There’s no sensible reason to dislike or dismiss Joe Biden with any intensity. If he somehow snags the Democratic Presidential nomination (which probably won’t happen — it’s basically a Warren-vs.-Buttigieg race now), I’ll vote for him without question. But I won’t like the situation much.

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“Is this an aviation film directed by Howard Hawks or what? Yes, much of it takes place after dark but this is also a film with a certain merriment and esprit de service and drinks and songs on the piano. Why so inky?

“I lost patience after a while and turned the brightness all the way up, and it was still too dark. I much prefer the high-def Vudu version that I own; ditto the TCM Bluray that I bought a year or two ago. Mark this down as a case of Criterion vandalism — it’s just not the film I’ve been watching all these years.” — from HE pan of Criterion’s Only Angels Have Wings Bluray (“Dark Angels, Black Barranca, Noir All Over“), posted on 4.19.16.

The realm of Only Angels Have Wings is all-male, all the time. Feelings run quite strong (the pilots who are “good enough” love each other like brothers) but nobody lays their emotional cards on the table face-up. Particularly Cary Grant‘s Geoff, a brusque, hard-headed type who never has a match on him. He gradually falls in love with Jean Arthur but refuses to say so or even show it very much. But he does subtly reveal his feelings at the end with the help of a two-headed coin.

It’s not what any woman or poet would call a profound declaration of love, but it’s as close to profound as it’s going to get in this 1939 Howard Hawks film. If Angels were remade today with Jennifer Lawrence in the Arthur role she’d probably say “to hell with it” and catch the boat, but in ’39 the coin was enough. Easily one of the greatest finales in Hollywood history.

Leonardo DiCaprio turns 45 tomorrow. He’ll be 50 before you know it because time flies when you can’t get enough of the treadmill. I chatted with Leo a few days ago at a San Vicente Bungalows after-party, and between the lines I was thinking “wow, the train is moving faster and faster.”

DiCaprio has been a power-hitter and marquee headliner for 22 years now, or since Titanic. 26 years if you count The Boy’s Life. Nobody can ever diminish or take away the killer performances he’s given in Once Upon A Time in Hollywood, The Departed, Inception, Revolutionary Road and especially The Wolf of Wall Street…a lot to be proud of. And I can’t wait for what happens with Killers of the Flower Moon.

But when I think of vintage DiCaprio I rewind back to that dynamic six-year period in the ’90s (’93 to ’98) when he was all about becoming and jumping off higher and higher cliffs — aflame, intense and panther-like in every performance he gave. I was reminded of this electric period this morning that I watched the below YouTube clip of DiCaprio and David Letterman in April ’95, when he was 20 and promoting The Basketball Diaries.

I respected Leo’s performance in This Boy’s Life but I didn’t love it, and I felt the same kind of admiring distance with Arnie, his mentally handicpped younger brother role in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, partly because he was kind of a whiny, nasally-voiced kid in both and…you know, good work but later. Excellent actor, didn’t care for the feisty-kid vibes.

But a few months before Gilbert Grape opened I met DiCaprio for a Movieline interview at The Grill in Beverly Hills, and by that time he was taller and rail-thin and just shy of 20. I was sitting in that booth and listening to him free-associate with that irreverent, lightning-quick mind, and saying to myself, “This guy’s got it…I can feel the current.”

Then came a torrent: a crazy gunslinger in Sam Raimi‘s The Quick and the Dead (’95), as the delicate Paul Verlaine in Total Eclipse (’95), as himself in the semi-improvised, black-and-white homey film that only me and a few others saw called Don’s Plum (’95), as the druggy Jim Carroll in The Basketball Diaries (’95), as a wild, angry kid in Jerry Zak’s Marvin’s Room, opposite Claire Danes in Baz Luhrmann‘s Romeo + Juliet, as Jack Dawson in Titanic and finally as a parody of himself in Woody’s Celebrity. Eight performances, and every one a kind of sparkler-firecracker thing.

Action heroes making great, gravity-defying leaps across alleyways and narrow streets has become a bullshit cliche. It worked the best in The Bourne Ultimatum (’07), when Matt Damon leapt through the window of a Tangier apartment building, across a narrow alley and then crashed through a window of a neighboring building.

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From Mark Harris‘s “What Will the Oscars Make of Joker?,” posted on Vanity Fair site on 11.6:

“Joker represents, depending on who’s making the argument, one or more of the following: (a) the belligerence of an entitled, largely male fan base demanding that its preferred genre be rewarded; (b) the most stentorian case yet that comic-book-based movies can be grim, dystopian, R-rated, spandex-free CINEMAAAHH; (c) an example of the kind of high-grossing smash the Oscars must nominate in order to stay relevant; (d) exactly the kind of movie Martin Scorsese is complaining about; (e) exactly the kind of movie Martin Scorsese would be making if he were 40 years younger; (f) a shallow, cosmetic appropriation of 1970s New Hollywood style; (g) a reactionary sneer at anti-capitalist protests; (h) an embodiment of the Trump era in its vague, loud, constantly shifting rage; (i) the kind of risk that too few studios are willing to take with their precious intellectual property; or (j) being the victim of people reading too much into something. (I believe about half of these.)”

Trust me — (c) is what will matter to most Academy and guild voters, and sway their votes accordingly.

