Poor Lynn Shelton, the much-admired indie director who peaked with Laggies, has died at age 54. Sick for a week, underlying blood condition, took off last night…God.

Shelton had been in a relationship with podcaster/comedian/actor Marc Maron. Here’s how Maron shared:

“I have some awful news. Lynn passed away last night. She collapsed yesterday morning after having been ill for a week. There was a previously unknown, underlying condition. It was not COVID-19. The doctors could not save her. They tried. Hard.

“I loved her very much, as I know many of you did as well. It’s devastating. I am leveled, heartbroken and in complete shock and don’t really know how to move forward in this moment. I needed you all to know. I don’t know some of you. Some I do. I’m just trying to let the people who were important to her know.

“She was a beautiful, kind, loving, charismatic artist. Her spirit was pure joy. She made me happy. I made her happy. We were happy. I made her laugh all the time. We laughed a lot. We were starting a life together. I really can’t believe [this] is happening. This is a horrendous, sad loss.”

I was a fairly big fan of Shelton’s Humpday (’09). I was less enthused about Your Sister’s Sister (’11), Touchy Feely (’13) and Outside (’17). I haven’t seen her latest feature, Sword of Trust, which starred Maron. Shelton directed four episodes of Hulu’s Little Fires Everywhere, which I’ve seen the first two episodes of.

But Laggies, which Shelton directed and was written by Andrea Seigel, was really delightful, or so I felt. I interviewed Shelton about this disarming comedy at Sundance ’14. Laggies costarred Keira Knightley, Chloë Grace Moretz, Sam Rockwell, Kaitlyn Dever, Jeff Garlin, Ellie Kemper and Mark Webber.

I’m very, very sorry about this. Hugs and condolences to family, friends, colleagues, fans.

Three and a half years ago I posted “What The Hell Is Tom Hardy Doing?“, a short riff in which I noted that Hardy was 100% committed to playing psychopaths, sullen weirdos and half-crazy scuzballs. The basic thought was that Hardy would never even try to land a role like, say, Bradley Cooper‘s in Silver Linings Playbook…that he’d never play a sympathetic guy who falls in love with a manic pixie dream girl or anything in that realm…that his investment in the idea of weirdness was absolute.

Now comes a 5.16 Owen Gleiberman Variety piece, “The Unbearable Mumbleness of Tom Hardy,” that voices more or less the same complaint. Why does Hardy insist on playing troglodytes from another planet? Why can’t he star in more films like Locke?? What’s so terrible about playing relatable human beings?

The curiously hilarious Fred Willard has passed at age 86. Hugs and condolences to Willard’s family, friends, colleagues and fans.

I realize I’m obliged to highlight his Christopher Guest collaborations — A Mighty Wind, Best in Show, Waiting for Guffman, This Is Spinal Tap (directed by Rob Reiner) and For Your Consideration. But the Willard performance that tickled me the most was the Mr. Chompers producer in Permanent Midnight (’98), an arresting dark dramedy based on the same-titled Jerry Stahl autobiography (opiate addiction + Hollywood screenwriting).

The principal auteurs of Permanent Midnight were director-writer David Veloz, Stahl, Ben Stiller and producers Don Murphy and Jane Hamsher. The costars were Elizabeth Hurley, Maria Bello, Owen Wilson, Cheryl Ladd, Peter Greene and Janeane Garofalo.

Willard to Stiller: “Here’s a piece of shit, Jerry…I wrote and rewrote it but it ain’t workin’. If you can make it work, you’re on…okay?”

Stiller played Stahl. I was with People magazine when Permanent Midnight was in post-production, and at one point I’d been told that in order to lose weight Stiller had submitted to Dick Gregory’s Bahamian Diet, a nutritional powder that junkies have used for sustenance because it provides all the nutritional basics. Stiller’s reps somehow decided that this would cast a negative light upon his reputation, and I remember being poked and grilled for looking into this. They were alarmed by the term “junkie diet.” I thought it was admirable that Stiller was serious about losing weight and adopting the Gregory method, etc. Hollywood people can be so touchy, so weird.

