At age 88, Ellen Burstyn has been a combination class act and locomotive for over a half-century (and over 60 years if you count her TV work). She shifted into a big-time film career after her performance in Peter Bogdanovich‘s The Last Picture Show, which will celebrate its 50th anniversary on 10.22.21, and she’s managed to star or costar in mostly cool, tasteful, adult-angled dramas (Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, Resurrection, Requiem for a Dream, W., Pieces of a Woman) over the succeeding decades.

And now, God help her, Burstyn has been sucked into costarring in David Gordon Green‘s $400 million Exorcist trilogy.

Not because she’s even vaguely interested in revisiting the character of Chris MacNeil, the Hollywood actress whose daughter turned into a demon in William Friedkin‘s The Exorcist (’73), but because she can’t turn down the huge paycheck. She has to take this gig in the same way that Lionel Barrymore had to allow Edward G. Robinson and his gangster goons to stay in his Key Largo hotel — he couldn’t say no to the money.

Key passage from Brooks Barnes’ 7.26 N.Y. Times story about Universal + Peacock spending over $400 million for three new Exorcist films from director David Gordon Green (“Hollywood Head Spinner: Universal Spends Big for New Exorcist Trilogy“):

“Universal is not remaking The Exorcist, which was directed by Friedkin from a screenplay that William Peter Blatty adapted from his own novel. But the studio will, for the first time, return the Oscar-winning Ms. Burstyn to the franchise. (Two forgettable Exorcist sequels and a prequel were made without her between 1977 and 2004.) Joining her will be Leslie Odom Jr., a Tony winner for Hamilton on Broadway and a double Oscar nominee for One Night in Miami. He will play the father of a possessed child. Desperate for help, he tracks down Ms. Burstyn’s character.”

Odom: “Excuse me…are you Chris MacNeil? My God, it’s you! How are you? Are you good? I’m asking because my daughter’s been possessed by Pazuzu and I’m wondering if you’re up for kicking that demon’s ass like you did back in the early ’70s.”
MacNeil: “I’m fine, thanks, but I didn’t do anything. I persuaded a Jesuit priest named Damien Karras to exorcise the demon, and he asked an older priest, Father Merrin, to help him. I didn’t do a thing. All I did was scream and weep and plead for help.”
Odom: “Yeah but you know all about demons and shit, right? You know how to deal with the moving beds and green vomit and all that. You’re experienced.”
MacNeil: “I don’t know anything. I just went through a horrible ordeal a half-century ago, and now I’m almost 90. Find your own exorcist.”
Odom: “But I need your help.”
MacNeil: “What’s wrong with you? Look at me…what am I gonna do?”

Except for Ridley Scott‘s non-competitive The Last Duel, most of the headliners for the 78th Venice Film Festival (9.1 thru 9.11, announced this morning) had been predicted or spitballed by HE and World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy. The surprise omission of Andrew Dominik‘s Blonde is significant.

Major Competition (13): Parallel Mothers, d: Pedro Almodovar; Mona Lisa and the Blood Moon, d: Ana Lily Amirpour, The Power of the Dog, d: Jane Campion, Official Competition, d: Gaston Depart, Mariano Cohn; Il Buco, d: Michelangelo Frammartino; Sundown, d: Michel Franco; The Lost Daughter, d: Maggie Gyllenhaal; Spencer, d: Pablo Larrain; Freaks Out, d: Gabriele Mainetti; Leave No Traces, d: Jan P. Matuszyski; The Card Counter, d: Paul Schrader; The Hand of God,” d: Paolo Sorrentino; Reflection, d: Valentin Vasyanovych; La Caja, d: Lorenzo Vigas.

Major Out of Competition (5): Les Choses Humaines, d: Yvan Attal; Halloween Kills, d: David Gordon Green; The Last Duel, d: Ridley Scott; Dune, d: Denis Villeneuve; Last Night in Soho, d: Edgar Wright.

I’ve been waiting a long while to see Andrew Dominik‘s Blonde (Netflix), an adaptation of Joyce Carol Oates’ semi-fictional take on the life of Marilyn Monroe, played in the film by Ana de Armas.

Like Oates’ book, Dominik’s screenplay is semi-truthful in terms of acknowledging significant players in Monroe’s life. Adrien Brody plays a seemingly Arthur Miller-like playwright, Bobby Cannavale plays what sounds like a Joe DiMaggio figure, and Casper Phillipson (who played JFK in Pablo Larrain’s Jackie) is “the President” in Dominik’s film. Plus Tony Curtis and James Dean (played by Michael Masini and Luke Whoriskey) are supporting characters.

As it is (a) seriously intended, (b) began shooting in ‘19, and (c) has had plenty of time to fiddle around in post, I naturally presumed Blonde would turn up at one or both of the premiere ‘21 film festivals, Venice and Telluride. Alas, I’m told this isn’t in the cards. I’m sorry to hear this. Blonde will presumably pop on Netflix sometime in the fall.

I still don’t get Anna Fitzpatrick‘s insincere (jokey) disdain for Woody Allen’s decade–old literary fantasy. Owen Wilson’s character imagines magical encounters with 1920s “lost generation” luminaries because he idolizes them along with the era they helped define. There’s nothing wrong with or incomplete about the set-up — Fitzpatrick is just pissing on Allen because his pariah status among progressive Millennial women allows her to dismiss his creations willy-nilly.

…to creator of this poster art (found on Twitter) for failing to copy or write down his name. Cameron Crowe’s family + struggling zoo + heart discovery drama is almost a decade old, but in today’s realm Black Widow would never play a secondary role…star or strong costar or nothing.

The Dan Bailey-Tucker Carlson confrontation happened two evenings ago (Friday, 7.23) at Dan Bailey’s Outdoor Company in Livingston, Montana. The store’s website has gone to some effort to alert people that the tall, unshaven, hat-wearing guy who confronted Carlson has no affiliation with the store, even though his name, coincidentally, is Dan Bailey.

Leos Carax‘s Annette, which premiered almost three weeks ago (7.6) at the Cannes Film Festival, will be given a limited theatrical release in the U.S. on 8.6.21, followed by a digital streaming debut on Amazon Prime Video on 8.20.21.

I watched Annette last night. It’s an arthouse doozy that leaves you stunned and astonished, lemme tell ya. There’s plenty of time to write a proper review, but I tapped out a short riff this morning and shared it with two or three friends.

“Only the most perverse, anti-populist critics will even flirt with being kind to, much less praising, Annette when it opens stateside,” I wrote. “Once you get past the strikingly surreal visual style and the fact that it was, like, made at all, there is only the self-loathing rage of Adam Driver’s Henry McHenry character, a stand-up comedian, and Carax’s seething disdain for easily led-along audiences.

“Annette is ‘brave’ and wildly out there, but this is arguably the most morally repellent musical ever made in motion picture history. Driver’s Henry, an envelope-pushing comedian who performs one-man shows that aren’t in the least bit amusing, is astounding — one of the most flagrantly revolting protagonists I’ve ever spent time with in my moviegoing life.

“Remember the rickety, old fashioned idea of a lead character having some sort of relatable qualities that an audience might bond with? Even Al Pacino‘s Michael Corleone had relatables in The Godfather, Part II, and he was an ice man. Driver is playing a kind of sociopathic Jack the Ripper figure. The movie is mostly about him and barely pays attention to Marion Cotillard‘s Ann, an opera singer who marries Henry (and vice versa), and gives birth to their daughter.”

“Annette is a misanthropic rock opera about rabid egotism, demonic personality disorder, black soul syndrome, rage, alcoholism, murder, self-loathing, self-destruction.”

Critic who strongly disagrees: “For daring, imagination, energy, it’s the film of the year so far. Fuck populism.”

“Republicans have indulged their crazies for far too long…”

Yesterday Paul Schrader wrote about admiring a waitress with “radiant” cafe au lait skin, and so he said “you have beautiful skin.” Paul’s wife and son were with him, and Paul’s not exactly a young buck on the prowl so he figured “I’m harmless so where’s the harm in sharing a discreet compliment?”

I’ll tell him where the harm is. The harm is in the fact that he’s an older white guy, and a decent percentage of urban progressive women (teens to mid 30s and perhaps beyond) would just as soon explode his life into smithereens as look at him. I’m not kidding. Guys like Paul Schrader are deer, and it’s deer hunting season everywhere right now, and if the Schraders of the world want to be dead all they have to do is give the “hunters” a reason to get out their high-powered social media rifles and fire at them.

There are only two options in your potential dealings with younger attractive women in any professional environment (including restaurants or bars), and that’s to (a) treat them with the utmost politeness and respect, and (b) think of them as overweight male Armenian garbage collectors who haven’t bathed in a couple of days.

Get this into your stupid thick head and keep it there: There are no attractive women out there — they don’t exist — and if you ignore this rule there’s a good chance you’ll be bruised, wounded or killed sooner or later. For if you convey the slightest appreciation of some aspect of their physical allure you are asking for trouble, and I mean potentially big trouble.

Tatiana says that complimenting a woman on her skin is too intimate if you’ve only just met her. Saying she has lovely skin isn’t quite like saying she has a great ass or nice breasts, but it’s in that vicinity. You can compliment a waitress on what she’s wearing — ring, bracelet, necklace, perfume — but no comments about her physicality. You can compliment a female relative or the wife of a friend on having nice skin, but not a waitress.

There’s only one safe way to tell a waitress that you approve of her, and that’s to leave her a large tip. Any other expression of approval will leave you open for Twitter assassination, Facebook sniping, TikTok takedowns, lawsuits, screaming fights in the parking lot and whatnot. Just shut up and order the food and that’s all. Remember — she’s an Armenian garbage collector, she’s wearing stained work overalls and lace-up work boots, and she weighs 285 pounds. Oh, wait…sorry!

If Sean Hannity offers tribute when a showbiz figure passes on, it’s fair to at least presume that the dear and departed might’ve been a rightwing dick.

Jackie Mason wasn’t always in that camp — in his ‘60s and ‘70s heyday Mason, a blunt-spoken Borscht belt comedian with a grim view of human nature and a rat-a-tat-tat patter, was a fairly funny guy. He hurt his career when he apparently gave the finger to Ed Sullivan in March ‘64, but Mason hung in there. To each his own voice and style.

But came the 21st Century Mason became an Obama hater, hence the Hannity allegiance. Finding that view horrid, that’s when I cut him loose. Mason was 93.