From the get-go I was down with Damien Chazelle‘s First Man. I regarded it as a serious, ambitious film that deserved all good things that might come its way. But then it got drop-kicked by Joe Popcorn, and was soon after dismissed by the Oscar-season handicappers. Yes, me included. I didn’t change my mind or stop admiring it — I just candy-assed out when the box-office collapsed. What do you want me to do? Stand against gale-force winds?

Filed from Telluride on 9.1.18: First Man is an intense, unconventional, psychologically penetrating take on the experience of Neil Armstrong (Ryan Gosling) and his wife, Janet Shearon (freckly-skinned Claire Foy, whom I last saw in Steven Soderberg‘s Unsane) from the early to late ’60s, culminating in the historic moon-landing mission of July 1969.

It’s no Ron Howard movie, that’s for sure — jarring, louder, lonelier, scarier, and well removed from that emotionally familiar, somewhat jingoistic universe of dramatic ups and downs that we all recall from Apollo 13.

I was seriously impressed with First Man because it’s really quite different — a kind of 16mm art film approach to an epic journey, an intimate, indie-styled, deeply personal movie writ large and loud with a rumbling, super-vibrating soundtrack.

Criterion’s new Notorious 4K-scanned Bluray delivers a serious HE “bump”. Within seconds I was sitting up in my seat and going “wow!” Satiny smooth and gleaming, mineshaft blacks, shimmering silver tones and clean as a hound’s tooth.

I’ve been watching this 1946 Alfred Hitchcock noir classic since I was a proverbial knee-high, and all through the evolving formats — theatrical, broadcast TV, VHS, laser disc, DVDs, previous Blurays. This is easily the best-looking version I’ve ever seen, and I didn’t even watch it on my premium 65″ Sony HDR 4K (which is back in Connecticut) but a run-of-the-mill 55″ Insignia 1080p monitor.

That said, the Criterion Bluray contains a fold-out brochure, and on the very front is an image of Cary Grant‘s Devlin character that will make your blood run cold.

Created by illustrator Greg Ruth, it’s the darkest and ugliest image of Grant mine eyes have ever beheld. It’s like a shot of his corpse on a morgue slab after he’s died of scarlet fever. Or a candid taken after somebody snuck into Grant’s bungalow while he was napping and smeared his face with greasepaint.

I’m not kidding — Grant’s skin is so dark and heavily shadowed he could be playing the debonair brother of Laurence Olivier‘s “Mahdi” in Khartoum. Or maybe a stand-in for Henry Brandon‘s “Scar” in The Searchers.

Seriously — this is the worst “hit” upon Grant since Daisy Ridley told Carrie Fisher that she didn’t know who he is.

On his website Ruth describes the shot as a spot-on image of a “tuxedoed and conflicted” Devlin, but it’s not even derived from Notorious — compare Grant’s bow tie in the Ruth art compared to a standard Notorious still [after the jump].

The idea, I presume, was to suggest that Devlin is a chilly, dark-hearted soul (which he arguably is until the final reel) but Ruth’s image suggests Devlin has taken an overdose of sleeping pills after lying under a sun lamp for ten hours.

Here’s an essay Ruth has written about his Notorious creations.

If I’d been the senior editor of the Notorious brochure and Ruth had submitted the Grant death-mask shot for approval, I would have made a face and said “what exactly is your problem, bruh? I mean, this image tells me there’s really something wrong with you. Have you seen the film? Grant isn’t playing the devil in Notorious — he’s playing a bothered, women-fearing, emotionally brusque CIA agent. Plus he redeems himself in the end.”

It would be entirely fitting and appropriately respectful if the Academy would include the late Leonard Klady in the forthcoming Oscar telecast “death reel”. It really would. For Len was as much a part of the soul and the fabric of Hollywood output and hoo-hah over the last 40 years as anyone else. As a storied Variety guy, LAFCA member and Movie City News box-office guru, Klady was right there, knee-deep in the trenches…absorbing, interviewing, tabulating and commenting every step of the way. The death reel always includes a few non-celebs — Klady’s life warrants this modest tribute and then some.

My first trip to the Cannes Film Festival was in 1992, and I owe the success of that adventure to Klady in part. He told me one night that the festival was too overwhelming for a first-timer — that there were too many angles and trap doors and necessary buttons to push, and that I didn’t have a prayer in hell of keeping up. As a result I doubled-down on my research and preparation, working extra hard at making the right calls and sending out letters to everyone, and as it turned out I did pretty well on my maiden voyage.

