Last night I watched Martin Scorsese and David Tedeschi‘s Personality Crisis: One Night Only, and I came out of it knowing and caring a bit…okay, a lot more about David Johansen than I had before I sat down.

It’s basically standard documentary portraiture, of course, but primarily a relaxed, low-key lounge concert film, shot in the Carlyle bar in January 2020.

The doc is augmented with recent interview footage (apparently shot in Johansen’s home by his stepdaughter Leah Hennessey, daughter of wife Leah Hennessey) plus some performance footage from the good old days (New York Dolls, ’70s solo career, Buster Poindexter in the ’80s and ’90s).

And the thing that stuck in my head, frankly, is the made-plain fact that Johansen is a free-floating existentialist dancer-singer-performer who’s more or less cool with the fact that he’s not stinking rich. He and his family are living with a certain amount of style, comfort and swagger, but the difference between David Jo’s lifestyle and that of, let’s say, Mick Jagger is apparently considerable or at least noteworthy. (There’s a moment during the Carlyle show when he repeats a famous line from Ira Levin‘s Deathtrap — “Nothing recedes like success”.) I also loved it when Johansen tells his stepdaughter about never having had a grand master plan for his life, and that he’s always considered his journey (Johansen is 73) in five-year increments.

Posted on 3.16.23: Along with ex-girlfriend Sophie Black, who matured into a respected poet, I co-produced two Save The Whales benefit rock concerts in Wilton, Connecticut. Both were held on a 52-acre property owned by Sophie’s parents, David and Linda Cabot Black. The first happened over the July 4th weekend in ’76; the second (for which Sophie and I were interviewed for a 6.26.77 N.Y. Times piece) happened a year later.

And I was proud and gratified to book the David Johansen band for the ’77 show, as I’d been a fan of the New York Dolls; ditto “Not That Much” and “Funky But Chic.”

Back to right now: A couple of months prior to the ’76 concert Johansen and I chatted in some downtown Manhattan bar, and I really liked his charm, aura, self-deprecating humor, etc. Plus I learned that night that Johansen loves (or loved) to play-act and pretend to be someone else. DJ made bank on play-acting when Buster Poindexter came along in the ’80s, but when I spoke to him that night he was speaking with a working-class British accent. Pretending to be, in a manner of speaking, some Jagger-like rocker from East London or something. It was well known at the time that Johansen was a lifelong New Yorker (raised in Staten Island), and so I was flat-out thrilled and fascinated that he was performing for me — an audience of one. Johansen was dishy in a Jagger-ish way back then, and the accent fit right in. I’ll never forget that moment as long as I live.

The Scorsese-Tedeschi doc is worth the price and the time.

Obsession (Netflix, 4.13) is the second filmed adaptation of Josephine Hart‘s “Damage,” a 1991 novel about a self-destructive affair between a British politician and his son’s fiance.

The newbie is a four-parter, and, in my judgment, far less appealing than Louis Malle’s 1992 feature version for the simple reason that Jeremy Irons and Juliette Binoche, as the doomed lovers, are much more attractive and dynamic that the Netlix duo, played by Richard Armitage and Charlie Murphy.

I don’t especially want to see the latter couple get it on — it’s really that simple. They just don’t have it.

Plus Malle is and was, I gather, a much more gifted and accomplished director than Glenn Leyburn and Lisa Barros D’Sathe, the co-helmers of the Netflix series. That said, I’ll be watching the Netflix just to compare and quibble.

What am I missing?

I honestly hadn’t noticed it until Facebook‘s Robert Chandler posted about it yesterday. Be honest — don’t “say” you knew all along unless you really did.

After stating that Woody Allen‘s Coup de Chance had not been officially submitted to the festival, Cannes topper Thierry Fremaux has revealed in a Le Figaro interview (page 33) that he did see it unofficially.

Fremaux also said — this is a real shocker — that even if it had been officially submitted he might have had reservations because showing it would rip the festival apart into pro- and anti-Woody camps.

Fremaux: “The Polanski, we have not seen it. The Woody Allen, it’s a bit special. I saw it without seeing it. The film was not a candidate. We also know that if his film was shown at Cannes controversy would take over the fest, both against him and against the other movies.”

Was this Fremaux conveying what he himself is actually fearful of, or was he sharing the view of the Woody camp? Either way this is flat-out cowardice. The statement essentially says “there will be too many Woody haters attending the festival, and there are serious concerns about the spectacle of the festival being convulsed by Woody hate vs. Woody defenders.”

Imagine if the Cannes Film Festival had voiced similar concerns about showing Michelangelo Antonioni‘s L’Avventura and wimped out? After screening that classic film in May 1960, it drew howls of derision. Ditto, in 1977, Marguerite Duras‘s The Truck (Le Camion) — following the Cannes showing, “Duras stood atop a flight of stairs while a crowd yelled insults at her.” Or Vincent Gallo‘s problematic but certainly brave The Brown Bunny, which screened in Cannes 20 years ago? Or, a year earlier, Gaspar Noe‘s Irreversible, which would almost certainly not be screened now due to squeamishness about the #MeToo community.

And Allen’s film, to judge from earlybird reactions posted by Showbiz 411‘s Roger Friedman and resturateur Keith McNally, is hardly an envelope pusher but a tart and crafty 90-minute noir about infidelity and murder.

Ten years ago Fremaux and the Cannes Film Festival would have been delighted to screen Coup de Chance. Now they’re letting the woke banshees control things, at least in this instqnce.

(Thanks for World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy for providing the Le Figaro link.)

I’m definitely not predicting that Ari Aster’s Beau Is Afraid will snag a Best Picture nomination early next year. It’s way too unconventional for those dumb-ass, easy-lay SAG-AFTRA voters who loved EEAAO, but it is the kind of unhinged, wackazoid, Fellini-esque family psychodrama that deserves such an honor.

I’m serious as a heart attack. I was expecting hell but it kind of knocked me flat. Not altogether but close. The craziest, trippiest and least predictable film I’ve seen since I don’t remember what.

It’s a nightmare comedy that’s really out there and ooh, man, does it swing for the fences! At the very least it’s a solid triple. Speaking as a confirmed LQTM-er it means something, trust me, that I laughed out loud four or five times.

I can’t call this 179-minute crazytown film “pleasant” but aside from a couple of sluggish spots it’s truly fascinating and exciting as fuck for the most part. Not a perfect film but unmistakably brave and intelligent and immaculately conceived and constructed, and certainly all of a piece.

It struck me as mining similar turf as that which the Coen’s A Serious Man lies upon, only way more surreal. Is it God or your mother who’s out to torture you to death, or are you the bad guy, consumed by cowardice and self-loathing?

During the super-imaginative first 60% to 70% I was thinking Beau would be a great film to watch with a little lysergic acid diathylamide in my system, but I wasn’t thinking along those lines during the last third, which is alternately loopy and sexual and fiercely guilt-trippy (please, mama!) and intense.

Even when it’s not fully working, it’s a brilliant tour de force on a Fellini Satyricon level…hoo-hoo and cuckoo…through the looking glass & down the white rabbit hole…a truly no-holds-barred, psychologically warped Wizard of Oz mescaline nightmare, unleashed and unloosed…a fine madness…demonic, crazy-ass shit and much of it half mind-blowing and half-hilarious.

Paunchy, balding and unshaven Joaquin Phoenix whimpers and weeps and moans his way through the whole thing, but like a hemophiliac with blood pouring out of his arm. Patti Lupone is amazing, . blistering — instant Best Supporting Actress noms. And it’s great to have Parker Posey back in the swing of it!

This is a landmark feat of imaginative wackazoid filmmaking. Yowsah!