A 7.5 Brent Lang Variety piece reports that Chris Nolan‘s Dunkirk (Warner Bros., 7.21) will open in 70mm celluloid in 125 locations. “The widest 70mm release in 25 years,” Lang’s headline proclaims.

Okay but calm down because (a) Joe and Jane Popcorn don’t give that much of a toss, (b) the 70mm Dunkirk roll-out is only 25 theatres larger than the one for Quentin Tarantino‘s The Hateful Eight, and (c) no one except hardcore cinefiles give a damn about this either. I respect Nolan and Tarantino’s devotional belief in the visual power of 70mm, but time has given this once-supreme shooting and projection format the go-by.

IMAX is still terrific (the size alone rules) but Nolan’s thing for 70mm is, I feel, essentially sentimental. Championing 70mm projection as the ultimate cinematic rush experience just doesn’t pass the 2017 smell test. Not in my world, it doesn’t. Ask any honest, forward-thinking cinematographer about the latest 8K cameras or the Arri Alexa 65, which is what War For The Planet of the Apes and portions of The Revenant were shot with. Hell, ask me or anyone who’s seen Matt Reeves’ simian masterpiece — the images are immaculate, stunning, to die for.

See War For The Planet of the Apes in a theatre with state-of-the-art digital projection, and you won’t hear a single soul saying “oh, Lordy, why couldn’t they have shot it in good old IMAX and 70mm instead?” That viewpoint is over.

I’m not suggesting that Dunkirk won’t be luscious to simply gaze at (from a purely visual standpoint it could probably be sold to the American Cinematographer techno-geeks as FUNkirk) but we’ve reached a point in which the difference between IMAX and 70mm celluloid and the latest high-end digital capturings are apples and oranges.

The difference this time, I’m presuming, is that Hoyte van Hoytema‘s large-format cinematography (a combination of 70mm and IMAX) will capture images that are much richer, sharper and more robustly lighted than Robert Richardson‘s 70mm cinematography for The Hateful Eight.  30% of Tarantino’s western used white wintry conditions with the other 70% shot inside a darkly lighted cabin.

I was taking in the splendor of old Hollywood yesterday, and more specifically the Mediterranean-style Crescent Drive mansion where Columbia Pictures chief Harry Cohn lived from 1946 until his death in ’58. I swear to God I felt Harry hovering nearby, or at least a spectral remnant. “Who the hell are you?” Cohn’s ghost said. “I’m Jeffrey Wells, samurai poet columnist,” I replied, “and one of the few guys in this town who remembers you and even mentions you from time to time so show a little respect.” The ectoplasmic Cohn grumbled as he floated away, heading for the pool area.

All my life I’ve read that Cohn was a crass, tyrannical bully-boss, grudgingly “respected” but feared and most certainly despised. Screenwriter Ben Hecht famously referred to him as “White Fang.” Like other studio chiefs of his day Cohn had a quid pro quo relationship with mob guys, was something of a racist thug (“The Kid in the Middle“, a BBC doc, reports that Cohn had goons threaten Sammy Davis, Jr. over his relationship with Kim Novak), reportedly hastened the death of poor Curly Howard (the woo-woo guy with The Three Stooges) and of course was always trying to fuck the hottest actresses.

Harry Cohn lived here (1000 No. Crescent Drive in Beverly Hills) between 1946 and ’58.

Nobody out-Cohned Cohn. Read Bob Thomas‘s “King Cohn” when you get a chance. Cohn was the model for The Godfather studio chief Jack Woltz (the horse’s head incident never happened but Frank Sinatra almost certainly pleaded for the Pvt. Maggio role during a visit to Cohn’s home). Legend has it he was also the inspiration for Broderick Crawford‘s thick-fingered sugar daddy in Born Yesterday.

But Orson Welles respected Cohn’s dogged gambler instinct [see above], and unlike today’s soul-less corporate lackey studio heads, at least Cohn had movies in his blood. Okay, he could be a prick and yes, he was dead wrong for strongly preferring Aldo Ray to play Pvt. Robert E. Lee Prewitt in From Here To Eternity instead of Montgomery Clift, but you can’t be entirely dismissive of a roster that included It Happened One Night, Lost Horizon, Holiday, Only Angels Have Wings, The Lady From Shanghai, All The King’s Men, Born Yesterday, From Here to Eternity, On The Waterfront, The Caine Mutiny, Picnic, The Bridge on the River Kwai and Hell Cats of the Navy.

