Allegedly the first installment of a two-parter, pic takes place after the events of Batman v Superman and Suicide Squad. The idea of having to watch this thing is similar to contemplating a visit to the dentist. I can’t wait to feel numb and drained. Stab me in the head with a kitchen knife.

A guy has sent me a January 2016 draft of Martin McDonaugh‘s Three Billboards in Ebbing, Missouri. The trailer popped on 3.23.

“Easily McDonagh’s best,” the guy says. “Instead of getting cute at the end, it gets human. The trailer is great but it doesn’t give the drama enough credit. I think it’s easily his most mature, humanist film to date. There’s a No Country For Old Men vibe.” Now I’m wondering if I should read it or wait for the film. This is sounding more and more like a perfect film for Cannes. Everyone will probably praise it, and it’ll kick off Frances McDormand‘s Best Actress campaign to boot.

Should Fox Searchlight re-think their alluded-to policy of never screening a potential award-season hottie on the Cote d’Azur? The conventional Oscar strategist advice is to never shoot your wad in Cannes but wait for Venice, Telluride and Toronto. How then did No Country, which premiered in Cannes on 5.19.07, ever manage a Best Picture win?

The first five paragraphs of “The Perverse Thrill of Chaotic Times“, a 3.25 N.Y. Times piece by Teddy Wayne, offer an uncannily accurate capturing of how Type-A specimens have been feeling deep down since Donald Trump‘s election. I fell into it like a guy on a bungee cord. Yes, exactly…we’re in a monster movie, The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms, and while I’m 70% freaked, I’m also 30% jazzed.

But the thing that really turned my head arrived about 14 paragraphs in. After noting that “political journalism — itself under attack by the president — hasn’t been this ardent since Sept. 11,” Wayne reminds that the World Trade Center attacks “ushered in the era of the superhero, with desire for American might to overcome evil projected onto a single figure.”

Illustration for Teddy Wayne’s “The Perverse Thrill of Chaotic Times” by Anthony Freda and Dan Zollinger.

This reminded me of something I said almost exactly 13 years ago about Tony Scott‘s Man on Fire, in my mind the best rightwing superhero whoop-ass movie ever. Denzel Washington‘s Creasy made the bad guys (i.e., Mexican cartel kidnappers) howl and sweat and scream before killing them like a meter maid hands out a parking ticket, water off a duck’s ass.

In my mind (and in Scott’s, I’m thinking) the cartel guys were stand-ins for the terrorist “other.” Everyone understood that, I think, and millions relished the feeling of payback. No mercy, no quarter. No CG superhero movie has ever made me feel this way. I was in the men’s room adjacent to the Zanuck theatre after my first Man on Fire viewing, and guys at the urinals were going “whoa, fucking Denzel…he doesn’t fuck around…Jesus!”

Man on Fire opened on 4.23.04 — two and a half years after 9.11. I don’t think I’ve ever succumbed quite as fully to a film espousing this kind of rightwing, scorched-earth vengeance. No, I don’t feel good about the likelihood that Steve Bannon and the Breitbart guys probably like Man on Fire as much as I do, but I can’t deny that I feel and endorse what it’s putting out. Yes, still.

Kino Lorber’s Bluray of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Paradine Case (’47) pops on 5.30. Please understand this is a sub-par Hitchcock from his post-Notorious, pre-Strangers on a Train phase, which was largely about treading water. He finally got the old pizazz back with Strangers. Stage Fright and Under Capricorn were also made during this fallow period, which lasted four and 1/2 years, give or take.

I’m tempted anyway, of course. I’ve never seen Paradine in 1080p — only once or twice via standard-def cable. I’ll sit through just about any flush big-studio ’40s film if it looks good enough. Hitchcock’s dp this time was Lee Garmes — Detective Story (’51), The Lusty Men (’52), The Desperate Hours (’55), and Howard Hawks‘ Land of the Pharaohs (’55).

“The Paradine Case is a straightforward portrait of obsession and downfall,” I wrote on 12.16.15. “It’s a carefully measured, decorous, stiff-necked drama about a married, middle-aged attorney (a too-young Gregory Peck) who all but destroys himself when he falls in love with a femme fatale client (Alida Valli) accused of murdering her husband.

“A foolish love affair is one thing, but Peck’s exists entirely in his head as Valli isn’t the least bit interested and in fact is in love with Louis Jordan, whom she was seeing before her husband’s death. Not much of an entry point for a typical moviegoer, and not a lot to savor.

“It’s essentially a romantic triangle piece (Peck, Valli, Jordan) but you can’t identify or even sympathize with Peck as Valli is playing an ice-cold monster. But I’ve always respected the tragic scheme of it. By the second-to-last scene Peck’s humiliation is complete and absolute.”

