Even in the backwash of The Skin That I Live In and Lars Von Trier’s banning by the Cannes Film Festival, I’m drawn to a banal observation. When I was a kid my mom would hang the family wash on an outdoor clothesline, and the super-crisp way this made my jeans and T-shirts feel was pure pleasure. Two days ago, after not knowing this wondrous sensation for decades, I re-experienced it after hanging my wash off the patio of my Old Town Cannes abode. Delightful.
Roughly two months ago a very early draft of Eric Roth‘s screenplay for Killers of the Flower Moon (dated 2.20.17,...
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Frances McDormand‘s Fern was strong but mule-stubborn and at the end of the day self-destructive, and this stunted psychology led...
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Can’t decide which performance is better, although I’ve always leaned toward Tina Vitale, her cynical New Jersey moll behind the...
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Two days ago (1.19) a Facebook tribute congratulated Tippi Hedren for having reached her 94th year (blow out the candles!)...
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A friend suggested a list of the Ten Best American Crime Flicks of the ‘70s. By which he meant films...
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I’ve never been able to give myself over to Sam Peckinpah’s Major Dundee, a 1965 Civil War–era western, and I’ve...
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