Godzilla vs. Kong (Warner Bros., 3.21.21) is a movie made by deranged adolescent lunatics with too much money to spend. Okay, I didn’t mean that. Adam Wingard and the Kong vs. Godzilla producers aren’t lunatics. They’re evil winged monkeys from hell, pretending to be human.

This movie actually made me feel like one of those monkeys, except I was more the old-fashioned kind with wires on my back and serving Margaret Hamilton‘s Wicked Witch of the West. I started to hop around the living room, cackling and snickering and clapping my hands as I pretended to fly.

Kong to Godzilla at the finale: “Yo…truce?”

Kong too easily flies around like a winged bat or a big helium-stuffed panda bear or a giant mosquito dressed in an ape suit. The fucker weighs hundreds and hundreds of pounds and he yet floats and leaps and falls dozens of stories and it’s all cool. This movie doesn’t respect physics!

But the screenwriters — Eric Pearson and Max Borenstein with “story” assistance from Terry Rossio, Michael Dougherty and Zach Shields — had to be on hallucinogens when they cooked up some of the more wackazoid imaginings. I respect LSD too much to suggest that you, the potential viewer, should see Godzilla vs. Kong on acid, but you could theoretically do that.

And if you were a batshit insane person to begin with, you might get more out of it that way. If you have no soul to begin with and you wouldn’t know satori or enlightenment if they bit you in the ass, why not?

This is the nuttiest, craziest, most imaginative monster destruction-derby movie I’ve ever seen in my wasted, ruined life. And, at a projected budget of $160 to $200 million, probably one of the most wasteful. But if the lower figure is true, Wingard has spent slightly less money that Rian Johnson will spend on the first Knives Out sequel, so at least there’s that.

Does it bother anyone that King Kong has a visible navel? They probably should’ve given him a large schlongola….c’mon, why not?

This movie, by the way, has three overweight characters — Brian Tyree Henry‘s “Bernie Hayes”, Julian Dennison‘s “Josh Valentine” and Fatzilla himself. Kong is actually in pretty good shape all around. Washboard abs. I think it was really cruel, however, to “contain” Kong inside a huge artificial Kong Dome on Skull Island. Leave the poor guy alone…God. Not to mention the cost.

I need to watch Ingmar Bergman‘s Wild Strawberries. Or George Cukor‘s Sylvia Scarlett. Something sane and semi-sedate. Nope, changed my mind. I’ve decided to watch John Carpenter‘s Assault on Precinct 13.

Friendo text (6:32 am Pacific): “I can’t believe you liked that corporate funded, juvenile scripted POS.”

HE reply: “‘Liked it’? It made me scream and howl. It injected feral madness into my veins. The fine fellows who made this film are evil. It’s an insane hallucinogen carpet ride. Corporate derangement syndrome. Sickness incarnate. And yet…dopey!”

Charles Shyer, whom I was friendly with during the aughts and early teens and whom I quite liked after we got to know each other following his divorce from longtime creative partner Nancy Meyers, has left the earth. He was 83.

Shyer’s salad days as a director-writer of mainstream feel-good relationship movies lasted for 20 years — Private Benjamin (’80 — directed by Howard Zeiff but co-written by Charles and Nancy), Irreconcilable Differences (’84), Baby Boom (1987), Father of the Bride (1991), Father of the Bride Part II (1995), The Parent Trap (which Nancy directed — Charles co-wrote and produced). Then came The Affair of the Necklace (’01) and Alfie (’04).

Nancy not only flourished but surpassed Charles after the turn of the century.

Friendo: “This one really hurts. Great guy…really funny and insightful.”

HE: “I considered Charles a fairly close acquaintance back in the aughts and up until 2014 or ‘15, and I liked him a lot….he had soul and grit and saw through the bullshit, and he really went for it. He didn’t lie. Very sad about this.

“The key Shyer moment for me was discovering moldy strawberries in his office after dropping by for a chat about The Affair of the Necklace. That told me he was a regular dude like myself. I really liked him after that.”

HE riff on dudes with the ability to have green baskets of moldy strawberries sitting in their work space:

Since opening three days ago Babygirl has been faring rather poorly with Joe and Jane Popcorn, but it’s not the fault of director-writer Halina Riijn, who’s made a brilliant, riveting film about compulsive sexual behavior.

The fault, dear Brutus, lies with A24’s marketing team, which has insisted on selling the Nicole Kidman-Harris Dickinson film as an “erotic thriller.” Erotic it certainly is, but no one in their right mind would call it a thriller.

Friendo: “Don’t you think marketing this film as an ‘80s & ‘90s-style ‘erotic thriller’ a la Body Heat, Basic Instinct and Sea of Love may have been a SERIOUS miscalculation?”

HE: “Yes. Applying the ‘thriller’ label is completely ridiculous.”

Friendo: “This is how the producers or the releasing company were promoting the film: As a goddamn ‘erotic thriller.’ Which it most certainly is not. And those of us (like me) who believed the hype, were expecting — and YEARNING FOR — that kind of experience. Instead we got a bait & switch.”

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…until the late spring of ’65, which is when the Great Transcendence happened.

To this day I’ve never felt great affection, much less enthusiasm, for Bob Dylan‘s “All I Really Want To Do“. Simply because of Dylan’s underwhelming performance of the tune. Even now I despise the Woody Guthrie way he sings the chorus…”all I really want to dooo-hooooo!”…like some yee-haw hillbilly.

But I adore The_Byrds’_version, which was released on 6.14.65, or only five days after Dylan recorded his version on 6.9.64, or seven weeks before his version was even purchasable on Another Side of Bob Dylan (8.8.64).

Cher’s version, which isn’t as good as the Byrds cover but is still more tolerable than Dylan’s, was released sometime in late May of ’65, or before Dylan recorded his own.

Cashbox-wise, Cher’s version outsold the Byrds. The listening public had no taste then and they still don’t.

“All I Really Want To Do” is basically a breaking-up-with-Suzie Rotolo song. “I’m just not into you sexually like I was before but I don’t want to hurt you either or, you know, cause you any grief” roughly translates into “I’m boning someone else now but let’s not go crazy about this…I’ll always care for you but maybe you should think about ‘seeing’ someone else yourself.”

Dylan’s mid ’60s recordings didn’t really sound all that wonderful…they lacked ripeness, fullness, polish and pizazz, technical edge…until Bringing It All Back Home, which came out in April ’65. From that point on he was truly the performing master of his own domain.

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….that have ever come out of Ethan Hawke’s mouth. Particularly the passage between 1:50 and 2:48, but the whole thing really. Posted four years ago.

Posting a live, film-sourced GIF of the DeMille theatre’s electrified PSYCHO billboard (Seventh Avenue and 47th) in June 1960 is an HE milestone — never before have I seen this GIF, much less tried to share it. 63 and 1/2 years ago. A very big deal.

The I Don’t Care Girl (’53) was a biopic about Eva Tanguay, a vaudeville superstar who peaked from around 1900 to the early 1920s. 21-year-old Mitzi Gaynor wasn’t a good fit for a film with that title, as it suggested a woman with a provocational, sexually liberated, Isadora Duncan-like attitude.

As I noted in my 10.21.24 Gaynor obit, “Thespian skills aside, most popular actresses of the ‘40s and ‘50s activated or at least hinted at some form of inner heat…some kind of bedroom intrigue or fantasy. Whatever it was that Rita Hayworth or Lana Turner or Maureen O’Hara or Lizabeth Scott or Anna Magnani or Jean Simmons or Gloria Grahame or pre-Cleopatra Elizabeth Taylor or even Deborah Kerr had that indicated a vigorous or perhaps even a hungry-python approach to sex, Gaynor had almost none of.”

