A recent Born in China trailer suggested it might be a cut above the usual Disney hash (cutesy, sanitized, kid-friendly). It seemed to promise compelling, rough-and-tumble stories about three families in the hills and mountains of southern China — a snow leopard and her two cubs, a mommy panda and her cub, and a snub-nosed monkey clan. So last week I caught a screening in the Disney Animation building, and within five minutes I knew I’d been film-flammed.

Born in China is the same old stew. Stunningly beautiful, drop-dead photography. Adorable animals (especially the monkeys). Folksy-kindly narration (voiced by John Krasinski) aimed at eight year olds. But with much of the sadness, harshness and occasional brutality of nature sidestepped or flat-out ignored. Because the kiddies have to be shielded from the realities. Raise them in McMansions, give them sedentary lives in front of screens, gently poison them with fast-food diets but never let them see what real life is really like. There’s plenty of time for that later. Keep them in fantasyland for as long as possible.

Wells to Disney corporates: YouTube is filled with hundreds of videos of hyenas, wild dogs and lions eating the intestines of still-living zebras, antelopes, gazelles, wildebeests and buffalos. Are you under an impression that kids don’t watch this stuff?

When I was eight and nine I was dying to know what life was really like outside of the suburban membrane my parents raised me in. All I remember about the regimented, rule-following aspects of my life back then was that I was dead bored. My parents shielded me from all the fascinating things happening in the news. Which is why I liked movies so much because at least they offered a taste of life outside the gulag — adventure, color, risk and danger. My childhood was an enforced system of mind and behavior control that all but suffocated my spirit and drained my juices. I died a thousand deaths sitting through Sunday morning services inside our local Episcopalian church.

Thank God for my hunger and curiosity. I was leafing through nudie magazines when I was eight. I remember an older kid shooting a park pigeon with a bow and arrow and soon after getting cuffed by the cops. When I was nine I remember watching a YMCA instructor (I was sent there for swimming lessons and summer recreation) stepping in a pile of gooey dog shit as he was talking to a colleague, and not realizing it and all the kids giggling and elbowing each other. I was busted for shoplifting around then, and I remember begging the supermarket manager not to turn me over to the cops. I was playing touch football one afternoon with friends when I was ten or so, and we all happened to see a major car crash — WHAHM! — less than a block away. We all ran over for a closer look, and one of the drivers, a guy in a convertible, was groaning and moaning as he reclined in the front seat.

No one will watch Thor: Ragnarok (Marvel, 11.3) — they’ll sink into it like a swamp or a mudbath. Thor: Beverly Hills Hairstyling. All of these powerful, satanic characters so devoted to the killing of Thor, and yet none of them can quite manage it. Handsome paychecks for Chris Hemsworth, Cate Blanchett (kids’ higher education, third home, investment portfolio), Mark Ruffalo (Hulk), Tom Hiddleston (Loki), Jeff Goldblum, Idris Elba, Karl Urban, Anthony Hopkins, Benedict Cumberbatch, Sam Neill…vacuum my soul, bathe me in toxic waste.

In a Thursday, 4.6 interview with N.Y. Times columnist Nicholas Kristof at Tina Brown’s Women in the World Summit, Hillary Clinton said the following about her loss to Donald Trump: (a) “Certainly misogyny played a role…that just has to be admitted”; (b) She characterized the mindset of Trump voters as “I don’t agree with him, I’m not sure I really approve of him, but he looks like somebody who’s been president before”; (c) she noted that many other factors contributed to her loss, including her own mistakes but that (d) part of her problem was that many voters were already struggling with tumult in their lives “and [when] you layer on the first woman president over that, and I think some people, women included, had real problems.”

The truth: It wasn’t misogyny as much as Hillary. Kamala Harris or Elizabeth Warren would have won. Hillary fucked herself with her private email server — fairly or unfairly it fed the notion that she was an elitist with a secretive, guarded nature — and then she double-fucked herself by choosing Tim Kaine, no one’s idea of a change agent, as her vp. The Russian/Wikileaks revelations about Hillary’s DNC loyalists doing what they could to screw Bernie over didn’t help. If Bernie Sanders hadn’t been deep-sixed by black voters and won the nomination, he would’ve squeeked through to a win over Trump. I voted without hesitancy for Hillary’s brains and maturity, but deep down not enough people were okay with the idea of a peevish substitute teacher who collapses like a sack of potatoes when she’s tired. Plus that braying speaking voice.

