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Former N.Y. Daily News film critic and Gold Derby prognosticator Jack Mathews has died. Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neill reports that he passed last night from pancreatic cancer, which Mathews only learned about a week ago.

Jack (whose last name is spelled with one “t”) began his career as a regular reporter for the Detroit Free-Press in the ’60s, and then moved into the movie realm, eventually becoming an interviewer, columnist and critic with the LA Times, Newsday, USA Today and the NY Daily News. He retired in ’08.

In a 2.12.08 interview with Jen Yamato, Matthews said that his favorite films were “My Darling Clementine, Some Like it Hot, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Jaws, Casablanca, The Deer Hunter, Singin’ in the Rain, The Godfather I and II…if I have to pick just one: Some Like it Hot.”

He said that the worst movies he’d ever seen, “considering its level of pandering manipulation,” was The Color Purple (yes!), and that the ’80s had been the worst decade for filmgoing.

Asked whether critics are in touch with the hoi polloi, Mathews said that “most of us know what the public likes but we generally don’t like what they like. So, if being in touch means sharing their tastes, we’re definitely out of touch.”

Yamato asked Mathews who his favorite film critics/bloggers/entertainment journalists were. Answer: Critics: Tony Scott (NY Times), David Denby (New Yorker), Todd McCarthy (Variety). Bloggers: David Poland, Jeffrey Wells, Lou Lumenick, Stu Van Airsdale. Entertainment journalists: Anne Thompson (Variety), Michael Cieply (NY Times).

Thanks, Jack. Knowing you somewhat was an honor and a pleasure.

First in a series of Cannes Film Festival memories, posted at random: 20 years ago the first-anywhere screening of Lars von Trier‘s Dancer in the Dark happened in the Grand Lumiere. The date was 5.17.00. I was sitting in the balcony. The lights went down about halfway, and Bjork’s overture began to play. The music and the moment — I knew something exceptional was about to happen. I could feel it.

I saw Dancer two or three times in the States a few months later, but the overture was either ignored or the effect wasn’t the same. You had to be there. I’ll never forget that feeling, that vibe, that premonition. A slight lump in my throat. Honestly? I just choked up as I listened for the second time.

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For years I dearly loved the ending of Killing Them Softly: “This guy wants to tell me we’re living in a community? Don’t make me laugh. I’m living in America, and in America you’re on your own. America’s not a country — it’s a business. Now fuckin’ pay me.”

But I began to feel differently when the feds and the state of California coughed up some dough to help me out. I’m sorry but I was affected by this, and almost moved.

If I was the actual Jeff Goldblum as opposed to the doppelganger in this Richmond street fight, I would be on the phone to my agent right now.

“Whatever the next role is,” I would say, “the producers have to agree to include a scene in which my character gets into an argument with some bare-chested asshole and does exactly this when push comes to shove.

“I don’t care if it’s a Wes Anderson film or Jurassic Park VII or whatever…we have to build on the lore of this thing. It’s trending all over and I need to be this guy. Kids all over the world are going ‘whoo-whoo!’…this kind of thing happens very rarely.”

Agent to Goldblum: “Wait…you could be the next Liam ‘Paycheck’ Neeson!”

Jeff Goldblum had enough of shirtless guy’s shit pic.twitter.com/KA0DbKdEr7

— KFC Radio (@KFCradio) May 12, 2020

I don’t turn on but Tatyana does, and so a couple of days ago I brought home three store-bought joints. Three flavors, horn-shaped, about $15 bills each. Plus a tin of cannabis-infused gummies.

She began with the strawberry-flavored one, and the aroma was wonderful. It smelled so good I was almost tempted, but I can’t. But what a business, what a brand, what a profit margin. When I was spry and bushy-tailed an ounce would run $20, and if you were busted for dealing bricks you could do serious time.

I was always somewhat attracted to the idea of buying this or that Twilight Time Bluray, but I rarely did because they charged too much. Their brand exuded a touch of class but they weren’t Criterion — they never did the heavy restoration lifting. (On the other hand their color Blurays were never teal-tinted.) I want my Blurays to cost $20 bills or thereabouts, and Twilight Time always charged closer to $30 and sometimes higher.

And now they’ve gone belly-up. I’m sorry — I don’t like to see any outfit devoted to distributing HD cinema go under. Then again on 5.11 (tomorrow) I’ll be able to buy some of their titles at bargain basement prices.

Posted today (5.10) by Twilight Time management: “After nine years of successful operations in which 380 motion pictures from the 1930s to the 2010s have been released on DVD and Bluray disc, the home video label Twilight Time — founded by veteran Hollywood studio executives and filmmakers Brian Jamieson and the late, dearly celebrated Nick Redman — will not release any further titles and we will be winding down operations this summer. A changing market, the rising costs of title acquisitions and Redman’s passing are key reasons for the closure.

“As part of our winding-down process, there will be a one-time reduction in prices to $3.95, $4.45, $6.95 and $11.95 as of Monday, May 11th at www.TwilightTimeMovies.com.