Variety‘s JD Knapp reported today that Columbia will re-release Steven Spielberg‘s Close Encounters of the Third Kind on Friday, September 1st. For a week, that is. In honor of the 40th anniversary. Here’s the non-promotional website (i.e., it currently contains a signup form).

The actual CE3K 40th anni is on 11.16.17, but what’s a few weeks? I presume they’ll be re-releasing the original cut (135 minutes) but what do I know?  They could also re- release the Directors Cut (137 minutes) and/or the Special Edition (132 minutes).  

Ten years ago I ran a piece about the fact that while Spielberg’s Jaws (’75) has aged fairly well, Close Encounters has not. I called the article “Close Encounters Deflation“:

“I’ll always love the opening seconds of Steven Spielberg‘s once-legendary film, which I saw on opening day at Manhattan’s Zeigfeld theatre on 11.16.77. (I wasn’t a journalist or even a New Yorker at that stage — I took the train in from Connecticut that morning.) I still get chills thinking about that black-screen silence as the main credits fade in and out — plainly but ominously. And then John Williams‘ organish space-music sounding faintly, and then a bit more…slowly building, louder and louder. And then that huge orchestral CRASH! at the exact split second that the screen turns the color of warm desert sand, and we’re in the Sonoran desert looking for those WW II planes without the pilots.

“That was probably Spielberg’s finest creative wow-stroke. He never delivered a more thrilling moment after that, and sometimes I think it may have been all downhill from then on, even during the unfolding of Close Encounters itself.

“I saw CE3K three times during the initial run, but when I saw it again on laser disc in the early ’90s I began to realize how consistently irritating it is from beginning to end. There are so many moments that are either stylistically affected or irritating or impossible to swallow, I’m starting to conclude that there isn’t a single scene in that film that doesn’t offend in some way.

“I could write 100 pages on all the things that irk me about Close Encounters. I can’t watch it now without gritting my teeth. Everything about that film that seemed delightful or stunning or even breathtaking in ’77 (excepting those first few seconds and the mothership arrival at the end) now makes me want to jump out the window.

“That stupid mechanical monkey with the cymbals. The way those little screws on the floor heating vent unscrew themselves. The way those Indian guys all point heavenward at the the exact same moment when they’re asked where the sounds came from. Melinda Dillon going ‘Bahahahhahhree!’ That idiotic invisible poison gas scare around Devil’s Tower. That awful actor playing that senior Army officer who denies it’s a charade. The way the electricity comes back on in Muncie, Indiana, at the same moment that those three small UFOs drones disappear in the heavens. The mule-like resistance of Teri Garr‘s character to believe even a little bit in Richard Dreyfuss‘s sightings.

“It’s one unlikely, implausible, baldly manipulative crap move after another. The only scene I really like besides the grand opening is the “air-traffic controller scene in which UFOs are being spotted and reported by unseen commercial pilots.

“The worst element of all is the way Spielberg has those guys who are supposed to board the mother ship wearing the same red jumpsuits and sunglasses and acting like total robots. Why? No reason. Spielberg just liked the idea of them looking and acting that way. This is a prime example of why his considerable gifts don’t overcome the fact that Spielberg is a gifted hack. He knows how to get you but there’s never anything under the ‘get.'”

I’ve never known my film critic pals to be anything but sharp, knowledgeable, inquisitive, highly charged. But Francois Truffaut was on to something when he suggested during one of the “Hitchcock-Truffaut” discussions that imagination might not be among their strong suits. Paradoxically or not so paradoxically, my imagination got in my way when I was trying to launch myself as a film critic back in the late ’70s. I tried to sound like a “film critic”, but deep down I always had something more free-form and fuck-offish in mind. It took me a long time to find the brass to just be myself. My reactions were always more along the lines of “it would be better if…” rather than “it doesn’t work and here’s why.” In my early struggling years it was my imagination that blocked me, got in the way. Then I embraced it, and then everything started to come together.

Another 4th of July holiday. Blue skies, hot outside, a.c. on, computers humming, the Oppo playing Criterion’s new Straw Dogs Bluray (slight improvement over the 2011 MGM Bluray). On top of which I have a party to attend around 5 pm. Translation: I don’t feel like cranking out fresh material today.

But I feel slightly guilty. I’ve re-examined some 4th of July favorites this morning and they’re all good stuff so why not? Submission #1: “Money Talks,” posted on 10.14.13:

“I never think about what big-name actors and filmmakers are worth. I know most of them are loaded but I don’t care. I’ll read an occasional Forbes article about who’s the richest or highest paid, but you know me — I try to focus on the purely creative and spiritual, what’s going on inside. At least to the extent that external aesthetic choices are often metaphors for “internal affairs,” so to speak.

“Even during my 2009 battle with the legendary Hispanic Party Elephant, the guy who lived upstairs from my place in North Bergen, it was essentially about sensitivity and spiritualism or rather the lack of as that guy was toxic — he was fucking nowhere. I know that if I sense that a woman I’ve met is inordinately impressed by financial splendor, I immediately write her off. The important thing is to do what you love and then live with the rewards of that, whatever they may be. Which is what I’m doing, and I’m reasonably happy as a result. Especially since ’06 or thereabouts.

To me, the heartache of Aura’s sudden passing meant getting another kitten right away. I’ll never stop feeling sad about Aura’s cruel fate (she died after only eight years and a couple of weeks) but you have to get back on the horse. This morning I bought a five-week-old bluepoint Siamese kitten, whom we quickly named Anya. She’s a baby — being fed special young-kitten formula out of a bottle, crying a lot, likes to be constantly held or to sit next to a warm human body. But she’s smart and spirited and very emotionally responsive, like all Siamese. Yes, I know that kittens should stay with their mom until eight or ten weeks of age, but the guy was selling and she only cost $250 so I wasn’t about to school him or look a gift-horse in the mouth.

I don’t expect much from Janus Metz Pedersen‘s Borg vs. McEnroe as a whole, but I want to see it. The hot-tempered, possibly wackadoodle Shia Labeouf playing John McEnroe, the ’70s and ’80s tennis champ known for his emotional tirades and disputes with judges…perfect. Plus I always liked the way McEnroe would emit that combination cry-groan thing with every serve. I expect a classic expletive performance. Hair-trigger McEnroe was beaten by the cool and dispassionate Bjorn Borg at the conclusion of the 1980 Wimbledon Men’s Singles final, but he had his revenge two months later, beating Borg in the five-set final of the 1980 U.S. Open.

It’s such a boring day that I’m writing a piece that will put people to sleep. Last March an extended trailer for Alex Garland‘s Annihilation was shown at Cinemacon. It wowed a lot of journos (myself among them) and exhibs. I’d also been reading online that at the very least it has an absolute killer ending. But despite the Cinemacon presentation, Paramount announced it would come out in early ’18.

For whatever reason Paramount just research-screened Annihilation the other night. Why, I’m wondering, would they test-screen a film in late June 2017 when it’s reputedly going to open ten months hence, or in March ’18? If I didn’t know better I’d say Paramount is possibly re-thinking things and may change their minds and open it at the end of the year after all. Maybe.

I’m presuming Paramount is sticking to the ’18 plan, but it sure would be nice to see this dark Garland fantasia, based on Jeff Vandermeer’s 2014 novel, pop in November or December.

Natalie Portman (last woman standing), Jennifer Jason Leigh, Gina Rodriguez, Tessa Thompson, Oscar Isaac, David Gyasi and Sonoya Mizuno.

From a 7.14.15 Gizmodo interview with Garland, posted by Charlie Jane Anders:

Garland: “What I’d say is, that I’ve worked on different kinds of adaptations in the past. One of them was called Never Let Me Go, which was based on a book by Kazuo Ishiguro. Relatively speaking, what that film did was it kind of held up a mirror to the book. It was a slightly distorting mirror, in some respects, but basically it’s holding up a mirror…a sort of movie mirror, I guess.”

