IT'S ALL FUN AND GAMES UNTIL IT ISN'T

The joke's on us.

After announcing the soon-to-be-cancellation of Late Night with Stephen Colbert, CBS promised it was shutting the door on late-night entertainment. 

But earlier this week, like a landlord secretly holding out for more money, they gave the housekey to a new tenant. CBS will be leasing the 11:35p.m.- 1:05a.m. slot to producer Byron Allen's Comics Unleashed and Funny You Should Ask.

As with all of Allen's output, these shows are low-budget, low-concept rehashes of other people's ideas featuring second-tier talent. Comics Unleashed is a gussied-up version of the hoary Can You Top This?, while Funny You Should Ask is Hollywood Squares without the tic-tac-toe motif. 

A better title would be Comics Paid Scale to Fill
Byron Allen's Wallet.

Stuff like this has made Byron Allen a very wealthy man. If you haven't heard of him or the product he's been churning out, it's probably because his syndicated shows run in many markets at 2:00a.m. when stoners and

insomniacs make for an undemanding audience.

Allen hopes the ad revenue he earns will make up for the "tens of millions of dollars" he's forking over, which perhaps explains why his contract with CBS is for only one year. While he might be hedging his bets regarding the wisdom of spending that kind of dough, my theory is CBS will be paying close attention to the ratings. 

If it's a game show they want, CBS could make 
more money with You Bet Your Life reruns.

If the numbers for these cheaper-than-cheap shows come within spitting distance of the two Jimmys (Fallon and Kimmel), the network might want to produce their own low-rent rip-offs of Allen's low-rent rip-offs, with titles like Comics Unhinged and What's So Funny? 

The ad revenue for that kind of programming will more than offset the production costs. And it'll let the network's PR department spin the situation with quotes like "CBS is back with late-night laughs!" Can you top this? Original ideas not required.

Colbert gets the last laugh on
the boss.

Interestingly, Colbert's next move has nothing to do with moving to another network. Warner Bros. has signed him and his son to write the screenplay for Lord of the Rings: Shadows of the Past. That's a pretty good step up from interviewing actors plugging their new movies.

It's fun to picture Colbert winning the Academy Award for Best Screenplay and thanking Larry Ellison for making it all possible. Meanwhile back at CBS, Tony Dokoupil will make his debut as late-night game show host produced by "Network Executive in Charge of Mindless Entertainment" Bari Weiss. For those two, it would be more honest work than what they're doing now.

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REPUGNANT RUPERT

Tie this sex-offender down, sport.

You've got to hand it to primeval publisher Rupert Murdoch, Australia's worst
export since Rolf Harris -- and not just for "Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport" either. 

Murdoch might be a right-wing hack who would sell out his family if it meant saving his own skin (and a few dollars, if it came down to that). But he also has his 95-year-old finger in the air. 

Trump requests that Murdoch kiss his feet.

For a while, Donald Trump was the ideal president for Murdoch newspapers: Republican, rightwing, businessman, friend of billionaires yet somehow convinced low-IQ, working class tabloid readers that he was going to better their lives by cutting their healthcare and giving tax breaks to the rich.

That worked for Trump's first term, when, as they say, the "grown-ups were in the room". But now that he's surrounded by advisors and cabinet members who are incompetent at best and demoniac at worst, the MAGA maggots are taking a second look at the man they once thought was bought and paid for by Jesus Christ, Super Republican.

Your kids are going to fight the war
that his kids won't.

A series of extraordinary bad steps, ranging from the healthcare debacle (Hey,
when you said you were going to cut healthcare, I thought it was only going to be Democrats!), ICE deporting anyone with an accent or a Z in their last name (Hey, when you said getting rid of Latinos, I didn't know it was going to be my family!), killing protestors (Hey, I thought you were only going to kill minorities!) were just the beginning. 

Yet it took the war on Iran to finally convince a growing number of true believers that they were bamboozled by the biggest conman outside of... well, nobody else in history. And now their favorite English-speaking strongman is appearing mighty weak.

