I tried for two days to write something about Jack Reacher: Never Go Back, but I couldn’t get it up. I blame myself, not the film. Because I had an usual response that I couldn’t quite explain in the right way. Now I’m on an Atlanta-bound flight (heading for the Savannah Film Festival) and I have to get this done. My basic thought is this: “Why isn’t it okay for a rote, second-tier throwaway action flick to just deal the cards in a rote, second-tier, no-big-deal way?  As long as it’s reasonably well done?”

At least this is a less-is-more Reacher film, not quite in the vein of Chris McQuarrie’s 2012 original (which was better) but not what the two trailers had indicated, which was a Reacher T-1000 film. At least it’s operating on a higher level than a typical bonehead Dwayne Johnson film.

Sorry but there’s something in me that relaxes when a film  announces that it’s not up to anything special and is just planning to bang around for 110 minutes or so. It’s a B movie.  If the attitude is right and the craft levels are okay, I don’t have a problem with that.

I could see what this was and sense the lackadaisical attitude, but I didn’t hate it. I can’t imagine how anyone could. I was mildly engaged, never irked. And I could feel the audience settling into it. (And I know what it feels like when a film isn’t working and the audience is getting restless.) It isn’t anyone’s idea of clever or knockout or originally conceived (the Rotten Tomatoes score is only 39%), but…I don’t know, maybe I’m turning soft or something.

The only thing that elevates it is slumming Tom Cruise, but that’s okay because even in a film like this he has that thing going on, that presence, that vibe. Say what you will about Cruise but he always has your attention when he walks into a room, and now that he’s 54 and a little bit heavier and even a wee bit saggy in a more-or-less-acceptable way, he’s got a little something extra going on, a slight attitude of acceptance that life is closing in and narrowing his options and that sooner or later he’ll have to stop making hammmerhead action flicks and…who knows?

HE (speaking to Cruise): How much are you worth? More than $200 millon?
Cruise: Oh my, yes!
HE: Why are you making nothing but grandslam franchise action films? How much better can you eat? What could you buy that you can’t already afford?
Cruise: The future, Mr. Wells! The future.

Obviously there are some who’ve been gifted with extraordinary perception and creativity. Artists, mathematicians, inventors, chefs. You can call them geniuses if you want to, but I wouldn’t touch that word with a ten-foot pole. Mainly because the people who seem to use it the most — sycophants, ass-kissers, headline writers, obsequious wives and girlfriends, employees, speechwriters — are not the sort I’d want to have dinner with. I doubt if anyone who has that special crackle-and-snap aliveness in their craniums would use it either. I first heard the term when my mother was telling me who Albert Einstein is, and that was way before he changed his name to Albert Brooks. All I know is that I decided a long time ago to make a little mental note about anyone who says “oh, he/she’s a genius.” Only second-tier people use it.

“To describe Moonlight (A24, opening today), Barry Jenkins’ second feature, as a movie about growing up poor, black and gay would be accurate enough. It would also not be wrong to call it a movie about drug abuse, mass incarceration and school violence. But those classifications are also inadequate, so much as to be downright misleading. It would be truer to the mood and spirit of this breathtaking film to say that it’s about teaching a child to swim, about cooking a meal for an old friend, about the feeling of sand on skin and the sound of waves on a darkened beach, about first kisses and lingering regrets.

“Based on the play ‘In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue’ by Tarell Alvin McCraney, Moonlight is both a disarmingly, at times almost unbearably personal film and an urgent social document, a hard look at American reality and a poem written in light, music and vivid human faces.

“[Jenkins] does not generalize. He empathizes. Every moment is infused with what the poet Hart Crane called ‘infinite consanguinity,’ the mysterious bond that links us with one another and that only an alert and sensitive artistic imagination can make visible. From first shot to last, Moonlight is about as beautiful a movie as you are ever likely to see. The colors are rich and luminous. (The director of photography is James Laxton.) The music — hip-hop, R&B, astute classical selections and Nicholas Britell’s subtle score — is both surprising and perfect.” — From A.O. Scott‘s 10.20 N.Y. Times review, titled “Is This the Year’s Best Movie?”

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Does it make sense that a Swiss wellness clinic would specialize in terrifying its patients? This is nonetheless the basic premise of Gore Verbinski‘s A Cure For Wellness (20th Century Fox, 2.17.17). Obviously a neo-German expressionist production design flick first and whatever else second. The bulk of the film was shot at Hohenzollern Castle in the Bisingen municipality, in southwest Germany. Dane DeHaan, Jason Isaacs, Mia Goth, et. al. Written by Justin Haythe (Revolutionary Road).

I haven’t seen Carl Reiner‘s Where’s Poppa? in a long while, but I have a feeling it’s not going to play as well as it did during the Nixon administration. Mainly because it pushed angry New York Jewish family humor (mockery of dementia, the loathing of one’s mother, big moustaches, family man getting mugged in Central Park by black guys), and some of this stuff is probably going to seem less nervy. 

Name three hit comedies besides Dr. Strangelove that are still pretty funny and three that aren’t. Aged like wine: Bringing Up Baby, The Twentieth Century, The Awful Truth. Aged poorly: Almost any sex comedy made in the early ’60s (Lover Come Back, Man’s Favorite Sport, The Honeymoon Machine, Period of Adjustment).

If you’re going for mirth and wit at a white-tie dinner, it’s better to aim “in” rather than “out”…right? No direct punches, a light touch, etc. Because Donald Trump ignored this rule he got his ass booed tonight. But the Melania plagiarism joke worked.

This 30-second teaser for Vikram Gandhi‘s Barry (Netflix, 12.16), a modest but sharply etched character study of young Barry Obama‘s undergrad years between ’81 and ’83, rubs me the wrong way. It suggests that this small-scale, 104-minute film wallows in hagiography, and it really doesn’t. Yes, it focuses on Obama’s junior and senior years at NYC’s Columbia University when he was studying political science and grappling with his half-white, half-black identity. But Barry doesn’t foretell anything. It’s a “who am I?” flick about conflict, racism (both the benevolent and hostile kinds), hesitancy and uncertainty start to finish. It’s well acted (especially by Devon Terrell in the lead role), carefully made, nicely layered and observing of many small details.

I’m not understanding the 43% Rotten Tomatoes rating for Michael Moore in TrumpLand, which I saw this morning. It’s not earth-shaking or astonishing or even startling, but what do you expect from a 70-minute political comedy performance Moore gave only the weekend before last? (It was filmed on Friday, 10.7 and Saturday, 10.8, in Wilmington, Ohio.)

Critics want Moore to do his classic schtick, to keep going with his lefty-confrontationalist routine. They liked Bowling for Columbine, Sicko, Capitalism: A Love Story and Farenheit 911, and they want that streak to continue. And they don’t want the softer, friendlier, more up-spirited Moore of Where To Invade Next? and now Michael Moore in Trumpland, neither of which have much in the way of satirical teeth.

Except Moore is just as malleable and susceptible to growth spurts as the next guy, and he doesn’t seem to believe in looking back any more than Bob Dylan does.

The views in Michael Moore in TrumpLand are sharp and perceptive, but the film is mainly about…okay, fear at first but mainly warmth and mirth and mutual understandings. With that title you might think Moore would ridicule Donald Trump top to bottom, but his shortcomings — fish in a barrel – are barely alluded to. And Moore has nothing dismissive to say about Trumpsters. Naturally.  Where would that get him?

But he does go all in for Hillary Clinton, even to the point of supposing she may be a secret liberal humanist who’s just waiting to take the oath of office before revealing her true colors. Hillary may suddenly become FDR during his first 100 days, Moore is saying, by pushing a “whoa, where did this come from?” social agenda (Bernie-like, anti-corporate).

Moore imagines that this secret-Hillary thing may line up with the saga of Pope Francis, a cautious, moderate fellow when he was a cardinal in Argentina, but who surprised everyone by flying liberal humanist colors when he moved to Rome.

I found Michael Moore in Trumpland reasonably engaging as far as it went. I certainly didn’t dislike it or feel provoked or irritated in any way. It’s fine. Moore has always been my idea of a brilliant communicator and a clever charmer, and I really quite enjoyed watching what appeared to be a good number of gray-haired Trump supporters really listening and seeming to get what Moore was on about, and even allowing their emotions to surface from time to time.

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The 2016 Gotham Award nominees were announced this morning, and I’ll tell you right now that Kenneth Lonergan’s Manchester by the Sea will almost certainly win four of the awards — Best Feature, Best Actor (Casey Affleck), Best Screenplay (Lonergan) and Breakthrough Actor (Lucas Hedges). The ceremony will happen on Monday, 11.28 at Cipriani Wall Street.

Here are the nominations — HE’s predicted wins are in boldface caps:

Best Feature: Certain Women (d: Kelly Reichardt, IFC Films); Everybody Wants Some! (d: Richard Linklater, Paramount Pictures); MANCHESTER BY THE SEA (d: Kenneth Lonergan, Amazon/Roadside); Moonlight (d: Barry Jenkins, A24); Paterson (d: Jim Jarmusch, Amazon).

Best Documentary: Cameraperson (d: Kirsten Johnson, Janus Films); I Am Not Your Negro (d: Raoul Peck, Magnolia Pictures); O.J.: MADE IN AMERICA (d: Ezra Edelman, director, ESPN Films); Tower (D: Keith Maitland, Kino Lorber, Independent Lens); Weiner (d: Josh Kriegman, Elyse Steinberg, Sundance Selects and Showtime Documentary Films). QUALIFIER: If Edelman’s doc doesn’t win, Weiner might take it.

Bingham Ray Breakthrough Director Award: ROBERT EGGERS for The Witch (A24); Anna Rose Holmer for The Fits (Oscilloscope Laboratories); Daniel Kwan & Daniel Scheinert for Swiss Army Man (A24); Trey Edward Shults for Krisha (A24); Richard Tanne for Southside with You (Roadside Attractions/Miramax). QUALIFIER: If Eggers doesn’t win, the Swiss Army guys might.

Best Screenplay: Hell or High Water, Taylor Sheridan (CBS Films); Love & Friendship, Whit Stillman (Amazon Studios); Manchester by the Sea, KENNETH LONERGAN (Amazon); Moonlight, Story by Tarell Alvin McCraney; Screenplay by Barry Jenkins (A24); Paterson, Jim Jarmusch (Amazon Studios). QUALIFIER: Lonergan’s screenplay could lose to Sheridan’s Hell or High Water.

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Last night’s debate went pretty well, I thought. Hillary Clinton was cool, measured, on-point; Donald Trump was restrained for the first 20 or 25 minutes, as usual, and then turned blustery and spiteful. He didn’t actually say he wouldn’t respect the outcome of the election, but that’s how almost everyone is processing it. Trump’s end-game is not winning the election (of course) but continuing to stir the pot of belligerency in order to keep the deplorables riled and pumped and pining for Trump TV. The bottom line is that Donald has never been that quick or disciplined or even interested in being all that knowledgable. You know who is? Donald Trump, Jr., who delivered some spin after the debate ended. His on-camera patter is sharp, fast and feisty. Like Ivanka, he’s better than his father at this game.

It's appalling that a presidential nominee of a major party is undermining the pillar of our democracy—just because he hates losing. pic.twitter.com/ZQhoighCAl

— Hillary Clinton (@HillaryClinton) October 20, 2016

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Every so often I’ll briefly space out when talking to actors or directors in high-pressure situations. It happens infrequently, but it happens. Fatigue, social cowardice…something. I’ll stop listening for a few seconds, lose focus and briefly retreat into some private realm. And then I’ll snap back. 

I’ve never admitted this. At the same time it’s not a big deal. I’ve never embarassed myself or blown an interview because of these lapses. It’s just a small bug in the system.

It happened a few weeks ago when I was talking with Casey Affleck at a Manchester By The Sea party at the Toronto Soho House. I left my body for four or five seconds. Affleck noticed I was floating upwards and turned his attention elsewhere.

Three years ago I briefly spaced out when I was sitting next to David O. Russell and Jennifer Lawrence at an American Hustle party. “Jeffrey, why are you frowning?” Russell asked. “You’re sitting at the best table at the party.” If I had answered “I’m just having a space-out moment,” Russell would have felt insulted. I was angry with myself a bit later. Why did I do that?

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