Marty looks fine but other two…yeesh. Maybe don’t wear white?

This is as serious as a heart attack. It’s the doddering, slurry-voiced, squinty-eyed, 80something thing. Joe is Jimmy Carter in ‘79, and he’s really gotta step down. The Beast is at the door. Lyndon Johnson read the writing on the wall in March of ‘68 and acted accordingly. Trump will not defeat Gavin Newsom or Gretchen Whitmer.

Yesterday the always-candid Jeff Sneider dismissed or back-handed Maestro on a generational basis. I naturally took offense, having been swept off my feet by Bradley Cooper’s rapturous biopic.

HE reply #1:

“How many major Best Picture contenders have you urinated upon? You pissed on Poor Things, you’re pissing on Maestro. Have you pissed on The Holdovers? I don’t think so but I’m asking.

“Juan Antonio Bayona is an excellent filmmaker, but he’s never come close to matching the impact of The Orphanage, his big debut effort. I’ll see Society of the Snow (a shitty title) this weekend.”

HE reply #2:

“And you’re playing an age-ist card? People in your somewhat younger age bracket will be less supportive of Maestro. than GenX-ers and boomers, you’re saying? The older and mid-range Millennials at the after-party, you mean?

“First of all, what is WRONG with them? Are they on shallow pills? Maestro is cinema with a capital C — it’s dealing cards from a Citizen Kane–like deck. And your party pallies didn’t respond because….what, it doesn’t reflect older and mid-range Millennial attitudes? Because it channels elite-social-class attitudes from a bygone era (‘40s through ‘80s)? Because, as I said in yesterday’s Maestro vs.Oppenheimer review, “it hasn’t a woke bone in its entire body”?

“If this is the case (and I’m not saying that it necessarily is — I’m just speculating) you guys need to consider the possibility that you’re genetic mutants.”

I saw Sofia Coppola’s Priscilla last night, and it has a certain depressive, despairing, slow-paced, fade-to-black quality that some viewers might find…well, respectable. I understand why certain critics have approved. It’s austere. And anti-male, of course. Coppola has been drawing water from this well over and over (i.e., a beautiful, young, sensitive princess is trapped in an authoritarian, male-dominated world) — here she’s added a #MeToo “expose the bastards!” ingredient.

I didn’t hate it but Priscilla sure moves like a turtle, and the cinematography is too dimly lighted and funereal even. (That or the foot-lambert levels are way below SMPTE standards at the Westport AMC plex where I saw it.) And some of the whispered, all-but-inaudible dialogue is all but impossible. Subtitles!

All I know is that the longer the film went on, the more my pulse dropped.

As I was exiting the theatre I overheard a youngish, palefaced brunette tell her mom (same characteristics) that she “loved it.” As she stood in the lobby I told her I had also just seen Priscilla, and that I was wondering (without tipping my own hand) what in particular she had loved. “It’s just that it tells the story from her viewpoint!” she exclaimed. “The others (Elvis films, I assumed she meant) have all told it from his.”

You’re right, I said — it certainly has Priscilla’s back.

If you’ve read “Elvis and Me“, Priscilla Presley‘s 1987 tell-all, or are familiar with the main story points (Elvis’s refusal to have intercourse before marriage, his pattern of infidelity including affairs with Ann-Margret, Nancy Sinatra and many others, the drug use, his dictatorial nature and random violence, Priscilla’s affair with a martial-arts instructor named Mike Stone, Elvis’s raping Priscilla when he learned of the affair), it’s important to understand that Coppola’s film sidesteps or underplays this material and in some cases ignores it entirely. She was determined not to make a “this happened and then that happened” biopic. She wanted to suggest and hint but not be especially blunt about anything.

The result, frankly, is boredom, albeit a respectable form of it — the kind that many critics have approved of.

Every so often I get really sick of looking at all these lying, smiling, happy–as–a–clam faces on social media…too many damn blissful photos in too many flush locations, I’m tellin’ ya…well-heeled older folks using Hawaii and Paris and Sicily and Turks and Caicos or some midtown Manhattan restaurant as backdrop statements or general affirmations of comfort and contentment…happy and beaming and seemingly overjoyed…time of our lives!

These are presentations, of course, and naturally they’re not truthful. Advertisements For Ourselves. We all understand this, of course, but this doesn’t stop the infinite ecstasy people from posting these ads 24/7. Every Instagram day is a deluge of feigned fucking delight.

Do I blame people for trying to flood my feed with relentless happyface messaging? I guess not but on the other hand and to be perfectly honest I’m feeling more and more resentful, ya wealthy, well-fed, nicely tanned and well-dressed pricks ya.

If I was hanging today in Turks and Caicos would I take the same kind of “hah!..look at how wonderful my life is!” selfies and post them all over? No, I wouldn’t — I would post handsome photos, sure, but of anyone or anything other than myself because I no longer look like the handsome glammy guy of yore** and I don’t particularly want to advertise this fact.

** Even though I look half-decent for a “seasoned” guy with my Prague touch-ups, relatively trim physique for a guy who sits and writes every damn day, CVS whitened teeth and dark Prague hair.

I’m very sad and sorry about the death of Friends star Matthew Perry, 54. Drowned in his jacuzzi, they’re saying, but one way or another…it feels cruel to blurt it out but we all suspect that Perry’s decades of off-and-on drug abuse probably had something to do with this. Success, money, luck, good looks, and he couldn’t make it work. A tragic tale from any angle. Chandler, adieu.

No marriage, no kids, 54 years old.. Nobody just falls asleep in a jacuzzi and drowns,