Industry guy: “My wife and I responded to Karla Sofia Gascon and thought she was correctly placed in lead category. She plays the male role too. And brilliantly.”

HE: “Karla Sofia’s performance is supporting — a strong supporting performance, but definitely supporting. Why are you falling for the party line? She’s good but the hoo-hah is about her trans identity…be honest.”

Industry guy: “It’s not the trans woke thing. She’s great.”

HE: “I’ve seen Emilia Perez. I saw it in Cannes. Karla Sofia is fine but people need to calm down. On top of which her feet are too mannish. Too big and heavy.  She shouldn’t wear dresses — she should wear pant suits and pumps.”

Industry guy: “She captivated the Academy crowd last night.”

HE: “[Director] Jacques Audiard was smart and tactful enough to keep Karla Sofia’s bare legs and feet out of Emilia Perez.

HE: “Naturally the Academy schlubbos are going to turn out to witness the novelty of seeing the first serious trans Best Actress contender do a personal appearance. But let’s not confuse curiosity and polite, vigorous applause with real, deep-down enthusiasm.”

Industry guy: “She was mesmerizing, playing both trans and man. Easily the audience’s favorite character. Last night’s screening was not Cannes or a festival crowd but the actual Academy voters. En masse completely different to most venues.

HE: She’ll obviously be nominated, but please. The Academy wouldn’t dare express anything but excitement and acceptance.”

Industry guy: “The after-screening foyer discussion was all about Karla and disappointment with the ending shootout.”

HE: “The shootout finale was forced…doesn’t work.”

Industry guy: “There seems to be tremendous excitement for this film. Four Academy members emailed me today, asking if I knew how they could get into the Egyptian premiere tonight. It’s oversold.”

HE: “They need to calm down. Their reactions are partly honest enthusiasm, and partly suppressed fear. No one wants to sound unappreciative or even ambivalent about trans wokeism. Being perceived as insufficiently enthusiastic is tantamount to seeming transphobic. No one wants to die on that woke gallows so they ADORE Emilia Perez, which — I’ve said this all along — is a good, commendable, sometimes very exciting film.”

HE: “Karla Sofia’s legs look like Dave Bautista’s legs, shaved. Calves and foot-wise, she’s Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

Industry guy: “This was too big a crowd to not be genuine. Her legs have nothing to do with the performance.”

Friendo: “The trans acceptance thing makes Academy members feel good — it’s like religion to them — it transcends ordinary life. But you are right. There is no chance anyone can be honest.”

Industry guy: “The audience foyer discussion was all about the brilliance of Karla’s performance as a man. She’s the center of the film. And she totally wins the viewer over. We don’t give a rat’s arse about Rita the lawyer. She’s functional. Not the lead.”

HE: “I saw it in Cannes. The Academy membership was too dumb to attend the recent Anora screening in any strength, but they poured into the Emilia Perez screening in droves. They’re frightened sheep. If James Carville was a woke-minded Netflix marketing consultant, his Emilia Perez slogan would be ‘it ain’t the performance, stupid…it’s the woke-trans bounce of it all.'”

Industry guy: “I was there when many hundreds of Academy voters watched and responded. The best actress race is between Karla Sofia and Babygirl‘s Nicole Kidman.”

HE: “Viewer truth (my own) vs. the reactions of baahing sheep….baaaahhh!”

Industry guy: “The sheep will decide.”

HE: “Funny.”

Industry guy: “Sheep always win, even if it means following the others to the cliff and then jumping.”

Before last night I had never watched Joshua Logan, Buddy Adler and Leon Shamroy’s South Pacific (‘58) in its entirely. I watched the whole thing (2 hours, 37 minutes) on my iPhone 15 Pro Max with JBL headphones — obviously an irreverent and sacrilegious way to watch a film shot in large-format Todd A-O. But at least it sounded good.

Anyway, I wrote yesterday that even in her prime South Pacific star Mitzi Gaynor, who passed last Thursday (10.17) at age 94, wasn’t any kind of sultry sensual presence. HE commenter K. Bowen took issue with this. I elaborated this morning:

“Gaynor had narrow, smallish eyes but her spritzy, bubbly, open-hearted manner was engaging. She had that gamine athletic thing going on, and was obviously quite pretty in her youth. She had a certain prim sexual appeal. Slim dancer’s body, approvable boobs, great gams. But earthy she was not.

