I’m sorry but every so often you need to downshift and settle your ass down and just eyeball the scenery. I took one of these photos with an iPhone 7 Plus; the other with an 8 Plus. The Monument Valley one was snapped about a year ago, and the Tuscany landscape (Radda in Chianti) was taken in late May of ’17.

posted on 5.31.17

posted on 9.4.18

“The other thing that still works in The Vikings‘ favor is the film’s refusal to dramatically amplify the fact that Kirk Douglas‘s Einar and Tony Curtis‘s Eric, mortal enemies throughout the film, are in fact brothers, having both been sired by Ernest Borgnine‘s Ragnar.

“Ten minutes from the conclusion Janet Leigh‘s Princess Morgana begs Douglas to consider this fraternity, and he angrily brushes her off. But when his sword is raised above a defenseless Curtis at the very end, Douglas hesitates. And then Curtis stabs Douglas in the stomach with a shard of a broken sword, and Douglas is finished.

“The way he leans back, screams ‘Odin!’ and then rolls over dead is pretty hammy, but that earlier moment of hesitation is spellbinding — one of the most touching pieces of acting Douglas ever delivered.

“I’m not trying to build The Vikings up beyond what it was — a primitive sex-and-swordfight film for Eisenhower-era Eloi. But it did invest in that submerged through-line of ‘brothers not realizing they’re brothers while despising each other’, and the subtlety does pay off.” — originally posted on 3.27.06, on the occasion of Richard Fleischer‘s passing.

Or, to put it another way, is Joaquin Phoenix too honorably eccentric to play the old Academy kiss-ass game during the season? He obviously hates it already and it hasn’t even begun.

[3:37 mark] “I don’t know who’s really giving me this award or why. In fact, I don’t care. My publicist said somebody wants to give me an award and I said, ‘I’m in, let’s do it.’ Honestly, I thought I was gonna come out and just make a lot of tasteless jokes at my expense and yours, but watching those clips — I’m so embarrassed to admit this, but — I feel overwhelmed with emotion, because I just think about all the people that had such a profound influence on me throughout my career.”

It is my firm conviction that Willem Dafoe‘s performance as “Thomas Wake” (aka the 50ish bearded salty dog who talks in colorful, 19th Century Herman Melville-ese) in Robert Egger‘s The Lighthouse (A24, 10.18) will absolutely become a nominee for Best Supporting Actor — mark my words.

From “This Way Lies Madness”, posted on 5.19.19: “Robert Eggers‘ The Lighthouse “is an absolute masterpiece — a tale of slowly burgeoning madhouse by way of isolation, booze, demons and nightmares. It contains Robert Pattinson‘s finest role and performance ever, but Willem Dafoe‘s old bearded sea dog matches him line for line, glare for glare, howl for howl.

“This 35mm black-and-white masterwork (projected in a 1.2:1 aspect ratio) is really about a battle of performances as well as a fight between earthly duties and the madness of shrieking mermaids and visions of King Triton. Nightmares au natural but full of ancient myths and fables. Totally 19th Century in terms of atmosphere, set design and especially in the Melville-like dialogue, co-written by Egger and his brother Max. Jarin Blaschke‘s cinematography is an instant classic in itself.”

A24 will release The Lighthouse on Friday, 10.18.

The press and marketing hype that has been inflating expectations for Taika Waititi‘s Jojo Rabbit (Fox Searchlight/Disney, 10.18) collapsed in a heap after last night’s Toronto Film Festival screening. Early reviews suggest that the broad “anti-hate satire” may find favor among younger audiences and perhaps the New Academy Kidz, but the over-40 contingent will be frowning and tut-tutting for the most part.

Right now Jojo has a 55% rating at Rotten Tomatoes and 49% score with Metacritic. Do those numbers indicate an Academy contender or perhaps a box-office go-getter? I don’t want to be the one to say it.

“Jojo is a totally irresponsible movie. The amount of anti-Semitic and Holocaust jokes played for laughs is disturbing.” — World of Reel’s Jordan Ruimy.

“This spectacularly wrongheaded ‘anti-hate satire‘ (as per the how-the-hell-do-we-market-this-thing? ad campaign) is the feature-length equivalent of the ‘Springtime for Hitler’ number from Mel Brooks’ The Producers, sans context and self-awareness. It takes place in a goofball period la-la land of its own creation, with sets as minutely detailed and shots as precisely composed as those in a Wes Anderson fantasia. Indeed, Jojo Rabbit suggests what that dapper hipster auteur might generate if he was to remake Elem Klimov’s hallucinatory, horrifying World War II epic Come and See, and that’s not a compliment.” — Slant‘s Keith Uhlich.

