A new 4K restoration of Stanley Kubrick‘s Barry Lyndon will screen at the grand and immaculate Debussy theatre on Friday, 5.23 — my final night at the 2025 Cannes Film Festival.

There’s no way this Criterion-supervised version (due to “street” via 4K Bluray on 7.8.25) will deliver any kind of noticable bump over the current Criterion manifestation. It’ll look magnificent of course, but the viewing experience, boiled down, will be the same one I saw projected at the Ziegfeld in late December of ’75.

I’ve seen Lyndon at least 10 or 12 times since, and I know every line and frame by heart. And Marisa Berenson‘s empty, blank-faced performance has sapped my spirit on each and every occasion. She was such a drag to hang with.

However, the 5.23 Cannes screening will probably be my last opportunity to see the handsome, downbeat, darkly humorous Barry in a truly first-rate venue — really big screen, perfectly projected light levels, state-of-the-art sound. So I’ll probably have a seat.

“Speaking of Flatline Elements“, posted on 5.14.23:

Stanley Kubrick was famous for encouraging lively, eccentric and even over-the-top performances. Steven Spielberg’s 1999 recollection abut a 1980 dinner with Kubrick at Childwickbury Manor, during which Kubrick explained that Jack Nicholson‘s over-the-top performance in The Shining was a kind of tribute to the acting style of James Cagney, is a case in point.

It is therefore strange if not bizarre that during the making of Barry Lyndon, Kubrick directed Marisa Berenson to give such an opaque non-performance. In each and every scene, her Lady Lyndon conveys utter vacuity…absolutely nothing behind the eyes.

Did Kubrick realize too late in the process that he’d made a mistake, that Berenson was profoundly ungifted and had next to nothing inside, and that the best course would be to emphasize (rather than try to obscure) this fact?

Berenson is the primary cause, in fact, of Barry Lyndon‘s “dead zone” problem.

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Obviously another shallow social satire by way of a gumshoe investigation…another Drive-Away Dolls, except set somewhere in Bakersfield or in the upper desert. The style feels Raising Arizona-ish. Poor Ethan Coen needs to disengage from this odd lesbian bag, and keep it that way. And a trilogy? One was enough, two is too much and three…please.

If a Cannes screening fits into my schedule, fine. Out of respect for Ethan’s history, but only that. In the old days the creative hand of Ethan Coen (along with Joel) meant something…mostly. Then again I never liked the overly broad Raising Arizona or, truth be told, The Hudsucker Proxy.

Margaret Qualley, Aubrey Plaza, Chris Evans, Charlie Day, Billy Eichner, Gabby Beans (great name!), Talia Ryder.

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This is not about celebrity parents loving and supporting their queer, trans or nonbinary kids. Any parent with a heart and a soul would and should do the same.

Nor is this about the appearance of Los Angeles-based celebrities apparently rearing a much higher percentage of queer, trans or nonbinary children than typical parents statistically appear to do in Tampa, Mobile, Tenafly, Peoria or Sandusky, Ohio (the girlhood home of Sugar Kowalczyk!)

This is about the mathematical likelihood of a parent, be they a resident of Pacific Palisades or Duluth or Burlington, raising and supporting three queer, trans or nonbinary kids. A trifecta….three out of three!

Marcia Gay Harden has a trio of such kids — one non-binary, one gay, and one identifying as “fluid”. Megan Fox also has three — Noah, 12, Bodhi, 11 and Journey, 8.

Can we please cut the shit? Just for a few short seconds, and then everyone can crawl back into their little gopher holes of denial.

Many if not most of these kids are almost certainly trendsexuals…proclaiming their queerness or gender fluidity or transiness because they’ve been instructed by the entertainment industry’s woke-progressive culture that there isn’t anything less cool or more embarassing, even, than to be straight and white, or, worst of all, to be a straight white male. Because they can’t bear the stain or the congregational verdict of being terminally clueless or out-to-lunch or socially hopeless by way of gender identity (I was terrified of being labelled as schlumpy or twerpy or dweeby by my tweener or high-school peers), they opt for gayness or gender fluidity and — presto! — they’re no longer a pariah, no longer looked down upon, part of the avant garde.

This would be a fascinating topic of a 100-minute Alex Gibney documentary, or for a PBS Frontline examination or for an in-depth NPR series. But of course, Gibney, Frontline or NPR would never, ever go there. Ditto Anderson Cooper or Ross Douthat or Chris Cuomo or any other MSM journalist. If they did they would be shunned and shredded and carpet-bombed on social media. They would be putting themselves in not just social but professional jeopardy. Among the timid their names would be mud.

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Post images without comment and hope for the best.

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Nearly a year ago WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange pled guilty to obtaining and publishing U.S. military secrets, and aFter doing this he walked…no jail term.

