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Humphrey Bogart never had this much hair, not even when he was ten or twelve. Back in ‘51 there was no such thing as Prague hair — only wigs.

HE is soliciting opinions about South Carolina Senator Tim Scott, who’s just announced his candidacy for the 2024 Republican nomination for president. He’s seems like a decent human being and far less psychotic (if he’s psychotic at all) than Orange Psycho, but to me he lacks a certain charismatic magnetism that we all want from a presidential candidate — the stuff that Barack Obama had in abundance.

I’m sorry but there’s something about Scott that says “game show host” or “Orange County preacher” or “high-school basketball coach.” He has a vaguely foghorn-ish, not-deep-enough voice that lacks the right kind of diction. Something in his vibe seems a little more huckterish than most of us might prefer. He seems a little less eloquent than preferred, perhaps a little too goading. Plus he looks like he doesn’t work out enough.

I liked Jim Brown, George Foreman and Harry Belafonte‘s shaved bald heads but I don’t care for Scott’s. The upper half is shaped like a bowling ball.

Meanwhile the presidential campaign of Governor Ron DeSantis has just launched, but it might already be finished.

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In yesterday’s “Worst Ayehole Means Most Infuriating & Obnoxious” piece, I should have mentioned Steve Buscemi‘s uncredited, painfully obnoxious performance in The Wedding Singer (’98), which celebrated its 25th anniversary last February. Buscemi played David Veltri, the black-sheep brother of the groom.

Where would the iconic cinema moments of the indie ’90s be without Buscemi’s characters in Fargo, The Big Lebowski, Living in Oblivion, Reservoir Dogs, Con Air, etc.?

In April ’01 Buscemi, Vince Vaughn and Scott Rosenberg got into a bar fight in Wilmington, North Carolina. They were shooting a Harold Becker film called Domestic Disturbance. Buscemi was stabbed in the neck, and was lucky to escape serious injury.

A few months later Buscemi sat down at a press table at a film junket I was covering, and for whatever reason I told him that if a short film based on the bar fight incident could be made, it might be really interesting, Buscemi was appalled, calling it a dogshit idea and looking at me like I had insects crawling out of my nose and ears.

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filmmaker-author Kenneth Anger (“Hollywood Babylon,” Scorpio Rising) has passed at age 96. He actually slipped the coil two weeks ago (5.11.23), but the announcement didn’t break until a day or two ago.

I first read “Hollywood Babylon” in ’77 or ’78. A flagrantly sordid, occasionally grotesque catalogue of the most sensational Hollywood scandals from the classic era (’20s through ’50s). I suspected right away that it was exaggerated, but like everyone else I found the book darkly fascinating all the same. (A Connecticut friend told me he found it gloomy and depressing — in other words he didn’t get it.) Alas, reputable journalists and Hollywood historians (including Karina Longworth) have claimed that much of it was flat-out fabricated.

The book might be bullshit, I told myself, but I didn’t want it to be, and, as we all found out last year, neither did Damien Chazelle.

Not to mention the fact that “all gossip is true.” (Who said that?) This is Hollywood, sir — when truth becomes legend, print the legend.

To this day I’ve never seen Scorpio Rising (’63), but we’re all familiar with the gay erotic legend of musclebound motorcycle guys in dark shades and black leather jackets…The Wild One, The Village People, Cruising…this is what Anger created or articulated with Scorpio Rising“>this fringey film.

There are three reasons I’ve never seen Lady Godiva of Coventry (’55). One, it’s only watchable via DVD (i.e., no HD, no streaming). Two, it’s apparently a cheesy B movie, as indicated by the fact that audiences shunned it like the plague. And three, for the naked horseback scene Maureen O’Hara wore a flesh-colored body stocking and a ridiculous long red wig, the combination of which didn’t even allow for the slightest anatomical peek.

Arthur Lubin’s film is noteworthy, however, for Clint Eastwood‘s performance as “First Saxon.” Eastwood was 24 at the time. He was also dubbed — that raspy Eastwood snarl wasn’t a fit for the location and time period.

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The other day I suggested that Robert De Niro‘s “Jimmy Doyle”, the pushy, hugely insensitive sax player in Martin Scorsese‘s New York New York (’77), may be the biggest ayehole in the history of American cinema. I’ve never re-watched this 46 year-old film so I’m a little hazy, but I can’t recall ever despising a character as much as Doyle.

