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I love the idea of Sam Mendes shooting four Beatles movies next year with a plan to release all four in ’27….bing, bang, boom, pow.

Each film will reportedly adopt the POV of a separate member, but I can’t envision Mendes focusing on the same portion of their story with four separate viewpoints — that would be oppressive.

Let’s assume the four films (which haven’t even been written yet) will cover separate chapters in the band’s grand saga — 7 years, 7 months, and 24 days, 1962 to 1970.

Chapter 1: Screaming Beatlemania — ignition, liftoff, orbit (’63 and ’64). Chapter 2: Musical maturation, experimentation and early psychedelic journeys (’65 and ’66, Rubber Soul and Revolver). Chapter 3: The gush of Sgt. Pepper creation (early to mid ’67), the death of Brian Epstein, the failure of Magical Mystery Tour, succumbing to gradual lethargy and uncertainty (late ’67 and ’68). Chapter 4: The disharmony of the White Album and the plague of Yoko Ono, followed by the low tide of the Get Back sessions and concluding with the high of recording Abbey Road (’69).

But it can’t really work unless the casting is other-worldly, and no casting decisions can be that. Nobody and I mean nobody can “play” John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr. No matter who Mendes chooses to hire, it simply won’t work. Their faces and voices are too deeply embedded in every corner of our minds to convincingly replicate or even half-replicate in a narrative format.

The only way I would buy it would be if Mendes decided to rotoscope their story….shoot it with actors but alter the animated faces in such a way that audiences could accept that they’re watching a reasonable fascimile of the Real McCoys. Otherwise it can’t work. It just can’t.

It took me two full days to recover from some of the ghastly fashion choices I saw during last Saturday’s SAG awards telecast. I was literally groaning, shuddering in my seat, in some instances convulsing with disgust.

This, I told myself, is why 96% of the U.S.population (i.e., those who are straight hot-dog eaters and/or don’t work in the entertainment industry, and who don’t live in slavish obedience to the “suggestions” (i.e., commands) of eccentric fashion designers)…this is why average Americans loathe and despise effete male industry entertainers. Some at the SAG ceremony looked like permanent residents of Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz. Actresses can do whatever but dude-wise people want real men, which is to say non-eccentric, stylish but sensible, tone down the fucking feathers and affectations, etc.

But before sampling the worst, here’s one of the evening’s best-looking outfits, worn by Taylor Zakhar Perez, who plays the gay son of the U.S.President in Red, White and Royal Blue (Amazon Prime).

And now the awful-awfuls…

Robert Downey Jr.s’ gray horrorsuit…bizarre jacket slits, flesh-colored shirt without tie, baggy-ass pants and heavy, shiny-brown clodhopper shoes with light-brown soles. General Mireau, the man behind the forthcoming firing-squad execution of three babygirls, would like to include Downey’s fashion adviser in the line of fire.

One of the most self-satirizing fashion calamities of the night was worn by Queer Eye‘s Tan France, known for his silver-white pompadour hair. The instant I saw his 18-inch wide chopstick bowtie during the pre-show red carpet sequence, I muttered to myself “you fucking pretentious asshole.”

Abbott Elementary‘s Chris Perfetti…the curly red hair and giant-sized ears blended with the suit’s light malted brown color, the black cumberband and the peaked black lapels…totally sickening, and those godawful, reprehensible baggy pants…yeesh.

Comedian Alok Vaid-Menon…yeah!!

Rustin‘s Colman Domingo in a light pink and black tux…an outfit that needlessly underlined his sexual identity and in so doing compromised his cred as an actor of a certain chameleon mystique.

The light powder-blue Martian pants worn by Abbott Elementary‘s Tyler James Williams…imagine some guy in Montpellier, Vermont, or Guerneville, California, or even in Austin, Texas wearing pants like this to some formal-ass event.

These two video clips were recorded late Sunday morning (2.25.24, 10:40 AM) at Jett, Cait and Sutton’s home in West Orange, New Jersey. They’re not newsworthy or topical or even amusing — they simply represent the happiest and most serene interlude I experienced all day. I was saying to myself “this is perfect…life can’t get any better than this.”

I left soon after recording these two clips and arrived back in Wilton around 1:15 pm or so. Less than two hours hence HE’s video Zoom capture of the debut episode of “The Misfits” (myself, Glenn Kenny, Kristi Coulter and Bill McCuddy) began — roughly 3:30 pm and ending at 5 pm, give or take.

Discussion topics included (a) “Exit Interview,” Coulter’s well-reviewed book about her 12 years at Amazon; (b) Alcoholism and addiction, and how a person feeling really and truly delighted about his/her life can be an excellent reason to start drinking again; (c) Successfully suppressing an urge to blow off 12 years of sobriety in the tragic wake of The Holdovers‘ Paul Giamatti losing SAG’s Best Actor trophy to Oppenheimer‘s Cillian Murphy, and especially KOTFM‘s Lily Gladstone elbowing aside Poor Things‘ Emma Stone to take SAG’s Best Actress award; (d) the straight-male intrigue factor (or lack thereof) in two new lesbian movies, Rose Glass‘s melodramatic and fleetingly surreal Love Lies Bleeding and Ethan Coen and Tricia Cooke‘s Drive-Away Dolls, a mildly farcical sexual odyssey set in ’99 or thereabouts; (e) Kenny’s forthcoming Scarface book, “The World Is Yours,” and a casual reciting of several making-of anecdotes, etc.

I’m currently trying to figure out how to upload our lively “Misfits” discussion, which we were quite happy with. Okay, it ran a little bit long, which prompted me to think about editing it into two segments. I’m way too much of a douchenozzle to figure this stuff out quickly, but I might manage to upload something within an hour or two….who knows?

I don’t mind being relatively poor these days as it means fewer distractions and more of a focus on writing. But I do miss the travel.

I’ve secured HE’s beautiful old 19th Century apartment in Cannes for next May (7 rue Jean Mero, third-floor walkup…the place Ann Hornaday and I shared for a few years) but I’m not entirely sure I even want to do Cannes this year. It doesn’t seem like much of a lineup, but then I haven’t really studied the situation. Telluride is the only keeper, the only essential.

Between the early ’90s and late 20-teens and especially from the early aughts onward I was always going somewhere. Starting in ’00 I flew each May to Europe (Paris, Cannes, Prague, London, Berlin, Munich, Tuscany, Rome), and over the last 13 or 14 years (starting in 2010) to Telluride each and every year.

Along with occasional journeys to NYC, Key West, Virginia and Washington, D.C., Vietnam (2012, 2013 and 2016), Germany, Switzerland, Spain, Morocco, San Francisco, Seattle, Hawaii, Mexico, Monument Valley, Park City, etc. Plus a terrific one-off to Buenos Aires and Mar del Plata in Argentina.

Not to mention random long-hauls and hiking trips in California (Palm Srings, Sierras, Joshua Tree, Yosemite, Death Valley, Santa Barbara, Los Olivos, Big Sur, Mill Valley, Guerneville, Mendocino) when the mood struck.

Living with a constant sense of expectation and adventure does wonders for the soul. Keeps you going, keeps you alive. I realize that I sound entitled and spoiled to a certain extent. How many people have travelled this much over two or three decades and experienced this much intrigue and arousal? I only know that I’ve adored this feast of living, this seemingly endless banquet…course after course and episode after episode for such a long and wondrous time…and that I’m very sorry that I can no longer afford to live this way any longer. But at least the memories are many.

The bottom line is that I’m deeply grateful that I had what I had when I had it.

Friendo: “Honest question about this Shampoo one-sheet, which presumably appeared on billboards and at bus stops, not to mention in newspapers and magazines:

“Is it in fact depicting what I think it’s depicting or at the very least suggesting, judging by the towel-draped woman in a kneeling, bent-over position?”

HE reply #1: If I answer your question I’ll be slagged by the HE scolding brigade so maybe I should sidestep this.