The way this Amazon drone hovers and then slowly descends towards a landing spot on a big green lawn…well, c’mon. You can tell me this wasn’t staged to resemble the arrival of Michael Rennie‘s spaceship in The Day The Earth Stood Still. Yes, I realize that Amazon honcho Jeff Bezos wasn’t even born until ’64, or 13 years after Robert Wise‘s sci-fi classic opened, but he knows this 1951 film cold, trust me. Don’t tell me Klaatu’s arrival wasn’t in the mind of whomever staged this event…don’t tell me that!

As a longtime loather of all things Dwayne Johnson (on 12.8.16 I called him “a comme ci comme ca Republican who’s out to make dough and keep things as vapid and formulaic as possible…an amiable baba with a ripped bod”) and one who harbors strong negative suspicions about Seth Gordon’s  Baywatch (Paramount, 5.26), I feel obliged to turn the other cheek and pass along some buzz from a friend. Take it with a grain.

“I can tell you that everyone is surprised at how well that Baywatch plays and has tested,” the guy says. “It went through development for years and years, but somehow the tone came out right and it apparently channels The Rock’s sweet spot.   [Allegedly] the best comedic use of Johnson to date. There’s a satirical current that sends up Jerry Bruckheimer and Michael Bay cinema, mocking the omnipresent shallowness and overt calculation of every set piece, plot point and storyboarded CGI action sequence. Baywatch wasn’t super-expensive, save for its stars, and will surprise audiences as a smart, funny film that works like gangbusters.”

In my experience the worst checkout-line schmoozers (i.e., people who couldn’t care less if their chit-chat is delaying you and the others in line for God knows how many minutes) are found in pharmacies. These are people who are probably dealing with some sort of affliction, and in lieu of a doctor are hoping for a touch of emotional comfort and reassurance from the pharmacist. So they talk about their aches and discomforts and lack of sleep or whatever, and the pharmacist, invested in a general alpha attitude towards all customers, feigns interest and offers suggestions along with a caring smile. Which prompts the chit-chatter to unload all the more about whatever’s ailing. And I’m standing there third or fourth in line, listening and sighing and rolling my eyes.

While Werner Herzog‘s Queen of the Desert “doesn’t deserve outright trashing, it can’t be classed as anything other than a disappointment. Because it’s not even the sort of bad that makes Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call — New Orleans such a gonzo blast. The notoriously stodgy historical biopic genre looks as self-serious, surface and inert as it would from any old journeyman. Herzog clearly loves both Nicole Kidman and his subject, Middle Eastern explorer and deal-maker Gertrude Bell, to the point of allowing no blemish to show. It’s such a disappointment when you consider the wild portraits of pioneers that Herzog has given us before, that he’s so reverent here. Isn’t he the director who can locate the madness in everything he sees? Where is Bell’s madness?” — from by a 2.6.15 review by Indiewire‘s Jessica Kiang. Yes, that’s right — filed over two years ago.

Last fall a decent-looking high-def version of Billy Wilder‘s One, Two, Three — one of my all-time favorite comfort movies — disappeared from Amazon streaming. After noting this on 11.4.16 I wrote that a Bluray version will probably hit the market before long. A day or two ago Kino Lorber Classics announced the release of a One, Two, Three Bluray on 5.30.17, which of course I immediately bought.

Why isn’t a high-def version of Peter Bogdanovich‘s revised, expanded version of Directed by John Ford, which came out on DVD seven and a half years ago, streaming on Amazon or Netflix or wherever? One of the finest docs about a legendary director ever made and it’s still on DVD?

On 11.6.06 I posted an HE piece about Ford, called “Snarly Softie.” It was triggered by a viewing of Bogdanovich’s doc, which had its big debut on Turner Classic Movies in the spring of that year. The DVD popped two and a half years later, on 9.15.09.

That Ford piece I posted yesterday about his World War II service and more specifically his post-D-Day bender (which is mentioned in Netflix’s Five Came Back) led me back to the ’06 article:

“I’ve tried and it’s impossible — there’s no feeling just one way about John Ford. His movies have been wowing and infuriating me all my life, and after seeing Peter Bogdanovich‘s Directed by John Ford, the muddle is still there.

“But Bogdanovich’s film gives you a feeling — one that seems clear and genuine — that you’ve gotten to know the old coot better than ever before, that you’ve really and truly seen past the bluster and the scowl and the cigar, beyond the scrappy Irish machismo and into some intimate realm. After many years of saying “Ford sure made some great films but what a snappy old prick he was,” I’ve finally come to like the guy. And I feel I owe Bogdanovich a debt for that.

“I tried to say this during my Monday afternoon phone chat with Bogdanovich. We spoke for 25 or 30 minutes. And I never quite said what I felt the film had taught me about Ford, which is that he was a shameless softie who used a snarly exterior manner to keep people from getting inside and discovering who he really was. But of course, his films made that pretty clear on their own.