Re-enter Rupert Murdoch. As publisher of The Wall Street Journal, he long ago gave the OK for its editors to go full-steam ahead on bashing the Trump administration, while allowing his major American tabloid New York Post to continue its rah-rah cheerleading coverage. 

Miserable man, indeed.

But what to make of his UK mouthpiece, the Daily Mail? While its top of the fold headline is the usual culture war slop, it's the main story that speaks the loudest.

A BIZARRE KIND OF VICTORY isn't about is a goal made by a dog that's run onto the football pitch. Uh-uh. The Daily Mail -- which supported Trump's insults of Prime Minister Starmer -- openly disdains the administration's victory declaration regarding the war. 

"The world mocks" are three words that Trump and his gang of idiots really, really do not want placed within a mile of their names. And while they might expect that from the New York Times or the Morning Joe crew, to see it in a usually reliably friendly Daily Mail -- on the front page yet! -- must be particularly galling to the dementia-stricken would-be dictator.

Megyn takes a moment from fellating Satan
to yell at Republicans for not banning any
non-Christian from holding office. 

Murdoch, who allegedly (but likely) was quoted as wishing Trump dead, hasn't
really undergone a come-to-the-real-Jesus moment any more than deranged podcasters like Tucker Carlson, Megyn Kelly or Alex Jones who are calling for Trump's removal from office. Those latter three (along with the other once-loyal Trump minions) are just feeling the same wind blowing up Murdoch's Australian ass. They might even be angry that Trump's antics have temporarily derailed Project 2025 from completely taking over the government. Like Trump's antics, it's all for ratings and money. Neither MAGA fans nor the MS NOW anchors seem to realize that they're being used by a different set of grifters. 

No healthcare. Higher taxes. Deporting family members. Killing white people in the streets. And yet Trump still has the support of at least a third of the population. If all the things he's done wrong are OK with those folks, then they're going to love today's news that, come December, they and their sons will be automatically registered for the draft. And that's military, not NCAA. 

Guess they weren't counting on that when they cheered those bombs dropping on Iran. Hey, that was supposed to be poor blacks and Latinos in the military, not us!

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WITH ALL THE FRILLS UPON IT

You can be sure that New York's new Archbishop
was delighted to have this crew on the stairs of
St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Another Easter come and gone! As usual, here in New York, folks celebrated the
resurrection of the Lord and Saviour by parading down Fifth Avenue while looking like escapees from a lunatic asylum. Atheists might find such a thing appropriate.

What do you suppose the GOP reaction would
have been to Barack Obama saying "Praise be
to Allah" on Easter?

Speaking of lunatics, our president made sure to mark the holiest of days with one of his usual thoughtful remarks. Does anyone know if the morning crew on Fox News quoted Trump word for word?

Ooh, he's so tough!

Meanwhile, Sen. Chuck Schumer offered one of his rip-snorting, fist-pounding responses to Trump we've come to expect. Way to tell him off, Chucko! And for God's sakes, be sure not to demand a response from your GOP colleagues. That would demand a spine.

"Once we take over, Bari will be the first to go."

To round out the day, Franklin Graham, was asked to give a homily at the end of 60 Minutes. Because who else is better to speak the word of the Lord than a right-wing racist, homophobic, anti-Muslim Evangelist who supports the insane, sexual harassing pedophile-in-chief currently occupying the White House?

By the way, the appearance by Graham -- who compares homosexuality to murder -- should be a sign that Bari Weiss will do everything she can to promote right-wing Christianity in order to make her target audience forget she's a Jewish lesbian -- who dated leftwing SNL lesbian Kate McKinnon!  Clever girl, our Bari! 

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SIXTY MINUTES, ZERO CREDIBILITY

The Weiss way of fixing 60 Minutes.

