If Hillary Clinton had won in ’16 she’d probably be in her second term now. The noise on the right would have been horrible every step of the way. But would we be three years away from a more-than-likely rightwing coup d’etat?

Overheard: “As Bill Maher, Robert Kagan and others have now demonstrated with far more eloquence than I have, Trump’s takeover is all but guaranteed. American democracy ends in January 2025. Because the fascist left and the fascist right are now working together. They are both cults that despise freedom of thought, and they both, increasingly, despise reality.

“The right is ahead on the reality score. On the 1 to 10 scale (1 being reality, 10 being total wingnut through-the-looking-glass fantasy), they’re at about an 8. The left is now a 4 creeping up on 5. (As Andrew Sullivan captured in his revelatory column this week, the trans issue is what’s pushing the left to a 6, 7, or 8.)

“But the bottom line is that they’re united. They both want to kill American freedom (just by different means). They are colluding, and they will succeed.”

Or, as a friend put it this morning, “HAHA!”

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In episode #4 of Mary Smith Metzler’s Maid miniseries (Netflix, streaming since 10.1), Margaret Qualley’s “Alex,” a recently split-up single mom, is asked by her daughter what Thanksgiving is.

Her answer basically means wokesters regard this late–November family holiday as problematic, due to the history of white settlers’ mistreatment of Native Americans. And yet…

History.com: “The [50 year] alliance between the Pilgrims and the {Massachusetts] Wampanoag tribe, remains one of the few examples of harmony between European colonists and Native Americans.“

Yesterday’s Daily Beast takedown piece on TheWrap editor and CEO Sharon Waxman arose from complaints by whiney ex-employees.

“Regional Friendo” piped in with a gripe about abusive bosses and how gentle bosses are much better, and how respect is a two-way street.

HE to Regional Friendo: “I prefer mellow to agitated as well. But this is a tough town and snappy bosses are lamentably par for the course, at least in some corners. You basically have to man up, grim up and take it. Life in the big city.

“You remember Budd Schulberg’s What Makes Sammy Run?, of course. Imagine if Sammy Glick had hired a team of snowflake employees. What a Daily Beast article that would make! ‘Sammy is a real prick and he’s hurt our feelings…waahhh!’

“Except they didn’t have sensitive snowflakes back in the ‘40s and ‘50s. Well, they did but nobody voiced any complaints, certainly not to magazine reporters.”

Journalist Friendo: “LOL at Daily Beast trying to knock out a successful competitor. Fuck these crybabies. Go work somewhere else. Sharon is gruff and direct but you have to be to win in this town. She owns her own business so she can tell them to fuck right off.”

I was left with mixed feelings after catching George Clooney‘s The Tender Bar last weekend. Set in Manhasset and Connecticut in the ’70s and ’80s and featuring a steady, trustworthy performance from Tye Sheridan and an amiable supporting one from Ben Affleck, this is a warmish, working-class family saga about the usual dysfunctions and obstacles…in this case a fatherless kid nurtured in a bar + romantic college-age yearnings + toil and trouble + struggling to make it as a journalist.

The following day I ordered a copy of J.R. Moehringer‘s same-titled life saga, published in 2006 and the basis of William Monahan‘s screenplay.

Moehringer is a relaxed, colloquial, straight-up honest writer. The book is well sculpted, easy to read, no speedbumps or detours. It’s a compelling tale of a Manhasset kid who grew up fatherless (his radio talk-show dad was an absentee alcoholic asshat) but who was nurtured along by some surrogate dads at a Manhasset watering hole called The Dickens (later Publicans), and eventually went on to a Yale education and a career as a journalist with the N.Y. Times, Rocky Mountain News and L.A Times.

The film is not as good as the book, but it’s an agreeable, sometimes affecting in-and-outer. It keeps everything personal and local, and is basically a “this happens and that happens and then this happens” type of thing. I wasn’t levitated, but I wasn’t annoyed either. I went with it and so did Tatiana, who insists that Clooney’s film will affect people in the same way that Kenneth Branagh‘s Belfast, another turbulent family drama, did during Telluride.

Actually I was a bit irked from time to time.

Affleck charms as Uncle Charlie (no allusions to Joseph Cotten‘s doppleganger in Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt), and despite playing this amiable bartender with a somewhat broad “Long Island accent,” which struck me as needless. Ben is an authentic Boston guy, and he doesn’t need to pretend. On top of which all Charlie does is hang out and share pearls of working-class wisdom. Nothing develops or builds with the guy.

