1. The report is basically bullshit.

2. Its findings have been disputed by more enlightened voices.

3. It’s been totally covered by the American media**.

4. And why are you so obsessed with this issue anyway, Jeff?

5. Do you really think Joe Biden wants genital mutilation for five-year-olds on demand?

All in all, the HE comment chorus has Cass Review supporters outflanked and boxed in six ways from Sunday.

Seriously, this is how progressive ditto-heads rationalize reality…

** In point of fact, places like the Times did an obligatory news piece, but they’ve done no reporting on the reaction and fallout in, you know, the United States.

And by the way….”Hilary Cass says criticism of gender care review ‘inaccurate’ and ‘unforgivable’,” filed on 4.20:

“The British doctor behind a landmark study into transgender treatment in the UK has called criticism of her research ‘inaccurate’ and ‘unforgivable’.”

“Dr. Hilary Cass told the Times she wished to address the ‘disinformation’ circulating about the findings and recommendations handed down by the Cass Review when it was published on April 10th.

“The physician also said she fears using public transport and for her personal safety after receiving online abuse in the wake of the report’s release.”

…I had never seen Stanley Kubrick’s bare feet — not in real life, not in a photo. It’s not that big of a deal, but I immediately felt a twinge of regret. Let’s leave it at that. Male director toes should always be covered by animal leather or hip sneakers or at the very least socks. Especially if the male director hails from the Bronx. The only thing worse in this regard are mandals.

Filed on 10.31.11: Following a Savannah Film Festival screening of Barry Lyndon, James Toback told a funny story that happened during the cutting of Spartacus, which Stanley Kubrick directed and Kirk Douglas produced and starred in.

The story came from editor Robert Lawrence, who later edited Toback’s Fingers and Exposed.

“Kubrick and Lawrence were editing the finale when Jean Simmons, escaping from Rome with the help of Peter Ustinov, is saying goodbye to Douglas, who’s dying on a cross. Kubrick told Lawrence he didn’t want to use what he felt was a grotesque close-up of Douglas. Lawrence said the shot wasn’t so bad and in any case Douglas will surely complain when he notices that his closeup is missing. “I don’t care what he says,” Kubrick said. “I’m the director…take it out.”

They later showed the scene to Douglas, and his immediate comment was exactly what Lawrence had predicted — “Where’s my closeup?” Kubrick shrugged and said, “I don’t know, Kirk.” Kubrick then turned to Lawrence and said, “Where’s his close-up?”

It’s understood that everyone in Cannes is going to bend over backwards to be open-hearted and gracious in their reactions to Megalopolis, and where is the downside in doing so? I’m not saying anything yea or nay, but among those who may have issues with Coppola’s film, who will be so cruel as to blurt out truth bombs? Turn the other cheek, consider the risk factor, judge not lest ye be judged.

If you’re capable of feeling anything above and beyond the immediate and especially if you’ve been lucky and double especially if you’re been gifted with any kind of enviable insight or ability, it’s hard to not weep with gratitude…even with all the lumps and bruises and the endless parade of shitty people and craven impulses, not to mention the crushing, soggy banality that constitutes so much of civilized life on this planet…if you’ve had any kind of “ride” it’s still a gift.

Criterion has a multi-disc Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid Bluray package coming out on 7.2 — two 4K discs, two 1080p discs, all kinds of extras.

It will contain three versions of Sam Peckinpah’s 1973 western. The longest and most true to Peckinpah’s original vision (allegedly around 122 minutes) is called the 50th Anniversary Release. A 115-minute version, I think, and the truncated 106-minute theatrical cut will round things out. Something like that.

I saw the 106 way back when, and it’s slightly better than okay. Standard Peckinpah flourishes. Talky. Decent performances (James Coburn’s Garrett stands out, Kris Kristofferson’s Billy is okay, Bob Dylan’s “Alias” is mostly a goof). Peckinpah himself has a cameo. The film reaches for sadness, radiates a certain folklore current, a loathing of selling out and thereby losing your soul, etc. I recall R.G. Armstrong getting shot by Kristofferson, and Kris performing a sex scene with Rita Coolidge.

I wouldn’t call it a problematic film, but I can’t imagine an extra 15 minutes making a huge difference. I’m therefore not sure that the film is worth the royal Criterion treatment.

Michael Douglas on age and Joe Biden, 7:14 mark: “The people I’ve talked to say he’s sharp as a tack. We all have issues with memory as we get older [but] let’s just say that Joe’s entire cabinet would be more than happy to work wth him again [over] the next term. I cannot say that about the other candidate [as] nobody in his cabinet from 2016 wants to be involved with him.”

HE agrees with YouTube guy #1: “No smart, talented, experienced, accomplished, reasonable person…a person who puts the country first…no one with those qualities will endorse Trump in 2024.”

Ditto YouTube guy #2: “Right now it doesn’t matter if Biden is too old. I would rather have a too-old guy who will uphold the constitution than someone who actively wants to destroy it.”

…that what Bill Maher was talking about last Friday night is happening in schools? That it’s real? And that shaping the soft-clay minds of young kids on trans issues has become a mainstream public-school thing…stamped, signed and endorsed by the Democratic Party?

He really thinks all is well, and that my seconding what Maher said the night before last is…what, some kind of obsessive, fear-driven thing on my part?

Friendo sez…

Again, here it is.

I’m sorry but Hitchcock’s continuity person on North by Northwest should have been canned.

Termination error #1: Roger Thornhill’s scrawled message on the inside cover of his R.O.T. matchbook was composed within three lines, but when Eve Kendall reads it on the couch downstairs it has four lines.

Termination error #2: Several matches are missing when the message is initially written, but when Eve reads it the match supply is restored to full capacity.

Errors copied — not discovered by me.

Screenshot

Posted, ignored and quickly fire-walled on 8.7.21: It was a warm midsummer evening in the small town of Walton, New York, possibly ’81 but more likely ’82. I was staying that weekend with my dad, Jim Wells, at his country cabin on River Road, right alongside the West Branch of the Delaware River.

Jim was an avid fly fisherman, and when dusk fell all he had to do was put on the rubber waders and stroll into the waist-deep water, which was less than 100 feet away. I’m not exactly the Henry David Thoreau type, but I have to admit that the cabin and the surrounding woods and the other atmospheric trimmings (crickets, feeding fish, fireflies) was quite the combination as the sun was going down.

Alas, I was frisky back then and accustomed to prowling. As a Manhattanite and Upper West Sider (75th and Amsterdam) my evening routine would sometimes include a 7 pm screening and then hitting a bar or strolling around or whatever. The “whatever” would sometimes involve a date with a lady of the moment or maybe even getting lucky with a stranger. It all depended on which direction the night happened to tilt.

So there we were, my dad and I, finishing dinner (maybe some freshly-caught trout along with some steamed green beans and scalloped potatoes) and washing the dishes and whatnot, and I was thinking about hitting a local tavern. I wasn’t a “sitting on the front porch and watching the fireflies” type. I wanted to get out, sniff the air, sip bourbon, listen to music.

So I announced the idea of hitting T.A.’s Place or the Riverside Tavern and maybe ordering a Jack Daniels and ginger ale on the rocks. If I’d been a little more gracious I would’ve asked Jim to join, but we weren’t especially chummy back then. Our relationship was amiable enough, if a little on the cool and curt side. Plus the idea of Jim and I laying on the charm with some local lassie seemed horrific.

I wasn’t seriously entertaining some loony fantasy that I might meet someone and luck out, not in a little one-horse town like Walton, but then again who knew? It was the early ’80s, the ’70s were still with us in spirit, I was looking and feeling pretty good back then, the AIDS era hadn’t happened yet, etc. You had to be there, I guess, but singles had just experienced (and were still experiencing to a certain degree) perhaps the greatest nookie era in world history since the days of ancient Rome.

Plus you could still buy quaaludes at the Edlich Pharmacy on First Avenue. It sounds immature to say this, but life occasionally felt like a Radley Metzger film.

Jim apparently had thoughts along the same lines, as he quickly suggested that we do T.A.’s as a team. I immediately said “uhm, that’s okay,” as in “I’m thinking about going stag and you’ll only cramp my style.” I shouldn’t have said that, and if my father is listening I want him to know that I’m sorry. It was brusque and heartless to brush him off like that.

To his credit, Jim was gracious enough to laugh it off. I heard him tell this story to friends a couple of times.

Jim had bought the River Road cabin from Pam Dawber, who was pushing 30 and costarring in Mork & Mindy at the time. It was located outside of town about three or four miles. My father would send her a check every month, and was very punctual about it. Walton was roughly a 100-minute drive from Manhattan.

“Do I have to pretend [this stuff] is cool in order to keep my liberal ID card? Sorry — can’t do that.”

“Wokeness is no longer an extension of liberalism — it’s more often taking something so far that it becomes the opposite — at a certain point inclusion becomes promotion. Endlessly talking about gender to six year-olds isn’t just inappropriate — it’s what the law would call entrapment.”