The usual deciding factor in whether or not a viewer likes a film or not is the presence of — major revelation! — likable or at least engaging characters. (And I’m saying this knowing, as we all do, that Jack Nicholson is “likable” in The Shining.) The opposite is also true, of course. If a good film has an especially dislikable major character, viewers are usually (or at least often) inclined to dismiss the film as a whole.

Joseph Cotten‘s Holly Martins has always been my main…actually my only Third Man stumbling block. I’ve been watching Carol Reed‘s 1949 classic since I was a teenager (my father turned me on to it), and time and again Martins has kept me from truly enjoying this otherwise brilliant noir.

Orson Welles‘ Harry Lime is the charming, charismatic headliner, Alida Valli is the most mysterious, Trevor Howard is unassumingly droll and matter-of-fact, and Cotten is a pill — a dour, uncomprehending, sour-faced drag.

Today I happened upon a commentary track on Studio Canal’s The Third Man Bluray, and two great directors, Tony Gilroy and Steven Soderbergh, kicking it around:

Gilroy: But Joseph Cotten….he’s empty…
Soderbergh: He’s a really unique presence in this. He came from the Mercury Theatre, and wasn’t really in movies before Welles put him in movies. [And] I always liked him enormously. He was perfect for this…this kind of part. It’s very possible, in a sense, to cast somebody [for this role] with too much personality.
Gilroy: He has to be lost and he’s just…so lost. It’s not [a matter of his] being sympathetic or unsympathetic. He’s just a shabby character all the way around, and his empty…his naivete and emptiness. It would be hard to take an established movie star with a really strong, established personality…
Soderbergh: And have him be that.
Gilroy: Either have him deliver that performance, ask him to do that, or find it along the way and have it work. But [Cotten] is so…he’s such a slug.

Please name some significant characters who are such a drag to hang with that they damn near kill otherwise good films.

As part of its recent review of The Carole Lombard Collection 2 in 1080p, DVD Beaver has compared screen shots of an old Lombard collection on DVD vs. the new Bluray masters. Here, for example, are comparisons of a shot from Mitchell Leisen‘s Hands Across The Table (’35), which costarred Lombard and Fred MacMurray.

The brighter, sharper, more glistening image is from the 2006 DVD and the grayer, darker, murkier image is from the 4.6.21 Bluray.

Who in their right mind would even toy with the idea of buying the Lombard Bluray set? What Bluray technician in his or her right mind would say, “Okay, let’s see…we want the Bluray to deliver a ‘bump’ over the DVD — something that looks sharper, richer, more gleaming — so let’s make the film look grayer, duller and less contrasty…like it’s covered in light fog and muck sauce.”

Gary W. Tooze‘s DVD Beaver review excerpt: “The three films in this set were offered on DVD in 2006 as part of Universal’s ‘Carole Lombard — The Glamour Collection.’ The new 1080p image quality advances the presentation with more layered contrast, although the first two films can appear ‘lighter’ by comparison..”

More honest Tooze: “The Bluray has more information, of course, but it looks kinda shitty.”

It was during a discussion this morning about David Caruso that it hit me. For a minute or two in ’93, when the carrot-haired Caruso was riding high with NYPD Blue and after his bravura performance as Mike the Chicago detective in Mad Dog and Glory…for a while there it looked like Caruso might pole-vault onto the next level and become a superstar. Maybe. It seemed possible.

But of course it wasn’t. Because freckly, ginger-haired guys can’t be superstars. They can be admired or even worshipped for their acting chops (i.e., Phillip Seymour Hoffman) or respected or “popular” as far as it goes, but they can’t be “the alpha guy“…that charismatic, rock-solid, center-of-the-universe force field whom other guys want to be and women want to go out with…to be a real movie star you need to exude a certain extra-cosmic, triple-dimensional quality.

And the fact is that only two copper-haired actors in the entire history of Hollywood have become serious superstars — James Cagney and Robert Redford.

Except Cagney doesn’t really count because he ascended and enjoyed his big-star heyday in the mostly monochrome ’30s and ’40s, and so no one was obliged to contemplate his hair color or freckly complexion.

And Redford doesn’t really count because, as we all know, he became a blonde sometime in the early to mid ’60s and stayed that way until his downshift period began sometime in the late ’80s or early ’90s.

And why do you think he became a blonde? Ask yourself that. Okay, I’ll tell you why. He became a blonde because he wanted to be big, and he knew (or his agent or some good friend persuaded him) that it wouldn’t happen unless he did something about his hair. I recall talking to an old friend of Redford’s on the phone once, a guy he used to hang out with in Van Nuys, and this guy told me that Redford’s high-school nickname at the time was “Red.” But eventually he let the blonde thing go. I know that he walked around as a natural copperhead when he was hosting the Sundance Film Festival in the ’90s.

Ginger or copper-haired actresses have never had the slightest problem in Hollywood, of course. And a select few (as with anything else) have become major stars — Cate Blanchett, Amy Adams, Emma Stone, Jessica Chastain, Nicole Kidman, Julianne Moore, Bryce Dallas Howard, Isla Fisher, Lindsay Lohan, Christina Hendricks plus yesteryear’s Katharine Hepburn, Deborah Kerr, Myrna Loy, Tina Louise, Greer Garson, Rita Hayworth, Lucille Ball, Maureen O’Hara, Carol Burnett, Susan Hayward.

But ginger-haired guys have almost never made it to the penthouse level. Because there’s something about them that Americans just can’t quite settle in with or bow down to…not really. Michael Fassbender, Lucas Hedges, Paul Bettany, Jesse Plemons, Caruso, Ed Sheeran, Damian Lewis, Rupert Grint, Alan Tudyk, Brendan Gleeson, Danny Bonaduce, Eric Stoltz, Carrot Top Thompson, David Lewis, Domhnall Gleeson, Rupert Grint, Simon Pegg, Toby Stephens, the great Philip Seymour Hoffman, Chuck Norris, Jason Flemyng, Seth Green, David Wenham…none of them ever made it into the elite winner’s circle, not really. Because people glommed onto that red hair and went “okay, fine, good actor but nope.”

Yes, Leslie Howard was a fairly serious star in his 1930s heyday, but he wasn’t way up there. He wasn’t Clark Gable big.

From the 2.15 edition of “The Conversation“, co-authored by N.Y. Times columnist Gail Collins and Bret Stephens:

Bret: “From a political standpoint, Nikki Haley has played her cards pretty astutely. She might be the only potential GOP candidate who can unite the party. She’s smart, charismatic, has a great personal story, did the right thing as governor of South Carolina by getting rid of the Confederate flag from the State House soon after the Charleston church slaughter, and was effective as U.N. ambassador. If she wins the nomination she’d be a formidable challenger to the Democratic nominee, whoever that winds up being.”

Gail: “Wow, Kamala vs. Nikki.”

Bret: “Interesting that Kamala ’24 already seems like a foregone conclusion. Shades of Hillary ’08? Haley’s dodges and maneuvers are a bit too transparent. And her brand of mainstream Republican conservatism is just out of step for a party that is increasingly out of its mind.”

Gail: “Still, you’ve got me obsessing about an all-female presidential race.”

Bret: “About time.”

HE reaction: Stephens is probably right. Republicans don’t want to nominate a classic conservative as much as a lunatic — Josh Hawley, Ted Cruz, somebody who might capture the nut fringe. The only thing that worries me about Kamala is her speech-giving voice — shaky timbre, uninspired phrasing. I’d be just as happy with Gretchen Whitmer. And I’d be extra-delighted if Pete Buttigieg runs again.

But a two-thirds majority (67 votes) was needed to convict the sociopathic Mar a Lago Beast. And so once again, due to the spineless, soul-less cowardice of red-state Republicans (even those who are planning to retire or aren’t facing re-election for another four to six years), Trump skates. The vote was 57 to 43 to convict.

Trump statement: “It is a sad commentary on our times that one political party in America is given a free pass to denigrate the rule of law, defame law enforcement, cheer mobs, excuse rioters, and transform justice into a tool of political vengeance, and persecute, blacklist, cancel and suppress all people and viewpoints with whom or which they disagree.”

Republican North Carolina Senator Richard Burr voted to convict — a surprise.

The Daily Mail‘s Caroline Graham is reporting that President-elect Joe Biden has ordered the White House to be “deep-cleaned and ‘exorcised'” of any and all remnants of the Trumps.

Biden, who will move in after his 1.20.21 inauguration, is “insisting that the 132-room property be thoroughly disinfected beforehand.”

A member of the transition team: “Mr Trump’s administration has been riddled with the coronavirus. The Bidens are taking no chances. The entire property will be deep-cleaned down to replacing doorknobs and taking down soft furnishings. The virus can linger on hard surfaces so the entire residence and executive offices will be wiped clean with disinfectant to exorcise any trace of Team Trump.’”

What are the odds of Trump attending the Biden swearing-in? Zilch, right? He’ll probably clear out a day or two early and head straight for Florida.

Brian Desmond Hurst and Alastair Sim‘s A Christmas Carol (released as Scrooge in England) is easily the best adaptation of Charles Dickens 1843 novella. United Artists handled the U.S. release. Pic “was originally slated to be shown at Manhattan’s Radio City Music Hall as part of their Christmas attraction, but the theatre management decided that the film was too grim and did not possess enough family entertainment value to warrant an engagement at the Music Hall.”

If you ask me the Music Hall guys of ’51 were made of the same censorious, rigid-minded stuff that propelled those awful people in England to condemn that recent “Santa gets Covid” NHS Charities Together commercial.

The scene in which the miserable, ghoulish ghost of Jacob Marley (Michael Hordern) pays a late-night visit to Scrooge’s London home….this is the bit that convinced Music Hall management to spare the kiddies. Particularly the moment (beginning at 3:40) when Scrooge calls Marley’s apparent presence a silly illusion. At 3:50 Horden rises to his feet, shakes his clanking iron chains and howls like a banshee — straight out of a Hammer horror film.

NHS Charities Together, a British concern, is behind a nice little ad about a Covid-afflicted Santa Claus being nursed back to health in a hospital. The 90-second spot is titled “The Gift.” It’s about love and caring, and it has a happy ending.

But a cabal of rightwing idiots and outraged parents are saying “how dare they show Santa suffering from the coronavirus!? Our kids were really upset by this. Doesn’t the NHS understand that Santa is magical and never gets sick? He just cruises around in his flying sled going ho-ho-ho….how dare they?”

I never told my kids that Santa was real. To kids indoctrinated by this silly fable, Santa means one thing and one thing only — loads of free toys. There’s nothing about the Santa legend that mentions love and kindness and charity for the less fortunate.

When I was three or four I was taken to see “the real” Santa at the original Macy’s in Herald Square. Santa has a tight schedule and a lot to prepare for so he restricts himself to Macy’s, my mother told me. “But doesn’t he live at the North Pole?” Yes, but he makes a special trip to Macy’s so children can tell him what they want for Christmas. He can’t meet everyone but he has a special feeling for Macy’s.

“What about the other Santa at Bamberger’s?” He’s not the real Santa, she explained — he’s just a helper. Santa only has time to visits Macy’s. “But what about the Santas in all the California department stores?” Helpers. “Well, what about England? Does Santa visit kids in England or just America?” (I had recently seen Brian Desmond Hurst and Alistair Sim‘s A Christmas Carol.) No, he flies to England, I was told. In fact, Santa flies there first because they’re five hours ahead of us.

When I posted this two years ago the comment thread was hijacked by weirdos, including Kid Notorious. Just a nice holiday recollection piece…mood, spirit, aroma. But the piss-spray commenters ruined it:

Christmas was great when I was a New Jersey kid of seven, eight and nine. Almost everything felt magical or tingly or transporting on some level. Mostly the aromas — the pine needles, oven-fresh turkey, hot gravy over mashed potatoes, warm pumpkin pie with vanilla ice cream — but also the tree decorations, the store lights at night, the wrapped gifts, the chilly air, listening to Dylan Thomas‘s recording of “A Child’s Christmas in Wales” and watching Alistair Sim‘s A Christmas Carol, and those occasional visits to Manhattan with my mom (department stores, Rockefeller Center, Radio City Music Hall).

But the warmest flow-through Christmas vibes I’ve ever felt, topping even those of my impressionable youth, happened at a post-Thanksgiving holiday party at Robert Towne‘s large Pacific Palisades home in late November of 1997.

Yeah, I know — I mentioned this in a piece I ran after Curtis Hanson passed a couple of years ago. But oh, what a night, what a fine English Tudor vibe on a grand holiday evening in which all the elements were in place.

The gathering was just the right size and full of people who mattered a great deal at that moment (Hanson, Jerry Bruckheimer, Phillip Noyce) and the aromas…my God! The place smelled like cinnamon and mistletoe and cigar smoke and turkey gravy and rum egg nog, and Towne and his wife Luisa had hired three professional singers to roam around and sing Christmas carols and I mean in perfect harmony, all dressed in top hats, shawls, bonnets, gloves and hoop skirts…classic Dickensian garb.

It was glorious. I remember coming down the big staircase and looking at this choice industry crowd having such a great time and saying to myself “everyone should experience this kind of perfect Christmas gathering at least once in their lifetimes.”

Because even the most poignant Christmas get-togethers with my own family weren’t this heartwarming, this extra-perfect.

