A partial rundown for the 7th annual Turner Classic Movies Film Festival (4.28 to 5.1) was unveiled today. I always look for first-time-ever screenings of recently restored films that haven’t hit Bluray or streaming, but somehow seeing a 25th anniversary restored version of John Singleton‘s Boyz in The Hood doesn’t exactly tingle the blood. I was also hoping for a screening of the nearly-completed restoration of Marlon Brando‘s One-Eyed Jacks, but that’s not in the cards.

For me the only announced festival attraction that excites so far is a special presentation of Jack Cardiff and Mike Todd, Jr.‘s Scent of Mystery (a.k.a. Holiday in Spain), which will be presented at the Cinerama Dome in “Smell-O-Vision.”

What could have motivated the highly respected Jack Cardiff to direct this thing? (Besides money, I mean.) The costars are a remarkably young-looking Denholm Elliott (he was 37 during filming) and a bloated Peter Lorre. A foxy, bikini-wearing Diana Dors has a marginal role. Elizabeth Taylor (i.e., widow of the deceased Mike Todd, Sr. and therefore the producer’s mother-in-law) isn’t in the trailer, but she makes an uncredited cameo appearance.

Wiki page summary: “Scent of Mystery was developed specifically with Smell-O-Vision in mind. Although Scent was not the first film to be accompanied by aromas, it was the most technologically advanced. Todd, son of the late Mike Todd, engaged in such hyperbole as ‘I hope it’s the kind of picture they call a scentsation!’ He also got help from newspaper columnists such as Earl Wilson, who lauded the system, saying Smell-O-Vision ‘can produce anything from skunk to perfume, and remove it instantly.’ New York Times writer Richard Nason believed it might be a major advance in filmmaking. As such, expectations were high.

“Scent opened in three specially equipped theaters in February, 1960 — in New York City, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Unfortunately, the mechanism did not work properly. According to Variety, aromas were released with a distracting hissing noise and audience members in the balcony complained that the scents reached them several seconds after the action was shown on the screen. In other parts of the theater, the odors were too faint, causing audience members to sniff loudly in an attempt to catch the scent.

In my glowing review of Bob Nelson‘s The Confirmation (Saban, 3.18) I wondered why it didn’t play at the 2016 Sundance Film Festival. The absence in Park City made no sense. Either Saban didn’t submit it, I figured, or they did and it was turned down, which is nuts as it’s obviously good enough to have made the cut. Well, guess what? I just finished doing a phoner with Nelson, who’s here in Los Angeles for interviews plus tomorrow night’s premiere screening, and he says, believe it or not, that Sundance programmers saw it and passed.

I’m sorry but ixnaying a film as good as The Confirmation is absurd, especially when you consider that Sundance is obliged to screen a certain number of films each year that one could describe as mezzo-mezzo or mediocre. It’s inevitable. So a film like The Confirmation comes along, a film that definitely works and coheres and holds water and all the other superlatives of a B-plus or A-minus film, and Sundance says no? There’s really no excuse.

At the start of the 2015 Sundance Film Festival I walked out on Bryan Buckley‘s The Bronze (Sony Pictures Classics, 3.18). I lasted 15 minutes, to be exact. I was criticized for this, of course, but my policy is firm — if a film clearly stinks or is going to make me suffer grievously, I walk. If you have the perceptions that I’ve been given and have more importantly developed them over decades, you can spot a piece of shit from a mile away, and so when push comes to shove you decide to commit yourself to something more rewarding or purposeful, or at least less wasteful.

There is no honor in sitting through a film that is clearly going to be awful.

The Bronze has 11% and 40% ratings from Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic, respectively, and one reason the Metacritic rating isn’t lower is because Drew McWeeny wrote a review that was (a) less than approving but at the same time (b) not entirely damning.

Filed on 1.23.15: “For whatever perverse reason Sundance programmers will occasionally select a mostly dreadful, all-but-unendurable film to play in the Premieres section. The common consensus is that Bryan Buckley‘s The Bronze is one of these films. I can’t speak from authority because I left around the 15-minute mark, but I could smell trouble even before it began.

