Nobody cares about In The Heights any more, but if they did there’d be one more thing for wokesters to gripe about.

The last grenade thrown at Jon Chu and Lin-Manuel Miranda‘s musical (a mostly faithful adaptation of LMM’s 2005 stage musical) was the colorism thing — the film had ignored the presence of Afro-Latinos in Washington Heights and therefore was, after a fashion, guilty of a form of discrimination — i.e., colorism.

I never saw the stage play but a friend of Jordan Ruimy‘s did, and he reports that the film version “cut the plot line about Kevin Rosario, the Puerto Rican dad” — Jimmy Smits in the film — “not wanting his daughter Nina to date Benny” over an ethnic disparity issue. (In the film Nina and Benny are played by Leslie Grace and Corey Hawkins.)

A blunt way of explaining Kevin’s “ethnic disparity” problem is that he doesn’t want his daughter dating a guy who isn’t from their tribe and who doesn’t speak Spanish. A blunter way of putting it is that Kevin may have a problem with his daughter dating a black dude,.

Here’s a portion of the Act 2 play synopsis from Wikipedia’s In The Heights page:

“Nina and Benny spend the night together in Benny’s apartment as Kevin frantically searches for her all night; Benny worries about what Kevin will say about their relationship but is happy to finally be with her (‘Sunrise’). Nina eventually returns home to find her parents worried sick about her, and Kevin grows furious when he learns she was with Benny, disapproving of their relationship due to Benny not being Latino.”

A 6.10.21 Elle piece by Madison Feller discussed several differences between the stage and film versions. Feller didn’t mention Kevin’s problem with Benny in the stage version.

Earlier today I spent a few hours reading this and that portion of Quentin Tarantino‘s “Once Upon A Time in Hollywood” paperback. I have to say that I relished almost all of it.

QT’s prose isn’t quite on the level of the great Elmore Leonard, but it reads straight and clean and without a hint of hesitance or snazziness for its own sake. Page by page it doesn’t fuck around, and delivers all kinds of ripe flavor and embroidery in terms of the various characters and their backstories, and overall you just fly through the chapters.

The book, which I bought last night at the New Beverly for $11 and change, is somewhat “better” than the film, to be honest, and the more I read the more I wished that OUATIH had become a ten-part Netflix series, using each and every line in this 400-page novel. Just go for it…just sprawl it all the fuck out.

I was especially taken with a two-page scene between a red-kimono-wearing, half-bombed Rick Dalton and the real Steve McQueen, the latter sitting behind the wheel of his car outside the gate to the Polanski-Tate home and kind of half-dismissing Dalton but at the same time half-listening to him. Then they reminisce how they once played three pool games (okay, two and a half) at Barney’s Beanery back in ’62.

Not in the movie, of course…

I also love a chapter called “The Twinkie Truck” (pgs. 156 to 175). It’s mostly about the adventures, ambitions and psychology of one Charles Manson, who really wanted to be a rich and famous rock star and knew deep down that all of his spiritual guru sermons and posturings were more or less a bullshit side activity.

This is real-deal history according to QT and common knowledge, and it’s fascinating to consider some of the particulars about Manson’s interactions with Dennis Wilson, Terry Melcher, Candice Bergen and Mark Lindsay, and how one night Manson even jammed with Neil Young.

There’s another chapter called “Misadventure”, and it basically focuses on Cliff Booth‘s half-accidental murder of his needling, boozy wife, Billie, with a “shark” gun (whatever the hell that is) and the ins and outs of that episode. Again, you’re asking yourself “why wasn’t some of this material used in the film, and if it couldn’t fit why didn’t Tarantino shoot it anyway and create a 10-hour version down the road?”

Excerpt: “No one really knew for sure if Cliff shot her on purpose. It could have been just a tragic mishandling of diving equipment, which is what Cliff always claimed. But anyone who had ever seen a drunken Billie Booth berate Cliff in public in front of his colleagues didn’t buy that.

“How did Cliff get away with it? Easy — his story was plausible and it couldn’t be disproven. Cliff felt real bad about what he did to Billie. But it never occured to him not to try and get away with murder.”

Excerpt #2, pg. 167, focusing on Sharon Tate: “She liked the bubble-gum hits she heard on KHJ. She liked that song ‘Yummy Yummy Yummy’ and the follow-up song by the same group, ‘Chewy Chewy.’ She liked Bobby Sherman and that ‘Julie’ song. She loved that ‘Snoopy vs. The Red Baron’ song.

Hollywood Reporter columnist Scott Feinberg has never been one to let grass grow under his feet. The 2021 Cannes Film Festival starts the day after tomorrow — Tuesday, July 6 — and Scott is already shufflin’ up and down the Croisette. That’s because he’s fast on his feet and his middle name is Hopper — hip-hop, hip-hop, hippity-hop, hippity-hop, hippity-hoppity, hippity-hoppity, etc.

