From Scott Feinberg‘s latest Oscar spitball-predictions column (dated 11.11.25, paragraph #5)…

“Ella McCay (20th Century, 12.12) began screening last week, but reactions remain under embargo for social through Nov. 24 and for reviews through Dec. 10 — read into that what you will. It’s James L. Brooks’ first feature in 15 years.”

Any film that forbids the posting of reviews until 36 hours before a film’s commercial opening…the name of that tune is called “hide the ball.”

“Never crap a crapper” — Kirk Douglas on the set of Eddie Macon’s Run in Laredo, Texas — directly overheard by yours truly in the late summer of 1982.

As far as it goes, HE sincerely laments the 11.11.25 passing of Sally Kirkland, who dined out for many decades off her justly praised, Oscar-nominated titular performance in Anna (Vestron), which opened on 10.2.87 and generated a great deal of award-season heat.

In early ‘88 Kirkland, then 47, won Best Actress trophies from LAFCA, HFPA (Golden Globes) and the Spirits.

So she peaked off Anna and not incidentally lived a long, mostly rich and persistently full life (60-year career, 250 film and TV gigs) that was launched, in a sense, by being the daughter of a fashion editor mom, Sally Kirkland, Sr., and was initially sparked, in a sense, by her mid ‘60s association with the jaded, haughty perversity that was synonymous with Andy Warhol’s Factory scene.

Anna also heralded the big-time arrival of then-22-year-old model Paulina Porizkova, who played Anna’s usurper — a character based on Joanna Pacula.

My first reaction to news of Kirkland’s death was “wait, didn’t she pass three years ago?” But I was recalling Sally Kellerman, who resembled Kirkland or vice versa, and was roughly the same age (four years older).

Life passes by so very quickly, recollections tend to blend into ghoulash and every new year is more expensive than the previous one.

I was never an ardent Moody Blues fan. I like “Stop” a lot, but that was recorded before their mushy spacey trippy phase (’67 to ’70). But two days ago while driving (what else?) I happened to listen to “Legend of a Mind”, the “Timothy Leary‘s dead” song, and portions of it got to me. Portions, not the whole. It’s such a crusty psychedelic timepiece thing — I can’t imagine any self-respecting Millennial or Zoomer not turning it off. But some of it seeped in.

GoodyVibe61 (posted on on 4.21.21): “So many of the British rock royalty started out with blues or rhythm-and-blues groups. They all seem to have a before-and-after story. The early editions of the Moody Blues and Pink Floyd were heavily blues-influenced. And groups such as the Yardbirds and John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers can claim just about every British rock god as being one of their early members. I was amused to discover when I looked up the writers of ‘Stop’ that it was blues-rock legend Eric Burdon that passed on Justin Hayward‘s demos to the MB. And we shouldn’t forget where Denny Laine ended up — Wings!”

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I really, really didn’t want to see Guillermo del Toro‘s Frankenstein. And so I ducked it at the Venice Film Festival…I didn’t want that bruising, pulverizing visual burden. I knew it would be a struggle to sit through…19th Century atmospheric wealth porn…over-budgeted, over-produced, over-CG-ed…every frame intended to wow your ass off…so damp and cold, so much snow and blood, so much cruelty and ferocity…so exactingly detailed, so sumptuous, such a deluge of production design…a period gothic extravaganza with a superman monster…can’t be killed!

I knew all this instantly because I know Guillermo, and so I continued to duck it after Venice. But two friends told me yesterday that it’s really good and rich and even quite touching toward the end, and therefore well worth-seeing. So fuck me…I sat down and began watching it today.

I’m now 130 minutes in (20 minutes to go!), and it’s certainly the most compassionate version of this over-told, over-adapted tale. Guillermo has always loved his monsters, and so, as you might expect, he loves Jacob Elordi‘s scarfaced “creature” and not even to death, and there;s no question that Elordi delivers his most soulful, career-best performance. So wounded, treated so cruelly, and yet he finds it within himself to not be totally consumed by rage…poor fellow. I felt for him. I almost wept but I was too gutted and whipped to do that.

Never let it be said that Guillermo’s Frankenstein lacks heart. It also vibrates, trembles and shudders with pain, and is constantly damp and cold and covered in ice crystals, but it ends up — surprise! — on a note of compassion and forgiveness. Good Lord, even a discreet kiss!

“And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.” — Lord Byron

But it’s cold outside in Wilton and even snowing a tiny bit now, and watching this damn thing added to my personal physical discomfort…”It’s starting to feel a lot like ‘fuck this'”…and guess what? Frankenstein is 19th Century atmospheric wealth porn…it is over-budgeted, over-produced, over-CG-ed…every fucking frame intended to wow your ass off, and in so doing this icy elephant of a Netflix film wears you down…so damp and cold, so much snow and blood, so much cruelty and ferocity…so exactingly detailed, so sumptuous, such a deluge…a period gothic extravaganza with a gentle superman monster…don’t fuck with him because he can’t be killed, but try giving him a hug, It is all of these things.

Okay, it’s over. I’ve gotten through it. 150 minutes, and thank God I’ll never have to watch it again.

I’m not kidding about Elordi giving a breakthrough performance. He really and truly deserves Best Supporting Actor consideration. Seriously!

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Yesterday afternoon the occasional, incredible stupidity of the HE commentariat manifested in spades.

The trigger was my having written that NEO, who is reportedly an incorrigible truth-teller and a total tattle-tale, had better learn to keep his fucking mouth shut when the situation requires it.

People have their secret passions and obsessions, and nobody likes a fink. Any novelist, screenwriter or playwright will tell you this. Do you think Leo Tolstoy would’ve been cool with NEO hanging around his house and ready to spill the beans at the drop of a hat?

Did HE commenters lock arms with Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, O’Neil, Chekhov, Albee, Stoppard and Pinter by saying “of course…a robot without a sense of discretion is obviously bad news”? No, they dumped on me. They said (a) “hilarious that this is the first place your mind goes” (roland1824) and (b) “I like how the first place you go to is that you need the robot to lie for you” (Mike Shea).

This is what defines banal minds. Whatever great minds might be thinking, banal minds go the opposite way.

“All happy families are alike, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, and one obvious, sure-to-increase source of every wealthy family’s unhappiness is a big-mouthed robot” — from Tolstoy’s “Anna Karenina”.

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NEO, by the way, is 5’6″ and weighs about 65 pounds. He’s obviously not Gort, and can be slapped around at any time. HE to NEO: “You’ll take it and like it.”

Visiting Jett, Cait and Sutton’s home in West Orange, New Jersey has been HE’s default Thanksgiving destination since I moved to Connecticut in ‘22. But not this year. Come 11.27 the Jersey crew will be dinner-ing in Massachusetts so Jody and I are out in the cold.

So last week I started looking around for a nice, home-styled, non-corporate restaurant (fireplace, candles, scent of cinnamon and pine needles) to savor a Thanksgiving dinner in, and guess what? They’re all fucking closed.

Okay, we found one place that’s turkey-serving in Silvermine (Tavern at Graybarns) but they’re charging $150 a head plus extra required gratuities. No, thanks. That’s exploitive.

Right now our best (i.e., affordable) Thanksgiving option is Turkey McNuggets at McDonalds.

I think it’s shallow and rather ungracious of those nice local eateries (Westport’s Terrain, Georgetown’s Milestone) to shut their doors on Thanksgiving. They know there are many people like me with no soothing place to go. Restaurants should respect the customer base and open their hearts on this day of family togetherness.

“Scientific evidence of males enjoying distinct physical advantages over women when it comes to competing in the same sporting events”? Really? This is shocking.

Allow me to explain why David Michold‘s Christy died last weekend. Here it is…ready?

Nobody wants to see Sydney Sweeney all blue-collared and plumped up with dark curly hair…forget it. It’s that simple.

Blonde, slender, big bouncy boobs….give the popcorn munchers what they want, and they might buy a few tickets.

Christy died from the same box-office disease that killed The Smashing Machine.

I was totally won over by Sweeney’s formidable, rock-steady performance in Ron Howard‘s Eden, but I’ve never even considered the idea of seeing Christy. Even now.

“…there’s a one-in-three chance he will be a substance abuser.”

I had co-habitated with three women by the time I was 30. I finally got married in my late 30s, resulting in two great sons. Divorce happened after four years. Alas, I became become a modest alcohol abuser (vodka and lemonade on the rocks after 9 pm) in the early ’90s. Abandoned the hard stuff in ’96. Embraced total sobriety on 3.20.12.

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Some of Gavin Newsom‘s previous governmental moves make your eyes roll? You don’t like the fact that he’s obviously a transactional, opportunistic politician? You want someone who’s pure as the driven snow to run in ’28?

Newsom is the boldest, ballsiest anti-Trumper out there right now. And he’s willing to take risks…he’s into trying stuff, experimenting, being adaptable. There’s nothing wrong with throwing spaghetti at the wall to see it it sticks. Newsom is totally fucking fine with me.

Humble, soft-spoken, morally upstanding Methodist ministers from small towns in Iowa don’t run for president as a rule.

Newsom just needs to walk back the trans stuff. Shake hands with the trans community, give them a hug and wish them the best of luck.