I don’t think I’ve ever quoted Joanna Langfield before, but her A Complete Unknown blurb says it straight and plain:

A Complete Unknown can’t dramatically land or even touch bottom because Timothee Chalamet’s Bob Dylan is such a ghost…such a deflector and artful dodger and sardonic shape-shifter that he can’t experience any kind of dramatic catharsis because his whole game has been “something is happening here but it ain’t me because I’m not there…are you?”

And yet, as I’ve written a couple of times, “so much of Unknown is spot–on, the real thing, a bell ringer. I was sorta kinda emotionally melting during the first half hour or so — literally on the verge of tears. Yes, I’ve been deeply invested in Dylan my entire life so I’m especially susceptible but still…”

A Complete Unknown totally ignores the nuts-and-bolts anxieties that Dylan faced as a jobless artist.

He arrived in Greenwich Village on January 24, 1961, and 11 months later he and Suze Rotolo moved into his first apartment at 161 West Fourth Street (right off Sixth Avenue, right around the corner from the present location of the IFC Center). So for 11 months he couch-flopped around like Llewyn Davis but who were his gracious hosts? I’d like to know — who literally told him “okay, sure, you can crash here for a while?” How many benefactors altogether?

If Colin Jost and Michael Che had any balls at all, they would have read each other’s risque jokes like Norm McDonald would have — straight, deadpan, no girlyman giggling.

The reason for their giggling is that they’re both pussies. The tee-hee subtext, needless to explain, was “ooooh, we apologize!!!…please understand that we know how raw this is…please don’t take these clips out of context, wokesters, and use them to destroy us on YouTube!”

Che wrote the following for Jost: (a) “Y’all know Scarlett [Johansson] just celebrated her 40th birthday, which means I’m about to get up out of there!” (b) “We just had a kid together, and y’all ain’t see no pictures of him yet, because he’s black as hell!” and (c) “Costco has removed their roast beef sandwich from its menu, but I ain’t tripping. I be eating roast beef every night since my wife had the kid! Nah, nah, I just playin’, baby. You know I don’t go downtown! Shiz! That’s gay as hell!”

I feel deflated and disgusted by the threat of yet another Superman flick….the tedious, shameless emptiness of the collecive Warner Bros. mind!

I was never into Superman mythology all that much, even in the old Jimmy Carter days. I kinda shrugged when the first Christopher Reeve-Richard Donner version came along in ’78, or 46 friggin’ years ago. (The only thing I liked about it was the “would you like to see a very long arm?” scene between Gene Hackman, Ned Beatty and Valerie Perrine.) My interest was still flickering, I suppose, when Bryan Singer‘s Superman Returns came along 18 years ago.

But then the completely evil Zack Snyder drained the Supie spirit and pretty much pounded the legend to death with 2013’s Man of Steel and 2016’s Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice…get outta my life!

Jeff Sneider has reported that James Gunn‘s Superman (WB, 7.11.25) is looking shaky or twitchy or something in that vein.

I was wondering if David Corenswet was….nope, he’s straight! Imagine!

New York City isn’t about beauty. Never has been. Some nabes are aesthetically pleasing, of course, and the echo of history is unmistakable all over but NYC can’t hold a visual candle to Paris, Rome, Bern, Prague, Barcelona, Marrakech, London, Zurich, etc.

NYC is about the power and the glory…it’s about the bolt and the buzz and the very best (okay, hungriest) people clashing and harmonizing…a chorus congregated, the music of activity…the commerce and the juice and lots and lots of mad money, etc.

…I Saw The TV Glow has been strong within me since it opened last May. Egg-crack, transgender, persistence of “Pink Opaque”, bury me alive, Tara and Isabel, Midnight Realm…later.

Friendo: “A middling, awkward, tiresome movie. That anyone could actually think it’s good is a sign of liquified brain matter leaking out of woke people’s ears.”

Here’s my final HE roster of 2024’s 33 best films. My enthusiasm levels are naturally strongest among the top ten (all of which are Howard Hawks-approved**) and start to taper off after #20 or thereabouts, but they’re all noteworthy or at least watchable stand-outs, one way or another.

Almost everyone has lamented that 2024 was a weak year, but the more I weigh the top 20 or 25 the more I’m thinking it wasn’t such a bad one.

