Dylan Wells lives in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood in South Austin. Our nabe is roughly six miles south of the hipster downtown area. As middle-class districts go it’s “pleasant” enough, but you’d have to add “culturally underwhelming.” It’s somewhere between blandly acceptable and “is that all there is?” Or so it seems, at least, to someone accustomed to walking around and sniffing the air in Brooklyn, Paris, WeHo, San Francisco, Prague, London, Venice, Munich and Rome.

South Austin is “fine” as far as it goes, but it lacks a nutritional quality. The suburbs of middle and northern New Jersey are shadier and more soothing-like, and certainly more architecturally distinctive. Ditto historic Key West and Telluride, Connecticut’s Fairfield County, the North shore of Massachusetts, Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley…I could go on and on.

In and of itself Dylan’s place is quite nice — sizable rooms, large and fragrant backyard, a sedate suburban atmosphere, great wifi, excellent TV. And it’s great to see him again, of course. And I love his husky, Rudy. And a half-mile away there’s a nice little tree-shaded area where you can order gourmet dishes from food trucks. And last night we found an above-average Vietnamese “pan Asian” place. I just wish we were parked closer to East Austin or the Mueller or Second Street districts.

I’m told that not that long ago (i.e., back in the ’80s and ’90s) South Austin had a relatively undeveloped rural atmosphere…small forests of oak trees, green fields, creeks and streams and generally pleasing aromas amid the up-and-down typography. Now the natural elements feel challenged if not smothered by an endless, character-free sprawl of bland-ugly shopping malls and gas stations (no sidewalks, nobody walks) and El Crappo discount stores.

Yesterday we drove for miles and miles and it was like “why would anyone want to live here apart from the fact that the neighborhoods are quiet and rents are reasonable?” There’s a basic feeling of blah-ness everywhere. Given my druthers I would rather live in a one-room rathole in an interesting neighborhood than in a flush spacious home in a neighborhood with a nod-out vibe.

If I had to live somewhere in Texas and couldn’t find a decent place in the downtown Austin region I’d like to live in artsy Marfa, which is way too far to drive to from here. (It’s closer to El Paso, but by “closer” I mean a three-hour drive.)

To escape the South Austin blahs we’ve decided to drive this weekend to Rockport, a beach suburb of Corpus Christi, and then stay another night in Laredo (and maybe mosey across the border for some good Mexican food).

Last night invited guests caught a private Los Angeles screening of Corey Feldman‘s (My) Truth: The Rape of Two Coreys, which contains accusations of sexual abuse suffered by Feldman and his late actor friend Corey Haim when they were child stars in the ’80s. But relatively few people were able to stream the film online, due to technical difficulties or hackers.

EW‘s Rosy Cordero attended the private screening and reported early this morning that Feldman accuses men of sexually assault during this period, and particularly accuses Charlie Sheen of raping Haim while making the 1986 film Lucas.

Cordero reports that Feldman also levels sexual abuse charges at actor Jon Grissom, nightclub owner Alphy Hoffman and former talent manager Marty Weiss. Feldman also accuses the late Dominick Brascia, a former actor who passed in 2018, of sexual abuse.

Feldman’s doc will attempt another streaming today at 12 noon Pacific, 2 pm Central and 3 pm Eastern.

Eliza Hittman‘s Never Rarely Sometimes Always opens on Friday (3.13). As mentioned a few days ago, it’s been hyped as the U.S. indie answer to Cristian Mungiu‘s Four Months, Three Weeks, Two Days.

Basic drill: Autumn (Sidney Flanigan), a pregnant teen from rural Pennsylvania who doesn’t want her parents to know, makes her way to Manhattan to have an abortion, accompanied by her cousin Skylar (Talia Ryder).

They loved it at Sundance ’20, and right now it has a 100% and 91% rating from Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic, respectively.

It goes without saying that you can’t trust critics on films like this. You can, however, trust Hollywood Elsewhere, and I’m calling this a respectable effort — spare, direct, quietly affecting. But it doesn’t give you enough.