Bari Weiss can't help looking like a neutron bomb in her quest to reshape CBS News into something nobody except Larry Ellison asked for. After getting rid of the network's radio division, Weiss is taking her ax to its crown jewel, 60 Minutes. Her motto seems to be "It became necessary to destroy CBS News in order to save it." Because a similar move worked so well in Vietnam.

Depending on who's tipping off the press, what Weiss is planning has been described as a "change in tone", "shake-up", or "bloodbath".  Oddly, one of her complaints is the number of "soft" pieces 60 Minutes has run lately -- like, since she became the news division's editor-in-chief. In fact, Weiss' most famous move so far was spiking a hard-hitting story about abuses at an ICE detention center in Venezuela, so I don't understand what her gripe is.

Kate McKinnon (middle) likely prefers
memories of hanging with Greta Gerwig
(left) in theater class.

(What would make a great story is how Weiss dated former Saturday Night Live cast member Kate McKinnon during their days at Columbia University. Don't worry, Kate, everyone has that How did I sleep with that person? stage in their life.)

According to a "source familiar with the situation" -- there are a lot of those people around in every profession, aren't there? -- Weiss is ready to "blow it up as soon as the season is over." This evokes an image of her placing an Acme Portable Explosion Device at CBS headquarters. And, to paraphrase a previous wisecrack, we know how well that worked for the Coyote.

Bari Wess was minus-16 when 60 Minutes debuted.

Weiss wants to clean house both behind and in front of the camera, hoping to

bring in younger correspondents. Now, I understand her desire for new blood. There are, I'm sure, plenty of youngbloods who are champing at the bit (or the CBS eye) to prove their mettle. 

The big problem, as I've pointed out more than once, is that the "younger audience" so desired by networks doesn't watch "legacy" media. And the folks who tune into 60 Minutes do so in part because their current correspondents, whose combined ages is Old As The Hills, are perceived as wise, trustworthy, and unafraid to confront the powers-that-be.

One old-timer will still host the show.

Weiss' desire, on the other hand, is to hire whippersnappers whose points of views align with hers. Meaning something like Russia's TASS news agency. Which forces me to repeat, yet again, that audience already has Fox News.

To sum up: Bari Weiss will "improve" 60 Minutes by losing their current viewers while not gaining any new ones. To paraphrase a previous wisecrack once more, Tony Dokoupil can fill you in on how that's going for CBS Evening News. 

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 66

 Pre-codes dominate today's quadruple feature, with one semi-noir rounding out the show.

CHINATOWN NIGHTS (1929): This must be the only movie where its source material -- in this case, Samuel Ornitz's Tong War -- is given almost equal billing on the one-sheets and opening credits, making me think either the guy had a lot of pull at Paramount or the phrase was on everybody's tong -- er, tongue.

Two tong leaders -- nightclub owner Chuck Riley (Wallace Beery) and Chinese businessman Boston Charley (Warner Oland) -- are on the Zhan tu (that's warpath to you white devils).  Chuck falls hard for uptown dame Joan Fry; before you can say "dim sum", the two are shacking up, Chinatown-style. But the couple are from two different worlds -- you might call them a dim sum -- and it seems inventible they're going to break like a bamboo chopstick. 

The William Wellman-directed Chinatown Nights has potential but is an utter mess. Filmed as a silent, the Paramount bosses ordered it reshot as a talkie. Dialogue was simply dubbed in over some silent footage, with real talking scenes added only when necessary. By my estimate, it's 50/50 split, and a bad one at that. Much of the dubbed dialogue is out of synch with the actors' lips; the back and forth between the two styles is jarring, often happening in the middle of a scene. Chinatown Nights would have worked better one way or the other rather than an awkward hybrid that likely fooled nobody.

As with the truculent Louise Brooks in The Canary Murder Case, Chinatown Night's leading lady Florence Vidor left the dubbing to someone else. Wallace Beery had no problem yakking his lines as the gangster whose hard heart softens with love. And you can never go wrong with Warner Oland in one of his stereotypical Asian roles. Unless you're Asian. Then you can join the non-movie nerds of today who will find nothing of interest in Chinatown Nights except wondering why people in 1929 paid 10 cents a ticket to watch it.

BONUS POINTS: In an effort to get Chuck out of the crime business, Joan tells the authorities that the tong members are illegal immigrants and suggests mass deportations. Say, that sounds familiar....

SAFE IN HELL (1931): New Orleans chippie Gilda Carlson, accused of murdering a john, is dropped off in Tortuga by her seaman sweetie Carl Bergen, who promises to return to her when the coast is clear. It's hard enough for Gilda to keep away from the horny criminal hotel guests without the local hangman Bruno figuring out how to get his paws on her as well. The unexpected arrival of a certain man from Gilda's past offers the chance of her escape from this island. But just try telling Bruno the hangman that.

Let's get this out of the way: Safe in Hell is one of the grimiest, sweatiest, squirm-inducing studio releases of its time; you've never seen so much spitting or sexually-depraved behavior on celluloid. Every glimmer of hope is killed with all the joy of a New Yorker stomping on a spotted lantern fly. And talk about racy! When Gilda checks into the hotel, one of the male guests warns his pals to avoid using "words ending in 'it', 'itch', and 'er'." While modern day viewers may think Gilda is being punished for her sins, Safe in Hell's original trailer describes her "The Little Girl Who Tried So Hard To Be Good -- And The World Wouldn't Let Her"; pre-code movies usually cut slack to Depression-hit janes who did what they had to in order to survive.

The long-forgotten Dorothy Mackaill gives the doomed Gilda the right balance of cynicism and faith; it's the kind of pre-code character that anticipates Jane Fonda's turn in Klute decades later. The ever-boyish Donald Cook, as Carl, really looks like the kind of guy who'd forgive his girlfriend's trespasses. Yet for all the greasy goons who populate Safe in Hell, it's the two black actors -- Nina Mae McKinney as the barmaid and Clarence Muse as the porter -- who stand out. Not only are they terrific actors whose careers were unfairly confined to roles like these due to their race, their characters seem to be the only decent people on the island. Maybe they need their own ICE troops to throw out the white illegals.

BONUS POINTS: Safe in Hell is the earliest studio movie I know of that begins only with the title card, saving the other credits for the end. Director William Wellman seemed to want to get the movie going pronto.

 

NARCOTIC (1933): Dwain Esper, the Emperor of Exploitation, never met a social problem he couldn't cash in on. But unlike his delirious 1934 screed Maniac, Narcotic takes a fairly serious if seriously cut-rate look at drug addiction, while providing enough just enough tawdriness to entice audiences who patronized the more declassee grindhouses. 

This "true biography" follows the downward spiral of Dr. William G. Davis from brilliant surgeon to hopeless addict, starting at the local opium den before moving on to the harder stuff, and eventually hawking his own heroin-laced snake-oil remedy. Soon, he's surrounded by junkies ("If I don't get a pop right away, I'm gonna go nuts!"), hopheads, coke fiends, and -- gasp! -- prostitutes. And thanks to the graphic close-ups that would never be featured in studio releases, Narcotic makes it easy to learn how to puff, snort, and shoot up. Thanks for the instructions, Dwain!

Narcotic contains everything expected from Esper's grimy productions -- flimsy sets, women's gams, rickety silent movie footage of car chases and freak shows, and the requisite stilted line-readings from actors ranging from amateur to washed-up. Special commendation to J. Blackton Stuart, Jr., whose absurd portrayal of a "Chinaman" couldn't be less convincing if he played him as Australian. 

Oddly for the already-odd Esper movies, I recognized character actor Harry Cording (in a rare lead role as Dr. Davis) from his later appearances in the Rathbone/Bruce Sherlock Holmes movies. Having appeared in well over 200 movies, he's the probably the only actor in Narcotic capable of a decent performance, but only when not instructed by the director to chew scenery, mainline heroin, or smoke opium.

