There are two…well, one head-turning takeaway from Scott Feinberg’s 3.12 Kim Novak interview (audio + transcript) in the Hollywood Reporter. Plus there’s a vague refutation of a rumor about Novak having been Bill Cosby-ed by Tony Curtis during a late-night party in November 1957. Plus an interesting inference or two.

One, Novak’s fabled interracial “affair” with Sammy Davis, Jr. in late 1957, which was chronicled in a September 2013 Vanity Fair piece by Sam Kashner and discussed in an August 2017 Smithsonian article by Joy Lanzendorfer, wasn’t actually sexual**.

Lanzendorfer reported this on 8.9.17, Novak reportedly repeated the claim to Larry King in 2004, and she says it again to Feinberg in the current THR piece — no salami and, the article indicates, perhaps a hint of stalking on Davis’s part.

Vanity Fair art for Sam Kashner’s September 2013 article about the brief Novak-Davis alliance.

Novak tells Feinberg that her much-whispered-about relationship with Davis had more to do with (a) Davis aggressively pursuing Novak — inviting her to join him for a Thanksgiving dinner with his parents in Los Angeles in late November 1957, and then surprising her by showing up when she invited him out of politeness to a family Christmas gathering in Chicago a month later, and (b) Novak not wanting to discourage Davis out of concern that a racial motive might be inferred if she flat-out rejected his advances.

Feinberg’s article also contains a between-the-lines inference that while Tony Curtis may have slipped Novak a Mickey Finn during a late-night after party at his Beverly Hills home (which he shared with then-wife Janet Leigh), Davis may have been “in on it” and perhaps was the guy who drove Novak back to her home, where she woke up in her bed stark naked the next morning, not having the slightest clue what had happened.

Feinberg excerpt: “One day, Novak left Paramount studios — still in her [Judy Barton] wig and green gown from Vertigo — to attend a charity dinner, where Tony Curtis invited her to an afterparty at the home he shared with Janet Leigh. Hearing that [director Richard] Quine would be there, she said yes.

“When she arrived, Quine [with whom Novak was involved to some extent] wasn’t there. But Davis was, and he offered to help her take off her wig.

“‘By the time he got it off,’ Novak recalls, ‘Tony Curtis had brought me a drink. I don’t know…I only had, I think, one drink there. But that’s the last thing I knew. I do not know anything afterward, cross my heart, hope to die. Don’t know what happened after that or how my car got back in front of my apartment.”

“Does Novak think someone spiked her drink? ‘I really do,’ she said. “I didn’t think of it then because people didn’t talk about things like that, but I could never figure it out…I’ve never blacked out in my entire life.’

“She adds, ‘I think Tony Curtis did it. I don’t want to think Sammy did that.’ And when she awoke the following morning? ‘I’ll just tell you the honest truth: I didn’t have my clothes on.'”

The “tell” is Novak saying “I don’t want to think Sammy did that.”

Journo pally #1: “A bad omen for Cannes.” Journo pally #2: “France is a shitshow right now. There are protests every day for President Macron to reopen businesses.”

From 3.7 article by the Guardian‘s Kim Willsher: “Disinformation, distrust and rumors that are downright bonkers have turned what should have been a fairly routine operation into an organizational nightmare. Doctors like mine who have been allocated just 10 doses of AstraZeneca a week – all of which have to be administered in a 48-hour time frame — are spending valuable time and energy trying to drum up just 10 willing patients.

“The reasons for French vaccine scepticism have already been well documented: previous health scandals have sown doubts; the French distrust their politicians and Big Pharma and rail against being told what to do. President Macron’s ill-advised trashing of the AstraZeneca vaccine based on erroneous interpretation of the scientific data didn’t help.”

From “Europe Confronts a Covid-19 Rebound as Vaccine Hiopes Recde,” a 3.12.21 Wall Street Journal story by Marcus Walker, Bertrand Benoit and Stacy Meichtry:

“The European Union’s fight against Covid-19 is stuck in midwinter, even as spring and vaccinations spur hope of improvement in the U.S. and U.K.

“Contagion is rising again in much of the EU, despite months of restrictions on daily life, as more-virulent virus strains outpace vaccinations. A mood of gloom and frustration is settling on the continent, and governments are caught between their promises of progress and the bleak epidemiological reality.”

Once in a great while, a film will deliver a closing-credits theme song that is so off-the-mark that it almost destroys the emotional mood of the film that preceded it.

I’m talking about a film that has carefully and strenuously tried to make the audience feel a particular, hard-won thing, and then a stupid end-credits song comes along and pretty much betrays that effort.

I’m talking about bouncy, upbeat melodies that producers have inserted in order to persuade prospective audiences that the film is some kind of rousing, feel-good experience.

Delbert Mann and Paddy Chayefsky‘s Marty ends happily, of course, but mostly this mid ’50s Brooklyn drama is a serving of downmarket, anti-glam realism. It’s mainly a study of people struggling with ennui, boredom and watching their lives slowly turn to salt. IMHO the “Hey, Marty!” song at the very end is an abomination.

Daryl F. Zanuck‘s The Longest Day, a 178-minute epic about the D-Day invasion of 6.6.44, is a battle-and-adventure flick. The idea was to deliver thrilling feats of daring, valor and aggression on the part of Allied invaders without pelting the audience with too much blood or gore. Saving Private Ryan, it wasn’t. 4,414 Allied soldiers were killed that day; 2,000 died on Omaha Beach alone. Yes, the film ignores the body count while emphasizing the “we can do it!” spirit, but I wouldn’t say it plays like an Allied forces pep rally. Until, that is, the awful Paul Anka song that closes the film (the banal lyrics were sung by the Mitch Miller singers) is heard. I’ve no doubt that veterans of the actual invasion were appalled by it.

I’ve never forgotten how perfectly handled the ending of Titanic was, and how Celine Dion‘s “My Heart Will Go On” (music and lyrics by James Horner and Will Jennings) completely ruined the after-vibe. The closing-credits song should have been an Irish tune of some kind, something that alluded to the thousands of men who built the ship at the Harland and Wolff yard in Belfast. Instead audiences were yanked out of 1912 and thrown into a saccharine pop-music girly realm. Yes, the song was hugely popular and that millions still associate it with Titanic‘s emotional current. But the last 20 minutes of James Cameron‘s film were so much richer and deeper than anything summoned by Dion’s singing…it just makes me sick to think of it.

Other ending-credit songs that damaged or diluted the films they were composed for?

Friendo: I just watched this remarkable conversation again, taped on 5.11.68. Portions of it sound like it happened last night.

HE: Yeah, “portions.” Brando suggested that everyone should donate 1% of their incomes to MLK’s organization — an idea that melted the second it passed his lips. Like many superstars Brando was living in his own world. Compassionate and kind-hearted and far-sighted but at the same time isolated, pie in the sky, affluent indulgence, Tahiti man.

Why, incidentally, is this in black and white? The Tonight Show began broadcasting in color in September 1960.

If a 96 year-old Brando was somehow still with us, he would probably be seen more for his historic failings and foibles than his views on racism, and even if he was respected by Millennials and Zoomers he’d certainly be no fan of cancel culture fanaticism. Marlon might’ve even become a regular HE commenter. His handle could’ve been “budomaha” or “Jor-El.”

The May ‘68 reality was a full worldwide tilt (convulsive Paris protests, Prague spring, spillover from January’s Tet offensive in Vietnam, “Jumpin’ Jack Flash“, LBJ dropping out) and driven by Herbert Marcuse, Howard Zinn, the expanding psychedelic Beatles brand and the exposing of Sexy Sadie, the New Left, the wonderful abundance of cheap pot and LSD, great music and nonstop libertine celebrations. The US was engulfed that year by upheaval, confrontations, anti-war demos, urban riots, SDS, burning cities, RFK’s murder…’68 was the most tumultuous year of the 20th Century.