HE is hereby asking for other noteworthy offenders in this regard. And remember that cruel or ruthless or foul-hearted characters are not necessarily ayeholes. The essence of ayeholeism is the ability to trigger feelings of disgust or repulsion, and to even prompt a moviegoer to leave a film rather spend another minute with the character in question.

Exanple: HAL 9000, the homicidal computer from 2001: A Space Odyssey, is not an ayehole. He’s a sociopath, of course, but with the personality of a well-educated gentleman.

One good example of a serious ayhole is Ray Sharkey‘s “Smitty” in Karel Reisz‘s Who’ll Stop The Rain. (On the other hand Richard Masur‘s Danskin, Smitty’s overbearing partner, is one of the funniest.)

Thomas F. Wilson‘s “Biff Tannen” from the Back To The Future franchise.

Jack Black‘s character in Stephen Frears‘ High Fidelity is not an ayehole — he’s glorious comic relief.

And then there’s Tim Roth‘s”Myron” in Frears’ The Hit — half an asshole, half capable of growth, half-sympathetic.

Critical Drinker’s disdain feels pushed in this instance. He’s not wrong to feel angry and turned off by Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny but I suspect that most ticket buyers will be fairly comme ci comme ca about it.

It’s certainly a much better film of its type than Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania or John Wick: Chapter 4, both of which made me sick to my stomach.

From HE’s 5.19 review: “Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny is a mega-budget serving of silly, rousing, formulaic, high-energy Hollywood wankery.

“If you pay to see it with that understanding in mind, it’s ‘fun’ as far it goes, largely, I would say, because it also feels oddly classy…a well-ordered, deliciously well-cut exercise in which Mangold does a better-than-decent job of imitating Spielberg’s psychology, discipline, camera placements, cutting style, easy-to-follow plotting and generally pleasing performances.

“For most of the 142-minute running time I felt placated by this big, noisy, unsurprising, handsomely shot old-schooler — an imitation Steven Spielberg tentpole film that feels like it could have been made in 1992 or ’95 or ’01 if 2023-level CG had been available, and if 80-year-old Harrison Ford had been (duhh) 30 years younger, which wouldn’t have gotten in the way of anything plot-wise.”

HE is soliciting opinions about South Carolina Senator Tim Scott, who’s just announced his candidacy for the 2024 Republican nomination for president. He’s seems like a decent human being and far less psychotic (if he’s psychotic at all) than Orange Psycho, but to me he lacks a certain charismatic magnetism that we all want from a presidential candidates — the stuff that Barack Obama had in abundance.

I’m sorry but there’s something about Scott that says “game show host” or “Orange County preacher” or “high-school basketballcoach.” He has a vaguely gurgly, not-deep-enough voice that lacks the right kind of diction. Something in his vibe seems a little more huckterish than most of us might prefer. A little less eloquent than preferred, perhaps a little too goading. I liked Jim Brown, George Foreman and Harry Belafonte‘s shaved bald heads but I don’t care for Scott’s. His head is shaped like half of a bowling ball.

Meanwhile the presidential campaign of Governor Ron DeSantis has just launched, but it might already be finished.

Read more

Maybe it’s my recent Cannes exhaustion but I decided last night that I’m sick to death of the toxic belittlers on this site, particularly the deniers of the woke plague. I’m now therefore actively looking for any reason at all to cancel their presence and send them to hell. Do it, do it…make my day.

Put more gently and reasonably: Life is relatively short, and every five years or so I find myself unable to stand the toxicity, and I lash out. All I know is that I will not tolerate wolverine behavior any further. I’ve been at this racket for just over 40 years, and things have only become toxic over the last 10 or 12 years, it seems. I am a performance artist, yes, in the sense that I adopt a certain persona while writing this column, but mostly I just eyeball things as they seem (to me at least) and describe them as plainly or bluntly as seems fitting.

The uglies know who they are, and they’re about to feel the sword.

Interesting, thoughtful, well-phrased and above all respectful opinions of any kind are eternally welcome here. But the shitheads, mark my words, are getting the boot.

I believe in beauty, redemption, catharsis and the daily cleansing of the soul. I live for the highs of the mind — for the next nervy retort, impertinent crack, witty turn of phrase, turnaround idea or wicked joke.

But I will not permit the infinite array of reflections about life, movies and politics that could and should appear on Hollywood Elsewhere to be suppressed or pushed aside by relentless sneering and personal putdowns.

“These things gotta happen every five years or so, ten years. Helps to get rid of the bad blood. Been ten years since the last one.” — Clemenza to Michael Corleone in Francis Coppola‘s The Godfather (1972).