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Deepest Cavern of Hell

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Jane Schoenbrun‘s Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma is an ironically conceived, self-referencing, garbage-level “slasher film” in quotes.

It was shot by Eric Yue with the intention of looking low-rent and generally shitty. It constantly, relentlessly praises the joys and comforts of junk food. I was in hell. I sat there muttering “go fug yahselves, stab yahselves, obliterate yahselves.”

The irony element doesn’t excuse the fact that Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma is essentially a flat, empty, boring serving of spiritually-barren, freeze-dried slasher crap.

It was made to not only tickle and engage the fans (largely the under-45 queer-trans community) but to alienate and anger people like me, and in this respect has clearly succeeded.

I am very, very sorry that I spent 112 minutes in the presence of this hellish creation this morning. Any film from Un Certain Regard is presumed to be challenging or alienating in certain ways, but this…holy effing moley.

It’s essentially a two-hander between Hannah Einbinder (Hacks) as “a young queer filmmaker hired to direct a reboot of the Camp Miasma franchise” blah blah, and poor Gillian Anderson as 50something Billy, a glammy blonde who not only starred in a previous Camp Miasma film but was consumed by the bullshit lore and theology blah blah.

The fact that Eva Victor, whose Sorry Baby I quite admired when I saw it here last year, decided to costar in this thing…it just sends me into a depression pit. Ditto poor Dylan Baker…what are you doing, man?

One idea of a truly agonizing nightmare, I’ve imagined, would be to suddenly find myself in Schoenbrun’s 39-year-old head and body. This would mean, obviously, that I would no longer be an individual, stand-alone dude in a conventional biological or spiritual sense but (gasp!) a “they”. Which, of course, would make me trans and non-binary or, in HE shorthand terminology, a transie.

This might also mean estrangement from the chilly, judgmental straights in my immediate circle, which I don’t believe in — live and let live, I say, It might also mean being “polyamorous with three or more partners”, to quote from Schoenbrun’s Wiki bio. It would also mean being “anti-capitalist” and “an enemy of Zionism and the Israeli genocide of Palestinians,” etc.

Imagine The Enveloping Pleasure

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…of opening your kitchen window, pushing back the wooden French shutters and looking out at all this effing “waaaahhh“. The apartment is sound-insulated, of course, but just knowing this crap is out there…it’s a bit like living next door to Jurassic Park.

Ballad of a Pink Pelican

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Against all odds, the Cannes Film Festival’s press ticketing system gave me a break this morning, abandoning its curious posture of blocking me from reserving a ticket to Kantemir Balagov‘s Butterfly Jam. I was suddenly allowed to attend this morning’s 10 am screening inside the Theatre Croisette (i.e., the basement forum beneath the JW Marriott)…great. Appreciate the largesse!

But no sooner did this happen when the system changed its mind and screwed HE over in a different way, denying me access to Sunday evening’s screening of Maverick, the David Lean documentary. And this was between 7:02 and 7:03 am this morning…thanks so much! I really hate this festival for pulling this shit.

I was surprised that I liked Butterly Jam as much as I did. That’s because it’s a kind of surreal ethnic fable…an oddly poetic, magical-realism thing about Circassian culture and cuisine…the general Circassian diaspora of northern New Jersey. (The 34 year-old Balagov is himself Circassian.) The film is set in and around Newark, New Jersey and Bergen County…God, what a miserable, environment…coarse, gunky, lower-depth vibes.

The central protagonist is Temir (Talha Akdogan), a 16 year-old wrestler with a heavy-set, bordering-on-fat physique, and who bears not the slightest resemblance to his father, Azik (the 33 year-old, warlock-eyed Barry Keohgan). They certainly don’t have the same kind of nose, and Akdogan’s eyes are dark and totally lacking that warlock quality.

Azik’s culinary specialty is “delens,” a traditional meat-and-cheese pie from Russia’s Kabardino-Balkaria region.

Azik’s pet name for his teenaged son is Pyteh, which means “little one.” Azik is a chef working in a struggling Circassian diner in Newark. 36 year-old Riley Keough plays his sister Zalya, the pregnant owner (co-owner?) of the diner.

The inciting incident is Azik being offered a job as top chef at a swanky new restaurant. Better pay, onward and upward, etc. But Azik, being an impulsive ethnic who’s unable to think and act in sensible, practical terms, manages to complicate this situation.

