She Stoops To Cajole & Sip Beer

Having missed it in Telluride, I finally saw Will and Harper (Netflix) last night. It’s basically a cross-country road doc about Will Ferrell and Harper Steele, SNL colleagues and friends since the mid ’90s, exploring and working through Steele’s relatively recent decision to become a woman.

The film amounts to more than just an asphalt journey, of course. It gradually becomes a probing inward thing — gentle, affecting, emotionally vulnerable. The theme might be an echo of a Steele quote: “There isn’t a trans person I’ve met who doesn’t have a sense of humor about themselves.” Steele has described herself, politically and philosophically, as “purple-haired woke.”

The 62-year-old Steele further describes herself as well past her relationship sell-by date, but adds that she misses being in a relationship and would love to find someone. She also discloses that she hasn’t had her dick surgically removed so, you know, finding the right person might be a challenge. She also has a voice as deep as Harvey Fierstein‘s. She also insists on wearing heels everywhere, and I don’t know a single woman who doesn’t prefer sensible shoes or sneakers. She also has a thing about visiting rural, blue-collar bars with Ferrell and telling the local yokels why she’s transitioned. (Wise?)

Harper knew she was different as a little kid, she recalls, but never wore dresses or beads or became actively gay. She wanted to transition decades ago, she says, but kept it all under wraps. Plus she never mentions if she enjoyed an occasional discrete same-sex affair.

The film is full of many such questions and curiosities, but it’s a compassionate, kind-hearted thing so let’s not pass along too much grief.

Farrell, 57, is almost totally gray-haired in the doc but was back to his trademark light-brown hair color on a recent talk-show appearance. The gray hair makes him look at least 20 years older.

“He Called Me A Lady”

Marilyn Monroe gave a cameo-strength performance as a streetwalker in O. Henry’s Full House, an anthology feature from 20th Century Fox. Released on 10.16.52, it was her fourth film release that year. It feels like the kind of role that a young actress (Monroe was 25 during filming) would play in hopes of being noticed or, considering her costar Charles Laughton, classing up her career. But Monroe was already well on her way.

Her twin breakout performances in John Huston‘s The Asphalt Jungle (’50) and Joseph L. Mankiewicz‘s All About Eve (ditto) had surfaced two years prior. Her performances in Fritz Lang‘s Clash by Night (6.16.52) and Edmond Goulding‘s We’re Not Married (7.11.52) received above-the-title billing. Plus she was Richard Widmark‘s front-and-center costar in Don’t Bother to Knock (7.18.52). Plus she’d been seeing Joe DiMaggio (whom he would marry in early ’54) for several months.

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I Really Remember The Guy

The great Kris Kristofferson — poet, troubador, songwriter, actor, hang-back guy — has passed at age 88.

Film acting-wise, Kris enjoyed a truly great peak period between the early ‘70s and early ‘80s. I think his finest all-time role and performance was in Paul Mazursky‘s Blume in Love (‘73).

His decade-long run: Cisco Pike (‘72), Pat Garrett and Billy The Kid (‘73), Blume in Love, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (‘74), Bring Me The Head of Alfredo Garcia (‘74), The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With The Sea (‘76), A Star Is Born (‘76), SemiTough (‘78), Heaven’s Gate (‘80), Rollover (‘81).

It’s been 43 years, but I seem to recall Rollover being a relatively decent effort. Second-tier Alan Pakula but passable. It more or less predicted the 2009 worldwide crash, and the legitimized-with-empty-bullshit reasons why it would happen. And it was made right as the Reagan administration was deregulating the crap out of everything.

David Shaber (The Warriors, Last Embrace, Hunt for Red October) wrote it. Key line: “Of course it’s a game…that’s ALL it is.”

But Rollover was largely sold as a hot-sex-in-high-places thing**. Wall Street hotshot Kris Kristofferson, looking buff and well-coiffed in one perfectly-tailored three-piece suit after another, giving Jane Fonda‘s chemical-company chairperson the old invitational eye-twinkle.

Hume Cronyn, as First New York Bank chairman Maxwell Emery, delivered the reality-check assessments, and very effectively.

Fonda and Kristofferson were allegedly involved during filming (i.e., one of those “what happens during filming stays there and goes no further” affairs), but I only heard this once from a second-hand source.

I checked Amazon and Vudu to see if it’s streaming in high-def…nope. I can’t roll with 480p any more.

Genuinely Funny

For me reel #1 is best between 4:50 and 5:23, and don’t miss Siskel’s anti-Protestant rant starting at 6:50.

And in reel #2, Siskel’s Roger-can’t-say-no-to-anything-at-McDonald’s starts at :55.

“Saturday Night” Forced-Deck Stategy Isn’t Believable

“When I first heard about the premise of Jason Reitman’s Saturday Night — the entire film takes place in the 90 minutes leading up to the late-night comedy landmark’s first episode in 1975 — it seemed like there would be a backstage let’s-put-on-a-show “What can go wrong? Everything can go wrong!” real-time frenetic bustle to the thing. And that sounded like fun.” — from Owen Gleiberman‘s “What Does Saturday Night Think Saturday Night Live Is About?“, posted this morning.

It didn’t sound like “fun” to me for I knew what Chevy Chase has recently stated, which is that the material that would consitute the first episode (skits, jokes) had been very thoroughly rehearsed and worked out down to the tiniest little detail. So the final 90 minutes before the show went on the air live couldn’t be hellzapoppin’. Nobody on the show (Lorne Michaels, writers, performers) could or would have been that improvisational or self-destructive.

So the film is just dishonest about how this NBC counter-culture comedy show came together all those years ago. It’s a phony scheme, I mean. The performers (dull-as-dishwater Gabrielle LaBelle aside) are pretty good but I wasn’t buying the premise that it was all last-minute juggling. How could anyone?

Chevy Chase quote:

What Will Historians Say About Trump 50 Years Hence?

They’ll be required to state the obvious, which is that there was something seriously wrong with the tens of millions who voted for Trump in ’24, despite knowing what kind of person he is and what he’s capable of, etc. Not that Kamala Harris doesn’t have issues and annoyances, but she’s at least sane and sensible and law-abiding. There are nonetheless millions of alleged adults who’ve been saying “no, I prefer the animal…I prefer the sociopath.”

“Daughters” Achieves Something Formidable

I finally sat down with Azazel JacobsHis Three Daughters on Netflix, and I have very little to add to what everyone else has been saying, which is that it’s a fairly delicious ensemble piece.

It’s about three adult-aged sisters (Carrie Coon‘s control-freak Katie, Natasha Lyonnes stoned-all-the-time Rachel and Elizabeth Olsen‘s space-casey Christina) tending to their dying dad (Jay O. Sanders) inside a dreary-looking apartment — almost all dialogue, great performances from everyone top to bottom but especially from Coon.

My favorite scene is when Katie and Rachel, who routinely get on each others’ nerves, lose their tempers and come damn close trading blows, but are prevented from doing so by a huddling, freaked-out Christina.

My only problem is with Sanders’ bulky, fleshy appearance. As soon as I saw him my suspension of disbelief went out the window. Sanders’ character has been dying for months and is very close to the end, and yet he’s got a fair amount of weight on him and his facial features have a jowly thing going on. The last time I checked older men who are cancer-wracked are fairly skinny and gaunt looking. Sanders is too beefy, too heavy-set….like a linebacker or a professional wrestler.

And I didn’t iike the Three Daughters apartment, which seems to be part of a Co-op City structure of some kind (fake-brick siding, chain-link fences, spindly trees, security guard downstairs). It appears to be located within a vaguely shitty Queens neighborhood that’e near an elevated subway line. Perhaps Washington Heighte but who wants to live in a soulless Queens or Bronx apartment complex…a place without any color or personality to speak of…generally lacking in real New Yorkyness?

And I wasn’t in love with Sam Levy‘s cinematography, which mostly emphasizss one color — amber gold– and always look soft and hazy to the point of the film almost seeming unfocused.

Obviously Indicating A Lack of Discipline, Focus

Last night everyone jumped on that Fandango report that Wicked Part One (Universal, 11.22) runs 160 minutes. And it’s a musical, mind.

Let’s assume that Wicked: Part Two (11.26.25) will have the same tone and pacing and comes in at two hours or perhaps a bit longer. 160 plus 120 = a 280-minute or a four and a half hour Wizard of Oz-adjacent thing that we’ll all need to sit through.

The applicable term or phrase, once again, is “lack of narrative discipline.”

THR Quote Suggests Primitive Sexism Was Behind FFI’s Snubbing of “All We imagine As Light”

As previously noted on HE, widespread shock and outrage greeted a recent decision by the cultural troglodytes on the Film Federation of India (FFI) to submit a lightweight sitcom, Laapataa Ladies, over Payal Kapadia All We Imagine As Light for Oscar consideration as 2024’s Best International Feature.

Yesterday The Hollywood Reporter’s Anuska Alves reported a quote from FFI President Ravi Kottarakara that seemed to indicate a sexist or certainly a lowbrow nativist attitude in the part of FFI’s all-male selection committee.

HE to Academy members: Leapfrog over the FFI’s dismissiveness by nominating Kapadia’s film for Best Picture — it’s the only thing to do.