana. Nice seat, AC plug beneath the seat, wifi slowish but tolerable.

Two days ago MCN’s David Poland assessed the current Best Picture contenders — lockdowns, a likely lockdown, several maybes, some lukewarmies, mezzo-mezzos, struggling-against-the-tiders and three or four popsicles. This is an assessment of Poland’s assessment.

Poland claims that “only two movies came out of North American premieres at TIFF with legit Best Picture hopes” — Aaron Sorkin‘s Molly’s Game and Martin McDonagh‘s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. HE response: It would be great if Three Billboards makes the grade but Poland knows it’s primarily an acting nomination platform for Frances McDormand (Best Actress) and Sam Rockwell (Best Supporting Actor). The chilly, hyper-aggressive Molly’s Game has its moments (i.e., Idris Elba‘s climactic rebuttal to prosecutors, Jessica Chastain and Kevin Costner on the park bench) but it hasn’t a prayer of being BP nominated…forget it.

Poland’s biggest wrongo is declaring that Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name has a “punching chance” of being a Best Picture contender. This rapturously received, Eric Rohmer-esque love story has a good to excellent chance — trust me. Everyone I talked to in Toronto called it a triple or a home run. Okay, it might fall short if the guilds and the Academy membership decide to vote against that sun-dappled, lullingly sensual, Rohmer-ish aesthetic or if they don’t want to go gay two years in a row or if it’s regarded as too Italian or some other chickenshit beef.

Two Poland-approved locks: Darkest Hour, Dunkirk. HE response: Dunkirk, absolutely. Darkest Hour is a stirring historical drama and nicely composed as far it goes (HE is a longtime Joe Wright fan), but it could have been released in 1987. It’s a Best Picture contender for 50-and-over squares and sentimentalists. Which doesn’t mean it won’t be nominated — it’s just a mezzo-mezzo contender.

Poland says Lady Bird is likely but not locked. HE response: Yes, agreed, but if Greta Gerwig‘s film isn’t nominated the Academy membership will have spilled more brown gravy on the tablecloth (i.e., “You guys didn’t even nominate the toast of Telluride ’17?”)

Poland says only two of the following big-namers — Steven Spielberg‘s The Post, Paul Thomas Anderson‘s Phantom Thread, Ridley Scott‘s J. Paul Getty kidnapping movie, Clint Eastwood‘s foiled-train-massacre drama and Denis Villenueve‘s Blade Runner 2049 — will be nominated. HE response: The Post is totally locked, the PTA is a maybe, and the other three feel dicey to me, especially Blade Runner 2049.

Poland’s Good Chancers with HE thoughts in parentheses: Victoria & Abdul (a Judi Dench Best Actress nomination waiting to happen), The Big Sick (unlike Darkest Hour, The Big Sick is a here-and-now movie that reflects the culture of 2017…a witty, low-key, human-scaled dramedy), Molly’s Game (not a chance in hell…too rapidly paced, too aggressive, smart but cold, doesn’t breathe), The Shape of Water (love the Sally Hawkins narrative but others have called it under-written with too many plot holes), Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (initially seems a touch too violent and profane for serious Best Picture contention, but takes a surprising turn around the three-quarter mark and becomes, against all odds, a film about acceptance and compassion).

Puncher’s Chance, says Poland (HE thoughts in parentheses): Baby Driver (get outta here), 
Call Me By Your Name (not a puncher — belongs right alongside Lady Bird as a likely BP nominee), The Disaster Artist (inside-baseball indie flick for hipsters — strictly a Spirit Awards nominee, if that); Downsizing (imaginative concept, excellent FX and a great first act, but award-wise it pretty much died at Telluride)

In-The-Game Longshots, says Poland (HE thoughts in parentheses): Battle of the Sexes (a decent tennis film, connects four or five times, hasn’t a chance), Beauty & The Beast (WHAT?), Detroit (not this time, Jose), First They Killed My Father (a second helping of concentration camp porn from Angelina Jolie and her third film in a row about innocents being horribly treated by brutal governments), The Florida Project (yes!…great little flick with spirit and heart…why not?), Get Out (everyone bow down to the winner of the John Carpenter Smartly-Crafted Genre Award
 of 2017), Mudbound (exudes delicacy and compassion but is too muddy, too grim and too atmospherically claustrophobic, and that Mississippi Burning-type ending…yeesh), Wind River (thumbs-up, respected), Wonderstruck (not a chance in hell), Wonder Woman (made a lot of money, a big score for Jenkins & Gadot…that’s it).

