After 91 and 1/2 years, the feisty and flinty Jerry Lewis is gone. The indisputable king of comedy during the Martin & Lewis heyday of the early to mid ’50s (although their partnership actually began in Atlantic City in ’46), and a boldly experimental avant-garde comedic auteur from the late ’50s to late ’60s. And a truly delicious prick of a human being when he got older, and oh, how I loved him for that. Refusing to suffer fools can be a dicey thing when you’re younger and have to get along, but it’s a blessing when you’re an old fart with money in the bank.

I know that Lewis was one of my first impersonations when I was a kid….”Hey, ladeeeeeee!” (I performed this for director Penelope Spheeris way back when, and while she could’ve gone “uh-huh” she said “hey, that’s pretty good!”)

If you were born in the ’70s, ’80s or ’90s and therefore haven’t a clue who Jerry Lewis was, please, please consider reading Shawn Levy’s “The King of Comedy: The Life and Art of Jerry Lewis,” which I’ve long regarded as the best researched, the best written and probably the most honest portrait of the occasionally contentious Lewis. If you get hold of a paperback or Kindle copy, find the passages to do with Bob Crane — hair-raising. Or the business about Levy and Lewis in the epilogue, which, Levy says, “were so infamous that I’m told Marty Short spent an evening entertaining Tom Hanks and Paul Reiser at dinner doing impressions of Jerry from it.”

You also have to read Nick Tosches‘ rhapsodic, utterly brilliant “Dino: Living High In the Dirty Business of Dreams.”

I can’t sit here on a Sunday morning and tap out some brilliant, all-knowing, heart-touching essay on what a huge electrical energy force Lewis was for 20 years in the middle of the 20th Century. So I’m just going to paste some choice HE posts, starting with an excerpt from my one and only interview with the guy at the Stein Erickson hotel during the 1995 Sundance Film Festival and on through to my last in-person encounter when Lewis did a q & a at the Aero theatre to promote Daniel Noah’s Max Rose.

Posted on 5.1.13: “Jerry Lewis has long been regarded as a difficult man, but listen to him at this recent Tribeca Film Festival appearance. He’s 87 and yet he seems more engaged and feisty and crackling than the vast majority of his contemporaries. There’s something about old show-business buzzards. The scrappy survival instincts that helped them make it when young are the same qualities that keep them sharp in their doddering years. You don’t have to be a prick to be intellectually focused and alert (the elegant Norman Lloyd is in his late 90s and a beautiful man to speak with) but if given a choice between a state of advanced vegetation and being a Jerry Lewis type of old guy, I’d definitely go with the latter. I suspect that Lewis biographer Shawn Levy will go ‘hmmm’ when he reads this.”

Early this morning I re-read a 7.24.16 piece that riffed on Michael Moore‘s “5 Reasons Why Trump Will Win,” and the nightmare of those days suddenly rushed back in. The debates hadn’t happened and the election itself wouldn’t be for another three and a half months, and somehow Moore knew. And as I read his words along with my own, long-buried feelings of irritation and even loathing for Hillary Clinton began to fill my chest. She orchestrated it all. She brought hell into our lives.

The graying and complacent Democrats and centrists who nominated Clinton and then ignored everything that was happening out there, brushing aside all of the fervor and passion churned up by Donald Trump and Bernie Sanders…these people are the authors of our present nightmare. I get the willies when I re-live it. I didn’t realize it at first, but the summer of ’16 was a truly terrible period in American history. Not as terrible as now but close.

“I’ve been split on Hillary Clinton since she vanquished Bernie Sanders,” I began. “Half of me accepts that I have to vote for her sensible, pragmatic, Obama-continuing wonkery (along with her hawkish foreign policy instincts), and the other half can’t stand her — her cautious sidestepping of the Bernie revolution, that cackle, the Wall Street ties, the testy substitute-teacher vibe, her liberal-leaning but weather-vane-ish political values, the just-revealed DNC connivance against Bernie, the eye bags, the eff-you to the Berners with her selection of Tim Kaine, her compulsively secretive nature.”

There are three things about Clint Eastwood‘s The 15:17 to Paris (Warner Bros., probably sometime in late November or December) that scare…okay, concern me. I didn’t moan or roll my eyes but I did go “hmmm” when I read about them. My brow was furrowed, and I say this with all due respect for Eastwood’s celebrated fast-shoot, fast-cut approach to making features.

Worry #1: Eastwood’s decision to cast the real-life heroes of the 2015 train attack in France — Anthony Sadler, Alek Skarlatos and Spencer Stone — as themselves. You know that’s a dicey call, and that the best we can expect from these guys will be “not bad but somewhat self-conscious” performances. You know their best won’t be good enough. No one will make a big deal about it, but deep down people will be muttering.

