Jeffrey Wells

Thanks, black community! No gay guys in the White House, right? You do you.

In yesterday’s riff about Kieran Darcy-Smith‘s Wish You Were Here, I wrote that “it’s basically a ‘get away from me, you fucked my sister!’ movie…it’s about the cost of suppressing the truth and not coming clean, and the cost of coming clean about meaningless infidelity.”

In the comment thread I wrote the following about this kind of infidelity — i.e., a husband doing the deed with his wife’s sister:

“On a real-life and real-deal consequences basis, a married person getting hot and heavy with a wife or a husband’s sister or brother…forget it. It’s so far beyond the pale. Only backwood hillbillies would even flirt with such a notion. What is life without discipline?

“Had it not been for Wish You Were Here, I would’ve never even imagined….wait…hold on.

“I’ve just remembered a long-buried family story that my mom once passed along. Something happened between (a) her father (and my grandfather), a traumatized World War I veteran named Vincent who was apparently a randy fellow in his youth, and (b) his wife’s sister Edythe (my mom’s aunt, my great-aunt). It occurred when they were in their mid or late 20s.

“The injured party was my grandmother, whose first name was Dorothy or ‘Dot.’

“My maternal grandparents had married under the gun in ‘22, mind, when my grandmother became pregnant with my mom, Nancy. Relations between Dorothy and Nancy were always a bit chilly and remote, my mom told me, as Dot was ashamed of having gotten pregnant outside the bonds of marriage — a Scarlet Letter offense back in those semi-Victorian days.

“Obviously the Vincent-Edythe thing was quite traumatic once the cat was out of the bag, but despite the shock and hurt my grandmother found her way past a Felicity Price meltdown, and she and my grandfather, both around 25 or maybe a bit older when the indiscretion occurred, left it there and reconciled and moved on.

“And that’s real life. Middle-class people regarded marriage as a solemn institution when Calvin Coolidge was president. I’ll bet divorces were far less common back then.

“Edythe never married, by the way.”

Wish You Were Here‘s Felicity Price to Joel Edgerton after she finds out: “You effed my much more attractive sister? You filth. You loathsome animal. You contemptible hound. You think you know what marital misery is? Well, you’re going to suffer like never before. In fact, I’m so enraged that I’m going to put the audience through as much agony as you, my dear husband. We’ll all sink into the quicksand together — you, me, Jeffrey Wells, all the other people in the audience.”

I’ve just emerged from my second F1-in-IMAX viewing…big Danbury plex, king-sized screen, excellent sound (sharper speakers than those at the AMC Kips Bay), throbbing bass rumble…and I swear to God it felt better this time.

Knowing what’s coming relaxes you, puts you into a calmer, more receptive mood. I was ticking off my list of fave and not-so-fave scenes (ixnay on Pitt, Idris and Condon sharing that Vegas casino poker moment), shots and lines, plus there was a decent indoor climate this time (no a.c. inside theatre #10 on Tuesday night, enveloping invitees in warm, close-to-suffocating air).

F1 is not top-tier, as noted earlier today, and yes, it suffers from formulaic plotting and a mechanized mindset, as noted, but it somehow plays better if you’re secure in the knowledge that it won’t quite get there. The anxiety factor was absent this time (naturally), and at least it all fit together just so and all the players, committed as they are to a glossily corrupt mission, delivered their best.

Loved William Bradley Pitt, Damson Idris, Javier Bardem, Kerry Condon, the blonde tire girl whose name escapes …good gang, excellent company.

There’s no believing in a film that professes to say “it’s not about the money” while revelling in the flush clover of a $200 million Apple budget…F1 is not an honest film plus it activates a kind of buzz-saw effect in your head. But I’m also thinking of that Pauline Kael line about Richard Brooks’ The Professionals (‘66) working the viewer over with the skilled hands of a veteran prostitute.

I’ll tap out some randoms when I get home, but the second viewing somehow kicked in or settled in…whatever. It sure as shit didn’t diminish.

