“We’re in an unprecedented moment in the White House. The Trump family and and Kushner family have not taken the necessary steps to fully divest themselves from their business interests, and make sure that these business interests don’t overlap or directly intersect with the policies they’re pursuing in the White House. We’ve never had anything like this in the United States.” — business journalist Tim O’Brien, author of “TrumpNation: The Art of Being the Donald” (’05).

“TrumpNation” Wikipage: “O’Brien, citing three anonymous people who worked with Trump, wrote in the book that Trump ‘was not remotely close to being a billionaire,’ stating that his actual net worth ranged between $150 million and $250 million. During interviews and book-signings O’Brien called Trump a ‘faux millionaire,’ a ‘train wreck,’ ‘the walking embodiment of financial pornography’ and a ‘serial bankruptcy addict.’ Trump’a lawsuit was dismissed by Judge Michele M. Fox on 7.15.09.”

The flying junket-journo brigade will soon leave for Paris and the big Mission: Impossible — Fallout premiere (the first showing is on Thursday, 7.12) and subsequent junket interviews. I’ve junket-whored a few times (most notably in England and Great Messenden with Fox Searchlight’s Fantastic Mr. Fox in the fall of ’09 and then in Berlin five years later for The Grand Budapest Hotel) and it’s a great way to go. You arrive in the big gleaming city and stay in a really nice, corporate-aroma hotel and eat nothing but great free food, and there’s this constant voice telling you that you’ve definitely done something right in your life to warrant such lavish attention. If I was better at this game I would be off to Paris in a few hours, actually leaving tomorrow and arriving early Wednesday and doing the whole Parisian lah-dee-dah for three days. I’m genuinely sorry I’m not doing this, in part because I’ve been sensing all along that I’ll probably like Mission: Impossible — Fallout.

Tab Hunter, the closeted ’50s teen heartthrob who became a gay icon later in life, died last night at his Santa Barbara home. His partner Allan Glaser told Variety‘s Brent Lang that the cause of death was a heart attack. Hunter was 86.

Hunter was an amiable, really good-looking ’50s guy. His career soared and than tapered off within that decade. His first ’50s film was Island of Desire (’52 — aka Saturday Island) with Linda Darnell. His big breakout happened in ’55 when he played Danny, a naive young Marine, in Raoul Walsh‘s Battle Cry. (His character has an affair with sultry Dorothy Malone, but ends up marrying small-town girl Mona Freeman.) The third most popular film of ’55, Battle Cry cemented Hunter’s rep as a hot young actor who was modestly talented.

Hunter’s peak moment happened three years later with Damn Yankees, in which he played Washington Senators baseball star Joe Hardy — actually a 50ish Senators fan named Joe Boyd who’s been made into a strapping young athlete by the devil (i.e., Ray Walston‘s Applegate).

Yorgos Lanthimos‘ The Favourite is apparently a perverse, absurdist Peter Greenaway film, albeit with a less of a static framing aesthetic and more action fluidity. It’s actually seems to be a mixture of Greenaway and early-’70s Richard Lester with a sprinkling of Ken Russell.

For specific influences study Lester’s The Three Musketeers (’73), Greenaway’s The Draughtsman’s Contract, Russell’s The Devils (’71) and John Alcott‘s lensing of Barry Lyndon (’75).

The basic idea is that royalty is eccentric bordering on insane, and that people around the royals are obliged to behave or respond accordingly or, you know, follow suit in some fashion.

Boilerplate: “A bawdy, acerbic tale of royal intrigue, passion, envy and betrayal in the court of Queen Anne in early 18th century England. At the center of the story is the Queen herself (Olivia Colman), whose relationship with her confidante, adviser and clandestine lover Sarah Churchill, Duchess of Marlborough (Rachel Weisz) is turned upside down by the arrival of the Duchess’s younger cousin Abigail (Emma Stone). Soon the balance of power shifts between the women as they jockey for influence with the Queen and the court.”

Cowritten by Deborah Davis and Tony McNamara. Costarring Mark Gatiss, Joe Alwyn and Nicholas Hoult. The dp is Robbie Ryan (American Honey, I, Daniel Blake). A Fox Searchlight release, opening on 11.23. A likely Venice, Telluride and/or Toronto attraction.

Six months ago Jodie Foster gave her “Hollywood fracking” quote to Radio Times‘ Michael Hodges. The quote has stuck with me ever since, but I never mentioned it in this column. “Studios making bad content” — i.e., the explosion of CG superhero-franchise jizz-whizz bullshit eye candy over the last 12 to 15 years — “in order to appeal to the masses and shareholders is like fracking,” she said. “You get the best return right now but you wreck the earth.”

This trend, she said, is “ruining the viewing habits of the American population and then ultimately the rest of the world.”

I would amend that the viewing tastes of downmarket Millennials and GenXers were all but set in stone by the early aughts — they wanted their viewing habits to be ruined. By some kind of instinct or solemn decree or mass consensus they decided two or three years after 9/11 that traditional narrative drama (you know, the thing that began with the Greeks and Romans a couple of thousand years ago and had pretty much dominated until the late 1990s) had to be relegated to television and that megaplexes were by and large waiting to become high-adrenaline, theme-park experiences.

Danny Boyle and Aaron Sorkin‘s Steve Jobs (’15) bothered me from the get-go. It was close to three years ago when I saw it for the first time (at Telluride), and after re-thinking and re-thinking it again, I realized that it didn’t work for two principal reasons.

One, the relentless use of “Sorkin walk-and-talks.” (I don’t remember at what point I flinched in my seat and almost stood up and said aloud, “Are they gonna walk and talk through this whole damn movie?”) And two, Michael Fassbender. I was just starting to realize how much I disliked the guy because of those cold fuck-you eyes of his. From a 8.28.16 riff called “Shorter Steve Jobs Review”: ‘I know this is a class-A enterprise with a sharp Sorkin script, but how much longer do I have hang with this prick?'”

In short, Andrew Saladino‘s “12 Angry Men: A Lesson In Staging,” a seven minute and 41-second video essay, reminded me how much I disliked Steve Jobs. Because of those infuriating walk-and-talks (and how more inventive and confident 12 Angry Men director Sidney Lumet was at shooting straight-dialogue scenes), and, yes, because of that super-prick Fassbender.

And if I had to sum it up in eight words (which I’d prefer not to do) I’d call it a “a kind of dry, extremely droll horror comedy.” What will Dick Cheney think of it? Remember that in ’07 the former vice-president said that being referred to as Darth Vader wasn’t such a bad thing (or words to that effect). Maybe he’ll roll with it. Maybe he’ll attend the 2019 Oscar telecast.

If you get eaten by a 95 foot-long Megalodon shark, at least you’ll die quickly…right? Thank God we have Jason Statham on the case. I’m sensing a comedic attitude lurking beneath the generic chops. The director of The Meg (Warner Bros., 8.10) is Jon Turtletaub, whose last theatrical feature was Last Vegas (’13). Should moviegoers be concerned about principal photography having begun in October 2016 and concluded 18 months ago? Post-production was presumably slowed down by the CG. The film will work if the shark looks real, but if the effects look even a little bit shitty…aiiiy, pobrecito mío! Costarring Li Bingbing, Rainn Wilson, Ruby Rose, Winston Chao and Cliff Curtis. Pocket those paychecks.

Two days ago clips from Barry Jenkins‘ If Beale Street Could Talk (Annapurna) were shown at Essence Festival, the New Orleans-based cultural gathering which wraps today. Jenkins, director-writer of the 2016 Best Picture Oscar winner Moonlight, took bows along with leads Kiki Layne and Stephan James, who play engaged lovers Clementine “Tish” Rivers and Alonzo “Fonny” Hunt. Regina King, who plays Kiki’s mom Sharon, was also on hand.

Here’s a fairly thorough report from Blackfilm.com’s Wilson Morales.

The Annapurna release has no release date, but will probably pop through at the Venice, Telluride or Toronto film festivals — i.e., some combination thereof.

If Beale Street Could Talk castmembers Stephan james, Kiki Layne, Regina King + director-writer Barry Jenkins.

Based on the 1974 James Baldwin novel and set in early ’70s Harlem, Beale Street is about difficulties faced by Tish, a 19 year-old, and Fonny, a 22 year-old sculptor, and their extended family. Fonny is unjustly accused of raping a Puerto Rican woman, Victoria Rogers (Emily Rios), and is sent to prison. Soon after Tish discovers she’s pregnant. She, her family and her lawyer struggle to find evidence that will free Fonny before the baby is born.

Regina King and Colman Domingo portray Kiki’s mom and dad. Michael Beach plays Fonny’s profane dad and Aunjanue Ellis his strictly religious mom. Nobody seems to know who plays the lawyer but it’s either Dave Franco or Finn Wittrock.

Morales: “The first clip showed all the principal cast in the house of Kiki’s parents. It happens right after Stephan has been taken to jail and everyone is talking about his young lawyer. Stephan’s parents come in (Beach and Ellis) and it’s clear that his mom and dad are different from one another. Mom is very church-like and strict while dad curses in front of others and says his foul language is considered hip. There’s a lot of tension in the room when Kiki talks back to Steph’s mom.

“The second scene, apparently a flashback, shows Stephan and Kiki hanging at a Spanish restaurant where he says hi to Pedrosito (Diego Luna). It’s raining as he walks Kiki outside, and then asks her to come home with him.”

Old news but worth repeating: The only times I’ve changed or modified my opinion is when I’ve been overly kind or fawning to a big audience-friendly film, and realized when I went back for seconds that there was less there than initially met the eye. My reaction to Peter Jackson‘s King Kong (’05) was one such example. I didn’t change my opinion about the first 70 minutes, which I flat-out hated. But today, 13 years later, I’m troubld by my enthusiasm for the second and third acts. That Central Park ice-pond sequence in particular. Snowballs, time out, Naomi Watts in a sheer white gown in 28-degree weather…what was I thinking?

DELETED EXCERPT from King Kong‘s third act — page 137 — written by Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens and Peter Jackson:

Late evening. A crowd has formed at the southern edge of Central Park (59th Street near Seventh Avenue). A uniformed platoon of New York’s finest have blocked off access to the park with wooden barriers. A distraught middle-aged woman calls out to SERGEANT PADDY MULDOON.

WOMAN: Sergeant Muldoon! I saw him! I saw the ape!

MULDOON: (addressing beat cops) Keep them back, fellas. Nobody gets in.

WOMAN: He went into the park!

MULDOON: All right now, settle down.

WOMAN: Carrying that blonde woman in the white dress. Aren’t you going to do something? You have to save her. She might be dying!

MULDOON: I happen to know he’s not hurting her at all.

WOMAN: But Sergeant…!!

Yesterday I posted a list of 130-plus scripts (“What Does This List Tell You?“) that have some kind of heat or momentum in the theatrical realm. Some have attracted positive attention but haven’t been produced yet, others have gone before cameras but have yet to open, some are buzzy but still waiting for a green light. The list contains a small sliver of titles that represent original stories; the rest are sequels, prequels, remakes and reboots.

The comment thread was appropriately despairing. At one point (and you knew this was coming) HE commenter Patrick Murtha reminded that “there’s this episodic art form that I think is superior…you may have heard of it…it’s called television.” While movies bang out sequels, remakes and rehashings, television “is superior for telling multi-part stories.” Except, of course, when these multi-part stories devolve into narcotizing, soul-draining puzzleboxing a la Westworld.

To which I replied: “Agreed — high-grade entertainment or profound absorption within a smart, above-average cable/streaming longform is in many ways superior and preferable to what movies are doing now for the most part. Hell, with the presumed-sequel mentality so fully embedded in the theatrical realm, movies themselves have almost become longform in a sense.

“But for those films that still play by the classic rules (a one-off delivering a strong, efficiently constructed story with a satisfying third-act payoff and a haunting thematic undertow within 100 to 160 minutes and sometimes only 85 or 90), a higher bar applies. It’s much harder to deliver the whole bull’s-eye package in a single sitting, but when that happens there’s really nothing better, and in this sense movies will sometimes leave longform cable/streaming in the dust. Every year between 5% and 10% of theatrical movies accomplish this.”

In the same sense it’s a harder and finer thing to write a truly effective 5,000-word short story than a long, elephantine novel running 1200 pages. Which is the more satisfying East of Eden narrative — the long, sprawling, Biblically-infused tale of the Trask and Hamilton families in John Steinbeck’s 1952 novel, or Elia Kazan‘s pared-down screen version that concentrated on the Trasks (the focus of the novel’s second half) and primarily on Cal or Caleb (James Dean‘s character)?

I was allowed to dislike Debra Granik‘s Leave No Trace when I saw it last January in Park City. The first 65 minutes’ worth, I mean, which were all I could take. Everyone else seemed favorably disposed or deeply touched, but I couldn’t handle Ben Foster‘s Will character — a quietly seething, stressed-out-dad with a nearly bald head and all kinds of creepy stares and glares. I’ve always felt unnerved by Foster. He might be a steady cat off the set, but he’s always struck me as a weirdo beardo.

Will and his 13 year-old daughter Tom (Thomasin KcKenzie) have been surviving in the Oregon forest, completely cut off from society and eating off the land or close to it. And I just couldn’t tolerate what Will was doing to Tom, keeping her away from society and boys and everything else. He’s a kind of twitchy, neurotic naturalist because of his Middle East combat experience with the U.S military, but who is this ass telling his daughter that she’s going to know nothing of the world except for the the smell of streams, damp leaves, fir trees and pine cones for the rest of her life? Seriously, what a dick.

I’m also allowed to explain why Leave No Trace has aggregate ratings of 100% and 88% from Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic, respectively. It’s because Granik is a skilled, straight-shooting director — everyone loved Down To The Bone (’04) and Winter’s Bone (’10) — and highly respected by critics. She’s female and indie-brand with her own ethos and way of shooting, and nobody wants to give her a hard time. Except for Debruge and one or two others they’re all “in the tank” for Granik, and that means if a fairly decent film like Leave No Trace comes along, they’re going to praise it all they can. They’ll never admit it, but it’s how the game works with certain filmmakers. Kelly Reichardt is another indie helmer who always gets a pass.

Leave No Trace is a pretty good film if you can handle Foster’s behavior. It’s a eye-level thing about people and their curious personalities and the rules they have to enforce or adhere to. It’s thoughtful, earnest, and refreshingly free of cliches. But it’s not that good. It’s acceptable as far as it goes. Some have actually called Granik’s film “extremely boring”, which it is if you want to be hard-nosed about it. In his Sundance review the occasionally surprising Variety critic Peter Debruge actually said “there’s a listless, almost meandering nature to the story…no sense of where the script is headed, and no urgency to its resolution.”