Jeff Wells

The word around the campfire is that Gregg Araki‘s I Want Your Sex, an erotically provocative “thriller” of some sort (although I can pretty much guarantee that “thriller” doesn’t apply…not in the sense that most of us understand the term…not from Araki)…the buzz says that Araki’s film will play in Cannes next month, although not in competition.

Araki has allegedly said that his goal is to “bring back sex to the big screen”, but dear God in heaven, not with the ginger-haired, pig-eyed Cooper Hoffman in the lead male role opposite Olivia Wilde….no!

In the realm of a sexual something-or-other souffle, Wilde, Charli XCX, Daveed Diggs, Mason Gooding, Chase Sui Wonders, Johnny Knoxville, Margaret Cho and Roxane Mesquida are totally fine. Just no pudgebods with alabaster skin. I’m fucking serious.

I am honestly more terrified of Araki’s film than Paul Mescal‘s latest gay film, The History of Sound, which may (emphasis on that word) turn up in Cannes also.

World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy is hearing that other sans competition titles may be Richard Linklater’s Nouvelle Vague, Spike Lee’s Highest 2 Lowest (Spike wants to be in competition!), Andrew Dominik’s Bono: Stories of Surrender, Trey Edward Shults’ Hurry Up Tomorrow.

Despite that 3.31 Parisien report suggestintg that Luca Guadagnino‘s After The Hunt might debut in Cannes, the submission decision is up to Amazon marketing, I’m told, and publicists are generally terrified of Cannes so calculate the probability.

Will Terrence “wackazoid” Malick‘s The Way of the Wind snag a competition slot? Why would Malick break his six-year editing streak?

Safer bets include Ari Aster‘s Eddington, Jim Jarmusch‘s Father Brother Sister Mother, Wes Anderson‘s The Phoenician Scheme and Kelly Reichardt‘s The Mastermind.

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If you tell me you didn’t find this Criterion “closet picks” video of Amy Irving a bit startling when you first glanced at it, you are a liar.

I’m not saying Irving looks unduly withered or in any way unattractive — by way of a certain inner radiance she actually looks and sounds great — but my God, the Carrie costar is only 71. It’s one thing for 92 year-old Ellen Burstyn to be entirely white-haired but Irving…this feels unsettling. Then again Bill Murray has snow-colored hair and he’s only three years older than Irving.

“As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will [attain] their heart’s desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.” ― H.L. Mencken, “On Politics: A Carnival of Buncombe“.

Buncome or “bunkum” is apparently the original term from which “bunk” was derived.

On the evening of Tuesday, May 13, Robert De Niro will receive an honorary Palme d’Or (gold watch, lifetime achievement) at the opening ceremony of the 78th Cannes Film Festival.

The ceremony (which I may not be able to attend as I’ll only be checking into the pad that afternoon) will omit the fact that quality-wise DeNiro’s career slowed down in the 21st Century, and that over the last quarter-century he’s starred or costarred in only four blue-chip, award-worthy films — David O. Russell‘s Silver Linings Playbook (’12, Nancy Meyers‘ The Intern (’15), Todd Phillips‘ Joker (’19) and Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman (’19).

He was excellent in Playbook, very good in the middle two, and magnificent in the sprawling Scorsese epic.

But DeNiro’s 20th Century hot streak was historic. He enjoyed a brilliant 27-year run between Bang The Drum Slowly (’73) and Meet the Parents (’00). One winner after another, especially during the first decade — Drum, Mean Streets (’73), The Godfather Part II (’74) Taxi Driver (’76), 1900 (’76), The Deer Hunter (’78…didn’t like it), Raging Bull (’80).

The ’80s weren’t quite as good but at least he made True Confessions (’81), The King of Comedy (’82), Once Upon a Time in America (’84), Falling in Love (’84), Brazil (’85), Angel Heart (’87), The Untouchables (ditto) and Midnight Run (’88).

