The baggy, dark-gray trousers (dress pants were extra spacious in the mid ’50s) are bad enough, but to wear them with casual sneakers? Appalling. I’d like to be gracious and say that Humphrey Bogart is so cool on his own terms that he pulls it off, but he doesn’t. You might assume from his late-1953 photo that Audrey Hepburn, 24 and fresh off Roman Holiday, is the same size as Bogart. He stood about five-foot-eight — Hepburn was roughly five-seven.

During last month’s Cinemacon I realized that the working-class Joes who flock to Las Vegas are in love with the massive scale of the place. 75% of the buildings in the Vegas tourist district are five, ten or twenty times bigger than similar establishments in Wichita Falls or Cranford. 

These same culturally-challenged types are quite impressed by super-sized homes. If I was handed a gratis deed to a McMansion I would sell it and buy a regular people-sized home…you know, the kind of place that Americans and Europeans lived in for several centuries before the oversized aesthetic crept into the culture.

If you were loaded and could live anywhere you want, would you have the character and the taste to live in a home of sensible proportions? Two or three bedrooms and bathrooms instead of six or seven? Cozy dens, fireplaces, kitchens built for a family of four or five? The kind of homes that Joan Crawford, Kim Novak, Charles K. Feldman, Ronald Colman, Rod Serling and Cary Grant used to live in? Or the kind that Bob Evans, George Clooney and Jack Nicholson live in now?

I loathe gargantuan as a design concept. Giant-sized homes smell of arrogance and entitlement. Or insecurity. An architectural blight.

Another thing you want to avoid are restaurants and bars with a beautiful view, and especially people who love to patronize such places. Does this mean I don’t like the view from WeHo’s Soho House (9200 Sunset Blvd.)? No — I love it as much as the next guy, but I don’t want the company of people who flock there every night because of the view. I prefer to hang with people who think like me, who patronize a place because they’re down with the special vibe or atmosphere. Great-view restaurants on the penthouse floors of buildings are always a must-to-avoid — always jammed, always too pricey. If you’re out with a girl and she says “let’s go to that hot rooftop place,” drop her like a bad habit.

I was initially intrigued by Rodrigo Perez‘s review of Nathan Silver’s Thirst Street — “A wry and disturbed look at lust and longing…a terrific vintage homage…a deliciously arch little treat.” Set in Paris, it’s about an emotionally traumatized flight attendant (A Teacher‘s Lindsay Burdge), reeling from a fiance’s suicide, who has a one-night stand with a moustachioed French guy (Damien Bonnard). She falls obsessively, and from this a Polanski-like “European-flavored psychodrama” results. But look at Bonnard. He’s almost Quasimodo. Who obsesses over homely guys? Guys who would be lucky to have sex with someone like Burdge in the real world? What kind of flight attendant goes nuts over a guy who looks like a peripheral drug dealer from John Frankenheimer‘s The French Connection II? I’m sorry but this movie lost me at Bonnard.

The Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic communities are more or less claiming that The Circle stinks. (The Rotten/Meta average is around 30%.) I’ve been following director James Ponsoldt through thick and thin, and I didn’t even get invited to see this thing. This has become increasingly common. Publicists will wave me into screenings if I write and politely ask, but when it comes to stinkers some aren’t exactly reaching out.

The final line from Glenn Kenny’s N.Y. Times review: “The movie is dedicated to Bill Paxton, who died in February and is quite fine in the small role of [Emma Watson]’s father, who’s dealing with multiple sclerosis. The dedication is a kind and considerate touch. Still, if you’d like to enjoy a movie featuring both Mr. Paxton and [Tom] Hanks, I’d recommend Apollo 13.”

Nobody invited me to see Ken Marino‘s How To Be A Latin Lover either. The general view is that it doesn’t suck as badly as The Circle — a 40% Rotten Tomato and 52% Metacritic rating. I could’ve made the effort, but it’s obviously a Latino Adam Sandler film. The trailers have made that clear.

Honestly? The most interesting newbie is April Mullen and Stephanie Fabrizi‘s Below Her Mouth. (Great title!) From 4.27 NBCnews.com review by Trish Bendix: “Below Her Mouth is essentially a fantasy…a fairy tale for a subgroup of people who rarely to get to see the kinds of things that they dream played out on screen…a romance-fueled intimacy and passion that is too often relegated to a scene directed by a man and played by two straight women.”

The first thought that occured when I glanced at this poster of ScarJo in Rough Night (Columbia, 6.17) was “whoa…what happened?”  She’s only 34 but looks 44 if a day…that curvy-blonde-with-full-lips thing she had going around the time of Match Point is totally out the window. She looks unsettled, starved, brittle, PTA-ish. Everyone transitions and evolves into the next phase, but ScarJo could be auditioning for Rosalind Russell‘s part in Picnic (’55). This is honestly what came to mind.

The Trump Administration: 100 days in 2 minutes pic.twitter.com/tTwlBlx9kz

— New York Times Video (@nytvideo) 4.27.17

Competition: Ruben Ostlund‘s The Square. Cast: Elisabeth Moss, Dominic West. Wiki synopsis: “The film tells about a manager of the museum who is responsible for an exhibition space that houses a new installation which provides people with a symbolic space. He hires a PR firm to create buzz around the installation, but the publicity produces a public racket.” Wells comment: The title is a stiff — it drains the sand.

Out of Competition: Roman Polanski‘s Based on a True Story (D’après une histoire vraie). IMDB synopsis: “A writer goes through a tough period after the release of her latest book, as she gets involved with an obsessive admirer.” Cast: Eva Green, Emmanuelle Seigner, Vincent Perez, Alexia Seferoglou. Wells comment: Polanski!

Un Certain Regard: Santiago Mitre‘s La Cordillera; Li Ruijun‘s Walking Past The Future.

Special Screening: Barbet Schroeder‘s Le Vénérable W.. IMDB synopsis: The third film in Schroeder’s “trilogy of evil”, following General Idi Amin Dada (’74) and Terror’s Advocate (’07). Wells comment: Schroeder!

Two days ago Brigade’s Rob Scheer asked his Facebook followers to vote for the least deserving Oscar-nominated performance of the last 15 years. Scheer failed to note that two of the following nominated performances resulted in wins, but I’ve clarified that:

(a) Alan Arkin, Argo; (b) Alan Arkin, Little Miss Sunshine (won); (c) Christian Bale, The Big Short; (d) Ruby Dee, American Gangster; (e) Johnny Depp, Finding Neverland; (f) Jonah Hill, Moneyball; (g) Stanley Tucci, The Lovely Bones; (h) Jacki Weaver, Silver Linings Playbook; (i) Renee Zellweger, Cold Mountain (won).

I don’t know what “deserving” means in this context. Academy Award nominations are almost always handed out for reasons that are half political and half emotional, and rarely on merit alone. That said, the three least deserving among this group were Bale’s, Tucci’s and Zellweger’s.

All I remember clearly about Bale’s Big Short character, based on the real-life Michael Burry, was how completely insulated he was in the realm of his own genius (which the film kept pushing in your face), and what an anti-social dweeb he was. I hated looking at Bale’s bare feet.

I was amazed that people found Tucci’s creepy murderer the least bit fascinating, much less award-worthy. I was far more satisfied and pleased by his sure-to-be-nominated performance as Jack L. Warner in Feud: Bette and Joan.

Zellweger’s Ruby Thewes was basically a yeehaw thing — deep-country accent, bold behavior, blunt opinions.

Studiocanal has financed a 2k digital restoration of Federico Fellini‘s La Strada (’54). Opening in a few UK theaters on 5.19, a Bluray sure to follow. An appropriately boxy aspect ratio. God protect this little classic from anyone who would advocate a 1.66:1 slicing. Criterion’s DVD version looks pretty great. I’m wondering how much of a Bluray “bump” can be expected.

The older I get, the more difficult Giuletta Massina‘s performance is to take. Yes, I understand that the film depends upon her character being child-like and extremely vulnerable. Yes, I understand that you can’t apply realism standards to her style of acting, and that it can only be processed as Chaplinesque mixed with Italy’s commedia dell’arte. It just requires a certain effort to get past all that.

A day late, a dollar short: Just when a certain film snob was resentfully accommodating himself to the idea of two hot lesbo nun movies, along comes Paul Verhoeven to rub a third into his face. Blessed Virgin, which Verhoeven is currently shooting, will dramatize the life of 17th Century Italian nun Benedetta Carlini (Elle‘s Virginie Efira). The script is based on Judith C. Brown‘s “Immodest Acts: The Life of a Lesbian Nun in Renaissance Italy.” Are hot lesbo nun movies becoming a “thing” in the vein of ’70s women-behind-bars exploitation flicks (including Jonathan Demme‘s Caged Heat)? Back in the ’90s there was an understanding among Entertainment Weekly freelancers that that three of anything (Blessed Virgin + Novitiate + The Little Hours) constitutes a trend.

(l.) Blessed Virgin director Paul Verhoeven, (r.) star Virginie Efira during Elle photo at 2016 Cannes Film Festival.

Until today I’d never roamed around the downtown L.A. jewelry district, much less bantered with sales clerks about the price of white gold and micro-diamonds. I went for a modest white-gold band, which to my unsophisticated eyes looks more or less like silver. The SRO went in a more upmarket direction. I didn’t drive down there on the Yamaha with an exact idea of plunking down formidable doh-re-mi, but my resolve melted when she put the twin rings on. 

In yesterday’s comment thread for “Madoff Moment Approaching,” I said that “in the dramatic realm I’ve come to associate longer running times (i.e., between two and three hours) with richer degrees of intrigue and complexity…they suggest an extra level of conviction and commitment, or at least ambition.”

In other words, dramas that run between 90 and 120 minutes are lean and economical but they’re also playing the game that distributors and exhibitors have urged them to play, but films between 120 to 180 minutes are about their own game. You know going in that the filmmakers haven’t made a sprawling epic, but have definitely swung for the fences.

The following all-time favorites fit the 120-to-180 paradigm:

Michael Mann‘s The Insider (157 minutes), Alfred Hitchcock‘s North by Northwest (136 minutes), Hitchcock’s Vertigo (128 minutes), Michael Mann‘s Heat (170 minutes), Sydney Pollack‘s The Firm (154 minutes), Ken Russell‘s Women in Love (131 minutes), Peter Glenville‘s Becket (148 minutes), Kenneth Lonergan‘s Manchester By The Sea (137 minutes), Alejandro G. Inarritu‘s The Revenant (156 minutes), Sidney Lumet‘s Prince of the City (167 minutes), John Frankenheimer‘s The Manchurian Candidate (126 minutes) and The Train (133 minutes), J. Lee Thompson’s The Guns of Navarone (158 minutes), Stanley Kubrick‘s Lolita (154 minutes), Bennett Miller‘s Moneyball (133 minutes), Alan Pakula‘s All The President’s Men (138 minutes), etc.

I could go on and on but I think the point’s been made.