I didn’t have a great longing to see Sean Baker‘s The Florida Project (A24, 10.16), a lower-depths mother-daughter saga set in low-rent Orlando, when it played in Cannes. Yes, I wanted to see the follow-up by the guy who made Tangerine, for sure, but the hard truth is that I didn’t want to see it enough to push aside other stuff I wanted to get to. The Florida Project was always in third or fourth place on the list.

Why? I didn’t like that fucking title.

Brooklynn Prince, Bria Vinaite in Sean Baker’s The Florida Project.

If you read any smart comprehensive review of the film (Owen Gleiberman’s, for example) and the story it tells, there’s no way The Florida Project alludes to any part of it. If Baker was shooting in Orlando and hadn’t yet figured out a title, calling it The Florida Project would have been cool. But releasing it months later with that title is just smug bullshit on his part. It’s a lazy-ass moniker that Baker chose because nobody told him he couldn’t. And now we’re stuck with it.

Update: “The Florida Project” was the working title for Disney World when it was under construction, and the motel where most of the action takes place is a borderline housing project. Make of that what you will.

Imagine if George Lucas had been stuck for a title when he was shooting principal photography on Star Wars, and so he called it Big Wookie and then, out of boredom, Overcooked Pasta. Then he gradually fell for the former, in part because execs at 20th Century Fox (including Alan Ladd, Jr.) never argued for a more commercial title. Big Wookie opened on 5.25.77, never quite reaching blockbuster status but becoming a mid-sized cult hit.

This is what The Florida Project is — Sean Baker’s Big Wookie.

In a realclearscience.com article titled “12 Possible Reasons We Haven’t Found Aliens”, Ross Pomeroy elaborates on reason #4, or a theory called “intelligent life self-destructs.” The notion is that “whether via weapons of mass destruction, planetary pollution or manufactured virulent disease, it may be the nature of intelligent species to commit suicide, existing for only a short time before winking out of existence.” The term “short time” being relative, of course. Homo sapiens has been a going species for about 200,000 years, which is only a few moments in the cosmic span of things. And then along comes Donald Trump and the millions of dipshits who voted for him, and the suicide thing accelerates big-time.

Newsmax Media exec Chris Ruddy, a longtime pally of President Donald Trump, has told Judy Woodruff that Trump is thinking about firing Robert Mueller, the special counsel investigating possible collusion between the president’s campaign and the Russians. Ruddy told the NewsHour host that Trump “is considering, perhaps, terminating the special counsel…I think he’s weighing that option.” This is an orchestrated move, of course — theatrical sabre rattling — with the objective of intimidating Mueller. It would be appalling and perversely beautiful on a certain level if Trump was to actually do this.  It would (a) echo President Nixon’s firing of special prosecutor Archibald Cox in 1973 and (b) would intensify calls for Trump’s impeachment.

Pretty much every response to Jonathan Teplitzsky‘s Churchill, which I haven’t seen, has called it minor but with a first-rate lead performance by Brian Cox. This obviously affords an opportunity to ask for lists of a few notoriously mediocre films that nonetheless boasted great performances. Jon Voight‘s deliciously over-the-top performance in Anaconda (’97) comes to mind. Remember — the movie has to be shit or close to it for the performance in question to qualify.

“The career of Robert Bresson is one of the richest in the history of cinema, but also one of the most enigmatic. For some commentators, Bresson is a severe moralist who’s almost medieval in his concern for the darker aspects of Catholic theology. For others, he’s best seen as a stylist whose work has consistently anticipated cinematic trends.

“Just as Bresson’s 1959 “Pickpocket “was remodelled by Paul Schrader as American Gigolo (1980), so L’Argent (’83) is a study of spontaneous murder and a meditation on evil that has a striking kinship with contemporary vigilante and serial-killer films.

“Kent Jones disputes some of the received wisdom about Bresson’s work, which is epitomized by L’Argent. The work can’t simply be reduced to its austere, pessimistic, or religious elements. By exploring the many dimensions of L’Argent, Jones finds other elements: beauty, compassion, an overriding concern with the meaningful depiction of experience.

“L’Argent “is the culminating work of one of the select group of directors able to push the cinema, through the force of their own genius, onto a new plane.”– Amazon summary of Jones’ 96-page BFI essay on L’Argent. Criterion’s Bluray version, from a 4K scan, pops on 7.11..

Final Paris post: Two days ago (i.e., Saturday, 6.10) Tatyana and I were enjoying our only scooter day. Around 6 pm we decided to visit Parc Monceau, which is strictly enjoyed by natives. We spread out a bedsheet and just laid down and ate some tangeries. In so doing we were reanimating George Seurrat‘s “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of Grand Jatte” along with the finale of Alexander Payne and Margo Martindale‘s short in Paris, je’taime (’06). We stayed until just before 9 pm. Sunlight was still shining as we left; dusk wouldn’t hit until 9:45 or thereabouts.

