These “forever” one-sheets for The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn, Part 2 (Lionsgate, 11.16) began appearing in theatres sometime in mid-May…fine. But two or three nights ago I noticed the KStew version hanging in the upstairs Arclight lobby. Of all the words in the English language to put on a Breaking Dawn poster right now, “forever” is either (a) the dumbest (certainly on the part of Lionsgate ad buyers), (b) the most mock-ironic or (c) the biggest imaginable “fuck you” to the clueless-girlie fan base.

I’ve seen Tay Garnett‘s version of The Postman Always Rings Twice (46) two or three times, and I’ve never believed that Lana Turner‘s Nora would have married a flabby old dog like Cecil Kellaway‘s Nick. She was trash, but a woman with her looks could’ve done better. That was a problem. And I was never all that taken with the Bob Rafelson’s 1981 version. Jack Nicholson was too old and bulky looking, and the sex scenes he performed with Jessica Lange…meh.

“In its surface aspects, The Postman Always Rings Twice appears no more than a melodramatic tale, another involved demonstration (two hours in length) that crime does not pay. But the artistry of writers and actors have made it much more than that; it is, indeed, a sincere comprehension of an American tragedy. For the yearning of weak and clumsy people for something better than the stagnant lives they live is revealed as the core of the dilemma, and sin is shown to be no way to happiness.” — from Bosley Crowther‘s 5.3.46 review in The New York Times.

11 years and three months ago ago I attended the Honolulu press junket for Michael Bay‘s Pearl Harbor, and right after that I visited the Hawaiian island of Molokai. I was struck by the sandy, reddish-brown, Mars-like soil there, and I took a sample with me. I’ve kept it ever since. Last week I took another soil sample from Monument Valley — very fine clay, half-powdery, half-sandy. A lighter, more reddish color than Molokai soil. Both visually attractive, agriculturally worthless.

(l.) Monument Valley soil; (r.) from island of Molokai.

For a comedy to be funny, it has to reflect real recognizable life. There has to be at least an attempt to represent the world as most of us perceive it, and the behavior of humans as most of us understand that. Most of us know that if you pick up a bucket filled with horse urine and dog feces and throw it in the face of a Catholic priest, he will not smile and say, “Aahh, thanks…I needed that!” If you make a comedy in which this happens, people are going to wonder why and go “wuh-wuh-wuh.”

Jay Roach‘s The Campaign (Warner Bros., 8.10) has a tough row to hoe. It has to jump on a trampoline and leap madly beyond the typical lying, insincerity and general horseshit that constitutes a political campaign these days, and make it “funny” in a clowning, lampoonish, rube-level way. But in so doing Roach and his screenwriters, Chris Henchy and Shawn Harwell, apparently said to themselves “Okay, we have to create a comedic political realm that only slightly resembles the one outside the multiplex — vaguely, superficially, faintly — but also one in which characters throw 550 or 600 paper cups of horse urine and dog feces into each other’s faces and have them go ‘aaah, thanks…I needed that!'”

That’s why The Campaign is not funny. Because it aims low, by which I mean it’s aimed at idiots or rather a simple boob’s understanding of the world of politics. I sat there like a granite tombstone, staring at the screen, waiting for it to be over and wiping off drops of horse urine as they came flying off the screen.

The Campaign is about a North Carolina Congressional race between Will Ferrell’s Cam Brady, a randy Blue Dog Democrat asshole, and Zach Galifianakis‘s Marty Huggins, a nerd-dweeb type with a terrible moustache. At the halfway point Brady decides he wants to humiliate Huggins, and so he goes over to his house and puts the moves on Marty’s shrewish little Munchkin wife (Sarah Baker). And because Marty hasn’t been paying attention to their marriage in the heat of the campaign, she succumbs to Cam’s overtures. In front of his recording iPhone camera. And she takes it up the ass.

This scene isn’t the least bit funny because not even a donkey or a sheep would do that. They would have more sense. A sheep would realize that Cam’s attentions are politically motivated, and she would say no. But Marty’s little wife doesn’t, and we’re supposed to laugh. I didn’t. I couldn’t. It was impossible. Most of the film’s jokes are on this level.

