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Blackfilm‘s Wilson Morales called yesterday to see how I’m doing, etc. Hanging in there, glad to be healthy and doing my best, I said. That includes doing my best to not feel morose, I qualified. Wilson said I need to stop writing so much about the virus. I’m trying like hell to write about anything movie-ish that pops into my head, I said, but I don’t see how I can avoid the spiritual equivalent of the 1930s Dust Bowl right outside my door. It’s like the Martians have landed.

Write about Quibi, he said. The short-form video platform launches tomorrow (4.6) and PMK is sending out loads of screeners, etc. “Good idea,” I said, although inwardly I was tailspinning into depression. I mean, I didn’t get into racket to write about ten-minute shorts.

Wilson also had some strategic marketing advice, which was to work the big streamers (Quibi included) for ads until award season kicks in. They all have to do something to excite the locked-down viewer base in this bizarre time-out period, and are probably open to focusing on conversation-starter sites like HE. Particularly in the realm of prestigious miniseries like FX’s Mrs. America, which I plan on watching tomorrow or Tuesday.

The conversation strayed to Oscar season and which early fall festivals might happen during what we all hope and pray will be the tail-end of the pandemic. We acknowledged that even if the virus begins to ebb sometime in June or July nobody is going to want to fraternize in close proximity in northern Italy, the #1 death camp locale before the United States and particularly the New York City area took over in that regard.

Bottom line: forget the Venice Film Festival right now.

What about Toronto? Also doubtful, it seems. Ditto the New York Film Festival (late September to mid October), but who knows? After practicing social distancing for a half year with masks and gloves who in their right mind would want to parachute into a dense urban environment with mobs of film lovers, tightly packed theatres and nightly social gatherings?

The smaller, eternally cooler Telluride Film Festival might work out, at least theoretically. Especially if Tom Luddy and Julie Huntsinger are extra careful about not allowing each and every seat to be occupied and are perhaps even open to staging the festival a week or two later than usual, especially if the coronavirus fade doesn’t begin until July or, God forbid, early August.

The Hamptons Film Festival could also happen for the same reason — smaller, less threatening in terms of crowds, presumably more flexible. Ditto the London Film Festival (early to mid October)

Will Oscar season happen? If the pandemic lifts when it probably will, yes. Certainly! But with some big summer films getting bumped into the fall as we speak (including Top Gun: Maverick, No Time To Die and Wes Anderson‘s The French Dispatch with Chris Nolan‘s Tenet sure to follow) it’s going to be a hell of a jam-packed season.

In a piece titled “Oscar Contenders in 2020 Must Face a Complex and Uncertain Path to Success“, Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson says the following:

“Festivals play an enormous and vital role in establishing and vetting award-season contenders. How will foreign films become viable awards candidates without them? When will films open in their countries and build some kind of following?

“Of course, we do not know where the world will be in late August (Venice) or Labor Day (will sleepy Telluride, Colo. welcome intruders from the coasts?) or September (will industryites be willing to fly to Toronto or New York?) or October (the Hamptons, London?).

“It’s easier to imagine local festivals playing to their home audiences than pulling in buyers and sellers from around the world, although that’s an urgent necessity for the global film market, especially without Cannes.”

An attorney friend called me this afternoon. I asked what he was up to, and he said, “I’m just doing my drive…it makes me feel free.” I think you’ve just coined a term, I said. Pandemic freedom driving! Or just plain freedom driving, I guess.

Obviously not an option for most New Yorkers, Chicagoans and Bostonians, but certainly for Los Angelenos.

I’ve been in this town 37 years, and I’ve never once jumped into the car or hopped on the rumblehog with the intention of just cruising with no game plan, and before the mob pounces I want it understood that I haven’t done this yet.

But if my attorney pal is doing this I’m figuring a thousand or ten thousand others are following suit.

HE to “Virusbro” scolds: Is there something wrong or irresponsible about roaming the streets and freeways of Los Angeles with no destination in mind and with no intention of going or stopping anywhere (except maybe a gas station)…to hop in and drive around town like Randy Newman in ’83, but wearing an N95 mask and surgical gloves?

I’m sure there’s something shitty and deplorable about this. C’mon…lay it on me.

This scene is what sold me on Leonardo DiCaprio‘s potential. Not This Boy’s Life or What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, both of which I respected but didn’t especially like, much less want to see a second time. His performance as Arnie was fascinating but at the same time over-delivered, and I couldn’t stand the sight of his (and Johnny Depp‘s) massively obese mom. The Quick and the Dead struck me as posturing flash-bang. Then came The Basketball Diaries, in which Leo played poet-writer Jim Carroll (who died in 2009) and his desperate, smack-addicted life. After this scene I said to myself, “Okay, sooner or later Leo’s gonna hit big.”

HE to Journo Pally: I’m starting to feel like the alcoholic guy sitting on a barstool inside the Bodega Bay cafe in The Birds. I’ve also become, in a manner of speaking, a born-again Christian. As in “please God, make this thing go away by the mid to late summer, or certainly by Labor Day.”

HE to Adele Haenel and the international #MeToo Community:

Last night I re-watched Roman Polanski‘s The Pianist, which I hadn’t seen for roughly 17 years. I watched it because I’d recently seen Polanski’s J’Accuse, and was reminded of what a brilliant artist he’s always been, especially when the spirit is upon him. Repulsion, Knife in The Water, Rosemary’s Baby, Chinatown, Tess, The Ghost Writer, Cul de Sac — uncomfortable as this may seem to some, there is unmistakable genius in the man. He also radiates (and you really have to be exceptionally stupid to miss this) basic compassion. You can always feel the pulse in a Polanski film.

You can’t watch The Pianist and not say to yourself, “The man who made this clearly knows the horror that Warsaw Jews experienced during the German occupation of the early to mid ’40s, and also knows about love, family and kindness.” I was also reminded that many of the same qualities — frankness, intelligence, scrupulous attention to detail, magnificent visual compositions — are abundant in J’Accuse.

The difference, of course, is that anyone can watch The Pianist, but no one in the U.S. and England can watch J’Accuse in a theatre, on a Bluray or even via streaming.

Because of you guys. Because you believe that Polanski’s rep must be permanently tarred and feathered and therefore J’Accuse, too, must be buried or otherwise scrubbed from existence. Because of reputedly credible accusations of Polanski having behaved badly and perhaps even criminally with certain younger women in the ’70s and ’80s. And because the distribution community is terrified of what you’ll say and do if one of their number would even consider streaming J’Accuse.

Here’s the thing — Polanski the man is not the same thing as Polanski the artist. His depiction of awful or ghastly things in his films (he’s never explored Pollyanic fantasy and escapism) has never conveyed a corrosion or poisoning of his own spirit. He understands what goes, how it all works, who the good guys are. This is quite evident in The Pianist and J’Accuse. But the latter is nonetheless going to be buried for a long time to come, or so I’m told.

To hear it from distributors, the #MeToo community has destroyed any possibility of J’Accuse being seen theatrically in this country, but is it really necessary to keep this truly magnificent and honorable film from being streamed? Prevented from simply being watched and contemplated privately, domestically?

You should understand that this is not a good look for #MeToo. If not now then certainly in the near future and for all time to come.

HE to Parisian distribution sales guy (sent Tuesday night): “How many millions in this pandemic would love to buy access to Roman Polanski‘s J’Accuse? All you have to do is allow streaming from France to the US. Please level with me. You guys aren’t interested in tapping the English-speaking U.S., British and Canadian streaming market because of fears of the French #MeToo community? You’re afraid of what Adele Haenel might say? Is that it? Please forgive me but this seems so wrong.”

Parisian distribution sales guy to HE (late Wednesday night): “To make it simple, no streaming company operating in the UK or US will risk putting Polanski’s J’Accuse on their service. It has nothing to do with the potential customers but rather with the association of the Polanski brand. A streamer takes fewer chances if he/she doesn’t offer a Polanski title than if he/she does. But times may change…”

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It took around four hours to complete the Coral Gables transformation. The place now has a kind of Key West feeling. A three-day effort altogether — Saturday, Monday and today.

I’d be lying if I said I’m not pleased with my new polka-dot face mask. Tatyana says it’s foolish because it’s not an N95-level mask; she says it’s for bank-robbing at best. Nonetheless it looks better than my white N95 masks (I have three or four) or the lightweight paper surgical masks I’ve been wearing for the last couple of weeks. Be honest — if you had a choice between a run-of-the-mill mask and this Bloomingdale’s variation, which would you wear as you walk your dog or hit the gas station or whatever?

A couple of days ago I stood up like Davy Crockett against Larry Karaszewski and his motley band of Nashville worshippers on Facebook. I held my ground, swinging Ol’ Betsy as General Santa Anna’s troops stormed and besieged. It’s so bizarre that accomplished people who know what they’re talking about have remained Nashville fans. My initial “Okay, The Nashville Jig Is Up” piece ran on 12.14.13. Why didn’t Steven Gaydos jump into this when musketballs were flying and gunpowder was short?

Comedy is a deadly serious business. We all understand that the best comedies are those that are played absolutely straight, and the worst are those that send signals to the audience that something is intended to be funny. Goofing off, self-pranking, going too broad, etc. It follows that actors must never laugh at anything the audience may or may not laugh at. Signalling that something is funny is called “breaking character” — a violation of the code.

It’s significant, therefore, that in this scene from Stanley Kubrick‘s Dr. Strangelove, perhaps the greatest straightfaced comedy ever made, a serious actor can be seen dropping the ball.

Peter Bull, as Russian Ambassador Alexi de Sadesky, is the violator. It happens at 1:26 or thereabouts. Peter Sellers‘ titular character repeatedly beats his rebellious Nazi arm and Bull, standing nearby with a group of U.S. military officers, can’t help himself — he starts to grin very slightly but then reverts back to sternface. It’s surprising that Kubrick didn’t call for a retake.

I’m sorry but I’ve spent the last six hours painting the living room. Which of course involved more than just painting. I had to remove paintings and photos from the wall, tape off door jams, floorboards and light sockets, spread the plastic covering over floors and furniture, paint the main portions with a roller and then brush-paint the tops, bottoms and corners, which takes forever to do correctly.

In a 3.18 AP interview with Jake Coyle, legendary director Brian DePalma was asked to name his peak career period.

You naturally assume he’ll say either (a) the late ’60s to mid ’70s or (b) the late ’70s to late ’80s. Nope — the sweetest career chapter was between the early to mid ’90s, he claims.

De Palma: “In my mid 50s [actually his early to mid 50s], doing Carlito’s Way and then Mission: Impossible. It doesn’t get much better than that. You have all the power and tools at your disposal. When you have the Hollywood system working for you, you can do some remarkable things.”

I’m sorry but DePalma is wrong. He was a truly exciting, must-watch director from the late ’60s to mid ’70s (Greetings, The Phantom of the Paradise, Sisters, Carrie), and an exasperating, occasionally intriguing director from the late ’70s to late ’80s (Dressed To Kill, Scarface, The Untouchables). His ’90s films certainly don’t match those of the previous decade, and his ’70s output, as noted, reigned supreme.

As I noted five years ago, De Palma is “one of the most committed and relentless enemies of logic of all time. For a great director he has an astonishing allegiance to nonsensical plotting and dialogue that would choke a horse. I tried to re-watch Blow Out last year — I couldn’t stand it, turned it off. The Fury drove me crazy when I first saw it, although I love the ending. I found much of Dressed To Kill bothersome when it first came out 35 years ago, and to be honest I haven’t watched it since.”

On one hand we have a temperamental sociopathic president mishandling the pandemic to a mind-boggling degree, and an upcoming presidential election in which the aging but decent-hearted Joe Biden may prevail, God willing. On the other hand we have former Biden aide Tara Reade claiming that Biden sexually assaulted her 27 years ago (“kissed her and penetrated her with his fingers without her consent”) and that he became annoyed and reacted with hostility when she rebuffed him.

If it happened, it happened. But why talk about it now? Long suppressed trauma needs closure and healing — we all understand this — but has Reade considered the possibility that what she may or may not have endured during the first year of the Clinton administration isn’t quite as important as Donald Trump being unseated next November? Biden may or may not be guilty but he hasn’t been similarly accused by anyone else, or not to my knowledge.

Reade was presumably in her early to mid 20s in ’93 and is now 50 or a bit older. She said yesterday she’s “a lifelong Democrat” who voted for Barack Obama twice as well as for Hillary Clinton. She didn’t come forward about Biden earlier because she had a young daughter at the time. But she’s out there with her story now, and in so doing giving the Trump campaign a weapon.

Again — who would decide that settling a score or attaining closure about an undoubtedly traumatic episode (if in fact it actually happened, and I’m not trying to dismiss or minimize anything or anyone if it did)…who would conclude that this is more important than the fate of an entire nation?

And by the way, what was that Russian thing she wrote a couple of years ago? **

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