Posted on 4.11.14: “Did you know that Oklahoma!, despite its stodgy mid-1950s squareness, is all about sexual longing and mating rituals and perversity, and is generally teeming with erections and dampness and pelvic thrusts?

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Last weekend I sat for my second viewing of Julian Schnabel‘s At Eternity’ Gate (CBS Films), which I’ve come to regard, no lie, as the finest Vincent Van Gogh flick ever made.

The difference between it and, say, Vincent Minnelli and Kirk Douglas‘s Lust for Life or Robert Altman‘s Vincent and Theo is a gentle but absolute communion with Van Gogh’s inner light. It’s not a tourist’s view of the man, but a portrait of an artist by an artist — a “you are Van Gogh” dreamscape flick.

In the view of many Willem Dafoe‘s performance of this gentle, conflicted, angst-ridden impressionist is his best since playing Yeshua of Nazareth in Martin Scorsese‘s The Last Temptation of Christ (’88).

When I say “many” I mean the National Society of Film Critics, who yesterday morning celebrated Dafoe’s performance as a top-tier achievement. That’s quite the ringing endorsement when you think of the competition. Dafoe’s Van Gogh also won the Volpi Cup for Best Actor at the Venice Film festival, and he’s currently nominated for Best Actor prizes with the Broadcast Film Critics Association (i.e., Critics Choice), Alliance of Women Film Journalists and the San Francisco and Toronto Film Critics associations.

Let no one forget that Dafoe is a three-time Oscar nominee for his performances in Oliver Stone‘s Platoon (Sgt. Elias), E. Elias Merhige’s Shadow of the Vampire (Max Schreck) and Sean Baker‘s The Florida Project (the hapless Bobby Hicks).

From Manohla Dargis‘s N.Y. Times review of Schnabel’s film: “Few actors can look so frightening or so beatific in such rapid succession. Dafoe’s thin, coiled physicality suggests both fragility and determination, while his tensile face flutters with an astonishment of emotions that, by turns, suggest a yielding or off-putting sensibility. [And] Vincent’s agonies render moot the age difference between the character and actor; Dafoe is 63, and his deepest creases can seem like evidence of Vincent’s current and past suffering.”

At Eternity’s Gate is essentially a channelling of the dreams and torments that surged within Van Gogh during the final chapter in his life, when he lived in Arles and St. Remy de Provence. The film is more into communion than visions — intuitions, intimacy, revelations.

“Rather than a movie about Van Gogh, I wanted to make a film in which you are Van Gogh,” Schnabel said during a NY Film Festival presser that I attended.

Seriously moved, enthralled or charmed as I am by Green Book, Roma, Vice, First Reformed, Can You Ever Forgive Me?, Happy as Lazzaro, Capernaum, The Mule, Black Panther, First Man, portions of Bohemian Rhapsody and the first half of A Star Is Born, Pawel Pawlikowski‘s Cold War sits at the top of the heap. Yes, even at a higher aesthetic station than Alfonso Cuaron‘s black-and-white masterwork. I’m sorry but I love Cold War a bit more.

If you ask me Cold War is the cleanest, sharpest and most tightly composed film of the year…a period haunter…a kind of half-Polish Communist, half-Montmarte jazz cavern love story that will knock your eyeballs out if you’re any kind of black-and-white connoisseur or a boxy-is-beautiful fanatic like myself.

No other 2018 film rang my bell quite the same. I don’t care what category it’s in — no other film is as concise and self-aware, as visually glistening and fatalistic and bang on the money as Cold War. It’s pure silvery pleasure, perfectly distilled, the highest manifestation of luscious arthouse porn I’ve run into all year. And it offers the greatest female performance of the year — Joanna Kulig as the sly, at times insolent, sometimes half-crazy Zula.

I recently insisted that Kulig deserves a Best Actress nomination. Her performance reignites the spirit of Jeanne Moreau in Jules and Jim (and if that doesn’t excite your spirit then I don’t know what) along with a spritz of early ’50s Gloria Grahame. A femme fatale songbird, an emotional force of nature, trouble from the word go.

