OpenAI’s Sam Altman, presumably irate about Luca Guagdagnino‘s Artificial portraying him as some kind of shithead, civilization-destroying villain, has seemingly persuaded Amazon’s Jeff Bezos to drop Artificial and cast it out upon the heaving seas.

Another distributor will step into the breach, of course, but this obviously means that Artificial absolutely, positively has to premiere at the 2026 Venice Film Festival, going right up against Aaron Sorkin‘s The Social Reckoning. Because it’s now officially a controversial hot-potato film, and there can be no wimping out any more. No more candy-assing! This situation needs real men.

Puck reported the news first; Variety‘s Ellise Shafer and Alex Ritman quickly followed up.

Variety #1: “The move notably comes after Amazon struck a massive partnership with the tech company in February to expand OpenAI’s use of Amazon Web Services and develop custom AI models, which included a $50 billion investment on Amazon’s part.” Altman and Bezos are pally-wallies. Variety has reported: that Altman attended Bezos’s Italian wedding last year.

Variety #2: “Variety understands that, prior to being dropped by Amazon, Artificial already had several test screenings, which went down very positively, and screened for other studios on Thursday. According to an insider who has seen the movie, the characters of Altman and Musk are the least sympathetic and the ones audiences would “like the least”. It’s also understood that Amazon had seen all the early iterations of the script, before Guadagnino boarded the project.”

The leading good guy in Artificial is Yura Borisov‘s Ilya Sutskever, the former OpenAI chief scientist. Borisov scored big-time as the tender, considerate, bald-headed goon in Anora.

Andrew Garfield plays Altman, Monica “Joan Baez” Barbaro is former OpenAI CTO Mira Murati, and Ike Barinholtz plays effing Elon Musk. Cooper Hoffman, Jason Schwartzman, Cooper Koch, Billie Lourd, Zosia Mamet, Angus Imrie, Chris O’Dowd and Mark Rylance costar. Penned by Simon Rich, the script is primarily about a brief period in ’23 when Altman was canned from his position at OpenAI, and was then rehired.

Last March Steven Spielberg told a SXSW fanboy audience (is there any other kind?) that he was developing a “kick ass”, cliche-free western, etc.

Except there’s truly nowhere fresh to go with an oater these days. Okay, there’s one idea that Billy Bob Thornton shared at a party a few years ago: The first-ever Old West psychiatrist sets up a small practice in Tuscon or Tombstone or Dodge City. But this is an inherently humorous idea, and certainly an eccentric one. Spielberg hasn’t the character to address such a premise with dryness or subtlety.

The only half-intriguing possibilities for Spielberg would be classic western remakes.

He’s probably too old for the rigors of remaking Howard Hawks’ Red River (‘48) — a film that would have been even grander if it had been shot in good old luscious Technicolor — but what about remaking Martin Ritt’s Hud (‘63)? Or dusting off the script of Ritt’s Roadshow, a modern-day cattle-drive flick that was never filmed?

How about Beardo directing a more believable version of John Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (casting lead actors who aren’t 25 years too old, no sound-stage echoes, realistic aging makeup, no cigar smoke summoning a flashback, no over-acted comic relief perfs from Andy Devine types or overly colorful, tediously eccentric supporting perfs from Edmond O’Brien-level veterans)?

The last truly great feature western, Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven, happened 33 years ago. Before that was Sam Peckinpah The Wild Bunch in ‘69, and before that came Hud, you bet. William Wyler’s The Big Country (‘58), Don Maguire’s Johnny Concho (‘56), Nicholas Ray’s Johnny Guitar (‘54) and Fred Zinnemann’s High Noon (‘52) were the big 1950s stand-outs.

If and when Spielberg shoots a western will he have the political courage to stand up to Tony Kushner and other progressive colleagues by not inserting woke presentism? Doubtful. Remember that ridiculous Lincoln moment in which David Oyelowo, playing a Union infantry soldier, tells Daniel Day Lewis’s Great Emancipator that he’s disappointed that men of color aren’t allowed to serve as officers?

With nearly everyone and his brother trashing Disclosure Day, Steven Spielberg must be feeling pretty badly right now. His alien chase thriller performed decently last weekend, but it’s been brushed off by too many knowledgable people.

