For tonight’s main event, a pair of family movies that invest in and reflect upon lasting, spirit-sustaining values about family and community — Frank Capra‘s It’s A Wonderful Life (’46) vs. Francis Coppola‘s The Godfather (‘72)

The core message in Capra’s film at the end of the day: “Forget the thrill and risk of life…or, you know, don’t worry too much about it…forget the exotic climes and unfamiliar aromas and the adventure of struggle and experimentation…forget wandering around the streets of Paris or Hanoi or Venice late at night while smoking an unfiltered Gitane…forget all the faraway places…if you’re loved and treasured by your neighbors in your hometown, that’s all that matters.”

The basic Godfather conveyance is that however independently willful or curious or hungry for the nectar of life a young person might be…however strong this curiosity and longing may be, sooner or later that young person will recognize family as the most fundamental thing of all, and that down the road he/she will give his/her loyalty to it above all else.

One of the main reasons that The Godfather won the Best Picture Oscar is because of that final scene when Michael lies to Kaye about his complicity in the death of Carlo. Kaye can sense the lie, of course, and then Al Neri closes the door as she’s gazing into Michael’s office with everyone kissing his hand.

That’s the way it is (or certainly was) with a lot of marriages within a certain realm. That’s reality, and all that family jubilation and exhilaration in the finale of Capra’s film….well, it’s very nutritious
and fortifying but who really trusts it? It feels like a forced confection.

I somehow missed a four-day-old report that Barack Obama had re-issued his Best Films of 2022 list as a tribute to Andrea Riseborough‘s searing performance in To Leslie. A gesture of respect, acknowledgment. Somehow this alters everything. In my head, at least. I’d interpreted the enthusiastic and orchestrated praising of Riseborough’s performance by a long roster of actor buddies as…well, expressions of loyalty and love. But Barack joining in changes things somewhat. He’s part of the cabal. Repeating: HE endorses Riseborough’s performance despite the film’s first hour having driven me up the wall. I feel much greater enthusiasm for Olivia Colman‘s performance in Empire of Light.

Given the basic sinking-into-the-swamp dynamic that’s been evident for some time now…

A fascinating hypothesis from sex & intimacy expert Shan Boodram to Bill Maher at 2:23 mark: “If somebody said to me ‘if there are 100 men that you are physically attracted to, how many of those would you have sex with?'”

Imagined HE response: The initial answer is “the wealthy funny ones who seem to have a soul.” The second answer is “you know going in that most men won’t stand up to any kind of serious emotional or psychological scrutiny…one way or another 75% to 80% will disqualify themselves by just talking…by focusing mostly on themselves or failing to be sufficiently gracious or show sufficient respect to the woman or whatever.”

To borrow from Lawrence Kasdan‘s Body Heat, “With grade-A, quality-level, creme de la creme women there are 50 different ways you can fuck up, and if you can think of 35 of them in advance you’re a genius.”

Of the remaining 20% or 25% of the men who seem smart and palatable and emotionally secure with a little dough in the bank, half will eliminate themselves with some kind of obsessive quirk thing…a pet rhesus monkey, being a workaholic, smart-phone obsessed, being a sports fanatic or a terrible dresser or…whatever, wearing plaid pants.

Maher response: “Great question for a woman. And here’s a bit: I’ve never known a woman who hasn’t shared some version of this story. ’I met a promising guy…’oh, he’s cute, seems hopeful, doesn’t look like a psycho’, and then he opened his mouth and I lost interest’. Every woman has a version of that story, and no men [do].”
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Here’s the full hour-long discussion.

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Artist Hank Willis Thomas obviously isn’t stupid. He knew that “The Embrace,” his recently unveiled Martin Luther King-Coretta Scott King sculpture, would be derided by the meat-and-potatoes crowd as an image of four hands and arms gripping a giant brown schlong or resting upon a huge turd.

Literalists are always voicing the same beef — “this work of art isn’t literal enough!”

Then again why did he create a 19-ton sculpture that looks like four hands and arms gripping a giant schlong, etc.? HWT knows the game. He knows that the proletariat masses always have the final say.

At 70 Liam Neeson seems too far along to play a certain legendary shamus in Neil Jordan’s forthcoming Marlowe. (Open Road, 2.15).

In two previous films Phillip Marlowe (described by novelist-creator Raymond Chandler as early 30ish in the mid 1930s) has been depicted as spiffily middle-aged. Humphrey Bogart was a fit 45 when he made Howard Hawks’ The Big Sleep (‘46). The dashing James Garner was 40 or 41 (but looked younger) when he made Marlowe (‘69).

Robert Mitchum, on the other hand, seemed a little too creased and weathered when he made Farewell, My Lovely (‘75) in his late 50s, and more so when he returned as Marlowe in Michael Winner’s Big Sleep remake (‘78)

This said, Neeson appears to have been digitally de-aged in Marlowe. That or my eyes deceive.

I didn’t say what this bespectacled neckbeard says I said. I didn’t say that the only people who swear by EEAAO are those “who go to the movies.” I said this infuriating film has no friends outside the hermetic realm of Millennials and Zoomers.

…as to actually write about Glen Powell having over-exerted himself during the celebrated Top Gun: Maverick beach football scene? And then having the audacity to call it “breaking news”? Can you imagine?

Let the word go forth from this time and place to friend and foe alike — that Hollywood Elsewhere would never, ever write such a thing.

Some kind of Jeff Bridges career reel was presumably shown during last weekend’s Critics Choice awards, prior to Bridges accepting his Life Achievement trophy. I didn’t see it, but I’m going to assume that the CC montage didn’t get it right.

Bridges’ most robust career phase was a 13-year stretch between Peter Bogdanovich‘s The Last Picture Show (’71) and Hal Ashby‘s 8 Million Ways To Die (’84). These were the super-quality years — the rest of his career enjoyed an occasional highlight (’98’s The Big Lewbowski, ’09’s Crazy Heart, etc.) but yard by yard and dollars to donuts, the ’70s and early ’80s delivered the most hey-hey.

The Bogdanovich and Ashby aside, the best of Bridges’ 13-year run included John Huston‘s Fat City (’72), Lamont Johnson‘s The Last American Hero (’73), John Frankenheimer‘s The Iceman Cometh (’73), Frank Perry‘s Rancho Deluxe (’75), Bob Rafelson‘s Stay Hungry (’76), Ivan Passer‘s Cutter’s Way (’81) and Taylor Hackford‘s Against All Odds (’84).

If you ask me Hero and Hungry are the most exciting and infectious.

Fuck Starman — I hated Bridges’ stoned alien dumbbell expression.

Fuck Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. Fuck the overpraise, I mean, It’s just a Clint Eastwood caper flick, for Chrissakes. Bridges had a death scene — big deal.

Hated Fearless for the most part. I found Bridges’ performance pointlessly brooding, intensely self-absorbed and non-communicative. Wake the fuck up, will you? You were spared from death & given a second lease and all you can do is live in your zone and stare into the distance?

In a 1.15.23 Variety piece about epic film disasters (or the kind of woeful misfires that only talented directors are capable of making), Owen Gleiberman delivers a perfect description:

“You sit down to watch a movie by a director whose work you love. He’s swinging for the fences. His ambition is on full display and so, in fits and spurts, is his talent. Yet something else is on display too: a lack of judgment that starts out like a worm, wriggling through the proceedings, before growing and metastasizing until it’s eating everything in its path.”

Besides Damien Chazelle‘s Babylon, Gleiberman’s examples include Francis Ford Coppola‘s One from the Heart, Steven Spielberg‘s 1941, Martin Scorsese‘s New York, New York, David Lynch‘s Wild at Heart, Steven Soderbergh‘s Kafka, Michelangelo Antonioni‘s Zabriskie Point, Baz Luhrmann‘s Australia.

HE feels that Oliver Stone‘s most calamitous, worm-consumed film by far is Heaven & Earth.