You can’t watch Cold War and not fall in love with how it looks and feels. Those gleaming, whistle-clean silvery tones, Łukasz Żal‘s somewhat unusual bottom heavy framings, that feeling of being in a repressive but exotic realm, and yet one that becomes more and more of a “home” in a sense, and more familiar by the minute.

It also delivers something relatively rare in our 21st Century realm, which is a feeling that the viewer hasn’t been shown enough — that he/she hasn’t had enough time to really savor the flavor and atmosphere and characters.

Alfonso Cuaron to Deadline‘s Anthony D’Allesandro: “My question to you is, how many theaters did you think that a Mexican film in black and white, in Spanish and Mixteco, that is a drama without stars — how big did you think it would be as a conventional theatrical release? It was not a cosmetic release…the movie opened more than a month ago and is still playing. That is rare for a foreign film. I think that is very unfair to say that. Why don’t you take the list of foreign films this year and compare the theatrical release to those things and for how long they’ve been playing? See how many are playing in 70 [millimeter.]”

HE to Cuaron: Netflix’s four-wall theatrical release of Roma plus all the festivals and the special 70mm engagements along with the streaming…cosmetic or not, this was the best possible way for Roma to have been released, all things considered.

“Nicole Kidman is indeed remarkable [in Destroyer], as rumor suggests, but mainly because you can’t stop remarking her. It’s an over-cover performance in an undercover role. Though aiming to blend in, she’s so dramatically busy that she ends up sticking out, like a chameleon who’s praying for an Oscar nod.

“The rule seems to be that the more makeup and prosthetics she piles on the more likely we are to cry out, in unison, ‘Oh, look, it’s Nicole Kidman!'” — from Anthony Lane’s review in the 1.17.19 issue of The New Yorker.

From “Pains of Hell,” my 9.1.18 Telluride review: “Destroyer is mostly about the way Kidman looks, like a combination vampire-zombie with dark eye bags and a complexion that suggests a heroin habit mixed with twice-daily injections of embalming fluid. Plus a Desolation Row, gray-streaked hair style. It’s also about the whispery way in which she speaks. I swear to God I missed over half of her dialogue.

“Kidman and Kusama are basically saying to us, ‘Have you guys ever seen such a badass, hardass undercover female cop in your moviegoing life? Even in a zombie movie?’ HE answer: No, I’ve never seen a cop character who looks this wasted, this dead-to-the-world, this gutted, this excavated, this George Romero, this Bela Lugosi-ish. Hats off.”

This morning the Producers Guild of America revealed 10 nominees for their Best Picture prize (i.e., Daryl F. Zanuck award). The elite arbiters are freaking about the mildly mediocre but well-liked Bohemian Rhapsody being among them. For me the more appalling nominee is Crazy Rich Asians, which was included because of the all-Asian cast and the fact that it made boatloads of money. The other nominees are Black Panther, BlacKkKlansman, The Favourite, Green Book, A Quiet Place (another outlier), Roma, A Star is Born and Vice.

2:40 pm Update: Variety‘s Matt Donnelly is reporting that “key parties involved in the annual Oscars telecast are open to the return of Kevin Hart as host, following an alternately contrite and defiant appearance on The Ellen Show on Thursday.”

Earth to Academy honchos: Did you guys read what Hart told Kris Tapley only hours before chatting with Ellen?

Sir Thomas More to Kevin Hart: “When you spoke to Tapley you said you wouldn’t host the Oscars…’it’s done, it’s done.’ Hours later you told Ellen you might want the gig after all. We must just pray that when your head’s finished turning, your face is to the front again.”

Previously: Hours before visiting with Ellen DeGeneres and suggesting to viewers that he’s re-assessing the Oscar hosting gig, Kevin Hart firmly told Variety‘s Kris Tapley that he would not host the Oscars…no way, no how, nopeski.

Hart #1: “Would I ever do it? No, it’s done. It’s done. The moment came and it was a blessing and I was excited at the opportunity and I still am.”

