I was thinking earlier today about poor Albert Finney, and began to surf around. I came upon this Shoot The Moon restaurant scene. It has a striking, abrasive vibe, but it doesn’t entirely work.

If only Finney and Diane Keaton had been told by director Alan Parker to try and keep their voices down in the early stages, and then gradually lose control. Nobody is this gauche, this oblivious to fellow diners.

The balding, red-haired guy with his back to the camera (James Cranna) played “Gerald” in the Beverly Hills heroin-dealing scene in Karel Reisz‘s Who’ll Stop The Rain?.

Shoot The Moon was streamable at one time or another, but it’s “currently unavailable.”

So Roma won the top prize at the BAFTAs — terrific, hearty congrats. But the Best Picture Oscar race is still between Roma and Green Book, and the opinions of the BAFTA gang, announced two or three hours ago, probably won’t influence this either-or. Most Academy voters have made their minds up by this stage. The die is cast.

It’ll still come down to whether or not Green Book or Roma will benefit more from the preferential ballot system than the other, and that means…I don’t know what it means.

Word around the campfire, however, says Green Book might be in a better position due to a strong showing in the #2 or #3 slots, and that some voters (older, Netflix opponents, ADD) are allegedly listing Roma at the bottom of their lists so it won’t benefit from p.b. math. Or something like that.

The Favourite‘s Olivia Colman won for Best Actress, but that’s at least partly about hometown sentiment. The Wife‘s Glenn Close still has the Oscar in the bag.

Bohemian Rhapsody‘s Rami Malek won BAFTA’s Best Actor trophy — is there ANYONE betting against him winning the Best Actor Oscar at this stage?

Here are two riffs from Owen Gleiberman‘s review of Rob Garver‘s What She Said: The Art of Pauline Kael. Why the review is appearing now after premiering five and a half months ago at Telluride is a head-scratcher, but it’s one of Gleiberman’s most assured, best-written raves. Plus he really knows what he’s talking about:

Excerpt #1: “We hear an excerpt from one of the Bay Area radio broadcasts that won Kael her first real following. The review, of Hiroshima Mon Amour, is captivating in its balloon-puncturing derision, but what’s priceless is the voice: honey-smooth and insinuating, with an echo of Hollywood’s wisecracking broads of the ’30s, her silky enunciation used as a weapon, all held together by Kael’s conspicuous joy at turning film reviewing into a performance.

Excerpt #2: “That’s what Kael made criticism — a prose version of performance art, a song of the self. And why not? The movies themselves demanded nothing less.”

Excerpt #3: “What She Said captures the unique intersection of a fearless critic, a movie renaissance, and a time when a mainstream writer could seduce and challenge her audience by operating with supreme freedom. That was the glory of Pauline, the unhinged liberation of every idea and feeling she shared. Reading her, what you got addicted to was her freedom of thought. That was Kael’s art, and “What She Said does a fantastic job of channeling it.”

HE review from Telluride, posted on 9.2.18: “I was hoping that Rob Garver‘s What She Said: The Art of Pauline Kael, which I saw three nights ago, would deliver some degree of enjoyment.

“It’s much better than that. I found it wonderfully alive and attuned, electric, bracingly intelligent, well-honed and about as spot-on as a doc of this sort can be.

An HE:plus hors d’oeuvre, posted on 1.17.19: I’ve been a mildly angry guy most of my life. Contrarian, questioning authority, a pushback instinct. Born of my father’s alcoholism, aloofness and general disdain. Over the last 25 years of journalistic endeavor it’s been slipping out by way of the “three sees” — cerebral, channelled, controlled. But in my late teens the anger was more eruptive and hair-triggerish, and one day in a high-school hallway it almost ruined my life. Except it didn’t, thank God.

I’be forgotten some of the particulars but I know that The Incident happened late in the school year, perhaps in early May. The senior graduation ceremony was just around the corner. Tension had been brewing between myself and Wilton High School’s vice-principal, a somewhat brittle-mannered guy in his mid 40s. He had cold gray eyes and a silvery flattop, and I remember thinking time and again that he was an officious prick. Not my kind of guy.

I recall that we were standing in a hallway near the school offices and the main doors, and that he was accusing me of something or other. Or admonishing me for some failing. I gave him the requisite amount of lip and attitude and he reacted angrily, and then grabbed me by the arm in order to walk me down to the detention room or off the premises or whatever. A stern show of disciplinary force.

That’s when I lost it. Rather than be led away I shoved him, hard. He staggered for a step or two and said “whoa!”, and looked at me with shock and surprise. His eyes said “did you just do that?” That’s exactly what I was asking myself at the moment. It was like my angry no-good brother had pushed him and not me. But it was me, all right — me and my stored-up rage.

Almost every day I’m in agony over HE-plus, or rather my constant failure to post fresh material on it. When HE:plus launched last summer my plan was to split my daily postings — half HE classic, half HE:plus. Or maybe a 60-40 split. But as God is my witness I haven’t been able to make myself do this.

I felt that I had to post the timely, here-and-now stuff on HE regular and the colorful, personal, deep-dive stuff on HE:plus. So I would do that but I’d feel so whipped from writing five or six HE posts that I wouldn’t have the energy for HE:plus. Every damn day. I was doing my best to keep it going over the last few months, but I really couldn’t make myself post during the Sundance and Santa Barbara festivals. And now I’m back on the rodent treadmill.

I’m a slave to Hollywood Elsewhere as it is — five, six, seven posts a day — but I can’t be a slave to both sites. At times it feels as if I’m crumbling from the anxiety and pressure and constant overwork.

I had dinner with a fellow columnist just as Sundance was beginning, and he suggested that I commit to an on-and-off strategy. Post 60% or 70% on HE:plus on a given week, and 30% or 40% of HE regular. And then reverse things the following week — 60% or 70% HE classic, 30% or 40% HE:plus. And stick with that. It sounds like a plan, and I guess that’s how I’ll play it starting tomorrow, but I still have this deep-set conviction that the hot immediate stuff HAS to be on HE regular.

I’ve been doing Hollywood Elsewhere for 14 and 1/2 years — HE:plus is only a few months old.

Hollywood Elsewhere earned relatively decent ad revenue over the last three or four months (or at least better than last year), but I still need to generate supplementary income to make it all come out right.

The ache and anxiety are considerable.

Six months ago I posted a strongly negative reaction to Orson Welles‘ The Other Side of the Wind. It was still a hot, unseen item at the time (except for those who’d seen it in Venice, Telluride and Toronto) and so HE commenters had little to say beyond (a) “we love Orson and Wells is therefore a jerk”, (b) “Wells has a general animus toward large, round objects” and so on.

One HE commenter who’d seen it, Rosso Veneziano, pretty much agreed with me: “I didn’t understand a damn thing about it. What was the point? What was happening? I was somehow fascinated, the audience laughed at the beginning here and there, but the more it went on the more it was unbearable. It’s a memory movie, it has its place in a museum like an art installation you watch for 15-20 minutes during your Welles tour. But the big screen doesn’t do it any favor.”

The Other Side of the Wind began streaming on Netflix on 11.2, or over three months ago. Surely everyone has had a looksee by now. Please fire away, no holding back.

Posted on 9.19.18: “The Other Side of the Wind is a bitter, cynical, sometimes darkly funny hodgepodge, an inside-new-Hollywood movie that was filmed on the fly between 1970 and ’75 in various formats, and a film that has a lot on its mind but has crawled so far up its own ass that the viewer can’t hope to enjoy much access.

“It’s not a good film. Any film that makes you say ‘wait…what’s happening?’ or ‘what was that line?’ over and over is doing something wrong. It’s so damn spotty and splotchy. So scatter-gun, so haphazardly chop-chop and cut-cut. It never achieves a rhythm or a sense of flow-through or harmony of any kind. Within 10 or 15 minutes I was feeling exhausted.