U.S. authorities had been trying to imprison Assange for ages (how many years was he holed up in London’s Ecuador embassy?), but the saga came to a surprise conclusion when the white-haired Assange, 52, entered his plea in a U.S. district court in Saipan, the capital of the Northern Mariana Islands. Assange didn’t want to risk entering the continental United States, and the Saipan authorities decided to accomodate his wish.

And now Eugene Jarecki‘s doc about Assange, The Six Billion Dollar Man, which pulled out of Sundance ’25 due to “unexpected developments” in the saga, is apparently going to debut in Cannes. Speaking as a longtime fan of this partiuclar Jarecki (The King, Why We Fight, Reagan, the Trials of henry Kissinger) I will be at this Croisette screening with bells on

Why did Jarecki yanks his Assnge doc out of Sundance? “The truth is, significant recent and unexpected developments have emerged at the heart of the story which, if not incorporated in the version for Sundance, would not represent a finished film,” Jarecki said in a statement. “Sundance has shaped my career and been a cornerstone of my journey — only something of this magnitude could make me withdraw.”

After freaking out most of Hollywood last night with a pledge to impose a 100% tariff on foreign-made films, Orange Plague has been softening his stance or, if you will, turning tail. Which is good!

Earlier today Variety‘s Pat Saperstein reported that President Trump told White House journos that he would meet with Hollywood film honchos to discuss his tariff plan, but that he’s “not looking to hurt the industry…I want to help the industry…I want to make sure they’re happy with it, because we’re all about jobs.” In other words, he was preparing to cave.

And now Variety‘s Gene Maddaus has just reported that Jon Voight, whose Sunday (5.4) visit with Trump at Mar a Lago riled things up as well as incited the tariff pledge…Voight, says Maddaus, is doing what he can to turn down the heat on this story while trying to to sound like a measured, sensible MAGA guy with a plan.

Voight and producing partner Steven Paul told Maddaus that they have submitted to President Trump “a comprehensive” plan to rescue the entertainment industry.”

Maddaus: “The plan includes federal incentives for production and post-production, as well as infrastructure subsidies for theater owners, job training, and other changes to the tax code. The plan also calls for tariffs in ‘certain limited circumstances.’”

“The President loves the entertainment business and this country, and he will help us make Hollywood great again,” Voight said in a statement.

In short, Trump has apparently decided to back away from the hardcore tariff thing, and Voight is setting the stage for that extremely welcome capitulation.

Jon Voight discusses his meeting with Donald Trump:

"Many Americans have lost jobs to productions that have gone overseas… I have brought forward recommendations to the President for certain tax provisions that can help [Hollywood]."https://t.co/jWUtcwJsUW pic.twitter.com/V5iy1n3LmE

— Variety (@Variety) May 6, 2025

Because teasers rarely convey depth or complexity, I’m seriously impressed with this fresh-out-of-the-box for Spike Lee‘s Highest 2 Lowest, a kidnapping drama. Sharp, taut, thoughtful. Immediately engaging. My blood is up for the Cannes screening, which isn’t far off.

Directed by Spike and written by William Alan Fox…a reinterpretation of Akira Kurosawa‘s High and Low, which I’ve never liked that much. Denzel Washington, Ilfenesh Hadera, Jeffrey Wright, Ice Spice, ASAP Rocky.

Until last Friday night I’d somehow missed the fact that Cheech and Chong’s Last Movie had opened on 4.25, or a week and a half ago. It’s playing right now at the AMC Empire 25, but only in the early afternoon.

I’d seen Cheech Marin and Tommy Chong on Real Time with Bill Maher, y’see, and the first question that came to mind was why does the 86-year-old Chong seem less diminished and crumpled by age than the 78-year-old Cheech?

I interviewed Cheech in the early ’90s; the line that sticks in my memory is that “the name of our city is Los ANGELES and not LOS ANGLOS.”

Their apparently scripted documentary-road movie will presumably be streaming before long.

Yes, Cheech and Chong created stoner humor back in the ’70s, but the best film with a discernible current of stoner humor is still Curtis Hanson‘s Wonder Boys. And the absolute best Cheech Marin film, of course, is Born in East L.A..

How many times will the HE congregation declare en masse that eccentric Millennial and Zoomer women who have totally bought into the Sinners theology (literally tomented by their whiteness, convinced they’re literally cultural vampires)…how many times will the HE chorus bury their heads in the sand by dismissing these women as unworthy nutters and outliers? They’re not.

A few months ago I was condemned for insisting that back in the ’70s “spade cat” was a term of respect on the street, but I would never use an “s” term that this woman uses…i won’t repeat it but she says it.

