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
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.
(a) “Tiffany hardware…a symbol of love’s transformative strength” or (b) “That’s becawwz yuh son’s a fuckin’ pussy”?
Straight from the director of Another Simple Favor (which I’m reluctant to watch because of the high-attitude vibes of Blake Lively) and The Housemaid (another “rich white males are inherently evil” flick, opening on 12.25)…”ya gotta make your film accessible to the none-too-brights.”
When Paul Feig, Annie Mumulo and Kristen Wiig’s Bridesmaids opened almost exactly 14 years ago, it was widely believed that Feig was gifted with some kind of magical comedic touch. Then along came the calamity that was Ghostbusters (‘16).
Paycheck-wise the Feig brand is doing fine today, but he’ll never again be that Bridesmaids guy.
HE reply: If one could capture the subjective experience of Joe Biden over the last couple of years of his term…
Andy Griffith’s initially joyful or even imbued portrayal of Lonesome Rhodes in Elia Kazan’s A Face in the Crowd (‘57).
In a certain light, Richard Burton’s performance as Thomas Becket in 1964’s Becket is an admiring portrait of a noble form of dementia.
The gradual falling away of practical, strategic, warts-and-all rationality on one hand, and on the other hand a gradual submission to a form of inner, self-deluding grandeur…the “holy” kind that we were all once taught to admire.
“Are you demented? You’re chancellor of England! You’re mine!” — Peter O’Toole’s Henry II to Burton’s Becket.
Otherwise Michael Haneke’s Amour, which I’ve always regarded as a kind of horror film, the kind that only a wife or a husband or a devoted caregiver can know on a daily, drip-drip basis.
I’ll admit that I’ve occasionally visited wikifeet.com because — yes, okay — I’m something of a foot guy, but I’m not fanatical about it.
It’s also a fact that if you’re searching around for casual portrait snaps of any actress or name-brand celebrity (anything informal or off-screen or between takes, and I mean as far back as the 1930s) there’s no website that has a bigger collection of candids than wikifeet.com.
Every famous glammy female over the last 90 years, it seems, has a library of at least 20 or 30 snap on this site, or more. It’s really quite the resource. Forget the foot aspect — it contains a gargantuan amount of photos, period.
Wiki excerpt: Wikifeet was founded in 2008 by Eli Ozer, an Israeli former computer programmer and animator who now runs the site full-time. According to an eight-year-old claim by Ozer, the site gets about 3 million views a month.
…why would you get engaged to a guy whose last name is Mezzenga?
In a recent episode of Love Is Blind Sara Carton left Ben Mezzenga at the altar because his political values weren’t progressive enough, particularly regarding Black Lives Matter and LGBTQ+ rights and transies in particular.
Well, what did Sara expect from a guy whose last name ends with a vowel? I don’t mean to sound like a judgmental WASP asshole but isn’t that name at least a little bit of a red flag? Mezzenga sounds like the name of a mafia family out of Sicily. It almost rhymes with Johnny Carson‘s “Ungawa”, and absolutely rhymes with the last name of that older Cuban guy whom Al Pacino knifed to death in Scarface.
Carton is a blue-blood name (it’s almost Carlton!) and Mezzenga is an immigrant name…the last name of a bricklayer or a New Jersey sanitation guy or a goon who works for Lee J. Cobb‘s Johnny Friendly. Why didn’t she get engaged to a guy whose last name is Wilson or Hopkins or Grant or Weisleder or Weston?
I’ve just learned that the HE/World of Reel Cannes pad isn’t a one-bedroom deal (I was okay with sleeping on the couch) but a studio apartment…one room plus a bathroom!
Last year Jordan Ruimy and I stayed in my cherished rental in Old Town — 7 rue Jean Joseph Mero — where I’d bunked during the teens. Less than 5 minutes from the Palais. A Napoleonic era duplex with an upstairs bedroom, nice bathroom with a tub, downstairs living room with a bed, a nice little kitchen and an outdoor patio with a clothesline. We paid around 2000 euros for 10 or 11 days.
Two years ago we were in a sizable one-bedroom apartment that was way down at the tip of Palm Beach, or roughly a 25-minute hike from the Palais. But the rent was tolerable. The problem was that a sublet guy on the couch snored like a grizzly bear. (Hr was also the size of a grizzly.)
Now we’re paying 2500 euros for a one-room studio that looks like Robert Duvall‘s apartment in THX-1138. It’s located due north of the J.W. Marriott and two blocks north of the Voie Rapide — a 20-minute walk to the Palais. Magnifique, no?
HE to landlord: “Are you sure you’re charging enough? An 11-day stay in a one-room, one-bed studio located north of the Voie Rapide and straight out of THX-1138 should rent for $3K euros, no?”
My follow-up remarks: (a) “You’ll forgive my sarcasm.” (b) “I’m just surprised.” (c) “I guess I should be thankful that it has a bathroom.”
The Cannes greed factor has become more appalling than ever. I feel disgusted and humiliated. Places to stay during the Cannes Film Festival have never been a bargain. For two years I stayed in a little rat trap in Cannes la Bocca. I had to take buses and cabs every day. But the rental fees were always commensurate with the appeal of the place. Bottom line: The newbie is WAY too costly for what it is.
Okay, it’s a tolerable space situation — not much different than the alternate rue Jean Mero space (a studio) that we rented in ‘22. But that place, at least, was close to the Palais. The newbie is a hike — 20-plus minutes to the Palais.
Ruimy: “It’s not a ‘hike.’ Google Maps says it’s a 15-minute walk to the Palais.” HE: “15 minutes is okay. I just don’t think it is 15. Google Maps is very accurate on driving times, but I don’t trust their walk-time estimates.”
Landlord: “From the Cannes gare to the flat the walk is 20 to 25 minutes, but it takes only 13 if you know the shortcuts. Maybe less.”
HE’s luxurious sleeping couch:
