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.

In the comment thread for yesterday’s “Beto Needs To Get On The Stick” piece, a dude named Otto wrote that Beto O’Rourke‘s seeming hesitancy (i.e., thinking things over during a solo road trip) indicates that the former El Paso Congressperson “will be the perfect VP pick for someone like Biden. [Accepting this status] would show (1) authenticity, (2) modesty (I’m not yet ready) (3) lack of the super-ego that drives most narcissist who want to be President and (4) wisdom in understanding that he has more to learn about national/international affairs.”

Persuasive HE response: “A malignant sociopath is in the White House right now, and you’re quibbling over fractions, resumes and modes of experience? Remember all the crap in ’07 and ’08 about how Barack Obama, a wet-behind-the-ears junior senator from Illinois, was too young, too naive, not seasoned enough for the Presidency? Beto (currently 46) is a year older than Obama was when he announced in ’07, and he knows his way around. But the bottom line is that THERE’S NO TRAINING ACADEMY FOR THE PRESIDENCY. You just jump into the pool and swim as best you can.

“Do you think JFK was supremely qualified when he took over? Do you think Clinton was? Do you think Dubya was wonderfully qualified and super-knowledgable? He was a brash ignoramus who leaned on his father’s friends. Do you think Abraham Lincoln of the Illinois legislature was exquisitely trained and ready to run things when he moved into the White House in March 1861? You either live up to the demands of the office or you don’t.

“And right now an animal who’s polluting the Oval Office is running the show. A bloated pusbag sociopath and unregenerate liar…a guy who’s brought into Washington the worst pirates and grifters since the Harding administration and who believes that climate change is a hoax…the head of a lying, grifting crime family is running the country. And the only name of the game is “getting him out of the Oval office by January 2021 if not before.” That means two things: (a) impeachment by the House and (b) nominating a younger X-factor charisma candidate (who’s incidentally taller than Trump) to oppose him. Period. Not a shrill SJW libtard but someone with a moderate human touch.

I followed up with a comment about Biden: “Uncle Joe is a good, likable guy with a settled vibe and a history of practical, sensible liberalism. Obviously superior to Trump in every way imaginable. And a human being. But he’s too old (76 as we speak, 78 during the ’20 campaign), too yesteryear, too gaffe-prone, too withered. The Democratic 2020 candidate has to be about the future. I’m sorry, but the culture is demanding the absence of Oval Office neck wattles, at least for the foreseeable future.”

Commenter “Jeff”: “Democrats don’t win with old vetted ‘sure things’. Hillary, Kerry and Gore all felt like battle-tested sure things. The last three Dems elected were on their 40s or early 50s. If you acknowledge that LBJ really won Kennedy’s second term, then it’s four in a row. Hell, even FDR was barely 50 when he was first elected.”

HE correction: FDR was just shy of 51 when he was elected in November 1932. LBJ was 56 when he beat Barry Goldwater in November ’64. The Democrats really, really don’t want a candidate in his or her late 70s running for the White House.

Variety‘s Dave NcNary has reported that Annapurna is bumping the release date of Richard Linklater‘s Where’d You Go, Bernadette from March 19th back to August 9th…fine. But he omits the fact this is Bernadette‘s third release-date adjustment. On 6.7.18 I reported that Linklater’s domestic discord flick was initially slated to open on 5.11.18, then was pushed back to 10.19.18, and then again to 3.22.19.

McNary also ignores the fact that Linklater’s name is absent from the latest trailer. That probably means something, no?

An Annapurna rep told McNary “that August has served well as a launching pad for release of female-skewing films such as Crazy Rich Asians, Florence Foster Jenkins and Julie and Julia and that Bernadette,” blah blah.

I’ve been a mildly angry guy most of my life. Contrarian, questioning authority, a pushback instinct. Born of my father’s alcoholism and aloofness, etc. Over the last 25 years of journalistic endeavor it’s been slipping out by way of the “three sees” — cerebral, channelled, controlled. But in my late teens the anger was more eruptive and hair-triggerish, and one day in a high-school hallway it almost ruined my life. Except it didn’t, thank God.

[Click through to full story on HE-plus]

It doesn’t matter if Beto O’Rourke is supported wholeheartedly by the picky progressives or if he’s the “best” Democratic choice to succeed Donald Trump in 2021, whatever the hell that means. What matters is (a) defeating the Cheeto, and (b) replacing him with someone whose instincts are basically populist and not too corporate-kowtowing, someone who’s forward-looking with a multi-ethnic reach-out attitude to the Great Middle, who’s not psychotic or delusional or necessarily beholden to the politically correct fanatics, and who respects the Constitution and the ideals and traditions of this country and who’s basically Bobby Kennedy reborn, only taller.

Beto has reportedly been searching his soul on a solo road trip (like Willem Dafoe purifying his soul in the desert) and trying to suss things out. Fine, whatever but not too much of this. He needs to just grim up and go for it, period. Step up to the plate and then figure it out as he goes along. He’ll definitely, definitely, definitely beat Trump if he wins the 2020 Democratic nomination. I can’t say that about any other candidate, declared or undeclared, right now. Including Uncle Neck Wattle.

From “Democratic Operatives Are Building Beto O’Rourke’s Campaign Without Him,” a new Atlantic piece by Edward Isaacc Dovere:

“’I think Beto’s really having a hard time making a decision, and he’s surprised at how hard it is,’ said Garry Mauro, the last Democrat to be elected statewide in Texas (in 1994, as land commissioner) and someone who’s been in touch with O’Rourke recently.