For the last few weeks Woody Allen has been sussing casting picks for his 2018 film, which is some kind of late=teen or early-20something relationship film. I’ve known the name of the male lead for a while now, but the drag-ass agents don’t want anything announced until solid offers have gone out, etc. Suffice that every hot-shit actress around 19 or 20 has been eyeballed or seriously discussed or whatever. Not so long ago one of these candidates, I’ve been told, was Hailee Steinfeld. But at roughly the same time (i.e., mid to late May?) Steinfeld was offered Paramount and Travis Knight‘s Bumblebee movie, a Transformers spin-off thing. I’m not sure what the strategy was or wasn’t on the Woody side, but word around the campfire is that Steinfeld’s agent told her she couldn’t afford to do a Woody, that after the lousy $18 million earned worldwide by Kelly Fremon Craig‘s Edge of Seventeen (which I mostly hated) she needed to to go for the green, and so she said yes to the fucking Bumblebee.

Don’t look now, but Chris Nolan‘s Dunkirk opens in less than three weeks. Given my very special relationship with Warner Bros. publicity, I’ll probably be among the last to see it. That’s okay — I’ll just process the fawning reactions of the Nolan geeks, and then come in at the last minute like Mr. Truth Squad (i.e., “the kiss-assery stops here”).

Meanwhile Indiewire‘s David Ehrlich has ranked Nolan’s previous nine films, worst to best.

The worst is The Dark Knight Rises, Ehrlich says, and the best is The Prestige. What?

Not only do I not agree about Nolan’s 2006 magician film, I can’t even remember much about it. I remember I felt a wee bit trapped as I watched it. I recall the dandy duds and grim expressions of Hugh Jackman (i.e., The Great Danton) and the obsessive pisshead manner of Christian Bale (Alfred Borden) and the downish, lemme-outta-here vibes and Wally Pfister‘s gaslamp cinematography. For some reason my most vivid recollection is David Bowie‘s cameo-sized performance as Nikola Tesla, although I recall thinking “Jesus, Bowie really doesn’t look like The Thin White Duke anymore.”

I’d not ranking The Prestige at the bottom of Nolan’s films. I’m not even ranking it because it never rustled my curtains. I’m not saying I don’t respect it. I’m saying I didn’t give that much of a shit when it opened ten and a half years ago, no offense, and I care even less now.

Ehrlich’s bottom to top: 9. The Dark Knight Returns, 8. Following, 7. Insomnia, 6. Batman Begins, 5. The Dark Knight, 4. Interstellar (great merciful bloodstained Gods, Ehrlich!), 3. Inception, 2. Memento, 1. The Prestige.

HE’s bottom to top: 9. The Prestige (not last but floating, inconclusive, a phantom flick), 8. Interstellar (bored and infuriated by the story, double-hated Nolan’s sound design), 7. Inception (cool concept, too long, nice FX, too underlined and drawn out at the end, couldn’t understand Ken Watanebe to save my life), 6. The Dark Knight Rises, 5. Following (which I didn’t see until 2015), 4. Insomnia, 3. Batman Begins, 2. The Dark Knight, 1. Memento.

This is strictly second-hand but I heard something today that upset my apple cart. It comes from the periphery of the Woody Allen camp.  The talk (and please understand this is just “talk” as in “not necessarily bankable”) is that Woody, who will be 82 in December, has muttered something along the lines of “the movie I make in 2019 might be my last.” He’s currently casting his 2018 film, which he’ll shoot either later this year or early next year, and then see to the promotion and publicity, and then he’ll make his 2019 film. And once that’s done it may be “adios muchachos.” Because, I’ve been told, Woody suspects he may not have any juice left after the ’19 flick, that he’ll be “done.”

Wells response: Here are my definitions of Allen being “done.” One, he’s just dropped dead on Fifth Avenue while directing his latest film. Two, he’s been found been slumped over in bed, his yellow writing pad at his side. Or three, he’s become one of those guys with saliva dribbling out of his mouth who might wander into a cafeteria with a shopping bag, screaming about socialism.

Even if Allen recently did mutter something about hanging it up, a new good idea could change everything in an instant…right? What would Woody do with himself if he stopped writing and directing? True, he’ll turn 84 in ’19, which would mean that over half of his life will have gone by. By the Clint Eastwood standard (i.e., 87 and is still cranking ’em out), Woody is far from done.