Believe it or not, the Film Society of Lincoln Center is honoring ’60s and ’70s softcore maestro Radley Metzger (now 85 years old) with a seven-day tribute called “This Is Softcore: The Art Cinema Erotica of Radley Metzger” (8.7 thru 8.13). This is yet another expression of the high-falutin’ dweeb-critic tendency to find artistic merit in once-denigrated (or at least looked down upon) exploitation films. But anyone who says Metzger was a respectable auteur is delusional. The below trailer for Carmen Baby tells you he wasn’t very talented. Metzger was certainly into terrible acting, swanky production design, way-too-bright lighting and horrible music choices. None of the actors ever seemed to actually “do it” in a Metzger film — they just kind of rolled around and gasped and moaned without getting too gymnastic or creative. I don’t recall ever seeing genitalia or pubic hair even, but I could be wrong. Next to no oral action. Nobody ever fingered anyone or gave anyone a handjob. And the actors never heard of Hershey bars. Metzger’s was a very weird world. Metzger films are cool for their sets and outdoor locations — I’ll give them that. He obviously tried hard to class up the softporn genre, but it was still the softporn genre.

The reactions to Clint Eastwood‘s Jersey Boys started out with critics calling it very Clinty and a little less Broadway-flashy than it could be, but an interesting, respectable ride. Then everything started to go downhill. The critical word of mouth has been so mixed-dismissive (60% on Rotten Tomatoes, 54% on Metacritic) that I’ve been half-regarding tonight’s Los Angeles Film Festival screening as the final word-of-mouth nail in the coffin. And then along comes N.Y. Post critic Lou Lumenick calling it “one of the year’s best.” What?

My first reaction was “Okay, I get it…Lumenick is a tri-state area kind of guy — born in Queens, formerly a critic for NJ’s Bergen Record — and he’s basically saluting the Manhattan-New Jersey cultural aspects as much as the film.” Which makes me wonder if other critics with Soprano-land ties are going dippy also. I wonder what former New Jersey guy Glenn Kenny will say? I wonder what I’ll think, for that matter, as I grew up in a mellow little Wonderbread town called Westfield, which nonethless had its share of guineas who wore pegged pants and black pointed lace-ups with metal taps on the heels.

I’ve been game to see Hossein Amimi‘s The Two Faces of January (Magnolia, 10.3) since the premiere at last February’s Berlinale, which I missed due to being in Berlin for only four days and change. I finally saw it the night before last at the Los Angeles Film Festival, and I’m definitely filing it under “reasonably decent, moderately engrossing Patricia Highsmith adaptations.” Set in 1962 Athens, Crete and Istanbul, it’s basically about two guys who reflect or echo their respective darker impulses (not unlike Highsmith’s Guy Haines and Bruno Antony in Strangers On A Train) becoming involved in a downswirl of mutual conning, killing, running from the law and fate closing in from all sides. The tension and suspense start early and build steadily, and right away you’re going away “okay, I get it…these guys are marked for doom.” And the ride is enjoyably diverting as far as it goes.

The whacking of Joe Pesci‘s Tommy in Martin Scorsese‘s Goodfellas (’90) left a huge impression on my psyche. For the last 24 years every time I’ve heard about somebody losing a job I’ve flashed on this scene. I’ve literally imagined the newly-unemployed publicist or studio exec or whomever being led into a basement den in some suburban home, looking around at the Sears & Roebuck furniture, going “oh, no” and then bam!…spurt, splat, flop on the floor.

For many years I’ve been lamenting the “CinemaScope mumps” distortion syndrome, or that face-broadening, weight-adding effect that resulted from the use of anamorphic CinemaScope lenses from ’53 through ’60. It would be heaven if someone could figure a way to horizontally compress these films so that the unnaturally widened effect would look right. Every mumped-up movie gives you a fundamental feeling of being cheated out of God’s natural proportions. I’m therefore interested in Criterion’s recently-announced Bluray of Jack Clayton‘s The Innocents (9.23.14), which has always been mumps-afflicted since its initial release in 1961 and has definitely looked this way on home video presentations.

