Jeff Wells

Sasha Stone and I just finished an hour-long chat about Tuesday morning’s (1.24) announcement of the ’23 Oscar nominations, and the obvious fact that Top Gun: Maverick, which will certainly be among the chosen few, is the only prospective nominee that feels truly commanding. Authoritatively, I mean.

Despite the familiarity and the formulaic strategy, TG:M is the only finalist that feels home–runnish…not to mention the achievement of having joined forces with Avatar: The Way of Avatar to save and even restore a classic, life-giving Hollywood dynamic (thrills, popcorn, warm seats) to exhibition itself…there’s no ignoring the metaphor.

Everything Everywhere All at Once is passionately supported (I’ll give it that) but on its own terms (reach, theme, imagination) and despite an excellent final line it drives sane people crazy.

The Fabelmans is basically a double that makes you feel more relieved than fulfilled when it ends.

For all the brilliance and audacity Tar underwhelms — Kubrick famously said that strong films connect for the feel rather than the think, and Tar is not much of a feeler.

The Banshees of Inisherin is also more weirdly thinky than feely.

I don’t know what Elvis is but it sure as hell is no triple or homer. The Bazzyness is draining.

Women Talking is an earnest whiff. Babylon, due respect, missed it. The corrosive cruelty delivered by All Quiet on the Western Front is unforgettable but not, in the annals of world cinema, unfamiliar.

At the end of the day Avatar: The Way of Water is more about knockout efficiency than the turning of a special key.

Yesterday on Twitter I derided Anne Thompson‘s go-with-the-woke-flow celebration of the appallingly overcranked RRR as “virtue signalling.” Glenn Kenny called me a bad person for saying this.

HE reply: “’Virtue signalling’ is a fairly common malady. Common among older white critics, I mean. Hardly an insult. In their heart of hearts, they know what they’re up to. Someone comes along and calls it by its rightful name…not exactly a cruel or even rude accusation.”

Kenny: “So to call someone a liar is not an insult…gotcha”.

HE to Kenny: “Proclaiming your woke bonafides by praising an obviously mediocre film by a Tollywood schlockmeister…calling such a film an ecstatic experience isn’t ‘lying’ — it’s a way of telling your readers and fellow critics ‘look how liberated and post-racist I’ve become in my critical estimations! Except I’m post-racist in a good way. By thinking only positive thoughts about people of color.”

Kenny: “[So] you’re not insulting your dear old friend Anne Thompson, and she would never tell you to piss off on account of you doing so, or just ignore you. It’s true Anne is pretty good-natured. But everyone has their limit. And I don’t think I’m going out on a limb by suggesting you made yourself something of a non-person to her some time ago. And now you’re freer to lay it on than you ever were, since you’ll likely never lay eyes on her in person again.”

HE to Kenny: “Aside from the usual collegial chiding, I did absolutely nothing to warrant being labelled a ‘non-person’ in Anne’s eyes….nothing at all. It’s all horseshit.

“You wanna hear something? Last year a person in the know told me that when the #MeToo Millennial harridans and hardcore trans lunatics decided, for no sensible or logical reason other than the furtherance of woke psychosis (and with your own kind and gracious goading when you tweeted that I had behaved like some kind of sexual ogre because, in a state in which the legal consent law is 16, I’d fallen in love with a 17 year-old heiress when I was 10 years older), to classify me as a toxic person who had to be booted out of two fraternities (Gold Derby and Critics Choice)…

“You know what I heard later? I was told by a person in the know that my ‘dear old friend’ Anne Thompson, whom I’ve known and been friendly with since the early ‘80s…an old Entertainment Weekly colleague whose Hobart Ave. home she invited me to once or twice to when our kids were very young in the early ‘90s…this person in the know told me that Anne voted with the Robespierrres to eject me on one of those decisions. (I forget which.) That is what’s known in the journalism trade as exhibiting loyalty, backbone and character, or otherwise being (heh-heh) a good hombre.”

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It’s been predicted that Brendan Fraser will take the Best Actor Oscar, and not Colin Farrell. The reason, I’ve been reminded, was stated by Michael Keaton during a 2015 visit to The David Letterman Show**: “Illness always wins.”

To which I replied, “How is turning yourself into a 600-pound sea lion an illness?” I was told I was mistaken, that an eating disorder is an illness. “Is anorexia an illness?,” the opposition said. “If so, then so is eating yourself to death.”