“Cinemagistics/TwilightTimeMovies.com will continue to sell titles while available through June 30th, at which time they and Twilight Time will cease operations. Remaining inventory will be acquired and distributed exclusively by Screen Archives — effective July 1st 2020.”

After reviewing Natalie Wood: What Remains Behind (HBO, now streaming), I began to poke around her filmography and consider her less successful films. I wound up focusing on Richard Quine‘s Sex and the Single Girl (’64), a strenuous, tedious sex farce that nonetheless became a commercial hit. God forgive me but I read the Wiki page, watched the trailer and read two or three reviews.

Wood played a mythical version of “Sex and the Single Girl” author Helen Gurley Brown, who was 42 in actuality while Wood’s version is a couple of decades younger and on the prim and proper side. Tony Curtis played Bob Weston, a reporter for a scandal magazine looking to expose Brown as “a 23 year-old virgin” and therefore a pretender in matters of sexual experience.

The below promotional photo of Curtis and Wood (they both seem to be thinking “oh, dear God…the lack of modesty!”) was aimed at lowest-common-denominator prudes circa 1964, and therefore reflected a safe marketing strategy. It’s nonetheless infuriating if you think about it for five or six seconds.

Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood in a promotional pose for Sex and the Single Girl (’64).

Forget the plot line — if a 39 year-old hound dog (Curtis was born in ’25) was reading “Sex and the Single Girl” his expression would be one of arousal and anticipatory satisfaction, as frank descriptions of the sexual escapades of a moderate-minded single woman would indicate all kinds of randy, rompy activity in his immediate future.

And why in heaven would the author of said book express shock or amazement? Did Quine or the producers believe that movie stars and the characters they play should have at least a glancing relationship with the same reality? Jesus God…Wood had a brief affair with Rebel Without A Cause director Nicholas Ray when she was 16 or 17, and eight or nine years later…oh, forget it.

Early to mid ’60s sex farces were deranged, deluded, borderline Satanic.

Good heavens…Catch 22 author Joseph Heller shared screenplay credit on Sex and the Single Girl. Held his nose, cashed the paycheck.

Please read this N.Y. Times review by A.H. Weiler, published on 12.26.64:

“Sex and the Single Girl brought out the single gals in droves and clusters yesterday to the Rivoli and the Trans-Lux 52d Street. One mildewed bachelor, fearing disaster, bravely latched on to a balcony perch and finally exited with a slight stagger.

“It’s not the worst picture ever made, girls and boys. No kidding! Not even with Natalie Wood being archly pursued by Tony Curtis for over two hours and, most fortunately, with Lauren Bacall, Henry Fonda and Mel Ferrer bringing up the rear.

“That simpering title — all that’s left of Helen Gurley Brown‘s hope-chest best-seller — still tells the story and flavor of this Warners release. Now there’s a plot, involving Miss Wood as Helen Gurley Brown, a maidenly, 23-year-old research psychologist on advanced marital and pre-marital studies. Yeah, man! And Mr. Curtis is a scandal-magazine writer who blasts Dr. Wood’s (or Brown’s) best-selling book, then stalks her personally, blandly borrowing the problems of his neighbors for soulful couch musings and amorous bait.

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“William Barr’s Perversion of Justice,” a lead editorial by the N.Y. Times editorial board, presents a clear case that Trump’s attorney general is little more than a thug and a boot licker — that he’s “turning the Justice Department into a political weapon for the president” and hasn’t the slightest regard for the rule of law. But for me, the keeper is the illustration by Nicholas Konrad, which elaborates upon a photograph by Times staff photographer T.J. Kirkpatrick.

Illustration by Nicholas Konrad.

You can feel the current right away. Judd Apatow and Pete Davidson‘s The King of Staten Island (Universal, 6.12) is first and foremost a New York extreme-behavior borough movie with tattoos and firemen…that much is obvious. And a real-deal movie about flawed or constipated or otherwise damaged or disappointed human beings trying to ignore or work through their histories and hang-ups and trepidations, and being randomly funny or nervy or guilty or fucked-up in the margins but…aahh, what do I know from a trailer? I’ll tell you what I can sense. This film is not smug or lazy or camped out in its own rectum but ambitious and probing…a go-for-broker.

“You make everyone around you crazy…you gotta get your shit together…time is passing by really quickly.”

Given the likelihood that theatregoing will be a spotty if not verboten activity for the next few months and the Academy’s proclamation that streaming-only films will be eligible for the 2020 Oscars, it seems inevitable that several forthcoming Netflix films (all dated for 2020) stand a better-than-decent chance of becoming hot Oscar contenders, and almost certainly in the case of David Fincher‘s Mank, Ron Howard‘s Hillbilly Elegy, Andrew Dominik‘s Blonde and Edoardo Ponti‘s The Life Ahead.

Not to mention Spike Lee‘s Da Five Bloods, George C. Wolfe‘s Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, Charlie Kaufman‘s I’m Thinking of Ending Things, Ryan Murphy‘s The Prom, David Dobkin‘s Eurovision, Ben Wheatley‘s Rebecca remake, George Clooney‘s The Midnight Sky and Antonio Campos‘ The Devil All The Time. 12 in all.

By my estimation the first four will almost certainly emerge as Best Picture finalists. I know that the Mank script (penned by Fincher’s dad Jack) is brilliant, and that Fincher and Gary Oldman (as Citizen Kane screenwriter Herman J. Mankiewicz) will do it justice. I suspect that Hillbilly Elegy may strike a chord as a kind of “lefty Hollywood reaches out to rural Bumblefucks to try and understand their plight” type of deal. I haven’t read Blonde but I’ve been hearing good things (as in good, crazy, out there) for years. My enthusiasm for The Life Ahead is strictly gut-level.

By the way it’s just been announced that Da Five Bloods will debut on Netflix five weeks hence — June 12th. So where’s the trailer?

Gary Oldman as Herman J. Mankiewicz in David Fincher’s Mank.

If and when The Beast says anything about the 2.23.20 murder of Ahmaud Arbery by suburban Georgia vigilantes, and especially the foot-dragging response by local authorities to an obviously unwarranted shooting by gut racists, it’ll be some kind of Charlottesville statement — i.e., respect due process, “there are many good people in Georgia”, killing is bad but black guys shouldn’t grab a white man’s shotgun, blah blah.

This is obviously Trayvon Martin II. The case blew open yesterday with the release of video of the shotgun slaying.

Boilerplate: “On 2.23.20 Ahmaud Arbery, a 25-year-old African American man, was shot dead while running near Brunswick, Georgia. Arbery was unarmed and running on a road, when he was chased and then confronted by three white bubbas with a pickup truck: Gregory McMichael, his son Travis McMichael and William “Roddie” Bryan. The confrontation involved Arbery trying to grab one of the men’s gun, and resulted in Travis fatally shooting Arbery.

Update: Two arrests (the shooter son and the father) happened today. Earlier: An anonymous YouTube video of the shooting was publicized on May 5th on a radio station website, before being reposted on Twitter by the attorney for Arbery’s family; it went viral. After the video’s release, the presiding prosecutor, Atlantic Judicial Circuit District Attorney Tom Durden, said a grand jury would decide whether charges would be brought.”

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Said before, saying again: I harbor no ill feelings about Val Kilmer. The opposite, in fact.

I helped report that “Psycho Kilmer” Entertainment Weekly article that ran in mid ’96, but I had a nice chat with him at a party he threw at his home back in ’04 or thereabouts. (He had just finished working on Oliver Stone‘s Alexander.) I ran into Kilmer again in the fall of ’11 while having lunch with Descendants costar Judy Greer. We waved and smiled as Kilmer sat at a nearby table. When I tried to pay the bill the waitress told me the check had been taken care of by “that man sitting over there,” except Kilmer had left by that point.

In Taffy Brodesser-Akner‘s “What Happened to Val Kilmer?” (N.Y. Times, 5.6.120), the 60 year-old Kilmer asks, “You don’t think we will be going to Cannes? How about the Olympics? The Olympics has never been canceled except in time of world war.” You can’t cancel the world, right? Bad things happen, but you still need art.

Val Kilmer as captured last month by N.Y. Times photograoher Jeff Minton.

TBA: “And I thought: Right? Right! You still need art. You still need forward momentum. You still need to believe that all your effort wasn’t for nothing, that we could — we will — survive a dark moment in history and that when that happens, we won’t be left without the things that made those moments decipherable and meaningful and therefore tolerable.

“The world outside had seemed to be getting so, so bad for so, so long, and this was the first whiff of overarching hope and positivity that I’d witnessed in I couldn’t remember how many months or years now — so much so that I almost couldn’t identify it when I saw it. The last glowing embers of hope coming from Val Kilmer? The movie hunk of my youth, who disappeared unceremoniously and now presented with an entirely different appearance and a bizarre accounting of where he’d been?

“But there was something familiar about it, like a faint knocking that came from inside me: It was the special kind of optimism that maybe only the faithful have, the enduring belief that some force will come along and save us from the centrifuge of despair we’ve found ourselves in. When is the last time you saw that up close?

Later in the piece: “Perhaps we had created the coronavirus out of our fear and wickedness — children in cages, the rich hoarding wealth; perhaps we had only the suggestion of a virus. I grew up with too many messianics in my household. I found this kind of thing too easy to believe, if only because it was more believable than the fact that in 2020, my young, healthy colleagues were in the hospital, the streets were bare, I was stuck inside my house and nobody knew how long that might go on for. It was so hard to parse all the fear that permeated society now — what was real and what had come as a result of our own hysteria. During the day I’d think that it was the fear that was hurting us most.

“But at night my husband would shake me to wake me up because I’d been crying in my sleep. More quickly than I could have imagined, the world took on the hallucinogenic quality of right before you fall asleep, when everything is outsize and nothing makes sense. The margins on my suspension of disbelief started to close in on themselves, and the borders of things began to diminish, and now the world seemed like a word you stare at so long that it becomes nonsense.”