I won’t be seeing Darren Aronofsky‘s mother! until Sunday morning (9.10), but I’m loving how it’s provoking intense reactions. From Daily Beast critic Marlow Stern: “This is a film designed to fuck with you. And fuck with you it does.”

The Playlist‘s Jessica Kiang: “An incendiary religious allegory, a haunted-house horror, a psychological head trip so extreme it should carry a health warning and an apologia for crimes of the creative ego past and not yet committed, it’s not just Aronofsky’s most bombastic, ludicrous and fabulous film, spiked with a kind of reckless, go-for-broke, leave-it-all-up-there-on-the-screen abandon, it is simply one of the most films ever.”

mother! director Darren Aronofsky, snapped a day or so ago at the Venice Film Festival.

There’s a paragraph in Todd McCarthy‘s THR review that strikes me as one of the most damning descriptions of of a reputable name-brand filmmaker that I’ve ever read by a reputable name-brand critic.

“Beyond the climactic free-for-all lunacy, this seems above all a portrait of an artist who has untethered himself from any and all moral responsibility,” McCarthy writes, “one so consumed by his own ego and sense of creative importance that he’s come to believe that nothing and no one remotely competes with the importance of his work.”

In other words, McCarthy is saying, Aronofsky is some kind of sociopath. This obviously argues with Aronofksy’s claim that mother! is meant to be some kind of climate-change allegory. If I were Aronofsky I would write a THR guest editorial and spell things out, especially about the necessary task of provocation that most major-league artists try to live up to.

Naturally, the McCarthy review makes me want to see mother! all the more.

I saw IT (Warner Bros., 9.8) last night, and I’m sorry but it’s shit. Did I just say that? Would it sound less damning if I called it an IT sandwich?

What I mean is that the movie I saw at Loews Lincoln Square felt like shit to me — professionally polished but with a sensibility that felt coarse and calculating to a fare-thee-well. It’s basically a low-rent scare-a-thon for the none-too-brights… tediously familiar (small Maine town, Stephen King porridge, pre-teen pallies doing the Stand By Me thing) and strictly aimed at those who need a “holy shit!” or “oh, Jesus, that was gross!” moment every five or six minutes.

Sorry, dude, but I have aesthetic standards. IT radiates pro-level assurance from a character, dialogue and general compositional standpoint, but the spooky/scary moments (most of which involve Bill Skarsgård‘s demonic clown, i.e., “Pennywise”) are used too often, and are too in-your-face.

As scary flicks go I prefer subtle chills and tingles (the kind that producer Val Lewton provided in the ’40s, and which 21st Century audiences encountered in Andy Muschietti‘s Mama, Robert Eggers‘ The Witch and Jennifer Kent‘s The Babadook) rather than torrents of blood gushing out of a bathroom sink. 

I recognize that most American moviegoers love the blood-torrents approach, and that mine is a minority view. Nonetheless there’s no question that (a) I have better taste in scary cinema, and (b) that most American horror fans are popcorn-munching boobs.

IT is expected to make at least $60 million this weekend and possibly earn three times that overall. This tells you a lot about the taste levels of your average American moviegoer.

I was cautiously optimistic before last night’s showing because of Muschietti’s direction. I was expecting or at least hoping that he might duplicate some of those subtle, fleeting, spine-chill moments that he and producer Guillermo del Toro brought to Mama. No such luck. 

Muschietti’s thinking seems to have been “if I play it too adult and classy, the fans of Walmart-level horror films will tune out. I have to keep goosing them, over and over…one shock moment every few minutes. If the dumbshits don’t tell their friends that it’s their kind of horror film, IT will go belly-up and I may have a bit of difficulty scoring my next highly-paid gig.”

I’m presuming that Muschietti was leaned on by three IT producers with flagrantly non–Val Lewtonish instincts — Roy Lee (The Grudge, The Ring), Don Lin (Gangster Squad, Lego Movie, Lego Batman Movie) and Seth Grahame-Smith (author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter). In my mind these guys are demonic — the devil incarnate.

Arrow Academy’s Bluray of Robert Aldrich, James Poe and Clifford Odets‘ The Big Knife popped on 8.28. DVD Beaver screen-capture comparisons show that the Bluray looks much better than the 2003 DVD. The sore spot is the cropping — the Bluray uses a 1.85 cleavered image while the DVD went with a standard mid ’50s boxy format. Consider the comparison framings of a scene between Jack Palance and Shelley Winters [below]. If you think the cleavered Bluray image is preferable, there’s really something wrong with you. Obviously being able to see Palance’s hair and sideburns…either you get it or you don’t.

