Francis Coppola is an older rich white guy, and a decent percentage of urban progressive women (teens to mid 30s and perhaps beyond) would just as soon explode his life into smithereens as look at him.

I’m not kidding. Guys like Coppola are deer, and it’s deer hunting season everywhere right now, and if the Coppolas of the world want to be dead all they have to do is give the “hunters” a reason to get out their high-powered social media rifles and fire at them.

…I naturally think of (a) Miriam Karlin‘s “Catlady” Weathers (green leotard, white stockings, razor-sharp vocal chords) in A Clockwork Orange and (b) Edith Beale and her daughter in Albert and David Maysles‘ Grey Gardens

I personally relate as I’ve been a cat lover all my life.

J.D. Vance quote from 2021: “The U.S. is being run by a bunch of childless cat ladies who are miserable at their own lives and the choices that they’ve made and so they want to make the rest of the country miserable, too. It’s just a basic fact — you look at Kamala Harris, Pete Buttigieg, AOC — the entire future of the Democrats is controlled by people without children.”

…after visiting 11 or 12 times and living there for an entire summer in ’03, I wouldn’t be there for the Olympics right now…not for anything….must to avoid. Tourists and lookie-lous are bad for the soul.

I love this reel because (a) it’s in 1080 HD 60fps, and therefore looks better now than it did on the best-quality TV in ’65, and (b) because the guys look so young. When you get older youth itself can seem indescribably beautiful.

Azazel Jacobs‘ His Three Daughters (Netflic, 9.6) is about a trio of estranged sisters “who come back together to care for their aging father.”

Fine, but where’s deathbed dad?

Imagine a film about three estranged daughters who decide to pool forces to rip off millions from a Middle Eastern sex trafficker, and then the movie goes “agghh, forget the sex-trafficking…let’s just focus on the actresses playing the daughters, show how good their acting chops are, that line of country.”

MGM’s 2011 Bluray of John Ford’s The Horse Soldiers (‘59) has a perfectly satisfactory 1.66 aspect ratio, but leave it to Kino Lorber to fuck things up by slicing off the tops and bottoms of the image for its 4K Bluray version, which came out a couple of years ago and which I just bought. Bastards. Presenting this profoundly handsome film within a 1.85 aspect ratio is an act of pure malice. Zero respect, nothing but condemnation.

I tried reaching out to a few well-placed fellows who could have theoretically shared what they knew about reactions to Jason Reitman‘s SNL 1975, which Sony will be releasing in October and which may — I say “may” — turn up in Telluride or Toronto in a few weeks’ time.

I didn’t get much help. A top-of-the-hill Sony honcho said he couldn’t “get into this stuff” but that the film is “indeed terrific.” The perpetually sullen Kris Tapley, whom I don’t personally like but who has a relationship with Reitman that goes way back, responded like an unplugged vacuum cleaner. Okay, a couple guys wrote back but only to say they hadn’t heard a thing.

I was excited by a research-screening reaction, you see, that World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy posted this morning. SNL 1975 has ben research-screened three times within the last month, I’ve been told. “Some rave reactions coming from yesterday’s test screening of SNL 1975,” Ruimy informed. “Possible Best Picture contender. Major comeback for Reitman.”

Hot response: “Fantastic. Big response from audience. Very Birdman/Lubezki-esque in its execution with the long takes and seamless transitions. Also shot on gorgeous 16mm, incredibly gritty and reminiscent of the period.

“Gabriel LaBelle (Lorne Michaels) was best in show for me, but it’s also hard to fully pinpoint a bonafide standout within the ensemble because it’s all over the place with the way it’s constantly moving and bouncing around to different characters (not a bad thing though, I thought it kept things fresh and avoided lingering/losing momentum). Nicholas Braun is also a scene stealer as Jim Henson, as is Cory Michael Smith, who plays Chevy Chase.”

Steve McQueen‘s Blitz (Apple, 11.1 in theatres) has just been announced as the closing-night attraction for the 2024 New York Film Festival — Thursday, 10.10, Alice Tully Hall.

McQueen’s film is principally a mother-son relationship drama set against the ghastly German bombing of England, generally known as The Blitz, which began on or about 9.7.40 and lasted until 5.11.41.

There’s a sentence within NYFF Biitz page that gives me concern: “McQueen’s dazzling film offers a multicultural portrait of 1940s London, [one] too infrequently seen on screens.”

A “multicultural” London in 1940 and ’41 suggests that the film includes POC cast members other than just Eliott Heffernan, who plays George, the nine-year-old son of Saoirse Ronan‘s Rita, a working-class gal.

It’s one thing to consider the idea of Rita, a white woman, giving birth to a light-skinned POC son in the city that London was 93 years ago (1931). Life is always full of oddities and exceptions, of course, but this is obviously a stretch by historical social standards.

According to Wikipedia, in 1939 (a year before the bombing began) the total population of England was something in the vicinity of 38,084,321.

An IWM (Imperial War Museums) web page states that “before the first American troops arrived in 1942, the black population of Britain [was] around 8,000 to 10,000 people.” Let’s call it ten rather than eight.

In other words, in 1939 England there was one person of color for every 3800 palefaces. And yet two years after the start of the worldwide Great Depression with everyone scraping to survive, Ronan’s Rita zeroed in and mated with a POC fella within a nearly all-white culture that didn’t shirk from racist sentiments.

Okay, perhaps she adopted George but why?

I’m sorry but how can a rational, semi-informed moviegoer not conclude that casting-wise Blitz sounds like another case of presentism?

“I’m envisioning some kind of high-end prostitute finishing school tucked away in Lausanne, Switzerland…an ivy-covered, brick-facade institute where they learn all the proper sailing knots, how to ride English and western saddle styles, learn about 19th and 20th Century art movements, study the histories of ancient Greece and the Roman Empire, write essays about Benjamin Disraeli, etc.” — “NotImpressed1Yet“, posted in response to a 3.14.09 Bernie Madoff piece called “In His Shoes“.

The piece itself…

Unless he somehow manages to commit suicide, Bernie Madoff is going to die in jail. That seems appropriate to me, but I’m wondering why he didn’t just run for it when he had the chance. He knew the Feds were on his tail and it was just a matter of time. I’m asking because something in me can’t help but sympathize with a caged bird, especially when he/she is looking at life in the slammer.

If I was Madoff I would have prepared for my escape and disappearance during my ponzi-scam days. All criminals need to face the fact that sooner or later they’ll be forced to lam it. I would have socked away massive amounts of cash in a few Swiss, Cayman Islands and Venezuelan bank accounts under fake names, with debit and credit cards attached to each account. And I would have hired pros to create several sets of first-rate fake IDs and fake passports. And I would have arranged in advance for plastic surgery with a first-rate specialist based in Moscow.

I would have slipped out of Manhattan before the Feds arrested me. I would have taken a private plane to northeastern Canada and then another to Iceland, and then a third to Belgium. I would then enjoy a leisurely car trip to Russia, my pockets and briefcase stuffed with several hundred grand in Euros, ready to bribe whenever necessary. I’d meet my plastic surgeon somewhere in the Ukraine — haven’t decided where.

After the operation I’d move to Tartu in Estonia and recover for six or seven weeks. Then I’d drive down to Moscow and hire myself a team of four elite bodyguards — two guys, two women — and invest in the finest electronic security systems and outfit all my homes with them.

Then I’d make my way to Vietnam. I’d probably build myself a high-security home in the Central Highlands and live in it for two or three months — no more. The eventual plan would be to have several “safe houses” but never stay in any one for very long. Always moving, never sleeping with more than one eye closed, “like Yassir fucking Arafat.”

I’d buy a 100-foot sailing craft and move around from port to exotic port like a wandering character in a Joseph Conrad novel. I’d hire three full-time prostitutes to travel with me, but they’d have to be prostitutes who know how to sail. I might smoke opium from time to time. I’d pay for even more hookers to drop by on weekends, but they’d have to be highly educated and well-read. No booze, no cigarettes. But I’d chill out with quaaludes from time to time.

I’d volunteer with Red Cross organizations to help the poor. I’d move to Darfur and try and use my money to try and purchase some level of comfort or protection for the poor who live there. I’d move the operation to the Amazon jungle from time to time. I’d see about getting to know Hugo Chavez (although he might not want to know me). I’d travel to the South Pole and then to South Africa, and then take a ferry to Madagascar.

I’d catch plays in London twice a year. I’d buy a studio in Montmartre that I’d visit every four or five months for a week or two. I’d always stay inside days, reading and watching movies on my 52″ LCD flatscreen, and working out on a treadmill. I’d go out to dinner and for walks in the evenings, wearing shades and a fishing hat.

I’d eventually get pinched, of course. Sooner or later somebody would sell me out or spot me (even with my altered appearance). But I might stay free for two or three years, and at least I’d have a great adventure under my belt and many things to remember before spending the rest of my life in miserable confinement.

The late Fredi Washington (1903-1994) is best known for her pivotal suppporting role of the light-skinned “Peola” in John M. Stahl‘s Imitation of Life (’34), which I’ve never actually sat down and watched. (I’ve only seen the 1959 Douglas Sirk-Lana Turner version.)

But I just saw Washington in Dudley Murphy‘s Black and Tan (’29), a 19-minute short in which she plays a beautiful dancer who’s married to the 30-year-old Duke Ellington, but who suffers from a tragic heart ailment.

The twentysomething Washington is obviously quite the spirited and vivacious actress. Right away I said “wow, she’s happening.” During the nightclub performance section she wears a fetching harem-flapper costume that made me sit up in my chair.

Wiki excerpt: “Moviegoers sometimes assumed from Washington’s appearance — her blue-gray eyes, pale complexion and light brown hair — that she might have passed [for white] in her own life. In 1934, she said her Imitation of Life role did not reflect her off-screen life, but ‘if I made Peola seem real enough to merit such statements, I consider such statements compliments and makes me feel I’ve done my job fairly well.'”

Biden: “There’s no possibility of my being completely candid with you…it’s simply beyond the realm of my own personality and psychological makeup to explain why I did a 180 last weekend by deciding to abandon my presidential campaign…a major pivot after insisting there was no argument or force short of Almighty God that could persuade me to quit. How did that happen? Was it my wife, Doctor Jill, whom some of you have compared to Lady Macbeth? Did she keep me in a bubble where I wouldn’t hear more open and honest assessments?

“The truth is that I was determined to tough it out no matter what…I said this over and over in various unyielding, mule-stubborn ways…even if it meant losing and taking the whole Democratic ship and crew with me, all of us swirling down to Davy Jones locker…

“The bottom ine is that I didn’t quit out of selflessness or personal sacrifice or any of that lofty, noble, Patrick Henry stuff…I was finally told there was no path to winning, and was therefore finally persuaded that in the eyes of history my name would be mud if I let that happen…and that was it…in order to save my legacy, to avoid the utter shame of self-ruin I was shoved out, plain and simple…and I fought this like a dying wolverine…snapping and snarling and screaming…I decided to fold my tent under extreme Irish duress…and I mean I was howling and spitting and punching my refrigerator and baring my fangs and kicking and even shitting my pants. It wasn’t pretty.

“Nor will I mention the fanatical cult mentality of the super-woke, left-progressive community that has overtaken and flooded the Biden White House since early 2021, and how we’ve all bent the knee…everyone in the Biden White House has shown rapt allegiance to woke cultism…some of you thought that when you elected me in November 2000 you elected a sensible old-school, forward-thinking liberal…think again!….we’ve all joined the cult and there’s no way to reverse course on this…identity, gender, the celebration of non-white people, the open expression of gay sexuality….dicks, dicks, dicks, dicks….career cancellations as fierce punishment for incorrect viewpoints and behaviors…believing all women, all accusations, discouraging due process…dissing all white guys who’ve been accused of anything bad….anything that might rub wokesters the wrong way, anyone who may seem insufficiently deferential to the theology of trans and hormone blockers…surgical removal of male genitalia and nice breasts or the augmentation of new breasts….the joy of slicing young men’s dicks off…commmitted people of color looking to replace or downgrade or even eject straight white guys for they need to be scolded and slapped around so they will know what it’s like to feel oppression.

“I can’t mention this stuff because average folks won’t understand it or relate to it, but this is who we are and what we are, and what Kamala’s team will probably be if she’s elected….we all know what equity and social justice mean…it means Left Stalinism…everyone must be a POC or gay or trans or pro-immigration without limits, or at the very least deferring to same…all qualified people of color must be favored, and all straight white males must be disfavored or disciplined and made to sit in the back of the bus, for this is the new way, the way of the woke West Wing cult that has flourished under my term as your president.”

The promise of Bob Dylan soul and salvation has saved 2024 in terms of movie voltage…poppa-poppa-poppa-ooh-mow-mow-poppa-oooh-mow-muh-mow.

Up until now 2024, hobbled by the strikes, had been regarded as something of a weak sister. No longer! A Complete Unknown to the rescue!

I feel really great about this morning’s news that James Mangold‘s Bob Dylan biopic (which will obviously cover the span of 1961 folkie scruff to the 1966 motorcycle accident and not just the electric transformational shift at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival and which should have been titled Ghost of Electricity) will open in December.

This is an obvious shot in the arm in terms of Oscar schematics…Best Picture (duhh), Timothee Chalamet for Best Actor (he delivers an exceptionally spot-on Dylan singing voice), Best Director (Mangold) and so on. Millions of boomer-aged Dylan fans have just dropped to their knees.

I’m much more of an ornery X-factor cosmic pushbacker than a “boomer” (disgusting, despicable term) but my eyes are leaking as we speak…

This has been a seriously amazing three or four days — Droolin’ Joe finally drops out, Kamala Harris immediately ignites and A Complete Unknown is locked in for a December release….all within the span of 72 hours, give or take.

Besides pushing for the title change (Ghost of Electricity over A Complete Unknown), I’ve been urging a late ’24 release for many months, and certainly since last March.

All I can say is that after whispering the words “my weariness amazes me” over and over and over since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, this is a joyous moment. Right now, I mean. It may or may not be joyous when the film begins to screen, but here’s hoping.

Hey, Mangold…how about cutting together a 20-minute product reel and screening it at Telluride? Rocky mountain orgasm!

It is a measure of my magnanimous and forgiving nature (seriously) that I’m wishing and hoping that A Complete Unknown fulfills its potential in every way imaginable, despite Mangold having royally fucked me 17 years ago when he forwarded that 15-paragraph letter I’d emailed him (late summer of ’07) to Lionsgate marketing wiz Tim Palen, who in turn sent it along to the late Nikki Finke, who used it to embarass and trash me several months later.

It was a truly filthy episode all around, but I’ve since let it go. Well, mostly.