33 year-old Zohran Mamdani, an ardent wokester in the tradition of former San Francisco mayor London Breed and Chicago mayor Brandon Johnson, held a very significant lead last night (Tuesday, 6.24) over chief rival Andrew Cuomo in NYC mayoral primary.

Cuomo has conceded and that’s pretty much that.

Next is a follow-up general election on 11.4.25 with Mamdani, the official Democratic candidate, running against Curtis Sliwa, the Republican candidate. Sliwa will lose, of course.

Despite his reputational stains, Cuomo — a sensibly liberal, practical-minded sort — would have been a wiser choice. Mamdani is not “sensible” but a woke ideologue. He will spark a lot of anger and chaos. Just as San Franciscans, infuriated by the obvious cultural decline of that fair city (un-prosecuted shopliftings, shit loads on the sidewalks), booted out Breed, Mamdani will last a single term (if that) in NYC

It would be one thing if Mary Astor’s performance as femme fatale Brigid O’Shaughnessy in John Huston’s The Maltese Falcon (‘41)…it would be one thing if Astor had a scene in which she wore a steamy dragon-lady dress (the kind Myrna Loy occasionally wore in the early 1930s). But of course she never did. Warner Bros. marketers lied to the public! Spit right into their eyes!

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No disrespect to the late James Horner, but I can’t remember a single note from his Braveheart score,, and I can only remember fragments of Braveheart itself.

I was nominally “impressed” by this 1995 Oscar winner (well-captured horseback battle sequences, blue face paint, “freedom!”) but I didn’t really like it all that much. Too fecking violent. That contorted expression on William Wallace’s face as he was being disemboweled by the British…thanks all the same.

It opened 30 years ago and I’ve never once re-watched it.

My first and only viewing was at a pre-opening Rod Lurie screening series in Burbank. Mel Gibson, whom I’d initially met during an Elaine’s press schmooze in ‘83, showed up for a post-screening q&a. He was wearing mandals, for God’s sake, and I was sitting near the front and silently muttering to myself that the sight of Gibson’s peds was…uhm, unwelcome. Any guy who wears mandals to any public event (even a neighbor’s backyard brunch) has earned a reputational stain that can never be washed off.

On HE’s list of the best 25 films of 2007, Charlie Wilson’s War ranks 22nd. There’s a reason for that, and it has nothing to do with Aaron Sorkin’s whip- smart screenplay or Mike Nichols’ directorial finesse or Philip Seymour Hoffman’s fine performance as that cynical, cigarette-smoking CIA guy (he’s actually magnificent).

The (admittedly slight) problem is Tom Hanks’ casting as the droll titular character. The real-life Wilson, a cunning, well-liked Texas Congressman in his day, was a libertine (fucked women, slurped booze, snorted coke), and as smooth and charming as Hanks is overall, there’s just no believing his Wilson is a party animal with a hard-on. He can’t sell it. There’s no erasing that Hanksian modesty, decency, reserve.

Nor am I a huge fan of Julia Roberts’ performance as real-life Texas socialite Joanne Herring…too poised and brittle, overly conspicuous acting…she won’t stop saying lines.

As all semi-intelligent people know, the natural, all-encompassing current of unity and cosmic splendor known in some quarters as “God” doesn’t project or deal in earthly, garden-variety emotions. It is of zero consequence whether you love or fear or feign indifference to “the force”. It’s been the primary thing since forever and will continue to rock out a billion years hence so…whatever.

A bit less than three months ago (3.26) I sent $2K and change to Tommaso, my Dorsoduro-residing Airbnb host. That was the tab for 13 days in his spacious one-bedroom apartment (8.25 thru 9.7) during the Venice Film Festival.

It was all locked in — no worries, not too pricey, friendly messages from Tommaso and his dad, Valentino, etc. And a really nice neighborhood.

Yesterday (6.19) I asked Tommaso about the two beds, and he replied as follows around midnight:

Roughly nine hours ago Airbnb told me Tommaso had cancelled the booking. My Citibank app said Airbnb had sent a full refund — the money will be liquid and usable on Tuesday, 6.24. The fuck?

