Sometime this week Bill Maher will break bread in the White House with Orange Mussolini. The difference between this and Richard Nixon going to China in ’72 is that Mao Zedong and Chou en Lai, despite being Communist tyrants, were at least nominally sane, which is to say governed to some extent by rationality.

There are boilerplate dictators who have cold-bloodedly presided over mass murder, and there are emotional-infant tyrants like Trump and Kim Jong Un…different equation.

How will Maher pass along the detailed story of his dinner (McDonalds?) or some kind of sit-down with — I can’t believe I’m writing this — the first U.S. President since FDR to at least ponder the possibility of a third term in the White House, depending on how acquiescent the Dems and the courts may be to this possibility.

I ran into Terrence Malick and a friend of his on the Cannes Croisette during…I can’t recall which festival but probably sometime around ‘12 or ‘13 or ‘14…somewhere in there. On the narrower, northern side of the boulevard as opposed to the southern beach side, not far from the Carlton.

I realized it was Malick right after we passed each other. The eponymous Panama hat, the shades, the salt-and-pepper beard. And so I paused and turned around and saw he’d done the same thing — stopped or slowed, half-turned, quizzically eyeballing me. Maybe he thought I was Chris Walken.

Candy-ass that I am, I didn’t seize the opportunity to approach and launch into a brief chat. I could have kept the ball in the air. I could’ve reminded him that I cold-called Mike Medavoy’s home in ‘95 because I’d heard he was staying there, and that he’d picked up and we’d bantered for three or four minutes.

Instead I wimped out. I just said “hey, Terry…how ya livin’?” and offered a casual salute and he returned the gesture, and I moved on. I wasn’t instantly seized by a feeling of self-loathing, but a hint of this had taken hold. It never left me.

Initial HE reaction to Terrence Malick‘s The Thin Red Line (’98): “Too many leaves, alligators, interior monologues and meditations. The script I read before filming was tight and lean and true, but Malick didn’t shoot it. Or he did but fell in love with something else in post-production. Talk to Adrien Brody about this.”

It was The Thin Red Line that (a) fixed Malick’s reputation as a whimsical, nature-revering, tossed-salad filmmaker, and (b) resulted in that famous quip about Malick never having “met a leaf he didn’t like.”

But you know what? Jim Caviezel‘s “death of Private Witt” scene is amazing. Most of it, I mean.

We all listen to excellent music of our exact choosing all the time, and certainly whenever we like. But this mostly happens when we’re driving or on a plane or train trip, and yet — this just hit me this morning, sadly — we never have the right kind of musical accompaniment in our heads during the actual, real-deal moments of engagement (momentous, tearful, emotional, climactic, poignant, euphoric, jarring)…the real thing.

This is one of the key differences between classic movies and real life. When we encounter dramatic stuff in actuality, we almost always (99.99% of the time) experience these things without a soundtrack. But in classic films, the heavy stuff often has an expertly written and orchestrated soundtrack playing along, either quietly in the background or loudly or lullingly.

The curious thing is that I believe that Phillip Glass‘s The Fog of War soundtrack is, in a certain sense, my personal soundtrack…the music of my life…music that I often hear in my head as I experience significant stuff as well as the boring non-essentials. It’s been living inside me for years.

But of course, Robert S. McNamara never heard a single note of Glass’s score when he was actually in the thick of various chapters in his life (World War II in the Pacific, Ford Motor Company presidency, Secretary of Defense under Kennedy and Johnson). But in an ideal world, McNamara would have heard it all along. Because the meaning of his life and what was actually happening deep down could have been so fully and completely understood and articulated by Glass’s music.

It’s a shame, in short, that we all live our respective lives without sublime musical accompaniment. We all have to wing it (and feel it) on our own…silently in a sense.

The Wiki page is calling Paul Thomas Anderson‘s One Battle After Another (Warner Bros., 9.26) “an American satirical black comedy,” but that’s a vague description. A dude who recently saw this September ’25 release says it essentially “makes fun of radical left revolutionaries.”

Set in the American northwest, pic has to do with Leonardo Di Caprio‘s “Bob Ferguson” character, an unhinged, bathrobe-wearing, hyper-mannered lowlife, and is about his mixed-race daughter, possibly played by Chase Infiniti, having been kidnapped by Sean Penn‘s Col. Steven J. Lockjaw. Maybe, apparently…who knows? The guy didn’t specify.

No, I’ve never read Thomas Pynchon‘s “Vineland,” which the film is loosely based upon.

I wish I was more certain about who play Infiniti’s mother (and DiCaprio’s ex-lover) — Regina Hall or Teyana Taylor. Probably Hall because she’s the prettier of the two.

Except the guy I spoke to wasn’t all that clear about certain aspects. I asked questions and absorbed as well as I could, but I wasn’t left with a specific idea of what the film really is.

“It’s played for comedy,” the guy told me, “but the [wokeys] won’t like it. I laughed and my white friends laughed, but we were in the minority [in the audience].

“It’s a guy movie, kinda like Uncut Gems. Made for a predominantly male fanbase. It will probably go over like Mickey 17 and Alto Knights, both of which lost Warner Bros. a lot of money.

“Guys aside, the humor is aimed more at the demo of black women or conservative white women than liberal white women on anti-depressants who are keyboard warriors on Twitter. Black women and conservative women aren’t as mentally ill as college-educated white women, and will probably enjoy it. It was fun for me, but a gender studies major at a liberal arts college will definitely pan this. Don’t look for much love from the woke army.

“I probably wouldn’t take a woman to see it. It’s a film for dudes.

“PTA actually manages to direct the black actresses — Regina Hall, Teyana Taylor, Chase Infiniti — pretty well. It’s his most commercial work in a sense, but it probably won’t get any awards action. The cinematography and editing are fine, and I loved the performances.

“It’s a movie I’d take my male friends to opening weekend, but not the girlfriend. And Leo, remember, isn’t selling tickets like he did 10 or 15 years ago.

“It’s not a 2025 movie. It’s something that would’ve gone down well during the halcyon days of Obama’s second term. I love this type of shit, but movies like this are not made today.

“Leo has a great scene in which he says ‘I love black women!'”

The Democrats are “toxic” now, Gavin Newsom said last night on Real Time, and are regarded with unfettered contempt by over 70% of the electorate, and that is simply because of their insane allegiance to woke shit.

Identity politics, he meant, along with “all white males are bad and all POCs are wonderful”, cancellations over sexist slights in the workplace, trans stuff in schools and in women’s sports, guys fucking each other in the ass in movies and on streaming series (i.e., Sam Rockwell in The White Lotus), progressive government officials decriminalizing shoplifting by hoodie assholes…all of that “what is happening to our culture?” shit.

And yet elite urban Democrats (especially university-diploma’ed women) are so heavily invested in this stuff that they’ll probably never back off.

Bill Maher to Newsom (:18 mark): “I feel like this country is divided into owners and healers. And I feel that the next president, at least if he or she comes from this party, the Democratic party, is going to be someone who wants to talk and heal.”

For years I was fortunate enough to stay in a Napoleonic-era duplex apartment in Cannes’ old town section. Not cheap but affordable, and a five-minute walk to the Palais.

This year HE and World of Reel have luckily scored a reasonably priced pad — $2500 for an 11-day stay, and a 15-minute walk to the Palais — except it’s ugly and soul-less. It reminds me of Robert Duvall‘s living space in THX-1138.

Otherwise Cannes rents are completely ridiculous. The greed factor has gone through the roof. Especially since the pandemic.

Ray Mendoza and Alex Garland‘s Warfare (A24, 4.11) is just around the corner. Obviously one of those highly-charged, you-are-there tension pounders.

“This visceral, immersive real-time retelling of a 2006 Navy SEAL Iraq surveillance mission gone horribly wrong is as raw and direct as its title suggests. Co-directors Alex Garland and Ray Mendoza — a former Navy SEAL turned Hollywood stuntman who was present during the events depicted — craft an unflinching, sharply authentic snapshot of combat that’s not about honor and glory, but desperation, fear and survival. It’s not for the faint-hearted either.” — from Nikki Baughan’s 3.28 Screen Daily review.

I’ve twice watched the first two episodes of Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg‘s The Studio (Apple TV+), and it felt like a delicious meal. It’s not a great series because it’s going for fast, accessible, character-riffing comedy without delivering a blistering satire of the recent, still-present Hollywood malaise (i.e., audience instruction by way of woke concepts and identity casting) but at least it’s a fast ride in the tradition of Howard Hawks‘ His Girl Friday and Billy Wilder‘s One, Two, Three.

When I wasn’t laughing or at least chuckling, I was certainly in awe of the whipsmart dialogue, rapid-fire pacing and awesome, extended-take choreography. I’m trying not to overpraise, but it’s still the best thing Rogen and Goldberg have ever produced. Okay, their previous product is a low bar to surpass.

Naturally a friend disagrees, and so we got into an argument this morning.

HE: “Rogen and Goldberg are obviously sharp and clever players. The Industry doesn’t even try to address or satirize the general woke malignancy, as you’ve accurately pointed out, but that’s no reason to piss on it or call it evil. It’s descended from the fast-and-furious tradition of His Girl Friday and One Two Three and not all that different from Robert Altman‘s The Player, attitude-wise. Fast, fleet, well-shot, well-directed…tight and propulsive.

