slider

Read more

Josh Margolin‘s Thelma, a Sundance headliner that I saw last night, is a mostly mild situation dramedy about the pitfalls, sadnesses and surprising turn-arounds of a chubby old biddy (the 94 year-old June Squibb, in her first starring role) when the going gets tough.

It makes for a reasonably decent sit, although I didn’t like it at first because of the hugely annoying Fred Hechinger (The White Lotus), who plays Squibb’s flaky-loser grandson.

Squibbs’ titular character is also 90something and, as you might presume, suffering from the usual intellectual and physical diminishments. Sissies need not apply.

Thelma is about the white-haired Squibb getting scammed out of $10K (which actually happened to Margolin’s real-life grandmother), and how she refuses to take this humiliation lying down and soon after becomes a dogged investigator and push-backer on her own steam and tenacity.

The reason I didn’t like Hechinger, whose dipshit Zoomer character has been told by his mom and dad (Parker Posey and Clark Gregg) to look after Squibb and keep her out of trouble, is because his performance had me half-convinced that he was in on the scam. (I hate guys like Hechinger…I really do.)

After going to the cops and getting no help, Squibb locates the post office box address that she sent the $10K to by envelope. (A voice on the phone told her to do so or Hechinger would be in deep shit, and she bought it.)

She makes her way to a nearby assisted living facility to seek the assistance of old buddy Ben (Richard Roundtree), which boils down to Thelma borrowing his mobility scooter, except Ben won’t let her drive alone.

They visit the home of an old out-to-lunch friend, and during this stopover Thelma discovers and pockets a loaded pistol. (Not worth explaining.) They get back on the scooter and wind up at a gas station, but then Thelma forgets to engage the parking brake…

With Posey, Gregg and Hechinger in hot pursuit…Jesus, I can’t do this. What am I gonna do, spill the whole story?

Eventually Thelma and Ben get to the bottom of things, and I was quite amused to discover that the principal scammer is none other than the white-haired 70something Alexander DeLarge.

The situation is resolved a little too easily but by that time I had decided that Thelma is an above-average thing, not quite on the level of Little Miss Sunshine but occasionally so.

Thelma is not a comedy — it’s a half-and-halfer. It certainly declines to go goofy or silly. There are elements of real pain and stress and sadness woven in. Now and then it’s actually touching, which surprised me. I’m giving it a B-plus.

On 1.15.24 Variety‘s Owen Gleiberman politely inquired about whether the Sundance Film Festival has surrendered the danger factor in its film selections. (Answer: Of course it has.)

Today (1.16.24) World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy, in a piece linking to Gleiberman’s column, observed the same thing.

A year ago (1.29.23) former IndieWire editor/columnist Eric Kohn sniffed around and reported the same shit.

Boiled down, they all concluded that potential threats of wokester condemnation had so terrorized filmmakers that they don’t want to take chances. They wouldn’t dare.

And yes, HE said the same thing in a two-year-old HE piece titled “Yes, Virginia…Sensitive Gargoyles Have Ruined Sundance” (12.27.21).

…which can’t possibly offer a significant bump over Criterion’s 2016 Bluray version. Thanks but no thanks.

HE–posted on 10.17.16:

Criterion’s 4K McCabe pops on 2.6.24.

Ten minutes into last night’s opening episode of True Detective: Night Country, I was shaking my head, faintly groaning and muttering “nope…me no like.”

Set in the fictional village of Ennis, a grubby blue-collar hellhole in northern Alaska (but filmed in Iceland), it’s about a murder mystery (eight missing scientists) mixed with spooky horror jolts (a human tongue lying on a linoleum floor, a barefoot hippie wacko standing in a snowstorm) or, if you prefer, gulpy, uh-oh, nightmarish pan-flash stuff.

And I didn’t care…sorry. I was frowning. I actually watched episode #1 twice…well, nearly. But good God and Lordy Lordy. I hated the grimness and the gloom, the atmosphere of working-class gunk and chilly vibes, fleurescent lighting and the constant downer vibes…lemme out.

Miserable Me: “Who could stand living in this godawful one-horse town?”

I didn’t like any characters except for Jodie Foster’s “Danvers”, an aloof, flinty, sourpuss chief of police who’s no fan of the Beatles. I didn’t care for Kali Reis’s “Angeline Navarro”…didn’t like her sulking, sullen attitude or her cheek studs. There’s a young, good-looking cop (Finn Bennett) I took a shine to, but within a short while, as noted, I was sinking into a puddle of despair.

My spirit surged slightly when Reis came upon a CG polar bear on Main Street, but then we go in for the close-up and OF COURSE the bear is a bit scary due to a missing left eye. As soon as I saw that gnarly black eye socket I said to myself, “Fuck this show.”

And in fact stood up while doing so. Good souls, all.

Read more

I flinch every time I buy Gillette Proshield replacement cartridges. Because they cost too much for what I’m getting.

The first shave is always very pleasurable, granted, but you can feel a very slight diminishment during the second shave — not as sharp or clean. And the third shave is the same or even slightly worse. The fact is that cheap plastic razors (also made by Gillette) work almost as well over the course of, say, eight or even ten shaves.

