Young guys growing their hair long in the mid ’60s required some brass because of fierce resistance from various authority figures, but there were two separate arenas in which long hair began to advance and dig in among teens and early 20somethings — the cities and the campuses, where things manifested much more quickly starting in ’65 (but not ’64), and the middle-class suburbs, where it took a lot longer for anyone to walk around with super-long Blue Cheer or Grand Funk Railroad hair or a Bob Dylan Jewfro, say.

It started with modest little Beatle bangs in ’64 and ’65 with radical campus hard-asses growing their hair to Rubber Soul lengths by the fall of ’65. But things were relatively cautious and straight-laced in the pot-smoking ‘burbs.

Obviously longer hair caught on big-time in the cities and campuses in ’66, but even then it was rare to see a guy with Buffalo Bill hair on the Harvard or Yale or NYU campuses, and you didn’t really see long hair start to get fizzy and freaky among non-collegiate suburban youths until late ’66 or ’67. And you didn’t see serious Blonde on Blonde Dylan-fros and heavy-duty Geronimo hair with headbands until mid to late ’68 or ’69, even, in the ‘burbs of New Jersey and Connecticut.

A lot of middle-class kids who weren’t musicians or Timothy Leary disciples or radical-ass Harvard University geniuses looked like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate (’67), for the most part. You didn’t even see sideburns among more or less straight-laced guys until ’69 or ’70. By 1969 or ’70 even corporate, three-piece-suit types were wearing what were called “executive chops.”

I’m bringing this up because David Chase‘s Not Fade Away, which screened today for New York Film Festival journos and got thumbs-up responses from at least two guys I know (Kris Tapley and Marshall Fine), appears to play it fast and loose with mid ’60s hair changes, to judge by the trailer.

I’ve asked around and the film, about a young New Jersey rock band going through various convulsions and challenges and changes, takes place over a period of three and a half years — from late 1963 (“[it] begins in the immediate aftermath of the JFK assassination,” according to Indiewire‘s Eric Kohn) and ends (or “dovetails,” as Kohn puts it) sometime during the 1967 Summer of Love. Much of the film, to go by press materials, take place in ’64. and long hair just wasn’t evident back then. It really wasn’t evident in ’65, as I’ve said. The big flowering was in ’66 and ’67.

I’ll have to see the film, of course, to make a final judgment about accuracy, but it looks as if Chase has re-imagined the mid ’60s. To go by the trailer, the hair that started to happen in ’66 and ’67 and which really took hold in ’68 and ’69 happens in the ‘burbs in ’64, ’65 and ’66.

I hope I haven’t been too technical here, but hair evolution from ’64 to ’69 was a very specific, stage-by-stage thing. It roughly paralled the long-hair styles of the Beatles themselves — just look at their stylings in ’64, ’65, ’66, ’67, ’68 and ’69. It’s all there.

It’s good to see Marcia Nasatir and Lorenzo Semple, Jr doing their Real Geezers routine again, but let’s try and be a little more current than Trouble With The Curve, which had already had its day and been more or less pushed aside. Whatever they review has to be opening in a few days or have opened a day or two earlier.

Expertly constructed wham-bammers (i.e., “what you see is what you get”) sell tickets and give less sensitive audience members a good time, but they don’t linger. The ones that do always deliver the undercurrent stuff, “the things that are not said.” Michelangelo Antonioni‘s L’eclisse and L’Avventura deliver this in spades; ditto Florian von Henckel Donnersmarck‘s The Lives of Others and Cristian Mungiu‘s Four Months, Three Weeks and Two Days.

One level below this (and this is flattery I’m dishing here) are the ones that may not have a churning river underneath, but they keep the emotional content in check. They hold their cards to the chest and let the audience absorb what’s there rather than show or explain it or use a laser pointer and say “here it is…see?” (Either you get it or you don’t, but you’d have to be an idiot to miss it.) This is what Ben Affleck‘s Argo does superbly. He never tips the bucket over and spills the water out and leaves puddles on the floor. He always ladles it out just so, concisely and succinctly and yet making sure that the water has all the right nutrients and effervescence. In a word, he believes in brevity. And that is a welcome thing.

It’s not just HE’s “Berg.” Earlier today Garth Franklin‘s Dark Horizons reported that two days after Monday’s screening at the New York Film Festival, Steven Spielberg‘s Lincoln will be screened, somewhat restrictively, for high school and college students on Wednesday, 10.10, at several AMC theatres nationwide. The screenings will apparently begin around 7pm.

I’m a student of life. An earnest student. I want to learn. May I attend also?

The screenings in New York, Los Angeles and several other cities will be followed by a live Yahoo q & a with Spielberg and Daniel Day Lewis. The q & a will stream live on Yahoo! Movies at movies.yahoo.com/lincoln-live. Questions will be submitted on Twitter using the hashtag #Lincolnmovie.

Lincoln will screen before the q & a at Manhattan’s AMC Leows Lincoln Square, L.A.’s AMC Century City 15, and in AMC theatres in Chicago, Dallas, Boston, Washington DC, Seattle, Miami, Atlanta and Houston.

Can you order tickets online? Can you find any mention of this special Lincoln screening on the AMC website? Of course not.

