Filed from Cannes on 5.15.16: “Nathan Morlando‘s Mean Dreams isn’t blazingly original, but I found it a handsome, pared-down thing that doesn’t give in to the usual blam-blam when a gun is purchased and push comes to shove. If a cover band really knows how to perform classic Malick rock — Badlands meets Cop Car meets Ain’t Them Bodies Saints meets A Simple Plan meets No Country for Old Men — and they include a riff or two of their own then I really don’t see the problem.

“It isn’t how familiar something seems as much as how spare and straight the chops feel. Take, assimilate, make anew. And the quality of the performances, which in this case struck me as near-perfect in the case of co-leads Josh Wiggins and Sophie Nelisse, and a bad-cop, pervy-dad turn by Bill Paxton that…okay, felt a little moustache-twirly at times and yet acceptable enough in the context of greed, alcohol and obsession.

“Plus Colm Feore‘s slightly less corrupt lawman plus Steve Cosens‘ handsome cinematography and a sometimes slammy percussive score by Son Lux…solid as far as it goes.

“And then along came Variety‘s Guy Lodge and The Hollywood Reporter‘s David Rooney last night with pooh-pooh reviews, essentially calling it too derivative and/or not twisty enough. I felt a little queasy as I read these reviews around 11 pm last night, as if some kind of virus had gotten into my system from the wrong kind of seafood. Lodge and Rooney and whomever else are entitled to piss on anything they want but I know it when a film feels steady and restrained and is more or less up to something honorable.

“This is who I am, take it or leave it. I’m smug, lazy, less than intellectually rigorous, committed to my preferred realm…and that’s as far as it goes. The two twains — mine and the one that the news media follows or subscribes to — will never meet. Ever. I’m here to restore and protect American whiteness and to repel or at least compromise any and all people of darker pigmentations. The good, average Americans who voted for me obviously support this. So basically I don’t back off and I’m keeping my guns holstered, and that’s that. If any of you have questions…I don’t know why I just asked that, knowing what the lying media will do with my answers…”

Paris is probably the greatest aroma town I’ve ever sunk into. A feast wherever you go — Montmarte, Oberkampf, Montparnasse, Passy. The Seine at night, outdoor markets (especially in the pre-dawn hours), the aroma of sauces and pasta dishes coming from cafes, warm breads, scooter and bus exhaust, strong cigarettes, strong coffee, Middle Eastern food stands (onions, sliced meats, spices), gelato shops, etc.

And the only way to really savor these aromas, obviously, is to do so in the open air and preferably on a scooter or motorcycle so you can enjoy them in rapid succession. It’s the only way to travel over there, certainly in the warmer months. I’ve never felt so intensely alive and unbothered as during my annual Paris scooter roam-arounds.

From 3.16.15 post called “Symphonies of Scent“:

“When I let my cat Zak outside in the morning, the first thing he does is hop onto the fence and raise his head slightly and just smell the world. He’s revelling in the sampling of each and every aroma swirling around, sniffing and sniffing again, everything he can taste. I was thinking this morning how delighted and fulfilled he seemed, and how maybe I should do a little more of this myself. Take a moment and sample as many scents as possible.

“The problem with so much of Los Angeles today, of course, is that too much of it has been smothered by massive shopping malls and buildings and parking lots, and dominated by the faint aromas (if you want to call them that) of asphalt, plastic, trash bins, concrete, sheetrock and car and truck exhaust — which doesn’t smell like very much of anything.

Elia Kazan on Marlon Brando’s exterior toughness vs. inner gentleness and tenderness: “When Marlon plays those love scenes with Eva Marie Saint, I’m broken up. When he’s asking her to understand him. A tough guy revealing a side to himself that you didn’t expect…something in the audience that they recognize…some sort of tenderness…and at the same time he was a sonafabitch, a bad person, a betrayer.

