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The only problem I have with this anti-One Battle After Another essay is the name of the guy who wrote and narrated it — Adam Friended. What the fuck kind of last name is that? As in “he/she friended me on Facebook”? The fuck? Otherwise it’s a totally on-target OBAA takedown.

Excerpt: “If Sean Penn‘s Colonel Lockjaw would have married Perfidia Beverly Hills had she not left him, maybe he could have lived a normal life. The evidence of a real biological daughter from Beverly Hills could have awakened in him a need to revisit that life that could have been setting our villain on a new path to save his biological daughter, sparking in Lockjaw something I like to call a character arc.

“If Lockjaw, in the face of this new biological reality, decided to protect his daughter from the Christmas Adventurer assassin who is coming to kill both of them, we have a far more interesting story than the cartoonish slop of a racist killing the daughter he’s ashamed to have brought into this world. The protect-the-daughter scenario dives into the complexity of racism and the greater human condition far more than PTA’s woke-pandering trash ever could.

“Instead of exploring this far more complicated and compelling story, PTA abandons the story at its most critical climax. And likely because it would be woke blasphemy to depict some sort of redemption arc for any racist character. Once a straight white male character contemplates anything close to a microaggression, he is damned to the pit of progressive hell for all eternity.

“Most good movies are a debate over a contentious point of view. OBAA is a perfect vehicle to debate the age-old belief that blood is thicker than water. But instead of admitting that sometimes blood is a compelling force for good, the movie would rather comically cling to the ideal notion of a blended family based more in progressive dogma than any social or cultural reality.

“Ultimately, it’s this dogmatic stance that has made this movie a hit with those living inside the moral matrix of progressivism (i.e., wokeys).

“But it has left people like me, people desirous of a movie subversive enough to depict the world as it actually is, totally unsatisfied.

“Though this movie is garbage, the cinematic equivalent of a tire fire, rabid fans will no doubt lampoon this review, citing the movie’s widespread critical acclaim. And you know what? That’s fine. I get it. While this movie may rake in accolades and critical acclaim and awards noms, any success it enjoys is ultimately kind of similar to, I would say, that of a Minecraft movie. One Battle After Another has stayed true to its leftist fans.

“Instead of depicting any kind of normal through-line that makes logical sense with a cohesive conflict and resolution, we are dragged through another Hollywood cliche depicting strong women and marginalized communities, no matter how many innocent security guards they may kill.”

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Yesterday’s Venezuelan operation was an exercise in unapologetic big dog-ism. A strategic muscle-car aesthetic in a governmental guise.

“If we don’t like something and we can’t negoiate a settlement, and especially if we’re not benefitting financially, we’re going to rush right the fuck in and blow stuff up and take over. This is what the bumblefucks want…35% to 40% of the country cheers big dog-ism! And if you don’t like it, you’re a whining, mew-mew, cat-bowl-licking liberal pussy!”

From Mr. Gleiberman’s “The People Who Say Timothee Chalamet’s Marty Supreme Character Isn’t ‘Likable’ Sound Like Corrupt Studio Executives,” posted at 10:58 am on Saturday morning (1.3.26):

And here’s the payoff:

40 kids are burnt toast and 119 are injured because of a New Year’s Eve flash fire at Le Constellation bar in Crans-Montana, Valais, Switzerland — a ski resort town about 112 kilometers southwest of Lauterbrunnen, which HE has visited twice.

Bottom line: 40 kids are dead because the guy who decided to place sparklers atop champagne bottles for the New Year’s Eve celebration didn’t consult with the guy who had installed flammable foam in the ceiling. Maybe it was the same guy.

Yes, darting video of Trump’s military attack upon Caracas a few hours ago and reports of the capture and arrest of Venezuelan president Nicholas Maduro, a hulking moustachioed figure who reportedly stands 6’3″, and his elfin wife Cilia Flores…wee-hour videos of this Apocalypse Now-influenced invasion (rat-a-tat choppers overhead, smoke plumes rising hundreds of feet, sounds of automatic gunfire and Hollywood-style explosions) produce a brief endorphin rush among news-channel viewers.

But then the hoolah-boolah settles down and the inevitable aftermath of a forcible regime change is always a mess…never simple or satisfying. The N.Y. Times editorial board has voiced its disapproval. Early this morning Trump spoke briefly to N.Y. Times reporter Tyler Pager. An 11 am Mar a Lago news conference is scheduled.

Who has stepped into the breach as Venezuela’s new president, and where have Nick and Cilia been flown to? Did they have time to pack before leaving, and were they allowed to take suitcases, wardrobes, toiletries and personal computers and phones with them? Nick will stand trial in New York City…right? Where will he serve his hard time?

Trump has been rattling the sabre since his second term began 11 months ago. If Maduro had been smart he would have transferred his ill-gotten drug wealth to safe banks and then resigned last summer or fall and flown off with Celia to a friendly tropical country where a nice beachfront home awaits.

Art Garfunkel‘s “Sandy” to Candice Bergen ‘s “Susan” in Carnal Knowledge (’71): “I’m an act.”

People with performative personalities or social inclinations always make excellent impressions. They live and breathe by way of what’s conventionally known as an outgoing manner. They’re great at parties, in political careers, in high-pressure business environments or in retail jobs that require the usual instant rapport with customers, in social situations of whatever kind.

You always want to hire performative types because you know they’ll never screw things up socially, and that they’ll easily adapt to any odd or unexpected situation and will smooth it all over if necessary…dependables who will always finesse with skill and basically chill things out. Bringers of performative empathy.

The other side of the coin is that you can’t really trust them in a romantic relationship. They’re narcissists — no one’s idea of a steady-as-she-goes romantic partner. Boiled down and up close and personal, they basically radiate the vibes of (no offense) a transactional sociopath. Not much in the way of having a solid or consistent center. I’ve been there three or four times, girlfriend-wise, so don’t tell me.

Certain types of movie characters are impossible to relate to, much less feel any sort of rooting interest for. Minus-zero allegiance. James Caan in The Gambler aside, gambling junkie flicks are a one-way toilet flush. Even if a gambler protagonist wins a big glorious pot, you know it’s just a passing distraction because he/she has no interest in anything other than the next roll, the next card, the next horse or the next wheel spin. Talk about a film that hasn’t a prayer…the very definition of dramatic futility. With the exception of Leaving Las Vegss, the same terms apply to films about chronic boozers (Under The Volcano).

If I was Zohran Mamdani right now, I wouldn’t do this with any regularity or consistence. He obviously doesn’t want to give nutters any bad ideas.

Any half-honest film critic or columnist (a few actually exist) will admit the truth of things, which is that roughly 75% or 80% of commercial features have problems of varying degrees and are therefore a drag to wade through, some more than others.

On a year-by-year basis, how many films tend to be really and truly primal on some level…imbued with grace and poetry and levitational perception? Less than 5%…hell, closer to 3%. And that’s just the way it is. Fear inhibits receptivity. Inspiration is fleeting, sporadic…comes and goes.

But most critics, terrified of sounding like old-fart sourpusses, tend to slip on their ballet shoes and dance around the groaning reality when they write their reviews. That’s the basic difference between Hollywood Elsewhere and the Scott Mantz congregation. I don’t dance. Or at least I try not to.