What was the Anti-Defamation League doing when Schnozzgate first broke…sleeping? On vacation?

Martin Scorsese‘s Killers of the Flower Moon (Apple/Paramount, 10.6) isn’t going to the Telluride Film Festival. A 100% reliable source has just informed me of this. So that’s it — no prestige fall festival play at all. No Telluride, Toronto or New York.

Earlier today: If Killers of the Flower Moon doesn’t play the Telluride Film Festival, it’ll feel like a bit of a letdown, certainly among some of us. It’ll be like “so last May’s big Killers of the Flower Moon Cannes debut was it?”

This keenly anticipated, hugely expensive, epic-length Martin Scorsese film should benefit from at least one high-profile domestic festival screening between now and 10.6 (i.e., Telluride). If Killers sidesteps Julie Huntsinger’s Rocky Mountain gathering, it’s going to just…what, quietly slip into its two-week October theatrical run? No big domestic festival push for poor Lily Gladstone, the heir apparent for Best Supporting Actress?

Killers is a highly commendable period drama. Emotional impact-wise it may be a somewhat modest, middle-range effort at the end of the day, but the chops top to bottom — acting, production design, cinematography, musical score — are first-rate. I for one believed every minute of it…every last frame. It certainly deserves a big stateside festival push before the 10.6 theatrical opening.

Laurence Olivier’s Marcus Licinius Crassus to John Dall’s Marcus Glabrus, leader of the garrison of Rome, in Spartacus:

“But the public tribute is impossible. Leave tonight by unfrequented streets…without fanfare, without even a drum…sneak out.”

Go to 2:40 mark

No, not his treatment of Tippi Hedren. His failure, I mean, to respect the Lakota Sioux’s sacred Paha Sapa (Black Hills) in South Dakota. He did so by callously and obliviously staging the thrilling climax of North by Northwest atop the shamefully chiselled and misappropriated Mount Rushmore. Never forget that the British-born Alfred Hitchcock couldn’t have cared less. Sic semper auteurists!

The people who brought the Bullet Train pollution — director David Leitch, screenwriter Zak Olkewicz, producers Kelly McCormick, Antoine Fuqua and Leitch again — are walking cancer cells…pure poison. Motive-wise I’m excusing the cast (a paycheck is a paycheck) but they were all reprehensible regardless.

From HE’s 8.22 Bullet Train review:

Sex (especially great sex) can make strong men feel weaker or less driven, or at least persuade them to ease up to some degree. Among creative types post-coital drainage always slows your rivers down to a trickle. Okay, I don’t know how true this actually is, but it’s a well-established myth — i.e., “There goes another novel.”

From Jake Malooley’s “After Hours: The Oral History of a Cult Classic” — Air Mail, 8.22.23:

And that “thing” is that Maestro isn’t all that focused on Bradley Cooper’s Leonard Bernstein. Well, it is to a considerable extent, obviously, but Carey Mulligan’s Felicia has the spotlight. Duhh.

The below comment exchange appeared Sunday evening (8.13) in “Mexican Obeisance Before Power,” otherwise known as the post in which Patton Oswalt settled the Barbie misandry dispute with one fell swoop…settled it with two drillbit words that will resonate throughout the known universe between now and the 2024 Oscar telecast — “manosphere piss–nado.”

“Sometimes there’s God, so quickly!!” — Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire.

I was asked why joyful reactions to certain audience-friendly films seem to rub me the wrong way.

“I’m not sure I want to be rubbed by you at all, young lady” — from Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra (Rex Harrison to Elizabeth Taylor).