When I was but a lad my father and I didn’t like the same music. He was a big Ella Fitzgerald fan, but he had no room in his head for Aretha Franklin. C’mon! There was, of course, no point in trying to persuade him to see past his favorites and prejudices.

One of the first vocal debates we had was over the Beatles “I’m A Loser.” My dad was basically appalled that any songwriter would write a song with that title. What kind of wimp candy-ass would admit something like that, much less sing it as a kind of anthem? I replied that it wasn’t about being a loser in life, but in love. Lennon and McCartney obviously had no reason to worry about people regarding them as losers, I explained. Not with their phenomenal success. Plus it wasn’t the lyrical content as much as how it sounded. The bass line, the harmonies, the harmonica riff, etc. All of these arguments went right over my dad’s head.

I know one thing about Sundance ’19, and what it’s helped to bring about. The millions who are still glomming on to the myth of Michael Jackson — that half-magical, commercially formidable, white-sock superstar aura that has persisted and expanded since his death on 6.25.09 — the millions who are still feeding off Jackson are about to experience a profound kick in the head from Leaving Neverland, which will eventually air on HBO.

Sundance ’19 deserves a 21-gun salute and a hearty cheer for helping to launch this important four-hour film.

How many of Hollywood Elsewhere’s top eight Sundance ’19 films — Luce, Leaving Neverland, Official Secrets, Cold Case Hammerskjold, David Crosby: Remember My Name, Memory: The Origins of Alien and Steven Soderbergh‘s High Flying Bird — will connect with Joe and Jane Popcorn? Not to mention the buzzy titles that I wanted to see but missed (The Nightingale, The Hole in the Ground, Blinded By The Light)? Perhaps only two or three, perhaps all. Who knows?

I know that the above eight are rooted, riveting and fraught with discovery, and that they put me right in the zone. Thank you, Sundance ’19, for including these stand-outs.

I also know that it feels great to be back in ground-level, warm-aired Los Angeles and not (here comes the other side of the Park City experience) in that congenial p.c. Stalinist boot camp aura in the Wasatch Mountains.

HE’s Sundance experience was genuinely exciting and even throttling from time to time, but for the most part the elite, beaver-hat-wearing commissars reiterated their commitment to their “socialist summer camp in the snow” aesthetic, and what has basically become an annual experiment in mass p.c. hypnosis and utopian wish-fulfillment.

For Sundance ’19 was first and foremost about itself — about enforcing a vision of how the world needs to be, and by fulfilling its own self-created image and making real (at least temporarily) its own Neverland vibes.

We’re talking diversity, representation, a higher percentage of films directed by women and people of color (which is obviously welcome and exciting), aggressive frowning at the idea of older white-male critics (thank you, Keri Putnam, for making my life interesting!) and the idea of accumulated taste (which inevitably results “from a thousand distastes,” as Francois Truffaut once said), and cheering the idea of “under-represented” critics.

All mock posters created by The Shiznit.

“’Why Did You Do That?’ is otherwise known as ‘the song about butts that Lady Gaga sings in A Star Is Born. Truth be told, there’s only one butt in the song, but it’s a memorable one: As Gaga’s Ally sings in the opening lines, ‘Why do you look so good in those jeans? / Why’d you come around me with an ass like that?’ Question: Is ‘Why Did You Do That?’ terrible, is it a bop, or is it a terrible song that’s also a bop?” — from “I’m Obsessed With That Song About Butts From A Star Is Born,” by Nate Jones, Vulture, 10.10.18.

We’ve just begun the final year of the second decade of the 21st Century. Somebody on Twitter was asking this morning for lists of the best films of the last nine years, and so I might as well (a) re-post my long-game roster as well as (b) HE’s top ten from this period (2010 to 2018) at the very end:

Best of 2010: The Social Network, The Fighter, Black Swan, Inside Job, Let Me In, A Prophet, Animal Kingdom, Rabbit Hole, The Tillman Story, Winter’s Bone (10).

Best of 2011 (ditto): A Separation, Moneyball, Drive, Contagion, X-Men: First Class, Attack the Block (6).

Best of 2012: Zero Dark Thirty, Silver Linings Playbook, Amour, Beasts of the Southern Wild, Barbara, The Grey, Moonrise Kingdom (7).

Best of 2013: The Wolf of Wall Street, 12 Years A Slave, Inside Llewyn Davis, Her, Dallas Buyers Club, Before Midnight, The Past, Frances Ha (8).

Best of 2014: Birdman, Citizen Four, Leviathan, Gone Girl, Boyhood, Locke, Wild Tales. (7)

Best of 2015: Spotlight, The Revenant; Mad Max: Fury Road; Beasts of No Nation; Love & Mercy, Son of Saul; Brooklyn; Carol, Everest, Ant-Man; The Big Short. (10)

Best of 2016: Manchester By The Sea, A Bigger Splash, The Witch, Eye in the Sky, The Confirmation, The Invitation. (6)

Best of 2017: Call Me My Your Name, Dunkirk, Lady Bird, The Square, War For The Planet of the Apes, mother!, The Florida Project. (7)

Best of 2018: Roma., Green Book, First Reformed, Hereditary, Capernaum, Vice, Happy As Lazzaro, Filmworker, First Man, Widows, Sicario — Day of the Soldado. (11).

TOP TEN OF THE LAST NINE YEARS (totally arbitrary, partly whimsical, tethered to the moment): Manchester By The Sea, A Separation, The Social Network, Zero Dark Thirty, Call Me By Your Name, Son of Saul, The Wolf of Wall Street, Leviathan, The Square, Moneyball.

This is a small correction riff, and by no means a big deal. But Borys Kit and Tatiana Siegel‘s 1.30 Hollywood Reporter story about Bryan Singer possibly standing to reap $40 million from Bohemian Rhapsody starts off with a partly misleading sentence:

“Director Bryan Singer is set to earn tens of millions of dollars off the massive success of Bohemian Rhapsody, despite being fired from the movie mid-production and surrounded by controversy.”

The last time I checked “mid-production” referred to “being in the middle of production” or, you know, not at the beginning or end. In fact Singer was fired off Bohemian Rhapsody toward the end of principal photography, or between early and mid-December 2017.

Principal photography had begun in September 2017. There were roughly two weeks of filming left when Singer was canned. Dexter Fletcher shot this final portion in early to mid January 2018.

Singer was therefore not fired “mid-production” but at the tail end of the shoot. No biggie but chronologies matter.

Posted on 1.26.19:

In the wake of They Shall Not Grow Old, Peter Jackson‘s next found-footage project will be about the Beatles and their somewhat acrimonious Let It Be sessions in 1969. Jackson will find a way to make something out of 55 hours of unused footage, shot by Michael Lindsay-Hogg in 1969 and later manifested in the 1970 Let It Be doc.

The Jackson-Beatles story was broken by Variety‘s Chris Willman.

Jackson: “The 55 hours of never-before-seen footage and 140 hours of audio made available to us ensure this movie will be the ultimate ‘fly on the wall’ experience that Beatles fans have long dreamt about. It’s like a time machine transports us back to 1969, and we get to sit in the studio watching these four friends make great music together.”

Excuse me, but that’s just bullshit. The Beatles were in a shitty, dysfunctional place when the footage was shot, and the music on the Let It Be album wasn’t in the least bit “great” — it felt tired, sluggish, retro-lazy, downish, uninspired. “Let It Be Naked” has value, but the remixed Phil Spector version is arguably the worst album the Beatles ever issued.

And the tracks themselves are mostly a drag, like a version of the Beatles basement tapes: “One After 909”, “Don’t Let Me Down”, “Dig a Pony”, “I’ve Got a Feeling”, “Get Back”, “Let It Be”, “I Me Mine,” “Two of Us”, “Maggie Mae”, “Dig It”, “The Long and Winding Road”…God! The only tracks I can stand are “For You Blue” and the original “Across the Universe.”

Wiki excerpt: “The rehearsals and recording sessions for the album did not run smoothly. The acrimony that began during the recording of the White Album resumed soon after the rehearsals began. The Beatles weren’t getting along, and Lennon and McCartney weren’t working together as before.

“McCartney assumed the role of the leader, while a detached Lennon was more interested in spending time and making music with his soon-to-be wife Yoko Ono, who was present in the studio with him at all times. Lennon was in a fragile emotional state, with Ono having suffered a miscarriage of their child just six weeks before the start of the sessions, following a drug bust the month before.

“All of these factors led to friction within the band. At one point, Harrison quit the group after several arguments with McCartney and a falling out with Lennon, due to the former’s perfectionism and the latter’s disengagement. Harrison was coaxed back a few days later.

“The film version is famous for showcasing a number of conflicts between the group members and has frequently been referred to as a documentary that was intended to show the making of an album but instead shows ‘the break–up of a band.'”

Jackson again: “After reviewing all the footage and audio that Michael Lindsay-Hogg shot 18 months before they broke up, it’s simply an amazing historical treasure trove. Sure, there’s moments of drama, but none of the discord this project has long been associated with. Watching John, Paul, George and Ringo work together, creating now-classic songs from scratch, is not only fascinating. It’s funny, uplifting and surprisingly intimate. I’m thrilled and honored to have been entrusted with this remarkable footage. Making the movie will be a sheer joy.”

Bullshit artist!

I decided last night to leave Park City a day early. I’m all Sundanced out. I’ve seen 14 or 15 films, hustled tickets, stood in lines, averaged nightly sleep of five or six hours, etc. Except for Velvet Buzzsaw, which I’ll get into by day’s end, I’ve written about several films that deserve special mention. I’ve ignored others out of compassion. Otherwise I feel sufficiently “thinksperienced” about the goodies that I’ve missed. I’ll get around to them in due time.

I had to beg for tickets, remember. Most of the publicists were kind and obliging, but some weren’t.

Sundance is not a competition among journos to see who can jam in as many films as possible each day — it’s a chance to sample fresh crops, absorb new currents, channel fresh energy, walk in the snow, wear my cowboy hat, eat shitty 7-11 food, etc. I did that for eight days. My mind was poked, prodded, expanded and wrestled with to some extent, and that’ll do for now.

I’m sorry about missing Sweetheart, but it’ll happen in due time. I wanted very much to see Jennifer Kent‘s The Nightingale at noon today but at the last minute a promised ticket didn’t materialize. There were three or four others I wanted to see but couldn’t. A bit disappointing, but not the end of the world.

It’s not a rumor — most of the films that annually unspool in Park City aren’t all that great. Most of them fall under the categories of “not bad, interesting, meh, liked some of it, didn’t quite work,” etc. I saw a film yesterday that was so obviously not worth my time that I quit after 20 minutes. If a movie isn’t working I can smell it immediately.

My initial plan was to depart Park City Thursday afternoon, land in Burbank in the early evening, catch a few zees and drive up to the Santa Barbara Film Festival around noon on Friday. Now I’m bumping everything forward by 24 hours — SLC to Burbank today at 6 pm, home late this evening, leave for Santa Barbara by noon or 1 pm tomorrow.

This way I’ll be able to catch the Director’s Panel (Roma‘s Alfonso Cuarón, The Favourite‘s Yorgos Lanthimos. BlacKkKlansman‘s Spike Lee, Vice‘s Adam McKay and Cold War‘s Pawel Pawlikowski) tomorrow night at the Arlington.

Main Street is quiet at Sundance until it’s not. #FilmThreatSundance #Sundance #Sundance2019 pic.twitter.com/RsA77dBTIB

— Film Threat @ Sundance (@FilmThreat) January 30, 2019

W.K. Stratton‘s “The Wild Bunch — Sam Peckinpah, A Revolution in Hollywood, and the Making of a Legendary Film” (Bloomsbury) will arrive in book stores on or about 2.12.19. I’ve been a Wild Bunch fanatic for a long time, and I’m honestly wondering what Stratton can say about this perfectly realized western that I don’t already know. Especially with my having read David Weddle‘s “If They Move, Kill ‘Em” and watched that excellent “making of” feature on the 2008 Warner Home Video Bluray. On top of which Stratton’s book is 352 pages. But if the reviews are encouraging…

I was half-mesmerized by Julis Onah‘s Luce, a tautly written, convincingly performed domestic drama about racial agendas, attitudes, assumptions and expectations. Set in an affluent Virginia suburb, the film explores a racially mixed group of characters and asks what their core-level attitudes or assumptions about “Luce” (Kelvin Harrison, Jr.), an adopted, African-born high school student, might be. But what it’s really doing is asking the audience these same questions.

Based on J.C. Lee’s 2013 play of the same name and co-adapted by Lee and Onah, it’s basically about uncertain or ambiguous attitudes about Luce, who may or may not be as bright, likable and reassuringly well-behaved as he projects himself to be. Or maybe the real problem is in the eyes of certain beholders.

(l. to r.) Tim Roth, director-cowriter Julis Onah, Naomi Watts, Kelvin Harrison, Jr., Octavia Spencer.

The trouble starts when Harriet Wilson (Octavia Spencer), a vaguely huffy, side-eyed teacher, assigns Luce to write about a historical figure but with a special encouragement to “think outside the box.” When Luce writes about a ’70s activist who flirted with terrorism, Harriett bristles and even freaks a bit. For whatever reason the notion of Luce being some kind of closet radical alarms her, and so (this struck me as weird) she decides to search his locker for possible evidence of subversion. She finds a paper bag filled with illegal fireworks.

Harriet meets Luce’s adoptive mom Amy (Naomi Watts), shows her the essay and bag of fireworks. Amy tenses about violating Luce’s privacy, but at the same time is grappling with concerns about her son, who was reared in a war-torn African nation during his first ten years, and the kind of person he may be growing into. Or perhaps is hiding behind a veneer of charm and good cheer.

Amy discusses her worries with husband Peter (Tim Roth). But when Luce comes home from school, she doesn’t speak her mind. There’s a “vibe” at the dinner table, but nobody mentions the elephant.

This is when I dropped out of Luce, and why I was only half-mesmerized. What kind of adoptive mother wouldn’t trust her son enough to be upfront about the content of a school essay or a certain paper bag, and the possible implications of these? Her reluctance to speak her mind (or uncomfortable suspicions) told me that she’s less loving and perhaps a bit more racist than even she realizes.

A couple of days have passed since I caught Mads Brugger‘s Cold Case Hammarskjöld, and the more I think about it, the more impressive and arresting it seems. It’s actually one of the most original-feeling investigative docs I’ve ever seen.

It begins as an investigation into the 1961 plane-crash death of UN General Secretary Dag Hammarskjöld, which happened, we gradually learn, at the hands of colonialist bad guys. The film is about how Brugger, who casts himself as a kind of whimsical, not-quite-Hercule-Poirot-level investigator, and colleague Goran Bjorkdahl gradually uncover what happened, not just to Hammerskjold 58 years ago but also…actually, I’d rather not divulge.

Suffice that Brugger comes to believe (and in fact persuades) that Hammarskjöld’s plane was shot down by Belgian-British mercenary pilot Jan van Risseghem, who was apparently doing the bidding of some ghastly ogres who were angered by Hammarskjöld’s sympathy for African nativist independence movements.

But that’s hardly the end of it.

For Cold Case Hammarskjöld is anything but a straightforward, hard-hitting, get-to-the-truth doc. In fact it represents a kind of sideways shuffle approach to discovering long-buried bones and nightmares. It is, in fact, an eccentric film, and yet the things it discovers are beyond ugly.

It’s the mixture of curious whimsy and malevolent apartheid schemings (practiced decades ago by rightwing fanatics) that gives Cold Case Hammarskjöld a tone of spooky weirdness.

I haven’t time to write a longish review (a 3:30 pm screening of Luce is bearing down upon me) but Cold Case Hammarskjold is quite a stand-alone achievement. I intend to see it again at the first opportunity.

For bit by bit, testimony by testimony, Cold Case Hammarskjold uncovers a demimonde of racist, colonial evil that feels stranger and wilder than any work of espionage fiction. In part because the doc uses a mixture of evidence, memory, facts, personality, deadpan humor and conjecture to uncover what actually (or most probably) happened.

Cold Case Hammarskjöld director-writer-star Mads Brugger (l.) and investigative colleague Goran Bjorkdahl (r.).

“For many, Lee Cronin‘s The Hole in the Ground will automatically recall The Babadook. The comparison is not a huge stretch. Each film focuses almost exclusively on a single mom and her troubled son. Both rely on intense sound design (The Hole in the Ground might have the driest, creakiest house in all of cinema) to aid their scares. Both are horror films that largely eschew violence, though this one less so. For while The Babadook’s narrative functions largely as metaphor, A Hole in the Ground is more direct and literal.” — from 1.26.19 review by Evan Saathoff.