Yesterday a former film critic who for some left-field reason has requested anonymity posted the following on Facebook: “Just want to remind everyone: If you ever run into an actor, writer, singer or whatever [whom] you don’t know and ask for a picture with them, you’re being, no matter how well-intentioned, a horrible person who turns strangers into props for the sad validation of their grim insecurity. And if you ‘have to do it for work,’ quit that job.”

Autographed scripts of John Logan’s Any Given Sunday and Robert Towne’s Chinatown. I got everyone to sign the Logan script during an Any Given Sunday junket in ’98, and the Towne script at a 20th anniversary Chinatown gathering at LACMA in ’94.

I’ve never asked any celebrity for a selfie in my life, and I never will. And I’ve only asked for autographs twice, and that was to sign screenplays at an invitational event. Autographs are much more intimate than selfies. A signature is so personal and expressive while a selfie smile is just a mask.

I have to admit that when I got out the Any Given Sunday screenplay this morning and saw that I’d gotten Cameron Diaz‘s signature, I smiled. It felt good. But selfies are grotesque.

Before last night i had never paid to read a National Review article, but I took the plunge when I heard about Kevin Williamson‘s “The Father Fuhrer“, which posted last weekend and is contained with an issue dated 3.28. The piece caused a bit of a ruckus in conservative circles for saying that the rural under-educated whites who worship Donald Trump are basically trash and that their downmarket communities are “vicious and “selfish” and deserve to die.

This is why I paid to read it — I wanted to wade into the words of a presumed conservative who despises submental rurals as much as I do.

Here’s the passage that everyone was talking about yesterday: “It is immoral because it perpetuates a lie: that the white working class that finds itself attracted to Trump has been victimized by outside forces. It hasn’t. The white middle class may like the idea of Trump as a giant pulsing humanoid middle finger held up in the face of the Cathedral, they may sing hymns to Trump the destroyer and whisper darkly about ‘globalists’ and — odious, stupid term — ‘the Establishment,’ but nobody did this to them. They failed themselves.

“If you spend time in hardscrabble, white upstate New York, or eastern Kentucky, or my own native West Texas, and you take an honest look at the welfare dependency, the drug and alcohol addiction, the family anarchy — which is to say, the whelping of human children with all the respect and wisdom of a stray dog — you will come to an awful realization.

Hollywood Elsewhere will be smack dab in the middle of Vietnam (specifically somewhere between Dong Hoi and Hue) when local second-tier journos have their all-media looksee at Batman vs Superman: Dawn of Justice on Tuesday, 3.22. Like I said before, I’m cool with this. I’ll catch this Warner Bros. release when I return on 3.28, by which time its fate will be sealed so what do I care?

Too many respected critics who’ve seen Richard Linklater‘s Everybody Wants Some (Paramount, 4.1) at South by Southwest have given it strong thumbs-up reactions (RT 93%, Metacritic 85%) so it’s looking like my previously voiced concerns or suspicions about SXSW “ether” may not have been warranted.

I’m told by a reliable source that the One-Eyed Jacks restoration, which began last fall under the aegis of Universal and Martin Scorsese‘s The Film Foundation, will be completed “sometime in April.” And yet the classic Marlon Brando western will not have its first-time-anywhere screening at the TCM Classic Film Festival (4.28 thru 5.1), which is generally regarded as a prized destination for recently restored classic films.

The source states that while Jacks “will not premiere at TCM, it should have its first theatrical viewings “in late spring and/or early summer.” The Jacks Bluray, he says, will “more than likely not be coming out until early fall after a series of screenings that are currently being planned in conjunction with TFF.”

My guess (and it’s only a guess) is that One-Eyed Jacks might have its big premiere at the Cannes Film Festival, which kicks off two months hence. I’m figuring that with Scorsese expected to be in Cannes for the world premiere of Silence, which I’ve heard is a likely festival pick, it would make sense for him to also introduce and bring attention to Jacks. A Cannes debut would obviously result in a bigger, broader journalistic impression than a showing at TCM, which is basically a gray-haired film buff event that only resonates nationally.

Another suspicion is that the restored Jacks might have some kind of special screening at the 2016 Toronto Film Festival, at which Silence may possibly be shown.

