It’s been repeatedly made clear that film connoisseurs aren’t allowed to like or even respect Mike Nichols‘ The Day of the Dolphin (’73). For most critics the mixture of cloying sentimentality and rote thriller plotting (bad guys try to use a pair of talking, trusting dolphins for evil purposes) was intolerable.

But despite the torrent of acidic putdowns (“A thinking man’s Flipper…Flipper meets The Parallax View…calculated sentimentality that evokes Lassie Come Home….the most expensive Rin-Tin-Tin movie ever made” and so on) some of us were taken in. Me for one. I accepted the scientific premise and (go ahead, call me a putz) bought into the sentiment.

Dolpin obviously doesn’t work altogether (it’s intriguing but lacks conventional dramatic tension…there are flat portions) but it moved me at the very end (c’mon, it melted everyone), and there’s a hugely satisfying Act Three moment when the bad guys get their just desserts. Go to the 4:00 mark on the top video.

You can be as cynical as you want, but you can’t totally trash a film that (1) the director of The Graduate and Carnal Knowledge poured his heart and soul into, (2) Roman Polanski wanted to make for a while, (3) Nichols directed from a script by Buck Henry (no sentimental slouch, he), (4) starred an emotionally persuasive George C. Scott, and (5) benefits from a gentle, beautiful score by Georges Delerue.

Dolphin incidentally costarred a 29 year-old Edward Herrmann (slender, suntanned), and a decidedly chubby, 33-year-old Paul Sorvino.

There was another 1973 thriller with a five-word title that (a) dealt with a planned presidential assassination, and (b) used the same four words (The Day of the…). It was directed by Fred Zinneman and was instantly recognized (and is still respected today) as a quietly gripping, highly intelligent, real-world drama.

Jackal opened in mid-May of ’73 — Dolphin came along seven months later (12.19.73).

When it comes to tricky conflicts about shattered professional relationshps, by which I mean alleged sexual intimidation and subsequent financial claims, counter-claims and regrettable consequences, the general understanding in the case of non-minors is that when an offended party opts for anonymity, journalists respect that.

This non-disclosing protocol has prevailed since yesterday’s accusation about alleged sexual assault and harassment on the part of director-writer Paul Schrader, and more particularly about Schrader reneging on a privately negotiated shakedown payment to “Jane Doe”, his accuser.

But what’s the protocol (and I think this is a fair question) when the identity of Schrader’s accuser is fairly obvious to anyone searching around?

Especially given the fact that “Jane Doe” has been (a) anything but shy about her social media profile, (b) has been described in news reports as “a 26 year-old personal assistant to Schrader between ’21 and September ’24”, (c) has been photographed numerous times with Schrader, particularly at the 2022 Venice Film Festival and during last May’s Cannes Film Festival, and has even been identified in photo captions, and (d) has reportedly “posted on social media about how much she loved her job and referred to Schrader as an extraordinary mentor and ‘my man'”?

The AP has reported Jane Doe’s account that Schrader “trapped her in his hotel room, grabbed her arms and kissed her against her will last year while they were promoting his latest film, Oh, Canada, at the Cannes Film Festival in France.” Which, if true, was ridiculous.

Consensual sexual activity with a younger woman is one thing when you’re 60something, but no half-sane male in his mid to late 70s would even flirt with initiating some kind of touchy, vaguely intimate thing with a pretty 26 year-old Zoomer. Schrader is a consecrated Movie God, but appearance-wise “Jane Doe” is way out of his league, and if her allegations are even half-true it was flat-out crazy of him to even hope that anything might happen.

Once you’ve become a mid-to-late 70something you’re more or less finished…it’s over. Okay, unless you’re Richard Gere (75) or Michael Douglas (80), but I’m not so sure about even those guys.

I’m dumbfounded and in a state of disbelieving denial (not to mention pain) over today’s Paul Schrader headlines.

As emails were allegedly involved…I don’t want to think about it.

