Wokesters and BLMers regard him as Satan. My late father hated him for his rightwing politics. And Lord knows The Green Berets was a seriously ignorant pro-Vietnam War fantasy. But all things considered, John Wayne was well liked and regarded as a decent human being by those who knew him.

Wayne could be thorny in some respects, yes. And his assessments of who and what people of whatever ethnic stripe may have amounted to were obviously crude in some respects, and certainly don’t pass muster by today’s measure. But I’ve always heard he was a fundamentally humane fellow.

Recent statement by Ethan Wayne, the Duke’s 58-year-old son: “The truth is, as we have seen in papers from his archives, [my father] did not support ‘white supremacy’ in any way and believed that responsible people should gain power without the use of violence.

“Those who knew him, knew he judged everyone as an individual and believed everyone deserved an equal opportunity,” Ethan added. “He called out bigotry when he saw it. He hired and worked with people of all races, creeds, and sexual orientations. John Wayne stood for the very best for all of us — a society that doesn’t discriminate against anyone seeking the American dream.”

“[It] would be an injustice to judge him based on a single [Playboy] interview, as opposed to the full picture of who he was.”

By all appearances, Bernice Kavinoky‘s “We Burn Like Candles” was a vaguely tawdry pulp romance. The hot cover art alone says that. It was published in paperback on 1.1.54. I can’t find a book review so I’m guessing it wasn’t much. I can’t even find a mini-bio of Kavinoky. But the title is excellent. Because it has a ring, and especially because there isn’t a single earth-residing person to whom this description doesn’t apply.

I realize that in real life weak sisters will occasionally throw up when they feel upset or overwhelmed or repulsed by whatever. But in movies, hurling has become a cheap trick — downmarket emotional shorthand.

I’m sorry but Hollywood Elsewhere has always had a problem with characters who do this. Bit-wise, it’s the equivalent of lead protagonists (including superheroes) doing swan dives off the tops of buildings and tall cliffs. So when characters spew, I’m out and that’s final. And if a director isn’t smart enough to realize that hurling is verboten, it’s certainly not my fault.

Boilerplate: Charlize Theron stars as a badass immortal mercenary in The Old Guard (Netflix, 7.10), which is baed on an “acclaimed” graphic novel “about a covert group of impossible-to-kill warriors who for the last several centuries have fought to make the world safe and just for all humanity”, blah blah.

Costarring Kiki Layne (the spewer!), Matthias Schoenaerts, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Marwan Kenzari, Anamaria Marinca, Luca Marinelli and Veronica Ngo.

As we all know, there is serious talk among Sioux Nation leaders as well as white-guilt wokester progressives to actually remove — dynamite — the Mount Rushmore monument.

It goes without saying that Roger Thornhill, Eve Kendall, Philip Van Damm and Martin Landau’s Leonard are alarmed, to say the least. Not to mention the ghosts of Alfred Hitchcock and Gutzon Borglum.**

The potential trashing of Mount Rushmore is an expansion of the “tear down all offensive statues” movement, which began with Confederate generals (appropriately) and then moved on to not-so-baddie-waddies like Ulysses S. Grant, Francis Scott Key, an abolitionist or two. Even a statue of poor George Washington was defaced.

It is therefore odd that this new Lincoln Project ad mentions Mount Rushmore without even acknowledging the tear-down conversation.

Ghislaine Maxwell, former associate of sexual predator Jeffrey Epstein, has been arrested “for helping to procure and groom young girls for the late financier, including instructing them on how to pleasure Epstein sexually.”

Maxwell is facing several charges (including two involving perjury).

The conventional view is that the same dark forces that engineered the “suicide” death of Epstein will now try to murder Maxwell.

N.Y. Times critic Glenn Kenny approves of Rod Lurie‘s The Outpost. He wasn’t obliged either way, of course, but fine. Ands yet his review runs only five paragraphs, and the first two are about the sons of famous guys (the established Scott Eastwood and the wet-behind-the-ears Milo Gibson, James Jagger, Will Attenborough) “who have made their own war films.”

Only paragraphs #3 and #5 offer critical judgments — how an initially commonplace approach evolves into “something more complex and illuminating” and how “two members of the ensemble who are not sons of celebs, Orlando Bloom as a determined commander and Caleb Landry Jones as a wound-up specialist, also deliver near-career-high performances.”

I’m blaming Kenny’s editor. Kenny has never shied from perceptive analysis or expanding on odd critical tangents, so the editor must have said “sorry, Glenn, but we’re short on print space and have to cut it down to five graphs.

Best sentence: “James Jagger’s father, Mick, while more a stage than screen figure, sometimes still sings of riding a tank and holding a general’s rank.” Not to mention “while the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank.”

A teaser for Respect, the Liesl Tommy-directed biopic with Jennifer Hudson as Aretha Franklin, popped on 12.20.19. At the time (pre-COVID) the theatrical release date was 10.9.20.

Now it’s 12.25 — six months from now and, if they’re honest, largely a matter of wishful thinking. Three days ago a Respect “trailer” appeared, but it’s basically a teaser-plus. Same you-go-girl message as before with added paint dabs of character. The real trailer will probably surface in September or October.

“Instant Best Actress Nominee,” also posted on 12.20.19: “Signed, sealed, delivered, done — Jennifer Hudson as Aretha Franklin for Best Actress. Unless, you know, Respect (United Artists, 10.9) turns out to be on the same level as Kasi Lemmons‘ Harriet and is more or less dismissed. But if it turns out to be even half-decent, Hudson is a lock — Jamie Foxx as Ray Charles all over again.

