Jeffrey Wells I’m presuming that Thelma ‘s Sundance ‘24 reviewers, very few of whom you can trust due to their whore-ish tendencies, are bending over backwards to be nice to 94 year-old star June Squibb (who was born three years after Marilyn Monroe). But maybe not.
I’ve never been able to give myself over to Sam Peckinpah’s Major Dundee, a 1965 Civil War–era western, and I’ve frankly stopped trying.
Was the 156-minute version ever seen by anyone except R.G. Armstrong? The 136-minute version is longer but is it necessarily, positively better? I’ve only seen the shortest version (126 minutes) with the Mitch Miller sing–alongers on the soundtrack.
I know two things — during the ‘60s, ‘70s and early ‘80s Peckinpah allowed his career to be stained and diminished by raging alcoholism, and that with the exception of three films (Ride The High Country, The Wild Bunch and Straw Dogs) everything he was involved in was to varying degrees colored by rage and snarls and waste.
Over the years his persistent asshole-ishness overwhelmed his creative visions, and people just got sick of him.
I own a Bluray of Bring Me The Head of Alfredo Garcia (‘74) and I’ve watched it exactly once. There’s a reason for that. The nihilistic finale leaves you with nothing. Maybe I should give it another go.
I’ve seen Cross of Iron (1977) once, and while I have a favorable recollection of James Coburn and Maximilian Schell’s lead performances, I mostly recall Gene Shalit calling it “a movie of bad.”
All this aside, I sure do envy Joe Dante for having seen the 152-minute version of The Wild Bunch (7 minutes longer than the official, definitive 145-minute Bluray) during the 1969 Bahamas press junket.
Dante recalls as follows:
Frances McDormand‘s Fern was strong but mule-stubborn and at the end of the day self-destructive, and this stunted psychology led to an idiotic ending.
Her old white van was indisputably on its last legs, and 60ish David Straitharn, lonely but harmless, clearly would’ve settled for simple, no-big-deal companionship.
I’m sorry but there’s this notion out there that choosing a healthy or constructive path in life requires (a) not being a stubborn egoistic purist and (b) understanding that opting for common-sense security isn’t necessarily a death sentence or a prison term.
The curious ending of Nomadland refuses to acknowledge this. It basically says “better to die destitute and alone on a two-lane blacktop while shitting in a bucket in the middle of the night than to accept kindness and sensible adult friendship.”
Lily Gladstone’s identity-propelled Best Actress campaign re Killers of the Flower Moon isn’t cutting any ice with the BAFTA gang.
To even HE’s surprise Gladstone has been flat–out snubbed in the just-announced BAFTA Best Actress nominations — six names (including The Color Purple ‘s Fantasia Barrino) but not a Gladstone among them.
A friend believes that BAFTA’s token woke nominee, Rye Lane ‘s Vivian Oparah, apparently elbowed Gladstone aside. The Native American “great reckoning” thing just isn’t resonating in England, I guess. That plus they’re probably not approving of Team Gladstone’s contention that Mollie Burkhart is a lead role.
And speaking of snubs. May December ‘s enigmatic Charles Melton, an early Best Supporting Actor favorite stateside (Gothams, NYFCC, NSFC), is also, in that category, a BAFTA MIA. Seven nominations and the Criterion closet Eo fan didn’t make the cut. And yet All Of Us Strangers Paul Mescal did; ditto The Holdovers’ Dominic Sessa.
I’m genuinely shocked that Barbie helmer Greta Gerwig was also blown off. Perhaps the BAFTA committee simply felt drained by the hype or something.
The fact that Poor Things got 11 nominations suggests that Emma Stone is a Best Actress favorite.
Killers of the Flower Moon helmer Martin Scorsese and lead actor Leonardo DiCaprio were also snubbed.
The Gladstone and Melton snubs are yet another indication that woke derangement syndrome may be on the wane. Which suggests, in a roundabout way, that woke scold critic Bob Strauss may need to pour himself a cup of coffee and rethink things.
On the other hand a SAG/AFTRA sympathy backlash may happen in Gladstone’s favor.
…the AARP guys are suffering, no offense, from a taste deficiency. “Taste is a result of a thousand distastes.” — Francois Truffaut.
Can’t decide which performance is better, although I’ve always leaned toward Tina Vitale, her cynical New Jersey moll behind the shades, in the latter film, which opened almost exactly 40 years ago (1.27.84).
The Purple Rose of Cairo opened just over 13 months later, on 3.1.85.
Less than a year later came Hannah and Her Sisters (2.7.86), in which Farrow also dramatically stood out (alongside Oscar-winner Dianne Wiest).
HE has a thing about Pedro Pascal also…hard to put my finger on “why?” but he’s definitely one of those guys who rankles on some level…perhaps not as aggressively as Mescal.
Finally some actual inclement weather. Took long enough. For the first time since cold weather began a few weeks ago I have my black leather gloves stuffed into my motorcycle jacket pockets.
