This scene from Nicholas Meyer‘s Time After Time (’79), which I haven’t seen since it opened, is about a hotel-room conversation between the visionary writer and idealist H.G. Wells (Malcolm McDowell) and John Leslie Stevenson aka Jack The Ripper (David Warner). Both have time-travelled to late ’70s San Francisco. One is a fish out of water, another belongs.

The scene is basically about editorializing — Meyer briefly stopping the narrative to remark upon the moral decline that permeates contemporary society.

Start this clip from the 1:35 mark:

Stevenson to Wells: “We don’t belong here? On the contrary, I belong here completely and utterly. I’m home. It’s you who doesn’t belong here. You, with your absurd notions of a perfect and harmonious society. Drivel. The world has caught up and surpassed me. Ninety years ago, I was a freak. Today, I’m an amateur.

“You go back. The future isn’t what you thought. It’s what I am. Do you know that you can purchase a rifle or a revolver? It’s legal.”

Where’s the reporting from Paris-based journalists about the skilled-labor outfits that had been hired to renovate or fortify Notre Dame, and whose employees were working in the cathedral attic and had quit an hour or so before the first alarm went off at 6:20 pm? It can’t be that difficult to discover this info and even the names of the workers who were in the attic in the late afternoon, and who most likely left some kind of flammable device or substance unattended. Or even a cigarette that hadn’t been properly extinguished. Thousands of Parisians still smoke like chimneys, workmen especially.

The world is stunned and devastated, and the guilty must be found and punished. If I were running things over there and my investigators had determined without the slightest doubt who did what and who exactly was to blame, I would feed their names to the press. I would see to their suffering. I would go Ving Rhames medieval on their ass.

An “industry source” has told Variety‘s Elsa Keslassy that if Quentin Tarantino‘s Once Upon A Time In Hollywood “can’t make it” to the Cannes Film Festival, “Sony has another glamorous option for the competition: Greta Gerwig’s star-studded Little Women, which is also in post but could be ready in time for a Cannes premiere.”

A Sony-related source mentioning a Gerwig-for-Tarantino substitution indicates that a decision has probably already been made to not screen the Tarantino at the upcoming festival, which of course is heartbreaking. Just don’t fall for that “it’s not ready” crap.

About a week ago a director-actor friend passed along second-hand poop about Once Upon A Time In Hollywood having encountered “big problems in the edit room,” whatever that means. Forget this if you want. The plan all along has been to premiere it in Cannes, and if everyone suddenly develops cold feet, there’s only one likely reason — i.e., Sony is fearful of getting critically vivisected in Cannes so they’re figuring “why risk it?”

Little Women costars during filming (Saoirse Ronan, Emma Watson, et. al.)

What Tarantino fan…hell, what serious fan of cinema is going to feel even slightly placated by Gerwig’s Little Women, which is…what, the fourth version of Louisa May Alcott‘s 19th Century novel, counting the recent PBS-BBC version?

Keslassy #1: “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is still in post-production and might not be announced at Thursday’s news conference.” HE comment: Every film that has ever screened in Cannes since 1947 has been “in post-production” up until the very last minute so don’t tell me.

Keslassy #2: “[Tarantino] is eager to compete, numerous insiders close to the project told Variety, so a late entry to the selection could be possible. A May 21 berth for the film would seem fitting, as that would be the 25th anniversary of Pulp Fiction‘s world premiere on the Croisette.” HE comment: I believe that Tarantino is eager to compete and wants to celebrate, etc.

This morning I read about an upcoming, quality-aspiring, untitled Jennifer Lawrence film. With Scott Rudin producing, Lila Neugebauer (The Waverly Gallery) directing and a script by first-timer Elizabeth Sanders, it’s most likely one of those probing, adult-angled, upmarket things — the sort of project that stage directors are often drawn to and which tend to appeal to actresses going through a rough or fallow patch.

Lawrence has been at it for roughly a decade, or since her breakout performance in Winter’s Bone (’10). Two and a half years later she delivered a grand-slam, Oscar-winning performance in Silver Linings Playbook (’12), which became a sizable worldwide hit on its own steam. But during the six and a half years since that David O. Russell film opened at the Toronto Film Festival, nothing Lawrence has done has really matched it.

She costarred in two Russell follow-ups, American Hustle (’13) and Joy (’15). Hustle collected Oscar noms and earned $150 million domestic and Joy won at least some critical praise. But neither seemed to really connect in a primal, essential, lightning-bolt way. Not in my book, at least.

She costarred in Serena (’14), a ’30s era Susanne Bier film that everyone ignored, perhaps because they didn’t want to see Lawrence paired once again with SLP costar Bradley Cooper.