Hart #2: “In my mind I got the job, it was a dream job, and things came up that simply prohibited it from happening. But I don’t believe in going backwards. When I go on that stage, it will be because I’ve somehow figured out a way to win the Oscar. Somehow I’ll get to the stage but it’s not going to be in this way because it just comes with such a weird cloud at this point.”

So now there are two arguments about Hart filling the presumably-still-open Oscar gig. One, the LGBTQs have doubled-down on him for not really apologizing for those old ugly tweets and for generally being a bad fit in 2019. And two, he’s all kinds of shifty and dodgy about what he really wants, telling Ellen one thing and Kris another.

Yesterday seven Indiewire contributors riffed on twenty 2019 films that may, in some cases, excite woke-ish or avant-garde sensibilities…who knows?

In alphabetical order: James Gray‘s Ad Astra, Harmony Korine‘s Beach Bum, Mia Hansen Love‘s Bergman Island, Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman, Taika Waititi‘s Jojo Rabbit, Rian Johnson‘s Knives Out, Dee Rees‘ The Last Thing He Wanted, Robert Eggers‘ The Lighthouse, Greta Gerwig‘s Little Women, Noah Hawley‘s Lucy in the Sky, Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, Bong Joon-ho‘s Parasite, Melina Matsoukas‘ Queen & Slim, Josephine Decker‘s Shirley, Kore-eda Hirokazu‘s The Truth, Benny & Josh Safdie‘s Uncut Gems, Jordan Peele‘s Us, Benh Zeitlin‘s Wendy and Janicza Bravo‘s Zola.

Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio in Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon A Time in Hollywood.

I know this’ll never happen for the same reason that cowardice doesn’t require a conspiracy — it just comes naturally to so many. But it would be so wonderful if Green Book fans within the Academy, guilds, HFPA and BFCA would quietly resolve to vote for Peter Farrelly’s film in order to send a nice, big, friendly “kiss our collective ass” message to the woke thugs in the film critic community.

Not because it’s necessarily the best film of 2018 (although it may be that to some), but because it’s clean and confident and very well made — a genial film that knows exactly what it’s doing and why and, despite what the p.c. take-down crowd has written, isn’t guilty of any significant crimes. It has a good adult heart, and feels like sublime anti-Trump medicine while you’re watching it.

In other words, a vote for Green Book could, with the right collective adjustment of attitude, be understood as a vote of solidarity with all the Joe and Jane Popcorns out there who despise politically correct culture.

From Owen Gleiberman‘s latest Variety column, titled “What Each Possible 2018 Best Picture Winner Would Mean“:

“Last fall, when I first saw this racially themed 1962 buddies-with-nothing-in-common road movie, I thought it had a clear chance to win best picture. It’s that kind of finely etched and wittily sincere lump-in-the-throat liberal crowd-pleaser. But its politics, in the eyes of some, are tainted by (it is argued) a certain patronizing quaintness that has lived past its cinematic sell-by date.

“So what will it mean if Green Book emerges from all that and wins anyway? It will mean not just that the movie strikes a powerful comedic-dramatic chord, but that the more traditional voices of Hollywood want the world to know that this is the sort of middlebrow humanistic movie that still resonates with them. It would represent, in many ways, a vote against the new wave of Academy members.”

As far as I’m able to tell, Armond White‘s N.Y. Press review of Peter Glenville‘s Becket, which appeared roughly 12 years ago, is no longer retrievable. I posted a condensed version on 1.30.07. It closely echoed a Becket riff I’d posted on 2.3.06. I’m re-posting both here.

White: “Ostensibly the story of King Henry II appointing his confident Thomas a’ Becket to be Archbishop of Canterbury and then reneging on his bequest — a decision that historically split England’s religious affiliation — Becket is mostly fascinating as a love story between two men.

“Jean Anoulih‘s stage play is strengthened by the conflict of worldly affection and spiritual devotion when Becket’s born-again allegiance to God takes precedent over his fealty to Henry. This movie version is deeper than anything the makers of Brokeback Mountain could ever conceive — or admit to.

