I based my piece almost entirely upon what what Dave Kehr had written the same day in the N.Y. Times. I had, however, been told separately about the circumstances of the removal of the 15 minutes of footage by Toback; he also passed along the same story to Kehr.
Jim told me it was Medavoy who wanted it shorter. Kehr seemed to say it was either Medavoy or perhaps some sinister alternate force within Tristar.
It just seems vaguely indecent that the superior longer cut isn’t on HD streaming. A 4K disc would be nice but not necessary — just high-def would suffice. I really hate watching it on 480p.
I posted a Best of ’66 summary five years ago, but it can’t hurt to go again as I’ve shuffled things around and added a few.
In order of preference or greatness or historical importance, or a combination of all three…plus the not-bads and worst.
Top 15: 1. Michelangelo Antonioni‘s Blow-Up (aka Blowup); 2. Richard Brooks‘ The Professionals; 3. Fred Zinneman‘s A Man For All Seasons; 4. Robert Wise‘s The Sand Pebbles; 5. Robert Bresson‘s Au Hasard Balthazar, 6. Roman Polanski‘s Cul-de-sac; 7. Ingmar Bergman‘s Persona, 8. Bernard Girard‘s Dead Heat on a Merry-Go-Round; 9. Woody Allen‘s What’s Up, Tiger Lily?; 10. Arthur Penn‘s The Chase; 11. Mike Nichols‘ Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?; 12. John Frankenheimer‘s Grand Prix, 13. Lewis Gilbert‘s Alfie, 14. Frankenheimer’s Seconds; 15. Jack Smight‘s Harper.
16. Milos Forman‘s Loves of a Blonde; 17. Billy Wilder‘s The Fortune Cookie, 18. Norman Jewison‘s The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming, 19. ClaudeLelouch‘s AMan and a Woman, 20. Gillo Pontecorvo‘s The Battle of Algiers, 21. Richard Lester‘s A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, 22. Pier Paolo Pasolini‘s The Gospel According to St. Matthew, 23. Karel Reisz‘s Morgan!: A Suitable Case for Treatment.; 24. Blake Edwards‘ What Did You Do in the War, Daddy?; 25. JackSmight‘s Kaleidoscope.
Fine, Decent, Tolerable, Not Bad: Funeral in Berlin; A Fine Madness; Walk, Don’t Run; How to Steal a Million; Torn Curtain; The Wild Angels; This Property Is Condemned; After the Fox; The Appaloosa; Alvarez Kelly; Georgy Girl; Not With My Wife, You Don’t; The Good, the Bad and the Ugly; The Quiller Memorandum; King of Hearts.
Worst of ’66: Hawaii, Murderers’ Row; Frankie and Johnny, The Singing Nun, Modesty Blaise, The Fat Spy, A Big Hand for the Little Lady, Boy, Did I Get a Wrong Number!, The Glass Bottom Boat, Paradise, Hawaiian Style; Nevada Smith; Assault on a Queen; Munster, Go Home!; Stagecoach (remake), The Blue Max, Three on a Couch, Batman, The Idol, The Bible: In the Beginning…, Mister Buddwing; An American Dream; Texas Across The River; Follow Me, Boys!; Is Paris Burning?; Madame X.
To hear it from The Limey‘s Terry Valentine (i.e., Peter Fonda), 1966 was the only year in which “the ’60s” were fully in flower and possessed by transformative energy and imaginings. There were countless manifestations — spiritual, creative — and firecracker-like amazements occurring within and without all over town.
April ’66 saw the famous Time magazine cover that asked “Is God dead?”, which was used by Roman Polanski during the filming of Rosemary’s Baby a year later.
Things were really and truly happening in the rock music realm. Hell, all over. Eight years after Cary Grant’s adventurous lysergic acid pathfinding and a year after Peter Fonda and John Lennon, both tripping their brains out at a small gathering somewhere in Benedict Canyon, clashed over Fonda’s “I know what it’s like to be dead” rumination, second-wave cool cats were sailing into the mystic like never before, and the almost revolutionary heterosexual activity wasn’t to be believed.
May ‘66 saw the release of Bob Dylan‘s Blonde On Blonde (and the coughing heat pipes in “Visions of Johanna”) and Brian Wilson‘s Pet Sounds, and three months later Revolver, the Beatles’ “acid album” which turned out to be their nerviest and most leap-forwardy, was released.
And the notorious Sunset Strip curfew riots (“For What It’s Worth”) began to happen in late fall of that year.
Film community-wise all kinds of mildly trippy, tingly and portentous things were popping all over in ‘66. Stanley Kubrick was neck-deep into the filming of the mystical, earthquake-level sci-fi classic 2001: A Space Odyssey. Warren Beatty and Arthur Penn were shooting the equally important Bonnie and Clyde, a zeitgeist page-turner if there ever was one.
But you’d never guess what was happening to go by the mood, tone and between-the-lines repartee during the 39th Oscar Awards, which honored the best films of 1966 but aired in April ’67, or roughly seven weeks before the release of Sgt. Pepper. Bob Hope‘s opening monologue is punishing, almost physically painful to endure. And look…there’s Ginger Rogers!
Last night Hollywood Elsewhere sat down with Marc Turtletaub‘s Jules (Bleecker Street), a quiet little fable about a vaguely flaky, absent-minded old guy (Ben Kingsley) who gradually blooms emotionally and spiritually when a smallish flying saucer crashes into his backyard garden and a wounded, pint-sized, shiny-skinned alien (Jade Quon) crawls out and lies on his brick patio, breathing but in need of care.
Kingsley’s Milton, whose longish, carefully styled gray hair looks exactly like a professional-grade wig, is so timid and small-minded that he waits a day to start caring for the poor, dark-eyed thing, who doesn’t seem to have a gender. (Let’s use the female pronoun.) At first Milt drapes a plaid blanket over the little gal, and then takes her inside and begins offering sliced apples for sustenance, and then shows Jules the guest bedroom and invites her to chill and watch TV.
After Milt’s friend Sandy (Harriet Sansom Harris) drops by and begins to warmly relate, the alien is given the “Jules” moniker (as in Jules Pfeiffer or a nickname for Julia). Milt and Sandy quickly become Jules’ parents, and then in short order they’re being assisted by Joyce (Jane Curtin), a vaguely neurotic acquaintance who starts talking to Jules as if she’s her therapist, sharing stories of her colorful youth in Pittsburgh (“I used to be an item”) and, in an odd detour, performing Lynyrd Skynyrd‘s “Free Bird” a capella.
Immediately all kinds of E.T.-type questions pop into your head. You have to assume that with all those consumed apples that Jules would use the bathroom from time to time or at least take an occasional leak outside, but details are never shared.
In no particular order: Does Jules take showers? What does she smell like? She has a smallish mouth plus, one presumes, a tongue, teeth, lungs and vocal chords so why doesn’t she mimic Milt with a little alien English, or perhaps speak in his/her own native tongue? Why was she travelling alone? What was the point of visiting earth in the first place? Is she fundamentally a woke type or does she view the human condition with (God forbid) the mindset of a Trump supporter? Is she broken-hearted over the recent death of an alien husband or child?
All we learn is that the enterprising Jules is looking to repair her spacecraft, and that she needs a few dead cats to accomplish this. We also see that she cares a great deal for Milt, Sandy and Joyce, and woe to any scurvy characters who might threaten any of them (think David Cronenberg‘s Scanners).
Christuhpha to Tony, :20 to :36: “This is about respect of our thing. I represent you out there, and I’m tired of puttin’ my tail between my legs. This ain’t negotiation time — this is Scarface, final scene, fuckin’ bazookas under each arm, ‘say hello to my little friend!”
All hail the basic, child-friendly educational values advocated by pastor and community activist AD Lenoir, and a hat tip to his soft-spoken cool and clarity of mind. The man is a quiet star.
If you’re talking about nattily-dressed, conservative-minded gentlemen of color with a compelling message, the Ft. Lauderdale-based Lenoir leaves Senator Tim Scott in the dust. He has that smoothly assured Obama thing (including the musical speech rhythms of an inspirational orator) down pat. Scott, who exudes the average charm of a high-school swimming instructor or a grocery-store manager, has nothing.
Lenoir: “When I’m in an accident, I don’t want the police officer to come over and say ‘hi, I’m a police officer and this is my gender.”
