“Perry Mason”: Dark, Grubby, Icky

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HE to NYC Journo Pally: I didn’t get around to watching episode #1 of Perry Mason until a couple of nights ago. It’s an unpleasant sit. Right away I was…well, not repelled but rolling my eyes. Grubby gumshoe, down at the heels, dark vibes, rotely cynical. The writing feels lazy, cheap, second-hand…a long way from Chinatown.

Was the color palette drained or subdued? Actually that’s me — I was drained and subdued. But the images are…I dunno, dim and mucky.

Odious, ugly, distasteful characters being boring, speaking throwaway dialogue (written by series creators Rolin Jones and Ron Fitzgerald), and occasionally bringing pain (or enduring it) in ugly, thoughtless ways.

Inwardly I was moaning “lemme outta here…I can’t watch an hour of this, much less eight episodes’ worth.” But I stuck it out because suffering is part of my job.

This is a period miniseries (set in 1931 Los Angeles) determined to cover you in a noirish atmosphere that emphasizes non-hygienic gunk. Perry Mason, an alcoholic private investigator who’s way too sloppy and stumbling to work as an assistant to J.J. Gittes, is…well, I’ve said it. Living in a fog, a poor judge of character and temperament, separated from his wife and son, a traumatized World War I veteran blah blah.

The story kicks off when grubby Mason is hired by a rich LA businessman to investigate the kidnapping of Charlie Dodson, a baby who turned up dead with his eyes stitched open blah blah.

I really don’t care for Matthew Rhys and that dour, doleful vibe of his, which was a problem in A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood and is even more of one here. Those dark beady eyes and that small-shouldered frame, those dishrag T-shirts he wears, that tight curly hair and especially that ridiculous two-week beard stubble. Only rummies and hobos walked around with a prominent beard stubble in the 1930s. It’s completely nonsensical that a detective looking to maintain a certain professional appearance would look like that.

Random beefs include (a) Mason taking sex snaps of an obese actor who pays to see his own films in a public theatre?, (b) occasionally sadistic violence, (c) Why is Mason in an odd sexual relationship with that overweight, middle-aged Hispanic woman (Veronica Falcon)? And why would she want to have sex with him? And why does she want to buy his home for $6K? Why would he want to sell?, (d) Mason’s home is next to a small private airport (one of only two elements I liked atmosphere-wise — possibly Van Nuys Airport in SF Valley?) and apparently owns a pair of underfed cows, (e) I also respected the decision to show us the Bunker Hill funicular (also visible in Robert Towne’s Ask The Dust and Robert Aldrich’s Kiss Me Deadly).

But the idea of sitting through seven more episodes of this sordid series…God!

NYC Journo Pally to HE: “Stay with it. I agree that the first episode is just dumping a can of paint on the floor. But the colors take shape in one of the best second episode turnarounds in recent memory. From there the dense plotting and Chinatown light vibe sinks in. Stay on the case.”

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Biden Blowout?

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Yes, Joe Biden is several points higher than Hillary Clinton was in June 2016, and it obviously looks good for him. But I’ll never forget that feeling of election-night betrayal when I realized Clinton (whom I voted for but never liked all that much) was going to lose. Over and over during the ’16 campaign pollsters said she was safely ahead of Trump. The projections of Steve Bannon aside, even Trump campaign staffers believed that he’d probably lose. He did wind up losing the popular vote, of course, but he won the electoral college tallies. Which was entirely Hillary’s fault.

I’m not saying Biden isn’t in excellent shape, but he needs to stand up to the statue-topplers. The non-Confederates, I mean.

The Way It Is

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On 6.20 (only five days ago!) Paul Schrader wrote on Facebook that he’s “troubled by the double standard. We encourage multiracial casting — black Romeos with white Juliets, a female Lear, etc. Yet when a non-Jew plays Shylock or a white plays Othello, this is considered outre and unacceptable.”