“Taking straight from the Chaplin playbook, Waititi’s Hitler is a Mr. Bean-esque figure, hammed up to eleven as the invisible friend of young Jojo Betzler (Roman Griffin Davis). He leaps around, talks in a thick approximation of a German accent and encourages young Jojo to be the best little Nazi in the whole of the Third Reich. He is, undoubtedly, the worst thing about the film — distracting and one-note. It is possible to parody Hitler successfully, but in leaning too heavily on basic mockery, there’s nothing new that this performance brings to the table.” — Little White Lies‘ Hannah Woodhead.

“[Waititi’s decision to play a fantasy Adolf Hitler buddy figure] often feels like a way of distracting us from the truth, an elaborate smoke and mirrors act to fool us into believing Jojo Rabbit has something new to offer. Because while there are some initially amusing moments given the outlandish conceit, Waititi doesn’t really know what to do with his imaginary Hitler past an increasingly repetitive cycle of decreasingly funny acts of idiocy. He’s essentially a single sketch character and while Waititi plays him well, there’s only so much we need of him.” — The Guardian‘s Benjamin Lee.

West Hollywood has several classically designed apartment buildings (old Spanish, brick and stucco, shaded patios with fountains). I’m speaking of the area south of the Strip, north of Fountain and west of Fairfax, and principally on Laurel, Hayvenhurst, La Jolla and Harper Avenues. You can really feel the history and the ghosts, especially if you do a little research beforehand. The Strip was definitely cooler back in the ’20s, ’30s, ’40s and early ’50s. Preston Sturges‘ The Players, the Garden of Allah apartment complex, etc.

After eating last night at the decent but unremarkable Wokcano (Sunset and Crescent Heights, site of the old Schwab’s Pharmacy), Tatyana and I did a little strolling around. We didn’t do the whole classic-era tour but we hit three buildings.

First was the Villa d’Este, a beautiful Spanish-style apartment complex (arched entrance way, lots of palm trees, centrally located patio fountain) located at 1655 No. Laurel. Then we visited the 90-year-old Villa Primavera courtyard apartments (corner of Harper and Fountain), otherwise known as the In A Lonely Place residence where director Nicholas Ray actually lived. And then across the street to the Romanesque Villas (1301 No. Harper), where Marilyn Monroe lived around the time of The Asphalt Jungle.

The Villa d’Este was the setting of Under The Yum-Yum Tree (’63), a negligible Jack Lemmon horndog comedy. Never seen it, never will. The trailer is very convincing.

Lemmon was the hottest guy in Hollywood after starring in the one-two punch of Some Like It Hot (’59) and The Apartment (’60), both directed and co-written by Billy Wilder. Because the latter mixed ascerbic humor and frankly sexual situations, Lemmon was offered almost nothing but frothy sex comedies for five years following The Apartment. The only decent film he made during this period was Blake Edwards‘ Days of Wine and Roses(’62).

The sex comedies were The Wackiest Ship in the Army (’60), The Notorious Landlady (’62), Irma la Douce (’63, minor Wilder), Under the Yum Yum Tree (’63), Good Neighbor Sam (’64) and How To Murder Your Wife (’65). He also costarred that year in The Great Race, a period costume comedy about arch humor, empty artifice and scenic splendor.

Lemmon finally broke out of that shallow, synthetic cycle with Wilder’s The Fortune Cookie (’66). Not grade-A Wilder but certainly half-decent, and a great boost for Walter Matthau. And then Luv, The Odd Couple, The April Fools, The Out-of-Towners, Kotch, Avanti! and Save the Tiger. And then he hit another wall with Wilder’s The Front Page.

The common assessment is that Indiewire‘s Eric Kohn is absolutely top tier — one of the most sage and sophisticated critics out there. He has long been recognized as such. And David Ehrlich is also quite the steady and perceptive fellow, and generally an excellent writer — engaging copy just pours out of the guy. And Kate Erbland is…well, consistent.

But I have to be honest and admit to certain premonitions that kick in before I read almost any Indiewire review, and certainly reviews of films that lay claim to any degree of social realism.

My gut belief is that Indiewire assessments of films are first and foremost about “how woke is this?” and secondly about “how good is this?” I realize that to some HE regulars this may sound like one of the biggest “duhhh” observations I’ve ever posted, but it never hurts to reiterate. On top of which this is Sunday.

