Entertainment One Films will open David Cronenberg‘s Cosmopolis in New York and L.A. on 8.17, and then stand idly by as the film commits ritual seppuku among Cronenberg and Robert Pattinson fans alike. For whatever reason Cosmopolis will open over two months earlier in Canada (6.8) and then England (6.15). Is Entertainment One looking to give potential U.S. ticket buyers a chance to think twice before committing themselves?

U.S. Canada border-town guy to girlfriend: “Hey, Cosmopolis opens in Canada tomorrow…wanna cross the border and go?” Girlfriend: “Nah, I can wait a couple of months. Sounds like more of an August film anyway…y’know?”

Before Cosmopolis opened in Cannes the journo buzz was like “hmm, yeah, Cronenberg and DeLillo and Pattinson…who knows, right? Maybe.” Now it’s so cold you could wrap fish in it.

“We all know that Wall Street sharks are the compulsive demons of our time and are probably living with suppressed torment of one kind or another,” I wrote on 5.2, “so going into this I knew it wouldn’t do for Cronenberg to just say that Packer is a beast and show how devoid he is of humanity. The film would have to say ‘yeah, he’s a beast but he used to be human…see?’ Or ‘he’s more than a beast — he’s an alien.’ Or ‘he’s a beast but there might be a way out.’ Something more than just ‘this guy is all but dead, and you’re going to spend 108 minutes watching him be a zombie as he talks trade and devaluations and currencies and fucks hot women.’

“Lamentably, Cosmopolis does almost exactly that. And with non-stop chatter so compact and persistent and airless your ears will eventually fall off. With the same determination that Packer — played by Pattinson with his usual glum, shark-eyed passivity — takes himself down, Cosmopolis talks itself to death.

“I was dying for a little silence, a little quiet outside the limo…a sunset, an empty, wind-swept boulevard at pre-dawn, an encounter with a friend or two. Oh, that’s right — Packer hasn’t any.

Cosmopolis is “too familiar, too regimented, too claustropobic, too obvious. Yes, you’re constantly aware of Cronenberg’s fierce behind-the-camera talent, his determination to stay with his apparently quite faithful screenplay of Don DeLillo‘s book and to not cop out by making a film about how Pattinson’s Eric Packer used to be human but is now an alien although there might be a way out. That’s not the Cronenberg way. He gives it to you his way, and you just have to sit there and take it.”

Whether in Prague or Cannes or Bumblefuck, I have my New York attitude about crossing streets. If traffic is heavy and somewhat aggressive then don’t be an idiot. But if you can make it across a street without getting clipped or causing anyone to slam on their brakes, fine. If a car stops to let you cross, fine. If nobody stops and you have to duck and weave and dodge like a rabbit, fine. I don’t expect traffic laws to protect me because some people are nuts when they drive. I’ll take what comes, play what’s dealt. For I am lithe like a cat. And when you know that, nothing else matters.

Ioncinema has posted an exclusive clip from Todd Solondz‘s Dark Horse (6.8). Synopsis: “A man-child (Jordan Gelber) falls in love with a similarly unstable woman (Selma Blair). Living with his parents, (Christopher Walken, Mia Farrow), he starts an odd romance with the emotionally numbed young woman, while alternately developing an odd relationship with his father’s secretary (Donna Murphy).”.

Last night Manhattan-media wise guy and Forbes/Daily contributor Bill McCuddy “saw what was technically the New York premiere for Rock Of Ages at the Sunshine, and not only did I love it but it played like gangbusters in the room. Some applause breaks after a few numbers. Nice round of applause at the end. Plenty of laughs in the right places all throughout the film.

“Okay, so Julianne Hough was there with her family and director Adam Shankman encouraged hooting and hollering before the screening. But this thing just really works on a ‘campy rock and roll good time’ level. Hough called it a ‘dude-sical’ because men will like it too. I don’t think my poker game will go alone, but any guy going with his wife or girlfriend won’t regret the ride.

“Publicist Peggy Siegal avoided packing the room with stuffed-shirt media types” — McCuddy means guys like me — “and had lots of aging rockers like Mick Jones and younger musical stars like Rob Thomas in the place. Good word of mouth should expand it way beyond the Smash and Glee crowd.”

