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In November 1985, a dead black bear was discovered in Chattahoochee National Forest. Nearby was a torn-open duffel bag that had apparently contained 75 pounds of Bolivian marching powder, and which had apparently fallen out of a smuggler’s plane. (Flown by Tom Cruise’s Barry Seal?) The clueless bear had eaten a good portion of the coke and overdosed.

The guy who found the bear’s ruined body didn’t alert authorities (one guess why) and it wasn’t until 12.20.85 when authorities discovered the carcass. A medical examiner at the Georgia State Crime Lab said that that the bear’s stomach was “literally packed to the brim with cocaine.”

Elizabeth Banks has directed a “character-driven thriller” about the poor bear’s misfortune as well as, one presumes, certain humans who quickly developed an interest in the free cocaine. It’s called Cocaine Bear (Universal, 2.24.23). The film costars Keri Russell, O’Shea Jackson Jr., Alden Ehrenreich, Jesse Tyler Ferguson and the late Ray Liotta.

The title alone suggests that Banks and her producers see the story as an opportunity for bear thrills, or at least partly that.

The body of this poor, poisoned animal eventually found its way to a taxidermist, and is now on display inside the Kentucky for Kentucky Fun Mall (720 Bryan Ave., Lexington, Kentucky). There’s a sign around the bear’s neck that refers to him as “Pablo Escobear.”

In short Kentucky bumblefucks regard the idea of a furry beast dying of a cocaine overdose as a hoot.

HE to Banks and Universal marketing: HE believes that the death of an innocent animal who died of cocaine ingestion is not in itself an opportunity to do “funny” or “thrilling”. It sounds to me like a metaphorical tale about our casual greed and cruelty and indifference to the natural order of things — about the fact that forest animals have a certain nobility while we have none.

If Robert Bresson was still around and Universal had hired him instead of Banks, the film would be called Au hasard, Cocaine Bear — the sad story of a saintly bear who died because he was unlucky enough to cross paths with a duffel bag full of blow.

What kind of evil mind would listen to this story and go, “Whoa, great idea for a fun, goofy movie…a bear with a cocaine problem! Whoo-hoo!”

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Early last March I reviewed Neil Labute‘s House of Darkness, which had its big debut at the 2022 Santa Barbara Film Festival.

“House of Darkness isn’t that bad,” I wrote. “Creepy, diverting, socially thoughtful — altogether a half-decent sit.”

I described it as “an elevated horror film that uses (borrows?) themes and situations from Promising Young Woman and Midsommar.”

I added that “when it opens, House of Darkness, which costars Kate Bosworth and Justin Long, will probably be attacked as a metaphorical woman-hating horror film. Or a man-hating #MeToo horror film. Or something like that.

“It’s definitely trafficking in social metaphor — #MeToo and #TimesUp and others in the women’s progressive movement looking to bring pain and terror to the male jerks of the world.

“I don’t think House of Darkness does anything phenomenal. All it does is apply the basic LaBute attitude software to Promising Young Midsommar.”

The trailer tries to sell House of Darkness as a reimagining of the classic Dracula tale….except it isn’t. (It’s much more interesting than what that suggests.) The ostensible distributor or at least the producer is Dark House Films, Inc.

… but at the same time I wouldn’t call it a good one. Because it suggests that Volodymir and Olena Zelensky have social aspirations. Which they’re allowed to have, of course, but it doesn’t feel right. Not in the midst of so much death and devastation. A bit unseemly.

You can feel the warmth…it’s there. And I love Alexandre Desplat‘s score, and the voice of Ewan McGregor giving life and spirit to Jiminy Cricket.

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There’s a vague physical resemblance between the glistening, shimmering Marilyn Monroe of 60 and 70 years ago and the exquisitely coiffed, gowned and made-up Ana de Armas, even though the latter doesn’t really “look” like Norma Jean Baker, an unloved and abused daughter of average Midwestern Anglo-Saxon parents. Ana looks like a beautiful Cuban-born actress trying to do her best and mostly pulling it off, which is fine as far as it goes. Here’s hoping that Blonde, directed by Andrew Dominik and expected to be a difficult sit in some respects, shows up at Telluride after debuting in Venice.

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Another discussion stirred by Ethan Hawke‘s The Last Movie Stars…, and especially by Paul Schrader‘s observations about Hud…

HE to Schrader: “Your observation is 100% spot-on, but the kicker in Hud is the ending — when Newman, the last one in the house, pops open a beer, strolls over to the kitchen door, gazes at the departing Brandon de Wilde, reflects for seven or eight seconds, and then delivers that cynical ‘fuck it and to hell with it’ gesture…that‘s what sunk in, what altered the American male identity from 1963 onward, at least as far as movies were concerned.”

