“Her presence seems at once to gesture in the direction of recurrent arguments about Bond casting — does the character have to be male? must he always be white? — and to wave them away. A Nomi franchise could be interesting, but I won’t hold my breath.” — from A.O. Scott‘s N.Y. Times review of No Time To Die.

“Which four would you choose?”, some Twitter guy asked. Easy: From Russia With Love, Dr. No, Goldfinger and Casino Royale. I also like For Your Eyes Only for attempting to return to the stripped-down, lean-and-mean Bond aesthetic. I also like the way Sheena Easton sings the title tune…”For your eyes only….only for yaaawwwoohh.”

Rep. Matt Gaetz: "We're questioning in your official capacity going and undermining the chain of command, which is obviously what you did."

Gen. Mark Milley: "I did not undermine the chain of command."

Rep. Matt Gaetz: "You absolutely did." pic.twitter.com/nzQP8EDeUc

— The Hill (@thehill) September 29, 2021

Milley's exasperated gasp to Rep. Ronny Jackson here speaks volumes pic.twitter.com/y4hIXYcr41

— Aaron Rupar (@atrupar) September 29, 2021

From a 9.29 Sasha Stone piece that is subheaded with “Daniel Craig Says Goodbye in Style“…

Sasha #1: “James Bond is most definitely for the masses. And it’s coming at exactly the right time. The American public has never needed movies more than it does right now.”

HE exception #1: I’m sorry that sounds too much like that infamous poster slogan for 1974’s That’s Entertainment! — “Boy, do we need it now!”

Sasha #2: “We need [movies] in order to remember what it’s like to sit alongside our fellow Americans, regardless of political party, skin color or religion. They give us that rare chance, outside of going to church or sporting events, where we can share an experience in the dark with the smell of popcorn wafting through. At the cineplex you are among people you don’t know and [absorbing] a message you all will share. Sometimes that can be a transformative experience, if the movie is good enough.”

HE exception #2: Due respect to other moviegoers, but I don’t want to sit next to most of you. You’re loud and coarse and checking your phones all the time, and you suffer from ADD and you sometimes laugh at the wrong things or fail to laugh at the right things. I’m totally cool with Telluride Film Festival patrons, but…well, I’ve said it.

Sasha #3: “There isn’t a whiff of politics in No Time To Die — it is mostly pure fun, with a little bit of seriousness.”

HE exception #3: Sorry, but there is a whiff of politics in this film, but…aahh, forget it.

Sasha #4: “We need [movies like No Time To Die] because they give us hope. It’s no time for movie theaters to die. No time for James Bond to die. No time for the market to die. No time for isolation and fear. No time for division. No time for hatred.

“[Except there is hatred.] I get the feeling the Hollywood utopians kind of want Bond gone. I get the feeling they kind of like him but sort of want him to settle down or retire. I get the feeling they wish that [ticket-buyers] didn’t like alpha males as much as they do so that the utopians could continue to fundamentally alter everything that defined our species before [woke Stalinism]” — i.e., before 2016.

HE exception #4: I don’t know what Sasha could be alluding to, but I kind of resent it. Actually, I’m seething. I’ve half a mind to contact a few of HE’s comment threaders and maybe buy some torches and go over to Sasha’s place and make trouble.”

There are several Hollywood landmarks we’ve all heard of or peeked at — John Barrymore‘s Bella Vista, Beachwood Canyon’s Wolf’s Lair, the beige-pink Godfather compound (i.e., Jack Woltz‘s horse’s head home) on No. Beverly Drive, Guillermo del Toro‘s “Bleak House,” the Double Indemnity house.

And now, at the northeast corner of Fairfax Ave. and Wilshire Blvd., there’s a new one — “Woke House” or, if you will, “Inclusion and Equity House,” otherwise known as the Academy Museum.

It’s the Temple of Hollywood Redefined — the emphasis being partly on Hollywood lore and glamour, but mostly about identity and inclusivity and progressive cultural ideals and the Academy’s commitment to fulfilling same. About how Hollywood is a much better industry now than it used to be, and how we should all celebrate that fact. (But not too much!) The past is represented, of course, but the museum is mainly about doing the right thing for people who used to be benched on the sidelines or were made to wait in line out in the parking lot.

Welcome, film lovers, and thank you for your $25 ticket purchases, but never forget that you’re now in a place of wokester instruction.

Among the museum’s “guiding principles” is to always remember the sometimes sordid, colorful past, and to always be mindful of the Jonathan Shields legend (i.e., sometimes the best films are made by heartless sons of bitches) in The Bad and the Beautiful, and to remember that making great films has always been a grueling, uphill struggle…to never forget the scandals and suicides and cover-ups, and to recall that after seeing Sunset Boulevard Louis B. Mayer huffily told Billy Wilder than he had bitten the hand that fed him, and that Wilder’s immediate response was to tell Mayer to go fuck himself…to remember that during the ’50s the industry looked the other way as several honorable screenwriters were blacklisted and forced to work in Europe…to never forget that Jack L. Warner hated Bonnie and Clyde, and that producer-star Warren Beatty had to beg him to re-release it, and only then was it celebrated…that in the late ’50s Sidney Poitier was unable to rent a Beverly Hills home due to racist real estate agents, and that he was at least able to stay at the Chateau Marmont…that 20th Century Fox boss Daryl F. Zanuck used to carnally impale aspiring actresses every afternoon in his 20th Century Fox office…that local men and women of color were hired to portray Skull Island natives in King Kong, and that they were probably glad to get the work, even though it meant wearing bone necklaces and grass skirts….to never forget the endless oppressions and exploitations and greedy conflicts and deviant devotions that have always been at the heart of Hollywood creativity…oh, wait, I’m sorry…this is from an old Graveline Tours pamphlet.