And yet, as the Disney guys reportedly showed three years ago in their restoration of Richard Fleischer‘s 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, fixing the “mumps” distortion is technologically achievable. A Criterion summary of the contents of the Innocents Bluray mentions a “new interview with cinematographer John Bailey on director of photography Freddie Francis and the look of the film,” but there’s no mention of any “mumps” correction. I’m presuming that a decision was made to keep the mumps, but maybe not.

Part of this month-old video of ISIS militants murdering three Syrian truck drivers was shown yesterday on Chris Matthews‘ Hardball. It’s the tip of an iceberg. YouTube is swarming with videos of ISIS atrocities. Here’s a particularly appalling one of two women being executed, allegedly by ISIS gunmen. And this. I hadn’t really watched this stuff until last night. The immediacy of YouTube is bringing mass indiscriminate slaughter of innocents by subhuman fanatics straight into our heads. If I was Barack Obama I would want to do something about this. More than just poke holes in the air, I mean.

Before I become an independent small-businessperson who will never again get fired or collect unemployment insurance, I used to go on job interviews from time to time. The vast majority felt pretty good from my end. The interviewer would smile and joke and good-vibe me, and often flatter me with admiring comments or by mentioning glowing recommendations that had come from former employers or colleagues. It took a few years but I finally figured out that being good-vibed meant I probably wasn’t going to be hired.

The flattery, I finally realized, was about the interviewer making him/herself feel good. He/she had more or less decided I was a no-go before I came in or seconds after I sat down, you see, and so he/she poured on the compliments as a form of emotional compensation (for me) or guilt relief (for him/her).

If an interviewer is seriously interested in hiring you he/she will lean in and narrow the eyes and ask you a lot of in-depth questions about this or that. That’s because they like your resume and your manner but they want to be sure. But if they go “tee-hee-hee” or smile or joke around or sing your praises and pat you on the shoulder, you’re almost certainly dead meat.

Well, not really. My heart always goes out to the rugged individualist fighting the entrenched powers-that-be. It’s just that Finke’s vibe and manner puts that belief system to the test. I used to think “well, she may be a strange duck but she’s a hard-charging go-getter and a necessary component.” Now I’m just sick of her. I don’t wish her ill. She can do or say what she wants. But if Finke were to disappear I wouldn’t feel that badly about her absence.

This looks like harmless dumb-ass fun, except any movie that works strenuously to talk you out of believing in the basic elements (story, characters, action sequences) is all but impossible to have fun with. Just put a little bit of effort into selling this as a piece that could actually happen on some level…that’s all I ask. Just put a little elbow grease into selling the plausibility. No? Can’t do it? Just want to shoot it and quit it and cash the check and go home to the ranch? If you wanna play it that way, fine. You just won’t get guys like me to cheer along. Not that fans of this stupid franchise give a damn what Hollywood Elsewhere thinks. They’re cretins for the most part, and I’m saying this as a fan of Sylvester Stallone’s 2008 Rambo film.

If you live in Los Angeles or New York, James Ward Byrkit‘s cerebral but quite chilling Coherence is the film to see this weekend. Definitely. Anyone can make an “uh-oh, something’s not right, weird things are happening” movie, but the trick is to make one that doesn’t devolve into the usual screams and shocks and knives and axes. You can call Coherence a sci-fi thriller of sorts, but it’s really about the power of dark suggestion and clever writing and how a talented group of actors can make a preposterous idea feel not just plausible but — this is the really odd part as far as my own reaction was concerned — vaguely threatening.

I watched it last night, alone in a motel room, through a private Vimeo link on my Macbook Air, and I honestly felt a tiny bit creeped out. I made sure the door was locked. I avoided looking in the mirror. I knew this feeling would pass but I was surprised that I felt unnerved in the first place.