Miles “don’t be a pervert, man” Teller, who got into some kind of trouble in San Diego last weekend, plays a PTSD-afflicted soldier in Jason Hall‘s Thank You For Your Service (Universal, 10.27). Boilerplate: “As three American soldiers return from Iraq, they struggle to reintegrate with their families and adjust to civilian life while also struggling to forget their memories of war.” This sound way too generic and familiar — American Sniper (also written by Hall) meets Bruce Dern‘s story in Coming Home meets Ang Lee‘s Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk meets Dana Andrews‘ nightmare in The Best Years of Our Lives meets Alexandre Moors‘ The Yellowbirds meets Paul Haggis‘s In The Valley of Elah. Costarring Haley Bennett, Beulah Koale, Amy Schumer, Scott Haze, Joe Cole and Keisha Castle-Hughes.

If you’re really good at something, which maybe 2% or 3% of the population has been lucky enough to discover and nurture, why would you want to quit doing it? Daniel Day Lewis has announced he’s finished with acting for good this time, but why? Not because the pay sucks, I’m sure. Because he’s bored? Get un-bored, get shut of it. Because at age 60 he’s found something more noble or nourishing to devote his life to? Great — but what is that? Is it because he finds acting too taxing or draining? Because he can’t stand the unreality of being paid to pretend to be someone else? If DDL can’t abide his life or his work, fine. But he can’t just plotz and lie in a hammock or walk the earth like Kane in Kung Fu, getting into adventures and shit.

If DDL has run out of gas an an actor, he has to man up and do that thing in some other chosen realm. He has to do that thing that we all have to do because we have no choice because God and life demand it, and because those who wimp out or run away from that struggle are, no offense, ignoble and cowardly.

Is this a Steven Soderbergh– or Frank Sinatra-style retirement? I understand burnout — it happens — but I don’t respect people who’ve been lucky enough to find a calling — to connect with the universe with a rare and beautiful gift that they’ve found within and made into something that has touched people worldwide — and then just walk away from it. 

Private Robert E. Lee Prewitt: “A man should be what he can do.” Wells to DDL: You have a duty to go, to be, to strive, to create, to become, to dig in and reach for something better or even wondrous within. Abandoning the struggle is a sin. We’re here only a limited time and then we’re dead, for God’s sake.

Lewis will make the Oscar season rounds one last time in late November and December to discuss what may be his final role, as 1950s fashion designer Charles James in Paul Thomas Anderson‘s Phantom Thread (Focus Features, 12.25).

What caused Lewis to snap and say “fuck it”? Was it the extraordinary task of making Charles James come exactingly alive under the demanding PTA? Was it a sense of existential engulfment? Did he suddenly buckle at the thought of sitting for a Santa Barbara Film Festival tribute at the Arlington?

Over the last 18 years Sofia Coppola has confined her directorial focus to a world that she knows like the back of her hand — a realm of privileged, apolitical younger white women living in a well-tended world provided by family or marriage, and not getting laid all that much. The Virgin Suicides (’99), Lost in Translation (’03), Marie Antoinette (’06), Somewhere (’10), The Bling Ring (’10) and The Beguiled (’17). (I’m ignoring A Very Murray Christmas, which I hated.)

My favorite was and still is Somewhere, in part because it felt Antonioni-esque, and because the main character (Stephen Dorff‘s) is ill-defined in a nihilistic sort of way. I admired the ballsiness of Coppola investing in his melancholia while avoiding a three-act “story”.

The Beguiled opens this Friday (6.23). I wasn’t exactly blown away when I saw it in Cannes. “Whoa, calm down on the ‘terrifically entertaining’,” I said to a friend. “It’s pretty good, but not all that different from Don Siegel‘s The Beguiled (’71). Less heated with more emphasis on suggestive humor. And shorter than the Siegel version by 11 minutes, 94 minutes vs. Siegel’s 105. Which I rather liked.

“Yes, the apple pie scene is amusing if not quite ‘funny’. I think Nicole Kidman barking ‘get the saw!’ was meant to challenge Faye Dunaway shouting ‘get the axe!’ in Mommie Dearest.”