“300 Euro Mistake“, filed on 5.17.17: I awoke Tuesday morning at 5 to catch a 7:20 am train to Cannes. Finished packing, tidied up, had a coffee, called for an Uber. Everything felt right and well-ordered. I left the apartment keys on the kitchen counter and dragged two bags — a 24-inch upright suitcase and a leather carrying bag — onto the third floor landing, and then for some drooling, jelly-brained reason closed the apartment door with my computer bag still sitting inside.

Did I just do that? My mind went into freeze-panic mode. I’ll be missing my train, but how and when can I get back into the pad? My goal was to somehow do this, snag the bag and catch a 10:19 am train to Cannes from Gare de Lyon. Four hours hence.

I texted Romain, my Airbnb contact guy, but he didn’t answer until 7:40 am. When he finally replied he said I couldn’t get back in until the cleaning person arrives, which would be about noon. I begged him to call this person and offer a 50-euro reward to show up by 9:30 am. A few minutes later I upped it to 75. Romain said he’d try — “It’s not an issue of money” — but that I shouldn’t get my hopes up. A few minutes later I said I’d gladly and happily pay the cleaning person 100 euros to show up early, no questions asked.

Two or three minutes later Romain revealed that he himself had a key to the apartment (new information!) but not the street door or foyer-door key. But he would figure something out. He offered to meet me at the place by 9 am. When I got there he was waiting across the street with my computer bag. I gave him the hundred euros and a pat on the shoulder, and tore off to Gare de Lyon.

When I got there the ticket lady said my 70-euro ticket on the 7:20 am train was worthless (no redeeming), and that I’d have to pay full price — 185 euros — for a first-class ticket on the 10:19 am. I hadn’t the will to protest or plead. I paid, found my seat, finally relaxed. The 10:19 train arrived in Cannes around 3:35 pm. An hour later I picked up my pink-with-yellow-dot pass.

If you count the two Uber rides I took between 7 am and 9 am (don’t worry about the other one), I forked over 300 euros for that one dumb-ass mistake.

Several years ago (i.e., before 3.20.12) my Cannes Film Festival nights sometimes ended with a visit to Le Petit Carlton and, more recently, Le Petit Majestic. Semi-rowdy street parties, I mean, that were fed by two smallish corner bars. I never stayed too late, but I’ve heard that these congregations would go until 2 am and beyond. I don’t know what I could’ve been thinking, knowing I had to get up around 6:30 am in order to attend the regular 8:30 am screening, but every so often I would drop by for a glass or two regardless.

I’m talking roughly ’05 to ’11, when I was a bit younger and a little more rough and ready.

The morning wake-ups weren’t too bad, and if I got up early enough I used to adore inhaling a double cappuccino at La Crillon (4 Rue Jean de Riouffe, 06400 Cannes) before the 8:30 am screening. During my pink pass days I had to be in line by 8 am, remember, so I had to hit La Crillon by 7:45 or thereabouts. That heavenly feeling of being caffeine-throttled as I walked up the red-carpet staircase and found my seat (right-front orchestra, near where Toronto Star critic Peter Howell always sat) and the purring voice of that British-accented hostess (“Ladies and gentlemen, the screening is about to begin…please turn off your mobile telephones”) and the lights going down…such an immaculate sooth.

Every “open up” protestor in Commack, Long Island, had something precise and vicious to say to reporter Kevin Vesey. Too precise and too varied — as if they’d written and rehearsed their lines beforehand. Their sentiments reminded me of those well-prepared actors (Matthew Modine, Adam Baldwin, Dorian Harewood, Arliss Howard, etc.) in that news-camera scene in Stanley Kubrick‘s Full Metal Jacket (’87).

In Abel Ferrara‘s Tommaso (Kino Lorber), Willem Dafoe plays the titular character, an American indie director living in Rome — obviously based on Ferrara himself. The film was shot in Ferrara’s own apartment there, and it costars his wife, Cristina Chiriac, and the couple’s three-year-old daughter, Anna Ferrara.

From Owen Gleiberman’s 5.22.19 review: “Given the semi-scandalous details of life on the edge that have made Ferrara, over the years, into something of a self-dramatizing legend, I was primed to see a movie that looked like it might turn out to be a cross between Bad Lieutenant and 8 1/2. [Except] Tommaso is about an aging bad boy who has cleaned up his act. Dafoe’s Tommaso was an addict (booze, heroin, crack), and the more accurate thing to say, of course, is that he still is one. But it appears he has found a hard-won life of entitled serenity. Right to the end, he stays clean and sober.

“Early on we see Tommaso going through his rituals: a lesson in how to speak Italian, a stop at the local market to see which vegetables are in season, grabbing a coffee, coming home to stir the orecchiette, settling in for quality time with his family and for a late-night snuggle-turned-shag on the couch with Nikki. It all looks like homespun paradise. And, of course, Tommaso attends 12-step meetings, where he details the sordid but now painful adventures of his past.

“Scene for scene, though, Tommaso feels alive. A movie that’s a loosely structured ramble can work, and about half of Tommaso feels more vital than anything Ferrara has made in a while. But the film should have been shapelier and 20 minutes shorter, with a more focused dramatic psychology. [Ferrara] has talent and urgency, but at 67 he’s still a poster boy for the bohemian shaggy-dog school of filmmaking without discipline.”

Until a couple of hours ago I’d never seen the camp classic Gorilla At Large (’54). Originally shot and projected in 1.37:1 3D Technicolor. An HD streaming version is available on Amazon. The $400K production was filmed for roughly a week at Pike Amusement Park in Long Beach, from midnight to dawn.

And what an impressive cast for a piece of shit — Anne Bancroft, Raymond Burr, Cameron Mitchell, Lee J. Cobb (who also shot On The Waterfont the same year), Lee Marvin. And a score by Lionel Newman. But what a lame ending — they distract the gorilla with fireworks and then the cops shoot him three or four times, and then he “falls” to the ground.

George Barrows (1914 – 1994) played the titular character. He wore gorilla suits in many films, but “Goliath the gorilla” was his most famous outing. Barrows played his first gorilla in Tarzan and His Mate (’34); his last was playing Monstro the Gorilla in AIP’s The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini (’66). Barrows’ gorilla suit, which he built himself, is currently in the collection of the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County.

Outside of your kneejerk #BelieveAllWomen types, is there anyone who still buys Tara Reade‘s bullshit? If you happen to know any of these post-WWII Japanese soldiers living in jungle caves, please send them Cathy Young‘s 5.14.20 Quillette piece, called “Tara Reade’s Dubious Claims and Shifting Stories Show the Limits of #BelieveWomen.”

Joe Biden:

“If they believe Tara Reade, they probably shouldn't vote for me. I wouldn’t vote for me if I believed Tara Reade."pic.twitter.com/dFcZuWBZNV

— Daily Caller (@DailyCaller) May 15, 2020

I’ve been getting more and more irritated by having to constantly wipe my glasses when I walk around with my flag mask. If I wear it correctly, I mean, with the steam engine-like nostril breath collecting and escaping and fogging the hell out of the lenses. As Ashley Judd said to Robert De Niro in Heat, “I’m sick of it, sick of it!”

It’s gotten so when I’m walking outside and a safe distance from other humans I just tug the mask below my nose…fuck it.

Don’t kid yourself — right now we’re living through the Second Great Depression. In late March I called it “a dystopian realm, almost a kind of On The Beach atmosphere…a low-security, self-policed concentration camp with wifi.” Except now things are a tad more liberal and semi-open. Toilet paper isn’t an exotic rarity any more. But we’re still “in it.”

Instead of bread lines we have masked citizens waiting in line outside supermarkets. Instead of Midwestern downmarket gangsters (Bonnie and Clyde, John Dillinger) holding up banks as a reaction to economic devastation, we have bumblefuck “open up!” protestors storming state houses and causing infections to spike. In many ways the same dynamic. The winter of our discontent.

Perhaps the biggest difference is that in the early ’30s FDR was in the White House, and today we have a sociopathic gangster-demagogue running things.

I’d love to hit the local drive-in for a showing of Unhinged, Russell Crowe‘s road-rage drama, when it opens on 7.1. But the only half-operating drive-ins in Los Angeles are in the godforsaken burghs of Paramount and Industry. That’s called “a bridge too far.” There isn’t a single drive-in in the entire San Fernando Valley. How about showing Unhinged at the Hollywood Forever cemetery?