The word is out among all mentally unstable bums who ride New York City subways…party’s over, trim your sails. MTA passengers have their champion.

How corrupt, laughable and dismissable is the 2024 version of the Golden Globe awards? Especially with Penske Media owning the Globes alongside its ownership of Variety, Deadline, The Hollywood Reporter, IndieWire and Gold Derby? If you ask me the Globes are a bought-and-paid-for woke whore show, and for proof of this you needn’t look any further than the ten Emilia Perez nominations that were announced this morning…ten!

A better-than-decent film that I liked or at least respected after seeing it in Cannes last May, Perez is audaciously conceived, directed and performed, but it is first and foremost a trans identity showhorse, and without this social-political element few would be cheering or perhaps even paying attention. On top of which nobody outside the entrenched wokester chorus, which is led in this instance by the LGBTQ whoo-whoo brigade and their media lapdogs…nobody really loves Emilia Perez.

I can sense it, feel it…they love the “idea” of Karla Sofia Gascon, a transitioned biomale, being touted for Best Actress, and they certainly don’t want to mutter the slightest criticism of Perez lest they be labelled as transphobes, but deep down they’re just pleased or “okay” with it. It’s not touching them where they live. They’re not jumping up and down. And the Golden Globes nominations can’t brush this aside.

And how, by the way, can the Globes have nominated Anora, Emilia Perez, Challengers, A Real Pain, The Substance and Wicked for Best Motion Picture — Musical or Comedy, and not A Complete Unknown — the Dylan biopic that soars on the wings of music, music and more music? It’s nominated in the drama category but how can it not be considered a musical?

On top of which the corrupt Globies nominated the all-but-unbearable The Brutalist, a cigarette-smoking, heroin-shooting, bamboo-shoots-shoved-under-your-fingernails experience if I’ve endured one, for six or seven nominations…get outta my life! Average Joes and Janes will be throwing soft-drink containers at the screen when it opens commercially.

HE is very pleased, however, that the great Yura Borisov, the compassionate Anora thug, has been nominated for Best Supporting Performance. He was also handed this award yesterday by the LAFCA foodies.

Borisov’s competition: A Real Pain‘s Kieran Culkin, A Complete Unknown‘s Edward Norton, The Apprentice‘s Jeremy Strong, Gladiator II‘s Denzel Washginton and The Brutalist‘s Guy Pearce.

Friendo who attended this evening’s A Complete Unknown screening at the old Academy theatre (Wilshire & La Peer): “The house waas completely full, and the audience went crazy for the film and actors. i’ve never seen a response like this in many decades of watching films at The Academy. Extraordinary.”

HE: “A bigger, more exuberant response than the one for Emilia Perez a a few weeks ago?”

Friendo: “Bigger response, bigger audience. Standing and clapping through the credits. Huge applause for each of the actors.”

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HE continues to frown upon the bourgeois brunch-munching but LAFCA has done a good thing by boosting Sean Baker’s farcical Brooklyn dramedy.

HE also applauds the Boston Society of Film Critics for heaping even more praise upon Anora — Best Picture, Best Director (Sean Baker), Best Actress (Mikey Madison) and Best Original Screenplay (Baker).

The other night in the Village Market I was struck by a decades-old memory pang. The creased but attractive face of a middle-aged, possibly 60ish woman in a black overcoat is what triggered it.

I was 85% to 90% certain I’d run into her back in the ‘70s, so to alleviate that 10% to 15% of doubt I did the unthinkable: I politely approached her in the soaps and Febreze and detergents aisle and asked if she’d been running around Wilton in the mid ‘70s, or if she was a contemporary of an ex-girlfriend of mine who’d graduated from Wilton High in ‘75 or ‘76.

It wasn’t her negative reply (no biggie) as much as a resigned or forlorn look on her face that suddenly colored the mood. For she hadn’t graduated in the ‘70s but in 1989, she said, or 35 years ago. Which means she’s currently around 53, give or take.

Alas, my question had indicated (and there was no going back on this!) that her appearance, in my judgment, might be that of a lassie in her mid ‘60s.

Honestly? Fetching as she is for an older woman (she has a cute chipmunk face), she could have been 65 or thereabouts. I’m sorry but some of us look our age or younger than (especially if you’ve had some Prague touch-ups), and some of us look a bit worse for wear. And now I’d insulted this poor lady in a supermarket aisle, and there was no honest way to apologize.

Chipmunk lady had entered the market as a woman in her early 50s, a GenXer feeling pretty good about her life, and left it as someone 12 or 13 years older — a retirement-age boomer looking at a biological downslope.

“No prisoners!….no prisoners!”

BREAKING: Syria TV says Bashar Assad has fled Damascus to an unknown location.

ASSAD FLED!! pic.twitter.com/dpvuzI5wsE

— Mazen Hassoun (@HassounMazen) December 8, 2024

Posted on 4.19.07: “Robert Altman‘s casually-paced detective film, released on 3.7.73, re-imagines Raymond Chandler‘s Phillip Marlowe as an old-fashioned man of honor with a zen slacker attitude. The intrepid but low-key Elliot Gould got under the skin of this loose-shoe shamus and gave the second-best performance of his life (after “Trapper John” in Altman’s M.A.S.H.)

The Long Goodbye‘s most noteworthy signature, I’ve always felt, is how Vilmos Zsigmond‘s widescreen camera is always slowly tracking in a very gentle arc to the right or left. I always saw this as a metaphor for the constant mobility and lack of roots that goes with life in Los Angeles, where the film takes place. I shared this view with Zsigmond himself, the film’s illustrious cinematographer, during a q & a at the Newport Beach Film Festival. He agreed with the thought, he said, but remarked that Altman never discussed the “meaning” of the constant camera movement. He just said, “Just keep it moving.” That’s an artist for you — go with the instinct and leave the dissertations to others.

My two favorite dialogue portions: (a) Mark Rydell, playing a haunted sociopathic gangster, mentions to Gould that he was always afraid of getting undressed in the locker room at the end of gym class because he “never had any pubic hair until I was 15 years old,” and Gould deadpans “Oh, yeah? You musta looked like one of the Three Little Pigs”; and (b) a small-town Mexican official, speaking English with a very thick accent, refers to Gould’s friend, a morally sleazy guy named Terry Lennox (Jim Bouton) who may have committed suicide, as “the deceased,” and Gould immediately says, “The diseased…yeah, right.”

As much as I’ve loved Joe Jackson’s music for the last 40-odd years, I always found his Pee-Wee Herman dress sense (nerd collars, pants pulled up to his chest, Clarabelle suspenders) more than a bit odd. Jackson turned 70 last August, and currently bears a distinct resemblance to Joe Biden.

In the comment thread for yesterday’s Sean Connery piece (“Connery In The Flesh“), an HE regular posted an anecdote from a woman friend who told him she “did” Connery way back when, and that his package was unimpressive.

I hate that kind of cheap snark so I deleted the post. Today the guy asked why.

HE to Connery disser: “I despise any and all comments that try to belittle someone’s reputation by claiming their schlong was smallish. James Ellroy once wrote that JFK was ‘hung like a cashew’…fucker! It doesn’t get much lower or scummier than that.”

Connery disser to HE: “You seem pretty obsessed with masculinity, yet when I point out that someone doesn’t measure up in a certain area, whether that yardstick is valid or not, you become really upset. Seems kinda funny to me. And BTW, the woman [who fucked Connery] is totally credible.

HE to Connery disser: “It’s a shitty thing to say. Besides almost all guys are growers. Very few have hefty animal members in repose.”

In Pablo Larrain‘s Spencer (Neon, 11.5), Kristen Stewart‘s Diana says that “beauty is useless, beauty is clothing.”

That is one of the most full-of-shit lines I’ve ever heard in a film…hell, in my entire life on this planet.

We all understand that good looks won’t do much for a person unless accompanied by sufficient smarts, social skills, a healthy lifestyle and some sort of gift or ability that can be understood and appreciated in the marketplace. But when you’re young and just starting out in whatever field (and even after you’ve gotten going), good looks are a golden passport, and they always have been. They open doors, turn people on, pave the way.

Diana became Prince Charles‘ bride because of her looks plus all the other alluring qualities. But definitely because of her looks. I mean no disrespect when I say that Charles would have never proposed if Diana had looked like, say, the quietly attractive Sally Hawkins.

If Paul McCartney had looked like Gerry Marsden (of Gerry and the Pacemakers) and John Lennon had looked like Ed Sheeran, the Beatles would have had a much tougher time of it…okay?

I really hate having to explain this, much less argue it, but there are some out there who seem to sincerely believe that looks aren’t necessarily a ticket to ride. They’re actually offended by the notion that attractiveness matters.

Five years ago IndieWire‘s David Ehrlich shrieked like a p.c. banshee when I tweeted to Jessica Chastain that an aspiring film critic not only needs to be talented, tenacious and willing to eat shit, but that it would “help” if he/she is “fetching.”

Ehrlich was appalled that anyone would even suggest that an attractive appearance might have something to do with how you’re received in mixed company or by potential employers. I called him a delusional little bitch, of course.

Bill Maher on 5.4.18: “News flash: People just like the physically attractive better. Sorry. The taller candidate usually wins the election. Studies show that the better-looking person, all things being equal, usually gets the job. Even babies prefer to look at attractive faces.”

The last time I gazed upon the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris was in mid-May of 2019. The devastating fire (which was almost certainly caused by embers flicked by some labor-union, cigarette-smoking douchebag) had happened only a few weeks before. And now it’s restored and open for business again…wonderful. But the interiors look too spruced up or scrubbed down, too 21st century film set…they didn’t try to make those glorious architectural interiors (nave, transept, apse, stained glass, Romanesque sculptures) appear marked by the centuries.