“Neither are actual illnesses,” I argued. “They’re psychological or emotional conditions rooted in an abusive history or some other psychological affliction. They’re certainly not illnesses like cancer or lupus or coronary artery disease or diabetes or what-have-you.”

It was pointed out that many in the medical community would argue that Fraser’s condition is an illness, regardless if it is psych-rooted

Farrell, I was told, is the Bob Hoskins of this year’s race.  In 1986 Hoskins won just about every award for Mona Lisa.  He was also a lock to win the Oscar.  Except he wasn’t.  Paul Newman won for The Color of Money.  Newman had won the NBR award, and Hoskins had won everything else. It didn’t matter.  

HE retort: “But Newman wasn’t playing a guy with an illness — he was playing Eddie Felson, an ex-pool shark. Plus Newman didn’t refuse to attend the Golden Globes because the HFPA official had touched his ass and briefly fingered his anus.”

You don’t understand Academy voter psychology, I was told. “Fraser’s touching performance and the comeback narrative is too good for the Academy to not give him the Oscar,” he said.

Nope, I replied. Fraser the actor is too much of a whineybaby. And as miserable as his morbidly obese character is, you can’t call him a victim of an illness. Not really.

** Go to the 13-minute mark.

Doug Liman‘s Justice, a last-minute addition to Sundance ’23, is reportedly a deep-dig investigation into the behavior of Brett Kavanaugh during his beer-drinking hooligan days at Yale. It will screen this evening at 8:30 pm at the Park Avenue Theatre (aka the former Yarrow hotel at 1800 Park Ave, Park City, UT 84060). We all understand that Kavanaugh is a pernicious Trump conservative (he voted to overturn Roe v. Wade) and that Christine Blasey Ford was telling the truth, etc. But post-confirmation the general feeling seemed to be that despite Kavanaugh’s gross fratboy behavior, no adult should be hung out to dry over alleged louche college behavior he may have been guilty of in his late teens and very early 20s.

And then he goes on Colbert and blows a significant percentage of his cool-kat cred by wearing whitesides. Yes, I’m kidding but on another level I’m not. Okay, he’s still Adam Kinzinger and still a man of substance, but why would someone with his integrity and moral fibre thumb his nose at the Italian suede lace-up crowd? He surely understands that whitesides are a sartorial equivalent of a red flag. They certainly are on this site.

Wiki excerpt: “Kinzinger voted in line with President Donald Trump about 90% of the time and voted against Trump’s first impeachment, but he subsequently became a critic of Trump and made headlines as a rare Republican officeholder willing to criticize him. In summer 2020, Kinzinger denounced QAnon and other baseless conspiracy theories that gained currency among Republican voters. After the 2020 presidential election, which Trump lost to Joe Biden, Kinzinger denounced Trump’s claims that the election was stolen and criticized Trump’s attempt to overturn the results of the 2020 presidential election.”

Because he’s smooth, gracious, good-natured, soulful, self-effacing, offhandedly frank, confident, obviously likable. His Banshees of Inisherin performance is respected, but Farrell the good fellow will win because he’s an elegant package and he knows how to sell it.

BRAKES R US MECHANIC: I fixed your brakes.

GUY: Excellent, thank you. So the car is safe to drive?

BRAKES R US MECHANIC: What did I just say?

GUY: Brakes are vitally important, you know.

BRAKES R US MECHANIC: A very astute point. I should have that on a poster above the toilet.

GUY: I mean, I’d hate to drive off the lot and have the brakes fail….

BRAKES R US MECHANIC: You and me both.

GUY: …and plow through a farmer’s market or something.

BRAKES R US MECHANIC: Exactly. Who needs THAT aggravation?

GUY: Okay, then. I’m trusting that my brakes have been fixed.

BRAKES R US MECHANIC: Ayy! Would I let you drive outa here with faulty brakes? My reputation, as well as the lives and fresh produce of hundreds of local farmers, is at stake here.

GUY: Great!

[guy drives off, brakes fail, car plows through farmer’s market, many perish]

DA: I hereby charge you with involuntary manslaughter for driving with no brakes.

GUY: Makes sense.

I’m very sorry about the death of David Crosby, 81, but he enjoyed one of the most amazing, up-and-down-and-back-up-again runs of any legendary rock star-slash-troubadour-slash-crazy man. I loved his truth-telling with all my heart. Sail on, brother.