Ollie Brenner hates the hoi polloi like I do, plus he hates Nosferatu (“terrible fucking movie”). My kind of cinema bro. 100% approval.

Ollie on the scent of Dayton cinemagoers at a certain Regal cinema: “There’s a certain smell that encapsulates them. A certain aroma, if you will, that follows them around. Kind if like,…I don’t know. Like musky, but also lilke a rusty coin kind of smell, Showering maybe a couple times a week. A certain smell that bombarded my nostrils when we entered the theatre.”

@olliebrenner Keeping it classy in the dirty dyt #dayton #daytonohio #ohio ♬ original sound – ollie brenner

12:47 pm: RaMell Ross’s Nickel Boys is a truly fascinating and innovative arthouse experiment during the first 30 to 45 minutes, delivering nervy and daringly out-there chops with its avoidance of traditional boilerplate camera strategies, going for broke with a tilt-a-whirl visual scheme .

But the determination to mostly go with a vaguely Emmanuel Lubezski-ish strategy of having the camera or audience directly experience the lead protagonist’s POV wears down after a while, and what little narrative tension it has dissipates before long because Ross and Joslyn Barnes’ screenplay, based on Colson Whitehead’s 2019 novel, isn’t following a linear plot line, and the film basically goes on way too long (140 minutes).

Ferociously ambitious young directors make this mistake from time to time, over-indulging their whims and darlings, etc. This doesn’t exactly constitute a felony but the film, which tells a sad and brutal tale about a notoriously corrupt Florida reform school in the ‘60s, is definitely hurt by RaMell’s over-reach.

Nickel Boys deserves an A for ambition, and the performances are quite good (Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor is the big stand-out) but it really does tax your patience and gradually runs out of gas, and a few plot events feel a bit confusing.

The brilliant Babygirl has a middling 77% RT rating from critics, but it’s been handed an unmistakably failing grade — 54% — from Joe and Jane Popcorn, and particularly from women.

I’ve been swooning over Halina Reijn’s film since I first saw it two weeks ago, and these neghead responses have left me crestfallen. One of the absolute finest films of the year is a complete flop with too many women. A 54% grade is basically a thumbs down — it’s not much different than a 30% or 20% grade — fail! — people are holding their noses.

Study the RT auudience blurbs. Some dudes like it and some don’t, but almost all the women dislike or even hate it.

@blmxalimo my fault for seeing the words ‘delicious’ and ‘sexy’ in the trailer and immediately purchasing a ticket #acompleteunknown #timotheechalamet #nosferatu ♬ original sound – farhiya

Listen to this guy especially — the unpleasantness wasn’t the movie’s fault, but the audience’s.

@moviesaretherapy Babygirl movie review kinda #fyp #foryou #movies ♬ original sound – Kit Lazer

An overlong, way-too-costly leviathan of a film that (a) nobody wants to re-watch, (b) will go down in history as the only Martin Scorsese movie that represented a total capitulation to woke identity politics (and in so doing jettisoned the legendary vitality of the Scorsese brand) and (c) provided a springboard for an unfortunate identity campaign for Best Actress that we all had to tolerate for months on end, despite the effort being doomed to fail on Oscar night because the performance was obviously supporting. What a drag all around.

Only now can the tragic embarrassment of Killers of the Flower Moon be fully comprehended.

If only Marty and Leonardo DiCaprio hadn’t pussied out and had stayed with Eric Roth’s original take on David Grann’s 2017 novel…alas.

One-third of the way through A Complete Unknown there’s a brief shot of Timothee Chalamet flipping through vinyl albums inside Bleecker Bob’s, and we see glimpses of Dylan’s first album with Chalamet’s photo subbing for the Real McCoy.

We also glimpse one of Joan Baez’s early albums with Monica Barbaro on the cover.

Chalamet and Elle Fanning posed last year for a substitute version of the famous cover shot for The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. I’d like to see cover replica keepsakes of all the early to mid ‘60s Dylan albums, right on through to Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde.

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