Update: What does it mean that I initially forgot to include Wicked? It surely means something, and yet in all fairness it delivers impactfully and as well as could be expected. Rather than inserting it somewhere and having to change the numerical order of several films, here’s my 11.19.24 review. Fair?

Apologies to commenters for tech issues that forced me to copy and re-post the whole piece, and in so doing jettison their comments.

1. Sean Baker‘s Anora / HE review (5.22.24)

2. Edward Berger‘s Conclave / HE review (8.31.24)

3. Payal Kapadia‘s All We Imagine as Light / HE review (5.24.24)

4. Alice Rohrwacher‘s La Chimera / HE review (4.24.24)

5. James Mangold‘s A Complete Unknown / HE review (12.10.24)

6. Luca Guadagnino‘s Queer / HE review (9.18.24)

7. Halina Reijn‘s Babygirl / HE review (12.10.24)

8. Steven Zallian‘s Ripley / HE review (4.27.24)

9. Robert Lorenz‘s In the Land of Saints and Sinners / HE review (4.5.24)

10. Ali Abassi’s The Apprentice / HE review (5.20.24)

11. Tim Fehlbaum‘s September 5 / HE mini-review (10.24.24)

12. Jesse Eisenberg‘s A Real Pain.

13. Alex Garland‘s Civil War / HE review (4.9.24)

14. Halfdan Ullmann Tondel‘s Armand / abbreviated HE non-review (11.18.24)

15. Jacques Audiard‘s Emilia Perez (audacious but calm down) / HE review (6.18.24)

16. Steve McQueen‘s Blitz / HE review (11.5.24)

17. Magnus von Horn’s’s The Girl With the Needle

18. Denis Villeneuve‘s Dune: Part Two.

19. Coralie Fergeat‘s The Substance

20. Christy Hall‘e Daddio (Sony Pictures Classics, 6.28)

21. Rose Glass‘s Love Lies Bleeding

22. Brady Corbet‘s The Brutalist.

23. Jean-Stéphane Sauvaire‘s Asphalt City (formerly Black Flies)

24. Clint Eastwood‘s Juror No. 2

25. Luca Guadagnino‘s Challengers

26. Ridley Scott‘s Gladiator II.

27. Yorgos Lanthimos‘s Kinds of Kindness

28. Wes Ball‘s Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes

29. RaMell Ross‘s Nickle Boys

30. Greg Kwedar‘s Sing Sing

31. Zellner Bros.’ Sasquatch Sunset.

Apologies for having still not seen Vera Drew‘s The People’s Joker, Pedro Almodovar‘s The Room Next Door and Nathan Silver‘s Between The Temples.

I also still haven’t seen Jane Schoenbrun‘s I Saw the TV Glow.

Posted on 5.18.24:

Yorgos Lanthimos‘ Kinds of Kindness was booed at the end of yesterday afternoon’s Salle Debussy screening.

It’s a kind of darkly humorous, oddly grotesque, Bunuelian satire of middle-class misery…an attempt to capture the cold, deathly emptiness of things…the self-loathing, the horrifying banality.

It’s basically a surreal elevated horror film…dead-eyed zombies and slithering serpents and empty robots eating food, talking about their fears, manipulating each other, indulging in wife-swapping, diving into empty pools, a husband asking a wife to cut off a finger and serve it as a snack, and then deciding to give it to the cat instead…you get the idea.

There’s a point to all this cold repellent antiseptic shit, and I respect that the humanity-hating Lanthimos had a deeply perverse vision in his head as he put it all together, but unlike Bunuel he hasn’t much chuckle in him, and when a film gets booed, even if only by two or three malcontents, it usually means something.

** Three great scenes and no bad ones.

Can you guess who the actor is? pic.twitter.com/7PEOBeJs7N

— Naomi (@TheNaomiWolf) December 19, 2024

The Daily Mail‘s rewrite of the Wall Street Journal‘s “fucking idiots” story notes that the James Bond scripts overseen by Barbara Broccoli “follow the franchise’s cardinal rules, such as Bond rarely shooting his weapon first, to the letter.”

Excuse me, but one of the absolute best Bond shootings happens in Dr. No (’62), and it’s not in the heat of battle.

