In the wake of this morning’s ouster of Rep. Liz Cheney, the former House Republican Conference chairperson, I’m contemplating Thomas L. Friedman‘s “The Trump G.O.P.’s Plot Against Liz Cheney — and Our Democracy,” posted in the N.Y. Times on 5.11:

“In effect, the Trump G.O.P. has declared that winning the next elections for the House, Senate and presidency is so crucial — and Donald Trump’s ability to energize its base so irreplaceable — that it justifies both accepting his Big Lie about the 2020 election and leveraging that lie to impose new voter-suppression laws and changes in the rules of who can certify elections in order to lock in minority rule for Republicans if need be.

“It is hard to accept that this is happening in today’s America, but it is.

Cheney’s removal “will not constitute the end of American democracy as we’ve known it,” Friedman wrote, “but there is a real possibility we’ll look back on May 12, 2021, as the beginning of the end — unless enough principled Republicans can be persuaded to engineer an immediate, radical course correction in their party.

“If someone tried a dishonest power play at the P.T.A. of your child’s school like the one in the House, you’d be on the phone in a flash, organizing the other parents to immediately denounce and stop it. If you read about something like this happening in another pillar of democracy, like Britain or France, you’d be sick to your stomach and feel like the world was a little less safe. If you heard that a banana republic dictator had forced such a Big Lie on his sham parliament, you’d want to picket his embassy in Washington.

“But this is us — today, right now. And I fear that we’ve so defined down political deviance in the Trump years that we’ve lost the appropriate, drop-everything, Defcon 1, man-the-battle-stations sense of alarm that should greet the G.O.P. crossing such a redline.”

Forgot the boilerplate homophobic stuff, and start at the 4:04 mark:

“A tall fuckin’ order, I’ll tell you that. You can talk about every day bein’ a gift, stop and smell the roses. But regular life’s got a way of pickin’ away at it. Your house, the shit you own…it drags you down. Your kids, what they want. One bad idea after another. Tryin’ to work a cell phone menu…it’s enough to make you scream.”

Richard Rushfield‘s hard-boiled Ankler assessment of the maneuverings and backstories that led to the (temporary) death of the HFPA and the Golden Globes makes for excellent reading.

“It’s like a cheap murder mystery,” he analogizes, “in the small town where everyone had a motive.” Great line!

Key passage: “The HFPA last week issued their plan to overhaul the organization, the centerpiece of which was a commitment to ‘to fulfill the HFPA’s commitment to add at least 20 new members by August 2021 and increase membership by 50% in 18 months.’

“If the main objection on the table was the racial composition, 50% in 18 months seems like a pretty serious overhaul from where I sit. It’s a lot bigger and faster, proportionately, than the Academy transformed itself. This pledge was also accompanied by a timeline for new board elections, the adoption of new bylaws, etc. etc.

“All of which would seem to amount to just about a complete reworking of the entire group. I don’t recall the Academy, for instance, pledging that its entire board would step down.

“In response to this, the publicists’ letter was a complete dismissal that this represented change at all. So essentially they [seemed to be] demanding that the HFPA double [its] membership and the current members vote themselves out of control of the organization entirely within a year. A big ask! In the face of a pretty significant overhaul. Again, has any organization ever been asked to do that, short of criminal indictments and war crimes?”

The great actor, producer and director Norman Lloyd passed earlier today at age 106.

I was so taken by his performance as a blind but very skilled English professor in Curtis Hanson‘s In Her Shoes that I asked to chat with him. Two encounters happened, both in September ’05. We did a phoner, and then I was invited to take snaps at his Mandeville Canyon home. We talked for another hour or so.

Here’s the piece:

Norman Lloyd, 90, is in only three scenes in In Her Shoes and is on screen maybe seven or eight minutes, but his performance is one of the most poignant notes in a film that has more than a few of them.

It’s not one of those burn-through-the-screen performances (along the lines of, say, Beatrice Straight‘s fight-with-Bill-Holden scene in Network). It’s more like a coaxer. You can sense Lloyd’s intellectual energy and zest for life despite his character’s withered state, and you can feel and admire the tenderness he shows to Maggie …tenderness mixed in with a little classroom discipline.

He plays a sightless retired college professor who prods Diaz’s Maggie character, who is dyslexic and can’t read a billboard slogan without stumbling, into reading poetry to him — specifically a poem about loss and emotional guardedness by Elizabeth Bishop.

At first Maggie is reluctant, then she agrees to read to him…slowly, almost painfully…I have a dyslexic friend and she doesn’t read this slowly…but she gradually improves.