“It’s about an old craggy director named Jake Hannafort (John Huston) who sees himself as cut from the Ernest Hemingway cloth, and who’s just back from Europe and trying to find money to finish a film or start a new one or something along these lines. And so he throws a party in the desert and dozens attend — rivals, colleagues, managers, film critics, sycophants, students with cameras, wannabes, old friends.

“Nobody ever seems to actually converse in an engaging, back-and-forth way. Nobody seems to listen to anyone else. It’s all bitter talk, fuck talk, belch…bitter talk, fuck talk, belch…bitter talk, fuck talk, belch…bitter talk, fuck talk, belch…bitter talk, fuck talk, belch, etc.

“It would be one thing if everyone was improvising and Welles was gradually threading their material into some kind of half-assed narrative that delivered some kind of attitude or metaphorical mood, but everyone (and I mean especially the name-brand actors) is (a) “acting” and (b) obviously “speaking lines,” and it just doesn’t work.

“Withered, craggy-faced Huston keeps puffing away on that cigar and regarding everyone with suspicion or disdain or a combination of both. Lili Palmer (a replacement for Marlene Dietrich) just sits around and says her lines in a deadpan way. Chubby-faced Peter Bogdanovich (playing a hot young director named Brooks Otterlake) says his lines with a tone of wry self-amusement. Susan Strasberg (a Pauline Kael stand-in) says her lines in a kind of needling, challenging way. Cameron Mitchell just hangs around and says his lines; ditto puffy-faced Edmond O’Brien. Paul Stewart says his lines in the usual Stewart way…seen it all, heard it all. Joe McBride says his lines with a certain sardonic edge. But I couldn’t latch onto anything or anyone. The film refuses to sink in.

“Where is this going? What is there to learn or care about? Where is the soul of this film? Who wants to wade through this fucking mess of a movie? This is so inside-baseball I’m getting a headache.

“Nothing really happens except that (a) everyone on the studio lot is invited to Jake’s party in the desert, (b) everyone arrives at the desert-house party and starts making sage, cutting remarks about this, that or another thing…yap-yappity-yap-yappity-yap-yap, (c) everyone becomes more and more drunk and cynical and despairing, (d) everyone heads for an outdoor drive-in to watch Jake’s movie, and then (e) Jake drives off in a Porsche and dies. (Except he does this at the very beginning, or before the beginning)

“Robert Altman used to be so much better at this kind of thing — he would capture little snips and quips and cut away to this or that and somehow it would all fit together, but Orson’s film is so fucking “written out” and everyone is so determined to “act” (i.e., sell the moment, charm the audience) as well as radiate cynical or bitter or burnt-out or testy or pissed-off attitudes or feelings.

“Does anyone in this film care about anything or anyone? I didn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything. At all. It really, really doesn’t work.

Over the last 45 days I somehow overlooked or forgot that Twilight Time’s Beat The Devil Bluray is available for purchase.

Restored three or four years ago by Sony’s Grover Crisp, and four and a half minutes longer (93 minutes and 50 seconds) than the flashback-narrated version we’ve all been watching for decades. And of course it’s told chronologically, start to finish and no wry commentary from Humphrey Bogart‘s Billy Danreuther. And the monochrome palette is reportedly darker than previous versions. $20 if you order direct from TT; $30 through Amazon.

“I’m sure the newbie is an upgrade over The Film Detective’s 2016 Bluray, which I’m fairly happy with.

Posted on 10.27.18: “The newbie played at Manhattan’s Film Forum in February 2017, and then a couple of months later at the 2017 TCM Classic Film Festival. Why have we waited two and a half years for an announcement about the Bluray version, and why is Twilight Time releasing it and not Sony? Because Sony doesn’t appear to give a damn about restored classic films. At the very least they’re indifferent and drag-assy. Crisp did a beautiful job of restoring From Here To Eternity in 2009, and Sony didn’t put a Bluray version out until 2013.

“The Twilight Time Bluray is great news for the 1250 to 1300 classic film fanatics worldwide who are sure to buy a copy.

“To be perfectly honest I’ve never loved Oswald Morris‘ lensing of this 1953 film — it’s too sun-filled, too bleachy. It should have been shot in color with the Amalfi Coast settings and all.”

