Jeff Wells

“My favorite Sicario character by far was Benicio del Toro’s Alejandro, a shadowy Mexican operative with burning eyes and his own kind of existential attitude about things. Benicio the sly serpent…the shaman with the drooping eyelids…the slurring, purring, south-of-the-border vibe guy.

“My second favorite, a senior veteran with a semi-casual ‘whatever works, bring it on’ attitude, is played by the ever-reliable Josh Brolin.

“The tale, such as it is, is told from the perspective of Emily Blunt‘s FBI field agent, who, being a 21st Century woman who’s in touch with her emotions, is of course stunned and devastated by the unrelenting carnage blah blah.

“You know what I’d like to see just once? A female FBI agent who isn’t in touch with her emotions, or at least one who tones it down when it comes to showing them. Too much to ask for, right?

“Sicario is basically about heavily militarized, inter-agency U.S. forces hunting down and shooting it out with the Mexican drug-cartel bad guys, and at other times flying here and there in a private jet and driving around in a parade of big black SUVs and so on….zzzzzz.

“It’s a strong welcome-to-hell piece, I’ll give it that, but Sicario doesn’t come close to the multi-layered, piled-on impact of Steven Soderbergh‘s Traffic, portions of which dealt with more or less the same realm

“I knew for certain that a lot of what was happening on-screen — the super-grisly violence, the despairing godforsaken atmosphere — wasn’t that interesting or logical even, and that Villeneuve seemed more interested in nightmare vibes than compelling specifics.

“Villeneuve has called Sicario, which was written by Taylor Sheridan, ‘a very dark film, a dark poem, quite violent…it’s about the alienation of the cycles of violence, how at one point we are in those spirals of violence and ask ourselves ‘Is there a solution?’ My movie raises the question, but it doesn’t give any answer.’

— excerpted from HE’s 6.9.15 review.

Once he found his groove in ’94 or thereabouts, the antics of Jerry Springer never failed to lower the conversation and degrade the sordid remnants of American lower-middle-class culture. All during the ’90s, aughts and 20teens I never once sat down and watched The Jerry Springer Show…24 years of the scurviest, most genetically deprived low-life behavior ever seen on American television. (The low-rent stuff didn’t begin until ’94.) Yes, I occasionally watched Springer clips on YouTube but only when I was in a slovenly mood. The reigning trash TV pioneer passed earlier today.

Read more

…who doesn’t kowtow to the bumblefuck mouth-breathers would obviously be better than Orange Plague, right?

In their heart of hearts the MAGA faithful know Trump can’t win, of course, and most of us are pleased about this almost certain fact. But what a gross and depraved spectacle a Trump ’24 candidacy would be, and what a low-rent, soul-depleting conversation we’ll all be having when he squares off against Joe Biden — an animalistic, saliva-spewing sociopath vs. a mellow, steady-as-she-goes octogenarian whom many center-lefties aren’t that thrilled about serving a second term.

Biden’s second term would begin on 1.20.25 (when he’ll be 82) and end on 1.20.29 (when he’ll be 86).

I know that Vivek Ramaswamy can’t possibly beat Trump in the Republican primaries or delegate race, in large part because the mostly rural, racist Republican community won’t vote for anyone whose last name they can’t spell or pronounce, but he’s obviously a better, smarter, more forward-looking fellow than Trump has ever been, and we could all look forward to a more stimulating, issue-driven 2024 Presidential race than if he were to somehow prevail. I love Vivek’s anti-woke determinations, and I’ve long admired super-brainy Millennial moderate righties as a rule (Konstantin Kisin, even Rishi Sunak).

I would still hold my nose, shrug my shoulders and vote for Biden, but it would be great to have a whipsmart rightwing candidate instead of a spray-tan animal brain.

Read more

So far I’ve only managed to trudge through episodes #2 and #3 of Alice Birch‘s Dead Ringers (Amazon, 4.21), an expanded, feminized remounting of David Cronenberg’s 1988 feature.

