It was announced yesterday (7.30) that Jason Reitman‘s SNL 1975 has been retitled Saturday Night, which in my mind is a safe, boring, candy-ass title that damn near puts you to sleep. (The rationale is that SNL was originally called Saturday Night during its first season).

But if it was called Jane, You Ignorant Slut, the entire civilized world would beat a path to the megaplex when it opens on Friday, 10.11.

No, no, wait….it can’t be called Jane, You Ignorant Slut! It can’t because the #MeToo brigade would take offense and possibly even picket the megaplexes where it’ll be showing.

This is the difference between the sensibilities of 2024 and 1975. There was a certain impudent, irreverent, hornet’s-nest-poking attitude in ’75, and today there’s mostly squeamishness, which is a polite term for cowardice.

No, it doesn’t matter in the slightest that the Dan Aykroyd-Jane Curtin “Point-Counterpoint” skits launched in 1978…a non-issue.

Here’s hoping Saturday Night plays at Telluride.

Yesterday Politico‘s Holly Otterbein and Eugene Daniels reported that Kamala Harris will appear with her chosen running mate next Tuesday (8.6) in Philadelphia. Would it make any sense at all for Harris to trek to the City of Brotherly Love to announce that she’s chosen Arizona senator Mark Kelly? Or Kentucky governor Andy Beshear? Doesn’t it seem obvious that the pick is Pennsyvania governor Mark Shapiro, a whipsmart, bespectacled, razor-tongued 51-year-old GenXer?

The story never got much traction when it broke last Friday (7.26) but now the woman in the video (i.e., the recipient of Francis Coppola’s on-set affection during the shooting of Megalopolis) has posted on Instagram that it’s mostly bullshit and at the very least misleading by way of over-inflation.

Deadline’s Mike Fleming, a longtime Coppola ally, has scolded Variety’s Tatiana Siegel and Brent Lang for being over-zealous, etc.

I have no dog in this hunt. I do know that #MeToo zealotry has instilled a hunger in some to take down older white guys…yum! Roman Polanski, Woody Allen, Frank Langella and others were fine when the media first pounced, but the outrage machine needs to be constantly fed fresh meat.

If I was a kindly Mr. Belvedere type and had money to burn during the early years of the Eisenhower administration, I would want to do what I could to improve two marriages that are hobbled by husbands who think small and need to have their horizons broadened.

I’m speaking of Stanley and Stella Kowalski of New Orleans. married in 1947 but struggling with Stanley’s primitive grease-monkey mentality as well as the traumatic after-effects of a prolonged visit to their French Quarter apartment by Stella’s mentally unstable older sister, Blanche.

I’m also speaking of Terry and Edie Malloy, a Hoboken couple who happily tied the knot in the fall of 1954 but are facing a limited future, in no small part due to Terry’s lack of education and his resultant inability to live or think beyond any place other than Hoboken, despite some terribly brutal experiences that they both endured at the hand of gangster Johnny Friendly.

Edie and Stella are good, caring, deeply spiritual women and basically fine but Terry and Stanley need a certain kind of education that might open them up and perhaps even set their souls free.

My response would be to befriend the Kowalskis and the Malloys and separately take them to Europe and show them around as best I could. Trust me, their lives would be immeasurably enriched by visits to London, the English countryside, Paris, Tuscany, Rome and the Amalfi Coast.

I would start the Malloy adventure in Dublin and Southern Ireland so Terry could appreciate his Irish heritage.

Likewise for Stanley’s benefit I would make a point of taking the Kowalskis to Poland (Warsaw, Gdańsk, Krakow).

The Malloys and the Kowalskis may or may not find domestic harmony and fulfillment after their European travels. But they would at least have felt and seen and tasted a greater, richer world, and you can bet that Terry and Stanley would emerge as men of deeper reflection and greater consequence.

And you know what? If these European jaunts work out I would arrange for the couples to meet in Manhattan in the early fall of ‘55 (suites at the Waldorf Astoria, dinner at Minetta Tavern, tickets to see a B’way musical or perhaps an Arthur Miller play).

Imagine Stanley and Terry meeting for the first time! And you know Edie and Stella would get along famously.

Did Steve McQueen‘s 12 Years A Slave (’13), which was filled with brutality and sadism, qualify as black misery porn?

No, it didn’t. Not once did I think to myself, “This is a real downer.” Partly because Chiwetel Ejiofor‘s “Solomon Northup” was and is a great character, and because McQueen’s film amounted to much more than subject matter — it was and is a masterful, deeply affecting human drama.

That said, read this Wikipedia page about Colson Whitehead’s “The Nickel Boys” (2019) and explain to me how RaMell Ross’s film adaptation (Amazon/MGM., 10.25), due to screen at Telluride and open the New York Film Festival a few weeks later…tell me how this doesn’t feel (from a distance at least) like Black Misery Porn in bold caps.

And who are the sons of Lee Marvin?

Kamala Harris‘s history with Willie Brown in the ’90s is, of course, a so-whatter.

Within the quiet corridors of power it is totally par-for-the-course for attractive women to climb the ladder by way of a relationship with a powerful dude. The film industry has long been rife with such arrangements — Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise, Monica Vitti and Michelangelo Antonioni, Guiletta Masina and Federico Fellini, etc. Not to mention Caesar and Cleopatra, Napoleon and Josephine, Evita and Juan Peron, etc.

There is no one, no one at all
Never has been, and never will be a lover, male or female
Who hasn’t an eye on, in fact they rely on
Tricks they can try on their partner
They’re hoping their lover will help them or keep them
Support them, promote them
Don’t blame them, you’re the same

Has life ever been fair? I am shocked….shocked!…that people use each other for this or that gain.

…died three months ago at age 80, and few noticed until yesterday. Here’s my November 2013 piece about visiting the My Lai massacre museum in central Vietnam.

…due to “concerns over his workload.” What a gentle reed! Pussycat! Real men don’t turn down professional opportunities because they’re hard…Jesus. Send Mulaney to Lee Marvin boot camp.

So why are the owners of Saugatuck Sweets trying to convert heathens and existentialists?

Friendo: “I agree with this a thousand percent. Very glad you wrote it. Something seismic has shifted. To the point that I don’t think comparing the Harris movement to the ‘High Hopes’ JFK campaign is at all out of line. As in 1960, this is about the candidate, but it’s also about something much larger than the candidate — a major pivot from the place we’ve been (the darkness of the Trump years, which absolutely include 2020-2024). You can feel the LARGENESS of the coalition. And the votes of women — of all stripes — are going to add up to a tsunami. Trump, the showbiz con man, suddenly looks like the old, dark, grim establishment.”

The Hawk Tuah thing is over, right? But I’m too stupid to understand what Hawk Tuah meant to begin with.

It’s an oral sex riff, of course, but in plain, dumb-guy, not-hip-enough-to-comprehend-it language, does it mean (a) a woman spitting on a guy’s erect member prior to giving him a blowjob or (b) spitting after he comes in her mouth? Either way I’m not understanding the trigger. How is the act or spitting saliva or ejaculate of any particular interest to guys in the TikTok realm? Who cares?

[FAIR WARNING BUT CANDOR IS REQUIRED] I have been a happy recipient of hundreds of generous and glorious female favors over the decades, and not once has saliva-spitting (i.e., the kind you can hear) been a procedural factor. Not once. Just saying.

I’m sorry but I didn’t start this, and I wouldn’t have mentioned it on my own dime if it hadn’t become a thing.

@iamdlaney #funny #fy #foryoupage #foryou #lol ♬ original sound – Dustin Laney