1. For years I thought that Ira Levin made up the line “nothing recedes like success.” I first heard it in the summer of ’78 when I went to see John Wood in Levin’s Deathtrap on Broadway. A N.Y. Times guy, Richard Eder, was also impressed. In a 2.27.78 article called “Stage: Opening Of Deathtrap; Five-Member Cast‎”, he wrote that “there are some amusing lines, particularly at the beginning. Lamenting his dead-end career after an initial hit, Mr. Wood reflects: ‘Nothing recedes like success.'”

But in an 11.24.12 posting, Barry Popik writes the following:

“’Nothing succeeds like success‘ is a French proverb from the 19th century. ‘Nothing recedes like success‘ — that is, nothing goes away faster than success — is a jocular variation that has been cited in print in 1904 and 1905 and was possibly coined by the New York City humor magazine Life.

“Newspaper columnist Walter Winchell (1897-1972) has been credited with the saying; he wrote it in 1931, but the saying existed before Winchell became a columnist.

“The Post-Standard (Syracuse, NY), pg. 4, col. 4 (8 July 1905): ‘Nothing recedes like success.'”

2. For years I’ve been convinced that the worst lyric that Sting ever wrote was “Hey there, Mr. Brontosaurus / don’t you have a lesson for us?” Which is from “Walking In Your Footsteps” off the Synchronicity album. Then I double-checked and realized that the line is actually “Hey, mighty Brontosaurus / don’t you have a lesson for us?” Which isn’t quite as bad. No “there”, adding the “mighty.”

In a 2.8 interview with Yahoo Movies UK contributor Sam Ashurst, Oscar-winning editor Thelma Schoonmaker, known primarily for her decades-long association with Martin Scorsese, offered two stand-out remarks about Scorsese’s The Irishman. One confused me; the other led to vague despair.

I’m not talking about Schoonmaker discussing the strategy of de-aging the actors (Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, Joe Pesci), which has been known for some time.

“We’re youthifying the actors in the first half of the movie,” she said. “And then the second half of the movie they play their own age. We’ve only been able to screen for very few people, [but] nobody minds watching them play young, because they’re gripped. The characters are so strong, it doesn’t matter — it’s really funny. [But] I don’t know what it’s going to be like when we get it all — that’s the risk.”

What confused me was Schoonmaker saying that Scorsese’s The Irishman is “episodic” but not “narrative.”

Schoonmaker: “It’s a different kind of movie — it’s episodic, it’s not narrative. When you do a narrative film, you’re always saying, ‘Oh well, you know, we could slim that down, we could move the shot, maybe we should integrate that, maybe we should flashback with that.’ That’s not the way this movie is. It’s very different. You will see. It’s extremely different and it really works, which is very exciting.”

Could it be “episodic” in the vein of The Godfather, Part II? That 1974 film didn’t use anyone’s idea of a conventional narrative either as it kept hopping back and forth between the late ’50s and the late teens and early ’20s.

Thelma seems to be sidestepping an observation I’ve recently read, which is that The Irishman is an old man’s film….an “end of the road” movie about looking back with melancholy and reflecting on mistakes and lost opportunities.

The Schoonmaker quote that upset me: “The Irishman is not Goodfellas. And that’s what they think it’s going to be. It’s not. It is not Goodfellas. It’s completely different. It’s wonderful. They’re going to love it. But please don’t think it’s gonna be Goodfellas, because it isn’t.”

When Thelma says “not Goodfellas“, she presumably means an absence of the usual boppituh-beep. Nefarious wise guys committing crimes and wearing over-emphatic clothing and betraying their wives and each other and storing mink coats in the freezer and whacking each other in the back seats of cars…right?

But how in the name of St. Christopher could Scorsese make a movie about the guy who killed Jimmy Hoffa (De Niro’s Frank “The Irishman” Sheeran) and which is wall-to-wall with Italian mob characters whose names end in vowels (Russell Bufalino, Felix “Skinny Razor” DiTullio, Joe “Crazy Joe” Gallo, Bill Bufalino, Angelo Bruno, Tony Provenzano, Anthony Salerno)…how could a movie like this not resemble Goodfellas? I’ve seen set photos of a dark-haired DeNiro pistol-whipping and kicking the shit out of guys so Thelma is obviously avoiding certain aspects.

So what does she mean, that it’s not going to have that familiar Scorsese goombah gangster flavor? No baked ziti, no sliced garlic, no Italian sausage, no girlfriends or wives with borough accents, quirky personalities and too much eye makeup?

Shawn Levy‘s “The Castle on Sunset: Life, Death, Love, Art, and Scandal at Hollywood’s Chateau Marmont” won’t be out until early May. But it can’t hurt to remind everyone of the contrast between today’s Chateau and the the way things were during a low-rider period in the ’70s.

The storied hotel has 63 rooms and suites that run from from $575 to $3,000 per night. (It began as an apartment building in 1929, but became a hotel in ’31.) But as recently as the mid-’70s, it was possible to get a single room at the Chateau for $12 per night (about $55 today) and a suite for a little more than twice that.

And those were the published rates. Many of the longtime residents negotiated far better prices. After buying the place in ’75, Ray Sarlot was stunned to learn that he had a fully-booked hotel that was actually losing money.

Anecdote #2: During World War II, the hotel was bought by a German banker named Edwin Brettauer who had helped finance a number of classic films back home, including M and The Testament of Dr. Mabuse. In Hollywood, in addition to real estate deals, he funded several films by Douglas Sirk and Fritz Lang (including Hangmen Also Die!).

During Brettauer’s reign, which lasted until 1963, he built the hotel swimming pool and the modern bungalows on the northeast corner of the hotel grounds and, more impressively, he integrated the place. At his insistance, the Chateau Marmont became the first Hollywood / Beverly Hills showbiz hotel to host black guests.

The first time the hotel was ever mentioned in the N.Y. Times was when Sidney Poitier was forced to stay there while making A Raisin in the Sun because nobody in Beverly Hills would rent a home to a black family, even if the paterfamilias was a movie star.”

Those were the Chateau’s proud days. It was a pretty great place also in the ’90s and aughts. Then, of course, managing director Philip Pavel left to run the NoMad hotel in downtown Los Angeles. And then some people with snooty, dicky attitudes took over, and eventually this policy collided with Hollywood Elsewhere in late July of 2017.

“The larger question is, have dick pics ever worked? I mean, Jeff…I know you’re rich but there’s something you should know. There is something in your pants that makes women want to fuck you. Your wallet.”

The Santa Barbara Int’l Film Festival has announced that next year’s event will run from 1.15.20 to 1.25.20. This is unusual as the SBIFF has almost always spanned from late January into early February, in part to avoid overlapping with the Sundance Film Festival. Generally speaking the SBIFF usually begins as Sundance is coming to a close, although once or twice it’s begun a few days or a week later.

Therefore the new 2020 SBIFF dates (1.15 thru 1.25) startled me. I did some checking and discovered that a Sundance Institute applications page contains the following sentence: “The dates for the 2020 Sundance Festival are January 23 – February 2, 2020.”

Therefore the 2020 Santa Barbara Film Festival will, for the first time ever, precede a Sundance Film Festival. The last portion of SBIFF ’20 will actually overlap the first days of Sundance ’20, which means that as far as go-getter journalistic coverage is concerned the celebrity tributes will want to wrap by Tuesday night, 1.21, to allow journos to leave for Park City on Wednesday, 1.22.20.

The earlier SBIFF is an adjustment to the fact that the 2020 Oscar telecast will happen on Sunday, 2.9. The 2019 Oscar show will happen on 2.24, or two weeks later than the 2020 show (and two weeks from this weekend).

For years and years the pattern has been to endure the hard-charging Sundance festival in 25-degree temperatures and snowstorms and whatnot, and then hit the gentle, warmer climes of Santa Barbara and coverage that is always less stressful. But in 2020, it’ll be Santa Barbara first and then Sundance.