“Are we really going to have only capital punishment?,” IAC chairman Barry Diller asks Maureen Dowd in 3.24 N.Y. Times profile. “Because right now, that’s what we have. You get accused, you’re obliterated. Charlie Rose ceases to exist.”

I was going to say something along these lines, but I was afraid of the Robespierres. Sexual harassment and misconduct are really bad things, and should never be waved away. But so is driving under the influence, which flirts with destruction and death and all kinds of horrible. If you’re busted for D.U.I. you’ll get fined, your license can be suspended for up to six months and you could go to jail (48 hours to six months). But if the D.U.I penalty was the same as that for sexual harassment or misconduct, the inebriated offender would be taken straight to the hanging tree.

Barry Diller, as pictured in the 3.24 Dowd profile.

Sexual offenders should receive stiff or even harsh punishment, depending on the particulars, but I don’t think their throats should be slit like chickens. After a suitable penalty and/or period of discomfort they should be allowed to show contrition, to demonstrate their remorse and willingness to grow and transcend, to show that they’re not arrogant hooligans. The punishment, in short, should be stern but not overly savage.

“I see it in our companies, where the relationships between people are changing,” Mr. Diller says. “We recently had a formal complaint made by a woman who said that she was at a convention with her colleagues and she was asked to have a drink with her boss. Period. That was the complaint. And we said, ‘Here’s the thing. Anybody can ask you anything, other than let’s presume something illegal, and you have the right to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ If it’s ‘Yes,’ go in good health and if it’s ‘No’ then it’s full stop.’

The title of Adam McKay‘s forthcoming political drama about the diabolical and Machiavellian Dick Cheney is Backseat — not Back Seat. Annapurna will release it on 12.14.18, which is a little late in the season.

A grotesquely bulked-up Christian Bale as Cheney, Amy Adams as wife Lynne Cheney, Oscar champ Sam Rockwell as George W. Bush, Steve Carell as Donald Rumsfeld, Bill Pullman as Nelson Rockefeller, Alison Pill as daughter Mary Cheney and — wait for it — Tyler Perry as Secretary of State Colin Powell.

What intrigues me about Succession, an upcoming HBO original series launching in June, is that it comes from irreverent British writer Jesse Armstrong (The Thick of It, In the Loop, Four Lions). The Big Short‘s Adam McKay directed the pilot, executive produced with Will Ferrell.

Within ten seconds you want Jeremy Strong‘s character, a Type-A prick and Son of the Big Man who wants it all, to be crushed. The imperturbable Brian Cox plays Big Daddy. Costarring Kieran Culkin, Sarah Snook, Nicholas Braun, Matthew Macfadyen and Hiam Abbass.

Executive Suite was a 1954 Robert Wise drama about the internal struggle for control of a furniture manufacturing company after the CEO croaks. Costarring William Holden, June Allyson, Barbara Stanwyck, Fredric March and Walter Pidgeon.

Yesterday on Facebook HE’s own Jordan Ruimy lashed out at the shallowness and repetition of the twenty-teens. “As the end of the decade approaches, I fear we’ve basically gone through the worst decade for American movies since the ’80s. It’s a good thing TV is going through an incredible golden age that far surpasses most of the stuff being released in theaters.”

Naturally there’s a corresponding Hadley Freeman piece in the Guardian today: “From Top Gun to Stand By Me: Why the 1980s Is My Favorite Film Decade.”

Remember that Paul Schrader quote from a 2016 Little White Lies interview: “In the ’70s it wasn’t that the films were better, it was the audiences.”

Ruimy response from Tony Joe Stemme: “It’s easy to blame Hollywood for the lack of substantive, reality-based movies that get made, but the blame is squarely on audiences. They’re the ones that have made adult-themed dramas and comedies practically extinct. Folks see only superhero, sci-fi, fantasy and animated features? That’s what Hollywood is going to make. Kramer vs. Kramer made $400M in adjusted gross to today’s dollars. FOUR HUNDRED MILLION. For a divorce drama. Would a movie like that make even a quarter of that today?? Doubtful. Look in the mirror.”

Posted on 8.25.17: “117 Films That’ve made The 21st Century Worth Living“. Posted on 4.22.16: “Best Films of Second Decade of 21st Century…So Far.”

The size of the diner in Edward Hopper‘s “Nighthawks“, particularly for one allegedly based on an actual diner somewhere in the West Village, has always struck me as cavernous. More like an art gallery abruptly transformed into a greasy spoon. Sure enough, in a 1962 interview with Art Institute of Chicago’s Katherine Kuh, Hopper said the painting “was suggested by a restaurant on Greenwich Avenue where two streets meet.” He added, “I simplified the scene a great deal, and made the restaurant bigger.”

In the just-posted “Deadline’s Cannes Corrections” piece, I noted that Nancy Tartaglione and Andreas Wiseman had pooh-poohed the possibility of Woody Allen‘s A Rainy Day in New York being offered a slot at the 2018 Cannes Film Festival.

They dismissed this because “it would make for an awkward red carpet, given that some actors from the film” — Timothee Chalamet for one — “have donated their wages to various [#TimesUp-related] movements.”

At the end of my piece I asked Tartaglione and Andreas Wiseman “why so dimissive?” They acknowledged in their article that Cannes topper Thierry Fremaux “has historically maintained that he chooses films based on merit,” but then they turned around and derided the Rainy Day possibility over a relatively minor red-carpet attendance issue. “Where is the merit in that consideration?,” I asked. “Is this festival about artistic integrity or isn’t it?”

Elle Fanning, Woody Allen during filming of A Rainy Day in New York.

Soon after posting HE reader Zach Heltzel reminded that “red-carpet starfucking is definitely a factor for Fremaux.”

“Of course glamour and flashbulbs are a consideration,” I replied, “but the Woody Allen thing feels like a matter of honor and merit and integrity.

“Thierry has invited Woody to Cannes seven times (Hollywood Ending, Match Point, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Irrational Man, You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger, Midnight in Paris, Cafe Society) over the last 16 years. He’s been a staunch admirer and supporter of the man. Presuming that Amazon won’t be blocking a potential screening of Rainy Day in New York by withholding the DCP, it would be reprehensible to abandon Allen in this, his darkest hour since the early ‘90s, especially with Amazon presumably inclined to either dump A Rainy Day in New York or give it some kind of bum’s-rush, straight-to-streaming release.

“If Cannes is about cinematic merit first and foremost and A Rainy Day in New York is at least as good as the weakest Allen films that have premiered in Cannes (Hollywood Ending, Irrational Man, You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger), it seems to me, given Fremaux’s steadfast relationship with Allen over the last decade-plus, that he’s honor-bound to offer him a festival slot for A Rainy Day in New York.

“Because at the end of the day and given the facts throwing shadow upon the 26-year-old allegations against Allen in the matter of Dylan Farrow, there is no alternative but to conclude that the bulk of the evidence indicates that Allen is not guilty of immoral or criminal behavior. At best the issue is one of serious uncertainty and ambiguity.”

About a week after Variety‘s Peter Debruge and Elsa Keslassy posted their 3.14 Cannes spitball piece, Deadline‘s Nancy Tartaglione and Andreas Wiseman shared some different projections.

Nothing is set in stone, but Tartaglione and Wiseman said we can probably forget about eight films that have been mentioned as possible Cannes ’18 titles — Karyn Kusama‘s Destroyer, Damien Chazelle’s First Man, Jacques Audiard’s The Sisters Brothers, Yorgos Lanthimos’ The Favorite, Richard Linklater’s Where’d You Go Bernadette, Steve McQueen’s Widows, Lenny Abrahamson’s The Little Stranger and even Paolo Sorrentino’s Loro.

But Asghar Farhadi’s Everybody Knows, a Spanish-language film costarring Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz and Ricardo Darin, could be the opening-night attraction.

Xavier Dolan’s The Death And Life Of John F Donovan is a big maybe (“It could cut very close”).

Thierry Fremaux screening Ocean’s Eight at Cannes ’18 would be…I don’t know what to call it but “sick joke” is one of the terms that comes to mind. Ditto Solo: A Star Wars Story, but maybe.

Orson Welles’ The Other Side Of The Wind, a Netflix release, will probably screen under Cannes Classics. Two other Netflix films, Jeremy Saulnier‘s Hold The Dark and David Mackenzie’s Outlaw King, would have to screen outside competition, per a recent Cannes declaration.

Thomas Vinterberg’s Kursk and Brian De Palma’s Domino could be programmed.