And then came a second hot streak in the ’90s — Goodfellas (’90), Awakenings (ditto), Cape Fear (’91….didn’t like it), Mad Dog and Glory (’93….ace-level, character-driven dramedy), This Boy’s Life (’93), A Bronx Tale (’93), Casino (’95), the magnificent Heat (’95), Jackie Brown (’97), Wag the Dog (’97), Ronin (’97) and Analyze This (’99…the second gangster-goes-to-professional-therapist enterprise that year).

27 or 28 gold-medal winners in the 20th Century, and four in the 21st.

But if DeNiro had quit acting after Raging Bull, he would still deserve a career-achievement award. Anyone familiar with that famous wailing jail-cell scene knows the name of that tune. A crude and bestial man experiencing the absolute nadir of his bruising (and bruise-dispensing) life…his explosive feelings of absolute and overpowering self-loathing…this horrific episode results, for viewers, in something oddly cleansing and almost therapeutic.

This was DeNiro’s all-time peak moment…the kind of bravura acting moment that only a young or youngish fellow can capture or deliver.

With an estimated budget of $400 million, Mission Impossible: The Final Reckoning (Paramount, 5.23) is…you tell me. The same old same old, of course, but the trailer is too fast and frenzied for my taste. The first half is like an M:I greatest hits reel, and the second half is poppity-pop-pop…aaaggghh!…helter skelter stuff.

It’s good to see Holt McCallany as the Secretary of Defense, and I’m not scared of Nick Offerman this time as I’m fairly certain we won’t have to watch him step out of a bathroom wearing a bath towel or, you know, get blown by a bear.

Which 60something black actor is fatter or spends more time sitting down than Ving Rhames? I’m asking.

Two little biplanes…one red, one yellow, both freshly painted. Very handsome.

My favorite shot, seriously, is the one of Tom Cruise leaping out of a chopper and falling into choppy seas.

Final Reckoning is going to have to come up with something pretty hairy to top the dangling train-car finale from the last one.

4:45 pm update: I’ve just been informed by none other than Wes Anderson that The Phoenician Scheme (Focus Features, 5.30.25) will be presented with an aspect ratio of 1.5:1…and not 1.66:1, as I erroneously presumed and posted earlier today.

Is there any living filmmaker who is more of an instantly recognizable signature stylist than Wes Anderson?

I’ve been using the term “WesWorld” for a good 20 plus years, and there isn’t a soul on the planet earth who doesn’t know what means. And yet two years ago, Wes was quoted as saying…

All but locked for Cannes, The Phoenician Scheme opens stateside on 5.30.25.

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Repeating: Several White Lotus SPOILERS will follow…trust me!

The vaguely pear-shaped Sam Rockwell needs to slim down, no offense. Or at least not do any underwear scenes. Just saying.

Natasha Rothwell‘s Belinda Lindsey is too stupid to run her own business. Dumb as a rock. Thank God for her son, Zion — the smart, plain-spoken Nicholas Duvernay. The boy’s got a head for business.

No catharsis for Parker Posey! No nothin’, in fact. Except, maybe, a job at Wal-Mart when she gets back home.

The three girls deciding to be “happy together” like the Turtles is bullshit…total bullshit.

I’m glad that Sam Nivola‘s Lochlan Ratliff has had a mystical experience of some kind. Nearly meeting your maker (or, you know, nearly kissin’ the eternal) will do that.

I somehow never realized Scott Glenn‘s ears were as big as they looked tonight. The real Robert Evans: “When you get older your teeth get smaller, your nose gets bigger, your ears get longer and your dick shrivels unless you take Cialis. And women don’t want to fuck you as much, or at all.” Oh, and Glenn/Jim is somebody’s father (last-minute surprise!).

The last shot of Walton Goggins‘ Rick Hatchett — his face — is a portrait of serenity and acceptance, so at least there’s that. Not so much Aimee Lou Wood‘s Chelsea, but them’s the breaks.

