When Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering‘s four-part Woody Allen hatchet-job doc, Allen vs. Farrow, begins airing on HBO on Sunday, 2.21, and particularly when they show the then-seven-year-old Dylan Farrow‘s taped recitation of what “daddy did”, keep in mind a 9.2.93 Los Angeles Times article by John J. Goldman.

The article is titled “Nanny Casts Doubt on Farrow Charges” with a subhead that read “She tells Allen’s lawyers the actress pressured her to support molestation accusations against him. She says others have reservations.”

“Lawyers for Woody Allen said Monday that a former nanny who worked for Mia Farrow has testified she was pressured by the actress to support charges that the filmmaker molested their 7-year-old adopted daughter,” the article reads.

“The nanny, Monica Thompson, resigned from the Farrow household on Jan. 25 after being subpoenaed in the bitter custody battle between the actress and Allen. She told Allen’s lawyers in depositions that another baby sitter and one of the couple’s other adopted children told her they had serious doubts about the molestation accusation.

“Authorities in Connecticut are viewing a videotape made by Farrow as part of their investigation, which has included interviews with Allen and Farrow as well as the daughter, named Dylan.

“Farrow’s attorney, Eleanor Alter, issued a statement Monday saying, “It is my understanding…that Ms. Thompson has totally recanted” the statements attributed to her. She noted that Thompson’s salary, upwards of $40,000 a year, was paid by Allen. Thompson could not be reached for comment.

“Thompson said in a deposition that it took the actress two or three days to videotape Dylan making the accusations. At times the youngster appeared not to be interested in the process, the nanny said in sworn affidavits taken by Allen’s attorneys.

“’I know that the tape was made over the course of at least two and perhaps three days,’ Thompson said. ‘I was present when Ms. Farrow made a portion of that tape outdoors. I recall Ms. Farrow saying to Dylan at that time, ‘Dylan, what did daddy do…and what did he do next?’

The appearance of actors in a movie poster should never, ever argue with how they look in the film itself. Violation #1: Julie Christie‘s wig in Shampoo is straight, thick and frosty blonde — her natural poster hair is blonde-brownish and curly. Violation #2: In the film Goldie Hawn‘s blonde hair is worn with bangs — in the poster it’s oddly parted in a slightly off-center fashion. Violation #3: In the poster Warren Beatty‘s hair is noticably shorter than it is in the film.

The banner headline on the March issue of Empire, which has been on sale for three weeks, teases “The Greatest Cinema Moments Ever.” Which, of course, is bullshit. The actual content (37 pages) could be more accurately described as “Edgar Wright‘s Favorite Mindlowing Holy-Shit Movie Moments Over The Last 20 Years.”

The epic journey of cinema from the dawn of the sound era to New Year’s Eve 1999 is pretty much ignored. But that’s the Empire readership for you — the ’90s are the good old days, memories of the ’80s are fading fast and anything before the Ronald Reagan era is Paleozoic. That’s Wright for you also — a 46 year-old director who knows all about the 20th Century landscape (and all the joy, pain, anxiety, struggle and exhilaration of that convulsive century) but who thinks about movies only in terms of (a) bang-boom-pow-CG-fizz-whizz for movie nerds and more specifically (b) “Jesus, that was so fucking iconic!” and (c) “My God, that was one fucking kewl adrenaline rush!”

The cover faces are said to include Steven Spielberg, Tessa Thompson, Patty Jenkins, Jordan Peele, Taika Waititi, Paul Rudd, Guillermo del Toro, Chris Evans, Simon Pegg, Daniel Kaluuya, M. Night Shyamalan, Kumail Nanjiani, George Miller, Greta Gerwig, Kevin Feige (pronounced FAY–gee), Christopher McQuarrie, Joe Russo, J.J. Abrams, Bong Joon-ho, David Yates, Daisy (“Cary who?”) Ridley, Joe Cornish, Anya Taylor-Joy, James Gunn, Bill Hader, Alfonso Cuarón, Walter Hill, Rian Johnson, Spike Lee, James Cameron, Lily James, Robert Zemeckis, Ang Lee, Jon Hamm, Daniel Craig, Jon Favreau, Sam Mendes and Mark Hamill. But maybe not.

