London Film Critic Noms Hint at “Wicked” Weakness Across The Pond

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.

Finally Slogged Through Second Half of “The Brutalist”

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.”

Dallas-Ft. Worth Crickets Hand Three Major Trophies to “Anora”

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.

A Movie For People With The Ability To Feel Stuff

Before last night’s Manhattan screening of A Complete Unknown (Searchlight, 12.25) I wrote that I expected James Mangold‘s film to “at least hold its own and perhaps even improve slightly”, especially given that “I already know what’s wrong with it so there won’t be any unexpected potholes.”

Well, guess what? The HE approval meter rose at least 30% or 40%. It’s a constant drip of pleasure, pleasure, pleasure…one anthem-like song after another…this is the real “sing sing.” Tears welled up again in the same first-act portions. The crowd applauded when it ended. A 40ish woman sitting behind me said to someone nearby that she “loved it…loved it.”

My third or fourth viewing will presumably happen with subtitles, and then I can really savor Timothee Chalamet‘s dialogue, which he slurs and mutters and mumbles most of the time. I heard most of the good lines (“you can be ugly or beautiful but you can’t be plain”) but I’d like to read all of them.

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Seconds

I expect A Complete Unknown to at least hold its own and perhaps even improve slightly. I already know, of course, what’s wrong with it so there won’t be any unexpected potholes.

Dreaming of Dino, Who Passed 14 Years Ago

With two or three exceptions, the films produced by Dino de Laurentiis were either lacking, mediocre or groan-worthy. I’m sorry but that’s the truth. We’re nonetheless supposed to speak of Dino fondly because he was colorful…because he invested on instinct and swaggered around.

Because I didn’t fall for the sentimental Dino legend, my 2010 obit was derided.

Shortlist Bullshit…Who Cares?

Nobody cares very much about the cheeseball movies that have been shortlisted…baaah! None of them (and I’m including Emilia Perez and Dune sequel) are serious, top-tier bell-ringers. It’s all bunk and blather, I tell you.

Son of Great Wounded Fellow

Originally posted in 2008: Frank Pierson‘s King of the Gypsies is a fairly difficult film to sit through. It’s a stab at trying to give a Godfather-like treatment to gypsy culture, and there’s just no believing it.

While it “isn’t the worst film of the year,” said N.Y. Times critic Vincent Canby in his 12.20.78 review, “the gypsies should sue.”


Degraded Polaroid photo of King of the Gypsies star Sterling Hayden and journalist during filming in late ’77 (or was it early ’78?) at Manhattan’s Plaza hotel.

But the film carries a special memory for me, however, as I managed an interview with star Sterling Hayden during filming in Manhattan in late ’77. Hayden, who lived in my home town of Wilton, Connecticut, and whom I knew faintly because of this, was the first “name” guy I ever sat down with for a piece.

A good actor but an even better writer, eloquent and blustery, and a “bothered” malcontent from way back, Hayden — 62 at the time — was a tall, bearded Zeus-like figure, and one of the first bohemian-minded older guys I’d had the pleasure of slightly knowing.

He liked being the ornery old rebel, and was fairly open to hanging with younger fans like myself. I visited his Wilton home two or three times to listen and learn and shoot the shit. (It helped that I knew all of his films, and had strong opinions about his best performances.) I never got high with Hayden, but I knew a couple of Wilton guys who told me they did. Hash, they said.

Hayden had some legendary problems with the bottle. He wasn’t all that different from Roger Wade, the alcoholic writer he portrayed in Robert Altman‘s The Long Goodbye. (Hayden was less bitter.) He would do rehab and fasting from time to time. I remember him saying once that fasting “is the precise opposite of debauch…the hard thing is to hold that middle ground, hold that middle ground.”

My King of the Gypsies interview with Hayden took place in a hotel room at the Plaza hotel, where filming was happening that day. It was sometime in the mid-afternoon, and I recall his downing a couple of large glasses of Johnnie Walker Red over a two-hour period. Hayden wasn’t much of a give-and-taker. He was the Great Man who’d been through it all, knew it all and had a lot to say. It was all about feeding him set-up lines and and letting nature takes its course.

He told me that producer Dino de Laurentiis had given him a copy of Lorenzo Semple, Jr.‘s script of Hurricane, in hopes that Hayden would agree to costar. When De Laurentiis asked what he thought, Hayden said (or so he told me), “I gotta tell ya — I think it’s crap!” Bristling, De Laurentiis replied, “You’re the first person who’s said that!” A day or two later Hayden talked to a De Laurentiis development guy who said, “Naahh…you’re not the first.”

The best moment of our interview happened when Hayden began speaking of his farmer role in Bernardo Bertolucci‘s 1900. He said that Bertolucci had let him write his own dialogue, and was proud of a line he’d written for his death scene. I knew it and said it before he did — “I’ve always loved the wind.” Hayden patted my knee and said “Hod love ya.” NTalk about a bonding moment.

“Queer” Over “Challengers”

Owen Gleiberman‘s “Challengers should be Oscar nominated” essay (posted a few hours ago) ends with this passage: “If a movie like Challengers is nudged aside by the Oscars, that becomes a way of devaluing it.”

Such a dismissive snub, he argues, will amount to “Oh, a dazzlingly fun movie that was popular? That’s not up to our standards.”

Gleiberman: “Over the years, the Oscars have been accused of many things, from vulgarity to irrelevance. The last thing the Oscars should leave themselves open to being accused of is snobbery.”

Due respect, no offense and full affection, but Owen has leapt onto the wrong Guadagnino horse.

Challengers is sporadically intriguing and certainly different in its approach to a well-bonered, relationship-driven sports drama, but it pales alongside Luca’s Queer, which I regard as not just masterful but a breakthrough — “one of the most fascinating, out-there films about vulnerability, transformative intimacy and emotionality that I’ve ever seen.”

To me Challengers was intriguing in a left-field sort of way, but it didn’t fulfill my idea of “crowd pleasing.” Plus Zendaya is too much of a mouseburger, and I didn’t like Mike Faist‘s alabaster skin and champagne-tinted ginger hair.

Posted on 4.16.24: Last night I saw Luca Guadagnino and Justin KuritzkesChallengers (Amazon, 4.26), and as far as “tennis pros engaged in romantic triangle” flicks go it’s fairly out there, man.

Challengers hasn’t been written and shot in my preferred style (like King Richard, my all-time favorite tennis movie) but I respect and admire the fact that Guadagnino, the director, has made a jumpy, flourishy, time-skotching, impressionistic, mostly hetero but also vaguely homoerotic film that…what’s the term, broadens your horizons? Challenges you and wakes you up? Makes a dent in your psyche?

It doesn’t do the usual thing and certainly pushes a few boundaries, but I like that for the most part. I certainly prefer films that try different strategies over ones that adhere to predictable ones.

So, putting this carefully, I didn’t love everything about it (which puts me in a minority) but I loved the verve, the effort, the invention, the ballsiness. I was irked here and there but I certainly wasn’t bored. All in all the audacity and impulsiveness of Challengers makes it Guadagnino’s best film since Call Me By Your Name. Really.

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