The museum’s actual guiding principles are (a) Illuminate the Past, Present, and Possible Futures of Motion Pictures and the Academy, (b) Embrace Diversity and Be Radically Inclusive, and (c) Educate, Provide Inspiration, and Encourage Discovery.

The Embrace Diversity thing has a drop-down menu, and one of the mission statements says that the museum intends to “foster an anti-racist, anti-oppressive, and anti-sexist culture built on transparency and accountability that ensures that all staff, communities, audiences, and partners are treated with respect.”

Jesus H. Christ already!…I feel I’m being scolded and swatted on the hand with rulers by woke nuns!

From Sasha Stone‘s “No Time (for Movie Theaters) to Die”: “But I see where the Academy is coming from. They are trying to address the needs of people who have been left out for far too long, [and] they can afford to depict themselves and their story any way they want to.

“For instance, when Sacheen Littlefeather accepted the Best Actor award for Marlon Brando in 1973, she was booed. The stunt was mocked and derided back then for bringing politics into the awards. It was embarrassing for the Academy. But all of these years later, she is celebrated in the Academy Museum as a point of pride. And indeed, when you watch her speech now she seems like a time traveler from 2021.”

There’s a large room in the museum that celebrates Oscar recipients, and Littlefeather’s speech is one of the highlights. Flatscreens show various winners celebrating their big moment, but not that many. You’d think that acceptance speeches by world-famous Oscar winners would be front and center. But for the most part the room focuses on people of color and historic moments of inclusivity. Sidney Potier, Rita Moreno, Gone With The Wind‘s Hattie McDaniel, Sayonara‘s Miyoshi Umeki, etc. (Where’s the Minari grandma, Youn Yuh-jung?) Plus Dimitri Tiomkin accepting an Oscar for his High and the Mighty score, Tatum O’Neal accepting a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for Paper Moon, etc.

Yes, I covered the same turf in “Please Don’t Call It The Death Star” (9.21).

“The Unchosen One” is a curiously moving short doc (15:58), directed by Ben Proudfoot, about how feelings of loss and hurt have lingered inside ex-child actor Devon Michael, now 32. They resulted from Michael not being chosen by George Lucas to play Anakin Skywalker in The Phantom Menace (’99).

Michael was one of three finalists for the role — himself, Almost Famous costar Michael Angarano and Jake Lloyd. Lloyd got the part, of course, and we all know how critics and fanboys responded.

Would things have turned out any better if Michael had been chosen? Perhaps not given the quality of Lucas’s film and the presence of Jar-Jar Binks, but my sense is that he probably would have been better than Lloyd, partly because of a certain curt intensity and directness of manner — guarded but watchful — and partly because almost anyone would’ve been an improvement over Lloyd. I’ve always presumed that Lucas chose Lloyd at least partly because of his cute looks.

I’m again recalling that moment when hundreds (including Paul Thomas Anderson) poured into Mann’s Village in Westwood to see the world premiere of the Phantom Menace trailer. It happened in the early afternoon of Thursday, 11.6.98. Every Los Angeles film fanatic with blood in his or her veins was there. The movie that nobody stayed for after the trailer was shown was Edward Zwick ‘s The Siege, which the crowd was mocking with a chant….”Siege! Siege! Siege!”

And then The Phantom Menace opened on 5.19.99, and the whole thing came tumbling down. It doesn’t matter how much money that mostly tedious film made. In the minds of many it destroyed the Star Wars theology. True believers were shattered, crestfallen.

According to Jay Lund‘s californiawaterblog.com, 2021 is the third driest year in more than 100 years of official tabulating. And 2020 was the 9th driest year. I can’t recall the last time Los Angelenos were seriously rain-soaked, and I doubt if anyone else can. But try to imagine heavy precipitation hitting Los Angeles for three days straight. Not a prayer, right? But it happened during the historic L.A. snowfall of January 1949. Excerpt: “Snow began falling on Los Angeles around noon on Monday, 1.10.49.** L.A.’s beaches were blanketed for the first time since January 1932, and the last time it snowed more in San Bernardino was 1882.”

** In ’90 I read a draft of Robert Towne‘s The Two Jakes, which, under Jack Nicholson‘s direction, lacked the haunting vibe of Chinatown and wasn’t much good in other respects. But the script ended beautifully with two or three shots of Raymond Chandler‘s mean streets covered in snow.

I realize that it’s not uncommon for some kids to gain an understanding of their own sexual leanings or gender identity as early as six or seven. I was definitely into photos of naked women when I was eight or thereabouts. Then again some kids don’t tap into this stuff until they hit puberty. 13, 14…that’s when it all comes alive. But I think it’s heinous and horrible to prod a toddler into thinking about his/her gender identity when they’re two or three years old.

Should little boys be urged to play with swords and Star Wars stun guns and wear tyke-sized football helmets? Or urged to consider wearing tights and maybe playing with dolls and watching movies about Rudolf Nureyev? My experience is that boys tend to reach for swords and stun guns on their own. (Mine certainly did.) Kids, I feel, should be graciously allowed to find their way into their own sexual feelings and gender identities at their own pace, and in their own way. Some get there sooner; others later.

But parents who try to gently muscle their tykes into considering non-binary identities and consider their possibly fluid sexuality are deranged. They’re doing so out of fear, out of not wanting to seem transphobic. But the parents and “woke” educators who are urging this are, no offense, soft-spoken monsters.

It’s stuff like this that may result in trouble for Democrats in next year’s midterms. Some voters focus more on cultural than political issues, and this is exactly the kind of thing that some people despise about progressive lefties.

Consider the perceptions of Abigail Shrier, author of “Irreversible Damage.”

This is so sad. Poor kid pic.twitter.com/6xAjs0YwOp

— Libs of Tik Tok (@libsoftiktok) September 27, 2021

…have driven on a rural road and passed small families of unsupervised cattle strolling together on the shoulder? Until March 2016 I hadn’t driven by unsupervised cattle walking on a paved road anywhere, ever. Not in Switzerland. rural France, Vermont, upper New York State…nowhere on earth until I visited rural Vietnam.

The notion of seasoned people in their 40s and 50s undergoing identity crises and indulging in impulsive, unconventional behavior began with Sam Peckinpah‘s The Wild Bunch (’69), the main protagonists of which were all long-of-tooth. In the cultural blink of an eyelash, wildness was suddenly an older-person thing. The spiritual-sexual side of this syndrome was explored by Tom Wolfe in the early ’70s, aka “the Me Decade.” A minor signifier was Middle Age Crazy (’80), a totally disappeared dramedy with Bruce Dern and Ann-Margret.

But then teens have always been wild, and 20somethings have always lived lives of Fellini Satyricon. Hell, the only people living modest, carefully regimented lives these days are expectant parents (like Jett and Cait) — otherwise it’s hoo-hah time from 12 through 75.

Now comes a qualifier by way of Will Smith and Denzel Washington. Middle-age crazy is composed of two phases — the “funky 40s” and the “fuck-it 50s.”

Will Smith to GQ‘s Wesley Lowery: “Throughout the years, I would always call Denzel. He’s a real sage. I was probably 48 or something like that and I called Denzel. He said, ‘Listen. You’ve got to think of it as the funky 40s. Everybody’s 40s are funky. But just wait till you hit the fuck-it 50s.’

“And that’s exactly what happened,” Smith recalls. “[Soon after my life] just became the fuck-it 50s, and I gave myself the freedom to do whatever I wanted to do.”

Many of those things are detailed in “Will” (11.9.21), Smith’s semi-“autobiography” that was co-authored by Mark Manson (author of “Everything is Fucked: A Book About Hope” and “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck: A Counterintuitive Approach to Living a Good Life”).

Smith: “I totally opened myself up to what, I think, was a fresh sampling of the fruits of the human experience.”

Lowery: “And so Smith set out on a journey to find himself, and find happiness. He rented a house in Utah and sat in solitude for 14 days. He traveled to Peru for more than a dozen rituals [involving the sipping of a plant-based psychedelic called ayahuasca], even though he’d never even smoked weed and barely drank. (‘This was my first tiny taste of freedom,’ Smith writes of his first experience. ‘In my fifty plus years on this planet, this is the unparalleled greatest feeling I’ve ever had.’) He opened a stand-up show for Dave Chappelle. He began traveling without security for the first time, showing up in foreign countries and working his way through the airport crowds unaccompanied.

The fact that Smith defines “exotic high” as flying commercial and working his way through airport crowds without a pair of security goons…this in itself tells you he’s an odd duck. What’s next…hitting a Rite-Aid at 11 pm all by his lonesome and buying some paper towels and maybe an ice cream cone?

Friendo: Have you heard anything about whether the new Bond is good?

HE: “Good”? As in the opposite of “bad”? Do people even think of Bond films in black or white terms? Bond films deliver safety, comfort and corporate assurance. They’ve been machine-tooled products since at least the Brosnan era.

Carey Fukunaga isn’t going to do anything wild or eccentric with No Time To Die. He’s just going to do the thing that he was hired to do.

I have two favorite phases — the first two Bonds (the wonderfully bare-bones Dr. No and From Russia With Love) and the goofy, half-crazy, raised-eyebrow Bonds directed by Lewis Gilbert (The Spy Who Loved Me, Moonraker). Many Bond films have shown a certain flair or pizazz or irreverence, but the corporate assurance factor has been locked in since the ’80s.

Okay, not For Your Eyes Only (’82) — that was a stab at returning to a stripped-down, less-is-more approach.