BONUS POINTS: In a brief sequence you'll never see on The Pitt, Narcotic also includes documentary footage of a real cesarian birth. When I later described the scene to my wife (a retired nurse), she said, "Oh, that was the old-fashioned way!" 

CRISS CROSS (1949): Burt Lancaster, Yvonne DeCarlo, and Dan Duryea make for
the most dangerous triangle outside Bermuda in this grade-A noir. Steve Thompson (Lancaster) returns to L.A. after odd-jobbing around the country, getting back his old job as armored truck driver, while doing likewise with his ex-wife Anna (DeCarlo), despite her being involved with gangster Slim Dundee (Duryea). Thompson gets the bright idea of arranging for Slim's gang to hijack his truck, split the dough with them, and run off with Anna. Sure, no way that plan won't go off the rails.

All noir elements -- doomed lovers, flashbacks, lust confused with love, greed mistaken for genius -- feature in the fast-moving Criss Cross. Director Robert Siodmak handles every aspect, from actors to lighting to framing, with the same skill that made his previous picture Cry of the City such a great watch. And just when you think you've reached the climax, the story continues into another, unexpected direction followed by another and another -- all within the final two reels. 

As for the cast, the incredibly young, curly-haired Lancaster likely never looked better. He and the borderline trashy DeCarlo have a real connection; they look like a couple who know they're doomed yet unable to resist their unhappy fate. And it's always a treat when Dan Duryea turns up in slimy roles like this, giving off sinister vibes with just his eyes. I don't know how Criss Cross never made it on my radar until now, but it was worth the wait.

BONUS POINTS:  Unbilled bit player Tony Curtis (still answering to the name of Bernie Schwartz) makes his very brief movie debut as DeCarlo's dance partner. And Alan Napier (all together now: Alfred the butler on the Batman TV series), has a small but key role as the classy dipso who organizes the truck hijacking. 

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TIGER, TIGER DRIVING BADLY

 During my background days, the star of a major TV series was talking to a group of us about his DUI from the previous weekend. He had been in L.A. at the time, and it made the papers. 

"That's why you New Yorkers are lucky," he said. "You can take the subway home when you've been at a bar. In L.A. you have to drive everywhere." 

Next Halloween's biggest-selling mask.

Alas, Los Angeles isn't the only city without mass transit. Jupiter Island, Florida, is of many places in America where you need a car. Tiger Woods proved that yesterday, as his latest mugshot attests. 

Or rather, this is the fourth time Tiger Woods has proved a judge needs to take his keys and prevent him from even walking past an automotive dealer. 

It's always interesting to see what celebrities can get away with. For Tiger Woods, the borderline-washed up golfer, it's driving under the influence and, when he's really blotto, crashing his car. (Of his four arrests, the only one that didn't involve a smash-up was when he was found in the front seat sleeping off a bender, something the locals were undoubtedly grateful for.)

There are many people better than me who will shake their head and say, "I take no joy in what Tiger is going through." Well, hell, I sure do. Not him getting away with DUIs time and time again. But because he deserves to be made a mockery of. 

"Hey, you'll never guess what happened!"

Take a good look, if you will, at Woods' driving skills. Even with the car lying on its side at the side of the road -- he had been driving over the speed limit while trying to pass a tow truck -- he was able to crawl out the passenger side, stumble past a hydrant and apparently make a phone call, presumably to his lawyer to get him out of a jam again. At eleven o'clock in the morning!

According to the New York Times, "He was charged with DUI with property damage [clipping the tow truck] and refusal to submit to a lawful [urinalysis]. Both charges are misdemeanors." 

Driving under the influence, hitting another vehicle, and refusing a piss test are on the same level of littering? Florida will do anything to get people to move there.

Tiger Woods leaving the pokey. Now he gets
someone to drive him home.

