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As part of a week-long tribute to the recently departed Michael Chapman, Trailers From Hell is highlighting three brief Chapman commentaries, including Rod Lurie‘s 2013 riff on Martin Scorsese‘s Taxi Driver (’76).

Chapman’s impressionistic lensing of this moody portrait of increasingly delusional loneliness, and how a certain Manhattan cab driver is gradually engulfed by a vaguely hellish and spooky city with all kinds of needles and provocations…we all know the drill. But I have two quibbles with Lurie’s patter.

One, Taxi Driver is not “as depressing as a dying nun.” It’s hauntingly alive and pulsing and tingling with dread. “Depressing” is when a film depicts a relatively flat and oppressively defined realm of regimentation and submission from which there’s no escape.** “Depressing” is when a stuck, not-very-smart character is without nerve or options. Robert De Niro‘s Travis Bickle, one senses early on, is definitely a guy with options. They just happen to be of a powder-keg variety.

Two, Lurie suggests that Bickle’s “are you talkin’ to me?” is a steal from Shane — a line that Alan Ladd said to Ben Johnson inside Grafton’s Saloon and General Store. The line was actually “are you speakin’ to me?“, a slightly more refined form of inquiry. Plus it was ad-libbed by De Niro, and I seriously doubt if George Stevens’ 1953 western…aahh, who knows?

The difference between “talking” and “speaking” was pointed out in a scene from David Mamet‘s Glengarry Glen Ross:

Aaronow: Yes. I mean, are you actually talking about this or are we just…?
Moss: No, we’re just…
Aaronow: We’re just “talking” about it.
Moss: We’re just speaking about it. (Pause.) As an idea.
Aaronow: As an idea.
Moss: Yes.
Aaronow: We’re not actually talking about it.
Moss: No.

** Michael Radford‘s Nineteen Eighty-Four.

Tatiana has been on a Grace Kelly kick for a couple of weeks now. Partly because she’s an admirer of three or four Kelly performances**, but mostly because she’s preparing a short video on the late actress, who was born on 11.12.29 and would be 91 today had she not been killed in a 1982 auto accident.

Today we visited two Los Angeles locations where Kelly lived — a Bel Air hotel suite rented in ’53 or ’54, and a Pacific Palisades home (321 Alma Real) that Kelly rented sometime during ’55 and perhaps into early ’56. (It’s hard to pin this stuff down.)

To make the experience complete, Tatiana wore an outfit similar to the one Kelly wore in the opening scene of Rear Window. We also figured that as long as we were exploring Bel Air bungalows, why not settle in for some vittles?

Probably my favorite photo of the late actress — zero makeup, no glam, no effort to “sell it”

Kelly rented this simple, tree-shaded Spanish-style bungalow sometime in ’55. A hop, skip and a jump away from the mouth of Santa Monica Canyon.

Bel Air hotel, 9.26.20, around 3:55 pm.

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The profitable Variety and the money-losing The Hollywood Reporter are now (or are soon to become) sister publications run by the same outfit.

Variety and Deadline owner Jay Penske (PMC or Penske Media Corp.) has inked a deal with MRC, a media and production company founded by Modi Wiczyk and Asif Satchu, to operate The Hollywood Reporter, Billboard and Vibe under a new shingle called PMRC.

Variety excerpt: “PMC will lead daily operations of an expanded entertainment and music brand portfolio under the PMRC banner that will bring two Hollywood trade institutions under the same roof for the first time. Billboard, Vibe and the Reporter will join PMC’s Variety, Rolling Stone and Music Business Worldwide.

“The second joint venture calls for MRC to use its content production assets — which include Dick Clark Productions — to develop new content and business opportunities drawn from stories and other intellectual property culled from across PMRC brands.”

I asked some folks for a little speculation. “What might actually happen with the merger?”, I wrote. “What do your nerve endings tell you? Whenever companies or publications merge there are always people who get cut loose. Always. And we all know The Hollywood Reporter has been hemorrhaging money for a long time.”

Informed guy #1: “Variety is in excellent financial shape, and THR, as you said, has been hemmhoraging money for a long time. So I would expect that there’ll be changes there. But I think Penske wants to save THR, not kill it. And this, in the long run, is its best chance of being saved.”

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Default fundamentals apply when a director assesses another director’s work. Political, fraternal, instinctual. If a deep-down reaction is, say, one of genuine if slightly muted admiration for the craft, theme and/or performances (or for all three), the director will always brush aside the “slightly muted” and amplify the love. Always accentuate the alpha — there could never be a reason not to. So we’re naturally obliged to regard all such testimonials with a grain of salt. That said, Aaron Sorkin‘s assessment of David Fincher‘s Mank is encouraging as hell.