Almost exactly a year ago, on 9.17.16, I predicted that if Hillary Clinton loses to Donald Trump “she will NEVER, EVER BE FORGIVEN. Hillary will singlehandedly redefine the definition of pariah if Trump wins. She’ll be like O.J. Simpson — she’ll have to leave the country and live in southern Spain. Or just hide in her house in Chappaqua and never come out. When she visits Chelsea in Manhattan people will scowl and spit when her car drives by.”

Maybe things aren’t quite that bad today, but people are certainly angry. Everyone has been fuming for nearly a year now. Clinton has obviously noticed this and decided that her image needs burnishing. Hence her new book, “What Happened“. I’ve only read excerpts (I certainly don’t plan on buying it), but reviews are calling it partly an explanation, partly an apology and partly a grief-counselling session.

Thanks for that but I know what happened. I’ve been explaining it chapter and verse for months. This excerpt captured it pretty well:

Echoes of this are contained in a 9.25 New Yorker interview/analysis piece by David Remnick, called “Hillary Clinton Looks Back In Anger”. Asked to suggest questions for the former Secretary of State, a political soldier who worked on Clinton’s 2008 campaign says, “Ask her why she blew the biggest slam dunk in the history of fucking American politics!” A top Democratic donor says Clinton “should just zip it, but she’s not going to.” When asked about the book, Democratic Senator Claire McCaskill, says “Beg your pardon?” and walks away.

The following passage from Remnick’s piece summarizes the basic mistakes and blind spots in Hillary’s campaign:

“Trump, who lives in gilded penthouses and palaces, who flies in planes and helicopters emblazoned with his name, who does business with mobsters, campaigned in 2016 by saying that he spoke for the working man, that he alone heard them and felt their anger, and by branding Hillary Clinton an ‘élitist,’ out of touch with her country.

“The irony is as easy as it is enormous, and yet Clinton made it possible.

Glenn Close totally rules in Bjorn Runge‘s The Wife, which just ended at Toronto’s Roy Thomson Hall. The film is strong and precisely written and well-carved, and Close carries it along with costar Jonathan Pryce on a 60-40 basis.

She brilliantly re-defines the familiar role of the discreet, classy, long-under-valued wife & partner of an ostensibly great man.

Exquisite poise, rich feeling, heart full of soul & regret, eyes of spirit and chrome steel. Close’s emoting in The Wife demands Oscar cred.

It’s a landmark performance with a great, angry, full-throttle climax. Close has a Best Actress nom in the bag if — IF — The Wife opens by 12.31.

Earlier today I finally saw Jim Carrey and Chris Smith‘s Jim & Andy: The Great Beyond. It’s a 95-minute doc about Carrey’s super-intense experience in portraying put-on comic Andy Kaufman for Milos Forman‘s Man on the Moon (’99). As a “making of” saga it’s a way-above-average thing, and as a slice of intimate celebrity portraiture it’s anything but run-of-the-mill.

The film achieves specialness by way of (a) a trove of heretofore-unseen backstage footage, shot by a crew Carrey hired to stay with him throughout filming, and (b) Carrey’s talking-head narration, which I found perceptive and (to my surprise) emotionally affecting.

I was hoping for a diverting backstage thing, but Jim & Andy is much more than that. 

It’s not just an essay about the craft of movie acting and the ritual of surrendering to a role, which Carrey did so completely while playing Kaufman in ’98 that he literally stopped being himself on a 24/7 basis (refusing to answer to Jim, speaking of himself in the third person). It’s also a study of the personas that we all project socially vs. the person we really are deep down. Which makes it a food-for-thought film about what social identity really boils down to, and the games that we all submit to in order to fulfill expectations and keep up appearances.

I was never not fascinated, and I loved the flavor of it.  I was especially struck by an anecdote about a certain phone conversation Carrey had with  Man on the Moon director Milos Forman, during which Carrey floated an idea about “firing” Kaufman and the super-contemptible Tony Clifton (I was never able to tolerate this alter-ego asshole) and doing imitations instead. 

I could summarize a few more highlights but I’m out of time. You’ll be better off just seeing the film and discovering them for yourself.

Mainly I felt riveted by Carrey’s commentary and Zen vibe. Sure, you can call Jim & Andy a vanity project as there are no talking heads besides the 55 year-old actor, and yet there’s something to be said for this strategy. Carrey’s relaxed, seemingly-nothing-to-hide manner of speaking (and who knows what’s real and what isn’t in terms of who he really is and what he’s chosen to pass along?) reaches out and somehow connects. His candid recollections, perceptive assessments, shoulder-shrugging charisma, seeming honesty and longish hair and gray beard, etc. — it all adds up to a package and a presentation that I trusted.

For all the media-driven perceptions about Carrey having gradually evolved over the last 10 or 15 years into something of a wiggy eccentric (Guardian critic Jordan Hoffman wrote in his review that Carrey “comes off as an asshole”), Carrey struck me as genuine and whole. There doesn’t seem (emphasis on the “s” word) to be any lying in the guy.  And the story behind his Kaufman performance is a trip.

And on that note, I have to leave for a 6:30 pm screening of The Wife at Roy Thomson Hall.

The idea in this Gilbert Gottfried doc is that you can present an agreeable, relatively mellow front with your friends, pets, neighbors and family members, and then become (i.e., revert to) a somewhat more pointed and aggressive personality when you’re “on” — performing, writing, acting or what-have-you. I am not Gottfried or vice versa, but to some extent I understand that dynamic.

Jeffrey Wells to Twitter Banshee Comintern: Please accept my humble apology for having written that a reportedly sober and recovering Devin Faraci deserved a second chance. I had read Tim League‘s letter about the former Birth.Movies.Death editor/columnist having embraced sobriety and presumably begun a healthier, less ferocious way of life. I’m not going to get into the beefs that many have had with Devin, but as one who felt cleaner, steadier and more open-hearted after embracing sobriety on 3.20.12, it seemed like a decent thing to say “okay, Faraci’s turning a corner, give him a break, allow him to become a better person.”

I’m very sorry for having said that. I should have bonded with the salivating wolves and said, “No, send him to hell….banish Faraci forever, kill his soul, exterminate his being, make him work as a cab driver or supermarket manager for the rest of his life.” I should have said that but I was too weak. I would love to possess the judgmental fibre of those fine people who’ve succeeded in changing League’s mind and persuading him to boot Faraci once and for all, but I haven’t found a way to do that yet. Help me, God….help me find the way.

Angelina Jolie‘s Evelyn Salt was trained as a child in a tough Russian Academy for lethal super-spies also…no? And then she went on to become a kind of double-agent? Red Sparrow (20th Century Fox, 3.2.18) is obviously a kind of retread. Director Francis Lawrence, the director of not one or two but three Hunger Games movies, is everyone’s idea of a hack, a journeyman, a well-paid stooge. In short, the perfect guy to helm Red Sparrow. Jennifer Lawrence looks either miserable or emotionally shut down or a combination of the two. I can’t wait to suffer through this thing.

“Drafted against her will to become a ‘Sparrow,’ a trained seductress in the service of Russian intelligence, Dominika is assigned to operate against Nathaniel Nash, a first-tour CIA officer who handles the CIA’s most sensitive penetration of Russian intelligence. The two young intelligence officers, trained in their respective spy schools, collide in a charged atmosphere of tradecraft, deception, and, inevitably, a forbidden spiral of carnal attraction that threatens their careers and the security of America’s most valuable mole in Moscow.” — from Amazon summary of Jason Matthews ‘Red Sparrow’ trilogy.