Seasoned Film Guy: “I love re-reading Len Klady‘s Cinefile columns in Variety, or his name on pieces like the Filmex tribute to the Garys in 1993 and that mention of his chat with Marcello Mastroianni in Palm Springs. Because they remind that he was doing what we all love best: being part of the greatness of film via these schmooze opportunities with the greats and [generally being] part of the hip Los Angeles film lover contingent, along with Len’s wife Beverly Walker. You know she’s the person who put Two Lane Blacktop on the cover of Esquire along with THE ENTIRE SCRIPT back in 19frickin71??? She’s a wonderful lady — so informed and passionate about cinema. All we need is film love.”

This three-day-old essay examines the way things were 20 years ago — Harvey Weinstein, Shakespeare in Love, Gwynneth Paltrow. Hollywood values and how HW aggressively rewrote the book on Oscar campaigning. It runs almost 20 minutes but is wisely judged, astutely written and nicely edited. Kudos to the maestro of Be Kind Rewind, whose name (unmentioned in the “About” section) is unknown to me. I attended the Miramax Beverly Hills hotel after-party after Harvey’s big Shakespeare in Love triumph. It was in the Polo Lounge and in an adjacent outdoor area. I was actually following behind Harvey as he entered the soiree…garlands to the conqueror! Every heavy-hitter in town was there. Quite the night.

“To me, the real lesson on this government shutdown is that we found out that federal workers — [holders of] quintessential middle-class jobs — can’t afford to miss one paycheck. When did it get this desperate? This shutdown is not about the wall — it’s about the wallet. And it’s more proof that the great American middle-class is disappearing faster than R. Kelly‘s Facebook friends. All ‘middle-class’ means now is that you’re poor but you don’t do meth. Sorry but it’s not ‘middle-class’ when your retirement plan is a Lotto ticket. And that’s just how the Koch Brothers like it.”

Perfect analogy: “Vulture capitalism has done to the middle-class what airlines have done to their customers. Because we didn’t lose the comfort of being middle-class all at once. They took it away an inch at a time. Like legroom.”

After many years of mystifying delay, a Bluray of This Gun For Hire will finally “street” on 4.9.19. The Amazon page indicates that the Shout Factory release will offer no supplements.

Posted on 8.26.18: Frank Tuttle‘s This Gun For Hire (’42) is a violent thriller, but with flavor. A combination of frostiness and vulnerability in Alan Ladd‘s Raven, a professional assassin, feeds into a vibe of brusque empathy and existential despair.

Released two years before Billy Wilder‘s Double Indemnity, I’ve always regarded This Gun For Hire as the first high-impact film noir. Which puts it into the pantheon of 1940s releases. Pretty much every film-loving dweeb subscribes to this view.

For some odd reason Universal has never released a Bluray or streamed it in HD. Here we are in 2018, and the only way to watch this still engrossing, hard-boiled drama is on that same shitty DVD Universal released 14 years ago.

Why don’t they get the lead out and remaster it? It would be fairly criminal to just let it remain a 480p experience.

I shouted out loud when I read about the death of journalist, critic and box-office maven Len Klady. I just heard about it 15 minutes ago…good heavens! I knew Len for a good 32 or 33 years, minimum. Not as a close friend but I sure as hell knew him in a kind of invited-to-the-same-press-event bon ami sense…”hey, Len,” the usual party chit-chat, sussing it all out, walla-walla, etc. A dark cloud over Canada. Hugs and condolences for his friends and Movie City News colleagues, and especially Len’s wife, critic and author Beverly Walker, whom I’ve also known for ages. Huge shock, very sorry. A heavy smoker, Len had been sick for a couple of months. At-home hospice care. Passed away this morning.

Movie City News box-office guy Len Klady, United 93 costar and former FAA bigwig Ben Sliney at 2007 press event. (Taken by yours truly.)

I swooned over New York, I Love You and Paris, Je’taime, and I’ll almost certainly love Berlin, I Love You. (Which wouldn’t have the same ring if it were called Berlin, Ich Liebe Dich.) I’m more of a laid-back Munich guy than a Berlin lover, but I’ve been to the latter city three times (in ’12, ’13 and ’14) and I understand the charm, history, layout, transportation system and atmosphere. I especially love the neighborhood of Charlottenberg.

Directors: Dianna Agron, Peter Chelsom, Fernando Eimbcke, Justin Franklin, Dennis Gansel, Dani Levy, Daniel Lwowski, Josef Rusnak, Til Schweiger, Massy Tadjedin, Gabriela Tscherniak. (What’s happening with Mostly Martha‘s Sandra Nettlebeck?) Cast: Keira Knightley, Helen Mirren, Luke Wilson, Mickey Rourke, Jim Sturgess, Dianna Agron, Diego Luna, Iwan Rheon, Charlotte Le Bon, Sibel Kekilli, Emily Beecham, Jenna Dewan, Hayden Panettiere, Rafaelle Cohen.

Quick — the name of the river that flows through Berlin’s center? You had to look it up, right?

