I had another burgundy/maroon meltdown today. I’m sorry but it was awful. I was waiting at a stoplight in Westwood when a blond-haired Millennial walked in front of me with a maroon/burgundy double assault — lace-up sneakers plus a cardigan of some kind. Animal dislikes are hard to explain and impossible to rationalize, but they’re driven by something fierce and primal.

I have nothing to add to last year’s burgundy/maroon rant (posted on 5.9.19) but if I was some kind of Emperor or Dictator I wouldn’t ban the wearing of burgundy/maroon. That would be oppressive, tyrannical. I would, however, impose serious fines. Wearing of maroon/burgundy jeans: $250 fine plus mandatory attendance of six (6) classes explaining the basics of tasteful color coordination and what not to wear under any circumstance. (It doesn’t end with burgundy/maroon.) Wearing of burgundy sneakers, scarves, ties, T-shirts, windbreakers: $250 fine. Wearing of maroon/burgundy sport or tuxedo jacket: $350 fine.

I said last year that I’m okay with hand-crafted burgundy or cordovan dress shoes. That hasn’t changed.

Three weeks ago I saw Josh Trank‘s Capone (Vertical, 5.12). My 26-word capsule review: “Splotchy, flamboyant and plotless but flavorful and quirky thanks to Tom Hardy, and with one terrific, stand-up-and-cheer scene. But that’s all.”

Pic is basically about the demented Al Capone (brain corroded by syphilis or, if you will, paresis), hanging around his Miami Beach mansion in 1946 and early ’47 and basically succumbing to one haunting flashback or hallucination after another.

My suspicion is that Trank (Fantastic Four, Chronicle) landed Hardy by telling him “look, man…there’s no story or ‘movie’ here other than ‘the guy has totally lost it’ so make it your own and I’ll just shoot it…just growl and snarl and act the fuck out of demented Al and we’ll slap something together in editing…ball’s in your court.”

The terrific scene in question is a riff on Bert Lahr performing “If I Was King Of The Forest” in The Wizard of Oz. It has permanently altered my default imprint of Al “Scarface” Capone. Before it was Robert De Niro swinging a baseball bat in The Untouchables. But henceforth I’ll think of “Fonz” (a nickname used by pallies, short for Alphonse) standing up during a home screening of Oz and singing along with Lahr, and with operatic feeling.

It was the one moment when I sat up on the couch and smiled.

Capone’s mansion is located on a large waterfront lot at 93 Palm Ave, Miami Beach, FL 33139. [See photo below.] Capone, which was originally titled Fonzo, was shot in some low-lying swamp region outside New Orleans. Given Capone’s delusional state of mind, Trank decided to depict the Capone mansion as roughly ten times larger than it actually is, and so the property is presented as a cross between Beasts of the Southern Wild and Charles Foster Kane‘s Xanadu.

I for one found this infuriating. Capone can wallow in delirium all he wants, but I wanted the realism of that property.

Capone mansion is redlined — 93 Palm Ave, Miami Beach, FL 33139.

Look at these Mother’s Day revelers in Castle Rock, Colorado…they don’t care. As noted last week, I’m sensing shards of this attitude even in blue Los Angeles. “People may die but we have to live,” etc.

Happy Mother’s Day from C& C in Castle Rock, where the owner said this is almost double a normal Mother’s Day. pic.twitter.com/cPSzjmAfAg

— Nick Puckett (@nick__puckett) May 10, 2020

There’s nothing factually unknown in Timothy Egan’s 5.8 N.Y. Times column, titled “The World Is Taking Pity on Us.” But I admire the discipline, concise phrasing, no beating around the bush, etc.

Excerpt: “In Trump’s assessment, his government has done a ‘spectacular job’ with the Covid-19 pandemic.

“’And I’ll tell you, the whole world is excited watching us because we’re leading the world,’ Trump said in an updated pat on the back.

“He’s right about the leading part: Every 49 seconds or so, throughout the first week in May, an American has been dying of this disease. With 1.3 million reported cases, the United States, just five percent of the world’s population, has nearly 33 percent of the sick. With more than 75,000 deaths, we’re at the front of the pack as well. No country comes close on all three measures.

“Globally, the average death rate is 34 people per million residents. In the United States, it’s more than six times higher — 232 per million.

“South Korea and the United States both reported their first cases of Covid-19 at the same time, in the third week of January. South Korea immediately started testing on a mass scale and socially isolating. The United States denied, dithered and did next to nothing for more than two months.”

Last night I became a better-late-than-never fan of Slade‘s “Gudbuy T’ Jane” (’72). I was surfing on the couch with my wireless headphones, and for some random-ass reason I happened upon “Jane” and played it full-blast. And this shallow but well-performed, perfectly mixed song just carried me away.

Mainly because of the guitars (I love how that central lead guitar riff cuts into the third chorus refrain before it ends) and Noddy Holder‘s voice (great name!). All I know is that the pandemic flew out the window and I was feeling like a happy drunken teenager.

I never had time for Slade in the old days. I looked down on them as flamboyant glitter clowns in silver-painted platforms.

