Nearly two years have passed since Peter Jackson announced his intention to make The Beatles: Get Back, a doc that draws from 55 hours of unused Let It Be footage that was originally shot by director Michael Lindsay-Hogg. And yet, according to Jackson, he and his editors are only about half done. Covid interrupted everything, of course, but Jackson and his team couldn’t work remotely from home?

The forthcoming Disney release (due to stream on 8.27.21) will focus on the Twickenham Get Back sessions of very early ’69. Jackson has tried to convince prospective viewers that the Twickenham sessions were happy and jolly. Maybe they were in some respects. The clips in Jackson’s new teaser suggest that the Beatles, Billy Preston and George Martin were in good spirits (loose, playful), or at least when the cameras were on.

Jackson in January ’19: “The 55 hours of never-before-seen footage and 140 hours of audio made available to us ensure this movie will be the ultimate ‘fly on the wall’ experience that Beatles fans have long dreamt about. It’s like a time machine transports us back to 1969, and we get to sit in the studio watching these four friends make great music together.”

Due respect but this sounds like hype and salesmanship. In no way, shape or form has the Let It Be album ever been “great.” The proof is always in the pudding, and anyone will tell you that the Beatles were obviously in a semi-shitty, dysfunctional place during the Let It Be sessions. Because — hello? — Let It Be is a mostly shitty (if randomly interesting) throwaway effort.

“Working on this project has been a joyous discovery,” Jackson has insisted. “I’ve been privileged to be a fly on the wall while the greatest band of all time works, plays and creates masterpieces. I’m thrilled that Disney has stepped up as our distributor. There’s no one better to have our movie seen by the greatest number of people.”

Any half-honest person will tell you that the Let It Be album is a sluggish, retro-lazy, downish, uninspired thing. Let It Be Naked has value, but the remixed Phil Spector version is arguably the worst album the Beatles ever issued.

The tracks are mostly underwhelming: “One After 909”, “Don’t Let Me Down”, “Dig a Pony”, “I’ve Got a Feeling”, “Get Back”, “Let It Be”, “I Me Mine,” “Two of Us”, “Maggie Mae”, “Dig It”, “The Long and Winding Road”…God! The only tracks I can stand are “For You Blue” and the original “Across the Universe.”

The Beatles got their mojo back, of course, when they recorded Abbey Road between March and August ’69. What I wouldn’t give for 55 hours of footage that covers that final period…one in which they seemingly created and performed as a band with a more or less unified spirit…or at least a simulated one with George Martin at the helm.

Or even better, how about a doc that covers their creative peak years in ’65, ’66 and ’67 — Rubber Soul, Revolver and Sgt. Pepper. Or one that covers that whole era of revolutionary change throughout the industry?

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The terrible plague of 2020 began last February and thereby launched the single worst year of our lives — a pandemic that will likely continue in a very real and suffocating sense for another four or six or (God help us) eight months or even (good God, please no) into the fall of ’21.

I just want it fully understood that there’s nothing the least bit funny about 2020. There can never be anything funny about 2020…ever ever ever. Not sardonically, bitterly, obliquely or ironically…2020 and the word “funny” will always be separated by vast oceans and deserts and mountain chains.

I thought I had it bad when I was a kid — little did I know. My despair and depression years began when I was six or thereabouts, or when I began attending Devil’s Island grade school. Junior and senior high were even worse.

Save for the fantasy release of TV and especially movies as well as books I actually wanted to read (Robert Benchley, Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway, Joseph Conrad) as opposed to ones I was forced to read in school, my life was a miserable gulag existence until I hit my early 20s, and even then it mildly sucked until I finally got going as a writer in my mid to late 20s.

The “happy” years, as they were, began sometime in the early ’80s, and then the kids came along in the late ’80s. And then the ’91 divorce and the in-and-out, up-and-down adventures of the ’90s, and then things dramatically improved when the column began in ’98, and then came the HE peak years — 2005 to 2017.