If it was my show I’d still be in Paris, man…strollin’ around Montparnasse and through the Jardin du Luxembourg and maybe over to Passy (the Last Tango in Paris building!) and the non-touristy parts of Montmartre, etc. And I’d be there tomorrow (7.5) also, and then I’d catch the Paris-to-Cannes train on Tuesday (7.6) at 7:15 am.

Incidentally: Always pan slowly, and sometimes it works better if you don’t pan at all. Go with a series of static tableaus, blending one into the other.

Back covering Cannes for the 1st time in 8 years! Last time: GATSBY, FRUITVALE & NEBRASKA; Harvey, Toback & Franco; breakouts JLaw & MBJ; legends Redford & Riva. This time: COVID tests/masks; Spike; a lineup with Damon, Cotillard, Baker, Kousmanen & Farhadi; that same great view. pic.twitter.com/Wx0U8sMxam

— Scott Feinberg (@ScottFeinberg) July 4, 2021

HE Plus, 6.29.19: There’s a great Charles Bukowski line from one of his short story volumes, a line about how good it feels and how beautiful the world seems when you get out of jail. I can confirm that. Not only does the world look and feel like the friendliest and gentlest place you could possibly experience, but it smells wonderful — food stands, car exhaust, sea air, asphalt, window cleaner, green lawns, garbage dumpsters. Compared to the well-scrubbed but nonetheless stinky aroma of the L.A. County Jail, I mean.

I did three or four days in L.A. County in the ’70s for unpaid parking tickets. Remember that Cary Grant line in North by Northwest about the cops chasing him for “seven parking tickets”? Well, I went to jail for not paying the fines on 27 of the damn things. That’s right — 27. I had a half-arrogant, half-cavalier attitude back then, to put it mildly. I didn’t agree with the idea of forking over hundreds in parking fines. The money they wanted was excessive, I felt, especially after the penalties increased after I didn’t pay in the first place.

One night after 9 pm I was driving west on Wilshire Boulevard, not too far from Bundy. I was pulled over for running a red light. They ran my plates and I was promptly cuffed and taken down to the West Los Angeles police station on Butler Avenue. The desk cops discovered my multiple offenses after doing a search, of course. They printed out copies of each arrest warrant for each “failure to pay fine.” I remember some laughter as the printer kept printing and printing and printing.

I was taken down to L.A. County later that night. It was just like what Dustin Hoffman went through in Straight Time. A shower, orange fatigues, bedding. I was put into a cell with three other guys. Being in close proximity to bald naked winos who smelled horrible…memories!

Over the next three or four days I was driven around to the various municipalities where I’d failed to put quarters into the meter — Santa Monica, Van Nuys, Malibu, Central Los Angeles. In each courtroom I was brought before a judge, listened to my offenses, pled “guilty, your honor” and was given a sentence of “time served.” I was released at the end of the fourth day.

It was an awful thing to go through, but I managed to eliminate a total debt of at least $2K (it might have closer to $2500) so when I got out I didn’t owe a thing to anyone. So in a sense I earned or was “paid” at least $500 a day.

I know enough about mingling with other lawbreakers to recognize the truth of a line that Hoffman’s Max Denbo said in Straight Time: “Outside it’s what you have in your pockets — inside it’s who you are.”

I remember spending several hours in a common-area holding cell with nine or ten guys. One flamboyantly gay guy was jabbering with everyone and discussing his life and values and colorful adventures. He talked a lot about how much he loved hitting his favorite bars in “Glitterwood” (i.e., West Hollywood). At one point he came over to me and flirted a bit…sorry.

There’s nothing like getting out of jail to make you feel like Jesus’ son. It reminds you what a wonderful and blessed place the world outside is, and what a sublime thing it can be to walk around free and do whatever you want within the usual boundaries, and how serene it can be to be smiled at by strangers in stores and restaurants. People you wouldn’t give a second thought to suddenly seem like good samaritans because of some act of casual kindness.

Jail doesn’t just teach you about yourself but about your immediate circle. “If you want to know who your friends are,” Bukowski once wrote, “get yourself a jail sentence.” Or do some time in a hospital bed.

I’ve eaten at Giorgio Baldi twice…no, three times. The first time was 10 or 11 years ago with Hurt Locker screenwriter Mark Boal (Zero Dark Thirty was years off at the time). Clint Eastwood and Sean Penn were sharing an indoor table. Three or four years later I ate there on my own dime, and then returned again in ’16 or thereabouts. It’s pricey but excellent. The Dover Sole is heavenly — moist and light, bursting with flavor, sprinkled with lime.

