I watched the final episode of The White Lotus last night, and when it ended I texted the following to a friend: “I can now say that I’ve seen a roundly-praised HBO limited series that contained (a) a brief glimpse of male on male analingus and (b) a MCU of a middle-aged guy squatting and dropping two loads into a hotel guest’s suitcase.

It’s safe to say I’ll never forget these two moments. Ever. For the rest of my time on this planet.

The muncher and the seething social resentment shitter are played by 50 year-old Australian actor Murray Bartlett, so he’s definitely earned a place in the annals of cinema history.

Directed, written and exec produced by Mike White (writer of Beatriz at Dinner), The White Lotus focuses on several wealthy guests at a Hawaiian resort along with various staffers tending to their needs and appetites and whatnot. It’s basically a series about social classism or, put plainly, the behavior of self-absorbed, liberal-minded, bubble-residing lefty assholes, as observed by their social lessers.

Put more bluntly, The White Lotus basically says “these people live on their own secular planets, and we’re going to point this out to you over and over and over. And every time we reiterate this observation you can say to yourself ‘Jesus, what a bunch of nice, polite, petty-minded, self-absorbed, etc.”

A little more than five years ago I posted a story about a minor Manhattan betrayal between two fellows (i.e., myself and a cartoonist-illustrator friend). It happened sometime in early ’80, give or take. The story alludes to a universally accepted code of behavior among guys worldwide, and a certain kind of deviance that is not accepted.

What follows isn’t so much a repost of the article (“Harold Pinter’s Betrayal“) as a reaction from an old friend to the piece, and a back-and-forth that resulted.

Posted on 6.12.16: Never rat another guy out when it comes to women. To put it more formally, one of the most paramount ethical codes between adult males is that you can never spill the beans on a friend or acquaintance if his girlfriend or wife asks you to reveal the truth about whatever (i.e., usually his deep-down feelings or some past behavior that has come under question).

Determining the factual or emotional truth of things is something that only a couple can sort out for themselves. It’s not yours to get involved. If a guy is lying to his girlfriend or wife about some indiscretion or affair or saying anything out of earshot that might get him in trouble, it’s none of your damn business and you’re obliged to say nothing. Omerta.

The truth will out sooner or later, but even if it doesn’t guys are absolutely honor-bound to protect each other. I’ve never run into a single fellow in my life who would even think of questioning this.

Except for one. He was a cartoonist-illustrator, and his betrayal happened in early ’80 or thereabouts. I’ll call him Saul. We’d met each other in ’79 by way of a fetching lady writer we both felt for and admired (I was the new boyfriend and he was an ex), and then we got to be actual friends.

At some point in the middle of ’80 (i.e., after I’d been dumped by the writer) I began a mild flirtation with an iconoclastic female cartoonist whom Saul also knew. Let’s call her Caroline. She was a respected, highly gifted artist and pretty besides.

By coincidence she and I realized one day over the phone that we had booked seats on the exact same flight to Los Angeles. A day or two later I mentioned to Saul that I’d love to indulge in a mile-high club thing with Caroline. It was just a fantasy, a wisp of a notion that came to mind and that I gave voice to. The anecdotal equivalent of a paper airplane.

Here’s the newest and spiffiest Telluride rundown from World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy. There are two or three titles that he hasn’t been able to nail down, but there are fairly safe bets. I remain heartbroken that Clint Eastwood’s Cry Macho isn’t included; ditto The Many Saints of Newark. I mentioned yesterday that I’m jubilant about Dune not playing there. I’ve placed an HE after films of special interest.

It’s a five-day festival this time (9.2 through 9.6) but really four and a half — I usually average about three films per day (you can’t just see them — you also have to write about them) and occasionally four. Out of 30 films I might get around to seeing 16 or 18, depending on the breaks. One of the big titles is screening two or three times over the next few days for hotshot media types. I asked yesterday if I could please attend one of the showings — the rep couldn’t even be bothered to politely decline. Classy.