Nearly three months of soothing Tomasso vibes, and suddenly I was Joe Pesci in his final Goodfellas scene…pop and flop.

Tommaso may have blown me off because somebody offered him more dough for the place. If so, that was unethical, shitty, inconsiderate, dishonorable…all of that stuff.

I immediately reserved another place on VRBO, a little smaller but close to the San Zaccaria vaporetto stop and oh, yeah..,about $900 more expensive than Tommasso’s rental.

You fucked me in the ass, Tommaso. Left me high and dry. Uncool, dude…you cost me and it hurts.

HE to vast int’l readership: Beware of Tommaso!

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…but all I experienced were the dry heaves.

Bill McCuddy to HE after seeing Danny Boyle, Alex Garland and Anthony Dod Mantle’s 28 Years Later:

“Terence Malick has made a zombie movie under the name Danny Boyle. This is a thinking man’s running dead movie. When I say Malick I mean it’s beautifully shot and deals with family, survival and death by way of a poignant, non-zombie subplot. It has a little Children of Men vibe going on to but you may not want to reveal that.

“Ralph Fiennes arrives at the three-quarter mark…a nice bump.

“And Aaron Taylor Johnson fans eager to see the ‘maybe James Bond’ may be disappointed to learn he’s not really in the film all that much.

“The story is mainly about ATJ’s son (Alfie Williams) and wife (a sickly Jodie Comer) departing a semi-safe island compound in search of Ralph Fiennes, playing a doctor of sorts. It’s never really clear why anyone would risk leaving said compound but you kinda have to go with that.

“I liked it and am recommending, but I don’t know how commercial it will be. It’s smaller than even the first film — a walking road picture with mother and son. Plenty of blood and manic action. In some ways this is the best of the franchise. But it’s not a blockbuster. It’s just good. Will that be enough?”

HE to McCuddy after catching this well-made if godforsaken film early Thursday evening:

“What’s wrong with you? What do you mean you ‘liked it’? I wasn’t expecting all that much, but I was somewhere between appalled and truly, deeply repelled. I remember being positive on 28 Days Later way back in ‘02, although my all-time favorite zombie flick is still Dawn of the Dead. But this…! The instant judgment is ‘artistically honorable but mostly indigestible.’”

McCuddy to HE: “I should have known when Perri Nemiroff liked it you’d hate it.”

HE to McCuddy: “I HATED, HATED, HATED this film.  I hated the futility and hopelessness, the blood and gore and goo-glop-slime, the sickening grunge, the stench, the puddles, the cheap shock cuts, the yelling, the all-but-impenetrable accents, the obese corpses, the vomiting, the cancer, the rage, the fury, and the worms, flies, rats and insects…the brutal slam cuts, the incessant howling, the tower of skulls, the endless supply of arrows…the sudden, left-field use of subtitles when a small crew of soldiers appears when subtitles were clearly required throughout most of the film…the relentless, all-but-vomitous spewing and spraying of blood, blood, blood and slithery, odious, Chicago stockyard pig organs…arrows, chest shots, head shots….guts, guts, guts.

“28 Years Later is probably the most skin-crawling, the least engaging…let me start over…the filthiest, emptiest, most repellent and nihilistic film of this sort and…oh, hell and damnation and repulsion…almost certainly the most physically disgusting film of any kind that I’ve ever seen in my life.

”Yes, it is partially redeemed toward the end by Fiennes, whose dialogue is actually understandable (as always, his elocutionary skills are admirable) and who has a delightful moment when he recalls a famous Hamlet line…but let’s not get too carried away.”

I could’ve seen 28 Years Later this afternoon, but I don’t care that much about undead plagues and all that icky jizz-whizz stuff. I’m seeing it this evening out of respect for director Danny Boyle, screenwriter Alex Garland, dp Anthony Dod Mantle and the esteemed cast (Jack O’Connell, Aaron-Taylor Johnson, Jodie Comer, Ralph Fiennes). I’m waving away Alfie Williams — I don’t like kid actors as a general rule.