During Cinemacon I met with director Aaron Salazar, who’s in his mid 20s and trying to get over. We went out for some Asian food one evening and shot the shit. He’s sharp and knowledgable, and loves Call Me By Your Name as much I do, and therefore has excellent taste. Last year his short film, Gas ‘n’ Go, was shown in Cannes under the aegis of the Court Metrage program. He plans to attend again this year.

I’ve never made a short film, much less had it accepted at a major film festival, so my respect for Aaron is in no way blurred or diminished by my mixed reaction to his short: “Cool concept but I hated the soundtrack. You should have used shallow bubblegum music. Why did the hoodie-wearing bad guys shoot the T-shirt-wearing fat guys? And what kind of candy-ass runs away when he finds two bodies?”

Aaron’s response: “Looking back on it, there’s a lot of things I’d do differently. It’s been a year since I made it. I’ve seen it too many times. I know everything that’s wrong with it. Perhaps one day I’ll remake it with an actual budget and some behind-the-camera help.”

I asked Aaron for a basic rundown — here’s what he sent: “I’m glad I was able to help you see some culture in Las Vegas. As you know I’m a student. I work full-time in the fast-food industry. When I’m not working or at school, I’m reading and writing and working on getting my next project off the ground. I’ve written two features. As you know I wrote and directed a short that was accepted at the Cannes Film Festival’s Court Métrage program last year. I attended and was instantly overwhelmed by all that I didn’t know. I’m attending this year in hopes to make better, lasting connections.

My annual early-May landing in Nice used to light me up every time. Bright sun, blue skies, sparkling blue Mediterranean, the aroma of sea air (or the anticipation of it)…welcome to the Cannes Film Festival in Cote d’Azur vacationland! I haven’t done this in four or five years, or since I became accustomed to hitting Paris a few days before the festival and then taking the Tuesday morning train. But moments like this are worth their weight in gold.

Kevin Spacey never landed a more zeitgeist-capturing role than Lester Burnham in American Beauty (’99). This scene is my personal favorite. (It’s actually tied with the job-quitting, severance-package, “can you prove you didn’t offer to save my job if I let you blow me?” scene.) Spacey loved the ’90s and the ’90s loved him right back — Glengarry Glen Ross (’92), Swimming with Sharks (’94), The Usual Suspects (’95), Se7en (’95 — John Doe was arguably his most perfectly acted performance), Looking for Richard (’95), L.A. Confidential (’97 — Detective Sergeant Jack Vincennes was right on the money), Hurlyburly (’98) and American Beauty. Then his luck changed and it was one misfire or comme ci comme ca shortfaller after another — Pay It Forward, K-PAX, The Shipping News, The United States of Leland, The Life of David Gale, Beyond the Sea, Superman Returns, Fred Claus, 21, et. al. When you’re hot, you’re hot. When you’re not, you’re not.

I’m sorry but Elle Fanning doesn’t look good with short, spikey hair. If I were her and had concluded that I was a boy born in a girl’s body, I might tough it out and stay a girl. It’s very shallow to say this, I realize, but it’s not just about feeling good inside but also looking good…no? I might submit to sex reassignment surgery (what do they do, surgically attach a synthetic T-1000 schlong or a live one from some guy who recently died in a car crash?) but I would keep the longish hair. Fanning’s face is too wide and hard-featured — she needs longish hair to soften the vibe. The Weinstein Co. will open Three Generations (formerly About Ray) on 5.5.

As noted two days ago, I had to take Zak to Laurel Pet Hospital to remove four tumor-like growths (two on his head, one on his back, another on his rear hind leg) and have a biopsy done. Well, the vet really dug in there and got rid of the ghastly things. Really deep, I mean. Zak looks like he was in a combination knife fight and car crash. His head, back and leg are partly shaved with all kinds of stitches where the tumors used to be. Zak’s appetite and energy are fine so who knows — maybe it’s not cancer but some godawful infection thing. I’m sure he hated being anesthetized but at least he’s tumor-free and hopefully on the mend.

The L.A. riots happened nearly 25 years ago. It’s like it happened 18 months ago. That faint aroma of burnt, blackened timber and flaming rubber tires. Meeting with Entertainment Weekly editor Barbara O’Dair at a Sunset Strip hotel during the curfew. The streets all but vacant due to the coming curfew. I was at my first Cannes Film Festival a few days later and asking guys like Paul Verhoeven, Spike Lee and Robert Altman about the lingering smoke and rage.

On the third or fourth day of the festival I came across a Mickey Rourke quote about those he felt were responsible (i.e., Spike Lee, John Singleton, et. al.). A few hours later I ran into Lee at a party, showed him the clipping, and he grabbed my tape recorder and said what he said [after the jump].

At another Cannes party I ran into smilin’ Bob Altman. When I asked for a quote about the L.A. riots he scowled and said, “That subject is too important to talk about with a publication like yours”…yeaahh!

The latest HE redesign involves keeping the classic HE header logo except with a new selfie photo (taken two days ago) popped in, and below that an automatic slider that features the top three stories. I really, really love this slider thing, I swear — coolest new idea ever. After the slider you just go right into other stories…bing, bing, bing. If you’re reading the column on a laptop you’ll see other stuff on the side, but if you’re reading it on a smart phone (which is what 80% to 85% of the readership does these days) the photo on the right and other aspects won’t appear, or they’ll be pushed below or something.

But the days of being able to see the whole HE header logo in a single glance when you go to the home page on your phone will soon be over, I’m afraid. Because this is the new frontier, the new way, and that old fogey shit has to be put to bed.

Getting through the HE redesign has been mostly hell…backbreaking, patience-testing, soul-draining. While I’m automatically in love with anything that makes HE look cooler, sleeker or more exciting, I am DEAD SET against pointless change. Emphasis on the word “pointless.” If a design aspect looks good (distinctive, grabby, well-balanced) and is perfectly fine, why fuck with it?

All I can tell you is that almost every design aspect and sub-aspect has been reconfigured, and that I’ve been feeling like Kirk Douglas fighting off the tentacles of that giant squid in 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. Because everything about the site has been tweaked, fiddle-faddled, changed, modified, re-thought, downsized, ignored, reduced, shuffled around, slightly altered, re-approached and slightly re-designed. And it’s been a constant battle to beat that shit back.

Frank Sinatra died just over 19 years ago. It doesn’t feel like that. The death of Don Rickles led me to this recollection [below] by comedian and Sinatra pallie Tom Dreesen. First time I’ve ever heard it, and it may be the best Sinatra story ever. Until this morning I’d never heard the Dennis Miller story either. Brilliantly told, superb stuff. I hate Miller’s politics, but telling a story with just the right English is an art that very few people understand. Joe Pesci‘s Tommy in Goodfellas understood it, but he would get pissed off if you told him he had the gift.

Last night’s Real Time with Bill Maher (4.8, episode #421 — Jelani Cobb, Rep. Ted Lieu, Ana Navarro, Evan McMullin, Chelsea Handler) was excellent. Well, actually not “last night’s” but “this morning’s” because HBO Now doesn’t offer the new show until Saturday morning, simultaneous with YouTube. I’m watching it now on the iPhone 6 Plus. True story: The SRO and I went walking last night, and wound strolling the La Cienega-to-Fairfax Third Street strip (Gusto, Son of a Gun, Joan’s, Berri’s (great pizza, open until 4 am), Little Door, Little Next Door Cafe, The Churchill). We walked into The Little Door and hung at the bar for two or three minutes. Bill Maher was sitting ten feet away, studying the menu like nothing else mattered. Some bearded, weathered, blue-jean-wearing guy in his 40s was sitting next to him.