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2018 is one month away from being half done. In my book that’s close enough to compile a halftime edition of the Best Films of 2018, and so here they are — the six best of the year so far, and by this I mean the ballsiest, the least compromised, the most transcendent, vivid and articulate, and the most likely to be remembered at year’s end: Paul Schrader‘s First Reformed, Ari Aster‘s Hereditary, John Krasinski‘s A Quiet Place, Eugene Jarecki‘s The King, Lynne Ramsay‘s You Were Never Really Here and Tony Zierra‘s Filmworker.

Yep, four narratives and two docs. No doubt about it. Most of the shills posting half-year assessments will be putting Ryan Coogler‘s Black Panther in their top five, but I don’t kowtow — it’s half of a really good Marvel flick.

I’m proclaiming this knowing that the current month of June contains, by my sights, only one solid narrative standout (Hereditary) along with a single brilliant doc (The King) and a kind, gentle, congenial heartwarmer (Morgan Neville‘s Won’t You Be My Neighbor). There is also a highly promising trio opening later this month — Brad Bird‘s Incredibles 2, Shana Feste‘s Boundaries and Stefano Sollima‘s Sicario: Day of the Soldado.

The seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth-place finishers are, in this order, Andrej Zvyagintsev‘s Loveless, Black Panther, Tony Gilroy‘s Beirut and Wes Anderson‘s Isle of Dogs.

Working backwards, starting with May and ending in January but without riffs or recaps — most titles link to my original review:

May: First Reformed and Filmworker, in a walk. (The links explain why.) May’s second best doc was RBG — a steady, assured and comprehensive portrait of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I wasn’t all that excited about Jason Reitman‘s Tully when I saw it last January, but don’t let me stop you.

April: A Quiet Place and You Were Never Really Here led the pack, but Tony Gilroy‘s Beirut was a respectable third-placer, and right after that came Sebastian Lelio‘s Disobedience and then John Curran‘s Chappaquiddick. I never got around to posting a Lean on Pete review (apologies) but it holds up pretty well in retrospect. The Rider was an honest, affecting rough-hewn exercise sans charisma or a way out of the mire.

I hated Where Is Kyra?. I Feel Pretty, which I saw late, was an off-tempo reach and an all-but-total wipeout commercially.

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Variety‘s Dave McNary is reporting that Solo: A Star Wars Story is deader than dead, deader than roadkill, finito, flatline. Tracking forecasts a $28 million haul this weekend in North America, which will translate into a stunning 67% drop from last weekend’s opening of $84.4 million, which itself was seen as shitty.

If this was happening in Japan the Solo team would probably be considering the idea of ritual seppuku. Then again Solo has already disemboweled itself on its own dime. I don’t think it would’ve mattered if Disney had decided to release it next December; I think it still would’ve bombed. The Miller-Lord debacle plus the casting of Alden Ehrenreich as young Han Solo — arguably the stupidest mainstream Hollywood casting decision of the 21st Century — is what did it. Solo almost certainly wouldn’t have bombed so badly they had just hired Ansel Elgort instead.

The person most responsible for this calamity is obviously producer Kathy Kennedy. Obviously we don’t “do” seppuku in this country, but if I were Kennedy or Ehrenreich I would drive out to the desert and lay low for a couple of weeks. Wait until the cloud of calamity blows over.

In Francis Coppola‘s Apocalypse Now, there are two clear descriptions of or projections about Martin Sheen‘s Cpt. Willard being the ultimate messenger — a guy who, when he returns to the U.S. of A., will set the world straight about what Marlon Brando‘s Colonel Kurtz was actually up to in his Cambodian Angkor Wat-like hideaway. Twice a hope is expressed that Willard will do this.

Kurtz to Willard: “I worry that my son might not understand what I’ve tried to be. And if I were to be killed, Willard, I would want someone to go to my home and tell my son everything…everything I did, everything you saw…because there’s nothing that I detest more than the stench of lies. And if you understand me, Willard, you will do this for me.”

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There isn’t much difference between Kirk Douglas and Cyd Charisse‘s mad sports-car drive in Two Weeks In Another Town (’62) and Lana Turner‘s mad, careening drive through the Hollywood hills in The Bad and the Beautiful (’52). The bond, of course, is that both sequences were directed by Vincente Minnelli, and both films starred Kirk Douglas as a jaded film-industry pro with an occasional tendency to suffer over-the-top emotional fits.

