HE to Harlan Jacobson: Do you mean “pretty New York” like an adjective of approximation as in “yeah, that’s pretty good” or “pretty bad”? Or is this is an ironic allusion to “pretty” New York, as in Queens will NEVER be pretty because it’s fucking Queens as in “jeez, I’m stuck here”?

The blue sky doesn’t count, of course — same sky over the entire tristate area and probably beyond.

Note: This is not a comment about the Tashkent Market branch in question (Halal food, 64-48 110th Street, Forest Hills) which is apparently well thought of despite the fact that “Tashkent” is one of the least appealing names of a supermarket that anyone could possibly come up with.unless they’re in north Löndon or rural England.

Tashkent? If I were a casual shopper I’d prefer a brand name like Axolotl or Moxie or Zorbb.

I’ve never liked Victor Fleming’s Red Dust (‘32) or the remake, John Ford’s Mogambo (‘53). They’re both tepid eye-rollers about a pair of anxious, somewhat hungry women wanting to seduce and maybe bunker down with the randy, rugged-ass Clark Gable (Jean Harlow and Mary Astor in the black-and-white ‘32 version, Ava Gardner and Grace Kelly in the Technicolor retread).

Ford’s version, shot by Robert Surtees and Freddie Young, is the more visually captivating — I’ll give it that much.

I’m mentioning all this because of a 7.1.23 AirMail article about the late 1952 location shoot (mostly Africa, some Londön) of Mogambo. Nicely written by Richard Cohen, it’s titled “Sinatra in the Jungle” but is really about the whole shooting magilla…all the various political and logistical intrigues.

Maybe the title was chosen because Gardner’s husband, the fallen-upon-hard-times but “good in the feathers” Frank Sinatra, was in a weakened psychological condition while visiting the shoot and doing next to nothing except attending to the usual conjugal passions with Ava, who reportedly paid for the poor guy’s long-distance air fare to Kenya. Tough times.

So yes, Sinatra’s career was in a ditch during filming in November and December of ‘52, but early the following year he landed the energizing, perfect-groove role of Pvt. Maggio in Fred Zinnemann’s From Here to Eternity (‘53), and won a totally back-in-the-pink, career-rejuvenating Best Supporting Actor Oscar in March ‘54.

And yet Cohen’s article claims Sinatra’s career was still flatlining in ‘54…wrong.

Repeating: Down & despairing in late ‘52, lucky pocket-drop casting in a strong film in early ’53, Oscar champ in March ‘54. Sinatra’s actual career skid years were ‘49, ‘50, ‘51, ‘52 and early ‘53, give or take.

I was thrown pretty hard by that early Oppenheimer scene with the poisoned green apple. Actually a lethal apple, injected by Cillian Murphy‘s titular character with liquid cyanide. The intended victim is Patrick Blackett (James Darcy), a Cambridge University instructor and physicist whom Oppie despises.

At the very last minute Oppie comes to his senses, realizes that murdering a professor may impact his life adversely, runs back to the classroom and prevents the apple from being consumed. Except the guy who almost bites into it isn’t Blackett but Danish physicist Niels Bohr (Kenneth Branagh).

Post-injection my immediate thoughts were (a) “the fuck?”, (b) “What kind of loose-cannon psycho twerp is this asshole? Who does this kind of thing?”; (c) “Oppie almost killed once so who’s the next possible victim? Will he strangle Florence Pugh‘s Jean Tatlock after having sex with her? Will he stab Robert Downey, Jr.‘s Lewis Strauss in the back of the neck with an icepick?

Once you’ve opened the Pandora’s Box of premeditated murder, character-wise you can’t close it. And so the cyanide apple half-hovers over the entire film. Or it did for me, at least.

Yesterday HE commenter “Correcting Jeff,” a consistently irritating bringer of nagging neghead vibes for several years, took issue with my…actually the world’s opinion that the sad legend of the late Sinead O’Connor was launched and powerhoused over an eight-year period — Dublin ‘85 to late ‘92, or between age 17 and 24.

HE reply: It’s a FACT, Clarabelle. I know, I get it…the concept of peak years and career arcs is so upsetting to you. Hell, to most of us. Why can’t we just say that Sinead’s career was simply and radiantly wonderful from start to finish?

