The prolific Robert Altman directed his share of minor films, and yet when I sit down and review them (including Three Women, A Perfect Couple, Buffalo Bill and the Indians, Quintet) I can always recall pieces — a scene, a shot or two, lines of dialogue. The other day I was reminded of Altman’s Images (’72), a schizy character study about a children’s book author (Susannah York) succumbing to fantasies and whatnot. And I realized I can’t remember a damn thing about it except this one static shot.

It stuck, I think, because York wasn’t exactly a daily workout Nazi and yet was unbothered by this. I was impressed by the ballsiness of it. Beyond this no impressions of Images remain.

You can’t stream Images anywhere. The only way to see it is to buy a region 2 DVD of $30 or a domestic DVD for $89. I’m not 100% sure I’d want to stream it even if I could.

York won the Best Actress award at the ’72 Cannes Film Festival for this performance. I’d somehow forgotten that she died in early 2011 from cancer at age 72. Seven favorite Yorkies: Alec Guinness‘s daughter in Tunes of Glory (’60), Sophie Western in Tom Jones (’63), Angel McGinnis is Kaleidoscope (’66), Margaret More in A Man for All Seasons (’66 — my all-time favorite), Alice McNuaught in The Killing of Sister George (’68), Alice in They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (’69) and Rachel Fielding in The Shout (’78).

Most of us agree with the “show, don’t tell” theme of this essay, but there’s nothing more infuriating than actors showing without sufficient context. The affecting facial expressions in this essay (such as Chewietel Ejiofor‘s at the end of 12 Years A Slave) work because the audience has been fully schooled on the reasons for the characters’ sorrow. Without these vital details just showing isn’t enough. As I said a couple of days ago, “Directors place a high premium on scenes in which actors say as little as possible or generally under-verbalizing the situation. They love it when actors can look wordlessly stunned or shocked or confused. In real-life situations, of course, people are constantly voicing their perceptions about what may or may not be going on or what they’re feeling or fearing. If the groundwork is insufficient, the ‘show it, don’t say it’ aesthetic is strictly a movie-realm thing, and is phony and irritating as hell.” (The essay was directed by Andrew Saladino and posted by The Royal Ocean Film Society.)

Never rat another guy out when it comes to women. To put it more formally, one of the most paramount ethical codes between adult males is that you can never spill the beans on a friend or acquaintance if his girlfriend or wife asks you to reveal the truth about whatever (i.e., usually his deep-down feelings or some past behavior that has come under question).

Determining the factual or emotional truth of things is something that only a couple can sort out for themselves. It’s not yours to get involved. If a guy is lying to his girlfriend or wife about some indiscretion or affair or saying anything out of earshot that might get him in trouble, it’s none of your damn business and you’re obliged to say nothing. Omerta. The truth will out sooner or later, but even if it doesn’t guys are absolutely honor-bound to protect each other. I’ve never run into a single fellow in my life who would even think of questioning this.

Except for one. He was a cartoonist-illustrator, and his betrayal happened in Manhattan in ’80 or thereabouts. I’ll call him Bob. We’d met each other in ’79 by way of a fetching lady writer we both felt for and admired (I was the new boyfriend and he was an ex), and then we got to be actual friends.

At some point in the middle of ’80 (i.e., after I’d been dumped by the writer) I began a mild flirtation with an iconoclastic female cartoonist whom Bob also knew. Let’s call her Shary. She was a respected, highly gifted artist and pretty besides. By coincidence she and I realized one day that we had booked seats on the exact same flight to Los Angeles. A day or two later I mentioned to Bob that I’d love to indulge in a mile-high club thing with Shary. It was just a fantasy, a wisp of a notion that came to mind and that I gave voice to.

In Maureen Dowd‘s 6.11 N.Y. Times column, “Girl Squad”, she imagines what may have transpired during Friday’s meeting Hillary Clinton and Elizabeth Warren. I’ve condensed my favorite portions while inserting slivers from a 6.10 HE post called titled “Bold Leadership Isn’t In Hillary Clinton — She’s An Incrementalist — Guarded, Cautious. Which Is Why, I Fear, She Won’t Ask Elizabeth Warren To Partner Up”.

Clinton: “I know you’re intrigued by the idea of being my vice president. I heard you tell our gal Rachel Maddow that you’re prepared to be commander in chief. But you know I can’t put you on the ticket, don’t you?”

Hillary Clinton’s home at 3067 Whitehaven St NW, Washington, DC.

Warren: “Because the country isn’t ready for two wonky women for the price of one?”

Hillary: “No, I’m not ready. You, the so-called Sheriff of Wall Street, attacked me as the Shill of Wall Street. Why should you get the glass slipper when you were foot-dragging on my glass-shattering moment?”

From 6.10 HE post: “I’ll be delighted if Clinton picks Warren but my insect antennae vibes are telling me she won’t because of egoistic stubbornness. Yes, she needs a tough pit bull to muss up Donald Trump‘s hair but on the other hand she doesn’t want to be overshadowed.”

Warren: “You know all the Democrats want me on the ticket to add some sizzle since the crowds you draw wouldn’t even fill this couch. I know you are afraid I will overshadow you and I will. But I can help you reel in all the young women who find you more shifty than nifty. And the Bernie Bros dig me.”

When I first heard about last night’s mass murder at the gay nightclub in Orlando, my first thought was that it was some kind of homophobic hate crime — some gun-toting, possibly closeted Christian asshat who wanted to bring horror to Florida’s gay culture. Then I discarded the thought because it seemed dated, like something out of William Friedkin‘s Cruising (’80).

My second thought was that the shooter was some kind of Islamic nutter. A half-second later my p.c. alarm went off. “Stop it! That’s the kind of thing Donald Trump or his supporters might presume.”

This morning several news outlets along with Democratic Congressman Alan Grayson identified the shooter as Omar Mateen, 27, of Port St. Lucie, Florida. In a prepared statement, Imam Muhammad Musri, president of American Islam and the Islamic Society of Central Florida, has urged the media not to rush to judgment. “It’s our worst nightmare, and we are sorry to know it happened to us,” he said.

The tally so far is 50 dead and 53 injured, which makes it one of the “worst” (i.e., highest body count) mass shootings in U.S. history.

Criterion’s Dr. Strangelove Bluray arrived this afternoon. Panting, pulse-quickening excitement…right? How does this 4K-scanned version compare to the 2009 Sony Home Entertainment Bluray? Well, it looks great as far as it goes. The blacks are wonderful. The grainy portions seems a bit grainier, but Strangelove grainstorms has always been pretty thick. It seems to deliver just a wee bit more information on the tops, bottoms and sides than the ’09 disc. (Just a glancing impression.) Some portions seem a little dark for my tastes but only here and there. I’ve been told that the Criterion is sourced from the exact same Grover Crisp-supervised harvest used for the Sony Bluray. It’s a very nice-looking disc. The tiny threads in Merkin Muffley’s flannel suit have never looked so specific. I’ll check out the supplements tomorrow. It’s made my day.

I recognize there are millions who are behind Donald Trump precisely because of his use of racial slurs, not in spite of them. Because this brands him as one of them, and because they regard the 2016 election as an Alamo-like last stand of the Oxycontin-swallowing, working-class rural white man against the forces of politically correct deballing and aggressive multiculturalism (African Americans, gays, Hispanics, Muslims, transgenders-in-the-wrong-bathroom, etc.) that are transforming a once-great country into a place that rural dumbshits no longer recognize. But Sen. Mitch McConnell, whom I despise, was right when he said Trump has to stop improvising and start delivering carefully phrased speeches. If Trump continues with the rude-bad-boy act, he might not just lose but take a lot of Republicans over the side with him. Here’s hoping he ignores McConnell from now through 11.8.16.

This morning I read a 6.9 profile of MGM CEO Gary Barber by Deadline‘s Peter Bart (“A Resurgent MGM Builds Clout For New Film & TV Acquisitions”).

Boiled down it said that Barber doesn’t do interviews but boy, has he turned things around at MGM! Good for MGM stockholders, but to me Barber, his executive accomplishments aside, is still the dick who refused to permit an independent restoration of the 70mm roadshow version of John Wayne‘s The Alamo, and in so doing oversaw its apparent destruction.

(l.) Me Before You star Emilia Clarke, (r.) MGM CEO Gary Barber at Me Before You premiere at AMC Loews Lincoln Square 13 theater on 5.23.16.

Bart quotes a distribution exec who describes Barber as “a movie fanatic.” No — Barber’s treatment of the 70mm Alamo elements absolutely disqualifies him from ever being so described. What he is, at least in this particular realm and certainly from the perspective of the hovering ghost of Alamo director-producer John Wayne, is a seemingly arrogant egoist, or at the very least a smug one.

“In its own quiet way, MGM produces 5-7 movies a year, has 14 TV shows on the air, has earned a profit of $124 million in its first quarter, and is positioned to make some intriguing acquisitions in the coming year,” Bart wrote. “For a company that five years ago was mired in more than $5 billion in debt and that many in the industry had considered comatose, this is a formidable achievement.”

It seems evident, in short, that outside the Alamo situation Barber is a smart, aggressive, well-organized exec who knows how to get things done. Great. Then why has he shown such callous disregard for the condition of a not-great but generally respected film that could have been saved in its original 70mm form, but is now lost for the most part? What kind of South African buccaneer, unwilling or unable to spend money to restore the 70mm version of a 1960 John Wayne film, refuses to allow a restoration of said film to be independently funded?

It was nearly two years ago when Beverly Faucher, MGM’s VP of Asset Management and Delivery Services, said in an official statement that “the original 65mm theatrical elements of The Alamo are in fine condition and are not in need of restoration” — one of the most outrageously ignorant, bald-faced lies offered by a representative of a Hollywood entertainment company in the history of western civilization.

I’m sorry but endings were on my mind today, and they really don’t get much better than this here one. Tommy Lee Jones and Tess Harper, of course. The Cormac McCarthy dialogue, pretty much straight from the book. Roger Deakins‘ cinematography and especially the razor-perfect cutting by Roderick Jaynes. Sinks right in and makes me a little bit sad every time. Joel and Ethan Coen‘s classic is almost a decade old, believe it or not.