I am stunned and appalled that Anthony Bourdain, a sensualist and an adventurer whom I admired like few others, a guy who adored sitting on a plastic stool and eating Bun Cha in Hanoi as well as scootering through rural Vietnam as much I have, a late bloomer who’d lived a druggy, dissolute life in the ’70s and ’80s but had built himself into great shape and had led a rich and robust life in so many respects…I am absolutely floored that Bourdain has done himself in.

Bourdain was right at the top of my spitball list of famous fellows who would never, ever kill themselves because he seemed so imbued with the sensual joy of living, who had found so much happiness and fulfillment in so many foods and kitchens, in so many sights and sounds and aromas and atmospheres, travelling and roaming around 250 days per year and inhaling the seismic wonder of it all.

Bourdain was found dead in a Strasbourg hotel room earlier today.

He apparently suffered from depression, or so it’s being said this morning. He was 61, and by all indications in the absolute peak of his personal journey. Like me, Bourdain’s life didn’t really take off until the late ’90s, when he was in his early 40s. But when everything finally fell into place and he became famous and semi-wealthy, he seemed to revel in the feast but without losing his head. He always kept his sanity and sense of modesty.

Bourdain had been in a long-distance relationship with Asia Argento, who made headlines at last month’s Cannes Film Festival when she gave a speech that tore into Harvey Weinstein and accused the festival elite for normalizing and covering up Weinstein’s misdeeds.

I am very, very sorry for Argento’s loss and everyone else’s, and I mean tens if not hundreds of thousands of followers and admirers.

“Seizer of Days,” posted from Park City on 1.19.18: “I’ve just come from a screening of Marina Zenovich‘s Robin Williams: Come Inside My Mind. I was presuming it would be a sad, moving experience going in, and Zenovich hasn’t disappointed. Her film is simple, touching, direct — not a softball portrait that avoids the pitfalls and dark places, but a very comprehensive story of a fascinating whirling dervish and comic firecracker for whom the bell tolled.

Marina Zenovich‘s 117-minute HBO doc pops on 7.16.18.

Williams’ best films and performances: The World According to Garp (’82), Moscow on the Hudson (’84), Good Morning, Vietnam (’87), Dead Poets Society (’89), Awakenings (’90), The Fisher King (’91), Aladdin (’92), Mrs. Doubtfire (’93), Jumanji (’95), The Birdcage (’96), Good Will Hunting (’97), Insomnia (’02) — 12 in all.

The stinkers included Hook (’91), Toys (’92), Jack (’96), Father’s Day, Patch Adams (’98) , What Dreams May Come (’98), Bicentennial Man (’99), RV (’06) and Old Dogs (’09).

The release date of Richard Linklater‘s Where’d You Go, Bernadette, an adaptation of Maria Semple‘s 2013 same-titled novel, has been bumped again. The Annapurna release was initially slated to open on 5.11.18, then it was pushed back to 10.19.18 — now it’s been shifted to 3.22.19. A domestic drama of rage and neuroses, pic costars Cate Blanchett, Billy Crudup, Emma Nelson, Kristen Wiig, Judy Greer and Laurence Fishburne.

Contained in the just-received 6.7.18 edition of Richard Rushfield‘s The Ankler:

Seven months ago Quentin Tarantino told Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson that Once Upon A Time in Hollywood, which may start shooting in Los Angeles sometime this month, would be more about hippy-dippy 1969 Los Angeles than the Tate/LaBianca murders by the Manson family. Exact quote: “It’s not Manson, it’s 1969.”

Maybe so, but the latest announcement of casting and characters for Once Upon A Time in Hollywood sure as hell overlaps with the August 8th murders at Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate’s home at 10050 Cielo Drive.

Damian Lewis is playing Steve McQueen, who was invited to drop by the Polanski/Tate home that evening but at the last minute decided to hang with a girl he’d just met.

Emile Hirsch is playing hairstylist Jay Sebring, who was one of the Cielo Drive victims along with coffee heiress Abigail Folger, Folger’s boyfriend Voytek Frykowski and an 18 year-old named Steven Parent.

Dakota Fanning is playing Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, a Manson family member who wasn’t at the Polanski/Tate home that evening but attempted to murder President Gerald Ford on 9.5.75.

Tate will be played by Margot Robbie, and Burt Reynolds will reportedly play George Spahn, the weathered owner of the Spahn Movie Ranch who allowed the Manson family to live on the ranch in the weeks and months before the August ’69 killings.

I’m posting this out of boredom. My tank feels empty now. That review of Ocean’s 8 took it out of me. Plus I have stuff to do this afternoon.

Earlier this week Indiewire‘s David Ehrlich posted a survey piece titled “The Best Movie Plot Twists of All Time.” Various critics had passed along their favorites, etc.

Allow me to start my own conversation about same, and to begin by noting that far too many screenwriters are convinced that third-act twists are essential components for a strong commercial script. What they’ve become, in fact, is a kind of pestilence. The third-act switcheroos on the parts of Woody Harrelson and Emilia Clarke‘s characters in Solo (i.e., “You thought I was an ally but I’m not”) are but one example. That bullshit twist in Adrift is another.

People also need to understand the difference between a twist and a striking third-act plot development. Revealing that the young Charles Foster Kane‘s sled was called “Rosebud” is not a twist — it’s simply a revelation. Ditto Kevin Spacey telling Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman that he visited Pitt’s wife, Tracy, and cut off her head and then sent it special delivery in a box. That’s not a twist — that’s a stunning macabre occurence.

The coolest, most satisfying, top-ten twists in own moviegoing experience, and in this order: 1. M. Night Shyamalan‘s The Sixth Sense; 2. George Roy Hill‘s The Sting; 3. Bryan Singer‘s The Usual Suspects; 4. Gregory Hoblit‘s Primal Fear; 5. Irvin Kershner‘s The Empire Strikes Back. 5. Franklin Schaffner‘s Planet of the Apes; 6. Alfred Hitchcock‘s Psycho; 7. Alejandro Amenabar‘s The Others; 8. Alan Parker‘s Angel Heart; 9. John Ford‘s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. 10. Neil Jordan‘s The Crying Game.

I purposely didn’t read a slew of Ocean’s 8 (Warner Bros., 6.8) reviews before seeing it Wednesday night. (All the way out in Burbank, by the way.) I wanted to just go in clean and ready for whatever. And honestly? It doesn’t deliver much but it’s not that bad.

This being a chick flick of sorts, I was afraid (and I know how sexist this sounds) that it might lean too much on emotional content. Hugging, crying, hurting…that line of country. But to my profound surprise it doesn’t get into emotional stuff at all. It’s like “emotion who?” It deals almost nothing but dry, droll, mid-tempo cards. And I kind of liked that. Was I knocked out? No, but I felt oddly placated.

The strongest emotional current in Ocean’s 8 is one of revenge on the part of Sandra Bullock‘s Debbie Ocean, a great-looking, zero-drama 40something with an almost icy composure. The revenge is directed at a former male colleague who did an uncool thing, resulting in considerable discomfort for Debbie, and so he must be paid back. But beyond this issue, Ocean’s 8 is almost purely a technical or logistical exercise film.

It’s about Bullock commanding a team of six ultra-confident, super-poised women with no hangups or behavioral issues of any kind (Cate Blanchett‘s Lou, Rihanna‘s Nine Ball, Sarah Paulson‘s Tammy, Mindy Kaling‘s Amita, Awkwafina‘s Constance, Helena Bonham Carter‘s Daphne). The goal is to steal a $150 million, six-pound Toussaint diamond necklace. The job will happen during the annual Met Gala, and the mark will be Anne Hathaway‘s Daphne Kruger, a flush, big-time celebrity.

Ocean’s 8 is also about wallowing in wealth and fashion porn in midtown Manhattan, and about the importance of always keeping your cool and being one or two steps ahead of the other guy. I half-enjoyed the fact that the team looks great, and that their makeup and hair are perfect in every scene. Hell, everyone looks good. Even the late-arriving James Corden, playing an insurance investigator, has been buffed to the max.

That wasn’t a typo about Bullock having six partners for a total of seven. They only become a crew of eight in the third act, and that’s after the job has already been pulled.

Director and co-writer Gary Ross, co-scenarist Olivia Milch and producer Steven Soderbergh knew exactly what they wanted to do, which was to stay on a mellow and even keel. And so Ocean’s 8 just glides along in second or third gear for the most part. Nothing crazy happens, and certainly nothing dark or startling (like, for example, a 2018 equivalent of Richard Conte dying of a heart attack on the Las Vegas strip in the original 1960 Ocean’s 11) or ominous or even a bit sad. It doesn’t get into drama at all. Start to finish, the whole thing is cool, calm and collected. It’s not even that complex or tangled. You can actually follow what’s going on.

Marlon Brando‘s Emiliano Zapata is suddenly seized with self-doubt. He’s become the very thing he once fought against. He’d begun to circle the name of Henry Silva‘s Fernandez, whom only a few seconds ago he’d regarded as an irritant or an enemy. Then the feeling spreads. Joseph MacDonald‘s camera dollies in as a key light hits Brando’s eyes and cheekbones and for 32 seconds — 2:08 to 2:40 — the realization sinks in. Joseph Wiseman places his hand on Brando’s shoulder, conveying a shade of concern but not much comfort, and the score by the great Alex North underlines and obliterates.

Matthew Cullen‘s London Fields “was selected to be screened in the Special Presentations section of the 2015 Toronto Film Festival, but it was later pulled from the festival roster after Cullen sued the film’s producers, accusing them of fraud and using his name to promote a cut of the film he does not support.”

From Kaleem Adtab’s 9.17.15 review, published by The Independent: “Images of a world in chaos flash throughout the film, which is told from the perspective of an American writer who has come to London to seek inspiration for a new novel.

The reason I visit Starbucks is partly the coffee, of course, but mainly the wifi. And yet I never just squat — I always order something. Because it’s rude to just stroll in and plop down and suck up their wifi like a hobo. They’re trying to run a business and they only have so much space for customers. I figure the least I can do in exchange for the good wifi is order a black coffee and perhaps even a large cappuccino with an extra shot.

If I’d arranged to meet someone at Starbucks I would definitely order a tea or a coffee before sitting down. It’s just good manners, and who can’t spare a couple of bucks?

Those Philadelphia dudes who got escorted out of a Starbucks six or seven weeks ago were probably targeted because of their skin shade, but they would’ve been free and un-hassled if they’d simply ordered something. Starbucks isn’t a public library or park or airport lounge — it’s a business.

I’m totally down with the idea of Starbucks exec chairman Howard Schultz, an actual billionaire, running for president against fake billionaire Donald Trump in 2020. Yesterday Schultz resigned as exec chairman, effective 6.26, with his eye on new challenges. He’s obviously pondering a White House run. Schultz has the Starbucks brand recognition. He’s obviously innovative, practical minded and not insane, and he could pull away from the pack. And the rural dumbshits would’t feel threatened because he’s white, albeit half-Jewish.

Nobody really believes that Bernie Sanders can beat Trump. Everyone likes Joe Biden but he has a certain yesterday’s-news aura (not to mention that horrible neck wattle). And Oprah Winfrey has made it clear that she lacks the character and cojones to run. Somebody has to step up and start making noise about replacing Trump. If not Schultz, who?