I have a rendezvous with Patti Cake$ (Fox Searchlight, 8.18). I missed it in Park City. I missed it in Cannes. I missed a 6.22 screening on the Fox lot. But I will see it soon, I trust. And I will surrender myself to the New Jersey-ness of it, as I was born and raised and suffered through years of adolescent angst in Westfield, New Jersey. Westfield was and is a comfy whitebread hamlet while Patti Cake$ is set in the grim streets of Bergen County — a far cry. But I lived in North Bergen in ’08 and ’09 and suffered once again due to the grotesque antics of the Hispanic Party Elephant, who lived one floor above. I don’t hate New Jersey but it has always brought me some kind of pain or lethargy or discomfort. I’ll never be at peace with it, but I shouldn’t blame Patti Cake$ for being a New Jersey thang. The word all along has been highly positive. (Here’s a good piece by a fellow New Jerseyan.) It’s said to be a spiritual descendant of Hustle & Flow and 8 Mile, both of which I loved. So I’m ready to do it.

The usual grousing about the Oscars, posted last night by JR: “Who fucking cares what the Academy does? I am done with the Oscars, completely done. I am frankly embarrassed that I have given a damn about the Oscars for this long, literally more than 50 years of my life. There’s never been much common ground between my list of the year’s finest alongside the Academy’s Best Picture nominees, and lately the divide has grown much wider.”

Which required my usual patient response: “Once again, it’s not the Oscars as much as The Season. The Oscars are the final event, the grand crescendo, the last stop on the line. Agree with or ignore their picks, but they’re worth their weight in gold because they drive The Season, and thank God and glory hallelujah for that.

“For without The Season (Labor Day to late February) the reach, depth, character and quality of films would never rise above the level of Wonder Woman or the latest Kevin Feige or D.C. Comics fantasia or, at best, noteworthy genre exercises like Get Out. And I’m saying this as a genuine fan of Ant-Man, by the way, as well as one who respects and admires the other two as far they go.”

Yesterday I posted a riff about Scott Feinberg‘s 7.7 Hollywood Reporter article about the Academy expanding its membership with hundreds of filmmakers from foreign countries (“How the Globalization of the Academy Shakes Up the Race“). At the end I wrote the following kicker: “All hail the policies of inclusion, and down with the dominance of the proverbial 62 year-old white male who used to represent the typical Academy voter.”

This drew a complaint from “BadHatHarry,” to wit: “Does the obviously racist slant of this mean, if the harbinger here is true, that the day may come when one could vocally wish for the sidelining of the ‘proverbial minority female’ who now represents the academy? Or will they be the majority by then, freeing us to weep and gnash our teeth that we don’t hear enough white male voices?”

My reply: “I’m sorry, you’re right — it’s racist to denigrate the proverbial 62 year-old white guy and his supposed preferences as far as Best Picture contenders are concerned. I was just expressing the conventional view of the Hollywood herd, which is basically a healthy notion that the Academy needs to free itself from that 62 year-old white guy mentality by opening the gates to all tribes & agendas — women, people of various shades and ethnicities, LGBTQs, etc.

“At the same time we have to acknowledge that for quite a few years now (remember the early ’70s National Lampoon piece “Our White Heritage“?) the entire urban progressive culture of this country (i.e., hipsters, well educated wealthies, blue cities) has been frowning upon and pitying the history, legacy and attitudes of white culture. At least in terms of public discourse and now Twitter.

“It saddens me to acknowledge this, but the resulting narrative — i.e., it’s time for white culture to cede power to the multiculturals while accepting the lash for its horrid, corrupt history — is probably the single biggest factor (along with too many people hating Hillary) that led to Trump being in the White House. The 2016 election was mainly about race and to some extent misogyny, and was significantly propelled by rural & rust-belt under-educated whites pushing back against the p.c. elites & multiculturals.”

It can be assumed that between 19% and 20% of America’s population (the percentage of the country that voted for Donald Trump) believes this hooey. President Trump tweeted this video, which is basically Triumph of the Will minus the visual artistry, at 8:57 am this morning. The “Make America Great Again” song was written by Joy Villa, a practicing Scientologist who wore a Trump-inspired dress to the 2017 Grammy Awards, hails from Orange County, and is obviously a cultural traitor of the lowest order.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! pic.twitter.com/NVDVRrWLs4

— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) July 9, 2017

I’ve been watching One, Two, Three since the ’60s, and I laugh at the final line in this clip every damn time. The gist of James Cagney‘s three-word retort: You threatened me so I fucked you up badly, but then I un-fucked you up so everything’s cool and what’s your problem?

The key thing is Cagney turning to his left and looking at Lilo Pulver instead of Horst Buccholz when he says it. This changes the pitch. Cagney’s Coca Cola exec knows he’s using lopsided moral logic but what the hell. Another example of how a joke has to be delivered just so with just the right touch of English or it won’t work. Wilder used to say this in interviews all the time.

In a 7.7 piece titled “How the Globalization of the Academy Shakes Up the Race,” The Hollywood Reporter‘s Scott Feinberg has again reported that foreign-resident membership in the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has increased big-time over the past 13 months. With 1457 new members added since June 2016, or roughly a fifth of the entire membership of 7650, hundreds upon hundreds of these newbies are from China, South Korea, Russia, Israel, Poland, Italy,  Japan, et. al. (Feinberg’s first post about AMPAS membership changes appeared two years ago.)

So throngs of new foreign voters will mean what in terms of Best Picture contenders? You tell me but here’s a theory. Because a more culturally varied membership indicates a less monolithic mindset, it could be that formulaic, emotionally pat feel-good flicks that often appeal to the blue-hairs — movies like Chicago, The King’s Speech, Crash, The Artist — might have a tougher time winning. Maybe. Or an increased influence from Chinese and South Korean members could mean, God help us, greater support for military spectacle, monster flicks, martial-arts crap or Hitchcock or Spielberg homage films. Okay, let’s not go there. All hail the policies of inclusion, and down with the dominance of the proverbial 62 year-old white male who used to represent the typical Academy voter.

From Brooks Barnes’ N.Y. Times profile of producer Amy Pascal, posted on 7.8: “Pascal’s producing projects are varied: superhero movies (Silver & Black), prestige-minded dramas (The Papers), bouncy comedies (Barbie). But almost every film on her docket involves female empowerment.

“’I’m not trying to correct or counterbalance,’ Pascal said, referring to male-dominated Hollywood. ‘I’m interested in women because I am a woman, and that’s what I understand.’

Producer Amy Pascal (Spider-Man: Homecoming, The Papers

“To illustrate her point, she turned to The Papers, which stars Meryl Streep as Katharine Graham, who hesitantly took over The Washington Post after her husband’s suicide in 1963. The screenplay finds Graham trying to catch up to The New York Times, which published the Pentagon Papers in 1971, enraging President Richard M. Nixon and leading to a landmark First Amendment court case, which prohibited the government from ordering that leaked information not be published.

“’It’s first and foremost a movie about Katharine Graham, a woman who went from being a little bit of a mouse to a lion,’ Ms. Pascal said. ‘And that, to me, was obviously really interesting. She had to struggle to decide to speak up.’

“She added: ‘I know that woman. I’ve been that woman.'”

HE interjection: The problem with The Papers, as I indicated last March after reading Liz Hannah‘s The Post (since retitled and rewritten by Josh Singer), is that Mrs. Graham spends too much time as a mouse (over 70 pages) and not enough as a lion.

I’m a sucker for clackety-clack typewriter sounds, sure. I love fiddling with typewriters. I love that there’s a brick building on Olympic called National Typewiter Company. But I haven’t owned a typewriter since ’88 or thereabouts. Typewriters aren’t vinyl (i.e., a cooler way to go) but Victrolas. They’re basically a sentimental indulgence for affluent types who don’t have to submit or post anything. Or who don’t mind scanning their pages and transferring to digital. Not to mention buying inky ribbons, white-out, paper. There’s an OSX software called Noisy Typer that I just tried to install — didn’t work. Doug Nichol‘s California Typewriter will open in New York and Los Angeles on 8.11. No screening invites or offer of video links. Who’s handling publicity?

There was some back-and-forth yesterday about Kier Simmons‘ timid approach to covering a G20 demonstration for NBC (“What Kind Of Pussy Reporter Wears A Crash Helmet?“). One of the comments mentioned that notorious scene at the beginning of Thunderball when Sean Connery wore a jetpack helmet. Connery had that Scottish machismo thing down just fine in Dr. No, From Russia With Love and Goldfinger. But it all collapsed when he put that pussy helmet on. From that point on there was something vaguely deballed about the guy. The advertising team obviously agreed — the Thunderball posters showed Connery flying the jet pack without the helmet.

No argument about having to wear a helmet to ride a motorcycle around town (although I’d be happier if the helmet law was optional) and I understand the need to wear yellow hard hats on a construction site, but otherwise helmets are for eunuchs. I’ve never worn one of those pinko-pansy bicycle helmets in my life, and I never will.

But you can’t make him drink. Or, in Shia LaBeouf’s case, not drink.

The poor guy was arrested in Savannah around 4 am this morning “after he was caught causing a drunken commotion in City Market downtown,” according to Variety. Hey, I know the City Market area pretty well! Festive, touristy. If I was still a drinking man I would probably adore Savannah on a whole ‘nother level.

Whatever Labeouf’s enjoyment levels were last night, they plummeted when he was put in a cell around 4 or 5 am this morning. He made bail around 11 am.

“The Transformers star first began making a scene when he asked a bystander and an officer if they had any cigarettes to spare,” the report reads. “Upon their refusal, Lebeouf ‘became disorderly, using profanities and vulgar language in front of the women and children present,’ says the SCMPD. ‘He was told to leave the area and refused, becoming aggressive toward the officer. LaBeouf then ran to a nearby hotel, where he was eventually apprehended inside the lobby.’

It was apparent to me nine years ago that Lebeouf had a problem that needed addressing. I had a brief discussion with him about “the program” during an Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crustal Skull party at the 2008 Cannes Film Festival. Excerpt: “I told LeBeouf he looked great also, adding — this was a minor mistake — that the program obviously agreed with him. ‘The program?,’ he asked. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘AA, no? I read you’d gone into the program after the Chicago Walmart bust.’ ‘Nope…no program…just livin’ my life,’ he replied.”

A24 has funded a Chinatown storefront that’s about promoting David Lowery‘s A Ghost Story, which opens today. The idea is to immerse yourself in the mythology of the film by wearing an actual ghost sheet (which can also be ordered online) while meditating about eternity and whatnot. I think about the void all the time. Well, actually I don’t. I know I’m going to die and become a ghost some day, but I’m happier being in the present and sniffing aromas and thinking about movies.

I like Kate Erbland’s 6.27 Indiewire story about the pop-up, but Steven Zeitchik’s L.A. Times story (posted this morning at 11:45 am) declines to post a link to the store’s website, and both stories refuse to simply state that it’s located at 51A Chrystie Street, between Canal and Hester. Zeitchick will only divulge that the pop-up is “in a revived post-industrial stretch of the city in lower Manhattan.”

And why, may I ask, isn’t there a Los Angeles Ghost Store? The A24 guys are based in Manhattan, of course, but they seem indifferent to the feelings of their Left Coast friends. I for one think this situation sucks.

Last night I caught a 7:15 pm showing of A Ghost Story at the Arclight, and man oh man it’s so great to sit in the front row and stare at the big screen and that 1.37 aspect ratio image with the rounded corners. And I love how Casey Affleck‘s ghost garb is somewhat grayish and frayed, and looks more like a soiled paint tarp than a bedsheet. You can tell that the ghostface eye holes have been cut with drugstore scissors, and that they’re frayed. And I love how Lowery is very, very careful not to let the viewer see Affleck’s feet or footwear. God forbid should we notice tennis slip-ons or flip-flops. Affleck’s ghost doesn’t exactly float around but Lowery definitely tries to discourage viewers from mulling the possibility that the ghost gets around by putting one foot in front of the other.

Wells to Zeitchik and Erbland: Chrystie Street! 51A Chrystie Street! Take the B or D to Grand Street.