All indications suggest that Joel Coen‘s The Tragedy of Macbeth (debuting tomorrow at the New York Film Festival) may be on the visually restricted side. It was shot on sound stages and in black and white — exactly the opposite approach taken by Roman Polanski‘s open-air, braving-the-elements, full-color 1971 version that I just rewatched a couple of days ago, and found bracingly realistic and fully alive.

N.Y. Times Manohla Dargis: “Blood and betrayal, toil and trouble — filmmakers from Akira Kurosawa to Roman Polanski have taken on Macbeth. In his stripped-down version, Joel Coen pitches his expressionistic tent between cinema and theater, taking a lead from Orson Welles, whose 1948 adaptation” — shot on hand-me-down western sets in Studio City — “was one of his last Hollywood films.

“Is this an ill omen from Coen?” [HE interjection: An ill omen in what sense?] The play is still the thing and so is a volcanic Denzel Washington, who ferociously embodies, as Welles put it, ‘the decay of a tyrant.'”

An “expressionistic tent” suggests something inventive but shrouded, protected from the elements, a realm with limits. Dargis also implies that Coen’s film is as much of a theatrical piece as a movie. In other words, a film that may strike some as confining, perhaps even under-oxygenated….maybe. We shall see what we shall see.

No Time To Die helmer Carey Fukunaga to THR‘s Tatiana Siegel: “Is it Thunderball or Goldfinger where, like, basically Sean Connery’s character rapes a woman? She’s like ‘No, no, no,’ and he’s like, ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ That wouldn’t fly today.”

Of course it wouldn’t. Such a scene would never be considered. But it didn’t “fly” 57 years ago either.

Even by mid ’60s standards the Goldfinger “barn” scene was a silly jape. The joke was that Connery’s 007 was such an irresistable hound that even Honor Blackman‘s Pussy Galore, an avowed lesbian, succumbs to his overbearing masculinity after resisting for three or four seconds. Remember also that Blackman’s surrender happens after a judo match in which she and Connery throw each other around.

True, Connery is on top of Blackman during the moment of capitulation, but the attitude is half-comedic. The playful music conveys the mood.

Perhaps Fukunaga is partly recalling a scene from Alfred Hitchcock‘s Marnie, in which Connery’s Mark Rutland actually rapes the frigid titular character (Tippi Hedren), whom he’s just married. Marnie and Goldfinger were released the same year (’64) and two months apart — Marnie on 7.22.64, Goldfinger on 9.18.64 (in England) and 12.22.64 (in the U.S,).

The progressive left’s normalizing of male pregnancy and menstruation is another reason why the ‘22 midterms and (God help us) the ‘24 Presidential election both may wind up causing great pain and heartbreak. Average Joes loathe and despise the diluting of gender roles (along with the ongoing plague of tyrannical wokesterism). Was it only 39 years ago when Charles Durning told Dustin Hoffman that “out on the farm hens are hens and bulls are bulls and they don’t want to be cows or lay eggs”? It’s as if the left is deliberately trying to persuade older fence-sitters to elect a few more lunatic-psycho Republicans as a bulwark against bulls giving birth to calves in the pasture.

I haven’t checked in with Seth Rogen in a while. This is him at the Emmy Awards. He looks different. Tatyana doesn’t know Rogen, and I just showed her this photo and asked “how old is this guy?” She guessed 47, 48, in that range. He’s fine, some of us go gray earlier than others, not a big deal. I’m just surprised.

Ted Lasso star and Emmy winner Jason Sudeikis was snapped leaving the Sunset Tower hotel two days ago. What got my attention was the outfit he wore — a tan hoodie and a burgundy trucker hat with gray cargo shorts and Nike sneakers. I hate anything burgundy, but paired with a tan hoodie…God! Two and 1/3 years ago I tried to explain my burgundy revulsion.

Friendo to HE: “I dare you to watch Dear Evan Hansen all the way through. All 137 minutes of it.”

Thursday, 9.23, 8:40 am: Jesus…not a peep. Time was when George Clooney teaming with Ben Affleck would’ve meant something, stirred the pot, ignited some chatter. Flatline.

BFI LONDON FILM FESTIVAL PEEK–OUT:

Indie filmmaker and pioneering blaxploitation auteur Melvin Van Peebles (Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song, Watermelon Man, Classified X) has passed at age 89. Due respect and condolences to family, friends, fans and colleagues. A breakthrough artist and a go-his-own-way giant among black directors in the ’60s and’70s, Van Peebles paved the way for many who followed in his wake. He also wrote four novels, at least one respected play (La Fête à Harlem) and a collection of short stories; also a smart Wall Street investor. Melvin was the father of actor-director Mario Van Peebles.

A couple of days ago World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy posted the results of a 40-critic poll about films that had played at the 2021 Toronto Film Festival. Film critics are generally too dweeby as a rule and their favorites rarely synch with the preferences of Joe and Jane Popcorn, but at least they brushed aside Kenneth Branagh‘s Belfast, the TIFF People’s Choice award winner.

Of all the films voted upon, Branagh’s finished 30th with a piddly three votes to its name.

I’m not suggesting that these and other critics should write a letter to Sid Ganis about his remark, shared during the recent Telluride Film Festival, that Belfast was one of the best films he’d ever seen in his life. But if they were to compose such a letter and send a hard copy to Ganis’s home, it could read something like this:

“Dear Mr. Ganis — There is no one ‘right’ opinion about any film, and we, the undersigned, are certainly not saying that you misjudged Kenneth Branagh‘s Belfast or that your comment to Deadline‘s Pete Hammond needs to be reevaluated or recanted. You have an absolute right to your view. No one is suggesting otherwise.

“But by the same token we have a right to our own shared opinion, no offense, which is that Belfast is a movie for the chumps. Which is why we didn’t even consider rating it as one of the top 20 films of the just-concluded Toronto Film Festival, or even among the top 30.

“By all means go with God, embrace Belfast, tell your Academy-member friends how wonderful it is…all to the good. But when we, the undersigned, considered the opinion that you shared with Hammond earlier this month, the blood, no offense, drained from our faces. — Respectfully, the World of Reel 40.”

Before yesterday I’d never seen the cover of the hardback edition of Quentin Tarantino‘s novelization of Once Upon A Time in Hollywood. (I own the paperback version.) It may be appears to be a fan-created book cover. Nonetheless we’re all familiar with Quentin’s female foot fetish; ditto why he told Margaret Qualley to put her bare feet on the dashboard of Brad Pitt‘s car. Everything is subjective but HE is distressed by the resemblance to my own damn feet…God. HE’s personal preference is after the jump.