Jason Statham‘s Parker is Donald Westlake‘s original guy, all right. Or, if you want, Lee Marvin‘s Walker from John Boorman‘s Point Blank. It is axiomatic that all Jason Statham films suck wind to some degree. (The exception was Roger Donaldson‘s The Bank Job.) You can’t go by a trailer, but it seems as if Parker might not stink as badly as the others. Thoughts?

That’s Jessica Biel as Vera Miles in Hitchcock, Sacha Gervasi‘s making-of-Psycho film that will open 2012 AFI Fest. I think it’s fair to say that Biel’s mouth is a lot bigger and opens a lot wider than Miles’ mouth. Biel’s mouth might even be bigger than Joe E. Brown‘s. I know, I know — “who’s Joe E. Brown?” He played Osgood Fielding, the old coot who had thing for Jack Lemmon‘s “Daphne” in Some Like It Hot.

Kino Lorber’s forthcoming Fear and Desire Bluray looks great — natural, clean, straight from the lab. Until this release the only way to see Stanley Kubrick‘s first film was to get hold of one of those dupey, cruddy-looking VHS tapes or DVDs, or watch via online stream. So this is great news from a purist, restorationist perspective.

The problem, of course, is that the movie itself is an embarassment. Kubrick called it crap in interviews, and it’s easy to see why. Soldiers caught behind enemy lines in some kind of existential. low-budget conflict in what looks to be a park in upstate New York or New Jersey with the picnic tables removed. Blah, blah, blah. Fear and Desire should be shown to all first-time filmmakers. It will greatly encourage them to know that Kubrick made Paths of Glory only four years later.

The first thing you hear is some pretentious narration, written by Howard Sackler, that goes as follows: “There is war in this forest. Not a war that has been fought, or one that will be, but any war. And the enemies who struggle here do not exist, unless we call them into being. This forest, then, and all that happens now is outside history. Only the unchanging shapes of fear — and doubt and death — are from our world. These soldiers that you see keep our language and our time, but have no other country but the mind.” I wanted to turn it off right then and there.

The only thing that sustained my interest was the fact that Fear and Desire has been mastered at 1.33. Any film that brings even a little discomfort into the heads of guys like Bob Furmanek is, in my book, a good thing. Don’t believe it when these guys say they just want the correct aspect ratio to be rendered. That’s just what they say for attribution.

I watched last night’s Presidential debate from the bar at Finn McCool’s, a pub on Santa Monica’s Main Street. About two-thirds of the way through these two 20something jock types came in, and right away one of them looked around the room, noticed that 12 or 15 people were watching the screen and said to his pally, “Oh, okay…everybody’s watching this thing.” In other words, they came in to watch a game and were unhappy about the bar’s two or three screens being otherwise engaged.

I was sitting right next to them and silently saying to myself, “Yeah, it’s tough, chief…I know. Once every four years around October and November people in bars like this actually watch something other than football or baseball games. Not an easy one to swallow, I realize. Especially for guys like yourself, right? Life sucks every so often.”

According to Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neil, The Sessions director-writer Ben Lewin is surprised that Fox Searchlight has submitted his film for Golden Globe consideration as a drama. Because midway through filming he realized that The Sessions is “actually a comedy,” and this realization led costar Helen Hunt to “recalibrate” her character.

Lewin would be wise to shut that one down right away. Golden Globe submissions and decisions about which films are “comedies” are often a stretch and sometmes absurd, but there’s no way in the world any semi-awake human being on the Planet Earth would call The Sessions a comedy. It uses a humorous line here and there, chiefly during William Macy‘s church-pew counselling scenes with John Hawkes. But it’s obviously just a straight healing story with sexual-emotional flavorings and a kind of tragic undercurrent.

I would say overall that you really have to have a bent mind to even half-smirkingly call it a comedy…c’mon. It’s about a guy with almost no life who experiences a few shafts of emotional and spiritual light before all the lights go out. Where is the ha-hah in that?

It took me most of the morning to recover from last night’s Barack Obama tragedy, and the Black Hole of Calcutta depression that resulted. Thank you, Barry, for yanking out my butt-cork and making me feel as if my soul was draining out and falling to the carpet like sand. Wait…is this happening? Oh God, It is happening. The man has an arsenal of damning facts at his disposal and he’s not using any of them, and he’s losing this debate to that Amiable, Good-Natured, Lying Republican Country-Club Slimeball.

I wrote last night that “I know what it’s like to half-prepare for something and then go out there and just blow it.” You can prepare a lot of or not so much, but you have to want to go into the arena and smile like a Cheshire cat and rip the other guy’s throat out, and one thing that mild-mannered Barry has always had difficulty with is being adversarial and confrontational in a one-on-one situation. All I can say is that he’d better wake the hell up, man up, toughen up, call in Chris Matthews for some debate coaching and get out there and turn this thing around in the next debate. I haven’t been this angry with him since the budget standoff and his reported willingness to compromise with Boehner and the other fiends. I hate wimpitude.

Obama has the wind behind him, he has the edge and he’s likely to win, the numbers are looking good and he all but forfeits the debate because he has to be Mr. Smiley and because he problems with aggression?