The new received wisdom is that Cary Grant was the ultimate Captain Trips — the guy who inspired Timothy Leary to look into LSD, and in so doing became a prime influencer and seminal counter-culture figure. Not actually but, you know, in a roundabout, cosmic-linkage, one-thing-leads-to-the-next-thing way.

“Turn off your mind, relax and float upstream…it is not dying, it is being”…that’s Cary! Okay, I might be pushing the connection a bit, but if you’ve ever been “experienced”, you wouldn’t be far off the mark to regard Cary Grant as your brother, your father…the guy holding your hand.

Sounds far-fetched, right? But a Xan Brooks Guardian piece about Mark Kidel‘s Becoming Cary Grant, which will screen at the forthcoming Cannes Film Festival, more or less makes that claim.

Brooks describes the doc, which he’s apparently seen, as an exploration of “Grant’s adventures in psychedelia.” The doc reports that the famously debonair actor dropped LSD 100 times between 1958 and 1961. Wade into that. Not 10, 20 or 50 but 100 sessions.

From Nicholas Kristof’s 5.13 N.Y. Times column, “Is President Trump Obstructing Justice?”

“In short, Trump challenges the legitimacy of checks on his governance, bullies critics and obfuscates everything. Trump reminds me less of past American presidents than of the ‘big men’ rulers I covered in Asia and Africa, who saw laws simply as instruments with which to punish rivals.

“It’s reported that Trump sought a pledge of loyalty from Comey. That is what kings seek; the failure to provide one got Thomas More beheaded. But in a nation of laws, we must be loyal to laws, norms and institutions, not to a passing autocrat.

“Trump acknowledges that he was frustrated by the Russia investigation and that it was a factor in firing Comey. This may not meet the legal test for obstruction of justice, but step back and you see that Trump’s entire pattern of behavior is obstruction of the rule of law and democratic norms.”

Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson and Eric Kohn (who’s now in Paris, staying in some baroque Left Bank hotel that hangs animal portraits on the walls) discuss the 2017 Cannes Film Festival. Things start three days from now (i.e., Wednesday, 5.17). Almost every Paris-based journalist and layover will be on Tuesday’s 7:19 am train from Gare de Lyon. I’m terrified about sleeping through and missing it.

Thompson compares staying “with a bunch of guys” in Indiewire‘s Cannes crash pad to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. There’s a mention of Tuesday’s La Pizza gathering. They’re hot for Michael Haneke‘s Happy End and Todd Haynes‘ Wonderstruck, but who isn’t? They sound excited but, in my view, not excited enough about Andrey Zvyagintsev‘s Loveless. Thompson is hearing “good things” about Michel Hazanavicius‘ The Redoubtable, the ’60s-era Jean Luc Godard love story. They discuss the festival’s decision to turn a cold shoulder to Netflix movies starting next year. They mention the incessant partying, drinking and hobnobbing, but the only thing that matters during the Cannes Film Festival is the filing.

Things get interesting when Kohn trashes Naomi Kawase, noting that “the only time you ever hear about her” is during the festival, “which is a little peculiar.” And then Thompson, stepping out of her amiable safe zone, dismisses Taylor Sheridan‘s Wild River, which is playing under Un Certain Regard, in part because it’s “the only Weinstein film” and is “opening in August.”

HE’s own Svetlana Cvetko and David Scott Smith invited me to join them early Saturday evening at the Louvre. A connected friend of Svet’s escorted us inside to a restricted-access tour of the Egyptian exhibit. I had never before wandered through this world-renowned museum as an invitation-only cool cat. No crowds or lines to cope with. The Egyptian statues, sarcophagi, relics and artifacts were nothing to sneeze at either. The highlight was the 4000 year-old chapel of the tomb (or “mastaba”) of Akhethotep, a bigwig in the Old Kingdom who was close to the king. (Egyptian rulers weren’t called pharaohs until the New Kingdom.)

Svetlana Cvetko, David Scott Smith at Louvre cafe — Saturday, 5.13, 7:50 pm.

We all understand the concept behind fleeting-glimpse teasers. Provide a vague idea of the mood or tone of an upcoming film or TV series without showing any substance. But when you get closer to the release date of a film or cable series, it’s time to man up and give some of that shit up. Slightly longer trailer, a few lines of dialogue, one or two scary snippets, etc. David Lynch‘s Twin Peaks series will debut on Showtime only nine days hence — Sunday, 5.21. And yet the latest teaser (released yesterday) is sticking with the same show-nothing strategy that the initial teaser used last January. This on top of the decision by the Cannes Film Festival to screen the first two episodes four days after the 5.21 debut suggests some degree of trouble. What else am I to think? That it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread but they don’t want to convey this?

Last January’s downgrading of my Sundance press pass status was a painful experience. Having been granted an Express Pass for the previous five years (’12 through ’16), I was told by media relations guy Jason Berger that I’d have to make do with a general mosh-pit pass. Was Sundance ’17 terrible as a result? Not altogether thanks to HE’s many publicist friends plus my willingness to get in line for Eccles tickets at the Park City Marriott at 8 am, but it hurt all the same.

During my Express Pass years I allowed myself to think perhaps I’d finally made the grade, that all my decades of reporting, filing and reviewing along with the success of Hollywood Elsewhere had led to a plateau of special-tude, and that this plateau was a gesture of respect and whatnot. A kind of badge of honor after decades of hard-fought struggle. Not so much in ’17!

All to say that it felt great a day or two ago when the Cannes Film Festival guys wrote to inform that my good old pink-with-yellow-pastille pass is secure. “You will benefit from a press accreditation for 70th Festival de Cannes,” the letter said. “Its color is white or pink with a yellow dot. This badge allows you exceptional access.” I almost choked up when I read it. Exhale, enjoy your cappuccino, all is well for now.

