Kieran Darcy-Smith‘s Wish You Were Here (Hopscotch, 4.28.12) is about the fallout from a tragic Cambodian vacation that married, expecting parents Dave and Alice (Joel Edgerton, Felicity Price) have recently shared with Alice’s younger sister (Teresa Palmer) and her new boyfriend, Jeremy (Antony Star).

Jeremy vanished at the end of the getaway and nobody seems to know (or be able to admit) what happened, although it’s obvious that Dave knows and will eventually spill the beans by Act Three.

But the film is mainly about the reaction of Alice to a brief instance of infidelity that also happened in Cambodia. The kind of infidelity that happened so quickly with both parties so drunk or stoned that they don’t remember much.

And the minute Alice learns of this you’re muttering “oh, Christ, here we go.” Her anger gradually becomes a drag to be around.

Not that it’s wrong or unnatural for her to be outraged, but it becomes tedious — the same piano chord played over and over. If you remember Jeanne Tripplehorn‘s prolonged Defcon-1 reaction to Tom Cruise‘s infidelity in The Firm, you have a general idea what happens here.

After a while I started muttering to myself “get over it, for God’s sake…they were drunk and are both really sorry…Jesus.”

Indiewire‘s Kevin Jagernauth describes Kieran Darcy-Smith‘s Wish You Were Here (Entertainment One, 6.7) as a suspense drama about a good-looking guy (Antony Star) who goes missing on a Cambodian vacation.

Don’t you believe it. It’s mainly about a horse-faced pregnant wife (Felicity Price) who has a shit fit when she discovers her husband (Joel Edgerton) recently had drunken sex with her much hotter younger sister (Teresa Palmer). The missing guy aspect is strictly a subplot.

It’s basically a “get away from me, you fucked my sister!” movie with a side-plot about what happened in Cambodia. It’s about the cost of suppressing the truth and not coming clean, and the cost of coming clean about meaningless infidelity.

This is a fairly decent film as far as it goes (nicely composed, well acted, a fascinating montage of Cambodia), but I would have written a different story. Sorry.

Update: Strange as this may sound, I’m flirting with re-watching this. It’s streaming on Amazon.

I’ll never forget my initial reaction to Michael Bay‘s Armageddon after an Academy screening in June of 1998. It gave me a headache because of the machine-gun-like cutting. As Variety‘s Todd McCarthy famously said at the time, the pace felt like that of “a machine gun locked in the firing position.”

This over-accelerated editing, I was later told, was a result of a deliberate Michael Bay-Jerry Bruckheimer strategy of cutting out as many frames as possible in each scene order to make the film play as fast, hard and compressed as possible — i.e., “frame-fucked.”

I’m not saying that F1 plays exactly like Armageddon in this respect, but in F1‘s racing sequences the editing style feels at the very least similar to Armageddon‘s, as in quite aggressive…giving you very little room to breathe or even pause…very little opportunity to sink into anything…no time to reflect or meditate.

A little more than 18 years ago (4.28.07) I wrote about an evening with Walter Murch, one of the most renowned film and sound editors of our time, at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

Halfway through I stood up and asked Murch about machine-gun cutting in action movies, and at what point does it get to be too much? I was thinking at the time of the editing in 2004’s The Bourne Supremacy, portions of which had driven me crazy.

Murch said audiences do indeed start to go nuts if you use more than 14 set-ups per minute.

One can obviously cut back to the same set-up — a visual point of view — within a given minute, so Murch wasn’t necessarily saying only 14 cuts every 60 seconds. Nor was he necessarily putting a limit on the number of cuts per set-up.

But let’s say for the sake of simplicity that during an action sequence you use two cuts per set-up — by Murch’s rule that would mean no more than 28 cuts per minute, or a little more than two seconds per cut. That sounds too frenzied, doesn’t it?

All I can say is that while watching F1 last night, I started thinking about Murch’s 14-set-ups-per-minute rule.

