Forget that “no one is above the law” stuff. Ominous thunderclouds are rumbling overhead. The ghouls are running the show. Merrick Garland, this is on you…wimp.

I wasn’t a Brad Pitt admirer at first. Over his first five years of prominence he struck me as a pretty boy without much going on inside — Thelma & Louise (’91), A River Runs Through It (’92), Legends of the Fall (’94), Interview with the Vampire (’94). Even in Se7en, I was telling myself, he radiated cheap hot-dog vibes…a certain lightweight petulance.

But then I bought the Se7en Criterion laser disc and listened to the commentary tracks (Pitt, David Fincher, Morgan Freemanm, Andrew Kevin Walkr), and the stuff that Pitt shared turned me around. After listening all the way through I told myself “okay, I underestimated Pitt…he’s a fairly bright and committed guy…he’s okay, not a lightweight…he seriously cares about the quality of Se7en and all the intense effort that went into it.”

The below was recorded in ’95 for Criterion. This particular commentary (edited) is not available on DVD or Bluray. Here’s the longer, unedited version.

Only now can it be told…

It happened at least a year and a half ago, and possibly longer than that. I was chatting with the renowned director-writer Tony Gilroy (Michael Clayton, Duplicity, Andor, Beirut) inside the AMC Lincoln Square IMAX theatre. It was prior to a hot-shot invitational screening, and we were standing next to our seats and shooting the usual shit.

After a few pleasantries Gilroy sat down and I turned to face the huge screen, and I somehow tipped over a bit, and then quickly tried regain my balance…nope. Perhaps my heavy leather computer bag was a factor, but the IMAX theatre seats are built upon a very steep grade — something close to 45 degrees — and so I tumbled forward and fell like a crash test dummy upon the row of seats in front of me.

Although it was no big deal in terms of bruisings or physical injury, I felt slightly embarassed because, you know, who loses his fucking balance and falls over a row of seats just before the start of an IMAX screening with a gathering of hot-shot journalists sitting and standing around nearby? I was Chevy Chase doing a Gerald R. Ford.

But you know what? Gilroy saw everything and didn’t say a word. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He knew it was a galumphy thing to have done but he maintained his poker face and kept his cool, and in so doing he kept mine.

Another friend might have shouted “oh my God…Jeff! Jeff! Are you okay?”, and in so doing would have prompted others to take notice or ask what had happened, and the next day it might have been a topic of derision and belittlement on the Six O’Clock News. But the taciturn and unshakable Gilroy said zip and nobody else did either (no yelps or “oops!”), and our lives went on as if nothing had happened.

Zero Day (Netflix, 2.20.25) is an upcoming American political thriller television series created by Eric Newman, Noah Oppenheim and Michael Schmidt. “A political conspiracy thriller centering on a devastating global cyberattack”, etc. Directed by Lesli Linka Glatter, it costars Robert De Niro and Lizzy Caplan.

Vanity Fair: “Zero Day was conceived, written, and filmed before Donald Trump won reelection as president; he’ll return to the White House for his second term a few weeks before the show’s premiere.

“In other words, Zero Day will launch in an unnervingly appropriate political context, fresh after an election cycle that highlighted Oppenheim’s notion of competing realities. “I’m obviously disappointed as a Democrat that we didn’t win. But as a filmmaker, and as someone who is considering the best window of release for this show, we definitely wanted to get far enough away from the inauguration so that we didn’t get lost in the jet wash of political reportage that’s going to come out,” Newman says. “There are honest people in government who make hard choices and do the right thing—and my hope is that this will be an aspirational component of our show.”

“A vocal (and colorful) Trump critic, Robert De Niro demurs when asked how the show will — or should — be viewed in light of this month’s election.

“By the time you get to the end of Zero Day’s first episode, you’d be forgiven for assuming the show was written very recently, with a clear intention to model itself on the American political scene’s current main characters. De Niro’s Mullen is tapped to lead a Patriot Act–style commission in response to the terrorist attack, resisting pressure to pin it on Russia given current relations and the nature of the cyberwarfare. His perspective gets muddied as he starts showing signs of cognitive decline, recalling the fierce debate surrounding Joe Biden’s candidacy for reelection before he took himself off the ballot.

“From there, more parallels emerge. Mullen’s daughter, Alexandra (Lizzy Caplan), is a relatively progressive member of Congress whose popularity and forthrightness on Instagram signals her as a rising, AOC-esque star. His chief adversary, meanwhile, is Evan Green (Dan Stevens), an inflammatory basement-dwelling commentator clearly inspired by the likes of Tucker Carlson and Ben Shapiro.

“The sitting US president Mitchell is portrayed by Angela Bassett, notable in the wake of Americans again rejecting the chance to elect the first female president in Kamala Harris.”

“We did not expect Biden’s cognitive issues to become a campaign issue. We did not expect a Black woman to become the candidate,” Newman says. “If anything, in my mind, [President Mitchell] was more based on Michelle Obama or something.”

I’d forgotten that Fresh Cream was recorded in August ’66, and released four months later (December). If you accept Terry Valentine‘s definition of the ’60s (“It was just ’66 and early’67…that’s all it was”), Fresh Cream was right in the sweet spot. If you ask me N.S.U., Dreaming and Toad are as good as that group ever got. I realize this is a minority opinion, hut there it is.

One, the middle section of Anora never, ever drags…not once, not even briefly. It doesn’t really take off, in fact, until roughly the 50- or 55-minute mark. The first act is all set-up. It pays off in Act Two — farcically, comically — and then it goes to Vegas (“Your son hates you so much that he married me, and by the way he’s a fucking pussy”) and returns to Brooklyn, and then reaches inside at the very end and transcends itself.

Two, the fact that “it doesn’t really seem to have anything larger to say about the world today,” as Scott Feinberg has put it, is precisely, profoundly and deliciously why it’s such a standout. It’s not preaching or messaging or offering any “this is how life sometimes is”, food-for-thought material. It’s just Brighton Beach, man. It’s not La Strada, although it does deliver a certain catharsis if you let it in. Anora is specific rather than general or universal. Either you get that or you don’t.

…or not? My basic opinion was that it steamrolls with such eye-filling verve and intensity that it’s hard not to at least give the film credit for selling the shit out of itself.

If you happen to pass by these murals in NYC or LA, take some photos and tag us. We can’t wait to see them! #ACompleteUnknown pic.twitter.com/9IT9zgGbam

— A Complete Unknown News (@acufilmnews) November 23, 2024

Joseph Kosinski‘s F1, the Brad Pitt Formula One thrill drama, will open seven months hence (6.27.25).

Three thoughts occured as I contemplated F1‘s arrival. Thought #1 was that it’ll almost certainly be good. Thought #2 was that if anyone dies, it won’t be the second-billed Damson Idris because black dudes aren’t allowed to die these days. Thought #3 was that I need to re-watch John Frankenheimer‘s Grand Prix (’66) and Steve McQueen‘s Le Mans (’71) as preparation.

Guess what? Grand Prix, which I hadn’t seen in ages, is dramatically better than decent and technically excellent…make that wonderful. I had such a great time that I streamed it twice. Magnificent, super-sharp 70mm cinematography, at times multi-panelled, beautifully cut, always breathtaking. A nearly three-hour film with an intermission and a delicate, genuinely affecting Maurice Jarre score.

All in all a classy, well engineered, nicely honed immersion…a flush European vibe to die for.

You can sense right off the top that Frankenheimer is, like, ten times more invested in the race cars than in the romantic-sexual intrigues (the mid 40ish Yves Montand and Eva Marie Saint occupy center stage in this regard) and yes, the emotional renderings in Robert Alan Aurthur‘s script are on the subdued, subtle side. But the couplings and uncouplings feel believable, at least, and certainly don’t get in the way.

Grand Prix won three tech Oscars — Best Sound Effects (Gordon Daniel), Best Film Editing (Fredric Steinkamp, Henry Berman, Stewart Linder, Frank Santilloa) Best Sound (Franklin Milton). Frankenheimer (whom I got to know a little bit in the late ’80s) was nominated for a DGA directing award.

Grand Prix made $20.8 million in the U.S. and Canada (serious money back then) and returned almost $10 million to MGM.

Every action frame of Grand Prix feels genuine and unsimulated. The tragic ending is foretold and foreshadowed.

Friendo sez: “Apple’s Reckoning Day is at hand after an avalanche of free spending (Napoleon, Blitz, Wolfs, Fly Me to the Moon, Killers of the Flower Moon, Argylle) and not much to show for it. Tim Cook has told his dumbo execs to lower budgets and actually make hits….duhhh.

Jamie Erlicht and Zack Van Amburg were the new Golan Globus but with unlimited funds — soft-touch bros, the art of over-spending. Now their purse strings have been pulled tight.

“Apple’s strategy was basically to buy into big names…Scorsese, DiCaprio, Scott, Clooney, Pitt, etc. Clooney dismissed reports that he and Pitt were way overpaid for Wolfs, but I heard they were, in fact, overpaid by a tonload. Does anyone care that Wolfs 2 has been tossed?”