From a 3.12 Guardian piece about changing Cuba, by Ed Vulliamy: “For years, visitors to Cuba have been the curious, the adventurous and politically sympathetic; photographers enthralled by the peeling colonial slums, vintage cars and sensuous beauty of the people and their country.

“But for many it might as well be the Bahamas or Costa Blanca — as holidaymakers’ fear of terrorist activity in North Africa encourages them to try the mojitos and cigars of Cuba instead. Central Havana now heaves with cargo-shorts, logo T-shirts and a photo opportunity on every corner.

“Its famously crumbling architecture is slowly but surely undergoing a wash-n-brush-up; a lovely old marketplace adjacent to the Parque Central is closed and wrapped in scaffolding, to make way for yet another luxury hotel providing berths for a new mass tourism, which is still, for the most part, billeted in licensed ‘casas particulares’ — private houses accountable to the state, allowed to take in guests.

“’Every time I return, something else I know has changed,’ says María Jimena Duzán, a Colombian writer who has been visiting Havana for decades. ‘The Americans are here, and that changes everything. One of my favourite places, the lovely old Plaza Vieja, just isn’t the same place, totally transformed.’ Starbucks and Subway on the Parque Central? ‘Oh don’t, please,’ she winces, ‘but indeed, this is just the start of what we’re looking at for Cuba.’

In exactly seven days (3.20.16) I’ll be celebrating four years of sobriety. Not a big deal in AA circles or in the eyes of the usually disapproving Glenn Kenny, I realize, but it sure feels good on this end. I thought about this last night, and it ushered in, ironically, memories of how happy I was in my partying days (late teens to late 20s) and…really, just how blissful things felt from time to time. Sporadically blissful, I mean. Little kisses and shots and caresses.

Not in any grounded or substantive sense — profound spiritual contentment was a long way off — but I was having so many good and happy times in the evenings (and over occasional straight-through weekend marathons). Daytime and work was another thing, but when the sun went down the adventures began! So much laughter and great sex (although the bulk of my luckiness happened between 25 and 35) and hilarious adventures and great craziness with friends.

It began to hit me around 24 or 25 that all this happiness couldn’t last, and that grimming up and getting down in the world of journalism, however satisfying or rewarding this would prove in the long run, would signal the end of my ecstasy period. It was hard, all right. “The page is turning and the joy I knew is slipping away but I have to let it go so I can start the next phase,” I told myself over and over. But God, it was so sad.

The growing awareness that my off-and-on nocturnal delight had to come to an end felt like a virus…as if a kind of spreading melancholia had taken over my system. It was around this time when terms like “the grim slide” (a term coined by Tom Wolfe) and “Hollywood Weltschmerz” became my mantras. I remember sharing the former with Jack Nicholson during a 1982 interview for The Border and Nicholson chuckling and getting it immediately, or at least in a cultural-political sense….”the grim slide!”

It all started this morning when Sasha Stone tweeted that Mary Elizabeth Winstead‘s performance in 10 Cloverfield Lane contains nods to Sigourney Weaver‘s performances in the two Alien films. To which I replied: “Pour it on for one of the most irritatingly ‘acted’ performances in recent memory. Gasping, wide-eyed, wimpering.”

Within the hour a small army of obsequious little twitter bitches jumped in to defend Winstead’s honor and gallantly protect her from the HE dragon. Key HE/Winstead tweet: “How to flagrantly ACT terrified with calculated ACTING tricks as opposed to naturally exuding the real thing….being, not ACTING.”

Mary Elizabeth Winstead in 10 Cloverfield Lane.

At some point Winstead herself jumped in. Her first remark asked in a chiding way if I also thought she was fat. (Answer: Nope.) I told her there’s a moment at the end of 10 Cloverfield Lane when she realizes that a certain above-ground reality that has been alluded to is quite real, and she says “c’mon” — THAT was good, I told her.

A couple of the little twitter kiss-asses thought this constituted harassment on my part. The monkey-obeisance instinct always kicks in…”We love you, pretty movie star! That guy who said those mean things?…we’ll defend you!”

I dropped into Book Soup last night and, for a reason I’ll shortly disclose, decided to buy a $20 trade paperback of Scott Eyman‘s “John Wayne: The Life and Legend.” The Vietnam trip begins late Wednesday night (12 1/2 hour flight from LAX to Seoul and then another five hours from Seoul to Hanoi) and there’s no wifi across the Pacific so I’m figuring a nice comfortable biography will fit right in. Yeah, the irony of Wayne and Vietnam…I get it, I get it.

The following excerpt, an anecdote from Wayne pally Rod Taylor (who died a little more than a year ago) is why I bought the book. It explains that Taylor invited Wayne to “one of his marriages at a church in Westwood.” Taylor was married three times — once in ’54 and once after Wayne died so it had to be a June 1963 wedding to model Mary Hilem, with whom Taylor had a daughter, former CNN financial reporter Felicia Taylor, in 1964. Anyway, here it is:

I’ve been faintly, floatingly aware of Ariana Grande, of course. Not the donut-shop thing but her performing chops. I knew she could sing pretty well but I never cared enough to listen, no offense. And I damn sure never watched Sam & Fucking Cat. But everything changed last night when she did her awesome JLaw on SNL. Now she’s on the HE map and will stay there until further notice.

Tapper: “You’ve had problems attracting African-American voters. Why is that?” Sanders: “Probably because I look like someone who at some point told them ‘get out of my store.’ They say they don’t know me but they don’t want to know me because I look like I do and I’m from Vermont. That’s it. That’s as deep as it goes. Tribal instinct. Plus…you know, the fact that a lot of African-American voters, no offense, seem to find it hard to pick up a smart phone and read stuff. It’s comforting, I guess, to stay curled up in that low-information foxhole. What are ya gonna do? That guy’s grandma said she ‘don’t know no Bernie’ because she doesn’t wanna know. Plus the gender thing.”

Once again I fucked myself because I didn’t take the time to do the research. The sound-synch issue wouldn’t go away and so I finally decided I had to junk the Samsung 60″ 1080p that I’ve had for about three years and get a newbie. Well, the big stores don’t sell 1080s any more — you pretty much have to buy a 4K. Being a cheap-ass and insufficiently temperate in these matters, I decided to buy the most reasonably priced 4K that had first-rate approvals on CNET and elsewhere — a Samsung 65″ 4K (UN65JU65OOF) for $1700 and change.

They delivered it last weekend. The 4K was set up after an hour or so, and I was pretty damn delighted with the resolution. It really does seem to pop a bit more than 1080p. But then I was told by a guy who knows all about this stuff that the “cheap” Samsung I’d purchased doesn’t have HDR (high dynamic range) and therefore it won’t be able to interface with and/or derive maximum visual benefit from a 4K Bluray player.

Do I have the slightest interest in purchasing a 4K player? No, but sooner or later you have to succumb to what’s happening and available and current. Yes, it’s all streaming these days (I also got a new Roku 4 because it’s 4K-friendly) but I can’t completely divorce myself from the comforts of physical media.

I’m flabbergasted that the Best Buy guys have the balls to look people in the eye and sell them 4K TVs that can’t play 4K Blurays. Which is roughly analogous to selling customers 1080p flatscreens six or seven years ago and then telling them the next day that their sets can’t play Blurays. But that’s exactly what they’ll do if you let them.

The older I get and the more I attempt to arrest the gradual weathering, creasing and flabification (by way of sobriety, healthy eating, astringent facial creams, regular exercise and the wearing of studly leather motorcycle jackets), the more beautiful I find photos like these. Snapped in 1946 at age 22, about a year before the Broadway debut of A Streetcar Named Desire.

Speaking to press this morning in Largo, Florida, Marco Rubio — over, finished, probably on the brink of withdrawing from the race — hedged on whether he would support Donald Trump as the Republican presidential nominee. “It’s called chaos, anarchy and that’s what we’re careening toward,” Rubio said. “We are being ripped apart at the seams now, and it’s disturbing. I am sad for this country. This country is supposed to be an example to the world.” Asked if he’ll still support Trump, Rubio responded: “I don’t know. I intend to support the Republican nominee, but [it’s] getting harder every day.” — from a 3.12.16 Guardian report by Sabrina Siddiqui.

Marco Rubio on Trump and violence. Sat. March 12, 2016. from Omar Moore on Vimeo.