Jeff Wells

Originally posted on 8.12.10, or just shy of 15 years ago: “Eat Pray Love is less about the Elizabeth Gilbert book than about director Ryan Murphy being Julia Roberts‘ bitch and kissing her ass in ever shot and scene — okay, yes.

“But it’s a carefully crafted, nicely-made movie that at least aspires to some kind of character-based transcendence. It only works in spots, agreed, but the ambition alone contains a certain value. I’m giving it a C for overall delivery but an A- for effort.

“Speaking as a former LSD Hindu, it’s impossible for me to condemn a movie that tries to convey spiritual matters on some level or in some fashion. It also deserves credit for its conveying the simple enjoyment of things, and its grappling with how difficult it can be to forgive yourself for stupid mistakes and to show vulnerability and openness when faced with the possibility of a bountiful new relationship, and all that jazz.

“Does it feel nonetheless like a somewhat superficial Conde Naste Traveller thing, a taste of this and that spiritual hors d’oeuvre? Yeah, it pretty much does. But it’s reaching for more than what typical formulaic chick flicks provide. At least it’s making a stab.

“I didn’t ‘like’ a lot of Eat Pray Love, and I confess to checking my watch about six or seven times, but I at least respect what it tried to do, and I know that anyone who says it doesn’t handle at least some things fairly well is just not being fair.

“You can make fun of the fact that EPL has the general look, aroma, sound and vibe of a first-class ride made by the Ryan Murphy’s and Amy Pascal‘s of the world — people who live high on the hog and who have enlightened liberal attitudes about self-discovery. You can say that’s not enough and that the film is actually selling a kind of elitist elixir, but the song choices are nice (Neil Young!) and some of the dissolves and transitions are exceptional, and it has at least one exquisite scene about the eating of a sublime dish of fresh tomato pasta.

“And it has a great line about how guys never complain that much if the naked lady they’re making love to has a bit of a paunch.

Eat Pray Love can be a bothersome thing to sit through in certain…okay, more than a few ways. It’s tidy, shallow and ‘pretty’ when it needs to be darker and quirkier and more exposing in terms of the unsavory or unappealing qualities that we all share. But it’s well cut and luminous and even shimmering at times, and — even the haters have to admit this — very well performed for the most part.

“As much as I dislike who Roberts seems to be and my problems over the years with her affected acting style, she isn’t half bad in the Gilbert role. This may be the most genuine and deeply felt performance of her life. God, it almost physically hurt to say that!

“As Roberts’ settled-down romantic interest (i.e., once she arrives in Bali), Javier Bardem stands and shuffles around on rock-solid terra firma, and shows serious heart and vulnerability. In one fell stroke he’s completely counter-balanced his No Country for Old Men bad guy.

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One of the reasons Evita works as well as it does (in my book it’s a great movie musical) is the editing, which really follows and fortifies the music. The late Gerry Hambling (1926-2013), a longtime collaborator with director Alan Parker, understands the cadence and discipline that goes into good cutting. Apply the Parker-Hambling aesthetic to the cinematography by Darius Khondji, and the result is just about perfect.

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From David Rooney’s THR Berlinale review of Michel Franco‘s Dreams, which costars Jessica Chastain and Isaac Hernández:

“Franco’s story could easily have been the skeleton for a lurid erotic thriller about a possessive rich American woman claiming ownership of a Mexican boy toy a decade or more younger than her. But the director and his actors play it with neither sensationalism nor melodrama. Instead, it’s a laser-focused study of the shifting calibrations in an uneven power dynamic, in which Jennifer is unwilling to concede the upper hand, ultimately becoming ruthless when the tables are turned.

“When Fernando’s talent gets him a foot in the door at the prestigious San Francisco Ballet without her help, she’s rankled. Though not so much that she doesn’t resume the relationship and set him up as a teacher at the new studio. The desire between them is palpable when he returns to her home and is welcomed back with a steamy session on the stairs. But when first Jake and then her father figure out what’s going on, Jennifer takes steps to protect her position in both the family and the well-heeled arts community.

