The chaotic earthquaking of 60 Minutes over the last three days obviously constitutes major high-stakes drama. The blistering confrontation that happened between 60 Minutes corespondent Scott Pelley (who’s been canned), the show’s recently-hired exec producer Nick Bilton and editor-in-chief Bari Weiss is a much, much stronger scenario than the bellowing argument between CBS corporate and 60 Minutes producer Lowell Bergman …one of the scenes that make Michael Mann’s The Insider such a classic. Obviously.

It follows, naturally, that there’s a major movie in this — a Mann film perhaps? — about the Pelley-Bilton-Weiss contretemps, and more broadly ablout the whole kowtowing-to-Trump, Paramount purchase of CBS and 60 Minutes and handing the reins to Weiss (i.e., David Ellison, son of Larry, last year took control of CBS’s parent company, Paramount, in a multibillion-dollar merger).

Love this passage from Michael M. Grynbaum and Benjamin Mullin’s 6.1.26 N.Y. Times story: “In an extraordinary exchange, Mr. Pelley, his newscaster’s baritone sometimes shaking in anger, told Nick Bilton, the new executive producer, that he had ‘slender’ qualifications for his new job and questioned the network’s commitment to the future of the program, according to a recording of the meeting obtained by The New York Times.

“The 10 a.m. gathering, held at the program’s Midtown Manhattan headquarters, was intended as a formal introduction to Mr. Bilton, a tech journalist and filmmaker who was appointed last week as part of a major shake-up at 60 Minutes. CBS fired Tanya Simon, the previous executive producer, and her deputy, along with Sharyn Alfonsi and Cecilia Vega, two of the show’s correspondents — an event that Mr. Pelley referred to as ‘Black Thursday.'”

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After last night’s AMC Danbury showing of Masters of the Universe (technically an earlybird thing as the film doesn’t open in AMC theatres until this afternoon), I drove right back to Wilton and filed my review. And now it’s up. Fast turnaround!

My poor math skills ensured that I would get Nicholas Galitzine‘s age wrong — he’s 32, not 22. I informed my editors of the error this morning; presumably they’ll be fixing it soon.

I also failed to include a pretty good kicker paragraph, although I sent it along 90 minutes ago. Here it is:

Possible omen:  There’s a big Castle Grayskull scene in the second act — a dramatic surge moment — in which Galitzine’s Adam finally abandons the uncertainty and becomes He-Man, wielding the Power Sword and affirming his destiny.  The AMC Danbury crowd came alive at this very moment…energy wave!…and at that moment I noticed, three rows in front of me, an actual Power Sword being raised in celebration.  Some guy cos-playing with a plastic, full-sized replica, probably bought 40 years ago in Toys ‘R’ Us, and pumping it in the air.  Go, He-Man!  Hilarious!

As I’ve been told I can share the New York Sun article and given the standard compression edits that always happen prior to publication, I thought I’d post the original HE version. Compare and evaluate.

“Honey, I Shrunk the Skeletor,” finished last night around 11:30 pm:

My thirtysomething sons, Jett and Dylan, were never into the Masters of the Universe Mattel universe…not yet born during the heyday.  And they never saw Gary Goddard’s Cannon-produced, nearly 40 year-old Masters of the Universe (’87)…still unborn, probably wouldn’t have cared if they had been.  And so I wasn’t parent-punished into buying the action figures or watching the kiddie cartoon serial.

But I was a Cannon Studios employee when Goddard’s film was being shot at Culver Studios in the early fall of ’86, and I damn well visited the massive Castle Grayskull set, you bet…a lavish undertaking which ate up two full sound stages.  My eyes and heart were sorta kinda dazzled as I strolled around with the unit publicist, muttering wisecracks and  wondering why the place felt so quiet.

Because it was empty, that’s why.  So no casual run-ins with a bare-chested, sword-bearing, heavily-costumed Dolph Lundgren (He-Man) or a dark-cloaked, masked-up Frank Langella (Skeletor).  And yet the film hadn’t wrapped so where was everyone?  

I knew that the financially squeezed Cannon had been forced to lose several script pages and things were being re-strategized.  Perhaps some of the battle sequences were being shot in and around SoCal instead of on the fantasy planet of Eternia.  

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the sound-stage vibe felt a bit off.  Hesitant, uncertain…who knew?

I dragged myself to a screening when MOTU opened on 8.7.87, and I knew right away I couldn’t be fully honest with any of my fellow Cannon-ites. Because it obviously blew chunks.  It was critically savaged, became a box-office bomb.  ($22 million to produce, $17.3 million earned).  The tone was half-jape, half-solemn.  Lundgren struggled with his dialogue but Langella seemed to enjoy the scenery-chewing.   Courteney Cox, James Tolkan and Meg Foster costarring…whatevs.

Now there’s a brand-new Masters of the Universe from Amazon and director Travis Knight (Bumblebee)…thinner, slighter and much more expensive. Between $170M and $200M. 

So why remake an ‘80s stinker, and particularly one that feels out of synch with the here-and-now?  We’re living in an era of hit indie strange-os (Obsession, Weapons, Backrooms). IP sequels aren’t what they used to be in the teens, and nobody cares about MOTU merch…long gone.  Mattel obviously connected with Barbie, sure, but that was a misandrist, pinker-than-pink, auteur-driven one-off.

So why watch this thing, I asked myself?    Why submit to punishment?  Because a movie journo has to occasionally man up and take the pain.  And that was my attitude as I slipped into a special early-bird screening at the AMC Danbury.

Guess what?  Knight’s newbie is a feck-it movie, a mild breeze…good-natured, light-hearted and completely divorced from any notion of dramatic engagement.  Every line and every scene delivers a jack-off vibe.  It’s got that good old “nothing matters, it’s all a goof so forget the story and let’s just have fun” attitude…a Guardian of the Galaxy thing, only a wee bit lighter, a touch more throwaway.

I didn’t care about the story or anybody or anything, and that was fine.  Because it didn’t irritate me or tick me off.  This film doesn’t fly — it glides.  I was sitting in a convertible with the top down and a cold beer in my hand, and I don’t even drink.  (Sober since March of 2012.)

And guess what?  32 year-old Nicholas Galitzine, as Adam Glenn and He-Man  — the former an easygoing, blonde-haired, earth-residing dude who wears black jeans, a pink Brooks Brothers shirt and whitesides but doesn’t want to get sucked into a mediocre life as an HR guy, and the latter character the former Prince of Eternia who lives to wield the mythical Power Sword…Galitzine is a slam-dunk star in this thing, at least during the first half to two-thirds.  (I succumbed to slight boredom during the last third.) 

Galitzine is certainly ten times the actor that Dolf Lundgren** was in the ’87 version.  Having bulked himself up for this role, Galitzine is relaxed and unassuming and always conveying an intelligent vibe.  I liked him immediately because he’s always settling things down, always letting you know this this big, carefree Amazon film is into chilling, bruh, even during the violent battle scenes…shoulder-shrugging, mellow-vibing….no worries because it’s all meaningless bullshit.

Deep down this movie is total helium…a stone that doesn’t skim across a pond as much as levitate above it.  Compared to it Guardians of the Galaxy feels like Arthur Miller’s A View From The Bridge, and The Empire Strikes Back plays like Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

I don’t know if Masters of the Universe is going to tank or succeed, but if I, a grumpy hater of empty-brain-pan CG-driven popcorn cinema, can make peace with it then maybe others can too.  And I’m speaking as someone who hated Chris Pine’s Dungeons and Dragons.

Possible omen:  There’s a big Castle Grayskull scene in the second act — a dramatic surge moment — in which Galitzine’s Adam finally abandons the uncertainty and becomes He-Man, wielding the Power Sword and affirming his destiny.  The AMC Danbury crowd came alive at this very moment…energy wave!…and at that moment I noticed, three rows in front of me, an actual Power Sword being raised in celebration.  Some guy cos-playing with a plastic, full-sized replica, probably bought 40 years ago in Toys ‘R’ Us, and pumping it in the air.  Go, He-Man!  Hilarious!

All hail Jared Leto as Skeletor, a skull-faced, buff-bod, baddy-waddy who delivers (you guessed it!) a put-on, jack-off performance.  Ditto Camila Mendes as Teela, a foxy, no-nonsense warrior (a butchier Princess Leia); Idris Elba as Duncan / Man-at-Arms, a recovering alcoholic superhero who mans up when the going gets tough; Allison Brie as Evil-Lyn, a brittle-ironic suck-up worshipper of Skeletor; Kristen Wiig as the voice of Robot; and, last but not least, Morena Baccarin as “the Sorceress”.  (Except Baccarin is a much better actress than this pan-flash character allows her to be — I loved her in Phillip Noyce’s Fast Charlie.)   

** Lundgren cameos during the first half-hour or so, and does a good job of it.

…in order to bang out a review for the New York Sun, which I did upon returning at 10 pm.

Author and screenwriter Ed Naha recently shared (via Facebook) an abbreviated rundown of draining medical issues. Nothing horrible but dreary and gloom-instilling, he wrote.

I’m sorry for Naha’s mild misfortunes, but — this is going to sound perverse and perhaps even cruel — they triggered a certain alpha-karma payback response. A subtle feeling of satisfaction even.

Rather than try to explain my admittedly odd reaction, please read Naha’s post and then an 11.14.12 HE post titled “Happiness Pills.”

