The Shallows (Columbia, 6.29) still doesn’t look all that great. Sharks don’t have personal agendas, and they aren’t persistent — they’re merely instinctual and occasionally hungry. The undercurrent, of course, has little to do with nature or survival but the fact that a fair share of the ticket buyers would probably like to eat Blake Lively themselves. Sidenote: I noted the following as I sat close to Lively during a Cafe Society schmoozer on day #2 of last month’s Cannes Film Festival: (a) her face is quite beautiful — every feature was perfectly sized and proportioned to a fare-thee-well; (b) she’s alert, observant and fairly sharp; (c) She really glowed, which was partly due to the fact that she’d hired a first-rate hair and makeup person; (d) I asked myself “when was the last time I sat this close to someone this pretty?” and the answer was “I dunno but it’s been a while”; and (e) she’s not small or petite — she’s around 5’10” and big-boned, and I don’t mean to suggest she’s in any way heavy-ish — I’m merely saying she’s not wirey or bird-like.

As promised, I saw Noah Baumbach and Jake Paltrow‘s De Palma (A24, 6.10) for the second time at the Aero on Sunday night. It’s easily the most enjoyable portrait of a director doc I’ve seen in years, and of course your average T-shirted, backwards-baseball-cap-wearing megaplex stooge will avoid it like the plague. As clever as DePalma often was and as memorable as many of his careful choreography sequences are/were, I don’t think he ever topped this death-of-Frank-Lopez scene. One of the reasons it’s my all-time favorite is because it’s not show-offy. It’s plain but with a strong “uh-oh” undertow. You can really feel the hot breath of death on the back of your neck. And the “what about Ernie?” thing is a perfect mood-lightener.

Somebody (possibly Sasha Stone) posted this on Facebook a little while ago. I got a good chuckle before I became irritated by the fact that Sasha or whomever forgot to put quotes around President Obama‘s greeting. You have to get these things exactly right or they don’t work. I can’t fix this, of course. Just saying.

Why preview the death of a major Bourne character in a trailer? Don’t blame me. I didn’t do it. Ask Universal marketing.

You have no idea who you're dealing with. This July, Matt Damon is #JasonBourne.https://t.co/49DkZZdaBZ

— #JasonBourne (@jasonbourne) June 7, 2016

Either you understand and appreciate the difference between (a) low-rent horror films aimed at the sandal-wearing slovenlies and mall meanderers and (b) classy, refined upscale scaries like Personal Shopper, The Babadook, The Witch, It Follows and Roman Polanski‘s Repulsion. If so you would also appreciate the difference between Personal Shopper director Olivier Assayas and a talented but opportunistic genre whore like director James Wan, whose latest film is The Conjuring 2 (Warner Bros., 6.10). Wan directed the original The Conjuring, which I thought was fairly decent but not all that great at the end of the day. (It tried too hard, and all but destroyed itself with a happy ending.) In any event I’m down for tonight’s all-media showing of The Conjuring 2. I know what it’s going to be.

The new poster for Southside With You (Miramax/Roadside, 8.26) doesn’t do it for me. It substitutes the green-summer-grass backgrounds in the early posters for a golden-hued washover effect, and for me that does very little to enhance or upgrade. The straw-colored amber in the poster is right next to sepia, which is a commonly-used metaphor for the romantic past (early 20th Century, late 19th Century, Somewhere in Time, etc.) It’s a mistake, I feel, to suggest that that 1989, the year that Barack Obama and Michelle Robinson went on their first date, exists in the realm of golden yesteryears. Please. Back to the green.

Bernie Sanders isn’t stupid. He’s not a fantasist. He knew all along that he probably couldn’t win. He just wants to go guns blazing into the Democratic Convention in Philadelphia so he can deliver his big Bernie revolution speech on a national stage. The Bernie movement is about “we, not he.” Hillary Clinton, who has, at best, a glancing interest in the goals of the Bernie movement, is about “she.” Which, for millions of women out there, is also about “we.” I get that. But when you boil the snow out of it, the Hillary “we” is not so much about policy or social priorities as a glass-ceiling shattering and a major triumph in the gender wars. Which is no small thing. Last night I felt that current along with everyone else. But the Bernie “we” is about much, much more.

The Bernie movement is not about gender, dynasty or “my turn!” — it’s about a fundamental change in direction that will…okay, which might start to prevent the shark of corporate capitalism, as Bill Maher said last week, from eating everything — democracy, the middle class, health care, the news media, our prison system. We all know Hillary Clinton isn’t out to change a damn fundamental thing. I agree with much of what she stands for, I’ll be voting for her next November and I’ll eventually find a way to get past that cackle laugh. But the Bernie thing has to keep going, and I don’t see what’s so bad, given the inevitability of Hillary’s nomination in July, in Bernie’s refusal to quench the torch. In fact I see something glorious in that.

My first reaction…no, everyone‘s first reaction to the recently revealed poster for the 2016 Telluride Film Festival was, of course, that it used the image of Mighty Joe Young, or at the very least of a very strong ape lifting the top of a mountain. So the ape is a metaphor for what or whom? Sasha Stone called the image “beautiful.” Interesting interpretation, but in what way exactly?

I cast my California Presidential Primary vote for Bernie Sanders about 80 minutes ago, or around 3:45 pm. Speaking as a loyal Democrat almost all of my life, I’ve never felt more fire in the belly for anyone than I do for Sanders or less passion than I currently feel for the braying, cackling, ultra-secretive, constantly conniving Hillary Clinton. I can’t wait to give her my half-hearted vote next November.

The Bernie-bot ballerina was telling me how proud she is about her tomato-red 1970 Volkswagen, which she’s driven half her life.

I’d like to talk to just one Millennial who will look me in the eye and say, “Yeah, I’m into the whole Tarzan thing…I’ve read two or three of the original Edgar Rice Burroughs novels and I’ve seen a couple of the Johnny Weismuller films and even one with Lex Barker or Gordon Scott or one of those guys, and I also saw Greystoke and even the Bo Derek version, which I think is a total hoot…so yeah, I’m totally invested in the whole thing. So I’m dying to see this new version, especially with the great Christoph Waltz playing the bad guy.”

The Broad Green guys are asking U.S. critics to refrain from posting about Nicholas Winding-Refn‘s The Neon Demon until just prior to the 6.24 opening. I only saw it last night, but since I was at the Cannes Film Festival when it screened there on 5.19, striding around with my pink-with-yellow dot press badge and slurping the cappucino, and because I happened to miss it only because I was caught up in writing something and forgot to notice the time….I think I’m entitled to say at least a couple of things.

While it was booed to high heaven by many Cannes critics I found The Neon Demon irritating but nowhere near as unwatchable as Only God Forgives. It’s slow as molasses and under-written to a fare-thee-well, but it has a certain integrity. It holds back, holds back, holds back…and then it doesn’t really pay off. Well, it does but in an underwhelming, “is that all there is?” kind of way. And that, as Tony Montana would say, takes balls.

NWR knew exactly what he was doing when he shot and cut this thing, and it’s clear that he simply decided “fuck it…this movie is going to play the game with a very, very slow clock. Because this is who I am and where I’m at.”

The Neon Demon has what could coarsely be described as “some hot lesbo action”, a little necrophilia, a little touch of cannibalism in the night…and all in the service of a rather mundane observation about models in the fashion industry being bent out of shape by highly competitive feelings about each other.

You can call it this or that, but it’s basically a haute couture, high-concept, high-gloss Elle Fanning wank-off movie for men and women with a certain cultured urban attitude (i.e., people who live online, who know all about that thousand-yard stare, who once did drugs but no longer, and who like the feeling of concrete and asphalt under their sneakered feet). Which is to say that NWR employs a certain restraint.

Fanning (who was 17 during filming — she was born on 4.8.98) is told during a photography studio scene to take everything off, and she does…but NWR keeps the camera focused on her face and upper chest area the entire time. He’s obviously “going there” but at the same time he’s teasing, you see.