“The strict boundaries put in place by wealthy benefactors are evident in Michael’s cautionary chat with his daughter, carefully worded to address what he views as a distasteful situation: ‘I’m happy that you help immigrants. But there are limits. You know what I’m trying to say.’

“Dramatic events abruptly end Fernando’s ascent at SFB, landing him back in Mexico City, where a still intoxicated Jennifer soon follows. But the harmony between them is broken, notably after an eye-opening revelation that prompts Fernando to take drastic steps. That in turn leads to decisive retaliation from Jennifer, who does not respond well to humiliation.

“The escalating tension of that final act is as shocking and violent and viciously cold as anything in Franco’s filmography, which has seldom shied away from stark depictions of human cruelty — whether intimate in scale, like After Lucia, or encompassing explosive societal conflict, like New Order.

“As terrific as Chastain was in Memory, she’s arguably even better here playing a manipulative woman whose passion for Fernando is genuine — unbridled on the physical side and probably even sincere on a deeper emotional level, albeit with guardrails in place. It’s easy to see why the actress was eager to work with Franco again.

“She makes Jennifer’s impulsive final decision as startling as an execution sentence, though it strikes a blow that will cause more lasting pain. Her cut-glass cheekbones could draw blood.

“As an embodiment of a white person cushioned by money and privilege putting an upstart in his place, she’s chilling, even if she’s clearly also hurting herself.”

Other than the usual financial incentives, there’s one and only one reason to keep making semi-traditional James Bond films. That motive would be to trumpet a message of rogue defiance to the wokeys and woke go-alongers (Tomris Laffly, Justin Chang, Kathy Kennedy, Chalamet-like girlymen) that good old Bond shit — macho exceptionalism, subtle arrogance, shades of impudence and homicidal dispatch when necessary — still counts or matters on some level, at least in a nostalgic sense.

Do audiences of the mid 2020s have an active interest in seeing more Bond flicks? Good question.

25 Bondies have been released since 1962’s Dr. No. I happen to feel that Dr. No and From Russia With Love are still the best of the bunch — certainly the most freewheeling and least encumbered with the terrible burden of fortifying a major franchise. I regard the Daniel Craig Bonds as better than decent, but I’ve generally preferred the Mission: Impossible films overall. I wouldn’t be hugely distraught if the 007 franchise just gave it up and shut the fuck down. I’m not invested. I don’t really care anymore.

But if more Bond films are going to be made, as Amazon is apparently intending to do in the wake of having booted longtime Bond producers Barbara Broccoli and Michael G. Wilson off the bus with a lavish “go away” payment, they should be made with conviction and honest cynicism and maybe even a touch of reverence. No more apologies or equivocations. Own the Bond mythology like Mel Gibson owns Jesus of Nazareth.

This is highly unlikely, of course, with Amazon honcho Jennifer Salke, a feminist wokey who’s no fan of 007 (she is believed to have been the voice behind an incendiary quote — “I don’t think James Bond is a hero” — in a 12.19.24 Wall Street Journal article) and has allegedly not even seen any pre-Daniel Craig Bond films

It was announced earlier today that Amazon MGM Studios will gain creative control of the James Bond franchise, while Wilson and Broccoli will remain co-owners of the 60-year-old property.”

Eric Schwartzel and Jessica Toonkel‘s Wall Street Journal piece reported two months ago that a lack of movement on greenlighting a new Bond film had been caused by an “ideological split” between Salke on one side and Broccoli and Wilson on the other. I called it a “feminist wokey vs. semi-traditionalist Mexican standoff.”

Here’s what happened in the aftermath of that WSJ piece, says a guy wih an ear to the ground:

“Salke is an idiot, and she basically got herself into hot water over this having become a public spat. Her boss Jeff Bezos is a Bond junkie, however, and to get things moving he paid off Broccoli and Wilson with all the money in the world. Salke still gets to call the shots, but she’s bracketed by film pros and under more scrutiny from Bezos.”

Daily Mail, 12.20.24: “Broccoli has told friends that the people at Amazon are ‘fucking idiots.’ Salke is “reportedly demanding ideas for new Bond movies, although Broccoli has seemingly no interest in making them with the studio.”