A Warner Archives Bluray of Two Weeks in Another Town pops on 6.19. It’s not a great film — it’s actually strained and overwrought — but it captures Rome at an interesting period, the end of the heyday of a city known in the ’50s and early ’60s as the capital of La Dolce Vita — swinging, top-down, martini-inhaling, Ray-ban hedonism.

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You know that some cable or streaming broadcaster is going to rush in and attempt to acquire Racist Rosanne and re-launch the show ASAP. I don’t know who but someone will; maybe two or three. It’s obviously a hot-button show, and a good 30% of the country swears by her bullshit. The hoo-hah happened after Rosanne tweeted an offensive description of former Obama adviser Valerie Jarett, to wit: “Muslim brotherhood & planet of the apes had a baby=vj.” Rosanne is a Trumpster, and Trumpism is about pushing back against the Wily Pathan. This is partly why the show is popular. Rosanne lives in blue territory but she’s “one of them” — a rural bumblefuck. ABC execs are cut from a different cloth. When has a huge hit show been so quickly and abruptly cancelled? This is pretty much without precedent.

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A woman you’ve just met can find you extremely handsome or fetching or fuckable, but you can’t be of the same opinion. You’ve been looking at yourself for too long, and you’re all too aware of the fears and anxieties and unsettling undercurrents that lie beneath those facial features. I applaud anyone who would say they’re completely pleased or at least at peace with their face because it conveys a good attitude — accept yourself and your life thus far without guilt or judgment, and keep the door open for better chapters around the corner. This is how I see myself, and so I completely get what Isabelle Huppert was saying when she said there’s “nothing” about her appearance that bothers her. She’s lying, of course, but in a healthy way.

History has noted a fair number of female criminals and desperadoes (Bonnie Parker, Ma Barker, Belle Starr, Ulrike Meinhof, Sandra Avila Beltran, Phoolan Devi, Griselda Blanco, Shashikala Patankar, Seema Parihar) over the decades, but has there ever been an upscale, John Robie-styled female thief of any kind? More to the point, has there ever been a gang of women thieves? Or a female gang of any kind who joined forces to commit a major crime?

I’m just asking.

Lord knows there have been dozens of male gangs who’ve attempted this or that robbery, but to my knowledge women have never done this, not even once. If this presumption is in fact true, the natural question is “why not?” There have been loner lady outlaws over the decades, as noted, so why has there never been a gang of them? Update: Apologies — I’d overlooked Forty Elephants.

Conclusion: It would seem that in today’s context, no offense, that Ocean’s 8 is a masturbatory, patriarchal-pushback, Hollywood wish-fulfillment fantasy from the get-go, completely divorced from human behavior as observed and recorded by 20th or 21st Century journalists, historians and crime novelists. If I’m wrong, please inform.

This morning Variety critic Guy Lodge tweeted that “Alden Ehrenreich‘s best performances top anything Harrison Ford has done.” “Performances”? I was under the impression that Ehrenreich’s only big score was his performance as Hobie Doyle in Joel and Ethan Coen‘s Hail, Caesar! Lodge is probably also alluding to Ehrenreich’s argument-in-the-rain scene in Beautiful Creatures (’13), which nobody saw or cared about.

Ehrenreich is a reedy-voiced, square-faced, pain-in-the-ass type who performs as best he can for the part he’s been hired to play, but he hasn’t a clue about delivering big-screen, laid-back presence and manly charisma, which is Ford’s metier. Ford delivers like a movie star, and that kind of delivery is worth its weight in gold.

Ford may be less emotionally agile or intense than Ehrenreich, but he was mythic during the carbon-freeze scene in The Empire Strikes Back and completely steady and sufficient in Blade Runner, Witness (perhaps his career-best performance), The Mosquito Coast, Working Girl, Patriot Games, Clear and Present Danger and — I’m being serious here — Hollywood Homicide. If Ehrenreich had somehow starred in any of these films, I would’ve hated them and probably walked out.

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Sometimes columnists have to stray afield to find something to write about, so I’m not condemning Variety‘s Kris Tapley for delving into Darth Maul’s cameo in Solo: A Star Wars Story. Tapley isn’t an out-and-out fanboy but now and then he’s conveyed fanboy yearnings, and discussing the character path and backstory of one-dimensional asshats like Darth Maul is what turns these guys on.

It takes all sorts to make a world. I understand and accept this. But on the other hand…really?