Jeremy Irons played twin Toronto gynecologists in the 35 year-old original; Rachel Weisz does the same this time, playing both the prim and proper Beverly Mantle (cautiously mannered, hair-bunned, lesbian) and her twin sister Eliot (louche, profane, hair-trigger, straight).

At first Beverly and Eliot are depicted as brilliant, bristling partners in business and visionary birthing (“we’re both extraordinary”), and then, inevitably…you know what happens.

Cronenberg’s feature was definitely a perverse rogue-male thing; the Amazon series is also perverse but informed by boundary-pushing 21st Century womanhood top to bottom.

I can’t say I’m feeling especially won over. You can detect the diseased dynamic between the twins immediately, and right away it brings on feelings of fatigue. Portions of the piecemeal narrative feel hazily plotted and puzzle-boxy. Jody Lee Lipes and Laura Merians Gonçalves‘ cinematography is too under-lighted — everything has a chilly, grayish-blue tint, and I was very quickly annoyed by this.

For my money Birch’s Dead Ringers doesn’t so much mesmerize or disturb or guide you into some weird nether realm as vacuum you dry. With the exception of a killer dinner-table argument scene, that is, which I quite enjoyed.

All six episodes have been written by women (and two by Birch). Sean Durkin directed episodes #1 and #2, and co-directed episode 6 with Lauren Wolkstein; the other three episodes were directed by Wolkstein, Karena Evans and Karyn Kusama.

I shouldn’t say any more. Except that I really don’t want to sit through episodes #3 through #6. Okay, I’ll watch them but not with any haste or dispatch.

I’ve tried to make it clear over the years that I’m not receptive to any sort of romantic relationship film featuring Seth Rogen as an interested hetero party.

Obviously Platonic, a streaming comedy series from Nick Stoller and Francesca Delbanco, is looking at the possibility of a non-platonic thing between Rogen and costar Rose Byrne. At the very, very least it’s looking at this possibility, and for my money this is nearly as potentially upsetting as Pedro Almodovar‘s Bears of the West.

Platonic will premiere on Apple TV+ on 5.24.23.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that “Long, Long Time,” the third episode in HBO’s (now Max’s) The Last Of Us, was a traumatic thing for many of us. The episode aired on 1.29.23.

It took me several days to recover from the bear sex scenes between the 50ish Murray Bartlett and the dreaded Nick Offerman. I’m not kidding. I kept seeing Offerman coming out of that bathroom with a towel around his waist. Freaked me the fuck out.

I’m mentioning this because I’m getting a strong whiff of Long Long Time from the new trailer for Pedro Almodovar‘s Strange Way of Life, a 30-minute short.

HE to Pedro: Please tell me you haven’t filmed what I’m deeply afraid of sitting through.

Read more

Gee, a real actual trailer for Taika Watiiti‘s Next Goal Wins. And a moment in casting history — Kaimana as Jaiyah Saelua, the first transgender football player to play in a men’s World Cup qualifier.**

The management of a losing Samoan soccer team hires a white-ass Dutch-American coach (Michael Fassbender), a move that gradually results in good, prideful things as the team seeks to qualify for the 2014 FIFA World Cup.

Niki Caro‘s McFarland (’15) told a roughly similar story — white coach (Kevin Costner), hard-luck, losing-streak Latino team.

Based on same-titled 2014 doc by Mike Brett and Steve Jamison.

Filming on Taika Watiti’s feature version began in November 2019 and wrapped in January ’20. Searchlight will release it on 11.17.23.

I would honestly like to see the Armie Hammer scenes included on the Bluray. Seriously — where’s the harm? Hammer joined the film in December ’19, playing an executive with Football Federation American Samoa. After Hammer got into trouble for questionable personal behavior in late ’21, it was announced that Will Arnett would be replacing him.

The trailer ends with a pledge: “Coming soon.” Which isn’t true, of course. It’s late April — next November is not “soon.”

