Jeffrey Wells

A friend said the other day that my reactions to the bowling pin films seemed a bit harsh. I explained that since I’ve been more or less thrown out of the house, I’m simply not qualifying my reactions with political considerations.

There’s certainly no chance of sweet-talking my way into the good graces of these monsters. Last weekend I looked into the calculating eyes of Netflix’s Albert Tello…wow. But this is the business I chose to live and work in. A world defined by situational fair-weather alliances that can turn on a dime. We’re living through a grotesque and puritanical Robespierre chapter in our history, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I seem to be a variation on Georges Danton.

All good critics lead with the positive. I don’t mean that they hype stuff cynically, but they put their enthusiasm out there as much as honesty allows. All my life I’ve been looking for stuff to love, and when I’ve found a film that either hits the mark or comes very close I’m never shy about saying so, or about looking at a glass that’s half full and saying that in so many words. (Like my review of Becoming Led Zeppelin — an imperfect film that I liked all the same.) On the other hand, another part of HE’s mission is to take the wind out of the sails of stuff that’s been overpraised.

A friend agrees with me about Jane Campion‘s film, and strongly suspects, as I do, that Average Joe audiences are going to hate it. Because there’s just not enough going on, for one thing. Two-and-a-half hours of a grim and chilly Montana milieu, and all leading to a message about suppressing one’s own homosexual nature being bad. Not to mention punching a defenseless horse, and don’t get me started on castrating bulls with a sharp blade.

I was reminded that last weekend Pablo Larrain, Joe Wright and Alexander Payne were saying how much they admired Dog. Which means less than zero, of course, as fellow directors are always fellating each other.

The fact that four Gold Derby prognosticators (Anne Thompson, Chris Rosen, Matthew Jacobs, Thelma Adams) have The Power of the Dog as the top of their Best Picture rosters means even less — they’re basically saying “go, Jane…we’ve been admiring your work for years and our ardor hasn’t cooled.” Just wait and see what happens when The Power of the Dog starts streaming…just wait.

An excellent trailer, I don’t mind saying. The Many Saints of Newark shot during April, May and June of ’19 — two and one-third years ago. (Extra shooting happened about a year ago.) Yes, of course — we’d all like to see a Many Saints HBO miniseries go into production. Two, three seasons…whatever works.

In early August a bootleg copy of a Netflix teaser for Adam McKay‘s Don’t Look Up appeared on YouTube. Today a similar teaser appeared legitimately. Same Leonardo DiCaprio chin-beard and anxiety attack, same sense of hurtling meteoric panic-anxiety, same Jonah Hill smiling conference line about “whoa, dude…you are stressing me out“, etc.

Four days ago (Friday, 9.3) I tweeted about one of my Belfast problems — the partly indecipherable Irish accents. Cue the usual HE knee jerk derision about my ears being the problem…naturally. But earlier today (9.7) along came Rory Carroll’s Guardian piece (“Hollywood Struggling With Accents in Branagh’s Belfast”) about others having the same issue.

Variety‘s award-season columnist Clayton Davis tends to be very encouraging when it comes to assessing the Oscar odds of nearly every would-be Best Picture contender, at least in the early stages. He can be (and usually is) a very generous handicapper,

Which is why Davis may have delivered a symbolic kiss of death to Pablo Larrain‘s Spencer. Davis believes that Kristen Stewart‘s performance as Diana, Princess of Wales is good to go for Best Actress (at least a nomination) but the film itself…well, who knows?

Basic equation: If an obliging good-time Charlie is skeptical of a film’s Best Picture chances in September, there may be reason for concern down the road.

Barbra Streisand holds her end up in this final scene from The Way We Were, but it’s Robert Redford who delivers the emotion. It’s all in his eyes…the heartache, the buried regret, the faint unhappiness about his current gig as a live TV writer, the lingering love. It’s one of his most poignant acting moments ever, and I’m not even a huge fan of this 1973 film.

“You never give up, do you?”

Pablo Larrain‘s Spencer ends on an “up” note — Diana, Princess of Wales (Kristen Stewart) and sons William and Harry escaping from the Windsor gargoyles in her car and singing Mike + the Mechanics’ “All I Need Is A Miracle,” which was released in early ’86. But here’s the thing…

Written by Mike Rutherford and Christopher Neil, “All I Need Is A Miracle” is about a guy who’s been indifferent and even abusive to his ex-girlfriend, but now he realizes what an asshole he was and desperately wants her back. If she decides to forgive him and return, it’ll be because God has smiled and lent a hand.

If you believe that a certain someone agreeing to be your boyfriend or girlfriend constitutes a miracle, you’ve got the wrong attitude, man — perhaps a low-self-esteem loser. If you’re a good person with character and inner value and whatnot, you shouldn’t need a miracle to make things right in terms or a desired relationship. Some guy saying “left to my own devices my would-be boyfriend or girlfriend might blow me off or find someone better, but if a ‘miracle’ happens I’ll be saved!”…c’mon, man.

I had the same attitude back in my hormonal heyday. If I was the object of some woman’s intense desire and if she believed that if I reciprocated her feelings that a “miracle” would be at hand, my response would be “hold on a minute…there’s nothing miraculous about me or being with me…I have my good and not-so-good qualities but if you think that our falling in love or moving in together or whatever…if you think that would be some kind of miracle, then you’re dreaming…nobody is a miracle, nobody’s a perfect catch…it could be a good or better-than-good relationship or not, but come down to earth….we’re all flawed, all struggling…nobody’s a gleaming prize.”

Clint Eastwood: “Show me a drop-dead beautiful woman with an elegant education and great business acumen, and I’ll show you a guy who’s tired of fucking her.”

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Apologies for not posting about the death of Michael K. Williams during yesterday’s long journey. I feel genuine sorrow that the 54 year-old, Brooklyn-residing costar of The Wire and Boardwalk Empire accidentally took himself out. Respect and condolences. I’m just sorry — let’s let it go at that.

You’re sitting down and interviewing (or simply speaking with) a somewhat older and certainly more famous fellow than yourself, and as the conversation is winding down he affectionately, quickly, semi-aggressively grips your knee. That’s a gesture of courtly approval — it means that you’ve passed inspection.

I don’t know how many times this has happened to me personally, but I’d say a few. I’m thinking in particular of a 1999 Toronto Film Festival party for The Limey, and hanging for a half-hour or so with Terrence Stamp. As the party was ending and we were all starting to disengage, Stamp gave me a nice fatherly knee-grab — not too gentle, not too aggressive, right in the middle.

I can’t honestly say I’ve ever knee-gripped some younger guy. I tend to prefer shoulder grips or upper back pats.

Last Saturday afternoon I sat and wrote a bit at Telluride’s Butcher & Baker Cafe (201 Colorado Ave.). I consumed two cans of La Croix sparkling water, for which most retailers charge $2 each, give or take. The Butcher & Baker guys charged a total of $13.68. High rent and all that, but you’d think that an exorbitant per-can price would be more in the vicinity of $4 per can, not $5.50 or $5.75.

Due to pressing work issues and whatnot, Tatiana insisted Monday morning that we drive all the way from Telluride to West Hollywood (858 miles, 13.5 hours) in a single daylight-to-darkness marathon. We left at 11:30 am and arrived at the WeHo homestead around midnight, or 1 am Telluride time. Two (or was it three?) gas-ups. No meals or leg-stretching time-outs. The worst part was the endless uphill trek between Needles and Barstow.

Most long-distance drivers succumb to acute exhaustion after seven or eight hours. Tatiana drove the first seven; I took over in mid-Arizona. Any way you slice it 13 and 1/2 hours inside a VW Beetle at 80 mph is grueling.

I’ve been through one similar experience — a coast-to-coast, Los Angeles-to-NYC marathon that lasted 52 hours. Meals and one roadside snooze but no motels. The fastest potential time is 42 hours, but the pace would be inhuman. The most agreeable way to drive long distances is to bag 400 to 500 miles per day. Less if you can afford it and have the spare tine.