Over the last few days I’ve been on a Brooke Hayward jag. Okay, a Brooke Hayward-and-Dennis Hopper thing…quite a pairing + the lore of ‘60s Hollywood and Joan Didion-ville…the counter-cultural turnovers, upheavals and whatnot.

This led yesterday to Mike Rozzo’s “Everybody Thought We Were Crazy”, a 2022 book about the fraught but exciting eight-year marriage (‘61 to ‘69) between Hayward, author of 1977’s “Haywire”, one of the better torn-and-frayed Hollywood memoirs, and the eccentric Hopper.

I initially wrote “nutso” to describe the late Easy Rider director and Blue Velvet costar. This might sound unkind but it takes one to know one. Not the druggy stuff, mind, as I never went down that hole. I meant it as a like-minded compliment, actually, because a paragraph in Rozzo’s book about a seminal moment in Hopper’s Kansas childhood reminded me of my own.

I didn’t feel that my childhood was less “real” than the realms I sank into when I began to catch films as a kid, but it was far less attractive. If anything it was too real.

All I wanted in my tweens and teens was to obtain parole from the repressive suburban gulag I’d been raised under and thereafter blend into (taste, know more intimately, in some way contribute to, anything) the extra-level pizazz of movies.

My Hayward dive began with an opening lecture scene in Mike Nichols’ The Day of the Dolphin (‘73), in which the mid-30ish Hayward, whose ‘60s acting career never took off, asks George C. Scott about governmental dolphin research.

Hayward is one of three female questioners in this scene, but she seems like the most knowledgable and grounded on some level…there’s a whiff of character and conviction in her WASPy features and confident tone of voice…you can feel it. On top of which she’s quite beautiful.

I’ve also been flipping through the almost half-century-old “Haywire”, which digs into Brooke’s Hollywood vs. northeast corridor upbringing and her turbulent young adulthood.

The late Buck Henry, an old friend who wrote the screenplay for The Day of the Dolphin and was probably instrumental in getting Brooke that cameo, wrote a forward intro for a 2010 re-issue of “Haywire”. It ends with this line:

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The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has decided to award a new Oscar for Achievement in Stunt Design, starting with the 100th Academy Awards in 2028 (i.e., recognizing achievements in films released in 2027). The corpses of Daryl F. Zanuck, John Ford, Howard Hawks, Robert Towne, David O. Selznick, Irving Thalberg, Alfred Hitchcock, Edith Head, Ben Hecht, William Wyler and Gregg Toland have just turned in their graves…trust me.

This will be the first grunt-level or “meathead” Oscar category in the Academy’s history. For almost a full century every other category — directing, acting, screenwriting, cinematography, makeup, set design, costumes — has represented some kind of truly creative, fine-art aspiration. Even the forthcoming casting Oscar category, which will produce a winner at the 2026 Oscars, represents the kind of achievement that, if done right, truly enhances the art of cinema.

Stunts, difficult as they can be to perform well, are essentially low-rent. The only artful stunts I could point to were performed by Buster Keaton a century ago.

Today’s stunts, of course, are a different deal. They certainly don’t occupy the same station as modern dance or ballet, which have long been practiced by performers who care about creative visions and possibilities. Even trapeze artistry can be regarded as an art form. But not movie stunts. Stunt performers are fine as long as they say on their side of the fence. But they don’t deserve to stand alongside the film industry’s actual artists.

The bad guys in his instance are director David Leitch and stunt coordinator Chris O’Hara of Stunts Unlimited. They’ve been aggressively advocating for a stunt Oscar category, and now the Academy, grappling with the fact that the Oscars are a failing brand, has imperceptibly shrugged and given in.

Owen Gleiberman‘s 3.28.25 review of Warfare, co-directed by Alex Garland and former SEAL Ray Mendoza, explained the basic deal — no movie stuff — just raw, assaultive, in-your-face realism within a short time frame.

By “stuff” he meant “no story, no dramatic hooks, no scripted banter, no musical score, no establishment of plot points, no character development, no giving those of us in the audience our bearings”…just a real-time incident that happened to Mendoza and several other SEALS 19 years ago during the Battle of Ramadi. A mere 95 minutes, and all of it inside and just outside a two-story home without plants or shade.

And I knew all that going into last night’s 7 pm IMAX screening. No surprises, locked and loaded…ready.

So here’s what happened…not in the film as I knew that Garland-Mendoza would put me through the ringer and leave me with a temporary case of PTSD. And they do exactly that, in spades. What I mean is, here’s what happened to me:

The screen was fake IMAX (half as large as the one at the AMC Lincoln Square) but the projection quality was aces — immaculate clarity, razor-sharp focus — and the loud battle sounds (dunf-dunf-dunf-DOOF!) were, in a sense, life-giving. They got my pulse going…woke me the fuck UP….I almost forgot about the popcorn.

Nothing happens during the first 25 or 30 minutes, but it holds you tight and firm because you know bad shit is right around the corner. Everything we hear and see is at the very least riveting because you KNOW. And then it starts…okay, I won’t describe it. But it has to be experienced on a big screen with loud, crisp, pumped-out sound. No streaming, no couches, no smart phone distraction…full attention.

A few guys get shot up and shredded, but then you knew that. That’s not to say what happens isn’t horrific. I was flinching and gasping all through it, but as I know a few of the actors I was able to occasonally pull back and disassociate and think about stuff of my own.

One of the SEALS is Joseph Quinn‘s “Sam”, and while I felt terribly for the poor guy (in actuality, back in ’06) and his ghastly leg wounds (he moans and wails a lot and who could blame him?) but to be perfectly honest I was also whispering to Quinn, “I’m sorry for your character’s terrible pain but on another level you, Joseph Quinn, almost deserve it because you’ll be playing George Harrison for Sam Mendes, and you don’t even faintly resemble Harrison…alabaster skin, auburn hair, eyes that couldn’t be more different than Harrison’s deep browns.”

Mendoza is played by the 25 year-old D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai, whom I liked right away. He’s good-looking and slender and watchful like a tiger and super-attuned….a guy you feel good about right away. I had looked at current photos of Mendoza, and, as you might expect, he’s put on a fair amount of weight over the last 20 years. You can laugh but the fact that Woon-A-Tai’s Mendoza is a young and lean workout Nazi…you can laugh but I gave thanks to God for this.

On the other hand Michael (son of James) Gandolfini is a bit on the bulky side, and as he’s only 26 he’d better watch himself…if you’re not in reasonably trim physical shape in your mid 20s you’ll be a mess when you hit 40 or even 35.

And yet Charles Melton, who only appears during the last half-hour as Jake, an officer of some kind, delivers great authority and pretty much restores his acting career.

I didn’t mind Melton’s passable performance as Julianne Moore‘s much younger husband in Todd Haynes‘ May December (’23), but I was really turned off when he started winning Best Supporting Actor awards in late ’23. The wokesters shrieked their usual denials, but it was obvious this was happening because of Melton’s ethnicity (his mother is Korean). But when he took charge and starting barking orders last night, I almost said out loud,”All is forgiven, dude…your mushy husband portrayal from two years ago is gone from my head, and all I can see and feel is Jake’s hardcore commitment…you’ve saved yourself.”

There’s a recurring image — a prop, I should say — in Warfare that I will never forget. Not a dead American body but a portion of one. That’s all I’m going to say.

10:30 am update: Lynne Ramsay‘s Die My Love, a post-partum depression “comedy” that costars Jennifer “JLaw” Lawrence and Robert “RPatz” Pattinson, will be announced as an additional Cannes title. World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy is hearing “as many as SEVEN late additions, including two in competition, will be announced.” Die My Love costars LaKeith Stanfield, Sissy Spacek and the profoundly grizzled Nick Nolte.

Earlier this morning: Many potentially exciting Cannes ’25 films are missing from the just-announced lineup, and despite a general understanding that more titles will be added over the next two or three weeks, I for one am moderately bummed.

After five years of editing The Way of the Wind, the seemingly wispy, undeniably fickle-minded Terrence Malick has once again chickened out.

Amazon has also wimped out, I gather, on approving the showing of Luca Guadagnino‘s reportedly forceful After The Hunt. In the realm of potential award-season contenders, distributors are generally scared shitless of Cannes.

Gregg Araki‘s I Want Your Sex has apparently been given the go-by. Jim Jarmusch‘s Father, Mother, Sister, Brother has been rejected. Kristen Stewart‘s The Chronology of Water either isn’t ready or hasn’t made the cut. And for whatever reasons[s] Laszlo Nemes’ Orphan is, for now, out.

It would’ve been surprising if Paul Thomas Anderson‘s One Battle After Another had been selected (it’s almost certainly going to Venice) but it would’ve been so much fun to catch it early. Warner Bros. is understandably concerned over advance reactions — I would be too.

But hey, at least attendees will have an opportunity to savor Joachim Trier‘s Sentimental Value, “an intimate and moving exploration of family, memories, and the reconciliatory power of art.” HE is earnestly looking forward to this, especially with Renate Reinsve starring.

Not to mention the somber spectacle of Paul Mescal and Josh O’Connor doing each other in early 20th Century New England in Oliver Hermanus‘s The History of Sound…spiritual longings, hard-ons, primitive recording equipment, etc.

And Ari Aster‘s Eddington…I guess. And Chris McQuarrie and Tom Cruise‘s Mission: Impossible — The Final Reckoning. And, for a change of pace, Andrew Dominik‘s Bono: Stories of Surrender

And Richard Linklater‘s Nouvelle Vague, about the making of Jean-Luc Godard‘s Breathless.

Oh, and Spike Lee‘s Highest 2 Lowest, a remake of Akira kurosawa‘s High and Low (’63), will screen non-competitively.

In Competition:

“Sentimental Value” (dir. Joachim Trier)
“Sound of Falling” (dir. Mascha Schilinski)
“Romeria” (dir. Carla Simon)
“The Mastermind” (dir. Kelly Reichardt)
“Nouvelle Vague” (dir. Richard Linklater)
“The Eagles of the Republic” (dir. Tarik Saleh)
“Dossier 137” (dir. Dominik Moll)
“The Secret Agent” (dir. Kleber Mendonça Filho)
“Fuori” (dir. Mario Martone)
“Two Prosecutors” (dir. Sergei Loznitsa)
“La Petite Dernière” (dir. Hafsia Herzi)
“A Simple Accident” (dir. Jafar Panahi)
“The History of Sound” (dir. Oliver Hermanus)
“Renoir” (dir. Chie Hayakawa)
“Alpha” (dir. Julia Ducournau)
“Sirat” (dir. Oliver Laxe)
“Young Mothers” (dir. Jean-Pierre Dardenne, Luc Dardenne)
“Eddington” (dir. Ari Aster)
“The Phoenician Scheme” (dir. Wes Anderson)

Cannes Premiere:

“Amrum” (dir. Fatih Akin)
“Splitsville” (dir. Michael Angelo Covino)
“Connemara” (dir. Alex Lutz)
“The Disappearance of Josef Mengele” (dir. Kirill Serebrennikov)
“Orwell” (dir. Raoul Peck)
“The Wave” (dir. Sebastián Lelio)

Un Certain Regard:

“The Mysterious Gaze of the Flamingo” (dir. Diego Céspedes)
“My Father’s Shadow” (dir. Akinola Davies)
“Urchin” (dir. Harris Dickinson)
“Meteors” (dir. Hubert Charuel)
“A Pale View of Hills” (dir. Kei Ishikawa)
“Eleanor the Great” (dir. Scarlett Johansson)
“Pillion” (dir. Harry Lighton)
“L’inconnue de la Grande Arche” (dir. Stephane Demoustier)
“Aisha Can’t Fly Away” (dir. Morad Mostafa)
“Once Upon a Time in Gaza” (dir. Arab Nasser, Tarzan Nasser)
“The Plague” (dir. Charlie Polinger)
“Heads or Tails?” (dir. Alessio Rigo de Righi, Matteo Zoppis)
“Homebound” (dir. Neeraj Ghaywan)
“The Last One for the Road” (dir. Francesco Sossai)

Special Screenings:

“Bono: Stories of Surrender” (dir. Andrew Dominik)
“Tell Her That I Love Her” (dir. Claude Miller)
“The Magnificent Life of Marcel Pagnol” (dir. Sylvain Chomet)
“Dalloway” (dir. Yann Gozlan)

Out of Competition:

“Mission: Impossible — The Final Reckoning” (dir. Christopher McQuarrie)
“The Coming of the Future” (dir. Cedric Klapisch)
“Vie Privée” (dir. Rebecca Zlotowski)
“The Richest Woman in the World” (dir. Thierry Klifa)

In the early to mid ’50s Dewey Martin was quite the appealing young actor — handsome, well-spoken, disciplined, no-nonsense vibes. He landed strong supporting roles in a quartet of respected and successful films — Howard Hawks‘ The Thing (’51), The Big Sky (’52) and Land of the Pharoahs (’55), and William Wyler‘s The Desperate Hours (’55).

But after costarring with Dean Martin in Ten Thousand Bedrooms (’57), Dewey’s feature career began to go south.

He turned up in several more films, but no good ones. He was in Meet Me in Las Vegas (’56) and The Proud and Profane (’56), but without credit. His supporting role in The Longest Day (1962) was deleted. He became a semi-prominent TV actor (the lead role in a well-remembered Twilight Zone episode that aired in ’60 (“I Shot An Arrow into The Air“) and plugged along throughout the ’60s, but the gas was pretty much gone from the tank by the early to mid ’70s.

Martin married Peggy Lee in ’58, but they divorced in June ’59.

I don’t know what Martin did for a living during his last few decades, but he had a strong constitution and wound up living until age 94. Martin passed seven years ago in San Pedro.

Where would Martin have been without Hawks’ admiration and professional support? The Thing, The Big Sky and Land of the Pharoahs were fairly big deals in their day.

What was the essence of the Hawks-Martin bond? Presumably Hawks saw Martin as the son he never had, but I’ve searched and asked around and know nothing.

The bottom line is that things began to dry up for Martin after Hawks took a hiatus from directing after Land of the Pharoahs and didn’t return until Rio Bravo, which was shot in 58 or thereabouts.

I hate to say this but I suspect the name “Dewey” didn’t work for certain folks — it sounded unmanly or adolescent. It may have reminded some in the audience of Huey, Dewey and Louie.

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A semblance of class and restraint on the left…not so much on the right.

The following has happened many, many times in my moviegoing life, and especially before I got into this racket: I’d read a bunch of shitty reviews of a given film, but I saw it anyway and…surprise!…it turned out to be not only half-decent but surprisingly good here and there.

This led me to wonder what kind of stick had been shoved up the asses of the critics who panned it. What was their basic malfunction? It gradually hit me when I became friendly with several critics in the late ’70s and beyond that some are “friendly” or appealing enough on a colorful personality basis (in terms of exuding actual human qualities one of my favorite critics was Andrew Sarris, with whom I spent three or four hours on a road trip in ’77) but some of them are just snippy, snarly pricks. If not overtly then on some kind of buried, deep-down basis. (This is not a psychological examination piece.)

The critical shitstorm that clobbered (but failed to seriously injure) Green Book is one example of this.

My first viewing of Peter Farrelly‘s Oscar-winning film happened at the 2018 Toronto Film Festival, and the crowd didn’t just approve and applaud — they adored it. But along came the prick critics (many of them wokeys) and before you knew it Green Book was a movie that not only needed to be disparaged but killed. I didn’t “think” Green Book was a nice, agreeable, feel-good thing — I knew it was that. I’d felt a rousing connection in the presence of hundreds of Toronto filmgoers.

Nobody ever claimed that Green Book was some kind of historic masterpiece, but it was fine as far as it went, not to mention charming and likable and undeniably well-crafted. But the pterodactyls in the critical community used every weapon in their reptile arsenal to draw blood, which led me to recall a line that I once heard William S. Burroughs say before a microphone: “Some people are shits.”

I came to a similar conclusion two years ago while reviewing Stephen Frears‘ The Lost King. “The people who’ve trashed this film are really and truly rancid,” I wrote, as The Lost King “is a good, personable, middle-class British film…not a comedy but amusing here and there…I completely enjoyed its company.” I didn’t care for a couple of aspects (the ghost of Richard appearing to Sally Hawkins) but to use a misstep or two as a reason to completely dismiss it is just vile.