It just doesn’t calculate that a person as obviously wise, seasoned and street-savvy as Schrader could have possibly put his neck into this kind of noose.

“No Compliments For The Waitress,” posted on 7.25.01:

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Bill Murray, 54, was sitting on a couch during a Broken Flowers after-party at Manhattan’s Maritime Hotel. The date was Wednesday, 7.27.05. Jett and I were standing nearby. The Focus Features publicist had explicitly said “no photography” and yet some guy snapped Murray regardless. Murray immediately leapt up and over a coffee table to confront the renegade shutterbug with an outraged “what are you doing, man?”, etc.

I was quickly told I couldn’t write about the incident and I didn’t, but hey, it was 20 years ago.

Murray still isn’t taking shit from photographers.

The below snap was taken at Chelsea Cinemas on 7.27.05 by Hollywood Elsewhere.

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Repeating: Indications are that Paul Feig‘s The Housemaid (Lionsgate, 12.25), based onFreida McFadden’s three-year-old novel, a feminist potboiler that has since grown into a multi-book franchise, is going to be a bit of a groaner…perhaps even a forehead-slapper.

All feminist airport fiction is based upon a single premise, which is that the principal male character is a toxic piece of shit who has made his own bed and deserves all the bad karma that’s sure to come his way.

It certainly seems unlikely that Feig’s film will deliver the intrigue and complexity of <strong>Im Sang-soo</strong>’s <em>The Housemaid</em> (’10), which I recall as being half-decent. Both versions have vaguely similar plots with the husband banging (or at least looking to bang) the housemaid, and the wife freaking out and the usual blowback kicking in.

@mtvuk Sydney Sweeney and Amanda Seyfried talk about working together on upcoming psychological thriller The Housemaid. We are so excited for these performances #TheHousemaid, based on the novel by Freida McFadden, is about a young woman with a troubled past that takes a job as a housekeeper for a very affluent family. #sydneysweeney #amandaseyfried #thehousemaidmovie #mtvceleb ♬ original sound – mtvuk

White Lotus creator/showruner Mike White “hallucinated the entire storyline” of season 3….born of a fever dream.

For the behavior of Jason Isaacs‘ Tim Ratliff character alone, I already hate White. And I didn’t start season 3 feeling this way. I began with feelings of hope and intrigue. I’d been fairly happy with the Sicily season.

Jon Gries (“Gary” or Greg): “Whatever you think you know [is coming in the finale], you’re probably wrong.”

@curiouslymedia I am NOT prepared for the White Lotus finale… What are your predictions? #whitelotus #mikewhite #charlottelebon #parkerposey ♬ original sound – Curiously

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Click here to bypass this HE sticky:

I’ve lost my limo job and need to pass the hat again. Just a little more. There…I’ve said it. Humiliating but true.

Undisciplined or loose-shoe as this may sound, I realized last night that despite HE’s recent GoFundMe campaign having raised enough dough to cover travel and lodging at both the 2025 Cannes and Venice Film Festivals*, I’m still short of a steady footing given two “uh-ohs” that recently happened: (a) pressing, unforeseen expenses related to a Santa Barbara Film Festival rental-car scraper (no one’s business but my own) that occured in February and (b) losing the limo-driving job two weeks ago, which I didn’t want to mention because whining about misfortune is a very un-Lee Marvin-ish thing to do.

And yet I couldn’t sleep last night (I had to pop an Ambien) so I guess I have to mention it. A bear is growling outside my door. When your regular work income evaporates, it doesn’t feel right or safe to be galavanting around Europe twice within a four-month period. If I could cancel my Cannes air fare for a refund, I would do so but I didn’t purchase that kind of ticket. Plus I don’t want to leave Jordan Ruimy in the lurch.

I’m searching for a fresh gig as we speak, but as I tossed and turned last night I imagined that it couldn’t hurt to jettison what’s left of my pride and try to reinvigorate the GoFund Me.

