The last 25 years of moviegoing…okay, the last 15 or so…have taught me that I’m part of a shrinking fraternity…a diminishing HE collective that, outside of film festival fare, is always looking for but rarely getting a semblance of human realism in movies…stories and characters that add up to some kind of understandable motivational reality…even (or should I say particularly?) in comedies…films with stories and characters that present at least a vague semblance of the behavior that we’ve all come to understand from real-life humanoids.

Sam Raimi‘s Send Help, which I twitched and spasm’ed through last night, is aggressively anti-realist. Hell, the script (co-written by Damian Shannon and Mark Swift) pisses upon the HE fraternity.

The story, if you want to call it that, is a kind of extremist, wink-wink, feminist farce by way of an old-time formula that first launched way back with The African Queen (’51) — an antagonistic man and woman, both willful and stubborn, are forced to survive on a tropical island or in some remote locale after being shipwrecked or plane-wrecked or war-wrecked, and then gradually warm to each other.

Lina Wertmuller‘s Swept Away (’74) comes to mind, only that time it was a primitive working-class guy (Giancarlo Giannini) who took command, only to end up with his heart broken. Ditto Ivan Reitman‘s Six Days, Seven Nights (’98) and, most recently, Ruben Ostlund‘s Triangle of Sadness (’22).

Send Help is a Survivor thing with a turning of the the tables that we’re not supposed to see coming. But if you know Raimi, particularly his disregard for believable behavior and his generally perverse horror instincts, you know Send Help is going to go all wackazoid and nonsensical by the halfway mark.

It’s basically a revenge-horror flick about bringing pain and suffering to the proverbial bad guys (i.e., typically arrogant and ultra-privleged Millennial and Zoomer snots), and trust me when I tell you that watching it is like lying on salty beach sand while Raimi, Shannon and Swift lean over and vomit in our faces.

Alternate analogy: It’s also like Raimi, Shannon and Swift sawing the tops of their heads off, taking their brains out of their heads and mashing them together into a big mushy wad and flinging the pink brain matter upon a stone wall…splat!…gaaaahhh!

It starts out as a crudely exaggerated portrait of a meek 40something mouseburger named Linda Liddle (Rachel McAdams) who despises her haughty, to-the-manor-born boss, Bradley Preston (the 34 year-old Dylan O’Brien), primarily for having passed her over, promotion-wise.

But anyone who looks and behaves like Liddle would almost certainly suffer the same fate in any slick office environment.

Does it make any sense at all that a woman working in a chilly corporate realm wouldn’t make an effort to keep herself ultra-tidy and cosmopolitan and well-groomed as possible, as well as behave in a politically advantageous way with her co-workers? No, it doesn’t, but McAdams ignores these basic rules anyway and is shocked — shocked! — when she suffers politically for her Mrs. Gooch appearance and for being a private weekend drunk and eating smelly tunafish asandwiches at her desk, etc.

Linda and Bradley are, of course, the only survivors of a Pacific Ocean plane crash. (The CG is fairly awful, by the way.) Once they arrive on the verdant island, Linda not only enjoys the upper hand as far as basic survival skills are concerned, but becomes a much more physically beautiful person. She blooms into a kind of nature goddess, and this, unquestionably, is the most enjoyable section of the film. I actually started to feel hopeful. Go, Linda!

But then, Raimi being Raimi, Send Help goes stark raving mad around the 45-minute mark, certainly by the end of the first hour. And then McAdams breaks the fourth wall at the very end, looking straight into the camera lens as she delivers a winking message to the millions of Linda Liddles out there, and it’s like “WHAT?”

Written a few years back: Last night I watched a high-def stream of Sam Raimi‘s A Simple Plan (’98), which still seems like his finest film ever — the best written (by Scott Smith), the best acted (particularly by Bill Paxton, Billy Bob Thornton and Bridget Fonda), the most thrillingly plotted, and certainly the most morally complex.

I hadn’t seen it for 15 or 16 years. It holds up and then some. A filthy lucre film on the level of Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Fargo, Macbeth (particularly when you think of Fonda’s Lady Macbeth-like wife), Of Mice and Men, etc. But it got me to wondering why Raimi never again came close to making anything like it.

For The Love Of The Game followed A Simple Plan, and then The Gift. And then, for the last couple of decades, web-casting and fantasy — Spider-Man, Spider-Man 2, Spider-Man 3, Drag Me to Hell and Oz the Great and Powerful. Raimi mades his bones in cult horror (Evil Dead flicks, Darkman, Army of Darkness), and then seemed to step into the world-class, award-calibre league with A Simple Plan, and then…you tell me.