During a Partnership for a Healthier America q & a in Washington, Michelle Obama sharply addressed Donald Trump‘s recent decision to freeze regulations that would cut sodium and increase whole grains served in school meals.

“Think about why someone is okay with your kids eating crap,” the former First Lady said. “We have a lot more work to do, for sure, but we’ve got to make sure we don’t let anybody take us back because the question is, where are we going back to? This is where you really have to look at motives, you know. You have to stop and think, why don’t you want our kids to have good food at school? What is wrong with you?”

Sometimes the Cannes Film Festival will hold its hottest titles until the first weekend or even just after, leaving heat-seekers to bide their time over the first three days. Not this year. The Cannes press schedule just popped, and two major competition titles are screening early — Andrey Zvyagintsev‘s Loveless (aka Nelyubov) at 7:30 pm on Wednesday, 5.17, and Todd Haynes‘ Wonderstruck early the next morning at 8:30 am.

I’ve got seven films at the top of my Cannes list — Loveless, Wonderstruck, Michael Haneke‘s Happy End, Noah Baumbach‘s The Meyerowitz Stories, Alejandro G. Inarritu‘s 390-second virtual reality short Carne y Arena (which rsvp’ed viewers will have to journey on a shuttle to see, apparently some distance from the bunker), those two 56-minute episodes of David Lynch‘s rebooted Twin Peaks series (showing on Thursday, 5.25) and a special screening of Eugene Jarecki‘s Promised Land, which reportedly “juxtaposes contemporary American socio-political history with the biography of Elvis Presley.”

The only bizarre aspect is that Twin Peaks will premiere on Showtime on Sunday, 5.21, or four days earlier than the Cannes showings of the first two episodes. It would obviously mean a lot more to festivalgoers if the Cannes showing was scheduled before the Showtime debut, not after.

I was reading Michael Reubens‘ review of the new Seven Days in May Bluray. But I was soon distracted by Reubens’ 12.5.12 review of a Bluray of Lewis Allen‘s Suddenly, and particularly by the following paragraph:

“There seems to be some confusion regarding the correct aspect ratio of Suddenly. Image’s presentation is an unmasked 35mm frame (with rounded corners) that measures 1.38:1. IMDB lists the film’s original presentation at 1.75:1, which seems unlikely, as that ratio was never a standard in American movie theaters.

“Suddenly was made in the early years of the film industry’s conversion from Academy ratio to its current twin standards of 1.85:1 and 2.39:1. It’s most likely that Suddenly was shot for the older ‘square’ format but protected for the newer matted shape. Certainly most of the shots have sufficient extra headroom to allow the film to be matted to 1.85:1 without damaging the narrative. The images ‘breathe’ better, however, at the full Academy ratio.”

Breathe better?

This isn’t a big deal or even a middle-sized one, but for years I’ve been under the impression that anyone who uses the term “breathing” or “breathing room” in a discussion of aspect ratios is borrowing from the HE glossary. I’m not saying I own the term, but I’ve used it repeatedly in my aspect-ratio articles, and I don’t know of anyone else who has celebrated the concept of breathing room as much as myself.

If “breathe” and “breathing room” were commonly-used terms among Home Theatre Forum aspect-ratio obsessives before Hollywood Elsewhere began in 2004, fine. I stand corrected and no biggie.

Last week I settled in with Don Siegel‘s The Beguiled (’71), which I’d seen in portions but never all in one session. This was necessary homework prior to the Cannes Film Festival showing of Sofia Coppola’s remake, which Focus Features will open stateside on 6.23. I’m presuming every Cannes-bound critic has done (or is doing) the same.

Honestly? I didn’t like it all that much. I was mildly intrigued by the perverse tangle of it all (repressed libidos, subtle hostilities, shifting alliances) but I didn’t care about the story or the characters, least of all Clint Eastwood‘s somewhat creepy Union army corporal. He’s mostly focused on which of the seminary women he wants to fool around with, except he’s indecisive or even lackadaisical about it, and after a while I was wondering “what does he want to do, fuck all of them?” Not to mention thoughtless. These women are giving him care and comfort, and all he can think about is Mr. Happy.

The seminary students and their headmistress, played by Geraldine Page, are all eccentric in one way or another, beset by erotic curiosity or stifled longing, but they’re so constricted and corseted that it all turns demented before long, and certainly by the final act. I just didn’t care for their company. After a while I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

Then I began to fantasize about the Union cavalry brigade from John Ford‘s The Horse Soldiers dropping by and saving Eastwood from himself. I wanted to see muddy John Wayne stride into that Confederate mansion and tell Eastwood to snap to attention and report for duty, or at least put him under the care of William Holden‘s Maj. Henry Kendall.

HE’s temporary base is on the third floor at 40 rue de Saintonge. The lively Rue de Bretagne, a few meters to the south, is teeming with locals (tourists are apparently forbidden) and full of the usual bars, cafes, bikes, scooters, patisseries, boucheries, clothing shops and an apparently permanent encampment of outdoor stalls selling the usual bric a brac. I guess I could be mistaken for a tourist as I seemed to be the only one taking snaps. But I’m not a tourist and never have been. I’m a traveller, a nomad, a free soul on the prowl.

What could it feel like to parrot the Donald Trump talking points, and then be debunked by Trump himself during that Lester Holt interview? Mike Pence will almost certainly go to his grave before revealing his inner thoughts about this latest embarassment, but God, what a pathetic clown. No honor, no clarity, no ethics that stand up to scrutiny. Imagine the inner turbulence as Pence glances at himself in the bathroom mirror. Imagine the stomach acidity.