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.

@austinfireviral Timothèe Chalamet x Theo Von, Jim Carrey Interview #fyp #foryoupage #trend #trending #viral #foryou #omg #funny #cool #car #cars #eat #food #drink #drinks #foryoupage #good #abc #xyz #popular #live #stream #game #gaming #gamer #games #share #youtuber #instagram #youtube #discover #talent #love #healing #healthy #lol #like #on #tutorial ♬ original sound – Austin Fire Viral

Wicked didn’t make the cut among the London Film Critics Circle noms — it wasn’t included in the Film of the Year lineup, Jon M. Chu wasn’t nominated for Best Director, and Cynthia Erivo didn’t make the Best Actress roster.

Will this generally sluggish feeling be shared among BAFTA members also? Maybe.

In a phrase, Wicked is melting in England…melting! Oh, what a world, what a world!

Maria‘s Angelina Jolie also came up short with the Brit critics. Face it — her Oscar campaign is all but dead.

Anora and The Brutalist were the big winners, although again we’re only talking nominations at this stage.

London Film Critic nominees for Film of the Year (alphabetical): All We Imagine As Light, Anora, The Brutalist, La Chimera, Conclave, Emilia Pérez, Kneecap, Nickel Boys, Nosferatu, The Substance.

Wicked is in trouble, let’s face it. It’ll be Best Picture nominated, of course, but without the BAFTA vote it’s going to come up short.

Spoiler warning: Two nights ago I finally saw the second half of Brady Corbet‘s The Brutalist, and I’m sorry but it still struck me as a gloomy, anguished drag.

Yes, it has a certain blow-me integrity (i.e., if you don’t like it, it’s your damn fault and not ours), and yes, I respect Corbet for having pulled off a film of this pretentious scale in Eastern Europe for so little money, but I still hated watching it.

Like Bob Dylan‘s Ophelia in “Desolation Row”, The Brutalist‘s sin is its lifelessness.

I didn’t care for anyone’s company in the whole film…no one did it for me. I hated the Philly-Pennsylvania atmosphere..I wanted to escape from this film more than William Holden longed to break out of Stalag 17.

I couldn’t decide which supporting character I hated more — Joe Alwyn‘s wealthy snotnose or Alessandro Nivola‘s ayehole furniture store owner. At other times I was thinking I hated Adrien Brody‘s Laszlo Toth the most. I’m saying this having loved hanging with Brody’s titular character in Roman Polanski‘s The Pianist.

I didn’t like the grim-slide vibe. All through the damn thing I felt like Ishmael contemplating “the damp, drizzly November of my soul.”

The only Act Two scene I actually kind of liked was when Felicity Jones gives Brody an under-the-sheets hand job. I know that sounds primitive and I’m sorry for this, but I perked up when she leaned over and snuggled up.

If you ask me the anal rape scene is ridiculous. Guy Pearce is playing a tough, domineering control freak industrialist, okay, but why would he want to fuck Adrien Brody in the ass just to make a point? Why would anyone want to fuck Brody in the ass?….ask yourself that. And it happens in some kind of half-lighted basement adjacent to the European stone quarry? Just a couple of guys in dark clothes and overcoats reaching and grasping and wrestling around?

Don’t even mention the Deliverance ass-rape scene in the same breath; ditto Pulp Fiction‘s.

You know what would’ve been interesting? If Brody were to fuck Jones in the ass. This would’t have made any sense, of course, but it would be bizarre or startling in a way that you wouldn’t see coming. It would make you say “wait,…what?”

Too many critics are bowing down before The Brutalist because it struts around like a heavyweight champ…adopting the posture and pretensions of a Big Important Epic Movie…the length, the overture, the intermission, the social gloom…the whole “we’re hammering home a significant statement about capitalism devouring or at least having no patience for European gentility or integrity”…the general “pay attention to this shit” feeling…the sluggish oomph of it all.

While I completely hated the first half, I merely disliked the second half. So my final verdict ie “okay, not altogether terrible but never again.”

For its 31st annual critics poll, the Dallas-Fort Worth Film Critics Association voted Sean Baker‘s Anora as the best film of 2024, and also handed Baker their Best Director award and Mikey Madison their Best Actress trophy.

Fair warning to “This is Heavy, Doc“, whose obsessive anti-Anora comments have repeatedly crossed the line. I will delete henceforth each and every comment he posts about Anora, and if he persists I will stamp his ticket and give him the boot.

The HE world (cinematic, cultural, political) is full of fascinating things to think and write about. Just no more spray-pissing on Anora, and if you won’t listen I will come down on you like a ton of bricks. Enough is enough.