Nobody seems to speak with much reverence these days about Mervyn LeRoy, mainly because his rep isn’t much different than Clarence Brown‘s — a reliable, well-respected house director.

But LeRoy helmed a fair amount of first-rate films during the heyday (early 30s to late 50s), plus Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo (11.15.44) is arguably Hollywood’s most rousing WWII propaganda flick. Great cast (Van Johnson, Spencer Tracy, Robert Walker), a first-rate Dalton Trumbo script, fine cinematography by Robert Surtees and Harold Rosson.

I can only report that this 16-minute clip hooked me. Everything stopped. I had to stay with it.

10 pm update: I’ve just rewatched the first 60 minutes, which felt overly sentimental, unsubtle, mawkish. I know the film picks up once the Ruptured Duck heads for Japan.

Posted early Tuesday by HE commenter “roland1824”: “Obsession is whatever. The more interesting story here is how the hype has reached a self-perpetuating velocity that built on itself exponentially. There’s a feeling of Obsession FOMO…that this is some kind of cultural moment that people must partake in. I suspect there was some early bot seeding online to launch it before your loud easy-lay horror fans took over. The low-budget narrative is something that has been drilled into heads — you had to see it (has anyone mapped out how union minimums break down $750k?)”

Anonymously written Bluray.com review, posted about 10 days ago: “Criterion’s 4K restoration of Lawrence Kasdan‘s Body Heat is a massive upgrade in quality, whether seen in native 4K or 1080p.

“The improvements in delineation, clarity, depth, and especially the dynamic range of the visuals, are humongous. On a large screen, viewing the new 4K restoration and the old 1080p presentation is a night-and-day experience. Color reproduction and balance are outstanding.

“All primaries and supporting nuances are properly set, and there are absolutely no traces of the awful tealing that destroyed the recent 4K restorations of big films like Point Blank and Night Moves.

“Unsurprisingly, Criterion’s Body Heat now has a spectacular, very faithful, very attractive period appearance. The Dolby Vision grade helps some of the most gorgeous visuals look even better. I was particularly impressed by the opening sequence because the different nighttime colors looked tremendous. The darkest areas looked good on my system, too.

“The 1080p presentation also produces stunning colors, which is one of several reasons why the new 4K restoration and the previous 1080p presentation produce visuals with very different dynamic ranges. The entire film is spotless.”

Emphasis: The Criterion Bluray situation has gotten so bad in terms of teal-tint vandalism (the most grievous offenders being Eyes Wide Shut, Sorcerer, Night Moves and Point Blank) that when they DON’T ruin a film’s original color scheme. It’s cause for celebration.

I still think that the Criterion should be prosecuted in The Hague. There is nothing more EVIL in the realm of Bluray remastering than to saturate an original color scheme with teal poisoning. These diabolical fiends should be brought before The Hague judges in chains. I’m dead serious.

Or is this the thin end of the wedge?

Martin Scorsese to N.Y. Times: “I’m interested in the intersection of technology and storytelling, and seeing how that can push the bounds of creativity to create deeper and richer experiences for audiences. Remember, cinema is a young medium, only around 125 years old, so we have to be open to how it can evolve.”

I was suprised to learn two things the other day. One, “Linda“, that insipid 1962 bubblegum tune sung by Jan & Dean, was originally written in 1942 by Jack Lawrence. And two, the song was inspired by the one-year-old Linda McCartney, the daughter of Lawrence’s attorney, Lee Eastman.

The song wasn’t published until after Lawrence left the military in ’45 or thereabouts. It was then recorded by a string of performers, the last of which were Jan & Dean. This may be common knowledge among pop music aficionados (i.e., Chris Willman), but I was ignorant until last weekend.

Why does each and every person who reviews Blurays on YouTube…why does each and every reviewer look so dependably nerdy, dweeby, bearish? And, in more case than not, chubby?

In any format or on any platform critics, reviewers and columnists have never been movie-star attractive, of course, but why do they all look exactly the same these days?

I’m obviously not talking about knowledgability or perception. I’m asking why in the entire universe of Bluray-reviewing…why is there not even one who looks like, say, the 1950s-era Henry Fonda? Or the young Mickey Rourke? Or the youngish Gene Siskel? Or Lee van Cleef or Strother Martin even?

If you’re just reading a review, nobody cares what you look like. But when your schpieling is on YouTube, there ought to be something appealing if not arresting about your visual presentation. Imagine if George Clooney were to launch a Bluray-reviewing YouTube channel….imagine! Or if Bill Murray were to give it a go.

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I’d like to say that that Los Angeles mayor Karen Bass and challenger Spencer Pratt will end up competing in a November runoff election. But recent polling says that Nithya Raman is polling second, right after Bass and just ahead of Pratt. This strikes me as odd as Raman seems bland.

