We’ve already contemplated Ryan Gosling‘s grimy, haunted protagonist (i.e., LAPD Officer K) and the return of Harrison Ford‘s Rick Deckard. And we’ve absorbed the dusty mustard colors and neorish neon vistas. The fresh standouts are Jared Leto as the new version of Joe Turkel‘s Dr. Eldon Tyrell (i.e., a replicant manufacturer called Wallace) and Ana de Armas as Joi — i.e., the new Sean Young. Other costars include Robin Wright, Mackenzie Davis, Carla Juri, Lennie James and Dave “big fucking ape” Bautista. Blade Runner 2049 opens on 10.6. I intend to see it in 2D.

I was, like, floored by Kate McKinnon‘s dead-on inhabiting of Mika Brzezinski during last night’s SNL. Her sentence fragments and strangled gestures while Alex Moffat‘s Joe Scarborough explained the topic du jour, the looks of eye-rolling indignation, the stifled swordplay…perfect. Easily McKinnon’s most on-target bit since Hillary Clinton, and her biggest touchdown since stealing the Ghostbusters reboot.

I didn’t dislike Ridley Scott‘s Alien: Covenant — I hated it. And I’m not saying that out of some lazy-wrath instinct or pissy posturing or what-have-you. I’m talking about serious stomach-acid sensations here. Then again I mostly despised Prometheus so it didn’t take a great deal of effort to come to this.

If Prometheus rang your hate bell, you’re going to despise this one also. For Alien: Covenant, which runs 121 minutes but feels like 150, is truly a spawn of that awful 2012 film. Is it “better” than Prometheus? All right, yeah, I suppose it is. Is it therefore worth seeing? Maybe, but only if you like watching films that make you resent everything on the face of the planet including yourself.

I’m not going to tap out the usual story, character and actor rundown. All you need to know is that I didn’t give a damn about any of Alien: Covenant. Nothing. I was muttering “Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou” the whole time. Ten minutes in I was going “awww, Jesus…this already feels sloppy and reachy.” Of course it has a back-burster scene. Of course it was thrown in to compete with the John Hurt chest-fever scene in the original. All I could think was “the Hurt version was set up so much better, and delivered so much more…this is just Scott hanging wallpaper.”

I hit the bathroom during the the last ten minutes. You never do this if a movie has you in its grip, but I didn’t care.

Scott’s Alien (’79) had clarity, integrity — it was simple and managable, and it didn’t make you feel as if you had hornets in your brain. Best of all it didn’t explain anything in terms of backstory or motivation. The original Alien space jockey (I will love that elephant trunk and split-open ribcage for the rest of my life) was wonderful because there was no explanation about what had happened or why. It was delightful for what it didn’t explain.

Alien: Covenant is detestable for the exact opposite reason — for all the boring and tedious backstory gruel (i.e., all in service of explaining Michael Fassbender‘s malignant creationism) that it explains and clarifies, and then elaborates upon.

The Telegraph‘s Robbie Colin, who loves this fucking thing and cheers the fact that it’s “a million miles from the crowd-pleasing Alien retread 20th Century Fox [execs] have presumably been begging Scott to make,” calls it proof of Scott “operating at the peak of his powers.”

To me Alien: Covenant is a portrait of Scott as a giver of corporate neckrubs. And it grieves me to say this about the director of The Counselor, which I not only worshipped but which will probably turn out to be Scott’s last brilliant, hard-as-nails, close-to-flawless film.

How many years did the DeMille (formerly the Mayfair) use that massive, two-walled, wrap-around billboard at the corner of Seventh Ave. and 47th Street? The Mayfair began in October 1930 and continued for nearly three decades. It became the DeMille Theatre when roadshow, reserved-seat flicks played there during the early ’60’s (Spartacus, The Cardinal, Barabbas, The Fall of the Roman Empire, Hawaii). So how many films were gigantisized? At least 150 or so, but I’ve only been able to find eight or nine decent shots in all my internet searches, which I’ve been doing for the last decade or so. It’s a shame. If I could get my hands on two or three dozen I’d create an HE sub-site that would be about nothing else.

