Being an ex-drummer myself**, I’ve always had a special reverence for the snappy, driving beat of Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts. For several reasons but mainly because he was always so metronomically spot-on…because every time his drumstick made contact he always hit dead center, and I mean exactly at the right millisecond.

In the wake of the news about Watts’ cancer-related death at age 80, I’ve been asking myself “on which Stones song have I always derived a special pleasure from Watts’ drumming?” After ten minutes of thinking it through I’ve decided that “It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll (But I Like It)” is tops in this regard, and it’s not that flashy. Update: I’ve been reminded that Kenney Jones was the drummer on that track. He did an excellent job of pretending to be Watts.

From Gavin Edwards‘ N.Y. Times obit: “While some rock drummers chased after volume and bombast, Mr. Watts defined his playing with subtlety, swing and a solid groove.”

“As the Stones guitarist Keith Richards said in his 2010 autobiography Life, ‘Charlie Watts has always been the bed that I lie on musically.'”

I’ve heard talk about Benedict Cumberbatch possibly being Best Actor-nominated for what I understand is some sort of histrionic, Daniel Day Lewis-resembling performance in Jane Campion‘s The Power of the Dog (Netflix, 11.17).

Back in the old days (a decade or more ago) you could theorize that costarring in a presumably overwrought, animal-friendly popcorn flick a month after your hotshot, Oscar-baity prestige film has opened…you could at least speculate if the latter might somehow mitigate the former.

But nobody cares any more. The degradation effect is everywhere, everyone has their hand out, nothing matters.

The best humor is either the silliest or the cruelest, but let’s focus on the former for now. There are two dumbshit lines that have made me chortle or at least smile for years. (Every so often a guffaw will break through.) No matter how many times they’ve flown in and out of my head, the reaction is the same.

And I’m not mentioning them because I think they’ll “get” anyone else. My point is that we’re all susceptible to dopey chuckle pellets.

Pellet #1 happens every time I visit the default representation site, www.whorepresents.com, and say to myself “yup, whore presents.” The site has been apparently been healthy and solvent for 21 years now.

Pellet #2 is a bit from Woody Allen‘s horribly racist and deeply nauseating What’s Up, Tiger Lily (’66). I’m overdoing the adjectives, of course — I love this dopey film. At the same time you know that if the right kind of Millennial or Zoomer fanatics were to happen upon it, they’d emerge all the more convinced that Allen needs to be triple-shunned, scalded with molten lead and dropped into the hottest cavern of hell.

I’m speaking of an exchange inside an ornate golden palace or temple of some kind. The players are Tatsuya Mihashi‘s “Phil Moskowitz” (amiable zany, lovable rogue) and Tetsu Nakamura‘s “Grand Exalted High Macha of Rashpur.” The subject is ruthless Tokyo gangster and egg-salad recipe thief Shepherd Wong (Tadao Nakamaru).

At one point the GEHMR reaches into a breast pocket and, for Moskowitz’s edification, unfolds a hand-drawn map of a residence. High Macha to Moskowitz: “This is Shepherd Wong’s home.” Moskowitz reply: “He lives in that little piece of paper?”

They dragged me into a theatre and strapped me down with a formidable leather harness. The idea was to force me to watch Shang-Chi: Legend Of The Ten Fiddles…er, Peacock Feathers…Rings, I mean. Just as the lights were dimming, a bulky, snarly guy came over, pulled out a loaded Glock and said “if you close your eyes even once or start humming so you can’t hear the dialogue, I will fire a hot slug into the back of your head, asshole…I’m not kidding.” Me: “Don’t bother with the threats — just shoot me now…just do it, asswipe.”

Pedro Almodovar‘s films are almost always sublime. Especially when focusing on woman and motherhood.

Madres paralelas (Sony Classics, 12.24) focuses on two mothers, Janis and Ana (Penelope Cruz, Milena Smit), who give birth the same day in the same hospital. They’ve both become pregnant unintentionally. Janis, somewhat older, is happy and into it. Ana, quite young, is afraid and anxious. The film follows their parallel child-rearing lives over the first two years.

Pedro’s only serious miss was I’m So Excited (’13) — every gifted artist drops the ball at one time or another.

Pedro’s next is a feature-length adaptation of A Manual for Cleaning Women, based on Lucia Berlin‘s short story collection, set to be his first English-language feature.

…that offering proof of vaccination and proof of recent negative testing should be a requirement for press and public attending their festival. Ahead of the curve!

There are those who continue to insist that Soggy Bottom, the alleged title of Paul Thomas Anderson‘s Hollywood-in-the-’70s drama, is just a placeholder. The real title, which may or may not have more of a poetic ring than Soggy Bottom, will be announced down the road, they say.

But if it is just a place-holder, why did Anderson register the title with the WGA on 7.16.21? [Thanks to World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy for forwarding the screen capture.] Was it because PTA hadn’t yet decided on the real title so what the hell?

What could Soggy Bottom even mean? Some kind of half-assed metaphor for the culture of the entertainment industry?

I may as well be honest and confess right now that I really, really don’t like the idea of watching Benny Safdie playing an L.A. politician based on closeted L.A. City Council member Joel Wachs. Of all the people Anderson could’ve hired to play this character, he gets a fellow director film bruh? Why? I’m generally anti-Safdie since watching the exhausting, anxiety-ridden Uncut Gems, and I didn’t care at all for Safdie’s Lennie Small-like performance in Good Time (’17).

The Hand of the Dog signifies a pair of Netflix films that (a) sound alike, (b) are debuting at the Venice Film festival on the same day (9.2), and (c) are opening within a couple of weeks of each other stateside.

Set to debut in Venice at 4:30 pm on 9.2, Jane Campion‘s The Power of the Dog will hit theatres on 11.17 and begin streaming on Netflix on 12.1. Screening that same day in Venice at 7:15, 7:30 and 8:30 pm, Paolo Sorrentino‘s The Hand of God will open theatrically on 11.17 and begin Netflix streaming on 12.1.

Adam McKay‘s Don’t Look Up, by the way, will hit theatres on 12.10 and begin Netflix streaming on 12.24.

If you’re up to something shady, the first rule (duhhh) is don’t leave any retrievable record or evidence of any kind — don’t discuss it in a text or email, don’t discuss it on the phone, don’t write anything down, don’t allow yourself to be recorded…keep it on the down low.

Example: There exists no letter written by Vito Corleone on letterhead stationary, and addressed to one Luca Brasi, stating the following: “Dear Luca — This will formalize my request that you immediately fly out to Los Angeles, drive into Beverly Hills and cut off the head of Khartoum, a black race horse that belongs to Jack Woltz, a studio chief. You then need to put the horses’s head into the bed of the studio chief while he’s sleeping. — cordially & warmest regards, Vito Corleone — p.s. Tom Hagen, who is fully involved in this horse murder, tells me that Woltz is an early riser so act accordingly.”

Do the mild-mannered voters in this state realize that if Gavin Newsom is recalled and some rightie like Larry Elder becomes governor, that Elder could appoint a Republican Senator to the U.S. Senate if, God forbid, Sen. Diane Feinstein‘s health were to fail, and thereby tip the balance of power? I dropped my ballot off today — no recall, Newsom stays, don’t be silly.