I’m sorry, but I think it should be our sworn duty to identify and shame wokester fanatics. I’m thinking particularly of Jeff Zhang of Strange Harbors, who yesterday accused Jeff Sneider of racism because a gentle mocking of “a Black It,” given that Maine (the setting of all the It adaptations) is one of the whitest states in the country.
Nobody raised their eyebrows at Ryan Coogler‘s plan for a diverse X-Files. Pretty much any classic franchise or well-known TV series can be rebooted with a Black cast, I would suppose, but for social realism’s sake it’s probably not the most persuasive idea to set the rebooted project in New Hampshire or Switzerland or the Czech Republic.
Noteworthy Zhang line: “[We should] bully these racist morons out of our industry.”
“Though we often ask artists to reflect on the events of the day for the weekly cover, the magazine has not, until now, turned to a courtroom sketch artist, whose job it is to depict what a scene looks like when cameras are forbidden in federal criminal proceedings. Jane Rosenberg, the artist behind the cover for the April 17, 2023, issue, was one of three approved sketch artists in the courtroom on the fifteenth floor of the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse, on April 4, 2023, when the former President Donald Trump was arraigned on thirty-four felony charges of falsifying business records.” — from a Francois Mouly piece inj the current issue of The New Yorker.
Maiwenn‘s Jeanne du Barry, a historical drama set in the mid to late 1700s France (i.e., mostly before but also including the French Revolution), will open the ’23 Cannes Film Festival on Tuesday, 5.16.
Opening-night films are almost always weak or problematic in some fashion. From a certain perspective it’s almost a curse, categorically speaking.
Alternately called La Favorite, the film will star Maiwenn as Jeanne Becu (aka Madame du Barry) in a rags-to-riches-to-guillotine story.
Accused of treason, Becu lost her head during the French terror, and more precisely on December 8, 1793.
Johnny Depp plays the aged King Louis XV, who enjoyed Becu as his final mistress. The only problem is that Louis XV died in 1774, or 15 years before the French Revolution of ’89 and nearly 20 years before Becu’s execution so I don’t get it. I’m not trying to be a smartass — I’m just trying to understand.
Wikipedia says Netflix will release Jeanne du Barry in France in 2023 (probably right after Cannes ’23), but that the streaming release won’t happen for another 15 months, or sometime in the fall of ’24. The Wiki page also states that the film, which finished shooting last October, was financed by the Red Sea International Film Festival. I don’t know…sounds kinda fishy.
I haven’t seen Psycho in a boxy format in many decades, but it’s currently viewable in this aspect ratio (1.37:1) on Netflix. The images look soft and grainy, like you’re watching a broadcast version on an old TV in 1974. The framings are nonetheless fascinating. I suspect that some Netflix techie made a mistake and this version won’t last long, so jump on it as soon as you can.
It’s not Covid (just tested myself) and there’s no fever, but something got into me last night. A serious ache in my chest. Not a heart attack but something. Persistent fatigue. I couldn’t sleep all night. Breathing hurts a bit. Whatever it is, I’m waiting it out.
[Originally posted on 7.5.14 — almost nine years ago]: A couple of weeks ago I bought some distressed black-leather motorcycle saddlebags for the new Yamaha Majesty. The fact that the bags were old and quite worn-down and looked like John Wayne might have used them during the shooting of Red River are what made them cool.
It’s very hard to find Tom Dunson saddlebags today because 99.5% of today’s motorcycle owners prefer foo-foo metrosexual leather bags with a shiny showroom lustre and metal studs and complex stitchings that might have been designed by Vera Wang or Ozwald Boateng.
But guess what? The people in Austin who sold me the beat-up bags (they’re known as Rusty Chicken.com) cancelled the order and tossed the bags, they said, because they’re too dusty or grubby-looking or something like that.
Rusty Chicken to me two hours ago: “We have sent you several notices saying we have refunded your form of payment. The item was defective.”
Me to Rusty Chicken: “What does that mean, ‘defective’? Why didn’t you just send it and let me decide if I liked it or not? Your listing said it was worn and stressed and so on. That’s what I wanted. I was going to loosen it up with mink oil and then have it repaired by a shoe-repair guy.”
Me to Rusty Chicken (follow-up): “Listen to me, please — I WANT defective. I WANT saddlebags that look old and beat-up and, you know, sort of ‘John Wayne on the Chisholm Trail’. Will you please sell them to me? Please, I’m asking. I really, REALLY want the beat-up saddlebags. Even if they’re starting to fall apart…fine. Will you please sell them to me?”
Me to Rusty Chicken: “WHAT? You take the trouble to offer the saddlebags, you post photos of them on your website, you put them on your website for sale, you accept my order, you tell me that they’re about to be sent out….and then you cancel the order and toss them into the garbage?
“I’m sorry, man, but that’s alcoholic behavior. I’ve been sober for two years and three months but it takes one to know one. I’m not saying it’s ‘bad’ to be an alcoholic as long as you’re aware of your addiction and you’re doing something about it, but c’mon…you offered the bags for sale, you accepted my money and then you decided against the sale, refunded me the $110.00 and threw the effing bags away?”
I somehow missed that fact that Bill Hader, 43, has directed all eight episodes of the fourth and final season of Barry (HBO Max, 4.16 thru 5.28). I would’ve been down for this anyway, but now my blood is up.
An April opening doesn’t necessarily mean what it used to mean — i.e., an interesting, fairly good film that doesn’t quite make it by Ivy League standards.
The word has already gotten out that Ari Aster‘s three-hour Beau Is Afraid (A24, 4.14) is a grueling, agonizing sit, and that it will probably take weeks of therapy to clean the residue out of the average person’s head.
Ben Affleck‘s Air, on the other hand, certainly makes it if you’re willing to think modestly or in “dad movie” terms, and if you don’t insist on a grand-slam experience.
Either way there’s nothing problematic about an April opening per se. There is, however, something to possibly be feared if your film opens in the mid to late fall, and it becomes a favored Best Picture contender.
Friendo explains: “As we’ve been learning over the last five years or so, there is much less value in the Oscar race today…contaminated by woke critics and their myopic, anti-populist priorities, the Oscar brand is so bad that smart producers aren’t necessarily aiming for an Oscar association…it used to be that Oscar-buzz movies made money or at least enjoyed a certain elevated status…now it’s almost the opposite.”
Oscar movies have become about eating your woke vegetables and applauding the raising of our shared social consciousness…[and] fewer people are interested in them, because of the woke thing or whatever. Or because Millennials and Zoomers have become totally alienated from the brand. Or because Best Picture property values have gone underwater in the wake of Everything Everywhere All At Once winning all those trophies few weeks ago. The brand has been totally poisoned, or at least miniaturized.
It’s been over a decade, and still the question lingers — what the hell happened, award-season-wise, to J.C. Chandor‘s All Is Lost and particularly to Robert Redford‘s towering performance in that film?
After a stellar and industrious career of 50-plus years Redford had given the finest performance of his career, a performance that seems all the more skillful and affecting because of its deftness and spareness and near-silence. And yet he was blown off by SAG colleagues and Academy members because…okay, because he didn’t campaign that much (certainly not to the extent that Bruce Dern did) but mainly because those wankers couldn’t be bothered to watch All Is Lost.
Why? Because they’re lazy but also, I suspect, because they didn’t want to see a film about a resourceful old guy struggling to survive against nature’s merciless persistence. Nature will get us all sooner or later, and they didn’t to grapple with that — too close to the bone.
In late ’13 a journalist friend told me about speaking to a very well-known actor at a party. He said the actor had told him he’d popped in a screener of All Is Lost and then turned it off after ten minutes or so. The actor’s explanation went something along the lines of ‘I saw what this was going to be…all alone, no dialogue, the threat of death…and I quit.’ Advanced-age ADD is what home screenings are all about. This is why All Is Lost has to be seen in a theatre, why it has to be paid close attention to.
Jonathan Goldstein and John Francis Daley‘s Dungeons & Dragons is instantly boring and a waste of time. I was rolling my eyes after ten minutes’ worth, and I bailed altogether after a half-hour or so. The writing is trite and formulaic. The mood is spritzy and light-hearted, yes, but in a strange way exhausting. It’s the kind of material that we’ve seen over and over, and if you’re happy with this kind of shite I don’t know what to tell you. Chris Pine, Michelle Rodriguez, Regé-Jean Page, Justice Smith, Sophia Lillis and Hugh Grant sleep-walk through it.
Yesterday afternoon I hate-watched Zach Braff and Florence Pugh‘s A Good Person (MGM, 3.24). It’s basically a Lifetime movie about (a) slow grief recovery, (b) Oxycontin addiction and (c) the patient counsel of Morgan Freeman.
After 15 or 20 minutes I wanted to pop an Oxy myself, and maybe another half for good measure.
It’s arduous to sit through — instructive, over-acted, schmaltzy, precious, on the nose, emotionally insistent, socially curious and fortified with phony writing.
I hate addiction, AA and grief-recovery movies, and I really hated the acting in this film in particular. Bored shitless, I mean.
Pugh will always be a grounded, real-deal actress, but the screenplay’s flat treatment of Oxy addiction is “okay, okay, I’ve had enough, what else can you show me?” Freeman has always been excellent in whatever role, but you can tell he’s struggling or, you know, doing the best he can under duress. His vibe feels saggy, weary. Plus Freeman is around 85 now and seems too old to be the dad of Chinaza Uchi, who plays Pugh’s 30ish ex-fiance. He’s more like a grandfather type.
The only reason A Good Person managed a 55% Rotten Tomatoes and a 50% Metacitic grade is because a good portion of the ensemble cast is Black. If the cast had been all-Anglo, it would have fared much worse.
There’s a scene in which Freeman, the father of Pugh’s ex-fiance, shows Pugh an elaborate train set within a model of a miniature town in his basement, and I was saying to myself “this is half-working, this scene…they’ve finally found a groove.” And then Pugh’s character starts singing “Last Train to Clarksville” and Freeman joins in…the fucking Monkees!
I’m sorry but I have to say this: What extended family or close-knit social circle (i.e., people who routinely get together for holidays and birthdays) is composed of 55% POCs and 45% Anglos? Or vice versa? Even in super-artsy or super-wealthy X-factor circles, this kind of social bonding is…well, I’m not aware that it’s common. A Good Person is set in northern New Jersey near West Orange (i.e., Jett and Cait’s neighborhood) and I know how things look and feel in that neck of the woods. Good people and middle-class vibes, but not as woke as Braff and Pugh (who co-produced and collaborated on the script) are imagining.
I hated Mauro Fiore‘s muted, blue-ish cinematography.
