Steve McQueen and Paul Newman saved as many lives and as much of the day as they could. Bill Holden played a corrupt contractor in a terrible maroon tuxedo jacket, but…I can’t actually recall if he survived the water tank explosion. (Update: He did.) O.J. Simpson played a cool security guard, but did he survive? (Update: Yes.) I know for sure that Faye Dunaway survived — at the very end she was sitting on those marble steps outside the half-destroyed skyscraper, chatting with Newman and McQueen. And the heartbroken Fred Astaire made it out okay.

But weep anew for poor Robert Wagner (seared and blackened like a marshmallow) and his poor screaming blonde girlfriend, played by Susan Flannery (burned and splattered). And don’t forget Jennifer Jones (fell out of glass elevator, became a ruptured guts balloon when she hit the ground), Robert Vaughn (fell 135 stories, exploded into raw hamburger) and Richard Chamberlain (screamed the loudest as he fell alongside Vaughn).

…that the HE flame hasn’t burned brightly over the last 18 and 2/3 years. HE’s 20th anniversary will be celebrated on or about 8.20.24. If you include the old Mr. Showbiz, Hollywood Confidential and Movie Poop Shoot columns (and how could they not be taken into account?), the 25th anniversary of the launch of my online bang-bang will be champagne-corked in early October. The Mr. Showbiz launch happened sometime around 10.15.98.

Two observations about this morning’s coronation of Charles III and Camilla as the King and Queen of England.

(1) In the clip below you’ll notice at the 6:04 mark that Charles, royal sceptres in both hands, had to be helped to his feet by a pair of senior Church of England fellows, who then escorted him down the main aisle of Westminster Cathedral…slowly, slowly. If I’d been Charles, I would have spent many weeks strengthening my leg muscles and practicing getting to my feet without assistance, even while holding two sceptres and wearing a heavy bejeweled crown. The symbolism of a long-of-tooth fellow being helped to his feet is devastating.

(2) As they flanked their newly crowned monarch, it was immediately apparent that Charles (allegedly 5′ 10″) was significantly shorter than either of his attendants. Which made him appear less than commanding. It’s unbecoming for a king to appear frail and a bit shrunken, but that’s what we saw.

Royal Windsor men should stand straight and tall without assistance. Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, was six feet tall. And let’s not forget the medieval Edward I, who stood 6’2″.

The sum visual effect was that ruddy, pink-eyed, wrinkly-faced Charles, 74, is well past his prime. And yet, given the age of his mother and father at the the time of their respective deaths (96 and 99), Charles will most likely reign for a good 20 years or so, or, barring some unforeseen complication, until sometime in the early to mid 2040s. At which time William, Prince of Wales (born 6.21.82), will ascend to the throne, probably between the ages of 60 and 65.

The practice of spontaneous sexual come-ons of an aggressive nature (i.e., sudden smooching, pussy-grabbing) has been “largely [common among male stars]…not always but largely…unfortunately or fortunately” — Donald Trump during a deposition about the E. Jean Carroll rape-charge case, taped on 10.19.22.

Carroll attorney: “You consider yourself to be a star?” Trump: “I think you can say that, yeah.”

A few seconds later: “[As far as having a sexual interest in a woman] you” — the Carroll attorney — “wouldn’t be a choice of mine either, to be honest with you. I hope you’re not insulted. I wouldn’t under any circumstances have any interest in you.”

Good God, the man has roasted himself. He’s not only admitted to having behaved like a spontaneous Caligula, but has stated that spontaneous Caligula-ism has been a normal thing among male “stars” (i.e., super-famous, super-powerful guys) since the beginning of human civilization.

In other words, Trump has more or less said, “What’s the big deal with a guy like me, theoretically speaking, spontaneously having it off with a woman like E. Jean Carroll in a Bergdorf Goodman dressing room? Stars have been historically entitled to do this for centuries….whadaya whadaya?” He’s actually said this!

How could the jury possibly find in his favor?

From 1.18.23 report by cnbc.com’s Dan Mangan:

“Former President Donald Trump recently mistook his rape accuser E. Jean Carroll for his ex-wife Marla Maples when being questioned about a decades-old photo of him and Carroll by her attorney for a defamation lawsuit, a newly public court filing shows.

Trump’s belief that Carroll, a writer, was actually his second wife Maples sharply undercuts the New York real estate mogul’s repeated claims that he would not have even had sex with Carroll because she is “not my type.”

Carroll, 79, first alleged in a 2019 magazine article that Trump, who was president at the time, had raped her in a dressing room at the Bergdorf Goodman department store in Manhattan in 1995 or 1996 after a chance encounter in the store.

Trump, 76, denied her claims, accusing Carroll of lying. He also said Carroll was motivated by a desire to generate sales of a book and political animus in making the allegations.

“She’s not my type,” Trump told The Hill news site in 2019.

Two nights ago and for the sixth or seventh time, I re-watched ‘s Moonlighting (’82). Not on Bluray but on the Criterion Channel. Excellent HD. I regard this 41 year-old film as a total comfort watch. It gives me just as much pleasure as, say, the first 45 minutes of The Guns of Navarone, which I never watch beyond the 45-minute mark, or past the point of the team scaling the 200-foot cliff in the driving rain + Anthony Quayle breaking his leg + Anthony Quinn saying “one bullet now — better for him, better for us.”

Four years ago (4.16.19): Moonlighting (’82) is a finely chiselled, dead brilliant drama about four Polish guys (led by Jeremy Irons‘ “Nowak”) renovating their boss’s London flat during the time of the Solidarity crackdown in Poland.

Very matter of fact, very specific and situational but at the same time a political allegory that sticks the landing. As perfectly made as this kind of thing can be.

I love that moment when Jeremy Irons is lying on his bed and staring at a photo of his girlfriend / wife (Jenny Seagrove) and suddenly she seems to come alive within the frame, very slightly and somewhat erotically.

In a four-year-old riff I repeated the old saw about the world being divided into two camps — those who hear Moonlighting and think of Bruce Willis and Cybil Shepherd, and those who think of Skolimowski and Irons and Jenny Seagrove and that ending with those shopping carts crashing and sliding downhill.

There were 31 comments from the HE community; 27 were about how cool the TV show was. I rest my case.

“Well, what was your latest ‘preneur’”

“She threw up in her mask. Now cut the bullshit, please. Just say it. She threw up in her mask.”

“Don’t be vulgar, Jean. Let us be crooked, but never common.”

“Now, very simply, is he there or is he not fucking there?”

“I’m Shiva, the god of death.”

“There’s nothing like a love song to give you a good laugh.”

“”You don’t understand. There’s nothing…there’s nothing there. There’s nothing there.”

“You’re greedy, unfeeling, inept, indifferent, self-inflating and unconscionably profitable. Besides that, I have nothing against you. I’m sure you play a helluva game of golf.”

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