Choke, gag…the Glee crowd? I’m almost certainly going to loathe this film, body and soul. I’m sorry but I can tell. I’d like to have a good time and I’m glad McCuddy and last night’s crowd enjoyed it, but we all know what it means when the stuffed shirts are kept away. I can smell obviousness and shallowness. I can smell the void.

“And two of the longest french kisses in motion picture history — one of which Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity will look away from — are effing hilarious,” McCuddy continues. “And the Tom Cruise haters can stay home because this is the most fun he’s had since Les Grossman in Tropic Thunder.”

“By the way I’ve just read that the steamy lap dance between Hough and Cruise was taken out because it was too steamy. It was not in the print we saw. I have to say I don’t know how it would have worked in the story because Hough’s character is devoted to her boyfriend at the club and that scene would have played against her loyalty. Didn’t miss it but then again it was a lap dance so of course I missed it.”

“Django Unchained played the hottest of the three — big laughs, applause, whoops. Popcorn-plus entertainment in an old-Southern setting. Audacious attitude, swagger dialogue, fast gunplay and best of all, a former slave (Jamie Foxx) coming back to the plantation and whoopin’ on the overweight slave master who made his slave life hell. Can’t miss. Big money in all markets, thumbs-up reviews, the whole shot” — instant response when this trailer was shown at that 5.21 Weinstein press preview event in Cannes.

“I had lunch with the great Ray Bradbury on the Disney lot in ’83, a week or two before the debut of Something Wicked This Way Comes. (The chat was facilitated by veteran Disney publicist Howard Green.) I especially recall Bradbury talking about how writing was pure joy to him, and how banging out three or four pages was always the high point of his day.

“‘Pure joy?,’ I remember saying to myself. ‘In what parallel universe?’ Doing HE is actually fun most of the time, and when it isn’t it’s not too difficult. But in the bad old typewriter days I equated writing with digging ditches. ‘I don’t care how successful Bradbury is,’ I muttered. ‘Is he taking…what, happiness pills? Writing is pain. He’s just spewing.'” — Reprint of August 2010 article called “Most Happy Fella” on the occasion of the death of Ray Bradbury.

“I love criticism [and] always have. I love it as it was practiced by Baudelaire and I love it as it was practiced by David Foster Wallace, and I love it as it was practiced by Nick Tosches, even when he was writing about albums he never even listened to.

“I often tell people that I would have been happy to have aged into the Stanley Kaufmann of Premiere, had the magazine lasted. I am in complete concurrence with Manny Farber: ‘I can’t imagine a more perfect art form, a more perfect career than criticism. I can’t imagine anything more valuable to do, and I’ve always felt that way.’

“So in case you wonder why I tend to take the pulings and mewlings of pseud jagoff opinion-mongerers calling themselves ‘critics’ so personal-like, well, it isn’t just because I’m a reactive sorehead lunatic. The current logistical irony is that, in the contemporary environment, I’m compelled to explore making a living in other forms of writing. One of which, as it happens, is….well, I imagine you can guess.” — Glenn Kenny in a 6.5 Some Came Running essay that bounces off Poland-vs.-McWeeny and Carr-vs.-Scott.

…and I mean that with absolute, standing-at-attention respect and a somewhat firm conviction that Amour will be down to the wire for Best Foreign Language Film. But I stand by my initial reaction. I saw my father die in stages. It was perhaps the most dreadful deterioration I’d ever witnessed first-hand. He was a pretty sharp (and if truth be told, caustic) guy for several decades, but what nature did to him was sickening. He was fairly pissed off about it himself.

Sasha Stone knows that I love, admire and care for her like very few others, but this is the most odious and repellent collection of words conveying a stunningly inane and dissociative thought that I’ve seen online or in print this year, hands down.

If the makers of the Liz and Dick TV biopic with Lindsay Lohan and whatsisname as Richard Burton can just make an excuse to include footage of Lohan-as-Taylor walking out of the water in that white, nearly-transparent bathing suit in Suddenly Last Summer…which happened, yes, in ’58 or ’59, or a good two years before Burton came into her life during the filming of Cleopatra…if they just work that scene in somehow, the movie will be halfway home.

If I was a gambler I would bet the farm that they won’t do this. Why? Because many if not most people in this business lack that instinctual nose for what the public wants. In other words, many of the people who make movies should be doing something else.