It’s commonly understood at this point that David Fincher and Quentin Tarantino‘s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood follow-up is (a) not a sequel to Tarantino’s original, (b) about the continuing adventures of Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt) and (c) set in 1977 (cocaine, death to disco). Fincher directing, script by QT, principal photography starting in July.

It’s not my place to suggest any plotlines or casting ideas, but I’m going to anyway. Julia Butters, who played a precocious eight-year-old actress, Trudi Fraser, in Tarantino’s original OUATIH, should be woven in somehow. If only because she made a commendable impression in the 2019 original at age nine or so, and because she’s not only a grade-A actress (she was in Steven Spielberg‘s The Fabelmans plus Leonardo DiCaprio called her “a young Meryl Streep“) but is now 15 and on the verge of you-tell-me.

If HBO creatives aren’t thinking right now about a White Lotus spinoff show called Blame It On The Ratliffs, they should be immediately fired.

An upper-middle-class family suddenly tossed into the horrific animal pit of financial Armageddon and the resultant loss of comfort, elevated status, having to land jobs, sell the house and move to a vaguely crummy neighborhood…pretentious swells forced to adapt to a lesser (dare we say “shitty”?) standard of living and hating every moment of it.

The sure-to-be-psychotic journey of Parker Posey‘s Victoria Ratliff alone…the unmitigated joy of watching Victoria suffer one social-station comedown after another…talk about a bomb cocktail! The Sopranos meets Absolutely Fabulous plus you-name-it. Initial periods of shock, denial and bargaining followed by a brush with catatonic depression. And then she becomes the angriest, most ferocious “Karen” of all time.

Victoria promptly divorces Jason Isaacs‘s Tim Ratliff, of course, as (a) he nearly Jonestowned the entire family with those poisoned pina colada smoothies…okay, four of them including himself…plus (b) she needs to find another sugar daddy pronto, or at least she has that goal in her mind. In reality she’s too old to find a sexually active husband, but she might get lucky with a pot-bellied 70something horndog…who knows?

Tim is looking at government prosecution, of course, plus enormous legal fees (Scott Galloway could play his attorney!) and a country-club jail term of three to five years. Plus, as noted, divorce with Victoria trying to shake him down for every last shekel.

But will his plight be as horrible as he imagined it might be back in Thailand? He’s presumably socked some assets away in anticipation of legal trouble but he might not have been cagey enough to have thought of that. All financially savvy fellows with shady associations know they have to covertly move liquid funds to foreign territories, and perhaps even keep a bag of cash and diamonds in an outdoor shed (maybe in a special below-the-floor safe a la Tony Soprano).

It’s safe to say that in prison Tim will experience a spiritual awakening.

Patrick Schwarzenegger‘s Saxon Ratliff will not handle poverty well. He said that in so many words in episode #7. He runs away at first….maybe a cross-country trip, maybe an escape to a bartending job in Key West, maybe a little drug-dealing, maybe a floor salesman gig at a BMW dealership. Stone-cold miserable at every turn, but then a possible spiritual growth spurt….actually learning to stand on his own two feet and become (we should pardon the expression) a man.

Sarah Catherine Hook‘s Piper Ratliff and Sam Nivola‘s Lochlan Ratliff will be the least affected or at least the most adaptable. Lochlan will be, for sure. Sarah is her mother’s daughter so we might expect a little freaking-out at first.

Get to work on an eight-part miniseries right now. And if they go for this, I want a “based on an idea by” credit.

And Chevy Chase thought so too, according to legend.

“The Giant Garden Slug Blows Eddie Murphy While John Candy Watches”…check.

Snapped in the fall of ’19. Just after a Middleburg Film Festival visit. Wasn’t trying…just happened. Perfect balance and focus, excellent light, a little past magic hour.

Michael O’Donoghue‘s Mr. Mike’s Mondo Video, which I saw once back in ’79, is only sporadically funny if that, not to mention technically coarse and splotchy. But the eagerness to offend is damn near breathtaking.

The written prologue or mock warning starts at the :30 second mark — please read it. There were no lefty sensitivity wackos around during the waning days of the Carter administration, of course, but imagining how today’s wokeys might react is, well, pleasurable.

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