And now comes Echo Chamberlain suggesting that the great young lions of the ’70s (Spielberg, Francis Coppola, Martin Scorsese, Ridley Scott…not to mention Lucas and DePalma) are pretty much spent and should hang up their holsters.

It seems in retrospect that Spielberg’s last golden moment might have happened eight and a half years ago, when Susan Lacy‘s two-and-a half-hour Spielberg premiered on HBO.

But even then the adoring Lacy seemed to be acknowledging by omission that Spielberg’s best years had unfurled in the 20th Century.

HE review: “There’s more emotional revelation and honesty and cinematic punch in Lacy’s doc than in many of Spielberg’s features, certainly the ones he’s made over the last 20-plus years.

“It begins with a taste of Lawrence of Arabia and then a recollection from Spielberg about how he saw it repeatedly at age 16 and how it seemed so masterful that he nearly gave up his dream of becoming a movie director.

“Right from the start I was saying to myself, ‘I love this…this is about my church, my faith and all the movie dreams I’ve carried inside for decades…I love it already and it hasn’t even begun.’

“Does Lacy shamelessly brown-nose? Yup, ‘fraid so. Does she sidestep, avert her gaze, emphasize the positive and avoid tough questions at almost every turn? Yes, she does. Is Spielberg, in fact, a 150-minute blowjob? Yeah, it is.

“But it’s a classy and beautifully assembled one. Spielberg delivers what most of us refer to as ‘the goods.’ It offers balance, panache, love, perspective, open hearts, insight, joie de cinema and elegant editing and…oh, just a feeling of immense comfort and familiarity and fraternal bon ami.

“I kind of loved it despite Lacy’s herculean determination to avoid telling the real truth about Spielberg-the-magnificent-and-bowed-down-to, which is that he’s a truly gifted superhack, a very clever and hugely energetic guy who knows how to shoot the hell out of anything but has come to few conclusions and has next to nothing to say about the human condition or the state of the world, but has been insanely successful and that’s all that matters to most of the people in this town so what the hell…ass-smooch!

“I take back that ‘nothing to say’ stuff — Spielberg has often expressed his sentiments about how suburban family life is the greatest thing and how moms are generally more reliable than dads and that having an inner fantasy life can save you, etc.

“The best parts are about Spielberg recalling his home life in a Pheonix suburb, his early discomfort about being a supposed Jewish outsider (a mindset that he profoundly reversed with the act of making Schindler’s List), his parents’ divorce (although he never explains why), the early feelings of inadequacy, how he had no life until his first son, Max, came along, etc.

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I’ve always liked James Franco, and was certainly dead set against his being canceled over power-imbalance girlie action, so I wanted to like the alien-in-the-garage video. I want the woke monsters to let bygones be bygones and let him back in. I actually think Franco could come back. Look at Armie Hammer! Uwe Boll‘s Citizen Vigilante isn’t very good, but it’s a portal — Armie can build from there.

The point is that I believed Franco’s acting in the alien video. I believed his bullshit story, and on the strength of this he really should be let back in…really. Because he brings you in.

But as we all know well, the liberal / progressive / Democratic Party’s desire to not win and commit suicide is profound. All they care about is one screeching harpie and that’s it — the alleged sexual abuser (Franco or whomever) must be sent to the gallows. All that matters in the end, I feel, is how good an actor is on-screen (or on YouTube).

@jamesfranco2319

I saw something NOT HUMAN in my garage.

♬ original sound – James Franco

When I think of Elia Kazan‘s A Streetcar Named Desire (‘51), I think of the same central essence that everyone else thinks of, which is that it’s an incredibly sad play.

But specific-ingredient-wise, I mainly think of Alex North’s score. Especially the track titled “Mania.” And I don’t care if anyone agrees or cares or whatever. I know what I know.

Another way of putting it is that the gray, grizzled, gravelly-voiced R. Hood gradually lets down his guard, painfully self-examines and experiences an Ebenezer Scrooge-like rebirth of sorts.

A fable of de-balling, straight out of the 21st Century woke playbook.

Right? I haven’t seen it. (Why would anyone want to see a film titled The Death of Robin Hood?) I’m just guessing based on the poster and the trailer.

