Am I a non-compliant suppressive person in the realm of gay cinema?

In my 9.1.23 review of Andrew Haigh‘s All Of Us Strangers, I praised it for being “a classy, meditative, top-tier capturing of an intimate gay relationship” while admitting that the beard-stubble sex footage made me squirm a bit. Which resulted in attacks, of course. For in today’s realm, if you don’t sing arias about bare-backed slurpy kissing scenes you’re a homophobe.

“Story-wise it’s kind of a gay Midnight in Paris,” I wrote, “except instead of hanging with F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway the time traveller in question (a screenwriter named Adam, played by the mid-40ish Andrew Scott) spends a lot of time with his late parents, who are miraculously alive and their old glorious selves, and played by Jamie Bell and Claire Foy.

“Their get-togethers allow Adam, of course, a chance to explain to them both (well, his mom) that he’s been gay for decades but that being so inclined is no longer the socially uncertain, vaguely uncomfortable thing it was when mum and dad died in a car crash, back in the ’80s.

How many famous people could be described as “no neck” types? We all have necks, of course, but some celebrities don’t (or didn’t when they were alive) have the kind you would notice. I don’t literally mean no necks — I mean necks that are barely there.

I’m thinking particularly of Mickey Spillane and Claudette Colbert, and of Randy Newman‘s “no-beck oilmen from Texas” (a lyric from his 1971 tune “Rednecks“).

I got started on this when I noticed a Facebook posting by Harlan Jacobson that described Maestro‘s prosthetics manager Kazu Hiru as an “Ears, Nose, and No Throat guy“….what does this mean? Is there a featured player in Maestro who has no visible throat to speak of?

I’m having trouble thinking of other no-neckers besides Spillane and Colbert. They have to be out there. Assistance?

George Clooney speaking in Boys in the Boat featurette: “These guys at the University of Washington are taking on the seniors, and then taking on the fraternity [something], and then taking on the Nazis.”

Clooney is using the usual shorthand, of course, but does he really mean that the young athletes who belonged to Germany’s 1936 Olympic rowing team were devout “seig heil” guys? Yes, Adolf Hitler saw the Berlin ’36 Olympics as a a potential proof of Aryan supremacy (Jesse Owens screwed that pooch), but how many German citizens were ardent supporters of the Nazi party that year, and how many were playing along to get along? A third or less?

How many blue-state liberals today pretend to be wokester sympathizers but are just keeping their heads down in order to stay out of trouble?

Let’s imagine, God forbid, that The Beast might win the ’24 election. He would therefore be president during the 2028 Olympics in Los Angeles. Would it then be fair or accurate to describe the U.S. Olympic team as “the MAGAS”?

[3:10 mark] “…and the party of a great man who should have been president and would’ve been one of the greatest presidents in history….Hubert Horatio Hornblower! Humphrey!”

I love Lily Gladstone’s Montana shitkicker accent, and especially the way she pronounces the last name of her Osage Nation character (“BURRKhahrt”) and the word “murders” (“merrduhhrrrs“). Born in ’86 and raised on the Blackfeet Nation reservation in Browning, Montana, Gladstone is an authentic country gal…talks it, owns it…forget the coasts.

Robert Wilke almost always played foul-tempered, sandpaper-voiced bad guys. He just had one of those faces. He’s probably best known as the High Noon “gunnie” whom Grace Kelly shot in the back during the final ten minutes. He also stood out as the loudmouth whom James Coburn killed with a fast flying knife in The Magnificent Seven.

In a career that spanned almost 50 years only once was Wilke called upon to show emotional vulnerability and anguish, and that was when he portrayed the conflicted farm foreman in Terrence Malick‘s Days of Heaven (’78). Only Malick saw a bit of depth in the man…only Malick asked him to step beyond the usual conventional shithead realms.

Wilke to Richard Gere (speaking about wealthy wheat farmer Sam Shepard): “I know what you’re doin'”…beat, beat…”that boy’s like a son to me.”

Wilke was a great amateur golfer.

Incidentally: Criterion’s 2010 Bluray of Days of Heaven has looked glorious from the get-go, and you’ll never convince me that the new 4K UHD version is going to look that much better on the 65″ Sony OLED. Maybe in subtle little ways but nothing that will lift me out of my seat. All the same there’s a little part of me that wants the damn thing anyway.

Donald Trump‘s ongoing trial over financial fraud is happening inside the New York County Supreme Court, 60 Centre Street, lower Manhattan. And yes, right behind that red-jacketed CNN reporter are the very same concrete steps that Henry Fonda, Lee J. Cobb and the other jurors walked down at the ending of 12 Angry Men.

Donald Trump imagining himself sitting next to Jesus H. Christ in court is…well, that’s one thing. But the brawny, NFL-ish, seriously-pumped, Anglo Saxon linebacker appearance of the Son of God….that’s something else. (This image was actually posted by Trump yesterday on Truth Social.) That’s kinda missing the point of who Jesus was, I think.

…to a low-rent horror aficionado like Allyra Cavidini? Her soul is in the abbatoir. Hey, Allyra, since you’re into horror, have you ever heard of the great Mort Glickman?

As we speak my primary impressions are the ones I was considering last summer — the technically too-old Phoenix will be great, Vanessa Kirby will probably be commanding, their acting behaviors seem too 21st Century (i.e., not Barry Lyndon-ish enough), the battle scenes will be tremendous. I’m sure that the presence of a major film in the wings will manifest before long, but right now I’m not feeling it. All things in their time.