Broccoli has told telling colleagues she doesn’t trust “temporary people to make permanent decisions”, according to Schwartzel and Toonkel.

My first reaction to the Guy Pearce-Kevin Spacey thing was that I needed to listen again to Scott Feinberg‘s whole discussion with Pearce, but then again it’s all been transcribed.

Did the stuff about “handsy” Spacey come up in the wake of Scott and Guy discussing his Brutalist industrialist having sexually assaulted Adrien Brody?

Did one form of sexual aggression (dramatically performed) lead to another (actual real-deal), or am I misunderstanding?

We’ve all heard about Spacey’s fabled sexual aggression. But Pearce has weeped over…what, his recalling that Spacey wanted to sexually possess or dominate him during the L.A. Confidential shoot without having actually done so? Did “handsy” Spacey pat Pearce on the ass or something? Did Pearce feel menaced on some level? What actually happened?

Spacey responded earlier today:

@tmz #KevinSpacey is vehemently denying #GuyPearce's ♬ original sound – TMZ

Spacey: “We worked together a long time ago. If I did something then that upset you, you could have reached out to me. We could have had that conversation, but instead, you’ve decided to speak to the press, who are now, of course, coming after me, because they would like to know what my response is to the things that you said.

“You really want to know what my response is? Grow up.”

“I mean, did you tell the press that [you camet to visit me on the set of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil too, or does that not fit into the victim narrative you have going?

“I apologize that I didn’t get the message that you don’t like spending time with me. Maybe there was another reason, I don’t know, but that doesn’t make any sense. That you would have just been leading me on, right? But here you are now on a mission, some 28 years later, after I’ve been through hell and back.”

“Boston Tea Party (Preferred)“, posted on 1.4.21: The Boston Tea Party, which ran from early ’67 to early ’71, and was really cooking during ‘69 and ‘70, was arguably the most glorious, super-charged small venue for live rock bands ever…smaller than the two Fillmores and with one serious headliner after another, or at least part of the time.

The whole four-year schedule. Three-night bookings for the most part. During one two-night engagement in May ’69 they actually had the Allman Brothers open for the Velvet Underground.

The first BTP venue was at 53 Berkeley St, Boston, MA 02116. In July ’69 they moved to 15 Landsdowne Street, near Kenmore Square.

HE to seasoned rock journalist: “Big-arena concerts allegedly didn’t become a major thing until ‘71 or ‘72 or thereabouts. Small venues like the two Fillmores and the Boston Tea Party flourished during a certain window that began in ‘67 and ended around ‘71, which is when major groups began declining these venues because there was so much more dough in big arenas.

“Do I have this right? You were right in the thick of it back then.

“The golden era for the Tea Party was ‘69 and ‘70. My God, look at the acts they had! The BTP was the size of a typical high-school gymnasium. Maybe a tad smaller. I caught three or four shows at the Fillmore East but nothing compared with the sheer physical closeness of the Tea Party…you could get close enough to smell their sweat. It was glorious, tangible, alive.

Seasoned rock journalist to HE: “You’re pretty accurate with this. The big arena shows started around ’69 too, with the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin usually being the ones who pushed the envelope into stadiums later, around ’73.

“Tea Party was famously one of the hot places where the audience and band could [groove as one]. The Fillmores, of course. The Grande Ballroom in Detroit was also one of those small, hot places where the British bands would often play…bands like Jeff Beck Group and they’d blow the roof off. Santa Monica Civic on the West Coast was in between, a little bigger, but amazing for crowd/music/intimacy, like David Bowie’s first show there.

“Also one of the small rooms that bands loved was the Warehouse in New Orleans, home of many explosive small-room nights. The Allman Brothers Band would tear it up at a place like that. Basically, even through the mid-70’s, you might catch a big band playing one of those smaller places just to blow off steam and have a no-pressure gig or record something live with a smaller, great crowd.”

From BTP archive:

“The BTP closed it in early 1971 as the face of rock & roll was changing to larger venues. The Tea Party’s demise followed that of Philadelphia’s Electric Factory and shortly preceded the same for the two Fillmore’s.”

