These days the 3rd arrondisement (northern Marais, intersection of rue Bretagne and rue Saintonge) is Hollywood Elsewhere’s favorite Parisian hang zone, but 15 years ago Montmartre (excepting the ghastly tourist section adjacent to Sacre Coeur) was my ground zero. One of the cultural lures of that neighborhood was and still is Studio 28, the nearly century-old repertory cinema on rue Tholoze. George W. Bush was in office the last time I caught a film there, but I’m very glad it’s still viable and thriving and using digital projection, etc. Those eccentric wall lamps designed by Jean Cocteau, the covered courtyard cafe, the literal aroma, the history…it’s Montmartre’s Film Forum. Honestly? I wrote this because I love the below photo, and I didn’t want to post without editorial comment.

Maybe it was unrealistic to hope that Kevin Connolly‘s Gotti (Vertical/Sunrider, 6.15) might aspire to some kind of exceptional, Coppola-like vision or scheme. Something darker, sadder, deeper or grander than just another Rise and Fall of Legs Diamond-type deal.

The Gotti trailer suggests a brisk narrative and most likely a reasonably engaging sit — John Travolta‘s lead performance is obviously carnivorous — but it feels so rote, so familiar, so “is that all there is?” There may be more depth to Gotti than what the trailer is indicating, but right now it feels like run-of-the-mill bullets, bluster, brutality, braggadocio and brain matter.

An AP story is reporting that Gotti will premiere out-of-competition with a special 5.15 gala screening at the Cannes Film Festival.

Sight unseen, Hollywood Elsewhere fully approves. Pocket-drop attitude, vibe. My kind of dry humor. I can tell.

European culture and gourmet cuisine often go hand-in-hand. 11 years ago I happened upon a small family-owned osteria in Rome’s Trastevere district. I can still taste a smallish pasta dish I ordered, served at just the right temperature and bursting with the flavor of fresh tomatoes and odd spices. I also recall wandering around Portofino, a seaside Italian village not far from Cinque Terre, a few years earlier. A bit touristy, but with the usual historical aromas and architectural charms and a warm, wonderful sense of “so glad I’m here…life doesn’t get much better than this.”

I’m mentioning these experiences because last night a friend and I visited Portofino, a respected Italian restaurant in Wilton, Connecticut — the woodsy, whitebread, not-overwhelmingly-liberal town where I went to high school for a couple of years.

It looked inviting from the outside, but I was hit with a big fat “uh-oh” the instant I walked in — three large flatscreens in the bar area showing ESPN. A sports-bar vibe (a general Hollywood Elsewhere no-no) always means “watch it…this may be an okay restaurant, but it’s catering to Ordinary Joes so grim up for some agreeable but unexceptional food.” That’s what we got. Acceptable meh. But with a nice candlelit atmosphere (if you were facing away from the bar area).

This is what upper Fairfield County dining is often about — cushy comfort vibes but minus the sublime flavors, seasonings and sauces. For people willing to settle. Not unpleasant but you’re also thinking “this is not what great servings can and should be — inoffensive but substitute-level.”

A producer friend saw Michael Mayer and Stephen Karam‘s adaptation of The Seagull (Sony Classics, 5.11) yesterday, and was stirred and delighted. Mainly by the performances, she said — Saoirse Ronan, Annette Bening, Elizabeth Moss, Brian Dennehy, Corey Stoll. I replied that (a) it had been mostly well reviewed a few days ago after screening at the Tribeca Film Festival, and that (b) I was sorry I hadn’t received a screening invite.

HE to LA-based SPC publicists (who invited colleagues to a screening and a press day three or four weeks ago): “So I don’t get to review The Seagull in a timely fashion? It opens in 11 days. I worship the play and have seen it performed on stage twice in NYC, so missing out on the film version thus far is unfortunate. I’m in NYC as we speak. Any Manhattan screenings between now and Thursday, 5.4?”

I’m still puzzled by the fact that despite The Seagull having shot in mid ’15, it didn’t hit theatres all during ’16 or ’17. In a smoothly functioning realm it would have played at the ’16 fall festivals and opened sometime in the winter, spring or fall of ’17. As I wrote on 3.16.18, there has to be a reason for that.

Lone-wolf naysayer Jude Fry wrote in his 4.22 Indiewire review that Mayer gussies The Seagull up with too many dolly shots, “like he’s choreographing a Green Day song.” He also said Mayer should have left Chekhov’s original play well enough alone. Nontheless the film currently has a 90% RT approval rating.

Also from 3.18: How could watching Saoirse Ronan, Annette Bening, Corey Stoll, Billy Howle and Elisabeth Moss performing Chekhov’s greatest play…how could that not be a keeper?”

Does it really matter in the greater scheme, much less to the Movie Godz sitting in the shadow of Mount Olympus, if a larger mass of lemmings jumped off the Avengers: Infinity War cliff, and thereby overshadowed the blindly devotional swan dive made by millions of said critters two and a half years ago on behalf of Star Wars: The Force Awakens? Obviously it does to certain parties who will profit in various ways, but somebody needs to say “okay, fine, enjoy the champagne, but what are you actually celebrating?” It was reported this morning that Infinity War‘s $258.2 million opening weekend topped Force Awakens‘ $247.9 million set in December 2015.

It’s hard to think of Michael Imperioli as a gray-haired 52 year-old, given that his Sopranos character, Christopher Moltisanti, is branded into our brains as an angry, undisciplined, emotionally intemperate guy in his early to mid 30s. (Born in ’66, Imperioli was 33 when The Sopranos began airing in ’99, and 41 when it ended in ’07.)

One of Moltisanti’s most noteworthy lines, shouted to Martin Scorsese in front of a hot Manhattan club: “Marty! Kundun…I liked it!”

Seriously, I can just tell that David Chase‘s The Many Saints of Newark, which deals with the Soprano family during the ’67 Newark race riots, is going to amount to something. I can feel it. Great title, Chase knows the turf like the back of his hand, an epic-scale confrontation between cultures. If anyone can toss me a PDF of the script…please.

“Graphic Sexuality Landmark in Mainstream Hollywood Drama,” posted on 6.6.16: They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (’69) is certainly Sydney Pollack‘s darkest film, but also his finest and flintiest, one could argue. Released a year after his almost-as-interesting Castle Keep, Horses was Pollack’s first and last truly ballsy ‘take it or leave it…life sucks’ drama. It was also the first big dramatic breakout film for Jane Fonda.

“Three years later Pollack began his swoony Robert Redford partnership with Jeremiah Johnson (’72), The Way We Were (’73) and Three Days of the Condor (’75). These set the tone for the undeniably well-crafted Hollywood mainstream films that followed — The Yakuza, Bobby Deerfield, The Electric Horseman, Absence of Malice, Tootsie, Out of Africa.”

I lamented back then that Horses wasn’t streaming or on Bluray — there was only a 2004 MGM/UA DVD. Still no streaming as we speak, but a handsome Bluray popped last September. [Note: Apologies for missing the Bluray’s availability a few hours ago.)

In an NPR “Fresh Air” interview with Terry Gross that will air Tuesday, 5.1, Michelle Wolf said the following about her monologue at the White House Correspondent’s Dinner last weekend: “I wasn’t expecting this level [of controversy], but I’m also not disappointed there’s this level. I knew what I was doing going in. I wanted to do something different. I didn’t want to cater to the room. I wanted to cater to the outside audience, and not betray my brand of comedy. I actually…a friend of mine who helped me write, he gave me a note before I went on which I kept with me which was, ‘Be true to yourself…never apologize…burn it to the ground.’ I wouldn’t change a single word that I said. I’m very happy with what I said, and I’m glad I stuck to my guns.”

John F. Kelly began serving as Donald Trump’s White House Chief of Staff on 7.31.17. He’s unlikely to last a year. With four separate sources telling NBC that he’s called Trump an “idiot”, Kelly is obviously on the way out. Perhaps not imminently, but surely within a month or two. Posted earlier today by NBC’s Carol E. Lee, Courtney Kube, Kristen Welker and Stephanie Ruhle: “Kelly [has portrayed] himself to Trump administration aides as the lone bulwark against catastrophe, curbing the erratic urges of a president who has a questionable grasp on policy issues and the functions of government. He has referred to Trump as ‘an idiot’ multiple times to underscore his point, according to four officials who say they’ve witnessed the comments.” Wolf is claiming the “idiot” comments are “total b.s.” — I kinda doubt that.

I’ve said a few times that I have issues with the too-short, beady-eyed, Prius-driving Alden Ehrenreich pretending to be the young Han Solo. I could’ve submitted to Ansel Elgort in a New York minute, but not this guy. You can’t “play” Han Solo — you have to be him or nothing. If only Kathy Kennedy and Lawrence Kasdan had decided to make the film about Han Solo’s younger brother, Benjamin Solo, a rogue-ish smuggler who always wanted to make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs but never had a fast-enough ship. Or Shepherd Solo, Han’s uncle who was always the black sheep of the Solo family. I could’ve accepted Aldenreich as either character, no prob.

Los Angeles has been fairly balmy lately, but that doesn’t stop Tatyana from saying she’s “freezing” if the mercury drops below 60. She should try Howard Beach. Last night it was chilly and windy in the low-to-mid 40s, and it wasn’t much warmer this morning. It feels like Siberia. New York chilly is more arctic than Los Angeles chilly. The skies are gloomy gray here, and the half-wintry air whistles and blusters and blows your hair around, whereas in Los Angeles you mainly feel it in your bones. I’m glad I brought my heavy motorcycle jacket, the one with the bulky shoulders and elbow pads and that cool scrunchy sound. It makes me feel like Marlon Brando in The Wild One.