In other words, is there enough Netflix animus among the PGA membership to turn the tide? Or will most of them decide to give the Daryl F. Zanuck award to, you know, the Best Film — i.e., Roma? As opposed to the one that sold the most tickets? Meaning a split vote between A Star Is Born and Black Panther? In the words of Paul Newman‘s Butch Cassidy, “Who are these guys?” What do they care about? What matters to them?

Journo pal: “Who are they? Very Oscar predictive and first whiff of industry sentiment. I would be shocked if Roma wins. More likely Green Book, Star Is Born or Bohemian Rhapsody, which has the best ‘producer’ story of the lot. But who knows? They ARE the only group that chooses Best Pic with the same weighted system of votes that AMPAS does.”

5 pm Update: Robert Mueller‘s office has issued a statement that Buzzfeed‘s Trump-Cohen story is “inaccurate.” What? Is Mueller splitting hairs? Buzzfeed‘s Anthony Cormier said earlier today on CNN that the story was 100% solid based on two sources plus others corraborating, etc. Is this like the H.R. Haldeman / Hugh Sloan grand jury story in All The President’s Men?

Earlier: Last night’s Buzzfeed bombshell, written by Anthony Cormier and Jason Leopold and sourcing a pair of federal law enforcement officials involved in the Mueller investigation, says that President Trump personally directed former attorney Michael Cohen to lie to Congress about the Moscow Trump Tower project.

If the story checks out (and let’s hope it does), it means that Trump committed a federal crime and a potentially impeachable offense. “Potentially” as in “depending on the backbones of D.C. legislators.” There might be a little bit of fallout among Trump’s Senate Republican supporters, but most, I suspect, will do the old shilly-shally sidestep.

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.

Between 2010 and 2017, during which time the reclusive and mercurial Malick shot and gradually released To the Wonder, Knight of Cups and Song to Song, he’s averaged about two years of post-production editing per film. So when Radegund costar Matthias Schoenaerts told The Independent‘s James Mottram last July that he expected Radegund to premiere at the 2018 Venice or Toronto film festivals, the timing seemed feasible.

Terrence Wackadoodle (upper left, white beard, safari hat) shooting a scene from Radegund sometime during the late summer of ’16.

I’d been told a few weeks before the Independent piece that Radegund probably wouldn’t pop at the early fall festivals and would continue to hide out until the February 2019 Berlinale, and perhaps beyond that.

Radegund didn’t appear anywhere last fall, of course, and yesterday it was announced that barring some last-minute surprise announcement it will be absent from the Berlinale. Now the next likely festival is Cannes, but who knows with Malick?

Last July I wrote that “I actually wouldn’t be surprised if Radegund turns up closer to next year’s Cannes Film Festival or even, don’t laugh, during Venice/Telluride/Toronto of ’19.” Who’s laughing now?

An HE-plus essay posted on 11.26, and offered today as a taste. I’ve been reviewing my HE-plus stuff over the last six months, and a lot of it is pretty good:

Throughout my 20s I had a fairly low opinion of shrinks (i.e., psychologists, psychiatrists). And for good reason, I felt. It had to do with my assessment of a certain suburban therapist, a chilly, officious guy in his 40s whom I was forced to see when I was 17.

I had a weekly appointment with this asshole on Tuesday or Wednesday evenings at 7 pm, and as it happened one of my meetings came right after suffering a brutal beating from my dad. Our fight had erupted in the kitchen during dinner and had resulted in a gash on the side of my head and a good amount of blood soaking my shirt.

My parents had arranged me to see this guy because I was regarded at the time as incorrigible and unreachable.

I was a problem teen for the usual reasons. I hated almost everything about my gulag life. I despised my parents equally, I thought, but harbored the strongest loathings for my alcoholic dad. I had no flirtations going with any girls, and I secretly hated half of my “friends.” I felt only negative things about school, had experienced almost nothing in the way of adventure, and little joy except for the movies I slipped into and TV shows I enjoyed. My only high-school escape valve came from getting bombed with my friends on beer.

I’d been into drawing since I was 10 or so, and had done fairly well with essay writing in grade school. But all of that went south when I entered junior high and puberty, and the misery index shot up. The feelings of lethargy and depression were unceasing.

But then a switch flipped in my junior year. I began typing up and passing around a kind of satirical gossip sheet about my friends and the stupid social bullshit that went on between us. It was a primitive version of Hollywood Elsewhere, come to think, except it wasn’t very good. Clumsy syntax, sloppy sentence structure, crude this and that, an over-reliance on sexual humor.

A copy of my clumsy gossip rag was snatched by the head disciplinarian of my high school, and within a day or two my father and I were sitting in his office as he howled and harangued about the pornographic content. Wiser authority figures would have said, “You’re being a creative entrepeneur with this thing…you just have to get better at it.” All I heard, of course, was that I was a social undesirable heading for a life of shame.