I was initially concerned that this 1.9 SNTS piece by “Cameron” was a hit piece of some kind. Then I started reading…uh-huh, okay, yeah, hmmm, alright. Somewhere along the way I realized it’s an okay thing for the most part. I would only argue with the c-word, which always sounds dismissive. What it means in this context is “crazy like Yossarian.” As in eccentric, mercurial, unpredictable, partially outside the box, unregimented. Anyway, dodged a bullet.

Pier Paolo Pasolini‘s Salo, or the 120 Days of Sodom is a grotesque portrait of fascism unbridled, but it’s certainly no satire. A “satire” this cold and clinical inevitably morphs into something else. Salo is essentially a horror film about the practice of cruelty…cruelty and contempt taken to their final expression. And yet it’s certainly a tougher, harder, more unforgiving creation than Jojo Rabbit, and a much fiercer thing than Taiki Waititi ever thought to attempt. Talk about films that focus on a similar situation but exist in two completely separate universes. There’s a Salo scene in which the four brute fascists (Paolo Bonacelli, Giorgio Cataldi, Umberto Paolo Quintavalle, Aldo Valletti) are dressed in drag, looking like perverse middle-aged biddies with pearl necklaces, too much rouge, ornate hats and whatnot. Imagine if Jojo Rabbit had the nerve to be this dark, this diseased.

Posted on 4.3.10: I knew when I first saw Greenberg that it obviously wasn’t Night at the Museum, but I figured that the usual indie suspects would discover and support it, and that it might eventually find its way to cult success as one of the finest character-driven, psychologically acute, no-laugh-funny flicks in a long while.

There’s really no disputing that Greenberg is one of the best films released this year (along with Roman Polanski‘s The Ghost Writer), and yet guys are bolting out of Greenberg showings and going up to theatre managers and saying “I want a refund”? What?

If I didn’t like Greenberg I would slink out quietly and keep my feelings to myself and my friends. I would at least defer to its reputation among most critics and tastemakers and say, “Okay, fine, critics and their weird tastes…but it’s not for me.” I certainly wouldn’t turn my animosity into a vocal lobby rant.

People not liking or recommending a film is standard, but this kind of hostility, I suspect, means Greenberg is touching some kind of nerve. It’s not just about a somewhat dislikable neurotic, but about a guy who’s at best treading water at age 40 and looking at a lot more of the same as he gets older. Speaking as the older brother of a guy whose life ended tragically because of this syndrome, I know this is about as scary as it gets. There are millions of people out there who are not that different from Ben Stiller‘s character, or who know people who are in this kind of head-jail.

As I said in my initial review, “Greenberg is about what a lot of 30ish and 40ish people who haven’t achieved fame and fortune are going through, or will go through. It’s dryly amusing at times, but it’s not kidding around.”

Many people feel as I do, of course, but Greenberg is clearly a major polarizer. It’s all evident on the Greenberg IMDB chat boards. Here’s how one fellow (i.e., “Famous Mortimer,” the guy who sent me the photo) defends it:

“I think it is provoking such strong levels of resentment from viewers because it is a movie very much of these times but not made in the style of these times. It exposes the toxic levels of conceitedness and alienation today with the sincerity and empathy of ’70’s films by Ashby, Altman and Allen.

“First off, it’s a story about people. There is no high concept or shoehorned stake-raising set piece. Viewers either have the patience to connect with the human pain on display or they are lost. Unlike Sideways, there is no charming countryside setting or buddy comedy hijinks to punch up the mood.

“Second, the dialogue is the action. Only when the viewer is willing to think over the dialogue will characters’ seemingly ambiguous motivations and back-stories become clear. There’s no juicy monologue or nauseating flashback to convey these points. Instead, the viewer comes upon them over the course of the film in the form of passing references made by various characters. It is up to us to take these bits and pieces together and unlock the character revelations for ourselves. No more spoon-feeding cinema.

“Third, this film is a labor of love. That means idiosyncratic details are to be found at every level of its making. Only by thinking these details over and feeling the connections between them do we appreciate what the movie is trying to do. It’s a really thoughtful and heartfelt experience.”

A 1.10 podcast chat between Vanity Fair‘s Nick Bilton and Gabriel Sherman:

In William Freidkin‘s Cruisin’, Al Pacino‘s Steve Burns is asked “how big are you?” — i.e., hung like a horse or a cashew? Pacino replies that he’s “party size,” which I always presumed meant that he was more like a Mustang car (sizable enough but sleek) than a Mustang horse.

We’re all heard the rumors about which Hollywood guys had/have the heftiest packages: Willem Dafoe, Humphrey Bogart, Milton Berle, Frank Sinatra, Liam Neeson, Michael Fassbender, Ed Begley, Jr., Gary Cooper, James Woods, Bruce Willis, Harrison Ford, David Duchovny, Matt Dillon, Jim Carrey, Errol Flynn, Charlie Chaplin, etc.