A partial rundown for the 7th annual Turner Classic Movies Film Festival (4.28 to 5.1) was unveiled today. I always look for first-time-ever screenings of recently restored films that haven’t hit Bluray or streaming, but somehow seeing a 25th anniversary restored version of John Singleton‘s Boyz in The Hood doesn’t exactly tingle the blood. I was also hoping for a screening of the nearly-completed restoration of Marlon Brando‘s One-Eyed Jacks, but that’s not in the cards.

For me the only announced festival attraction that excites so far is a special presentation of Jack Cardiff and Mike Todd, Jr.‘s Scent of Mystery (a.k.a. Holiday in Spain), which will be presented at the Cinerama Dome in “Smell-O-Vision.”

What could have motivated the highly respected Jack Cardiff to direct this thing? (Besides money, I mean.) The costars are a remarkably young-looking Denholm Elliott (he was 37 during filming) and a bloated Peter Lorre. A foxy, bikini-wearing Diana Dors has a marginal role. Elizabeth Taylor (i.e., widow of the deceased Mike Todd, Sr. and therefore the producer’s mother-in-law) isn’t in the trailer, but she makes an uncredited cameo appearance.

Wiki page summary: “Scent of Mystery was developed specifically with Smell-O-Vision in mind. Although Scent was not the first film to be accompanied by aromas, it was the most technologically advanced. Todd, son of the late Mike Todd, engaged in such hyperbole as ‘I hope it’s the kind of picture they call a scentsation!’ He also got help from newspaper columnists such as Earl Wilson, who lauded the system, saying Smell-O-Vision ‘can produce anything from skunk to perfume, and remove it instantly.’ New York Times writer Richard Nason believed it might be a major advance in filmmaking. As such, expectations were high.

“Scent opened in three specially equipped theaters in February, 1960 — in New York City, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Unfortunately, the mechanism did not work properly. According to Variety, aromas were released with a distracting hissing noise and audience members in the balcony complained that the scents reached them several seconds after the action was shown on the screen. In other parts of the theater, the odors were too faint, causing audience members to sniff loudly in an attempt to catch the scent.

In my glowing review of Bob Nelson‘s The Confirmation (Saban, 3.18) I wondered why it didn’t play at the 2016 Sundance Film Festival. The absence in Park City made no sense. Either Saban didn’t submit it, I figured, or they did and it was turned down, which is nuts as it’s obviously good enough to have made the cut. Well, guess what? I just finished doing a phoner with Nelson, who’s here in Los Angeles for interviews plus tomorrow night’s premiere screening, and he says, believe it or not, that Sundance programmers saw it and passed.

I’m sorry but ixnaying a film as good as The Confirmation is absurd, especially when you consider that Sundance is obliged to screen a certain number of films each year that one could describe as mezzo-mezzo or mediocre. It’s inevitable. So a film like The Confirmation comes along, a film that definitely works and coheres and holds water and all the other superlatives of a B-plus or A-minus film, and Sundance says no? There’s really no excuse.

At the start of the 2015 Sundance Film Festival I walked out on Bryan Buckley‘s The Bronze (Sony Pictures Classics, 3.18). I lasted 15 minutes, to be exact. I was criticized for this, of course, but my policy is firm — if a film clearly stinks or is going to make me suffer grievously, I walk. If you have the perceptions that I’ve been given and have more importantly developed them over decades, you can spot a piece of shit from a mile away, and so when push comes to shove you decide to commit yourself to something more rewarding or purposeful, or at least less wasteful.

There is no honor in sitting through a film that is clearly going to be awful.

The Bronze has 11% and 40% ratings from Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic, respectively, and one reason the Metacritic rating isn’t lower is because Drew McWeeny wrote a review that was (a) less than approving but at the same time (b) not entirely damning.

Filed on 1.23.15: “For whatever perverse reason Sundance programmers will occasionally select a mostly dreadful, all-but-unendurable film to play in the Premieres section. The common consensus is that Bryan Buckley‘s The Bronze is one of these films. I can’t speak from authority because I left around the 15-minute mark, but I could smell trouble even before it began.

From a 3.12 Guardian piece about changing Cuba, by Ed Vulliamy: “For years, visitors to Cuba have been the curious, the adventurous and politically sympathetic; photographers enthralled by the peeling colonial slums, vintage cars and sensuous beauty of the people and their country.

“But for many it might as well be the Bahamas or Costa Blanca — as holidaymakers’ fear of terrorist activity in North Africa encourages them to try the mojitos and cigars of Cuba instead. Central Havana now heaves with cargo-shorts, logo T-shirts and a photo opportunity on every corner.