“There has been no official contact, but Mauro said O’Rourke is clearly registering how excited people remain about him, and he and his team are aware of Draft Beto. “I don’t think for one second that the Draft Beto movement is going unnoticed and doesn’t have impact. Of course it does. How could it not?”

“O’Rourke didn’t respond to a phone call or questions sent by text about what he makes of Draft Beto and whether the group’s existence is indeed informing his decision. He’s on a road trip, by himself, eating blackberry cobbler and crashing in motels, having conversations, and then posting Bukowski-style essays about what he sees.

“Paramount was Hollywood’s mountain — now it’s a molehill. After decades of nearly slapstick mismanagement — spinning off TV and missing the internet — the studio behind The Godfather is fighting for its life. In many ways [it’s] become a glorified rental property. Along with the rest of Hollywood, Paramount is colliding with Silicon Valley. The old-line film business is only going to become tougher as streaming services proliferate. Can Paramount — the studio that, more than any other, symbolizes Hollywood itself — find a path forward as a stand-alone studio? Or, as they did at Fox, could its end credits roll? Short-sighted moves by Viacom’s Sumner Redstone and his cronies — rooted in hubris and old-fashioned greed — dragged Paramount down. Longtime entertainment executives [have] likened the studio’s mismanagement under [the late] Brad Grey and his boss, Philippe P. Dauman, who ran Viacom from 2006 to 2016, to an old horror movie. Perhaps Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” Barry Diller: “Why Paramount? It’s irrelevant.” — from an 1.17 N.Y. Times story by Amy Chozick and Brooks Barnes.

I know all the great 1930s directors pretty well, or at least I thought I did. But I drew a blank this morning when I came upon a mention of Gwenda Young‘s “Clarence Brown: Hollywood’s Forgotten Master” (University Press of Kentucky, 10.17.18).

I certainly know Brown’s landmark ’30s and ’40s films (Anna Christie, A Free Soul, Ah, Wilderness, Anna Karenina, Wife vs. Secretary, Idiot’s Delight, The Rains Came, Edison, the Man, The Human Comedy, National Velvet, The Yearling) but for some reason his name has never popped through.

Brown was one of those directors who flourished in their day but whose visual style was exceedingly average or “house”, certainly by current standards. I kind of have Brown in lumped in with Mervyn LeRoy, another director who was highly regarded and worked on prestige projects in the ’30s, ’40s, ’50s and early ’60s, but who gets no respect from anyone today.

One problem is that the name “Clarence Brown” doesn’t have the right sound. Victor Fleming, Michael Curtiz, Howard Hawks and even John Ford sounded like guys who played golf in the best country clubs. Clarence Brown sounds like the name of a wheat farmer or an auto mechanic or grocery store owner. In this sense Brown is a kindred spirit of Chad Stahelski, director of the three John Wick movies. Stahelski is the last name of an electrician, a surfer, a pool-maintenance guy, a hot-dog chef at Pinks, a garbage man (excuse me, a sanitation engineer) or a guy whose grandfather worked in the same New Orleans factory as Stanley Kowalski.

I’ve riffed before about collective forgetting of movie stars. Even those who were huge during their time…phffft. Four and a half years ago I lamented how Montgomery Clift, once regarded alongside Marlon Brando and James Dean as one of the most respected and influential ’50s movie stars, has all but disappeared in the minds of younger GenXers and Millennials. Don’t even talk about Generation Z.

Recently Cesar A. Hidalgo, director of the Collective Learning group at the MIT Media Lab and a principal developer of Pantheon, a software program that quantifies, analyzes and measures global culture, stated that almost every ostensibly famous person vaporizes after 30 years, and that some start to fade after only five years. It’s a brutal process.

The opening paragraph of a 1.10.19 Nautilus article titled “How We’ll Forget John Lennon“: “A few years ago a student walked into Hidalgo’s office at MIT. He was listening to music and asked the student if she recognized the song. She wasn’t sure. ‘Is it Coldplay?’ she asked. It was ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon.”

For 16 years Lennon was iconic, and then, 38 years and 38 days ago, he was murdered. Right now he might as well be cigarette smoke as far as many most under-35s are concerned.

Name some hot-tamale movie actors who were happening 10 or 20 years ago but are now all but forgotten. I hate to be cruel about it, but Josh Hartnett is on that list. Hartnett on fleeting superstardom: “I know what it’s like to be in that whole world. I was up there for a couple of years, and it was uncomfortable. I think trying to stay at the top is a shortcut to unhappiness.”

My instant reaction to the $99 Ostrich Pillow was The Mysterians, the 1957 cheeseball Japanese space-invaders flick. If you’re any kind of fan of creaky monster movies of the ’50s, you should be as familiar with The Mysterians as the Godzilla franchise, Rodan, Gorgo, Gog, etc.

If this trailer means anything at all, Steven Soderbergh‘s High Flying Bird (Netflix, 2.8) is going to be aces. Basketball with an emphasis on managing, strategizing, opportunity knocks…right? I’ll be in the audience for the first Slamdance screening. André Holland, Melvin Gregg, Zazie Beetz, Sonja Sohn, Zachary Quinto, Kyle MacLachlan, Bill Duke. The script by Tarell Alvin McCraney, the Oscar-winning co-writer (i.e., “story by”) of Moonlight.

Soderbergh (aka “Peter Andrews”) shot it last March on an iPhone7, as he did with grimly greenish Unsane. This time the visuals are much more appealing.