“And yet people wanted to reach out and help him. I was lucky to have him. He’s both hardy and indifferent, and at the same time wants you to love him very much. That one person would need so much from another person. He had that ambivalence.

“We all do, don’t we? We all marry or hopefully marry or hopefully hook up with some lady [who’s] gonna make us feel ‘we’re okay’ or ‘we’re better’ and all that. We search for it and want it and crave it and all that, and sometime it happens and sometimes it happens for a while. And something in that basic story, I think, is what stirs people. Not the social-political thing so much as the human element.”

I’m posting the following Michael Moore Facebook message because of an arresting three-word question that concludes this excerpt: “Our job this morning is to call our members of Congress and US Senators — especially the Democrats — and demand that they cease all Congressional business until they appoint a special committee to investigate the “numerous” links between the Trump campaign and Russian intelligence officials. They must also call upon Attorney General Sessions to recuse himself and appoint a special prosecutor.

“The Dems must bring a halt to anything happening on the floor of the Senate or House until this is done. To carry on as if this potentially traitorous action never happened, to just go about ‘business as usual’ today, is an OBSCENITY. Hundreds of thousands of your relatives and mine died so we could have this most basic of rights: A free and fair and incorruptible election. If we are not willing to fight for THIS, then WHO ARE WE?”

Will Scott Feinberg’s 2.16 scoop about plans for Bonnie and Clyde costars Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway to co-present the Best Picture Oscar result in a fuck-you pushback? “Several sources say Oscar telecast producers Michael DeLuca and Jennifer Todd [have] personally reached out to the duo to present the award” as a tribute to the 50th anniversary of Bonnie and Clyde, Feinberg writes. “Plans could change,” he adds, “but sources say the Oscars run of show is being finalized this week.”

If you know anything about the guarded, occasionally prickly attitude of entrenched Hollywood producers toward trade journalists, you may suspect that Deluca and Todd are thinking about finding replacements for Beatty and Dunaway as we speak.

I’m thinking in particular of Lyndon Johnson‘s reaction to Ben Bradlee‘s May 1964 Newsweek story about his intention to replace FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. (The source was impeccable — LBJ’s press secretary Bill Moyers.) Right after the story broke Johnson called a press conference and announced that he was putting Hoover in charge of the agency “for life”. He then turned to Moyers and said, “Call Bradlee and tell him to go fuck himself.”

The 2017 Sundance and Santa Barbara film festivals are history, the Spirits and the Oscars are less than two weeks away and all but concluded in the minds of most, and I for one am ready to jump into the 2017 batting cage and start swinging. But not until the next three weekends are past us. Okay, one or two might pass muster. This Friday’s (2.17) top openers are Gore Verbinski‘s A Cure For Wellness (already dismissed as a shortfaller) and Zhang Yimou‘s The Great Wall (Chinese monster epic, Matt Damon)…nothing. The 2.24 toppers are Eran Creevy‘s Collide (blah) and Jordan Peele‘s Get Out….wait, this might be something. The three big openers on 2.28 are Ry Russo Young‘s Before I Fall, James Mangold‘s Logan (might be decent) and Stuart Hazeldine‘s The Shack (faith movie with HE’s own Octavia Spencer as God). As far as I’m concerned the first two rip-snorters are opening on 3.10 — Jordan Vogt-Roberts‘ Kong: Skull Island and Oliver Assayas‘ Personal Shopper. Don’t listen to the naysayers — anyone who dismisses this film needs to refresh their browser and/or upload new software. Here’s my coverage going back to last May’s Cannes Film Festival.

In the latest Gurus of Gold chart, seven industry pulse-takers — Vox‘s Greg Ellwood, Today‘s Dave Karger, L.A. Times critic Mark Olsen, MCN’s David Poland, Awards Daily‘s Sasha Stone, Susan Wloszczyna (ala Suzie Woz) and L.A. Times staffer Glenn Whipp — are predicting a Best Actor Oscar win by Fences‘ Denzel Washington with only four — Toronto Star critic Peter Howell, TheWrap‘s Steve Pond, The Film Experience‘s Nathaniel R and Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson — sticking by longtime frontrunner Casey Affleck, who gives the performance of his career in Manchester By The Sea.