And then I started counting the length of various cuts during F1‘s balls-out racing sequences (“one thousand, two thousand”, etc.) and a lot of the cuts, it seemed, were between two and three seconds long.

I’m not saying that F1 (which was edited by Stephen Mirrione) necessarily violates Murch’s rule, but it sure seems to at times.

Here’s a portion of Murch’s observations during that 4.28.07 master class.

It’s 2:19 pm, and over the last 120 minutes or so I’ve been working very hard on a review of F1 — an honest, well-written, fully thought-out one that I was fairly proud of. But about ten minutes ago WordPress jettisoned my most recent draft, and now it’s all totally gone. I’m too shattered and furious to start all over again. My soul is in pieces, shards. But here’s what I had three hours ago:

This may sound strange, but after seeing F1 last night in Manhattan and mostly getting off on it as far as it went but (I may as well be honest at the outset) concurrently not exactly swooning with delight, I’m going to see it again tonight because I want to give it another chance. Because what I absorberd last night was highly efficient formula and throttle, formula and throttle and then, just for variation’s sake, a little more formula and throttle.

F1 is obviously rousing and impactful and effective as far as it goes, but it’s a high-torque machine. An obviously powerful, resourceful, hard-charging machine but a machine nonetheless. It has some pockets of personality here and there, but very little in the way of oddball flavor or idiosyncrasies to speak of (okay, except for Brad Pitt’s deck of cards and that great “it’s not about the money” refrain).

But it’s pure raging formula, and it doesn’t generate all that much in the way of Zen spirit or natural oxygen — it doesn’t live and breathe, and as such lacks a certain organic humanity. It’s so aggressively mechanized and chiseled to a fine edge that it starts to wear you down, and much of it comes close to violating the Walter Murch rule about too many set-ups and edits per minute. It excites and throttles, for sure, but at times it feels as if it’s beating you up more than thrilling you.

Honestly? I felt whalloped by F1 overall and in certain portions genuinely excited, but not altogether delighted.

I re-watched John Frankenheimer‘s Grand Prix (’66) about five or six months ago, and I honestly felt more engaged by that living-room viewing than by watching F1 last night at the Kips Bay on Second Avenue. That’s not to say I didn’t have a fairly good time with it. I just didn’t love it.

I haven’t lost a longish draft of an HE piece in a long, long time. Knowing the WordPress potential for a total wipe-out, I always highlight and save the copy before pushing “save draft” or “publish” tab. For some dumbass reason I didn’t do that this time. I’m so enraged I can barely think.

Trailers lie all the time. The marketers who create them take great pleasure in deceiving people about the actual content of the film they’re trying to sell. They’re hustlers, racketeers.

Perhaps there’s more substance to Derek Cianfrance‘s Roofman (Paramount, 10.10) than what this trailer is indicating, but you can tell right off the top that as far as Channing Tatum and Kirsten Dunst‘s characters** are concerned, Roofman is definitely not Out of Sight. It’s going for easy sitcom laughs…a tone of light silliness and zero sophistication.

Tatum, 44, dropped some weight for this role. Dunst, 43, is too old to play the proverbial girlfriend (sensible, morally grounded). If she was ten years younger, okay, but she’s not.

The red powder exploding in Peter Dinklage‘s face is the best bit.

Tony Revolori was only 18 or thereabouts when he played a slender, poker-faced bellboy in Wes Anderson‘s The Grand Budapest Hotel (’14). Now he’s 29 and chubby.

** Tatum plays Jeffrey Manchester, a polite, well-behaved stone sociopath felon who robbed a whole lotta McDonald’s restaurants in the early part of this century. Manchester is in jail as we speak, and looking at release in 2036…only 11 more years!

33 year-old Zohran Mamdani, an ardent wokester in the tradition of former San Francisco mayor London Breed and Chicago mayor Brandon Johnson, held a very significant lead last night (Tuesday, 6.24) over chief rival Andrew Cuomo in NYC mayoral primary.

Cuomo has conceded and that’s pretty much that.

Next is a follow-up general election on 11.4.25 with Mamdani, the official Democratic candidate, running against Curtis Sliwa, the Republican candidate. Sliwa will lose, of course.

Despite his reputational stains, Cuomo — a sensibly liberal, practical-minded sort — would have been a wiser choice. Mamdani is not “sensible” but a woke ideologue. He will spark a lot of anger and chaos. Just as San Franciscans, infuriated by the obvious cultural decline of that fair city (un-prosecuted shopliftings, shit loads on the sidewalks), booted out Breed, Mamdani will last a single term (if that) in NYC

A festival run is definitely being planned for Derek Cianfrance‘s Roofman (Paramount, 10.10), a fact-based drama about real-life felon Jeffrey Manchester, “known colloquially as Roofman due to his propensity to steal from branches of McDonald’s after entering their premises via the roof and evaded capture from police by hiding in the wall of a Toys “R” Us store.”

Channing Tatum plays Manchester, and Kirsten Dunst plays romantic interest Leigh Wainscott.

I don’t know for a fact that Dunst winds up helping the cops arrest Tatum, but if this is what happens — if she indeed betrays him and rats him out — I’ll be deeply unhappy. Girlfriends of felons never deal with the fuzz….period. Just ask Adriana La Cerva.

I’m figuring Telluride and Toronto, but I’d rather see Roofman kick things off in Venice.

Dax Shepard‘s day-old interview with F1‘s Brad Pitt (they’re AA bros) is kinda jizz-whizzy and goofbally for the first six minutes.

Pitt to Shepard: “I’ve never had a gay experience — I kinda missed that window — but if I did, it wouldn’t be [with] you.”

Pitt “missed” the gay experience “window”?

…if news of Criterion’s teal-monster defacement of their Sorcerer 4K Bluray could somehow be communicated to Hurricane Billy’s afterlife realm.

Freidkin to Criterion: “How dare you….how fucking dare you saturate my 1977 masterpiece with grotesque teal-green tones…you don’t flood your Carnal Knowledge 4K with teal so why did you do it to Sorcerer?…do you understand that what you’ve done represents a form of evil? Do you even get that, fuckers, or are you oblivious?”

Friedkin-to-Criterion followup: “Do you guys know that Birds scene in the Bodega Bay diner when that hysterical mother says to Tippi Hedren, ‘Who are you?…what are you? I think you’re evil….EVIL!!’ You know that scene? Well, that mother is the Bluray-buying public, and you’re Tippi Hedren!”

It would be one thing if Mary Astor’s performance as femme fatale Brigid O’Shaughnessy in John Huston’s The Maltese Falcon (‘41)…it would be one thing if Astor had a scene in which she wore a steamy dragon-lady dress (the kind Myrna Loy occasionally wore in the early 1930s). But of course she never did. Warner Bros. marketers lied to the public! Spit right into their eyes!

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No disrespect to the late James Horner, but I can’t remember a single note from his Braveheart score,, and I can only remember fragments of Braveheart itself.

I was nominally “impressed” by this 1995 Oscar winner (well-captured horseback battle sequences, blue face paint, “freedom!”) but I didn’t really like it all that much. Too fecking violent. That contorted expression on William Wallace’s face as he was being disemboweled by the British…thanks all the same.

It opened 30 years ago and I’ve never once re-watched it.

My first and only viewing was at a pre-opening Rod Lurie screening series in Burbank. Mel Gibson, whom I’d initially met during an Elaine’s press schmooze in ‘83, showed up for a post-screening q&a. He was wearing mandals, for God’s sake, and I was sitting near the front and silently muttering to myself that the sight of Gibson’s peds was…uhm, unwelcome. Any guy who wears mandals to any public event (even a neighbor’s backyard brunch) has earned a reputational stain that can never be washed off.