No one is happy about plans to deliver Alien: Covenant, Ridley Scott‘s third Alien movie, on 10.6.17. Everyone worships the original, hugely influential Alien (’79) but despises the financially successful ($403 million) calamity d’estime that was Prometheus (’12). This latest and final Alien is, of course, an attempt to mitigate the horrid experience of Prometheus, a movie so infuriatingly awful that it launched the “Scott is over” meme. The compassionate thing would be to smother this project in the crib and never do another Alien movie ever again. Move on, find new worlds, create new poetry. But there’s big money to be made from Alien: Covenant, obviously, and so here we are. I’m sure Scott intends to deliver an Alien movie that the fans wanted from Prometheus but didn’t get.

I’m naturally presuming that the malevolent Damon Lindelof, mind-fucking predator and destroyer of realms, won’t be allowed with 500 miles of this project.

Prometheus “is impressively composed and colder than a witch’s boob in Siberia,” I wrote on 6.1.12. “It’s visually striking, spiritually frigid, emotionally unengaging, at times intriguing but never fascinating. It’s technically impressive, of course — what else would you expect from an expensive Scott sci-fier? And the scary stuff takes hold in the final third. But it delivers an unsatisfying story that leaves you…uhm, cold.

Without mentioning specifics a friend has a close relation attending school in Paris, and as you might expect the post-massacre vibe (armed soldiers everywhere, people being being randomly asked for ID) has made the student feel rattled. I responded as follows:

“The idea that you might one day be sipping your cappuccino on rue d’Abesses when all of a sudden a hailstorm of bullets shatters the place and possibly ends your life…devastating. But you have to push on. Death eternally hovers but who allows notions of obliteration to dictate what they do or think? There’s only one rule or command, and that is to persist and sing and dance and explore and create as if we had a thousand or ten thousand years of life. It’s horrible but what else is there to do?

“After Charlie Hebdo a vague expectation that terror might strike again was in the air over there, I’m sure, but nobody obsessed about it. I was in Paris last May before Cannes, walking everywhere and scootering around, and it was absolutely wonderful. Life went on. Life will always go on. What’s the difference between those who died last Friday and those who didn’t? Luck and fast reflexes. You can’t bestow luck and you can’t teach people to have fast reflexes, so what is there to do? It’s a ghastly situation but death hovers any way you slice it. I’m repeating myself.

I haven’t time write a full-on review because of commitments to attend four schmooze parties today (brunches for Carol and Mr. Holmes‘ Ian McKellen at 11 am, a 3pm gathering for Beasts of No Nation and a soiree for the Spotlight gang at 5 pm), but my estimation of Adam McKay‘s The Big Short shot way up last night when I caught it for a second time. I still don’t get a good portion of the flim-flam jargon and I still find the financial milieu rank and appalling, but the second viewing was the charm. I honestly feel like a slightly wiser and better person for having seen it. Seriously…it expanded my horizons. Obviously not in a Bhagavad Gita sense but in a crusty, eye-rolling fashion. It’s not a rumor — we live in a country that is largely ruled by financial criminals and the people they’ve bought off.

The Big Short is a fascinating deep dive into a galaxy I’ve never really visited before, and after doing some research yesterday and skimming through the Michael Lewis book I suddenly awoke to the film, or somehow found that switch that allowed my brain to not only accept but savor what the movie is pushing.

Advice to HE readers: If you want to half-understand and therefore enjoy The Big Short, you need to do one of the following: (a) see it twice like I have — it really makes a difference, (b) acquire some personal experience in investments and/or the high-end financial markets, (c) arrange to be born into a wealthy, connected family that talks about financial crap at the breakfast table, or (d) be smarter than me, Scott Feinberg, Sasha Stone and other blogaroonies who had a little trouble with it the other night. But if you have more brain power, family wealth, some experience in the market and a willingness to see The Big Short a second time, the curtains will part and you’ll find a special arousal, a spark, a little bit of Tom Wolfe‘s “aha!” phenomenon.

During the eight years of the Dwight D. Eisenhower presidency (Jan. ’53 to Jan. ’61), individuals making $200K or more per year ($1.7 million in 2015 dollars) paid a top marginal rate of 91%. Today’s top rate is 39.6%, applying to singles making $413,200 or more per year or jointly-filing married couples making $464,850 or more annually. The highest-ever income tax bracket was in place during 1944 and ’45, when couples making more than $200K paid 94%. Bernie, radical loon that he is, wants rich folk to pay around 50% or roughly 11% more than they do now. (Sourced from Politifact.)

I sat down a couple of days ago with John McKenna, co-director of Steve McQueen: The Man & Le Mans, which I saw and greatly admired in Cannes six months ago, and with Chad McQueen, the late superstar’s actor-producer son.

We convened in the Polo Lounge inside the Beverly Hills hotel, and sure enough a guy started playing piano halfway through the chat and half-ruined the recording. And Chad, who was late for the interview due, he said, to having enjoyed a little too much liquid cheer after the doc’s premiere the night before, was entirely amiable and loose-shoe but also seemed a tiny bit…uhm, baked.

(l.) John McKenna, co-director of Steve McQueen: The Man & Le Mans, and producer Chad McQueen — Thursday, 11.12, 11:40 am — in lobby of Beverly Hills hotel.

But it was thrilling to commune with the son of one my all-time heroes and to throw out a few thoughts and asides…whatever came to mind. Chad’s eyes are covered by dark shades, but he seems to have inherited a few of his dad’s physical traits, including his hair, jawline and manner of speech. Plus he has that watchful thing, that vibe…a chip off the old McQueen undercurrent. 

I was silently saying to myself, “What a hallowed California moment…chilling in the Polo Lounge and talking about Steve McQueen with his only living son and shooting the shit about this and that and Junior Bonner“…yeah.

Here’s an mp3 of our discussion, such as it was.

I learned two interesting things: (a) While I had no issues with the 112-minute running time when I saw the doc in Cannes (unlike, say, The Hollywood Reporter‘s Todd McCarthy, who suggested a trimming), the film is now down to 102 minutes, which naturally makes me want to see it again; and (b) McKenna said that McQueen wanted to do his own driving and actually compete in the real-deal 24 Hours at Le Mans race in the summer of ’70, which is when the film was shot.  But studio insurers said no. This turndown, McKenna suspects or believes, created frustration in McQueen and perhaps a bit of anger that may have contributed to the disarray during production.

“Of all the current century’s most cataclysmic world-historical events, the 2008 financial crisis is probably among the most poorly understood. Filmmakers looking to rectify this have already approached the story from a number of angles, from sober-minded documentary (Inside Job) to operatic boiler-room drama (Margin Call), but the route taken by The Big Short is by far the most radical, turning a dense economics lecture into a hyper-caffeinated postmodern farce, a spinach smoothie skillfully disguised as junk food.

“Taking style cues from hip-hop videos, Funny or Die clips and The Office, Adam McKay’s film hits its share of sour notes; some important plot points are nearly impossible for laypeople to decipher even with cheeky, fourth-wall-obliterating tutorials, and the combination of eye-crossing subject matter and nontraditional structure makes it a risky bet at the box office. But there’s an unmistakable, scathing sense of outrage behind the whole endeavor, and it’s impossible not to admire McKay’s reckless willingness to do everything short of jumping through flaming hoops on a motorcycle while reading aloud from Keynes if that’s what it takes to get people to finally pay attention.” — from Andrew Barker‘s Variety review, posted yesterday.

Before attending this evening’s TCL Chinese second-look screening of The Big Short, I’ll be attending a 5 pm Paris massacre peace vigil at the Consulate General De France (10390 Santa Monica Blvd, adjacent to Beverly Glen Blvd.). The Move On message asks participants to “show your opposition to all violence and hatred…share our hope that together France and her allies seek justice, not vengeance.” Justice? I will stand among this crowd and hang my head and maybe even hold a candle, but I will not sing “Amazing Grace.” Not this time, pal.

There can be no “justice” in a situation created by animals, and you can’t make deals with them either. (Just ask Ray Hicks.) I don’t think it’s right or wise, but you know that most people are thinking along the lines of Dirty Harry right now. They definitely don’t want to know from peace candles. When Bonasera the undertaker asked Don Corleone for justice, he said “let them suffer then, as [my daughter] has suffered.” ISIS wants a super-vicious response, of course. Their biggest wet dream is the U.S. of Satan coming after them and bringing on the Ultimate Armageddon. I don’t know what to do, but if any one group or army in world history deserves extermination, it’s the “Allahu akbar” guys.

I was genuinely touched by Guillermo del Toro‘s tweet last night about his response to his father’s kidnapping and how he didn’t want to contribute to the cycle of violence, and how this is a lesson right now. But this is not what Average Joes are thinking, trust me. You can feel the current out there. God help us if Ann Coulter is right and Donald Trump surges ahead of Hillary Clinton because of this. This almost feels Biblical, what’s happening now.

If you could bury the entire ISIS army and all their admirers under a thousand feet of sand by snapping your fingers three times, would you do so? Be honest. Yes, I know Guillermo’s tweet reflects a wiser, more Solomon-like response, but I wonder what Alejandro G. Inarritu is thinking right now.