It was even better than a holiday feeling that filled my heart when I was in London in early December of ’80, when I was walking around and sensing how lucky I was to be in the Stockwell section at that particular moment. It was hardly a flush area of town but it felt exactly right as I settled into a quiet neighborhood pub and ordered a lager as I listened to “Don’t Stand So Close To Me” on the juke box.

There are certain opinions you’re encouraged to have, and others that are better left unsaid. What I’m about to share doesn’t qualify as one of the latter, but it slightly flirts with that realm. I’ll try and share it cautiously and with respect to all parties.

Last night I watched Alan Ball‘s Uncle Frank (Amazon, 11.25). Set in ’73, it’s about a gay NYU professor named Frank Bledsoe (Paul Bettany), his Middle Eastern lover Walid Nadeem (Peter Macdissi) and Beth, Frank’s 18-year-old niece who attends NYU, driving from Manhattan to Creekville, South Carolina, for the funeral of Frank’s dad, Daddy Mac (Stephen Root).

The problem, of course, is that some members of Frank’s family are rube homophobe types, or so Frank fears. (Certainly when it comes to his younger brother Mike, played by Steve Zahn.) Plus gay liberation was in its infancy in the early ’70s, and it wasn’t exactly a time for gay men to routinely come out to backwater friends and families, and so Walid’s decision to invite himself along seems to portend nothing but toil and trouble.

Peter Macdissi as “Walid Nadeem” in Uncle Frank.

I couldn’t stop myself from asking why Frank’s rural, conservative family has to be confronted with his sexuality and lifestyle issues on the occasion of a funeral of a paterfamilias? Why do they have to grapple with this in a time of grief? What’s wrong with taking things one step at a time? Frank’s clan lives on a planet that has nothing whatsoever to do with his NYU realm so what’s the rush? Where’s the need? Couldn’t this issue be eased into down the road?

And now for my awkward opinion, which is that I didn’t care for Macdissi’s company. Not because he’s gay, but because he struck me as slightly creepy and overbearing in both an emotionally needy and joyful-alpha sense. I’ve always disliked people who won’t stop beaming and grinning — they’re almost as bad as those who laugh hysterically in bars and restaurants, and the instant that Walid appeared I went “oh, no…an emotionally effusive gay guy who wears his large heart on his sleeve.” He has a cloying manner and is seemingly too intimately invested in Frank to pass himself off as a straight friend who’s tagged along for emotional support or whatever.

Plus I didn’t care for Walid’s overly bushy black beard and modified mid ’60s Dave Clark Five cut. Right away I was saying “Jesus, this look doesn’t work at all.” He’s too big and broad-shouldered and too…I don’t know but right away I was muttering “trim your hair and beard, bruh, and generally tone it down.”

I’ve been delighted by gay characters almost my entire moviegoing life, and by this I include non-gay characters played by gay actors. I can recall watching This Gun For Hire on TV when I was 12 or 13 and recognizing right away that the florid Laird Cregar was perverse in a way that I’d never seen before. The first openly gay character I felt something for inside a theatre was Hurd Hatfield‘s “Terence Huntley” in The Boston Strangler (’68), followed by Cliff Gorman‘s “Emory” in The Boys in the Band (’70).

I could go on and on. Why am I pointing this out? Twitter jackals.

I might as well admit that I turned Uncle Frank off before the trio arrived at the homestead. I’ll try and finish it tonight, but I’m dreading what will happen.

If you’ve got a few seconds, you’ve got time to hear from @sophialillis and @Paul_Bettany about their new movie, Uncle Frank.

P.S. You can watch it now. pic.twitter.com/0eJnGt00Zi

— Prime Video (@PrimeVideo) November 25, 2020

Everyone knew Georgia would eventually be called for Joe Biden, and now it has been on an “apparent” basis. (A manual hand recount is currently underway.) And Donald Trump has won North Carolina. These calls follow last night’s declaration that Biden has won Arizona. And so Biden has ended up with the same electoral count — 306 — that Trump accumulated in 2016 in his victory over Hillary Clinton.

TYT’s John Iadarola: “I think the Republican mind is flexible in that it is empty. And thus, like a garden hose…when a garden hose is empty it can be bent for whatever you need it to do.”

James Carville: “Pennsylvania’s gonna be fine. I’m not at all worried about Pennsylvania. Arizona is done. Nevada’s done. I’m keepin’ my eye on Georgia right now. At the end of the day this is not gonna be a particularly close election. Biden will win the popular vote by more than Obama did in 2012. He will probably…not certainly but probably end up with 307 [electoral] votes. I know it’s been nerve-wracking for a lot of people, but it’s not that close.”