Every now and then a one-sheet for an upcoming film captures the essence just so. A distinctive right profile of Saoirse Ronan instead of the usual straight-on mug shot. The flaming red hair dye. An expression that seems lost in thought, pondering the calculus of existence. Maybe a touch of confusion or even anger thrown into the mix. A signature image, in short, that locks in on the mood of a film by way of a fascinating lead character, and which isn’t afraid of exuding a slightly contrary vibe.

Earlier this afternoon I sat down with Ruben Ostlund, the Swedish director of The Square (Magnolia, 10.27), a brilliant art-world satire that won the Palme d’Or at the finale of last May’s Cannes Film Festival. 

I captured our 27-minute chat on iPhone and uploaded it in three sections.

If you’ve seen The Square the questions I asked Ostlund will make sense, but perhaps not if you haven’t. In my book it’s easily among 2017’s finest foreign-language films. I’m trusting that Academy members will agree and nominate it for Best Foreign Language Feature, but you can never tell with that crew.

Suffice that Ostlund’s film makes fun of the insular, politically correct museum culture that can be found worldwide, although The Square‘s focus is on a cutting-edge Stockholm art museum. 

As I wrote last May,” Ostlund’s precise and meticulous handling of The Square is exactly the kind of tonal delivery that I want from comedies. There isn’t a low moment (i.e., aimed at the animals) in all of it, whereas many if not most American comedies are almost all low moments.”

“The Square is a longish (142 minutes) but exquisitely dry Swedish satire, mostly set among the wealthy, museum-supporting class in Stockholm. It’s basically a serving of deft, just-right comic absurdity (the high points being two scenes in which refined p.c. swells are confronted with unruly social behaviors) that works because of unforced, low-key performances and restrained, well-honed dialogue.

“There are four stand-out moments: a post-coital confrontation moment between Danish actor Claes Bang and Elizabeth Moss, an interview with a visiting artist (Dominic West) interrupted by a guy with Tourette’s syndrome, the already notorious black-tie museum dinner “ape man” scene with simian-channeller Terry Notary, and a hilariously over-provocative YouTube ad showing a little girl and a kitten being blown to bits. The Square is worth the price for these four scenes alone.

Anyone over the age of five would instantly smell trouble if a stranger on a train were to offer them $75K to do anything at all. And then they’d excuse themselves and stay as far away from Vera Farmiga as possible. There are realistic, semi-believable ways of seducing innocent parties into doing bad things for money, but the scenario in this trailer is bullshit. “Strange woman offers man $75K if he’ll do a risky thing” — one of those cheap high-concept plot hooks that young screenwriters (i.e., guys who know they have to get down to the high-voltage stuff right away) pitch all the time. Directed by Jaume Collet-Serra, who directed The Shallows. You know what told me this movie is crap? When I saw that look of wifely devotion that Elizabeth McGovern offers to husband Liam Neeson as he’s about to get on the train. That settled it — game over. Lionsgate will open The Commuter on 1.12.18.

Not to cut President Donald Trump the slightest bit of slack, but we can probably assume that when he stumbled with the pronounciation of La David Johnson‘s name (as Johnson’s widow has recently claimed), it was over the first name. He probably said “David” and then checked himself with “uhhm, I mean La David” or something in that realm. I don’t know that this happened, but what are the odds that Trump stumbled with the pronunciation of “Johnson”?

Well, I experienced the same kind of stumble when I attended a party for Crown Heights last July. I was talking to a publicist about Lakeith Stanfield, and I said “Keith” only to stop mid-sentence and say “I mean LaKeith”.   I mentioned right away that the “La” (an African-American culture thing) was a relatively recent add-on as Stanfield’s Wikipage was still referring to him as “Keith.” (Not now — the spelling has since been updated.) And keep in mind that Lakeith has no space between “La” and “Keith” while Johnson’s first name is spelled “La David.” Given the recent “La” prefix add-ons and general spelling flexibility, it seems as if a little stumbling might be forgivable.

George H.W. Bush turned 93 last June. I don’t know what’s going on with the poor guy, but one look and you’re reminded of that old Bette Davis saying that “old age isn’t for sissies.” I’ve long sensed that I’ll follow in the steps of Kirk Douglas or Norman Lloyd, but remind me to take an overdose of something before I get to this stage.

Initial reaction #1: World-class actresses have always had a certain X-factor quality, an unmistakable spark of passion or depth of feeling when the camera gazed upon them. They didn’t have to be classically beautiful (i.e., Bette Davis) or boudoir sexy, but they had to have that combustible quality. I realize that all cultures are constantly evolving and that aesthetic standards change with them, but Vicky Krieps, no offense, doesn’t have that “it” quality. She just doesn’t.