Donald Trump didn’t win either election — Hillary Clinton and Kamala Harris (both of whom I voted for) lost them by way of their own thoughts, strategies and screw-ups.

In late 2024 Trump, despite his absurd temperament and lunatic statements (“they’re eating the dogs!”), edged out Harris because a majority of swing-stare voters believed that however corrupt and regressive he was, what Kamala was attempting to sell was even worse.

Trump didn’t win it as much as Kamala lost it, and she lost it because…

(a) A majority of swing-state voters believed or suspected she was a stealth candidate for elite urban wokeism and particularly their anti-common-sense, anti-white-male, anti-white-male feminism, pro-presentism-in-movies, pro “don’t arrest shoplifters!”, pro-bums-shitting-on-the-streets-of-San Francisco, pro-cancel culture, pro-diverse-identity-above-all, pro-trans, pro-trashing of Abraham Lincoln’s reputation, pro equity-over-meritocracy, pro-obese-Calvin Klein models, pro-drag-shows-in-elementary-schools. pro-Lily Gladstone for Best Actress despite giving a tepid, one-note supporting performance, pro-bottom-surgeries-for-minors, pro-pregnant-males…an anything–goes woke cultural agenda that basically amounted to a renunciation of common sense and an American version of Mao’s Great Cultural Revolution, much of which sought to undermine the primacy of American families;

(b) the obvious fact that Kamala couldn’t or wouldn’t summon the elemental strategic smarts to declare that veeps have no agency but that she would serve as her own person and as much more than an obedient, rubber-stamp Biden loyalist;

(c) she lacked the character to admit that mistakes had been made by the Biden administration (inflation, open-door immigration, Afghanistan withdrawal, letting wokeys run wild) and state that she would run things in a more sensible and practical fashion…she lacked the ability to understand that she had to run as a strong independent person of moderate-liberal character and backbone who would say “enough already!” to woke insanity and the Democratic elite’s cultural loathing of cis white males and the general anti-family insanity of the woke left.

Did Lily Gladstone’s identity-focused 2023 and ‘24 KOTFM Oscar campaign contribute to Kamala’s loss in 2024? I think it sorta kinda did on a certain level. Lily losing the Best Actress Oscar in ‘24 was a clear sign that woke insanity (which took hold in ‘18 but peaked between ‘20 and mid ‘24) had lost the mojo.

I’d love it if David Fincher’s The Adventures of Cliff Booth (Netflix, 11.25.26) were to debut at the 2026 Venice Film Festival, and of course this possibility has been kibboshed by Fincher…of course it has!

“The sun isn’t yellow, it’s chicken” — Bob Dylan.

I’d naturally want to catch both of the big social-media-meets-AI flicks — not just Aaron Sorkin’s The Social Reckoning (Sony, 10.9.26) but also Luca Guadagnino’s Artificial (Amazon MGM) — and yet Amazon is apparently ducking this because, according to Tatiana Siegel, they’re apparently scared of going up against the Sorkin, or being associated with it general-topic-wise.

And so Artificial isn’t even being discussed as a Venice possibility. Of course it’s not! The Sorkin will probably premiere there however.

(I’ve been told that Amazon (a) loves Artificial and (b) isn’t even slightly scared of The Social Reckoning. Okay, but why have they reportedly decided to open the Guadagnino in early ‘27?)

The Sorkin aside, the only locked-in Venice titles I feel genuinely excited by are (a) Martin McDonagh’s Wild Horse Nine (Searchlight, 11.6), (b) Anton Corbijn A Talent for Murder (Bleecker Street) and (c) some portion of season 2 of Seth Rogen ‘s The Studio, particularly the Madonna-starring episodes shot last March during a staged Venice Film Festival.

I’m sure I’ll develop some degree of enthusiasm for other Venice ‘26 titles down the road, but right now I’m feeling a certain amount of despair.

Here are Jordan Ruimy’s latest spitballs:

On 1.24.25 I stated an obvious fact about the stupidest, most arrogant and self-destructive decision by a U.S. President in the nation’s history. James Carville had observed the same thing two days earlier. Here’s how I put it:

Today Hillary Clinton said the same thing in an interview with New Yorker editor David Remnick:

If Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer and other senior Democratic voices had called out Biden’s arrogance in 2023, something constructive might’ve happened.