@junkmotherjess Replying to @oliver tosen hot take? #whitewomen #sinners #vampires #hermeshaul ♬ original sound – The Health Decoder

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Jump into a time-machine tunnel back to 1968 or ’69. You and a friend are counter-culture buckaroos and fairly flush, having just moved a lot of cocaine, and so you hop on your hogs and leave Los Angeles for a long, un-hurried trip to New Orleans. You’re not middle-class vacationers but cool-cat road warriors, so you’ve both packed a sleeping bag. But what else?

If I was Peter Fonda‘s Wyatt I would bring (a) a two-man pup tent for when it rains, (b) an olive drab Army-Navy rain poncho, (c) the usual toiletries, (d) extra clean socks, underwear and T-shirts, (e) an extra pair of leather pants and a couple of clean shirts, (f) a nice little pillow, and (g) maybe a book or two (Herman Hesse‘s “Siddhartha”, Jack Kerouac‘s “Dharma Bums”, John Lennon‘s “In His Own Write”). Not a ton of gear but enough to fill a couple of pillow cases.

The rolled-up sleeping bag, tent and poncho could theoretically be tied to that vertical backrest on Wyatt’s American flag Harley. But where to stash the other stuff? Obviously you’d need a pair of fringe leather saddlebags, hanging off either side of the rear section. But of course, Wyatt has none. Look at the footage — sleeping bags aside, neither Wyatt nor Dennis Hopper‘s Billy (a scruffy, submental, cowboy-hat-wearing oaf) are packing a damn thing. Just the clothes they’re wearing.

And what kind of odorous bullshit is that? Unless they find a motel room that rents to hippies, within two or three days they’re going to stink to high heaven. Which wouldn’t go down too well with the New Mexico hippie chicks (Luana Anders, Sabrina Scharf) they pair up with. Not to mention the prosties (Karen Black, Toni Basil) they meet in that New Orleans cat house.

So why no saddlebags? Not realistic. Not even counter-culture bravehearts like to wear stinky, skidmark underwear or socks crawling with bacteria.

Half the appeal of Easy Rider is the title, which Terry Southern came up with. If Fonda and Hopper had stuck with The Loners, it wouldn’t have had that schwing.

Easy Rider still works pretty well, but without the great music tracks (“The Weight,” “If Six Was Nine”, “The Pusher”, “Born to be Wild”) it would have felt like a lot less. And Hopper’s performance, while certainly colorful, is hugely annoying. Billy is such a primitive, under-educated low-life.

The film was shot between early to mid ’68. Four-year-old Bridget Fonda (born on 1.27.64) can be glimpsed during the New Mexico commune segment.

What forms of prospective hell might be wrought by this threat of protectionist economic brutality? This declaration of retribution? This is rash, mad–king stuff. What are the likely consequences? I’m asking.

An echo of Network s Arthur Jensen, thundering from the heavens: “You are threatening to meddle with the primal forces of nature, President Trump, and I won’t have it! Is that clear?

“An abrupt imposition of a 100% tariff on foreign-produced films and streaming content would not incentivize but brutalize…it would be punitive and authoritarian and therefore impose a radical disturbance of natural ebb and flow, of tidal gravity…of economic and ecological balance.”

THR’s Patrick Brzeski and Scott Roxborough are reporting that Trump’s threatened 100% tariff on foreign-produced features and streaming content is more or less the fault of Jon Voight, one of Trump’s Hollywood emissaries (along with Mel Gibson and Sly Stallone).

Voight has taken several meetings, Brzeski and Roxborough have written, and has passed along a portrait of a besieged industry. Voight apparently hasn’t been urging tariffs, but with Bully Boy at the helm this is how it’s nonetheless shaking out.

I’ll never forget the delicious, almost adrenalized thrill I got out of reading “David McLintick‘s “Indecent Exposure: A True Story of Hollywood and Wall Street“, which was published 43 years ago…talk about a wayback machine.

I’d love to re-read “Indecent Exposure” on Kindle, but it doesn’t appear to be on Kindle…odd.

I did a phoner with David Begelman once, although I can’t recall what the topic was. It was sometime in the early ’90s, I think. I’ll never forget the theatrical charisma, the calculated smoothitude in his voice. That patented Begelman vibe, which arose out of many years of being an agent, was immediately soothing or at least placating…you felt you were talking to a very skilled salesman as well as a bon vivant.

The following excerpt is from Frank Langella‘s “Dropped Names” (2012). Quite the smoothie himself in his 20th Century heyday, Langella, a fellow Wiltonian, was represented by Begelman for a short period.

I needn’t remind that Langella got into trouble a while back for getting a tiny bit handsy with a female Millennial or Zoomer costar…”you touched my leg in a familiar fashion!!…eeeeeeee!”

Langella, now 87, is a skilled writer. “Dropped Names” is an easy and pleasurable read.