Posted on 1.2.17: Dee Rees‘ Mudbound (Netflix, 11.17), a ’40s period piece about racial relations amid cotton farmers toiling in the hardscrabble South, bears more than a few resemblances to Robert Benton‘s Places In the Heart (’84).

The latter is far, far superior — better story, more skillfully written, more emotionally affecting. But three Mudbound performances — given by Carey Mulligan, Mary J. Blige and Jason Mitchell — are quite special and almost redeeming.

Based on Hillary Jordan‘s 2008 novel, Mudbound (adapted by TV writer-producer Virgil Williams) is about the relations between the white McAllans, owners of a shithole cotton farm (no plumbing or electricity) in the muddy Mississippi delta, and their black tenant-farmer neighbors, the Jacksons, in the immediate aftermath of World War II.

The McAllans are composed of paterfamilias Henry McAllan (a sullen, beefy-looking Jason Clarke), his city-bred wife Laura (Mulligan), their two kids, Henry’s racist dad (Jonathan Banks) and Henry’s younger brother, Jamie (Garrett Hedlund), who recently served as a bombardier during the war in Europe.

The Jackson principals are Hap (Rob Morgan), his wife Florence (Blige) and their oldest son Ronsel (Mitchell), also a recently returned WWII veteran.

Jamie and Ronsel relate to each other because of their similar age, shared war experience and not being as tied to regional racial traditions, and Laura is obviously a more refined and compassionate person than her somewhat grunty husband. But the low-rent, under-educated delta atmosphere represses like a sonuvabitch, and from the moment the McAllans arrive you’re thinking “wait, I’m stuck in this hellish mudflat environment for the rest of the film?”

You’re also thinking “why has Mulligan decided to marry the pudgy, ape-like Clarke — she could obviously do better.”

Yes, Mudbound has a heart and a soul and a compassionate view of things. But my mantra as I watched it was “lemme outta here, lemme outta here, lemme outta here, lemme outta here, lemme outta here,” etc.

“Tell me you haven’t predicted Best Picture status for The Battle of the Sexes,” I texted a friend this morning. “Or called it the leading Best Picture contender out of Telluride. 

“It’s an acceptable, good-enough film with five or six good scenes. But it’s no more than that, or certainly not in the view of the Telluride chattering class. It’s fine as far as it goes and sufficient for what it tries to do, but nobody I spoke to last weekend was over the moon about it, and a few were underwhelmed.”

The person I texted replied that she hadn’t called The Battle of the Sexes the leading Best Picture candidate out of Telluride, and only that it could (as opposed to would or should) win the Best Picture Oscar. 

Trust me, that’s a very flimsy possibility.

In the HE realm the definite contenders right now are Dunkirk, Lady Bird, Call Me By Your Name, probably The Post and possibly Darkest Hour. 

As acceptable and moderately satisfying as The Battle of the Sexes is, it doesn’t begin to possess those X-factor attributes that often or usually propel a film into Best Picture contention.

And you can probably forget The Shape of Water also. I’m starting to think that the raves out of Venice are going to gradually subside and that more level-headed voices (i.e., fewer fanboys) will start to dominate the conversation. The great Sally Hawkins will almost certainly land a Best Actress nomination, but the film…well, we’ll see.

Other Best Picture potentials: Mudbound, Phantom Thread, Roman Israel, Esq., The Big Sick. Not happening: Downsizing, Wonder Woman, Wonderstruck, Star Wars: The Last Jedi.

Why isn’t there a film as good as Moneyball opening this fall? Some kind of adult, male-centric, amply-funded middle-class movie that really rings the bell, I mean. A film as superbly written, I mean, and directed (by the great Bennett Miller) and scored with such delicacy and finesse (by Mychael Danna). And cut with such confidence and with just the right portions of smarts, charisma, undercurrents and misty-eyed emotion.

Posted on 9.7.11, “Moneyball is mystical, statistical, spooky, emotional and wonderfully original. And wonderfully ‘pure’ in a sense. The complexity mixed with the spirituality and the political reality of things…just brilliant.”

Moneyball opened close to a decade go, and that seems like a century ago in terms of what’s getting made these days and where the Hollywood culture is at and who’s investing in what. I’m very, very afraid that American megaplex flicks like Moneyball (i.e., ones that might turn out just as well) are never even getting their chance at bat.

From Scott Feinberg’s 9.5 assessment piece, “Lady Bird Could Be a Rare Female-Centered Oscar Contender”:

“Lady Bird seems to go over best with women, but the Academy’s demographics, despite recent efforts to increase diversity, still do not favor female-centric movies. Still, one or two such films manage a Best Picture Oscar nomination each year, and Lady Bird could well be one of them this year, especially with Rudin behind its sails. 

