It was announced earlier today that the third installment in Ryan Murphy’s American Crime Story franchise will be an adaptation of Jeffrey Toobin’s “A Vast Conspiracy: The Real Sex Scandal That Nearly Brought Down a President.”

Pic will focus on Monica Lewinsky, Bill Clinton, and the impeachment trial that most Americans were either bored or appalled by. (“Impeach Clinton for lying about getting a blowjob in the Oval Office?…please!”) Beanie Feldstein as Lewinsky, Sarah Paulson as the duplicitous Linda Tripp and Annaleigh Ashford as Paula Jones. No word on who will play Bill and Hillary.

Feldstein doesn’t strike me as the right actress to play Lewinsky. ML was 24 or 25 at the time and maybe a tiny bit zaftig, but she wasn’t exactly a Beanie. By which I mean she wasn’t…am I allowed to say chubby without getting jumped on?

Presumably it’s going to be about a selfish, super-powerful, silver-haired dude preying on a semi-innocent victim, but my understanding has always been that Lewinsky flirted ardently with Bill and that he flirted right back. ML wasn’t some baahing little lamb in the woods — she made an ambitious and calculated play for him, and then scored, and then was dumb enough to blab it all to Tripp, whom she had to know was in with the righties.

It would make a fascinating story if Murphy brings in all the contradictions and complexities. But as a straight-from-the-shoulder #MeToo saga? Life isn’t that simple.

I recently read somewhere that most U.S. citizens have never visited more than eight states. It goes without saying that most of us who drive or fly around tend to avoid the poor land-locked states or those known for bumblefuck, hee-haw, shotgun-rack mindsets. We also tend to favor the coastal states or those with extra-beautiful scenery (Colorado, Utah, Montana, northern California).

The states I’ve visited (36) are boldfaced below with certain designations. My faves are California, New York, New Mexico, Arizona, Montana, Florida, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire and Georgia.

U = have visited, driven through, meh
V = have lived there for years
W = have never visited, and probably never will
X = visited, liked the architecture and/or atmosphere, liked the people and the vibe, would like to return.
Y = briefly visited because I wanted to leave as quickly as possible, and did.
Z = have flown over.

Alabama / Y; Alaska / W; Arizona / X; Arkansas / W; California / V; Colorado / X; Connecticut / V; Delaware / Y; Florida / X (Miami, Key West); Georgia / X; (Savannah, I mean); Hawaii / X; Idaho / U; Illinois / U; Indiana / U; Iowa / Z

Posted on 12.21.15: Back in the 20th Century people used to ask actors for autographs instead of cell-phone selfies. Eccentric as it may sound, fans would actually carry around autograph books for this purpose. It’s been suggested that now and then hardcore fans would ask for more than just a signature — they would ask the celebrity to write a quote he/she is famous for uttering in a film.

If you ran into Gloria Swanson, let’s say, you would ask her to write “I am big…it’s the pictures that got small.” If you bumped into William Holden you’d ask him to write “if they move, kill ’em.” And so on. I would never do this, of course, but some allegedly have.

Today Daily Beast contributor Tom Teodorczuk posted an interview with 45 Years costar Tom Courtenay, and about halfway through Courtenay mentions that he was recently approached by an autograph hunter asking him to sign a piece of paper underneath the words “the personal life is dead” — one of the utterances of Strelnikov, his character in Dr. Zhivago. Courtenay tells Teodorczuk that the quote is “a load of bollocks,” but did he oblige?

Four years ago I recalled a moment in ’81 when I ran into In Cold Blood costar Scott Wilson in a West Hollywood bar, and that I stifled an instinct to ask for an autograph along with the words “hair on the walls” — a Dick Hickock line from Truman Capote‘s nonfiction novel.

If I could persuade Brad Pitt to give me an autograph, I’d ask him to write “don’t cry in front of the Mexicans.” If I’d run into Marlon Brando in the ’70s, I would have asked him to write either “whatta ya got?” (a line from The Wild One) or “Don’t be doin’ her like that” (from One-Eyed Jacks). If I’d enountered Montgomery Clift I’d ask him to write “nobody ever lies about being lonely” — a Robert E. Lee Prewitt/From Here To Eternity line. If I saw director-actor Alfonso Arau I would ask him to write “damn gringos!” Further suggestions along these lines?