Worry #2: The decision to tell the story of the friendship of these guys when they were kids. There’s no way of exaggerating how little I care about this aspect. Didn’t I just finish explaining that back-stories and origin stories are a pain in the ass, and that all a really good film needs is a gripping capture of the way things really are when stuff starts to happen?

Worry #3: The dopey-sounding title. Firstly the “The” is completely unnecessary. Delmer Daves‘ 3:10 to Yuma (’57) and James Mangold‘s 2007 remake, both based on a 1953 Elmore Leonard short story, didn’t see the need. Secondly, only military people use military time; everyone else uses the common colloquial. The title — hello? — should obviously be 3:17 to Paris. Keep it straight, simple.

The 15:17 to Paris was announced in April, and began shooting last month. It’s already damn near close to wrapping.

With Justin Chadwick‘s Tulip Fever (Weinstein Co., 9.1) finally opening after nearly three years of test screenings, re-edits and release-date shifts, Vulture‘s Kyle Buchanan has attributed the shoddy treatment to the 17th Century historical drama being a tweener — i.e., neither award-worthy nor juicy enough.

If you ask me the avoidance is due to three factors: (1) the word “tulip” in the title, which implies a certain painterly stillness or lack of narrative propulsion, (2) the casting of runt-sized Dane DeHaan as Alicia Vikander‘s romantic suitor and (3) Christoph Waltz as her cuckolded husband. Nobody wants to hang with those guys in this context…nobody.

From “Skeptical, A Certain Distance,” posted on 4.29.16:

“You can tell Tulip Fever is a carefully honed, well-crafted thing. The cinematography by Eigl Bryld (In Bruges) is obviously handsome; ditto the production design. It’s probably safe to assume that the screenplay by Tom Stoppard, based on a book by Deborah Moggach, will have a certain rhyme.

A day after HE’s Oscar Spitball Best Picture chart appeared, I was told that Woody Allen‘s Wonder Wheel (Amazon, 12.1) is allegedly “great.” Until then my impression had been that Kate Winslet‘s performance, which New York Film Festival honcho Kent Jones has called “startlingly brave” and “powerhouse,” would be the big magnet. But maybe there’s more to it. We all process festival hyperbole with a grain of salt, but now I’m thinking that Jones description of Wonder Wheel — “a bracing and truly surprising movie experience” — might be on the up-and-up.

Wonder Wheel will close the NYFF on Sunday, 10.15, or six weeks before Amazon’s nationwide opening. My NYFF press pass is good but I can’t afford to be in NYC for more than a couple of days following Jett’s 9.22 wedding — maybe a concurrent LA screening?

What does Tony Schwartz know, and how does he know it? The ghostwriter of “Trump: The Art of the Deal” and longtime bete noire of the 45th President, tweeted on Wednesday that President Trump “is going to resign and declare victory before Mueller and Congress leave him no choice…the circle is closing at blinding speed…Trump’s presidency is effectively over…would be amazed if he survives till end of the year…more likely resigns by fall, if not sooner.” Isn’t that a little optimistic? At best Trump is gone in 2019, and only if the Democrats win bigtime in both chambers in ’18, and who knows if that’s assured?

More than a few writers and publications have posted articles about the 40th anniversary of Elvis Presley‘s death (8.16.77). Of all the Presley milestones worth pondering, the least is surely the poor man’s death from the combination of an enlarged heart and having 14 drugs in his system. Want a great Elvis anniversary? How about September 9th, or the 1956 date of Presley’s first performance on The Ed Sullivan Show — a telecast seen by 60 million viewers or 82.6% of the TV audience. Or July 5th, the day in 1954 when Presley and Sun Records honcho Sam Phillips, after some false starts, happened upon the right Elvis sound — quasi-rockabilly by way of white channeling of what was then regarded as “black” music, but with a frisky, jumpin’-and-shufflin’ tempo. Or simply EP’s birthday — 1.8.35. Two days ago Variety‘s Joe Leydon listed Presley’s “10 Greatest Films.” First of all Presley never made any films that could be called “great.” But the best of the bunch were obviously King Creole, Flaming Star, Jailhouse Rock, Loving You, Love Me Tender and Wild in the Country. I’m not counting the concert films, but feel free.

I’ve been waiting to see Matt Tyrnauer‘s Scotty and the Secret History of Hollywood, a doc based on Scotty Bowers and Lionel Friedberg‘s “Full Service: My Adventures in Hollywood and the Secret Sex Lives of the Stars,” for a long time. I first heard about Tyrnauer trying to pull it together…what, back in ’13 or ’14? It’s taken forever, but now, finally, a special pre-Toronto Film Festival screening is happening later this week.

The official TIFF debut of Scotty and the Secret History of Hollywood will happen on Saturday, September 9th.

