Jeffrey Wells Pre-Elon Musk Twitter may not have done the right journalistic thing by suppressing the sad, pathetic saga of Hunter Biden during the ‘20 ejection, but I’m glad they did it regardless. Because the Hunter Biden scandal is nothing, as I explained early last September:
Before yesterday’s 2:15 pm Lincoln Square screening of Avatar 2 they showed the trailer for James Gunn’s Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 3 (Disney, 5.5.23). My spirit sank — another Marvel attitude goofball fan–service comedy in space. The patience of Chris Pratt’s Peter Quill once again tried by Dave Bautista’s Drax the Destroyer…really bad for the soul, man. Pit of depression.
My God, Avatar 2: The Way of Water rerally romps and stomps like nothing I’ve seen in a long while, and the astonishing CG realism (which I couldn’t settle into at first — it took me 10 minutes to find my way into it) is quite the thing, and there’s no beating that last 50- or 60-minute aquatic pitched-battle, breaching-whale, pulse-rifle-burst, arrow-piercing “woo-woo!” destructathon.
A family that fiercely fights together loves all the more…The Poseidon Adventure meets a return-to-Titanic sinkathon + The Abyss drowning trauma + weeping death scene + the wildest, craziest, most vigorously sustained battle lollapalooza ever…worth the price and then some…pays off like a motherfucker.
James Cameron is a drop-dead brilliant action director…let no one ever challenge that statement.
And I’m now determined to practice my Navi cat howl-Māori battle cry.
But so much of Avatar 2 is padded all to hell & is too fucking long, man…it could’ve easily, EASILY been 45 minutes shorter. The narrative pretty much stops in the middle section and becomes a bloated, ultra-costly real-estate video + a tricks-of-under-the-sea survival instructional + Club Med acqua-blue travelogue for glorious Pandora Shores.
The tech is marvelous and bracingly real & every last dollar seems to be on the screen. But there’s something oddly oppressive and even un-entertaining at times about being vigorously assaulted & smothered by so much CG dough…truckloads & truckloads of cash spent by the ultimate wizardly maestro of wildly expensive holy shit superfuck blockbusters. The film is a titanic grand-slam CG toy factory spendathon…whew!
I like the “family is a fortress” theme but my God, I was exhausted when it ended. I’m not altogether sure I want to see it a second time. Variety’s Owen Gleiberman was right when he called it thin. Pic seems to take as much as it gives.
Only in New York City can you negotiate the price of a large Good & Plenty. “$3.50,” the newsstand guy said. “They charged me $3.00 last week!…right here!”, I indignantly replied. Newsstand guy: “S’allright.” HE: “What?” Newsstand guy: “Three is good.”
All my life I’ve been nursing erotic fantasies about the late Helena Carter, who played “Dr. Blake with the torn blouse” in Invaders From Mars (‘53). The Ignite Bluray of this classic paranoid alien invasion film arrived yesterday, and it prompted a Google search about Carter, whose Invaders performance was not only her most famous but her last.
It was only after discovering Carter’s 1948 Life magazine cover photo that I realized why she didn’t catch on in a bigger way. Ten words: Beautiful eyes and mouth but her nose was too big -— i.e., on the bulbous side. If she’d gotten a nose job things might have turned out differently…seriously.
I’m not speaking as a 2022 woke (or more precisely woke-terrified) person but a time traveller from 1953, when emerging actresses were almost entirely judged and promoted according to their looks.
And I’m saying this, mind, as someone who’s gone under the knife myself so don’t tell me.
The bottom line, thank God, is that woke-minded or woke-angled content has proven time and again to be a commercial non-starter. Industry realists are facing the fact that the sacralizing of race, gender and sexuality isn’t a great business model, and that Joe and Jane Popcorn don’t give a toss either way.
The unfortunate aspect is that proponents of advancing #MeToo consciousness and the relentless insertion of DEI and Vito Russo quotas into everything remain convinced that the moral-social goal counter-balances (and perhaps even outweighs) the financial. They believe they’re serving God’s revolutionary agenda, and if you know anything about human nature you know that it’s very difficult to convince moral zealots that they’re on a fool’s errand.