HE takes exception to the notion that Spike Lee, a serious scholastic movie buff, would watch a film within a packed house (remember packed houses?) while eating a greasy pepperoni pizza. Forget the Do The Right Thing reference — is there anything more rancid than stinking up the joint with the steamy smell of heated pepperoni while chewing and slurping and smacking his lips? I’m not kidding — only animals eat pizza during a film.

Cinematically speaking the ’80s was a big comedown decade — a time of relative shallowness, the end of the glorious ’70s, the flourishing of tits-and-zits sex comedies, the unfortunate advent of high-concept movies, a general climate of cheap highs + terrible fashion choices (shoulder pads, big hair), flash without substance plus Andrew Sarris writing that “the bottom has fallen out of badness in movies,” etc.

As we speak World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy is polling the usual suspects for their top ’80s picks, but I’m going to take a mad stab and pick some faves off the top of my head.

What makes a great ’80s film? Not just a relatable, well-crafted story but one that delivers (a) irony, (b) tangy or penetrating flavor, (c) the combination of intriguing characters and perfect acting, and (d) a compelling social echo factor…a mode of delivery that only portrays but sees right through to the essence of what was going on during this comparatively shallow, opportunistic, Reagan-ized period in U.S. history.

And so Hollywood Elsewhere’s choice for the Best (i.e., most arresting and perceptive) Film of the ’80s is — I’m perfectly serious — Paul Brickman‘s Risky Business. Because it’s (a) perfectly (and I mean exquisitely) made, and (b) because the ’80s was when everyone in the culture finally decided that the United States of America was a huge fucking sales opportunity and whorehouse, and that it was all about making money any way that could happen and fuck the consequences, and this movie, focused on a naive but entitled young lad fom Chicago’s North Shore and his smug, droll friends, nails that mindset perfectly. And — this is the master-stroke aspect — Brickman presents these kids as cool, laid-back and ironically self aware.

Here are the rest of my top ’80s picks, in no particular order and with the criteria being not just craft and charm but social resonsance: 2. Adrien Lyne‘s Fatal Attraction; 3 and 4. Peter Weir‘s Witness and Dead Poet’s Society; 5, 6 and 7. Woody Allen‘s Crimes and Misdemeanors, Hannah and Her sisters and The Purple Rose of Cairo; 8. Alan Pakula‘s Sophie’s Choice; 9 and 10. Sidney Lumet‘s Prince of the City and The Verdict; 11. David Lynch‘s Blue Velvet; 12. Oliver Stone‘s Platoon; 13. Spike Lee‘s Do The Right Thing; 14. Francois Truffaut‘s The Woman Next Door; 15 and 16. Stanley Kubrick‘s The Shining and Full Metal Jacket; 17 and 18. Brian DePalma‘s Scarface and The Untouchables; 19. Michael Mann‘s Thief; 20. Ridley Scott‘s Blade Runner; 21. Alain Resnais‘ Mon Oncle d’Amérique; 22. Albert Brooks‘ Lost in America; 24. Alex Cox‘s Repo Man; 25. John McTiernan‘s Die Hard; 26. Martin Scorsese‘s The Last Temptation of Christ; 27. James Cameron‘s Aliens; 28. George Miller‘s The Road Warrior; 29. Steven Spielberg‘s E.T., the Extra Terrestrial; 30. John Carpenter‘s They Live.

Oh, wait, I forgot Lawrence Kasdan‘s Body Heat and The Big Chill…make it 32.

I’ve also forgotten The Hidden, Drugstore Cowboy, Raging Bull and Local Hero… make it 36.

From “How Francis Ford Coppola Got Pulled Back In to Make The Godfather, Coda“, a 12.2.20 N.Y. Times piece by Dave Itzkoff:

“Where The Godfather, Part III (’90) ended famously — some might say notoriously — with the elderly Michael slumping in his chair and falling dead to the ground, Coda shows him old and alive as the scene fades to black and a series of title cards appear. They read, ‘When the Sicilians wish you ‘Cent’anni’, it means ‘for long life’…and a Sicilian never forgets.’”

Despite Coppola’s forthcoming new Bluray version being titled Mario Puzo’s The Godfather, Coda: The Death of Michael Corleone, Al Pacino‘s gray and withered paterfamilias no longer croaks.