Lawrence upped her arthouse cred with a brave, go-for-broke lead performance in Darren Aronofsky‘s mother!, a controversial success d’estime that (be honest) a lot of people hated.

Last year she starred in the flat-out atrocious Red Sparrow, which stalled at $46 million domestic. In ’16 she costarred with Chris Pratt in the financially successful but grotesquely misconceived and in some quarters deeply despised Passengers.

The rest of her films have been franchise swill — four X-Men flicks (including the upcoming Dark Phoenix) and four Hunger Games installments.

The plight of a mainstream movie star is never an easy one, and nobody ever said that staying on top was easy, even for the profoundly talented. All I know is that my sense of Lawrence’s journey is that she peaked six and a half years ago (she won her Silver Linings Oscar in early ’13) and since then her arrows haven’t really been hitting the target. Okay, once or twice but certainly no bull’s eyes.

Then again Lawrence is young (her 30th birthday isn’t until 8.15.20) and can survive another few years of in-and-out, mezzo-mezzo career adventures. But sooner or later she needs to get lucky again.

Pete BUDDHA-judge “is a polyglot. He’s conversational in Spanish, Italian, Maltese, Arabic, Farsi and French, and taught himself to speak Norwegian. He also plays guitar and piano, and in 2013 performed with the South Bend Symphony Orchestra as a guest piano soloist.” — from Mayor Pete’s Wikipage.

« Au peuple de France je voudrais dire que la cathédrale Notre Dame, c’était comme un cadeau à l’espèce humaine. Nous partageons la douleur mais nous vous remercions aussi de ce cadeau à la civilisation. » @PeteButtigieg à @BFMTV
Et en français! 🇫🇷🇺🇸#NotreDame pic.twitter.com/0xbf5lGhYH

— Cédric Faiche (@cedricfaiche) April 15, 2019

There was always something in me that loved slightly longer, grown-out hair, and was oddly repelled by too-short hair — West Point hair, cop hair, whitewalls, undercuts, Hitler youth, etc. To this day I’m vaguely put off by the sight of some guy’s closely-shorn scalp. But at the same time I understand and can roll with cue-ball heads.

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My father was the last guy in the world you wanted to watch a movie with. Or at least he was when I was young. He was the Ultimate Moviegoing Killjoy.

Every so often he’d take me to a film, but for some reason he so hated watching films in the usual way (i.e., from the beginning) that we’d never arrive before the film started but always around the three-fourths mark. 20 or 25 minutes before the ending. We’d watch the conclusion, wait for the next show to start, and then watch the three-fourths or four-fifths that we’d missed and then leave at the point where we came in.

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This trailer for season #2 of Big Little Lies (6.9.19) has a cheap, pandering odor. Soap-opera stuff. I’m presuming it doesn’t represent the actual style and content of it, especially considering that the great Andrea Arnold (American Honey, Fish Tank, Red Road) has directed all seven episodes.

How do fires start outside of arson? Electrical sparks, a carelessly tossed burning cigarette…what else? News reports indicate it had something to do with wooden scaffolding that was being used for restoration. A good portion of the main roof has reportedly collapsed; ditto the famous tall spire.

The just-released Cannes ’19 poster is an image of the late Agnes Varda shooting her first film, La Pointe Courte, sometime in the summer of ’54. Pic costarred the unpaid Phillipe Noiret and Silvia Monfort. Shot in the Mediterranean coastal city of Sete, the film’s total budget was $14K.

I watched an episode of Game of Thrones back in 2012, and my immediate response was “this is grandiose melodrama but it’s well made, well acted…intelligent people are behind this.” I’ve watched a few slivers since but never another full episode, and I feel quite serene about that. Mainly because I hate the faux-medieval milieu. I hate those expensively designed, finely stitched tunics and gowns and exquisite fur hoodies and fur-lined seal boots. And I hate stories in which a semi-significant character reveals in Episode 8 that he/she is actually someone else with a heretofore unsuspected agenda or, you know, is secretly descended from a certain well-thought-of character or whatever. I’ve always found Lena Headey foxy but I’ve never been able to decide whose face I hate more — that of Kit Harington or Nikolaj Coster-Waldau. I hate sagas in which little kids are pushed out of windows. I hate pretentious-sounding character names like Daenerys Targaryen, Davos Seaworth, Theon Greyjoy, Tyrion Lannister, Samwell Tarly. I hate the idea of flying dragons despite their gargantuan bulk and weighing at least as much as a blue whale. I hate long-running miniseries that seem to be mainly about perpetuating their own mythology. I guess you could say I hate the general GoT sprawlingness, the go-for-the-bucks attitude, everyone pocketing their paychecks. Fuck all of that.