David Robert Mitchell‘s Under The Silver Lake is “tipped to factor this year”, they say, and Harmony Korine’s Beach Bum is said to be a dark horse.

Other likelies include Luca Guadagnino’s Suspiria, Terry Gilliam’s The Man Who Killed Don Quixote and Lars Von Trier’s The House That Jack Built. Ditto Mike Leigh’s Peterloo, Laszlo Nemes‘ Sunset and Pawel Pawlikowski‘s Cold War.

Jennifer Kent’s The Nightingale may not be ready in time.

Regarding the possibility of A Rainy Day in New York, Tartaglione and Wiseman wrote the following: “In a somewhat surprising bit of speculation, it was suggested to us that Woody Allen might make a return with A Rainy Day In New York. However, given that some actors from the film have donated their wages to various movements, it would make for an awkward red carpet.”

Wells to Tartaglione & Wiseman: Why are you so skeptical and patronizing about the possibility of A Rainy Day in New York? You said in your piece that Fremaux “has historically maintained that he chooses films based on merit,” but you deride the possibility of Rainy Day because some of the cast won’t attend the red-carpet premiere? Where is the merit in that consideration?

You’re aware, obviously, that Fremaux has been inviting Woody to show his films at Cannes for many, many years, but he’s suddenly going to cut and run because Timothee Chalamet and other cast members might not attend the premiere at the Grand Lumiere? So what? Is this festival about artistic integrity or isn’t it?

We’re currently in the middle of a “Be Gracious to Burt Reynolds” week. The 82 year-old former superstar, who enjoyed a 13-year run at the top (’72 to ’84), has been making the interview rounds to promote The Last Movie Star (A24, 3.30), which isn’t faring all that well on Rotten Tomatoes.

I still haven’t seen it, but I will soon. Here’s an excerpt from Dennis Harvey‘s Variety review, which was posted on 1.18.18 out of the Palm Springs Film festival.

“Be kind” means you can lightly allude to Reynolds having messed up his acting career by making one arrogant, bone-headed move after another after another, etc. Those fast-car movies. Blowing his post-Boogie Nights momentum. Getting bad plastic surgery, wearing those terrible rugs. But you can’t actually mention it.

You also can’t mention how Reynolds looks really withered, poor guy. He was such a strapping good-ole-boy in his heyday. How cruel the aging process can be when so inclined.

Posted on 8.4.14: “Reynolds initiated his demise by making all those stupid shitkicker paycheck movies with the yokelish Hal Needham. Reynolds had a pretty good run at the top (’72 to ’84), and then he was done.

“Reynolds-the-actor (as opposed to Reynolds-the-box-office-attraction) was great in Deliverance, half-good in Shamus, The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing, At Long Last Love, regrettable in Lucky Lady and Hustle, good in Semi-Tough, very good in Starting Over, good in Sharky’s Machine and Best Friends, decent in The Man Who Loved Women…and that was it until he played an older thief in Bill Forsyth‘s Breaking In (’89). And then nothing came of that. And then along came Paul Thomas Anderson‘s Boogie Nights (’97) and Reynolds called it shit and fired his agent, etc.

Posted from Key West on 11.17.16: Burt Reynolds sat for a q & a this evening at Key West’s San Carlos Institute following a screening of Jesse Moss‘s Bandit (which isn’t half bad). Good old Burt. His usual, familiar smoothie self — cool and collected, deadpan humor, mellow vibe. But with a beard and tinted shades. The audience was laughing, applauding, in love. Burt’s legs are on the frail, shaky side but he walked out without a cane — good fellow. Here’s an mp3 of the whole thing. The interviewer was Rolling Stone critic David Fear.

The once formidable ancient spectacle genre (Quo Vadis, Samson and Delilah, Land of the Pharoahs, Alexander The Great, Ben-Hur, Spartacus, King of Kings) was a Hollywood thing, but when the Italians got involved matters took a sudden downward turn. The Italian knockoffs, known mostly as “sword and sandal” pics, really lowered the real-estate values. Sets and visual effects were cheaper, the crowd scenes smaller, the cinematography less awesome, the lead actors second- or third-tier.

Before you knew it a genre that had once been known for “cast of thousands” and “years in the making” and was suddenly about wooden swords, cardboard shields and English-dubbed dialogue in the realm of “This is your last chance, Demosthanes…withdraw your legions or die!”

1962 was the year that sword-and-sandal flicks really showed their diminished worth. Richard Fleischer‘s Barabbas (shot in Verona and Rome under Dino de Laurentiis), Rudolph Mate‘s The 300 Spartans (shot for roughly twice what most Italian s & s cheapies were being made for at the time) and Robert Aldrich‘s Sodom and Gomorrah (shot in Marrakech with Italian money) — all ’62 releases, and none were great shakes.

But even less than these was Samuel Z. Arkoff and Marino Girolami‘s The Fury of Achilles (’62), which was basically Troy on a nickle-and-dime budget.

The big climactic fight in Wolfgang Petersen‘s Troy was fought by Brad Pitt‘s Achilles and Eric Bana‘s Hector. The exact same confrontation was performed in The Fury of Achilles by Gordon Mitchell (Achilles) and Jacques Bergerac (Hector).

Please watch both (Troy‘s version is after the jump) and tell me honestly which version is the more involving, exciting, gripping.

Almost everyone loves travelling around. That feeling of living on the fly, responsibilities left behind, the calm of alone-ness and anonymity. Always a new discovery around the corner, sampling rather than sinking in, the only hard choices being how long to stay, where to eat, where to flop and how to get to the next place. Most of us like the security of a home — friends, familiarity, regularity. But some of us come alive when we’re free of that stuff.

There are plenty of travelogue series on cable, guys or couples roaming from one exotic place to another, sampling native cuisine, taking in the sights, etc. But I’d like to see a Bourne-y type series about a man or a woman on the run who doesn’t want to be found, and so he/she has to keep moving. I don’t care what he/she is running from or who’s doing the chasing or why as long as the traveller-protagonist isn’t some odious criminal or sociopath.

Yes, of course — there can be no peace without dealing honestly with facts and responsibilities. But there’s also a seductive solace that comes with being on the existential lam, so to speak.

Remember The Prisoner, the ’60s British series with Patrick McGoohan? You didn’t quite know who the bad guys were or what their motives were exactly, but you knew they were watching and manipulating and pulling the strings. That’s all they’d need to be in this Bourne-y series. Nothing too specific or binding — just the guys you want to avoid.

The constant motion thing is what I used to love about the Bourne films (Identity, Supremacy, Ultimatum). The life of a smart and well-organized rolling stone, always a step ahead but rarely more than two or three steps. No rest to speak of, no roots, always on bikes and motorcycles and trains and ferries, one exotic locale to another, always looking over your shoulder but sleeping really well at night.

Odd as it sounds, there’s almost a kind of serenity in this. I’ve been there in a sense. I’ve been traipsing around for the last 17 or 18 years, taking trains from Amsterdam to Berlin to Prague to Munich to Vietnam, renting scooters in Paris and Rome and Hue, always on the move, parking it in cafes, not much eye contact, always writing and texting, always up late.

This morning on Facebook a New Jersey woman named Joy Whitnack (from the leafy suburb of New Vernon, a bit southwest of Morristown) spoke of an argument she had with her boyfriend last night after they watched the Stormy Daniels interview on 60 Minutes.

“[I’m] feeling very sad this morning. Last night…my significant other had to go on and on about Stormy Daniels. I said she was a bimbo and he said ‘what does that make Trump?’ End result a few minutes later I was told that I’m a dumb-ass! I should not be called nasty names just because I have different political views, should I? We haven’t spoken since then and he walked around the house this morning as though I did something wrong. Unbelievable.

“I try every day to make our home pretty, cook nice meals, etc. I’ve constantly said we should not discuss politics because he constantly calls our President every bad name imaginable. Am I wrong to expect an apology for being called a dumb-ass last night? Am I the one that is wrong? I love this person. Just don’t think I need to be called names for my views on politics or anything else.” She closed with a frown face.

My reply: “You’re not a ‘dumb-ass'” — I was trying to be gracious — “and if I were your husband or boyfriend, I would apologize and let it go. (Does he drink?) But you’re 100% wrong in calling Donald Trump ‘our‘ president. He’s ‘your‘ president. Only his base (35% of the electorate, give or take) is loyal and admiring — every sane person outside this community regards Trump as a racist, sociopathic nightmare — the most ill-informed, ethically deplorable person to ever occupy the Oval Office, hands down.

“With the cat out of the bag Stormy Daniels is out for what she can get, of course, but every fibre and instinct tells me she’s not lying.”