On 9.20.18 The Guardian‘s Alex Godfrey reported that director Cary Fukunaga was “still working with playwright David Auburn on an adaptation of Stanley Kubrick’s unmade Napoleon film as a Steven Spielberg-produced miniseries for HBO.”

But of course, the Napoleon project was put aside when Fukanaga was hired to direct Bond #25 or No Time To Die, which will open stateside on 4.8.20. Fukunaga will no doubt be 007-ing until the very last minute, and then there’s the long promotional trail.

If he’s still into the Napoleon project he and Auburn could begin again in the early summer, and then, if HBO is still passionately engaged, perhaps begin shooting sometime in late ’20 or ’21.

The Napoleon-Spielberg-Fukanaga project was first reported in May 2016. The logistical likelihood of shooting not beginning for roughly another nine months to a year and perhaps into ’21…well, do the math. Four to five years of planning, writing, strategizing and whatnot — this is one of those elephantine undertakings that doesn’t seem likely to actually go before cameras. Too costly, too laborious…a sprawling, elephant-sized epic.

Honestly? I’ll be deeply surprised if it happens.

From my 5.20.16 piece on the project: “It needs to be understood that in various ways (tonally, stylistically, attitude-wise) we’ve already seen Kubrick’s Napoleon. It’s called Barry Lyndon.

“A reading of the 9.29.69 screenplay makes it fairly obvious that Napoleon would have had the same vibe as Barry Lyndon, and been spoken the same way and framed and paced the same way. Okay, the lead character would be a determined egomaniacal genius instead of an amoral Irish lout and Napoleon would have more than one battle scene, but beyond these and other distinctions we’re talking the same line of country. Everything Kubrick desperately wanted to accomplish or put into Napoleon he put into Lyndon — simple.”

From Godfrey’s article:

“It’s no surprise then that Fukunaga is an enormous [Kubrick] fan. After True Detective aired, he was hired to adapt and direct Kubrick’s unmade Napoleon film as a Steven Spielberg-produced mini-series for HBO, under the guidance of Kubrick’s long-time executive producer Jan Harlan. ‘We want to carry the torch in a way that embodies the spirit of what he was trying to achieve,’ says Fukunaga, visibly excited. In a couple of weeks he will head to the library in Kubrick’s St. Albans home to continue work with Harlan.

“’I’ve been there once before,’ he says. ‘You can become jaded, working in this industry for so long, but there are moments like, ‘Holy fuck. I’m on holy, holy ground.’” Well, quite: Kubrick is buried there in the garden. He nods. ‘Jan brought me to his grave and introduced me to him,’ he says, awed. ‘That was a momentous occasion.” No need for the psychotropics.”

Irishman composer Robbie Robertson sat down for a few recent interviews, and the ones I’ve read have all reported that he’s created a “non-traditional” score. Well, yeah — that’s one way to put it.

A franker description is that most of Robertson’s “score” wasn’t composed but curated, at least according to the 20-track soundtrack album. 19 out of 20 cuts are dusty ’50s standards and odd curios (“Still of the Night”, “I Hear You Knockin'”, etc.).

So what did Robertson actually compose? A single, stand-alone track called “The Theme for The Irishman“, lasting 4:36.

But what a composition! “The Theme for The Irishman” is a dirge of resignation, a death march — a drums, harmonica and cello thing that kicks in during the final half-hour or so, a downish anthem in Frank Sheeran‘s head…music to be played and played on the way to the grave.

If you’ve seen The Irishman, you know what I’m on about. As you watch Sheeran and Russell Buffalino and “Fat Tony” Salerno get older and sicker, Robertson’s music says over and over “this is it, man…karma is a bitch and nobody gets out of life alive…no salvation or cure.”

I tried to record it off the film itself, but I couldn’t find a passage that didn’t have Sheeran’s (Robert De Niro‘s) narration.

Late yesterday afternoon Tatyana and I did our Franklin Canyon hike**, which is roughly five and a half miles, at least half of it uphill***. I hate the ache in my legs during the second half, but after it’s over and done with I always feel good about having toughed out that horrible, winding, never-ending trail. The city was dark and gleaming and on the chilly side (48 degrees) when we returned to the car around…oh, 6:10 pm or so.

