Posted a day or two ago by “TC Rice“:

Since Charles Melton doesn’t deliver all that strongly or memorably in May December (he’s fine but calm down), I’ve been puzzling over why he’s been winning. My initial thought was that his half-Korean lineage had something to do with it (i.e., actors of color being naturally favored these days). Then I realized, “Oh, this is a woke sympathy vote for young victims of sexual assault…Melton is an award season stand-in for all the kids who’ve been abused.”

The scolding, archly judgmental tone of the narration in this “Take” essay is very invested in the HORRIBLE WRONGNESS of older woman-teenage boy relationships. The judgment isn’t wrong, of course, but the narration is hugely annoying. Legal boundaries must always be respected and minors should be left the hell alone under all circumstances but…

Yes, I’ve said this a few times but I felt lonely, largely ignored and sexually miserable in my mid teens. If the right foxy teacher had come along and taken me into her boudoir I would’ve wept with gratitude, and I’d have never ratted her out to my friends. I would been so thankful to God the Father that I would’ve become a lifelong Catholic.

Samy Burch‘s May December screenplay is being campaigned to win Best Original Screenplay right now over David Hemingson for The Holdovers or even Barbie. PLEASE.

Bill McCuddy informs that the new title of May December is May Never.

26 years ago I was working as an in-house freelancer at People, and it was a mostly stifling gig, lemme tell ya. The only really “good” thing occured in early ’98 when a married staffer and I began a torrid love affair. The unrelenting emotional anxiety, stress and sensual, deep-navel nirvana lasted until September ’00. Anyway…

Sometime in the late spring of ’97 I pitched a story about the 50th anniversary of the alleged 1947 Hollister motorcycle riot, which inspired Lazlo Benedek‘s The Wild One (’53) and launched that iconic image of a hog-striding Marlon Brando with the shades and motorcycle cap.

The idea was that a team (myself and another People reporter) would attend the annual Hollister 4th of July rally and interview as many bikers as we could, and try and cobble together some kind of historical perspective piece that would commemorate the first time that mainstream Americans had heard about rowdy, beer-drinking ruffians rumbling around and agitating the locals.

People‘s New York editors approved the trip and off we went. And we gave it our very best, interviewing 20 or 25 bikers plus taking snaps and running all over town. But the article we turned in wasn’t punchy or throttle-y enough, they said. The New York editors were almost angry at us for not slamming it home.

I figured later on that we should have borrowed someone’s pickup truck and organized a dynamic tracking shot of 50 or 75 bikers motoring down a Hollister country road a la Brando, Jerry Paris, Gil Stratton and Lee Marvin. A single photo speaks a thousand words, etc.

I don’t get the alleged “Disney presents Clockwork Orange slash Hunger Games” aesthetic in this just-released White House Christmas video. But it’s fairly clear what the Bidens are saying in posting this.

The last time I checked the U.S. of A. was still a vast melting pot — 95% straight, 59% European descended, 18% Latino, 13.5% African American, 12% Hispanic, 6% Asian, etc. But you’d never know it from this Biden Christmas video, which basically thumbs its nose at mainstream American culture outside the blue urban pockets.

Joe and Jill Biden to rubes: “Our base is mostly, or at least politically speaking, a partly straight but generally Black gay lesbian tutti-fruity tap dancing Glee club…clackety-clack at the White House…none of that Hugh Jackman or Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire-type stuff…this is how we see happy America.”

Translation: We believe in the non-white, non-straight urban vote. White schlubbo bumblefucks can do what they want or vote how they want, but this is who we are.

First came the Bell’s Palsy episode, which has thankfully receded. Now it’s the damn bronchial hacking cough. And this isn’t my style, man. I don’t do “under the weather” as a rule. I bound up the IRT stairs two at a time.

…and am fully expecting, in fact, that the Oscar preferences of those with very little soul, depth or reflection will prevail early next year…the nearly empty Coke bottles, the shallowest minds, the supermarket hors d’oeuvres mentality of SAG-AFTRA…

But at least, thank God, we’re not looking at another end-of-the-world Best Picture debacle like EEAAO.

HE faves…well, who knows? But I know which ‘23 films stand at the top of the staircase, and Past Lives is not among them

Pickleball, I mean. I hate it (shudder), and if anyone ever suggests a friendly game of pickleball I’ll almost certainly say “thanks but no thanks.” It’s not the activity but the sound of it. I think I can safely say I’ll never, ever play this game. And I don’t want anything to do with pickles either. I’m serious. It’s a very strong feeling.

…and you’re basically Jeft with a pinker, smirkier, glossier, sexually averse Poor Things. Don’t get me wrong —Barbie is fine but but compared to the sumptuous banquet of Poor Things it’s fast food.

Thank you, God, for pulling cosmic levers and bringing about changes that are helping to restore our shared cinematic soul. Tears streaming down my cheeks.