Jeff Wells

Noah Baumbach‘s White Noise (Netflix) opens theatrically today, and will hang in there until the streaming begins on 12.30.22.

Hollywood Elsewhere recommends that you wait for the couch experience. A theatrical viewing will most likely piss you off, given the expense and the vague feeling of obligation (i.e., imprisonment) that comes with sitting in a theatre.

I was more or less in agony during an opening-night screening at the New York Film Festival (9.30), or eight weeks ago. The following day I wrote that the only part I really liked was the closing musical dance sequence, set inside an early ’80s A & P supermarket.

That aside I was in hell. If I had more courage and conviction (which I unfortunately don’t) I would’ve bailed at the half-hour mark. I can smell a stinker less than five minutes in, and White Noise definitely had the fumes.

The guy sitting next to me felt the same way. Somewhere around the 50-minute mark he turned and crouched to his left and laid his head upon (what I assumed was) his boyfriend’s right shoulder. I chuckled under my breath — my first thought was “Jesus, this guy has no fear — he’s not worried if people sitting nearby will think him louche and undisciplined — he’s just going for it.”

The over-praising of The Fabelmans among mainstream media types…what is there to say except “what else is new”? We’re all familiar with the industry-wide instinct to kowtow to the lore of Steven Spielberg-directed films…a syndrome that’s been locked into the psychological Hollywood bloodstream for several decades, as natural and inevitable as a mountain stream or even the weather.

It’s not that The Fabelmans is a bad film — of course not! It’s a fairly good one in several respects, but you also have to qualify this with a sensible “yes, okay but calm down.” I’ve said this two or three times, but a truly fair-minded, non-obsequious opinion would have to acknowledge that the saga of Spielberg’s teenage years (mostly Phoenix, some Saratoga) is neither boring nor hugely interesting. It’s diverting in an on-the-nose, broadly performed way, but it mainly boils down to “decent with three pop-throughs — the Judd Hirsch rant, filming the Nazi war flick in the Arizona desert, and John Ford lecturing 17-year-old Steven about horizon lines.”

Face it — that’s what The Fabelmans is. It’s not a put-down to call it “good enough” or “reasonably decent.” And Matt Patches is correct — the major roles (including Ford at the end) could have been eccentrically performed by Eddie Murphy in white-person makeup.

Chris Evangelista is also spot-on about The Fabelmans 2. I would truly love to see Spielberg’s struggling years at Universal dramatized — Amblin, directing that Night Gallery episode with Joan Crawford, SS bonding with his “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls” colleagues, filming Duel and then The Sugarland Express.

This would have to be followed, of course, by The Fabelmans 3, which would cover the glory years of ’74 through ’82 — the making of Jaws, Close Encounters, 1941, Raiders of the Lost Ark and E.T..

Steven Spielberg discusses his new film, The Fabelmans, with fellow director Paul Thomas Anderson in a Q&A at the DGA theater in Los Angeles.https://t.co/cVXYZxSizi

— Cinephilia & Beyond (@CCinephilia) November 25, 2022

Jesus. This guy is definitely up for asshole of the year. And it is a very short leap to see how he drive his son to this heinous, self-loathing crime. https://t.co/smnq4FkNKz

— David Poland (@DavidPoland) November 24, 2022

You don’t have to watch the whole thing — just 2:15 to 5:48. Three and a half minutes.

As a People reporter I heard a few stories about the Titanic shoot at Fox Baja Studios in ’96 and early ’97. One was James Cameron allegedly having referred to Kate Winslet as Kate Weighs-a-Lot. Another alluded to Leonardo DiCaprio‘s off-set, party-animal lifestyle, which allegedly led to an instance of Leo complaining of nausea. In no mood for this, Cameron allegedly picked up a metal bucket, threw it in Leo’s direction and told him to get sick in it, and once finished to get back on the effing set and do his job. Who knows if it’s true?

If I were Cameron I would think seriously about doing a George Lucas and re-doing the Titanic digital stuff. Make it look more realistic. Because by today’s standards some of it looks way too primitive.

I’m sorry but this is my idea of a Thanksgiving movie. I haven’t re-watched it in 32 years. Gotta do that today or at least over the weekend.

Wiki excerpt: “Abel Ferrara’s King of New York was shot entirely in and around New York City. According to Ferrara, then-owner Donald Trump gave him permission to film at the Plaza Hotel at no charge, on the condition that Walken would pose for a photograph with Ivana Trump, who was a fan of the actor.”

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In a world in which the 76 year-old Cher is banging a dude 40 years younger (i.e., 36 year-old Alexander Edwards), no one, least of all myself, could possibly have a problem with Jake Gyllenhaal, 41, being entwined with 26-year-old model Jeanne Cadieu…a 15-year age difference is nothing.

I do, however, have a problem with Gyllenhaal’s baggy jeans. The last time I checked (and please correct if I’m wrong) they were called “dad” jeans. I’ve been dodging the thought of dad jeans for a good 40-plus years….hell, all my life. The slouchy “normcore” aesthetic is everywhere…baggy, baggy, baggy.

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For 10 or 11 years Peter Weir lived a charmed creative life. One brilliant film after another — Picnic at Hanging Rock (’75), The Last Wave (’77), Gallipoli (’81), The Year of Living Dangerously (’82) and Witness (’85).

Then God’s light stopped shining and Weir’s perfect string ran out. Weir remained an excellent filmmaker (which he still is today) but like so many gifted directors, he became an in-and-outer.

The Mosquito Coast (’86) was his first dud, but he rebounded with Dead Poets Society (’89). Then came the appealing but insubstantial Green Card (’90) and the relentlessly downish and altogether impenetrable Fearless (’93), which only people like David Poland really loved. This was followed by The Truman Show (’98), which self-destructed with one of the worst bullshit “happy” endings ever devised.** Master and Commander (’03) was an awesome rebound but then the candle went out.

Weir’s most recent film, the underwhelming The Way Back, opened 12 years ago. What happened?

I never saw The Cars That Ate Paris (’74).

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If I’m on a plane that crashes and I somehow manage to escape without a scratch despite almost every other passenger being killed or severely injured, I would take a few moments to collect myself…five or ten minutes, I mean. Then I would submit to what I imagine would be absolute happiness. Nothing but pure joy and relief.

The remainder of my life would be a radiant celebration of the mere, magnificent fact that I’m alive. (Which is what we should all be feeling anyway.) I would become a perfect…make that an imperfect smile. I would tingle with ecstasy at every sensation, every thought…every sight, sound and aroma…the precious symphony of living.

What does Jeff Bridges do when he survives a catastrophic plane crash in Peter Weir‘s Fearless (’93)? He becomes a sullen, moody, withdrawn shithead. He snaps at people, looks at them sideways, crawls into his own cave, makes life miserable for poor Isabella Rossellini and generally becomes an asshole. Thanks, Jeff!

I don’t know or care all that much about the fortunes of Lucasfilm and the Star Wars franchise. But the John Campea rumor about Lucasfilm honcho Kathleen Kennedy possibly losing her job between now and next summer (which World of Reel has included a link to) got my attention.

John Campea on rumored demise of Lucasfilm’s Kennedy (11.22): “This is what I have heard: I have heard that the decision to remove Kathy Kennedy has already been made and that she will be gone either sometime before or very, very, very shortly after the release of Indiana Jones 5.

“Now, I want to be very, very clear here: I cannot independently say to you and confirm to you that this is a fact. I will say that one of the two people that have contacted me has a 1000% average on the things they’ve informed me of.”

Funny Ruimy statement: “My advice to Disney is simple: DON’T HIRE RIAN JOHNSON [to make a new Star Wars trilogy]. Not because he’s a bad filmmaker — he’s actually a pretty good one. [This is more] from the fact that a majority of Star Wars diehards just plainly do not like him for what he did with The Last Jedi.”

The brave Sasha Stone has posted a piece on the wackazoid, equity-above-all Spirit Awards nominations. It’s titled “The Gender Neutral Categories Bites Nose to Spite Face at Spirit Awards.”

I’m immensely grateful, by the way, that Sasha used the term “dunzo.” I’d stopped using it and hadn’t heard anyone else use for a good 15 years or so.

Excellent excerpt: “The Academy should never go down this path or they will be dunzo in the eyes of the public. I promise you, most people in this country and world aren’t utopians. They still want to know that people who accept awards, or are nominated for them, got there because they gave the best performance — the best performance

“Yes, all of the categories at the Oscars are gender-neutral by default. I have always believed this made it much harder for women to compete, especially in the Best Director category. At least with the acting categories, they knew they would always have ten slots no matter what. The same goes for men.

“Ultimately, maybe this awards race, this Oscar game I once helped launch online in 1999 is, by now, No Country for Old (Wo)Men.”

Why did the Spirit Davidians ignore Close for the Best International Film award?

Barry Corbin to Tommy Lee Jones: “You can’t stop what’s coming. It is all waiting on you. That’s vanity.”

It must be clear to every man, woman and child at this point that the people behind the Spirit Awards noms have gone totally insane.

Yesterday I didn’t get around to posting about Mickey Kuhn, the youngish actor of the ’40s and early ’50s who had noteworthy supporting roles in Gone With The Wind (Beau Wilkes, son of Leslie Howard and Olivia De Havilland), Red River (young Mathew Garth) and A Streetcar Named Desire (sailor who gives Vivien Leigh directions at the very beginning).

I’ve watched Gone With The Wind several times and haven’t the slightest recollection of the adolescent Kuhn doing or saying anything. Then again he appears in the boring second half, which I tend to phone-surf through.

Wiki excerpt: “Kuhn worked for American Airlines from 1965 to 1995, and particular at Boston’s Logan airport in administrative positions.” HE to Boston friendo: “Hey, remember that kid who played John Wayne‘s scrappy adoptive son in Red River? I swear I saw him last weekend out at Logan.”

The fact that Kuhn was married five times between the mid ’50s and mid ’80s suggests an unsettled psychology. That or he liked to play around. His fifth and final wife, an American Airlines co-worker named Barbara Traci, was married to Kuhn from 1985 until his death — a 37-year bond.

Kuhn passed two days ago in Naples, Florida, at age 90.

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