And then came the age of woke persecution and Khmer Rouge re-education, and the lugging of heavy sacks of salt and coal and trudging barefoot through the snow with nothing to keep me warm but the hot breath of the Cossacks.

Life will never be a walk in the park and will always be subject to the usual swings of luck and fate, but before last February I’d never begun to even imagine such profound feelings of stillborn lethargy and empty purgatory, such a paralyzing state of oddly levitating nothingness, as I came to know when the pandemic settled in big-time last March. My soul didn’t “die” exactly, but it stopped vibrating. Life, as I had known it for so many decades, stopped.

Nearly all of us feel the same way, I presume. What an awful draining thing to live through. Okay, not as bad as the Black Death that afflicted Europe for seven or eight years (1346 to 1353) but still…

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Steve McQueen‘s Small Axe has won LAFCA’s Best Picture prize, with Chloe Zhao‘s Nomadland coming in second. Except Small Axe is not a film but a five-film miniseries made for British TV. What LAFCA really means is that some believe that the 128-minute Mangrove is the year’s finest feature, and others feel that the 68-minute Lovers Rock is the best.

In a perfect world Amazon would re-think their commitment to pushing Small Axe for Emmy awards, or at least separating Mangrove from the pack and pushing it for a Best Picture Oscar. They should definitely do this. There’s nothing wrong with changing your mind. Mangrove deserves the acclaim.

Robert: I’ll tell you what it is. It’s just that I can’t bear being back in London. I was happy…that’s a rare thing. Not in Venice, I don’t mean that. I mean on Torcello. When I walked about Torcello in the early morning I was happy. I wanted to stay there forever.

Jerry: (pause) We all…

Robert: Yeah, we all…feel that sometimes. (beat) Oh, you do yourself, do you? I mean, there’s nothing really wrong, you see. I’ve got the family. Emma and I are very good together. I think the world of her. And I actually consider Casey to be a first-rate writer.

Jerry: Do you really?

Robert: First rate. I’m proud to publish him and you discovered him, and that was very clever of you.

Jerry: Thanks.

Robert: I respect that in you, and so does Emma. We often talk about it.

Jerry: How is Emma?

Robert: Very well. You mist come and have a drink sometime. She’d love to see you.

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Ringo Starr turned 80 last July 7th, and you really have to hand it to the guy — he looks, sounds and talks like he’s 51 or 52. He could even be 49. When you pass 50 or 55 and you don’t want gray hair to dominate your appearance, you tell your hair-salon guy to allow a few gray strands to peek through around the temples. Because coloring your hair too darkly looks fake. Ringo just blows that shit out the window, and more power to him. Looks great, spirited attitude, sounds great, sings as well as he did a half-century ago, still playing the drums, etc.

The world-famous Los Angeles Film Critics Association (LAFCA), the most eccentric awards-giving group on the planet as well as the most food-obsessed because of their longstanding tradition of taking a brunch break in the middle of voting, is voting as we speak. This is who they are, what they stand for, what they care about most…cream cheese, wheat toast, fruit and potato salad.

No, seriously — they mostly care about defying Joe Popcorn slash Gold Derby mindsets. Which is cool.

HE acronyms (Yay), (Fine), (HRO) and (WTF) signify in this order hearty approval, moderate approval, “huh, really?…okay” and “what the fuck?”

So far the LAFCA foodies have awarded their Best Supporting actor to Glynn Turman for his performance in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. (HRO). Friendo: “How many times is Sound of Metal‘s Paul Raci going to get screwed over by these critics groups? Glynn Thurman? Really?” HE: “Thurman’s performance was fine, but Raci made a MUCH bigger impression. And they know this, of course.” Friendo #2: “This is so fucking weird. Does this mean Chadwick will win lead?”

