Did this universally recognized fact stop Nick “Action Man” Clement from watching it with great enthusiasm and then discussing the merits of this Jeannot Szwarc-directed calamity with his Facebook bros? No, it didn’t.

What motivates people to say nice things about incontestably bad films? Where is their self-respect?

Didn’t we just do the whole Wayne Williams thing with season #2 of Mindhunter?

It’s a fact that Williams (now 61) is (a) serving life imprisonment for the 1981 killings of two adult men in Atlanta, and (b) is believed by police to be responsible for at least 23 of the 30 Atlanta murders of 1979–1981, aka the Atlanta Child Murders. Although Williams was never tried for killing kids and has long maintained his innocence, there have been no similar killings of young black men since he came under suspicion in May 1981.

And yet Atlanta’s Missing and Murdered: The Lost Children, a forthcoming HB0 documentary, seems to suggest that because Williams was never charged, much less convicted, for any of the 23 for lack of hard evidence, that his guilt is an open question and that others might have been responsible. Yeah, maybe, but how come the child murders stopped after May ’81?

Documentary quotes: (1) “‘We found the killer, and that’s it’, but that really wasn’t it“; (2) “People saying this has to be the Klan or some crazy cop, but nobody really knew anything”; (3) “They didn’t follow those leads…[instead] they chose one [suspect]”; (4) “Elected officials did not want this [murder investigation] to go on” and so they decided to pin the killings on Williams and be done with it.

Between my frequent hand and face washings, surgical gloves, N95 face masks, baby wipe packets, brawny constitution and a general uptick in antiseptic cleaning maintenance all around, I’m not concerned about flying back to Los Angeles tomorrow evening. Well, somewhat concerned but not, you know, “worried”.

What kind of blighted environment awaits? What a difference since I left a week ago. No movies, no restaurants except for take-out, no hanging in Starbucks, no nothing except for hiking and beach-sitting. Plus lines outside of gun stores and the possibility of martial law. Eventually we’ll be northern Italy, partly if not largely because of under-40s, operating under an impression that they’re bulletproof, ignoring the whole thing and party-ing like there’s no tomorrow.

INT. Steven Spielberg‘s post-production office on West Side Story. Spielberg is at his desk, reading a hardbound edition of Dostoyevski’s “The Brothers Karamazov.” A rap-rap on the door. Spielberg looks up — it’s his longtime visual collaborator and West Side Story dp Janusz Kaminski.

Kaminski: Steven?
Spielberg: Janoo!
Kaminski: You good? The assembly looks great!
Spielberg: (gestures) Siddown.
Kaminski: Somethin’ up?
Spielberg: (exhales) I’ve changed my mind about West Side Story looking like a standard Kaminski…desaturated milky colors, shafts of light through windows, all that crap.
Kaminski: No!
Spielberg: Sorry, bruh, but not this time. I want vivid, real-world, life-like colors. I want the dance scene where Tony and Maria meet to have the same red colors that Robert Wise and Daniel Fapp went with.

Kaminski: But we almost always shoot with my faded palette! You agreed to stick with it.
Spielberg: I’ve changed my mind.
Kaminski: But we released an image last summer that had my grayish-beige scheme! You approved it!
Spielberg: It was just a photo. It’s not binding.
Kaminski: Wow.
Spielberg: I’m the director, Janoo.
Kaminski: I feel betrayed.
Spielberg: Adapt or die.
Kaminski: What about the Vanity Fair piece with the new photos? They’re grayish milky. I approved them.
Spielberg: I scrapped them. The Vanity Fair photos reflect the new approach.
Kaminski: Have you at least told Anthony Breznican about this?
Spielberg: I’m not making a big deal about it. Breznican doesn’t write for American Cinematographer. He probably won’t even notice the difference.

I remembered earlier today that there was only one Monkees song that I half-liked — “Mary Mary,” which was written by Michael Nesmith. The lyrics are banal (obviously) and Micky Dolenz‘s voice could make anything sound insipid, but I love the instrumental track, which was performed by the legendary Wrecking Crew (James Burton, Glen Campbell, Al Casey, Hal Blaine, Jim Gordon, Michael Deasy, Larry Knechtel.).

The song was recorded on 7.25.66 at Western Recorders in Hollywood, California. The cut was released on “More of the Monkees” in January ’67.

I won’t dispute that the Paul Butterfield Blues Band‘s version, released as a cut on East-West in August ’66, is heads and shoulders above the Monkees’ version. With the exact same lyrics the Butterfield track sounds cool and lamenting — a downbeat adult song about a hurtin’ relationship. The irony (curiosity?) is that Nesmith didn’t receive a song-writing credit on East-West.

CNN Debate Moderator at 3:00 mark: “Mr. Vice President, just to be clear. You’ve just committed here tonight that your running mate, if you get the nomination, will be a woman?”
Joe Biden: “Yes.”

It’s been years since I stood next to an adult Hereford steer as he took care of business. I’ll leave it at that. It’s called “getting out of your element.”

Travelling on two-lane graytops, slowing down or stopping in little one-horse hamlets, the wide-open flatness, etc. This is the way to go. Callous as this may sound but the poorer delta towns, being older and more ramshackle, are texturally richer and more Americana. American flags are ubiquitous. You just have to forget about where the locals are in their heads. Then again the region is wokester-free.

“The Outpost is a tough movie with heart, an immersive war film that honors the men who fought in Kamdesh while making it clear that their superiors had put them in an impossible situation on a base hemmed in by mountains.

“The battle itself, during which eight Americans were killed and for which two would win the Medal of Honor, is the harrowing and extended climax of the film.

“Director Rod Lurie and writers Paul Tamasy and Eric Johnson spend enough time establishing the geography of the camp and the personalities of the soldiers who man it that when all hell breaks loose, we know what’s happening and care about who it’s happening to.

“And just as important, the film includes some quieter notes in the aftermath of the battle, adding a lovely emotional coda to the story. — from Steve Pond‘s 3.13 Wrap piece about Rod Lurie‘s The Outpost.

I woke up late this morning, thinking only of my curious failure to arise at the usual 6 am or thereabouts. A minute or two later I was in front of the sink, a bit foggy and no coffee yet.

And then it hit me. A diluted version of Wolfgang Petersen‘s Outbreak is unfolding outside. Maybe not so much on the South Texas coast but elsewhere. A variation of Steven Soderbergh‘s Contagion, as we’ve all been reminding ourselves of, and fleeting paranoid flashes of Danny Boyle‘s 28 Days Later, George Romero‘s Night of the Living Dead, Stanley Kramer‘s On The Beach and any other dystopian drama you can think of.

I’d forgotten that the quarter-century-old Outbreak isn’t very good. Over-cranked. Certainly compared to Contagion.

I remember normality**. It was what life felt like three or four weeks ago, and for all the troubles that went with it, it wasn’t that bad.

“40 years too young, 38 years too gay.”

Pete Buttigieg would obviously be a perfect, brilliant compliment to Joe Biden in ways that I don’t need to go into again. One of them being his ability to speak with respect and empathy to Bumblefuck voters. But Bernie bros would sit on their hands, and Democratic women voters would never accept a second white male.