If Lenoir was running for president in the Republican primary right now, he would be THE FAMILY VALUES GUY…I’m telling you. He’s got it.
Pic will debut at the Venice Film Festival three weeks hence.
Let’s break that title down. Aggro seems akin to agronomy or agribusiness…something in that realm. Or maybe it’s some guy’s first name (“yo, Aggro!”). Dr1ft alludes to fatigue, aimlessness, psychological meandering. Or it may be Aggro’s last name.
Any way you slice it Aggro Dr1ft is a hugely defiant “fuck you” to sandal-wearing megaplexers. It says “Harmony Korine fans only, and even some of them might feel left out.”
Korine: “I am excited. I have never made anything like it. I was trying not to make a movie. I don’t know if it will be a scandal, but it will be its own statement.”
Aggro Dr1ft costars 50ish Spanish actor Jordi Molla and rapper/non-actor Travis Scott (aka Kylie Jenner‘s partner and co-parent of two kids).
Boiled down, producers and filmmakers who don’t want to jump through the Academy’s “identity reporting” hoops are free to shine the whole process if they want.
Deadline‘s Michael Cieply reported this yesterday (8.10): “Thanks to a quiet change in enforcement protocols, feature films entered in this year’s Academy Awards contest will be able to avoid reporting gender, race and disability data required by new inclusion standards governing Best Picture contenders, simply by opting out of contention for the top Oscar.
“The policy shift — which became apparent in recent changes to the ‘Frequently Asked Questions’ addendum to the Academy’s Representation and Inclusion Standards Entry platform — could free dozens or even hundreds of films vying for Oscars other than Best Picture.
“A previously declared requirement stated that all 300 or so awards contenders submit identity data regardless of their Best Picture prospects.”
Does everyone reading this understand the import? The Maoist DEI virus is weakening and receding.
Cieply: “Until recently, the Academy’s FAQ advisory noted that all features submitted for Oscar consideration were required to report detailed identity data on the platform, because the Academy was unable to say in advance which films might actually wind up in the Best Picture race, the only category for which inclusion standards will be enforced.
“By this week, however, that provision had been replaced with a new answer to Question 13, which asks: ‘Am I required to create a RAISE submission for a film that I don’t want to be considered for Best Picture?’
“The new answer says: ‘You will have the option to opt-in or opt-out for Best Picture consideration. If you do decide to opt-out, then you do not need to fill out a RAISE form.”
Certain DEI Hollywood wokesters (including, I would imagine, Variety‘s Clayton Davis) are having a shit fit as we speak.
@newyorker The director of the box-office hit "Barbie" wasn't always seen as the powerful female director she is now. Greta Gerwig explains why she was labelled a “bossy, unappealing girl” in school on The New Yorker's Radio Hour podcast. #gretagerwig#barbie#filmtok♬ original sound – The New Yorker
For decades I’ve thought of myself as reasonably sharp and shrewd when it comes to booking flights and car rentals. I’m now reconsidering this assessment. The truth is that I’m fairly clumsy and even, from time to time, stupid at it. At times I amaze myself at how lacking in common sense I can be. I lack the knack.
If you want to slap the side of your head, consider the saga of my initially ludicrous Telluride travel arrangements. I’m not proud of having done this, but I’ve no choice but to own it.
Early on I decided against flying to Montrose and then taking the Telluride van shuttle. Most of the tragically hip arrive this way, and I hated it when I flew to Montrose last year. (Plus it’s moderately expensive.)
The thing is that I hate riding in minivans with strangers. I like to drive my own car and stop whenever I feel like it. I love breathing mountain air, stretching my legs at will, taking snaps, doing transcendental meditation on the side of the road, stopping at stores for whatever.
So three or four months ago I decided to fly American from LaGuardia to Santa Fe, which only set me back $430, and then — here’s the really brilliant part — rented a Budget KIA for six days (Wednesday, 8.30 to Tuesday, 9.5) for $692.86. That’s right — the car would’ve cost $262 more than the round-trip air fare. (COVID sent car rental rates through the roof about two years ago.) That’s an overall outlay (including gas) of roughly $1250, give or take. But at least I would have my own wheels, and I could enjoy the colorful drive to Telluride, which takes around six hours but is good for the soul and often a feast for the eyes.
Since making these arrangements I was invited to a friend’s Telluride birthday party, starting early Wednesday evening (8.30), so I wanted to be in town by sometime in the late afternoon. It suddenly hit me yesterday — here’s another brilliant part — that my LGA-to-Santa Fe flight arrives just after 4 pm, meaning that I couldn’t hope to arrive in Telluride until 11:30 pm or more likely midnight.
I should have originally arranged to fly in on Tuesday and flop somewhere and drive to Telluride the next morning. Why didn’t I do this? Because I didn’t know about the birthday party, for one thing. Plus I’m not a master travel strategist, to put it mildly. I don’t think this stuff through.
So I called American and asked if I could change the flight to Tuesday instead of Wednesday. Nope, they said — I’d purchased an El Cheapo fare that didn’t allow any changes. Okay, I replied — can I just shell out $200 for a brand new one-way flight (LGA to Santa Fe) and hold on to my return fight? No and fuck you, they replied — your El Cheapo flight means that if you fail to board the outgoing flight (leaving from LGA on Wednesday morning, 8.30) we will cancel your return flight.
“Why would you do that?” I asked, feeling a tiny bit rattled. “I’m willing to buy a whole new one-way ticket, giving you guys an extra $200 on top of the $430 I’ve already paid for my original RT, and thereby vacating my outgoing seat and not asking for any special consideration of any kind, and you’re going to cancel my return flight as some kind of punishment? No offense but what kind of airline would enforce such a policy? Are you trying to be dicks?”
So in order to arrive on Tuesday I would have to buy a brand-new RT American fare (LGA to Santa Fe) for close to $600. Plus the $692 car rental plus gas expense. A total cost of $1450 or $1500. Not to mention the original $450 fare I bought in March or April.
The American phone rep was a Millennial. How did I know this? Because he yelped and whined like a little cocker spaniel and went “waaahh…you’re hurting my feelings by expressing your resentment over our ridiculously punitive air-fare policies…I think I need to pour myself a cup of herbal tea and talk to HR or a therapist so I can process your completely normal and unsurprising disdain over our eat-shit-and-die policies….it isn’t fair to me…you’re being mean…waaaah.”
Determined to sever myself from these American dingleberries at almost any cost, I bought a brand new RT fare from LGA to Albuquerque (Jet Blue) for, believe it or not, only $300 and change, and then, through Priceline, found an Avis weekly-rate car rental at Albuquerque for just under $500. A grand total of $800-something plus gas. I should have made these arrangements to begin with. Alas, I’m not smart or shrewd enough.
The 46th Academy Awards happened (unusually) on Tuesday, 4.2.74, at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. The nominees for Best Adapted Screenplay were The Exorcist (William Peter Blatty, winner), The Last Detail (Robert Towne, based on Darryl Ponicsan‘s novel), The Paper Chase (James Bridges, based on the novel by John Jay Osborn Jr.), Paper Moon (Alvin Sargent, based on Joe David Brown‘s “Addie Pray”) and Serpico (Waldo Salt and Norman Wexler, based on the book by Peter Maas).
Given the indisputable fact that The Last Detail is widely regarded today as the most unpretentiously and understatedly soulful and compassionate film of the above five, not to mention that the most artfully honed and elegant in a semi-coarse, enlisted-man sense…it’s a crying shame that Towne didn’t take the Oscar. It was his. It had his name on it, despite the fact that Blatty was the one who actually took possession.
Anyone who thinks there’s any serious value or intrigue to be derived from digging yet again into Hunter Biden‘s personal failings….c’mon, man!
For the 177th time: If there’s one thing that American families know about, it’s dealing with bad-seed sons, brothers, brothers-in-law, nephews or next-door neighbors. Alcoholism, drug abuse, self-destructive behavior…everyone’s either been through it or knows someone who has. Tragic but it happens. It’s certainly too common to be a thing.
N.Y. Times Charlie Savage — 12:30 pm: “It is not clear whether this step will change anything substantive about the Hunter Biden investigation. But Republicans have sought to portray the Biden administration as conspiring to go easy on the president’s son, so at a minimum the naming of Weiss as a special counsel will offer Democrats an additional argument to rebut those accusations.”