Six and a half years ago I was strolling along the rue de Rivoli, and just as I approached the main entrance of a large, swanky, gold-trimmed hotel (probably Le Meurice) Catherine Deneuve, flanked by a couple of security guards, walked out and got into a waiting limo.

The legendary actress was 69 at the time, and smoking a cigarette as she walked under the rue de Rivoli colonnade and onto the boulevard. I distinctly recall muttering to myself, “Wow…a woman of her age shouldn’t be smoking….she should’ve quit a long time ago.”

Because sooner or later cigarettes will catch up and take you down, if not with lung cancer then with a stroke. Lifelong smoker Joni Mitchell (who was born only a couple of weeks after Deneuve in the fall of ’43) was felled by a fairly serious stroke in ’15, and has yet to fully recover.

Earlier today it was reported that Deneuve is in a Paris hospital after suffering a “very limited” ischemic stroke. Such strokes are caused by reduced blood flow to the brain.

Variety‘s Nick Vivarelli and Elsa Keslassy report that Deneuve succumbed to the stroke “while filming a scene in a hospital in Gonesse, near Paris, for the movie De Son Vivant, which is being directed by Emmanuelle Bercot. Deneuve is now at the Salpetriere hospital, which specializes in treating strokes.”

There’s something fishy-smelling about a just-announced plan to cast a CG-simulated James Dean in Finding Jack, a forthcoming film based on Gareth Crocker’s same-titled novel.

For one thing, the novel — about a Vietnam vet determined to reconnect with a combat-assistance dog named Jack in the aftermath of the Vietnam War — is said to be mediocre. A Publisher’s Weekly review called it “sappy and unbelievable.” So right off the bat there’s concern.

Two, people have been talking about reanimating dead actors in newly-made films for many years, but it hasn’t really happened outside of Oliver Reed‘s post-mortem performance in Gladiator, Peter Cushing in Rogue One and in a couple of TV commercials. You’d think that the first semi-noteworthy appearance of a mythical dead actor playing a supporting role would be in a classier, more formidable-sounding vehicle than Finding Jack. Man-dog love stories are about as cloying as it gets in the game of second-tier, sentimental-appeal programmers.

Three, Finding Jack is being co-directed by two guys, Magic City Films’ Anton Ernst and Tati Golykh, and that in itself is sometimes a red flag, especially when one of the guys is named Tati Golykh.

Four, Ernst has been quoted by The Hollywood Reporter as saying the following: “We searched high and low for the perfect character to portray the role of Rogan, which has some extreme complex character arcs, and after months of research, we decided on James Dean.”

Excuse me…what? They didn’t search for “the perfect character” but the perfect actor. The character of Rogan is a human being and therefore a “who” and not a “which.” And the way to describe Rogan’s arc is “extremely complex,” not “extreme complex.” And to claim that “after months of research” he and Golykh decided that only a CG imitation of James Dean could play a supporting character in their film? What kind of bullshit is that? They’re using the dead Dean because it will stir marginal commercial interest in their film, period. And so they’ve paid money to Dean’s family for the rights.

And five, I could see re-animating Frank Sinatra for a biopic — that would be exciting! — or bringing back the young Marlon Brando for a modern-day love story, but the Dean legend is not eternal. He died 64 years ago. New generations grow up, things change. Who other than boomers and older GenXers will care all that much about seeing the star of Rebel Without A Cause come back to life?

Colorized photos usually look like what they are. But every so often one will look exactly (and I mean exactly) right, natural and un-pushed with precisely the right shade of skin. This one actually looks too good — if a Wild One unit still photographer had snapped this Brando portrait in color during filming (i.e., early ’53), it would’ve looked a tiny bit splotchy, slightly coarser.

To be fair, one example of the non-Michael Douglas-y approach to making movies has to be Ryan Reynolds. And certainly Robert De Niro during his paycheck phase of the early-to-late aughts. Post-Sleuth Michael Caine, or for most of his life. Cuba Gooding during his post-Jerry Maguire cash-in period. Everybody makes a crap movie now and then. Goes with the profession.

I’ve tried re-watching Cool Hand Luke a couple of times, but when that ABC 7 Eyewitness News music plays on the soundtrack, I just can’t do it — my suspension of disbelief goes right out the window. Obviously Lalo Schifrin’s original score was Luke’s alone for a certain period of time. But once Eyewitness News adopted it and played it for New York viewers every damn weeknight for years on end (when did that start, sometime in the late ‘70s or early ‘80s?) the spell was broken forever.

A day or two ago Variety‘s Chris Willman attended a Sharon Tate triple feature at the New Beverly — Valley of the Dolls (awful), Fearless Vampire Killers (lesser Polanski but tolerable) and The Wrecking Crew (flat-out stinkeroonie).

Willman: “I enjoyed The Wrecking Crew maybe a little less than the audience at the Bruin in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood but what a doll.” What did Willman actually mean when he said he “enjoyed it a little less,” etc.? We can only guess, of course, but my presumption is that Willman hated it so much that at the halfway point he suddenly bolted into the New Beverly bathroom and threw up.

The fact that poor Sharon Tate died in a ghastly and horrific way doesn’t automatically mean that the films she made in the late ’60s were any good.