My preferred Matthew McConaughey MKC Lincoln ad is the one in which he stares down a bull and then backs off from a confrontation. The other one in which he says he’s been driving Lincolns “before anyone paid me to do it” is…well, it may not be bullshit but it sure sounds like it. Both were directed by Nicholas Winding Refn. The spots premiered online about two and half weeks ago; the TV debut was on Saturday, 9.6. What is McConaughey saying at the end of the bull commercial? I’ve listened to it five times and all I can hear is “ankee sahrs.” He’s saying “thank you” something?

Matthew McConaughey will be tributed at the American Cinematheque’s annual gala at the Beverly Hilton on 10.21. He’ll be helping to raise a significant sum for the organization — obviously a good thing. The other motive, of course, is to raise notions about his performance in Chris Nolan‘s Interstellar (Paramount, 11.7) meriting Best Actor attention. Due respect but the industry is McConaughey’ed out right now. It’s been less than a year since his Dallas Buyer’s Club Oscar plus all that True Detective praise…enough. Give someone else a chance. Incidentally: The idea of an exploratory, time-bending space mission somehow saving the world from its own ecological ruination strains credulity. But the idea of a demanding, all-consuming job stealing decades of family time and causing dedicated pros to miss out on sharing their children’s lives…that is a metaphor people can and will relate to.

The audio-visual quality of this clip is second- or third-generation, but there are plenty of versions out there.

Before yesterday I had never visited Lake Arrowhead. High in the mountains (about 5000 feet), quite hilly, the scent of pine and wood chips, forests of towering fir trees, about 30 minutes north of San Bernardino. It seems wonderful when you first arrive, but then you start noticing things. Like the absence of sidewalks and bike-riding and general hiking paths — the town is strictly about cars, and big fat SUVs at that. Not to mention the blue-collar, vaguely downmarket atmosphere — you can immediately sense a culture that is at least somewhat lacking in educated, upscale sensibilities. I knew something was up when I spotted a couple of streetside banner ads celebrating the local “heroes” who’ve served in Iraq and Afghanistan. On top of which many of the homes lack architectural integrity and have obviously been built with cheap materials. On top of which Lake Arrowhead Village is so overdeveloped that any concept of charm probably went out the window 50 years ago. In a phrase, the town lacks a certain refinement. People still wear mullets here. This is not a community that would appeal to Bernardo Bertolucci or Michelangelo Antonioni in their prime. Europeans do lakeside resorts with a lot more class and style.

Yesterday’s trip to Deep Creek Hot Springs (just south of Apple Valley and Hesperia off the 15) turned into a comic disaster in no time. I was travelling with two nice ladies who had been there a couple of times before, and yet for reasons best not explored or rationalized they were disinclined to follow a route suggestion offered by Google Maps. They chose instead to head south from Hesperia/Apple Valley on a dusty, unpaved, deeply rutted path that often resembled a desert hermit’s driveway. Common sense screamed that this wasn’t the right way to go, but I kept my mouth shut and hoped for the best. Deeper and deeper into the scary badlands we went, and sure enough we found a nice squishy sand pit to get stuck in. AAA said they wouldn’t help because it was an off-road situation so I had to fork over $350 ($150 per hour from station to station) to pay for a private guy named Jesse to pull us out with a winch. But first we had to hump it back to civilization over hill and dale (about a two-mile trek) in order to make sure Jessie would find us. The whole ordeal took about six hours. No dips in the hot springs. We got the hell out of Dodge and drove down to Lake Arrowhead.

if Jesse can’t do it, nobody can.

If the editors of this redband trailer wanted to be really cool, they would include quotes from North Korea’s July 2014 denunciation of the film — “terrorism” produced by “gangster-like scoundrels.” They could also throw in Seth Rogen‘s response — “Apparently Kim Jong Un plans on watching The Interview…I hope he likes it!” The North Koreans will never drop the lurid prose or get past their bullshit. They not only have the potential but the absolute willingness to lampoon themselves to no end. Last May their state news agency KCNA called President Obama a “wicked black monkey.”

Movies in service of the “it’s never too late to fall in love” homily are usually shudder-inducing. But as this is a remake of a respected 2005 Argentinian film it deserves at least a fair viewing and, for the time being, the benefit of the doubt, especially with the ascerbic Christopher Plummer trading bon mots with Shirley Maclaine. My first reaction was to wonder if it had something to do with Federico Fellini‘s Ginger and Fred. (It doesn’t.) Then I thought about the differing approaches to aging and “work” by the 84 year-old Plummer and the 80 year-old Maclaine. Both approaches are fine.

The last time I recall a name-brand actor getting really furious about his dog being murdered was in Norman Mailer‘s Tough Guys Don’t Dance (’87). Moments after his dog has taken a shiv in the ribs, Ryan O’Neal eyeballs the assailant and growls out “Your knife…is in my dog!” That line, to me, was silly-cool, and John Wick (Lionsgate, 10.24) is on a similar wavelength. But lines like “this is personal” and “that dog was the last gift of my dying wife” don’t help. A man’s relationship with his dog doesn’t have to be explained or put into context. Due respect to all dying or dead wives, but it exists on its own pure plane.

Indiewire critic Eric Kohn has seen John Wick at Fantastic Fest and has posted the following:

“Following the jubilant post-modern martial arts efforts 47 Ronin and Man of Tai Chi” — come again? — “Keanu Reeves stars in [this] hugely satisfying B-movie with the confidence of an actor right where he belongs. Like Liam Neeson and Samuel L. Jackson, Reeves’ performances in guilty pleasure fare are both straightforward and dripping with irony, with John Wick providing one of the best examples. Neither surprising or groundbreaking in any particular way, the movie gives us what we want and leaves it at that.

One of HE’s constant complaints is the tendency of behind-the-wheel actors to take their eyes off the road for absurdly long periods — five or six or even seven seconds — in order to eyeball the person riding shotgun. That’s asking for disaster, of course, but actors don’t care — they insist on eye contact and directors won’t tell them to cut it out. Anyway, just once I’d like to see the person in the front passenger seat say, “Would you please watch the fucking road? Thank you. I don’t want to be in an accident. If you want to stare into the deep pools of my eyes wait for a red light or pull the fuck over.”

Presence, confidence, a touch of swagger. The last thing on the list, it seems, is having a buff bod and GQ fashion-model looks. A meta Casanova in Vienna, corseted women who are all too delighted. And on that note…

Richard Lester‘s Petulia is a chilly, emotionally distant film about a relationship that doesn’t quite come together, and yet there’s something very infectious and fizzy about it. I think it’s the combination of Lester’s dry ironic detachment and the odd atmospheric stirrings of what was happening in San Francisco when he shot it in the late summer and fall of 1967. There are snatches of music and marijuana and Haight-Ashbury in the periphery, but this is a film about being lonely and adrift…about wealth and comfort and social dance steps and two people who want out. It’s about a 40ish doctor (George C. Scott) who’s bored to death by almost everything in his life and a dishy, impossibly spacey rich girl (Julie Christie) who gets it in her head that Scott is some kind of cure for whatever might be ailing her. Petulia, which I return to every four or five years when I don’t feel like watching anything else, is composed of thousands of slices and fragments of everything and anything that was “happening” back then…sounds, whispers, glances. It’s somewhere between a tapestry and a jumble of pieces that don’t seem to fit, and yet they do when you step back. I think it’s one of the sharpest cultural time-capsule films Hollywood has ever churned out, and at the same time a curiously affecting love story. There an HD version on Amazon but none on Vudu or Netflix. I wish that Warner Home Video or Criterion or someone would punch out a Bluray.