“Gaynor seemed innately kind and caring, but there was something a tad antiseptic going on, at least in her South Pacific performance as Nellie Forbush — a proper, disciplined quality that felt Doris Day-ish or even Gale Storm-y, a quality that seemed to emanate from the bland, hemmed-in aesthetic of the ‘50s.

“And I don’t even know how to process Nellie’s bizarre racist repulsion when she learns of Rosanna Brazzi’s Emile de Becque having been married to and sired two kids with a fetching Polynesian woman who died some years earlier. Toward the end Nellie actually says the words ‘her color’…weird and ugly.

“Thespian skills aside, most popular actresses of the ‘40s and ‘50s activated or at least hinted at some form of inner heat…some kind of bedroom intrigue or fantasy. Whatever it was that Rita Hayworth or Lana Turner or Maureen O’Hara or Lizabeth Scott or Anna Magnani or Jean Simmons or Gloria Grahame or pre-Cleopatra Elizabeth Taylor or even Deborah Kerr had that indicated a vigorous or perhaps even a hungry-python approach to sex, Gaynor had almost none of.

But she had conveyed so much in the way of heart and kindness and a certain open-hearted decency, plus a strong one-man-woman quality. You just knew she wasn’t the type to cat around, and that’s attractive. (Well, whadaya want me to say, that a woman prone to catting around is attractive?)

It had been so long since I’d entertained even a passing memory of Mitzi Gaynor that when I learned of her death three days ago I couldn’t think of anything to say.

But this morning I happened to watch this passage from South Pacific, and I went “oh, yes…of course…now I remember.” Gaynor wasn’t a great actress or any kind of sultry sexual presence, but she had heart…a current of wide-open emotional sincerity that just won everyone over. Movie-wise she peaked between the mid ’50s and early ’60s.

To be fair, this was a modest win. I hate to to admit this but it was.

I was pushed into playing trumpet when I was ten or thereabouts. I never loved playing the damn thing…no joy in the blow. I nonetheless took trumpet lessons and played in school bands. Innate-gift-wise I was certainly never Bix Beiderbicke. For a reluctant, undisciplined kid, my trumpet-playing abilities were, at best, mediocre.

(Ditto my swimming skills when I competed in freestyle and backstroke in my early teens…ditto my drumming when I played with a couple of rock-blues bands when I hit my early 20s…I was ultimately only good at writing and acting and, during my hound-dog days, unbuttoning blouses.)

When I was 11 or thereabouts I took part in an elementary school concert, performing for fellow students, teachers and visiting parents. Myself and another kid playing some simple-ass tune. Because I wasn’t much good to begin with and because I didn’t practice hard enough, I choked when the big moment arrived. My playing was tolerable for a beginner, I suppose, but I went off-key a couple of times, whining like a dying cat or one being strangled.

I felt embarassed by this public failure, naturally…so much so that after it was over I felt a sudden instinct to let the audience know that I knew as well as they did that my playing sucked balls. And so two or three seconds later and just as I pivoted to go back my onstage seat amid my fellow band members, I formed a pistol with my thumb and right index finger and shot myself in the right temple.

The next day the school music teacher, a fairly cool guy with a sassy, sardonic sense of humor, bawled me out for “breaking the fourth wall”, so to speak. I told him that my playing was so mortifying that I had to cop to it…I had to admit to the listeners that I knew my future probably wouldn’t have much to do with trumpet-playing.

That same come-what-may, fuck-it, let-the-chips-fall impulse manifested decades later when I became a stream-of-consciousness movie columnist in ’98, or 26 years ago.

I’m perfectly willing to put aside my gut feelings about Paul Mescal (i.e., primal repulsion)** when I finally see Gladiator II on 11.22, which opens a full month from now.

Do I trust the junket whores? Of course not. Do I trust Clayton Davis‘s opinion? I’d frankly rather not. Am I more inclined to trust Guy Lodge? Yes.

All this aside I want Gladiator II to make money and become a huge success. It’ll be good all around if this happens. I don’t need people to agree with me about Paul Mescal. Really, I don’t.

