He’ll still be behind on the evening of 11.3.

By the way: A few minutes ago I was quizzing myself on the states in the above CNN map. Unlike Al Franken, I can’t draw the U.S. map on a state-by-state basis but since grade school I’ve been fairly solid on which state is where, etc.

So I felt…well, slightly thrown when I couldn’t remember which state is north of Iowa and east of the two Dakotas. I also drew a blank on the state below South Dakota; ditto the one below Iowa. The respective answers are (a) Minnesota, (b) Nebraska and (c) Missouri. Franken and the Coen Bros are from Minnesota so that should be easy to remember; ditto Nebraska and the legend of Alexander Payne. No solid connection with Missouri other than Harry Truman and staunch skepticism, even though I once visited “KayCeeMoe.”

I know my maps a lot better than any of those geographical doofuses Jimmy Kimmel or Jay Leno have talked to on the street, but otherwise I’ve no excuse. I only know that I eyeballed the above three and racked my brain, and the names just wouldn’t come. Truth be told I’ve always had a certain feeling of distance and disconnection when it comes to the Midwestern breadbasket region. New England, Mid-Atlantic, Deep South, Rocky Mountain states, Southeast, Southwest, Northwest rainforests and California…no problem. But the breadbasket is hazy.

I guess I’m basically saying that it’s the breadbasket states’ fault, not mine. Too flat, not distinctive enough, lacking in personality. Plus the ones I couldn’t remember all end in vowels.

Nothing on SNL made me laugh last night — a couple of titters, one muffled guffaw — but wokester terror was the theme of a couple of skits. And that was interesting. The best skit was the mob meeting in which Bill Burr‘s Don Whatever was constantly corrected by his capos for being using hurtful, insensitive terms.

Sitting atop my bedroom bureau, I mean. To my knowledge no go-getter has ever bought the rights and mass-produced for people like me.

Christ Unlimited, 1970 — created by Herman Makkink (1937-2013). Painted polyester and fiberglass sculptures of a naked, crucified Jesus dancing as if in a chorus line, numbered in red paint at the underside of each right foot 6 and 8 from the edition of 9, acquired by Stanley Kubrick for the 1971 Warner Bros. film A Clockwork Orange. 20 and 3/4 inches high.

Perhaps the most carefully measured, fully considered, persuasively phrased takedown of the N.Y Times‘ “The 1619 Project” was posted two days ago by N.Y. Times columnist Bret Stephens.

Key phrase: “The 1619 Project is a thesis in search of evidence, not the other way around.”

Final three paragraphs: “For obvious reasons, I’ve thought long and hard about the ethics of writing this essay. On the one hand, outside of exceptional circumstances, it’s bad practice to openly criticize the work of one’s colleagues. We bat for the same team and owe one another collegial respect.

“On the other, the 1619 Project has become, partly by its design and partly because of avoidable mistakes, a focal point of the kind of intense national debate that columnists are supposed to cover, and that is being widely written about outside The Times. To avoid writing about it on account of the first scruple is to be derelict in our responsibility toward the second.

“All the more so as journalists, in the United States and abroad, come under relentless political assault from critics who accuse us of being fake, biased, partisan and an arm of the radical left. Many of these attacks are baseless. Some of them are not. Through its overreach, the 1619 Project has given critics of The Times a gift.”

Select critics have been sent links to Ron Howard‘s Hillbilly Elegy (Netflix, sometime in November). Hollywood Elsewhere is looking very much forward to submitting to a cinematic rendering of J.D Vance’s 2016 memoir about growing up yokel. Seriously, no kidding, I’m into it.

We owe a debt of recognition, after all, to those fine rural people who voted for Donald Trump in ’16 and thereby pushed our country to the brink of totalitarian fascism. Most many of them are still wearing the red hat.

Vanessa Taylor‘s screenplay is actually about how Vance, portrayed as a teen by Owen Asztalos and as a young adult by Gabriel Basso, gradually escaped this horrid, dead-end culture and went on to attend Yale Law School and become a noted author.

HE to critic who’s seen it: “I have one question, [name]. How is Glenn Close‘s performance as Ma Bumblefuck?” (Her character is actually called “Mawmaw.”)

Yesterday an HE sorehead wrote that Florian Zeller‘s The Father (Sony Pictures Classics, 1.20.21) “isn’t happening. Or anything related to it. It’s another self-inflated bubble among movie pundits who will have no existence whatsoever in the real world.”

HE reply: “You’ve seen The Father? If you have you’re really crazy to have said that. It’s not a ‘bubble’ movie in the slightest. The idea of putting the audience into the shoes of an aging fellow with dementia is one of the most striking and inventive strategies for a domestic drama that I’ve seen in a long time. And Anthony Hopkins is nothing short of brilliant in the role. Everyone gets old and loses their edge to some extent. (Except for Gore Vidal, whom I spoke to a year or so before the end and seemed sharp as a tack.). And almost every family or middle-aged son or daughter has dealt with a declining parent. It’s about as un-bubbled and ‘real world’ a subject as you can find.”

Last night a former boozer wrote that “through the miracle of sobriety, I found my way back to the real world.” Good for him. Excellent. I know how he feels. However…

HE reply: “Speaking as someone eight and a half years sober, I can’t quite agree with calling it a ‘miracle.’ Because you did it one day at a time, and I’m 100% certain that the last time you looked in the mirror you didn’t say ‘man, you are one effing miracle of a human being!’ Nor is sobriety itself a miracle. It’s cleansing and liberating and wonderful in a kind of radiant rainbow way, but not quite (i.e., slightly shy of) miraculous. In the same way that anything involving will and focus and choosing life, good health and possibility over death, despair and the cocoon of ruin…it’s the only way to go, but I’ve been the recipient of serious, clear-light miracles in my life, and sobriety ain’t the same thing. It’s something to be proud about and grateful for but…well, I’ve said it.

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘restrained’ when describing Promising Young Woman. There’s nothing subtle about this movie, and it’s not realism at all. It’s a post-#MeToo fantasy, a feminist version of Death Wish…a justifiably angry woman (Carey Mulligan) punishing filthy men. Mulligan is depicted as heroic without any real-life consequences or police investigations or social media gotchas. It gives you a lot to chew on and talk about post-screening — in a sense it’s right at the forefront of the post-#MeToo conversation — but then again it’s not saying anything new. And it’s definitely a world apart. It charges into extreme realms.” — Word of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy.

As the YouTube world has been teeming with stylistic Wes Anderson tribute videos for the last 15 or 20 years, it will come as no surprise that another has just landed. But a pretty good one. It’s from Blood Cultures and director Saleem Barbados.** Jett Wells is their manager, and he passed it along, etc. It premiered on YouTube this morning. “Hard to Explain” is a 19-year-old song, originally recorded by The Strokes.

…of running even slightly afoul of the militant #MeToo crowd, I would say that Michelle Pfeiffer, who’s been on the planet since April ’58, looks really terrific. But I’d better not say that for fear of being called all kinds of names. I enjoyed about 15 minutes of face time with Pfeiffer in May of ’82 (she had just turned 24) during a press schmoozer for Grease 2. I’ve just been sent access to her latest film, Azazel Jacobs‘ French Exit (Sony Pictures Classics, 2.12.21). The surreal comedy will premiere at the New York Film Festival on 10.11.20.