“I’ve never been a fan of that “plink plink plink plink plink pink plink plink” Twilight Zone theme, which replaced Bernard Herrmann‘s music after the first ’59-to-’60 season. Herrmann’s original closing-credit score is wonderfully solemn and vaguely creepy, and much more affecting in a moody-undercurrent way than anything that followed.” — originally posted on 11.27.14.

Amy Coney Barrett is a member of a South Bend, Indiana–based Christian sect called People of Praise.
In a 7.15.18 interview with the South Bend Tribune, the group’s “coordinator” Craig Lent confirmed that People of Praise opposes abortion, gay rights, and marriage equality. Am I certain she’d vote to terminate the Affordable Care Act? No, but that’s the general presumption. There’s little doubt that she’d favor striking down Roe v. Wade, if given the opportunity.

A 2019 Pew Research Center poll found that “public support for legal abortion remains as high as it has been in two decades of polling. Currently, 61% say abortion should be legal in all or most cases, while 38% say it should be illegal in all or most cases.”

It was reported this morning that Patty Jenkins and Gal Gadot have signed with Paramount Pictures to more or less remake Cleopatra, the 1963 Joseph L. Mankiewicz catastrophe that came close to sinking 20th Century Fox.

Gadot and Jenkins will of course be making their own specific film about the legendary Egyptian queen, but the legacy of the 57 year-old Fox production looms large.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how interested is the HE community in seeing this new version? My honest level of interest is somewhere around five or six. But if there was a plan to make a narrative feature about the making of the Mankiewicz version, or more precisely a drama based on Kevin Burns and Brent Zacky‘s Cleopatra: The Film That Changed Hollywood, a 2001 doc that’s included in the Cleopatra Bluray package, my interest would instantly shoot up to 10.

This has been said over and over, but the Burns-Zacky doc is far more absorbing, entertaining and even more dramatic than the Mankiewicz film. If you’ve never seen it, here it is in two parts. Well worth the two hours.

Earlier today Variety contributor Nick “Action Man” Clement mentioned an oddball thing about Retroplex, a Starz-owned movie channel that shows only older films (’80s and earlier). Before the film the Retroplex guys labelled it “OC“, which stands for “Outdated Cultural Depiction.”

This is a presumed reference to a scene in which Richard Pryor paints Gene Wilder‘s face with brown shoe polish in order to allow him to pass as a fly black dude. Wilder then does a suitably coarse (i.e., funny) impersonation, etc.

Clement: “The fact that anyone would need to be reminded that this is a joke is absolutely pathetic, and very much emblematic of the douchebaggery that’s ruining our country. We’ve become SUCH WIMPS. Alas, some stooge thought it was problematic and here we are.”

HE to Clement: “Why wouldn’t Retroplex designate OUTDATED CULTURAL DEPICTION as OCD? Yes, I know — same acronym for obsessive compulsive disorder. Nonetheless OC aka ‘outdated cultural’ seems odd.

“There must be a SHITLOAD of OC admonishments mentioned by Retroplex in their listings, no? I tried to find their site and/or app. Unsuccessfully. I may have accidentally signed up for STARZ last year via Amazon, but I’ll be damned if I can recall my STARZ username and password. When I tried to access the RETROPLEX site I had to provide STARZ info…dead end.

Clement to HE: “Up until yesterday, I’d never seen the OC designation in any of the ratings blocks, on any premium movie channel. I thought it was odd, but considering the p.c.-fication of our society, I am not surprised.”

Last night’s SNL monologue by host Bill Burr has taken a lot of incoming today on Twitter. You could tell from the audience reactions that some of the material wasn’t landing. Burr knew the mob would come for him (“I’ll probably get cancelled…the nerve of you white women!”) and he did it anyway. Transphobic, misogynist, etc. I actually tittered at that “Rick Moranis getting sucker-punched on the Upper West Side” routine.

The reviews are correct, the rumors are true: Michelle Pfeiffer has lucked into the best role of her life in Azazel Jacobs‘ French Exit (Sony Pictures Classics, 2.12.21), a sardonic “comedy” with a gently surreal quality around the edges.