Like Autumn, the film holds back a lot, and is basically buried within itself. That makes it a sad experience on one level, but on another it feels too spare, too closed off. It overuses the less-is-more aesthetic. Hittman tells you what you need to know, but at the same time as little as possible.

I couldn’t finally decide if Flanigan is playing a guarded, fearful, inexpressive women, or if she herself is that way. She connects four times — two singing scenes (one in which she karaokes “Don’t let The Sun Catch You Crying”), a scene in which she throws a glass of water in a teenage boy’s face, and an abortion clinic scene in which she breaks down while being asked some painful personal questions.

But she’s so buried, so shielded. She doesn’t even trust the nice abortion-clinic lady, who has nothing but kindness in her heart.

What a miserable life poor Autumn is leading. So cut off, so solitary. The film isn’t really a story about getting an abortion in NYC. It’s actually a study of Autumn’s isolation and defensiveness and brusque mood pockets. A study of a prisoner living in her own cage, and terrified of leaving it.

I’m sorry but Never Rarely Sometimes Always is nowhere near as accomplished as 4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days. Not even in the same league. The women in Mungiu’s film were sullen and suspicious and kept to themselves also, but Mungiu let you in. You were allowed to peek into their feelings and pressures, to share in their fears and resentments and whatnot. Not so much here.

Ryder’s character is more open and expressive, and a little smarter. Ditto her performance.

If I was of Hispanic/Latino heritage, I would definitely prefer to be called LatinX. Just for the sound of it. In reality, of course, I’d have to settle for AngloX. Which also sounds fine.

If there’s an Old Testament God, and especially if that God has a wicked sense of humor, a certain pot-bellied, red-tie-wearing party has been infected with COVID-19.

“Stories about Trump’s coronavirus fears have spread through the White House. Last week Trump told aides he’s afraid journalists will try to purposefully contract coronavirus to give it to him on Air Force One, a person close to the administration told me. The source also said Trump has asked the Secret Service to set up a screening program and bar anyone who has a cough from the White House grounds. ‘He’s definitely melting down over this,’ the source said.” — filed earlier today by Vanity Fair‘s Gabriel Sherman.

Airport pickup areas usually smell like asphalt and shuttle-bus fumes, maybe a faint whiff of cigarette smoke or fast-food wrappers. The outside of terminal #1 at Austin airport is different. Like a wolf, I’m sniffing traces of soil, grass, leaves. I’d like to roam around during my stay here. Maybe drive down to the gulf, maybe the hill country.

I feel very badly for all those broken-hearted filmmakers who were hoping to make a splash at SXSW.

I haven’t much time before boarding my 7:15 am Southwest flight to Austin, but all hail the classic majesty of the late Max Von Sydow, who passed earlier today at age 90. He had a timeless face in that he looked the same age for 40 or 50 years. (I actually told MVS this when I met him a decade ago.). The Ingmar Bergman films come first, of course (opposite Liv Ullman in Shame/Skammen, lashing himself with birch branches in The Virgin Spring), but three English-language performances stand out: (a) Joubert, the refined, gentle-voiced assassin in Three Days of the Condor (‘75), (b) the bitter Soho painter in Hannah and Her Sisters (‘86) who declared that a resurrected Jesus “would never stop throwing up”, and (c) his mostly silent Father Merrin performance during the Iraq prologue in The Exorcist (‘73).

Despite Hachette having recently cancelled a planned publishing of Woody Allen‘s Apropos of Nothing in this country, the company’s French branch has announced that its Grand Central Publishing subsidiary will release Allen’s book in the U.S. on 4.7. Are we talking a French-language version or…?

RTI France: “Hachette chief executive Michael Pietsch on Tuesday defended the decision, telling The New York Times that “a large audience” wanted to hear his story.

The publisher had described Allen’s book as “a comprehensive account of his life, both personal and professional”.

