Yesterday HE commenter “Correcting Jeff,” a consistently irritating bringer of nagging neghead vibes for several years, took issue with my…actually the world’s opinion that the sad legend of the late Sinead O’Connor was launched and powerhoused over an eight-year period — Dublin ‘85 to late ‘92, or between age 17 and 24.

HE reply: It’s a FACT, Clarabelle. I know, I get it…the concept of peak years and career arcs is so upsetting to you. Hell, to most of us. Why can’t we just say that Sinead’s career was simply and radiantly wonderful from start to finish?

Brilliant surges come and go, ebb and flow. What are artists but mere conduits of random lightning bolts?

What mental health issues, right?

Why can’t we at least agree that Sinead saved and freed herself by ripping up that Pope photo?

Well, here it is…

Like it or not, those of us with a semblance of drive and ambition tend to experience the same chapters — early stirrings, ascending, peak crackerjack, settle-down and gradual decline.

John Lennon’s peak Beatle years numbered seven or eight — ‘62 Hamburg to ‘69 or ‘70. His peak solo years came to four or five — Plastic One Band (‘70) to the L.A. lost weekend / Harry Nilsson phase of ‘74 and early ‘75. His last act rebound happened mostiy in late ‘79 and ‘80.

After charting her abusive childhood, the acclaimed 2022 Sundance documentary Nothing Compares focuses on Sinead’s mid ‘80s Dublin breakout and ends with the harshly negative reaction to her SNL Pope trashing in ‘92. It doesn’t dismiss her career since that climactic incident but it adheres to the basic summary, the basic rise-and-fall dynamic of those eight years.

“Oppenheimer was very good but EXTREMELY DENSE, and it’s kind of crazy how even though the movie was three hours long it felt like they didn’t have any spare time to add some expositional photography or moments of silence, except for the Trinity bomb test scene.

“Trinity aside it was pretty much a never ending chain of dialogue scenes. If they added some breathing room it could have been a solid miniseries but then it wouldn’t be on a big IMAX screen, which was nice but not 100% necessary. And honestly? The Trinity explosion seemed a tiny bit understated.

“So it’s good, yes, but something you really need to prepare yourself for mentally and physically.

“I could have used a more comfortable theatre chair, all things considered.”

Nobody knows why Sinead O’Connor has left this mortal coil at age 56, but there are indications that the legendary singer-songwriter, deeply depressed over the January 2022 suicide of her 17-year-old son Shane, may have taken her life over same.

I’m very, very sorry about this sudden tragedy. No one on planet earth ever quite compared with Sinead, particularly during her eight-year heyday between the mid ‘80s and early ‘90s. She was an Irish banshee genius of the absolute highest order.

“Sinead O’Connor’s Beautiful Scream,” posted on 1.28.22:

A 7.26 Variety story about the 2023 Toronto Film Festival’s documentary program, written by Addie Morfoot, pays special attention to Caroline Suh’s Sorry/Not Sorry, a TIFF doc about career difficulties and impediments suffered by women who accused Louis C.K. of gross sexual harassment a few years ago after he jerked off in front of them.

I haven’t seen the doc but five of the accusers are comedians Tig Notaro, Rebecca Corry, Abby Schachner, Dana Min Goodman and Julia Wolov.

Morfoot reports that Suh’s film is one of “several” TIFF docs that focus on women “who have been unjustly ignored for their achievements.”

One can probably assume that Suh explores how and why Louis C.K.’s five accusers have paid a certain price for blowing the whistle on the guy.

Innocent question: LCK’s behavior was diseased and ridiculous but what exactly did the five accusers expect would happen in response? Did they expect cheers and hosannahs and paper confetti in the air?

If I was a woman who was once an unwilling or appalled witness to LCK whacking off, I would have rolled my eyes, muttered “jeez, what a fucking creep” and moved on with my life and career.

I would have figured, in other words, “if I go public with this, I might experience a little professional pushback from comedy club owners and friends of LCK and whatnot so why go there? As much as I resent the political reality of things, it’s probably better to let it slide.”

Luc Besson’s Dogman, a Venice ‘23 selection, has two guaranteed elements: (a) the relentlessly spacey Caleb Landry Jones and (b) a whole lotta dogs. And yet the mirror image is of a red-haired glam chick with bright red lipstick.

HE to Bresson: Is Dogman about about what I’m afraid it might be about? This poster is scaring me.

Whatever the facts behind the various accusations thrown at Kevin Spacey since 2018, time and again efforts to convict the Oscar-winning actor (today is his 64th birthday) have failed. The U.K. trial (nine sexual asssult charges) is the latest whiff. Elton John’s recent pro-Spacey testimony was almost certainly a key factor in his acquittal. That or the prosecution’s case may have been weak or flawed all around. Or both.

Hail, O Great Gods of Rome!

If you haven’t yet watched, here it is. But please also revisit my two-year-old (7.6.21) article, titled “Diverse Exorcist & Torturing of Ellen Burstyn.”

My Detroit references are few and far between. Urban decay. Bankruptcy in 2013. The first act of Tony Scott and Quentin Tarantino’s True Romance (‘93) happens in the grubby downtown area. Curtis Hanson’s 8 Mile. Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels. The MC5. Martha and the Vandellas. Michael Moore‘s Roger and Me…wait, that was set mostiy in Flint, right?

You’d never know Detroit was originally settled by French colonists, I can tell you that. As you approach downtown everything looks a bit blighted, undernourished, down at the heels. Flat landscape. Blah architecture. A cinder-block strip club or two. Empty lots with overgrown grass and tall weeds.

Suburban Detroit is like a thousand other sprawling areas in the Midwest that are largely defined by…nothing. Okay, by the general draining of spirit. The scourge of soul-less corporate commercialism.

Downtown Detroit is even worse. You can feel the enervation and the lethargy. This must be what Berlin or Nurnberg or Dresden felt like in the immediate aftermath of WWII. Detroit is one of those cities that present three choices — become a heroin addict, commit suicide or pack up and leave.

And then you go across the Detroit river to robust and well-tended Windsor, Ontario, and it’s like a breath of fresh air.

5:20 pm: Anyway I’m well out of Detroit and on a Flix bus heading east to Londön. I’ll be visiting a friend in Grand Bend, a bucolic lakeside village in Ontario, for six days. I’ve never seen Lake Huron before.

…who mumbles and gulps and swallows dialogue with a haunted look on his face, Caleb Landry Jones has it all goin’ on.