Back in the news, one day later https://t.co/QoxV4FfYqI pic.twitter.com/OTt0l7pEcs

— Guy Lodge (@GuyLodge) October 19, 2024

#Gladiator2 is ABSOLUTE CINEMA. Denzel, Mescal, and Pascal all ooze raw intensity with a charismatic edge. Epic in scope, with some of the greatest action sequences in movie history. This sequel honors the legacy of the original, while forging new paths. FIVE STARS ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ pic.twitter.com/H3UiVPui2a

— Boston Brand (@DeadmanBostonB) October 19, 2024

** I recently asked the friendly Paramount team about seeing Gladiator II at tomorrow night’s NYC all-media, and they ghosted me. They’re no doubt figuring “Wells isn’t going to let go of his Mescal hate and will therefore trash Gladiator II no matter what so why even show it to him?”

Yesterday I was advised to jump into the “Cynthia Erivo offended by Wicked fan poster even though it’s only imitating the original Broadway poster” thing. I didn’t think it was important enough to stop my day and even briefly ignore Sutton, etc. Erivo’s hair-trigger reaction was obviously excessive; ditto JoeL, the “SHOW HER EYES YOU FUCKING MONSTERS” guy. Is there anything more to say?

I’ve changed my mind, by the way, about hating Wicked sight unseen. I know I’ll dislike it but I’ve decided to ease up on the instant dismissal impulse.

@jordycray Cynthia is not here for the edits! #wicked #wickedmovie #cynthiaerivo #arianagrande #wickedtok #wickedthemusical #celebrity #popculture #popculturenews #hollywood #fyp #foryou ♬ "Voice of an angry cat" – song sound sun

@butthatsmyopinion Is she over-reacting? #wicked #wickedmovie #wickedthemusical ♬ original sound – But That’s My Opinion

If — I say “if” — Kamala Harris loses the 11.5 election in a squeaker, it’ll be because of “all the young dudes.” And because she’d never so much as glanced at, much less mentioned or addressed, a concern that many bumblefucks share deep down, to wit:

Is she a woke cult member or what? Does she believe in DEI as a sacred mythology or text? And does she go along with the marginalizing and diminishment of young males in particular, and white dudes especially?

Scott Galloway: “The far right has a vision of masculinity [that ] is not aspirational…it’s be coarse, it’s be cruel….it’s quite frankly be a little bit misogynist. The far left’s vision of masculinity is ‘be more like a woman.’ And that doesn’t work either.”

…or more precisely a girl who’s reached the age of 35 months, you can’t do anything else. You really can’t. She takes over and that’s that. Which is why I haven’t posted a damn thing today.

Earlier today I obliquely discussed the “whoa, mama” finale of Edward Berger’s Conclave.

When this moment arrived during tonight’s Montclair Film Festival screening, the entire audience responded with mostly pleasurable surprise….damn near the whole place went “whoa-hooaahhwwwhhh!” When this same moment unfolded during the first Telluride screening, the reaction was subdued…some quiet “hmmm” and “uh-huhm” responses but very few.

Nobody will be able to discuss this until Conclave opens commercially on 10.25, and to be extra fair not until it’s played for at least a couple of weeks.

Warning: Habitual spoiler whiners are advised to see it as early as possible. Move it or lose it.

Incidentally: Earlier this evening I was about to post a riff titled “Worst Theatre Seat of My Entire Life.” Dyian and I were seated in upper-balcony “heaven”…row W, and I mean waaay up there with very small seats and no leg room. The movie screen looked like a standard business envelope…it was like watching a film on a 13-inch MacBook Pro from the other side of the room. And the festival had the chutzpah to charge $35 each for these wretched seats.

At least the sound was strong and distinct.

And that seems to go double for Leigh Whannell‘s Wolf Man (Universal, 1.17.25).

I feel soiled just knowing that Blumhouse “product” is out there, swirling around.

N.Y. Times film critic Alissa Wilkinson isn’t what you’d call a yay-nay type of gal. She likes to steer clear of judgments, preferring to write in a circumspect way, observing this and taking note of that.

So it’s significant, I think, that she’s totally tumbled for Sean Baker Anora.