Anthony Dawson‘s Professor R. J. Dent shoots six bullets into what he presumes is a sleeping Sean Connery in the bedroom of Zena Marshall‘s Miss Taro…”thunk thunk thunk…thunk thunk thunk.”

But Connery, waiting for Dent or some other Dr. No flunky assassin, is way ahead of the game, and after a brief conversation and following Dent’s second attempt to fulfill his mission, Connery says “you’ve had your six” and calmly plugs him twice.

Yes, Connery shoots Dent after several shots have been fired, but not in his direction. Dent’s ammo is spent and Connery doesn’t really need to waste him. But he does anyway because (a) he’s mildly pissed by Dent’s attempt, (b) he’s having a Johnny Cash moment and simply wants to watch Dent die, or (c) he simply likes plugging bad guys.

Has there been another cold-blood killing of a villain in any other Bond film? I’m asking.

An “ideological split” between longtime James Bond producers Barbara Broccoli and Michael Wilson and Amazon — particularly Amazon Studios honcho Jennifer Salke — which two years ago acquired MGM and with it rights to the Bond franchise…wait, let me start again.

A feminist wokey vs. semi-traditionalist Mexican standoff (sounds better) is holding up the next 007 film, according to the Wall Street Journal‘s Erich Schwartzel and Jessica Toonkel.

The WSJ reports that during a meeting about the next, vaguely conceived 007 film, an “employee” — possibly Salke or perhaps a feminist underling — stopped the conversation in its tracks by saying “I don’t think James Bond is a hero.”

Daily Mail: “Broccoli, 64, who has more fully taken the reins of the franchise as the 82-year-old Wilson nears retirement, has told friends that the people at Amazon are ‘fucking idiots.'”

Salke is “reportedly demanding ideas for new Bond movies, although Broccoli has seemingly no interest in making them with the studio.”

Since the November 2022 acquisition Salke has been charged with managing Amazon’s dealings with Broccoli.

Alas, Salke and Broccoli have an oil-and-water relationship, it is reported, with Broccoli telling colleagues she doesn’t trust “temporary people to make permanent decisions”, according to Schartzel and Toonkel.

Seasoned, non–woke director–writer who’s been around: “Two years ago Salke squashed a Conan the Barbarian remake from Game of Throne producers, calling the project ‘toxic masculinity’. The Bond impasse is all on her. She’s an inexperienced idiot with limited experience and unlimited resources.”

I’ve acknowledged from the get-go that the lively and engaging Wicked has been very efficiently produced, shot, performed, and choreographed. It is also a vessel of assertive feminist propaganda (i.e., social image enhancement)

There’s a massive, alternate-universe disconnect, of course, between Margaret Hamilton’s Wicked Witch of the West and Cynthia Erivo’s misunderstood Elphaba, but that’s part and parcel of the new (21st Century) feminist mythology.

Throughout the 20th Century American culture had the WWotW all wrong, Wicked is saying. This has been especially true since the redefining of female perspective and identity by the #MeToo revolution of 2017.

The demonic cliche of wicked witches goes way back, of course. It probably originated with the Brothers Grimm and had certainly been intensified by the Salem witch hysteria of the 17th Century. It was then furthered by Frank L. Baum’s fabled, written-for-children fantasies and then by the MGM dream factory of 1938 and ‘39 and the resultant impression of the mean, shrewish, Victorian-minded Almira Gulch.

Either you’ve been fed this crudely condemning concept (boomers and GenXers grew up with it) or you haven’t been.

21st Century mythology has reversed this, of course. Spirited notions of feminine self-empowerment in response to entrenched and oppressive male sexism is the only allowable narrative these days — obviously a much more positive and socially constructive thing than the old Almira Gulch model.

“I don’t believe in icons. I don’t believe in personalities, I believe that peace lies beyond personality and invitation and disguise, beyond the red S on your chest that makes bullets bounce off. I believe that it’s deeper than that. I believe we’re a field of energy dancing for itself, and I don’t care.” — Jim Carrey to E! News‘ Catt Sadler on or about 9.11.17.

The fact that Timothee Chalamet loves Carrey’s “fuck icons” red-carpet interview from 2017…this in itself speaks volumes about Chalamet’s moral-spiritual value system, which appears to be in excellent shape…seriously.

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