Despite what Variety‘s Brent Lang claimed yesterday, Andy Muschietti‘s It is not the highest-grossing horror film of all time, and it sure as hell hasn’t out-grossed William Friedkin‘s The Exorcist.

Lang wrote that if you bypass inflationary calculus, It‘s domestic gross of $236.3 million tops The Exorcist‘s domestic tally of $232.9 million and is therefore, narrowly defined, the all-time champ. Except you have to apply inflationary calculus, and with an inflation rate of 453% having occured between 1973 and today…well, figure it out.

If you toss out Lang’s Exorcist tally of nearly $233 million and concentrate solely on theatrical revenues from the original ’73 and ’74 run, the domestic Exorcist gross was $193 million. In 2017 dollars that’s $1,067,233,490, or $67 million north of $1 billion. It‘s drawing power is far from spent, but right now The Exorcist‘s ’70s tally is over four times higher than It‘s current gross.

The most accurate measure of the popularity of any film is, of course, admissions. I haven’t time to research those statistics right now (have to catch a noon train back to NYC) but perhaps the readership can dig into it in the meantime.

There’s also the indisputable fact that It sucks and The Exorcist is a masterpiece, at least by the relative standards and criteria of the horror genre. 44 years ago it was regarded by critics as a piece of brutal, assaultive manipulation, but on a contemporary side-by-side basis it’s obvious that Friedkin’s film is head and shoulders above the chain-jerk, shock-and-boo tactics of It.

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“This is the existential crisis of our President…he’s an asshole but he’s not a hick. He represents one group but belongs to another. When Trump watches The Beverly hillbillies, he roots for Mr. Drysdale. When he says [to hinterland schmucks] ‘I Love you,’ what he means is that in Middle America he found something that he long ago ran out of in New York — suckers. Trump voters were played for rubes by the ultimate fast-talking city slicker.” — from last night’s (9/22) broadcast of HBO’s Real Time with Bill Maher.

Trump wishes NFL owners would tell anthem protesters "get that son of a bitch off the field right now" pic.twitter.com/gq4EH3lNoY

— Washington Examiner (@dcexaminer) September 23, 2017

The Paramount marketing guys asked me to approve some of my mother! quotes for possible use in this ad. Alas, I didn’t make the cut.

I understand why they didn’t approve “mother! is as valid and pungent a piece of social criticism as Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby and Bunuel’s The Exterminating Angel” — your typical megaplex maven probably doesn’t have clue #1 who Polanski and Bunuel were. But I don’t get why they blew off “mother! may be the single most profound explanation or dramatization of the saying that ‘hell is other people.’” You don’t have to be educated or worldly to relate to that concept.

If you were to screen mother! for 100 of the dumbest movie fans of all time but first tell them this Jean Paul Sartre quote is what it’s about, a good portion would probably say they like it. If you lead sheep to a nice patch of grass and tell them “if you’re hungry, go ahead,” a lot of them will chow down.

Incidentally: There’s actually a contingent of SJWs who’ve objected to this poster image because, they feel, it condones violence against women. Really. Some people have actually said this.

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How many hundreds if not thousands of film-industry professionals, above and below the line, would be financially stricken or hurting if Congress was to pass a law outlawing all zombie films for the remainder of the 21st Century? Just a thought. Actually, it’s a wish. I wouldn’t have the slightest argument if the making of all post-apocalyptic films was to be banned henceforth. It’s a genre that’s been done to death. As two-reeler B westerns were to the ’30s and film noir was to the late ’40s and mid ’50s, zombie films are to the 21st Century. Only low-rent, bottom-of-the-barrel filmmakers are invested in them.

My insect antennae are picking up odd little tingle vibes from Tomas Alfredson‘s The Snowman (Universal, 10.20). Which may signify something good or even great. Who knows? But there’s something odd going on…I can feel it. How can a snow-blanketed policier about a mystifying hunt for a serial killer, especially directed by the respected Tomas Alfredson (Let The Right One In, Tinker Tailor Solder Spy), be anything but satisfying in a shaded adult way? How can it not be different, disturbing, unsettling? And with such a great-sounding cast — Michael Fassbender, Rebecca Ferguson, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Val Kilmer, J. K. Simmons, Toby Jones, Chloë Sevigny, et. al.

On the other hand there are four “hmmm” factors: (a) The Snowman opens four weeks hence (10.20) and yet I haven’t heard of any screenings or reactions to same…nothing; (b) I’ve learned to be slightly wary of films that open in England before the U.S. (the U.K. debut is on 10.13); (c) why didn’t The Snowman play at the Toronto Film Festival?; and (d) Michael Fassbender is still on the HE shit list — I’ve simply come to dislike the guy no matter what he does, and I don’t see that changing any time soon.

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A pre-wedding dinner at Shadows on the Hudson. Soon-to-be-newlyweds Caitlin Bennett and Jett Wells at far right.

Thursday afternoon wedding rehearsal at Bykenhulle House.

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I had to pester Gold Derby‘s Tom O’Neil last week about including Wonder Wheel‘s Jim Belushi and I, Tonya‘s Allison Janney as potential nominees in the Best Supporting Actor and Actress categories. Actually they’re hotly favored. Tom is usually ahead of me on this stuff, but he was momentarily distracted by the Emmy Awards. This is how I see things now. Call Me By Your Name‘s Michael Stuhlbarg and Novitiate‘s Melissa Leo lead in their respective categories.

Jett Wells and Caitlin Bennett are getting married in high style tomorrow, and then flying to Spain for a honeymoon. The ceremony happens tomorrow at Bykenhulle House in Hopewell Junction, a small hamlet about 20 minutes south of Poughkeepsie. The wedding rehearsal starts today around 5 pm, and then there’s a big dinner for the guests. I’m on a Poughkeepsie-bound Metro North train as we speak. The trip from Grand Central takes 110 minutes. I’m staying at an Airbnb in Hopewell Junction. Returning Saturday morning to NYC, hanging there for two days, flying back to Los Angeles on Monday night. (The video quality is poor due to iPhone hotspot upload, which doesn’t permit HD-quality.)

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These dogs sure have a dry, droll sense of humor, you bet. I might as well admit that I’m somewhat concerned about the Japanese backdrop. On top of which I’m not feeling all that aroused about a film set on a toxic-waste-dump island. The milieu reminds me of the final scene in Get Carter.

What was it about Election, exactly, that turned so many people off? Alexander Payne‘s brilliant, perfectly shaped black comedy cost $25 million (just shy of $37 million in 2017 dollars) to make, and it only earned a lousy $14.9 million (or nearly $22 million by today’s calculator). Something in this film irritated a large swath of the public, obviously, but what in particular? The reviews couldn’t have been better, but outside of some modest action in the cities Joe and Jane Popcorn just wouldn’t go.

I’ve long suspected that on some deep-seated level Jane didn’t care for the demonizing of Reese Witherspoon‘s Tracy Flick, who always struck me as a female Richard Nixon type — resentful, craven.

The irony, of course, is that Witherspoon will probably never luck into a role as good again. It enabled her to give her very best performance. Certainly her most memorable, in part because she wasn’t “acting” — Tracy Flick is inside Witherspoon as surely as Tom Dunson and Ethan Edwards were inside John Wayne. Tracy Flick was lightning in a bottle, and that stuff doesn’t grow on trees. Criterion’s Election Bluray will pop on 12.12.17.