“Of course people like the Koch brothers or Sheldon Adelson are engaging in a rational exercise to maximize their wealth. Their contributions will come back manifold in the form of tax breaks, subsidies, and exclusive franchises. The primary purpose of the GOP these days is to provide tax breaks and other financial advantages (such as not regulating pollution and other socially costly externalities) to their wealthy donor base. All the rest of their platform, all the culture wars stuff, is simply rube bait.

“One cannot get a majority of voters who are decidedly non-rich to knowingly pull the lever for a party that nakedly says ‘our platform is further enrichment of the wealthy, and, oh, by the way, we’re also going to make your retirement benefits take a hit.’ That’s where deep psychological insight comes into play. Most people, even when they have a sneaking suspicion that they are being shafted economically, are not well attuned to the complexities of credit default swaps, the London Interbank Offered Rate, or quantitative easing. And the media are definitely not interested in wising them up, especially when they can instead supply celebrity interviews, singing contests, or commercialized orgies like the opening ceremonies of the Olympics.

“Since the GOP is loath to tell the public in straightforward terms what their economic agenda is, and the media are not exactly forcing the GOP’s hand, and, finally, the people are operating in a knowledge deficit, Republicans respond by sleight of hand: ‘We’re more American than that Kenyan socialist in the White House!’ Or ‘The Obama administration is riddled with Muslim extremists.’ Or ‘Planned Parenthood is taxpayer-subsidized murder.’ Or ‘Obama wants to take away your guns.’ Even ‘Obama raised your taxes” when in fact he lowered them.

“Stuff, in other words, that is not terribly persuasive to well-informed people, but a lot of people are surprisingly ill-informed, and very few institutions — the corporate media least of all — have any interest in their being well-informed.” — “The Party Is Over” author Mike Lofgren in am 8.3 Truthout interview.

In a 7.13 piece called “Telluride, Toronto, NYFF Spitball,” or almost four weeks ago, I wrote that if I were New York Film Festival honcho Scott Foundas, “I would…try to land Robert Zemeckis‘s Flight (Paramount, 11.2), a ‘commercial’ drama with a great trailer (which is all anyone knows at this point) with Denzel Washington on top.” I repeated that suggestion in a 7.24 post called “Sprawling Ambition.”

I guess certain minds think alike because the NYFF has booked Flight (Paramount, 11.2) as its closing-night attraction. Feels like a good call. But is seeing Flight at a NYFF press screening which might happen three weeks before the commercial opening worth flying to NYC after Toronto and hanging around and paying hotel bills and waiting for that screening in late September or early October just so I can see it before the usual LA press screenings, which’ll probably happen a week or two later?

Washington plays a pilot who saves a commercial flight from catastrophe with a daring mid-air maneuver, but then he gets into trouble when it’s discovered he’d had a few the night before or was possibly half in the bag during the flight…or something like that. The Zemeckis-directed thriller costars Kelly Reilly, Don Cheadle, John Goodman, Melissa Leo and Bruce Greenwood.

If I was to get in touch with my Paramount pallies, here’s what I’d say: “I love New York and the NYFF, always have, but right now I’ve no reason to fly to NYC for the NY Film Festival except to catch the press screening for their closing-night selection of Flight. which will probably happen sometime in late September or possibly very easily October. It will publicly screen, as everyone knows, at the close of the festival on 10.14.

“To save myself the expenditure of $1400 or $1500 bucks minimum and probably a bit more, what are the chances of Paramount publicity allowing certain press persons to see Flight in LA concurrently with the NYFF press screening, or at least concurrent with the 10.14 screening so these press persons don’t have to fly all the way back to NYC to catch it? Let me know & thanks mucho.”

Incidentally: Back in the bad old Forrest Gump days of the ’90s I got it into my head that Zemeckis might be a Republican. I presumed as much because, as I wrote in 2008, “I have a still-lingering resentment of Forrest Gump, which I and many others disliked from the get-go for the way it kept saying ‘keep your head down’, for its celebration of clueless serendipity and simpleton-ism, and particularly for the propagandistic way it portrayed ’60s-era counter-culture types and in fact that whole convulsive period.

“Every secondary hippie or protestor character in that film was a selfish loutish asshole, and every man and woman in the military was portrayed as modest, decent and considerate. These and other aspects convinced me that the film was basically reactionary Republican horseshit, and led me to write an L.A. Times Syndicate piece called ‘Gump vs. Grumps,’ about the Forrest Gump backlash.”

And yet Zemeckis, to go by this Newsmeat accounting of political donations, is some kind of indie-minded left-liberal type. I figured I should clear this up.

Dale Olson, a veteran Hollywood publicist who started as a journalist in the mid ’50s and who knew everyone and swaggered around for 40-odd years as a top-dog, friend-of-the-stars p.r. guy with the Mirisch Company and then Rogers & Cowan and as the head of his own firm, Dale C. Olson & Assoc., has died. I don’t know how old Olson was, but I think he was born around 1930. I’m searching around as we speak.

Olson’s clients included Steve McQueen, Rock Hudson. Laurence Olivier, Gene Kelly and Clint Eastwood and I forget who else, but he was totally plugged in and worked with everyone. A good, decent fellow who lived a rich life. Condolences to family, friends and former colleagues.

The following letter was addressed to Slate‘s Emily Yoffe, a.k.a. “Dear Prudence.” Read it and then consider my inserted comments and considered response, which I’ve posted under the name “Valentine Xavier.”

“Dear Prudence — Several years ago, after accepting that I’d be alone forever” — VX: Gee, I wonder why that possibility occured to her? — “I met a wonderful man. He was kind, compassionate, intelligent, hilarious, and widely respected. We were true soul mates.” VX: Good God…beware of anyone using the term ‘soul mate’…strictly for lame-o’s! “Shortly after we married he was diagnosed with a terminal illness. He fought bravely for several years while I gladly worked full time, cared for him, and basically took care of everything so that he could focus on his health and the things he enjoyed” — VX: Why does this sound more like a patient-nurse relationship than a marriage?

“He recently lost his battle.” — XV: Sorry.

“While searching for information on some loose ends, I stumbled across email responses he had sent to singles and couples seeking casual sexual encounters. The three instances I found were a few months after we’d met and were falling in love, shortly after we’d declared our love, and earlier this year, after we’d been ‘happily married’ for some time. I am destroyed. I’m now grieving for the relationship I thought we had and the man I thought he was. I gave everything I had to him, and now I want to flush his ashes down the toilet. I can’t stand the thought of planning, attending, or acting sad at his memorial. I don’t want to keep his last name. I don’t want to see his family. I don’t want to scatter his ashes in places he loved. I don’t want to tell our families what he did and destroy their vision of him. But I don’t think it’s fair that I bear the brunt of this pain alone and live behind the facade of grieving widow. — Betrayed Widow”

VX to Betrayed Widow: “Good God, how old are you? How naive are you? You marry an older guy who begins his death march right after you get married and you get to be his nurse and care-giver until he passes, and you feel shocked and betrayed when you discover he had a secret online fantasy life that involved a grand total of three inquiries or conversational explorations?

“Guys are only as faithful as their options — ever heard that one? — and it’s possible your ex was just a secret hound, but almost all guys are. In their minds, I mean. Very few are 100% trustworthy if you count fantasies and dark dreams. Most dreamers haven’t the nerve to really cheat, but those that do will fuck a woodpile if they think they can get away with it. And guys who are dying are serious loose cannons because they’re figuring ‘what the hell? I’ll be worm food in a couple of years so I want to savor a last ecstatic encounter in the time I have left.’

“On top of which online flirting and fantasizing isn’t even cheating — there are at least 17 or 18 steps between establishing contact with a would-be casual sex partner and actual betrayal of a wife or girlfriend, and most guys never get beyond step #3 or #4. Largely because there are no would-be casual sex partners out there, only pros, and particularly not for guys with a fatal malady unless they’re stinking with $100 dollar bills to burn.