The same thing happened a couple of weeks ago with Grand Funk Railroad‘s “I’m Your Captain.” I never liked it much, and always thought GFR was too Michigan, too primitive, too blue-collar. But for some reason I found myself really liking “Captain” (except for the “getting closer to my home” second part, which still blows). Again, the guitar work.

I was always somewhat attracted to the idea of buying this or that Twilight Time Bluray, but I rarely did because they charged too much. Their brand exuded a touch of class but they weren’t Criterion — they never did the heavy restoration lifting. (On the other hand their color Blurays were never teal-tinted.) I want my Blurays to cost $20 bills or thereabouts, and Twilight Time always charged closer to $30 and sometimes higher.

And now they’ve gone belly-up. I’m sorry — I don’t like to see any outfit devoted to distributing HD cinema go under. Then again on 5.11 (tomorrow) I’ll be able to buy some of their titles at bargain basement prices.

Posted today (5.10) by Twilight Time management: “After nine years of successful operations in which 380 motion pictures from the 1930s to the 2010s have been released on DVD and Bluray disc, the home video label Twilight Time — founded by veteran Hollywood studio executives and filmmakers Brian Jamieson and the late, dearly celebrated Nick Redman — will not release any further titles and we will be winding down operations this summer. A changing market, the rising costs of title acquisitions and Redman’s passing are key reasons for the closure.

“As part of our winding-down process, there will be a one-time reduction in prices to $3.95, $4.45, $6.95 and $11.95 as of Monday, May 11th at www.TwilightTimeMovies.com.

“Cinemagistics/TwilightTimeMovies.com will continue to sell titles while available through June 30th, at which time they and Twilight Time will cease operations. Remaining inventory will be acquired and distributed exclusively by Screen Archives — effective July 1st 2020.”

After reviewing Natalie Wood: What Remains Behind (HBO, now streaming), I began to poke around her filmography and consider her less successful films. I wound up focusing on Richard Quine‘s Sex and the Single Girl (’64), a strenuous, tedious sex farce that nonetheless became a commercial hit. God forgive me but I read the Wiki page, watched the trailer and read two or three reviews.

Wood played a mythical version of “Sex and the Single Girl” author Helen Gurley Brown, who was 42 in actuality while Wood’s version is a couple of decades younger and on the prim and proper side. Tony Curtis played Bob Weston, a reporter for a scandal magazine looking to expose Brown as “a 23 year-old virgin” and therefore a pretender in matters of sexual experience.

The below promotional photo of Curtis and Wood (they both seem to be thinking “oh, dear God…the lack of modesty!”) was aimed at lowest-common-denominator prudes circa 1964, and therefore reflected a safe marketing strategy. It’s nonetheless infuriating if you think about it for five or six seconds.

Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood in a promotional pose for Sex and the Single Girl (’64).

Forget the plot line — if a 39 year-old hound dog (Curtis was born in ’25) was reading “Sex and the Single Girl” his expression would be one of arousal and anticipatory satisfaction, as frank descriptions of the sexual escapades of a moderate-minded single woman would indicate all kinds of randy, rompy activity in his immediate future.

And why in heaven would the author of said book express shock or amazement? Did Quine or the producers believe that movie stars and the characters they play should have at least a glancing relationship with the same reality? Jesus God…Wood had a brief affair with Rebel Without A Cause director Nicholas Ray when she was 16 or 17, and eight or nine years later…oh, forget it.

Early to mid ’60s sex farces were deranged, deluded, borderline Satanic.

Good heavens…Catch 22 author Joseph Heller shared screenplay credit on Sex and the Single Girl. Held his nose, cashed the paycheck.

Please read this N.Y. Times review by A.H. Weiler, published on 12.26.64:

“Sex and the Single Girl brought out the single gals in droves and clusters yesterday to the Rivoli and the Trans-Lux 52d Street. One mildewed bachelor, fearing disaster, bravely latched on to a balcony perch and finally exited with a slight stagger.

“It’s not the worst picture ever made, girls and boys. No kidding! Not even with Natalie Wood being archly pursued by Tony Curtis for over two hours and, most fortunately, with Lauren Bacall, Henry Fonda and Mel Ferrer bringing up the rear.

“That simpering title — all that’s left of Helen Gurley Brown‘s hope-chest best-seller — still tells the story and flavor of this Warners release. Now there’s a plot, involving Miss Wood as Helen Gurley Brown, a maidenly, 23-year-old research psychologist on advanced marital and pre-marital studies. Yeah, man! And Mr. Curtis is a scandal-magazine writer who blasts Dr. Wood’s (or Brown’s) best-selling book, then stalks her personally, blandly borrowing the problems of his neighbors for soulful couch musings and amorous bait.

A November 2019 HE plus piece, liberated from the paywall: Almost all mainstream Hollywood sex comedies of the early to mid ’60s are pretty close to unwatchable now. (Can anyone think of a single tolerable film in this vein?) A year or two ago I was close to condemning Lover Come Back as the most painfully unfunny of them all, but they’re all horrendous to sit through.

Any way you slice it, ’60 to ’65 was a truly grotesque era when it came to farcical middle-class comedies.

Frontline commercial filmmakers of the early to mid ’60s had been aroused and influenced by French nouvelle vague and the British kitchen-sink genre, both of which ignited in the late ’50s. This resulted in frank sexual situations in several early ’60s dramas — Billy Wilder‘s The Apartment (which may have been the first Hollywood dramedy of a sexual nature), Alfred Hitchcock‘s Psycho, Lewis Milestone‘s Ocean’s 11, Richard Quine‘s Strangers When We Meet, William Wyler‘s The Children’s Hour, Stanley Kubrick‘s Lolita, Alexander Singer‘s A Cold Wind in August, Vincent Minnelli‘s Two Weeks in Anther Town, Joshua Logan‘s Fanny.

But at the same time a steady outpouring of constipated sex comedies — largely inspired by the triple-whammy of Ross Hunter‘s Pillow Talk, Wilder’s Some Like It Hot and the Oscar-awarded The Apartment along with increasingly randy Playboy stirrings in the culture at large — began to manifest.

All that sexual interest, energy and intrigue, and almost all of it shackled and smothered. So many U.S. comedies about characters wanting to get randy, and all of them constrained because of the industry’s still-prevailing production code, which didn’t begin to erode until ’66 or thereabouts.

The taboo-dialogue groundbreaker was Mike Nichols‘ Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolff, which opened on 6.21.66. Believe it or not, it was regarded as a big deal when Elizabeth Taylor‘s Martha said “goddam you!” (a substitute for the original “screw you!” in the stage version) to Richard Burton‘s George. Mainstream sexual frankness followed in short order (particularly in ’67’s The Graduate, The President’s Analyst, Belle du Jour, Reflections in a Golden Eye, Hurry Sundown and Bonnie and Clyde), and the industry was off to the races.

An HE commenter recently wrote that most early to mid ’60s sex farces are “not just bad by present standards but borderline inexplicable. They couldn’t talk about much and they couldn’t do anything, and the elaborate artificiality produces an effect not unlike a Kabuki play.”

Another said that “any film in which you hear smarmy saxophone over a close-up of a zaftig woman’s ass as she sashays out of a room is a piece of shit. And almost every sex farce from 1960-’66 had that exact shot.”

“William Barr’s Perversion of Justice,” a lead editorial by the N.Y. Times editorial board, presents a clear case that Trump’s attorney general is little more than a thug and a boot licker — that he’s “turning the Justice Department into a political weapon for the president” and hasn’t the slightest regard for the rule of law. But for me, the keeper is the illustration by Nicholas Konrad, which elaborates upon a photograph by Times staff photographer T.J. Kirkpatrick.

Illustration by Nicholas Konrad.

From Peter Debruge’s 2.29 review: “Turns out there are a lot of things that have gone unsaid in movies until now, and Saint Frances (available on VOD) goes there in a way that’s not only enlightening, but entertaining as well. This exceptionally frank, refreshingly nonjudgmental indie was written by and stars Kelly O’Sullivan, a ‘girl next door’ type whose no-nonsense approach to issues facing both her gender and her generation leaves ample room for laughter — a la Amy Schumer’s Trainwreck.

“But unlike that Judd Apatow-produced studio entry, Saint Frances shares none of the pressure to partner up its potentially ‘unlikable’ female protagonist with a man who can handle her baggage. I put ‘unlikable’ in quotes because I adore this character: Bridget makes a lot of bad choices (who doesn’t?) and seems totally unprepared for most of what life throws at her (she’s the last candidate most folks would hire as a nanny), but she feels as human as they come. So a better comparison might be the work of Girls creator Lena Dunham, as O’Sullivan embraces her own fallibility, renders it into fiction, then presents it as comedy.”

Has anyone seen it? I haven’t.

Without mentioning the title, I saw a serious goodie yesterday — a June release that I can’t discuss for a while yet. The only other 2020 film (a one-off intended for theatrical, I mean) that I’ve admired as much is Roman Polanski’s masterful J’Accuse (aka An Officer and a Spy). I’ll just leave it that.

From “Lean’s Folly?“, posted on 1.10.18: “Ask ten film historians about David Lean‘s Ryan’s Daughter, and they’ll all say it nearly killed Lean’s career. Slow and stately, over-indulged, visually pompous and old-schoolish to a fault. And that awful, Oscar-awarded village-idiot performance by John Mills. Magnificent Freddie Young cinematography, okay, but otherwise a sudden fall from grace. Not even close to the realm of Lawrence of Arabia or Brief Encounter or Bridge on the River Kwai or even the respectably second-tier Dr. Zhivago or A Passage to India.

“But you know what? Last night I began watching an HD Amazon stream of Ryan’s Daughter on my Sony 65″ 4K TV. I was sitting there like a 12 year-old and studying the Super Panavision 70 detail and just marvelling at how good it looks. The HD transfer was apparently taken from a 35mm source but it’s staggering all the same. It looks much better than what I recall from some half-forgotten viewing at some Massachusetts or Connecticut bijou (i.e., not a 70mm house).”