I’m amused by Lord Buckethead as much as the next guy, I guess, and I realize he was acknowledged by voters in a recent campaign again British Prime Minister Theresa May, but he’s basically Professor Irwin Corey — a satirist appealing to lazy, low-rent nihilists who don’t believe in anything except their own cynicism.

Lawrence Kasdan‘s Silverado (’85) has been easily viewable through Bluray and high-def streaming for a while now. I loved it when I first saw it…Jesus God, 32 years ago. Everyone did. It wasn’t just a handsome, well-told, character-driven story but serious popcorn fun. And it launched Kevin Costner, of course. I don’t think it’s a stretch to call Silverado one of the most impressively crafted, highly entertaining films of the mid ’80s or even the ’80s as a whole.

Why, then, have I re-watched Kasdan’s Body Heat (’81) at least nine or ten times and The Big Chill three or four times and even Kasdan’s extra-long version of Wyatt Earp on Bluray, but for whatever curious reason I’ve never re-watched Silverado? Actually, I take that back. I tried to re-watch it a few years ago but I felt bored on some level and turned it off.

Nobody called Silverado boring when it opened…no one. It was hailed as the first genuine, non-revisionist, real-deal western in a dog’s age. I need to attempt another re-watch and stick with it this time.

Today’s homework assignment: Name five films that you’ve always admired and certainly enjoyed at first blush, but for whatever reason you’ve never re-watched them.

I’m sorry to offend the p.c. bashees, but Retardo and Clarabelle was what my hip Connecticut friends were calling Renaldo and Clara, a 232-minute free-form doc about Dylanworld in the mid ’70s, around the time of the Rolling Thunder tour. I forget where I saw it in ’78 but it was probably at the Quad, Thalia, Collective for Living Cinema, MOMA or Howard Otway‘s Theatre 80…one of those. Manhattan was quite the hotbed for fringe-y arthouse cinema back then.

If R & C was available for streaming from one of the usual suspects I would probably rent it, if only to absorb that mid ’70s vibe and pick up little floating bubbles of long-gone atmosphere. Yes, I’m aware that there’s a spotty way to see it via YouTube.

From ’79 through ’80 I was actually the managing editor of a TV Guide-sized monthly about the Manhattan repertory offerings — The Thousand Eyes Cinema Guide. It was a pet project of the late Sid Geffen, who at the time was running the Carnegie Hall and Bleecker Street rep houses.

My one and only face-time moment with Dylan happened at a 2003 Sundance Film Festival after-party for Larry Charles‘ Masked and Anonymous, a stinker that was partially redeemed by some fairly good songs delivered with first-rate sound and mixing.

I chose the Arlo Soho (231 Hudson Street) because of (a) the modest price and (b) the novel design/theme, which is basically a micro-sized experience for hipsters who can roll with it. The rooms come in different sizes, but they’re all small. And yet they feel first-classy. Some guy on YouTube called his room, which is roughly the size of mine, an “elegant prison cell” — super-comfy king bed, nice big window overlooking courtyard, 42″ or 46″ LG flatscreen, super-fast wifi, suitcase storage under the bed. And the downstairs lounge area — bar, breakfast room, a knick-knack nibble-food store — is really comfy in a hip communal sense. The knick-knack prices are ridiculous, of course, but you just need to walk to a grocery store/deli two blocks north (SW corner of Hudson and Spring).

(a)  NYC’s transportation system is an absolute mess — bottom of the barrel, laughing stock of the world.  The worst, the slowest, most worn down, the smelliest. Everyone on the Manhattan-bound A train just got kicked off at Rockaway Blvd. Thanks!  The follow-up train is a.c.-ed but — what else? — packed to the gills.  Standing room only.  Loathing, contempt.

(b I love women who buy big fat suitcases & load up with 150 or 200 lbs. of stuff, but can’t lift the bag off the carousel. Alpha males to the rescue! Don’t own a big fat suitcase if you can’t handle the weight, Peggy Sue.

(c)   Most people shuffle through airports at the pace of a typical 86 year-old in a madras robe & slippers on his/her way to the fridge.  What is life without purposeful strides?  Not much.  I stride and don’t shuffle,  and therefore I am.

(d)  I hate older alpha male types who hold out their hand and gently urge fellow elevator passengers to exit first. Who are you, my daddy? I’m on to your bullshit, gramps.  In fact, just for spite, YOU go first. I’m the daddy of this elevator. Me, not you.