Chris Evans: “I think original content inspires creative content. I think new stuff is what keeps the creative wheel rolling.”

HE: In what way is churning out Marvel and D.C. franchise movies…in what realm could anyone define the content of Marvel and D.C. movies as “new stuff” or “original content”? Okay, Joker is different — definitely not franchise sausage. But otherwise, franchise movies are the opposite of “new” or “fresh.”

Evans: “I just believe there’s room at the table for all of it.”

HE: But there isn’t. Not at the theatrical table. Scorsese’s point was that Marvel and D.C. have comic-booked and primitivized everything down, and in so doing elbowed aside nearly all other forms of content outside of family fare and romcoms. Obviously not on streaming platforms or cable/broadcast, but in theatres.

Evans: “It’s like saying a certain type of music isn’t music. Who are you to say that?”

HE: Scorsese isn’t saying that Marvel/D.C. isn’t music — he’s saying it isn’t especially good music, that it isn’t very adventurous or intimate or exploratory or inventive, that all superhero franchise flicks do the same kind of thing over and over again.

Oh, and Evans? Who are you to suggest that our greatest living filmmaker needs to check his ego and re-think things a bit?

Here’s a basic view shared by certain people I know. I’m not arguing this perception. Anyone who’s reached the age of 14 or 15 without realizing the truth of it is suffering from some kind of blockage. But I abhor the manner and tendencies of those who live and act and behave by this view alone. For they are the dark fellows, the reactionaries, the weak sisters, the conservatives, the fearful, the militant Israelis and Ebenezer Scrooge‘s of this realm.

Name the film this is from — the film, the year, actors, the original author, etc.

Well-heeled types pay to have their way in a fantasy realm, but it turns out the fantasy realm wants to have its way with them.

Jeff Wadlow‘s Fantasy Island (Sony, 2.14.20) is some kind of high-concept midrange spooker. Boiled down, it seems to be a blend of Michael Crichton’s 1973 Westworld and a 1964 Alfred Hitchcock Hour episode called “Thanatos Palace Hotel“, which costarred Steven Hill and Angie Dickinson. Or something like that.

Co-written by Wadlow, Chris Roach and Jillian Jacobs, the newbie costars Michael Pena, Maggie Q, Lucy Hale, Austin Stowell, Portia Doubleday, Jimmy O. Yang, Parisa Fitz-Henley and Michael Rooker.

There’s something about the sound of the word “fantasy” when pronounced by a person of Latin heritage (“phahntissy”) that drives me up the wall. I never the use the term “fantasy” except in a derogatory sense.

When I heard Woody Harrelson was playing Admiral Chester W. Nimitz (Commander-in-chief, US Pacific Fleet) in Roland Emmerich‘s Midway, I immediately decided that image-wise he was too stoned for this.

I don’t know if Harrelson is turning on these days like he used to, but his manner is too whimsical and lackadaisical and shit-kicky to play a man of starched-white discipline and great military power. I don’t care how good his performance is — he can’t be Chester Nimitz and that’s final.

I didn’t buy him as Lyndon Johnson either.

Did I attend any Midway screenings? No. Do I want to see it now? No. Will I at least stream it down the road? Possibly but no promises.

You know what I haven’t seen but would like to catch before it gets kicked out of theatres? Dr. Sleep. And I want to catch The Irishman one more time in a theatre before it goes to streaming on 11.27.

Which is to say it could have been Rules of the Game, had director-writer Noah Baumbach been so inclined.

Warren Beatty, Robert Towne and Hal Ashby‘s Shampoo was meant to be kind of a modern-day Rules of the Game — a film about distraction and frivolity in a social realm on the brink of jaded, narcissistic collapse.

That collapse, in Beatty’s mind, stemmed from the deflating of the spiritual, reach-for-the-skies ’60s and the failure of the ’72 McGovern campaign, which came to a symbolic halt when the silent majority put Nixon into the White House in order to enforce “lawnorder.”

“And so,” a friend has written, “I sometimes wonder when I watch some movies out right now…which of them is unintentionally Shampoo? Movies, I mean, whose makers had no idea they were making a movie about a culture locked in delusion, and on the brink of collapse.”

Thought #1 is that Marriage Story could have been Shampoo or Rules of the Game, if Noah Baumbach had wanted to go there. (The fact that he didn’t is fine with me — in and of itself Marriage Story is a very fine, emotionally open-hearted film.) Thought #2 is that Marriage Story would be COMPLETELY BRILLIANT if it wanted to carry the torch of Shampoo and Rules of the Game and thereby portray a delusional culture, etc.

From Anthony Lane’s Marriage Story review: “This is a frighteningly first-world piece of work. Viewers in countries whose litigious instincts are less barbaric may watch it in amazement, as if it were science fiction.

“We laugh at Jay’s astronomical fee, but the real joke is that Charlie pays it — that he can afford to pay it — when it comes to the crunch. How about the vast majority of husbands and wives, especially wives, who cannot abide the misery of their union but lack the funds to either solve or dissolve it? The crunch [would] slay them.”

The capturing of this elite, sealed-off world, Lane suggests, “may be something of which the movie is itself unconscious, so steeped is its creator in the world that he describes.”

Apologies for misspelling the first half of Maximilien (aka “Max”) Robespierre.

All mainstream Hollywood sex comedies of the early to mid ’60s are pretty close to unwatchable now. A year or two ago I was close to condemning Lover Come Back as the most painfully unfunny, but they’re all horrendous to sit through. All that sexual interest, energy and intrigue, and all of it suffocated and shackled. So many U.S. comedies about characters wanting to get randy, and all of them constrained because of the industry’s still-prevailing production code, which didn’t begin to erode until ’66 or thereabouts.

[Click through to full story on HE-plus]

“Is this an aviation film directed by Howard Hawks or what? Yes, much of it takes place after dark but this is also a film with a certain merriment and esprit de service and drinks and songs on the piano. Why so inky?

“I lost patience after a while and turned the brightness all the way up, and it was still too dark. I much prefer the high-def Vudu version that I own; ditto the TCM Bluray that I bought a year or two ago. Mark this down as a case of Criterion vandalism — it’s just not the film I’ve been watching all these years.” — from HE pan of Criterion’s Only Angels Have Wings Bluray (“Dark Angels, Black Barranca, Noir All Over“), posted on 4.19.16.

The realm of Only Angels Have Wings is all-male, all the time. Feelings run quite strong (the pilots who are “good enough” love each other like brothers) but nobody lays their emotional cards on the table face-up. Particularly Cary Grant‘s Geoff, a brusque, hard-headed type who never has a match on him. He gradually falls in love with Jean Arthur but refuses to say so or even show it very much. But he does subtly reveal his feelings at the end with the help of a two-headed coin.

It’s not what any woman or poet would call a profound declaration of love, but it’s as close to profound as it’s going to get in this 1939 Howard Hawks film. If Angels were remade today with Jennifer Lawrence in the Arthur role she’d probably say “to hell with it” and catch the boat, but in ’39 the coin was enough. Easily one of the greatest finales in Hollywood history.

Leonardo DiCaprio turns 45 tomorrow. He’ll be 50 before you know it because time flies when you can’t get enough of the treadmill. I chatted with Leo a few days ago at a San Vicente Bungalows after-party, and between the lines I was thinking “wow, the train is moving faster and faster.”

DiCaprio has been a power-hitter and marquee headliner for 22 years now, or since Titanic. 26 years if you count The Boy’s Life. Nobody can ever diminish or take away the killer performances he’s given in Once Upon A Time in Hollywood, The Departed, Inception, Revolutionary Road and especially The Wolf of Wall Street…a lot to be proud of. And I can’t wait for what happens with Killers of the Flower Moon.

But when I think of vintage DiCaprio I rewind back to that dynamic six-year period in the ’90s (’93 to ’98) when he was all about becoming and jumping off higher and higher cliffs — aflame, intense and panther-like in every performance he gave. I was reminded of this electric period this morning that I watched the below YouTube clip of DiCaprio and David Letterman in April ’95, when he was 20 and promoting The Basketball Diaries.

I respected Leo’s performance in This Boy’s Life but I didn’t love it, and I felt the same kind of admiring distance with Arnie, his mentally handicpped younger brother role in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, partly because he was kind of a whiny, nasally-voiced kid in both and…you know, good work but later. Excellent actor, didn’t care for the feisty-kid vibes.

But a few months before Gilbert Grape opened I met DiCaprio for a Movieline interview at The Grill in Beverly Hills, and by that time he was taller and rail-thin and just shy of 20. I was sitting in that booth and listening to him free-associate with that irreverent, lightning-quick mind, and saying to myself, “This guy’s got it…I can feel the current.”

Then came a torrent: a crazy gunslinger in Sam Raimi‘s The Quick and the Dead (’95), as the delicate Paul Verlaine in Total Eclipse (’95), as himself in the semi-improvised, black-and-white homey film that only me and a few others saw called Don’s Plum (’95), as the druggy Jim Carroll in The Basketball Diaries (’95), as a wild, angry kid in Jerry Zak’s Marvin’s Room, opposite Claire Danes in Baz Luhrmann‘s Romeo + Juliet, as Jack Dawson in Titanic and finally as a parody of himself in Woody’s Celebrity. Eight performances, and every one a kind of sparkler-firecracker thing.

Two or three weeks ago I began hearing about certain levels of Marriage Story discomfort among older couples. Even about walk-outs, believe it or not. Which is crazy because (a) Marriage Story is obviously a first-rate, grade-A film about real-life angst and mistakes and hurdles, and with excellent performances up and down from Adam Driver, Scarjo, Laura Dern, Ray Liotta and Alan Alda, and (b) all good films serve truth-and-honesty sauce, and in so doing provide nourishment for the soul.

Who the hell would lean over and whisper in their significant other’s ear, “Uhm, look, this movie is kinda weirding me out…it’s taking me back to my divorce in the ’90s and I’d rather concentrate on the here-and-now…is it okay if I meet you outside the theatre after it’s over?”

What’s past is past, and difficult times with an ex-wife shouldn’t have any significant bearing upon your current situation. (Unless you’re exactly the same person you were 20 years ago.) What kind of an emotional weakling would run like a coward from Marriage Story?

Watch this 60 Minutes piece on Obama. The tone of Steve Kroft‘s questions are mostly in the realm of “really?…what’s the hurry?…where’s the experience?…but you’re black, and are you black enough?”

Marinated D.C. experience means zip — what matters is character, intelligence, vision, practicality, humility, street wisdom.

Don’t kid yourself — the Beast could be re-elected. It follows that I am white-knuckle-terrified of Elizabeth Warren and/or Joe Biden winning the 2020 Democratic nomination.

Buttigieg, Buttigieg, Buttigieg.