Hidden Figures‘ Kevin Costner speaking with Variety‘s Kris Tapley about Dances With Wolves:

“There was an undertone out there that was ugly. It was ‘Kevin’s Gate,’ like, ‘What’s he doing out there? This movie is a disaster.’ I didn’t know where that had come from. I know this: I had to turn down The Hunt for Red October because I had promised I would do Dances, and some people thought me saying no to Hunt for Red October was [because] I needed more money.

“It wasn’t more money. I had already postponed Dances for a year and I wasn’t going to do it now. I had all my things in place. In fact, if anything, it caused me a lot of pain because there was more money offered on Hunt for Red October than I had ever seen in my life. So I was doing the dumb thing. I was putting up my money and leaving behind the biggest check I had ever seen.”

When Dances won Best Picture along with six other Oscars, “It was like ‘I got my money back!,” Costner recalls. “I got my house back!’”

Jeffrey Wells to David O. Russell: “It’s cool that you’ll be co-presenting Lion with Lee Daniels at [an event next week]. I’m a limited fan. I love the beginning section with the kid lost and alone and not knowing what to do, and of course the finale definitely works.

“But just between you, me and the walls…do you really and truly like the Dev Patel middle portion in Australia with Nicole Kidman and Rooney Mara, etc.? I hated that part of it. I hate that sensitive hurting look on Patel’s face…’I don’t feel whole, I don’t really know who I am, I’m adopted, I have to find my home,’ etc. I didn’t give a shit about any of that. I didn’t care about Patel or his relationship with Rooney…none of it. I almost walked out.

“Then Dev finally makes his way back to India and finds the village and reunites with his mom….THAT part works. So it’s that plus the kid in the beginning with a dead middle section.

“I realize that Joe and Jane Popcorn love this film (it won the Audience Award in Toronto), but it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that you, the crazy-brilliant David O. Russell, would really be into. But whatever. What do I know?”

That Neil Armstrong biopic that Damien Chazelle has been talking about directing for over two years is a definite go project. First Man (based on the same-titled James Hansen biography) will begin shooting sometime in early ’17 with Ryan Gosling portraying the legendary Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon.

Armstrong was also regarded as one of the dullest famous guys who ever lived. I’m not suggesting that First Man will be that. Chazelle is too inventive to let that happen. His recreation of the 7.20.69 Apollo 11 moon landing will be worth the price in itself. It was reported eight years ago that the book would be adapted by Nicole Perlman, but Chazelle’s film will be based on a script by Josh Singer(Spotlight, The Fifth Estate).

A 9.24.14 Slashfilm story mentioned that First Man “has been bouncing around Hollywood for over a decade. At one point, Warner Bros. had it set up for Clint Eastwood to produce and direct.”

Here’s something I wrote when Armstrong died in late August of 2012:

“Neil Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon and allegedly one of the dullest guys to ever do something momentous, died today at age 82. Let’s offer due respect for his and NASA’s brilliant achievement and for Armstrong being the super-reliable and resourceful pilot that his colleagues always spoke of.

I’m not sure that Gene Wilder‘s “be careful what you wish for…you may get it” advice [after the jump] is sinking in very much. Most people would he happy to get this hot girl or that great-looking house. If the relationship doesn’t work out or if the house loses its lustre and you wind up selling it or whatever…so what? Most people would say “get the girl” or “buy the house” or both, and worry about the details later. As I listened to Wilder, I thought of something Keith David‘s “King” character said to Charlie Sheen‘s “Chris Taylor” in Platoon: “You gotta be rich in the first place to think like that.”

Variety‘s Peter Debruge has written a Debbie Reynolds tribute piece. He partly focuses on the seminal influence of Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen‘s Singin’ In The Rain (’52), in which Reynolds costarred at age 19. Underappreciated when it came out in 1952, Rain is “easily the most delightful Hollywood-plays-itself movie ever made, thanks in no small part to the purity of Reynolds’ performance,” Debruge says, and “one of the great screen musicals of all time.”

No argument from this horse. I “like” and respect Singin’ In The Rain as far as it goes. God knows, the lore of the damn thing has been pounded into my head my whole life. Which is one reason why I own that remastered 60th anniversary Singin’ in the Rain Bluray, which comes with spirited commentary from Reynolds and costar Donald O’Connor, among others.

I nearly popped this Bluray into my Oppo last night in honor of Reynolds’ passing, but I couldn’t quite do it. A little voice told me “wait…maybe not.” The reason for this reticence, I remembered this morning, was expressed four and a half years ago in a piece called “Rain Fatigue”:

“The older I get, the harder it is to really enjoy Singin’ in the Rain,” I began. “I can still appreciate what’s ‘classic’ and ‘joyous’ about it. The problem is that it feels — has always felt — forced and a bit clenched.

Debbie Reynolds, the 84 year-old actress and musical legend who was the mother of the just-departed Carrie Fisher, died this afternoon after being hit with a stroke around 1 pm. It doesn’t feel like a stretch to imagine that the stress brought on by her daughter’s passing might have been a contributing factor.

Debbie’s breakout performance in 1952’s Singin’ In The Rain (shot when she was only 19, which was also Carrie’s age when she made Star Wars: A New Hope) is her most referenced. Her biggest subsequent films were The Catered Affair (’56), Tammy and the Bachelor (’57), How the West Was Won (1963), The Unsinkable Molly Brown (’64), Divorce American Style (’67) and Albert Brooks‘ Mother (’96), and In & Out (1997). Ms. Reynolds became the Jennifer Aniston of the early ’60s when her husband, pop singer Eddie Fisher, left her for Elizabeth Taylor, who in turn became that era’s Angelina Jolie. Reynolds was also a popular nightclub and concert performer until relatively recently.

A superb, warts-and-all portrait of Debbie and Carrie’s recent joys and travails is contained in Alexis Bloom and Fisher Stevens‘ Bright Lights: Starring Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds, which will air three months hence on HBO. 2016 — the killer that keeps on killing.

I can’t let 2016 slip away without offering a final thanks to Hillary Clinton and the corporate-funded, 50-plus, go-along neoliberal DNC establishment machine for ushering in a Donald Trump victory, and in so doing permitting the worst catastrophe since 9/11 to be visited upon the U.S.A. Seriously….thanks, guys! Thanks for refusing to recognize what was going on during the primaries (Trump and Bernie Sanders tapping into the same angry, fed-up voter pool) and willing yourselves into believing that Hillary would somehow marshall that anger and use it to win because it was time for a woman in the Oval Office, when in fact she represented, however ignorantly, what these angry voters were fed up with and wanted to get rid of. Yes, I voted for Hillary in order to deny Trump, but I never liked her, not really. And too many angry, fact-free dumbshits hated her, and that’s why she lost. And now we’re in hell. Thanks, genderists! And thanks, low-information African-American voters for torpedoing Bernie in the southern states because he didn’t have a black-enough vibe…good one! And thanks, Elizabeth Warren, for not challenging Hillary in the primaries — you could’ve been the female Bernie figure and a winner to boot. (Would Jill Stein have run if Warren had landed the nomination? I doubt it.) And thanks, Hillary, for choosing Tim stodgy Kaine as your vice-president instead of Warren or somebody with serious anti-corporate credentials.

What’s the response to what I’ve been saying since November, which is that it’s a taut, better-than-decent, above-average docudrama and that the Act Two gunfight sequence in Watertown is a classic of its kind?

Three years ago I bought a high-def (HDX) version of Michelangelo Antonioni‘s Blow-Up (’66) on Vudu. It’s easily the sharpest, best-looking version I’ve ever seen. Does this mean I’m not interested in the forthcoming Criterion Bluray (3.28.17)? No, I’m interested. Restored 4K digital transfer plus the usual extras (including a new 52-minute doc about the making of this seminal ’60s culture film). I’m there — a sucker for this stuff.

Am I appalled at Criterion’s apparent intention to crop this new version at 1.85:1? Yes, I am. Because it was shot in 1.66, and should damn well be presented that way. Will it look awful at 1:85? No, but it’ll be wrong to do this. When I think of all that wonderful headroom being sliced off…

And the Criterion guys used to agree with me! A scan of the notes used for a Criterion CAV laserdisc of Blow-Up says the following: “This edition of Blowup was transferred from a 35mm master print in the correct aspect ratio of 1.66:1. The soundtrack was mastered from a 35mm magnetic track.” In a 2010 review of a Japanese DVD version, which was cropped at 1.78:1, DVD Beaver‘s Gary W. Tooze wrote the following: “We can confirm that these DVDs are in the incorrect aspect ratio. This film was definitely shot at 1.66.”

What’s behind this exactly? Why do viewers routinely complain about films that last longer than 115 or 120 minutes but are always down with six, eight or ten-hour commitments at home? I’ve said repeatedly that movies are a more difficult form to crack than longform cable narratives, and are therefore more formidable in the long run — higher nutritional levels, greater linger-effect, etc. The other factor, obviously, is that couch comfort trumps the communal theatrical experience all to hell. People start to get itchy after the two-hour mark, but weekend binge-viewings are far less challenging and actually soothing on a certain level. If, that is, you don’t mind sprawling narratives that just go on and on because there are so many hours to fill.

Every so often a Rolling Stones earbug will take over. It happened last March in Hanoi with “Monkey Man.” Now it’s “Backstreet Girl” — a gentle mood piece with a waltzy tempo. Well, not lyrically “gentle” — it’s actually an ode to heartlessness and diminishment in which a married guy tells a sometime girlfriend to keep her distance. But the musical accompaniment — vibraphone (Brian Jones), harpsichord (Jack Nitzsche) and accordion (Nick de Carolulls) — lulls and soothes. Especially the accordion. The arrangement argues with the content and vice versa, but that’s the odd charm of it. Again, the mp3.

“Backstreet Girl” was on the British version of Between The Buttons (’66) but not the U.S. version — it later turned up on Flowers (’67).