Which means that it’s not all that surreal, or at least not to me. A talking deceased husband (Tracy Letts) inhabiting the body of a cat or cryptically conversing with his widow and son during a seance…whatever. What French Exit is really about is dry gallows humor by way of a certain kind of “I won’t back down” resignation. And within that particular realm it’s very, very good.

If you’re going to make a bitter-end comedy with this kind of attitude or philosophy, you need to own it — no excuses or mitigations, no second thoughts, no third-act softenings. If nothing else French Exit is self-aware and highly confident, and therefore by any fair standard a first-rate effort. Is it “funny”? Well, not actually but it’s good company as far it goes. I was smirking. I was never bored. At the very least I was intrigued.

Exit is about Pfeiffer’s Frances Price, a suddenly destitute, formerly wealthy widow in her mid ’60s who decides to move into a friend’s Paris apartment with her extremely passive son Malcolm (Lucas Hedges) after learning that her once-ample bank account is all but empty. It’s also about how she does absolutely nothing to save herself. In fact she hurries the inevitable along.

But Pfeiffer really goes to town. She delivers every line with just the right shadings of jaded indifference, except it’s not a cold performance. It’s sly and fetching. You could almost say that Frances is a little bit like the Margo Channing role was for Bette Davis in All About Eve (’50) — a snooty bitch with nearly all the great lines. It absolutely represents a Best Actress Oscar nomination, and perhaps even a win. She’s as much of an assured contender as The Father‘s Anthony Hopkins.

The difference is that Davis was full of bite and gusto in Joseph L. Mankiewicz‘s 1950 classic while Pfeiffer is, like, really laid back in Jacobs’ film. So laid back that the only real observation or question about Frances is “okay, she’s having her fun because she really doesn’t give a shit and is comfortable with Parisian finality, so what method will she choose?”

Imagine that all of your money and marketable skills are somehow gone in a flash, and you have around 40K left in the bank. What would the HE community do?

Most of us would probably say, “Okay, I have to find a job or create a new income stream of some kind. The days of monetary comfort and treadmill engagement may be over, but it’s better to live and strive and hope for a better future than to collapse in a heap and give up.”

But a small minority might say, “The good times are over? I’ll have to sweat and struggle and use public transportation in order to survive? Okay, fuck it. Fuck it all. Let’s fly to Paris or Hanoi or Rome, rent a nice pad somewhere, eat well and enjoy the city, and when the money’s gone I’ll off myself with an overdose of heroin or something.”

You could describe the first response as noble or admirable — the classic “when the going gets tough, the tough get their asses in gear” approach that Jane Darwell shared at the end of John Ford‘s The Grapes of Wrath (’40). The second response is basically “if you think I’m gonna stick around while my life gets more and more desperate, you’ve got another think coming.”

Based on a same-titled 2018 novel by Patrick deWitt, French Exit is definitely about the second option. It’s about throwing in the towel, but always with a deliciously baroque attitude, a witty bon mot, a raised eyebrow or a frozen glare of some kind. It may be about extreme detachment but the deadpan nihilism is front and center and loaded for bear.

He’ll still be behind on the evening of 11.3.

By the way: A few minutes ago I was quizzing myself on the states in the above CNN map. Unlike Al Franken, I can’t draw the U.S. map on a state-by-state basis but since grade school I’ve been fairly solid on which state is where, etc.

So I felt…well, slightly thrown when I couldn’t remember which state is north of Iowa and east of the two Dakotas. I also drew a blank on the state below South Dakota; ditto the one below Iowa. The respective answers are (a) Minnesota, (b) Nebraska and (c) Missouri. Franken and the Coen Bros are from Minnesota so that should be easy to remember; ditto Nebraska and the legend of Alexander Payne. No solid connection with Missouri other than Harry Truman and staunch skepticism, even though I once visited “KayCeeMoe.”

