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.

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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.”

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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.”

Last night I slammed my way through all four episodes of Adolesence, Jack Thorne and Stephen Graham‘s British miniseries that’s been streaming on Netflix since 3.13.25.

It’s basically about a mood of anti-female malevolence and hostility among young teenage males, and about how it’s all hidden or simmering under the surface, and as such doesn’t feel especially real or recognizable, or at least not to me and my understanding of things.

Yes, teenage knifings have become a thing in England over the last two or three years but the Andrew Tate manosphere — toxic masculinity, bullying, incel inferences — carries a very weird vibe, and I didn’t know what to do with it. What’s wrong with these fucking kids? What’s gotten into their blood? What’s the disease?

All four episodes are “oners” — real time, no cuts. The first thing I asked myself was “how would these episodes play if they’d been shot in the usual way?”, and the answer, I told myself, was that they’d feel more tightly focused and concise and perhaps more dramatically affecting. That’s not to say I found the “oner” approach unworthy or frustrating, but there is a general feeling of cinematic technique exerting more control than the serving of dramatic basics.

The strongest episode by far is part 3, which focuses entirely on a gentle interrogation of Jamie Miller (Owen Cooper), a 13 year old accused murderer, by forensic psychologist Briony Ariston (Erin Doherty).

There’s a fair amount of dodging and denial on Jamie’s part, as the cops have video of him knifing the deceased victim, Katie, so his evasions and whatnot feel decidedly strange as well as futile. The atmosphere intensifies when Briony asks about Jamie’s sex life, which seems odd in itself as he’s slight and kid-like and tweener-ish. One gradually detects currents of suppressed hostility that are rooted in rejection and whatnot. Jamie’s mood fluctuates between amiable and resentful, wich leads to a sudden, standing-up outburst. The session ends with Briony telling Jamie this will be their final meeting, which triggers anxiety and pleading and then another outburst.

Who is this kid? What’s with the lying and denial? Where has all the “red pill” anger, insecurity and rage come from?

What does “nonce” mean again? Something to do with sex offender?

I’ve repeatedly made it clear that I pretty much despise the British actors who’ve been hired by director Sam Mendes to play Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr — Paul “hawknose” Mescal, Joseph Quinn and Barry Keohgan, respectively — in his quartet of Beatle biopics.

Only the handsome Harris Dickinson, who will play John Lennon, gets an HE stamp of approval. This despite his towering over Mescal when the actual Lennon and McCartney were both 5’10”.

This may sound disturbing to wokeys and dopeys, but early to mid ’60s pop groups had to have reasonably good-looking members to attract the girls — that was the standard set by the Beatles, Herman’s Hermits, The Dave Clark Five, etc.

Three of the Beatles (McCartney, Harrison, Lennon) were generally regarded as good-looking and then some, which, like it or not, was a key to the group’s popularity. (Ringo’s puppy-dog charm easily overcame his huge honker.)

Keohgan may or may not be able to overcome his evil-warlock features in an attempt to revive that old Ringo spirit, but the hard fact of the matter is that Mescal and Quinn simply aren’t fetching…certainly not in the darkly handsome way that McCartney and Harrison were perceived to be in the early ’60s. They’re a bit funny looking, and during the LBJ administration funny-looking guys weren’t allowed to be pop stars.

Just ask the fellows who made up The Association.

Posted on 9.23.22:

Mid ’60s pop groups had to have reasonably good-looking members — that was the reality of the day. And then along came The Association — a six member group that had two handsome guys and four with the oddest, most homely-looking faces in pop-music history.

The dorkiest was Terry Kirkman, who could have been cast as a college-aged serial killer. Next came Larry Ramos (died in 2014 at age 72), a chubby guy who looked like a typical member of an A.V. Squad. The thick-featured Brian Cole (who passed in ’72 at age 30) looked like a bouncer or a rugby player. Russ Giguere was semi-presentable but couldn’t pass the dishy-pop-star test — too geeky, granny glasses, thin moustache.

Jim Yester and Ted Bluechel were the only ones you could honestly call “good looking.”

Yes, the “they have to be cute” thing quickly went away when the Rolling Stones, the Byrds and The Who became popular, but not in ’64 and ’65 when the Beatles were just catching on. Plus the Beatles were clearly in their mid 20s while there’s no dodging the fact that Mescal, Dickinson, Quinn and Keoghan are 30somethings.

I realize that Mescal is popular with gay guys, but to me he’s Satan’s emissary. His hawk nose is actually a lot like the actual Lennon’s nose, but the McCartney resemblance factor is off the charts wrong/bad. Plus Mescal’s pointy chin resembles that of John Barrymore’s Mr. Hyde.

Since the CinemaCon appearance of the Mendes quartet I’ve developed a new hate thing for Quinn, who will completely fail to convince anyone that he’s George Harrison or is even half-channeling him. The notion that Quinn, who was okay in A Quiet Place: Day One but generically repulsive in Gladiator II, could “be” Harrison is nothing short of ridiculous.