But smart career strategy isn’t the focus here — Jam is a film about all sorts of magical oddball elements by way of Circassian this and that…acne, wrestling, a pink pelican, the lore of Monica Bellucci, etc. Presuming that Butterfly Jam will play commercially in the U.S., I doubt if Joe and Jane Popcorn even know who Bellucci is, much less know her face, especially since she now looks 60ish.

I loved the pink pelican metaphor**, as well as the real bird itself. I didn’t get the acne-healing thing between Temir and real-life wrestler Jaliyah Richards. Keogh, for the first time, looks older than her years — she could easily be 40 or older. Keohgan is playing Temir’s father, as noted, although he looks several years older than 33 with those deeply etched eyebags resting upon his cheekbones. And yet in Sam Mendes‘ currently filming Beatle quartet Keoghan is playing Ringo Starr in his early to mid 20s. Go figure.

** I’m actually not sure what the metaphor actually amounts or alludes to.

The East Wing Ballroom Must Be Wrecking-Balled

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But all the people cheering this coming scenario (myself included) must understand that as of 1.21.29 transies must leave minors alone, now and forever…and no more anti-white-male racism or feminist anti-male hostility (i.e., especially belittling young struggling, screen-obsessed males living in their parents’ basements), and no more accusing this or that person of racism in a screechy, hair-trigger manner, and no more ignoring the basic binary nature of gender and sexuality, and no more refusing to arrest hoodie-wearing shoplifters, and no more anti-common-sense woke crap in general…all of that excessive horseshit must come to an end.

Offer respect and you will get respect, and the nation may have a shot at decency and civility.

True Confession

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Before today I’d never once seen even a portion of Elaine May‘s A New Leaf (Paramount, 3.11.71). But now I have. Two clips, to be exact.

It seems obvious that May’s deadpan black comedy was (and is) very well written as well as steadily, confidently paced (no hurry or worry), and that May and Walter Matthau had great, low-key fun as the two leads, and that Gayne Rescher‘s cinematography is most agreeably pro-level.

A 55th anniversary 4K restoration of A New Leaf will open at Manhattan’s IFC Center on Friday, 5.15.

It was well reviewed by all the top-dog critics (“The picture as it now stands is very funny indeed, but more charming than uproarious, and quite surprisingly romantic” — Molly Haskell), but Joe and Jane Popcorn weren’t in the mood or something.

Wiki excerpt:

“In what would become a hallmark for Elaine May, the film’s original $1.8 million budget shot up to over $4 million by the time it was completed. Shooting went 40 days over schedule, and editing took over ten months. Similar problems dogged her subsequent projects, Mikey and Nicky and Ishtar.

“During shooting, producer Howard W. Koch tried to have May replaced, but she had put a $200,000 (equivalent to $1.6 million in 2025) penalty clause into her contract, and he was persuaded to keep her.

Alternate versions:

“After May would not show Paramount Pictures a rough cut of the film ten months into editing, Robert Evans took away the film from her and recut it, although she had the right to approve the final cut in her contract. May’s version was rumored to run 180 minutes; Evans shortened it to 102 minutes. Angered by the alterations, May tried to take her name off the film, and unsuccessfully sued Paramount to keep it from being released.

“The original story included a subplot in which Henry discovers from the household accounts that Henrietta is being blackmailed on dubious grounds by lawyer Andy McPherson (Jack Weston), and another character played by William Hickey. Henry poisons both of them. This darkly casts Henry’s eventual acceptance of a conventional life with Henrietta as his ‘sentence.'”

Sight Unseen, I’ve Already Seen It

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Or, as Luis Guzman said in The Limey, “You could see the sea out there if you could see it.”

Matt Damon rules, and Anne Hathaway and Charlize Theron sound like cool topliners, but what exactly is historically “sincere” about the casting of Jon Bernthal, Benny Safdie, RPatz, Zendaya, Lupita Nyong’o, Tom “Spider Man” Holland, John Leguizamo, etc.?

Jerry Orbach Didn’t Play A “Murderer”

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HE: I have trouble thinking of Jerry Orbach as a musical performer. To me he’s narco detective Gus Levy in Prince of the City and Lenny Briscoe in Law And Order.