That’s right — he lives and lives and lives.

“In fact, for his sins, he has a death worse than death,” Coppola tells Itzkoff. “He may have lived many, many years past this terrible conclusion. But he never forgot what he paid for it.”

Opinions?

In yesterday’s “Evolving Prom Thread” I mentioned that Some Like It Hot is one of my favorite musicals.

Obviously it’s not a traditional song-and-dancer, but if you accept that performative musicals are legitimate permutations and that A Hard Day’s Night and Cabaret are two prime examples, you have to allow that Some Like It Hot also qualifies.

We all understand that classic integrated musicals are about characters breaking into song to express deep-down emotions. But musicals can also be defined as films in which the emotional states of major characters pop through as musical numbers. The key is that separate songs have to be heard three times.

It doesn’t matter if the musical numbers are integrated or performative (a la Some Like It Hot, A Hard Day’s Night and Cabaret). The point is that the songs are (a) telling the audience how this or that main character is feeling, or (b) conveying some aspect of the social milieu, or (c) both.

There are four songs performed in Some Like It Hot — “Runnin’ Wild”, “By The Sea”, “I Wanna Be Loved By You” and “I’m Through With Love.” They convey the successive moods of Marilyn Monroe‘s Sugar “Kane” Kowalczyk (and to a lesser extent those of Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon‘s Joe and Jerry) as the story moves from Chicago to Miami and as Sugar falls for (and then temporarily loses) “Junior”, the phony Shell Oil heir played by Curtis’s Joe.

The four songs also embroider SLIH in a Cabaret-like way with a fizzy reflection of the late 1920s (jazz bands, madcap attitudes, Chicago gangsters, flappers with great gams, pint flasks, pre-stock market crash hedonism).

Earlier today HE’s “filmklassik” wrote that it’s “absurd” to describe Billy Wilder‘s 1959 classic as a musical. “The emotional state of major characters pops through big-time during the ‘La Marseillaise’ scene in Casablanca,” he wrote. “[By that token] do you consider Casablanca a musical?”

HE reply: No, because (a) the playing of “La Marseillaise” is Casablanca‘s only big number, and a performative musical needs a minimum of three (3) songs. Plus (b) ‘La Marseillaise’ expresses a communal emotion or mood rather than an individual one, or one shared by lovers or close friends.

To judge by this trailer, Ron Howard‘s Hillbilly Elegy (Netflix, 11.24) is a highly charged soap opera about domestic family values. An argument between women, basically…not a male authority figure** in sight. Glenn Close‘s “Mawmaw” vs. Amy Adams‘ druggy, puffy-faced mom with young-and-chubby J.D. Vance (Owen Asztalos) and older, ready-to-move-on J.D. (Gabriel Basso) in the middle.

Guess who saves J.D. and encourages him to find his own life outside this ghastly downswirling culture, and to seek higher ground?

Close is obviously a Best Supporting Actress contender as she checks at least three boxes — unflattering physical transformation, yokel accent, long overdue. She’s clearly doing something that holds your attention. And she’s playing the savior. “Supporting” because I’ve been told over and over that “Mawmaw” is not a lead.

It was reported this morning that Patty Jenkins and Gal Gadot have signed with Paramount Pictures to more or less remake Cleopatra, the 1963 Joseph L. Mankiewicz catastrophe that came close to sinking 20th Century Fox.

Gadot and Jenkins will of course be making their own specific film about the legendary Egyptian queen, but the legacy of the 57 year-old Fox production looms large.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how interested is the HE community in seeing this new version? My honest level of interest is somewhere around five or six. But if there was a plan to make a narrative feature about the making of the Mankiewicz version, or more precisely a drama based on Kevin Burns and Brent Zacky‘s Cleopatra: The Film That Changed Hollywood, a 2001 doc that’s included in the Cleopatra Bluray package, my interest would instantly shoot up to 10.

This has been said over and over, but the Burns-Zacky doc is far more absorbing, entertaining and even more dramatic than the Mankiewicz film. If you’ve never seen it, here it is in two parts. Well worth the two hours.

Buying a house is necessarily a slowish, meticulous, step-by-step process. Endless protocols and procedures, and it’s never a done deal until you’ve signed every last form and inspected the place with a fine-tooth comb. But congrats are nonetheless in order for HE’s Jett Wells and wife Caitlin Bennett on purchasing their first home.

It’s located on a leafy cul-de-sac in West Orange, New Jersey, which is 20 or 25 minutes from Manhattan. Built in the 1930s, nice-looking floors, three bedrooms (or three and a half…I forget), an attic, a basement, 1 1/2 bathrooms, excellent front porch, huge back yard for the dogs, hilly. Expected occupancy by 12.1.20, or possibly a bit earlier. Their neighborhood is due south of Montclair; it’s also near Caldwell, where my maternal grandparents lived for decades.

Originally posted on 4.2.08: 25 years ago Oliver Stone did me a great favor, and I’ve thanked him at least two if not three times since. In ’95 he and publicist Stephen Rivers arranged for me to pay a brief visit to the Nixon West Wing — Oval Office, cabinet room, hallways, various offices, etc.

Production designer Victor Kempster had built the amazingly detailed set (including an outdoor portion with grass and bushes) on a massive Sony sound stage.

I was allowed in just after Stone and his cast (including Anthony Hopkins) and crew had finished filming. It was sometime around February or March of ’95. I wrote up my impressions for an L.A. Times Syndicate piece. Nixon opened on 12.20.95.

The Nixon unit publicist (or somebody who worked for Rivers) escorted me onto the stage and left. Nobody was around; I had the place all to myself. I had a video camera with me and shot all the rooms, and took my time about it. I was seriously excited and grateful as hell for the opportunity because it was, in a sense, better than visiting the real Oval Office in the real White House, which I would have never been allowed to do even if I’d been best friends with someone in the Clinton administration.

Nixon’s oval office.

JFK’s subdued variation.

Every detail was Eric von Stroheim genuine. Wooden floors, real plaster, ceilings, rugs, moldings, early 1970s phones, bright gold French aristocracy drapes, china on the shelves and mantlepiece, etc.

Five years later I was granted a visit to a replica of Jack Kennedy‘s West Wing that had been used for the shooting of Roger Donaldson‘s Thirteen Days. It was around the same time of year — February or March of 2000, roughly nine or ten months before the movie’s release in December. The set had been built by production designer Dennis Washington inside a warehouse-type sound stage somewhere in southern Glendale or Eagle Rock.

The difference between the Nixon Oval Office decor — creamy beiges and bright golds, a bright blue rug, gilded bric a bracs on the shelves (which contributed to a kind of effete, faux-aristocratic atmosphere) — and the subdued greens, browns and navy blues of JFK’s office (which even had a replica of the coconut shell that Lt. Kennedy used to carve out a message during his PT 109 adventure) will always stay in my mind.

You can tell a lot about people from the decor in their homes and workplaces. Only an arrogant know-nothing would have chosen the nouveau-riche wooden floor that Bush had installed in ’05. The White House is a place of great history, echoes and ghosts, and it should look and feel like it’s been hanging in there for at least a century or so — stressed floors, old timber and dark varnish, like the early 20th Century and 19th Century homes that are found in the northeast.

These visits were as close as I’m ever going to get to the real Oval Office — they gave me a real organic window into recent history. Even if I’d been invited to the real White House I wouldn’t have had the chance to poke around and study everything at my leisure.

You can find all kinds of clips and audio recordings from ’50s and ’60s TV shows on YouTube. Damn near anything and everything. But I can’t find a single clip of a falsetto-voiced Steve Allen saying “schmock, schmock!” And that’s a huge deal. “Schmock, schmock!” was arguably Allen’s signature line, certainly when he was hosting his Hollywood-based talk show in the early to mid ’60s.

After chatting with Allen at the House of Blues some 27 or 28 years ago, I bade farewell with my own falsetto-voiced “smock!” There was no one else in the entire world I would have dared speak to like a three-year-old, but I did so with Allen without blinking. He chuckled right away and gestured approval.

Partly because of the “signing” scene, partly because Day of the Soldado didn’t have the irritating Emily Blunt to contend with, partly because the shoot-out sequences are cooler, and partly because it’s satisfying to watch an entitled brat rich girl (a drug lord’s daughter, played by Isabela Moner) get an education in the realities of the drug trade.