“C’mon C’mon” (Mike Mills) / HE
“The Power of Dog” (Jane Campion) / HE
“Spencer” (Pablo Larrain) / HE (although I can sense it’s going to be a slog)
“King Richard” (Reinaldo Marcus Green) / HE
“The Card Counter” (Paul Schrader) / HE
“The Hand of God” (Paolo Sorrentino) / HE
“The Lost Daughter” (Maggie Gyllenhaal) / HE
“The Electrical Life of Louis Wain” (Will Sharpe)
“Encounter” (Michael Pearce)
“The French Dispatch” (Wes Anderson) / HE
“The Velvet Underground” (Todd Haynes)…allegedly too enthralled with John Cale.
“Vortex” (Gaspar Noe)
“Passing” (Rebecca Hall) / HE (although the premise is flat-out unbelievable)
“Flee” (Jonas Poher Rasmussen)
”Red Rocket” (Sean Baker) / HE
“Bergman Island” (Mia Hansen-Love)
“A Hero” (Asghar Farhadi) / HE
“Petite Maman” (Celine Sciamma)
“Becoming Cousteau” (Liz Garbus) / HE
“The Rescue” (E. Chai Vasarhelyi, Jimmy Chin)
“A Chiara” (Jonas Carpignano)
“The First 54 Years: An Abbreviated Manual for Military Occupation” (Avi Mograbi)
“Prayers for the Stolen” (Tatiana Huezo)
“Unclenching the Fists” (Kira Kovalenko)
“Julia” (Cohen/West)
“Muhammad Ali” (Ken Burns)…this can wait.
“Three Minutes – A Lengthening” (Bianca Stigter)

And all I can do is drop to my knees, shed a tear and say “Jesus, Mary and Joseph in heaven…THANK GOD!”

A 67 or 68-year-old woman, identified in court papers as “J.C.”, has filed a sexual abuse lawsuit against Bob Dylan, alleging that the singer-songwriter sexually abused her in 1965, when she was 12 years old and Dylan was 24.

The suit alleges that Dylan gave her drugs and alcohol 56 years ago, and established an emotional connection that allowed him to sexually abuse her for a six-week period between April and May 1965. It alleges that Dylan used threats of physical violence, “leaving her emotionally scarred and psychologically damaged to this day.” Some of the abuse is alleged to have occurred at the Hotel Chelsea in New York.

A schedule of Dylan’s professional engagements posted earlier today by Showbiz 411‘s Roger Friedman indicates Dylan was touring in England between 4.26.65 and 6.2.65. If verified, the claim about sexual abuse of “J.C.” in May ’65 in New York City seems questionable.

Variety‘s Gene Maddaus: “The woman filed suit under New York’s Child Victims Act, the 2019 law that opened a two-year period during which the ordinary statute of limitations was suspended for claims of child sexual abuse.

“The deadline to file such suit fell on Saturday, 8.14, and the suit against Dylan was filed on the evening of Friday, 8.13.

“The suit alleges claims of assault, battery, false imprisonment and intentional infliction of emotional distress. The claim was filed by attorneys Daniel Isaacs and Peter Gleason.”

My honest view of the forthcoming K cover for their Citizen Kane 4K disc (11.23.21) is that it’s kinda dull. It certainly isn’t what any honest designer would call “oh, wow.”

Serious question: Which other films could be represented by a single letter on a Bluray cover? Besides Costa Gavras‘ Z, I mean. If Criterion wanted to go minimalist with a North by Northwest 4K disc, they could use a NXNW…right? They could go with a big M for a Manchurian Candidate jacket cover, I suppose. Or a big R for a Raider of the Lost Ark cover.

But you know what? Fuck this idea. You could decide to single-letter anything. It’s a lame concept.

The first minimalist one-letter logo was the trapezoid N for NBC, which was used between ’76 and ’79.

Before Geena Davis was cast as catcher and assistant manager Dorothy “Dottie” Hinson in A League of Their Own, Debra Winger had the role. In an 8.13 Telegraph interview, Winger says that she trained hard and took the part seriously, but decided to quit when director Penny Marshall cast Madonna as centerfielder Mae “All the Way” Mordabito.

Winger interpreted the Madonna casting as a sign that Marshall intended to make an insubstantial “Elvis film.”

If you ask me Winger was being a bit harsh in her assessment of the then-30-year-old pop singer and sometime actress. I had seen Madonna in the original B’way production of David Mamet‘s Speed-The-Plow in ’88, and while it was obvious that she wasn’t a gifted actress she wasn’t half bad. Another way of putting it is that Madonna held her own as well as she could. She certainly didn’t embarass herself of let down her costars, Joe Mantegna and Ron Silver.

Based on this performance alone, Madonna deserved at least a modicum of respect from Winger.

Winger’s final assessment of League: “As entertaining as [the final film] was, you don’t walk away going ‘Wow, those women did that.’ You kind of go ‘Is that true?’”