There’s one thing worse than saying something clueless or silly in the presence of a famous actor or celebrity, and that’s failing to recognize them. Nothing is worse than this. They’ll never forgive you.

Have I ever failed to spot someone? Or failed to act cool and casual if the occasion arose? Never. But people I’ve been with…

A lady and I were walking along Blvd. St. Germain in ’02 or thereabouts, sometime in the early evening. Lo and behold we came upon Tim Roth and a significant other, sitting at a cafe table and people-watching, etc. I smiled and introduced myself, explained that I’d just been in Cannes, complemented Roth on something or other, etc. The woman I was with didn’t know Roth and asked what he did. Roth gave her a death-ray look. The mood went south.

Way back when I attended a Bette Midler concert in Berkeley. Her flamboyant “Divine Miss M.” phase…flaming red hair, flashy apparel, the Harlettes. After the show I joined a small crowd outside the rear stage door. My girlfriend and her younger sister Donna stood to my left. After a longish wait a woman with her face scrubbed and hair pulled into a tight bun came out. She said something to someone and everyone knew it was Midler. Except for Donna. “Who’s that?” she barked. Jumping into a waiting limo, Midler had heard. I felt mortified.

The best policy when you run into someone famous is to stand mute. Don’t even look at them. Okay, you can glance but that’s all. My policy all along.

Last Friday Bill Belichick, the eight-time Super Bowl-winning coach, learned the high price of having a 20something, hot-bod, gold-digger girlfriend. The high resentment factor, I mean, shared by other older dudes.

A gut feeling tells me that Jordon Hudson is the main reason why Belichick is not a first-ballot Hall of Famer. He’ll eventually be admitted, of course, but this was his first year of eligibility for induction to the Pro Football Hall of Fame, and damned if he didn’t fall short of the necessary 40 out of 50 votes.

Hall of Fame voters who didn’t vote for Belichick, muttering to themselves and to Belichick telepathically: “You’ve heard from us, Bill, and now you know. We haven’t had a hot girlfriend ride us like a bucking bronco in decades, and this is your punishment. And guess what? You’re gonna take it and like it.”

ESPN: “Several sources who spoke with the coach over the weekend described Belichick as ‘puzzled’ and ‘disappointed’ by his inability to secure support from at least 80% of Hall committee members.”

HE to Belichick: “Puzzled”? Ask your dick. If your live-in girlfriend was in her 40s or a bit older, you’d be in like Flynn.

The turn-down was probably also about Spygate and Belichick being a Trump supporter prior to 1.6.21. I’m not saying the vote had anything to do with Belichick having worn that grotesque maroon sport jacket, but it might have been a slight factor.

The first ballot shut-down wasn’t a flat-out vote condemnation or any kind of stark rejection. Belichick will get past this. It was simply a slap-on-the-wrist vote.

Nine months ago:

…but they’re certainly not paying attention. They’re probably determined (or have been conditioned) to assess power and politics through a gender lens, no matter what. And in this sense their timing is really, heavily off. If there’s one unavoidable and overwhelming realization that has settled into everyone outside this 31% bubble, it’s that Kamala Harris will never happen again on a national scale…ever. I’m saying this as one who voted for Harris 14 months ago and Hillary Clinton in ‘16.

Why the political vessel of its own ideological girlboss design called One Battle After Another…this, thanks to recent tragic events and Greg Bovino in particular, is why PTA’s film is even more locked than before to win the Best Picture Oscar.

To hear it from Page Six Hollywood‘s Tatiana Siegel, indie filmmaking bros Josh and Benny Safdie parted company in 2023 over a sexually coarse, clearly illegal incident that happened during the filming of Good Time (A24, 8.11.17), a frenzied, super-chaotic urban crime flick.

Having spoken to”multiple” Good Time sources, Siegel reports that “a 17-year-old girl” — possibly Taliah Webster, who was 17 during filming in early ’16 — was called upon to do nudity and (this is key) cope with costar Buddy Duress whipping out his schlong during the filming of a scene.

Josh and Benny co-directed, but Siegel’s focus is on Josh, who was the stronger force between the two. She reports that Josh “became aware of the girl’s age on the day of production, shortly after the scene [was] shot, as the traumatized girl spiraled.”

Benny, however, who was right there (working the boom mike) and, being one of the film’s two top dogs, surely had every opportunity to inquire about Webster’s age and whatnot…Benny didn’t become aware of the Good Time actress’s age until the summer of ’22, according to Siegel.

Does this make any sense to anyone?