There are three distinct 21st Century nouveau riche approaches to interior design…three vomit-bag aesthetics favored by socially insecure people with too much money and no taste to speak of. A generally over-sized feeling, gold everything, too many drapes, questionable paintings, gaudy chandeliers, imitation ancient-Rome statues, huge windows, 14 foot tall ceilings, etc.

The offense-givers are (a) Kardashian Splendor (i.e., way too much conspicuous luxury, every nook and cranny designed and furnished like a luxury hotel, the exact opposite of distressed bohemian), (b) Uday and Qusay Hussein Palatial — Middle Eastern gold-and-marble kitsch, more conspicuous luxury, too many mounted 4K flat screens, large fountains and jacuzzis, and (c) Aggressive Putin, or the home stylings of an ostentatious Russian gangster — the main idea is to announce to the first-time visitor, “Look how much man money I have!…trust me, what I’ve spent on this place is only a fraction of my total holdings.”

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Yesterday I posted about an 85-minute doc, Meeting The Beatles in India. The piece was titled “I’ll Kill You, Lennon, You Bastard.” A comment from Variety‘s Chris Willman mentioned that a portion of the doc briefly dealt with allegations about sexual misbehavior on the part of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, and yet Willman passed along observations from others that this portion may (emphasis on the “m” word) have been removed from the PPV version.

This morning I wrote a Facebook note to Paul Saltzman, director of Meeting The Beatles in India, which Gathr is now offering PPV streaming access to the film. I also wrote the film’s publicist, Maggie Begley.

“Paul — Greetings from Jeffrey Wells of Hollywood Elsewhere. On 9.9 Variety‘s music critic Chris Willman reviewed your Meet the Beatles in India doc. I riffed on the film yesterday, and here’s what Willman said in the HE comment section:

“‘When I reviewed the film, I made mention of a section toward the end that brings up the allegations against the Maharishi and then explains it away to sabotage by Magic Alex that spoiled a good thing.

“‘I then heard from people who watched the film upon its PPV opening that said this section I described was no longer in the film, and viewers were left thinking that everything ended happily. I’d be interested to hear from anyone else who saw the film which cut they saw.’

Willman is a totally reliable, first-rate journalist so I’m taking his word for this, or at least regarding what he says he’s been told. Have you in fact removed the referred-to portion of your doc? If so, do you have any comment or explanation as to why this was done?

Pertinent Willman paragraph, in 9.9.20 Variety review:

“The Maharishi is portrayed only in a positive light, although there’s a passing reference to the nasty song Lennon wrote about him immediately after the sojourn, ‘Sexy Sadie,’ before Saltzman fleetingly addresses the still hot-button topic of why some of the group members fell out with the guru, which had to do with the Maharishi allegedly making moves on women in the compound. The apologia offered by Saltzman and Lewisohn is that a peripheral figure in the Beatles’ entourage, ‘Magic Alex,’ spread false stories about the holy man, though [Alex] told a very different accounting of the fallout (and sued The New York Times over a description similar to the one offered here) before he died in 2017.”

And yet “Magic Alex (aka John Alexis Mardas, who passed in January 2017) denied all this in a February 2010 statement he sent to the N.Y. Times. Here are four paragraphs from said statement:

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Republican Utah Senator Mitt Romney has dashed liberal hopes by announcing a willingness to vote for Trump’s Supreme Court nominee before the 11.3 election, which seems to all but assure confirmation.

The only way to stop the Supreme Court confirmation process, at least until after the election and perhaps into January or beyond the 1.20.21 inauguration, is for the Democrat-controlled House of Representatives to initiate impeachment proceedings against Attorney General William Barr, which would have been warranted anyway. Seriously — what other blocking option is there? Re-impeach Trump?

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Last night’s open-air screening of Kiss The Ground happened on an upper-level parking lot behind West Hollywood’s Andaz Hotel. It was Hollywood Elsewhere’s first invitational Hollywood screening in six and a half months, and quite the emotional thing. It felt a bit awkward at first, but we all got used to it and loosened up. Thanks to the Allison Jackson Company and 42West (AnnaLee Paolo, Susan Ciccone), who co-hosted. Technical issues abounded but it was all cool. The FM radio band playing the soundtrack kept switching back and forth between 97.7 and 98something. The parking lot power went out twice. The focus and light levels were fine but the aspect ratio was wrong (it should have been 1.85 but they showed a horizontally squeezed 1.37 image.). And then our car battery, drained by listening to the radio without the engine on, began to flash a power warning. I called AAA and 20 minutes later a guy gave us a jump. But it was all good. Awesome to be with people again in a social setting.

Kiss The Ground director Rebecca Tickell.

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Beloved Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg is gone, and with her any chance of at least a semblance of moderate temperance on the court. I was praying so hard that she would hold on for another five months or so, or until Joe Biden‘s hoped-for inauguration on 1.20.21 along with a distinct possibility that the balance of Congressional power in the Senate might tip in favor of sensible liberal allegiance.

Ginsburg’s death means that another Trump stooge will almost certainly fill her seat. With Ginsburg on the Supreme Court, the bench was split between four liberals (herself, Stephen Breyer, Sonia Sotomayor and Elena Kagan), four rabid conservatives (Clarence Thomas, Samuel Alito, Neil Gorsuch and Brett Kavanaugh), and the occasionally sensible if right-leaning, Citizen’s United-supporting Chief Justice John Roberts.

Now the Supreme Court will be six-to-three in favor of conservatives. The ballgame is more or less officially over for many years to come with three Trump friendlies on the bench.

Vox: “Justice Ginsburg died believing that Trump is an ‘aberration.’ Her death ensures that he won’t be.”

I recall reading about an alleged discussion between President Obama and Justice Ginsberg, apparently beginning in 2014 or thereabouts, in which Ginsburg might have retired before the end of Obama’s second term and thereby allowed him to nominate a moderate liberal replacement before his term ran out. Ginsberg’s response was essentially “no way, I’m good, forward march.”

Then came Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell‘s refusal to allow confirmation hearings on Obama nominee Merrick Garland in 2016.

Judicially speaking the rights of the Democratic majority in this country and particularly women, anti-corporatists and people of color are now going to be under severe strain for the next 10 to 15 years, at least. The pooch is really screwed.

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It’s very disappointing to read that Van Morrison, 75, is some kind of anti-masker, or at least that he believes that Covid health advisories and restrictions in England constitute a form of Orwellian, anti-freedom oppression.

A statement on his website says Morrison will soon release three protest songs — “Born To Be Free”, “As I Walked Out”, “No More Lockdown” — “that question the measures the government has put in place”, and make it clear “how unhappy he is with the way the government has taken away personal freedoms.”

Morrison: “I’m not telling people what to do or think. The government is doing a great job of that already. It’s about freedom of choice. I believe people should have the right to think for themselves.”

Some people turn cranky and obstinate when they get older, and sometimes even unreasonable.

I learned a long, long time ago that genius-level artists and performers are not necessarily sensible or well-behaved people. The art that channels though a person is one thing, but their personal behavior or political philosophy is another. In some cases it’s not entirely their fault as people have been giving them a pass for decades, and after a while they get used to not being called on their bullshit. I wouldn’t say that I’ve come to expect famous, world-class creatives to act or think in disappointing ways as they’re 97% cool, but if something weird pops through I’m ready to shrug and let it go. These days you’re not allowed to say that “art gods get a special pass” but my tendency is to cut them a break unless they behave in a deliberately cruel or sadistic manner.

Twitter epitaph: “There are two kinds of people. Those who like Van Morrison and those who’ve met him.”

In other words, with certain artists it’s better to enjoy their work and let it go at that.

Today’s big story is about Madonna inking a deal with Universal to direct a biopic about herself, based on a script co-written by herself and Diablo Cody. Matt Donnelly‘s Variety story says the untiled pic will evolve under the wing of Uni’s filmed entertainment chairperson Donna Langley and producer Amy Pascal, whose shingle is set up on the lot. No casting announcements or production timeline.

This is the first time in history that any big-name talent has announced such an intention. And of course, the idea invites skepticism. Intriguing biopics have to about more than just “this happened and that happened,” and what hope is there, honestly, that Madonna, who’s directed two features, will be interested in conveying some kind of warts-and-all saga about who she is or was deep down? An approach, in short, that might push the usual biopic boundaries.

Official Madonna statement: “I want to convey the incredible journey that life has taken me on as an artist, a musician, a dancer…a human being trying to make her way in this world. The focus of this film will always be music. Music has kept me going and art has kept me alive. There are so many untold and inspiring stories and who better to tell it than me? It’s essential to share the roller-coaster ride of my life with my voice and vision.”

Madonna and producer-mixer Jellybean Benitez, sometime around the release of her 1983 debut album.

Three or four years ago Madonna made it clear that she was no fan of Elyse Hollander‘s Blonde Ambition, a top-rated Black List script about her struggle to find success as a pop singer in early ’80s Manhattan. I became an instant fan of this script, and declared in a 12.16.16 piece that “it’s going to be a good, hard-knocks industry drama when it gets made — basically a blend of a scrappy singing Evita mixed with A Star Is Born.”