Soon after catching Julian Schnabel‘s In The Hand of Dante at the Venice Film Festival 10 months ago, HE sent the following blurp-blurp text to a critic friend: “Nick Tosches’ semi-fictional book of the same title can’t be as vulgarly, bruisingly violent as Schnabel’s film is, not to mention gven to such wildly florid trip-outs and generally lost in its own psychedelic fantasy scenario.

“Pic starts well but within the first half-hour there’s a noticable weakening in terms of taste and discretion. Occasionally it’s just plain awful.

“Okay, Martin Scorsese’s bushy-bearded cameo is a hoot, and Al Pacino has a good scene with a very young Tosches early on. But the shootings are so plentiful and thoughtless and grotesque…beyond repulsive. I felt covered in grease.”

I’m telling you that this film really and truly stinks…coarse machismo, groan-worthy pretension, bludgeoning brutality, the awful humiliation of poor Oscar Isaac, the repulsive spectacle of the corpulent, cigarette-puffing Gerard Butler, and the terrible sullying of the literary reputation of the late, great Nick Tosches, which infuriated me more than anything else..

In The Hand of Dante opened furtively in a few theatres on 6.12.26. Netflix will begin streaming it on 6.24.12.

“Schnabel’s Surreal Calamity Trip,” HE-posted on 9.4.25:

I didn’t hate each and every second of Julian Schnabel‘s In The Hand of Dante, which I caught a night or two ago, or at least I didn’t hate it altogether. But it did make me groan here and there, and it instilled anguished feelings…spasms of revulsion and disgust and disorientation. I literally said out loud “oh, God…oh, no…oh, Jesus” during a ridiculous mass-murder scene.

I certainly felt heartbroken that poor Oscar Isaac had committed to playing the dual lead role (a fictional wise-guy version of Tosches as well as the real, actual Dante Alighieri), and I felt so sickened by Gerard Butler‘s coarse, poseur-level performance as Louie, the hit man, that — BIG-ASS SPOILER WARNING! — I was overjoyed when Louie finally got plugged. “Good!” I said to myself, “and please burn in hell.”

Something is very wrong when a film by a director you’ve respected and admired for the better part of 30 years (Basquiat, Before Night Falls, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and At Eternity’s Gate are Schnabel’s best)…something is very, very wrong when his latest initially excites and delights and fills you with hope and even wonder (the first 20 or 25 minutes), and then, by the half-hour mark, makes you feel like you’ve dropped some really bad acid.

No, I haven’t read Nick Tosches’ same-titled source novel, but I know Tosche’s hipster prose style pretty well (I’m a huge fan of “Hellfire” and “Dino: Living High In the Dirty Business of Dreams“) and…how to put this?…as I watched Schnabel’s film I was saying to myself “This is wrong, man…the crude, porno-violent pistol murders are way over the top…this isn’t the Tosches I know or want to know.”

Tosches’ 2002 novel was co-adapted by Schnabel and wife Louise Kugelberg, and this fact alone is somber testimony, you bet…proof, even, that fortifying a marriage by working on a movie script together is not, in and of itself, a good idea, for the lurching between delirious madman poetry and black-and-white bullets slamming into craniums and chest cavities is my idea of godawful.

I guess I’m now obliged to finally read Tosches’ 2002 book, an allegedly trippy, semi-fictional dream saga with the same title, but how could Tosches have written such a thing? There’s no question that Schnabel and Kugelberg have desecrated Tosches’ legacy here.

I can only tell you that walkouts began early on in the Sala Darsena, and that I was cringing and flinching and almost writhing in agony.

Butler is now 55 and way overweight, and the ridiculous “Louie” smokes like a mentally-deranged chimney. Butler reminded me a bit of Orson Welles‘ Hank Quinlan in Touch of Evil (’58), not in terms of Welles’ obesity (Butler is merely bloated by way of a pig diet) but in terms of his character’s perversity…theatrical, random-ass, sub-mental, dumb-fuck cruelty.

Born and raised in Scotland, Butler’s natural accent is soft and gentle and charming, but of course he’s been speaking with a fake, tough-guy patois all these years while constantly pulling on cigarettes…what a shame.

Hannah Strong, Little White Lies: