From “Beto 2020 Calls Multiply Among Dems,” posted on The Hill by Amie Parnes on 11.11: “’I hate to say this because it would piss off a lot of Democrats, but the fact is we have so many people and we really have nobody who’s thrilling, nobody who would send a thrill up Chris Matthews‘ leg except for Beto,’ a Democratic strategist said, referencing the MSNBC Hardball host who expressed such excitement about hearing former President Obama speak.

“’You know how I know? I had friends calling me to ask about him. I would overhear conversations about him. He’s generating the kind of buzz we haven’t seen since ‘hope and change’,” the strategist added.

“Even Republicans express surprise at O’Rourke’s performance.

“’He was able to raise an enormous act of money and that alone separates him from the crowd,’ said Matt Mackowiak, a Republican strategist based in Texas. ‘He has a bit of a star quality to him. People in Texas were mesmerized and moved by him. [And] the fact that he lost by 3 percent is impressive.

“O’Rourke finds himself in an unusual situation. Most candidates who lose a race typically go back to the drawing board on career plans. Sometimes, with luck, they can run for the same office again. But rarely do candidates who lose on a lower scale have aspirations for a larger office — never mind the presidency.

“Those who know O’Rourke say he has no plans on running for president and had his sights purely set on winning the Senate seat. When he met with campaign aides earlier this week there was no talk of a White House bid. In an interview earlier this week, he reaffirmed that he has no intention of running.

“’I will not be a candidate for president in 2020,’ O’Rourke told MSNBC. ‘That’s, I think, as definitive as those sentences get.’

“But if he chooses not to run, some strategists say he could miss a prime opportunity.

N.Y. Times columnist Maureen Dowd has seen Adam McKay‘s Vice (Annapurna, 12.25). The basic shot: “It uses real-life imagery, witty cinematic asides and cultural touchstones to explore the irreparable damage Vice-President Dick Cheney did to the planet, and how his blunders and plunders led to many of our current crises.

“With an echo of his Batman growl, Christian Bale brilliantly shape-shifts into another American psycho, the lumbering, scheming vice president who easily manipulates the naïve and insecure W., deliciously played by Sam Rockwell. While W. strives to impress his father, Cheney strives to impress his wife, Lynne, commandingly portrayed by Amy Adams.

“Before we had Trump’s swarm of bloodsucking lobbyists gutting government regulations from within, we had Cheney’s. Before Trump brazenly used the White House to boost his brand, we had Cheney wallowing in emoluments: He let his energy industry pals shape energy policy; he pushed to invade Iraq, giving no-bid contracts to his former employer, Halliburton, and helping his Big Oil cronies reap the spoils in Iraq.

“The movie opens at Christmas, but it’s no sugary Hallmark fable. It’s a harrowing cautionary tale showing that democracy can be sabotaged even more diabolically by a trusted insider, respected by most of the press, than by a clownish outsider, disdained by most of the press.”

For what it’s worth I read a 2016 draft of McKay’s script, which was titled Cheney. I suppose you could call it vaguely “harrowing”, but I mainly got a sense that McKay wanted his audience to smirk and guffaw at Cheney’s maneuverings. It was mainly about dark, deadpan humor.

Black sneakers with white midsoles are the pits. Whenever I see someone wearing a pair I mentally write them off. And right now Manhattan and Brooklyn are swarming with these damn things, so that’s a lot of people I’ve dismissed out of hand. Make no mistake — white midsoles (which I call whitesides) are about as 100% outre as it gets right now. There are so many different shoe styles, textures, color combos, tints and side-colors out there, but if you choose whitesides you’re no better than someone who wears Crocs. I’m not trying to be some kind of judgmental Torquemada but whitesides really don’t make it. I wouldn’t wear a pair of whitesides if somebody paid me $100 to do so. Really — I would politely turn them down. If they offered me $200 to wear a pair, I’d take the money and put them on and say thanks…and then I’d walk a block or two and take them off and throw them into a trash bin.

A comic-book aficionado who had a relationship with legendary cartoon illustrator Jack Kirby (1917 – 1994) has a script that he cowrote with Kirby sometime in the early ’90s (earlier?) called NOCTYRNVS. The title alone would make me avoid this script for the rest of my life, but this guy has a notion that Guillermo del Toro might want to produce or direct it. Yeesh.

So this guy appealed to Tatyana on social media after seeing her in a recent photo with GDT at a party for Julian Schnabel‘s Vincent Van Gogh movie, At Eternity’s Gate (CBS Films, 11.16). Then he reached out to me on Messenger, thinking I might offer an introduction of some kind. But I don’t want to know from comic-book crap…nothing, stay away. And I said so.

[Click through to full story on HE-plus]

A few days ago Indiewire posted comments from director Cary Fukanaga about the the three major movie-watching formats of our time — cinema, TV and streaming. The Maniac director basically said that the “old distinctions” between the three have pretty much evaporated, and that they’re “definitely 100% blended now.”

Fukunaga claimed that Alfonso Cuaron‘s Roma being a leading Best Picture contender while at the same time being offered as a Netflix feature (albeit one that will first play in cinemas for a couple of weeks) means that cinema is blurring into streaming and vice versa.

[Click through to full story on HE-plus]

Everyone understands that in order to be nominated for an Oscar you can’t just be deserving — you also need a compelling narrative. A narrative is either a tidy summary about the career history of this or that contender (i.e., Glenn Close is beyond overdue, having been Best Actress-nominated six times without a win) or a concise explanation about why this or that film is a deserving Best Picture contender at this juncture in the zeitgeist.

I’m not claiming knowledge of each and every narrative out there, and there are too many categories to lay it all down in a single article. So for openers here’s a summary of the Best Picture narratives — a rundown of the loglines that seem to make sense as we speak — the actor narratives will follow tomorrow:

1. A Star Is Born — Bradley Cooper delivers and then some, best version of this oft-told tale, Academy needs to get behind this hugely popular film or risk seeming out of touch with Joe and Jane Popcorn;

2. Green Book — Most beloved Best Picture contender, expert craft meets pure feel-good, three great performances, forgive contrite Viggo Mortensen for a single verbal slip, Peter Farrelly catapults out of comedy realm;

3. Roma — Cuaron is an Art God, cinematic monochrome splendor of the highest order, women (especially a saintly maid) holding a family together, Netflix wants in so badly they’re abandoning their basic strategy by booking theatres;

4. First Man — Damien Chazelle switches gears again, makes intimate art film on a large scale, avoids Ron Howard-ish template;

5. Black Panther — Probably the only 2018 Best Picture contender that historians will be readily discussing 50 years from now, obviously an historical groundbreaker, the greatest African-American mythology film ever made, and the most socially and emotionally resonant Marvel film ever released;

6. Can you Ever Forgive Me? — I loved it but I can’t think of a narrative. “Melissa McCarthy gives her greatest performance” is a Best Actress narrative;

7. The Favourite — Yorgos Lanthimos goes commercial and delivers the best Barry Lyndon-ish film since Barry Lyndon;

8. First Reformed — Easily the most moralistic film of the Best Picture contenders, the greatest directorial comeback in years, Paul Schrader‘s best since Hardcore;

9. If Beale Street Could Talk — I can’t think of a catchy narrative — prettiest, gentlest Wong Kar Wai film in years?;

10. Vice — Nobody’s seen it, no narrative.

Originally posted on 4.6.09: Gather round, boys, for a story about the Del Monte bean and pea plant in Markesan, Wisconsin…yowsah!

Fresh out of Wilton high school, five or six of us drove out to America’s heartland to earn a little money and have an adventure….hah! It was mostly an ordeal. We wound up working different jobs and different shifts — pushing cans, operating fork lifts, doing end-of-shift cleanup, hosing down freshly picked peas and beans. It was fairly miserable work all around — back-breaking, tedious, soul-smothering. Migrants did the actual picking in the fields.

For a week or two some of us were working the 8 am to 5:00 pm shift. We’d clean up, eat and head out for a night of beer-drinking at a local tavern. We’d sometimes go to a place in Fond du Lac called the Brat Hut. And when we got back to the plant around midnight or so we got into a habit — for a couple of weeks, I mean — of taking out our rage at Del Monte. Or at ourselves for being dumb enough to work at this godforsaken place.

A friend worked the evening shift atop a wooden chimney-like structure. His job was to clean freshly-picked beans and peas. Every night they were unloaded off trucks and sent up to his area on electrically-powered conveyor belts set at a 45 degree angle. The vegetables were then dropped into huge spinning cylindrical containers made of chicken wire. Our friend operated sprayers that bathed them in steaming-hot water.

The beans and peas were then dropped into tall metal chutes that fed them straight into a stream of open-topped, label-free cans about 20 or 25 feet below — constantly moving, spotless and gleaming. It would take no more than a second or two to fill up each can, maybe less. It went on like this all night, every night, and with a fairly deafening sound.

Each and every night for about two weeks, my beered-up friends and I would climb to the top of the tower, say hello to our friend, and piss right into the chutes that fed the beans and peas into the cans. We hit maybe 200 to 250 cans each night, minimum.

We were anarchic, fuck-all middle-class kids, but we’d been raised by good people in well-to-do homes and weren’t psychopaths. If guys with our backgrounds had the rage to piss into cans of vegetables every night you can bet others have done this since. A lot. Pissing into prepared food containers is what powerless people do to give them the feeling that they’ve somehow evened up the score. Think of this the next time you buy Del Monte.

Hollywood Elsewhere is overjoyed to report that Guillermo del Toro‘s Bleak House, the Thousand Oaks manse that contains the greatest-ever collection of life-size movie mannequins and related paraphernalia, has so far survived the Woolsey blaze. HE to GDT: “So did Bleak House escape the blaze? Please tell me…I’m sick about this.” GDT to HE: “So far, safe. Winds can change. Still evacuated!” HE to GDT: “Fingers crossed!”

Another structure that I care about in the Woolsey-threatened realm is The Old Place, the storied restaurant-saloon in the Agoura hills. This morning at 5:45 am the Malibu Times‘ Emily Sawicki reported that there is “no known damage” to The Old Place….hooray!

“Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.” — Winston Churchill.

29983 Mulholland Hwy, Cornell, CA 91301

Before this evening I’d never attended the Brooklyn-based Broadcast Film Critics Documentary awards. It was well-organized, briskly paced — by any measure an agreeable, fraternal family affair. Thanks to Joey Berlin and John DeSimio for making it easy to attend.

The big winners were Morgan Neville‘s Won’t You Be My Neighbor? (Best Documentary, Best Director ands Best Editing) and Jimmy Chin and Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi‘s Free Solo (Best Sports Documentary, Best Innovative Documentary, and Best Cinematography). Michael Moore (whose Fahrenheit 11/9 lost the Best Political Doc award to RBG) was handed the Critics’ Choice Lifetime Achievement Award. It was presented to Moore by Robert De Niro.

The Best Limited Documentary Series trophy went to Judd Apatow’s The Zen Diaries of Garry Shandling — the only BFCA win that I was seriously enthused about. The Best Ongoing Documentary Series award went to Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown.

I couldn’t find Maggie May on Facebook, but she’s right. Allow me to blend mine with hers. Yesterday’s Viggo Mortensen pile-on was a “meaningless” expression of “progress-hindering semantic” crap by a bunch of p.c. nellies. Viggo was making “a very good point.” Whiteys “said the word back then while perpetrating racism…now they do the same racist shit while avoiding the word, playing at being non-racist because the slur isn’t uttered.” Viggo has been duly scolded but that’ll do for now. Everyone needs to ease up and stop shouting long enough to consider how gentle he’s always been and what he actually meant. And if that’s not enough, remind yourself that everyone makes mistakes.

I’ll be R-training to Brooklyn later today for the 2018 Broadcast Film Critics Association Documentary Awards. (Here’s a recent post about it). But I’ve wanted to explore that Velvet Underground exhibit I’ve been reading about for the last few weeks so what the hell, right?

It’s irksome that they’re charging $25 admission — $50 if you don’t want to wait in line. It’s also pointless to talk about the Grand Canyon-sized chasm between the raggedy, real-deal experience of Lou Reed, Nico, John Cale, Andy Warhol, Sterling Morrison and Maureen Tucker and the presumably soothing corporate representation I’ll be submitting to in a few hours.

Update: The VU exhibit is not a soother but an immersive, highly intelligent, atmospheric and educational sink-in supreme. I was wrong to suspect otherwise.

“It was just ’66 and the first half of ’67…that’s all it was.”

This morning I read Brooks Barnes‘ 11.9 N.Y. Times piece about the anxieties and convulsions that have seized Hollywood culture (“A Year After #MeToo, Hollywood’s Got a Malaise Money Can’t Cure“). And honestly? The thing that really moved me — the only element that didn’t pass along feelings of despondency — was the L.A. nightscape photo by Hunter Kerhart.

Takeaway #1: Behind closed doors, older entrenched white guys ** are furious and depressed and taking sedatives. Yeah, I know — poor babies, right?

Takeaway #2: Apart from the flush salaries and perks, Hollywood has become a miserable, hellish place in which to work — contentious, combative, paranoid, Stalinoid, progressive but quota-driven, polluted with downmarket crap (superheroes, sequel-itis, horror films) and seemingly devoid of any semblance of pride, joy, comfort or (are you joking?) ’70s-style creative swagger.

Takeaway #3: Everyone “supports” #MeToo, diversity and representation in the ranks — forward into the future, etc. But at the same time the knives and clubs are out. It’s I Am Legend out there. And poor Viggo Mortensen, bruised and bloody on the floor, is wondering how he could have been so clumsy or stupid for a single second in the billions of seconds that have comprised his life. And the fires of hell (probably sparked by a campfire that some asshole forgot to douse) are consuming everything west of the 405.

N.Y. Times photo by Hunter Kerhart.

And on top of all this the vast majority of Americans — the flyover audience Hollywood is looking to simultaneously fleece and entertain and in rare moments emotionally seduce — hates politically correct culture.

If there’s one overriding conviction out there in Bumblefuckland it’s that the p.c. comintern is about fickle sensitivity, arch finger-pointing and instant Twitter lynchings. So much so that Average Joes not only felt sorry for the repulsive Brett Kavanaugh but doubled-down on their loathing of coastal elites by electing some seriously toxic righties a few days ago. Urban libtards are so despised that a sizable chunk of America supports Trumpian Mussolini culture as a bulwark against progressive upheaval. And yet Hollywood decision-makers, forced or obliged or seriously committed to accommodating themselves to p.c. changes, are ironically tasked with creating diversionary dreamscapes for people who despise the very ground they walk upon. Or something like that.