We’re currently in the middle of a “Be Gracious to Burt Reynolds” week. The 82 year-old former superstar, who enjoyed a 13-year run at the top (’72 to ’84), has been making the interview rounds to promote The Last Movie Star (A24, 3.30), which isn’t faring all that well on Rotten Tomatoes.

I still haven’t seen it, but I will soon. Here’s an excerpt from Dennis Harvey‘s Variety review, which was posted on 1.18.18 out of the Palm Springs Film festival.

“Be kind” means you can lightly allude to Reynolds having messed up his acting career by making one arrogant, bone-headed move after another after another, etc. Those fast-car movies. Blowing his post-Boogie Nights momentum. Getting bad plastic surgery, wearing those terrible rugs. But you can’t actually mention it.

You also can’t mention how Reynolds looks really withered, poor guy. He was such a strapping good-ole-boy in his heyday. How cruel the aging process can be when so inclined.

Posted on 8.4.14: “Reynolds initiated his demise by making all those stupid shitkicker paycheck movies with the yokelish Hal Needham. Reynolds had a pretty good run at the top (’72 to ’84), and then he was done.

“Reynolds-the-actor (as opposed to Reynolds-the-box-office-attraction) was great in Deliverance, half-good in Shamus, The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing, At Long Last Love, regrettable in Lucky Lady and Hustle, good in Semi-Tough, very good in Starting Over, good in Sharky’s Machine and Best Friends, decent in The Man Who Loved Women…and that was it until he played an older thief in Bill Forsyth‘s Breaking In (’89). And then nothing came of that. And then along came Paul Thomas Anderson‘s Boogie Nights (’97) and Reynolds called it shit and fired his agent, etc.

Posted from Key West on 11.17.16: Burt Reynolds sat for a q & a this evening at Key West’s San Carlos Institute following a screening of Jesse Moss‘s Bandit (which isn’t half bad). Good old Burt. His usual, familiar smoothie self — cool and collected, deadpan humor, mellow vibe. But with a beard and tinted shades. The audience was laughing, applauding, in love. Burt’s legs are on the frail, shaky side but he walked out without a cane — good fellow. Here’s an mp3 of the whole thing. The interviewer was Rolling Stone critic David Fear.

The once formidable ancient spectacle genre (Quo Vadis, Samson and Delilah, Land of the Pharoahs, Alexander The Great, Ben-Hur, Spartacus, King of Kings) was a Hollywood thing, but when the Italians got involved matters took a sudden downward turn. The Italian knockoffs, known mostly as “sword and sandal” pics, really lowered the real-estate values. Sets and visual effects were cheaper, the crowd scenes smaller, the cinematography less awesome, the lead actors second- or third-tier.

Before you knew it a genre that had once been known for “cast of thousands” and “years in the making” and was suddenly about wooden swords, cardboard shields and English-dubbed dialogue in the realm of “This is your last chance, Demosthanes…withdraw your legions or die!”

1962 was the year that sword-and-sandal flicks really showed their diminished worth. Richard Fleischer‘s Barabbas (shot in Verona and Rome under Dino de Laurentiis), Rudolph Mate‘s The 300 Spartans (shot for roughly twice what most Italian s & s cheapies were being made for at the time) and Robert Aldrich‘s Sodom and Gomorrah (shot in Marrakech with Italian money) — all ’62 releases, and none were great shakes.

But even less than these was Samuel Z. Arkoff and Marino Girolami‘s The Fury of Achilles (’62), which was basically Troy on a nickle-and-dime budget.

The big climactic fight in Wolfgang Petersen‘s Troy was fought by Brad Pitt‘s Achilles and Eric Bana‘s Hector. The exact same confrontation was performed in The Fury of Achilles by Gordon Mitchell (Achilles) and Jacques Bergerac (Hector).

Please watch both (Troy‘s version is after the jump) and tell me honestly which version is the more involving, exciting, gripping.

Almost everyone loves travelling around. That feeling of living on the fly, responsibilities left behind, the calm of alone-ness and anonymity. Always a new discovery around the corner, sampling rather than sinking in, the only hard choices being how long to stay, where to eat, where to flop and how to get to the next place. Most of us like the security of a home — friends, familiarity, regularity. But some of us come alive when we’re free of that stuff.

There are plenty of travelogue series on cable, guys or couples roaming from one exotic place to another, sampling native cuisine, taking in the sights, etc. But I’d like to see a Bourne-y type series about a man or a woman on the run who doesn’t want to be found, and so he/she has to keep moving. I don’t care what he/she is running from or who’s doing the chasing or why as long as the traveller-protagonist isn’t some odious criminal or sociopath.

Yes, of course — there can be no peace without dealing honestly with facts and responsibilities. But there’s also a seductive solace that comes with being on the existential lam, so to speak.

Remember The Prisoner, the ’60s British series with Patrick McGoohan? You didn’t quite know who the bad guys were or what their motives were exactly, but you knew they were watching and manipulating and pulling the strings. That’s all they’d need to be in this Bourne-y series. Nothing too specific or binding — just the guys you want to avoid.