“The man probably sensed disease starting to envelop him, and he was simply trying to metaphorically prove to himself that he wasn’t finished on this planet, that there was a bit more to life than waiting to die and “being cared for” at home as he watches AMC and Fox News and feels the vitality draining out of him, or to overcome a feeling of futility or depression that almost certainly goes along with knowing you’re on your last couple of laps around the track.”

Thought: Maybe I could incorporate a relationship advice column called “Snakeskin Jacket” into Hollywood Elsewhere? I’ve been around, I know what goes and I could pass along a few insights. “Ask Valentine Xavier…if you want the straight dope.”

Six guys who might be in the vanguard of 21st Century stardom — Taylor Kitsch, Armie Hammer, Idris Elba, Aaron Paul, Garrett Hedlund and Aaron Johnson — grace the cover of Esquire‘s September issue. Which of these guys are likely to even be around ten years from now? And why aren’t the Hemsworth brothers, Chris and Liam, standing with this bunch?

The keepers and the growers are Hammer, Hedlund and Elba. Hedlund delivers a Dean Moriarty (i.e., Neal Casady) in Walter Salles‘ On The Road that isn’t great but is a lot better than you might expect, especially after Tron — eager, gentle, probing, carnal. Elba is a big maybe but I can sense….I don’t know what I can sense but something tells me “yeah, he might happen…just wait.” Hammer is obviously hunky, intelligent, appealing, uncomplicated. He just needs to get lucky with a really good role that doesn’t ask him to smile too eagerly or kill anyone premeditatively.

Forget Kitsch — too much of a glib-hustler vibe, too party-boyish, too short, two bombs in a row (John Carter, Battleship) plus a flashy drug-dealing movie with an absolutely horrific ending (Savages). I don’t think Johnson has it — Savages didn’t help him any more than it did Kitsch — but he’d be on a whole ‘nother level if he could use his natural English accent. And forget Paul because (a) he looks like a guy who might shoot up a multiplex, (b) he’s too short, (c) he’s merely the new Ben Foster and (c) he hasn’t done anything outside of Breaking Bad — he needs to star in a couple of good films or be in a good B’way play…something.

I don’t know anything about longterm relationships, much less keeping the fires going in the midst of one. My marriage lasted four years. My other relationships (including the affair with the married journalist) have all lasted two or three years so what do I know? But I’m asking myself about the premise of Hope Springs, which I was mostly okay with, and wondering how common it is for couples in their 50s or 60s or older to re-ignite and get things going again.

The film suggests at one point, humorously, that very few over-40 types are having sex with any regularity. When I was married I knew couples in their late 30s and 40s who, I learned or was told, were maybe once-a-weekers. At best. I’m presuming (though I don’t know) that once-a-weekers in their 50s or 60s are less common. Once-a-monthers?

Relationships are hard. You have to reach deeper and deeper within and give it up Delbert McLinton-style, and if you hold back and retreat into yourself for some selfish reason you’ll gradually lose her. Because you have to give it up even when you don’t feel like it. And sometimes that’s difficult. “Show me a beautiful woman, and I’ll show you a man who’s tired of fucking her,” etc. How do you work it, I’m wondering, when you switch out the beautiful woman with a woman you love, respect and care deeply for, but whom you’re no longer panting heavily for, at least not in an Elvis Presley “Burning Love” way?

So I wonder how much I really believed Hope Springs . But I liked the idea of it, at least, and the feeling of going with it as far as that went, and I quite enjoyed the performances by Meryl Streep and the always solid Tommy Lee Jones.

But I was asking myself, “Why is the movie telling me that Jones and Jones alone is the one causing all the trouble? Why can’t Streep’s character be contributing in some way, however passively or unintentionally, to their sexual enervation or dysfunction or laziness?”

Hugs and sad condolences for the friends, family and former colleagues of Breena Camden, the 20th Century Fox publicist who’s died from breast cancer at age 49. Too young, two kids, rotten luck…very sorry.