From HE’s 7.20.22 review of Jordan Peele‘s Nope: “No discipline, this fucking film. It’s ‘imaginative,’ if you want to call it that. As slow and talky and stodgy as Cleopatra was, it at least made sense. Which is more than you can say for Nope. So Cleopatra is better.

“Say it again — when Gordy the monkey appears, the film comes alive. What Gordy has to do with the dumbshit rascal white-oppressor aliens is anyone’s guess.

“Steven Yeun costars in Nope, and I couldn’t understand why he was in it. Yes, he has something to do with Gordy (I won’t say) and he wears a red suit and a big white cowboy hat in one scene, but he has NOTHING to do with anything.

“I need to re-watch this movie with subtitles some day.

“Why the hell is Kaluuya’s character named ‘OJ,’ of all things?

“If Dore Schary had somehow returned from the dead and become the producer on this film, before filming began he would have invited Peele to lunch and said, ‘Look, I’m just a Jewish white-guy producer and I don’t know much about African Americans or horse ranches or Fry’s Electronics, but WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS MOVIE ABOUT?? You don’t know, do you? You’re just farting around with spooky alien visitors and trying to cook up something different and trippy, but THIS MOVIE IS BULLSHIT, JORDAN…you know it and I know it.’

“And Peele would reply, ‘It’s a metaphor about white people’s oppression of BIPOCs.’ And Schary would reply, ‘What are BIPOCs?’ And Peele would say, ‘Don’t worry about it, bruh…I got this.’

“No white-ass producer would dare say ‘bullshit’ to Peele, of course, lest he/she be accused of harboring racist attitudes. Which is why Nope turned out this way…a crazy, impressionistic, Jasper Johns-like mess. Peele was apparently given carte blanche control, and this is what happens.”

Following up yesterday’s Hospital post, “Love From Older Dude Perspective“:

Posted on 3.22.06: “I came across two dialogue files by accident this morning — two clips from Paddy Chayefsky‘s The Hospital (1971), and it hit me all over again how wonderfully particular and penetrating and needle-sharp these soliloquies are.

“George C. Scott‘s confession to a colleague about what a wreck his middle-aged life has become is about as masterful and genuine-sounding as this sort of thing gets, and I love the the cadence he brings to some of the lines. (The almost imperceptible pause he inserts between the words “pushing” and “drugs” is sheer genius.) And the “murder by irony” confession by wacko doctor-patient Barnard Hughes is a wow, particularly at the end when he recites a litany of medical ailments (one after another after another…no end to it) that comprise, metaphorically or otherwise, “the whole wounded madhouse of our times.”

“There’s always a fair amount of good dialogue at any given time, but the super-pungent, intellectually flamboyant stuff that Chayefsky used to write — a little show-offy at times but pleasurable as hell — has…well, maybe it’s out there and I’m just not running into it. Or maybe it’s just gone.”

(More…)

A day rarely passes when I don’t watch a couple of “Idiots in Cars” videos. Enormously pleasing. All my life I’ve found the automative misfortunes of bad drivers hilarious. And I’m mostly an LQTM-er — I rarely laugh out loud.

BAFTA’s long lists are bringing me down, man. ’20 and ’21 were downish years, obviously, but so was ’22 to some extent. Several “good” films and performances here, but nothing really turns me on except for Top Gun: Maverick and Cate Blanchett‘s Lydia Tar. Not a single Best Picture long-list selection made me swoon…not really. Each creme de la creme film has stuff that irritates me. Example: I hated, hated, hated Todd Field‘s decision to run Tar‘s closing credits at the very beginning.

The whole year was like that. What happened to the concept of movies reaching into your soul and altering the way you see life? Half the time after seeing a film in a commercial megaplex I want to pick a fight with an usher, preferably a fat Millennial one. Well, not actually but I fantasize about this from time to time.

BAFTA’s Best Picture Long List (alphabetized) + HE reactions + my own preferred list of ten.

Aftersun (HE: Dreary, inconclusive, middle-of-the-night nothingness inside a Turkish coastal resort for British tourists…my eyes glazed over, my brain left the room.)

All Quiet on the Western Front (HE: “I respect and admire AQOTWF for what it is and what it’s worth. But in our current realm this kind of large-sprawling-canvas, chaos-and-brutality-of-war film can only sink in so far. And 147 minutes felt too long. 120 or 125 would have sufficed.”)

The Banshees of Inisherin (HE: “There are many sane people out there who’ve found this film mystifying. I respect many things about it, including Kerry Condon’s performance. It’s not ‘bad’ as much as infuriating.”)

Elvis (HE: “Elvis isn’t quite as bad as I feared, but several sections are punishing to sit through. It’s a flashy, pushy, often exhausting carnival sideshow, very primary and primitive, clearly made for the ADD peanut gallery…a fairly blunt tool. And Tom Hanks‘ Colonel Parker accent is impossible.”

Everything Everywhere All At Once (HE: “It made me want to jump off the top of a 50-story office building with the intention of pressing a hand grenade against my chest and pulling the pin halfway down.”)

The Fabelmans (HE: “A truly fair-minded, non-obsequious opinion would have to acknowledge that the saga of Spielberg’s teenage years (mostly Phoenix, some Saratoga) is neither boring nor hugely interesting…it’s diverting in an on-the-nose, broadly performed way, but it mainly boils down to ‘decent with three pop-throughs — the Judd Hirsch rant, filming the Nazi war flick in the Arizona desert, and John Ford lecturing 17-year-old Steven about horizon lines.'”)

Living (HE: “The descriptive terms are ‘low-key,’ ‘no hurry,’ ‘tonally and visually accurate” (it’s set in 1952 London) and ‘quietly affecting emotional undertow.’ One quibble: Whenever old-school British bureaucrats of yore sat down in their first-class train compartments and unfolded their newspapers, they took their bowler hats off. Not so in Hermanus’ film.”)

Tar (HE: “Atmospherically transporting, powerfully charged and yet curiously infuriating. Watching with subtitles definitely helps. The best of the bunch, but I almost wish it wasn’t.”)

Top Gun: Maverick (HE: “High-powered San Diego flyboy saga, great action sequences, unambiguously straight-while-male-ish, “Great Balls of Fire”, etc.

Triangle of Sadness (HE: Not as good as The Square.)

In this order, HE’s top ten picks of ’22 (originally posted on 12.20.22):

Empire of Light
Close
Happening
Vengeance
She Said
Emily The Criminal
Christian Mungiu‘s R.M.N.
Top Gun: Maverick
Avatar: The Way of Water
Tar (despite the many irritations)

This was the very first video sent to me by Tatiana during her Mexico-and-Cuba trip. It’s still my favorite. I’d really like to go there. Buena Vista Social Club, etc.

Having scored an early copy of Prince Harry’s “Spare” (Random House, 1.10), The Guardian‘s Martin Pengelly has posted a tale about Harry’s elder brother, Prince William, knocking him to the floor during verbal fisticuffs over Harry’s marriage to Meghan Markle.

Brothers are allowed to slap each other around if they want to, and nobody should have anything to say about it. It’s between them.

I should add, however, that while I’ve never had any feelings or opinions about William up until now, reading that he bashed chickenshit Harry fills me with (I’m perfectly serious) newfound respect.

Harry has written that following the slapdown, his first telephone call was to his therapist. What a pathetic candy-ass! His therapist!

Purely from memory, but my memory’s pretty good when it comes to Paddy Chayefsky….a post-coital scene between the late Diana Rigg and the late George C. Scott, from Chayefsky and Arthur Hiller‘s The Hospital (’71):

Rigg: “I love you, Herb, and want to marry you and have children. And of course, you love me. I mean, you ravaged me three times.”

Scott: “Three times?”

Rigg: “You were as puffed up as a toad about it. Punched a slight hole in your crusade for universal impotence, didn’t it?”

Scott: “Diana, I raped you last night in a suicidal rage. Where did we get love and children out of that?”

Rigg: “For heaven’s sake, Herb. I ought to know whether a man loves me or not. Last night you screamed it, bellowed it, shouted it from an open window.”

Scott: “Well, I think those were more feelings of gratitude than anything else.”

Rigg: “Gratitude for what?”

Scott: “Well, my God, for resurrecting feelings of life inside me that I thought dead!”

Rigg: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Herb…what do you think love is?”

Scott: “All right, I love you! I’m not about to argue with so relentless a romantic.”