Brilliant surges come and go, ebb and flow. What are artists but mere conduits of random lightning bolts?

What mental health issues, right?

Why can’t we at least agree that Sinead saved and freed herself by ripping up that Pope photo?

Well, here it is…

Like it or not, those of us with a semblance of drive and ambition tend to experience the same chapters — early stirrings, ascending, peak crackerjack, settle-down and gradual decline.

John Lennon’s peak Beatle years numbered seven or eight — ‘62 Hamburg to ‘69 or ‘70. His peak solo years came to four or five — Plastic One Band (‘70) to the L.A. lost weekend / Harry Nilsson phase of ‘74 and early ‘75. His last act rebound happened mostiy in late ‘79 and ‘80.

After charting her abusive childhood, the acclaimed 2022 Sundance documentary Nothing Compares focuses on Sinead’s mid ‘80s Dublin breakout and ends with the harshly negative reaction to her SNL Pope trashing in ‘92. It doesn’t dismiss her career since that climactic incident but it adheres to the basic summary, the basic rise-and-fall dynamic of those eight years.

“Oppenheimer was very good but EXTREMELY DENSE, and it’s kind of crazy how even though the movie was three hours long it felt like they didn’t have any spare time to add some expositional photography or moments of silence, except for the Trinity bomb test scene.

“Trinity aside it was pretty much a never ending chain of dialogue scenes. If they added some breathing room it could have been a solid miniseries but then it wouldn’t be on a big IMAX screen, which was nice but not 100% necessary. And honestly? The Trinity explosion seemed a tiny bit understated.

“So it’s good, yes, but something you really need to prepare yourself for mentally and physically.

“I could have used a more comfortable theatre chair, all things considered.”

Nobody knows why Sinead O’Connor has left this mortal coil at age 56, but there are indications that the legendary singer-songwriter, deeply depressed over the January 2022 suicide of her 17-year-old son Shane, may have taken her life over same.

I’m very, very sorry about this sudden tragedy. No one on planet earth ever quite compared with Sinead, particularly during her eight-year heyday between the mid ‘80s and early ‘90s. She was an Irish banshee genius of the absolute highest order.

“Sinead O’Connor’s Beautiful Scream,” posted on 1.28.22:

A 7.26 Variety story about the 2023 Toronto Film Festival’s documentary program, written by Addie Morfoot, pays special attention to Caroline Suh’s Sorry/Not Sorry, a TIFF doc about career difficulties and impediments suffered by women who accused Louis C.K. of gross sexual harassment a few years ago after he jerked off in front of them.

I haven’t seen the doc but five of the accusers are comedians Tig Notaro, Rebecca Corry, Abby Schachner, Dana Min Goodman and Julia Wolov.

Morfoot reports that Suh’s film is one of “several” TIFF docs that focus on women “who have been unjustly ignored for their achievements.”

One can probably assume that Suh explores how and why Louis C.K.’s five accusers have paid a certain price for blowing the whistle on the guy.

Innocent question: LCK’s behavior was diseased and ridiculous but what exactly did the five accusers expect would happen in response? Did they expect cheers and hosannahs and paper confetti in the air?

If I was a woman who was once an unwilling or appalled witness to LCK whacking off, I would have rolled my eyes, muttered “jeez, what a fucking creep” and moved on with my life and career.

I would have figured, in other words, “if I go public with this, I might experience a little professional pushback from comedy club owners and friends of LCK and whatnot so why go there? As much as I resent the political reality of things, it’s probably better to let it slide.”

Luc Besson’s Dogman, a Venice ‘23 selection, has two guaranteed elements: (a) the relentlessly spacey Caleb Landry Jones and (b) a whole lotta dogs. And yet the mirror image is of a red-haired glam chick with bright red lipstick.

HE to Bresson: Is Dogman about about what I’m afraid it might be about? This poster is scaring me.

Whatever the facts behind the various accusations thrown at Kevin Spacey since 2018, time and again efforts to convict the Oscar-winning actor (today is his 64th birthday) have failed. The U.K. trial (nine sexual asssult charges) is the latest whiff. Elton John’s recent pro-Spacey testimony was almost certainly a key factor in his acquittal. That or the prosecution’s case may have been weak or flawed all around. Or both.