Three significant films will open on Wednesday, 12.25 — Christmas Day — minus the sound of jingle bells, joyful carolers and deer hooves on the roof. Which is interesting.

James Mangold‘s A Complete Unknown, first and foremost — Timothée Chalamet, Edward Norton, Elle Fanning, Monica Barbaro, Boyd Holbrook, Dan Fogler, Norbert Leo Butz, Scoot McNairy.

Nosferatu, a jolting vampire film from Robert Eggers and costarring Bill Skarsgard, Nicholas Hoult, Lily-Rose Depp, Aaron Taylor-Johnson, Emma Corrin and Willem Dafoe.

And Hailja Reijn‘s Babygirl, an allegedly worthwhile pervy relationship film with Nicole Kidman, Harris Dickinson, Sophie Wilde and Antonio Banderas.

That’s a fairly nifty-sounding holiday trio!

Two other noteworthies are opening on 12.25 — Rachel Morrison‘s The Fire Inside, a fact-based female boxing flick with Ryan Destiny and Brian Tyree Henry, and Tyler Nilson and Michael Schwartz‘s Los Frikis, which no one will flock to.

Bill Maher: “Losers, look in the mirror.”

I’ve been constantly looking in the mirror since last Tuesday night, and I’m feeling a certain consolation amidst the shock and horror. I’ve begun to realize that the woke psychos are finished…they’re gradually realizing that their era is ending….over, in fact. That’s not a bad thing.

Three and a half months ago Bill Maher offered a rundown on Kamala Harris. It runs from 1:35 to 3:10. From the moment that Joe Biden threw in the towel until the night of Tuesday, 11.5, I thought Maher had been wrong….blind to what so many people loved about her. Now I have a different perspective.

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Friendo: “Honestly? My first gut impression after glancing at this poster was that Paul Mescal is on crutches. Metallic multiple schlerosis crutches, of course. You can’t say that association isn’t there.”

Put another way, when oh when will Disney and Kathy Kennedy stop beating this irrefutably dead horse?

I’m sorry to report that the junket whores who were recently doing giddy cartwheels and back-flips over Ridley Scott’s Gladiator II…their ecstatic reviews are being disputed by…uhm, people who are not whores.

“Gladiator II is an absolute mediocrity,” a friend writes. “It pains me to say that Scott, at age 87, has lost his mojo. I don’t know how a studio can ever give Scott another big budget after this.

“And the over-rated Paul Mescal is absolutely terrible in the lead role. Denzel Washington’s supporting performance works, but that’s all.”

Friendo #2: “I thought it worked okay, but it’s no Gladiator.”

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Don’t hang out in the woods near the facility that you escaped from, bruhs! Run for it and keep running!

If I were in the area I’d invite some of you to jump into my car so I could drive you south to Key West. We could listen to music, stop for occasional meals, etc,

The escapees are rhesus macaque primates. They were being held in the Alpha Genesis Sing Sing Primate Research Center in Yemassee, South Carolina.

I haven’t seen Babygirl, and obviously I’m spitballing when comes to A Complete Unknown. But otherwise here’s a rundown of the best of the best and/or the likeliest Best Picture contenders.

Kamala Harris’s electoral loss wasn’t a squeaker — outside of the northeast, the west coast and certain blue urban slivers she was totally clobbered.

I had hoped that her victory would usher in a sane, sensible, moderately constructive presidency…nope! I had been clinging to Michael Moore’s prediction that she had a decisive win in the bag…not so much! As it turned out Tuesday, 11.5 wasn’t so much a presidential preference vote as a national referendum on cultural resentment.

The bumblefucks didn’t so much vote for Trump as against woke progressives.

Lee Fang and Linda have said it all.

There’s only one way to straighten things out going forward…only one way to cleanse the Democratic Party of the wokester fanatics who apparently triggered the most devastating electoral landslide since 1988 or maybe even 1964, and that’s to recognize that these people did this.

What Linda has said hits home: “People didn’t vote for Trump — they voted against you.” Which means, arguably, that they voted against hoodie mobs ripping off department stores without anyone lifting a finger, against Lia Thomas, against the George Floyd vandalism riots of May and June of 2020, against elementary school drag shows, against the trans thing flooding the educational system, against presentism in historical films and the general woke consensus that younger white males are what’s wrong with this country.

@lexibunni.official #trans #transgirl #donaldtrumpisyourpresident #trump #2024election ♬ original sound – Lexi ️‍⚧️

N.Y. Times columnist Pamela Paul, 11.7.24:

…Ukraine may get thrown under the bus by Trump. In which case Zelensky will most likely have to accept a permanent loss of territory (southeastern Donbas region?) to Russia. Roughly a million souls have ascended since early ‘22 — Ukranian and Russian soldiers including 20K Ukranian civilians. Victory over the Russian invaders obviously isn’t in the cards. The whole thing could have been avoided if the notion of Ukraine joining NATO hadn’t been floated.

Gary Marshall‘s Frankie and Johnny was released roughly 33 years ago, and I remember quite clearly never wanting to see it. I still don’t. Mainly because I don’t want to settle into a phoney conceit about the film’s glamorous, highly attractive costars who had played Mr. and Mrs. Tony Montana eight years earlier — Al Pacino and Michelle Pfeiffer — living the pale lives of also-rans.

Terrence McNally‘s original 1987 off-Broadway play, Frankje and Johnny in the Clair de Lune, was about a pair of ordinary, middle-aged, worn-down homelies — F. Murray Abraham and Kathy Bates — falling in love within the grim confines of a studio apartme4=nt.

Critic after critic said Marshall’s version was too glammy — there was no way in hell anyone could accept that Pacino and Pfeiffer, aged 40 and 30 respectively, were schlubby, hand-to-mouth types, and that was all I needed to hear.

Movieline’s Stephen Farber: “Michelle Pfeiffer gives a very adept and winning performance in Frankie & Johnny, but she’s simply wrong for the part of a plain, world-weary waitress…anyone as gorgeous as she is has a lot more options than someone who looks like Kathy Bates (who originated the role on stage).”

Pacino fared no better with Washington Post critic Rita Kempley: “It’s just…well, imagine Kevin Costner as [Ernest Borgnine‘s] Marty.”

Casting the right actor or actress, in short, means never going too low or too high. Too much charm or physical attractiveness can throw a well-written, well-directed film out of whack.

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