The second Boston Tea Party (the one on 15 Lansdowne Street, just off Kenmore Square and across from Fenway Park) was in business only a year and a half — July 1969 to December 1970. But man, what a hallowed place, what a holy temple of purification.

I attended several ear-pounding, spirit-lifting sets inside that fabled venue, but my most vivid memory isn’t musical — it’s my LSD freakout episode…a psychedelic meltdown that led to my forsaking hallucinogens forever and eventually renouncing marijuana. Yes, even that.

I was living with a crew of upper-middle-class drug dealers…friends from Wilton who were moving huge amounts of weed, heavy amounts of LSD inside clear plastic bags, and Vietnamese heroin. We lived in a large basement apartment at 467 Commonwealth Ave., and we all felt happy and churning and generally delighted with everything. Plus we were fastidious and flush and wore Brooks Brothers shirts….we had it all down.

On New Years’ Eve (’69 into ’70) we all attended a Boston Tea Party featuring the Grateful Dead and The Proposition, a Cambridge-based improv comedy group that featured Jane Curtin.

Except before walking over we all passed around a kind of rubber-lined goatskin container of Kool-Aid, which had been liberally spiked with LSD. Too liberally. It was soon apparent that the Kool-Aid was way more potent than anticipated, and roughly an hour into the Proposition set I began to feel increasingly anxious and creeped out, and then full-on paranoid.

I remember several details about the Curtin/Proposition performance as my psyche devolved into pudding. Curtin and and some schlumpy-looking guy played young married tourists from the Midwest who were experiencing Boston’s counter-culture scene for the first time, and feeling disoriented and a bit frightened.

Later in the set a comedy bit struck some kind of cosmic wowser chord, prompting a none-too-bright audience member to exclaim out loud, “Whoa, that’s heavy!” In response to which a Proposition performer looked at the guy and said “yeah, wow, man…too many tabs!”

That was me — too many ground-up tabs in the Kool-Aid had led me me into a place of, like, quaking disorientation. As in “uh-oh….uh-oh.” I began to feel as if I was standing next to a manhole-sized opening, and I knew that if I somehow fell into that hole I would lose my mind and never know sanity again.

Hunter S. Thompson knew this all too well. He called it “the fear.”

I begged a friend for help, and we wound up going back to the pad. He gave me some downers as well as an anal suppository It took a couple of hours but I eventually settled down. I knew after this horrific episode that I would never, ever drop acid again. (And I had tripped a good 15 or 20 times before, mind, and the Bhagavad Gita spirit had always prevailed.) And then a year or two later I discovered that pot highs had the potential of re-awakening “the fear” so I stopped that activity also.

From Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas“:

“Good mescaline comes on slow. The first hour is all waiting, then about halfway through the second hour you start cursing the creep who burned you, because nothing is happening and then ZANG! Fiendish intensity, strange glow and vibrations…a very heavy gig in a place like the Circus Circus.

“’I hate to say this,’ said my attorney as we sat down at the Merry-Go-Round Bar on the second balcony, ‘but this place is getting to me. I think I’m getting The Fear.’

“’Nonsense,’ I said. ‘We came out here to find the American Dream, and now that we’re right in the vortex you want to quit.’ I grabbed his bicep and squeezed. “You must realize,’ I said, ‘that we’ve found the main nerve.’ ‘I know,’ he said. ‘That’s what gives me The Fear.’

“The ether was wearing off, the acid was long gone, but the mescaline was running strong. We were sitting at a small round gold formica table, moving in orbit around the bartender.

“’Look over there,’ I said. ‘Two women fucking a polar bear.’

“Please,” he said. “Don’t tell me those things. Not now.” He signaled the waitress for two more Wild Turkeys. “This is my last drink,” he said. “How much money can you lend me?” “Not much,” I said. “Why?” “I have to go,” he said. “Go?” “Yes. Leave the country. Tonight.” “Calm down,” I said. “You’ll be straight in a few hours.” “No,” he said. “This is serious.” “George Metesky was serious,” I said. “And you see what they did to him.” “Don’t fuck around!” he shouted. “One more hour in this town and I’ll kill somebody!”