Kohn, Ehrlich and Erbland may vigorously dispute this view (I’d be hugely surprised if they didn’t) but I’ve been sensing over and over that Team Indiewire is always asking itself “are the attitudes and perceptions in this film sufficiently enlightened by SJW virtue-signalling standards?”

I believe this mindset is a big part of how they see things. Call me overly cautious or even timid for phrasing this viewpoint as carefully as I have here. To some Indiewire‘s “totally in the woke tank” approach is as obvious as the sky.

I fully admit that this impression could be proven erroneous if someone were to conduct an exhaustive inventory of all their reviews over the last two or three years (and certainly since the advent of the movement that was largely ignited by the historic 10.5.17 N.Y. Times story that brought about the fall of Harvey Weinstein.

I’m just saying that one way or the other I can always feel the presence of a woke measurement stick every time I read a Kohn, Ehrlich and Erbland review.

Should woke sticks be put aside when reviewing a film or anything else? Of course not. Every interesting or pertinent consideration under the sun should be included in any intelligent, fully considered review, column-inches warranting. I just happen to feel that a film’s wokeness (of lack thereof) isn’t the meat of the matter. But it sure seems to be a big deal at the woke-iest movie site on the planet.

If someone were to write a woke reassessment of all significant Hollywood-generated films of the 20th Century and the first 15 years of the 21st Century, would it sell? Maybe or maybe not, but reading such a book would almost certainly give me a headache.

2:15 pm Update: Did I imagine that Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson is reported that as far as an awards campaign for A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood is concerned, Sony intends to push Matthew Rhys in lead and Tom Hanks in supporting? Nope, I didn’t.

Thompson has written that campaigning Rhys as a lead is “fair,” considering that he plays an Esquire writer who profiles Hanks’ Fred Rogers. “The movie is really about him,” Thompson asserts.

Urging Academy and SAG voters to consider Rhys as a leading contender for the Best Actor Oscar might be “fair”, but this doesn’t sound like an especially savvy decision on Sony’s part. Running Hanks in supporting argues with the award-season strategizing that led to Anthony Hopkins‘ Hannibal Lecter performance in The Silence of the Lambs being nominated for and winning the Best Actor Oscar.

Hollywood Reporter critic Todd McCarthy is claiming that A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood is “ultimately Hanks’ show, and Hanks’ show alone.”

Some weeks ago there was some discussion about whether or not Hanks’ Beautiful Day performance would qualify as a lead, as he has less screen time than Rhys’ “Lloyd Vogel” character, an Esquire journalist (based on Tom Junod) who interviews Hanks’ Fred Rogers.

Jordan Ruimy said this morning that Rhys “is in practically every scene and Hanks isn’t, but Rhys’ story is the weak part…the movie lags whenever Hanks isn’t on-screen.”

HE response: Based on these and other impressions, Hanks is apparently Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs — a performance that sinks in and dominates by sheer force of personality. Alongside this the measure of screen time is nothing.

If Sony is determined to pursue the strategy that Thompson has reported on, Hanks will stand a half-decent chance of losing to Once Upon A Time in Hollywood‘s Brad Pitt in Supporting. (OUATIH is, of course, also a Sony film.) And the allegedly mopey Rhys probably won’t be nominated for Best Actor at all.

If Sony reverses strategy and runs Hanks as Best Actor candidate as la Hopkins in Silence, he could win. Yes, he would be facing tough competition from Joaquin Pheonix‘s Joker performance, but he would almost certainly be supported by the Academy voters who gave the Best Picture Oscar to Green Book.

THR‘s McCarthy: There’s no question that Hanks is perfect in the part, as the actor’s amiability and unquestionable sincerity make for an ideal match with [Rogers]’ unique television personality. [But] Marielle Heller’s film is a more modest achievement, sympathetic and yet entirely predictable in its dramatic trajectory of making a believer of an angry, cynical journalist.”

Hollywood Reporter award-season columnist Scott Feinberg has composed a polite, respectful, carefully-qualified dismissal of Destin Daniel Cretton‘s Just Mercy. Okay, a semi-dismissal.

Trust me — whenever a headline asks “can a certain film win awards?,” the implication is that it may not.

I for one am inclined to be suspicious, especially considering that a trusted HE confidante is calling Just Mercy “very conventional” with “two cringe-worthy courtroom speeches.” And yet “watchable as far as it goes, solid performances throughout.” In other words, pretty good but no Cuban cigar.