** Sasha Stone mentioned this early this afternoon on Awards Daily.

Hollywood Elsewhere won’t be submitting to Kelly Fremon Craig‘s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret until tomorrow afternoon (Thursday, 4.27) at 3 pm. Hoping to hate on it, but holding my water until then.

Repeating: I HATED Craig’s The Edge of Seventeen. I’m not saying I’m already planning to get my hate-on for Craig’s Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret (Lionsgate, 4.28), which is based on Judy Blume’s 1970 novel. I haven’t seen it and will naturally wait for a screening, but I’d be lying if I said I’m not feeing the negativity from afar. Because I can.

In the meantime I’m deriving comfort from portions of Amy Nicholson’s 4.20.23 Variety review, which is more negative than mixed.

Comfort excerpt #1: “This adaptation of Judy Blume‘s 1970 novel, written and directed by Kelly Fremon Craig, seems uneasy putting funny, flawed and all-too-realistic Margaret on screen exactly as she is.”

Comfort excerpt #2: “Today, it’s not enough to be representative: Margaret must be a role model, too. (Even an accusation that she plagiarizes her homework from the encyclopedia gets gently buffed.) The result is a nostalgia hit with saccharine artificiality. While that might disappoint Blume fans, young audiences may not miss the original novel’s more honest truths, especially as they’ve been trained to expect tidy stories where protagonists fix their faults and here even (gah!) assure the adults in the film that they’re raising them just fine.

Comfort excerpt #3: “Margaret (Abby Ryder Fortson), an earnest thing with big, curious brown eyes, comes home from summer camp to find herself thrust into transition. She spends the film in flux. Her parents, Barbara (Rachel McAdams) and Herb (Benny Safdie), raised her without a religion, a vagueness she attempts to resolve by visiting various Jewish temples and Christian churches and chatting with her loose concept of a deity. In her first prayer to God, Margaret says, ‘I’ve heard great things about you.'”

HE interjection: What “great things” exactly? Don’t go there.

Comfort excerpt #4: “As for Margaret’s dad, quirky filmmaker and actor Safdie wears retro fatherhood like a Halloween costume, sounding so insincere as he professes his eagerness to mow a lawn that we’re tempted to add subtext to his thin role.”

Comfort excerpt #4: “As charming as the film is in its best moments, it’s hard not to be frustrated as it backpedals from the book’s awareness that not all wrongs are righted. Sometimes, our heroines might stay buddies with bullies. Sometimes they might run from conflict and never explain themselves. Sometimes, they might even hurt people without making amends. Sometimes frank talk is more impactful than an idealized fantasy.”

The late Harry Belafonte “was the little-known impetus behind ‘We Are the World,’ the all-star 1985 benefit single for African famine relief. To line up a younger generation of performers, he enlisted the music manager Ken Kragen, who got Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson to write the song and gathered dozens of other 1980s hitmakers. Modestly, Belafonte didn’t claim one of the lead vocal spots; he just joined the backup chorus. He can be spotted in the video at 4:20 and 5:55, eagerly singing along.” — from “Work, Love, Dignity and Play: 10 Key Harry Belafonte Songs,” by chief N.Y. Times music critic Jon Pareles.

Until proven to be a lucid, smartly-plotted, grade-A film (which it might conceivably be), I’ll be assuming that The Flash (Warner Bros., 6.16) is the same old gotterdamerung, CG-overload D.C. shite…tortured, over-emotive, anguished adolescent stuff.

“My payurants, my payurants…I lost my payurants,” etc.

I was a fanatical admirer of director Andy Muschietti‘s Mama, but I went cold on the guy after seeing his two It films. The return of Michael Keaton‘s Batman / Bruce Wayne holds no allure for me; ditto the return of Michael Shannon‘s General Zod. “Let’s get nuts”…yeah, no thanks.

Yesterday the No Hard Feelings redband trailer generated fresh energy at Cinemacon. It made me laugh several weeks ago, and it still rubs me the right way. And I adore the fact that shrieking wokesters like Scott Menzel are upset by the bawdy premise. The more alarmed Menzel is, the better.