Last weekend Kevin Dougherty‘s Drew Friedman: Verneer of the Borscht Belt screened at the Aero, followed by a q & a with Friedman, Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski + various rogues and scalawags.

I’m not understanding the why or how of the Aero screening as the the doc initially surfaced six years ago. But Friedman did me a solid 32 years ago when he inked a Last Action Hero fallout cartoon, which was published in Spy…hence my loyalty and affection.

Nothing much has happened, and nothing much will happen, during Sunday’s (4.6) finale. Okay, the fact that it’s 90 minutes offer a glimmer of hope. But it’s mainly been inching along and pissing people off.

I despise Jason Isaacs‘ Tim Ratliff so much….nothing he can do on Sunday, even killing himself, will satisfy me as he’s done nothing for the last seven episodes…waste of skin.

Natasha Rothwell‘s Belinda Lindsey is mind-blowingly stupid for turning down a $100,000 gift when she doesn’t really know what Jon Gries‘ Gary / Greg is actually guilty of, death-of-his-wife-wise…she’s just guessing. (And stupid.) Her son gets it: “If you don’t take the money, he’ll come after you.” Duhhh.

Season #3 has been a shortfaller on so many fronts that it can’t possibly make things right with one episode to go. It’s pretty much been an outright failure. Mike White has dropped the clay pitcher, and the milk is all over the floor.

Remember that scene in which Al Pacino‘s Vincent Hanna and the cops, hiding inside a parked ten-wheeler, are spying on Robert DeNiro‘s Neil McCauley, Val Kilmer‘s Chris Shiherlis and two others as they begin to rob some nondescript joint (possibly a precious metal depot) in downtown Los Angeles?

After a careless uniformed cop makes a noise inside the truck, McCauley, suspecting the worst, aborts the heist…”we walk!” The crew leaves the building carrying nothing, but they’re being taped, of course, and so Hanna and the cops know their faces, obviously including Shiherlis.

There’s a scene directly following in which McCauley tells Chris and Tom Sizemore‘s Michael Cheritto that they’ve almost certainly been identified…”assume it all.”

After the big downtown L.A. bank robbery, Hanna’s team, led by Mykelti Williamson‘s Sergeant Bobby Drucker, has Chris’s wife, Charlene (Ashley Judd), in a Venice apartment. They’re somehow anticipating that Chris will try to rendezvous with Charlene at the Venice pad (how exactly?), and within a couple of minutes a car slowly approaches from a small side street, and Drucker has an idea it might be Chris.

The car pulls up and the driver gets out, and we see that Chris has sheared off his long blonde hair and is now sporting a Chris Walken flattop. Charlene, standing on an outdoor balcony, signals Chris with that wonderfully subtle hand gesture that things are not cool. Chris gets back in and drives off. Drucker radios a black-and-white to stop Chris and check his ID. Except he has clean ID, identifying him as someone else, and they let him go.

We’re expected to believe that Drucker can’t recognize Chris because his hair is shorter? He and Hanna know his facial features — why can’t they make him despite the length of his hair? They haven’t passed around photos of Chris to everyone concerned?

I’ve been avoiding Stephen Graham and Jack Thorne‘s Adolescence (Netflix) because of an instinct. But I guess I’ll start watching tonight.

Violent stabbings in the UK. Young lad attackers, young girl victims. Teenage blade rage. An indictment of cruelty and bullying and how the manosphere has affected young teens. Andrew Tate and the “red pill” community. Four episodes, all “oners” (i.e., no cuts, shot in real time). Originally conceived by Stephen Graham “as a response to a sudden increase in violent knife crime in the UK”, including the 2023 murder of Elianne Andam and 2021 stabbing of Ava White.

Is there any kind of racial or immigrant community factor here? There’d better not be or consequences will ensue. Don’t mention the 2024 Southport stabbings…none of that. Trash the manosphere all you want, but keep it there.

No poet-songwriter worth his or her salt will explain what their song lyrics mean. The absolute king and ruler of this attitude is Bob Dylan, of course…he’s been rebuffing such questions since he first appeared 65 years ago.

On at least one mid ’60s occasion, however, Dylan not only relaxed his standards but eagerly offered specific analysis of each and every track on Bringing It All Back Home, released in April ’65.

Why the lyrics tutorial? Because Dylan wanted to put the high hard one to Marianne Faithfull, who was quite the erotic object of desire back then.

N.Y. Times correspondent Lindsay Zoladz reports that in “Faithfull: An Autobiography“, published 25 years ago, Faithfull wrote that Dylan “tried to seduce her by playing his latest album, Bringing It All Back Home, and explaining in detail what each track meant.”

Alas, no nookie for Bobby. “I just found him so…daunting,” Faithfull wrote. “As if some god had come down from Olympus and started to come onto me.”

The legend is that post-shutdown Dylan exacted a form of revenge by ripping up a poem he’d written about Faithfull. They nonetheless enjoyed a decades-long friendship.

Faihfull got fat when she aged into her late 60s or thereabouts, but that happens. She passed two months ago — 1.30.25 — at age 78.