HE reply: “Whites may no longer portray non-whites” is fuck-you payback for all the decades (early to mid 20th Century) when whites portrayed other tribes and races with impugnity in films. No one mentions Marlon Brando as Sakini, a native Okinawan, in Teahouse of the August Moon, or Katharine Hepburn as Jade in Dragon Seed, but whitewashing was once par for the course.

Not out of inherently venal reasons, but banal ones. Because Hollywood producers believed that non-white actors would, in many circumstances, diminish box-office returns and that white actors would enhance them.

Don’t forget, however, that as recently as ’07 Angelina Jolie played Mariane Pearl, a French-born woman of Afro-Cuban descent, in A Mighty Heart, and nobody said boo.

How was this different than Mickey Rooney‘s Japanese landlord in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Alec Guinness‘ Prince Feisal in Lawrence of Arabia, Ricardo Montalban‘s Japanese Kabuki actor in Sayonara, Natalie Wood‘s Maria in West Side Story, Kurt Jurgens‘ “Captain Lin Nan” in Inn of the Sixth Happiness and Jennifer Jones‘ half-Native American in Duel in the Sun? Should wokesters retroactively cancel Jolie? Should they at least take her to task on Twitter?

In a tribal sense, whites are regarded as deeply flawed and generally problematic. Certainly by the standards of cancel-culture and BLM wokesters. Perhaps not the root of all evil, but the N.Y. Times‘ “1619 Project” made a case that European-descended white-person culture represents a profoundly diseased and guilty heritage, certainly as far as African Americans and Native Americans are concerned.

White actors can therefore not play persons of color for this reason. They must sit on the sidelines and meditate on their basic nature, and perhaps eventually evolve into something better down the road.

Given the alleged racism on the part of John Wayne, the ultimate conservative swaggering white man, I wouldn’t be surprised if Wayne’s horse-riding statue (at the corner of Wilshire and La Cienega) is someday pulled down or defaced by demonstrators. I’m serious — in a world in which a statue of George Washington was defaced and statues of Ulysses S. Grant and Francis Scott Key have been toppled, Wayne should be easy pickings.

Temporary Office Space

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This morning SoCal Edison shut the power off (not just my building but others in the immediate region) in order to install a new telephone pole. I asked a friend if I could use his rear pool house, which has all the comforts — good wifi, a nice TV, a serious bathroom, air-conditioning, etc. “No problem, come on over.”

I was immediately taken by the huge pink flamingo in the pool and the Helmut Newton-ish wooden sculpture. And then I was invited into the kitchen for some interesting chatter and a nice chicken-and-camembert sandwich. The bottom line is that it’s very nice here, but I haven’t gotten much work done.

Don’t Tell Me

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Two days ago I posted a riff on Jan de Bont‘s Twister. It just, like, came to me out of the blue. I was thinking about the one and only time I saw the 1996 release (at an all-media screening in Westwood), and flirted with idea of watching it again for laughs.

Early this afternoon Variety‘s Justin Kroll reported that Universal Pictures is looking to reboot Twister, and is in negotiations with Top Gun: Maverick director Joseph Kosinski to direct. Frank Marshall will produce, Kroll said. Uni is “currently meeting with writers to pen the script,” etc.

HE to readership: We all know how this works. I’ll sound like an egotistical blowhard if I demand an associate producer credit, but at the same time it’s a very curious coincidence. I for one suspect that some highly placed Universal hotshot read my piece two days ago and a 75-watt lightbulb went on. In short order Kosinki’s agent was contacted, a deal memo was hastily emailed, discussions with potential screenwriters immediately commenced, etc.

Is it a coincidence that Kroll’s story popped two days after mine? Of course it is! Universal reps, if pressed, will almost certainly claim this, and what could I say? It’s their company, their alleged initiative.

All I know is that the timing of the Kroll story sure seems fishy.

Will Smith as Runaway Slave

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Will Smith as “Whipped Peter“?