Friendo: Orbach starred in The Fantasticks, and was the original singer of this classic tune. There’s a soundtrack album. It’s interesting because we don’t usually think of him as a musical artist but he was. This clip is from a 1982 special, “Night of 100 Stars.”

HE: I think of him as Levy.

Friendo: I think of him as Lenny in Law And Order. And a murderer in Crimes And Misdemeanors.

HE: Orbach didn’t play a “murderer” in Allen’s film. I mean, he did but he wasn’t the actual killer. He played a brother who did an ugly favor for an older brother. He didn’t kill Anjelica Huston — he pushed a button on her. There’s a difference.

Friendo: AI begs to differ on whether Jerry Orbach played a murderer. Check your email.

HE: Obviously he facilitates the killing of his older brother’s ex-girlfriend, but he’s removed from the actual act of murder. Pushing a button isn’t the same as wielding an ice pick. Did Vito Corleone actually cut off the head of Khartoum, the Hollywood horse? No. Orbach made the murder happen…yes. This isn’t an exact analogy, but he pushed the button in roughly….okay, this is a stretch….but almost in the same way that Lyndon Johnson pushed several successive buttons that brought about the deaths of tens of thousands of U.S. soldiers. Was Johnson an actual murderer? No.

Friendo: Vito killed Khartoum, period. I don’t think horse lover Tony Soprano would have appreciated Vito’s role. Obviously there’s a legal distinction between a President’s actions and facilitating a common murder.

HE: Kennedy probably would not have facilitated the deaths of tens of thousands of soldiers. That was a difference netween him and Johnson.

Kate Erbland Has A Blockage

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IndieWire’s Kate Erbland has said something astonishing in her 4.21 Michael review.

“IF you’re someone who’s ABLE to separate the art from the artist”???

Art and artists have always been separate entities or propositions. Artists, being human and therefore flawed or worse, are never as noble and beautiful and radiant as their art.

Artists inevitably draw from their own trials and tribulations in the creation of this or that song or sculpture or poem or performance, but at the end of the day they’re basically conduits — great art comes from some mystical truth galaxy but it only becomes “art” by passing through them like lightning.

Polanski’s art has always been greater than Polanski the man. Obviously. And — hello? — they’re not the same.

Erbland seems to regard this understanding with suspicion. She seems to be saying that anyone who can separate art from the artist — to basically see them as separate and unequal — is some kind of uncaring sociopath.

I love the current and the spunk and the edgy technique that Jackson used to create those songs and bust out those brilliant dance moves. I can compartmentalize. I can put the child molesting in a steel suitcase and leave it in the trunk of the car while watching Michael in a theatre.

@marvengabriel Moonwalking at the @michaelthemovie Premier🕺🏽✨ @Universal Pictures De @Lionsgate #michaeljackson #michaelmovie #michaelbiopic #moonwalk #dance ♬ origineel geluid – StarRewind

@etalkctv From Colman Domingo finally responding to Paris Jackson’s critiques of the ‘Michael’ biopic to Janet Jackson reportedly fighting with Jermaine Jackson, here’s everything we know about the drama surrounding the Michael Jackson biopic. 👀 #ParisJackson #ColmanDomingo #JanetJackson #JermaineJackson #MichaelJackson ♬ original sound – etalk

@bendunningtattoo This is 20 minutes immediately after the Michael Jackson Movie ended….people did NOT want to leave!!! 🐐👑 I was lucky enough to see the Biopic 2 weeks early at the Global Fan Event in Berlin at the weekend! It’s amazing! You’ll laugh, you’ll cry and for for you won’t stop moving!!!! You need to watch it when it releases on the 24th April!!! #mj #michaelmovie #biopic #michaeljackson #thriller @michaelthemovie @Universal Pictures @Lionsgate UK @Lionsgate @Uber Platz ♬ original sound – Ben Dunning

@russellhustleinc @michaelthemovie is INCREDIBLE🔥 Had to keep the party going to the parking lot!! @Lionsgate Did you guys get tickets yet???@Demetre @Furillo. @A.R. @Brittany Perry-Russell @IsaiahRussellBailey #RussellHustle #Dance #MichaelJackson @IMAX #imax ♬ You Rock My World – Michael Jackson

Well Crafted But Unsettling “Beef”

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Anxious, financially struggling younger types or even 40somethings rubbing shoulders with older, fairly loaded types in a flush, exotic vacation setting of some kind. Have-nots (or have-not-enoughs), tinged with envy, loathing or spiritual deflation, resentful about nearly everything, trying to con or seduce or merely suck up to the swells.