To millions upon millions of Star Wars fans, Darth Maul is one thing and one thing only — the scowling, acrobatic, horn-headed, black and red tattoo-faced shithead with the double-headed lightsaber. As a “character” he’s nothing, nothing…less than nothing. He also reminds everyone of the deeply despised prequels and particularly The Phantom Menace (’99), in which DM appeared and then was sliced in half by Ewan McGregor‘s Obi-Wan Kenobi. (Which Monsieur Maul “survived”, by the way, because the makers of the animated Clone Wars series wanted to use him again in 2011.)

But if you’re a semi-fanboy like Tapley, Darth Maul is like “oohh, cool…let’s talk more about this guy!”

Tapley is all but fascinated by the Darth Maul saga, so much so that he describes a 10-year unaccounted for period in his story as “juicy.” From this point on, any further usage of the term “juicy” by Tapley will be regarded askance if not with skepticism. Rules of the game.

Several online forums have repeated an Alfred Hitchcock assertion, possibly sourced from his 1962 interview with Francois Truffaut, that one reason Vertigo was a financial failure was because the 49-year-old Jimmy Stewart looked “too old” to be the lover of Kim Novak, who was 25 during filming. (Vertigo was shot between September and December 1957.)

Stewart’s John Ferguson does in fact seem too rigid and stodgy for Novak, not just because of his mostly gray hair but a generally stuffy conservative bearing. (That awful brown suit, for example.) But Hitch could have easily made Stewart appear younger by giving him fair, blonde-tinted hair with a slightly longer, less conservative cut. Only a year earlier Stewart had worn a blonde, almost bushy wig in The Spirit of St. Louis when he played the 25 year-old Charles Lindbergh.

There was nothing loose or sensual or sexually upfront about Stewart in Vertigo. Nothing. He looked and behaved like a Republican governor of a midwestern state, or an Air Force colonel or a corporate real-estate broker. One glance at Novak and you could imagine her nude under satin sheets, but it’s impossible, really, to think of Stewart’s character in even a partial state of undress, much less buck naked and doing the deed. It feels creepy to even describe this, and I’m fully aware that in his youth Stewart was quite the randy fellow.

James Stewart in Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo (released in May 1958).

Stewart as Charles Lindbergh in Billy Wilder’s The Spirit of St. Louis (released in April 1957).

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Harvey Weinstein surrendered to the cops this morning, and was subsequently arrested “on rape, criminal sex act and other charges from encounters with two women.” Seven months have passed since the Weinstein allegations broke in the N.Y. Times and The New Yorker. The reports immediately transformed Harvey into toast and launched the #MeToo and #TimesUp movements. His attorney’s claim that Weinstein “didn’t invent the casting couch in Hollywood” is true, but hardly a defense. He’ll almost certainly do time.

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Solo: A Star Wars Story, which begins screening tonight, is not among Ron Howard‘s finest efforts. It’s rotely, routinely proficient — that’s the best you can say. But I will alway respect Howard, if nothing else a reliable craftsman, for having made what I regard as his five finest films, and in this order:

1. A Beautiful Mind (’01), which is well-acted (loved Russell Crowe‘s oddball John Nash) and emotionally satisfying (the pens scene) with a magnificent James Horner score; 2. Apollo 13 (’95) — a decently written, completely satisfying situational thriller within a bureaucratic framework; 3. The Paper (’94) — a big-time journalism movie that finessed several plot threads and delivered first-rate performances, and was reasonably engaging for the most part — a not-great but entirely decent effort; 4. Cinderella Man (’05) — a totally solid ’30s boxing drama (David Poland called it “Fistbiscuit“) with excellent performances from Russell Crowe and Paul Giamatti; and 5. Parenthood (’89) — a well finessed, nicely-written, emotionally centered yuppie family drama with an excellent Steve Martin performance.

How many of the above would I be interested in re-watching? All except Cinderella Man.

Pretty good, not bad, mezzo-mezzo or somewhat minor Howard: Frost/Nixon (’03), Splash (’84), Cocoon (’85), Night Shift (’82), Gung Ho (’86), The Dilemma (’11), Rush (’13).

Meh, not-so-good, irritating Howard: Far and Away, Willow, The Missing, The Da Vinci Code, In the Heart of the Sea, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Ransom, Backdraft.

Didn’t see ’em, probably never will: Angels & Demons, Inferno, EDtv.