Krieps strikes me as an arresting actress as far as the task of conveying complex emotions is concerned, but she clearly lacks magnetism. She reminds me in some ways of Brief Encounter‘s Celia Johnson — an emotionally relatable but spark-free actress with plain, unremarkable features. In the ’50s, or the period in which Phantom Thread occurs, Krieps might have had trouble being cast as a housemaid or shopkeeper or a barely-noticed office clerk, much less as the costar of a film about an intense, highly-charged relationship.

Key trailer quotes: “When I was a boy I would hide things in the liners of garments…things that only I knew were there….secrets.” “So why are you not married?” “May I warn you of something?” “Perhaps I’m looking for trouble.” “Stop!” “There’s an air of quiet death in this house.” “You’re not cursed, you’re loved.” “What game? What precisely is the nature of my game?” “Are you thinking of ruining my evening? And possibly my entire life?” “Stop it!” “Whatever you do, think carefully.”

Initial reaction #2: I’m not feeling the crazy in this trailer. The theme seems to be “leave this artist alone to create what he needs to create…if you fuck with his system or his behavior or obsessive work patterns, you will bring on nothing but trouble.” It seems to basically boil down to Rex Harrison‘s song of complaint and lament in My Fair Lady, “An Ordinary Man.” Key Lyric: “Let a woman in your life, and your serenity is through.”

An older, graying, work-obsessed couturier named Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day Lewis) falls for a significantly younger but plain-featured woman named Alma (Vicky Krieps), and at first everything is delightful. But as the initial passion begins to recede it becomes clear that Alma has certain feelings and convictions that clash with Reynolds’ realm. Reynolds’ sister Cyril (Lesley Manville) quietly warns Alma not to interfere with his creative process as Alma begins to reveal a dark, possibly even perverse side to her nature. What began as a love affair begins to transform into a battle of wills and passions.

Initial reaction #3: Where are the hints of Phantom Thread being a classy, upmarket Fifty Shades of Grey, as rumors have had it?

Initial reaction #4: Perhaps Paul Thomas Anderson‘s point in casting the unremarkable looking Krieps was to convey something about the sometimes curious nature of love and passion. You may not see or sense the thing that lights Reynolds Woodcock’s fire, but R.W. certainly does, and that’s all that matters as far as the watching of this film is concerned.

It’s obviously unwise at this point to express any kind of mixed feelings about anyone in the firing lines for sexual assault or harassment. The smart play is to keep your head down and STFU. You’d have to be fairly brutish to not sense the serious trauma and anguish that many women have experienced at the hands of God knows how many powerful, scruple-free jackals out there. But there are…how to put this without sounding like a pig sympathizer? Maybe no way. I should probably just zip it.

A friend noted this morning that James Toback‘s neck is now on the chopping block and asked “where’s it all going to end?” My answer: “It’s just beginning.”

My presumption is that every older, obnoxiously randy swagger-hound (i.e., particularly those who revelled as youths in the nookie heyday of the late ’60s and particularly the quaalude-fed, Sodom-and-Gomorrah-ish ’70s)…any such person who decided long ago that getting laid through the unscrupulous use of power and economic leverage was more important than adhering to basic standards of decency, kindness and compassion…many if not most of these guys are going to experience the howling of the mob and perhaps even in some cases the kiss of steel.

Most of us have lived our lives with an understanding that bad behavior results in punitive measures. This is how any civilized society discourages ugly, intolerable acts — “You fuck up, you know what.” I began to realize this when I was….what, a year old? Every time I’ve made any kind of mistake or broken any rule, the same admonishments have applied. Not cool, dude. Correct your behavior or else.

But those who’ve lived and operated within the quiet, cushioned realms of the entertainment industry have been taught a different lesson: “Within limits you can get away with a lot of stuff, especially if you’re loaded and don’t behave like an absolute animal.”

If life tells you again and again and again and again that you can skate or sidestep out of the usual consequences, after a while you’ll start to believe that you’re largely bullet-proof. It’s bad conditioning, obviously, but it happens.

43 years ago Noah Cross said to Jake Gittes, “I don’t blame myself. You see, Mr. Gittes, most people never have to face the fact that at the right time and the right place, they’re capable of anything.”

Another thing no one has mentioned: the film-culture guys who’ve been accused of sexual assault or harassment so far (Devin Faraci, Cinefamily’s Shadie Elnashai and Hadrian Belove, Harry Knowles, Harvey Weinstein, et. al.) have not been blessed with matinee-idol looks.