Apple’s strange decision to keep Steve McQueen‘s Blitz out of the major early-fall festivals is still a head-scratcher. I fell for Blitz after finally catching it a couple of weeks ago, and it just didn’t add up to show disrespect for McQueen’s expertise and vision.

After Blitz, the best Apple film by far IMHO is Doug Liman‘s The Instigators — here’s what I wrote about it on 8.18.24:

Was the late character actor Tim McIntire the secret son of Orson Welles?

Actress Jeanette Nolan, who married John McIntire in 1935, was Tim’s mom. Producer James B. Harris (still with us!) made the paternity claim in a Film Comment interview with Nick Pinkerton.

Excerpt:

HARRIS: “The only trouble with Tim was that he was mostly high in the afternoons, which eventually killed him. He just abused himself to death.”

PINKERTON: “I wasn’t really familiar with McIntire outside of Fast Walking. He has a sort of young Orson Welles thing about him.”

HARRIS: “You know why? Because he’s the illegitimate son of Orson Welles! I don’t know if you can verify it, but everybody says it, and the proof is in the pudding. His voice is exactly like Welles, his nose is exactly like Welles, he’s subject to the overweight thing, just like Welles. Welles made a picture with his mother, I forget her name —Jeannette Nolan. So everything leads to his being Welles’ illegitimate son. And… he is. I spent so much time with him and I felt like I was talking to Orson Welles most of the time.”

HE TO FRIENDO: Jeanette Nolan may have cheated on husband John McIntire, Harris says in the interview, by getting pregnant by Welles in 1943 or ‘44….right? But feature-wise she and Welles didn’t work together until his 1948 Macbeth. Plus Harris says the Welles paternity thing is mentioned in Tim McIntire’s Wikipedia page…except it isn’t.

So all it boils down to Harris claiming that “everybody” says the Welles paternity thing is genuine.

FRIENDO: “You’re right, it’s not on the Wikipedia page. However, there ARE several mentions/discussions about it elsewhere around the net (I went looking a few hours ago).

“And don’t forget: Jeanette Nolan did several RADIO shows with Welles in the early 1940s. Like Welles, she was a staple of radio from that era.

“There is just no question this guy is Orson’s kid. Even his fucking VOICE is close to Orson’s.”

“So an actress prone to infidelity does several radio shows with Orson Welles in the early 1940s — develops a close relationship with Welles — gives birth to a son in 1944 — and the kid ends up looking like this:

I;m not saying the Welles-Mcintire connection is valid. I’m just mentioning it.

I asked a couple of Welles scholars and it was a split decision — one always suspected that the story might be true but could never verify it, and the other said “nope.” When I asked the latter for any evidence or details supporting his negative belief, he didn’t reply.

From Owen Gleiberman‘s Variety review of That’s The Way God Planned It:

“It wasn’t until The Concert for Bangla Desh, George Harrison’s trend-setting rock-concert movie from 1972, that I registered who Billy Preston really was. For most of that Madison Square Garden benefit concert, Preston was in the background, tickling those plugged-in ivories. But then, introduced by Harrison, he performed the single he’d recorded in 1969 for Apple Records, ‘That’s the Way God Planned It.’ It stood out from the rest of the show as dramatically — and magnificently — as Sly Stone’s performance of ‘Wanna Take You Higher’ did from Woodstock.

“The sound of a holy organ rang out, and the camera zoomed in on a stylish-looking man in a big wool cap and a Billy Dee Williams mustache, with a handsome gap-toothed grin and a gleam of reverence. He began to sing (‘Why can’t we be humble, like the good lord said…’), and it sounded like a hymn, which is just what it was. The lyrics lifted you up, and Preston caressed each cadence as if he were leading a gospel choir.

“As he launched into the chorus, with its delicate descending chords, its bass line following in tandem, at least until the climax, when that bass began to walk around like it had a mind of its own, you could feel the song start to…ascend. Preston, rocking back and forth, tilting his head with rapture, the notes pouring out of him like sun-dappled honey, was the only black performer on that stage, and he was offering what amounted, in the rock world, to a radical message: that God was here.

“As the song picked up speed in the gospel tradition, Preston, moved by the spirit he was conjuring, got up from his keyboard and began to dance, jangling his arms, his legs just about levitating. It was an ecstatic dance, one that seemed to erupt right out of him, as if he couldn’t stop himself.

“Paris Barclay’s eye-opening documentary Billy Preston: That’s the Way God Planned It opens with that sequence, and it’s cathartic to see it again.”