From “Full Disclosure: An Interview with standup comedian and former Celebrity Apprentice talent handler Noel Casler,” by PREVAILS’s Gregg Olear (posted on 5.1):

Joe Biden‘s vice-president can’t shouldn’t be chosen for cosmetic or charismatic reasons. The right vp would have to be ready to step into the Oval Office on a moment’s notice, and with Uncle Joe you have to consider what could happen in a year or two or three, given his age and whatnot.

For me the ideal partner would be Elizabeth Warren, but at the same time I’m not sure she’s the best choice from an electoral perspective, as her Democratic primary campaign never really connected and she never polled well in battleground states.

Kamala Harris is my second choice, and Susan Rice my third. Stacey Abrams is brilliant and extra-articulate and forceful — you tell me if she’d be a knockout campaigner or major ticket enhancer. Michigan’s Gretchen Whitmer seems a bit wet behind the ears but maybe not.

It takes a certain amount of character and maturity to simultaneously walk and chew gum about a certain film — to be able to disagree with the content (or some aspect of it) but at the same time admire the chops or the expertise with which it casts a certain emotional spell.

If wokesters disagree with what a film is saying, they’ll write it off without a second thought. Serious cineastes take a broader view. They may not respect or even despise where a film is coming from but the reputable ones can’t reject it entirely if it hits the emotional mark, or if it’s superbly made.

The oldest example is Leni Reifenstahl‘s Triumph of the Will — reprehensible content, mesmerizing technique.

A recent example is Peter Farrelly‘s Green Book, which a chorus of cranky Shallow Hals derided for daring to operate within the realm of 1962 and thereby not in synch with 21st Century wokester values. I knew all that, but there was no denying that Farrelly’s film was emotionally affecting — that the connection between Viggo Mortensen and Mahershala Ali‘s characters carried a kindly, comforting current.

Jean Luc Godard was probably the first serious film demon to acknowledge this dichotomy, In a Cahiers du Cinema piece Godard admitted to being seized with affection for John Wayne‘s Ethan Edwards at the end of The Searchers when he picks up Natalie Wood and says, “Let’s go home, Debbie.” This is a “dishonest” moment from a 20th Century perspective as Ethan is a racist sonuvabitch, and there’s no way he’s going to renounce his gut feelings at the very last minute. But for Godard, the moment was transcendent.

I revisited this idea yesterday when I re-posted a Gunga Din riff from 12.24.17: “Otis Ferguson‘s review of this 1939 adventure flick called it a racist and arrogant celebration of British colonial rule. And yet I’ve been emotionally touched and roused by this film all my life. The last half-hour of Gunga Din is perfect, but it ends with Sam Jaffe‘s Indian ‘bhisti’ basking in post-mortem nirvana over having been accepted as a British soldier.” An appalling idea when you think about it, but it works.

I’ve always hated the shallow fantasy notion of superheroes and the corporate, FX-dependent theology of Marvel and D.C. films, but from time to time I’ve been surprised to find myself buying into the bullshit, Avengers: Endgame being the most recent example.

A couple of times I’ve mentioned how Billy Wilder‘s The Spirit of St. Louis says the wrong things by (a) ignoring the dark underside of Charles Lindbergh — “a nativist anti-Semite who admired the fascist state and urged the United States to stay out of the war because Nazi victory was certain,” as an HE commenter once put it — and (b) shamelessly embracing the idea of heavenly assistance just before the exhausted Lindbergh (James Stewart) is about to land his plane at Le Bourget field in Paris. He starts to lose it — freaking and whimpering over a sudden inability to focus on the basics of landing a plane. Then he thinks back to a “flying prayer” that a priest had passed on, and he blurts out, “Oh, God, help me.” And of course he lands safely. It’s a cheap Sunday-school trick, but Stewart’s acting and Franz Waxman‘s music sells it.

Despite my gender, I believe that I’m a kind of West Hollywood version of a Suburban Facebook Empathy Mom. I grew up in suburbia (New Jersey, Connecticut) so I get that whole thing. I poke around Facebook on a daily basis so that’s covered. I know what it is to empathize with anyone going through a difficult time, as no one feels the pain and sorrow of existence in a cold and barren universe more deeply than myself. And I know what it’s like to be a “mom” in a certain sense because I loved my dear and departed mother (Nancy Wells), I’m a father of two lads (Jett and Dylan), I’m currently a kind of mother to two cats and I’ve been called a motherfucker from time to time.

Leonardo DiCaprio was 19 or 20 when this MTV chat (posted a couple of weeks ago, allegedly taped on 2.5.95) happened. He says he was in Paris to finish shooting The Basketball Diaries, but how could that be when Diaries premiered at the ’05 Sundance Film Festival a couple of weeks earlier? He more likely was there to begin shooting Agnieszka Holland‘s Total Eclipse, right?

LDC’s actual quote about youth (at 4:38) is “I’ll never get to be young again…this is my time to be young.”

This reminds me of Mr. Robinson’s remark to Benjamin Braddock in The Graduate, after learning that Ben has just turned 21. Mr. Robinson (lighting a cigar): “That’s a helluva good age to be. Because Ben…?” Braddock: “Sir?” Mr Robinson: “You’ll never be young again.”

…in John McNaughton and Richard Price‘s Mad Dog and Glory (’93). Even though the line — “Put the magazine down before you hurt yourself…okay, Harold?” — sounds like it might have been a Bill Murray ad-lib.