“Even more likely, though, are noms for Saoirse Ronan as Best Actress, Laurie Metcalf as Best Supporting Actress and Greta Gerwig for Best Original Screenplay, and perhaps Tracy Letts as Best Supporting Actor as well.”

HE to Feinberg: (1) If Lady Bird goes over “best with women”, how do you account for Sasha Stone‘s measured, less-than-wholehearted approval (she wrote this morning that Lady Bird is “still in pretty good standing for a [Best Picture] nod, at least right now”) and guys like me doing somersaults?;  

(2) Ladybird isn’t going to “manage” a Best Picture nomination — it is a Best Picture nominee waiting to happen. At least that. The only thing to worry about are people complaining about Ronan’s character being “somewhat unlikable.”; 

(3) You’re not forecasting a Best Director nomination for Gerwig? It’s her movie, her life, her soul, her casting, her dialogue, her style and editing choices…everything. How could her direction not be nominated alongside Ronan and Metcalf’s performances?

Excerpted from Peter Debruge‘s 9.3 Variety review of Paul McGuigan‘s Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool: “[In this] lovingly crafted but tough-going biopic, one-time bombshell Gloria Grahame — a character Annette Bening dons like a pair of elegant opera gloves — disappears 40 minutes in, replaced by a slow-motion and rather standard-issue terminal illness victim, daintily coughing her way to her death bed for the rest of the movie. The first couple reels are golden [with] McGuigan truly giving us a gift, humanizing a figure whom most have only objectified. Though sniffles could be heard from every corner of the Telluride Film Festival screening where this drawn-out weepie premiered, you may well find yourself wishing the old gal would just go on and die in Liverpool already.”

Yesterday morning Toronto Star critic Peter Howell posted his annual Toronto Film Festival “Chasing the Buzz” piece. 25 critics, pundits and know-it-alls naming a special TIFF film that they really like or are especially looking forward to.

I chose Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name, as you might expect. If I’d been allowed to name five I would have added Dan Gilroy and Denzel Washington‘s Roman J. Israel, Esq., Ruben Ostlund‘s Palme d’Or-winning The Square, Martin McDonagh‘s Three Billlboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri and Matt Tyrnauer‘s Scotty and the Secret History of Hollywood (which I recently saw and can heartily recommend).

I read Howell’s article late last night, and was startled by the following quote from MCN’s David Poland about Angelina Jolie‘s First They Killed My Father: “A foreign-language film that could be a contender for Best Picture.” Is the Poland curse still potent? Time will soon tell. Here’s my opinion of the film.

During the just-concluded Telluride Film Festival, Tatyana and I stayed in a second-floor unit at the Mountainside Inn. The MI is a simple, clean, unpretentious operation, and not too pricey, at least by Telluride standards — just under a grand for four nights and a wake-up. For years it’s been known as the poor man’s solution to lodging during this excellent, world-class festival.

Our unit was fine. Okay, the shower nozzle wasn’t working very well but you can’t have everything. Well located (333 South Davis street), comfortable, no major concerns. The wifi was surprisingly excellent, and that obviously matters a lot.

I do think, however, that it was dishonest of the owner, a local attorney named Jerry, to not state in the Airbnb posting that he wasn’t subletting a presumably attractive stand-alone condo but a down-at-the-heels Mountainside Inn unit. There was no indication of this on the Airbnb profile page. Again, I wasn’t especially displeased by our stay, but Jerry should have laid his cards face-up.

A pretty local named Ilsa greeted us when we arrived. Pretty but, to be honest, a bit brittle and bitchy. After showing me the place and giving me a single room key (the MI manager graciously offered a second), Ilsa asked if I was happy with the place. I said I was feeling a bit underwhelmed, to be perfectly honest, as I’d been under an impression that the unit would be some kind of upscale condo. I said it would have to do, but that I wasn’t thrilled.

Ilsa didn’t care for the candor. Adopting an icy, officious tone, she said that if I felt that way maybe it would be a good idea if I stayed somewhere else. No fooling, she actually said that. My jaw dropped. I had just driven six hours from Albuquerque, I told her, and so I was rather tired and stressed. Plus I had paid for this unit a few months earlier and everything was set. And yet Ilsa actually suggested what she suggested.

Sensing danger, I pleaded with Ilsa not to be punitive. I all but dropped to my knees and begged. She finally took pity and agreed to honor the Airbnb contract. Thank you, I said. You’re so kind and considerate.