I’m trying to think of an established, marquee-brand actor of color who would be a worse fit for this role in Antoine Fuqua‘s Emancipation, a fact-based, Civl War-era chase thriller currently being promoted as a Cannes Virtual Market title.

It’s not that the 51-year-old former superstar couldn’t or wouldn’t deliver a respectable performance, but the idea of the loaded, charismatic, alpha-vibey “Will Smith” attempting to merge with the real-life saga of an escaped African American slave, not to mention the subject of an historic photograph that not only showed he’d been horrifically beaten but opened the eyes of the would to the evils of slavery…I’m sorry but I just can’t buy the notion of Smith becoming this guy, no matter how hard he tries or what kind of approach or technique he pulls out of a hat.

Chiwetel Ejiofor, Michael B. Jordan, Chadwick Boseman, Denzel Washington, Mahershala Ali, Don Cheadle, Samuel L. Jackson, Idris Elbva, Terrence Howard, Jamie Foxx — I could and would buy any one of these guys as “whipped Peter” without the slightest hesitation. But not Smith.

Working from a script by Willam N. Collage, Emancipation will reportedly begin shooting early next year.

Respect for Lewis John Carlino

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Director-screenwriter Lewis John Carlino enjoyed a 15-year peak career period, starting with his screenplay for John Frankenheimer‘s Seconds (’66 — an adaptation of David Ely‘s same-titled novel) and more or less ending with the widely acclaimed The Great Santini (’79), which Carlino adapted and directed and which starred Robert Duvall.

In between were screenplays for The Fox (’67), The Brotherhood (’68), The Mechanic (’72), Crazy Joe (’74), The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea (’76, which Carlino also directed), and screenplays for I Never Promised You a Rose Garden (’77) and Resurrection (’80).

Carlino passed six days ago at age 88.

Jimmy Kimmel Isn’t Stupid

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Putting aside matters of taste and sensitivity, Jimmy Kimmel felt free to do blackface skits 20-plus years ago (Comedy Central’s The Man Show, a song from a 1996 comedy Christmas album) because he thought they were reasonably funny and nobody would say boo. Which is what happened until recently. The same calculation and risk assessment was made by Robert Downey, Jr and Ben Stiller when they made Tropic Thunder. And then the culture changed and now everyone who attempted this kind of risque comedy has to apologize. Not a biggie and certainly not an indication of toxic essence. The goal posts have simply been moved. Burt Lancaster wore black-guy makeup in Scorpio, a 1973 Michael Winner spy film. Big deal.

Bad Relationship Songs

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The other day I was driving and listening to “Not So Sweet Martha Lorraine” and marvelling at Country Joe McDonald‘s smooth twangy croon and Barry Melton‘s super-clean, sharp-as-a-blade guitar and that wonderful boppin’ organ, etc. “And finally blow out my brains…”

Bad relationship songs have cut both ways for a long time in the pop realm. Irritating or bad-vibe girlfriend songs by male blues singers and macho rock groups surged in the ’50s, ’60s and early ’70s, but have pretty much disappeared this century. (Or am I not paying attention?)

Toxic-male-relationship songs by prominent female singers happened from time to time in the ’60s (Linda Ronstadt‘s “You’re No Good”, Lesley Gore‘s “You Don’t Own Me”) but seem to be pretty much the only game in town today (Rhianna‘s “Love on the Brain“, JoJo‘s “Mad Love“, Lauryn Hill‘s “Ex-Factor“).

Are bad-girlfriend songs even allowed these days? I can’t think of any but what do I know?

Classic-era bad girlfriend (or irksome women) songs: “You Talk Too Much” (Joe Jones, ’60), “Black Hearted Woman”, “Every Hungry Woman (The Allman Brothers, ’70), “I Hear You Knockin’” (Smiley Lewis, ’55), “Stupid Girl,” “Under My Thumb” (Rolling Stones, ’65), “I’ll Feel a Whole Lot Better” (The Byrds, ’65), “96 Tears” (Question Mark & The Mysterians), “I Can See For Miles” (The Who, ’67), etc.