And what did it all produce in the end? Middle-class horror and a conservative pushback, the election of Nixon and the creation of anti-left domestic operations, the murder of Fred Hampton and a prolonging of the war until the final US withdrawal in April ‘75.

Brando obviously believed in civic consciousness and doing the right thing, but his personal life was mainly (to go by Peter Manso) about whims and urges and appetites. His career had been downswirling since Mutiny on the Bounty. He reignited in ‘72 and ‘73 with The Godfather and Last Tango. Then he went down again. He looked pretty good in ‘68 but by the mid ‘70s he’d became an irrevocably rotund Buddha figure — a prisoner of late-night ice cream raids, driven on some level by self-loathing.

But yes, certainly, of course…sitting on Johnny Carson’s couch that night he sounded clear-eyed and morally righteous and ahead of the curve.

Friendo: And then the assassination of Bobby Kennedy a month later. But what’s interesting here is the noncontroversial Carson drinking the Kool-Aid, which was huge and also a risk for him as the King of Late Night, appealing as he was to his core conservative audience of golf-playing, plaid-pants-wearing milquetoast breadwinners and their Susie Homemaker wives.

Here’s a re-posting of a classic HE essay titled “Friends of Varinia.” It originally appeared on 2012, and was reposted on 3.14.14 — almost exactly seven years ago. HE will probably re-post again in 2028.

“Nobody and I mean nobody in the history of film criticism has mentioned what I’m about to bring up. It’s about a hidden aspect of Spartacus, although it’s really a question for Howard Fast, who wrote the original 1951 “Spartacus” novel. But Mr. Fast is long gone so let’s just kick it around. It’s about sex and territoriality and rage that would have been unstoppable.

“The issue would have been about the animal anger and resentment that Kirk Douglas‘s Spartacus would have felt over the fact that Jean Simmons‘ Varinia, the love of his life, had been forced to have relations with several of his fellow gladiators, as was the custom during captivity in Lentulus Batiatus‘s gladiator school in Capua. The result would have been heavily strained friendships between Spartacus and his slave-revolt comrades after they’d broken out and become free men.

Tony Curtis, Jean Simmons, Kirk Douglas during filming of Spartacus.

“If Spartacus was anything like Detective James McLeod, whom Douglas portrayed in William Wyler‘s Detective Story (’51), he would have been an intensely jealous guy and no day at the beach. No matter how he intellectually rationalized what had happened — all slave women at Capua were ordered to have weekly sex with gladiators at the direction of Peter Ustinov‘s Batiatus and Charles McGraw‘s Marcellus, the sadistic gladiator boss — he still wouldn’t be able to handle it in his gut.

“Any ex-gladiator who had ‘known’ her would be on Spartacus’ shit list, and he would have given them dirty looks and subliminal attitude and maybe even put them into forward skirmishes with Romans in the hope that they’d get killed.

“Matrimonial relations between Spartacus and Varinia wouldn’t have been very pleasant either. Every time Spartacus looked at her he would see Heironymous Bosch fantasies that would torture him to no end. He would see John Ireland‘s Crixus or Nick Dennis‘s Dionysus or Harold J. Stone‘s David thrusting and groaning like lions.

“Remember when Warren Beatty‘s Ben Siegel said to Annette Bening‘s Virginia Hill, ‘I was just wondering if there was somebody you haven’t fucked?’ That’s how it would be almost all the time between Spartacus and Varinia.

Yesterday morning Deadline‘s Justin Kroll reported that a few months hence Steven Spielberg will direct a feature, cowritten by himself and Tony Kushner, “loosely” based on his childhood growing up in Arizona.

One presumes that “loosely” alludes to an intention to partially fictionalize.

Kroll added that Michelle Williams will portray a character inspired by his mom, Leah, “but with a separate and original voice.” Which means what? No depicted difficulties between herself and Spielberg’s dad, Arnold? No mention of infidelity?

The film will shoot this summer with a plan to open in ’22. It will presumably focus on the making of Firelight, a 140-minute sci-fi adventure that led to the making of Close Encounters of The Third Kind. Pic was funded by his dad to the tune of $500 or $600. It was given a single showing in a Phoenix-area theatre in March ’64.

From Joseph McBride, author of “Steven Spielberg: A Biography“(2011):

“A good portion of my book focused on ‘Steve’ Spielberg’s extraordinary boyhood years making films in Arizona (1957-64, including Firelight). I have 111 pages on his youth in Cincinnati, New Jersey, and Arizona before he went to California, and a chapter about his final year of high school in Saratoga.

“He also made films in 16mm at California State College at Long Beach (now Cal State Long Beach). All his Arizona work (including Firelight) was shot in 8mm. (Firelight had sound added.) His first 35mm film was Amblin’ (’68), which Universal bought. It earned him his seven-year TV directing contract.”

A photo from McBride’s Spielberg biography, credited to the Arizona Republic/Phoenix Newspapers, Inc.

Soielberg shooting Escape to Nowhere in ’62 — photo credited to childhood friend Barry Sollenberger.

The notorious ending of Alfred Hitchcock‘s Suspicion (’41) delivered one of the most indigestible main-character switcheroos in film history.

From the very beginning Cary Grant‘s Johnnie Aysgarth is a selfish, immature, financially irresponsible swindler. Toward the end the audience is led to believe Aysgarth may even be a murderer. But just before the 99-minute film concludes, he abruptly reverses course, confesses his many sins, drapes his left arm around Joan Fontaine‘s shoulder, and all is well.

In other words, the Grant-Aysgarth character arc is “charming but penniless rake, ne’er-do-well, lazy good-for-nothing, embezzler, liar, possible slayer of business partner, possible poisoner of his wife, bad, bad, bad, worse, worse, worse…then everything’s fine!”

Emerald Fennell‘s Promising Young Woman will almost certainly land a Best Actress Oscar by way of Carey Mulligan‘s zeitgeisty performance. And yet it must be acknowledged that the character arc of Bo Burnham‘s “Ryan Cooper”, a youngish pediatrician who falls for Mulligan’s Cassie Thomas, is somewhat similar to Grant’s.

The trajectory is “nice guy, sincere guy, considerate guy, emotionally mature guy, gently-in-love guy, introduce-him-to-the-parents guy, even-nicer guy and then…..screech, hit the brakes!…rape-bystander guy who’s friendly with Chris Lowell‘s ‘Al the rapist’ and who lies about Cassie’s whereabouts to the police after she turns up missing.”

The difference is that Burnham’s 180 comes around the 104-minute mark in a 113-minute film while Grant’s turnabout happens during the final 90 seconds.

Mullligan is Oscar-locked. We all know that. I’m just saying. Side issue.

HE congratulates Max Barbakow‘s Palm Springs, which premiered at the 2020 Sundance Film Festival and opened commercially last July, for winning the Critics Choice award for Best Comedy.

I don’t understand how anyone could’ve voted for this Sundance glee club film over Judd Apatow‘s The King of Staten Island, far and away a much better effort in terms of character, ground-level realism, dramatic construction and ace-level writing, is beyond me. Or Borat 2, for that matter.

It’s an indisputable fact that Palm Springs isn’t particularly good — a labored, haphazardly written, unfunny and occasionally callous thing. Here’s to a truly great time-loop comedy that was released 28 years ago, and to the judgment of today’s Critics Choice members. Here’s HE’s 7.10.20 review.

Some are still antsy or even fearful, but a N.Y. Times projection graph [below] indicates that things are looking up for the 2021 Telluride Film Festival, attendance-wise. Especially with the Johnson & Johnson one-shot vaccine about to kick in.

7:15 pm update: Congrats to all winners of the 2021 Critics Choice Awards, and particularly to Nomadland (Best Picture), Chloe Zhao (Best Director), Chadwick Boseman (Best Actor, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom), Carey Mulligan (Best Actress, Promising Young Woman). Plus Best Original Screenplay — Promising Young Woman (Focus Features), Best Adapted Screenplay — Nomadland. Best Adapted Screenplay: Nomadland (Searchlight Pictures). Best Foreign Language Film — Minari (A24). Best Visual Effects — Tenet (Warner Bros). Best Visual Effects — Tenet (Warner Bros). Plus whatever & whomever I’ve overlooked.