But I’ll tell you one thing. If I was rich or famous enough to have a security guy with me, and if he were to gently place his hand on my back as I stepped into the waiting SUV, I would probably stop and turn around and ask, “Why are you putting your hand on my back?”

Security: Sir?
HE: Why did you place your hand on my back as I was stepping into the car?
Security: We’re just here for you, sir. No issues.
HE: What are you trying to do, guide me into the car?
Security: Just an instinct, sir. We’re right behind you.
HE: I know you’re right behind me, but don’t touch me.
Security: Sorry.
HE: It’s okay. Just don’t do it.
Security: Okay. Understood.
HE: I’ve been stepping into SUVs all my life.
Security: Of course.
HE: I’m sure you’re a good man.
Security: I try to be.
HE: And you are.
Security: Yes sir.
HE: Okay, good.

Exactly what, I’m asking myself, will the great Jonah Hill have to say about the great Albert Brooks and his 1991 classic, Defending Your Life? Other than the usual hosannahs and platitudes, I mean — “This film means so much to me personally,” “Brooks is a genius” (which he is), “It’s so rare for a film to be funny and make you think and touch your heart at the same time,” etc. All of which are valid sentiments.

Defending Your Life basically asks viewers “how much of your life has been driven by fear and anxiety and cowardice, and how much of your life has been about truth and bravery and taking stabs at creativity and applying kindness rather than judgment…? We all conform as best we can because we want safety and security in our lives, but conforming too much will suffocate your soul…so where have you been putting most of your emphasis and energy?”

The one thing I didn’t like about Defending Your Life was its portrayal of Meryl Streep‘s “Julia” character –it seemed dishonest, or at the very least incomplete.

Brooks’ recently deceased “Daniel Miller” falls in love with Julia during his stay in Judgment City, which is a kind of purgatory for souls to be judged on their past lives, as they wait to see if their next phase of mortal incarnation will be a re-run or a step up the spiritual ladder. Daniel, we gradually learn, lived too much of his life in fear of this or that, and Julia, it seems, never had a fearful day in her life. She’s so perfect and gracious she’s almost suffocating. Nobody is that good.

11 years ago I riffed about films that have dealt with death in a “good” way: “The best death-meditation films impart a sense of tranquility or acceptance about what’s to come, which is what most of us go to films about death to receive, and what the best of these always seem to convey in some way.

“They usually do this by selling the idea of structure and continuity. They persuade that despite the universe being run on cold chance and mathematical indifference, each life has a particular task or fulfillment that needs to happen, and that by satisfying this requirement some connection to a grand scheme is revealed.

“You can call this a delusional wish-fulfillment scenario (and I won’t argue about that), but certain films have sold this idea in a way that simultaneously gives you the chills but also settles you down and makes you feel okay.

“Here’s a list of some top achievers in this realm. I’m not going to explain why they’re successful in conveying the above except to underline that it’s not just me talking here — these movies definitely impart a sense of benevolent order and a belief that the end of a life on the planet earth is but a passage into something else. I’ve listed them in order of preference, or by the standard of emotional persuasion.

“1. Martin Scorsese‘s The Last Temptation of Christ. 2. Stephen Frears‘ The Hit. 3. Brian Desmond Hurst‘s A Christmas Carol. 4. Warren Beatty and Buck Henry‘s Heaven Can Wait. 5. Henry King‘s Carousel (based on Ferenc Molnar‘s Lilliom). 6. Tim Burton‘s Beetlejuice. 6. Michael Powell‘s A Matter Of Life And Death, a.k.a. Stairway To Heaven. 7. Albert Brooks‘ Defending Your Life.

And if there’s a God, The Many Saints of Newark (Warner Bros./HBO Max, 10.1) will play at Telluride. You can tell it has character, texture…you can tell it’s an actual film made by and for people who are invested in Tri-State area mythology. And you can sense that ardent fans of this film will be…how to put this?…somewhat less enamored of Black Widow.

I can relate, by the way. I grew up (painfully) in New Jersey, and I didn’t apply myself in high school either.

Posted on 12.19.19:

Black Widow (Disney, 7.9) has been screened for the usual salivating suspects, including your MCU fanboys and fangirls. I’ll bet $10K that their reactions are, for the most part, completely without meaning or resonance or trust. At 134 minutes it’s almost certainly going to be a form of punishment for anyone who isn’t a Marvel cultist, especially given that it’s half an origin story — a form of imprisonment in itself. A significant (large?) percentage of critics will default with positive reviews due to the gender representation factor (Scarlet Johansson, Florence Pugh, Cate Shortland directing). But you know what’s coming. Almost certainly a burn, completely negligible, etc. I’m not looking forward to sitting through two hours and 14 minutes of this — what reasonable person of taste would be? Plus Natasha Romanoff has left this mortal coil. Yes, of course — death is an utterly meaningless concept within the MCU, but I saw Endgame…