Robert De Niro: “Are you talkin’ to me?” Samuel L. Jackson: “I don’t remember askin’ you a goddam thing!” Seth Rogen: “Heh heh heh heh yuk yuk yuk!” Bruce Willis: “Yippie-ki-yay, motherfucker!” or “Welcome to the party, pal!” Al Pacino: “Hoo-hah!” Jonah Hill: “Are those my only two options?”

Tatyana had never seen Alexander Payne‘s The Descendants, so we watched it the night before last. I was so glad we did. It’s almost eight years old now (having opened on 11.18.11), and quite the comforting, mature, finely-aged bottle of wine. So well written, so family-friendly in a non-puerile way, and so well acted by everyone, top to bottom. George Clooney was slightly better in Michael Clayton, but he was awfully good in this. Not to mention Judy Greer, Robert Forster, Shailene Woodley, Matthew Lillard.

I was so angry that The Artist (a gimmicky trifle that no one cares about now) won the Best Picture Oscar in early ’12, and I’m still flummoxed by that. What were people thinking? The New York Film Critics Circle gave it their Best Film and Best Director trophy…shame on you! Nobody has even thought about this damn film for the last seven and a half years, and you guys thought it was just wonderful. You were on your knees. Philistines!

The winner should have been either The Descendants or Moneyball.

The Descendants, The Artist and Moneyball aside, seven 2011 films were nominated for Best Picture — Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Help, Hugo, Midnight in Paris and War Horse. Only one of these films matters now — i.e., the Woody. I wouldn’t watch War Horse with a knife at my back now. (I had a rough enough time with it initially.) I mostly hated Hugo; ditto Extremely Loud. The Help….meh.

Could either The Descendants or Moneyball be greenlit for theatrical in the present realm? I could be wrong but my suspicion is that The Descendants would probably be a Netflix or Amazon project today. Which wouldn’t be a problem, of course. It just wouldn’t be a primarily theatrical thing, first and foremost.

George Clooney, Alexander Payne in Telluride’s Sheridan Bar — 9.2.11.

Too much tonnage, the horse decided. Unable to handle the strain. So like Sean Connery pushing the ejection button in that scene from Goldfinger, he did something about it. (That said, I’m glad the couple wasn’t hurt. Luckily they landed in water and soft mud.)

Sorry for previous distractions and being the last daily columnist to riff on the 2019 New York Film Festival slate. The three hotties are still Martin Scorsese‘s The Irishman, Noah Baumbach‘s Marriage Story (which the other three major festivals are also showing) and Edward Norton‘s Motherless Brooklyn — all previously announced, all with special berths.

Among 2019 NYFF selections that were first seen in Cannes, I was respectfully mixed on Kantemir Balagov‘s Beanpole and Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne‘s Young Ahmed, and I was no fan of Kleber Mendonça Filho and Juliano Dornelles‘s metaphorical, ultra-violent Bacurau. On top of which I was completely unimpressed by Corneliu Porumboiu‘s The Whistlers. But I admired Marco Bellocchio‘s The Traitor, and I loved — worshipped — Diao Yinan‘s The Wild Goose Lake.

The main intrigue (for me, this morning) is the inclusion of Kelly Reichart‘s First Cow. Women and Hollywood, posted 11.2.18: “Set in 1820s Oregon and China, the film follows Cookie Figowitz, a cook for a party of volatile fur trappers trekking through the Oregon Territory in the 1820s, joining up with the refugee Henry Brown…the two begin a wild ride that takes them from the virgin western territory all the way to China and back again.” Cowritten by Reichart and Jonathan Raymond (cowriter of Meek’s Cutoff, Night Moves), and based on Raymond’s novel “The Half Life”. No clue who’s playing “Cookie,” but the costars are John Magaro, Rene Auberjonois and Dylan Smith.

I missed Mati Diop‘s Atlantics: A Ghost Love Story in Cannes, so it’s a welcome inclusion here.

World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy: “A big surprise is no Uncut Gems from New York’s very own Josh and Ben Safdie. What does that say about the movie itself? A heavily NYC-based movie side-stepping the biggest NYC film festival does make you wonder what happened Pic is set to premiere at Telluride and then Toronto.

“Also not going to NYFF is more mainstream Hollywood fare such as Jojo Rabbit, The Aeronauts, The Laundromat and The Two Popes, not to mention Hirokazu Kore-eda’s The Truth, Roy Andersson’s About Endlessness and Pablo Larrain’s Ema. So basically, the NYFF has decided that this year’s fall lineup of Hollywood films just isn’t for them, with the exception of The Irishman, Marriage Story and Motherless Brooklyn.”

Other NYFF standouts: Pedro Almodóvar‘s Pain and Glory, Bong Joon-ho‘s Parasite, Olivier Assayas‘s Wasp Network, Albert Serra‘s Liberte, Arnaud Desplechin‘s Oh Mercy!.

Hugs and condolences on the 8.5 passing of novelist Toni Morrison (Tarbaby, Beloved trilogy) at age 88. I feel especially sorry for having failed to catch Timothy Greenfield-Sanders‘ Toni Morrison: The Pieces I Am, which premiered at last January’s Sundance Film Festival, and opened commercially on 6.21. Boosted by a 97% Rotten Tomatoes rating, streaming will begin on 9.17.

“This is a brilliant woman who understands both the incredible power of words and how to use them, no matter the media. Just to hear her talk about writing, about how she got in the habit of writing early because she had to — she raised her two sons alone and worked before they got up — is not just interesting. It’s inspiring.” — from 7.9.19 review by Arizona Republic‘s Bill Goodykoontz.

As previously noted the second season of Joe Penhall and David Fincher‘s Mindhunter pops on 8.16, or a week and a half hence. Netflix usually provides critics with early online access, but not this time. I learned today that Los Angeles-based critics will get to see the first three episodes in tandem in a nice theatre…very cool.

A 20 year-old film can’t be referred to as “old” — a little faded or dusty, okay, but you can’t call it rickety or bent over. I understand that if you were born 31 years ago (like my son Jett) a film from the early ’90s might be, from your perspective, flirting with the outer perimeter of memory. My understanding is that for a film to be regarded as genuinely, seriously withered by Millennial or GenZ standards, it has to have been made in the ’80s. That, trust me, is ancient-ass history…yellowing with antiquity. Where does that leave the ’70s and ’60s, much less the classic studio era of the ’30s, ’40s and ’50s? Up in the attic, it seems. Packed away inside cardboard boxes.

Typical GenZ sentiment: “I saw this moth-eaten, older-than-shit movie about bad-ass bank robbers the other day. Al Pacino, Robert De Niro…some other guys I didn’t know. Forget the title but it was pretty good.”

“Leaders” other than Donald Trump have fanned the racial hate embers, I’m sure, but we all know the current President is the most influential dispenser of this ugliness, by far. So why did Barack and Michelle Obama pussyfoot around by saying “we should soundly reject [such] language coming out of the mouths of any of our leaders“? We all know what they meant. Would it have killed them to just spit out the words “President Trump is the worst offender”? Beto O’Rourke has rewritten and refreshed the book on this kind of thing. No more general allusions — say it straight and plain — Trump is a racist dog.

Released between ’66 and ’69, Dean Martin‘s Matt Helm films (The Silencers, Murderers’ Row, The Ambushers, The Wrecking Crew) were lightweight James Bond spoofs, but even within that cynical realm they felt cheap — third-rate, oddly antiseptic, visually tepid flotsam. And not even vaguely amusing.

Below is a passage from The Wrecking Crew (’69), portions of which are seen in Quentin Tarantino‘s Once Upon A Time in Hollywood. It’s a lame, Man From Uncle-level martial-arts fuel between Sharon Tate and Nancy Kwan, and presented in short clips during Margot Robbie‘s “Sharon Tate catches an afternoon show inside Westwood’s Bruin theatre” sequence.

It’s an immediate drop-out because the bleached-blonde Robbie and the red-haired Tate resemble each other only slightly, which makes you wonder why Tarantino didn’t re-shoot the Wrecking Crew footage with Robbie and a Kwan stand-in.

But the scene plays even worse when you watch it without the “Robbie chuckling in her theatre seat” inserts. Right away you’re thinking this is extra-level godawful. Tate was a flat and wooden actress — she had no special gifts or moves, no sparkle in the eye, nothing going on inside. The combat choreography (Bruce Lee was credited as “karate advisor”) feels absurdly phony. Hugh Montenegro‘s music is atrocious — every note and stanza announces “this movie is bullshit.” Director Phil Karlson shoots like some disengaged second-unit guy — no edge or style. Sam Leavitt‘s cinematography decimates with overly bright lighting.