I know my maps a lot better than any of those geographical doofuses Jimmy Kimmel or Jay Leno have talked to on the street, but otherwise I’ve no excuse. I only know that I eyeballed the above three and racked my brain, and the names just wouldn’t come. Truth be told I’ve always had a certain feeling of distance and disconnection when it comes to the Midwestern breadbasket region. New England, Mid-Atlantic, Deep South, Rocky Mountain states, Southeast, Southwest, Northwest rainforests and California…no problem. But the breadbasket is hazy.

I guess I’m basically saying that it’s the breadbasket states’ fault, not mine. Too flat, not distinctive enough, lacking in personality. Plus the ones I couldn’t remember all end in vowels.

Nothing on SNL made me laugh last night — a couple of titters, one muffled guffaw — but wokester terror was the theme of a couple of skits. And that was interesting. The best skit was the mob meeting in which Bill Burr‘s Don Whatever was constantly corrected by his capos for being using hurtful, insensitive terms.

Sitting atop my bedroom bureau, I mean. To my knowledge no go-getter has ever bought the rights and mass-produced for people like me.

Christ Unlimited, 1970 — created by Herman Makkink (1937-2013). Painted polyester and fiberglass sculptures of a naked, crucified Jesus dancing as if in a chorus line, numbered in red paint at the underside of each right foot 6 and 8 from the edition of 9, acquired by Stanley Kubrick for the 1971 Warner Bros. film A Clockwork Orange. 20 and 3/4 inches high.

Perhaps the most carefully measured, fully considered, persuasively phrased takedown of the N.Y Times‘ “The 1619 Project” was posted two days ago by N.Y. Times columnist Bret Stephens.

Key phrase: “The 1619 Project is a thesis in search of evidence, not the other way around.”

Final three paragraphs: “For obvious reasons, I’ve thought long and hard about the ethics of writing this essay. On the one hand, outside of exceptional circumstances, it’s bad practice to openly criticize the work of one’s colleagues. We bat for the same team and owe one another collegial respect.

“On the other, the 1619 Project has become, partly by its design and partly because of avoidable mistakes, a focal point of the kind of intense national debate that columnists are supposed to cover, and that is being widely written about outside The Times. To avoid writing about it on account of the first scruple is to be derelict in our responsibility toward the second.

“All the more so as journalists, in the United States and abroad, come under relentless political assault from critics who accuse us of being fake, biased, partisan and an arm of the radical left. Many of these attacks are baseless. Some of them are not. Through its overreach, the 1619 Project has given critics of The Times a gift.”

Select critics have been sent links to Ron Howard‘s Hillbilly Elegy (Netflix, sometime in November). Hollywood Elsewhere is looking very much forward to submitting to a cinematic rendering of J.D Vance’s 2016 memoir about growing up yokel. Seriously, no kidding, I’m into it.

We owe a debt of recognition, after all, to those fine rural people who voted for Donald Trump in ’16 and thereby pushed our country to the brink of totalitarian fascism. Most many of them are still wearing the red hat.

Vanessa Taylor‘s screenplay is actually about how Vance, portrayed as a teen by Owen Asztalos and as a young adult by Gabriel Basso, gradually escaped this horrid, dead-end culture and went on to attend Yale Law School and become a noted author.

HE to critic who’s seen it: “I have one question, [name]. How is Glenn Close‘s performance as Ma Bumblefuck?” (Her character is actually called “Mawmaw.”)

Yesterday an HE sorehead wrote that Florian Zeller‘s The Father (Sony Pictures Classics, 1.20.21) “isn’t happening. Or anything related to it. It’s another self-inflated bubble among movie pundits who will have no existence whatsoever in the real world.”

HE reply: “You’ve seen The Father? If you have you’re really crazy to have said that. It’s not a ‘bubble’ movie in the slightest. The idea of putting the audience into the shoes of an aging fellow with dementia is one of the most striking and inventive strategies for a domestic drama that I’ve seen in a long time. And Anthony Hopkins is nothing short of brilliant in the role. Everyone gets old and loses their edge to some extent. (Except for Gore Vidal, whom I spoke to a year or so before the end and seemed sharp as a tack.). And almost every family or middle-aged son or daughter has dealt with a declining parent. It’s about as un-bubbled and ‘real world’ a subject as you can find.”