…will engulf me on Thursday evening (4.13), and all I can say is that “the clarity of mind experienced by a man standing on the gallows is wonderful.”

Although I hate certain aspects of my life and indeed myself, I do respect my willingness to sit through an IMAX presentation of Beau Is Afraid. Willingness as in hardcore manliness.

Sasha and I were chatting yesterday in a general sense, this and that and whatever. The subject eventually drifted into “what’s out there that sounds good…something that might heat up the blood?” We discussed some of the big attractions at the ‘23 Cannes Film Festival (the slate will be announced on Thursday, 4.13), and for whatever reason I forgot to mention that I’ll be submitting to both Renfield and Ari Aster‘s Beau Is Afraid that same day. I also didn’t mention HE’s most eagerly awaited pre-Cannes film, which is Matt Johnson and Matthew Miller‘s BlackBerry (IFC Films, 5.12). Anyway…

Good Marrakech paragraph, posted on 12.6.10: “If I never return to the Marrakech Film Festival it’ll be too soon, but not everything has been bad. Yes, the wifi problems have been unrelenting but everyone you run into is polite and calm and gentle to a fault. There’s apparently no such thing as an impolite Marrakech resident. (Okay, I did run into a couple of ruffians on a bike on Saturday night who tried to assault me and steal my wallet — I later named them Dick and Perry — but I pushed one of them in the chest and told them both to fuck off and then ran in the opposite direction and they were good enough not to follow, so even the thieves and the roughnecks are polite.) And there’s no indoor smoking ban. And there are no helmet laws so you can scooter down the street with the wind blowing through your hair. And the food is wonderful. And the energy in the main old-town square is so exciting and heavenly. And there are horse carts all over the city, and sometimes as you’re driving down the street you can smell horseshit, and that is a very good thing. The older you get and the more plastic and corporate the world becomes, the better horseshit smells.”

One year before the official beginning of the late ’60s to mid ’70s glory period…an era that some believe was ignited or sign-posted by Bonnie and Clyde in the summer of ’67…1966 happened, and that was no chump change.

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. There were countless manifestations — spiritual, creative — and hints of coming disturbances. 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. The following month 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.

All kinds of mildly trippy, tingly, unnerving things were popping all over.

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!

Fred Zinneman‘s A Man For All Seasons won six Oscars that night — Picture, Director (Fred Zinneman), Actor (Paul Scofield), Adapted Screenplay, Cinematography, Art Direction — and there’s no question that it still “plays”. Well acted, beautifully written by Robert Bolt. But it also feels a bit smug by today’s standards, a little too starchy and theatrical.

What 1966 films play best by today’s aesthetic standards? Certainly Michelangelo Antonioni‘s Blowup, a London-based film that completely absorbed and reflected what was happening there in late ’65 and ’66, and that wasn’t hay — the entire avant garde world was rotating around London’s musical intrigues and atmospheres back then.

The second best, I feel, was The Sand Pebbles, which contained Steve McQueen‘s most open-hearted, career-best performance.

The third finest was Richard Brooks‘ The Professionals, a crafty, ace-level western actioner that plays beautifully by today’s measure and which contains Lee Marvin‘s second-best performance (after “Walker” in ’67’s Point Blank).

And let’s not belittle The Battle of Algiers, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, Persona, Au hasard Balthazar, Masculin Féminin and Polanski’s Cul-De-Sac…what is that, six?

Other ’66 hotties: Mike Nichols‘ Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Lewis Gilbert‘s Alfie, John Frankenheimer‘s Seconds and Grand Prix, Milos Forman‘s Loves of a Blonde, Billy Wilder‘s The Fortune Cookie, Norman Jewison‘s The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming, Claude Lelouch‘s A Man and a Woman, Richard Lester‘s A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, Woody Allen’s What’s Up, Tiger Lily?, Pier Paolo Pasolini‘s The Gospel According to St. Matthew, Karel Reisz‘s Morgan!, or a Suitable Case for Derangement. (12)