Posted on 1.27.19: After catching yesterday afternoon’s screening of A.J. Eaton and Cameron Crowe‘s David Crosby: Remember My Name, I sent the following email to Crowe:

“Triple grade-A doc…the antithesis of a kiss-ass, ‘what a great artist’ tribute, but at the same time a profoundly moving warts-and-all reflection piece…hugely emotional, meditative, BALDLY PAINFULLY NAKEDLY HONEST…God! There’s a special spiritual current that seeps out when an old guy admits to each and every failing of his life without the slightest attempt to rationalize or minimize…’I was a shit, I was an asshole, how is it that I’m still alive?,’ etc. Straight, no chaser.

“And this isn’t because I’m partial to boomer nostalgia flicks or because so many are being shown here, or because I grew up with the Byrds (12-string twangly-jangly), Joni Mitchell, Crosby, Stills and Nash and that whole long lyrical–frazzled history. It’s about the tough stuff and the hard rain…about addiction and rage and all but destroying your life, and then coming back semi-clean and semi-restored, but without any sentimentality or gooey bullshit.

“For me David Crosby: Remember My Name has EASILY been the most emotional experience of the festival thus far. Not to mention [Crowe’s] best creative effort since Almost Famous.”

Crowe: “SO HAPPY you were there, thrilled at your reaction. How amazing that Crosby got up there [after the screening] and shared his total shock at what we’d put into the movie. Such a real moment. He was emotionally devastated up there for a good three minutes — I don’t know if you could see that. Felt like the audience wrapped their arms around him at that point, and then he was okay. Amazing.”

From Steve Pond’s Wrap review: “As much as the film celebrates Crosby’s creativity and gazes unflinchingly at his failings, it also functions as a valedictory, almost a requiem of sorts. Think of it as the film version of the final albums made by Leonard Cohen and David Bowie, who made wrenching final statements that they likely knew would be their last.”

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Posted yesterday in The Wall Street Journal, written by Gary Giepel: “Here’s a new form of woke authoritarianism: a demand that you sign a loyalty oath to go to the movies.

“I attended Utah’s Sundance Film Festival before the pandemic, then started watching its offerings online. This year’s festival begins [today — 1.19], and I looked forward to seeing new, small-market films from my recliner. But when I logged in to buy tickets, I was stopped at the virtual door.

“The site wouldn’t sell me tickets unless I affirmed the festival’s ‘Community Agreement.’ Among other things, I had to promise to be ‘vigilant in the fight against the spread of COVID-19,’ to avoid ‘unwelcome sexual attention, harassment, stalking, and inappropriate physical contact of any kind,’ and to refrain from ‘abuse or intimidation including that related to race, gender, position, or wealth.'”

HE interjection: What the hell is wealth intimidation? [Sing to the tune of “Mama Don’t Allow“] “Mama don’t want no wealth intimidation ’round here…I said mama don’t want no wealth intimidation ’round here…we don’t care what mama don’t allow, gonna wealth intimidate anyhow!”

“What if I slipped up and engaged in ‘intimidation related to wealth,’ whatever that means? Someone could squeal using a ‘name-optional reporting form,’ and the complaint would be ‘taken seriously and reviewed carefully by Sundance Institute’s Safety & Belonging team.’ The team has the authority to impose ‘exclusion from Sundance Institute programs, platforms, or spaces—including a complete ban on further participation in any Institute program or event.’

“I asked if I could buy tickets without affirming the agreement and was denied via an anonymous email. The damage I might have done to someone’s sense of ‘belonging’ while watching films from my Indiana basement, 1,500 miles from Park City, Utah, apparently was too much to risk.

“As a classical liberal with conservative sensibilities, I was often challenged and sometimes offended by Sundance films. Good. Movies can open our minds and make us think—as most good art does. But this depends on the freedom to think for ourselves and question established orthodoxies without fearing anonymous informers and Orwellian enforcement teams.

“Writing in the past tense about Sundance makes me sad. But more of us — patrons, donors and especially liberal-minded board members of arts organizations — have to learn to echo Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn: ‘No, not through me.’

“If we don’t, we can prepare for the Sundance loyalty oath to become the norm at cultural venues. And we should prepare our imaginations for whatever comes after that.”

I’m not suggesting there might be a connection between Netflix CEO Reed Hastings suddenly quitting the company (he’s being replaced by Netflix COO Greg Peters) and the company’s strange promotional focus upon Rian Johnson‘s Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery at the apparent expense of Eric Berger‘s much more deserving All Quiet on the Western Front. I don’t actually believe that such a connection exists. But it’s nonetheless odd that Netflix seemed to not understand what they had with All Quiet, and right when everyone is realizing that Netflix miscalculated, Hastings jumps ship.