Translation: Just as Hollywood’s John Wayne faction (anti-pinko patriotism) and the enforcement of hiring blacklists persisted throughout the 1950s, the current woke plague will probably continue into the mid 2020s. Even this rudimentary assessment will probably seem needlessly complex to Joe and Jane Popcorn. HE recognizes that J & J generally prefer to define and quantify Hollywood issues with short primitive sentences. I get it.
Season #2 of The White Lotus has sparked interest in the scenic beaches and cultural pleasures of Sicily. Let’s visit there next summer! Well, not so fast when it comes to Palermo. Here’s a Facebook exchange between myself and director Rod Lurie earlier this evening.
“Sack of Palermo,” posted on 5.27.10:
I did a little reading about Palermo over the last few weeks, knowing I’d be visiting there during my post-Cannes travels. And having yesterday spent a few hours traipsing around Palermo’s mean streets, I can now state with authority that certain travel writers and travel websites have lied through their teeth about the largely ugly and rancid nature of this city.
Palermo is a mafia rathole — a corrupt, crime-infested, economically challenged, overly-congested sprawl of mostly unattractive apartment and commercial buildings (mostly of a skanky gray, grayish-brown or dogshit-orange color) with a few historical buildings and commercial diversions to keep the tourists happy or at least diverted.
I’m sorry but my primary impressions are as follows: air-polluted, generally unkempt, vaguely smelly, over-populated, too many buses and scooters, overstuffed garbage bins — a festival of clutter and crap. Certainly not what anyone would call “clean” or “well-maintained.”
Are there tiny little pockets of beauty and cultivation here and there? I’ve read about them and I’m sure they exist (I’m sitting in a very pleasant air-conditioned hotel lobby five blocks from the harbor), but much or most of Palermo feels like some kind of hot and humid third-world nightmare that you can’t escape from fast enough.
The consensus after Joshua Logan’s Picnic opened in December ‘55 was that William Holden, who’d turned 37 the previous April, was too old to play Hal Carter, whom original author William Inge had written as a drifter in his mid to late 20s.
But Holden’s Picnic miscasting would have paled alongside another mismatch that mercifully didn’t happen. The film was Arthur Hiller and Paddy Chayefsky’s The Americanization of Emily (‘64), in which Holden had been cast as dog-robber Charley Madison. He wisely pulled out.
James Garner, who had previously been cast as “Bus,” the role that James Coburn ultimately played, took the Madison role.
Holden would have been at least a decade too old to play Madison, who is supposed to be a youngish, slick-operator type (mid 30s — Garner was 35) and certainly not 40ish and world-weary.
Filming on The Americanization of Emily happened in late ‘63 (a hotel party scene was filmed on 11.22.63) and, I believe, early ‘64. A drinker, Holden was 45 at the time and looked every inch of it. He was even looking a bit haggard and baggy-eyed in The Counterfeit Traitor, which was filmed in ‘61 when Holden was 43.
Remember how over-the-hill, creased and saddle-baggy Holden looked in The Wild Bunch, which was filmed in ‘68?
Which other major roles were filled by actors who were clearly too old to play them? Ben Platt in Dear Evan Hansen doesn’t count — too recent.
Two and a half years ago I was kicked, beaten and spat upon by Stalinist scolds (including Guy Lodge **) for saying that as much as I respect and admire the music of Ennio Morricone, I didn’t regard his film music as truly mountain-peak level (except for his Days of Heaven score). As I have a somewhat similar opinion of the music of Angelo Badalamenti (respectful salute, admiration, David Lynch’s right-hand guy) I’ll just leave it there. The 85 year-old Badalamenti was a brand…touched by the hand.
** “What a brand!”
The HFPA has done everything possible to atone for past sins and it’s still not good enough — the twitter wokesters (Tomris Laffly, Clayton Davis, et. al.) want them suppressed and blacklisted to death.
I’m in a skin clinic undergoing a basel-cell cancer removal procedure**, but the woke Stalinists are trying to suffocate the Golden Globe awards by telling everyone (publicists in particular) not to mention this morning’s GG nominations.
Here’s what Sasha Stone posted a little while ago:
One of the reasons the wokesters are trying to suppress the Golden Globes is because the HFPA didn’t adhere to the feminist quota system — i.e., no women directors were nominated. For this and other reasons the GGs must be punished!
Here’s a complaint from Variety’s #1 wokester Clayton Davis:
