I saw Killers of the Flower Moon in Cannes last May, and gave it a B grade. Okay, a B-plus. Since then I’ve written about it from 49 different angles. And I absolutely intend to see it on an IMAX screen when it opens on 10.20. It’s a very well-made film, and it certainly warrants two viewings.
That said, it’s a woke flatliner. I can sense this in the air. In a perfect world Joe and Jane would swamp it like Barbenheimer, but my insect antennae signals are telling me perhaps not.
From “At the New York Film Festival, Delicate Movies and Ones That Go Vroom,” a 9.29.23 N.Y. Times piece by Manohla Dargis:
“One of the festival’s bigger headscratchers is that the latest from Martin Scorsese — a producer on Maestro — isn’t at the event. That would be Killers of the Flower Moon, which had its premiere in May at Cannes and will open theatrically Oct. 20.
“’We loved the film and invited it immediately after seeing it in Cannes,’ Dennis Lim, the artistic director of the New York Film Festival, told me. Days before the festival announced its main slate in August, however, Apple, which is releasing the movie, said that it would not be participating.
“As Lim noted, Flower Moon wasn’t in any of the other major fall festivals, which help usher films into the new season and onto the long road to the Oscars. (Apple could not be reached for comment.) Whatever the reason, its absence is a shame, especially because this is the event that 50 years ago presented a little film titled Mean Streets.”
The famous animal bone sequence in 2001: A Space Odyssey lasts one minute and 54 seconds. It shows the moment in which Moonwatcher (Dan Richter) discovers a certain killer instinct that will save his tribe from extinction.
My favorite part is the final six seconds, starting at 1:48. This is when Moonwatcher says “okay, that was cool, I now understand how to kill prey for food…and now that I’ve figured this out I’m going to throw the fucking bone in the air and forget about it.”
Which he does. And then he runs his fingers through the sand and starts…whatever, daydreaming.
I love this part…”fuck it, fuck the bone, I’m not doing this all day, I’m taking a break.”
The legendary Mr. Richter recently merging with Mozart:
But it’s nice to wade into the good old days when Nicholas Wending Refn had a good grip on things (i.e., before he went crazy or, you know, became excessive), and way before Ryan Gosling had submitted to the Barbie vaccine. Gosling was around 30 at the time; Carey Mulligan was 25 or thereabouts.
I knew right away, of course — it’s Heather Graham, who turned 53 eight months ago (i.e., 9.29.23). Alabaster complexion, white-ish blonde hair, zero makeup, aging gracefully.
What’s in the envelope? The deed to the vineyard?
HE totally approves of The Worst Person in the World, but that’s all.
Contrary to Brian Krassenstein’s 9.30 tweet, the chain store is called P.C. Richard and Son.
The branch that got ripped off a couple of days ago in North Philadelphia is located at 2420 Cottman Avenue, Philadelphia, PA 19149.
BREAKING: The Philadelphia PD has just released this footage from a store in Northeast Philly called Richard & Son.
These actions can NEVER be justified, and I think it's fair to say that the vast, vast majority of Americans agree that this type of behavior should be dealt… pic.twitter.com/F1IzK7pgXS
— Brian Krassenstein (@krassenstein) September 30, 2023
Posted on 9.1.23: “I’ve just come out of Emerald Fennell‘s Saltburn, and it’s all about diseased psychologies and relentlessly dislikable people except for the delectably good-looking Jacob Elordi.
“It reeks of class hatred, oddness, perversity, arch upper-crust attitudes, callousness and class resentment, the slurping of dirty bath water, a nude Greek satyr finale featuring a fairly sizable schlongola, ‘wrong time of the month’ fingering + cunnilingus, high-impact visual punctuation for the sake of high-impact visual punctuation.
“Or, if you will, bold style amounting to absolutely nothing except bold style.
“Yeah, it’s The Talented Mr. Ripley, all right — Barry Keoghan, owner of the most famous and obtrusive bee-stung nose I’ve ever been forced to contemplate in film after film, is Matt Damon, and the incredibly beautiful Jacob Elordi is Jude Law, and Keoghan-the-interloper is one slinky, clumsy, weird-ass sociopath who hates himself, his parents, rich people, all people….he loves only Elordi except he’s not gay as much as (quoting Alison Oliver‘s Venetia character) a moth…a moth attracted to a glittery, super-wealthy flame.
“Saltburn is deeply divisive [among Telluriders], inspiring intense like-hate reactions…fans so far include Matt Neglia, Erik Anderson, Clayton Davis, Greg Ellwood. Haters include myself, David Ehrlich, Peter Debruge, David Rooney.
“I despised it so much that I took a 10-minute lobby break around the 70-minute mark.
“TheWrap‘s Tomris Laffly: ‘Saltburn works as a distinct and wildly entertaining probe into familiar waters of privilege, rather than the definite word on it.” Except it’s not a ‘distinct and wildly entertaining’ anything unless you have some kind of incurable aesthetic cancer festering inside you.”
There’s a trilogy of intensely charismatic, cameo-level, award-worthy performances — intense burn-throughs that rang the proverbial bell in 20 or 16 or even five minutes and 40 seconds. And they all happened during the second half of the 20th Century.
The longest of these was the least heralded — Jackie Gleason‘s Minnesota Fats in The Hustler (’61). His performance occupied only 20 minutes of screen time, but Gleason was nominated for Best Supporting Actor (along with costar George C. Scott).
In The Silence of the Lambs (’90) Anthony Hopkins‘ Hannibal Lecter had only 16 minutes of screen time, but it was sufficient to snag a Best Actor Oscar.
The shortest was Beatrice Straight‘s barn burner of a cameo in Network, technically just under six minutes but actually closer to four and three-quarters — that’s how long that marital argument scene she had with William Holden lasted. It won her a Best Supporting Actress Oscar, of course.
What 21st Century quickies qualify? Have there been any? I’m asking.
Wait, one more: Christopher Plummer‘s Mike Wallace in The Insider (’99), which — I’m just guessing — isn’t much longer than 25 minutes. Okay, possibly 30.
