I’m pleased to announce the launch of the Anti-Psychopath Political Action Committee.

Because it’s time to start talking about what should be the number one issue in the 2024 presidential election.

Join the conversation at @PsychoPAC24 and at https://t.co/7Jw8lgMa2q. pic.twitter.com/vCL8dayVA8

— George Conway (@gtconway3d) July 18, 2024

…was that the spooky effects looked bargain-basement-y. In Beetlejuice 2 they look slick and elaborately expensive, which is less charming.

Willem Dafoe is the most over-employed character actor working today.

Kai Madison Trump plays golf?

The correct self-intro would have been “at 17, I am Donald Trump‘s eldest granddaughter.” Instead she said “I am the granddaughter of Donald Trump,” and in so doing brushed aside her sister Chloe, and her cousins Arabella (daughter of Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner) and Carolina (daughter of Eric Trump and Lara Yunaska).

She thinks Donald’s “success” in business is “obviously” a high bar?

The only part of her speech that I personally related to was “[Grandpa Donald] gives us candy and soda when our parents aren’t looking.”

Before today I only knew of Douglas Trumbull‘s Brainstorm (’83), the Natalie Wood-Chris Walken drama that was delayed due to Wood’s 1981 drowning death. It costarred Louise Fletcher and Cliff Robertson.

And then I suddenly learned, hours ago, of William Conrad‘s Brainstorm (’65), a bizarre neo-noir that costarred Jeffrey Hunter (behaving like a total glazed-eyed nutter), Anne Francis, Dana Andrews and Viveca Lindfors. It looks and sounds awful, but is streaming on Criterion as we speak. Has anyone in the HE community ever seen it? I’m thinking of submitting this weekend.

I loathe timid, wimpish loser mentalities, and am therefore almost salivating at the prospect of gurgly Joe Biden losing to the fiendish, sociopathic Donald Trump on Tuesday, 11.5, even though I’ll be voting for our very own croaky, drooling great-granddad as there’s no other rational choice.

But as surely as I live and breathe I despise Biden right now — his Irish obstinacy and infirm arrogance — and I feel nothing but contempt for the Democratic candy-asses who threw in the towel minutes after last Saturday’s assassination attempt.

Jon Stewart during last night’s (7.16) riff about the Trump shooting:

From yesterday’s (7.16) HE article, titled “Jack Black and Stephen Colbert Shared Dishonest Thoughts”:

Posted on 4.15.15:

Joni,

Greetings — I’m Jeffrey Wells. I’ve been a film columnist, reporter and critic for 30-plus years, and I’ve been tapping out a dailly column since ’04 — www.hollywood-elsewhere.com.

I’ve never gotten to know or work the music realm like the movie business. Not professionally or politically, I mean, so I’ve never tried to interview you or anything. I’ve nonetheless been a rapt admirer of your music for 43 or 44 years (since “Blue”). And I want you to know I felt serious pangs of fear two or three weeks ago when you were suddenly rushed to the hospital.This made me want to finally say something.

The kind & gentle Phillip Rothschild, who’s been doing my hair for maybe a decade, graciously declined to pass this along.

The thing I want to say is that your reputation as a world-class poet, phraser, searcher and sufferer will certainly last for the next several centuries.

Nobody has recorded a more touching and transcendent version of “Unchained Melody.”

I know most of your work, but your early ’70s to early ’80s stuff was rock perfect. Especially “The Hissing of Summer Lawns” and “Hejira”. Those “six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain,” “the hexagram of the heavens, ” “poppy poison-poppy tourniquet [that] slithers away on brass like mouthpiece spit”…I’ll take these lyrics with me into the next life.

One other thing: I know all about the sensual satisfactions of a good smoke, but you have to switch to vapor cigarettes…you just have to. That’s all I’m going to say.

I quit smoking decades ago but not entirely & not 110% because for years I would dabble with Davidoff cigarettes when I visited Europe. It’s different over there somehow. But I stopped even that about five years ago. For the joy and the light and the radiance of it all, please do what you can do extend your physical time here.

That’s mainly what I have to say, but I’ve added some things I’ve written about you in recent years plus two personal anecdotes…

I just checked the lyrics to “Refuge of the Road,” and all this time I thought the line went “hard of humor and humility,” as in “hard of hearing.” I loved that line! But apparently the lyric actually goes “heart and humor and humility”…right?

Personal recollection #2: I attended a short, smallish concert that you gave at Studio 54 in October ’82 to promote “Wild Things Run Fast.” The crowd wasn’t huge, maybe 150 or so, and I was standing fairly close and pretty much dead center. I was quite excited about being this close. I was beaming, starry-eyed and staring at you like the most self-abasing suck-up fan you could imagine, and during the first song your eyes locked onto mine and I swear to God we began to kind of half-stare at each other. Your eyes danced around from time to time but you kept coming back to me, and I remember thinking, “Okay, she senses that I love her and she probably likes my looks so I guess I’m her special fanboy or something for the next few minutes.”

You were dressed in a white pants suit and some kind of colorful scarf, and you sang and played really well, and I remember you had a little bit of a sexy tummy thing going on. Sorry but that had a portion of my attention along with the songs and “being there” and a feeling that I’d remember this moment for decades to come.

Like that Everett Sloane moment on the Staten Island ferry in Citizen Kane when he saw that girl in a white dress.

Personal recollection #1: The very first time I saw you in person (this really dates me) was in the summer of ’73 (possibly ’74?) around 11:30 pm at Wherehouse Records in Westwood. You were standing just outside the front door and talking with a couple of excited female fans. I sensed from your expression that you were feigning more interest than you really had in what they were saying — you were being nice, polite, gracious. (I was also struck by your brownish hair color, which argued with the blondeness on the cover of “For The Roses.”)

In any event I walked past you and the fans and into the store, and lo and behold there was Warren Beatty, sifting through records and wearing a jean jacket and a somewhat sullen expression. I realized right away he was with you that night (way too much of a coincidence that he just happened to be there at the exact same moment) but didn’t want to chat with fans, etc. I was on my way to a midnight screening of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Item: “Sometimes I don’t quite understand what ‘important’ means, but Joni Mitchell is the most important and influential female recording artist of the late 20th century, and a poet of the highest order. So I don’t mind that “Be Cool”, a track from 2002’s “Travelogue,” is today’s ear bug.”

Article: “Good music yesterday is good music today. You just have to let it in. Passively, I mean. Stillness is key. (Speed-walking on a treadmill at 24 Hour Fitness…not so much.) I was reminded of this last night while driving 75 mph on the relatively uncrowded 405 freeway. It might be the best music-listening activity of all. Especially if the music has the right kind of nocturnal freeway-flow vibe in the first place. Which Hejira definitely has.

“The Wikipage page quotes Mitchell as saying that “the whole Hejira album was really inspired…I wrote the album while traveling cross-country by myself and there is this restless feeling throughout it…the sweet loneliness of solitary travel.”

All my life I’ve loved Mitchell’s stuff for all the right reasons, but I was especially impressed last night by the quality and the exquisite recording of the session performances on this 1976 album. The gently layered guitar and bass arrangements are so precisely laid down, and yet with a professional aplomb that’s so swoony and soft and lulling…stirring to the depths.

“All hail Larry Carlton (acoustic & electric guitars), Max Bennett (bass on “Song for Sharon”, “Furry Sings the Blues”), John Guerin and Bobbye Hall (drums, percussion).”

Article: “On 4.20.12 Variety‘s Jeff Sneider reported about that ludicrous notion of casting Taylor Swift as Mitchell in a film version of Sheila Weller‘s 2008 book, “Ladies Like Us.” Swift was said to be “circling” the Mitchell role. The Katie Jacobs-directed film was going to be shot under the aegis of Sony and Di Bonaventura Pictures. But last fall it was reported that Mitchell had killed the Swift casting. (She told a Sunday Times interviewer that “I squelched that…I said to the producer, ‘All you’ve got is a girl with high cheekbones.’” She added that the screenplay “is just a lot of gossip… you don’t have the great scenes.”)

The Swift casting was “an appalling idea,” I wrote, “because Mitchell’s manner and speaking style always conveyed the churning soul of a poet and artist, and Swift looks and talks like a none-too-introspective, looking-to-please pop personality. Mitchell is a world-class lady with oceans, rivers and tributaries within; Swift is a pond.”

Love ya forever,

Jeff

“But whether or not the bullet hits you in the head or nicks the top of your right ear…it’s how boldly and bravely you respond to that bloody ear-piercing! As long as you have your shoes on…just don’t forget your shoes.”

The Perfect President Donald J. Trump Campaign Ad Now Exists. pic.twitter.com/yV6Uftc7hI

— (@FMarinoJr) July 15, 2024

The last time I watched a film about a man suffering from neurofibromatosis was 44 years ago, when I saw David Lynch‘s The Elephant Man (’80). I went through a similar dramatic experience five years later when I saw Peter Bogdanovich‘s Mask (’85), although Eric Stoltz‘s Rocky Dennis character was a victim of craniodiaphyseal dysplasia, “an extremely rare sclerotic bone disorder”.

