Legendary Hollywood pitbull attorney Bert Fields has completed his journey. The 93 year-old representative of the rich and powerful (and a noted historical novelist) departed late last night at his home in Malibu.

Fields’ client list had included Michael Jackson, Jeffrey Katzenberg, George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, George Harrison, Warren Beatty, James Cameron, Mike Nichols, Mario Puzo, Joel Silver, Tom Cruise, Dustin Hoffman and John Travolta. He was widely and deeply feared.

The only contact I ever had with Fields happened 29 and 1/2 years ago, and it was indirect. It involved Warren Beatty and the reporting of an Entertainment Weekly piece about Love Affair. Here’s how I recalled it on 1.9.10:

I’ve just finished reading 24 pages about the making of the embarassing Love Affair (1994) in Peter Biskind‘s “Star: How Warren Beatty Seduced America” (Simon & Schuster).

Biskind offers quote after quote about how Beatty, the film’s star, producer and co-writer (with Robert Towne), marginalized and pretty much ignored and deballed Love Affair‘s director Glenn Gordon Caron.

Using quotes from several sources including Caron himself, Biskind also reports that director of photography Conrad Hall ignored Caron for the most part, treating him with little if any respect.

Towards the end of filming in late 1993 I was told similar stories by two excellent sources (the late production designer Richard Sylbert, a longtime Beatty collaborator and friend, and another insider I’d rather not name).

I included the material in a file submitted to Entertainment Weekly‘s “News & Notes” section, edited at the time by Maggie Murphy, for a story about the making of Love Affair. The file made it clear that Beatty was really running the show and that Caron (hired off his rep as the creative light behind TV’s Moonlighting and Remington Steele) was the director in name only.

I talked to Beatty about these stories, not naming the sources but telling him I’d heard this and that, and he (a) denied that they were true and (b) calmly expressed outrage that EW was working on a story along these lines, which he naturally felt would tarnish the film as a troubled production and perhaps dent its box-office appeal.

He mentioned at one point that he might sic his attorney, Bert Fields, on the magazine.

I don’t know who said what to whom, but I do know that EW ignored the Caron-had-his-balls-cut-off angle when they ran their story a week or two later in mid-December 1993. Anne Thompson, who also did some Love Affair reporting, was assigned to write a cottonball piece called “Love and Warren” that said Beatty was a perfectionist and blah blah. It was basically a valentine.

The Caron angle was removed, I was told, because managing editor Jim Seymore didn’t like the fact that we couldn’t name the sources. I heard second hand that he told Murphy there was “no story here.” I always suspected this was code for “I’m feeling too much corporate heat on this thing so let’s kill it or water it down.”

I later told Beatty that by all appearances he’d played his cards well and had clearly won the round. If you have any sporting blood you have to respectfully acknowledge when you’ve been out-maneuvered.

I got pretty good at imitating Beatty’s voice. I remember calling Thompson during the end of the Love Affair episode. She picked up and said hello. “Anne Thompson?,” I said. Yes? “Warren Beatty.” She fell for it. “Hey-hey….howz it goin’?'” and so on. “Anne, Anne…I’m sorry. It’s Jeff. Foolin’ around…sorry. I wanted to see if I was good enough.”

The key to imitating Beatty is to pronounce the first syllable of his first name so it doesn’t sound like “war” in War and Peace, but “Warren” if you were describing a network of interconnecting rabbit burrows.

Love Affair opened in October 1994 and was panned by just about everyone. I saw it once and found it flat and mundane. Roger Ebert was one of the few critics who gave it a break. It cost about $30 million and made $18 million, give or take. But Beatty would rebound four years later with Bulworth, one of the sharpest and most unflinching political comedies ever made in this country.

As World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy pointed out this morning, several hot titles are missing from the just-announced Toronto Film Festival slate — Alejandro Gonzalez Iñárritu’s Bardo, Todd Field’s TAR, Andrew Dominik’s Blonde, Luca Guadagnino’s Bones and All, Paul Schrader’s The Master Gardener and Noah Baumbach’s White Noise.

The media chorus is saying “TIFF is back!” and that’s fine if they want to adopt that attitude, but these six films represent major auteur-level måterial. It’s possible they’ll be announced as TIFF titles down the road, but to me it’s a sign that TIFF has come down two or three notches, esteem-wise.

Non-Attributable Insider: “I think Hollywood has realized it can skip TIFF by doing Venice and Telluride. European/world audience with one, Oscar voters with the other. TIFF is still great for a commercial release like Spielberg’s The Fabelmans. But these are increasingly moving online, right?”

I’m also feeling twinges of concern about Maria Schrader‘s She Said. The trailer, released a couple of weeks ago, convinced me that She Said is a #MeToo-stamped Spotlight, and yet the ’22 Venice Film Festival has blown it off and it’s not in the TIFF rundown either. Something feels “off.”

Do you believe that Olivia Wilde‘s Don’t Worry, Darling, which stars Harry Styles, isn’t playing TIFF because another, modestly scaled Styles film, My Policeman, is also playing TIFF and certain parties don’t want the media’s attention split in two directions? Seems like a weird call.

The following 2022 Toronto Film Festival titles seem more intriguing than most, according to HE standards:

Steven Spielberg‘s The Fabelmans, Peter Farrelly‘s The Greatest Beer Run Ever, Rian Johnson‘s Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery, Nicholas Stoller‘s Bros, Florian Zeller‘s The Son, Sam Mendes‘ Empire of Light, Ruben Östlund‘s Triangle of Sadness (saw it in Cannes), Darren Aronofsky‘s The Whale, Jafar Panahi‘s No Bears, Mia Hansen-Love‘s One Fine Morning and that’s about it — ten films.

I’m also cautiously intrigued by the prospect of seeing Gabe Polsky‘s Butcher’s Crossing, Alice Winocour‘s Paris Memories, Catherine Hardwicke‘s Prisoner’s Daughter, Joanna Hogg‘s The Eternal Daughter, Sarah Polley‘s Women Talking and Sebastián Lelio‘s The Wonder.

Jordan Peele‘s Nope opens seven days hence (7.22), and there’s no buzz at all. Donut. The first critics screenings begin next week. This doesn’t necessarily “mean” anything as distribs often screen horror films at the last minute.

Peele has made three features (Get Out, Us, Nope), has had two massive hits and become a brand, and many (including the absolutely relentless Bob Strauss) still swear by Get Out.

“It’s not Rosemary’s Baby but what is?,” a friend says. “But it’s infinitely better than The Stepford Wives.”

Peele, I replied, is a commercial filmmaker working in the thriller-horror-spooker field. He is what he is, but he’s not a 21st Century Rod Serling or Roald Dahl or Ira Levin.

Friendo: “The jury’s out, I think, on where he’s going.”

HE: “Strictly a genre tickler.

Friendo: “I think he’s very gifted. If he’s smart, he’ll make Nope his last horror film for a while.”

HE: “Due respect but I don’t think he knows how to do anything more than try to be the black Rod Serling. Except he never wrote anything like Patterns or Requiem for a Heavyweight.”

Friendo: “You think Get Out is decent but overrated, overly praised because of the woke factor, etc. I think it’s singular and gripping. Us didn’t quite work, but I think Get Out makes its mark.”

HE: “You know that story about Jordan having shot Get Out as a horror film AND as a comedy, and that he wasn’t sure which way to go but he finally figured it out in editing…right? This helps explain why Lil Rel Howery is clearly a character with comic attitude — the guy delivering comic relief.

Friendo: “That’s interesting. That would make it a rival to Ralph Rosenblum’s great story of how Annie Hall found its narrative form, its vibe, and its very identity as a romantic comedy through his editing of it. Of course, the thing about horror and comedy is that they’ve always gone together. The three greatest horror movies of the last 65 years — Psycho, Rosemary’s Baby and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre — are all, on some level, horror comedies.”

HE: “That’s a very sophisticated (as in highly perverse) viewpoint, calling Psycho and Rosemary’s Baby comedies. I’ll allow that if you stretch the idea of ‘comedy’ to its breaking point, you could say that these two films are flavored with exceedingly dry comedy here and there. They’re basically low-key, naturalistic horror films flecked with dry humor here and there, but they hardly qualify as comedies.

Hardcore haters of Roman Polanski gonna hate no matter what, but it suddenly appears as if the decades-old rape case against the 88 year-old director might be dropped before long.

THR‘s Winston Cho reported earlier today that the L.A. County District Attorney’s Office “is no longer opposing a request to unseal a former prosecutor’s testimony that Polanski claims will reveal misconduct from [the late Judge Lawrence J. Rittenband], thus warranting dismissal of the decades-old case against him.”

This means that transcripts of closed-door testimony from the original prosecutor handling the case, Roger Gunson, who retired in 2002, will soon be unsealed. This could lead to Polanski being allowed to return to the United States if it’s found that Rittenbrand improperly reneged on the plea deal Polanski’s attorneys allegedly struck with prosecutors over 90 days of psychiatric evaluation.

Excerpt from “The Roman Arena” (’09), written by Phil Nugent:

“Marina Zenovich‘s Roman Polanski: Wanted and Desired has an irresistible story to tell: much of the second half is narrated by the lawyers involved, including the prosecutor David Wells, and their accounts match.

“The villain is the late Judge Lawrence J. Rittenband, a publicity addict who was mainly concerned with how the show…excuse me, I mean the trial, was playing out in the media.

“The title Wanted and Desired comes from a witness to the circus who notes the striking difference between the European reporters who saw Polanski as an important cultural figure and the American TV crews and journalists, who saw him as a malignant dwarf who had come for our women — and Zenovich makes the point that this view was so strong even at the start of Polanski’s Hollywood career that, in the wake of his wife’s murder, the media often treated the director as if he might be complicit in the killings, or at least as if he had somehow brought it on himself by making sicko movies like Rosemary’s Baby.

“According to the lawyers, Rittenband actually called them into his chambers and told them what parts he wanted them to play in scenes that he wanted to act out in the courtroom for the media.

“Ultimately, he agreed, as his little secret with Polanski and the lawyers, to force Polanski to spend a maximum of ninety days in a maximum security prison receiving ‘psychiatric evaluation.’

“Again, according to the lawyers, it was understood that this would be Polanski’s sentence, and that after it was over, he’d be given probation. If true, this would mean that Polanski, for all practical purposes, had already served his sentence when he went on the lam, and both the prosecution team and the psychiatric experts were good with it. But after the shrinks decided that Polanski had had enough and he was turned loose after 42 days, the media decided that he wasn’t showing sufficient public remorse, and Rittenband, upset by the bad press, informed the lawyers that he’d changed his mind and was going to throw the book at the little bastard.

“Gunson recalls that, after that mind-blower, Polanski’s lawyer asked him how he could explain this to his client, and Gunson, to his regret, he says, replied that if Polanski were his own client, he might just tell him to hop the next plane out of Rittenband’s magic kingdom.

“In the wake of Wanted and Desired, Polanski’s lawyers made a motion to have the case against him dropped. They were quickly followed by an effort by the woman Polanski raped [Samantha Geimer] to drop the charges, saying that the lingering ‘attention’ the case still generated “is not pleasant to experience and is not worth maintaining over some irrelevant legal nicety, the continuation of the case.

“The let’s-drop-this-thing movement ultimately foundered because Polanski refused to return to the U.S. He didn’t trust the District Attorney’s office, and in light of recent events, he may have had the right idea.

“It’s hard for even a conspiracy-phobe like myself not to conclude that what made this case an A-list priority after all this time is that Roman Polanski’s real crime is that he ran away, thrived, and in the process made the law look ridiculous.

“And then, having done all that, he even had the audacity to feel them out about getting his name cleared so that he could visit their fine city again and, after they tried to save face by imposing some restrictions of their own, like asking him to actually show up in a courtroom, walked away again, saying, no — my life’s good, it’s not really that important to me.”

The vulnerable-golden-hero mythology in The Natural is like maple syrup, so thick and gloopy it damn nears smothers everything. And I’m saying this as a devoted admirer of Field of Dreams. I want to see the hero prevail as much as the next guy, but not in fantasyland — his/her struggle has to happen in a shifty, scrappy, serious adult world. And I hate it when when grossly sentimental films of this sort push every button they can think of.

When Roy Hobbs (Robert Redford) broke his Wonderboy bat, when the chubby bat boy gave him a newbie, when the camera saw that his abdomen was bleeding, I said to myself “this is bullshit.” When Roy slams the game-winning homer into the ballpark lights and triggers a fireworks show with lightning bolts crackling in the night sky and that triumphant bullshit Randy Newman music filling the soundtrack, I was disgusted. I was saying to myself “my God, I thought Barry Levinson was the Diner guy, but he’s made a whorish, shameless, audience-pandering piece of crap.”

I was astonished by the reactions when I first saw The Natural 39 years ago. I said to friends “you bought into this shit? The modest, all-American innocent good guy…a masculine angel from the heartland…plus the film is a total perversion of the 1952 Bernard Malamud novel.” Ten years later Forrest Gump came along and touched the hearts of this same hokey crowd.

I appreciated The Natural, but the old Paul Douglas baseball comedy, Angels in the Outfield, touched me in a more genuine place.

Keep in mind that while The Natural was popular, it wasn’t a massive hit. It cost $28 million to shoot, and earned a relatively modest $48 million.

The original theatrical version ran 138 minutes. I never saw Levinson’s 144-minute “Director’s Cut.” Did anyone? Was it significantly better?

Whether or not President Donald Trump tried to grab the wheel of a Presidential SUV on 1.6.21 in an attempt to steer the vehicle toward the U.S. Capitol is a matter of…what’s the expression?…small potatoes. Ditto whether or not Trump grabbed “the clavicles” of Secret Service guy Bobby Engel, the head of his security detail. It’s an amusing story and obviously indicative, if true, of Trump being subject to angry, dopey, volatile behavior, which many people have observed and commented upon for years.

But over the last 24 hours Team Trump has focused on Cassidy Hutchinson‘s second-hand recollection of this episode as an attempt to call her credibility into question. There are some out there who actually believe that Hutchinson lied yesterday…”lied“! Soldiers in the pro-Trump attack machine are calling her “Amber Heard II” and “Jussie Smollett.” But there isn’t a hint of fanciful logic supporting the idea that Hutchinson made this up out of whole cloth.

Hutchinson was told this story, she said, on 1.6.21 in the White House office of Deputy Chief of Staff Tony Ornato, and in the presence of Engel, who was “sitting in a chair, just looking somewhat discombobulated and a little lost,” Hutchinson said.

Here’s the pertinent transcript:

LIZ CHENEY: “And was Mr. Engel in the room as Mr. Ornato told you this story?”

CASSIDY HUTCHINSON: “He was.”

LIZ CHENEY: “Did Mr. Engel correct or disagree with any part of this story from Mr. Ornato?”

CASSIDY HUTCHINSON: “Mr. Engel did not correct or disagree with any part of the story.”

LIZ CHENEY: “Did Mr. Engel or Mr. Ornato ever after that tell you that what Mr. Ornato had just said was untrue?”

CASSIDY HUTCHINSON: “Neither Mr. Ornato nor Mr. Engel told me ever that it was untrue.”

The N.Y. Times is reporting that “Secret Service officials, speaking on the condition of anonymity, [have] said that both Mr. Engel and Mr. Ornato would dispute that Mr. Trump tried to grab the wheel of the car or that Mr. Engel was struck.”

Plus The Daily Beast is reporting that the Secret Service was never contacted by the Jan. 6 committee ahead of Hutchison’s testimony.

So what gives?

It would appear that either (a) Hutchinson is half-fibbing, or (b) Ornato and Engel are half-fibbing. But c’mon, no bullshit…what are the odds that Hutchinson would invent the SUV story?

Hutchinson said under oath that Ornato told her the particulars and that Engel was there listening and that Engel didn’t at that moment dispute Ornato’s account. If she was flat-out fabricating Hutchinson could be 100% certain that these guys would step up and say so. Does it make the slightest bit of sense that she would invent this story? To what possible end? She knew she would be immediately busted if she lied, and she’s not apparently the delusional or psychotic type so why would she invent this wild tale?

This is Rashomon, apparently. Check with the ghosts of Akira Kurosawa and/or Martin Ritt. Either Hutchinson is some kind of shifty, side-stepping liar in this instance, or she’s 100% dead certain that Ornato told her about Trump grabbing the wheel and then grabbing Engel’s throat, and has honorably passed this along to the best of her recollection.

Ornato and Engel…who knows? They’ve either persuaded themselves that this particular tale wasn’t passed along quite this way, or perhaps that it’s better for the sake of their own careers and/or the Secret Service’s reputation to dispute the story.

Salon‘s Igor Derysh, posted on 6.29: “Multiple officials who disputed parts of former White House aide Cassidy Hutchinson‘s testimony to the Jan. 6 committee were seen by some in the Trump administration as the president’s ‘yes men,’ according to Washington Post reporter Carol Leonnig, who wrote a book about the agency last year.”

I know that it makes no sense at all for Hutchinson to have fabricated the story. What half-sane person would recite a FLAT-OUT LIE on national television, knowing full well that the guy she claimed had told her the story in the first place (plus the guy it happened to and who overheard the original telling) would step right up and call her bluff?

A curious conversation on Facebook Messenger…sorry.

Jeff [last name redacted]: “Watched The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance with the kids last night. It didn’t hold up much. However, I was singing the ‘end credits’ Gene Pitney song during the whole film, and then when we got to the end…no song. I looked it up and realized that I had originally seen the film on TV in the 70s and the song was not in the actual film, but some guy at the TV station must have overlaid it on to the end credits. Curious if you’ve ever heard of this weird TV artifact?”

HE: “’Some guy at the TV station’ couldn’t have overlaid or inserted the Gene Pitney song onto the end credits because there is no end credits sequence in Liberty Valance. It just ends with a final static shot of the moving train (25 mph!) that James Stewart and Vera Miles are riding on and then ‘The End.’ Maybe the TV station guy played the song over a black background or an artificial freeze frame.”

Jeff: “My memory is a bit foggy so I don’t know. I do know my brother and I sang the song for a month after we saw it, so the song and the film are inextricably entwined for us. Maybe John Ford had a sudden worry that the film would seem too light with a pop song bringing it home. Thanks for your two cents.”

HE: “What I told you isn’t my ‘two cents’ — it’s fact. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance doesn’t have an end-credits sequence. And it’s a stupid song anyway. It celebrates the awesome six-shooter bravery of the man who stood up to the evil Liberty Valance face to face and shot him dead. Stewart’s Ransom Stoddard character isn’t celebrated, but there’s a line that says “when the final showdown came at last, a law book was no good.”

Jeff: “A song doesn’t have to be smart to be catchy. I suppose the idea is that they were both somehow brave or noble. Stewart for standing up to Valance and Wayne for letting Stewart live, knowing that Vera Miles preferred him.”

Jurassic World Dominion is dino crap, all right. I was bored, distracted, texting, daydreaming, thinking about high-school girlfriends, etc. But what bothered me primarily — what has always bothered me about the Jurassic films — is the fact that only your ethically compromised bad guys get eaten.

If I knew that one of the caring, compassionate good guys might get chomped to death, I would sit up in my chair and pay a lot more attention.

There are eight good-guy characters in this film (played by Chris Pratt, Bryce Dallas Howard, Laura Dern, Jeff Goldblum, Sam Neill, DeWanda Wise, Mamoudou Athie, Isabella Sermon) and every one survives. Where’s the suspense in that? And this isn’t a spoiler, by the way, because ethical characters never die in these films…never!

White-haired Campbell Scott (who’s only 60 but looks older — he should think about visiting my Prague guy for neck work) plays the only twirling-moustache villain, and of course he gets it…big deal! Neill is pushing 72, but he’s aged much more attractively. In the third act, by the way, Neill wears one of the greatest looking color-combo outfits ever — a tan deerskin jacket with a matching deep royal blue shirt and tie…fantastic!

In fact everyone looks good in their own way. Everyone has dieted and is graced with perfect lighting and shot at just the right angle and wearing perfect coifs and killer wardrobes. They’ve all practiced their cool attitudes and poses in the bathroom mirror.

We all recall that the last entry, Fallen Kingdom, ended with herds of dinosaurs escaping into the forest. Now, in Dominion, they’re all over the world, grazing and feeding and hunting like elephants and giraffes and Bengal tigers. And of course there are evil people looking to exploit them, as well as good people looking to protect and shelter the poor beasts. Including the fucking raptors, mind.

And the question is, will I have the energy to pass along the basic story points or will I just say “due respect but go see it yourself”? The latter, I think.

The Bedford Arts Center is one of the finest movie theatres in the world. I saw West Side Story there last December and was blown away by the technological perfection. But the Dominion sound mix is awful. (And that’s on Universal, not the theatre.). The music and effects tracks were constantly competing with, and at times overwhelming, the dialogue. The characters sounded muffled, whispery — you couldn’t hear the damn consonants. I could hear some of what was said, yes, but it was a struggle. The roars, growls and yelps are fine, and the music blares. But the mix is shit.

I know that if I watch this crummy movie on Bluray or streaming in six months, the dialogue will be perfectly clear. Not to mention the subtitle option.

I’m speaking the absolute truth when I say that Neill’s deerskin and dark-blue-shirt outfit is the only thing that really turned me on about this film. Oh, and one other thing: A shot from a climbing plane above the coast of Malta in which…naaah, I won’t spoil it.

Like everyone else, I am giving Jurassic World Dominion an overall failing grade…sorry. But the hair, makeup and wardrobe guys deserve stand-up applause.

What did Michelle Pfeiffer’s Elvira say when she first saw Tony Montana’s “cream puff” — a beige Cadillac convertible with zebra-striped upholstery? “It looks like somebody’s nightmare,” she said.

For her and husband Seth Gabel’s Los Angeles home, Bryce Dallas Howard has approved an interior design that complements her own redhead colors — pastel pinks, light greens, creamy beiges. Her house, her design, her call.

But c’mon…what kind of dude would live in this girly-girl’ed, dollhouse environment? Ernest Hemingway would scoff at such a proposition. Where are the empty beer cans and half-eaten bags of pretzels? Where’s the man-cave? Where’s the HD flatscreen tuned to ESPN?