Newman: “‘We thought [the] last thing people would do was accept Hud as a heroic character. His amorality just went over [the audience’s] head — all they saw was this western, heroic individual.’”

HE to Newman: “They saw the amorality, of course, but they still liked Hud’s irreverence, rogue swagger and cocksure fuck-all attitude…his general disdain for old conservative values. And they liked that all those women, married and single, went to bed with him.”

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And therefore it’s finally recognized, a decade after the fact and to the voting Academy’s eternal shame, that the 2011 Best Picture Oscar shouldn’t have gone to The Fucking Artist With a Cute Little Dog but to Bennett Miller‘s wise, seasoned and spiritually humming sports saga, Moneyball.

I knew the truth of things back then, but the mob was in love with Michel Hazanavicius’ black-and-white gimmick film and there was no talking them out of it.

Moneyball, Alexander Payne‘s The Descendants and Woody Allen‘s Midnight in Paris are the only 2011 Best Pic nominees that have stood the test of time. The Artist sure as hell hasn’t. And Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Help, Hugo, The Tree of Life, War Horse…no need to re-bash but they weren’t good enough.

The bear-like, Brooklyn-born, large-of-spirit Paul Sorvino has passed at age of 83. I ran into Sorvino at the Westport Country Playhouse tavern in ’77 or ’78, and what an aura…he was probably a little bombed but full of feeling and come-what-may passion…I smiled and patted Sorvino on the shoulder in a brotherly way and said “Yo, The Gambler!” and he went “oohhhh, yeah, yeah.” I was referring to Hips, the loan shark in Karel Riesz and James Toback‘s 1974 film, and that moment when he tells a deadbeat gambler who owes more than he has “you worthless contemptible deadbeat motherfucking dog…die!” Yes, his defining performance is Paul Cicero in Goodfellas (“Now I gotta turn my back”) but let’s not forget his performances in The Day of the Dolphin, Bloodbrothers, The Brink’s Job, Cruising, Reds (Louis Fraina!), That Championship Season (Phil Romano!), Dick Tracy (‘Lips’ Manlis!), The Firm (Tommie Morolto!), Nixon (Henry Kissinger!), and Bulworth.

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HE to Tar director-screenwriter-producer Todd Field:

“That Tar teaser I just watched is one of the best movie teasers I’ve ever seen IN MY FUCKING LIFE…no lie, straight cards, on my knees.

“It’s so good that I wonder if or how the film itself can live up to the promise, but let’s be optimistic and presume as much. But it really is the shit, man…I LOVE THIS EARTH-SHAKING TEASER.

“I fully expect to see Tar in Telluride…caaannn’t wait.”

Posted on 9.17.21:

During a CinemaCon 2022 presentation, Olivia Wilde said that Don’t Worry, Darling (Warner Bros., 9.23) had been inspired by Inception, The Matrix and The Truman Show. To that I would add Don Siegel‘s Invasion of the Body Snatchers (’56), Martin Ritt‘s No Down Payment (’57) and Bryan Forbes‘ The Stepford Wives (’75).

Eight words: The white guys are up to no good.

The second video captures Wilde’s presentation of the Don’t Worry, Darling trailer at CinemaCon in Las Vegas on Tuesday, 4.26.22, and of course the moment when she was served custody papers by lawyers representing ex-fiance Jason Sudeikis. Wilde and Sudeikis have two kids. They split up over Wilde’s affair with Don’t Worry, Darling star Harry Styles, which reportedly began sometime in October 2020. Wilde and Styles are still together.

Before moving into Graceland in the spring of ’57, Elvis Presley and his mom and dad (Gladys, Vernon) lived in eight Memphis residences, starting with their initial arrival in November 1948.

Here are the eight addresses, all linked to Google Maps:

1. 370 Washington Ave. (11/48 through early summer of 1949 — $11/weekly rental.)

2. 572 Poplar Avenue, just a block north of 370 Washington.

3. Lauderdale Courts apartments, 185 Winchester Street (9 blocks north of Beale Street) — a two-bedroom, first-floor apartment, #328, for $35 a month. September ’49 to January ’53.

4. A brief stay at 698 Saffarans Ave.

5. 462 Alabama Ave., moved in April 1953.

6. They moved to 2414 Lamar Avenue in 1954 — the year when things began to happen for Elvis.

7. In late 1955 they moved into a slightly nicer home at 1414 Getwell Road.

8. In March 1956, two months after Elvis struck it rich with sales of “Heartbreak Hotel”, they all moved into a spacious ranch-style home at 1034 Audubon Drive.