The constant motion thing is what I used to love about the Bourne films (Identity, Supremacy, Ultimatum). The life of a smart and well-organized rolling stone, always a step ahead but rarely more than two or three steps. No rest to speak of, no roots, always on bikes and motorcycles and trains and ferries, one exotic locale to another, always looking over your shoulder but sleeping really well at night.

Odd as it sounds, there’s almost a kind of serenity in this. I’ve been there in a sense. I’ve been traipsing around for the last 17 or 18 years, taking trains from Amsterdam to Berlin to Prague to Munich to Vietnam, renting scooters in Paris and Rome and Hue, always on the move, parking it in cafes, not much eye contact, always writing and texting, always up late.

This morning on Facebook a New Jersey woman named Joy Whitnack (from the leafy suburb of New Vernon, a bit southwest of Morristown) spoke of an argument she had with her boyfriend last night after they watched the Stormy Daniels interview on 60 Minutes.

“[I’m] feeling very sad this morning. Last night…my significant other had to go on and on about Stormy Daniels. I said she was a bimbo and he said ‘what does that make Trump?’ End result a few minutes later I was told that I’m a dumb-ass! I should not be called nasty names just because I have different political views, should I? We haven’t spoken since then and he walked around the house this morning as though I did something wrong. Unbelievable.

“I try every day to make our home pretty, cook nice meals, etc. I’ve constantly said we should not discuss politics because he constantly calls our President every bad name imaginable. Am I wrong to expect an apology for being called a dumb-ass last night? Am I the one that is wrong? I love this person. Just don’t think I need to be called names for my views on politics or anything else.” She closed with a frown face.

My reply: “You’re not a ‘dumb-ass'” — I was trying to be gracious — “and if I were your husband or boyfriend, I would apologize and let it go. (Does he drink?) But you’re 100% wrong in calling Donald Trump ‘our‘ president. He’s ‘your‘ president. Only his base (35% of the electorate, give or take) is loyal and admiring — every sane person outside this community regards Trump as a racist, sociopathic nightmare — the most ill-informed, ethically deplorable person to ever occupy the Oval Office, hands down.

“With the cat out of the bag Stormy Daniels is out for what she can get, of course, but every fibre and instinct tells me she’s not lying.”

The three things that came out of last night’s 60 Minutes chat with Stormy Daniels (aka Stephanie Clifford) were (a) there was no “affair” with Donald Trump in ’06 — they did the deed only once at Harrah’s Lake Tahoe, (b) at Daniels’ suggestion Trump dropped trou and took a couple of playful ass-whacks with a rolled-up copy of Forbes magazine, (c) not long after sitting down for her 2011 In Touch interview, Daniels/Clifford was approached by some guy in Las Vegas and told to stop talking about Trump or else. It was also reiterated in a separate interview that Clifford’s attorney Michael Avenatti has a DVD that contains evidence proving that his client indeed had it off with Fuckface Von Clownstick.

It would be better if George Clooney could trade a line or two with Smokey and the Bandit‘s Burt Reynolds, talk about Venusians with Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper, deliver a Steve Martin-ish tirade at Planes, Trains & Automobile‘s John Candy, or exchange thoughts about madness and fate with Janet Leigh in that Bates Motel parlor. Cool as far as it goes, but simple CG substitutions aren’t enough these days. Given the state of CG art these days, we have a right to expect a bit more. (Note: This spot premiered six months ago.)

The weekend’s top ten performers are, in this order, Pacific Rim Uprising (wouldn’t see it with a gun to my head), Black Panther (the final hour is quite good, guaranteed Best Picture nominee), I Can Only Imagine (Christian flick, no thanks), Sherlock Gnomes (no fucking way), Tomb Raider (“A third-rate, totally-by-the-numbers, CG-propelled exercise in female adventurer myth-building“), Love, Simon (“Antiseptic but half-decent, intensely suburban gay teen romance“), Paul, Apostle of Christ (another Christian flick, 35% Rotten Tomatoes rating), Game Night (should’ve seen it by now, obviously my fault) and Midnight Sun (romantic tearjerker with 21% RT rating).

Twenty years ago the big March earners were Mike Nichols‘ Primary Colors (opened on 3.20.98), John McNaughton‘s Wild Things (ditto), Joel and Ethan Coen‘s The Big Lebowski (opened on 3.6.98 although the cult-hit status took a while to germinate), Randall Wallace‘s The Man in the Iron Mask, Robert Benton‘s Twilight (Paul Newman, Susan Sarandon, Gene Hackman), Stuart Baird‘s U.S. Marshalls and Richard Linklater‘s The Newton Boys.

Warren Beatty‘s Rules Don’t Apply was the biggest financial bust of his career. The oddly farcical Howard Hughes dramedy opened and died a year and a half ago, pulling in a grand total of $3,652,206 domestic and $233,136 foreign.

I enjoyed aspects of it (why can’t I find that hilarious argument scene between Beatty’s Hughes and Matthew Broderick‘s Levar Mathis on YouTube?), but there was never any doubt that Rules was going to sink like a stone. It had a sign around its neck that said “can’t possibly appeal to under-35s, and will probably only connect with long-of-tooth industry types who know Beatty well enough to say ‘hi’ at industry gatherings, but even those guys are going to be mezzo-mezzo behind his back.”

