Jeffrey Wells

From a Lee Bollinger interview, posted four days ago (3.11.25) by Evan Goldstein and Len Gutkin, The Chronicle of Higher Education:

…to admit that it took me this long to finally sit down with Mike Leigh’s Hard Truths. I’d planned to catch it theatrically in Manhattan seven or eight weeks ago…can’t explain, don’t ask. Earlier today I streamed it on Amazon for nearly six dollars. Just me, Leigh, Marianne Jean-Baptiste and the others.

I was riveted by it. Brutally honest writing, acting, sculpture. No “story” to speak of but pared to the bone. With the exception of one dialogue-free scene near the end involving Jean-Baptiste’s son (played by Tuwaine Barrett) that I didn’t believe, there’s not even a faint sprinkling of bullshit in any of it.

Jean-Baptiste is guns-blazing brilliant in a way that really slaps you down — her character’s anger…her misery, I mean…seeps right into your bloodstream. No “acting”, no charm, zero excuses. I’m sorry but I found MJB’s unprovoked acidic rantings kind of funny. (Keep in mind that the Wiki page describes Truths as a “comedy–drama”).

How in the world did Jean-Baptiste not land a Best Actress Oscar nomination? How or why was Hard Truths blown off by Cannes, Venice and Telluride?

Every single costar (Michele Austin and David Webber especially) delivers the same cut-the-crap realism as MJB. Leigh, 82, is such a master.

The all-but-forgotten Norman Foster, who has a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it performance as a San Fernando Valley abortionist in Frank Perry’s Play It As It Lays (‘72), was indisputably the principal on-set auteur behind Walt Disney’s hugely popular Fess Parker / Davy Crockett shows of the mid ‘50s.

Literally a kind of Steven Spielberg-like maestro behind the biggest Disney franchise of all time, Foster directed all five Parker / Crockett episodes. .

Some may have also forgotten there were in fact five “Crockett” episodes that originally ran on the “Walt Disney Presents” Sunday night anthology show in 1955 and ‘56 — the original THREE in ‘55, followed by TWO episodes in ‘56 (i.e., the river boat prequels).

There were also TWO Crockett theatrical features that were composed of (a) the first three episodes and (b) the final two which costarred Jeff York’s “Mike Fink.”

Born in ‘03, Foster was covertly married to Claudette Colbert between ‘28 and ‘35. He had a decent career as a 1930s screen actor (romantic leads) before moving into directing in the late ‘30s (six “Mr. Moto” films and three “Charlie Chan” features **), ‘40s (including the Orson Welles-produced Journey Into Fear as well as the bizarrely titled Kiss The Blood Off My Hands).

A late-60ish Foster gives a supporting performance in Welles’ The Other Side of The Wind.

To repeat, Foster’s first three Parker / Crocketts were initially broadcast in 1955 on the Disney TV show (Sunday evening):  “Davy Crockett, Indian Fighter”, “Davy Crockett Goes to Congress”, and “Dave Crockett at the Alamo”.  (The final episode killed Crockett off without depicting his actual demise.)

These were quickly fused together and theatrically released as Davy Crockett: King of the Wild Frontier, also in 1955.

Foster also directed the two Crockett prequel episodes, “Davy Crockett’s Keelboat Race” and “Davy Crockett and the River Pirates.” The prequel episodes were also cut together and released as a 1956 theatrical feature.  

Foster also directed Disney’s The Sign of Zorro (‘58).

** Given the revoltingly racist nature of the Charlie Chan and Mr. Moto film series, will Justin Chang and Bowen Yang pool forces in order to get Foster posthumously cancelled?

The wokester campaign to urge the freeing of Lyle and Erik Menendez has pretty much collapsed. L.A. District Attorney Nathan Hochman isn’t buying into the “boo-hoo, I blew my parents away because my dad repeatedly fucked me in the ass.” To which I say, “Eat shit, shotgun murderers!”

A movie about a sexual chow–down affair during the late World War I era between a pair of British dudes, to be played by Josh “stinky feet” O’Connor and Paul “God help us all” Mescal?

O’Connor is on his way up (the talk is that he might even be cast as the new 007) but post-Gladiator II Mescal is unmistakably on his way down. Is there anyone in the civilized world who wants to see this hawk-nosed Irish actor, the quintessence of dead-fall charisma, play ‘60s-era Paul McCartney?

The Forty Elephants may have been an all-female London crime syndicate in 1880s London, but they weren’t so much an underworld criminal gang as a fleet-fingered shoplifting operation, which sounds a lot less malicious than, say, a female Dead Rabbits.

I haven’t yet sunk into Steven Knight’s A Thousand Blows (Hulu) but being a scruffy 19th Century thing it’s obviously not related to the cinematic visions of the late Francois Truffaut and his 66-year-old debut film, The 400 Blows, which excited the imaginations of the young Harvey and Bob Weinstein. (I doubt they were the only young lads with thoughts of an oral-sex marathon.) Not that this has anything to do with the Forty Elephants…wait, I’ve lost the thread.

Posted today (3.8) by Jeff “Insneider” Sneider:

Warner Bros. will release Maggie Gyllenhaal’s The Bride (which reportedly contains “big dance numbers”) on 9.26.25. Here’s the Wiki synopsis:

Jessie Buckley’s “bride” naturally has to exact revenge upon her malevolent murderer…totally necessary, dramatically required. But my blood ran cold and my skin turned to alabaster when I read the words “sparking radical social change”….aaagghh!

…for what I’m feeling right now…I know in my gut that what awaits me later this afternoon will not be pleasant, much less transporting…I’m about to enter a celestial snow colony by way of a futuristic Bong hellscape…creepers! Which RPatz’s lead protagonist feels compassion for. Two hours and 17 minutes of this…God.

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In any other city a cannabis store might call itself High Society, and that would be fine. But on Ludlow Street just south of Houston (a few doors down from Katz’s Quaking Orgasm Performance Deli). a different spelling is required.

I deplored the stealth woke-ism and mediocrity of Kamala Harris, and yet I voted for her last November because she’s a relatively sane and sensible type…a steady-at-the-helm administrator who wouldn’t fuck things up too badly.

Alas, Donald Trump got elected for the most part because wokeys overplayed their hand (DEI oppressions, 1619 Project historical revisions, George Floyd riots & lootings, punitive #MeToo corrections and cancellations, trans intimidation in public schools + bottom surgeries for minors, free-for-all Mexican border policies, men in women’s sports, trashing the reputation of Abraham Lincoln, Kathy Kennedy destroying Star Wars franchise). They did this to themselves, and have no one but themselves to blame. Thanks, Joe!

And so, despite my loathing of Trump’s scoundrel-ish demagoguery and lying criminality, my heart fluttered last night when I heard the words “woke no longer!” The dream I’ve been holding in my heart since 2018 — that wokesters would one day be on the run and searching for tall grass — has finally come to pass.

I hate what Trump is doing on so many other fronts (Ukraine in particular) but lashing wokesters to the whipping post is a good and glorious thing.

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…who has flaming carrot-colored hair and several hundred freckles and who doesn’t even look like a distant cousin, and who also looks like fucking Carrot Top meets Eric Stoltz?

I’m sorry but all my life I’ve been living with a certain idea of what “twin” means. Silly me — forgive my ignorance.

Posted this morning…

From this end it feels pretty great to be living a Hollywood Elsewhere-type life — no “barbecues and ball games” or any of that onerous, sword-of-Damocles stuff but…

It is part of my burden, yes, to have to face the daily threat of slimy, slithering reptiles and hissing dragons** who radiate seething hostility at every turn, but as Pike Bishop once said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

No sublime morning-coffee company with a Porizkova or an Antropova, true, and no THC gummies or slurps of lime-and-guave-flavored beer but I gots my George Gershwin rhythm…physically fit, mentally sharp, no bald spots or jiggling neck wattles, Italian-made black loafers, Zara T-shirts, etc.

And Lordy Lordy the profound gift of a three-year-old granddaughter who constantly radiates joyful discovery and intrigue….

Not to mention daily postings drawn from my inner well…a life of constant discipline, 4K Blurays and travel and film festivals, Cialis and Prevagen and choice Indian restaurants in London and Paris and even Westport, cinematic intrigue and occasional satori transcendence, Bhagavad Gita meditations, a bottomless chest of fond Henry Miller-ish memories and occasional secretions of Socratic wisdom…spiritual nourishment savored in dribs and drabs.

I could go on and on but it feels like a huge relief not having to please or placate or charm or dazzle a high-maintenance woman of Porizkova’s character***…no offense.

Sri Krishna, Henry Miller, Pike Bishop, Socrates or Marcus Aurelius (either or both), George Gershwin, Sutton Wells…quite the cocktail.

** Life forms who seem to actually get off on spewing alien acid blood.

***  https://hollywood-elsewhere.com/which-one-is-crazier/