I’ve been waiting for HBO’s Westworld to shift into a more exacting and aggressive mode. It’s almost starting to feel like a Gordian Knot thing. It’s not that I’m irked by the way it’s been threading and expanding and the way all the layers are accumulating and densifying, which is interesting as far as it goes. And I like that one of the tease threads (of which there are many) is flirting with the idea of Jeffrey Wright‘s Bernard being a host or, better yet, perhaps a “mole” version of Arnold (i.e., the allegedly deceased co-founder and former partner of Anthony Hopkins‘ Ford).

And yes, I respect the hard, herculean effort required to juggle 17 significant characters and give them all interesting things to say and do and shoot back at, and I love the great sets and scenery and whatnot. And I liked the Eyes Wide Shut-like orgy scene from a couple of weeks ago.

Westworld honcho Ford (Juggernaut-era Anthony Hopkins) and his dead father. Or maybe his deceased partner Arnold. You tell me.

Westworld has definitely been holding my interest. It’s a smart, well-organized effort from a lot of bright, talented people who want to shake the tree and sample exotic fruit. It’s not boring me. Every Sunday night I’ve said to myself, “Okay, great, here we go.”

But over the last couple of episodes (the sixth, “The Adversary”, premiered last night), I’ve been saying “okay, maybe this time something will finally start to happen.” Because so far it’s been all slow-mo buildup and atmospheric layering and tantalizing embroideries and diddly-doo plot wanking. Last night Hopkins and a little-kid droid came upon a dead rotting dog, and I suddenly said to myself, “The fuck? Why am I watching a dead dog?” Something snapped. I was suddenly tired of the bullshit.

I don’t want to even flirt with the idea of all these story lines taking place concurrently. Who gives a shit?

To me, Westworld is feeling more and more like a longform puzzler and head-scratcher for nerds. Intercut, yes, with ultra-violent, Wild Bunch-like shoot-outs and occasional nudity moments (not just Thandie Newton, Evan Rachel Wood and James Marsden but sagging grizzly guys with thimble-sized dicks) in the lab, but essentially it’s a puzzle maze for gamers and dweebs.

The fact that David Chen does a weekly Slashfilm podcast called “Decoding Westworld” tells you everything.

“The Declaration of Independence, adopted on July 4, 1776, proclaimed that the 13 American colonies were detaching themselves from English rule and were therefore free and independent states — quite a brave thing, raised quite a rumpus. The United States of America would not become relatively united and cohesive until after the end of the Civil War, of course, but for 135 years the U.S. of A. at least approximated the idea of a nation more or less bonded by shared beliefs, convictions and social goals. That’s obviously no longer true. Today the U.S. of A. is impossibly divided and never the twain shall meet. The right has gone totally around the bend. The urban Blues are the Czech Republic and the rural Reds are Slovakia, and I really think it’s time for the Czechs to sign a new Declaration of Independence and cut those bozos loose.” — posted on 7.4.14.

Casey Affleck “is on the precipice of wider glory…with his much praised lead performance as a grief-stricken janitor in Kenneth Lonergan’s Manchester by the Sea (Roadside, 11.18),” writes N.Y. Times award-season columnist Cara Buckley. “The movie, and Mr. Affleck’s turn, drew gasps at this year’s big film festivals, along with awards chatter; the accolades heaped on Mr. Affleck included ‘the performance of his career.’

“All of which makes him squirm, or so he says. ‘The idea of someone not liking me or not liking my movie was always easier to deal with than someone really liking it,’ Mr. Affleck, 41, said in an interview last month in Manhattan. ‘I don’t know why.'”

Emily Andrews photo of Casey Affleck, copied from Cara Buckley interview piece in yesterday’s N.Y. Times.

I’ll tell him why. Most of what sounds like praise is gushy and fleeting and probably insincere to some extent, but dislike or disapproval are fairly trustworthy, at least over the short haul.

The essence of Affleck’s Lee Chandler character in Manchester is an inability to put aside a painful episode, to forgive one’s self, to move on. Some people don’t relate to a character like Lee because we’re all committed to a positive, make-it-better attitude — healing, self-improvement, growing, opening doors. But everybody has something bad that they’ve done (or have failed to do) that they can’t forgive themselves for. Everyone. For me it’s something I did when I was five or six, when I beat what looked to me like a snapping turtle with a stick, beating it so hard that I made the turtle’s shell bleed. I also feel pretty badly about descending into vodka abuse from ’93 to early ’96, and the shit that came out of that.

