Woody Allen on Donald Trump, quoted by Screen Daily: “I still don’t know why he wanted the job. I never felt it was up his alley. It never occurred to me that he would win the presidency or that he was even interested in politics. There was never any hint of that.” Wells to Allen: He wanted the job in order to commercially re-vitalize or reinvigorate the Trump brand, which had never fully recovered from the stigma of four bankruptcies.
Daily
Insanely Delicious Musical Crime Flick Blows Itself Up
Most of Edgar Wright‘s Baby Driver (TriStar, 6.28) is inspired — one of the most strikingly conceived, purely enjoyable fast-car crime flicks I’ve ever seen. With Ansel Elgort as a Ryan Gosling-level getaway driver who needs the right kind of song playing in his ear buds in order to make it all come together, Baby Driver is essentially a kind of action musical — cray-cray car chases and ferocious gunplay synchronized with the sounds and vice versa. To some extent it reminded me of Drive, and at times of Thief, Gone In Sixty Seconds, Bullitt….that line of country.
The four or five car chases in the film are exhilarating nutso stuff, but at the same time the action is undisciplined and show-offy and actually quite mad — Wright going for the gusto without regard to probability or (that horrid word) reality, but at the same time delivering the best squealing-rubber thrills since Gosling and Nicholas Winding Refn pooled forces, and absolutely leaving the bullshit fantasy realm of the Furious franchise in the dust.
But then Wright decides to send Baby Driver flying off the freeway around…oh, the 90-minute mark. And the last 15 or so minutes are flat-out insane and then infuriating. I was sitting there with my face contorted as I silently screamed, “What the fuck are you doing?…you fucking asshole! You really had something going there, but now you’re ruining the movie…you’re making it into some kind of bullshit Vin Diesel cum milkshake with a pop-fantasy ending made of dingleberries and drooling saliva. Why? Do you have a creative death wish?”
HE to director friend this morning: “I just saw Baby Driver last night….a wowser, near-great action musical for the first 80% or 85% followed by a ridiculously absurd, overly violent, catastrophically stupid finale that all but destroys the current and the vibe. A friend said ‘the wheels come off at the end‘ but they come off because Wright got under the car and loosened the lug nuts. Rarely have I seen a popcorn film as inspired and well-made as Baby Driver just blow itself up and shatter into pieces at the very end…a shame and a tragedy.”
I am nonetheless recommending Baby Driver for those first 90 or so minutes. But at the same time I’m telling you that any critic who’s written a gushing pass without mentioning that it destroys itself over the last 15 minutes or so…anyone who ignores this DEAD OBVIOUS FACT is a lying, jizz-whizzing whore who can never be fully trusted ever again.
Little Miss Sunshine Guys In ’70s Mode
Five weeks ago I raved about the first trailer for Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris‘s Battle of the Sexes (Fox Searchlight, 9.22), and particularly a hunch that Steve Carrell‘s performance as tennis blowhard Bobby Riggs “is going to get most of the award-season action” with Emma Stone having won a Best Actress Oscar earlier this year. This was met with instant derision by the comment thread know-it-alls. (“No Oscar nom…Carrell in Anchorman mode…better in The Big Short,” etc.) This new trailer highlights another strong contributor — screenwriter Simon Beaufoy. If you can’t sense from the trailer that Battle of the Sexes is well written, you can at least presume that the top-notch quality of Beaufoy’s previous screenplays will manifest again — The Full Monty, Slumdog Millionaire, 127 Hours, Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, Everest, etc.
Tenacious Newshound, “Jewish Guy From Bronx”
I’ve always loved this photo of WNBC newsman Gabe Pressman listening to the Beatles during their first-ever U.S. press conference, minutes after they landed at JFK airport on 2.7.64. Here, in a nutshell, is the great hair gulf between generations — the 39 year-old Pressman, a WWII veteran and very much a Brylcream man, pondering a new wave of longish, non-Brylcreamed hair as the world turns and a new chapter begins. Anyone who grew up in the tri-state area in the ’60s and ’70s remembers Pressman — hard-nut TV street reporter, always with the mike, more than 60 years on the beat. He began in the mid ’50s and never retired. Wiki excerpt: “Until the very end, Pressman worked part-time at WNBC, mostly as a blog writer about New York City news on the station’s website. He was [also] active on Twitter. In 2014, he stated that an arthritic knee kept him from chasing stories like he used to. A few months before his death, Pressman covered the annual Saint Patrick’s Day Parade in New York.”
In Other Words
I just got an auto-response email that says “I am currently out of the office with no access to emails.” I get the message — “please converse with my associates while I re-charge” — but if it were me, I would say the following: “Of course, naturally, I’m receiving your emails. I’m not dead or in a coma or hibernating in a deep, dark cave or stranded on a Himalayan mountain peak or camel-ing across the Jordanian desert. I’m hearing you, reading you. I’m just doing that soul-nourishing, plant-watering thing that we all need to do from time to time. No biggie. Talk to you soon.”
