Jeffrey Wells

Over the last few days I’ve been on a Brooke Hayward jag. Okay, a Brooke Hayward-and-Dennis Hopper thing…quite a pairing + the lore of ‘60s Hollywood and Joan Didion-ville…the counter-cultural turnovers, upheavals and whatnot.

This led yesterday to Mike Rozzo’s “Everybody Thought We Were Crazy”, a 2022 book about the fraught but exciting eight-year marriage (‘61 to ‘69) between Hayward, author of 1977’s “Haywire”, one of the better torn-and-frayed Hollywood memoirs, and the eccentric Hopper.

I initially wrote “nutso” to describe the late Easy Rider director and Blue Velvet costar. This might sound unkind but it takes one to know one. Not the druggy stuff, mind, as I never went down that hole. I meant it as a like-minded compliment, actually, because a paragraph in Rozzo’s book about a seminal moment in Hopper’s Kansas childhood reminded me of my own.

I didn’t feel that my childhood was less “real” than the realms I sank into when I began to catch films as a kid, but it was far less attractive. If anything it was too real.

All I wanted in my tweens and teens was to obtain parole from the repressive suburban gulag I’d been raised under and thereafter blend into (taste, know more intimately, in some way contribute to, anything) the extra-level pizazz of movies.

My Hayward dive began with an opening lecture scene in Mike Nichols’ The Day of the Dolphin (‘73), in which the mid-30ish Hayward, whose ‘60s acting career never took off, asks George C. Scott about governmental dolphin research.

Hayward is one of three female questioners in this scene, but she seems like the most knowledgable and grounded on some level…there’s a whiff of character and conviction in her WASPy features and confident tone of voice…you can feel it. On top of which she’s quite beautiful.

I’ve also been flipping through the almost half-century-old “Haywire”, which digs into Brooke’s Hollywood vs. northeast corridor upbringing and her turbulent young adulthood.

The late Buck Henry, an old friend who wrote the screenplay for The Day of the Dolphin and was probably instrumental in getting Brooke that cameo, wrote a forward intro for a 2010 re-issue of “Haywire”. It ends with this line:

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And Chevy Chase thought so too, according to legend.

“The Giant Garden Slug Blows Eddie Murphy While John Candy Watches”…check.

HE’s GoFundMe reboot reached a comfort–level goal as of late yesterday, and I’m once again thanking those who stepped up…bottom of my heart.

Sam Mendes’ decision to cast four 30-ish (or nudging 30) actors as the 20something Beatles in their mid-to-late-‘60s prime is, for me, a leap too far…28-year-old Harris Dickinson as John Lennon-if-he-was-a-basketball-player, towering over the hawk-nosed, pointy-chin-chinned Paul Mescal, 29, as Paul McCartney…the wicked, warlock-eyed Barry Keoghan, 32, as Ringo Starr, and the fair-skinned, ginger-haired Joseph Quinn**, 31, as the dark-eyed, non-gingered George Harrison…casting calls that seem not just reachy but three-quarters doomed (Dickinson might pan out)…and the four films (one about each Beatle) won’t be released until April ‘28…three years of gestation.

** You know who Quinn closely resembles? Prince Harry of Montecito.

Quinn is going to be as much of a bad-acid-trip George Harrison as the absurdly miscast Mescal is sure to be a weak-tea McCartney, a would-be inhabiting that can’t hope to persuade, much less transcend. (“Hey, Hawk-nose…why don’t we do it in the road?…everyone will be watching us.”). If Quinn had been around in the early ‘70s, he might have been regarded as a poor man’s Ryan O’Neal. Would Stanley Kubrick have even met with him during the Barry Lyndon casting process? Okay, he might have been cast as the younger roadside thief (i.e., the son of Captain Feeney).

It doesn’t make basic sense that Joseph Kosinski ‘s F1 (Warner Bros./Apple), opening worldwide on 6.25, isn’t debuting in Cannes in mid-May.**

Because it apparently won’t be.

Even with Mission: Impossible — The Final Reckoning (Paramount, 5.25) allegedly locked down for a Côte d’Azur premiere, F1 is the hotter, louder ticket. We’re all familiar with the M:I brand…same old bing-bang-boom. Not to mention the eternally stationary Ving Rhames again.

Is there some kind of ironclad rule that within a given Cannes Film Festival there can only be one U.S.-produced blockbuster? Did Paramount and Tom Cruise insist on a no-competition clause or something?

Jordan Ruimy was told a while back that F1 producers “opted instead for a world premiere in Monaco.” Because of the annual Grand Prix, of course. The only problem is that Monaco is a really shitty place for a world premiere. It’s an architecturally ugly, super-corporate city (I was repelled during my last visit) and it attracts the worst (i.e., shallowest) people in the world.

** Patrick Brzeski and Scott Roxborough’s THR prediction piece is two weeks old, granted.

Orange Mussolini has curiously acquiesced to Kid Rock’s idea of a White House dinner with Bill Maher this week, but he’s clearly uncomfortable with the fact that Maher isn’t a devotional boot–licker.

The meeting wouldn’t have been scheduled in the first place, of course, if Maher hadn’t earned a certain respect from righties for having routinely trashed woke lunatics over the last few years, and yet the authoritarian-in-chief still feels antsy…what a fragile child.

On top of which this may go to Cannes. If so, some are rooting for a Director’s Fortnight slot, which can be comfortably ignored.

Whimsical is pretty much synonymous with capricious, and post-Days of Heaven Malick has shown himself to be nothing, creatively speaking, if not “given to sudden and unaccountable changes of mood and behavior.”

Again — ask Adrien Brody about this. Ask the late Chris Plummer. Ask Geza Rohring, who plays Jesus in Malick’s STILL unfinished The Way of the Wind, which shot principal photography in 2019 and has been subject to Malick’s tossed–salad, elusive–butterfly editing aesthetic (you can’t call it a process) ever since — five and a half years as we speak.

“Sudden and unaccountable changes of mood and behavior” = the man does not know his mind, or is so engrossed in the mystical that there can be no destination. “The farther one travels, the less one knows” — George Harrison, “The Inner Light.”

One could adopt a brusque attitude and conclude that Malick has no sense of decency or fundamental follow-through when it comes to post-production.   How about them apples?

I HATE guys who make a big egoistic show of this…who brazenly perform for the crowd by dropping to their knees in order to propose marriage to their beloved. “Look at what a loving, open-hearted fellow I am! Actually look at the two of us!”

You’re appalling, Monsieur Douchebag, and you don’t even know it.

The title of Stanley Kramer’s It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (11.7.63) was allegedly finalized early on, but a few working titles were considered before that. One was One Damn Thing After Another.

Kramer’s over-emphatic comedy enjoyed two full weeks of play before JFK’s murder. It nonetheless ended up with $46 million domestic, $60 million worldwide.

This appears to be a possibly fake re-issue one-sheet. Notice the “73” in the lower right-hand corner — that’s a re-issue date.

Santa Rosita was the location of “the big W”.

Mickey Rooney got the short end of the stick here; Buddy Hackett was also made to seem minor. Jonathan Winters, Milton Berle and (fat) Sid Caesar ruled.

I remember a review that questioned the suitability of using super-sized Cinerama as it provided several unwelcome close-ups of its aging cast…pink eyes, sagging cheeks and wrinkled brows.

The scalpers, I mean.