The Denzel surge is about the SAG win, of course, but two things have happened since to alter the chemistry — i.e., Affleck winning the BAFTA Best Actor trophy and Deadline‘s Mike Fleming running an in-depth, highly flattering making-of-Manchester piece.

Yes, there’s a perception of a horse race here and I’m not saying it’s settled, but I am saying that the Denzel surge happened two weeks ago and has since receded.

A year or so ago I posted the following about Love, the quirky Netflix romcom series created by Judd Apatow, Lesley Arfin and Paul Rust, and starring Gillian Jacobs, Rust, and Claudia O’Doherty. A new 12-episode second season will debut on 3.10. My earlier riff was basically about the fact that even by the laws of the Apatow realm (i.e., guys who were too schlubby or dweeby-looking to be cast as hapless best friends in the ’80s or ’90s are now playing leads who get the girl), Rust is too Eddie Deezen-ish to land Jacobs as a girlfriend:

“The writing on Love is obviously first-rate (genuine, unforced, not too cute) and the acting seems fine…okay, pretty good. Everything seems right and harmonious except for one small element. In real life Paul Rust would be too dorky-looking to attract someone as hot as Gillian Jacobs. She looks like Kathryn Harrold, for God’s sake, and Harrold was a little too hot even for Albert Brooks in Modern Romance.

“Girls like Jacobs know what they have and the kind of guy they can land with a little luck and connivance. If Rust was lucky enough to pair up with Jacobs in real life it would be one of those odd relationships in which both parties realize that she’s doing him a huge favor. These always end sooner or later because the guy starts to feel diminished because he doesn’t feel he has any sense of equality; he feels like a waiter who’s been given an astonishing tip.

“These things also end because it’s always just a matter of time before she decides ‘okay, he’s cool and a good soul and not a bad lover, but that beak! Plus he’s neurotic and bothersome in about 17 or 18 different ways, and I know I could do better if I get out there and start sniffing around.’

Snctm is an upscale, laid-back orgy thing with tuxedoes and masks a la Eyes Wide Shut. The after-the-jump video reminded me of Manhattan’s HellFire Club, which I visited twice in ’80 or ’81, both times accompanied by Swedish dominatrix Eva Norvind and once by a publicist friend. Located at 9th Avenue and 14th Street when the meatpacking district was a rawer, more challenging environment, it was a sex club that a lot of people attended just to watch. Some gay action but mostly straight, and more particularly couples performing BDSM routines. I can remember nursing a Jack Daniels and ginger ale as I watched a guy and a girl “so entwined” (as Dylan once put it) on a slightly raised wooden platform behind the bar, lying on a mattress and doing the old gymnastic whambam. The Hellfire Club was run by a BDSM enthusiast named Lenny Waller. The original 19th Century Hellfire Clubs of England and Ireland were exclusive hangs for high society rakes — i.e., “persons of quality” — who wished to take part in socially perceived immoral acts…the clubs were rumored to have distant ties to an elite society known as The Order of the Second Circle.”

Even without the recent flare-up of the Trump Muslim ban and the natural, humanist instinct to respond to that, Asghar Farhadi‘s The Salesman should be — is — the clear favorite among the Best Foreign Language feature nominees. Farhadi can’t help but exude brilliance, such that even a respectably midrange effort like The Salesman (which, despite its admirably unhurried pacing, subtle plot turns and fascinating social undercurrents, isn’t quite the equal of A Separation or The Past) is clearly superior to the other four nominees — Toni Erdmann, Land of Mine, A Man Called Ove, Tanna. On top of which we have had the attempted Muslim travel ban (thankfully neutered by the courts), and…well, what other choice in the wake of that?