Oops…Lowery’s A Ghost Story Added to Best of ’17
Apologies to David Lowery and A24 for forgetting to include A Ghost Story in my recent rundown of the best 2017 flicks thus far. It belongs and then some. I’m putting A Ghost Story just below The Square but above Get Out, which was in sixth place until a few minutes ago but is now in seventh.
The new ranking: (1) Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name, (2) Michael Showalter’s The Big Sick (Lionsgate/Amazon, 6.23), (3) Matt Reeves‘ War For The Planet of the Apes, (4) Andrey Zvyagintsev‘s Loveless, (5) Ruben Ostlund‘s The Square, (6) Lowery’s A Ghost Story and (7) Jordan Peele‘s Get Out.

From my 1.25.17 review — “Odd, Minimalist, Engagingly Trippy Ghost Story“:
“David Lowery‘s A Ghost Story (A24) lives on the opposite side of the canyon from Olivier Assayas and Kristen Stewart‘s Personal Shopper, a ghost tale which is all kinds of different and original but seriously scary from time to time. It has to be said upfront that Lowery’s film isn’t all that scary. Okay, two or three moments put the chill in but this isn’t the game plan, and that’s what’s so cool about it. Really. Either you get that or you don’t.
“For this is basically a story about a broken-hearted male ghost (or formerly male) who doesn’t know what to do with himself, and so he mopes around and says to himself ‘Jesus, I feel kind of fucked…where am I?…what’s happening?…am I gonna stand around watching humans for decades or even centuries? I don’t know what the hell to do.’
Ghosts, Computer Screens, Turning Tides
There’s no way to not speak highly of Matthew Heineman‘s City of Ghosts, which premiered at Sundance ’17 and which I saw last night at a special screening at CAA. It’s a melancholy doc about a team of brave Syrian dudes who’ve been filing online reports since early ’14 about the atrocity-filled occupation of Raqqa, their home town, by the ideological fiends known as ISIS.
Hands down, all the critics are swearing by Heineman’s doc and bowing down. I’m an admirer also, but I have a few questions.
Co-founded by the 26 year-old Abdalaziz Alhamza, the group has been posting about the medieval brutality of ISIS (killings, beheadings, torture, deprivations) via their website, Raqqa is Being Slaughtered Silently or RSS. Initially based in Raqqa and then Turkey and finally Germany, they’ve passed along reports (which have occasionally included photos and even videos) from brave citizen correspondents. If ISIS could get their hands on any these guys they’d be quickly killed, just as surely as their friends and family have been shot or beheaded without mercy.

Following last night’s CAA screening, a discussion of Matthew Heineman’s doc with RSS co-founder Abdalaziz Alhamza sitting at far left.
Who doesn’t know that ISIS is one of the rankest manifestations of absolute evil in the history of the species, and that the only righteous solution is to herd the entire army and particularly its leaders into a huge, 300-foot-deep hole in the Syrian desert, and then bury them alive under thousands of tons of sand? Everyone understands this, no one disputes, settled issue.
Nonetheless your heart goes out to the RSS guys. You feel almost nothing but admiration and respect. Anyone reading this who wants to help out should send money to RSS. I myself am planning to send a little coin. If nobility and bravery count for anything, City of Ghosts, which has been playing the festival circuit for six months now, will almost certainly be nominated for a Best Feature Doc Oscar.
But here’s the thing, a criticism that none of us are supposed to mention. Too much of City of Ghosts is about lethargy and resignation and guys sitting in front of computer screens with glum expressions. Yes, I know — who can blame them? What’s been happening to their home city is almost too brutal to ponder. But the fact remains that too much of this film is about a kind of semi-passive contemplation of the seemingly unstoppable horror of ISIS. Yes, the RSS guys are fighting them but there’s no hint that the tide may be turning when in fact it is.
The truth is that Heineman’s doc doesn’t leave you much at the end of the day. It fills you with sadness and despair. I for one believe it should do better than this, and it could start by bringing the story up to date.
Stronger Impressions
Stronger (Lionsgate/Roadside, 9.22), David Gordon Green‘s film version of Jeff Bauman‘s “Stronger” (co-written by Bret Witter), is obviously cut from a different cloth than Peter Berg and Mark Wahlberg‘s Patriots Day. It’s a kind of “Neitszche, fuck yeah!” film, or rather a feature-length echo of the German philsopher‘s famous quote along these lines.
In a nutshell: How I survived and built past the loss of my legs after the 2013 Boston marathon bombing.
How can Jake Gyllenhaal‘s performance as Bauman not translate into a major Best Actor bid? You can tell he’s dug pretty deep. The only way this wouldn’t ignite is if reviewers and Academy types start moaning “what, another triumph of the spirit over trauma and adversity thing? We’ve seen this story 20 or 30 times.”
My first thought was that Gyllenhaal’s resemblance to Bauman is fairly striking, but my second was that he’s still Jake Gyllenhaal and is therefore too good-looking for Tatiana Maslany, who plays Bauman’s girlfriend (and later wife) Erin Hurley. Look at them together — she’s just not in his league. I’m sorry to irritate everyone by reminding that birds of a feather almost always flock together. If you look at photos of the real Bauman and Hurley [after the jump] you’ll see they’re closely matched.