Handsome or otherwise presentable smoothies in the tradition of Brad Pitt, Montgomery Clift, Cary Grant, Warren Beatty, George Clooney or Gregory Peck along with God knows how many hundreds of thousands of marginally appealing guys have never, to go by most accounts, had to resort to unsavory means of persuasion. Largely, one presumes, because they had the pick of the litter but also because life and circumstance taught them to be well-mannered and respect others. Would that this were true for all men.

This Banksy-like figure, nicely painted in a delicate, ghostly, air-brushed style, is on a wall adjacent to the big Rite-Aid parking lot at the southwest corner of Fairfax and Sunset. I was pulling out yesterday on the bike and happened to notice it. Whoever painted this certainly isn’t trying to snag a lot of attention. It’s way off to the side and smaller than life. If it’s not a real Banksy it’s a pretty good imitation.

During an interview on last night’s Real Time with Bill Maher, former Hollywood Reporter editor Janice Min said something that I’m not allowed to say for fear of being accused of being some kind of Harvey Weinstein or Roman Polanski ally, which I’m not. The thing that Janice said (and my heart skipped a beat when she blurted it out) was “I feel like we’re in a little bit of a Robespierre French Revolution time period.”

Translation: We’re seeing the beginnings of a movie-industry version of “the terror,” or a period in post-revolutionary France over a ten-month period (September 1793 to July 1794) that was marked by mass executions of “enemies of the revolution.” I don’t want to go out on a crazy limb but a distant cousin of this mentality is alive and well in Hollywood right now, and the Robespierre figures are…Jesus, I’m afraid to mention their names. I guess I’m not much of a Danton-esque figure, huh?

Note to Robespierres: I wouldn’t have mentioned this analogy, guys, if it hadn’t been for Janice Min. I would have stayed shivering and huddling in my little mouse hole, trust me, but Janice mentioned the unmentionable. I agree that all sexual predators must be identified, shamed and prosecuted, but Robespierre-like tendencies are worth watching out for.

Bill Maher: “SNL didn’t do Harvey Weinstein jokes, and got shit about it. James Corden did some and he got shit about it. So which is it? Aren’t publicists telling their clients not to talk about it…?

Janice Min: “Oh, terrifying! I feel like we’re in a little bit of a Robespierre French Revolution time period.”

Bill Maher: “I would say every week. The purity police, yes.”

The good stuff begins around the 8:05 mark:

There’s an interesting “Making Barry Lyndon” doc on Criterion’s new Barry Lyndon Bluray. Newly produced by Criterion and running 38 minutes, it features interviews with producer Jan Harlan, Kubrick assistant Leon Vitali, assistant directors Brian Cook and Michael Stevenson, and actor Dominic Savage. It also uses audio clips from a 1976 interview with The Great Stanley K..

But you know what it doesn’t have? Interviews with the once immensely popular Ryan O’Neal as well as costar Marisa Berenson, both of whom are still with us and walking around and doing things. And that seems strange to me, especially in the case of O’Neal. 

There’s no denying Barry Lyndon is O’Neal’s most admired film by far, or that a semi-exalted place in cinema history is assured O’Neal because of it. And yet when the classiest, most blue-chippy Bluray distributor in the world comes calling (as they surely must have), O’Neal refuses to sit down and share?

I suspected at first that O’Neal might not have participated due to illness, as I’d read five years ago that he was dealing with prostate cancer and lukemia. But O’Neal rebounded, at least to the extent that he’s now planning (or was recently planning) to costar in a U.K. tour of A.R. Gurney’s Love Letters with Love Story costar Ali McGraw. (One of the bookings will happen at Wolverhampton Grand Theatre from 11.13 thru 11.18.)

I don’t know when the “Making Barry Lyndon” interviews were captured, but probably last winter or spring, or at the very latest early summer. O’Neal couldn’t afford three or four hours to sit down and chat? Health concerns aside, the only other reason O’Neal might have declined is that 42 years later he’s still smarting over the public’s generally lethargic reaction to Barry Lyndon, and that he still believes it all but killed his career.

O’Neal spent over a year shooting Barry Lyndon. Principal photography took 300 days, from spring 1973 through early 1974 with a break for Christmas. Alas, the film was considered a commercial disappointment and even suffered a mixed critical reception, and O’Neal, poor fellow, won a Harvard Lampoon Award for the Worst Actor of 1975. O’Neal claimed here and there that his career never recovered from the film’s reception. “Oh, it’s all right but [Kubrick] completely changed the picture during the year he spent editing it,” O’Neal told Gene Siskel in a 1984 interview.