Imsgine seeing Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master for the first time, and just blurting out tweets as you walked home…just pouring it out, fast and unrefined.

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This is probably a minority opinion, but speaking as one who’s been dropped cold or given the casual brush-off by several women during my hound-dog heyday (mid ’70s through late ’90s, not counting my four-year marriage from ’87 to ’91), it’s a bit more painful to dump than to get dumped.

I can think of eight or nine times when I suffered terrible heartache after getting the heave-ho. Bottom of the well, my life is over, “Can’t live if livin’ is without you,” etc.

I can recall at least two times when I was so devastated by “love lost at such a cost” that I succumbed to something close to clinical depression. One time in late ’79 I was so bummed that I slept in my West 4th Street apartment for a whole week straight, getting up only for meals or to watch an occasional TV show.

I gradually learned after suffering through these breakups that you can’t negotiate or plead or beg your way out of them. When you’ve been dumped by a woman of character or conviction, the game is over. Nothing you can say or do will change her mind.

The best you can hope for is to persuade her to agree to continue having sex while you both hunt around for the next romantic opportunity. But even that rarely happens because by the time she’s told you she wants to fly solo or see other people she’s probably already found a replacement.

In the spring of ’79 I was seeing a foxy West Village woman on an off-and-on basis. He or she who loves less always controls the relationship, so I guess I was the controller as my feelings for her were on the somewhat casual, come what may, comme ci comme ca side. Her feelings for me were more ardent, or so it seemed.

Then I met someone else who was prettier, hotter, sharper, classier — definitely a better catch. When the new thing began to happen I knew I had to tell the West Village lady. I wouldn’t dare try to two-time anyone. I wanted to play my cards honest and clean. No messing around.

Except when I visited the West Village, off-and-on apartment and lowered the boom, I felt awful. She began to cry a little bit and lament her awful luck with men, and all I could do was stand there and say “I’m really sorry.”

The difference between this and the terrible feeling of being dumped is that dumpees don’t feel guilty — all they have is the ache. But if you drop someone you feel guilty about having caused great emotional harm, or at the very least a bad bruise. You feel like a bad person.

Guess what? The woman I left her for dumped me six months later.

The only other time I felt like this was when a woman I’d been seeing on a fairly serious basis became aware of a little side dalliance with a married woman. (We’d met while performing in a community theatre play.) The serious relationship woman began to quake with weeping, and all of a sudden I felt like a beast who needed to be whipped. I’m sorry so sorry sorry…I’ll never do this again…please, forgive me…so sorry.

Boiled down, hurting someone feels much worse than being hurt.

Specific thoughts will be tapped out later this afternoon…

I’m planning on seeing Paris Barclay‘s Billy Preston: That’s The Way God Planned It, although not today. (Screening conflict with Wicked.) Recapping Preston’s glory years is worth the ticket price, but I’m wondering to what extent, if any, the film will get into how Preston’s heavily Christian background led to intense inner conflict over being gay, and how that seemed to usher in a pattern of drug abuse.

Preston’s highly charged performance of “That’s The Way God Planned It” during George Harrison’s Concert for Bangladesh is easily the highlight of Saul Swimmer’s 1972 doc.

DocNYC boilerplate: “Mega-talented keyboardist and songwriter Billy Preston was often referred to as “the best musician in the room.” Stylistically influenced by the Black church, Preston’s illustrious career includes collaborations with Aretha Franklin, the Rolling Stones, Elton John, the Beatles, etc.

“A private man who turned to drugs to dull the pain of personal trauma, Preston’s poignant story unfolds through insights from Billy Porter, Eric Clapton and whomever, complemented by rare footage and an original score by Robert Glasper.”

Wiki excerpt: “Preston had become close friends with musician Sly Stone around the same time he was engaged to actress and model Kathy Silva. Preston was devastated when he came home one day to find Stone in bed with Silva (who later married Stone on stage at Madison Square Garden). According to Preston’s manager Joyce Moore, Silva’s affair with Stone was the trigger that led Preston to stop having relationships with women. It was after this incident that he began using cocaine and having sex with men. Moore saw his drug abuse as his way of coping with the conflict he felt about his sexual urges.”

How about “some the Gold Derby gangbangers aren’t cool enough to be part of the Gate Crashers“? How about them apples?

Jeff “insneider” Sneider posted this last night:

Halfdan Ullmann Tondel’s Armand will enjoy a qualifying theatrical run in New York City on 11.29.24. A limited theatrical release will kick off on 2.7.25 with a wide theatrical break slated for 2.14.25. It runs 117 minutes.

Posted from Cannes on Sunday, 5.19: “Armand” — Best Film of the Festival So Far, Hands Down

Scott Feinberg’s Awards Chatter podcast interview with Horizon maestro Kevin Costner begins in a few minutes so distraction levels are high, but there’s no question whatsoever that Halfdan Ullmann Tondel’s Armand, which I caught early this morning, is the finest film here, and I mean way, WAY above the level of Emilia Perez.

All hail the lead performance by Renate Reinsve (The Worst Person in the World)!

…are set for New York and Los Angeles on 11.25, and in damn near every major city across the country in early December. The review embargo lifts on Tuesday morning, December 10th.

…I immediately flashed on this legendary clip from Conan’s talk show, which was taped on 5.15.97 — 27 and 1/2 years ago. Conan, Courtney Thorne-Smith and Norm McDonald. The comedic back and forth was between Norm and Conan, of course, and Thorne-Smith was the tennis ball. Conan wasn’t the instigator, of course — Norm was. Conan mainly tried to protect Thorne-Smith, but he quickly gave up.

Thorne-Smith is now 57 or 58 years old, married to Roger Fishman, and mom to a 16 year-old son, Jacob Emerson Fishman.

“Democrats became the party of ‘you can’t say that’…” Look where they are now.

…through the second half of Brady Corbet‘s The Brutalist, and I would be…well, not happy but accepting of a chance to attend a Manhattan screening of same at the earliest opportunity. (Or obtain a streaming link.) But if I can’t manage this I’ll have to wait until Corbet’s morose, torture-chamber flick opens commercially on Friday, 12.20, or nearly five weeks hence.

Has Walter Brennan been posthumously cancelled? Hollywood’s progressive vanguard needs to do so tout de suite. Perhaps install a special Brennan exhibit in the Academy museum called “Hollywood’s Shameful Shielding of a Rightwing Fanatic”? Seriously, Brennan’s social-political views made John Wayne look like Norman Thomas.

Here’s Rollyson’s website.

Two or three days ago Cameraimage festival director Marek Żydowicz made a huge political error by writing, boiled down, that enforcing DEI gender quotas (i.e., more women directors and dps) could lead to “mediocre film productions” in place of the proverbial good stuff.

Industry progressives have freaked out over this. Directors Steve McQueen (Blitz) and Coralie Fargeat (The Substance) have bailed on attending the forthcoming Polish festival as a protest against Zydowicz’s statement.

Zydowicz has offered an apology and an explanation, but let’s cut to the chase.

Politically ill-advised as Zydowicz’s 11.8.24 article obviously was, saying that DEI quotas allow for potential mediocrity in the ranks is not a lie or a misstatement. It’s true in theory, and anyone who states that artistic quality is more important or more valuable than equity and representation is not standing on shaky ground.

An excerpt from Zydowicz’s mea culpa: