For five years I’ve despised this photo of Rooney Mara and Neon Indian‘s Alan Palomo, and for reasons that don’t add up. It was snapped during Austin’s SXSW music festival in March 2012, and more particularly during filming of a scene from Terrence Malick‘s Song to Song (which back then was being called Lawless). Every so often I’d click on it and mutter to myself, “God, that photo”…Rooney’s too-short bangs, Palomo’s chill convivial manner as he whispers something in her ear, the HE perception about Neon Indian being an oodly-doodly band, etc. In defiance of logic and buttressed by my own perversity, it’s been a source of faint distress over the entire span of the second Obama term, all through the 2016 election cycle and two months into Trump. Worse, Pitchfork‘s Amy Phillips reported a couple of days ago that Palomo’s speaking role hasn’t been cut out of Song to Song (Broad Green, 3.17). Footage or scenes containing footage of Arcade Fire, Iron & Wine and Fleet Foxes have been deep-sixed along with whatever Christian Bale did when the camera was humming. Phillips didn’t mention whether appearances by Cate Blanchett, Haley Bennett, Val Kilmer, Benicio del Toro and Holly Hunter have been kept or discarded, but you know Malick.

Last night I finally watched episode #1 of Feud: Bette and Joan, and I was suddenly transformed into an old-school gay guy…laughing and chuckling and revelling in the tempest and the claws…the flamboyant bitchiness of two proud but faded Hollywood snapdragons (Bette Davis, Joan Crawford) and their intense loathing (and suppressed mutual pity) for each other during the making of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?…flared nostrils, arched eyebrows, daggers, saber teeth…a series about the fear of oblivion, a fear that begins to haunt everyone at a certain age. Each and every performance is just right and spot on…Jessica Lange and Susan Sarandon flick their tongues as Crawford and Davis (who were 58 and 54, respectively, when Baby Jane was shot in mid ’62) and hold back just enough to keep the tone from tipping into camp…Alfred Molina is perfect as Robert Aldrich (whom I met during the ’82 press junket for All The Marbles), portraying a guy who’s genuinely scared about career slippage but nonetheless able to get down and sharpen his game…Stanley Tucci‘s Jack L. Warner is a hoot and a howl (the Baby Jane deal-negotiation scene with Molina is an instant classic)…the under-used Judy Davis is hilarious as Hedda Hopper…the only not-quite-right note is an all-but-unrecognizable Catherine Zeta Jones as Olivia De Havilland.

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“Described by Werner Herzog as ‘a daydream that doesn’t follow the rules of cinema,’ Salt and Fire (XLrator, VOD/iTunes 4.4) may be rule-breaking, but the result is one of the director’s least appealing adventures. Ranging from whimsical to facetious to corny without ever properly engaging its theme of looming ecological disaster, the improbable story about a U.N. scientific delegation (Veronica Ferres, Gael García Bernal) abducted by the visionary executive of a multinational company (Michael Shannon) never convinces for a minute. One wishes the filmmaker had applied his sharp, insightful documentary skills (Cave of Forgotten Dreams, Into the Abyss) to the pic’s extraordinary landscape, instead of belaboring this stillborn adaptation of a novel by Tom Bissel.” — from Deborah Young’s Hollywood Reporter review, filed from the Shanghai Film Festival on 6.14.16.

L.A. Times guy Daniel Miller caught a mini-“joke” teaser for The Last Jedi earlier today at a Disney shareholders meeting in Denver. It begins where The Force Awakens ended, on that rocky green island off the coast of Ireland with Rey (Daisy Ridley) handing the burly, bearded Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) his light saber.

Luke: “Who the fuck are you?” Rey: “I’m you, more or less, before you got old and fat and dessicated. The force is within me as it was once with you. Do you want to live again or do you want to take a nap?” Luke: “Leave me alone. I’m too old for this shit. My joints are aching, I have plantar fasciitis. Plus I like living here like a monk…fires in huts, herbs and mushrooms, brown hoodie robes, staring at the sea.” Rey: “But your destiny…” Luke: “Fuck that! Did you see Logan? Hugh Jackman scowling and snarling, ‘leave me alone, get away’? I saw it last weekend, and that’s me…okay?” Rey: “Logan is streaming? It just opened.”

Incidentally: The same trailer, trust me, will be screened for exhibitors at Cinemacon later this month, and perhaps something more. Hollywood Elsewhere will be attending that four-day powwow. I’ll be staying at Bally’s hotel & casino, just around the corner from Ceasar’s.

The other day on Twitter Kim Masters complained about an ear worm attack. “Bug,” I replied. “It’s called an ear bug.” This one struck a half-hour ago. I was sitting in a West Hollywood cafe and wham…now it won’t leave.

Zak, my three-year-old rag doll, has developed three tiny tumor-like growths — on his back, head and rear leg.  A couple of hours ago I took him to Laurel Pet Hospital.  The vet said he’d cut the mini-tumors off next week and do a biopsy, but the bottom line is that Zak may have skin cancer.  A 50% chance, the vet said. Which would mean curtains in a year or less, God forbid. Then again it might be something less malicious.  The biopsy will tell the tale.  A bad break and obviously a lot of heartache if it goes wrong.  Fingers crossed.

If Ryan Reynolds is in it, the odds are that it sucks eggs. Not to mention the closing-night attraction at SXSW factor. Is that fair to say? I agree that I shouldn’t have said this — it just popped out.

You Must Remember This chronicler Karina Longworth has chosen to re-remember Marilyn Monroe on International Women’s Day…a sad way to go but I get it. Here’s the mp3 — it was first posted in 2015.

I distinctly remember my father, who was never emotional about anything except when angry, being noticably saddened when Marilyn Monroe‘s death was announced. His father (who lived in nearby Rahway, New Jersey, when we were residents of Westfield) also wore a long face. The idea of my father and grandfather having been on the same emotional page as Elton John and Bernie Taupin still blows my mind to this day.

In a 2006 American Masters doc called “Marilyn: Still Life,” Gloria Steinem talked about how the doomed Monroe might have been saved by the women’s movement if she’d somehow lasted until the late ’60s or better yet the early ’70s. I wrote something similar a few years ago, about how Monroe might have felt less trapped or certainly more understood if she’d managed to stay afloat until the arrival of ’60s freak culture and everything that followed.

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The all-new Kong in Jordan Vogt-Roberts‘ Kong: Skull Island (Warner Bros., 3.10) is big and loud and a serious brawler, and he beats his chest and roars like a sonuvabitch. But apart from instinctually defending his turf and fighting off Army choppers and bad-attitude lizards, he’s temperamentally closer to the lovable, human-friendly Son of Kong ape than any of the other manifestations.

Remember the “poor Kong, we love you!” declarations by Jessica Lange and Jeff Bridges in the catastrophic ’76 version? Similar sentiments are heard from Brie Larson and Tom Hiddleston here, only with the acting more toned down and the dialogue less on-the-nose.

On top of which the new Kong is Skull Island’s Marshall Dillon — he’s more into keeping order than domination, beats the shit out of needlessly aggressive beasts, helps a trapped super buffalo and is fundamentally a decent, compassionate simian when it comes to humans.

Unless, that is, the human in question is Samuel L. Jackson‘s gung-ho, itchin-for-a-fight military commander — the all-time King of Idiotic Assholes in Hollywood monster movies. In which case the vibes are not good.

On top of which JVR’s beast looks like a short-legged guy in a bearskin ape suit blown up to a height of 120 feet or so. He more or less resembles Yogi Berra, certainly in terms of his head-shape and facial features, only with longer arms and bigger shoulders.

Above triptych caption (l. to r.): the all-new, kind-hearted King Kong (ferocious roar notwithstanding) in Kong: Skull Island; Kong’s 15-foot-tall, chimp-like son in Son of Kong (’33); legendary N.Y. Yankees catcher and Yoohoo pitchman Yogi Berra.

An L.A. Times story by Ryan Faughnder reported this morning that Cinepolis, a Mexico-based theatre chain, is hoping to attract an increased family trade “with a new in-theater playground concept, Cinepolis Junior, which [will make] its U.S. debut at two Southern California locations next week.

“The remodeled auditoriums at Cinepolis USA’s Pico Rivera and Vista theaters each feature a colorful play area near the screen in front of the seats, a jungle gym and cushy beanbag chairs.”

The idea, Faughnder writes, is that “the kid–oriented theaters, which charge up to $3 more than a regular ticket, will better compete with Netflix and other at-home options by enticing more parents and children to go to the theater. Designed for ages 3 to 12, the two children’s auditoriums will open on 3.16 with showings of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast remake.”

Four days ago I apologized for being a little too kind to Peter Jackson’s King Kong way back in December of ’05. I didn’t care for the first 70 minutes, I said back then, but the rest of it more or less worked. But wait — I’ve just discovered a 12.21.05 piece (“Kong Badness“) in which I took the film to task for a multitude of sins. My 2017 mea culpa wouldn’t be complete without reposting it:

I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot here. I’m a fan of Peter Jackson‘s King Kong…after the 70-minute mark. A modified fan, I should say, because I’m not over-the-moon about it. I liked the rousing CG stuff and the emotional stirrings during the scenes between Kong (i.e., Andy Serkis) and Naomi Watts…but let’s not get carried away.

The point is that this 187-minute movie is full of bits that drive me up the wall, and I have to admit it feels more comfortable and natural being in a bash mode. How do I vaguely detest thee, Kong? Going from the top…

The once-celebrated, now-being-scrutinized Bronto run sequence in Peter Jackson’s King Kong

* Jackson should have included an overture of Max Steiner’s music as a soundtrack-only supplement on the front of the film, to be heard in semi-darkness before the Universal logo and the credits come on, etc. This happened when I first saw Kong at the Academy theatre on the evening of Sunday, 12.4, and Steiner played like gangbusters.

* Captain Englehorn is an Idiot, Part 1: The German-born skipper (Thomas Kretschmann) presumably knows Jack Black‘s Carl Denham desperately needs a fetching actress to come along on the voyage and presumably wants Denham to succeed so he’ll get fully paid, and yet the first thing he says when he meets Naomi Watt’s Ann Darrow is to express surprise that she “would take such a risk.”

* The ship is pulling out of the harbor and Adrien Brody‘s Jack Driscoll is so keen on getting paid that he doesn’t feel the engines rumbling and the ship moving? He doesn’t say anything to the check-writing Denham as the ship is obviously leaving the wharf?

* Captain Englehorn is an Idiot, Part 2: Since he tells Denham that the first check bounced, it can be assumed that he hasn’t been paid a dime. And yet he’s taking his ship and crew on a long and very expensive sea voyage, trusting that a guy he obviously doesn’t trust will cough up later on.

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