Jason Isaacs‘ Tim Ratliff damn near Jonestowned himself, his wife, daughter and older son, and then his blender concoction came thisclose to killing his younger son, and suddenly he’s at peace with himself? Now he’s finally ready to tell the truth and face the FBI? His entire family will quickly put two and two together, of course, and realize he nearly murdered them all…he’ll never have their love or trust again. Ever. Obviously.

Lalisa Manobal‘s “Mook” Sornsin to Tayme Thapthimthong‘s Gaitok, the pathetically wimpy security staffer: “My hero with a gun!! Because you’ve killed, I love you.”

Bodies! Bodies! Five bodies!

And all the White Lotus luxury spas are going to experience a decline in business, I’m afraid.

Hugs and condolences to the fans, friends and colleagues of Jay North, star of TV’s Dennis the Menace series (1959-1963), who’s passed from colon cancer at age 73.

North felt miserable and mistreated during filming on the series. He totally spilled the beans about this when John Hughes‘ Dennis the Menace movie opened in ’93.

The series was never funny, of course, but Walter Matthau‘s bathroom-agony scene in the film was and is hilarious.

You know before their 4.1.25 podcast starts that Quentin Tarantino and Roger Avary are going to more or less cream in their pants about Steven Spielberg‘s calamitous 1941.

They love the Mad Mad Mad Mad World-style energy, and that’s fine.

Tarantino: “It’s not funny hah-hah, but it’s very impressive”

I tried re-watching 1941 a few years ago in the living room…no way. I started fast-forwarding almost immediately.

I’m vividly recalling a mid-November screening at Universal’s midtown Manhattan screening room, two or three weeks before the 12.14.79 opening. I could feel the disaster vibes less than 15 minutes in. At the very beginning Spielberg went with an homage to Jaws…winking at his own legend. I murmured to a friend, “Oh, God…this is bad, bad…really bad.” Sitting through the remainder was agony.

Michael O’Donoghue reportedly had some pin-on buttons made that said, “John Belushi — born 1949 — died 1941.”

It’s been repeatedly made clear that film connoisseurs aren’t allowed to like or even respect Mike Nichols‘ The Day of the Dolphin (’73). For most critics the mixture of cloying sentimentality and rote thriller plotting (bad guys try to use a pair of talking, trusting dolphins for evil purposes) was intolerable.

But despite the torrent of acidic putdowns (“A thinking man’s Flipper…Flipper meets The Parallax View…calculated sentimentality that evokes Lassie Come Home….the most expensive Rin-Tin-Tin movie ever made” and so on) some of us were taken in. Me for one. I accepted the scientific premise and (go ahead, call me a putz) bought into the sentiment.

Dolpin obviously doesn’t work altogether (it’s intriguing but lacks conventional dramatic tension…there are flat portions) but it moved me at the very end (c’mon, it melted everyone), and there’s a hugely satisfying Act Three moment when the bad guys get their just desserts. Go to the 4:00 mark on the top video.

You can be as cynical as you want, but you can’t totally trash a film that (1) the director of The Graduate and Carnal Knowledge poured his heart and soul into, (2) Roman Polanski wanted to make for a while, (3) Nichols directed from a script by Buck Henry (no sentimental slouch, he), (4) starred an emotionally persuasive George C. Scott, and (5) benefits from a gentle, beautiful score by Georges Delerue.

Dolphin incidentally costarred a 29 year-old Edward Herrmann (slender, suntanned), and a decidedly chubby, 33-year-old Paul Sorvino.

There was another 1973 thriller with a five-word title that (a) dealt with a planned presidential assassination, and (b) used the same four words (The Day of the…). It was directed by Fred Zinneman and was instantly recognized (and is still respected today) as a quietly gripping, highly intelligent, real-world drama.

Jackal opened in mid-May of ’73 — Dolphin came along seven months later (12.19.73).