All during the tough part of the hike I was playing Robbie Robertson‘s “Theme For The Irishman” (his only original composition on the soundtrack album) in my head. I was half myself and half Frank Sheeran, slightly bent over and gasping for breath and half-fantasizing about lying down on the side of the mud trail and dying. Tatyana was Superwoman, of course — never so much as breaking a sweat, occasionally looking back and asking “are you okay?” and adding at one point “you’re out of shape…you should hike more.”

Friday, 11.29, 4:55 pm.

*** Tatyana doesn’t consider our Franklin Canyon route a “hike” as much as a walk, apparently because the first half is on uphill pavement. Trust me, it’s a hike — a damn hike. My aching leg muscles and panting breath patterns have attested to this ordeal each and every time.

** Starting at Coldwater Canyon Park, north on Beverly Drive to Franklin Canyon Drive, hit the peak and then down the hill, sharp right on Lake Drive, and then up a long, winding uphill dirt trail that goes on forever and ever, and then over an iron fence that’s not easy to scale and down Royalton Drive to Coldwater, and then south back to the park.

No present-tense Oscar contender has quite the character or cojones of Marriage Story‘s Scarlett Johansson. And right now in my mind, there’s no one who’s more of an obsequious, go-along wokester and fact-averse denialist than The Daily Beast‘s Jordan Julian, who posted a piece on 11.27 that denigrated Johansson for speaking her mind about Woody Allen‘s all-but-certain innocence in that dusty, all-but-discarded matter of child molestation.

The headline of Julian’s article was infuriating: “Scarlett Johansson’s Persistent, Baffling Defense of Woody Allen Could Ruin Her Oscar Chances,” followed by a subhead that read “the actress has turned in the best performance of her career in Marriage Story but can’t stop defending the accused sexual predator.”

Three days ago Johansson told Vanity Fair‘s Chris Heath that she’s not backing off from her earlier statement (given to The Hollywood Reporter‘s Rebecca Keegan last September) that she believes Allen is innocent of that 27 year-old, one-time-only charge of child molestation — i.e., she hasn’t changed her mind.

The charge pushed by Dylan Farrow, Allen’s alleged victim, and Allen’s former romantic partner Mia Farrow has been disputed, dissected, exposed and debunked so many times that it’s grown a beard, but the “always believe the victim no matter what” crowd will not back off, and I mean in defiance of every piece of credible evidence that has come to light and despite an absolutely conclusive essay that puts the whole thing to bed, posted on 5.23.18 by Dylan’s older adoptive brother, Moses Farrow.

Johansson to Heath: “Even though there [are] moments where I feel maybe more vulnerable because I’ve spoken my own opinion about something, my own truth and experience about it — and I know that it might be picked apart in some way, people might have a visceral reaction to it — I think it’s dangerous to temper how you represent yourself, because you’re afraid of that kind of response. That, to me, doesn’t seem very progressive at all. That seems scary.”

When Heath asks if “any of the criticisms, when she heard them, made her think that they had a point,”: Johansson replies: “I don’t know…I feel the way I feel about it. It’s my experience. I don’t know any more than any other person knows. I only have a close proximity with Woody…he’s a friend of mine. But I have no other insight other than my relationship with him.”

But she does have an insight that complements her relationship with Allen — an obviously legitimate and first-hand viewpoint from Moses Farrow, a trained therapist who knows all the players and everything that happened, backwards and forwards. He was right there in the Connecticut Farrow home on the day in question. His testimony is undismissable. Except, that is, by obstinate contrarians like Julian.

Director Richard Tanne (Southside With You) has sent along a video tribute to retired Warner Home Entertainment exec Jeff Baker, called The King of Catalog. The 25-minute video was produced and assembled by Baker’s son, Travis Baker, a friend and colleague of Tanne’s.

Baker senior was one of the leading innovators and locomotives in the VHS/DVD business from the late 1970s until 2015. The King of Catalog, which was shot over a year ago, tracks his 35-year career. Baker was at Warner Home Entertaiment from 2006 to his retirement, and was largely responsible for pioneering their incredible run of premiere collector’s edition DVDs and Blu-Rays. He worked closely with filmmakers like Clint Eastwood and Oliver Stone on packaging, special features and director’s cuts.

Tanne: “In many ways, Baker’s career mirrors the rise-and-fall arc of physical home video. Given your continued love and support of this dying format, I thought maybe you’d be interested in checking it out. And who knows, if it resonates in any way, it would certainly be an honor to see it posted on your site.

Two disputes with the bridge-destroying plans of commando team commander Jack Hawkins in The Bridge on the River Kwai, as posted nine years ago:

HE is wishing a Happy Thanksgiving to every HE reader out there, and to those who couldn’t care less about this site. Tatyana and I are thankful for our relatively happy and bountiful life in West Hollywood, and for the rich social and spiritual current that permeates so much of what we do, what with the screenings and film festivals and travel detours and whatnot. And for the love of our cats. I am personally thankful, as always, for having the ability to write and grow a column that continues to be read and kicked around, and which has remained a viable thing in terms of industry readership and award-season ads, along with the spirited (sometimes acrimonious) views, putdowns and from-the-heart opinions that are posted here. And I’m very thankful for the criticisms that I get almost every day, as a portion of them have been worth reading and heeding. So yes, we’re living a fairly great life as far as it goes, and we’re happy for that. I hope most of you can say the same. Cheers and relaxation to all.

For what it’s worth, I found Dolemite Is My Name generally sharp, likable, amusing and even “funny” here and there. Which is to say I laughed out loud a couple of times.

Whatever the bottom-line human reality of Hunter Biden‘s psychology (which obviously has been off-center and unstable for some time), the tabloid-media image of Joe Biden‘s younger (and only surviving) son is that of the new Jordan Belfort — wealthy and connected with a seemingly wild nocturnal life, alcohol and crack cocaine issues, an affair with his late brother’s wife, sued for child support by a Washington, D.C.-based stripper, asking for a “brand-new dildo, fresh out of the package” at a strip club, an outrageous party animal.

Plus his well-compensated but resigned-from seat on the board of an energy company in Ukraine places him right in the center of the Ukraine scandal, at least as far as Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani‘s imaginings were concerned, and it’s entirely possible that Hunter will be asked by Congressional Republicans to testify sometime before the Senate’s final impeachment vote.

So Hunter’s saga has almost every Wolf of Wall Street element — unsavory affairs, drugs, booze, strippers, dildos, paternity suits, the appearance of 1% favoritism and at least the appearance of corruption, etc. And all of this is echoing back upon his father’s current campaign for the Democratic presidential nomination.

Is the Hunter Biden mess being pushed along by Republican-friendly sources and journalists in order to make Typewriter Biden look bad through parental association? Of course, but at the same time it is the stuff of lurid, juicy, high-calorie scandal.

And I, for one, would like to see Oliver Stone make a movie about all this, in the same way he made a better-than-decent film out of George W. Bush‘s life and times. Which couldn’t come out until sometime in ’21, at the earliest. It would be good. We would all definitely pay to see it.

Hunter Biden has to sit down with a major media figure and admit to all his wild shenanigans, chapter and verse, and then throw himself upon the church steps and say, “I was a flawed man and yes, I did some things I shouldn’t have done, and I’m sorry…I’m now sober and going to AA meetings, and that’s where things are at now. If he does this, his accusers will have nowhere to go, and the stench of tawdry scandal will start to abate.

Around the 1:40 mark, Irishman dp Rodrigo Prieto explains how the attitude and character of Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro) is reflected in the film’s matter-of-fact shooting style. Quote: “Frank Sheeran approached his job [as a Philadelphia mob family assassin] is a very methodical way. He cases the place, he decides what he needs to do, and then he does a, b, c and d. So the camera behaves like that. The camera is not doing, you know, spectacular, mysterious moves — it’s kind of matter-of-fact. This is the building, this is where it is, here comes Frank Sheeran, the victim comes up…pup-pup.”