“Charles de Gaulle said old age is a shipwreck, so the question for the United States is whether it should consider the age of likely presidential candidates who, statistics and experience tell us, stand a pretty good chance of foundering on the rocks of old age. I’m talking Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders.

“Sanders and Biden are about the same age. Sanders is 77, and Biden 76, and because the next president will be inaugurated in 2021, I can say without fear of persnickety fact-checkers that both men will be almost two years older by then. It is not unlikely, therefore, that the next president of the United States will be well into his 80s before his first term is up. That’s a shocking figure.

“Biden and Sanders have waited too long.

“A pledge to serve only a single term would not reverse the clock. It would only hobble the president, making him a lame duck before his time. Of course, the ultimate decision is their own, but they have to know they will probably decline. If they don’t think so, they have gotten old without getting wise.” — from “Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders are too old to be president,” a Washington Post opinion piece by columnist Richard Cohen and posted on 3.18.

If and when Terrence Malick‘s Radegund debuts at the 2019 Cannes Film Festival, it will have spent 30 or 31 months in post — roughly six or seven months longer than the average length of time that Malick’s last three films — To the Wonder, Knight of Cups and Song to Song — have logged in the editing room. Will Mr. Wackadoodle actually risk screening his German-language antiwar film to Cannes critics? My instincts tell me no — Malick is a hider, a ditherer, a lettuce-leaf tosser. He prefers the cool shadows of the cave to the hot glare of exposure.

“Case of the Missing Radegund,” posted two months ago: During the summer of 2016, or two and two-thirds years ago, Terrence Malick shot principal photography on Radegund, a fact-based anti-war drama set in Austria and Germany. Directed and written by the press-shy auteur, the German-language drama is about Franz Jagerstatter (August Diehl), an Austrian conscientious objector who was executed by the Third Reich for refusing to fight.

The parliamentary beheading of Al Franken pains me still. It hurts. I get why Senate Democrats felt they had to cut him loose (i.e., they wouldn’t have any moral authority in subsequent sexual harassment cases if they hadn’t). But God, what a shame. Plus the fact that the initial Leeann Tweeden USO accusation felt to me like a semi-orchestrated rightwing hit job. I’m not saying Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand was wrong to call for his resignation, but it does muddle my perception of her. She’s not going to make it anyhow — face it.

I know the issue of Sen. Franken is hard for many Democrats. But he had eight credible sexual harassment allegations against him, and I had to choose whether to stay silent, or not. If some megadonors have a problem with that, that's on them. pic.twitter.com/POLWcTQUsY

— Kirsten Gillibrand (@SenGillibrand) March 19, 2019

Heartfelt thanks to the Los Angeles publicists who haven’t invited me to recent screenings of Craig Zahler‘s Dragged Across Concrete (Summit, 3.22). I became a Zahler fan after catching 2017’s Brawl in Cell Block 99. From Jordan Ruimy: “Just saw Concrete…FANTASTIC. Grim, Tarantino-esque, politically incorrect, ballsy and, above all else, incredibly well-directed. Is there such a thing as ‘right-wing avant-garde’? Because this deserves to be called that.” Deadline‘s Pete Hammond raved earlier today.

Posted seven years ago (3.25.12): “I still have problems with the Grapes of Wrath diner scene, which, as mentioned a couple of times, is a near-perfect thing until the very end when John Ford‘s sentimentality ruins it. If he’d only ended the scene with the trucker telling the waitress, ‘What’s it to ya?’

“This has always been Ford’s problem, and why his films are best appreciated in limited doses. Not to mention his tendency to prod his supporting actors into over-acting and doing the ‘tedious eccentricity’ thing — Ford’s ultimate Achilles heel. The overacting of that waitress is especially painful.”

Warner Bros. honcho Kevin Tsujihara has resigned — killed by Kim Masters and Tatiana Siegel’s 3.6 Hollywood Reporter story about his having philandered with actress Charlotte Kirk and then dealt unsatisfactorily with her demands for casting opportunities. The man did nothing, relatively-speaking. He fucked a hungry would-be actress — something that heavy-hitter studio execs and hotshot producers have been doing in this town since the days of Jesse L. Lasky.

Excerpt from HE rewrite of Tsujihara statement: “I deeply regret having brought pain and embarrassment to the people I love the most, yes, but mostly I regret having been busted and publicly shamed by Masters and Siegel. What did I do, really, that was so terrible? I catted around with a pretty English actress, knowing full well I’d probably have to reciprocate with some casting favors. And so what? This kind of thing happens all the time.

“Okay, so the actress felt she didn’t get what she expected out of our arrangement, and yes, that was completely my fault. But I’m hardly Charlie Sheen or Brett Ratner or Leonardo DiCaprio back in the late ’90s. I’m a 50ish married guy with kids who got caught poking around…BIG DEAL.

Not being a regular junketeer on the take, I won’t be seeing Dumbo until next Monday evening, 3.25. Or whenever the Manhattan all-media is, which I’m presuming will be the same day as the LA all-media. (My NYC flight departs late Friday night, 3.22 — I’ll return on Friday, 3.29.)

Tuesday’s big L.A. screening is Jordan Peele‘s Us (Universal, 3.22).

The absolute finest 2019 film so far is Kent Jones‘ Diane (IFC films, 3.29). Definite Best Actress action (or at the very least strong Spirit/Gotham award respect) for Mary Kay Place.

HE’s second best of the year is Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre‘s The Mustang. Struggling with reviews for both as we speak.

NYC get-around guy: “I’ve seen Dumbo. You can take the ‘o’ out of the title.”

You will believe an elephant can fly! #dumbo pic.twitter.com/aRXtJbvDRj

— Richard Crouse (@RichardCrouse) March 18, 2019

Even if endless post-production tweakings (i.e., CG de-aging refinements) hadn’t gotten in the way of a possible Cannes debut, Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman would have never been slotted to debut two months hence. The intimate, end-of-the-road, old-guy gangster flick screams Venice-Telluride-Toronto. Plus Netflix Oscar strategist Lisa Taback would’ve never approved. The basic drill is that Netflix won’t be Cote d’Azur-ing this year — forget Steven Soderbergh’s The Laundromat, the Safdie brothers‘ Uncut Gems, Noah Baumbach‘s untitled whatever and a little touch of The King‘s Timothee Chalamet in the night. So say Variety‘s Elsa Keslassy and Matt Donnelly.