For some reason I can’t seem to recall the name of David Michod and Brad Pitt‘s War…the second word won’t come. Not War Games, not War Dogs…what is it again? War Machine. For whatever reason it won’t settle in my head. Pitt’s white hair sticks. The Afghanistan part sticks. Looking forward to getting past this. The word on the street is that it’s “Strangelove-ian.” To me that means broadly funny but in a way that’s (a) dryly matter-of-fact and yet (b) perverse.

Brad Pitt as Gen. Glen McMahon, a character more or less based on General Stanley McChrystal.

I don’t see a beastly figure in the bathroom mirror. I see a healthy, relatively trim, moderately attractive hombre who bears…well, a certain resemblance to the guy I used to be. (Last night Glenn Kenny tweeted that I had marionette hair — a resentful observation if I ever heard one.) But whatever limited solace or comfort I get from my reflection, it all vanishes when someone snaps a photo. Once in a blue moon I’ll be okay with an iPhone image of myself, but the ratio of “oh my God, please delete that” to acceptable or semi-acceptable (from my perspective) is about 75 to 1.

Myself and the SRO, snapped sometime in March. Mask was bought in Venice, and in the same shop that supplied Stanley Kubrick with all his gargoyle masks for that orgy scene in Eyes Wide Shut.

For years I’ve been moaning and groaning about the James Gray cabal — a fraternity of elite critics, cultureburg foo-foos and film festival staffers who’ve sworn by Gray‘s films for years, and for reasons that to me have always seemed thin or specious. It’s not Gray’s films that have gotten in my craw as much as the constant overpraise.

James Gray (safari hat, beard, earphones) directing The Lost City of Z with Charlie Hunnam. Why isn’t Gray rocking the short sleeve T-shirted look that the crew guy is wearing? He looks like a tourist who’s been asked to step off the Jungle Safari boat in Disneyland, especially with that fanny pack and those long khaki sleeves. If you’re going to wear a safari hat you need to go cowboy style (i.e., Dennis Hopper in Apocalypse Now). And if not that, a standard-issue director’s baseball cap.

I was actually okay with (i.e., not disturbed or offended by) Gray’s New York-centric films for nearly 20 years — Little Odessa, The Yards, We Own The Night, Two Lovers and Blood Ties (a fraternal crime thriller written by Gray but directed by Guillaume Canet).

But The Immigrant was mostly a drag (“A well-made, respectably authentic period drama, but the pace is slow and the story ho-hums…I must have looked at my watch six or seven times”) and The Lost City Of Z was, I felt, all but impossible. I wanted to escape less than 30 minutes in but I was with a paying audience at Alice Tully Hall and felt I had to stick it out. It was hell.

Yesterday MCN’s David Poland filed a piece largely in league with my views, not just about his frustrations with Gray but also the cabal.

Excerpt #1: “I don’t get it. And now, six features into James Gray’s directing career, I think I am done apologizing for it. My experience of Gray’s films has been, consistently, ‘great acting…why doesn’t the story work?’ And yet, some of the smartest critics I know are true devotees of everything Gray does. They must be hip to something that I’m not seeing, right?”

I place a lot more trust in Jeff Sneider‘s snap judgment on Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 2 (Disney, 5.5.) than all the Marvel-fellating twitter whores combined. Do you think it’s some kind of ringing endorsement when Indiewire‘s Eric Kohn says it plays “exactly as advertised”? He’s calling it Marvel assembly-line flotsam. You have to expect a certain amount of spurious reactions from attention-seeking trolls, but you can’t dismiss Kohn and Sneider.

Ralph Bellamy (speaking to Lee Marvin about Burt Lancaster in Act One of The Professionals): “But is he trustworthy? Can he be relied upon?” Marvin: “I trust him.”

