Earlier this morning I wrote that “Asian women in three massage parlors shot = not necessarily what it sounds like. The Atlanta shootings don’t appear to have been a racial hate killing. Some kind of weird mucky-muck having to do with sexual obsession and the perpetrator wanting to cleanse himself or some such hooey. In short, another lurking loony-tune from the American underbelly.

A friend commented that “the reality doesn’t matter — woke media is playing it as a racial hate killing, so that’s what it ‘is.’”

Last night Hollywood Elsewhere cruised over to the UCLA campus (one of the world’s wealthiest academic, administrative and residential communities) and received a second Pfizer stab. I’d read quite a lot about how the folow-up Covid vaccine tends to deliver more side effects than the first, including tiredness, headaches, chills, fever, nausea and muscle pain. Usually with 12 to 24 hours, and then the effects subside after 48 or so. I was therefore prepared for some kind of adverse reaction.

Well, here I am some 18 hours later and nothing even slightly adverse has manifested. Okay, a very slight soreness in the area of the jab but it’s nothing. In the past I’ve described my constitution as “all but bulletproof,” which was a way of saying it’s very strong. I’m no longer allowed to repeat what my mother told me as a child, but I was blessed at birth with good genes.

For months I’ve been thinking that Quiara Alegría Hude and Lin-Manuel Miranda‘s In The Heights (HBO Max, 6.18) may be a better, more rousing thing than Steven Spielberg‘s West Side Story (20th Century, 12.10), which I’ve been secretly scared of for a long time. The original West Side Story B’way musical is over 63 years old, having came out of the Upper West Side jungle of the early to mid ’50s. In The Heights is based on a 2007 Off-B’way show, and is therefore at least part of this century. The only thing that scares me about the film version is the possibility that director John Chu might inject some of the same glossy emptiness that made Crazy Rich Asians such a painful thing to sit through.

Three years on, what are your honest, deep-down, no-bullshit feelings about the nine Best Picture Oscar nominees of 2017? Which, if any, would you gladly see again and perhaps would be down with re-watching repeatedly as the years pass on? Here are my current feelings…three are keepers, the rest you can put in the freezer.

The Shape of Water — I liked Shape well enough to give it a pass when I first saw it in Telluride ’17, but because of Michael Shannon‘s detestable Colonel Strickland character I’ll never, ever see it again.
Call Me by Your Name — I could easily catch it again tonight. Great love story, blissful laid-back Italian countryside vibe….it all falls into place.
Darkest Hour — Never again.
Dunkirk — Sure…would watch it again any time. A Nolan knockout.
Get Out — Truly sorry that I saw this fucking thing even once. I’ll watch The Stepford Wives again any time, but this? Never.
Lady Bird — Excellent “heart” film, made by a real filmmaker…I’d watch it again tonight.
Phantom Thread — A small, well-made, mostly infuriating film. Never again.
The Post – I’ll re-watch All The President’s Men any time, but this? Saw it twice in ’17. Meryl Streep is quite good as Katharine Graham, but I’m not that interested in a third viewing. Okay, maybe.
Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri — Never again, ever.

If I had cast the smallish Gael Garcia Bernal as a husband and family man, I would cast an actress who was either his height (officially 5’7″ but rumored to actually be 5’6″) or perhaps a tiny bit shorter. Because 98% or 99% of the time the guy is usually a bit taller or the same height as his significant female other. I certainly wouldn’t cast an actress who’s a good two or three inches taller.

I don’t regard myself as a size-ist (I dealt with a certain amount of pushback from classmates when I was young for being a “giant”) but it’s quite rare to see a husband or boyfriend who can obviously be beaten in a wrestling match by his wife or girlfriend. C’mon, be honest.

And yet that’s exactly what director M. Night Shyamalan has done in Old (Universal, 7.23) — he’s cast the 5’9″ Vicky Krieps (Bergman Island, Phantom Thread) as Bernal’s wife and mother of their three kids.

There are so many actresses of the right age (late 30s, early 40s) and the right height who could’ve played Bernal’s wife without half the audience saying “jeez, she’s obviously too big for him.” Or Shyamalan could’ve stayed with Krieps and cast a taller actor as her husband…easy. Why create credibility problems?

Did anyone ever cast a tall, leggy actress opposite Alan Ladd or Dustin Hoffman? It’s not a male-ego thing — it’s a reality thing. Yes, runty guys occasionally hook up with tallish women…5’11” Nicole Kidman was four inches taller than Tom Cruise, and Katie Holmes was two inches taller. But generally this doesn’t happen. Not in 7-11 land, they don’t.

The Bernal-Krieps casting is actually part of a pattern. In Bergman Island, Krieps is paired with the 5’7″ Tim Roth. And in her private life she’s reportedly married to actor Jonas Laux, who’s also 5’7″.

The great and often very cool Yaphet Kotto has left the planet. He was 81, and I’m sorry. Condolences to family, friends, colleagues, fans.

FBI agent Alonzo Mosley, a slow-burning straight man in Martin Brest‘s Midnight Run (’88), is my first and fondest Kotto recollection. Next is Lieutenant Pope in Across 110th Street (’72). Third is his performance as Parker, chief Nostromo engineer in Ridley Scott‘s Alien (’79). Fourth is Kotto’s Dr. Kananga / Mr. Big in Live and Let Die (’73), but that was a flagrantly racist film and I didn’t care for the way he died — being inflated like a balloon until he burst.

I should have watched NBC’s Homicide: Life on the Street (’93 to ’99), in which he played Lieutenant Al Giardello, but I didn’t watch it much.

Kotto always felt genuine to me — authentic, steady, nothing but truth.

Under heavy fire for a lack of diversity in the ranks, the 87-member Hollywood Foreign Press Association today pledged to admit at least 13 Black members, which would obviously bring the total to 100. The resulting 13% representation is close enough to the 14.2% of the U.S. population that identifies as Black. Presumably the new Black members would need to have an established relationship with a semi-reputable foreign outlet of some kind. Given the 13 new openings and the considerable cushy benefits of being an HFPA member, I would imagine that a lot of applications and arrangements are being explored as we speak.

Because they really don’t like Hillbilly Elegy — period. It’s that simple. They’d rather see Yuh-jung Youn, the spirited, fire-starting Minari grandma, take the Best Supporting Actress Oscar. Or Borat Subsequent Moviefilm‘s Maria Bakalova, which every critic on the North American continent has been secretly instructed to support. Or The Father‘s Olivia Colman, who is excellent as Anthony Hopkins‘ trying-to-cope daughter. Or HE’s personal fave, Mank‘s Amanda Seyfried.

In short, “anyone but Close” is the critics’ mantra. Do rank-and file Academy members feel differently? That is the question.

Yes, I know that Close’s Hillbilly performance was also nominated for a Razzie, but that was, I feel, an unfair judgment. Given the concept and history of the real-life Mamaw character, Close came to grips and brought it home.

Posted on 11.10.20: