Jeffrey Wells
Back-to-Back Lesbian Flicks
Two days ago I saw Rose Glass’s Love Lies Bleeding (A24, 3.8), and tonight [Thursday, 2.22] I watched Ethan Coen and Tricia Cooke’s Drive–Away Dolls (Focus Features, now playing).
Both are quite dykey — hungrily, aggressively sexual. The Coen-Cooke is mildly crazy in a nervy, farcical way (vaguely recalling the tone of Raising Arizona, the 1987 Coen Bros. film) while the Glass is like a volcano that spews more and more lava. And from my surprised perspective, both are moderately approvable.
This is not what I expected. I was a little bit afraid that both would piss me off in some way or would at least be annoying, and neither did that. Neither film is truly double grade-A but at the same time neither has anything to apologize for. And the Coen-Cooke is often fleet and clever, and it ends perfectly with a reaction shot from a peripheral character…bingo!
Glass’s film, which really uncorks the madness during its final third, is subversive in a way that I didn’t see coming.
The Coen-Cooke is deadpan droll — much lighter and goofier than the melodramatic Bleeding, which deals straight cards until the end and never fools around — although with a fair amount of violence. But you also know it’s basically comedic and is therefore going to observe boundaries.
Maybe it’s me but both films seem determined to be as provocative as they can be with the sex scenes. A lot of slurping and smooching and fingering and muff-diving, and the Coen-Cooke even goes in for sizable wang prosthetics toward the end.
I flinched a bit when the Glass went in for some light toe-chewing — sorry but the toes in question struck me as too thick and knobby. A voice inside went “eeeww, no…too much.”
Call me full of it if you want, but I have this impression that U.S. filmmakers aren’t allowed these days to make sexually graphic hetero-love-affair films. They can only dive into hot sex if it’s from a gay or lesbian serving tray. The prohibiting of Last Tango in Paris-level presentation is understood in every progressive corner of the industry (you certainly couldn’t make a film about a couple of saucy women who love to get fucked by Glenn Powell-type guys and are totally into hungry blowjobs, not in today’s environment) and you can sense that Glass and Coen-Cooke knew they had carte blanche approval and that now (i.e., last year) was the time to go for it and pull out the stops.
Posted by Vanity Fair‘s Savannah Walsh, 2.22.24:
“Where’s My Close-Up?”
Here’s a reposting of a Stanley Kubrick-Kirk Douglas story, passed along 13 years ago by director-screenwriter James Toback during a Savannah Film Festival q & a:
Apologies For Acknowledging
During last Friday’s Real Time with Bill Maher, guests Van Jones and Ann Coulter were asked about the Kansas City shooting that had happened during last Wednesday’s (2.14) Super Bowl celebration parade.
After it was mentioned that the identity of the shooter was being kept under wraps by Kansas City authorities, Coulter said this almost certainly indicates that the shooter is black, as district attorneys and news media types always suppress issues of non-white identity whenever a violent or criminal incident has occurred.
Daily Mail summary:
It was announced yesterday (2.20) that the accused bad guys are Dominic Miller and Lyndell Mays. Radio personality Lisa Lopez-Gavin was killed by a random bullet during the shoot-em-up.
Undaunted Bening Campaign
HE admires Netflix’s Best Actress campaign on behalf of Nyad ‘s Annette Bening. Netflix strategists know it’s an impossible dream (the top contenders are Emma Stone’s clearly superior performance in Poor Things vs. Lily Gladstone’s identity-driven campaign for her KOTFM turn) but they’re doing it anyway in never-say-die fashion, and HE respects the spirit behind this.
And congrats, by the way, to Awards Daily Sasha Stone for having authored the top quote.
Always Hated The Word “Ballyhoo“
I’m therefore satisfied and becalmed that it’s more or less become an extinct term. Good riddance. Effective, pizazzy promotion is fine. I could just never tolerate that horrible word. In fact, any word that ends with “hoo” — Yahoo search engine, boo-hoo, Yoohoo chocolate drink, etc.
Don’t Go There…Please
Friendo: “Honest question about this Shampoo one-sheet, which presumably appeared on billboards and at bus stops, not to mention in newspapers and magazines:
“Is it in fact depicting what I think it’s depicting or at the very least suggesting, judging by the towel-draped woman in a kneeling, bent-over position?”
HE reply #1: If I answer your question I’ll be slagged by the HE scolding brigade so maybe I should sidestep this.
HE reply #2: The frankest and fullest answer I can think of is that the ‘70s were the greatest era for hetero nookie in U.S. history and were arguably the most breathtaking era in this regard since the heyday of ancient Rome, but you can’t even talk about it today without sounding like a pig dinosaur.
HE reply #3: There are two suggestive moments in Shampoo in which Warren Beatty’s George Roundy is blow-drying an attractive woman’s freshly-cut hair (at first a foxy 20something client in the Beverly Hills hair salon and later Julie Christie’s Jackie in her bathroom). Both times the women’s heads are not only facing but mere inches away from Beatty’s Sticky Fingers album cover.
Friendo reply: “Yeah, I know, but get a load of that one-sheet. Aren’t you surprised an ad like that would be appearing in newspapers — FAMILY newspapers — in 1975?”
HE response: Those were the’70s, dude! You had to be there. There’s certainly no explaining the social atmosphere of those days to effing Millennials and Zoomers.
No BAFTA Surprises
Sunday, 2.18, 3:10 pm BAFTA update: Emma Stone has won Best Actress, of course, but Oppenheimer‘s Cillian Murphy, a hometown favorite, has beaten The Holdovers‘ Paul Giamatti for Best Actor. Oppie‘s Robert Downey, Jr. and The Holdovers‘ Da’Vine Joy Randolph have won in the supporting categories; Chris Nolan has taken the Best Director prize, and Oppenheimer will almost surely prevail in the Best Picture category.
Earlier: With KOTFM’s Lily Gladstone blanked and absent, Poor Things star Emma Stone will take the BAFTA award for Best Actress today, and will once again enjoy an Oscar bounce.
London’s 77th British Academy film awards are happening (or about to happen) as we speak.
The SAG-AFTRA lowlifes may give their Best Actress trophy to Gladstone regardless (they’re the most identity-conscious guild of all) but if they do this they’ll have to live with the backwash for the rest of their lives, not to mention the eternal disdain of the Movie Godz.
The SAG awards are next Saturday evening (2.24).
Okay, there may be one possible surprise in BAFTA’s Best Supporting Actress competish. The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw is predicting that Saltburn’s Rosemund Pike will outpoint The Holdovers Da’Vine Joy Randolph…go figure.
1:30 pm update: Bradshaw was wrong — Da’Vine wins again!
Stewart Is “Bisexual”?
At the start of an SNL hosting gig seven years ago (2.4.17), Kristen Stewart announced “I’m so gay, dude.” (Today’s preferred nomenclature of “queer” hadn’t yet taken command.) She didn’t say “I lean gay” or “I prefer gay” — she said “this is my effing home team, bruh.”
And yet THR’s Etan Vlessing, in a 2.18.24 report about Stewart’s remarks at a Love Lies Bleeding press conference at the Berlin Film Festival, has timidly described her as “bisexual” — an apparent allusion to Stewart having had boyfriends during the Obama years as well as a vague inference that Stewart might one day re-open the hetero pleasure chest.
I’m basically asking myself how effing chickenshit can a trade publication be about this stuff? Name one celebrity who’s come out and then did a 180 or even dabbled with straight behaviors. Okay, Cary Grant but he was never “out,” of course.
Taking Back “Against All Odds” Praise
Tapping out yesterday’s riff about three approvable Taylor Hackford flicks (The Idolmaker, An Officer and a Gentleman, Against All Odds) led to a re-watch of Odds (‘84), and good God…I humbly apologize!
It’s been almost exactly 40 years since my initial late February viewing at the good old Academy auditorium (Wilshire & La Peer), and I guess I just wasn’t perceptive enough back then.
Eric Hughes’ plot (loosely based upon 1947’s Out of the Past) and especially the dialogue (or good-sized portions of it) are chores to sit through, and Jeff Bridges’ painfully unsubtle performance as main protagonist Terry, an aging, none-too-bright football player, gave me a splitting headache.
Young Bridges was often too emotionally emphatic and actor-ish, and in this thing he’s certainly too childish. I was starved for the adult attitude that permeates Out of the Past. Fortified by Daniel Mainwaring and Frank Fenton’s tart dialogue, laconic Robert Mitchum knew how to play this kind of material. Which is to say a bit cooler.
I was nonetheless okay with the opening 20 or 25 in Los Angeles (love the ridiculous hot-dogging on Sunset Blvd. at 80 mph) and especially that hot, flavorful lovers-in-Yucatán section (Terry blissing out with Rachel Ward’s Jessie), but when Alex Karras interrupts their lovemaking inside a Chitchen Itza temple the whole thing suddenly turns bad, and then it stabs itself in the chest by returning to L.A. for the final 40 or 45 minutes, which are mostly atrocious.
Ugly people behaving horribly…sullen, scowling, sneering, snorting blow. You can all go fuck yourselves.
The exception is a Century City office sequence in which the excellent Swoozie Kurtz, playing a secretary to Saul Rubinek’s odious sports agent, does Terry a great favor by stealing a trove of incriminating documents, and with a hostile Doberman growling and breathing down her neck.
Lesson learned: If you have fond memories of a Taylor Hackford film you saw when young, don’t re-watch it decades later. Leave it there.
The original Out of the Past is a shining, gleaming city in the hill…a much, much better film.