How did Luke Skywalker, whose voice was so chirpy and Tom Sawyer-ish when young, manage to grow this raspy, grizzled sound without drinking Jack Daniels and smoking unfiltered Gitanes for 40 years? I think I’m done with Skellig Michael, no offense — too many shots of those green craggy cliffs. Rey and Luke in training. “What do you see?” Luke asks. “Light…darkness..the same old visionary Jedi mumbo jumbo razmatazz.” Luke’s kicker: “It’s time for the Jedi…to end.” Meaning exactly what, asshole? You can’t arbitrarily “end” a fraternity of souls with the ability to harness wondrous magical energy that always was and will be. Same old running, jumping and standing still. Same old hundreds of spacecraft swarming through the heavens in close proximity. Same old explosions. Same old Disney paycheck motivations. I’m down with Oscar Isaac’s Poe Dameron, but The Force Awakens told us that there’s no reason whatsoever for Adam Driver‘s Kylo Ren to wear a Vader-like mask…none!

Reminder: All serious filmmakers understand that they’re prohibited from using one of those “abrupt shocking wakeup followed by hyperventilating” moments. Just as they’re forbidden to use a “lead actor in CG-driven action-fantasy film does swan dive off a skyscraper or a tall cliff” shot.

There’s no question that Luca Guadagnino‘s Call Me By Your Name (Sony Pictures Classics, 11.24), which premiered two and a half months ago at Sundance and then screened at the Berlinale, will be regarded as a major Best Picture contender once the 2017 award season begins around Labor Day.

But how aggressively will SPC push it, especially given the fact that Call Me By Your Name appears to have an excellent shot at reaping nominations in several categories. Should they perhaps consider breaking tradition by working with a major-league Oscar strategist? Seems warranted.

SPC is renowned for supporting their award-calibre films in a committed, dutiful fashion. But they’ve never gone “full Harvey” when it comes to this or that contender. They never seem to really pull out all the stops, being frugal-minded to begin with (as all good businesspersons must be) and having long ago adopted a “favored nations” philosophy — equal treatment across the board — when it comes to award-season promotions.

By this standard SPC would this year be plugging Happy End, their Michael Haneke drama that will probably debut next month in Cannes, and the sexually repressed period drama Novitiate with as much fervor as Call Me By Your Name.

But Call Me By Your Name is different. It’s a moving, brilliantly composed, once-in-a decade relationship film that has 100% and 98% ratings on Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic, respectively. And it could easily become a leading contender in five or six or even more categories. Here’s one of my rave posts from last January; here’s another.

Definitely Best Picture and Best Director, a shot at some Best Actor action for young Timothy Chalumee, a Best Adapted Screenplay nom (Guadagnino, James Ivory, Walter Fasano), and WITHOUT QUESTION a Best Supporting Actor nom for Michael Stuhlbarg for that last scene alone.

Not to mention Best Cinematography, Production Design, and maybe even a Best Original Song nom for Sufjan Stevens.

What female villains have you completely believed in, and why? I could go on and on about my faves, but the key element is that you believed they weren’t just “playing” villainy but living in caves of their own choosing or creation.

In no particular order: Barbara Stanwyck‘s Phyllis Dietrichson in Double Indemnity, Meryl Streep‘s Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, Jane Greer‘s Kathy Moffet in Out of the Past, Margaret Hamilton‘s Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz, Kathy Bates‘ Annie Wilkes in Misery, Louise Fletcher‘s Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, Sharon Stone‘s Catherine Trammell in Basic Instinct, Bette Davis‘s Baby Jane Hudson in Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?, etc.

I didn’t believe in Margot Robbie‘s Harley Quinn (Suicide Squad) at all. Her performance was all about extreme-playdough mannerisms, posturing, makeup and wardrobe. All I believed was that Robbie had been hired because she’s hot.

I’ll tell you who I believed in 110% — Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. The capsule definition of Alex Forrest was that of a manic, lion-haired feminist banshee who tried to leverage a single night of mad, passionate sex with Michael Douglas into a knife or a bomb that would detonate his marriage. But I didn’t really believe in that — that’s what the research-screening audiences saw. What I believed in was Alex’s instability and emotional desperation, and that made her scary. The scariest thing she said was “I won’t be ignored, Dan!”