Then Lloyd prods her into explaining what she thinks of the poem. She tries to duck this, but Lloyd — relying on skills from a lifetime of teaching — won’t let her.

This isn’t just the heart of the scene — it’s a pivotal scene in the film. It’s the moment when Maggie turns the corner and starts taking steps to be someone a little better…because she starts believing in her ability to see through to the core of things, and in the first-time-ever notion that she has a lot more to develop and uncover within herself.

I know how cliched it sounds to say a character “turns a corner” and so on, but sometimes these moments happen in life. You just have to be able to hear the little voice in the back of your head that says, “You’ve taken a small step…you’ve just moved along.”

From “Lisey’s Story” Wikipage (the Stephen King book, not the Pablo Larrain/J.J, Abrams miniseries): “The genesis was an incident in June 1999 in which King was hit by a van in Lovell, Maine, and seriously injured; while he was in the hospital, his wife Tabitha decided to redesign his studio. Coming home from the hospital and seeing his books and belongings in boxes, King saw an image of what his studio would look like after his death.”

The eight-parter starts on 6.4.21, concludes on 7.16.21.

I’ve listened nine or ten times to a line spoken by Stillwater costar Camille Cottin, and for the life of me I can’t understand what she’s saying.

It happens at the :43 mark, and she’s saying it quietly to Matt Damon‘s character — a beefy, burly, cap-wearing 40something bumblefuck type — and is apparently referring to his incarcerated daughter Allison (Abigail Breslin). The line she says to Damon is “the father of duhkat?…he left in six” something-or-other.

Three minutes later: I’ve listened to this damn line 13 times with my excellent headphones, and it’s driving me crazy.

This plus Damon as a yokelish Midwesterner who probably loves Donald Trump has raised my hackles slightly. I’m sorry but I don’t care for heavy-set fellows who swallow their words…vaguely surly, low-key clock punchers who drawl “yes sir” and “yes ma’am” and who resemble those beasts who stormed the Capitol on 1.6 and who still insist the election was stolen. I love hanging with super-smart reporters who work for the Boston Globe, but not gutty-wuts like this…sorry.

A good portion of Stillwater was shot in Marseilles, and apparently depicts Damon running up against some local thugs while searching for evidence that might free his daughter. An American primitive clashing with Marseilles baddies = John Frankenheimer‘s French Connection II.

Basic Stillwater logline: “A father works to exonerate his estranged daughter of a murder she never committed.” Tom McCarthy‘s film pops on 7.30.21.

Atlanta creator, star and sometime director Donald Glover believes call-out culture is diminishing or dulling down creativity in movies and TV series. “We’re getting boring stuff and not even experimental mistakes because people are afraid of getting cancelled,” Glover tweeted. “So they feel like they can only experiment with aesthetic.”

Glover was responding to Twitter users who’d complained about feeling deflated and bored due to too many cookie-cutter films and TV series. Yeah, he said — that’s because terrified screenwriters and show runners are afraid to step out of the box and risk offending Twitter jackals.

Some of the usual rationales were posted in response. Scriptwriter Lisa Hofacker reminded that “(1) There are only 7 basic plots so only so much can be done & redone with that in mind, and (2) script reviewers basically only review the 1st 5-10 pages of a script…if it doesn’t have the inciting incident or exciting enough it gets thrown out.”

The proverbial “inciting incident” has to happen within five to ten pages? When I took Robert McKee‘s class in ’88 the inciting incident had to happen no later than 25 pages in, and preferably within 20 pages.

Not to discount Hofacker or even McKee, but Glover’s tweets sounded a lot like something I tapped out a couple of months ago. At the risk of irritating regular readers, here’s the gist of it:

From “Wolfe Reminds, History Repeats,” posted on 3.22.21: “For since wokeness began to take hold in ’18 and certainly since the pandemic struck 13 months ago, the movie pipeline has been losing steam and under-providing, to put it mildly. Nothing even approaching the level of Spotlight, Manchester by the Sea, Call Me By Your Name, Dunkirk, Lady Bird, La-La Land, the long cut of Ridley Scott‘s The Counselor, Zero Dark Thirty or Portrait of a Woman on Fire has come our way from domestic filmmakers. **

18 months ago on Quora, British poet-artist Rod Summers attempted to answer the eternal question, “Should we learn to separate the art from the artist?” Here’s what he said:

“You love the art work, it speaks to you, it fascinates you, it stimulates your desire to appreciate the finer, less debased things in human creativity. Then you discover that the creator of the art was less than perfect, just like the rest of humanity. So then you decide you don’t or shouldn’t like the art any more.