At the very least Madonna and Cody should re-read Blonde Ambition and borrow as much as they legally can from it. Or, better yet, hire Hollander to come aboard as a co-writer.

Blonde Ambition “is a flinty, unsentimental empowerment saga about a tough cookie who took no prisoners and was always out for #1,” I wrote. “No hearts and flowers for this mama-san.

“A Star Is Born‘s logline was basically ‘big star with a drinking problem falls for younger ingenue, she rises as he falls and finally commits suicide, leaving her with a broken heart.’ Blonde Ambition is about a hungry, super-driven New York pop singer who, like Evita Peron (whom Madonna portrayed in ’96), climbs to the top by forming alliances with this and that guy who helps her in some crucial way, and then moves on to the next partner or benefactor, but at no point in the journey is she fighting for anything other than her own success, and is no sentimentalist or sweetheart.

Alternate: Our very own hungry, hustling, hard-charging singer, living on tips and dimes in NYC in ’81 and ’82, finally gets a leg-up when she cuts a deal with (and then falls in love with) Jellybean Benitez, who remixes her initially troubled debut album (which contained “Borderline” and “Lucky Star”) and makes it into a hit…but like with a previous boyfriend, bandmate Dan Gilroy, she eventually pushes Jellybean aside in favor of a new producer for her second album, Like A Virgin (’84). So Jellybean is the Vickie Lester of this tale, his heart broken at the end by a woman he loved but who finally loved only herself.

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I never got around to watching Luca Guadagnino‘s We Are Who We Are until yesterday, which is when the debut episode began streaming on HBO. So that’s all I’ve seen of this eight-episode series — installment #1. (It’s embedded after the jump.)

Set in 2016, it’s a dive into here-and-now teenage alienation — an awkward-adolescence, coming-of-age, trying-to-figure-it-out thing about a 14 year-old kid (Jack Dylan Grazer, who just turned 17 in real life) with the worst taste in clothing…I have to stop myself right here. I don’t want to make this piece about my own sartorial preferences past or present, but if I was 14 today I would rather stab myself with a steak knife than wear an unsubtle, over-sized T-shirt with the ugliest pair of baggy, leopard-skin shorts ever manufactured in human history. Not to mention a pair of unappealing red sneakers…okay, I’ll give that part of the ensemble a pass.

We Are Who We Are is set on a U.S. military base near Venice, Italy, and it concerns the initially agonizing struggle of Grazer’s character, Fraser Wilson, to acclimate after flying in from New York to live with his mom, an Army colonel named Sarah (Chloe Sevigny), and her wife, Maggie (Alice Braga), who also wears a uniform. Fraser is gay but not “out,” or so it appears. (There’s an eye-rolling moment when he happens to step into a barracks and catch sight of a few Army guys taking a shower, and he just stares.) All kinds of new relationships, assessments and misadventures await the poor guy, the most prominent being Jordan Kristine Seamon‘s Caitlin, a long-haired, African-American beauty who appears to be more or less straight but you never know.

I didn’t initially care all that much for Frazer or the general vibe, to be honest, but then it began to gradually pull me in. Guadagnino, whose A Bigger Splash and especially Call Me By Your Name established him as a maestro of sun-kissed Italian sensuality and a certain instinctual, improvisational, come-what-may attitude about life’s possibilities, really gets into Fraser’s impressions and moods and whatnot, and even though he’s another typically inarticulate kid who lives deep in his head and inside whatever tunes he happens to be listening to, there’s something about the nowness, aliveness, alone-ness and scattered whatever-ness in the atmosphere of this thing that turns a certain key.

We Are Who We Are is breathing fresh air, up to something else and, to me at least, offering a new kind of stimulant.

Fraser seems so dorky, so emotionally stunted and scowling. He’s 14 but behaves more like an angry eight year old with a taller, lankier frame. I guess I’ll eventually get used to him. Interesting eyes but so fucking clueless and closed off. Yes, of course — so was I at that age. The difference is that I kept most of my anxiety bottled up inside, at least in the presence of elders and to some extent with my peers. I half-confided in a couple of friends, I suppose, although I probably wasn’t articulate enough at the time to even share my truest thoughts with myself. But at least I didn’t commit any clothing crimes.

A filmmaker friend who knows the series top to bottom assures me that “you’ll end up loving Fraser — he’s an angel of vengeance against the current.”

I don’t know what else to say except that the first episode has convinced me to see the series through to the end.

Kyle Buchanan, the N.Y. Times‘ award-season columnist and inheritor of David Carr’s “carpetbagger” handle, has written an excellent piece about Guadagnino and the series.

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