I don’t have the time or energy to explain what I’m on about. I’m not even sure if I know myself. This is basically a Chris Willman piece that I accidentally stepped into out of enthusiasm for Country Joe and “Martha Lorraine.”

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“200 Pound Canary” in Florida Coal Mine

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GOP consultant Mike Murphy: “Biden is doing very well with older voters. Florida is…I don’t care if Wisconsin snaps back or somehow you say it’s Michigan…put aside the trouble in Arizona, which would be a big win for the Democrats…Florida will break [Trump’s] political neck so it oughta be priority #1. [And[ there’s absolutely no doubt that the state is in play now in a big way.”

Inoffensive, Mildly Appealing, Meh-Level

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HE agrees that Jon Stewart‘s Irresistable (Focus Features, streaming on 6.26) is bit too mild-mannered for its own good. It lacks provocation, nerve, now-ness. It’s not just that this rural political-spin comedy is set in ’17 or thereabouts, but the film itself seems to be have been made two or three years ago. Or 10 or 15. And yes, I agree that it’s not especially funny. It is, however, mildly amusing in an LQTM sort of way. And it’s a smooth package by any fair standard — nicely shot, performed, paced, edited.

So I don’t see the big problem. It’s something to stream (or not) this weekend if you’ve nothing better to do. You and your wife or girlfriend or pallies sit on the couch, pay the money, etc. And yet the critics have ganged up and beaten the shit out of this poor, harmless little film. The Rotten Tomatoes gang has rendered a 39% rating, and the Metacritics have given it a lousy 50% score. People will watch what they want to watch, of course, but score-wise this puppy is basically D.O.A.

I would only repeat that it’s not a criminal offense to be a tepid, mildly diverting chuckler or, you know, a nice, meh-level, ripple-free distraction. You know what I mean. It’s not a bother to watch it. It doesn’t irritate or piss you off. It just does the old soft shoe and wraps things up (credits included) within 102 minutes.

Set in some small town in rural farm country (Wisconsin? Iowa? does it matter?), it’s about an election for mayor of said town that becomes, for curious reasons, a wildly expensive, nationally hyped super-show.

Steve Carell and Rose Byrne are hot-shot political operators (Democrat and Republican respectively) who descend upon this small hamlet and stir things up. Chris Cooper is the soft-spoken candidate you want to see win, etc.

Stewart’s script was “partially inspired by the 2017 special election for Georgia’s 6th congressional district, where the Democratic and Republican parties and groups supporting them spent more than 55 million dollars combined — the most expensive House Congressional election in U.S. history.”

Agreed — watching Carell deliver another variation on his standard screen persona (a neurotic, intensely focused, clenched-fist fussbudget with a spoiled, effete attitude) has felt old or at least over-deployed for some time. I still think his peak moment happened in Little Miss Sunshine (14 years ago!) and that his last well-grounded, fully-charged performance happened in The Big Short (’15). But I didn’t mind him in Irresistable. I was just “okay, here we go again, not bad, whatever.”

And the film does deliver a hidden-card ending that’s…well, somewhat unexpected. At least it’s not Welcome to Mooseport.

Remember Stewart’s “Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear“, which happened on the Washington mall in October 2010? (And which I attended.) The focus was on politics as usual, and the idea was more or less that “we, the people are better than all the left-right rancor so let’s calm down and listen to each pther.” Or something like that. Irresistable is drawn from a similar well.

The Irresistable supporting players — Byrne, Cooper, Mackenzie Davis, Topher Grace, Natasha Lyonne, Will Sasso, et. al. — are fine. Bobby Bukowski‘s cinematography and Bryce Dessner‘s score are fine. It’s all fine. It was partly filmed in Rockmart, Georgia, which is roughly 30 miles northwest of Atlanta.