The award-touted pic played last night “through the roof” at Toronto’s Roy Thomson Hall, Feinberg reports, “thanks largely to a powerful story strongly brought to life,” etc. Michael B. Jordan portrays real-life lawyer and activist Bryan Stevenson and Jamie Foxx is Walter McMillian, a wrongly convicted murderer whose sentence is turned around over the course of the film.

But hold your horses, Feinberg is also saying. Wait just a damn minute. Don’t get your knickers into too much of a twist.

“The reality is that Just Mercy is a somewhat glossy, on-the-nose, big-studio film, and is not nearly as polished or impressive as Cretton’s Short Term 12, which introduced Brie Larson and a host of other terrific young talent to cinephiles. But it will get a much better release [than Short Term 12], and will similarly appeal to audience emotions, which is why it cannot be counted out.”

Correct me if I’m wrong, but Feinberg seems to be implying that Just Mercy will engage emotions by way of virtue signalling — i,.e., drawing from the old Call Northside 777 playbook but with a strong ethnic-confrontation component (i.e., a brilliant, soft-spoken black attorney carefully disputing racist assumptions and attitudes voiced by Alabama crackers).

Feinberg: “At the end of the day, the best awards bets for Just Mercy are probably two supporting actors who make the most of a number of big moments to shine in the 137-minute film: Foxx and, as another inmate sentenced to death row, Rob Morgan (who was even better this year in Joe Talbot‘s The Last Black Man in San Francisco).

“Jordan is very good, as always, but this time in a part that is probably too understated and noble to emerge from a crowded field of best actor contenders.”

Shorter Feinberg: Foxx will be nominated for Best Supporting Actor, but don’t count on too much else.

Contrasting opinion from Deadline‘s Pete Hammond: “The Toronto first night audience handed Just Mercy unusually strong applause (especially considering there was no Q&A or spotlight on the filmmakers during the end credits) after its first screening at the Roy Thompson Hall, and then multiple standing ovations at the Elgin for its second screening and q & a.

“One executive from a rival studio told me earlier Friday, hours before the premiere, that they heard it could be ‘this year’s Green Book.’ Time will tell on that, but in terms of a reception, it certainly seemed to match the enthusiasm for 2018’s Best Picture Oscar winner, and definitely will find a place in the race for this year.”

Felicity Huffman will face sentencing next week for her complicity in the college admission scandal, specifically for paying $15K to arrange for her daughter’s college SAT scores to be enhanced. Prosecutors are recommending 30 days in jail along with a $20K fine and a year-long supervised release.

Huffman’s attorneys have asked for probation and “significant community service”. On top of which 27 friends and supporters (including Huffman’s husband William H. Macy and her former Desperate Houswives costar Eva Longoria) have spoken on her behalf in an attempt to spare Huffman from the horror of incarceration.

In late 1948 Robert Mitchum and a friend were popped for smoking a joint in the Laurel Canyon home of a couple of women they knew. Ridiculous by today’s measure but it happened. Mitchum was slapped with a 60-day prison sentence. Did Mitchum drop to his knees and plead with the judge to let him walk? No — he stood up and did the time.

And he came out of this potentially devastating episode with his reputation unharmed and maybe even a bit enhanced. The system told him to swallow a spoonful of castor oil, and Mitchum said “sure” and took a swig.

For some shadowy reason The Ankler‘s Richard Rushfield is flirting with a cynical, pissy mood about Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman. Or, you know, trying it on for size. What follows are portions of the riff (“Luck of The Irishman“) intercut with HE commentary:

Rushfield #1: “This fall, The App That Ate Hollywood will release what in any other company could be either its greatest triumph or the catastrophe that pushes them off the edge. In the storied history of the Netflix’s Drunken Sailor Era (NDSE), the company hasn’t stepped to the table with a bet like this before, the most expensive production in its history. For all we know, it could be the most expensive production in Hollywood history.”

HE response #1: The Irishman is believed to have cost in the vicinity of $159 million. Other films have cost more, but The Irishman‘s tab is arguably the highest ever for a moralistic, character-driven, dialogue-heavy film aimed at the 35-plus, inside-the-beltway “subset of a subset,” as Rushfield puts it.