“Art is part of the artist, as a child is part of his/her parents. You can separate them geographically, but they will always be connected. The mistake you’re making is judging the art by how the artist lives, or has lived. Morality has nothing to do with it. Morality is just you putting your value template over someone else and dismissing if he/she doesn’t fit in the slots. Artists rarely fit in the slots, and those who do probably aren’t very original or very good either.”

Lucy McKinney, posted on Quora on 10.31.19: “I cannot support an artist once I know that person is horrible. The problem is that art can be technically excellent but still, unfortunately, reflect only their own horrible worldview. A goal of art is to evoke the emotions of the viewer, some universal theme or abstract concept or even visualization that transcends words, independent of the horrible person who created it. Supporting the work of a horrible person is just another way of letting the person bully you emotionally. Passive-aggressive + hostile = TOXIC.”

HE to McKinney: “In the case of Roman Polanski, what you’ve written is exactly, precisely and absolutely dead wrong. The worldview contained in Polanski’s Chinatown, The Pianist and J’Accuse, to name but three, is sane, frank, sensible, compassionate, at times delicate, sometimes open-hearted, wise, unblinking, on the side of the angels.”

“Open Letter to Polanski Haters,” posted 4.2.20: “Anyone can watch Roman Polanski’s The Pianist, but no one in the U.S. and England can watch J’Accuse in a theatre, on a Bluray or even via streaming.

“Because of a certain percentage of #MeToo progressives. Because they believe that Polanski’s rep must be permanently tarred and feathered and therefore J’Accuse, too, must be buried or otherwise scrubbed from existence. Because of reputedly credible accusations of Polanski having behaved badly and perhaps even criminally with certain younger women several decades ago. And so the distribution community is terrified of what #MeToo-ers might say and do if anyone even considers offering an English-subtitled J’Accuse for U.S. or British viewers.

“Here’s the thing — Polanski the man is not the same thing as Polanski the artist. His depiction of awful or ghastly things in his films (he’s never explored Pollyanic fantasy and escapism) has never conveyed a corrosion or poisoning of his own spirit. He understands what goes, how it all works, who the good guys are. This is quite evident in The Pianist and J’Accuse. But the latter is nonetheless going to be buried for a long time to come, or so I’m told. This is not a good look for #MeToo.

I’m not saying I would cross the street if I saw a guy wearing a pair of Bruno Magli mandals approaching, but the thought would certainly cross my mind. Man feet are inescapable on Belizean beaches and in Brooklyn bars frequented by Millennials and Zoomers during the warm months, but that doesn’t change a basic fact: they’re often horrible to glance at. Bordering on grotesque.

And to think they weren’t even a factor after the collapse of the Roman Empire. They only returned in the mid to late ’40s when beatniks began wearing them in San Francisco and the West Village, and now, God help us, you can’t escape them between early May and late September.

Try to imagine John Wayne or Walter Brennan strolling around the set of Rio Bravo wearing mandals…Howard Hawks would take one look and deliver a withering expression. The thing that first turned me against Michael Fassbender was when he wore mandals during his first scene in Prometheus — that was the moment when I said to myself, “Wow, this guy could be a problem.” Never forget that Moneyball director Bennett Miller signalled his vague disapproval of Spike Jonze‘s husband-of-Robin Wright character by having him wear mandals. If I were to run into a name-brand film critic wearing mandals at the Cannes Film Festival…I don’t want to think about it.

If I had my druthers I would live in a zero-mandals world, forever and ever.

Imagine — not only did a professional-level French illustrator create a movie poster with two different spellings of the titular character’s name, but his/her superiors signed off on it. On top of which his/her alternate title — “John McCabe and Mrs. Miller” — lacks balance and grace. “John” is pointless besides — nobody in this 1971 film goes up to Warren Beatty and says “hey, John.” Nor does anyone address Julie Christie‘s character as “Constance.” Wait…I have it…the illustrator never saw the film! That way it makes sense.

I didn’t pick ’em — Google or Apple software did. There are only two I don’t know or couldn’t give an arm-pat to if I ran into them on a Manhattan street. Because streets are no longer an option for them.

The relentlessly sneering “Steve Brody” wrote this morning that it would be fitting if I’m still around when Jett and Cait’s daughter becomes a wokester.

Guaranteed: By the time Parker or Ripley Wells is of a politically assertive age wokeness will no longer be a definer. Bringing ruin and disrepute to imperfect people who wrote or tweeted the wrong thing 10 years earlier will be regarded in the same light as ‘90s raves or young guys burning their draft cards.