Jeffrey Wells

Posted in response to HE’s Saltburn review:

Alexander Payne’s The Holdovers is an absolute home run — a TRULY GREAT ‘70s film, as well as a triple grade-A 2023 drama…bull’s eye!

Brilliant, I mean. A bliss-out. Warm and compassionate and at times even staggering. Wise, bittersweet, sad, fully recognizable, funny as shit, humane…layer by layer, it’s wonderfully written.

A Best Picture shoo-in; ditto Payne for Best Director and David Hemingson for Best Screenplay. A Best Actor lock for Paul Giamatti; ditto Da’Vine Joy Randolph for Best Supporting Actress.

I knew The Holdovers would be aces within the first five minutes. The attention to period detail and hair styles (it’s mostly set in December 1970) and the overall particularity…I just knew. I was in heaven soon after, and the film never stumbled or slumped or went off the road.

The Holdovers broke 25 or 30 minutes ago. The next film, Fingernails, starts in five minutes. All I know is that I’m incredibly happy as I write this.

Payne and Giamatti triumphed 19 years ago with Sideways; now they’re back in the winner’s circle and then some.

By the way: IndieWire‘s David Ehrlich is up to his old tricks…I know utter derangement when I see it.

As I was watching Jeff Nichols’ The Bikeriders, I was telling myself that it’s basically about the inability (or unwillingness) of costars Tom Hardy and especially Austin Butler, playing surly-ass, black leather biker types, to perform a scene without constantly inhaling gray-blue cigarette smoke.

Lit cigarettes are a sign of weakness, the ultimate crutch used by actors who don’t have anything really figured out and who need to hide on some level.

No honest assessment of The Bikeriders will fail to acknowledge that it’s basically a posturing, surly attitude genre flick about skanky vroom-vroom machismo…about sullen Midwest motorcycle lowlifes in the general mold of Marlon Brando’s “Johnny” in The Wild One, mixed with the nihilist biker hooligan aesthetic of the AIP ‘60s motorcycle flicks (The Wild Angels, The Born Losers).

Story-wise it’s about a battle for the soul of Butler’s Benny, a moody, cool-cat rebel straight out of the Shangrilas’ ”The Leader of the Pack.”

On one side is Jodie Comer’s Kathy, who quickly becomes Benny’s girlfriend and then wife in a possibly sexless marriage (nobody fucks in this film). Kathy wants Benny to be his own man and not submit to certain aimless bullshit rituals that come with membership in a motorcycle gang.

Pulling in an opposite direction is Hardy’s Johnny, who wants Benny to succeed him as the leader of the Vandals, a mythical local gang that gradually becomes huge with several chapters around the Midwest.

The Vandals are ostensibly a black leather outlaw motorcycle club in the vein of actual old-style OMCs like Hells Angels, the Outlaws, the Bandidos and the Pagans. The difference is that the Vandals aren’t criminals. They’re just ornery guys who occasionally beat the shit out of other ornery guys. Really — that’s all that happens. Scuzzy, nihilistic, no-direction-home guys snorting brewskis, sucking down cigarettes like they’re in a cancer contest while taking offense at this or that and kicking or pounding the crap out of each other.

The Bikeriders is basically about actors playing with machismo, nihilism, nothingness and swaggering around… about Hardy, Butler and costars Michael Shannon, Boyd Holbrook and Norman Reedus attempting to resuscitate (like I just said) the old AIP biker movie aesthetic except not in California but somewhere in Illinois…that surly, unshaven, leather-jacket-wearin’ thang, man…rumblin’ those noisy choppers, man..surly attitudes, beard stubble, greasy hair, tough-asshole posturing, leather jackets with “colors” and insignias, stinky T-shirts and no change of underwear for days on end.

Please see The Bikeriders!! Some of you out there, unburdened by taste, will have a raunchy good old time with it.

It all turned out well in the end.

After landing in Albuquerque at 4:50 pm (mountain time) I shuttled over to the car rental community, about a mile from the airport, and lo and behold the National attendant was still there! I’d found a better Priceline deal a few hours earlier , and wound up with a new white Toyota Corolla.

I drove out of town just before 6 pm, and headed north on 25 and then 550. A magnificent day with breathtaking topographical splendor and a vast, bright blue sky and sunlight piercing through the windshield, and a great sound system to boot.

New Mexico driving lifts you up and activates your soul, bruh.

I’d been struggling with airports (LaGuardia and Dallas/Ft. Worth) and a cancelled flight and all the rest of that exhaustion, and suddenly I was free and delighted and flying along at 80 mph.

I made it as far as the Mesa Verde motel in Mancos, Colorado — roughly 100 minutes south of Telluride, call it two hours with pit stops and photo ops.

First the Killers of the Flower Moon marketing team decided against booking Martin Scorsese’s murder-and-racism drama into one or two of the early fall festivals. Last May’s Cannes debut was enough, they seemed to be saying.

Now they’ve decided against a limited theatrical opening on 10.6 in favor of a big sweeping int’l debut on 10.20.

What the Apple / Paramount guys seem to be suggesting is that they don’t trust the word of mouth that may result from a limited opening, hence a preference for audiences flocking to the film wham-bam style, driven more by the name value of Scorsese, Leonardo DiCaprio and Robert DeNiro than anything else.

They’ve also released a one-sheet that strangely attempts to sell a non-existent relationship dynamic between Leo’s Ernest Burkhart (a real-life, none-too-bright bad guy) and his wife, Mollie Burkhart, also real and played by the less-than-fully-emotive Lily Gladstone.

Ernest pretends to love and care for Mollie, but he’s half-playing her the whole time and then he does even worse in Act Three. Ernest is not her protector, and Lily can actually smell the duplicity early on, or at least from the mid-point. So the poster image is bullshit.

3:15 Dallas time: If everything had gone according to plan, I’d be in Albuquerque right now…actually I’d probably be drivin’ north to Telluride…drivin’ on the wide-open highway with the scent of damp desert filling my nostrils and yellin’ “yee-haw!”

Instead the second stage of HE’s New York-to-Telluride travel plan is pretty much fucked and in tatters, thanks to American Airlines. Technical issues cancelled the Dallas-to-Albuquerque flight, which should have left around 1:15 pm Central.

They’re either going to find a new plane that might leave this afternoon or put me on a flight leaving at 8:30 pm.

So I’m sitting inside the air-conditioned Terminal D within the Dallas-Fort Worth airport complex, and basically feeling used, abused, subdued and tattoo’ed.

4:11 pm update: I’m sitting in seat 30C on a new flight that’s supposed to be leaving now. The Albuquerque Avis guys go home home at 4 pm…thanks!

Friendo: “Have a great time at Telluride. Keep it real.”

HE: “I try to respond plain and straight every day, and double especially whenever the Crazy Town nutters go on the attack, which is every other day.”

Friendo: “I don’t trust many opinions that come out of that festival except yours and maybe two or three others. Most of the Telluride critics are dishonest whores. Anyway, I’m hoping a few winners pop up.”

HE: “I’m going to dislike Rustin — I can feel it in my bones. I know I’m going to love The Holdovers, and I can’t wait to re-experience The Pot au Feu, or the unfortunately re-titled The Taste of Things.”

Friendo: “Keep your eye out for Saltburn, The Holdovers, All of Us Strangers and Poor Things. Oh, and all the humorless NYFF elitists fell head over heels for Annie Baker’s Janet Planet.”

HE: “Strangers might work. A gay guy conversing with his deceased parents…interesting idea. What doesn’t work for me is watching the problematic Paul Mescal in any context. I don’t know what the solution is. Maybe if Mescal were to pop one too many tabs of mescaline and suffer an overdose.

“Isn’t Poor Things supposed to be a problem film? I read that somewhere.”

Friendo: “Oh yeah? Who said that? I’m surprised since Venice, Telluride and NYFF all selected it.”

HE: “It’s in the wind.”

I once ordered a narrow double shot of Aquavit, a kind of Scandinavian liqueur. I didn’t much care for the taste (i.e., black licorice) so that was all she wrote.

But the reason I ordered it was because Sterling Hayden’s Roger Wade kept a chilled bottle of the stuff in The Long Goodbye (‘74), and during a chat at his Malibu beach house offered a glass of it to Elliott Gould’s Philip Marlowe.

“Okay, that’s it,” I muttered in my 13th row seat at the Aero. “I’m ordering Acqavit the next time I’m in a bar.

Marlowe wasn’t an aquavit drinker himself — he merely told Wade he would “have whatever you’re havin’” out of politeness. Wade almost hugged Marlowe for that. Wade: “Well, God love ya…so many snooties say when I ask what they want, they say ‘I’ll have some of this and a little bit of that and a twist of lemon.”

In Marlowe’s own Hollywood habitat, the shadowy, down-at-the-heels bar where they take messages for him, he orders Canadian Club and ginger ale on the rocks. Plus he chain-smokes unfiltered cigarettes (Camels or Lucky Strikes or Pall Malls) — Marlowe would never touch any kind of filtered smoke…Parliament, Kent, Benson & Hedges, L & M…God forbid!

Anyway on the occasion of this, Gould’s 85th birthday, I felt obliged to point out the particulars to Kim Morgan, a Long Goodbye fan from way back.

I know it well. Unhappy, disappointed, despairing. It means trouble…hours or days of discomfort

Carey Mulligan’s Felicia Bernstein: “Yes, we love and care for each other and our kids, of course, but sexually the boys come first in the case of Lenny. That’s just how it is.”

Photo appropriated from Vanity Fair.