I became a “bad kid” when I entered my early teens. Defying authority, shitty grades. I had all kinds of low-self-esteem issues, but that’s standard for any child of an alcoholic. I was certainly lippy and insolent with my dad, Jim Wells — a Mad Man exec who worked for J. Walter Thompson. I regarded him as a gruff, flinty, foul-tempered dick because — make no mistake — he was that.

One summer evening Jim and I came to blows, or rather he lost his temper and beat the shit out of me. I was 16. I suffered a head gash, bleeding all over my white shirt. I was seeing a therapist at the time, and as it happened I had a 7 pm appointment that evening. I told the therapist (who was also a serious dick) what had happened, and he took my dad’s side. He basically said, “Bruises and bloody shirt aside, kids like you are bad news and frankly you deserved it.”

In short, during a single summer evening I became 100% convinced that domestic parental violence was something to be avoided in the future, and that family therapists were not necessarily bringers of profound perception and wisdom.

Why hadn’t I grabbed a drinking glass and smashed it across my dad’s head during our kitchen fist fight? You know, like Joe Pesci does in that Copacabana fight in Raging Bull? I’ll tell you why. Because I was more of a lover (i.e., a movie lover) than a scrapper, plus I was basically too chicken to get seriously violent with my taller, heavier and stronger dad. When the kitchen fracas began I was mainly rope-a-doping — focused on protecting myself. But God, if I could relive that moment right now and if I had a hammer…

A year or two later I happened to watch Clarence Brown‘s Human Hearts, a family drama about a rebellious, independent-minded son (James Stewart) and his stern preacher father (Walter Huston). Huston has slapped Stewart around a few times, but prior to a fresh altercation Stewart tells him, “If you hit me, pop, I’m going to defend myself.” They tussle and Huston winds up giving Stewart another beating.

That was not the outcome I was hoping for.

Until last night I had somehow never read about James Garner‘s violent fight with his stepmother, Wilma. His alcoholic father married Wilma when the future movie star was five, in 1933. From the get-go Wilma was a “nasty bitch,” Garner recalled. His brother Jack later called her “a damn no-good woman.” Wilma would scold and beat Garner, and whenever he crossed the line Wilma would make him wear a dress and call him Louise. James finally had it out with Wilma in ’42, when he was 14. She came at him and he pushed back, finally “choking her to keep her from killing him in retaliation.”

Give her what for, Jimbo!

One way or another parents often manage to fuck their kids up. They brutalize and leave scars.

My son Dylan is currently back to regarding me as a dick in somewhat the same way that I regarded my dad long ago. (The difference is that I was 16 and Dylan is 32.) But in my late 20s as I sucked all that in and said “okay, that happened” and decided to cut my father a break, especially after he entered AA and apologized for his poor parenting skills and whatnot, explaining as honestly as he could that he just wasn’t cut out for being a good dad.

N.Y. Post article, posted today [8.10]: “Canadian rock guitarist Gord Lewis was found dead in his Hamilton, Ontario home on Sunday after he was allegedly murdered by his own son. Jonathan Lewis, 41, was arrested and charged with second-degree murder as the Hamilton Police Department continues to investigate the case, according to local reports.”

I would love to see a short film about Garner and Wilma’s relationship, ending with the strangle slapdown.

Ruben Ostlund, director-writer of The Square (’17) and the forthcoming Triangle of Sadness (Neon, 10.7), isn’t into building audience identification with any of his characters a la Preston Sturges or Billy Wilder. His kind of detached, absurdist, scalpel-like social satire precludes this. During the first act of Sadness you’re thinking that Harris Dickinson‘s “Carl” and Charlbi Dean‘s “Yaya” are the ones we might root for, but bit by bit Ostlund divests us of that notion. Same deal with Claes Bang‘s museum director character in The Square — initially sympathetic and intriguing as far as he goes, but gradually smaller, less in command and more overwhelmed as the film goes on.

Biloxi Blues opened 34 years ago, and I haven’t given a moment’s thought to re-watching it. And yet it’s fine. Well written by Neil Simon, nicely acted by everyone. Set in the 1940s, and dealing with the then-taboo subject of homosexuality in the ranks. Directed by Mike Nichols, shot by Bill Butler, edited by Sam O’Steen. Good film, character-driven, nothing especially wrong with it, better than decent. Okay, maybe I will re-watch it.

The cheapest fare from the NYC area to the Telluride-adjacent town of Montrose, Colorado requires a three-leg journey of 13.5 hours — American all the way.

Leaving Laguardia on Wednesday, 8.31 at 10 pm. Arrive at D.C.’s Reagan National at 11.:17 pm. Six-hour layover. D.C. to Dallas, departs 5:25 am, arrives 7:40 am. Dallas to Montrose, departs 8:25 am (only 45 minutes between flights!), arrives at 9:30 am. And then a shuttle of some kind. I’ll probably hit town by noon or thereabouts.

In hopes of catching a few zees during the Reagan National layover, I’ll be carrying (a) a self-inflating Powerlix Sleeping Mat (3 inches thick, built-in pillow, carry-on bag) and (b) a sleeping mask.

Maya Forbes, Wally Wolodarsky and Thomas Bezucha‘s The Good House, a boomer-booze-recovery relationship film set in suburban Massachusetts, premiered at the 2021 Toronto Film Festival.

Universal had the domestic distrib rights, but then they bailed; Lionsgate/Roadside stepped up to the plate last June. The smartly-written film, which seems to feature a strong Sigourney Weaver performance, opens on 9.30.22.

“Hildy Good (Weaver) is a real-estate agent with an alcohol problem. She is half-heartedly in recovery, having been forced into rehab by her adult daughters, a couple of castoffs from a Nancy Meyers movie about spoiled children.

“There’s a provocative imaginary line to be drawn between being accused of witchcraft and being accused of drinking too much, both of which are so damning that the trial is over before it’s begun.

“The Good House rejects anything like ambivalence. It’s the same old song of hitting rock bottom — here tied to an autistic child in a way that feels exploitative — and getting a second chance and stating your name and disease before God and literally sailing off into the sunset. That may be what some folks need to hear, though it isn’t profound.

“The Good House repeatedly finds Hildy breaking the fourth wall and addressing us directly, High Fidelity-style, and Weaver can’t quite sell the wine-mom Ferris Bueller monologues she’s asked to deliver in these moments. Online excerpts from Ann Leary‘s source novel suggest the first-person narration was much more searching on the page, which may have proved a better match for Weaver’s vaguely patrician air. I don’t know.

“What I do know is that nothing that includes blackout drinking, suicide and the tragedy of gentrification should go down so smoothly, even if the filmmakers’ sensibility is fundamentally comic. (Co-writers/co-directors Maya Forbes and Wally Wolodarsky previously made The Polka King, and Forbes wrote for The Larry Sanders Show.)

“After Hildy reveals that she’s descended from witches, Donovan‘s ‘Season of the Witch’ cues up on the soundtrack; I felt like a little old lady being helped across the street.

“For what it’s worth, Weaver’s frequent onscreen love interest Kevin Kline is in this, too, as a handyman who hauls garbage and fixes up boats. I guess you can only be in so many fake John Sayles movies before they finally cast you as David Strathairn.” — from Bill Chambers’ 9.20.21 TIFF review.