That’s more or less the White Lotus formula, no?

In their own way the blase, chilly, indifferent rich are almost as miserable as the have-nots, but no matter which way anyone turns, resentment and distrust are stovetop flames that boil all pots while generating endless twitching confusion and fickle-ass vibes blah blah.

I’ve never watched season #1 of Lee Sung Jin‘s Beef, which unfolded in April 2023, but the eight-episode season #2, which I’ve watched three episodes of, is a chip off the old Lotus block.

I can’t figure where the Monte Vista Point Country Club is located, but apparently it’s somewhere in California. Posssibly Montecito, the Big Sur area, La Jolla…oh, wait…Ojai?

This is a darkly satirical nest-of-vipers ensemble piece that’s well acted and very precisely written…everyone exudes performative, nimble-minded hostility…every episode is damp with feelings of entrapment…it’s intriguing as far as it goes, although it makes your stomach feel acidic.

I felt no allegiance or comfort with anyone. Anyone could have died and I would’ve been “okay, whatever.”

The four lead characters are antsy, self-loathing, almost-flirting-with-killing-himself Josh (Oscar Isaac), the club’s general manager; Josh’s miserable, brittle-featured, inwardly collapsing wife Lindsay (Carey Mulligan); an aspiring, partly-Korean, would-be personal trainer named Austin (Charles Melton)…a guyho’s basically an empty Coke bottle with a buff bod and a dopey-looking moustache; and Austin’s significant other Ashley (Cailee Spaeny), a variation upon a standard issue twitchmouse, anxiety and uncertainty also being her daily bread.

Their Korean betters are the chilliest of all. The cold-eyed Chairwoman Park (Youn Yuh-jung), the billionaire owner of the MPCC, is a brusque and soul-less ghost. The zoomer-aged Woosh (Matthew Kim), a tennis player, is another nothingburger nothigngperson. I didn’t get a read on Song Kang-ho‘s Dr. Kim, Chairwoman Park’s second husband and a Seoul plastic surgeon…I just muttered to myself “oh, the Parasite guy again.”

Seoyeon Jang‘s Eunice, an assistant-interpreter to Chairwoman Park, is the only Korean character who seems to be dealing straight, open-hearted cards. I liked her.

I’d really rather not write any more about this show. I feel drained just thinking about it. Do I want to watch the remaining five episodes? Yeah, I guess so but I’m certainly not hot or hungry to do so.

Here We Go Again

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I can’t write honestly about Lena Dunham‘s personal, non-professional situation without sounding cruel, and I really don’t want to go there. It’s all been coughed up.

One last time: The metaphor conveyed by a condition of over-the-top obesity is inescapable, and I’d really love to get away from that…to wade into Dunham’s insights and creative presentations (she’s a very sharp writer and a grade-A filmmaker…I’ve been a fan from the get-go) on their own terms without grappling with the other thing…okay, enough.

I’d like to know if there’s any chance that Good Sex, Dunham’s Natalie Portman Netflix film, is going to play any of the early-fall festivals before debuting on Netflix in October or November or whenever.

Dunham’s memoir, “Famesick“, pops tomorrow.

They Don’t Call Him TACO For Nothing

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If Trump had any balls he would’ve just said “Yeah, screw it, I did it and so what?”

Expanded explanation: “We all know that Jeffrey Hunter wore a white and red robe combo when he played Jesus in in King of Kings…you know it, I know it…sorry that the religious nutters didn’t like my post, but honestly? I don’t care that much. Only children believe in traditional religious imagery, and surely the nutters don’t actually believe l’m some kind of devout Christian, right?…surely they understand that I’m an executive branch version of a mafia crime boss, and that allows or ushers in louche behavior…how can they not understand this?

“But you know what? I am kind of a Christ-like redeemer because I’m up to something ‘holy’, in a certain sense, by attempting to restore American life to the way it used to be back in the Eisenhower Wonderbread days when I was a kid watching Fess Parker as Davy Crockett on Sunday nights. I’m obviously not a huge fan of ethnic diversity and that’s why they’ve always liked me so who’s kidding whom?”