In The Elephant Man, the cruelty that poor John Merrick (John Hurt) endured at the hands of Mr. Bytes (Freddie Jones) and others was ugly, and the kindness and compassion that Merrick received from Dr. Frederick Treves (Anthony Hopkins), Madge Kendal (Anne Bancroft), Frances Gomm (John Gielgud) and Mrs. Mothershead (Wendy Hiller) was heartwarming.

I naturally imagined that I was in league with the good guys in this film, and that made me feel good about myself.

But of course, Hurt’s Merrick wasn’t really suffering from this horrid disease — his appearance was a demonstration of masterful, tour de force technique from makeup guy Christopher Tucker. Audience members naturally knew that from the get-go.

Now I’m obliged to sit through Aaron Schimberg‘s A Different Man (A24, 9.20), a black comedy about three characters — (a) Edward (Sebastian Stan), a neurofibromatosis guy who is surgically transformed into a normal-looking dude, (b) an actual neurofibromatosis sufferer named Oswald (Adam Pearson) who isn’t saved by surgery, and (c) Ingrid (Renate Reinsve) who comes to know both Edward and Oswald.

I’m sorry but the trailer for Schimberg’s film, which debuted at Sundance ’24, suggests hard work. Makeup is one thing, but I find it uncomfortable and difficult to spend time with people who are actually grotesque and deformed. You can call me an insensitive brute, but I don’t particularly want to see A Different Man because of this. Put another way, I’ll see it but not without duress.

If you’re a neurofibromatosis wokey, however, you’ll not only condemn people like me but also bend over backwards to show the world what a kind and tolerant person you are. And that’s fine.

But there’s a scene in A Different Man in which a normal-looking woman takes Oswald’s head in her hands and kisses him, and there’s no way that’s tolerable for an average audience member. Forget it.

In a 7.14 Atlantic essay titled “The Gunman and the Would–Be Dictator,” David Frum wrote the following:

I would be lying if I said that for a few brief seconds last Saturday my heart didn’t skip a beat when I heard that Trump had been shot (i.e., ear–pierced).

The truth is that a feeling of mixed adrenaline (shocked by the implications of chaos and hate but at the same time thinking “does this mean no more Trump toxicity?”) rifled through my system.

Anyone from the sensible, semi-thoughtful, non-MAGA crowd who claims they were only horrified by the sight of blood and the whizzing of AR-15 bullets is (be honest) a bit of a coward and a liar.

One of those cowardly liars is Jack Black, who has just cancelled Tenacious D’s tour because Kyle Glass briefly confessed to having succumbed to calloused, knee-jerk thinking and to being a harsh judge of the bumblefuck social cancer that The Beast unleashed eight years ago.

Another liar is Late Show host Stephen Colbert, who shared the following during last night’s broadcast:

I don’t doubt that Colbert was, like everyone else, alarmed by the shooting and grief-struck for that poor fireman and family man, Corey Comperatore, who was killed by one of Thomas Matthew Crooks’ bullets.

But I don’t believe for a second that Colbert was relieved that Trump’s mustard gas wasn’t removed from social influence. Colbert said that because he had to — what Glass admitted to can never be even half-acknowledged by a big-time network TV talk-show guy.

I’m not proud of my pulse having quickened oh-so-briefly last Saturday afternoon. I feel chagrined by that ugly gut-feeling moment. But I can’t lie and say I didn’t taste it.

When I read about Crooks, I muttered to myself that the trans community is undoubtedly breathing a huge sigh of relief that the shooter wasn’t from their ranks. A friend with several POC pallies confessed that “there’s great relief that the shooter wasn’t black. Otherwise it would’ve been hunting season.”

The 34 year-old world of Kindergarten Cop never existed, of course, but it half-existed in the minds of the makers (director Ivan Reitman, screenwriters Murray Salem, Herschel Weingrod and Timothy Harris) and many in the mass audience. Arnold Schwarzenegger was 42 or 43 during filming, but looked younger. Who didn’t?

The world of 1990 and especially its values are totally gone, and will never again return.

And the movies that defined that year….Goodfellas, Internal Affairs, Miami Blues, The Hunt for Red October, Longtime Companion, Dick Tracy, Metropolitan, Postcards From Ther Edge, Avalon, Reversal of Fortune, Misery, The Sheltering Sky, The Grifters, Edward Scissorhands, etc. Plus everyone looked and felt so much younger. Plus there were no grown-up Millennials or Zoomers to muck things up, and no political terror! And Politically Incorrect wouldn’t debut until 7.25.93.

I was writing for Entertainment Weekly and Empire (I think), and my very first trip to the Cannes Film Festival wouldn’t happen for another two years.