You know things are bad when the Times has one of their "WHAT YOU SHOULD READ NEXT" side articles titled, "A timelime of Tiger Woods' car crashes and injuries after latest incident."  If you or I had been pulling this crap, our "timeline" would have ended after the second arrest, when we were given a chance to cool off for six months in prison. 

But a guy who hits a little white ball around a country club gets the kid glove treatment and just might continue to until he winds up hurting somebody other than himself. The term "white privilege" doesn't come into play here -- this is green privilege. And I'm not referring to the color of grass.

Near the end of the Times' coverage is a link to another article, this one titled "We don't need to quit Tiger Woods. But we must ask less of him." Jesus, all we're asking him to do is not drive under the influence of booze or pills. How difficult is that? The DUI actor I referenced in the beginning learned his lesson about eight years ago. Gee, looks like it can be done!

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THE ZIRCONIUM NETWORK

 

Oh yeah, that's a winning team right there.

When last we saw Bari Weiss, the blogger-turned-network titan had been charged by 
her masters Larry and David Ellison to salvage what was left of the reputation of CBS News. 

In the intervening months, Weiss has worked her magic by hiring the weepy Tony Dokoupil to commandeer CBS Evening News, postponing an anti-ICE piece on 60 Minutes until an evening that a major football game on another network would distract viewers, firing over 6% of its workforce, seeing a producer quit in angry frustration, watched the staff of CBS streaming News walk off the job for 24 hours, and sending the ratings (and possibly her job) into a death spiral worthy of Karl Wallenda. 

Tony Dokupil prepares for his new job as a used
car salesman.

None of that was enough to complete her job, so she announced the shuttering of CBS Radio News a year short of its 100th birthday. 

Before going further, let me ask: does referring to Bari Weiss as a useful idiot for the Trump toe-sucking Ellisons sound homophobic? Or misogynistic? Or true? Leave comments below, subscribe, like, give a thumbs up, ring the bell, and whatever else is considered proof of news viewership.

They've gone from "Good night and
good luck" to "So long, suckers!"

Because that's where CBS News is headed. As reported late last year, Weiss told staffers they will need to lean more into podcasting. “I’m here to tell you that if we stick to that [focusing on broadcast] strategy, we’re toast,” Weiss said. But what Weiss has accomplished since then is burnt toast and a rotten egg.

I'm not convinced that Weiss decided to shut down CBS Radio News on her own. Surely the Ellisons whispered the idea in her ear. Say, Bari, who listens to radio news anyway, except people in their cars who don't have Sirus/XM? 

And they wouldn't necessarily be wrong. Anyone following radio news at home is tuned to either Fox Radio or NPR. The former are counting their containers of survivalists' canned meat while they listen, while the latter knit FUCK TRUMP doilies. Everyone else is either at work, looking for work, or waiting for mainstream news to admit World War III is in progress.

Sharp enough to know the
news division is doomed.

What we're witnessing isn't the end of CBS News per se. It's the beginning of the end of network news as we've known it. Those eight million viewers watching David Muir on ABC are baby boomers and Gen Xers from the P.C. (pre-cable) years, and neither are going to live forever.

Younger people get their news from other sources and can't afford cable anyway. No way they're suddenly going to put everything on hold at dinner time to watch 18 minutes of news and 12 minutes of commercials for pharmaceuticals and LiMu Emu. 

The Ellisons, like oligarchs before them, are taking advantage of a changing landscape, reshaping it to their liking. Meanwhile, Bari Weiss genuinely believes she's doing good, rather than realizing she's just a vessel for her masters' evil ways and will get thrown overboard when the job is complete. That's the way it is, whether you like it or not.

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MATINEE OF THE LIVING DEAD

Stand-in Mary Dees pulls double-duty in Saratoga.

Hollywood has a history of releasing movies featuring stars who died before the release
dates. Jean Harlow in Saratoga, James Dean in Giant, Chadwick Boseman in Ma Rainey's Black Bottom to name only three.