“Its famously crumbling architecture is slowly but surely undergoing a wash-n-brush-up; a lovely old marketplace adjacent to the Parque Central is closed and wrapped in scaffolding, to make way for yet another luxury hotel providing berths for a new mass tourism, which is still, for the most part, billeted in licensed ‘casas particulares’ — private houses accountable to the state, allowed to take in guests.

“’Every time I return, something else I know has changed,’ says María Jimena Duzán, a Colombian writer who has been visiting Havana for decades. ‘The Americans are here, and that changes everything. One of my favourite places, the lovely old Plaza Vieja, just isn’t the same place, totally transformed.’ Starbucks and Subway on the Parque Central? ‘Oh don’t, please,’ she winces, ‘but indeed, this is just the start of what we’re looking at for Cuba.’

In exactly seven days (3.20.16) I’ll be celebrating four years of sobriety. Not a big deal in AA circles or in the eyes of the usually disapproving Glenn Kenny, I realize, but it sure feels good on this end. I thought about this last night, and it ushered in, ironically, memories of how happy I was in my partying days (late teens to late 20s) and…really, just how blissful things felt from time to time. Sporadically blissful, I mean. Little kisses and shots and caresses.

Not in any grounded or substantive sense — profound spiritual contentment was a long way off — but I was having so many good and happy times in the evenings (and over occasional straight-through weekend marathons). Daytime and work was another thing, but when the sun went down the adventures began! So much laughter and great sex (although the bulk of my luckiness happened between 25 and 35) and hilarious adventures and great craziness with friends.

It began to hit me around 24 or 25 that all this happiness couldn’t last, and that grimming up and getting down in the world of journalism, however satisfying or rewarding this would prove in the long run, would signal the end of my ecstasy period. It was hard, all right. “The page is turning and the joy I knew is slipping away but I have to let it go so I can start the next phase,” I told myself over and over. But God, it was so sad.

The growing awareness that my off-and-on nocturnal delight had to come to an end felt like a virus…as if a kind of spreading melancholia had taken over my system. It was around this time when terms like “the grim slide” (a term coined by Tom Wolfe) and “Hollywood Weltschmerz” became my mantras. I remember sharing the former with Jack Nicholson during a 1982 interview for The Border and Nicholson chuckling and getting it immediately, or at least in a cultural-political sense….”the grim slide!”

It all started this morning when Sasha Stone tweeted that Mary Elizabeth Winstead‘s performance in 10 Cloverfield Lane contains nods to Sigourney Weaver‘s performances in the two Alien films. To which I replied: “Pour it on for one of the most irritatingly ‘acted’ performances in recent memory. Gasping, wide-eyed, wimpering.”

Within the hour a small army of obsequious little twitter bitches jumped in to defend Winstead’s honor and gallantly protect her from the HE dragon. Key HE/Winstead tweet: “How to flagrantly ACT terrified with calculated ACTING tricks as opposed to naturally exuding the real thing….being, not ACTING.”

Mary Elizabeth Winstead in 10 Cloverfield Lane.

At some point Winstead herself jumped in. Her first remark asked in a chiding way if I also thought she was fat. (Answer: Nope.) I told her there’s a moment at the end of 10 Cloverfield Lane when she realizes that a certain above-ground reality that has been alluded to is quite real, and she says “c’mon” — THAT was good, I told her.

A couple of the little twitter kiss-asses thought this constituted harassment on my part. The monkey-obeisance instinct always kicks in…”We love you, pretty movie star! That guy who said those mean things?…we’ll defend you!”

I dropped into Book Soup last night and, for a reason I’ll shortly disclose, decided to buy a $20 trade paperback of Scott Eyman‘s “John Wayne: The Life and Legend.” The Vietnam trip begins late Wednesday night (12 1/2 hour flight from LAX to Seoul and then another five hours from Seoul to Hanoi) and there’s no wifi across the Pacific so I’m figuring a nice comfortable biography will fit right in. Yeah, the irony of Wayne and Vietnam…I get it, I get it.

The following excerpt, an anecdote from Wayne pally Rod Taylor (who died a little more than a year ago) is why I bought the book. It explains that Taylor invited Wayne to “one of his marriages at a church in Westwood.” Taylor was married three times — once in ’54 and once after Wayne died so it had to be a June 1963 wedding to model Mary Hilem, with whom Taylor had a daughter, former CNN financial reporter Felicia Taylor, in 1964. Anyway, here it is: