Four observations about the just-popped teaser for Our Souls At Night, the Robert Redford-Jane Fonda romance that — surprise! — Netflix will now debut on 9.29, which is roughly two months earlier than their previously fiddled-with release date. (A month and a half ago I was told they were looking at sometime around Thanksgiving.) One, this moment says it all — it’s like the whole movie compressed into a single, silent 34-second scene. Two, a publicist who’s seen Our Souls At Night says it’s actually pretty good. (I know…trustworthy!) Three, Fonda looks great — a good 20 or 25 years younger. And four, Redford, Fonda and Netflix should man up and bring the film to Telluride right after the 9.1 Venice Film Festival debut. Incidentally: “You Must Remember This’s” Karina Longworth on Fonda and Jean Seberg.

Here’s a six-day-old MSNBC chat between Ari Melber, Mike Lupica and David Cay Johnston about Robert Mueller’s apparent interest in financial chicanery in the Trump-Russia probe. Maybe it’s Lupica being a trusted sportswriter and Johnston having drilled deeper than most into Trump’s history, but this discussion plus the Mueller grand jury thing gave me one of the best news-discussion stiffies I’ve had in a long time. “Good at finding financial needles in global commerce haystack”,,,go for it!

A little more than eight years ago Alice Cooper published “Alice Cooper, Golf Monster: A Rock ‘n’ Roller’s Life and 12 Steps to Becoming a Golf Addict.” But until today, the idea of Cooper hooking drives, wearing awful golf shoes, cruising the links, using a putter and trading quips with yaw-haw corporate golf guys never crossed my mind. Largely because I haven’t particularly cared what Cooper has been up to in a long time, no offense. But I respect what he had to say yesterday about poor Glen Campbell.

From “Wichita Lineman” Wikipage:

“Jimmy Webb‘s inspiration for the [‘Wichita Lineman’] lyric came while driving through Washita County in rural southwestern Oklahoma. At that time, many telephone companies were county-owned utilities, and their linemen were county employees. Heading westward on a straight road (arguably Country Road 152) into the setting sun, Webb drove past a seemingly endless line of telephone poles, each looking exactly the same as the last.

“Then, in the distance, he noticed the silhouette of a solitary lineman atop a pole. He described it as ‘the picture of loneliness’. Webb then ‘put himself atop that pole and put that phone in his hand’ as he considered what the lineman was saying into the receiver.

On 7.14 (or three and a half weeks ago) The Tracking Board‘s Jeff Sneider reported about Call Me By Your Name‘s Timothy Chalamet costarring with Elle Fanning in Woody Allen‘s next film, an Amazon production that will probably pop in late ’18. So today’s report from Variety‘s Brent Lang was basically about adding Selena Gomez to the cast. Lang should have offered a mild hat-tip to Sneider for getting it first — a little noblesse oblige never hurt anyone.

Suddenly a little movie that might have played like a 21st Century sequel to Mask or at least might have pushed the subtle button from time to time and therefore wouldn’t have felt like an emotional hustle…suddenly it feels more like a pep-rally cheer than anything else, as if the filmmakers (or at the very least the trailer guys) were terrified of suggesting that there might be a downish side to this story. Wonder is based on three relatively recent novels by R.J. Palacio. It’s about the journey of a young kid with a facial deformity (Jacob Tremblay) as he acclimates to school, and how his parents (Julia Roberts, Owen Wilson) and extended family help him along. The costars include Mandy Patinkin, Sonia Braga, Millie Davis, Izabela Vidovic, Danielle Rose Russell and Noah Jupe.

I found Jeff Bridges‘ performance as a craggy, booze-sipping writer in The Only Living Boy in New York more than a little irritating. Many of his mannerisms rubbed me the wrong way, but mostly it was Bridges’ seeming inability to speak plainly and without sounding affected that got to me. I began to hate the way he pronounced everything. Most people would say “I live in apartment B” and leave it at that, but Bridges has to say “I live in apartment BeeyeeEEE.”

