Like many other critics and journos, I live each day in mortal fear of the New Stalinists. Which is why I asked some pallies what they thought about my posting a fairly inconsequential piece about James Toback‘s Love and Money (’82), which I watched the night before last.

Message: “I wrote a mild little piece about Love and Money, but I’m not sure I have the backbone to post it, mainly because agents of the wokester Khmer Rouge may conclude that I’m a Toback apologist, which I’m certainly not as far as reports of his personal behavior are concerned. The piece is hardly incendiary, but do you agree that ‘they’ might come after me if I posted it?”

Here it is: The career of director-writer James Toback was terminated roughly two and one third years ago. Stories about Toback having allegedly sexually harassed over 300 women saw to that. This behavioral pattern went on for decades, to go by an L.A. Times article (1.7.18) by Glenn Whipp.

It follows that no Toback-directed films (including the brilliant Fingers and the provocative Two Girls and a Guy and Black and White) are allowed to be even mentioned, much less discussed; ditto Toback’s screenplays for Karel Reisz‘s The Gambler and Barry Levinson and Warren Beatty‘s Oscar-nominated Bugsy, which were once highly regarded.

I’m nonetheless scratching my head about Love and Money, an oddly disjointed film that’s viewable on Amazon. Directed and written by Toback and a complete financial bust when it opened in early ’82, it was generally regarded as a sloppy, spazzy thing.

But you have to wonder what Love and Money was in script form for Warren Beatty and Pauline Kael, no slouches in their respective fields, to have invested their attention during the late ’70s development process. It must have amounted to something unusual or interesting — there had to have been something there.

Wiki summary: “Beatty was interested in producing and starring at one point in the late ’70s, for Paramount. Beatty persuaded Kael to work on the project. Kael was an admirer of Toback’s and Beatty’s and had recently left film criticism to work in Hollywood. However, Kael dropped out of the project after a number of weeks, instead becoming a consultant for Paramount. (She would eventually return to film criticism.)

“Beatty dropped out of the film to concentrate on Reds. Toback and Paramount could not agree on casting without Beatty’s involvement. The project was put into turnaround. Toback set up the film at Lorimar. Filming started in November 1979. It finally opened on 2.12.82. It made a grand total of $14K.”

From Vincent Canby’s N.Y. Times review: “Love & Money is a very strange film. Although it is packed with plot, it seems sort of skimpy, so skimpy that one suspects that somebody — either Mr. Toback or someone not so fond of Mr. Toback’s overheated mannerisms — had ruthlessly chopped the print that’s now going into release.

“I wasn’t much fond of Fingers, Mr. Toback’s first film as a writer-director, but that film at least had its own roaring, cockeyed intensity, whether you liked it or not. Love and Money, as it stands here, looks as if the director had filmed a treatment rather than a screenplay. Instead of being intense, it just seems to have periodic fits.

“Love & Money [is punctuated with banalities] intercut with wildly unpredictable moments that too often are unintentionally funny because there are no buildups and nothing to connect them. The film eventually does get to Costa Salva, a [fictional] Central America country which looks a lot like a Los Angeles suburb, where the plot becomes even dimmer and where the production money seems to have run out. When we attend a rally addressed by Costa Salva’s dictator (Armand Assante), it looks like Arbor Day in Peoria.”

Distributors have always talked a friendly partnership game with exhibitors, but deep down they’d sell their own mothers if it meant making a bigger profit. Distribs know that elbowing exhibs aside would destroy the primal enjoyment factor of communal viewing, of course, but they’d at least like to be able to say “to hell with theatrical windows.” Paraphrasing George C. Scott‘s line to Paul Newman in The Hustler: “You gotta be hard, Eddie.”

From Owen Gleiberman‘s “For The King of Staten Island, Going Straight to VOD Is No Laughing Matter,” posted earlier today:

“A few weeks ago Universal, the studio that’s VOD-ing The King of Staten Island, also VOD-ed Trolls World Tour, a decision I saw at the time as relatively inconsequential. Yet the stakes have now been ratcheted up. Universal has claimed that it had the biggest debut ever for a digital release, though it declined to provide statistics to support what that means. And the success the studio has had with Trolls World Tour likely influenced its decision to release The King of Staten Island on VOD.

“Trolls World Tour has now grossed $100 million in digital rentals, which suggests TKOSI, though it doesn’t have that built-in family audience, could also prove successful. This is a chain of tremors leading to an earthquake, which is why AMC theatres responded with a tremor of its own: the retaliatory decision, in response to the exclusive opening of Trolls on VOD (and the announcement about Apatow’s movie), not to play Universal films.

“No doubt about it: This is war.

“Yet it’s worth remembering that these films, right now, are reaping the benefit of being anomalies. As the only major Hollywood movie to premiere in April, Trolls World Tour was competing with…nothing else. The same will be true of “The King of Staten Island”: It will have the home audience to itself. (Imagine that there were six other big new releases premiering on VOD or streaming services that day.) Because of that highly idiosyncratic and almost freakish situation, it could wind up being seen by more eyeballs, and making more money, than it would have in theaters.

“But is this a business model for the future, or a stopgap? Some would say it’s a stopgap that could become the business model for the future. The King of Staten Island will test-drive that possibility, and maybe rattle the struggling movie-theater industry, like no movie before it. But is getting to see a film like this one at home truly an advance — a case of value added? It may, in fact, be a seductive but temporary convenience that, in the long run, will only prove to be value subtracted.”

Journo pally: “I recently watched Peter Bogdanovich‘s Saint Jack (’79), which is basically about the most likable and charismatic pimp in Singapore (Ben Gazzara). I know this is not considered one of Bogdanovich’s great successes but several key critics went for it at the time. It’s agreeable in a weird sort of way. The location work is great and Gazzara is fine (ditto costar Denholm Elliott), but all I could think as I watched was “talk about a film that could never, ever be made today…it would be accused of sexism, racism, a white colonial mentality…you name it. The fact that it speaks to its time — the end of the Vietnam War — would be ignored, as would its breezy storytelling. What can I say? Enjoyable but boy, is it anachronistic.”

As it’s free on Amazon Prime, I’ve decided to re-watch Saint Jack and see what happens.

I should have posted regrets last night about the sudden passing of poor Irrfan Khan, who was only 53. He was admitted to Mumbai’s Kokilaben hospital with a colon infection yesterday (i.e., Tuesday in India)…over and out. I first saw him (though I don’t remember this) in Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay (’88). The Variety obit says he “shot to global prominence playing the lead in Asif Kapadia’s The Warrior (01)” — if you say so. Kahn’s biggest internationally-seen performances were in Danny Boyle‘s Slumdog Millionaire (which I’ll never, ever watch again) and Ang Lee‘s Life of Pi (ditto). Khan also collected serious paychecks from supporting performances in Jurassic World (which I hated), The Amazing Spider-Man (the 2012 Andrew Garfield one, which was half-decent) and Ron Howard‘s Inferno (bullshit). Very sorry, way too soon, etc.

Lewis John Carlino and Yukio Mishima‘s The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With The Sea (’76) was crap from the get-go. Kids killing a sea captain because he gives up sailing in order to become a landlubber husband…bullshit. Mishima’s fixation upon disembowelment and ritual sacrifice…gimme a break. In the view of John Simon the film was “very pretty to look at, but made absolutely no sense.” But what could the idea have been behind this poster? The film is a dour machismo metaphor of some kind, and yet Kris Kristofferson looks like he’s dancing.

The metaphor of Greg Stillson, the lunatic presidential candidate in Stephen King and David Cronenberg‘s The Dead Zone, is as American as apple pie — a flag-waving monster sociopath. Many believe that Stillson and Donald Trump are cut from the same cloth. Nine and a half years ago I noted that Sarah Palin seemed Stillson-esque on a certain level. So we all know the drill. Now King has said in so many words that Stillson is Trump and vice versa.

From a 4.26 N.Y. Times Magazine interview with author and twitter-hound from Maine:

Last weekend I saw HBO’s Bad Education, a somewhat riveting, fact-based drama about a bizarre heist in plain sight. The focus is the infamous Roslyn embezzlement scandal of the early aughts. But I couldn’t get it up when I tried to write about it. This was because I couldn’t quite comprehend the insanely self-destructive acts of administrative thievery that this film is…well, partly about.

It’s also about the generally insane notion that living high on the hog is everything in life, and that all you need to sleep through this kind of brazen flim-flamming is a little vial of denial.

I understand Butch and Sundance robbing banks in the old days. I understand the gangs who stole jewels in Rififi and Topkapi. I can relate to the British thugs who pulled off the Great Train Robbery of 1963. Because they all thought they had a decent chance of getting away with it. Why rob anyone or anything if you can’t escape the law, right? But I can’t fathom how or why a pair of senior school administrators expected to get away with stealing over $6 million from a prosperous school district in Roslyn, Long Island — the largest public school embezzlement in American history.

Bad Education is about Roslyn’s secretly gay and deeply frustrated school district superintendent Frank Tassone (Hugh Jackman) and his assistant superintendent and business administrator Pamela Gluckin (Allison Janney) using taxpayer money to buy homes, travel all over, wear swell duds, drive pricey cars, get plastic surgery touch-ups (although not in Prague) and so on. And then wave it all off when questioned by whomever

When Gluckin’s embezzling was exposed, Tassone forced her to resign and surrender her license. But then a reporter for the school’s newspaper uncovered what she thought was a $250K embezzlement scheme involving both of them. The actual figure was much higher. Tassone had pocketed $2.2 million from school district coffers, and Gluckin admitted to stealing almost double that — $4.3 million.

In ’06 Tassone was sentenced to four to 12 years in prison, although he was released in 2010. Gluckin, sentenced to 3 to 9 years in ’06, was released a year later. She died in 2017. Tassone is living comfortably on a lifetime annual pension of $173,495.

Yes, Jackman’s portrayal of Tassone is slick and sad and altogether engaging, and the role is one of his best-written. But he’s playing an incomprehensible sociopath, and I kept asking myself “who believes they can get away with this kind of pilfering? Stuff like this always comes out in the wash sooner or later. It’s all tracable, all on the books…just a matter of time.”

Cory Finley‘s direction is so confident and smooth that it’s invisible. Mike Makowsky‘s highly arresting script is based on “The Bad Superintendent,” a 9.17.04 New York article by Robert Kolker. I read Kolker’s piece as soon as my viewing ended, of course. Here’s an excerpt:

Earlier today, the Academy’s board of governors approved a temporary relaxation of the rule stipulating that a film needs a seven-day theatrical run in L.A. County to qualify for the Oscars. This is transitional but whoa-level historic. For the first time in Hollywood history films that have never seen the light of a projector lamp will be able to scoop up an Oscar or two at the Kodak theatre.

The reason, of course, is the awful, soul-stifling, lifeforce-draining pandemic.

Exhibitors were already on life support and gasping for air due to theatre closings — now they’re having sequential heart attacks. They know that in the affairs of all institutions “temporary” often means “mostly temporary unless, you know, things change or whatever.” The operative phrase is “the thin end of the wedge.”

Variety: “[This] doesn’t mean, however, that any movie premiering on a streaming service is eligible for Oscar gold. To be considered, the streamed film must have already had a planned theatrical release. The film must also be made available on the Academy Screening Room member-only streaming site within 60 days of the film’s streaming or VOD release”

AMPAS president David Rubin and CEO Dawn Hudson, in a letter sent to Academy members: “The Academy firmly believes there is no greater way to experience the magic of movies than to see them in a theater. Our commitment to that is unchanged and unwavering. Nonetheless, the historically tragic COVID-19 pandemic necessitates this temporary exception to our awards eligibility rules. The Academy supports our members and colleagues during this time of uncertainty. We recognize the importance of their work being seen and also celebrated, especially now, when audiences appreciate movies more than ever.”

I’ve now watched four episodes of Mrs. America, the nine-episode FX/Hulu miniseries about the ’70s battle over the Equal Rights Amendment, and particularly the conflict between second-wave feminists (Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, Shirley Chisholm, Bella Abzug, Jill Ruckleshaus) who fought for passage and the primly conservative Middle American coalition (led by Phyllis Schlafly) who opposed and, sad to say, ultimately won.