But somehow Mikey Madison‘s lack of guardedness…her lack of deflection or evasion….got to me. I bought into the vibe. It felt genuine.

Yesterday I read an early draft of Nora Garrett‘s After The Hunt screenplay, a #MeToo rape accusation drama that feels like a splicing of Todd Field‘s TAR, David Mamet‘s Oleanna and Ruben Ostlund‘s The Square.

It’s the basis of an upcoming Luca Guadagnino film that MGM-Amazon will release on October 10th — a whipsmart, dialogue-driven, pressure-cooker thing with Julia Roberts toplining.

Strong supporting performances from Andrew Garfield, The Bear‘s Ayo Edebiri, Michael Stuhlbarg and Chloe Sevigny will presumably round things out.

World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy recently reported that Hunt had test-screened in early December. He also sketched it out as one of those jarring, controversial, hot-button melodramas that stir the soup among educated audiences.

HE is guessing Hunt will debut six months hence at the Venice Film Festival.

Garrett’s page-turning screenplay (which a friend found on Reddit) vaguely summons the downswirling mood of Frank Perry‘s Diary of a Mad Housewife…if Perry’s 1970 film had been set in the realm of elite academia and concerned a middle-aged female professor (Roberts) on the brink of tenure.

Guadagnino (Queer, Challengers, Call Me By Your Name) made some changes to Garrett’s Swedish-flavored scenario before filming it last summer in London and Cambridge.

That’s as far as I’ll go description-wise, but the screenplay did plant expectations of Roberts’ performance possibly stirring convos about a Best Actress trophy. She’s playing one of those well-sculpted, sturm und drang roles that older actresses have always pined for.

Mikey Madison, the giver of the absolute finest lead female performance of 2024, has finally been recognized by a major awards-giving organization. Goorah and oooh-rah!

Does HE expect the Academy to follow suit? Of course not. Too many AMPAS members have bought into the false Demi Moore narrative (“Industry power-mongers wouldn’t let me star in an awards-level film during my ‘80s and ‘90s heyday…they insisted that I had to make popcorn movies!”).

Bullshit!

I don’t know where to begin a loose-shoe study of the likeliest 2025 hotties (critically approved, Oscar-nominated), but you have to start somewhere…anywhere.

Right now this is a very half-assed rundown, but I’ll build it as the comments come in and things move along. Call this HE’s first half-assed stab. I’ll begin to fix it up tonight. Step by step.

I’ve no interest in likely 2025 money-makers. This is strictly about the films that people may feel riveted, disturbed, challenged, gobsmacked or turned on by, or might even feel compelled to give awards to.

Which films appear to be the weak sisters, and which are the serious heavyweights? Which should be highlighted and which should be wait-and-see’d?

Darren Aronofsky‘s Caught Stealing (Sony, 8.29). “Burned-out ex-baseball player Hank Thompson (Austin Butler), forced to navigate a treacherous underworld he never imagined”…too wordy. Costarring Zoë Kravitz, Regina King, Matt Smith, Liev Schreiber, Will Brill, Bad Bunny, Griffin Dunne, Vincent D’Onofrio.

Scott Cooper‘s Deliver Me from Nowhere (20th Century, sometime in the fall). Jeremy Allen White as Bruce Springsteen in another boomer nostalgia pic, focusing on the recording of Nebraska (’82). Costarring Stephen Graham, Odessa Young, Paul Walter Hauser, Gaby Hoffmann, Johnny Cannizzaro, Harrison Gilbertson, Marc Maron.

Edward Berger‘s The Ballad of a Small Player (Netflix). Synopsis: When his past and debts start to catch up, a high-stakes gambler laying low in Macau encounters a kindred spirit who might hold the key to his salvation,” blah blah. Colin Farrell, Tilda Swinton, Fala Chen

Tom Cruise and Chris McQuarrie‘s Mission: Impossible — The Final Reckoning (Paramount, 5.23).