“Reliable Source,” posted on 6.18.16: “Last night I ran into Scotty Bowers, the 92 year-old co-author of “Full Service: My Adventures in Hollywood and the Secret Sex Lives of the Stars,” which popped in early 2012. (Here’s my review.) It happened at a nearby Whole Foods (Fairfax & Santa Monica Blvd.), and for a guy who will turn 93 in less than two weeks he’s very charming, alert and well-spoken.

“The only other over-90 fellow I’ve spoken to who has the same classy manner and mental acuity is Norman Lloyd, whom I first interviewed in ’05 and who’s now 101.

“The Red Drum Getaway” is maybe two years old. I posted it on 10.14.15 (“Ferguson’s Nightmare“). If you’ve never seen it, please.

The Red Drum Getaway from Gump on Vimeo.

Of the 13 likely Best Picture contenders on HE’s Oscar Spitball chart, I’ve only seen four — Dunkirk, Call Me By Your Name, War For The Planet of the Apes and Get Out. But I’ve read scripts or heard enough about the other nine to know they’ll be in the mix, almost for sure. The ones closer to the the top look stronger, of course, but you knew that. Who knows how things’ll shake out four and five months hence, but it’s these 13, trust me. If I’m missing a title or two…naah, this is it.

Dunkirk (the only one of the exalted thirteen that isn’t a personal journey tale) is ranked first because everyone’s seen it and unanimously agrees it’s a Best Picture contender. Call Me By Your Name is an easy inclusion — has been since last January’s Sundance Film Festival debut. I’ve seen 10 or 12 minutes of Downsizing and read a draft of the script — it’s in there. Sally Hawkins‘ wordless performance in Guillermo del Toro‘s The Shape of Water is a Best Actress lock, but I’m also 85% persuaded that it’s GDT’s personal best since Pan’s Labrynth, and Lord knows he’s due. I’ve read Dan Gilroy‘s Roman Israel, Esq., and it’s fair to call it a moral-ethical thing along the lines of Sidney Lumet and David Mamet‘s The Verdict.

The Papers is a smart, high-toned, well-textured historical drama with the Spielberg stamp — no denying it. We know that films by Paul Thomas Anderson have rarely kowtowed to Oscar-season criteria, but it’s a likely keeper on the strength of containing Daniel Day Lewis‘s (possibly) final performance. Last March’s Cinemacon preview convinced me that The Greatest Showman will be a Best Picture contender; ditto Battle of the Sexes and Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri — two personal journey sagas (both distributed by Fox Searchlight) that will most likely stick to the ribs. War For The Planet of the Apes is a flat-out masterpiece of its kind. Many have lamented the over-praising of Get Out, but there’s a critical contingent that won’t take the hint and back off. (Somewhere John Carpenter is shaking his head and grinning.)

In a diseased, perverse way I almost respect President Donald Trump for half-renouncing yesterday’s conciliatory remarks, because at least he was being honest. This is who this astonishing asshole really is. In a Trump Tower press conference Trump again maintained there was “blame on both sides” for last weekend’s Charlottesville violence and criticized the “very, very violent” behavior of “alt-left” groups.

Referring to nationalist and Nazi hate groups that assembled to protest the removal of a statue of Robert E. Lee from a park, Trump said that “not all of those people were neo-Nazis, believe me. Not all of those people were white supremacists by any stretch. [They] were there to protest the taking down of the statue of Robert E. Lee. And this week [it’s] Stonewall Jackson. Is it George Washington next week? And is it Thomas Jefferson the week after? You have to ask yourself, where does it stop?”

Trump on Charlottesville: “I think there’s blame on both sides, and I have no doubt about it, & you don’t have any doubt about it either.” pic.twitter.com/ivagWbsofC

— CBS News (@CBSNews) August 15, 2017

You can’t tell anything from a trailer, of course, but I’m feeling a wee bit concerned about Aaron Sorkin‘s Molly’s Game (STX, 11.22). Just a bit. The dialogue feels a little too hammerish and rat-a-tat-tat, and the narration feels a little too rushed and on-the-nose. Visuals and dialogue should tell the story, and the narration should provide…what, some kind of inner dialogue, ironic counterpoint, after-the-fact meditation? Jessica Chastain‘s eye makeup looks too heavy here and there. Michael Cera portrays “Player X” — i.e., Tobey Maguire. You can sense that Idris Elba might steal this thing, and that Kevin Costner (as Chastain’s dad) will steady things emotionally. Roughly a month from now Molly’s Game will face the music in Toronto.

From a guy who’s seen Molly’s Game: “Your feeling is wrong, unless you don’t like Sorkin.” My reply: “Sure, I like Sorkin. Usually. Glad to hear it.”