HE reply #2: The frankest and fullest answer I can think of is that the ‘70s were the greatest era for hetero nookie in U.S. history and were arguably the most breathtaking era in this regard since the heyday of ancient Rome, but you can’t even talk about it today without sounding like a pig dinosaur.

HE reply #3: There are two suggestive moments in Shampoo in which Warren Beatty’s George Roundy is blow-drying an attractive woman’s freshly-cut hair (at first a foxy 20something client in the Beverly Hills hair salon and later Julie Christie’s Jackie in her bathroom). Both times the women’s heads are not only facing but mere inches away from Beatty’s Sticky Fingers album cover.

Friendo reply: “Yeah, I know, but get a load of that one-sheet. Aren’t you surprised an ad like that would be appearing in newspapers — FAMILY newspapers — in 1975?”

HE response: Those were the’70s, dude! You had to be there. There’s certainly no explaining the social atmosphere of those days to effing Millennials and Zoomers.

Do you think it’s some kind of coincidence that Al Pacino‘s hot-tempered, early ’80s Miami drug dealer and the jovial, family-friendly Bengal tiger who’s represented Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes for God knows how many decades…do you think it’s a coincidence that they share the same first name?

The instant I glanced at the cover of Glenn Kenny‘s “The World Is Yours: The Story of Scarface” (Hanover Square Press, May 7) I totally guffawed. I said to myself, “Now that‘s a great cover for a Scarface book!”

Amazon copy: “With brand-new interviews and untold stories of the film’s production, longtime film critic Glenn Kenny takes us on an unparalleled journey through the making of American depictions of crime. ‘The World Is Yours’ highlights the influential characters and themes within Scarface, reflecting on how its storied legacy played such a major role in American culture.”

The Sasquatch makeup is pretty good, I have to say. I’m pretty sure I can spot Jesse Eisenberg under the stringy hair and prosthetics but I can’t identify Riley Keough. (Her name accompanies an image of one of the beasts, but I can’t “see” her.) The other two actors are Nathan Zellner and Christophe Zajac-Denek.

Sundance, Berlin, SXSW…Bleecker Street will release Sasquatch Sunset on April 12th.

Variety‘s Rebecca Rubin posted on 1.19.24:

I was never into Playstation and I certainly didn’t pay attention to Spyro the Dragon, a 1998 platform game developed by Insomniac Games and published by Sony Computer Entertainment. (25 years ago!) But during a word game a few years ago my chronic hearing problem resulted in my sincere mispronouncing of the name as “Spyro the Jacket.”

The kids laughed at me and still bring it up on occasion, but let me explain something. Nonsensical as it sounds, Spyro the Jacket is better than Spyro the Dragon. A meme that makes no sense but at the same time transcends and in fact leapfrogs over the original.

Sometimes life flips on its side and bingo You have to be able to say “of course! and turn on a dime. Odd accidents sometimes open the doors of opportunity.

Spyro the Jacket isn’t just “better” than that Clinton-era Playstation game — it’s 10 to 15 times better. If I could afford it I would create a logo and manufacture “Spyro the Jacket” T-shirts and, yes, jackets.

The expression on Mark Ruffalo‘s face in this Zodiac interrogation scene…his expression alone in this 5 minute, 48-second scene is ten to fifteen times better than his whole performance in Poor Things. Better in that it conveys an immense amount of information…he doesn’t move a muscle but his face is quaking with emotion and arousal and implication.

And that vaguely moaning, faintly growling sound we hear as the suspicion factor begins to build…fascinating. And the watch.

My God, what a brilliant film Zodiac is! All four guys in this scene are note perfect — Ruffalo, Anthony Edwards, Elias Koteas, John Carroll Lynch.

Plus Ruffalo is at least 20 to 25 pounds lighter in Zodiac than he is in Poor Things so there’s that also.

In Steven Soderbergh‘s The Limey (’99), the “King Midas” montage rules (:09 to 1:09). All hail The Hollies when Graham Nash was front and center.