Most of these pictures attracted even more interest than they would have otherwise, usually due to fans wanting one last look at their idols -- or, in the case of Harlow's Saratoga, playing a game of Spot the Stand-In. (Clue: whenever the character is hiding her face or has her back to the camera.)

And soon it will be Val Kilmer's turn for a final appearance onscreen, co-starring in the appropriately-titled As Deep as the Grave, a project delayed twice, first due to covid, then to his throat cancer diagnosis.

The first still of A.I. Val in character. No need
for craft services providing coffee and bagels.

The twist? Kilmer never lived to film As Deep as the Grave. His performance will be entirely-A.I. generated, spanning several years of his character's life. Tilly Norwood, the original A.I. star-in-the-making, never made it past the promotional stage. I told you this artificial intelligence hoo-hah was moving fast!

Why not hire another actor to take his place? As writer/director Coerte Voorhees explained, it's cheaper to create a new Val Kilmer rather than hire a real live human being. Let that be a warning to greedy actors going forward: Producers can wait until you're dead before making your movie.

Amy Irving, for people who didn't get my attempt
at a joke.

Back when A.I. was known only as the initials of Steven Spielberg's wife, I remember Variety reporting the possibility of computers one day reviving dead actors, citing the dream pairing of Harrison Ford with a faux-Humphrey Bogart. 

Four decades later, the stuff that dreams are made of is more like a nightmare to many. Val Kilmer's daughter is onboard with the project, though, assuring us her dad embraced "emerging technologies with optimism as a tool to expand the possibilities of storytelling." His estate will be compensated, although likely nowhere near the amount a real live Val Kilmer would have received. Too, the Screen Actors Guild has been assured the actor's image will be used "ethically" -- which sounds way too close to "ethically sourced" cadaver fat discussed in a previous post.

Died on April 1? April Fool!

There are a couple of questions that come to mind. Like, can the promotional material read "Starring Val Kilmer" when Val Kilmer really isn't in it? Or will it be something like "Ethically Sourced Val Kilmer"? 

Suppose A.I. Val gives an award-worthy performance. Will the Academy have to create a new category, like "Best Performance by a Dead Actor", or will it fall under Animation? If this trend keeps up, will the Oscars have a "They're Back!" segment after the "In Memoriam"? 

But those dilemmas are for another time. The once-theoretical Harrison Ford/Humphrey Bogart teaming can finally come to pass. Indiana Jones and the Falcon of Malta. Star Wars, Episode X: The Search for Casablanca. Blade Runner's Big Sleep. Me, I'm looking forward to Pope Francis starring George Arliss. 

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WHAT WE LEARNED FROM THE OSCARS

Oscar voters seemed to make a concerted effort to pass the love around between Sinners and One Battle After Another instead of a full-on sweep that would have evoked the dreaded "snub" criticism on social media. 

Whoever did the audio mix needs a lifetime supply of Debrox. 

The "Best Song" once again award went to something people will forget a week from now. 

Now that the Academy has gotten over its long-standing dismissal of horror movies as worthy of nomination (Sinners and Frankenstein -- two in one year!), maybe they can take notice of comedies. And don't whine, "But what about Shakespeare in Love, Terms of Endearment, Anora and Parasite?" Funny moments do not a comedy make. 

The Academy finally got the memo about how to present a decent "In Memoriam" segment, although TCM is still the champ and remembered Brigette Bardot.

After living in California for 60 years, Barbra Streisand still hasn't lost her Brooklyn accent or her knack for making everything about her. 

The under-40 attendees who laughed at the Basil Rathbone reference did so only because they thought it was a funny-sounding name the announcer just made up. 

Best Short Film presenter Kumail Nanjiani has apparently gotten over appearing in a flop movie that sent him to a therapist for three years. What a man!

Judging by the number of commercials for pharmaceuticals, either people in the industry are in need of meds or the at-home audience skews really old.

The broadcast director was too chickenshit to keep the camera on one of the winners when the microphone went down because Oscars don't make mistakes!

Someone close to Timothee Chalamet should have warned him to Google "Chill Wills + Alamo + Oscar Campaign" to learn how not to win the hearts and minds of Oscar voters. Oh, and to leave the Kardashian stepsister at home next time. 

Now that Jack Nicholson is retired, Leonardo DiCaprio has become the "cool guy" in the front row the hosts can make good-natured jokes about. But he will never be as cool as Jack Nicholson.

There are always a couple of movies I've never heard of except in relation to the Oscars, and this year's were The Secret Agent and Weapons. If you've seen either of these, drop me a line.

Only two of the "Best Song" nominees were performed and the damned show still lasted three and a half hours. 

Comedians and documentary makers have more courage than the mainstream press and most of Congress.

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To prove the ceremony can be presented in just over an hour, listen to this: 1945 Academy Awards Radio Broadcast

                                                                

ARTIFICIAL PHOTO INTELLIGENCE

 Last October, I wrote a piece about how my phone's camera app generated my photo into various caricatures. The point of it was to show how far from reality they were, making Al Hirschfield sketches look like George Hurrell photos in comparison.

Well, a lot can change five months. The app has taken its magic to the next step by creating photo-realistic imagery from existing photos. And my reaction has gone from This doesn't look like me to Why can't I look like this?

Just to make it more of a challenge, I used a selfie from a recent visit to the dentist:

Before continuing, thank you for your compliments on my big, beautiful teeth. I wanted to ease into this A.I. stuff gradually, so my first choice was the "vintage" style from the 1970s.

Boy, they really nailed that faded, Polaroid SX-70 look. Can almost smell the chemicals from here. Looks like something you'd find in a shoebox full of deservedly forgotten photos in the back of the closet. 

The first "new" look I wanted was "professional headshot". Outside of a print ad for Ipana, there didn't seem to be any use for a photo like that dental office shot. Yet here's what it spat out:

Hey! How'd they do that? Kind of looks like a guy who got into the tech boom 40 years ago and made a comfortable living along the way. Nice room, too. Now I understand why a casting agency recently sent an angry email to background actors warning, We know when you're submitting A.I. headshots. Knock it off or you won't get hired. If I didn't know me, I wouldn't have known this was A.I. imagery.

I used to do character modeling back in the day, specializing in computer nerds, delivery guy nerds, any kind of professional nerd you could think of. For a while my face was on a truck owned by a local office cleaning company. But now it was time to up my game and become a fashion model. Presto:

Yeah, baby! Somebody arrange for an airplane because this silver fox is ready for the runway! Love the thoughtful, hand-to-the-chin business -- reminds me of my idol, Jeff Goldblum. I have no idea what that thing is on my sweater, but who cares? If this doesn't land me in the Brooks Brothers catalogue, nothing will.

Being a fan of "old Hollywood", I had to try the "dramatic black & white" option. Was it possible that my dental selfie could do the job? You tell me:

Holy glamour lighting, Batman! I wish, wish, wish I looked like this. I mean, goddamn, look at that hair! The hand seems a little big, but still. This is the best photo never taken of me. If I weren't so mature, I'd send this to every woman I ever dated -- a small circle, TBH -- with the caption Look what you missed out on. Bet you got fat. But to repeat, I'm too mature. I also don't have their contact information.

Continuing to fool around with the app with different photos, two thoughts occurred to me. 1) A.I. is improving every 15 seconds. 2) Even though my wife said these "photos" were creepy and that I'm better looking in real life, I didn't believe her.

With each new image, I was getting more depressed. No matter what my wife said, I didn't want to look like me. I wanted to look like that. And that is a figment of my camera's imagination.

The lesson from my adventures in A.I.: For better or worse, for richer or poorer, I will always look like me. I might not like it, but it's gotten me this far. And if I ever need a pick-me-up, all that needs to be done is run an already decent photo in black & white mode:

Now all that's left is to figure out how to live in a black & white world fulltime. And find those women's contact information.

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