And yet if there’s any seasoned director in the film realm who has repeatedly proved beyond a whisper of a shadow of a doubt that he’s craftily, creatively, spiritually and physiologically incapable of making a “catastrophe”, it’s Martin Scorsese. Has Rushfield heard something or what? If he had wouldn’t he be obliged to post a (blind) item to that effect?

Rushfield #2: “After the near-miss of the Roma Oscar campaign, the Scorsese bet represents a go-for-broke, everything-for-the-gold, desperate lunge for the trophy hunters…perhaps its last chance in the NDSE. So you would think with [all this] on the line, it would be some sort of major cliffhanger to see how this turns out? But we know exactly how this will go.”

HE response #2: I realize that many people believe that the Best Picture Oscar is Once Upon A Time in Hollywood‘s to lose, but all kinds of tectonic opinion-shiftings are about to kick in. The next three months will be quite the show.

Rushfield #3: “The Irishman will be released on its handful of screens in two cities, where the crowds will flock and sitting through three-plus hours will become a momentary happening for a certain subset of a subset. We’ll have no clue of box office or what that adds up to. The critics will give Marty his de rigueur 98% RT score. Two weeks later, it will play on The App and the following Monday, the App will duly announce it has smashed every record in existence. The parade will march on down to nightly q & a’s at the Egyptian, while neither shareholders nor the Academy nor the entertainment community will have any clue whether this is a ‘success’ by anything recognizable in the catalog of earthbound benchmarks.”

HE response #3 (and originally posted on 8.25.19): “The Irishman will be processed as some kind of ultimate statement about the criminal ethos or community by the undisputed king of gangster flicks…a world-renowned maestro who’s made four great ones (Mean Streets, Goodfellas, The Departed, The Wolf of Wall Street) and will soon deliver what I have reason to suspect** could be (and perhaps will be…who knows?) his crowning, crashing, balls-to-the-wall crescendo, albeit in a somewhat sadder or more forlorn emotional key.”

** having read an early draft of Steve Zallian‘s screenplay.

I forget when I posted this photo last (maybe three or four years ago), but a fast-acting photographer for The Commercial Appeal took it on 6.30.72 while standing at the corner of South Parkway and the recently re-christened Elvis Presley Blvd.

It’s not Presley-on-the-white-Harley as much as the young black kid (maybe nine or ten years old, and presumably in his mid to late 50s today) and his dad in the car, eyeballing Presley and Peggy Selph Cannon like hawks. A Memphis Mafia pally allegedly spotted Selph at the Whirlaway Club, where she was working as a dancer, and facilitated an introduction. The guy correctly presumed Elvis would be interested because of her resemblance to Priscilla Presley, from whom Presley had become estranged.

Throw all this together with that modest billboard ad for Magic Plastic sheet covers…perfect.

Snapped on 6.30.72.

Three weeks after this shot was taken, or on 7.18.72, the 20-year-old Selph was killed in a traffic accident — horrible.

Presley was 37 and seemingly cool and settled this day. He might have even been happy. He had recorded the last half-decent single of his career (“Burning Love“) almost exactly three months earlier (3.28.72), although it wouldn’t be released until 8.1.72. It must have seemed to him like a good in-between moment. Happiness is about believing in good things to come, about trusting in the likelihood of fair weather.

I know exactly what Presley was feeling at that moment…exactly. Chugging along some urban, vaguely ratty boulevard on a well-tuned hog can do wonderful things for the human spirit. Life is so short, and fortunes can turn so quickly on a dime. Three or four years later Presley began to look flabby and dessicated; five years and two months later he was dead.

Once again, a recollection of a brief Memphis visit in February ’09, about ten and a half years ago:

“Yesterday I rented a fairly inexpensive car from National/Alamo around 1:45 pm after landing at Memphis Airport, and soon after began my quickie tour of the four tourist attractions. I loathed Graceland, felt awed and saddened by the Lorraine Motel, didn’t much care for the Disneyland/Universal City Walk vibe of Beale Street, and loved the little shrine that is Sun Records, the small-scale, modest-vibe recording studio that was begun by the great Sam Phillips in 1950, and is now a down-homey, old-time funky studio and and souvenir shop.

“Graceland, the former home of Elvis Presley and an ongoing shrine to the money that his music and movies continue to earn, is just southwest of Memphis airport and located on an ugly straightaway called Elvis Presley Blvd., littered with tacky blue-collar chain stores and fast-food franchises and unsightly warehouses and car washeries. The area is flat and character-less with amber-brown grass and very few trees, except for a relatively small forested area near Graceland.