The election is happening today. How will it all shake out? Pratt is a franker, more colorful candidate, but there’s something a bit downmarket about the guy.

I saw Curry Barker’s  Obsession (Focus, 5.15) last night.  Over the last two weekends it’s become a massive, phenomenal hit, as we’ve all read. Except it’s  not really good enough (it’s certainly not Weapons-level) to warrant this kind of social-earthquake response.  Yes, it’s well acted and has an imaginatively out-there downscale vibe and it’s certainly bloody and gorey here and there…aahh, let me start over.

I didn’t hate Obsession. It’s Walmart-level, but tolerably so. I felt hugely repulsed by Michael Johnston’s male lead (a music store employee called “Bear” who behaves more like a greasy little cub), but I was down with (i.e., felt erotically stirred by) 25 year-old Inde Navarette, who plays Bear’s whackjob girlfriend, Nikki, with serious manic spunk.  I felt aroused by her hair-trigger lunacy. 

I’m not saying Obsession is crap. I didn’t feel at the end that two hours had been stolen from me. I felt a bit soiled but not burned.  Call it marginally effective low-rent horror gruel with at least one excellent whambam jump scare.  

My 9:25 pm screening was 90% to 95% filled, which is highly unusual for a Monday night…packed with moderately mulchy, none-too-sophisticated 20somethings who were behaving in an “animated” way…commenting or groaning (“Nice rack!” when Navarette pulled off her normcore sweatshirt…a general “yo!…we crave your bod” atmosphere) or otherwise talking back to the screen like black audiences used to do in the ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s.

Me and maybe three other guys were the only over-45 types. I was the only older dude with slightly longish hair and certainly the only viewer wearing pricey, Italian-made, black leather loafers, I can tell you that much.

What is Obsession, boiled down? It’s basically a serving of moody, splotchy, button-pushing, crazy-girlfriend garbage by way of anything-goes horror exploitation, but augmented with above-average, babygirl-Zoomer acting and Zoomer dialogue that felt reasonably honest or real-world as far as it went.

It’s a rehashing of “The Monkey’s Paw”, a 1902 horror short story by W.W. Jacobs, with a little spritz on the side of “Nick of Time”, that 1960 William Shatner Twilight Zone episode in which Shatner’s young newlywed becomes entranced by a wicked fortune-telling device.

Thematically or metaphorically, it’s about…uhm, be emotionally real and genuine with women, and don’t hide behind put-on games or pretentious posing or wimpy dodging…just be straight and sincere.  But at the same time don’t be cringe-sensitive. Don’t secrete your icky hetero longings. Try to behave like a semi-normal, straight-from-the-shoulder type.

And that goes double if you’re Johnston’s “Bear”, a wimpy-voiced, babygirl-ish, kitten-mewing, totally candy-assed (read: anguished sensitivity) guy with greasy hair and standard five-day facial stubble…a guy who wears shitty normcore threads (as well as the butt-ugliest, light-gray, lace-up Foot Locker sneakers…don’t get me started).

Obsession starts with Bear in the throes of erotic whatever…emotionally enthralled by a pretty, dark-haired, agreeably bosom-y coworker (i.e., Navarette) who maybe stands 5’1” in heels. I was saying to myself “just let it go, bruh…you’re too mushy, too girlyman…she’s out of your league.”

Find the courage, the film is saying, to behave like a man of at least some substance and not like an emotionally intimidated three-year-old.

Like so many other lower-budgeted gloomy-spooky films, Obsession has that under-lighted, processed-in-lentil-soup palette (subdued amber-grayish colors, no real daylight to speak of, a Gordon Willis scheme but without the panache of Gordo’s super-rich blacks and occasional shafts of punctuating sunlight).

You can’t tell me “Curry” isn’t a funny-sounding first name. A spicy Indian sauce that rhymes with “furry” or more particularly Coury-brand cat food, which Elliot Gould’s Phillip Marlowe tried to buy at 3 am in a Hollywood market back in ‘73.

The overweight, Jim Belushi-ish Cooper Tomlinson, who plays Ian, another music-store employee who’s friendly with Bear and Nikki, holds up his end and then some. He’s the only normal-ish character in the whole film, and certainly the only relatable male. God, I so despised Johnston’s mealy-mouthed, chickenshit, greasy-faced performance!

As I was leaving I spotted a 20something Latin-x woman (gold-painted toenails) who seemed to be recovering from the trauma of watching the film. She was standing next to the exit door with an anguished expression. As I moved past her I almost ran into an equally traumatized, slightly younger girl who went “oh!!” as we suddenly faced each other. I tried for a little calm-down action by shrugging and saying “I’m just walking out…no worries…cool.”

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