I’m flying Southwest to Austin this morning (7:15 am departure) to visit my son Dylan, who recently moved there with his dog Rudy. I’m bringing two pairs of tight surgical gloves and ten all-but-worthless face masks. I’ve never taken such precautions before. I know they’re prudent measures, but we also know they’re slightly hysterical. Update: I’ve got the sniffles, and am occasionally sneezing. I guess that settles it…face mask!

Obviously Joe Biden will need to pick a vp running mate to counter-balance concerns about his cognitive command — someone 20 or 30 years younger, extra-sharp, detail-minded, etc. Naturally I thought of Mayor Pete. A friend snuffed this out: “The Democratic ticket can’t be two white guys…not a chance.” Kamala Harris or Stacey Abrams then?

All the gossipers are reporting that Ben Affleck and Ana de Armas, who both recently costarred in Adrien Lyne‘s Deep Water, are frolicking. As previously noted Affleck looks good these days — the “fat bearded boozer” thing has fallen by the wayside. Life is always best when the aroma of possibility is in the air.

I’ll never get past my burning anger at Hillary Rodham Clinton for giving us Donald Trump, but I’ve alway respected her brains, candor and toughness. And so last night I felt I had to see Nanette Burstein‘s Hillary doc on Hulu.

We’re talking 253 minutes broken down into four chapters — “The Golden Girl”, “Becoming a Lady”, “The Hardest Decision” and “Be Our Champion, Go Away”. And it just moves right aong. It’s all so familiar, of course, because most many of us have lived through the whole Clinton saga, step by step, trauma by trauma. And yet I was engrossed and fascinated, and I’m glad I submitted.

I was never bored — it’s a smart, first-rate epic. I think it’s too friendly by half, but that was the shot going in — be kind, let Hillary tell her side, listen to her and consider the fact that she’s quite the remarkable figure, etc. (Which she is.) I admired Burstein’s decision to cut back and forth between the straightforwqrd biopic portions and the climactic and altogether tragic 2016 campaign.

There’s no mention of Susan Sarandon or Jill Stein or Mike Nichols‘ Primary Colors or Hillary collapsing like a sack of potatoes that that World Trade Center ceremony. Or Hillary voting for the Iraq War invasion in ’03 (or so I recall). Or her husband’s friendship with the late Jeffrey Epstein.

There’s so much that is glossed over and ignored. Because it’s basically friendly. It goes easy.

I would have preferred an in-depth doc that stuck to the approach of Carl Bernstein‘s “A Woman in Charge“, which was respectful but at the same time tougher and revealing.

During the Monica Lewinsky-Ken Starr portion Hillary once again conveys how shocked and appalled she was when her husband, after previously lying to her, confessed all. For the 47th time nobody believes that brilliant Hillary didn’t know Bill was a hound from the get-go. Her deal with him was “we’re in this for the long haul and you know I’ll stand by you no matter what, but don’t be sloppy and don’t embarass me.” But of course he did time and again during his time as Arkansas governor, and again in the White House, and later with his Epstein association.

Not allowed to say this I’m saying it anyway: Looks matter in any walk of life, and Presidential candidates have to somehow exude the aura of glamorous rock stars. Hillary didn’t during the ’16 campaign (she looked well-tended but dowdyish), and she really needed to look extra-special because she’s never had the natural charisma thing. The doc reminded me that Hillary, who’d been slender and youngish-looking during her first 60 years of life, started to put on weight before the ’08 campaign. She seemed to have “stopped trying” (as a friend put it this morning) when she became Obama’s Secretary of State.

Before running in ’15 she really should lost some weight and had some work done. If she had somehow reclaimed a semblance of the appearance she had during her six-year term as New York’s U.S. Senator (’01 thru ’07) I think she would have beaten Trump. I really do. A lot of older male voters didn’t like her, but some would have gone along if she’d looked…well, a bit more like Jill Biden. I’m sorry but does anyone think Barack Obama would have done as well if he looked like Forest Whitaker as General Idi Amin? Would JFK had performed as well if he had thinning hair or looked like Tip O’Neil?