Twice I’ve written about lowballing a waitress because the restaurant refused to turn the loud music down, and both times I was beaten up badly by commenters. And I’m a regular 20% tipper, mind. In these two instances, however, I went well below 20%. I actually went 5% in one situation and didn’t tip at all in the second, and the response from the HE community was that I basically needed to go into my bathroom and hang myself.

The first article, posted on 7.24.10 and called “For The Birds“, was about a horrible experience eating at Sur, a West Hollywood hotspot. The second piece, posted on 6.21.13 and titled “Punishment“, was about a similar experience in a downtown Manhattan place called Vintry.

In both situations there was no question that the restaurant managers had more or less told me to go fuck myself when I pleaded with them to turn the music down, and yet I was the bad guy for declining to tip (or under-tipping) the waiter or waitress who was involved in the back-and-forth.

Just as waiters and waitresses reap the tipping benefits when the food is great and the service exceptional, they also have to bear the brunt when a restaurant makes a customer angry — rules of the game.

I’m mentioning this for perspective’s sake because of a 7.27 eater.com piece called “The No-Tipping Point — Inside the twisted minds of deliberately bad tippers.” The author is Monica Burton, and it’s a great read. I at least had a reason for under-tipping or not tipping at all — the people in Burton’s piece are shitty tippers no matter what.

HE to commenters: If I needed to hang myself for my two offenses, what do Burton’s people need to do? Jump into a pit filled with hungry alligators? Chug a bottle of liquid Drano?

Excerpt: “’I just don’t feel the need to tip that much,’ explains Sam, a 29-year-old woman living in New York City. ‘I spend a lot on food and alcohol and travel because I enjoy those things. I’ll tip a little bit but I don’t feel like I need to tip a lot.’

“Sam knows that she should tip, and shame around not tipping well is one of the reasons she has asked not to be identified by her full name here.

“Her standard tip is around $5, whether the bill is $50 or $100. (This is up from $1 or $2, the amount she’d drop when she first started dining out as a college student in Indiana.) There have been times when she hasn’t left a tip at all — not because service was bad, but just because she didn’t feel like tipping that day.

“Sam knows the amount she chooses to tip isn’t the norm. In fact, one of the reasons she doesn’t think she needs to tip is because she believes everyone else tips enough to make up for it. ‘They’re making $5 off of me and the next person they’ll get like $25, $30, and that’s all going to their pocket, so what’s the difference?’ she says. ‘I’d rather spend that money on other things.’

“Sam says her friends all tell her that she should tip at least 18 percent, but she just doesn’t care that much. ‘I’m not going to be rude and say I don’t care, but I actually really don’t care,’ she says. ‘That’s not my concern. I don’t know you. You chose that profession.'”

Six years ago I was on the phone with Tere Tereba, author of “Mickey Cohen: The Life and Crimes of L.A.’s Notorious Mobster.” We were talking about Ruben Fleischer‘s then-upcoming Gangster Squad, in which the fabled L.A. gangster was a character. Alas, Tereba kept pronouncing “Cohen” like “Cohn,” as in Harry. Was Mr. Mickey’s name not spelled C-O-H-E-N, and was it not a two-syllable thing? “It’s just the way I talk,” she replied.

Michael Cohen is not a rat, but I like Sarah Rodgers’ illustration. Created for a Michael Daly Daily Beast article called “Michael Cohen Debuts the Art of the Squeal,” it’s superbly done. The eyes are perfect.

Lately I’ve been noticing the occasional CNN or MSNBC commentator pronouncing Michael Cohen‘s last name as “Cohn.” Like “own” with C in front of it. “Why do they do that?,” I said to myself the other day. “It’s hardly a phoenetical challenge to say COE-WUHN, which is how it’s pronounced.” I’ve even heard the occasional dweeby critic refer to the COHN brothers, whose Ballad of Buster Scruggs will debut in Venice a few weeks hence. But instructing your tongue to say COE-WUHN is some kind of phoenetical challenge, apparently, if you speak with a New York borough accent. And so every now and then, a person will say Joel and Ethan CONE, as in ice cream cone or conehead. Or Michael COHN.

I can’t stand it when people do this. Get it straight. Practice in the upstairs bathroom before going to work. I never heard anyone mispronounce the last name of the late legendary songwriter and ladies’ man Leonard Cohen. Why was he spared while Michael Cohen (whom I respect now that he’s dumping on Trump) is getting pelted left and right on the news channels?

Honest admission: An hour ago I referred to the upcoming Coen brothers western as The Ballad of Lester Scruggs. Which is even worse than it initially sounds as the Foggy Mountain Boys were named Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs.

Hannity: “So you do understand…” Roseanne: “Now I do!” Hannity: “Did you not understand when you tweeted it out? What do you understand?” Roseanne: “Well, I don’t understand a lot, to tell you the truth. [But] the tweet wasn’t racial, it was political.”