Mattel has introduced 15 new Ken dolls with traits that reflect the world of 2017 — seven skin tones, eight hair colors, nine hairstyles, etc. (There’s even a man-bun Ken.) But they’ve chickened out by only coming up with three body types — original, slim and “broad” (i.e., husky). If they really wanted to reflect present social realities Mattel would have also created a fat-ass Ken (i.e., out of shape, jowly, beer belly). A year and a half ago a Daily Mail piece noted that social media convos were calling for a dad-bod Ken. Lord knows chubby, corpulent characters have been pushing their way into TV serials, comedies (Seth Rogen, Michael Chernus), animated features (the obese Boy Scout kid in Up, fat Snow White in Red Shoes and the 7 Dwarfs). Obviously a distasteful trend, but the culture has tipped in this direction. In hetero circles it’s a relatively rare thing these days to run into an original Ken, much less a slim one. Bod-wise, we’re living for the most part in a Joaquin Phoenix world.

I’m not expecting to be stirred and swept aloft by the Dunkirk narrative. I am, however, expecting to be swept along by Hoyte van Hoytema‘s immaculate IMAX cinematography and what I presume will be an embarassment of fine historical detail. In a word, versimilitude. Either you’ll respect and appreciate what Dunkirk is or you won’t. A mass ensemble piece about a country getting its ass kicked, but its citizens responding in ways that will arouse deep-seated feelings.

What it doesn’t seem to be, if history and the Dunkirk trailers are any guide, is a riveting three-act story about fate and character that builds into something that pays off in a way that most people would call “dramatically satisfying” — i.e., a story with some kind of “stick-it-hard” ending that brings it all home and rings some kind of grand emotional bell.

Dunkirk doesn’t appear to be about nail-bitten tension or a frenzied battle or a triumph or some profound individual reckoning, but about British blood and compassion — familial duty, loyalty, togetherness. A huge civilian community of 700 boats coming together to help 400,000 British troops survive a crushing defeat. That’s the sea part. There’s also the air (Tom Hardy buzzing the Germans in a single-seat Spitfire) and the land (all those helpless British troops huddled on the vast Dunkirk beaches), and of course the blending of these scenarios.

If you can process family devotion as heroic, Dunkirk will probably work for you. At the very least it seems unlikely to be cliche-ridden. It seems to be its own bird. And I admire the running-time discipline — 110 minutes, seven or eight minutes of which will be taken up by closing credits. At least Nolan, whose tendencies as a director of big-concept mindblowers and Batman films has been to go two-hours plus, has restrained himself this one time. Dunkirk is three minutes shorter than Memento, and eight minutes shorter than Insomnia!

Update: The Hollywood Reporter‘s Pamela McClintock is stating that Dunkirk’s running time is actually 107 minutes — one hour, 47 minutes.

I own a Mini Cooper, but most of the time I cruise around town on a rumbling, saddlebag-laden scooter hog. Some believe this mode of transportation isn’t brawny or genuine enough, which of course is bullshit. It’s consistent, however, that when it comes to the Pacific Ocean that I would be a boogie boarder rather than a surfer. Used to be, I mean. I hit the beach a lot in the ’80s and ’90s. Especially when the kids were old enough to join me. Even on the level of boogie boards, which involves very little skill and is, of course, far below the realm of surfing, you can feel the spirit when you’re out there, bobbing up and down. You’re in church, a kind of natural church of swells and tides and that salty seaweed aroma. All you do is catch the crest of waves and ride the whitewater. A very elemental, simple-dick thing, but God, the hours I spent out there. Sun, sunburn, sparkling water. I had a yellow Morey boogie board, which in my mind was top of the line. The kids had a couple of smaller ones. All to say I just bought a new Morey board. A Big Kahuna 44-incher. I’ll be using it soon.

“I wish I was a woman of about thirty-six, dressed in black satin with a string of pearls!”

On 9.5.17 Criterion will release a new 4K digital restoration of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca (’40). The previous Bluray, mastered in 2K, was released by MGM in 2011. I own the latter. Would I like to own the Criterion 4K when it pops two months hence? Of course I would, but you never know if Criterion is going to darken things up, as they did with their Only Angels Have Wings and His Girl Friday Blurays. The Criterion guys seem to be queer for inky shadow. And I can’t honestly say I’ve ever had the slightest problem with MGM’s version. It looks totally fine, and now you’re asking me to pay $40 for the Criterion. I don’t know, man. I really don’t know.

