Jeffrey Wells

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.

Donald Trump talks a tough game, but deep down he’s a fat pussy…a twitching, fluttering. sabre-rattling, falsetto-voiced twinkle toes…and the Iranians know this.

Posted an hour ago (1:45 pm) by N.Y. Times staffers:

Sweltering temps begin today. I love 92 in the shade in the dry lower desert, but not so much in muggy-ass Connecticut or Manhattan.

As a veteran of countless back-and-forths between Fairfield and Westchester counties and NYC-area airports (JFK, LGA, Newark), I’m acutely aware of how agonizing and soul-draining congested highway travel can be (particularly on the 678 through the Bronx and Queens).

Don’t buy any bureaucratic b.s. about the massive JFK reconstruction project proceeding at a reasonable pace — month after month the seeming absence of churning machinery and busy-bee workers by the roadside has been obvious — it’s mostly a slow-motion exercise in urban hellscape obstruction.

Take a train to Manhattan and then grab a Howard Beach-bound A train plus the JFK Air Train (the fare will be cut this summer by 50%!)…only way to travel.