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Roughly five weeks ago I caught a trailer for Taylor Sheridan‘s Those Who Wish Me Dead (Warner Bros./HBO Max, 5.14), and it sure seemed like a no-go and a no-sale.

“An aggressively produced, go-for-broke action exploitation flick,” I noted, “shot and edited in a slam-bang, visually searing, Bruce Willis-in-the-’90s way…loaded with jet fuel and cranked WAY TOO HIGH (black-attired bad guy sadists firing automatic weapons at a woman and a kid in the middle of firestorm?). And if you believe, by the way, that a beautiful, super-rich, fashion-magazine icon slash Brad Pitt-ballbuster with her own personal pedicurist can be (or ever could be) a Montana firefighter…well, that’s up to you.”

This just-posted footage tease implies more of the same,

If you read between the lines of David Rooney‘s review of the film itself, posted this morning in The Hollywood Reporter, it’s obvious he has concerns.

Excerpt #1: “If you can get past the miraculously dewy complexion and on-point smoky-eye look of Angelina Jolie as a toughened Montana Forest Service firefighter…”

Excerpt #2: “[Then again] her role provides scope for gnawing demons, maternal warmth and kick-ass survival skills — including some cool retribution with an ax.”

Excerpt #3: “[Pic] doesn’t match the finely etched characterizations and contemplative writing of his original screenplay for Hell or High Water, but even if the genre quilting isn’t entirely seamless, it’s a ruggedly entertaining throwback to studio movies of the ’90s about real people navigating hairy life-or-death situations.”

Excerpt #4: “Production designer Neil Spisak [has created] an artificial forest set with a creek running through it, as well as watchtowers.”

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The great actor, producer and director Norman Lloyd passed earlier today at age 106.

I was so taken by his performance as a blind but very skilled English professor in Curtis Hanson‘s In Her Shoes that I asked to chat with him. Two encounters happened, both in September ’05. We did a phoner, and then I was invited to take snaps at his Mandeville Canyon home. We talked for another hour or so.

Here’s the piece:

Norman Lloyd, 90, is in only three scenes in In Her Shoes and is on screen maybe seven or eight minutes, but his performance is one of the most poignant notes in a film that has more than a few of them.

It’s not one of those burn-through-the-screen performances (along the lines of, say, Beatrice Straight‘s fight-with-Bill-Holden scene in Network). It’s more like a coaxer. You can sense Lloyd’s intellectual energy and zest for life despite his character’s withered state, and you can feel and admire the tenderness he shows to Maggie …tenderness mixed in with a little classroom discipline.

He plays a sightless retired college professor who prods Diaz’s Maggie character, who is dyslexic and can’t read a billboard slogan without stumbling, into reading poetry to him — specifically a poem about loss and emotional guardedness by Elizabeth Bishop.

At first Maggie is reluctant, then she agrees to read to him…slowly, almost painfully…I have a dyslexic friend and she doesn’t read this slowly…but she gradually improves.

Then Lloyd prods her into explaining what she thinks of the poem. She tries to duck this, but Lloyd — relying on skills from a lifetime of teaching — won’t let her.

This isn’t just the heart of the scene — it’s a pivotal scene in the film. It’s the moment when Maggie turns the corner and starts taking steps to be someone a little better…because she starts believing in her ability to see through to the core of things, and in the first-time-ever notion that she has a lot more to develop and uncover within herself.

I know how cliched it sounds to say a character “turns a corner” and so on, but sometimes these moments happen in life. You just have to be able to hear the little voice in the back of your head that says, “You’ve taken a small step…you’ve just moved along.”

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18 months ago on Quora, British poet-artist Rod Summers attempted to answer the eternal question, “Should we learn to separate the art from the artist?” Here’s what he said:

“You love the art work, it speaks to you, it fascinates you, it stimulates your desire to appreciate the finer, less debased things in human creativity. Then you discover that the creator of the art was less than perfect, just like the rest of humanity. So then you decide you don’t or shouldn’t like the art any more.

“Art is part of the artist, as a child is part of his/her parents. You can separate them geographically, but they will always be connected. The mistake you’re making is judging the art by how the artist lives, or has lived. Morality has nothing to do with it. Morality is just you putting your value template over someone else and dismissing if he/she doesn’t fit in the slots. Artists rarely fit in the slots, and those who do probably aren’t very original or very good either.”

Lucy McKinney, posted on Quora on 10.31.19: “I cannot support an artist once I know that person is horrible. The problem is that art can be technically excellent but still, unfortunately, reflect only their own horrible worldview. A goal of art is to evoke the emotions of the viewer, some universal theme or abstract concept or even visualization that transcends words, independent of the horrible person who created it. Supporting the work of a horrible person is just another way of letting the person bully you emotionally. Passive-aggressive + hostile = TOXIC.”

HE to McKinney: “In the case of Roman Polanski, what you’ve written is exactly, precisely and absolutely dead wrong. The worldview contained in Polanski’s Chinatown, The Pianist and J’Accuse, to name but three, is sane, frank, sensible, compassionate, at times delicate, sometimes open-hearted, wise, unblinking, on the side of the angels.”

“Open Letter to Polanski Haters,” posted 4.2.20: “Anyone can watch Roman Polanski’s The Pianist, but no one in the U.S. and England can watch J’Accuse in a theatre, on a Bluray or even via streaming.

“Because of a certain percentage of #MeToo progressives. Because they believe that Polanski’s rep must be permanently tarred and feathered and therefore J’Accuse, too, must be buried or otherwise scrubbed from existence. Because of reputedly credible accusations of Polanski having behaved badly and perhaps even criminally with certain younger women several decades ago. And so the distribution community is terrified of what #MeToo-ers might say and do if anyone even considers offering an English-subtitled J’Accuse for U.S. or British viewers.

“Here’s the thing — Polanski the man is not the same thing as Polanski the artist. His depiction of awful or ghastly things in his films (he’s never explored Pollyanic fantasy and escapism) has never conveyed a corrosion or poisoning of his own spirit. He understands what goes, how it all works, who the good guys are. This is quite evident in The Pianist and J’Accuse. But the latter is nonetheless going to be buried for a long time to come, or so I’m told. This is not a good look for #MeToo.

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I’m not saying I would cross the street if I saw a guy wearing a pair of Bruno Magli mandals approaching, but the thought would certainly cross my mind. Man feet are inescapable on Belizean beaches and in Brooklyn bars frequented by Millennials and Zoomers during the warm months, but that doesn’t change a basic fact: they’re often horrible to glance at. Bordering on grotesque.

And to think they weren’t even a factor after the collapse of the Roman Empire. They only returned in the mid to late ’40s when beatniks began wearing them in San Francisco and the West Village, and now, God help us, you can’t escape them between early May and late September.

Try to imagine John Wayne or Walter Brennan strolling around the set of Rio Bravo wearing mandals…Howard Hawks would take one look and deliver a withering expression. The thing that first turned me against Michael Fassbender was when he wore mandals during his first scene in Prometheus — that was the moment when I said to myself, “Wow, this guy could be a problem.” Never forget that Moneyball director Bennett Miller signalled his vague disapproval of Spike Jonze‘s husband-of-Robin Wright character by having him wear mandals. If I were to run into a name-brand film critic wearing mandals at the Cannes Film Festival…I don’t want to think about it.

If I had my druthers I would live in a zero-mandals world, forever and ever.

On or about 11.18.21 Jett Wells and Caitlin Bennett, who were married on 9.22.17, will be bringing a daughter into the world. The burden will be on Cait, of course, with Jett offering the usual spousal backup. Jett was born on 6.4.88 at Valley Presbyterian Hospital in Van Nuys. Possible names: Maeve, Ripley, Parker. Cheers all around.

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In a N.Y. Times op-ed titled “Could Matthew McConaughey Be All Right, All Right, All Right for Texas?” (5.9.21), Texas Monthly executive editor Mimi Swartz asks “would Mr. McConaughey run [for governor] as a Democrat or a Republican? That’s as much a mystery as the meaning of his soliloquy at the end of True Detective.”

The basic impression is that McConaughey is a kind of “philosopher king” type, which may or may not add up tactically if he runs for Texas governor. The best way to get a line on MM’s thinking, apparently, is to read his self-penned “Greenlights,” a book of practical thoughts and philosophical guidance which published last November.

Key McConaughey quote: “Knowin the truth, seein the truth and tellin the truth are all different experiences.” No apostrophes?

Swartz ends the piece with “may the best man win, man.” Translation: McConaughey is too vague and flaky-sounding to cut the political mustard.

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I began by dismissing Mare of Eastwood on the mere basis of atmospheric gloom and wretched characters with all kinds of downmarket maladies and addictions. But episode #2 put the hook in and I’ve been on board ever since.

As mentioned earlier I’ve managed to put aside my issues with Kate Winslet (cravenly apologizing for working with Roman Polanski and Woody Allen in order to curry favor with #MeToo Academy types and possibly land a Best Actress nomination for Ammonite) and have even become accustomed to the Easttown demimonde and their endless summonings of moods and vibes most of us would rather not absorb.

Winslet’s “Mare” is a good generational match for Guy Pearce‘s Richard Ryan, who’s been romantically appealing from the start, but it makes no sense at all for Evan Peter‘s Detective Zabel, her investigating partner, to have a competing interest — at 34 he’s way too young for the 45-year-old Winslet, and he seems like a fool to be saying stuff like “I’m only interested if you’re interested” and “Mare, all my cards are on the table.” Dude, you can do better.

James McCardle has a face I’d love to punch repeatedly, and his Deacon Mark Burton is obviously a dangerous sicko. I decided last night that I won’t be happy until a mob gangs up on his ass and maybe throws him off a bridge.

I’m told that episode #5 (“Illusions,” 5.16) is the best yet.

I’ve lately been feeling this strange yen to own a Mickey Mouse watch. They were kind of a trendy thing back in the ’90s. (Or was it the ’80s?) I’ll bet there are very few out there who own four-fingered Disney gloves. It takes a certain kind of brazen, fearless psychology to even think about it. What are the odds that someone like, say, Guy Lodge ever considered such a purchase? Just saying.

Two and a half months ago I ranted against the critics who’d posted thumbs-down reviews about Nick Jarecki‘s thoughtful, entirely sufficient Crisis. HE to RT & Metacritic gang: “You guys can’t give a 26% RT rating to a film that’s ambitious and moderately gripping and narratively efficient for the most part…it deserves a pass, for God’s sake! You can say it has an issue or two but nothing fatal…c’mon, it’s more or less fine!”

The same kind of unwarranted dismissals have greeted Phillip Noyce‘s Above Suspicion, which began streaming yesterday. It currently has a 29% RT rating, and a 48% over at Metacritic. And it doesn’t add up. We’ve all seen films that have earned low aggregate critic scores, and we know how they tend to feel and play out. Above Suspicion doesn’t fit this mold at all.

Trust me — this is a first-rate, redneck-love-affair-gone-bad flick that feels like it was made in 1977, and that in itself makes it something to savor on all kinds of levels.

Excerpt from initial HE review, “The Girl From Lonesome Holler”, 7.24.17: “Most people would define ‘redneck film’ as escapist trash in the Burt Reynolds mode, but there have been a small handful that have portrayed rural boondock types and their tough situations in ways that are top-tier and real-deal. My favorites in this realm are John Boorman‘s Deliverance, Billy Bob Thornton‘s Sling Blade, and Lamont Johnson‘s The Last American Hero.

“Noyce’s Above Suspicion is the absolute, dollars-to-donuts equal of these films, or at least a close relation with a similar straight-cards, no-bullshit attitude.”

Why have a majority of critics taken a dump on it? Some simply haven’t liked it — fine. Others may have problems with the social-cultural elements. Critics often give passes to mediocre films because of certain political ingredients. A story about a desperately unhappy trailer-trash wife losing her bearings and getting dumped by her FBI lover doesn’t exactly scream “seal of good wokeness” or “#MeToo-approved.” Some critics may also have a problem with a film reflecting the values and living conditions of rural rightwing backwater types. Most critics will deny it, but they know there are some films they can’t pan while there’s no downside to slamming a film like Above Suspicion. Do the math.

Another issue was the fact that this poor film was snared in distribution troubles for nearly four years, and to some that means “must be problematic.” The trouble had nothing to do with quality, and was caused, in fact, by a couple of cowboy producers.

Empire‘s Al Horner called it “an enveloping if stately paced thriller that doubles up as a portrait of a broken America: one where impoverished people fall into addiction, then into crime and finally into the witness stand, only to be failed by the people meant to protect and serve them.”

Deadline‘s Pete Hammond: “Noyce has captured the feel of a coal-driven small community and the darkness lying beneath the surface. A true-life saga, Above Suspicion benefits from a strong dose of authenticity anchored by a revelatory performance from Emilia Clarke, who nails the demeanor and accent of a doomed soul trying to escape a beaten life. The star’s Game of Thrones fans might find her virtually unrecognizable here, but it is a thoroughly accomplished performance.”

“Suspicion About To Pop Through,” posted on 4.1.21: “Noyce always delivers with clarity and discipline but this is arguably the most arresting forward-thrust action flick he’s done since Clear and Present Danger. Plus it boasts a smart, fat-free, pared-down script by Mississippi Burning‘s Chris Gerolmo, some haunting blue-tinted cinematography by Eliot Davis (Out of Sight, Twilight) and some wonderfully concise editing by Martin Nicholson.

“Above Suspicion damn sure feels like a ’70s film. I mean that in the most complimentary way you could possibly imagine. It’s about real people, tough decisions, yokel culture, corruption, Percocets, hot car sex and lemme outta here. There’s no sense of 21st Century corporate wankery. Adults who believe in real movies made this thing, and they did so with an eye for tension and inevitable plot turns and fates dictated by character and anxiety and, this being rural Kentucky, bad karma and bad luck.”

In less than 14 months, Joel Goodson of Glencoe, Illinois (otherwise known as Thomas Cruise Mapother IV) will turn 60 years of age. Joel was actually around 17 or 18 when the Risky Business events happened; Cruise was around 20 when the film was shot. Just saying.

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I wasn’t paying attention when it was reported on 2.26.21 that Warner Bros. and DC had hired Ta-Nehisi Coates to write the screenplay for a Black Superman flick to be produced by J.J. Abrams.

Earlier today THR‘s Tatiana Siegel and Borys Kit reported that everyone is committed to hiring a Black director…natch.

The idea, of course, is to fill the mythical-superhero void left by the passing of Black Panther star Chadwick Boseman. But Coates still has to come up with some kind of semi-plausible plot that will link up with the traditional Superman saga…right? The classic Superman tale and D.C. legacy would have to be incorporated to some extent.

Assumption #1: If Black Superman will possess the same kind of superpowers that all the previous Supermans had going back to Kirk Alyn and George Reeves, he has to be from a Krypton-like planet…right? Or from Krypton itself. If the latter, Black Superman would have to be yet another survivor who escaped the planet before it self-destructed. Coates would have to explain that Krypton was always a biracial society, etc.

HE idea: The obvious strategy (one that would totally ring Quentin Tarantino‘s bell) would be to follow the Wonder Woman time-travel template and set Black Superman somewhere in the pre-Civil War Antebellum South. Have an infant Black Superman arrive on planet earth in the year 1852, encased in a special vacuum-sealed, oxygen-supplied cylinder that slides into a cotton plantation somewhere in the heart of the Confederacy. Or in 1862 with the war going on. Or he arrives as a 20something with his powers fully developed. Either way the story writes itself.

Hollywood Reporter illustration by Clayton Henry.

In basic plot-strategy terms, Michelangelo Antonioni‘s Blow-Up (’66) kicks off in a London public park (Maryon Park in Charlton) when a youngish fashion photographer (David Hemmings) happens to take several snaps of an amorous May-December couple (Vanessa Redgrave, Ronan O’Casey).

As he develops the photos in his dark room later that day he realizes that the images show a murder in progress — one of the blow-ups reveals an assassin holding a pistol, and another a fuzzy image of the dead O’Casey lying on the grass.

Blow-Up isn’t a thriller, of course — it’s a meditation about reality vs. perception vs. artistic fancy as well as a brilliant capturing of 1966 avant-garde London, so the focus is about much more than just the ins and outs of a murder. But Hemmings encountering Redgrave-O’Casey is the inciting incident, and I’ve always adored the first glimpse of that swoony couple in a lazy-day mood.

Any other director would have called special attention to Redgrave-O’Casey…capturing them with a steady centered shot, perhaps starting from a distance and then cutting to an MCU, in effect telling the audience “you’ll want to pay attention to these people…something is about to happen.”

Instead Antonioni and dp Carlo Di Palma show Hemmings scampering around the grass while shooting some pigeons, and then the camera pans up and to the left, and as it’s moving north it catches the briefest glimpse — exactly one second’s worth — of the couple. (Go to the :31 mark.) The first-time viewer doesn’t even notice them, much less consider that they might be key players.

This is one of the 40 or 50 things that I dearly love about this film, and why I own the Criterion Bluray version. The first thing that grabbed me way back was the sound of wind rustling the park bushes and tree branches as Hemmings snaps away. So much going on and not a line of dialogue or a note of music…just the breezes.

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