(l.) Criterion’s upcoming 4K-scanned Bluray; (r.) MGM’s 2011 2K version.

Who would buy Shout Factory’s forthcoming Bluray of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the grotesque movie musical? Who would even watch this fucking thing — arguably the most catastrophic filmed musical ever made. On the day it opened (7.21.78), the L.A. Herald Examiner ran a top-of-the-page headline that read “St. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Bomb.” Universal marketing executives hit the roof and, if I remember correctly, cancelled advertising with the paper for revenge. I was at the all-media screening at the old Rivoli theatre (B’way at 49th). As costar Peter Frampton began to sing “The Long and Winding Road,” a guy in the first or second row yelled “Ecchh!…ecchh!” The film all but ruined the Hollywood reputation of producer Robert Stigwood and that of the Bee Gees, who starred along with Peter Frampton, Steve Martin, George Burns, et. al.

When poor Carrie Fisher died on 12.27.16, I told myself “this is quite sad, but it’s also what happens to every alcoholic and drug abuser when they hit 60 or even before — their bad habits catch up with them and they tend to expire earlier than non-abusers.” When I read a couple of days ago that she had passed from sleep apnea, I thought “wait, sleep what?…I thought she passed from a mid-flight heart attack and a subsequent inability to breathe.” This morning the real truth finally came out via Radar Online.

A toxicology report from the L.A. County Medical Examiner says Fisher had “cocaine, heroin, methadone, ethanol [alcohol], prozac and opiates” in her system when she died. In other words, she’d not only relapsed but had more or less committed suicide.

Every party person with half a brain knows you have to stop that shit by age 45 and certainly by 50. You partied hard for 20 or 25 years…enough. Anyone who inhales that many drugs at age 60 is obviously doing more than throwing caution to the winds — they’re winking at death. Fisher was saying “I know I shouldn’t be doing this but fuck it…my Star Wars footage is wrapped, I deserve a little vacay…back to my old partying ways for a few days or maybe longer!” Or shorter, as it turned out. The Grim Reaper got wind, floated over and whispered into her ear, “Time’s up!”

In his review of Criterion’s Lost in America Bluray, Gary W. Tooze said it looks “thick” and “heavy.” I haven’t received my complimentary copy yet (the disc doesn’t pop until 7.25) but I’m assuming that Tooze is referring to the Bluray not delivering a proper “bump” — an enhanced visual palette (sharper, richer, more information) that tells the viewer “yes, this is definitely better looking than the DVD or the last time you saw a streaming version.” This was an issue with Criterion’s Rosemary’s Baby Bluray — looked perfectly fine but no upgrade aura. I’m a fan of Brooks’ legendary 1985 film either way, but when I buy a Bluray I want that bump, dammit. I want to bathe in an “extra” quality that I never knew before. In a tweet this morning Brooks said the disc looks “better, cleaner, as good as a 1985 print gets.” I’ll be savoring the extras if nothing else — a 30-minute chat between Brooks and Robert Weide (recorded in 2017), interviews with Julie Hagerty, exec producer Herb Nanas and James L. Brooks. Plus a booklet essay by Scott Tobias.

Last Thursday Gal Gadot‘s husband Yaron Yarsano, an Israeli real-estate tycoon, posted an Instagram photo that, according to People‘s Dave Quinn, soon became a “viral sensation”. It’s a shot of Varsano, standing next to his Wonder-wife, wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with a grossly offensive message — i.e., “mine is better than yours.” Imagine if Varsano’s T-shirt suggested that your annual income isn’t squat compared to his, or that his aroused schtufenhaufer is eight inches long while yours isn’t much more than a stiff cashew. It would be one thing if his T-shirt said that Gadot is a great mom, wife and lover and that he’s lucky to be married to her. It doesn’t say that. 50% of the basic message is “your wife is probably bland and underwhelming.” On top of which Yarsano is wearing what looks like a low-thread-count Hanes T-shirt, the tip-off being the baggy sleeves. If he was cool he’d be wearing a form-fitting, high-thread-count, European-style T-shirt. Plus there’s some kind of bar code at the bottom. If I’d been invited to hang with Yarsano and Gadot on their patio that day, I would have taken one look at that T-shirt and muttered to myself, “Jesus Christ, this guy has issues.”