Once upon a time I was part of Team Independence Day. Back when it was shooting in ’95, I mean. I loved the concept, I knew producer Dean Devlin to some extent (he was good at talking up journalists), and at Dean’s invitation I once visited the Playa del Rey Independence Day set with Jett and Dylan when they were six and five, respectively. Then the big premiere happened in Westwood the following summer…thud. I mostly hated it. Nobody loved it. I remember walking through the UCLA campus on the way to the after-party and listening to a talent agent, walking nearby, tell a friend or colleague that it was “bad, bad, bad.”

I decided that night that I’d never again see Independence Day, and I never did. And that I’d never see a sequel. And so I’ve never had any intention of seeing Independence Day: Resurgence (20th Century Fox, 6.24) in any format — no all-media, no paid-ticket screening, no Bluray, no streaming…nothing. Shitty idea. Horrific prospect. Eraserhead.

From Peter Bradshaw‘s 6.21 Guardian review: “Joyless and tedious, a reboot quite without the first film’s audacity and fun. The plot’s potentially interesting dependence on the idea that there are aliens who are allies as well as enemies is lost in a tiresomely written muddle — an all-but-plotless melee of boring digital carnage. The first film was a creature of the pre-digital age when the spacecraft on screen were mostly physical models, but it can’t be entirely the fault of our digital age that this film has no real sense of excitement and awe. It’s a movie that is going through the intergalactic motions.”

The official The Birth of a Nation trailer, posted today by Fox Searchlight. I’m told that some CG shots of smiling angels, which I didn’t care for at all when I saw Nate Parker‘s film last January, have been cut. That’s a good thing.

A new film by John Michael McDonagh (The Guard, Calvary) demands attention, and there’s no disputing the fact that War Against Everyone did well when it premiered last February in Berlin. “Imagine if Quentin Tarantino directed Starsky and Hutch and didn’t mess it up with his whole malignant misanthropic, misogynistic look-at-me thing. The result would be McDonagh’s snort-milk-out-your-nose-funny buddy cop comedy. Michael Peña and Alexander Skarsgard play Bob and Terry, co-dependent corrupt Albuquerque pigs snorting and shooting their way to tumble a supercilious English Lord (Divergent‘s Theo James) into horseracing, heists, and kiddy porn.” — from a non-bylined Vanity Fair review filed from Berlin.

I won’t be seeing Gary Ross‘s Free State of Jones (STX, 6.24) until Wednesday night, but as of this morning six respected reviewers have trashed it — Variety‘s Owen Gleiberman, The Hollywood Reporter‘s Todd McCarthy, TheWrap‘s Robert Abele, Indiewire‘s David Ehrlich, Entertainment Weekly‘s Joe McGovern and Screen International‘s Tim Grierson.

The general beef seems to be that the film is mainly interested in (a) delivering a dry history lesson and (b) deifying Matthew McConaughey‘s real-life Southern rebel. A Civil War-era drama that only last week was being positioned by Indiewire‘s Anne Thompson as a possible Best Picture “contender” appears to be headed for the rocks. Gleiberman: “A misfire…shot with the boxed-in functionality of basic cable television.” Abele: “One of those historical dramas with a script that’s big on crowning lines of moral fervor and not so big on nuts-and-bolts detail.” If you count Interstellar as a problem movie (and I do, hugely), this is the third stinker in a row for McConaughey. Perhaps Stephen Gaghan‘s Gold, in which he stars with Edgar Ramirez, will turn things around.

The white hinterlanders supporting Donald Trump have never had significant problems with his racist attitudes, blustery braggadocio or lack of interest in coherent, fact-supported viewpoints. But they respect the fact that he’s rich, and I suspect their support would diminish if it were shown that he’s not quite the financial titan and skillful wheeler-dealer that he’s portrayed himself as all along.

Well, that possibility is suddenly being kicked around and explored. Last night’s N.Y. Times story about his lean campaign finances and “crippling money deficit“, based on Monday’s campaign finance report, along with the newly trending hashtag #TrumpSoPoor, punches a hole in the notion that he’s a crafty, bucks-up insider who knows all the angles.

Who is Trump if not Daddy Warbucks, Auric Goldfinger with a coif, Mr. Swagger with the “don’t worry, I know how to negotiate great deals” attitude? Indications are that he’s something of a miser, an Uncle Scrooge, a guy who squeezes the nickle until the buffalo shits.

The Times story states that Trump currently has the “worst financial and organizational disadvantage of any major party nominee in recent history.” His campaign raised only $3.1 million in May, he had to lend himself more than $2 million, and his campaign had only $1.3 million as June began while Hillary Clinton had around $42 million at the same juncture. The campaign report coupled with campaign manager Corey Lewandowski getting sacked yesterday are obvious indications of damage in the hull.

Here’s the Politico story Cenk Uygur is speaking of, written by Ben White and posted yesterday morning (6.20) — “Wall Street donors seek to block Warren VP pick — If Clinton chooses the Massachusetts senator as her running mate, donations will dry up, fundraisers warn.”

HE to Guy Lodge, Richard Lawson, Eric Kohn, Stephanie Zacharek, Peter Bradshaw, Robbie Collin, Tim Grierson, Jake Howell and others who were hugely impressed by Olivier Assayas‘ Personal Shopper: We were all knocked back when it played in Cannes five weeks ago, but a few too many critic friends have since told me “nope, not for me, didn’t care for it,” etc. And yet some of these same naysayers liked or even loved The Conjuring 2, which operates way, way below the level of Assayas’ film. And that, to me, is appalling.

All I can figure is that Personal Shopper is too antsy and schizo for some people. It’s too teasing and darting and inconclusive. It doesn’t behave like other ghost stories, and some just don’t know what to do with it. So they toss it and wash their hands.

Have any of you thought about the schism between admirers and dissers? What are your thoughts? What’s going on here?

There’s not the slightest doubt in my mind about how uniquely chilling and riveting this film is — it’s my second favorite film of the year after Manchester by the Sea — and how stunningly good Stewart’s performance is. And yet two or three days ago Tom Luddy and Julie Huntsinger of the Telluride Film Festival were both telling me how they didn’t care for it. C’mon!

I posted a short “Friends of Personal Shopper” piece in Cannes on 5.17, but here’s a more comprehensive rundown of the best raves:

“Personal Shopper is strange, frightening, and possessed of a dark ribbon of sadness that no champagne gulped down at a post-screening beach party could drown out. There are certain scenes — scored by ominous thuds and whispering wind — that are so frightening that they were, for this wimp, extraordinarily hard to watch. A horror movie with a matte, flat-faced demeanor [and] a grief drama with a shiver of sylphic humor, Personal Shopper is as cathartic as it is terrifying, as knowing and wise about the weirder mechanics of the grieving process as it is utterly confusing.” — Richard Lawson, Vanity Fair.

Executive produced by Brian Grazer and directed by Ron Howard, Eight Days A Week is a doc about the four years of stage performances (’62 to August ’66) given by the Beatles. How special can this be? What don’t we already know? If the quality of the footage meets a certain restoration standard and the stories are good…maybe. A brief theatrical booking with a day-and-date Hulu debut on 9.15.

What kind of malevolent engineer would design an automobile gear shift that allows drivers to mistakenly presume they’ve shifted into park when in fact the car is in neutral? What kind of perverse organization would approve a gear shift design that would allow for this possibility? The mind reels.

This design flaw, implemented by the geniuses at Fiat Chrysler, is apparently what killed Anton Yelchin early Sunday morning. He thought he’d put his 2015 Jeep Grand Cherokee into park, but it wasn’t. And it rolled down his driveway and crushed him.

A N.Y. Times story says the flaw, which resulted in a recall earlier this year, is not just in Jeep Grand Cherokees but also Chrysler 300s and 2014-14 Dodge Chargers. When the recall was announced Fiat Chrysler said it was aware of 41 injuries related to the gear shift problem.

The story says that the affected vehicles “use an unconventional lever to shift the automatic transmission. Instead of moving to a different position with each gear, the lever returns to a center position. The driver must look at the shifter to make sure the proper gear is selected. ‘Drivers erroneously concluding that their vehicle transmission is in the park position may be struck by the vehicle and injured,’ Fiat Chrysler said in a May report to federal regulators about the problem.

Earlier this afternoon I got into an email argument with a guy who’s heavily into predicting award-season favorites. Yes, this again. He hasn’t seen The Birth of a Nation or Manchester by the Sea, but he was saying that my views about these two films (both of which I saw at last January’s Sundance Film Festival) are overly passionate and biased in terms of foreseeing how they’ll be received when they open in the fall.

Me: People are going to think what they think, but there’s really nothing lower in the universe than people who turn away from obviously well written, superbly acted, reality-reflecting, fully-rooted films by muttering that they’re not feel-goody enough.

Awards guy: Not being able to see that a group can’t, won’t or doesn’t appreciate a film that you admire is exactly what I’m talking about. You have an inability to check your own bias. Plus you don’t respond well when people disagree with you and so instead of trying to convince them to your side, you get aggressive and insulting.

Me: It’s not “an inability to check my own bias.” It’s an absolute refusal to show respect for the opinions of people who want a certain kind of drug when they go to a film. Good stuff is good stuff, and I know the properties. I always have. It’s not an opinion — I know the difference between pyrite (fool’s gold) and the real material. And I couldn’t care less about predicting what the middle-of-the-road crowd is going to like or not like.

Awards guy: Oscar predicting is always a combination of zeitgeist, politics and good reviews vs. good press. Since the last two years of #OscarsSoWhite have generated some really bad press for the Academy there’s a strong chance that we’ll see an anomaly of black-centered films nominated next year. That would affect something like Manchester by the Sea vs. The Birth of a Nation.

I ducked a few slings and arrows the other day when I declared I would never again sit through an animated feature made by corporate formula peddlers. I said that films like Finding Dory were basically “corporate-branded heroin for the family audience.” One guy called me an asshat for dismissing quality-level animation. But it’s not the craft I’m addressing but the underlying corporate sedative that runs through the veins of (most) animated features. I explained my feelings a little better about three months ago, to wit:

“On a certain level I believe that family-friendly corporate animation is almost demonic in that it has a subversive agenda. It delivers family narcotic highs when your kids are young, but it acts as a kind of childhood sedative that leads to placated thinking and zombie lifestyles. Corporate animation is mainly about injecting and reenforcing blandly positive, middle-class consumerist attitudes and values. Watch corporate animation as a kid, live your tweener and teenaged life in malls, sign a college loan that will keep you in a kind of jail for half your life, and eternally invest and submit to American McMansionism — an Orwellian system if there ever was one.

“Childhood was a huge gulag existence when I was a kid, and Disney mythology was a key aspect of that. Comforting but phony emotion dreams do you no good as a 7 year-old — you’ll just have to unlearn them when you get older. And my parents played right along. Everything they did and said to shelter me from things they felt I was too young for constituted a huge minus in the end. It took me years to unlearn the lessons and impressions they passed along in the name of parental compassion.