Jeffrey Wells Earlier today a few seething Facebook women went on and on about what a vile shitheel Mick Jagger is or at least was in the old days. How he treated certain women badly, etc. Which he may well have. (What do I know?) But I defended him anyway. Kneejerk bro loyalty or whatever.
In the comment thread under yesterday’s “Best 2024 Films at Half–Time” piece, “Correcting Jeff” said Steven Zaillian’s Ripley “doesn’t count because it’s television.” The obvious reply is “cinema is cinema, regardless of the platform.” My actual reply expanded upon this:
“Ripley is awesomely moody, eye-bath cinema…a silky monochrome Caravaggio to have and hold or at least stream…an old-world Italian dream trip that’s pure swoon…an ice-cold sociopath creates his own world by way of bashing two fellows to death, and gradually gets even the most discerning doubters to go along with his audacious lifestyle change…one of the most immersive and succulent black-and-white films eyes have ever beheld. Netflix schmetflix…I can’t list 2024’s pick-of-the-litter so far and not include it.”
My aching left leg joint no longer aches. Cordless Robocop massage pistol arrived a day ago. It makes me feel like a gunslinger. I decided against ordering an optional black leather holster…kidding.
I’m okay with Harris Dickinson playing John Lennon in Sam Mendes’ forthcoming quartet of Beatles films (due in ‘27), and I don’t know enough about Charlie Rowe to squawk about Mendes having cast him as George Harrison.
But a rumored decision to cast HE’s two all-time biggest pet-peeve actors — Paul Mescal and Barry beestung-nose Keoghan — as Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr is giving me heart palpitations.
I can only hope and pray that Jeff Sneider’s reporting is somehow mistaken or, if correct, is up in the air as far as Mescal-Keoghan are concerned. Please God, I’m begging you…
Brad Pitt has been sober for nearly eight years, but because he lost his alcoholic temper during that infamous chartered flight (on 9.14.16) and was physically abusive to Maddox, one of the six Jolie-Pitt kids…because he was a belligerent drunken dick that one time, at least two of his daughters, Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, 18, and Vivienne Jolie-Pitt, 15, are convinced that he’s a living embodiment of Satan and want the Pitt struck from their last names.
Shiloh has in fact filed legal papers to change her name to a Pitt-less Shiloh Jolie. Perhaps Vivienne will follow suit when she turns 18.
We all understand teens who feel estranged from their parents (I was one), but who goes into court and says in effect “strike my father’s last name from my legal history!…he doesn’t exist, his name is anathema!…I judge him damned with the devil and condemn him to molten-lava hell with all the other fallen angels, where he will writhe in terrible pain for all eternity.”
What kind of nutbag daughter thinks this way?
Why is the divorce initiated by Angelina Jolie against William Bradley Pitt still ongoing and unresolved eight years later? Sane exes don’t behave this way as a rule.
Trust me — I’m not the first person on planet earth to rhetorically ask “what exactly is Angelina’s basic psychological malfunction?”
Then again I may be thinking too narrowly. Perhaps Pitt is the devil incarnate, and therefore deserves to be hunted down with clubs and spears and burned like Joan of Arc or Oliver Reed’s Father Grandier from Ken Russell’s The Devils?
That’s it…Furiosa is finished. It’ll almost certainly be streaming before the month is over, or on 6.25 — three and a half weeks hence. Garfield will rule the roost this weekend. Furiosa is whimpering, yelping, head down, tail between legs.
From jordan Ruimy’s World of Reel story…