Bystander to Benny during filming in early ’16: “Hey, Benny, that actress…the one playing Crystal?…she’s pretty cute, but she also looks really young. Is she a minor?” Benny to bystander: “I don’t know, man.” Bystander to Benny: “You’re the co-director of this thing, Benny, and you don’t know if she’s legal or not, sex-scene-wise? Buddy just whipped it out!” Benny to bystander: “”I really don’t know, man. Ask Josh.”

AI says Josh and Benny’s Good Time was “filmed over 35 days, in February and March 2016.”

The central event in Siegel’s story, therefore, dates back nearly ten years. But Benny stayed clueless about the legality of using Webster (or whomever it was) in a sex scene for six and a half years after that. It didn’t occur to him throughout 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021 and half of ’22.

Benny to Josh in the summer of ’22: “Hey man…the scene between that pretty teenaged actress and Buddy that we shot six and a half years ago? You never told me she was a minor!” Josh to Benny: “I only found out she was 17 until after the scene was shot. You were right there. You agreed to cast her …we both did. Why is this all my fault?” Benny to Josh: “You were the kingpin between us so it was mainly your fault. We were both careless, true, but it was mainly you so fuck you…I don’t want to partner with you any more.” Josh to Benny: “NOW you’re deciding this?? Were you in a coma for six and a half years? NOW you have a problem with an on-camera scene in which a 17-year-old is confronted with Buddy’s schlong…a scene that was shot eight months before Trump was elected the first time…eight to nine months before the launch of #MeToo? NOW you have a fucking problem with it?”

Siegel: “Using a minor for nudity and a sex scene would flout industry norms, including a Screen Actors Guild rule that stipulates work conditions not be ‘detrimental to the health, morals and safety of the minor.’ Those familiar with the chain of events say Josh’s recklessness was beyond the pale.”

If I’d been in Josh Safdie’s shoes I would have yelled “cut!” when Buddy yanked his salami out. “Fuck are you doing, man?” I would’ve shouted. “Zip up and apologize to the crew, and to Taliah in particular.” But that’s me.

Why did Josh keep rolling? I’m guessing he kept it going because the scene had a certain extra pizazz or edge…because the energy felt special or something.

I’m not saying Siegel’s story is a nothingburger, but it’s certainly a not-much-burger. It’s basically an anti-Marty Supreme hit piece.

With Sundance bidding hot and heavy for Olivia Wilde‘s The Invite and a theatrical opening likely to happen in the fall, I wanted to stream Cesc Gay‘s six-year-old The People Upstairs, which The Invite is adaptated from.

Apparently this 2020 Spanish-language film had been streaming on (take your pick) Apple, Amazon and Netflix, but the streaming spigots have been turned off. Maybe The Invite will screen in Cannes?

On 4.29.25, or nine months ago, I wrote that “many people have developed an idea about Blake Lively, a once-serviceable, generally appealing actress who’s primarily famous for becoming an intrusive producer during the making of It Ends With Us (’24), and subsequently trying to use accusations of sexual harassment in order to murder the career of director and costar Justin Baldoni, blah blah blah blah blah.

The idea about Lively, I explained, isthat she’s a toxic, clawing, scratching bitch “whom no one wants to know, much less work with or pay to see in a movie…right?”

Two months earlier (2.13.25) I had written that “the jig is up for Team Lively. She may as well throw in the towel — everyone despises her — vindication is out of the question. Team Baldoni needs to give in also…please. Just walk away, and there will be an end to the horror.”

And yes, given Lively’s seeming determination to vivisect Baldoni and shove his showbiz career into a wood-chipper, Baldoni filing a $400M defamation claim against Lively and husband Ryan Reynolds struck me as…well, reasonable.

On or about 6.9.25, or nearly seven months ago, Judge Lewis J. Liman dismissed Baldoni’s suit, finding that her accusations of sexual harassment were legally protected and therefore immune from suit.

To which I responded “what’s going on here? ‘Accusations of sexual harassment’ are ‘legally protected’? But trying to destroy a man’s career with questionable claims and agitated #MeToo hyperbole is cool?”

HE comment: “Will someone please explain this dismissal to me in regular guy standing on a sidewalk and eating a hot dog terminology? Like I’m a six year old? King Henry II to Thomas Becket: ‘I’m an idiot then! Talk to me like I’m an idiot!’”

It’s now late January 2026, and the Lively-vs. Baldoni case won’t go to trial in New York federal court until 5.18.26…four months to go. And whatever happens judgment-wise, endless appeals will no doubt follow.

It seems indisputable that Lively has truly destroyed her career with all the ranting and dragon-ing, all the lawsuits and Swifting and jousting and counterclaims and whatnot. Everyone is the world is sick to death of the toxic aggression on both sides, granted, but mostly from her legal team. It’s ugly, rancid, exhausting.

It continues with us…the never-ending battle.