“Re-seeing Becket in light of the recent so-called breakthrough for gay film subjects makes one realize how advanced mainstream filmmaking used to be. Peter O’Toole‘s Henry and Richard Burton‘s Becket profess their regard for each other with bold openness and extravagant anguish. Precisely because this affection remains Becket’s subtext, it is never treated as a self-congratulatory end in itself. O’Toole and Burton are artistically free to fully vent their characters’ emotions.”

Director Peter Glenville “subtly encodes this historical epic with sexual intimations: Henry and Becket’s tandem escapades, phallic candles, bareback horseriding, etc. But he takes a dry approach to the complications of lost-love and how these legendary leaders deprived themselves — Becket through an excess of religious fervor, opposing the King’s edict out of personal arrogance; Henry through unchecked emotionalism and personal vengeance.

“This psychological depth gives Becket an edge over the other ’60s dramas about the Plantagenet rulers (A Man for All Seasons, The Lion in Winter, Anne of the Thousand Days) and puts it close to the sophistication of Lawrence of Arabia and, yes, My Own Private Idaho.”

Nicole Kidman‘s Destroyer performance is all about (a) the makeup and (b) Kidman’s raspy, Clint Eastwood-like, all-but-unintelligible speaking voice. But really the makeup, and that was the responsibility of makeup designer Bill Corso and hair-department head Barbara Lorenz. These are the folks who deserve Oscar recognition more than anyone else. Remember them when filling out your ballots.

21 out of 30 Gold Derby spitballers have Bradley Cooper‘s A Star Is Born in their top position, and I think it’s time to bring out the big guns and the big buckets and say “hold on, wait a minute…don’t do this.” It’s time to beg all of those Academy members who care about the historical importance of the Oscars to pull back on the reins and go “whoa, nelly!” and ask themselves if they really want to give the Best Picture Oscar to a remake of a remake of a remake of a remake. Because that’s what they’re apparently on the verge of doing.

Now is the time for Academy and guild members to stop and take a hard look at things. The first half of Cooper’s film is very good, of course, and Cooper and Lady Gaga are better than pretty good, and even with the somewhat weaker second half (and you know ASIB has this problem, that it doesn’t deliver great cards and that the Bradley URINE TROUBLE, MISTER! downswirl scenes aren’t really believable, not in today’s reach-out realm)…yes, it’s still a better-than-decent film…and yes, Hollywood Elsewhere has been saying all along that it’s the best of the four versions of this age-old Hollywood saga (five if you count What Price Hollywood?).

But ask yourselves, “Is this who we are? Are we really going to give a Best Picture Oscar to the fifth version of a showbiz saga that dates back 85 years?”

Alternate lament: “Are we really going to give a Best Picture Oscar to a generally admirable, well-made film because it’s made $200 million? Wouldn’t that make us the People’s Choice Awards if we do that?”

Best Picture Oscar winners ought to be about the times from which they sprang — about whatever cares or currents or passions were stirring in the soup when they were written, made or released. Some kind of zeitgeist connection, some kind of “this is what life seemed to be like when we made this” element.

This representational belief system was shattered into pieces when Chicago won the Best Picture Oscar. Again with The Artist and The King’s Speech. Remember how terrible it felt the morning after these films won? Do you want to feel that feeling again?

I’m sorry but A Star Is Born must become a respected also-ran. If for no other reason than to rebuff that way-too-early, excessively smug prediction by Variety‘s Kris Tapley. Give the Best Picture Oscar to the obviously deserving Roma, to the socially transformative blockbuster Black Panther, to the perfectly finessed and emotionally affecting Green Book, to the witty and pointed The Favourite, to Can You Ever Forgive Me?…to anything but A Star Is Born.

Please, please, please think this over.

The Gold Derby gang knows nothing. They’re finger-to-the-wind cowards who are putting A Star is Born in their top position because it feels like an easy default — because they know no one anywhere will raise an eyebrow. The Gold Derby gang is all about going along with the current and avoiding taking a strong stand about anything.

Roma, Black Panther, Green Book, The Favourite…Roma, Black Panther, Green Book, The Favourite…Roma, Black Panther, Green Book, The Favourite. Choose one of these four and you’ll feel better about yourselves in the morning. Don’t tumble for A Star Is Born…please.