Whatever Stormy Daniels tells Anderson Cooper on 60 Minutes this evening, it can’t get any better than the transcript of her 2011 In Touch interview, which was given five years before she accepted $130,000 in hush money from Donald Trump attorney Michael Cohen.

The best parts can be summarized as (a) hair, (b) junk, (c) shark and (d) nose.

We all know they met in 2006 in Lake Tahoe, at a party for the American Century Celebrity Golf Tournament. And that their first “date” happened at Trump’s penthouse suite at Harrah’s Lake Tahoe. Apart from a general fascination with Trump, Daniels was lured by his seemingly earnest suggestion that she’d be a great choice for an Apprentice contestant.

1. Hair: “I asked him about his hair,” Stormy says. “I was like, ‘Dude, what’s up with that?’ and he laughed and he said, ‘You know, everybody wants to give me a makeover and I’ve been offered all this money and all these free treatments.’ And I was like, ‘What is the deal? Don’t you want to upgrade that? Come on, man.’ He said that he thought that if he cut his hair or changed it, that he would lose his power and his wealth. And I laughed hysterically at him.”

2. Junk: “I had to use the bathroom and I went to the restroom, which was in the bedroom. Like I said, it was a big suite. I could describe the suite perfectly. When I came out, he was sitting on the bed and he was like, ‘Come here.’ And I was like, ‘Ugh, here we go.’ And we started kissing. I actually don’t even know why I did it but I do remember while we were having sex, I was like, ‘Please don’t try to pay me.’ I remember thinking, ‘I hope he doesn’t think I’m a hooker.’ Not that I have anything against hookers. I just personally have never done it. Still, I have no idea why I did it. Honestly, I really don’t.”

Asked if she was attracted to him, Stormy answers, “Would you be? I was more like fascinated. I was definitely stimulated. We had a really good banter. Good conversation for a couple hours. I could tell he was nice, intelligent in conversation. The sex was nothing crazy. He wasn’t like, chain me to the bed or anything. It was one position. I can definitely describe his junk perfectly, if I ever have to.”

3. Shark: “The strangest thing about that night…this was the best thing ever. You could see the television from the little dining room table and he was watching Shark Week and he was watching a special about the U.S.S. something and it sank and it was like the worst shark attack in history. He is obsessed with sharks. Terrified of sharks. He was like, ‘I donate to all these charities and I would never donate to any charity that helps sharks. I hope all the sharks die.’ He was like riveted. He was like obsessed. It’s so strange, I know.

You suggest a certain film for the evening. “What’s it about, who’s in it, when was it made?” etc. You give her all that. She has a problem with overly theatrical acting styles and believes that only films made in the ’80s and beyond have genuine, real-deal acting behavior, so you assure her that the acting isn’t fake. And then maybe mention the music or the cinematography or your history with the film, etc.

“How many times you see it?” I don’t know, five or six times, ten or twelve times, more than a few. “And you want to see again?” I can see great films over and over, it doesn’t matter, besides it kinda makes it new in a way when you see it with a virgin. “And what’s the title?” You give her that and after endless skepticism and vague reluctance she says “okay, let’s go.”

And then you insert the Bluray into the tray or you go to the American Cinematheque Egyptian (or the Aero in Santa Monica), and then the movie starts and five or ten minutes later she says, “Oh, I’ve seen this!”

When Paul McCartney alluded earlier today to the shooting death of John Lennon with the phrase “one of my best friends” I immediately flashed on that Lennon line from a 1971 Rolling Stone interview, in which he described the disapproving McCartney and George Harrison (they didn’t initially care for Yoko Ono) as “some of our beast friends.”

On 3.16 I wrote about a same-date Deadline story that said the Motion Picture Academy had received “three harassment claims” about AMPAS president John Bailey.

Three separate harassment claims surfacing at the same moment struck me as odd, and so I asked if the three persons (women, I presumed) had “come forward as a group, or did the harassment complaints surface of their own volition and time clock, and just happened to arrive at roughly the same time?”

In an in-house memo sent yesterday (Friday, 3.23) to Academy staffers, Bailey stated that the whole magillah is about one woman — not three apparently — complaining about a single incident that happened more than a decade ago. It concerns his having “attempted to touch a woman inappropriately while we were both riding in a transport van on a movie set,” according to Bailey’s memo. He added, “That did not happen.”

Bailey may or may not have inappropriately touched (or attempted to inappropriately touch) a woman during a ride to a movie set in a van more than a decade ago. I wasn’t there. I know nothing. And it’s possible that something more than touching actually went on, I realize.

As I said in an 11.1.17 piece called “Past Predators,” I was inappropriately touched once at age 19. After a night of drunkenness I woke up in bed with an old fat guy — bald, blubbery, smelling of booze — in a New Orleans hotel room. I bounded the fuck out of bed and got dressed in a hurry, going “jeez” and “good God” and mostly feeling icky rather than assaulted. Definitely distasteful, but not exactly a case of lingering traumatic shock.