All I can say is that I’m hooked, and that I wouldn’t dare miss an episode from here on. It’s a vital watch. There’s a right and a wrong way to make a miniseries out of a blend of recent history and an issue that was once hot-button but has since been bypassed by time and circumstance, and Mrs. America knows exactly how to deal the cards. It’s a model of tight narrative focus, convincing period realism and absolute grade-A performances from the leads — Cate Blanchett (Schlafly), Rose Byrne (Steinem), Tracey Ullman (Friedan), Uzo Aduba (Chisholm), etc. Hell, from the whole cast.

Blanchett will be Emmy-nominated, I’m presuming, but so will Ullman in a supporting category.

A creation of screenwriter Dahvi Walker (Desperate Housewives, Madmen, Eli Stone), Mrs. America just tells the story on a chapter-by-chapter basis — no tricks or curve balls, straight and plain — a story of how the ERA didn’t quite get there, I mean, and how the personalities of all of these high-powered women clashed and grooved and accommodated or didn’t, etc.

Everything really looks and feels like the ’70s in this series. Not pretend-faux ’70s, but the actual genuine decade as it talked, walked, smelled and tasted. The opening credits sequence nails the zetgeist cold.

Plus I feel as if I’ve learned a few things. I didn’t know Betty Friedan was that much of a drinker. I didn’t know Schlafly’s son was gay. I didn’t know about Steinem’s black boyfriend, Franklin Thomas.

The trailers and copy led everyone to believe that Blanchett is the centerpiece of Mrs. America, but Phyllis Schlafly isn’t that much of a dominating force. She’s the steely villain of the piece, the troublemaker, the Midwestern monster. But Blanchett mainly serves a strong ensemble. Byrne and Ullman make just as strong of an impression.

Walker’s primary strategy is to use each episode (nine in all, ending on 5.27) to explore the views and vantage points of the leads — Schlafly, Steinem, Chisholm, Friedan, Abzug, et. al.

Anna Boden & Ryan Fleckk have directed four episodes. Amma Asante and Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre have directed two each. A singe episode (#8) was directed by Janicza Bravo.

I loved the big debate scene between Schlafly and Friedan at Illinois State University in Bloomington, which happened in ’73. Schlafly repeats a much-quoted remark aout por-ERA feminists being “a bunch of bitter women seeking a constitutional cure for their personal problems.” Friedan responds by calling out Schlafly for “hypocrisy” and telling her “I’d like to burn you at the stake” and “I consider you a traitor to your sex…I consider you an Aunt Tom.”

At no time during the first four episodes was I even slightly bored or distracted or checking my watch. It holds, engages, feels right.

It doesn’t appear as if Grant, a three part History Channel presentation from exec producer Leonardo DiCaprio and biographer-historian Ron Chernow about the legendary Civil War general and U.S. President, can be called a “pure” documentary. The trailer suggests a reenactment drama mixed with a talking-head doc.

Directed by Malcolm Venville (Henry’s Crime), Grant is premiering on the History Channel beginning Monday, 5.25, or on Memorial Day. The usual 5.30 date has been moved up five days because 5.30 falls on a Saturday. Yeah, I know — why not have the holiday on Friday, 5.29?

I’m very sorry to report that Nancy Dawson, wife of author and critic Matt Zoller Seitz, passed today from cancer. They were married in February 2017. Nancy was the sister of the late Jennifer Dawson, whom MZS was married to from ’94 until her death on 4.27.06. We all know life can be randomly cruel, depending on the breaks, but this is surreal.

Seitz is an editor-at-large at RogerEbert.com and TV critic for New York magazine and Vulture.com. His books include “The Wes Anderson Collection” (’13), “Mad Men Carousel: The Complete Critical Companion” (’15), “The Oliver Stone Experience” (’16), “Movies Are Prayers: How Films Voice Our Deepest Longings,” cowritten with Josh Larsen, “Guillermo del Toro’s The Devil’s Backbone” (’17), cowritten with Simon Abrams, and “The Sopranos Sessions” (’19), co-written with Alan Sepinwall.

It’s been suggested that friends and mourners can donate to @transformcincy (aka Transform), a transgender youth charity that Nancy founded.