I’m presuming that the end of the film will dramatize the fact that Bauman and Hurley decided earlier this year to get divorced. (The Hollywood Reporter‘s Pamela McClintock reported this last February.) A closing-credit acknowledgment won’t do — Gyllenhaal and Maslany have to act it out.
The CG leg-removal effects are obviously state of the art.
Psychopathic Asswipe
On 5.12.17, or three days after he fired FBI Director James Comey, President Trump tweeted that “Comey better hope that there are no ‘tapes’ of our conversations before he starts leaking to the press!” During his 6.8 testimony before the Senate Intelligence Committee, Comey said “I’ve seen the tweet about tapes…Lordy, I hope there are tapes.” Orange Orangutan refused to confirm or deny if recordings exist of his conversation[s] with Comey. Today he tweeted the following: “With all of the recently reported electronic surveillance, intercepts, unmasking and illegal leaking of information, I have no idea whether there are ‘tapes’ or recordings of my conversations with James Comey, but I did not make, and do not have, any such recordings.”
You contemptible bullshitter, you swaggering phony. You make me sick with your empty taunts and braggadocio.
Huxtable Loyalists
From CNN.com: Ten of the 12 jurors in Bill Cosby’s recent assault trial voted to convict the comedian on two counts of aggravated indecent assault, but the case was declared a mistrial because two people on the panel continued to hold out, a juror told ABC News.
The jury consisted of four white women, six white men, one black woman and one black dude. Since the mistrial announcement my assumption has been that the two hold-outs (i.e., refusing to convict) were either among the four white women or the six white guys. Seriously — the applicable phrases are (a) tribal dynamic and (b) do the math.
Cosby faced three counts of aggravated indecent assault. CNN reports that the vote was 10 to 2 to convict him on charges that he digitally penetrated Andrea Constand in January 2004 without her consent, and 10 to 2 that he gave her drugs that substantially impaired her ability to resist, the juror told ABC Wednesday. The vote was 11 to 1 to acquit Cosby on a charge that he digitally penetrated her while she was unconscious or unaware.
Spike Lee Says What Even I Haven’t Dared To Say
Spike Lee to Variety: “Every 10 years, black people win a lot of Oscars. And then we read articles in Variety magazine and others, the black audience has been discovered. It’s a renaissance. Then there’s another nine year drought. It should be constant. I will put my money on this. The reason why what happened at the Oscars this year” — Barry Jenkins‘ Moonlight winning for Best Picture — “was because the year before was #OscarsSoWhite. That was a bad look for the Academy. And they had to switch up, get more inclusion, get more people, try to get more diversity among the voting members. But what happened this past Oscars, you think that’s going to happen [next] year?”
By the same token, when mainstream Academy fuddyduds start seeing Call Me By Your Name this fall, they’re going to say “wait, whoa…we already gave the Best Picture Oscar to a gay film last year….we ain’t goin’ there again…not two years in a row!” And that would be a bullshit attitude to embrace. If for no other reason than the simple fact that Call Me By Your Name, which isn’t a gay film (although it is) as much as a northern Italian film about sensuality, family and community, is 16 times better than Moonlight.
Five Knockout ’17 Flicks So Far, and That’s All
Variety‘s Owen Gleiberman and Peter Debruge have posted their best-of-2017 picks thus far. Tediously, they’ve restricted themselves to films that have opened commercially. Jordan Peele‘s absurdly over-praised Get Out, the kind of film that John Carpenter might have made in the ’70s or ’80s without a single critic creaming in his or her pants, tops the roster. They’re also fans of Miguel Arteta‘s audaciously conceived, reasonably decent Beatriz at Dinner, Michael Showalter‘s The Big Sick (one of my faves) and Edgar Wright‘s Baby Driver. I won’t repeat the others but they all fall under one of two headings — “not bad” and “huh?”

(/) Call Me By Your Name director Luca Guadagnino, star Timothee Chalumet during 2016 filming in Crema, Italy.
The real list (i.e., my own) is composed of the Best 2017 Films, period — i.e., not yet opened theatrically but which have (a) made big splashes at this or that festival or (b) have simply screened for press. They are, in this order, (1) Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name (Sony Classics, 11.24 — a Sundance ’17 wowser that should have opened in Cannes), (2) The Big Sick (Lionsgate/Amazon, 6.23 — Sundance ’17), (3) Matt Reeves‘ War For The Planet of the Apes (20th Century Fox, 7.14), (4) Andrey Zvyagintsev‘s Loveless (Sony Pictures Classics, late 2017) and (5) Ruben Ostlund‘s The Square (Magnolia, late 2017). Okay, I’ll include Get Out but strictly in terms of it being a smart, noteworthy, socially reflective genre film — it deserves an upvote but calm down.
I haven’t seen Sean Baker‘s The Florida Project and I won’t see Baby Driver until tomorrow night.