5:20 pm update: Critics Choice members have handed their Best Comedy trophy to Max Barbakow‘s Palm Springs…God! I found more to like in The Prom than in Palm Springs, and that’s saying something. The finest feature comedy of 2021 was and always will be Judd Apatow‘s The King of Staten Island. followed in this order by Borat Subsequent Moviefilm and On The Rocks — those are the top three. What could have possibly been the motive among CC members in choosing Palm Springs? What is it, some generational thing? Has Scott Mantz been lobbying for it? If they didn’t care for Apatow’s film they could’ve at least gone for Borat 2.

Earlier: I’ve never played the awards-prediction game. I write about the good stuff, period, and couldn’t care less what the majority has gone for, particularly with the progressive woke virus permeating just about everyone and everything. You can always count on Critics Choice members to blow with the wind, and right now the prevailing winds are coming from Vichy.

That said, I voted for Sound of Metal’s Paul Raci in the Best Supporting Actor category — Judas and the Black Messiah‘s Daniel Kaluuya has won instead. For Best Supporting Actress I voted for The Father‘s Olivia Colman; in actuality Borat 2‘s Maria Bakalova has taken it. I voted for News of the World‘s Helena Zengel for Best Young Actor/Actress, but Minari‘s Alan Kim is the victor.

This Best Picture comparative rundown was posted by Sasha Stone. Boldface titles are those that were chosen by CC members and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts.

HE picks (posted a few days ago:

This color test footage for Rowland Lee‘s Son of Frankenstein (released on 1.13.39), was probably shot in the early fall of ’38. This clip has been on YouTube since 2011, but I saw it for the first time today. It’s actually the first color image I’d ever seen of Karloff in Frankenstein monster makeup, period.

The makeup genius was Jack Pierce (1889 — 1968). Yes, that’s Pierce getting strangled starting at the 45-second mark.

Karloff’s tongue improv (35-second mark) is good for a chuckle, but what genuinely surprised me was the mint-green skin. Widely circulated color snaps of Peter Boyle‘s Young Frankenstein monster (’74) also showed green skin, but I always thought that was a one-off. One presumes that the mint-green makeup was chosen by director Mel Brooks and Young Frankenstein dp Gerald Hirschfield because it delivers an extra-deathly pallor in monochrome.

Either way I’d never read or been told that Boris Karloff‘s monster had the same skin shade, at least as far as Son of Frankenstein was concerned. No clues if Karloff and Pierce went green for the previous two he starred in, Frankenstein (’31) and Bride of Frankenstein (’35).

I’d actually come to believe, based on a December 2012 visit to Guillermo del Toro’s “Bleak House,” that Karloff’s monster had mostly grayish skin with perhaps (at most) a faint hint of green. (The below photo, taken on 12.22.12, shows life-sized wax models of Pierce working on Karloff for James Whale‘s 1931 original.) Nobody is a more exacting historian or connoisseur of classic monsters than GDT, so I naturally presumed that the skin tone on Karloff’s wax model was accurate. I stand corrected.

One of many shots snapped at Guillermo del Toro’s “Bleak House” — posted on 12.22.12.

I used to derive serious pleasure from the annual Vanity Fair Hollywood issue, as I did from the generally knowledgable and delicious grade-A writing during the Graydon Carter era.

Carter left VF in 2017, Radhika Jones has been running the shop since, and nobody likes the magazine as much. You know what I mean. VF has “changed with the times.” It looks and feels like a lightweight hand-out — serving those who allow it to keep afloat. That special storied vibe from those Hollywood issues of the ’90s, aughts and early teens — a feeling that you were absorbing some kind of thought-through reconnaissance of where Hollywood culture was at that year and with one or two carefully sourced recollections of its own past — is totally out the window.

The only thing I like about the cover is the inclusion of Judas and the Black Messiah‘s Lakeith Stanfield.