Hating the puerile Charlie’s Angels brand has been a default passion among persons of breeding and cultivation for over 40 years. The original mid-to-late ’70s ABC TV series…synthetic garbage. The universally reviled McG-directed reboots, Charlie’s Angels (’00) and Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle (’03), delivered instant lobotomies to untold millions. Drew Barrymore, Cameron Diaz, Lucy Liu and Bill Murray as sidekick “Bosley”…please.

Yesterday it was announced that Kristen Stewart, Naomi Scott and Ella Balinska will topline a 2019 reboot. It’ll directed and co-written by Elizabeth Banks (who will also play Bosley). Another female empowerment saga, kick-ass lust objects, presumably to be infused with a partly lesbian vibe, at least as far as Stewart’s character is concerned…right? You can’t release an action flick about a trio of crime-fighting heterosexual honeys in 2019. Banks will have no choice but to get with the program.

In the original series and two McG versions the possessive apostrophe meant that the girls belonged in a sense to John Forsythe‘s “Charlie,” their suave provider, protector and benefactor. The implied message was “we love you, foxy ladies, as you bust the bad guys and stand up for justice, but at the end of the day Uncle Charlie pays the bills, steers the ship and knows what’s best.” So will the Banks’ version use the same unseen, paternalistic Charlie as a provider of guidance and perspective? Or will Charlie be a woman? I can’t imagine the newbie (which will open on 9.27.19) going back to that old McG well.

CNN’s Jim Sciutto, Carl Bernstein and Marshall Cohen reported this evening that embattled attorney Michael Cohen, President Trump‘s former fixer and bagman, is ready to testify that Trump knew in advance about that June 2016 Russian dirt meeting in Trump Tower.

The idea before the meeting took place was that the Russians might supply good campaign dirt on Hillary Clinton. Wiki page: “On 6.9.16, a meeting was held in Trump Tower between Trump campaign honchos – Donald Trump Jr., Jared Kushner, Paul Manafort – and at least five other people, including Russian lawyer Natalia Veselnitskaya.”

CNN is reporting that Cohen is ready and willing to make his “Trump knew” assertion to special counsel Robert Mueller.

“Cohen’s claim would contradict repeated denials by Trump, Donald Trump Jr., their lawyers and other administration officials who have said that the President knew nothing about the Trump Tower meeting until he was approached about it by the New York Times in July 2017,” the story reads. “Cohen alleges that he was present, along with several others, when Trump was informed of the Russians’ offer by Trump Jr. By Cohen’s account, Trump approved going ahead with the meeting with the Russians, according to sources.”

Cohen doesn’t have audio recordings to corroborate the claim, but he’s willing to testify to this effect.

My first viewing of Mission: Impossible — Fallout (Paramount, 7.27) was last Monday evening inside a gargantuan IMAX theatre within Loews’ Lincoln Square. My second viewing will happen an hour from now inside a 180-seat Bowtie Cinemas theatre in Wilton, Connecticut. (Here’s my earlier review.) A couple of days ago I mentioned to a Bowtie guy where I’d seen the film in Manhattan, and he replied “Uhhm, we can’t compete with that.” I was actually kind of surprised to see this little multiplex in operation at all. I thought local cinemas were dying. Any and all reactions are welcome below.

Unfortunate technical issue, posted at 11 pm on Thursday, 7.26: I’ve just come back from my second viewing of Mission: Impossible — Fallout. After catching it at Loews’ Lincoln Square in beautiful full-blown IMAX last Monday evening, tonight I saw it inside a spiffy little Bowtie Cinema in Wilton, Connecticut. It was okay — decent-sized screen, 180 seats, nice popcorn, etc.

Except for one significant problem, I mean.

One of the things I loved about the IMAX sections (the HALO and the helicopter finale) at the Lincoln Square was how the image suddenly got taller, shifting from 2.39:1 aspect ratio to 1.75:1. I would’ve preferred an even taller a.r. (1.4:1 would’ve been great) but whatever.

The Wilton Bowtie house doesn’t have adjustable screen heights, so I was naturally expecting that during the HALO and helicopter scenes the 2.39:1 aspect ratio would shift to 1.75 by cropping off the left and right sides.

Guess what happened during these two sequences at the Bowtie? The 1.75 image wasn’t created by side masking. Instead it was stretched horizontally by the projection system, and so it filled out the full 2.39:1 width via distortion, and so suddenly everyone had the mumps or had gained weight. And it just took me right out of the movie.

Errol Morris‘s American Dharma, which will debut at the Venice Film Festival, is a documentary about a “dialogue” with Steve Bannon. Which obviously implies Bannon riffing on this and that aspect of the Trump malignancy and Morris capturing each and every word and maybe challenging the narrative here and there.

The concern, of course, is that Morris won’t reveal the other side of Bannon’s face and will more or less allow him to expound a la The World According to Dick Cheney (’13). Half of me wants to see American Dharma, of course, but the other half is suspicious and anxious. The Hindu definition of “dharma” is “the principle of cosmic order.”

This morning I chatted with World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy about the slates for the Venice, Telluride and Toronto film festivals. Blah, blah, blah, blah. Here’s the mp3. Jordan attended Sundance last January (he shared my condo) and also did Cannes, and he’ll be in Toronto in five weeks’ time. He knows his stuff. Again, the mp3. Just a chat, this and that. 71 minutes.

As an ardent fan of Jennifer Kent‘s The Babadook (’14), I’ve been awaiting her follow-up film, The Nightingale, with bated breath. The violent period drama, about a young convict woman (Aisling Franciosi) seeking revenge for a crime committed against her family, will debut at the 75th Venice Film festival.

Today I happened upon an interview with Kent, posted today (7.26) by IF.com’s Don Groves:

“Jennifer Kent had a clear purpose when she started writing the screenplay of The Nightingale: To define the nature of violence and its impact on women, Aboriginal people and the land.

Aisling Franciosi, star of Jennifer Kent’s The Nightingale.

“The story itself — a young female Irish convict chases a British officer through the wilderness of 1820s Tasmania after he commits a terrible act of violence against her family — just ‘dropped from the ether,’ she tells IF today.

“The production was financed on the first draft, a rapid process which she credits to the success of The Babadook. The thriller will have its world premiere in competition at the 75th Venice International Film Festival, which starts on August 29.

“’The point of the film is not to revel in violence but how to retain our humanity in dark times,” she says. She cast Aisling Franciosi as the protagonist, Clarem after the Irish/Italian actress nailed the audition without seeing any of her earlier work in Game of Thrones, The Fall or Legends.

“’Aisling was not an obvious choice for the financiers but there is no risk because she is absolutely right for the role,’ Kent says. At the outset she did not consider Sam Claflin for the part of the British officer after seeing him in romantic roles but quickly changed her mind after he auditioned. ‘He is a revelation,’ she says.

We’ve all heard the hoo-hah over Bradley Cooper‘s A Star Is Born (Warner Bros., 10.5). Movie stars (Barbra Streisand, Sean Penn, Robert De Niro) love it. The reaction to a 7.18 exhibitor screening in Hollywood was “through the roof,” according to Deadline‘s Pete Hammond. Toronto Film Festival director Cameron Bailey has told Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson that it’s “an absolutely beautiful film…it’s really emotional and works on a gut level.”

And yet there’s a certain hesitation about how and where to screen it. A Star Is Born will debut at the forthcoming Venice Film Festival but out of competition. It’ll also screen at the Toronto Film Festival but not at Telluride, which seems odd for an alleged crowd-pleaser that everyone believes is a lock for a Best Picture nomination.

“This is a calculation,” Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson wrote a couple of days ago. “The studio that consistently avoids wearing its Oscar hopes on its sleeve is refusing to be judged in Venice Competition, and the Lady Gaga starrer is not going to Telluride to be judged by the Oscar pundits.

“Is this a sign of insecurity? More likely, the studio is confident of the film’s mainstream commercial bonafides, but is treading carefully where critics — and Oscars — are concerned.”

What this means, of course, is that films that work on a gut emotional level tend to work better with exhibitors and ticket buyers, but not necessarily so much with critics. Except when it comes to Hollywood Elsewhere. I’m different. Unlike your average dweeby critic, I’ve occasionally succumbed to effective emotional movies. Big-screen heart tugs don’t put me off. If a movie turns the emotional lock, I’m in.

“Movies critics can’t agree on much, but there’s one assumption most of them hold deeply without ever discussing it,” the late Richard Corliss wrote on 11.22.06. “It’s that a film that says life is crap is automatically deeper, better, richer, truer than one that says life can be beautiful.

“That’s a 180 from the prevailing notion in classic Hollywood, where optimism was the cardinal belief, at least on-screen. (It was in the front office that the knives came out.) Most movies, whatever their genre, were romances; they aimed for tears and ended with a kiss. But to serious critics then, and to the mass audience now, sentiment is suspect. Feeling is mushy, girly — for fools. To be soft-hearted is to be soft-headed.

“So critics will see a horror film with extreme violence, or (less frequently) an erotic film with extreme sex, and accept these as genre conventions, whether or not they’re grossed out or aroused. But a movie that tries to make them feel is somehow pandering to their basest or noblest emotions and, as they see it, deserves a spanking from any smart reviewer. These days, nothing is as easy to deride as dead-serious romance.”

Yesterday Last Jedi director Rian Johnson deleted 20,000 old tweets because he doesn’t want to take a chance on becoming the new James Gunn. His account now lists only 1200 tweets. How many others will follow in his path?

Mick Jagger is celebrating today. Bless his persistence and good health and general refusal to wear Bruce Dern-styled old man shoes. “Three-quarters of a century…makes a girl think.” — Marilyn Monroe‘s Sugar “Kane” Kowalczyk in Some Like It Hot (’59).

I can remember people saying in the mid ’80s that it was time for the geriatric Rolling Stones to think about hanging it up for the sake of dignity, that being a post-40 rocker is embarassing. The last I saw Jagger live was at the El Rey on Wilshire Blvd. back in November ’01; the stand-out moment was when he performed “God Give Me Everything.” Favorites shift from year to year, but right now my favorite Jagger-Richard tune is “Back Street Girl,” largely because of the background accordion or Hammond organ or whatever it is.