Everyone has one or two of these episodes stuck in their craw, and if you can’t relate to Lee Chandler’s plight in Manchester, you’re probably being dishonest with yourself to some extent.

From Alan Rappeport N.Y. Times story, posted less than an hour ago: “The F.B.I. informed Congress on Sunday that it has not changed its conclusions about Hillary Clinton’s use of a private email server as secretary of state, [and thereby] removing a dark cloud that has been hanging over her campaign two days before Election Day.

“James B. Comey, the F.B.I. director, said in a letter to members of Congress that ‘based on our review we have not changed our conclusions that we expressed in July with respect to Secretary Clinton.’

“The news that the bureau was looking at emails that it found on the computer of a top aide to Mrs. Clinton, Huma Abedin, rocked the presidential race last month and provided a new opening for Donald J. Trump.

“Brian Fallon, a spokesman for Mrs. Clinton, said in a post on Twitter that the campaign was always confident that she would be cleared of any wrongdoing. ‘We were always confident nothing would cause the July decision to be revisited,’ Mr. Fallon said. ‘Now Director Comey has confirmed it.'”

When this Laurel & Hardy scene was shot sometime in the early ’30s, laughing a little too loudly in a restaurant was regarded as a social faux pas. Nowadays it’s completely normal and even de rigueur for people to laugh like Stan Laurel and then some — shrieking like hyenas, throwing their heads back — in cafes, restaurants and bars. Especially among women who’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. In the same sense that George C. Scott‘s General Patton claimed that he fought in a famous battle between the Romans and the Cathaginians, I am that moustache-wearing guy sitting behind L&H who twice turns around to give Stan the stink-eye. I am also that woman seething at the table.

I hate, hate, hate the idea of paying to see Doctor Strange sometime this afternoon. I loved Antman and the first two Captain Americas, but I despise the cultural scourge and stylistic CG oppression of Marvel/D.C. product. And yet I have to see the damn thing because of the massive numbers ($84,989,000 domestic, $240,400,000 foreign = $325,389,000 worldwide) and because L.A. Daily News critic Bob Strauss called it “lysergic.” (Glengarry Glen Ross‘s Ricky Roma says: “Lysergic? Fuck you!”) I’m presuming that HE readers have seen it — please weigh in.

Denzel Washington‘s Fences (Paramount, 12.25), which everyone saw last night, is going to kick major Oscar nomination ass — guaranteed noms for Best Picture, Best Director (Denzel), Best Actor (ditto) and Best Supporting Actress (Viola Davis, 100% locked to win)…bare minimum. Mykelti Williamson may snag a Best Supporting Actor nom as Denzel’s mentally damaged brother.

I can’t “review” it until the embargo lifts, but c’mon…we were all there last night. It screened, it happened. Fences is stagey but clean (i.e., unfettered), eloquent, emotionally affecting, smooth and damn near close to perfect. It’s a heartfelt, beautifully refined thing, and every semi-intelligent moviegoer over 30 will rush to see it. The unwashed, un-cultured morons will say it’s not cinematic or Dr. Strange-y enough and stay away, but what else is new?

Last night’s blowout screening happened at the Westwood Village; the after-party at Napa Valley Grille. The post-screening q & a included Denzel, Viola and costars Stephen Henderson (who’s also in Manchester By The Sea), Russell Hornsby, Mykelti Williamson, Jovan Adepo and newcomer Saniyya Sidney, who’s also in Hidden Figures and is absolutely destined for stardom.

>

Denzel Washington, costar Stephen Henderson during Fences after-party at Napa Valley Grille.

(l. to r.) Fences costars Russell Hornsby, Jovan Adepo, Saniyya Sidney, Denzel Washginton, Stephen Henderson, Mykelti Washington at Napa Valley Grille.

(l.) Fences dp Charlotte Bruus Christensen (Life, The Girl on the Train, about to start shooting Molly’s Game), HE’s own Svetlana Cvetko (Inside Job, Inequality for All, Red Army).

Fences costar Saniyya Sidney.

Mr. Robot‘s Rami Malek has been hired to play Queen’s Freddie Mercury in that same biopic/band saga that has been stuck in neutral, fraught with creative differences, since 2010 or thereabouts. Sacha Baron Cohen, who would’ve been a perfect Freddy, bailed earlier this year after working on the project for six years, mainly because of conflicts with Queen member Brian May, who allegedly wanted a somewhat sanitized, upbeat portrait of the late singer. Bryan Singer has signed to direct the Queen film, which will be called Bohemian Rhapsody. It will be produced by GK Film’s Graham King, and based on a screenplay by Anthony McCarten (The Theory of Everything). Malek doesn’t feel right — he certainly doesn’t look like Mercury — but he might be okay. I have a bad feeling about this. One way or another May and the other gatekeepers will, I suspect, compromise the story or sand off the edges or whatever.

You can call Town and Country (New Line, 4.27.01) an unsatisfying film. A lot of people did actually. But I’ve always thought it’s a better-than-half-decent comedy, and that some scenes are hilarious. It’s certainly a lot better than was indicated by that 13% Rotten Tomatoes rating. True, it’s still one of the biggest bombs of the 21st Century. Having cost $90 million to make, it earned $6,719,973 domestically and $10.4 million worldwide. But the scene below (Warren Beatty being asked about possible infidelity by Diane Keaton, et. al.) really works. Funny, well-written, a nice pivot, etc. You know what also works? Those two scenes between Beatty, Andie McDowell and Charlton Heston (“Rowwwrrr”).

After the jump: Beatty’s recollection about the sound mixing of Bonnie and Clyde, from George Stevens: A Filmmaker’s Journey.

Originally posted on 8.3.12: I had a reservation to stay tonight at Monument Valley’s Firetree Inn, a b & b located in a wifi dead zone about a half-hour’s drive from Goulding’s. The novelty is that visitors sleep in a Navajo Hogan, a kind of dirt igloo that Navajos have been crashing, praying and meditating in over the generations. It’s a sacred thing so the owner-managers want people who “get” the Hogan experience to stay there — they don’t want trashy, fast-food-eating families with loud kids looking to watch American Idol on flatscreens.

I get that. I wanted to do this. I figured I could do without wifi for an eight-hour period. But I’d never seen a real Hogan up close (to me the word “Hogan” means Hogan’s Heroes) and was curious about the Firetree, so early yesterday afternoon a friend and I drove out to pay a visit.

The owner-managers, a couple in their early 40s or late 30s, were — I don’t want to exaggerate — stunned by our visit. Stunned. They pretty much went into apoplectic shock. Their basic response was “whoa, wait a minute…what are you, a person who’s not scheduled to be here until late tomorrow afternoon, doing here now?” They couldn’t wrap their heads around someone just checking the place out, all friendly and no biggie.

The first thing the bald and bleary-eyed guy said was that “we don’t open for guests until 5 pm.” Nice people skills, pal. And then the woman said they’d recently gotten up — it was around 1 pm — and they were having breakfast. Right away I was thinking, “What’s up with these guys? Who treats customers like tax collectors? Who has breakfast at 1 pm?” When I said we’d just driven over from Goulding’s and just wanted to look around, the woman said, “But that’s so far.” No, I said — it’s about a 25-minute drive. (Which it is.)

Then they went into a kind of silent mode. “How do we deal with these people?,” they seemed to be saying. “How do we cope with this?”

It was nearly three years ago (1.9.14) when I tried to explain one of the most important rules for famous guys attending public events, which is to never wear orthopedic old-man shoes. I was derided for saying this, of course, but you can’t explain this aesthetic to deplorable-shoe types. Either you get the importance of wearing elegant shoes in public or you don’t. Wear your grandpa shoes all you want when you’re at home or shuffling around the mall, but never in front of the paying public.

I’m mentioning this again because a certain famous guy was recently photographed in a pair of black senior-citizen sneakers during a post-screening q & a. People in the audience listened to him discuss this and that, I’m sure, but they also had a good 30 to 40 minutes to just sit there and contemplate those ugly-ass shoes. Those people will never forget this.

My original point was that all self-respecting actors, celebrities and X-factor types need to tough it out and wear cool Italian shoes for lah-lah events, no matter what.

I’ve walked around the streets of Rome, Milan, Venice, Sienna and Florence on warm evenings, and white-haired Italian guys never, ever wear comfort shoes. They would rather be stricken with a heart attack and collapse on the street than wear those clunky things. When you’re hanging with the swells you have to look classy and elegant, even if it hurts. Even if it shortens your life.

You can laugh but a man’s choice of footwear usually says a lot about him, particularly about how he sees himself. Once the public realizes that you’re more into comfort clunkers than looking good, it’s the beginning of the end.