Jeffrey Wells

Hugs and condolences to fans, friends and colleagues of Sacheen Littlefeather, the proxy who famously rejected Marlon Brando’s Best Actor Oscar at the 1973 Oscar ceremony — the brooding actor’s response to the film industry’s historically demeaning depictions of Native Americans.

The cancer-afflicted Native American activist passed yesterday (10.2) at age 75. She departed only 15 days after a special Academy tribute on 9.17 that offered apologies for the dismissive treatment Littlefeather received in the wake of her 49-year-old Oscar appearance.

 

…how pronounced are the reactions? Nobody is mild about it — it’s a hate-or-worship thing.

For a gripping account of the ghastly 1955 murder of 14 year-old Emmett Till in Money, Mississippi, and the despicable perversion of justice that followed, Stanley Nelson and Marcia A. Smith‘s The Murder of Emmett Till, a 2003 American Experience doc, is your best bet.

Having just seen and been moved by Chinonye Chukwu‘s Till (UA Releasing, 10.14), I’m actually planning to rewatch the PBS doc.

Partly (and I don’t mean this in a naysaying sense) because Till is not a tightly focused, chapter-and-verse procedural about the tragic facts, and that’s what I, a shameless just-the-facts type, more or less wanted the whole time.

Which is not to say Till is a problem film — it’s not. It’s just that it’s strictly focused on the agonizing ordeal of Emmett’s mother, Mamie Till-Mobley (Danielle Deadwyler), and about the dignity and resolve that this half-broken woman summoned in order to bring about a form of justice for her son.

Not legal justice, of course — not in the Jim Crow south of the mid ’50s. But the justice of history and all the facts being known.

Co-written by Michael Reilly, Keith Beauchamp and Chukwu, Till recounts the basics of Emmett’s Chicago life (sharing a home with Mamie, his colorful personality and natty clothing) before his visit to Money in late August of ’55, and how his expression of hormonal arousal (a wolf whistle) directed at Carolyn Bryant, a married 21 year-old storekeep, led to his killing by her husband and half-brother because he’d violated a sexual racial barrier.

The heart of the film is how Mamie dealt with this horrible occurence, and particularly her decision to reveal her son’s mutilated, bloated, bashed-in head to the world by opening the casket lid during his Chicago funeral. This was followed by her Mississippi testimony at the trial of his killers.

Till’s murder is aurally suggested but mercifully not shown.

Till is sad and penetrating and well acted up and down, but award-season-wise it’s mainly an acting showcase vehicle for the gifted Deadwyler, who will obviously be nominated for a Best Actress Oscar. She channels three simultaneous currents — devotion, devastation, steel.

Till is deeply appalling and sadly factual. But it’s not a satisfying story because the actual story itself was unsatisfying. Not only were the bad guys not convicted but they even pocketed a fat fee when they admitted to killing Emmett in a Look magazine article.

If you want the kind of emotional satisfaction that results when the bad guys pay for their foul deeds, re-watch the fictional Mississippi Burning. But if you want to submit to a wowser, soul-deep lead performance, see Till.

Friendo: “Watched Greatest Beer Run Ever, and found it merely okay. The problem is not the actors but the whole concept. Not sure how ‘true’ the actual story is…I mean did the real Chickie get some kind of hard lessons in Vietnam?

“I’d imagined this to be some kind of MASH-style satire but it was deadly earnest and I’m sorry but you’re right about one thing — the scope of this film exceeded Peter Farrelly’s grasp. Russell Crowe is actually very good and I liked Zac Efron but the film is too long and its history-lesson preaching is outdated, obvious, and too broad to stick. A barely passable time-waster but nothing to write home about.”

HE to Friendo: As I understand it the real Chickie gradually became skeptical about the Vietnam War, but he didn’t return home an abruptly changed man. His beer-run adventure was the beginning of his consciousness-raising, but not the all of it.

Last May the understanding was that Apple + had chickened out of releasing Antoine Fuqua and Will Smith’s Emancipation, the fear being that Smith’s Oscar slap incident would overshadow the film, at least in terms of award-season recognition.

But yesterday’s THR report about yesterday’s screening in Washington, D.C. strongly indicates that the Apple team has changed its collective mind. Sounds good to most of us! Bring it on, boys.

Delaying this film for a year wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference, damage-control-wise.

In a 10.1 Air Mail piece about Italy’s newly elected Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni (“They’re With Her”), George Pendel laments three warning signs — “conspiracy theories about immigration” (whatever that means), Meloni’s “perpetual use of anti-Semitic dog whistles” (obviously odious if true) and “her screeds against political correctness” (what’s wrong with that?…more power!).

The best thing about the article, however unfair or malicious it might be, is Harry Greb’s illustration of Meloni as the evil queen in Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937).

Paul Schrader’s The Master Gardener, the final chapter in his “lonely haunted man with a certain history writing his thoughts in longhand while sitting at a clutter-free desk” trilogy, is a “Southern fable,” as Schrader put it earlier today.

It’s actually a redemption-seeking love story. Redemption by way of acceptance, submission, renunciation, devotion and violence.

The only truly difficult part for me was Joel Edgerton’s “Hitler youth” haircut — absolutely no one looks good with one of these godawful things. They smell of fear and repression and a form of cowardice and self-loathing.

I’ll leave it there and tap out an HE review sometime tomorrow as it’s 8:34 pm and I’m standing in line for a 9 pm viewing of Triangle of Sadness (which I saw in Cannes last May) at Avery Fisher Hall.

The common consensus is that whatever you may think of Noah Baumbach’s White Noise, a dryly farcical ‘80s period drama set in an Ohio college town, the final sequence — an ambitiously choreographed dance sequence featuring shoppers at an A & P supermarket — is the highlight.

The sequence affirms the film’s basic theme about nearly everyone turning to all kinds of distractions (including food) to avoid contemplating their own mortality.

Though brilliantly staged, the dance number is undercut by Baumbach’s decision to use it as a closing credits backdrop. Here’s how I put it to a friend:

“The LCD Soundsystem ‘New Body Rumba’ finale could have been great if Baumbach hadn’t decided to overlay it with closing credits. I almost shouted out loud ‘Oh no!! He’s blowing it!!’

“I’m saying this because once the credits begin we instantly disengage as we tell ourselves ‘okay, the movie’s over so the aisle–dancing is just a colorful bit, a spirit-picker-upper…whatever.’

“If Baumbach hadn’t given us permission to disengage, the dancing could have been wild and mind-blowing in a surreal Luis Bunuel-meets-Pedro Almodovar way. It could have been a mad slash across a wet-paint canvas…a Gene Kelly consumer-orgy crescendo.

And then it could have segued into a closing credit crawl. Alas…

This morning a Geek Squad tech guy was visiting the condo. Problems resulting from competing internet systems (Optimum vs. eero) were being addressed.

The first thing the GS guy did was call an Optimum agent about establishing a bridge connection. (Don’t ask.). The street address and account # had been verified, but the Optimum agent also needed to verify the name of the account holder (Joanne Jasser) and the corresponding phone #.

The latter was provided but I told the rep that the principal’s first name was a colloquial Jody rather than the more formal Joanne. Her response: “We don’t have an account holder by that name.”

It was soon after explained that Jody and Joanne were one and the same, but until that moment of clarity the Optimum rep was ready and willing to stop exchanging info. Everything but the first name had synched. The Optimum rep was being extra precise, of course. It could also be argued that she wasn’t the brightest bulb. I’ll let it go at that.

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Out of 40something films he’s made since the mid ‘80s, Tom Hanks has said that only four cut the mustard. And that doesn’t even mean that the un-named four are great or A-level films — Hanks is only allowing that they’re “pretty good.”

Which films could he be referring to? I’m guessing Big, Philadelphia, Forrest Gump and Saving Private Ryan.

“Road to Perdition Was Hanks’ Last Big Serious Score,” posted on 4.23.16: I would say that Hanks peaked from Splash (’84) to Road to Perdition (’02), or a run of 18 years. Okay, 14 years if you feel that Hanks’ career really took off with Big in ’88.

And yes, I would say that since Perdition luck was not really been with him except in the case of Charlie Wilson’s War (’07) and Captain Phillips (’13).

Once your cards have gone cold, it’s awfully hard to heat them up again. There’s nothing more humiliating than for a man who once held mountains in the palm of his hands having to push his own cart around the supermarket as he buys his own groceries and then, insult to injury, has to wait in line at the checkout counter. Then again he’s stinking rich.

Hanks’ finest early-career-building films: Splash (’84), Dragnet (’87), Big (’88), Punchline (’88).

Hanks’ amazing six-year, nothing-but-pure-gold period: A League of Their Own (’92), Sleepless in Seattle (’93), Philadelphia (’93), Forrest Gump (’94), Apollo 13 (’95), Toy Story (’95), Saving Private Ryan (’98), You’ve Got Mail (’98), Toy Story 2 (’99).

Hanks’ first big-time stinker — a movie I’ll hate with every fibre of my being for the rest of my life: The Green Mile (’99).

Commendable:  Cast Away (’00)

Hanks’ last, best serious role after his ’90s kissed-by-God period: Road to Perdition (’02).

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I was walking back to the car after visiting a shoe repair place on Van Sant Street in East Norwalk when all of a sudden this ruddy-faced, shaved-head guy wearing long baggy shorts is right next to me and saying the following in quick succession, like a Gatling gun: (1) “Whassup, Elvis? “, (2) “I like your shoes” and “put it there.”

A voice told me not to shake his hand, and I knew I’d made the right call when he said a second later, “Don’t wanna be friends, huh?”

I’ll shake hands with a stranger over a point of mutual agreement (i.e., “You don’t want a trans person with monster elephant boobs teaching your five-year-old? Put it there, pardner”) but I’ll never shake hands just to shake hands, especially with a skeezy guy.

This really actually happened around 3:15 pm today.

** He didn’t actually say what I said he said. He actually said “whass goin’ on there, Elvis?” I didn’t like how that looked as a headline so I shortened it. Then the lie began to burn through my soul.