Those who may wish to donate anonymously are requested to do so via my Venmo account — @gruver56

So, yes, this is it…HE is asking for a follow-up GoFundMe booster. Just a bit more to steady the ship. My sense of shame went out the window a long time ago when my advertising vaporized. Perhaps a few regular readers who didn’t contribute before could pitch in? Perhaps those whom I had wished cancer upon (two or three guys at the most) but are completely healthy and tumor-free as we speak…?

I’m not looking for a windfall. Just a few hundred more. Okay, a grand or two.

The truth is that enough was raised to cover both festivals but not much more, and after I was cut loose by the limo company two weeks ago** the cautious, practical-minded guy who lives in my chest was saying “cool your jets…it’s wiser right now to spend less by forgetting about Cannes and just do Venice and focus on finding a new job.” But I’d accepted donations with the understanding that Cannes was part of the package, and it’s bad faith and bad for the brand, obviously, to say “help me with Cannes” and then blow it off out of monetary anxiety.

An especially gracious friend-of-HE has donated twice to help with Cannes. I’m honor-bound to fly to the Cote d’Azur for the sake of this guy’s generosity alone.

Whatever you think a trip might cost, always double your projection and nine times out of ten it’ll cost even more.

* I’ve bought the RT plane tickets (JFK-to-Nice and back, JFK to Milan and back). And I’ve paid for the Venice pad ($2100), and I’ll be splitting the Cannes rent ($2500) with Ruimy.

** I could explain why the limo job went south, but on another occasion.

In that recently posted Club Random chat between Bill Maher and Maureen Dowd, Maher shared an unusual anecdote about visiting Ireland. Unusual for Maher, I mean, as he’s not the emotional-sharing type.

Maher’s jet was approaching Irish soil (presumably Dublin airport), he recalled, and just as as it touched down on the tarmac he melted…something took over and he began to cry. Some atmospheric whatever got to him, something that his body or spirit recognized…a homeland vibe.

My ancestral roots are British and not Irish, but I felt almost the same thing when I visited Dublin in the fall of ’88. Maggie and I and five-month-old Jett flew to Dublin from London, and right away I felt something. One of my first thoughts as we left the Dublin region and drove into the countryside was “I could die here.”

Related: A similar thing happened in London in 1980. For the first time in my life I heard my last name pronounced correctly, or at least in a richer, more tonally satisfying way than I myself had ever pronounced it.

It’s an English name, of course, so no surprise that I experienced my “woke” moment when a British Airways attendant said “Mr. Wells?” He said it with a zesty, just-right emphasis on the “ell” sound. (I tend to use an “euhll” sound.) The British Airways guy had it down…made me feel proud of my heritage.

I haven’t spelled it out in so many words, but the Big Memory-Lane Question is this: try to recall a moment on foreign soil when you immediately and perhaps inexplicably felt at home…at peace…welcomed…relieved.

Because of some sudden wash-over feeling…maybe a person or persons you ran into on a bus or subway or an Uber into town…maybe the way the early-morning air or a curbside food stand smelled…some hard-to-pin-down scent or vibe that seeped into your pores and took you back to a place of ease and familiarity or even serenity.

I’m not talking about hotel-brand comfort (“feels just like checking into a Comfort Inn in Pensacola!”)…some travelers take pleasure in familiarity, I realize, but that’s not what this is…I’m speaking of a feeling that snuck up on you, an air-sniff or a Bill Maher-like (or Bill Murray-ish) nudge of surprise…an out-of-the-blue thing in Guatemala or Scotland or Wagga Wagga (west of Canberra) or the southeastern coast of Spain.

Bill Burr to red-carpet journalist who was asking about Luigi Mangione and Elon Musk, prior to Conan O’Brien Mark Train tribute at Kennedy Center (several days ago):

“I don’t think you should be asking a comedian [about this stuff]. You’re a journalist. No, no, that’s weak. That’s you guys passing the buck. You guys need to have balls again. Which you don’t. You guys always say, ‘Should we be thinking this?’ You guys present stuff like that. You need to get your balls back.”