“I prefer the first episode, but the second (‘Oner’) is fairly dazzling from a blocking and choreography standpoint. Yes, I also would have preferred something that addresses and laments woke derangement syndrome (and so would average viewers, I suspect) but Rogen-Goldberg were adamant wokeys a few years back and so, realistically, they couldn’t be expected to castigate a social movement that they were very much proponents of as recently as four or five years ago.

“It’s not hateful or venal to make a tight, energetic, hellzapoppin’ comic satire.”

Friendo: “To me it’s not funny. It’s like some lame skit night at the Scientology Center. There is no funny to be had if they can’t tell the truth about what Hollywood has been suffering from. This is not funny rat-a-tat-tat comedy. It can’t be because it is, like almost everything else, the Emperor’s New Clothes. Once you suss that out it’s not funny or even interesting.”

HE: “Agree about the lack of tough satiric observation, but the show is not evil because it ignores woke insanity.”

Friendo: “The second episode is about an ambitious one-take deal being shot near Silver Lake, and of course Sarah Polley is directing and Greta Lee is starring, and the guy who points out Hollywood’s woke tendencies, once, is Bryan Cranston‘s villainous studio boss. It’s scientology. What would be funny is if they were pointing out that they had to hire a female and maybe she wasn’t all that good. If they joked about any of this tippy-toe stuff or acknowledged any of it, it would be sort of funny because at least it would be the truth.”

HE: “I’m not calling it a great series, but I do I love the well-executed FORM of it — the pace, the discipline, the velocity. You’re addressing only the CONTENT.”

Friendo: “The form isn’t all that good either. It’s copycat. Movie nerds geeking on Scorsese. It’s Film Twitter: The Movie. Everyone over-acts. Not one funny actor in it IMO. Not one.”

HE: “Wow, you’re being brutal and unfair.”

Friendo: “And I am personally offended at your comparing it to The Player. That is unforgivable. Altman would never make that pandering sitcom shit.”

HE: “The general tone and attitude of The Studio is very similar to The Player. Why did they choose to call Cranston’s studio chief character ‘Griffin Mill’? Obviously they’re offering an homage — they’re showing respect for that 33 year-old film. I agree that The Studio lacks a socially corrosive viewpoint. It doesn’t even acknowledge, much less condemn, the pestilence of wokery. But it’s still fun to watch and a very commendable stab at a One, Two, Three-like comedy.”

No one will dispute that during his heyday as a powerful Hollywood and Broadway producer, Scott Rudin was often…okay, commonly believed to be an abusive employer. It all came to a boil in April 2021, which is when a Tatiana Siegel THR piece and a subsequent sensitive-wokester clamor led to Rudin withdrawing from the showbiz arena after acknowledging and apologizing for his behavior.

Now it’s four years later, and Rudin, according to a 3.28 N.Y. Times article by Michael Paulson, is looking to do a Louis C.K. and finesse a lowkey return.

Back in the days of peak woke terror (roughly ’18 to early ’24), those guilty of indisputably bad behavior were slapped with one of two kinds of punishments — (a) hangings and beheadings (Polanski, Allen, Weinstein…”go get yourself buried”) or (b) public whippings followed by a finite period of banishment.

When the Rudin thing exploded four years ago, the anger was so intense that I thought he might be the latest member of the Polanski club. Now not so much…sooner or later all things dry up.

I say this having been yelled at by Scott two or three times myself, but you know what? I shook that shit off. Did I like getting slapped around? No, but I didn’t whine or cry or mew like as kitten either. Like Lee Marvin‘s “Walker” might have concluded, I figured there’s always heat in the Hollywood kitchen, and occasionally getting yelled it is just part of the game.

Once upon a time the shouting, volatile, highly-demanding producer or swaggering “boss from hell” was a lamentable part of showbiz lore…Burt Lancaster‘s J.J. Hunsecker in Sweet Smell of Success, Alan King‘s Max Herschel in Sidney Lumet‘s Just Tell Me What You Want, the real-life Joel Silver and Harvey Weinstein, Saul Rubinek‘s Lee Donowitz in True Romance (based on Silver for the most part), Kevin Spacey‘s Buddy Ackerman in Swimming With Sharks, Tom Cruise‘s Les Grossman in Tropic Thunder, etc.

None of these characters were pleasant to be around on a 24/7 basis, but, as in real life, they had a dominating brand and tradition that you had to finesse one way or the other.

And then along came the sensitive, safe-space-seeking Millennials, and that Buddy Ackerman shit began to get old right quick.