3:29 pm: Best Picture: Small Axe (d: Steve McQueen‘) / (Yay)
Runner up: Nomadland (d: Chloe Zhao) / (Yay)

2:45 pm: Best Director: Chloé Zhao, Nomadland / (Yay)
Runner up: Steve McQueen, Small Axe / (Yay)

2:34 pm: Best Actress: Carey Mulligan, Promising Young Woman / (Yay)
Runner up: Viola Davis, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom / (Fine)

2:21 pm: Best Actor: Chadwick Boseman, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom / (HRO)
Runner up: Riz Ahmed, Sound of Metal / (Yay) — due respect and deep sadness for Chadwick and but Riz or Anthony Hopkins should’ve won.

2:06 pm: Best Documentary/Non-Fiction: Time (HRO)
Runner up: Collective (Yay)

1:55 pm: Best Screenplay: Promising Young Woman (Emerald Fennell) (Fine)
Runner up: Never Rarely Sometimes Always (Eliza Hittman) (Fine)

[interminable brunch]

12:46 pm: Best Animated Film: Wolfwalkers (Apple TV Plus/GKIDS)
Runner up: Soul

12:40 pm: Best Supporting Actress: Youn Yuh-jung, the Minari grandma who started the fire (Fine)
Runner up: Amanda Seyfried, Mank (Yay)

Best Foreign Language Film:
Runner up:

11:09 pm: Best Cinematography: Small Axe (Shabier Kirchner) (Fine)
Runner up: Nomadland (Joshua James Richards) (Yay)

Best Music/Score: Soul (Trent Reznor, Atticus Ross) (HRO)
Runner up: Lovers Rock (Mica Levi) (HRO)

Best Production Design: Mank (Donald Graham Burt) (Fine)
Runner up: Beanpole (Sergey Ivanov) (Yay) (Fine)

Best Editing: The Father (Yorgos Lamprinos) (Fine)
Runner up: Time (Gabriel Rhodes)

Career Achievement: Hou Hsiao-Hsien and Harry Belafonte (Yay)

legacy Award: Norman Lloyd at age 106 (Yay)

From “Congress is racing to close a stimulus deal,” N.Y. Times: “Lawmakers are on the brink of agreement on a $900 billion compromise relief bill after breaking through an impasse late Saturday night, with votes on final legislation expected to unfold as early as Sunday afternoon and very likely just hours before the government is set to run out of funding.

“’We are winnowing down the remaining differences,’ said Senator Mitch McConnell of Kentucky, the majority leader. ‘I believe I can speak for all sides when I say that I hope and expect to have a final agreement nailed down in a matter of hours.’

“But on a private call with House Republicans, Representative Kevin McCarthy of California, the minority leader, suggested that a vote may be delayed until late Sunday or Monday as negotiators rush to cement the final deal, but did not offer a concrete timeline, according to two people who disclosed the details on condition of anonymity.”

Plus the Russian super-hack stuff, etc.

In the comment thread for yesterday’s “For The Sake of Re-Emphasis” riff, “freek” wrote that “everybody in their right mind knew Parasite was exceptional…it was less of an upset than, say, Spotlight or The Shape of Water.” So I wrote the following response:

Parasite is 2/3 of a good film by a gifted, well-liked genre director (Bong Joon-ho), and yes, Oscar wins will sometimes reflect a broad consensus view about quality, and some will say that’s all that happened.

But the Parasite win wasn’t about “quality” per se, good as many found it to be — the win was mainly about newer, more diverse Academy members pushing back against established (boomer) Hollywood whiteness.

The fact, as any half-honest film lover will admit, is that The Irishman is a much better film — an epic, sprawling, old-school Martin Scorsese gangster pic about life, loyalty, values (family and otherwise) and the gradual envelopment of death — “Wild Strawberries with handguns” (New Yorker’s Anthony Lane).

The alternate fact of the matter is that the Parasite win was largely driven by woke political and cultural currents. The more broadly diverse membership (the New Academy Kidz, the surge in int’l membership) was more excited by a social metaphor drama (arrogant and oblivious 1% vs. desperate, scheming have-nots) than by a period gangster flick, and they wanted a film made by a person of color and/or a non-Anglo to win, and that’s what happened.

