Why is it that “The Rock” is so steadfastly opposed to appearing in good films, or even half-decent ones? As far as I can tell he’s never even tried to costar in a quality-level enterprise…not once.

Does Chris Heath’s Vanity Fair profile piece answer this question? Does it even allude to it? Of course not.

Snapped during a glammy dinner in honor of Australia’s Phillip Noyce, the current recipient of a ten-day tribute by the Cinematheque Francaise.

Attendees included Noyce, wife Vuyo Dyasi, daughter Ayanda, dp Svetlana Cvetko plus Jason Clarke, Joel Edgerton and Gillian Bird, Australian Ambassador to France. The Australian embassy is located at 4 Rue Jean Rey, 75015 Paris, France.

I understood why Saving Private Ryan began with a closeup of a billowing, wind-flapping, desaturated U.S. flag. But what do the stars and stripes have do with Tony and Maria‘s love story in Steven Spielberg‘s West Side Story? Seriously, what is this?

Has Spielberg shifted the locale to Brooklyn’s Fort Hamilton? Is Tony a U.S. Army recruiter? Do Tony and Maria initially bond over their patriotic love of our country? Will West Side Story begin with the singing of “The Star Spangled Banner”? Will there be a 21-gun salute on the night of the big premiere?

The last time I checked West Side Story was not about the U.S. of A. or any uniquely American issue or theme. It’s a story about tribalism, racism, prejudice, territoriality and the glorious madness of hormonal love.

Arthur Brooke‘s “The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet“, set in Verona, was published in 1562. William Shakespeare‘s English-language version, also set in northern Italy, was written between 1591 and 1595. Until now no one has ever claimed that it’s a particularly American-type story.

Please explain why the red white and blue is mixed up in this…seriously, I’m lost.

The best I can come up with (and I’m just spitballing here) is that Spielberg and the Disney marketers are telling us that the above-mentioned bad stuff (racism, etc.) has a particular resonance with United States culture right now and that the citizenry needs to pay particular attention. We have to “woke” ourselves up to the problem and address it with progressive measures.

I’m sorry but when, if ever, are significant numbers of African Americans going to move past “the government is looking to poison or otherwise mutilate our community so don’t let them inject you with anything”?

The abhorrent Tuskegee Syphilis Study happened between 1932 and ’72, and everyone in the civilized world acknowledges what an atrocity it was. And it ended nearly 50 years ago. How does this inform or reflect upon government-issued Covid vaccines? I’ll tell you how it informs or reflects upon government-issued Covid vaccines. It doesn’t. At all. But try telling that to Ice Cube.

Friendo to HE: “Given the history of the medical experiments the CIA did on the black community in the past, they may have a valid concern here. But at some point they need to realize that while the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiments were a local thing done in one area, the pandemic and the vaccine are global matters.

HE to friendo: “That distinction seems to be a bridge too far for some in the black community.”

Friendo to HE: “Don’t quote me on this. I don’t want to be accused of talking down to anyone.”

HE to friendo: “It’s too late. I’m afraid I have no choice but to alert Glenn Kenny. He’ll bitchslap you around but good.”

SPOILERS HEREIN: 18 hours ago I saw Edgar Wright‘s Last Night in Soho. I had suspected I would probably have a bad time with it, but my God, it’s dreadful. Mindless, gaudy throwaway trash. Not to mention dull by way of a mind-numbing repetition of a #MeToo mantra — older men with bulging wallets are toxic beasts.

Wright got hold of something cool and throttled in the first two-thirds of Baby Driver, but now it’s gone. The bottom line is that he’s a completely untethered geek fetishist — he’s all about design and visual intensity and comic-book-level characters, and at the same time completely disengaged from anything even vaguely resembling an adult sensibility or, perish the thought, an ability to absorb and re-process life as a semi-complex, multi-layered thing. In short, Wright is 47 going on 14.