Joseph Kosinski‘s F1 (Warner Bros., 6.27). Brad Pitt, Damson Idris (black dudes can’t die!), Kerry Condon, Tobias Menzies, Javier Bardem, Kim Bodnia, Shea Whigham.

Antoine Fuqua‘s Michael (Universal. 10.3.25). Reportedly sanitized life of the late Michael Jackson. Jaafar Jackson, Juliano Krue Valdi, Colman Domingo, Nia Long, Miles Teller, Laura Harrier.

Paul Thomas Anderson‘s One Battle After Another (Warner Bros., 8.25). Leonardo DiCaprio, Regina Hall, Sean Penn, Alana Haim, Teyana Taylor, Wood Harris, Benicio del Toro.

Luca Guadagnino‘s After The Hunt (Amazon MGM, 10.10.25). An academic setting obviously indicates some kind of anti-wokester, anti-Zoomer drama…right? Julia Roberts, Ayo Edebiri, Andrew Garfield, Michael Stuhlbarg, Chloë Sevigny.

Josh Safdie‘s Marty Supreme (A24, 12.25). Timothée Chalamet, Gwyneth Paltrow, Tyler the Creator, Odessa A’zion, Penn Jillette, Kevin O’Leary, Abel Ferrara, Fran Drescher, Sandra Bernhard.

Spike Lee‘s Highest 2 Lowest (remake of Akira Kurosawa‘s High and Low, a kidnapping-ransom drama that I’ve never liked). (No date, A24 / Apple TV+)Denzel Washington, Ilfenesh Hadera, Jeffrey Wright, Ice Spice, ASAP Rocky.

Ari Aster‘s Eddington (A24). A “contemporary western with a darkly comedic attitude.” Joaquin Phoenix, Pedro Pascal, Emma Stone, Austin Butler, Luke Grimes, Deirdre O’Connell, Micheal Ward, Clifton Collins Jr.

Guillermo del Toro‘s Frankenstein (Netflix, November)….again? Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, Mia Goth, Christoph Waltz, Felix Kammerer, Lars Mikkelsen.

I’m not including James Cameron‘s Avatar: Fire and Ash (20th Century, 12.19) as it’s just another episode in the Avatar series, and is solely about selling tickets.

Will Nia DaCosta‘s Hedda, a “reimagining” of Henrik Ibsen’s 1891 stage play, be shot as a Victorian period drama or as a contemporary thing? Tessa Thompson, Imogen Poots, Tom Bateman, Nina Hoss, Nicholas Pinnock, Finbar Lynch.

Kenneth Branagh‘s The Last Disturbance of Madeline Hynde…as an ardent non-fan of Branagh’s Belfast, I feel very concerned about any film that he’s directed and written. Jodie Comer, Patricia Arquette, Michael Sheen, Tom Bateman, Vicky McClure, Michael Balogun.

Celine Song‘s Materialists (A24, no date). “A Manhattan matchmaker’s lucrative business is complicated when she falls into a toxic love triangle that threatens her clients,” blah blah. Beware!!! Dakota Johnson, Chris Evans, Pedro Pascal, Zoe Winters, Dasha Nekrasova, Louisa Jacobson.

A Big Bold Beautiful Journey (Sony, 5.9) appears to be a serving of guaranteed agony. The words “American romantic fantasy” are death to me. Directed by Kogonada from a screenplay by Seth Reiss. Starring Margot Robbie and Colin Farrell, w/ Lily Rabe, Jodie Turner-Smith, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Billy Magnussen, Sarah Gadon.

Yorgos Lanthimos‘ Bugonia (Focus Features, 11.7)….aaaggghhh! “Two conspiracy-obsessed young men kidnap the high-powered CEO of a major company (Emma Stone), convinced that she is an alien intent on destroying the earth. Costarring Jesse Plemons, Alicia Silverstone.

Paul Greengrass‘s The Lost Bus (Apple TV+). “A bus driver has to navigate a bus carrying children and their teacher to safety through the 2018 Camp Fire, which became the deadliest fire in California history,” etc. Matthew McConaughey, America Ferrera, Yul Vazquez, Ashlie Atkinson, Spencer Watson, Danny McCarthy.

Wes Anderson‘s The Phoenician Scheme (Focus Features, 5.30). “Dark tale of espionage following a strained father-daughter relationship within a family business beset by morally gray choices”…that’s a mouthful!. Benicio del Toro, Michael Cera, Bill Murray, Riz Ahmed, Tom Hanks, Benedict Cumberbatch, Scarlett Johansson, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Rupert Friend, Willem Dafoe, Bryan Cranston.

Bong Joon-ho‘s Mickey 17 (Warner Bros., 3.7.25). HE has long had a problem with Bong Joon-ho, and we’ve all heard about the prolonged release-date delays — originally slated for 3.29.24. Critics will cream over it, no matter how problematic it may or might not be.

John M. Chu‘s Wicked: For Good (Universal, 11.21.25). Same crew as before — Cynthia Erivo, Ariana Grande, Jonathan Bailey, Ethan Slater, Marissa Bode, Michelle Yeoh, Jeff Goldblum, etc.

Andre Gaines‘ The Dutchman (no distrib — debuting at SXSW on 3.8). Sexual intrigue between harried black businessman (Andre Holland) and whitey-white chick (Kara Mara). Co-adapted by Gaines and Qasim Basir, based on same-titled 1964 play by Amiri Baraka.

Mimi Cave‘s Holland (no distrib — opened at SXSW on 3.9) Small town Michigan woman (Nicole Kidman) suspects husband (Matthew Macfadyen) may be living a double life. Costarring Gael García Bernal, Jude Hill, Rachel Sennott.

Julian Schnabel‘s In The Hand of Dante. Synopsis of Nick Tosches‘ same-titled 2002 book: “An interweaving of two separate stories, one set in the 14th century in Italy and Sicily and featuring Dante Alighieri, and another set in the autumn of 2001 and featuring a fictionalized version of Tosches as the protagonist. The historical and modern stories alternate as Dante tries to finish writing his magnum opus and goes on a journey for mystical knowledge in Sicily.” Oscar Isaac as Nick Tosches / Dante Alighieri, w/ Jason Momoa, Gerard Butler, Gal Gadot, Sabrina Impacciatore, Franco Nero, Martin Scorsese.

Jonathan Kent‘s Long Day’s Journey Into Night. Ed Harris, Jessica Lange, Ben Foster, Colin Morgan, Ericka Roe.

Jonah Hill‘s Outcome (Apple TV+). Black comic satire about social-media harpooning of big movie star (Keanu Reeves). Costarring Jonah Hill, Cameron Diaz, Matt Bomer, Susan Lucci, David Spade, Laverne Cox.

Steven Soderbergh‘s Black Bag (Focus Features, 3.14). London-shot cloak and dagger with dry Soderbergh attitude….right?

Michel Franco‘s Dreams. Rich Anerican socialite Jennifer (Jessica Chastain) blows off, fucks over her younger Mexican ballet dancer boyfriend (Isaac Hernández)

Richard Linklater‘s Blue Moon (Sony Classics, May ’25) — The last few months in the life of composer Lorenz Hart (Ethan Hawke). Depression, alcoholism, closeted sexuality. Andrew Scott, Margaret Qualley, Bobby Cannavale. Debuting in Berlin on 2.18.

Chloe Zhao‘s Hamnet (Focus Features, no date) — Fictional tale about Mr. and Mrs. William Shakespeare coping with the death of their son. Jessie Buckley, Paul Mescal, Joe Alwyn, Emily Watson.

Maggie Gyllenhaal‘s The Bride! (Warner Bros., 9.26). Feminist take on James Whale‘s The Bride of Frankenstein. All men are scheming, wounding pigs! Jessie Buckley, Christian Bale, Penélope Cruz, Peter Sarsgaard, Annette Bening.

Ethan Coen‘s Honey Don’t (Focus Features, May ’25). Another lesbian caper flick a la Drive Away Dolls. Set in Bakersfield, pic focuses on a private investigator (Margaret Qualley), a cult leader (Chris Evans), and a “mystery woman” (Aubrey Plaza).

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