2019 (a year of ferocious industry woke-itude if there ever was one) just wasn’t an occasion for another Scorsese crowning.

The fact of the matter is that the last third of Parasite is beset by logic flaws (a huge secret basement that the wealthy owner of a lavish home doesn’t even know exists?) and an absurdly violent, drawn-out ending, and that it basically falls apart when the con-artist family, drunk as skunks, allows the fired maid into the house during a rain storm and thus ensures the collapse of the con — one of the stupidest plot turns in the history of world cinema. (And I don’t want to hear any of of that “they felt sorry for her because they’re from the same social class” crap — if you’re going to be a con artist, you have to commit 100%.)

There are no such errors in The Irishman (the only issue was that the de-aging CG was deemed insufficient) and the Academy membership didn’t care. They wanted a film of a diverse (non-white) international caste to win, and that’s what happened.

An interpretation about Paul Greengrass and Tom Hanks‘ News of the World (Universal, 12.25) was discussed this morning. The basic premise has to do with love and family values and tribal identity. It’s about a widowed 60ish Civil War veteran (Hanks) agreeing to to deliver a white, German-descended girl (Helena Zengel), taken and raised by Kiowa natives many years earlier, to her aunt and uncle in the San Antonio area.

The idea of white captive children being raised by 19th Century Native Americans was explored to some extent by John Ford‘s The Searchers (’56), Herschel Daugherty‘s The Light in The Forest (’58) and Arthur Penn‘s Little Big Man (’70).

Historical accounts have reported that a good number of white youths raised by Indians, especially if they were captured at a young age, didn’t want to return to white society. They had bonded, been embraced and felt a special kinship.

This is dramatized briefly in News of the World when Zengel’s character calls out to a Kiowa tribe on the far side of a river, pleading that she wants to return to them, that she speaks their language and doesn’t want to lose them, etc.

Couple this with a longstanding belief that something inherently evil and genocidal resides in European-descended white people — that they’ve always invaded, plundered, murdered, enslaved and otherwise destroyed native cultures. Certainly as far as their settling (i.e., occupation) of the Americas and Western Hemisphere was concerned.

The hole in that viewpoint, at least as far as News of the World is concerned, is that the central white person is played by the fundamentally decent Tom Hanks.

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This morning’s (12.19) edition of Richard Rushfield‘s The Ankler newsletter lists the annual Ankler awards, aka “Winners of the Worst Year.” Somewhere near the end Rushfield mentions the failings of online Oscar know-it-alls:

Here comes something I’ve said repeatedly since HE launched 16 and 1/2 years ago [August ’04] and which I mentioned at least once or twice during the Mr. Showbiz, Reel.com and moviepoopshoot days [October ’98 to August ’04]: In the eyes of the Movie Godz there’s nothing of less value in the Oscar punditry game than guessing how guild and Academy voters are going to vote.

There’s no harm in predicting if you want to get into that (I do to some extent) and if you want to measure your digital worth by it, knock yourself out. But in my view the only thing that matters in this racket is passionate advocacy — lobbying for what you love, and explaining over and over why this or that movie or performance or feat of music or cinematography or what-have-you rings your bell and deserves Oscar favor.

Argue and lobby for those efforts that you believe in your heart of hearts contain the Right Stuff, or at least for those contenders who’ve been repeatedly nominated or whose time has come. (French Exit‘s Michelle Pfeiffer, for example.) But to sit in the bleacher seats and bicker with colleagues about which nominees are more popular with the Academy hoi polloi…good heavens!

“The goals of the diversity movement were commendable, at least for a time. the movement has become something else altogether. Sadly, it reduces the very people it strives to help to a permanent victim class.” — “Campusland” author and thenakeddollar,blogspot guy Scott Johnson.

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