I am hereby nominating Ilsa for the Telluride Chamber of Commerce Hospitality award. But there’s no need to harp on this. I’ve stayed at the MI before. The sheets are clean and every unit has a little refrigerator and stove. The TV wasn’t of this era (probably made during the George W. Bush administration) but there was no time to watch it anyway.

A few hours ago a critic friend took me to task for what he regarded as a slightly-too-friendly review of Guillermo del Toro‘s The Shape of Water, which I posted on 9.3. Here’s our conversation:

Critic friend: “I’m a decided non-fan of The Shape of Water, which puts me squarely in the minority. Which is fine.

“But I was struck by this paragraph in your write-up: ‘Alas, Shape isn’t perfect. It’s a full emotional meal but saddled, I regret to say, with an implausible story, even by the measure of a fairy tale. It contains unlikely occurences, curious motives and logical roadblocks, all of which have to be elbowed aside by the viewer in order to stay within the flow of it. Which — don’t get me wrong — I was totally willing to do because I so loved the overall.’

“Frankly, the qualifications you have — implausible story (even by the standards of a fairy tale), curious motives, etc. — sound much more major than your reasons for liking it. Why on earth is this glorified piece of production design “a full emotional meal”? If you found it so, go with God, but please explain.

“It doesn’t sound like you were even bothered by my #1 reason for not responding to it: The gill-man is…a blank!! A rubbery body suit in search of a single character trait.”

HE response: “I liked that GDT was once again off in his realm, confidently occupying his own patch, indifferent to the expectations of someone like you or me. He’s NEVER cared that much, never given a hoot about anything but the purely visual, the ripely sensual, the monster mash, the phantasm, the fangoria, etc.

“Seriously, I just decided early on that once again here was another GDT film that I would have to accept or reject. So I chose ‘okay, mostly yes.’ I decided to throw up my hands, shrug and accept it. I kept pushing away the bothersome stuff…push away, push away…because I fell in love with Sally Hawkins and her journey. I should have been tougher, I suppose, but I just didn’t have the heart to start chipping away and complaining.

“Remember that I also wrote the following: ‘If you ask me Guillermo has adhered too strictly to a black-and-white moral scheme here. I for one am always looking to find a couple of minor smudges or failings in a good character, and a sympathetic or slightly redeeming quality or two in a villain, but this kind of complexity is not, I regret to say, in the Shape of Water cards.”

Greta Gerwig‘s Lady Bird (A24, 11.10), which I finally saw last night after absorbing all the buzz and praise for the previous two days, is by far the pizazziest, wisest, smartest, most emotionally resonant and complete film I’ve seen at Telluride ’17. And it’s going to keep happening after it opens two months hence, and by this I mean it will stir the award-season pot.

Lady Bird vibrates with pluck, wit and smartypants energy, but it’s not some indie outlier that will peak in terms of awards recognition with a Spirit trophy or two. It’s a Best Picture contender if I ever saw one, and Saoirse Ronan‘s lead performance — essentially a portrayal of the young, Sacramento-imprisoned Gerwig at age 18 or thereabouts — is a locked-down Best Actress contender.

Lady Bird star Saoirse Ronan, director-writer Greta Gerwig during filming in Sacramento.

A comically anguished piece of self-portraiture in which the 34 year-old Gerwig recalls and reconstructs (and to some extent re-invents) her life in ’02, when she was finishing high school and dying to get the hell out of Sacramento, Lady Bird is the only serious Telluride break-out, the only film that has really cast one of those spells…an amusing, touching, smallish knockout that truly glistens and scores and pushes that special massage button.

Lady Bird is Rushmore’s Daughter — a whipsmart, girl-centric indie that deals emotionally rounded cards, a Wes Anderson-type deal (sharply disciplined, nicely stylized, just-right music tracks, grainy film-like textures) but without the twee, and with polish and English and all kinds of exacting, soulful self-exposure from director-writer Gerwig.

She’s passing along a half-funny, half-turbulent saga of high-school-senior angst, lust, parental friction, friendship, frustration, existential ambition and social longing.

Ronan’s performance is the take-home, for sure — a pushy, achey and vulnerable teen thing, almost but not quite in the Max Fischer-Jason Schwartzman mode. She’s also, of course, portraying the young Gerwig. You could say that Ronan is inhabiting Gerwig as much as Jesse Eisenberg played a generic Woody Allen-like figure in Cafe Society, only with more energy. In my book this is Ronan’s best performance yet, and that ain’t hay.

But Laurie Metcalf, as Ronan’s prickly and emotionally frustrated mom, is a stand-out also, and a likely contender for Best Supporting Actress.