Press reservation tickets for Sunday’s (5.19) 6 pm screening of Kevin Costner’s Horizon: AnAmericanSaga were due to be available this morning (5.15) at 7 am.
I signed in at 7 am on the dot only to discover that tickets are completelyinaccesible, or “complete.” Unfair! Not cool!
Now I have to find the Warner Bros. team and beg for a ticket. Not the way it’s done, guys. Yes, there’s a Salle Agnes Varda screening on Monday morning at 8:30 am, but that theatre isn’t as big as the Salle Debussy, where a parallel screening should have been scheduled concurrent with Sunday’s Grand Lumiere 6 pm show.
From Steve Rose’s Guardianhitpiece (5.14) on theallegedlyeccentric Francis Coppola and the reportedly occasionally fraught making of Megalopolis, which Hollywood Elsewhere will see on Thursday, 5.16:
If you’re any kind of kneejerk wokester who has more or less believed in the innate malice of white culture since the explosive reaction to the 5.25.20 deathofGeorge Floyd, the term “manifestdestiny” almost certainly rubs you the wrong way.
Because it basically alludes to a hallowed belief in European-descended immigrant pioneers of the 20th and 19th centuries having brought about essential strengthenings and advancements in the expansionist saga of the U.S. of A.
It also sounds vaguely racist in the view of non-whites (African Americans, Native Americans) who’ve had significant issues and disputes with whites over the last 400 years, to put it mildly.
And yet in a frank, brass-tacks 5.13interview with multi-hypenate Kevin Costner, director of the soon-to-be-unveiled Horizon: AnAmericanSaga — PartOne (Warner Bros, 6.28), Deadline’s Mike Fleming, who has apparently seen Horizon, has described the three-hour, covered-wagon saga as “a sprawling film about Manifest Destiny.”
If I was a hair-trigger progressive, I would regard Fleming’s description with a certain degree of alarm. Which is why I, a staunch anti-wokester for the last five or six years, postedarelatedarticletwoweeksago, to wit:
I’m at my Heathrow departure gate — terminal 4, gate 10. A full hour before the departure of HE’s Nice flight at 8:55 am.
Yesterday’s London roam-around (see photospostedlastnight) was fairly glorious, especially ending as it did at Namaste Holborn, a Bloomsbury veggie Indian restaurant with outdoor seating. Perfection in all departments.
Today will be the only low-stress, commecicommeca day of the ‘24 Cannes Film Festival. Moving in, shopping, meditating, breathing in the seaside air, getting some dinner and avoiding all the shithead journalists with whom I was once on good, friendly terms with but have since morphed into William S. Burroughs-styled insects.
Hollywood Elsewhere is seated in row 46, right aisle, on a Virgin Atlantic flight to Heathrow…a flight that should have left at midnight but is only just getting underway at 12:41am.
I have roughly the same amount of wiggle-breathing room that astronaut Alan B. Shepard had in his Mercury space capsule on 5.5.61. Plus I’m seated next to a person of considerable (dare I say oppressive?) size.
Coach flying is an agony-endurance test. You just have to somehow get through it.
4:38amupdate: For purely sadistic reasons our Virgin Atlantic flight attendants insisted on serving drinks and snacks for just under two hours…1:30 am to 3:25 am…up and down the aisle, pushing carts, bumping into outstretched legs and feet. Thanks, guys.