There’s a father-son event at young J.R.’s school, and you naturally expect that Charlie will fill in for the absent asshat dad (Max Martini).  Affleck stepping up to this plate would have meant something to us. But no — J.R.’s crabby, white-haired grandfather (Chris Lloyd) puts on a tie and attends instead. Which struck me as hugely unsatisfying.

And there’s a cancer scare subplot involving J.R.s mom (Lily Rabe) that goes nowhere.  One minute Affleck is admonishing a young woman for even asking about Lily’s disease, and a scene or two later she’s older and cancer-free and completely out of the woods. And it’s like “whut?”

And I regret to say (and I hate having to spit this out, being an ardent admirer of Clooney, one of the better human beings in this town) that The Tender Bar is partly undone by a surreal casting decision that makes the first 40% of the film feel seriously out of whack.

I’m speaking of the casting of young Daniel Ranieri, a kid from an apparently Middle Eastern family (the last name is Italian but the lineage appears to be Lebanese, Iranian, Jordanian…somewhere in that realm), as the 10 year-old version of Sheridan, who, like Moehringer in actuality, is the biological son of a German paleface couple (Rabe and Martini). It would be one thing if Ranieri was adopted, but there’s NO WAY IN HELL this kid grows up to be Tye Sheridan.

I’m looking forward to the first YouTube report about the Academy Museum that at least mentions the fact that the “apology for 100 years of white Hollywood” angle constitutes a good 80% of the museum’s content, above and beyond the Miyazaki exhibit. The people who’ve covered it so far are all gladhanders.

Seriously, how could any fan of North by Northwest not be a little thrown by the “Backdrop: An Invisible Art” exhibit, which all but indicts Alfred Hitchcock, Ernest Lehman, Cary Grant and others who helped make this 1959 thriller for crimes against the Lakota nation?

And yet the Fox 11 reporter [below] waltzes in with her camera crew and goes “oh, what a paradise for movie fans! And there’s Bruce the shark!”

“…who’s not a parasite, and I’ll go out and say a prayer for him.” — “Visions of Johanna,” Bob Dylan, 1966.

This Belfast poster doesn’t reflect an Academy-angled, award-season campaign; it’s aimed at general audiences. The idea is that Jude Hill’s adolescent lead character lives in his own world, and that “the troubles” of 1969 Belfast (Irish vs. Protestant, anti-British occupation) haven’t made a dent. The smiling faces of his family indicate a similar buoyant attitude.

After the Academy Museum I dropped by the Farmers’ Market. Within five minutes I was ordering a cup of Cookies ‘n’ Cream ice cream at Local Ice (formerly Gill’s ice cream stand, which opened in ’37). Four younger women (early 20s) were behind the counter. I was holding an Academy Museum brochure and placed it on the counter as I waited.

One of the women (a pretty brunette) beamed when she saw the brochure, and leaned forward slightly and said, “So what did you think of the museum?”

For three or four seconds I wondered if I should just say “oh, I really loved it…very handsome, beautiful displays” and so on. But of course the HE thing won out.

“Well, it’s kind of a mixed bag because it’s pretty woke,” I said, shrugging my shoulders and trying to softpedal my words. “It’s basically a huge apology museum,” I continued. “An apology for white males having run the film industry for 100 years. It’s basically a celebration of the inclusion moves made over the last few years on the part of non-white people and women are concerned, and it’s basically bullshit.”

When I said the word “women” the 20something brunette slightly twitched. She was apparently trying to suppress her discomfort that this older customer with red-tinted glasses seemed to be vaguely irked by the museum celebrating the progress of persons like herself. (Which I wasn’t conveying at all.) Plus her eyes had begun to harden. She wasn’t about to get into an argument with a customer but she clearly wanted to hear how wonderful and cleansing the museum was, and she didn’t want to hear my anti-wokey.

“I can see you don’t want to hear my impression of the place,” I said, “but I know a lot about this town and I’ve been a movie journalist for a long time, and the museum is not about Hollywood history or culture as it was defined for a century or less. It’s strictly about what guilty liberals are doing to make things better for women and people of color.”

She smiled and said “I’m fine…just listening.” But her eyes twitched again when I said “women” for the second time.

“Nobody’s saying that women gaining more power and opportunity in the industry isn’t a welcome thing,” I explained. “But this and the secular histories of women and POCs and the Hayao Miyazaki exhibit on the third floor…that’s all the museum is about really. And that’s a very small slice of Hollywood history and culture.”

I would love to hear a recording of the women discussing my comments after I left. Publicity and marketing women who think like the ice-cream brunette have killed my life.