In the mid ’60s context of Last Night in Soho, Wright isn’t interested in trying to (let’s get creative!) partially channel the spirit of Roman Polanski by way of recalling or reanimating the 1965 atmosphere of Repulsion…God, what a stone cold slasher masterpiece that film is, especially compared to the slovenly Soho. Repulsion and Last Night in Soho are one year apart, and at the same time based in entirely separate galaxies.

Last Night in Soho essentially says one thing over and over. Ready? Older London men who went to flashy nightclubs in the mid ‘60s were cruel sexist pigs (which many of them doubtless were) and they all wanted to sexually exploit and abuse young women who needed the money. Which made them Hammer horror monsters of the darkest and scuzziest order.

But that was mid ‘60s London for you! Forget the seminal beginnings of the rock revolution. Forget the Yardbirds. Forget the mid ’60s Soho club scene that had begun to be dominated by London’s rock virtuosos and their many followers. Forget the musical and spiritual explosions conveyed by Aftermath and Rubber Soul. Forget John Lennon and George Harrison being dosed by a dentist in ’65 and experiencing their first-ever acid trip. Forget all that. Because in Wright’s view, 1966 London was crammed with creepy, sex-starved, Sexy Beast guys in their 40s and 50s who worshipped the Kray brothers.

Not to mention those four Heather bitches from fashion design school who do nothing but taunt and snicker at Thomasin McKenzie‘s innocent “Elly”.

But at least there’s one compassionate young dude (Michael Ajao‘s “John”) who genuinely cares for her, mainly because the Maoist woke mindset of 2021 has declared that all people of color are sainted figures. Which confirms that on top of his unrestrained geek indulgences Wright is just another obedient woke whore, singing the same hymn from the same “sing it or we might cancel you” hymn book…people of color are so good, so blessed, so pure of heart.

Mckenzie’s over-emoting drove me mad. In Wright’s view she’s Heidi..a country-girl waif who’s completely incapable of not being gobsmacked by everything and everyone she encounters, and incapable of restraining or modifying her emotional reactions.

Posted six months ago: Last Night in Soho is the kind of thing Edgar Wright seems to naturally gravitate to. He loves visceral cinema, he’s good with “wow” concepts and has excellent visual instincts, but he has a popcorn soul…sensitivity, depth and thoughtfulness are not, shall we surmise, his strong suits,

Imagine having a fascinating imaginary time-trip playground at your beck and call…a voyage back to the once-in-a-century excitement of 1966 (culturally, tectonically, generationally, sexually, politically), and the “wait, something is happening here” London atmosphere (which was also manifesting in San Francisco and Los Angeles even)…and Wright has a clear-light brainstorm: ”Holy shit, of course…I’ll make it a horror film!”

Imagine being locked up in that fucking head of his, to paraphrase Junior Soprano. Of all the places Wright could have gone to with this premise…God.

If you want a transportational taste of London ’66, watch Michelangelo Antonioni‘s Blow-Up, or listen to Revolver or Between The Buttons. If you want a reminder of how fallow and soul-draining things can be in 2021, look no further than the creative designs of Edgar W.

I don’t know for a dead cold fact that Grant Williams, star of The Incredible Shrinking Man (’57), was gay, but he almost certainly was. And in this context Shrinking Man becomes more than just a sci-fi drama about a guy getting smaller and smaller. It’s a film about a repressed ’50s guy feeling smaller and smaller due to the anguish of the closet — fear of being outed or found out, career anxiety, a general sense of isolation, constantly having to hide and skulk around.

The cat who almost kills Willams’ character…hell, choose any metaphor. The Los Angeles vice squad, homophobic agents and producers, Williams’ father, the general atmosphere of disapproval.

A West Hollywood resident, Williams never married or had any kind of ongoing relationship with anyone of either gender. (Or at least none that was ever written about.) Written on the Wind, The Incredible Shrinking Man and Susan Slade aside, the poor guy made almost nothing but B-level crap. He died of peritonitis in July ’85, at age 53.