Criterion’s Lady Eve Bluray (4K digital restoration) pops on 7.14.20. I for one would love to own a first-rate upgrade of Preston Sturges‘ classic screwball comedy, which opened nearly 80 years ago (2.25.41). But would it have killed Criterion to use a drawing of Henry Fonda and Barbara Stanwyck that at least slightly resembles them? The guy looks like young Richard Carlson with a little John Payne thrown in; the woman resembles a young Margaret Hamilton (aka the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz).

Please read, consider, re-assess if warranted:

I last considered 2020’s Best Picture contenders on 2.28.20 — pre-coronavirus, pre-shutdown, pre-widespread depression. A world that no longer exists and which may, at best, not be fully reconstituted for another year or so.

Exactly what films will actually open this year is anyone’s guess, but it’s probably safe to assume that many of the following will be “released” in some format by 12.31.20. It also seems as if Netflix is poised to finally win the Big One.

My top ten (or at least titles that smelled like hotties two months ago) are as follows: David Fincher‘s Mank, Aaron Sorkin‘s Trial of the Chicago 7, Ridley Scott‘s The Last Duel, Tom McCarthy’s Stillwater, Steven Spielberg‘s West Side Story, Joel Coen‘s The Tragedy of Macbeth, Andrew Dominik‘s Blonde, Leos Carax’s Annette, Paul Greengrass’s News of the World and Terrence Malick‘s The Last Planet.

I was also touched and throttled by Rod Lurie‘s The Outpost, which may open sometime this summer.

Two days ago L.A. Times handicapper Glenn Whipp offered his own spitball projections. Here are 13 that I didn’t include among my top ten, for a grand total of 23. Each of the following quickies contain my own two cents:

Francis Lee‘s Ammonite (period seaside sappho — a return to Portrait of a Lady on Fire territory — Kate Winslet and Saoirse Ronan / Neon). HE sez: Didn’t we all just do this? Performance noms, maybe, but the film itself?

Spike Lee‘s Da 5 Bloods (Four black veterans return to Vietnam searching for remains of a fallen comrade, and for buried treasure / Netflix). HE sez: Yeah, maybe.

Denis Villeneuve and Timothee Chalamet‘s ‘s Dune (another adaptation of Frank Herbert’s 1965 sci-fi fantasy, the idea being to elbow aside the 1984 David Lynch version / Warner Bros., due on 12.18). HE sez: Sprawling geek-friendly genre fantasies generally don’t register with Academy members.

Michael Showalter‘s The Eyes of Tammy Faye. (Jessica Chastain and Andrew Garfield as televangelist hucksters Jim and Tammy Faye Baker / Searchlight.) HE sez: Icky subject matter. Possible acting nomination for Chastain?

Florian Zeller‘s The Father. (Olivia Colman and Anthony Hopkins in Sundance Alzheimer relationship drama / Sony Pictures Classics, 11.20). HE sez: Acting noms.

Ron Howard‘s Hillbilly Elegy. (Glenn Close‘s performance as Ma Bumblefuck is a guaranteed lock for a Best Actress nom. Adaptation of J.D. Vance’s best-selling memoir of Appalachian upbringing and despairing red-state mindsets / Netflix.) HE sez: Locked for Best Picture nom and, as mentioned, Close for Best Actress.

Charlie Kaufman‘s I’m Thinking of Ending Things. (Boilerplate: “A man takes his girlfriend to meet with his parents, but they find themselves going on a terrifying detour.” Jesse Plemons, Jessie Buckley, Toni Collette, David Thewlis / Netflix). HE sez: Kaufman is the most melancholy-minded, auteur-level filmmaker on the North American continent and perhaps in the whole world.

Edoardo Ponti‘s The Life Ahead. (Italian-language drama, directed and co-written by Sophia Loren‘s son. Based on 1975 Romain Gary novel. The legendary 85 year-old Loren plays a Holocaust survivor bonding with a 12-year-old Senegalese immigrant kid / Netflix). HE sez: Sounds classy. Everyone loves Sophia Loren, wants to see her back in the swing of it.

George C. Wolfe‘s Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. (Adaptation of August Wilson ’20s-era play about exploitation of blues musicians by white-owned record company. Viola Davis and Chadwick Boseman costar, produced by Denzel Washington / Netflix) HE sez: Almost guaranteed to land a Best Picture nom on guilt-trip aspect alone. Not to mention likely acting nominations.

After living in this town for 37 years and being enough of an Alfred Hitchcock junkie to have visited Cropduster Junction four years ago, you’d think I would’ve gotten around to eyeballing Hitch’s legendary Bel Air home at 10957 Bellagio Road. But I never did until last night around 7:30 pm.

It’s a spacious, well-shaded ranch-style home with a huge sycamore tree in the front yard, but with way too much paved concrete in the front and side areas. The cement makes it look like a small country club that expects heavy in-and-out traffic.

The home is right on top of a Bel Air golf course fairway, which is cool, but last night’s atmosphere was ruined by some asshole on the other side of the golf course blasting a Brittany Spears tune.

Hitch died here in 1980 — his wife Alma passed two years later.

Watch it with the sound off.

First half: Almost every foreground figure is black or female.

Trump emerges from shadow at 0:28-and suddenly foreground is all white and male except for Kim Jong Un and a supportive Melania Trump holding a Biblehttps://t.co/tSKInB4uhv

— David Frum (@davidfrum) May 2, 2020