But the rumors are mostly bullshit, I’ve always suspected, because the rumor-mongers never distinguish between show-ers and growers, and this is key. Nobody’s a show-er when they’re walking out of chilly ocean waters, for instance. Or when they’re getting a traffic ticket. Or waiting in line at the DMV.

Those on the other end of the spectrum has allegedly included Ken Jeong, Elvis Presley (i.e., “Little Elvis”), Clark Gable, Adolf Hitler…who else?

The aspiring elephant club also includes (according to worthless internet rumor) Orlando Bloom, Daniel Craig, Ralph Fiennes, Vincent Gallo, Jason Momoa, Eddie Murphy, Jared Leto, Kevin Hart, Colin Farrell, Jon Hamm, JayZ, Ben Affleck…but it’s all bullshit, I tell you. Certainly a good deal of it. Certain people spread rumors through friends and allies in order to enhance their legend. No one can be trusted about anything.

Just to be different, I’d like to hear scurrilous rumors about which behind-the-camera fellows — directors, screenwriters, producers, cinematographers, studio heads, agents, supporting actors, stand-up comedians — belong in this alleged fraternity of size.

Posted three-plus years ago: “Can anyone imagine a more noir-ish sounding title than They Won’t Believe Me? The world won’t cut me a break, won’t stop shitting on me, won’t trust me, won’t look inside to see who I really am, won’t give me a job or lend a helping hand, refuses to love me, etc. It’s the ultimate expression of despondency.”

I’ve just watched this clip of TCM’s Noir Alley host Eddie Muller (aka “The Czar of Noir”) talking about They Won’t Believe Me, and reporting that screenwriter Jonathan Latimer‘s original ending had accused murderer Robert Young leaping to his death from a courtroom window, followed by the jury rendering a verdict of not guilty.

But the production code guys insisted that a person can’t commit suicide, Muller says, and so “a trigger-happy baliff” shoots Young before he leaps.

Posted on 11.2.16: “You can’t stream Irving Pichel‘s They Won’t Believe Me, a 1947 noir in which Robert Young played a weak, disloyal, manipulative shit. I haven’t seen it in eons, but I vividly remember the final scene when Young, a wrongfully accused defendant in a murder trial, is shot dead by a cop when he tries to leap out of a courtroom window just before the verdict is read. Cut to close-up of the jury foreman reading the verdict: ‘Not guilty.’

“The only way you can see They Won’t Believe Me is on TMC and via a Region 2 DVD. No Amazon, no Netfix, no Vudu, no nothin’.

“I was taken by the film because Young was a consummate exuder of domestic serenity and middle-class assurance in two hit TV series, Father Knows Beast and Marcus Welby, M.D. In actuality Young was an unhappy, unsettled fellow who suffered from depression and alcoholism. In 1991, at the age of 84 or thereabouts, he tried to kill himself. And yet Young was candid about his personal issues and urged the public not to follow his example (i.e., boozing) and to seek professional help when so afflicted.

Signed, sealed, delivered — the African American community has decided that Typewriter Joe will be the Democratic presidential candidate. They’re basically saying to X-factor white liberals like myself, “The Iowa caucus isn’t until February 3rd, followed by New Hampshire, South Carolina and then Super Tuesday on March 3rd, but it’s over…it’s settled. You’re going to take Joe Biden and like him.”

I’m a Pete Buttigieg guy, but if we’re taking 60something candidates Tom Steyer would be far preferable to Biden, and if we’re talking 70-plus I’d much rather see Michael Bloomberg become the Democratic candidate. I like and admire Bernie Sanders, but I don’t believe this country is ready to put a tax-and-spend Jewish Democratic Socialist who wants the U.S. of A. to become Finland, as much as I would personally be down with that.

Either way AA voters have decided that it’s Droolin’ Joe, period. And that’s the name of that tune.

“What this new Washington Post-Ipsos poll of African Americans voters has done is confirm that my Aunt Gloria has her finger on the pulse of black America.

“At the family barbecue, I asked why she thought Biden was the person to take on Trump. Her answer left me slack-jawed and remains the best explanation for Biden’s continued strength. ‘The way the system is set up now, there is so much racism that it’s going to have to be an old white person to go after an old white person,’ Aunt Gloria said. ‘Old-school against old-school.'” — from 1.11 Jonathan Capehart column, “Joe Biden leads among black voters for a reason.”

I somehow missed this. Fairly blatant. I’m not necessarily presuming this is why Taron Egerton took the Golden Globe for Best Actor, Comedy/Musical instead of Eddie Murphy, but c’mon…

Respect and regrets over the death of director Ivan Passer, whom I always admired but was never a huge fan of.

To be perfectly honest, the only Passer film that I felt a genuinely vital current from was Born To Win (’71), the George Segal junkie movie that was set mostly in the Times Square area. It was Passer’s second directing effort — the first in this country. The costars were Karen Black, Paula Prentiss, Hector Elizondo, Jay Fletcher and Robert De Niro.

Note: This is the entire film, and better yet presented in 1.37:1.

Which means, obviously, that I didn’t care for Silver Bears (’77), Cutter’s Way (’81), Creator (’85) and Haunted Summer (’88). (I wrote the Haunted Summer press kit during my time as a Cannon publicity staffer.) I never saw Stalin (’92), the Robert Duvall TV movie.

Passer also co-wrote Loves of a Blonde and The Fireman’s Ball, the Milos Forman-directed Czech films of the late ’60s.

Passer, Buck Henry, Edd “Kookie” Byrnes…showbiz types always seem to die in threes. After the third demise the standard expression is “they’re dropping like flies.”

From producer Victoria Wisdom: “Manhattan, late ’80s. I was waiting for a meeting with infamous agent Sam Cohn, who still had Meryl Streep, Woody Allen and Mike Nichols as clients then. And everyone was afraid of him.

“Nearby was a shelf full of scripts. One caught my eye. Written by Michelangelo Antonioni and, yes, Buck Henry.

When Sam walked in, I asked if I could read it and he said “take it”, mumbling something like “why would you want to read that?”

I asked Sam how in the world Buck Henry (The Graduate, Catch–22) had come to collaborate with Michelangelo Antonioni (L’Avventura, Blow–Up). He pretended not to hear the question.

A decade later I was at a film-premiere reception in Los Angeles. And there across the room was Buck Henry. I asked him the question I’d been wanting to ask for years: Please tell me how you came to write a script with Antonioni??

Buck’s response: “It was August in New York. Hot and humid. I was sitting in my apartment and I was broke. Even my air conditioning wasn’t working. The phone rang. My agent was calling. Sam never called. Sam was brief. ‘How would you like to go to Italy for a month? First class. Michelangelo Antonioni needs someone to polish the dialogue of his new screenplay. (His English isn’t so hot.) And you’ll be staying at his estate. It pays….”

Buck said, “When do I leave? “

The next morning Buck was on a plane to Rome. A chauffeur-driven limo picked him up at the airport and drove him to the hills outside of Rome where Antonioni lived. He saw the palazzo high in the hills long before they got there. Like a Renaissance palace. The driveway was long and winding and lined with cypress trees.

“Uniformed servants met him at the door, grabbed his bags, showed him to his room, which was at the top of a turret with a 360 view of the rolling countryside. Buck was thinking ‘Hallelujah!’

An assistant knocked at the door, holding the screenplay. “Signore Antonioni would like Mr. Henry to read the script tonight to be prepared for a breakfast meeting tomorrow morning,” etc.

The next day Buck was escorted into a stunning al fresco garden dining room. A translator was already there. Buck was seated before Signore Antonioni entered the room.

Antonioni explained through the translator that he wanted the script, which had been translated into English, to have a more natural and accessible feel for the spoken language. Buck agreed. Antonioni stood up. The translator followed. Meeting over.

Buck went back to his room and began to type. At the end of the day, the assistant knocked at the door and requested the finished pages as Signore Antonioni wished to read them overnight. Buck handed them over.

Each day Buck wrote and the assistant took the completed pages away. Buck asked the assistant if Signore Antonioni had any comments for him? And the assistant said he had only been ordered to collect the pages.

A week went by. One day the assistant knocked at the door and said the chauffeur was waiting to take Buck to the airport.

Buck asked “Is Signore Antonioni unhappy? Can I speak with him? “ The assistant said, “I’ve only been asked to let you know that the chauffeur is here.”

So Buck packed his bags. And the limo drove him back down the long driveway to the airport.

When he got back to Manhattan, he called Sam. “How did it go?”, asked Sam. Buck replied, “I’ve no idea.” [HE interjection: Bullshit.] And Sam said, “Well, anyway, they paid for the full month.” And Buck said, “Well, at least now I can buy a new air conditioner.”

The screenplay, which I’d read so many years before, was a story about a young man who falls madly in love with a woman about to enter a convent. It became part of an anthology of four shorts compiled into a film.

It was Antonioni’s last feature.

HE has frequently condemned people who throw their heads back and laugh loudly in restaurants and bars. I’ve also frowned upon the conversational use of the words “genius”, “oh my God” and, most recently, “amazing.” Today’s prohibition is about the expression “you have no idea.”

People who say “you have no idea” are sloppy communicators, or at the very least given to inexactitude. When people say “you have no idea” about this or that, they actually mean you don’t have enough of a grasp of a certain topic or situation or your knowledge in this realm or field is limited. In other words, they don’t actually mean “you have no idea.”

People who say what they don’t actually mean are utterly worthless. On top of which Samuel L. Jackson has said “you have no idea” in too many films. So from here on and forevermore, nobody can say this four-letter phrase ever again. Well, they can but…