I could understand Bridges just fine in The Big Lebowski, but over the last few years he seems to have had a rule about only performing while sucking on three or four throat losenges. Does he have a speech impediment? Does he have it written into his contract that he’s allowed to murmur and mutter and schnorr-schnorr his lines at every turn? Did he have to sip from a fucking glass or smoke a cigar in every damn scene of Marc Webb‘s film? And that infuriating beard stubble. And that Orson Welles-size pot belly.

How, by the way, does an alcoholic who has to struggle mightily to pronounce words in a semi-understandable fashion…how does a slurpy, slouching alcoholic manage to bang out a novel in record time? And how is it that Bridges, at age 68 or so, says he only fell in love once in his life? Once? And it was with the girlfriend or wife of a friend at that? He never fell in love once with somebody available?

Bridges worst offense is his pronunciation of Johanna. That’s the name of Kate Beckinsale‘s character who’s having a simultaneous affair with a dad (Pierce Brosnan) and his son (Callum Turner). Everyone knows that Bob Dylan‘s pronunciation in “Visions of Johanna” is the way to go. It’s JoHANahh, with the HAN rhyming with tin CAN or MAN or RAN as in “I ran down the street.” And yet Bridges, blurp-fuck that he is, insists on calling her Joh-HAHNN-aghhhhh with the HAHHN rhyming with Bonn, Germany.

I’m sorry, but the first thing that came to mind when I heard of Glen Campbell‘s passing was Al Pacino‘s rendering of “By The Time I Get to Phoenix” in Heat. I never really paid a lot of of attention to the guy, no offense, partly because I never liked Campbell’s right-leaning politics. He was a good singer, a skillful phraser. A Southwestern-style conservative going back to the ’70s, Campbell sang the national anthem at the 1980 Republican convention. But I’m truly sorry about anyone, rightie or leftie, having to deal with Al Z. Heimer. Condolences to Glen’s family, friends and fans. Yes, I always had a soft spot for “Wichita Lineman.”

“North Korea best not make any more threats to the United States. They will be met with fire and fury like the world has never seen. [Kim Jong-un] has been very threatening beyond a normal state and as I said they will be met with fire and fury and frankly power the likes of which this world has never seen before.” — President Donald Trump, speaking to reporters between golf swings at his club in Bedminster, New Jersey earlier today. The usual machismo, of course, but also driven by Trump wanting to divert attention from Robert Mueller‘s Russian-collusion grand jury, etc.

If the Guardian can ask for a little extra sugar from its readers, so can I. Hollywood Elsewhere is the same thriving, modestly-scaled site it’s been for the last 13 years, but things are a bit tight right now and so I’m asking for an injection of monetary lamb cells. Just a temporary thing, between now and the end of the year. Everything will be back to normal once the ’17 Phase One revenue kicks in.

Everything is jake on a general basis. The 2017 and early ’18 Oscar season will be just as much of a bread-and-butter provider as the previous years have been, although things have been a lot more competitive for the little-guy sites (which in the Mount Olympus realm boils down to myself and Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone) over the last four or five years. Ad budgets are finite, and the big sites are gobbling up all the apple pie and whipped cream. On top of which social media streams and swirls have gained importance in advertiser eyes. The banner ad will always be a viable anchor, but it ain’t what it used to be.

Plus HE’s off-season economic model has always required modest dough from a series of quickie, no-biggie, nickle-and-dime ad runs in the spring, summer and early fall. I used to be able to muddle through on this score without too much difficulty, but not lately. Now I have to beg and tap-dance and jump through hoops just to keep things steady.

Did the Guardian recently get married and in so doing incur added responsibilities along with a general life change? No, it didn’t. That’s on me and c’est la vie. But Guardian management did determine that normal revenue streams aren’t what they used to be and subsequently decide that a bit of community support would be in order. They’re still the Guardian but they’ve decided to pass the hat. Not a calamity but an adjustment. Same here only less so as HE’s situation is temporary.

I seem to recall asking for a modicum of reader support sometime around ’05 or ’06…something like that. It’s not crazy to reach out to a loyal audience for a little assistance, not as a permanent plead-athon but as a rough-patch, five-month campaign. I’m asking for minimum plunk-downs of $50, and $100 if you can swing it. And if you want to tell me to grim up and figure some other solution, fine. I’ll muddle through either way.

Yeah, I hate doing this but what do you want me to do? Go into a cave and hibernate? It’s not that crazy. I’ve been putting in 12- to 16-hour days for 13 years on this site, and I just need to put out the tip jar for a while. Oscar advertisers have paid the bills all along and nobody’s getting rich here, but…well, I’ve said it.

HE readership is just as buoyant as ever. The site is still a locked-in, must-read, go-to thing…an essential stopover for strong advocacy and provocative opinion. HE is perhaps the last idiosyncratic, personality-driven, culture-channeling, self-regardingly meta, tail-swallowing, Twitter-provoking, Oscar-whispering Hollywood website around…one that top-tier filmmakers follow the world over, and which is regarded as fairly essential read among cutting-edge journalists, industry elites, actors, agents & managers, below-the-liners, ubers, early adopters and granular film fanatics on all seven continents.

Hey, buddy…can you spare a Ulysses S. Grant?

The full slate of the 55th New York Film Festival (9.28 thru 10.15) popped this morning. I’ve only seen a few of the selections, but my insect antennae plus what I’ve heard fill in some of the gaps.

HE keepers (4): Richard Linklater‘s Last Flag Flying (haven’t seen it but it has to be at least half-decent), Woody Allen‘s Wonder Wheel (ditto but Kate Winslet‘s performance said to be quite the torrential heartbreaker), Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name (standing alongside Dunkirk at the top of HE’s best of ’17 list), Ruben Ostlund‘s The Square. Allegedly Essential (2): Sean Baker‘s The Florida Project, Greta Gerwig‘s Lady Bird. Good but Calm Down (3): Robin Campillo‘s BPM (Beats Per Minute), Noah Baumbach‘s The Meyerowitz Stories, Dee Rees‘ Mudbound. Jesus H. Christ (1): Todd Haynes‘ Wonderstruck.

NYFF selection committee chairman Kent Jones is a good, worldly fellow with commendable perceptions, and is capable of letting a little light into his soul as well as the room. But two of the other NYFF deciders, Film Society of Lincoln Center Director of Programming Dennis Lim and Film Comment and Sight and Sound contributor Amy Taubin, are regarded, however fairly or unfairly, as fickle, somewhat humorless snobs. I don’t know much about FSLC Associate Director of Programming Florence Almozini — for all I know she could have the personality and world-view of Sarah Silverman.

Boilerplate press release: “NYFF Special Events, Spotlight on Documentary, Revivals, Convergence, and Projections sections, as well as filmmaker conversations and panels, will be announced in the coming weeks. Tickets for the 55th New York Film Festival will go on sale September 10th. VIP passes and packages are on sale now and offer one of the earliest opportunities to purchase tickets and secure seats at some of the festival’s biggest events,” etc.

As far as I can guess or discern, mother! (Paramount, 9.15) is a movie about monsters consuming a victim. I don’t know anything, but it may be some kind of pervy, bloody-lightbulb descendant of Rosemary’s Baby. JLaw is Rosemary, Javier Bardem is Guy Woodhouse, and Ed Harris and Michelle Pfeiffer are sexualized versions of Roman and Minnie Castevet. Could there be a vague relation to Edgar Allen Poe‘s “The Casque of Amontillado“?

Camille Paglia‘s trangender rap, taped last April, in a nutshell: Youthful alienation has been a constant in American culture for decades. In the late ’40s and ’50s it was being a Jack Kerouac or Allen Ginsberg-styled beatnik. In the mid ’60s to early ’70s it was becoming a hippie taking psychedelic adventures or a political radical. Today you’re encouraged to think that your alienation is possibly because you don’t identify with your inherited gender, and so young people are being encouraged to surgically change genders. It’s all part of general leftist academic thinking about sexual fluidity, and it’s not only ominous but a sign of cultural collapse. 

If some rightwing guy on Fox were to say this, I would dismiss it. But because I’m a longtime Paglia worshipper, I feel differently.