Jeffrey Wells

I’d never heard of these magazines until late yesterday morning (Sunday, 2.4). They were sitting on a checkout rack at a ShopRite market in West Orange — a ten-minute drive from Jett, Cait and Sutton’s home.

The reason for their absence from HE radar is that my most-visited food haunts over the last two years — Wilton’s Village Market and WeHo Pavilions — wouldn’t dare offer them because this would suggest that Trumpers and obesity-sufferers are regular shoppers, which is somewhat degrading from a cultural standpoint.

The irony is that there’s nothing overtly coarse or downmarket about the ShopRite in question. And yet someone in ShopRite management figured these rags would appeal to customers. Do the math.

I wouldn’t say that Jane Austen’s “Sense and Sensibility” has fallen victim to presentism, as that sounds vaguely negative. Any way you slice it this new Hallmark version is a perplexing fantasy. The question arises, “To what end?”

Suggestion: Embrace reality — the researched and documented historical truth. It may seem difficult at times, but it’ll never let you down. Social fantasy is fine but it only gets you so far, and then what?

Sasha Stone and I have concluded that Tim Burton has only two casting options for his Attack of the 50 Foot Woman remake. One, a foxy POC chick with big boobies (Black, Asian, Asian) or — this is much better — persuade Taylor Swift to play the part. Better yet, cast Swift as a gay N.Y. Times columnist — Attack of the 50 Foot Lesbian.

Luca Guadagnino’s Queer, an adaptation of William S. Burroughs’ early ‘50s novel that will star Daniel Craig as a “top” roaming around Mexico, will debut at the 2024 Cannes Film Festival.

I’ve been given a copy of the script but have only read two pages so far — a scene in which Craig’s “Lee” character is fucking a young Mexican lad.

This is why I’ve said Craig is playing a top but what do I know? I know that “Lee” is self-portraiture — a stand-in for the guy Burroughs was 70-odd years ago, presumably after his Junkie period.

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…for HE to post regular recollections of what the film business looked, sounded, felt and tasted like before the terror — i.e., before 2017 but mostly focused on the glorious ‘90s (the indie revolution), the aughts (last stabs before superhero plague) and the early to mid teens (Zero Dark Thirty, 12 Years A Slave, Drive, The Social Network, Moneyball, Carol, Manchester By The Sea).

In other words: rather than overdose on cursing and condemning the present darkness (although I will never abandon this hard but necessary duty) it might be better to invest more energy into shining a light upon the above-mentioned good times (‘90 to ‘17 or just shy of three decades) and thereby possibly inspire a longing for films that aspire to more than just delivering “content” as well as persuading at least some of the fiercely progressive descendants of Maximilian Robespierre and Josef Stalin to possibly ease up on their social justice crusades and just…you know, try to make good movies that are less “instructive”?

Then again I wouldn’t want to descend into the pit of too-much-nostalgia…all right, fuck it, I’m not changing the game.

It’s definitely not welcome news that departing Los Angeles Times film critic Justin Chang is joining The New Yorker as its senior film critic, or at least as a co-senior bigmouth with Richard Brody (i.e., “the Armond White of the far left”).

Chang is a brilliant, first-rate critic who has passed along many valuable judgments and perceptions over the years. But over the past six or seven annums he’s become a bit of a social justice warrior (at least in my eyes) and something of an identity ideologue. Example: Last October Chang panned The Holdovers over a single depiction of racist cruelty between two minor characters.

The Chang hire means two things, and both are breaking my heart.

One, The New Yorker film desk is now doubly woked-up and, in my opinion, half-fanatical. I’ve been an occasional fan of Brody’s essays, but there’s no forgetting that in his 10.13.22 Tar review he actually doubted the existence of wokeism and cancel culture. That, good sir, is fanaticism.

And two, New Yorker film critic Anthony Lane, hired by Tina Brown 31 years ago and one of my absolute favorite wordsmith smart-asses ever since, has been kicked upstairs by editor David Remnick.

Lane will be “expanding to writing [on] a wider range of topics,” Remnick has announced — a polite way of saying that Lane’s senior stripes have been torn off.

This is not the end of my online New Yorker subscription, but Remnick is downgrading and more or less humiliating one of the very few non-woke (or mostly non-woke) critics of a senior status. Not cool and rather shitty in fact.

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For the rest of my moviegoing life I’m going to be stuck with Paul Mescal. Shackled to, besieged by. He’s obviously not going away. My soul aches, churns.

I’m slightly terrified…okay, that’s harsh. I’m certainly concerned about having to watch Mescal’s William Shakespeare, particularly during a tragic episode shared with wife Anne Hathaway (Jessie Buckley) over the death of their 11 year-old son, Hamnet.

Chloe Zhao, the celebrated Nomadland Oscar-winner who suffered brand damage from the generally despised Eternals, will direct.

McDormand, Portman, Blanchett, Lawrence, Collette, Witherspoon…that’s it, just these six. Okay, Morton makes seven.

…life wouldn’t have a great deal of meaning. Okay, it would obviously deliver a certain amount on its own weight and steam, but movies bring it all into focus, if you catch my drift.

This may be the greatest George Lucas quote I’ve ever read. It makes me even more sorry that he’s worn so many godawful flannel shirts.

From Jeanine Basinger and Sam Wasson’s “Hollywood: The Oral History” (‘22).

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