Peter Fonda (1940-2019) was an easy guy to talk to…interviewed him a couple of times, talked to him at parties, etc. Terry Valentine was by far his most interesting and layered role, more so than Easy Rider‘s Wyatt or the guy who dropped LSD in The Trip…pick of the litter.

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Ruben Ostlund‘s Force Majeure (’14) is a better film than Nat Faxon and Jim Rash‘s remake titled Downhill (1.20). But the latter isn’t half bad, and it’s a half-hour shorter, and it ends well. And so I’ve decided to re-watch Downhill this evening rather than Ostlund’s original.

Downhill, which opened almost exactly four years ago, struck me as better than decent — adult, well measured, emotionally frank, well acted and cunningly written. (Faxon and Rash shared screenplay credit with Jesse Armstrong.)

It’s not a burn, it’s not about a “black and white situation” (as one of the less perceptive characters puts it) and it provides ample food for thought and discussion.

Both films conclude that a father running from an impending disaster (i.e., a huge avalanche) without trying to save or protect his wife and kids is a bad look. Which of course it is. Obviously.

Both films condemn the dad in question (Will Ferrell in the American version, Johannes Bah Kuhnke in Ostlund’s version) and more or less agree with the furious wives (Julia Louis Dreyfus, Lisa Loven Kongsli) that dad should have (a) super-heroically yanked the wife and kids out of their seats and hauled them inside in a blink of an eye or (b) hugged them before the avalanche hit so they could all suffocate together.

Hollywood Elsewhere says “yes, it’s ignoble for a dad to run for cover without thinking of his wife or kids,” but I also believe that instinct takes over when death is suddenly hovering. I also feel that Dreyfus and the two kids acted like toadstools by just sitting there on the outdoor deck and hoping for the best.

Question for Dreyfus and sons: A huge terrifying avalanche is getting closer and closer and you just sit there? I mean, you do have legs and leg muscles at your disposal. A massive wall of death is about to terminate your future and your reaction is “oh, look at that…nothing to do except watch and wait and hope for the best”?

Both films film basically ask “who are we deep down?” They both suggest that some of the noble qualities we all try to project aren’t necessarily there. But Rash and Faxon’s film also says “hey, we’re all imperfect and yes, some of us will react instinctually when facing possible imminent death. So maybe take a breath and don’t be so viciously judgmental, and maybe consider the fact that tomorrow is promised to no one so just live and let live.”

I was especially taken by Downhill‘s spot-on philosophical ending (i.e., “all we have is today”). Seriously, it really works. I came to scoff at this film (due to the less-than-ecstatic Sundance buzz) but came away converted.

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Last night I re-watched George Pal and Rudolph Mate’s When Worlds Collide (‘51), an ambitious if under-budgeted sci-fi disaster flick. Early on I was intrigued by (i.e., fantasizing about) 23 year-old costar Barbara Rush, whom I’d never paid much attention to (and who is still with us, by the way, at age 97).

She was unquestionably front and center during the ‘50s, but my most vivid memory of Rush is from Warren Beatty and Hal Ashby’s Shampoo (‘75).

There’s a scene in which Beatty’s Beverly Hills hairdresser (i.e., George Roundy) is trying to persuade a bank officer (George Furth) to give him a loan to start his own hair salon with. When asked about collateral, Roundy tries to explain that his business value is largely based upon celebrity client loyalty. “I have the heads…I do Barbara Rush,” he states. Alas, this isn’t enough for the bank officer.

Married to Jeffrey Hunter from ‘50 to ‘55, Rush was very fetching in her 20s, but augmented this with a certain interior, deep-drill quality that seemed rooted in good character and basic values. Call her the trustworthy, on-the-conservative-side, guilt-trippy type. This was especially evident in 1958’s The Young Lions and ‘59’s The Young Philadelphians.

It was this sense of duty and restraint plus a corresponding low-flame quality when it came to hints of sultry sensuousness that probably limited Rush’s appeal as she got into her 30s. Wikipage: “She was often cast as a willful woman of means or a polished, high-society doyenne.”

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