Why do I keep shelling out for these shitty, over-priced Gillette cartridges that are good for only one great shave? Because I like holding the metal Gillette shaving device. (What should I call it?) It feels good in my hand. I like the weight of it, and the little grooves and micro-bumps allow for a better grip. Otherwise the cartridges suck eggs.

From the fearless Susan Orlean, author of “The Orchid Thief”…..

Posted on 2.16.17: Paris is probably the greatest aroma town I’ve ever sunk into. A feast wherever you go — Montmarte, Oberkampf, Montparnasse, Passy. The Seine at night, outdoor markets (especially in the pre-dawn hours), the aroma of sauces and pasta dishes coming from cafes, warm breads, scooter and bus exhaust, strong cigarettes, strong coffee, Middle Eastern food stands (onions, sliced meats, spices), gelato shops, etc.

And the only way to really savor these aromas, obviously, is to do so in the open air and preferably on a scooter or motorcycle so you can enjoy them in rapid succession. It’s the only way to travel over there, certainly in the warmer months. I’ve never felt so intensely alive and unbothered as during my annual Paris scooter roam-arounds.

Posted on 3.16.15:

“When I let my cat Zak outside in the morning, the first thing he does is hop onto the fence and raise his head slightly and just smell the world. He’s revelling in the sampling of each and every aroma swirling around, sniffing and sniffing again, everything he can taste. I was thinking this morning how delighted and fulfilled he seemed, and how maybe I should do a little more of this myself. Take a moment and sample as many scents as possible.

“The problem with so much of Los Angeles today, of course, is that too much of it has been smothered by massive shopping malls and buildings and parking lots, and dominated by the faint aromas (if you want to call them that) of asphalt, plastic, trash bins, concrete, sheetrock and car and truck exhaust — which doesn’t smell like very much of anything.

Read more

Satirizing an alleged Native American tribal tradition…no one would dare shoot a scene like this today.

“We are coming towards a great reckoning of our past. The more that these stories can be told in a truthful way, the more it can be a healing process.” — Lily Gladstone quoted in U.K Vogue.

It was three long–ass years ago when news broke that Timothee Chalamet would play the creatively transitioning (acoustic folkie to electric poet-with-sunglasses) Bob Dylan in James Mangold’s A Complete Unknown. Now it’s actually, finally going before the cameras sometime in March.

This is Chalamet’s big chance to step out of the not-quite-happening place he’s been standing in for the last six years (throwing Woody under the bus, Little Women, Beautiful Boy, Bones and All, the Dune franchise, Wonka) and do something cool and provocative for a change. Maybe.

Posted last spring…

Originally posted on 3.21.11, updated on 9.17.16:

One of the healthiest things you can say about anything that’s over and done with is “okay, that happened.” Unless, of course, you’re talking about a stretch in a World War II concentration camp or something equally ghastly. Otherwise you have to be accepting, past it. Especially when it comes to ex-girlfriends. We went there, it happened, nobody was right or wrong, that was then and we’re here now…let’s get a coffee and catch up.

All my life I’ve been friends with exes, or have at least been open to same. And they’ve been open to ease and friendship with me. Except for one.

She was (and most likely still is) a whipsmart blonde with a great ass, a toothy smile and a kind of young Katharine Hepburn vibe. She’d been raised in Brooklyn but always reminded me of a Fairfield County gal.

She’s married now and living in Pasadena; her husband — a slightly stocky, gray-haired guy of some means — doesn’t resemble me or her first husband (a doobie-toking small-business owner who owned a Harley) at all. Whatever attributes or nice qualities he’s brought to the table, he’s clearly a swing away from the past.

I gave up trying to be in touch with her 11 years ago, or towards the end of Barack Obama’s first term. She really wants to erase that part of her life — the first marriage (which began in the summer of ’96) and the affair with me that began in early ’98 and lasted two and two-thirds years, ending in late September 2000.

We last spoke in ’12. The most emotionally significant thing that happened before that was her friending me on Facebook, but what is that?

Our thing began at the ’98 Sundance Film Festival and finally ran out of gas in late ’00 when her husband found out.

I took the hurt and the lumps. I was dropped six or seven times. It was easily the most painful and frustrating relationship of my life. Whether things were good or bad between us was entirely about her shifting moods. Her father had been a philanderer when she was fairly young and this had caused a lot of family pain, so she felt badly about following in his footsteps. But she kept coming back and oh, the splendor.

The bottom line, obviously, is that she’s not at ease with having been a beloved infidel in the waning days of the Clinton administration. Easing up and looking back by way of occasional contact or e-mails just isn’t a comfortable thing for her.

I could write a Russian novel about what happened during our fractured romance. I once flew to NYC just to hang with her for a couple of days without the nearby presence of her husband. Toward the end we had a blissful rendezvous in Las Vegas.

But when all is said and done I’m basically a Woody Allen type of guy — the heart wants what it wants and all’s fair. Even if nothing hurts quite as badly as being the on-and-off boyfriend of a not-very-married woman.

But I’m past it. I’m not sorry it happened. And I’ve always liked her besides. She’s smarter than me. And a good judge of character, more practical, more planted, etc. But I’m deeper, stronger in terms of handling rough seas, and a better writer.