“Respect will presumably include a depiction of how the recording of ‘I’ve Never Loved A Man’ came together at Alabama’s Muscle Shoals recording studio. The savior was session man Spooner Oldham, who came up with the Wurlitzer riff that made that song work from the get-go. If Respect doesn’t have this scene, forget it. The episode was passed along in Magnolia Pictures’ Muscle Shoals, a 2013 documentary.”

“Sketchpad by Jason Adam Katzenstein / Phase II (The New Yorker, 6.29, page 19 in current issue).

On the 16th anniversary of the passing of Marlon Brando, here’s a riff that I posted on 2.25.05: “You never cared about this stuff, and you really couldn’t care less from wherever you might be now, but I’m profoundly pissed that the Oscar show producers (Gil Cates and Lou Horvitz) didn’t give you a special tribute reel of your own last night.

“Pissed and ashamed and a little bit disgusted, to be honest.

“There’s no question you were the most influential actor of the 20th Century. No one had the same impact-grenade effect…nobody. You’ve been among the deity of reigning pop icons for as long as I can remember (along with Humphrey Bogart, Elvis Presley, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, et. al.), and you’ll still be there 50 years from now. You rewrote the damn book.

Marlon Brando / 1924-2004

“But you were a bad (indifferent?) politician and a bit of a self-loather, and you let your unresolved, screwed-up stuff define too much of your life and image over the last 40-plus years.

“On the other hand Johnny Carson, whose departure happened just recently, was better liked by the industry and public, and he was a sublime Oscar host all those years. And so the Oscar guys decided to pay a special extended tribute to Carson and not you. They took, in short, the politically easy road and revealed their personal colors, not to mention the industry’s basic value system.

“Cates and Horvitz lumped the great Marlon Brando in with all the other dear and departed during last night’s ‘In Memoriam’ tribute…all right, they gave you the last slot at the end of the montage and used four stills instead of one or two…but it was still like someone saying matter-of-factly, minus any sense of sufficient sadness or reverence, that Marlon Brando is merely dead.

“The Brando tribute reel that Cates and Horvitz didn’t show (and probably never even cut together) should have proclaimed — trumpeted — that Marlon Brando lived. He lived and screamed and wept and re-ordered the universe as people knew it in 1947 in New York City, and then rocked Hollywood in the early to mid ’50s, and left them both in a state of permanent shakedown and reexamination by the time of his effective departure from creative myth-making in 1954 or ’55….and then shook things up again when he briefly re-emerged as The Man in the early ’70s (The Godfather, Last Tango in Paris).

“And all the Academy could muster was a more-or-less rote acknowledgement that you left the room in 7.1.04. Sorry, Bud, but you knew a long time ago what this town is basically about.”

Jon Stewart‘s Irresistible opened last Friday. On 6.23 I gave it a pass on the basis of it being lightly amusing and easily digestible. Money passage: “It’s not a bother to watch it. It doesn’t irritate or piss you off. It just does the old soft shoe and wraps things up (credits included) within 102 minutes.”

Presumably a portion of the HE community has had a looksee. Thoughts, disputes, side issues?

Apologies for misspelling Irresistible.

Shia LaBeouf‘s “Creeper”: “I’m supposed to terrorize the herd…that’s my function.”

Okay, but as the cast appears to be largely Latino/Mexican is Shia playing a white guy? Or is Creeper a Mexican character? I’m asking because Shia seems to be speaking with an accent. Are white guys allowed to play brown these days?

Directed, written and produced by David Ayer, The Tax Collector (RLJE, 8.7) is described as an “American” crime thriller. It costars Bobby Soto, Cinthya Carmona, George Lopez.

In The Towering Inferno, Richard Chamberlain‘s sinister son-in-law character died for his sins. He was selfish and cowardly, and so he had to fall 138 stories to his death, screaming all the way down. But disaster films are also expected to serve some cruel sadism, and so a couple of innocents (played by Jennifer Jones and Susan Flannery) also slammed into the pavement. Satisfaction all around.

One of the reasons I disliked Jack Smight‘s Airport ’75 is that none of the passengers (some of whom were played by Gloria Swanson, Helen Reddy, Linda Blair, Sid Ceasar, Myrna Loy, Jerry Stiller, Normal Fell, Nancy Olson and Martha Scott) were killed. They just sat in their seats and grimaced and occasionally screamed.

Airport ’75 is basically about Dana Andrews’ small private plane crashing into the windshield of a commercial 747. Three professional guys die as a result — Andrews, co-pilot Roy Thinnes and attempted replacement pilot Ed Nelson. The latter, tethered to a cord, is lowered from a rescue plane in front of the wounded jet. Unfortunately his harness becomes caught in the jagged material surrounding the hole in the cockpit, and Nelson flies out. I wasn’t satisfied. I didn’t want Nelson to fall 20,000 feet to his death — I wanted Swanson, Reddy, Loy or Stiller to suffer that fate.

In his 1.19.74 N.Y. Times review, Vincent Canby said that Airport ’75 suffers from “a total lack of awareness of how comic it is when it’s attempting to be most serious.”

If I’d been in charge of the script and direction, I would have included MCU footage of the terrified Nelson as he falls to his doom above the snow-covered Wasatch Mountains. (Imagine Martin Balsam‘s close-up as he’s falling backwards down the stairs in Psycho — something in that realm.) Then I would have cut to a young couple enjoying some cross-country skiing near a large frozen lake. They would look up as they hear a strange hissing sound. Behind them we see a blurry, human-shaped missile slam into the ice and disappear. The couple turns. They take off their skis and walk out to the area of impact. They come upon a perfect body-shape hole (arms, legs, head) in the ice.

Too sadistic? Maybe, but be honest — this is the kind of Colisseum-style spectacle that ’70s disaster movies were selling, certainly by implication. I realize that the film was financially successful (cost $3 million, made $50 million worldwide) but it wasn’t bloodthirsty enough.